Historical Studies in the

Societal Impact

of Spaceflight

Steven J. Dick

Editor
Historical Studies in the

Societal Impact

of Spaceflight

Historical Studies in the

Societal Impact

of Spaceflight

Steven J. Dick

Editor

National Aeronautics and Space Administration

Office of Communications

NASA History Program Office

Washington, DC

2015

NASA SP-2015-4803
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Historical studies in the societal impact of spaceflight / Steven J. Dick, editor.

p. cm. — (Societal impact series ; v. 3)

Includes bibliographical references and index.

“NASA SP-2015-4803.”

1. Astronautics—Technology transfer—History. 2. Astronautics—Public 

opinion—History. 3. Astronautics—Social aspects—History. 4. United 

States. National Aeronautics and Space Administration. I. Dick, Steven J.

TL865.H58 2010

338.973’06--dc22

2009030014

This publication is available as a free download at

http://www.nasa.gov/ebooks.
v

Contents

Introduction. . 

PART I OPINION

Chapter 1. The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, 

Attitudes, and Beliefs 

William Sims Bainbridge. 

PART II SPINOFF?

Chapter 2. Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology

William Sims Bainbridge. .

Chapter 3. NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits

Andrew J. Butrica. . 

Chapter 4. NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS 

(Microelectromechanical Systems)

Andrew J. Butrica. . 

PART III THE WORLD AT LARGE

Chapter 5. Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power, 

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

Roger D. Launius. . 

Chapter 6. NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship

W. Henry Lambright. . 

Chapter 7. Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites

David J. Whalen. . 
vi Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Chapter 8. Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space 

Community, and Society

Eligar Sadeh. . 

Chapter 9. An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact 

of Spaceflight

Jim Pass. . 

About the Authors. . 

The NASA History Series. . 

Index. . 
vii

Introduction

Following the publication in 2007 of the Societal Impact of Spaceflightvolume in the NASA History series, the NASA History Division commissioned a series of more in-depth studies on specific subjects.1

 This volume 

presents those studies to scholars and the public, and represents what is hoped 

will be a continuing series in the effort to understand the mutual interaction 

of space exploration and society—part of a larger need to understand the 

relationship between science, technology, and society.

Emphasizing the importance of public attitudes toward space, the volume 

opens with sociologist William Sims Bainbridge’s study of the impact of 

space exploration on public attitudes. Based on seven decades of questionnaire survey data, and combining historical and social science approaches, the 

chapter considers both changes in public opinion over time and key themes 

that have shaped public opinion. Because the study surveyed vast ranges and 

quantities of data, it uncovered a number of historical and social science questions that deserve more focused study in the future, integrating historical 

data and methodologies into statistical analysis of questionnaire survey data. 

Because NASA has entered a new era of space development, it is ever more 

important to understand changing public opinion in a historical context.

“Spinoff” is the first aspect that comes to mind for most people who 

think at all about the impact of space exploration, those technologies that 

are thought—wrongly or rightly—to have emanated from the space program. Part II consists of case studies of specific potential spinoffs and explicitly raises the difficult questions of what can be considered spinoff and how 

much of any particular claimed spinoff can be attributed to NASA—thus the 

interrogatory “Spinoff?” title for this section rather than the usual declarative “Spinoff.” Though NASA claims many spinoffs and publishes an annual 

1. Steven J. Dick and Roger D. Launius, eds., Societal Impact of Spaceflight (Washington, 

DC: NASA SP-2007-4801, 2007), available online at http://history.nasa.gov/sp4801.pdf. 
viii Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Spinoff report,2 it seldom parses its claims very finely. The three chapters in 

this part aim to do just that. Bainbridge’s study of medical technology reinforces the judgment of social scientists who wrote 30 to 40 years ago that 

spinoffs are a problematic concept: they may not reflect the most important 

channels by which NASA contributes to scientific and technological progress, 

even if they do provide coherent stories to communicate with the general 

public about the history of space exploration. 

Andrew J. Butrica tackles the oft-made claim that NASA played a major 

role in the early development and use of integrated circuits. In particular, 

he addresses a specific question: What was the role of NASA in improving 

the manufacture of integrated circuits during the Apollo era? Butrica finds 

that the answer is not so simple. In a second and related essay, he shows 

that another claim—that the multibillion-dollar industry known as MEMS 

(microelectromechanical systems) originated at NASA—was actually such 

a close collaboration with nearby Stanford University that this story is also 

much more complex than usually thought. Butrica’s conclusions are also in 

accord with an earlier finding that even if a particular spinoff can be attributed in whole or in part to NASA, attribution to individuals is still more 

difficult. As James E. Tomayko found in writing his report on Computers 

in Spaceflight: The NASA Experience, “often in corporations and government 

agencies individual achievement is buried within the institution. NASA is no 

exception. It was exceedingly difficult to get people both in the [A]gency and 

in contractor organizations to identify who did what, or even to take personal 

credit where appropriate.”3 This reminds us that, for better or worse, we have 

come a long way from the lone figure working in a laboratory.

Part III encompasses a variety of diverse studies of NASA’s impact on the 

world at large, ranging from the technology of radioisotope thermal generators and the public controversy over the use of these nuclear components 

in spacecraft (Roger D. Launius’s chapter), to NASA and the environment 

(W. Henry Lambright’s chapter), the impact of applications satellites (David 

J. Whalen’s chapter), and the impact of the Apollo program (Eligar Sadeh’s 

chapter). At another level, space exploration has spawned new disciplines—

ranging from astrobiology and astrochemistry to astrogeology—and has 

enlarged the boundaries of age-old problems by contemplating such areas as 

2. Issues of Spinoff are available at http://spinoff.nasa.gov/index.html (accessed 20 April 2015). 

3. James E. Tomayko, Computers in Spaceflight: The NASA Experience, NASA CR-182505 

(Washington, DC: NASA Scientific and Technical Information Division, 1988), available 

at http://history.nasa.gov/computers/Compspace.html, Preface.
Introduction ix

astrotheology.4 One of the least developed disciplines, but ripe for exploration, is astrosociology—the subject of the final chapter (by Jim Pass) in this 

volume. This section demonstrates that our entry into space has altered the 

intellectual landscape of the 20th and 21st centuries in ways large and small, 

broadening our horizons in ways we sometimes fail to recognize.

This volume is the third in the NASA History subseries on the societal 

impact of spaceflight and follows a book entitled Cosmos and Culture: Cultural 

Evolution in a Cosmic Context.

5

 That volume makes clear, far beyond the scope 

of the present work, how much cosmos and culture have become intertwined 

in the human experience. NASA and other space agencies around the world 

have contributed much to our understanding of the universe, enriching cultural worldviews and revealing the potential for other cultures throughout 

the universe. Not a bad legacy for 50 years of activity beyond the Earth’s 

atmosphere.

Steven J. Dick

Former NASA Chief Historian

Washington, DC

April 2015

4. On the history of astrobiology—the study of life in the universe—see Steven J. Dick and 

James E. Strick, The Living Universe: NASA and the Development of Astrobiology (New 

Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2004). On astrotheology, see Steven J. Dick, 

ed., Many Worlds: The New Universe, Extraterrestrial Life, and the Theological Implications

(Philadelphia: Templeton Press, 2000).

5. Steven J. Dick and Mark Lupisella, eds., Cosmos and Culture: Cultural Evolution in a 

Cosmic Context (Washington, DC: NASA SP-2009-4802, 2009), online at http://history.

nasa.gov/SP-4802.pdf. 

Part I

Opinion

1

Chapter 1

The Impact of Space Exploration on 

Public Opinions, Attitudes,

and Beliefs

William Sims Bainbridge

1. Introduction

Since July 1944, when a Gallup poll asked two questions indirectly related to the German V-2 rocket program, scores of major questionnaires have 

included items about space exploration. The end of the Space Shuttle era is 

a good time to survey the history of public understanding and enthusiasm, 

because there have already been several historical periods and episodes during 

which influences have differed. The aims of this project are to survey the full 

sweep of American questionnaire studies offering insights about the public 

impact of space exploration and to connect the findings solidly to concrete 

historical developments.

Surveys of public opinion serve at least three functions in modern society. 

First, they support democratic institutions by informing policymakers about 

the mood of the citizenry. Research by political scientist Alan Monroe showed 

that American public policy was largely consistent with the results of opinion polls on policy issues, although more consistent in the 1960s and 1970s 

than afterward.1 Second, polls provide interesting stories for journalists, and 

the results of a poll are often treated as news themselves. Beginning in 1967, 

CBS began doing its own polls in association with the New York Times; NBC 

started polling in 1973; ABC followed suit in 1981; and CNN partnered with 

Gallup from 1992 until 2006.2 Third, polls offer a wealth of data for social 

scientists interested in tracing trends or testing theories. This study expands 

the social-scientific function into a historical method for understanding the 

past. It is important to realize that different functions imply somewhat different questionnaire designs and analytic techniques.

1. Alan D. Monroe, “Public Opinion and Public Policy, 1980–1993,” Public Opinion 

Quarterly 61, no. 1 (1998): 6–28.

2. Seymour Sudman, “The Network Polls: A Critical Review,” Public Opinion Quarterly 47, 

no. 4 (1983): 490–496.
2 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The 1936 U.S. presidential election was a watershed for opinion poll 

methodology, because a Gallup poll based on rigorous sampling procedures 

correctly predicted Roosevelt’s victory, whereas a much more massive poll 

done by the Literary Digest following its traditional unsystematic methods 

incorrectly predicted a Landon victory.3 Subsequent national polls, like many 

reported throughout this chapter, employed complex sampling procedures, 

partly based on the principle that large random samples reduce many of the 

biases that more convenient samples would introduce and partly based on 

quota sampling to make sure that groups in the population are properly represented. It is important to understand that there are two very different but 

equally valid traditions of questionnaire research in social science, and this 

project will use them both: 

1. Opinion research, in political science and sociology, which attempts to 

use random samples of the general public and is usually limited to a 

small number of very simple space-related items, frequently as few as 

one, that can be understood by everybody. 

2. Research on the clustering of beliefs, attitudes, and values, typically 

social-psychological (in psychology or sociology), which places less 

emphasis on random samples and employs a large number of questions, with many aimed at respondents who are better educated and 

more knowledgeable than average.

Random samples have two primary advantages. First, they are the best way 

of estimating population parameters—the percentage of the larger population that holds a particular attitude, or the fraction of registered voters who 

plan to vote for a particular candidate. Second, random sampling is required 

for some statistical procedures, notably estimates of statistical significance. 

Unfortunately, it has become increasingly difficult to achieve anything like 

a simple random sample in practice. Costs have forced survey researchers to 

use stratified or quota samples; increasing fractions of the public refuse to 

participate, and the changing nature of telephone service makes sampling 

by random digit-dialing extremely problematic. Another disadvantage is that 

high cost has limited the number of questions that can be included on any 

given topic.

Nonrandom samples were disparaged for many years in social science 

because they lacked the parameter-estimation and statistical-significance 

advantages of random samples, but the increasing problems with random sampling and the new opportunities for research over the Internet have muted this 

earlier criticism. The chief advantage of online polling is the cost-effectiveness 

3. George Gallup, The Sophisticated Poll Watcher’s Guide (Ephrata, PA: Science Press, 1976).
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 3

when the aim is to include many questions on a given topic. Multiple questions allow statistical analysis of reliability of measurement, construction of 

multi-item scales that measure a phenomenon more precisely than any one 

item could achieve, and the use of methods such as factor analysis to identify 

clusters of items or dimensions of meaning that reveal much about the conceptual structure of the topic. In the case of Web-based questionnaires, which 

may have very large numbers of respondents, the lack of a random sample 

can be compensated for to a great extent by exploring the impact of control 

variables and by conducting internal replication that compares results across 

subgroups among the respondents.

Different methodologies naturally connect to different kinds of theories 

and are best suited for addressing different types of questions. Random samples naturally fit the democratic ideals that each adult citizen should have a 

vote equal to every other, and that public policies should reflect the will of the 

citizenry. More specialized samples can be justified on the traditional anthropological basis that some individuals are especially well qualified to represent 

their culture or subculture. There is no need to decide between these different 

approaches, with their distinctive advantages and disadvantages, and here I 

present valuable results from opinion studies of many kinds.

Consider the two questions in the July 1944 Gallup poll: “A Swedish 

newspaperman says the Germans are now building robot bombs which can 

hit cities on our East Coast. Do you believe this is true? Do you think that in 

another twenty-five years such flying bombs will be able to cross the Atlantic 

Ocean?” At that point in the war, the V-1 “buzz bomb” cruise missile had 

just been introduced. The V-2 rocket had not yet made its appearance in 

war but was being tested over the North Sea, and Swedes had heard about it. 

In fact, German rocket engineers were working on early designs for a threestage transatlantic rocket, what would have been the first ICBM if it had 

been completed, but the public knew nothing about it. Indeed, few respondents probably had a sound basis for answering the questions. However, their 

answers were not far off the mark, because only 20 percent felt the Germans 

were already building such a weapon, but 70 percent thought one would 

exist in a quarter century.4 Thus a fundamental issue is how well informed 

the public was and whether it had an adequate basis for responding to a 

particular question.

In October 1947 a Gallup poll asked, “How long do you think it will be 

before man will be able to fly to the moon?” The largest group, 38 percent, 

said “never.” Another 23 percent would not venture a guess, and 16 percent 

4. George H. Gallup, ed., The Gallup Poll: Public Opinion 1935–1971 (New York: Random 

House, 1972), p. 456.
4 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

failed to answer. Only 21 percent mentioned a specific time, but the median 

guess of 20 to 29 years turned out to be on the mark.5 A decade later, in 

October 1957, just days after the launch of Sputnik, Gallup asked, “How 

long do you think it will be before men in rockets will reach the moon?” 

This time 52 percent were able to answer, and the median answer, 12 years, 

turned out to be exactly right.6 In December 1949 and again in January 1955 

the Gallup poll asked, “In the next 50 years, do you think men in rockets 

will be able to reach the moon?” The percentage who said “yes” increased 

from 15 percent to 38 percent over this span of five years. The fact that these 

optimists turned out to be right does not prove their superior understanding 

of the technical challenges. In 1949, 63 percent believed that “trains and airplanes” would be run by atomic power in 50 years, and 88 percent believed 

that an “absolute cure for cancer” would be found in the second half of the 

20th century.7 Neither of these breakthroughs has in fact occurred. 

In May 1961, the month after Yuri Gagarin became the first human to 

orbit Earth, 21 percent of Americans believed men in rockets would reach the 

Moon in fewer than five years, and another 13 percent said exactly five years. 

In contrast with these optimists, 4 percent said six to nine years, 14 percent 

said ten years, 6 percent said more than ten years, and 9 percent said “never.” 

The remaining third said they did not know.8 Thus, in the first four years of 

the space age, the fraction lacking an opinion dropped from 48 to 33 percent. 

In retrospect, questions such as these can help us to understand how poorly 

informed many people were at the beginning of space history and allow us to 

trace their developing awareness of the potential of space exploration as the 

years passed. 

5. Poll of about 1,500 American adults by Gallup, 24–29 October 1947, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.47-406.QKT11. Note: The websites and polling data referenced in this 

chapter were accessed early in 2007, and many may have changed or vanished since then. 

Note that some URLs default to a different page from the one where data for this study 

were originally found, and other pages were revised over time. In addition, researchers may 

find the “Wayback Machine” tool at http://archive.org/index.php helpful to locate previous 

versions of Web pages. Polling data was derived from the following sites: the Gallup 

Organization, http://www.galluppoll.com/; the Roper Center, http://www.ropercenter.

uconn.edu/; the Odum Institute for Research in Social Science, http://152.2.32.107/

odum/jsp/home.jsp; the Computer-assisted Survey Methods Program, http://sda.berkeley.

edu/archive.htm; and the Pew Research Center for the People and the Press, http://peoplepress.org/.

6. Poll of 1,573 American adults by Gallup, 10–15 October 1957, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.57-590.Q005A.

7. George Gallup, “Number Who Think Trip to Moon Possible Has Doubled in 5 Years,” 

press release, 28 January 1955, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ. 

8. Poll of 1,545 American adults by Gallup, 17–22 May 1961, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.61-645.R003.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 5

The way a poll frames a question can shape the answers it gets. For example, 

a December 2003 Gallup poll done for CNN and USA Today split respondents at random into two groups and gave them different questions about 

the space program. One group was asked, “Would you favor or oppose a new 

U.S. space program that would send astronauts to the moon?” A majority 

(53 percent) said they favored the idea. The other group was asked, “Would 

you favor or oppose the U.S. government spending billions of dollars to send 

astronauts to the moon?” With this wording, stressing the cost, a majority 

(67 percent) opposed the idea.9 In understanding the results of historical 

polls, we need to keep this wording issue in mind, even when the differences 

are less striking. For example, in October 1965 a Harris poll asked, “If you 

had to choose, do you think it more important or less important to spend 4 

billion a year on the space program than to spend it on reducing the national 

debt?” Given this trade-off, 54 percent said that they would prefer to reduce 

the national debt versus 46 percent who would continue the space program. 

In comparison with “another tax cut,” the space program did slightly better, 

just 51 percent preferring the tax cut and 49 percent preferring the space 

program.10 In 1982 a Yankelovich poll set the stage for a long-term trade-off 

question: “Some authorities have said that it is important that the country 

build more jails and/or increase their capacity if our prison system is to be 

more effective in curbing crime. This will require the use of tax dollars. Do 

you think it is more important to use tax money to build and expand our prisons, or more important to spend the money on the space program.” Given 

the context of curbing crime, 61 percent would have expanded prisons, and 

only 26 percent defended the space program.11

Even the attempt to avoid setting a context can have the effect of setting 

one. For example, here is how a Roper poll in February 1987 introduced a 

group of funding questions:

Regardless of how you feel about the overall amount in the budget, you may 

think we should spend more or less on certain items. Here is a list of the major 

items in the budget. Would you go down that list and for each one tell me 

whether you think we should be spending more than President Reagan has 

proposed in his budget, or spending less than he has proposed, or that he has 

proposed spending about the right amount on it? 

9. A CNN/USA Today/Gallup poll, 5–7 December 2003, reported under “Science and 

Nature,” http://www.PollingReport.com.

10. Poll of 1,250 American adults by Harris, October 1965, Roper Center USHARRIS.

110165.R3E, USHARRIS.110165.R3I.

11. Poll of 1,010 American adults by Yankelovich, Skelly, & White, 8–10 June 1982, Roper 

Center USYANK.828611.R34A.
6 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The pollster says to ignore the overall amount in the budget but then mentions President Reagan, thus possibly contaminating results with attitudes 

toward him. With this introduction, just 17 percent said we should be spending more on the space program; 34 percent said Reagan had proposed the 

right amount; 42 percent felt we should be spending less; and 8 percent did 

not know.12

However, the wording of the question does not overwhelm respondents 

when the issue is clear and they actually have an opinion. For example, in 

1987 the General Social Survey (GSS) introduced a battery of funding items 

thus: “We are faced with many problems in this country, none of which can 

be solved easily or inexpensively. I’m going to name some of these problems, 

and for each one I’d like you to tell me whether you think we’re spending too 

much money on it, too little money, or about the right amount.” In response, 

16 percent said we were spending too little on the “space exploration program,” thus wanting us to spend more. The group who felt the right amount 

was being spent made up 38 percent; 41 percent of respondents felt we were 

spending too much and thus wanted us to spend less; and 6 percent were not 

sure.13 Despite the very different wordings, these Roper and GSS polls are 

actually very close in their results: 17 percent versus 16, 34 percent versus 38, 

and 42 percent versus 41. 

This chapter uses data from public opinion polls and other questionnaire 

studies to examine the impact of the space program on the American public, 

considering such issues as how much the public has supported the program, 

what the program has meant to people, and how it has affected people’s thinking. I consider public reaction to historically significant events, such as the 

first Moon landing and the two Shuttle catastrophes, and I assess variations 

in support for space exploration across subgroups in the population, including changing patterns over time. I see evidence that space exploration promotes public interest in science and technology more generally, potentially 

deepening popular understanding of the infinite universe we live in. This is 

a historical study, but the space program has always concerned the future. 

Therefore, I examine images of the future of the space program as held at 

different times by the general public, such as levels of support for the Moon 

and Mars programs.

This study draws not only on academic publications such as articles 

in journals like Public Opinion Quarterly and press releases from polling 

12. Poll of 1,996 American adults by Roper, 14–28 February 1987, Roper Center 

USROPER.87-3.R11G.

13. Computer-assisted Survey Methods Program (CSM) at the University of California, 

Berkeley, http://sda.berkeley.edu/index.htm.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 7

organizations; it also freshly analyzes the raw data from about two dozen 

historical polls. I am therefore greatly indebted to the following archives: 

the Gallup Organization in Princeton, New Jersey; the Roper Center at the 

University of Connecticut; the Odum Institute for Research in Social Science 

at the University of North Carolina–Chapel Hill; the Computer-assisted 

Survey Methods (CSM) Program at the University of California, Berkeley; 

and the Pew Research Center for the People and the Press in Washington, 

DC.14 The marvelous data contained in these archives will continue to be of 

great value for researchers who wish to look even more deeply into issues of 

public opinion and space exploration than I am able to accomplish here.

2. From Sputnik Through Apollo

When the Soviet Union launched Sputnik into orbit on 4 October 1957, the 

American public was not very well prepared to understand the meaning of 

the event. To be sure, Americans who concluded that the Soviets possessed 

advanced capabilities to build long-range military rockets were correct, but 

those who assumed the USSR was ahead of the United States in this area 

were wrong. Those who concluded that American science, technology, or 

national education system was inferior were also wrong, although this belief 

strengthened those institutions by channeling funding in their direction over 

the subsequent years. Rather, political decisions had given higher priority to 

perfecting ICBMs outside public view and to preparing a low-cost scientific 

satellite project called Vanguard. In 1956, Wernher von Braun’s team working for the U.S. Army could have launched a satellite and did so on short 

notice after Sputnik, but his group was politically tainted for having earlier 

developed the V-2 rocket for Nazi Germany. 

Arguably, the United States could have launched a satellite as early as 1950 

if it had possessed the will to do so. On 24 February 1949, the United States 

had launched an American-designed WAC Corporal rocket to an altitude 

of 250 miles, using a captured German V-2 as a booster, although a much 

larger booster would have been required to achieve orbit. Work to develop 

the Atlas ICBM began in 1946 but was halted a year later and not resumed 

until the mid-1950s because the aircraft of the Strategic Air Command were 

given the long-range bombing role.15 A balanced understanding of the historical period would require considerable knowledge of technical and political 

14. See http://www.galluppoll.com/, http://www.ropercenter.uconn.edu/, http://152.2.32.107/

odum/jsp/home.jsp, http://sda.berkeley.edu/archive.htm, http://people-press.org/.

15. William Sims Bainbridge, The Spaceflight Revolution (New York: Wiley-Interscience, 1976).
8 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

factors, including information not available to the public at the time. The 

euphoria after victory in World War II was short-lived, followed by the Berlin 

crisis, the Korean War, and a Cold War in which the very future of democracy 

was in question. In such a context Sputnik caused great shock.

In October 1957, Gallup interviewers asked a nationwide sample of 

Americans an open-ended question about why they thought the Russians 

were able to launch a satellite before the United States did. Four main kinds 

of answer, in order from most common to least common, were: 1) They 

worked harder; 2) They had better scientists, including Germans; 3) The 

U.S. program was badly organized; and 4) Russia invested more money.16

Late in the next month, a Gallup poll asked another open-ended question: 

“Where, specifically, would you put the blame, if anywhere, for letting the 

Russians get ahead of us in developing rockets and missiles?” Only 3.8 percent of respondents rejected the assumption in the question that Russia was 

ahead, although at the time the United States probably had a lead in most 

areas of military rocketry. Other respondents cast blame in many directions, 

including President Eisenhower (5.4 percent), the administration more generally (3.8 percent), unnamed government leaders (3.6 percent), Congress 

(1.6 percent), the budget (4.7 percent), the Defense Department (2.7 percent), interservice rivalry (5.0 percent), earlier administrations (1.9 percent), 

all Americans (2.5 percent), “our complacency, smugness, cocksureness, 

neglectfulness” (4.8 percent), Russian espionage (4.3 percent), not enough 

good scientists (1.3 percent), the failure of the United States to get the best 

German scientists (1.3 percent), not enough emphasis on rockets (2.8 percent), and “inadequate educational preparation for science” (4.9 percent).17

A Gallup press release dated 18 December 1957 claims that 4.1 million 

Americans had seen either Sputnik or Sputnik II as it passed overhead, on the 

basis that 4 percent of respondents to a poll had done so.18 This is a rather 

extreme extrapolation from limited data, because of 1,505 people polled by 

Gallup, just 38 claimed to have seen Sputnik, and 28 said they saw Sputnik II.

James Swinehart and Jack McLeod compared a survey on science awareness administered to 1,919 Americans six months before Sputnik with a similar poll of 1,547 done six months afterward.19 Before Sputnik, 54 percent 

16. George Gallup, “Russia First with Satellite by ‘Harder Work’—U.S. Public,” press release, 

24 October 1957, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ.

17. Poll of 1,499 American adults by Gallup, Gallup poll #592, 25 November 1957, Gallup 

Organization, Princeton, NJ.

18. Press release, 18 December 1957, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ; 

I myself saw Sputnik II.

19. James W. Swinehart and Jack M. McLeod, “News About Science: Channels, Audiences, 

and Effects,” Public Opinion Quarterly 24, no. 4 (1960): 583–589.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 9

claimed to have heard nothing about Earth satellites, while afterward this 

level of complete ignorance had dropped to only 8 percent. However, the 

fraction possessing detailed scientific information had not increased, remaining at 11 or 12 percent. Instead, those having only very general information 

about satellites had risen from 8 percent to 16 percent; awareness that competition between the United States and Russia was involved had increased from 

1 percent to 20 percent; and a sense that satellites were connected to unspecified future possibilities went from 0 percent to 17 percent. In both polls the 

remainder of 25–27 percent possessed misinformation or were only vaguely 

aware that something had happened. A number of polls found that only small 

fractions of the public, often as low as 10 percent, understood how the balance between gravity and “centrifugal force” kept a satellite in orbit.20 Thus 

the news about Sputnik seemed to have alerted many people to the topic but 

not to have informed them very deeply about it.

Serena Wade and Wilbur Schramm analyzed the same poll data to compare how well informed people were who got their news from different 

sources. Prior to Sputnik, only 10 percent of those who got their news from 

radio had some kind of science information about purposes and possibilities, 

whether detailed or not. The percentages were larger for those who got their 

news from television (16 percent had some science information), newspapers 

(22 percent), and magazines (38 percent). A year later, the fraction with at 

least some science information about satellites was greater for all four groups: 

radio (19 percent), television (25 percent), newspapers (34 percent), and 

magazines (47 percent).21

The chief meaning of the Sputniks for public opinion was announcing 

that the Soviet Union was technologically more capable than many people 

had realized and tilting the international prestige competition in its favor. In 

a comprehensive review article published in 1960, Gabriel Almond reports 

that polls in many nations demonstrated that large majorities knew about the 

launch. In Norway, 97 percent had heard about a satellite, and 94 percent 

knew it was Russian. In descending order, here are the percentages of people 

in various countries knowing the satellite was Russian: France (93 percent), 

Austria (92 percent), Belgium (91 percent), Germany (90 percent), Italy 

(88 percent), Canada (83 percent), Japan (78 percent), Britain (73 percent), 

Mexico (67 percent), and Brazil (51 percent). Polls from four nations, carried 

out both a month after the Sputnik launch and again a year later, supported 

20. Donald N. Michael, “The Beginning of the Space Age and American Public Opinion,” 

Public Opinion Quarterly 24, no. 4 (1960): 573–582.

21. Serena Wade and Wilbur Schramm, “The Mass Media as Sources of Public Affairs, 

Science, and Health Knowledge,” Public Opinion Quarterly 33, no. 2 (1969): 197–209.
10 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Almond’s argument that the impact on public perceptions of the United 

States and Russia was great.22

Respondents in France, Great Britain, Italy, and West Germany were 

asked, “All things considered, do you think the U.S. or Russia is ahead in scientific development at the present time?” They were also asked which country 

was ahead “in total military strength.” Table 1.1 reports results, leaving out 

those who volunteered that the two nations were equal or who expressed 

no opinion. A month after Sputnik, more people in Britain, France, and 

Italy believed Russia was ahead in science, and only West Germans gave the 

United States a slight edge. After a year, the United States had pulled ahead in 

three nations. On 31 January 1958, the United States launched its first satellite, Explorer 1; so at the time of the October 1958 polls, both the United 

States and Russia had proven they could launch spacecraft.

Domestically, something like a “Sputnik panic” energized the creation 

of NASA and provided ammunition for an existing social movement that 

wanted to improve American science education.23 On the fortieth anniversary 

22. Gabriel A. Almond, “Public Opinion and the Development of Space Technology,” Public 

Opinion Quarterly 24, no. 4 (1960): 553–572.

23. Thomas N. Bonner, “Sputniks and the Educational Crisis in America,” Journal of Higher 

Education 29, no. 4 (1958): 177–184, 232; and Clarence B. Hilberry, “Sputnik and the 

Universities,” Journal of Higher Education 29, no. 7 (1958): 375–380.

TABLE 1.1. Prestige Competition Between the United States and Russia

Public Perception

In Scientific Discovery In Military Strength

November

1957

October

1958

November

1957

October

1958

Great Britain

United States Leads Russia 20% 43% 19% 26%

Russia Leads United States 58% 30% 50% 41%

West Germany

United States Leads Russia 36% 44% 38% 24%

Russia Leads United States 32% 23% 23% 23%

France

United States Leads Russia 11% 20% 17% 19%

Russia Leads United States 49% 34% 25% 28%

Italy

United States Leads Russia 23% 33% 34% 38%

Russia Leads United States 37% 30% 22% 23%
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 11

of Sputnik, the Center for Science, Mathematics, and Engineering Education 

held a symposium at the National Academy of Sciences devoted to the satellite’s enduring impact on educational reform. Participants found much to 

criticize, notably the unrealistic expectations for “the new math” that had 

tried to get schoolchildren to think abstractly like professional mathematicians; but on balance they agreed that the American educational system had 

improved its teaching of science in the wake of Sputnik. Several of the written papers noted that leading educators had been promoting reform since the 

end of the Second World War, and Sputnik was a useful tool to garner public 

support for their efforts.24

The competition between the USSR and the United States came to be 

called the Space Race.25 At the beginning of 1960, 44 percent of Americans 

responding to a Gallup poll thought Russia “will be first to send a man into 

outer space,” versus 34 percent who thought the United States would be first 

and 22 percent with no opinion.26 A year later, 40 percent thought Russia 

would be first; 35 percent nominated the United States; and 25 percent had 

no opinion. On the premise that better-educated people had more solidly 

grounded opinions, Gallup reported that fully 54 percent of college-educated 

Americans thought Russia would win this stage of the space race.27

A poll carried out in Britain by the United States Information Agency 

(USIA) in late April 1960 showed how inaccurate popular impressions can 

be. More than a month earlier, the United States had launched the space 

probe Pioneer 5, which achieved solar orbit. Britain’s Jodrell Bank radio 

telescope had picked up the weak signal from Pioneer 5, and this fact had 

been publicized. The poll asked, “What would be your best guess as to how 

many of the space satellites still in the sky are American, and how many are 

Russian?” While 28 percent of respondents had no opinion, and 25 percent 

thought the numbers were about equal, only 17 percent thought America had 

more satellites still in the sky, compared with 30 percent who thought Russia 

had more. In fact, a total of 11 satellites were still in Earth’s orbit or solar 

24. “Reflecting on Sputnik: Linking the Past, Present, and Future of Educational Reform,” 

symposium held 4 October 1997, at the National Academy of Sciences, Washington, 

DC; papers available at http://www.nas.edu/sputnik/agenda.htm.

25. Klaus Knorr, “On the International Implications of Outer Space,” World Politics 12, 

no. 4 (1960): 564–584; and Lincoln P. Bloomfield, “Outer Space and International 

Cooperation,” International Organization 19, no. 3 (1965): 603–621. 

26. “Man into Space?,” press release, 16 January 1960, Public Opinion News Service, 

Princeton, NJ. 

27. “Public Expects Russia To Be First To Put Man into Space,” press release, 22 January 

1961, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ.
12 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

orbit, 10 American and only 1 Russian.28 In 1961, Americans were evenly 

split on whether the United States or Russia “is further ahead in the field of 

space research”—38 percent versus 38 percent, with 24 percent holding no 

opinion. But by June 1965 the United States had pulled ahead to 47 percent 

versus 24 percent saying Russia was ahead and 29 percent with no opinion.29

When asked, “How important do you think it is for the United States to be 

ahead of Russia in space exploration,” 51 percent of Americans said “very 

important.” Another 21 percent said “fairly important,” while 23 percent said 

“not too important,” and 5 percent were not sure.30

Well-known aerospace historian Roger Launius has noted that today 

many aerospace professionals and fans of the space program wrongly believe 

that public support was strong during the heroic days of Apollo, marshaling 

much evidence to prove that this was not in fact the case.31 Back in 1969, 

Raymond A. Bauer wrote: “At no point have any poll data indicated strong 

general support for the space program.”32 Depending on how one defines 

“strong,” this statement may be slightly too categorical, but it is certainly the 

case that the majority of people never demanded an aggressive program of 

space exploration. At the end of May 1961, a Gallup press release reported, 

“Kennedy Must Convince Public of Value of Moon Shot Project,” because 

58 percent of Americans did not want the estimated $40 billion spent on 

this, compared with 33 percent who did.33 In January 1962, 22 percent of 

Americans believed there was a “great and urgent need for action” to “land 

an American astronaut on the moon.” Another 30 percent saw “some need,” 

meaning that a slim majority of 52 percent saw a need to go to the Moon. In 

contrast, 42 percent saw “little or no” need.34 By March 1963 these numbers 

had changed only slightly, to 53 percent against 42 percent.35 In November 

28. Harold Leland Goodwin, The Images of Space (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 

1965), p. 112.

29. Press release, 23 July 1965, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ; the poll 

was administered 7–12 November 1957.

30. Poll of 1,625 American adults by Gallup, 23–28 June 1961, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.61-647.R029.

31. Roger D. Launius, “Public Opinion Polls and Perceptions of U.S. Human Spaceflight,” 

Space Policy 19 (2003): 163–175.

32. Raymond A. Bauer, Second-Order Consequences (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1969), p. 84.

33. “Kennedy Must Convince Public of Value of Moon Shot Project,” press release, 31 May 

1961, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ, based on a national poll of 

1,447 adults.

34. Poll of 1,413 American adults by Opinion Research Corporation, Roper Center 

USORC.62APR.R09P.

35. Poll of 1,000 American adults by Opinion Research Corporation, 15 March–15 April 

1963, Roper Center USORC.63AUG.R14P.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 13

1962, 41.6 percent agreed “with President Kennedy’s objective of putting 

a man in space on the moon by 1970,” but 42.0 percent disagreed, with 

16.4 percent “not sure.”36

Alan Shepard’s suborbital Mercury flight of 5 May 1961 helped Americans 

feel their nation was catching up to the Soviet Union in space and even pulling ahead in the related field of missiles. Gallup included this question in 

four polls: “Which country—the United States or Russia—do you think is 

farther ahead in the field of long-range missiles and rockets?” In October 

1958, 40 percent thought Russia was ahead, and this view strengthened to 

47 percent in February 1960 before falling to 30 percent in February 1961 

and 20 percent immediately after Shepard’s flight. At the same points in 

time, the fractions thinking the United States was ahead were 37, 33, 49, and 

54 percent.37

In October 1964, Americans were asked, “Do you think the U.S. should 

go all out to beat the Russians in a manned-flight to the moon—or don’t 

you think this is too important?” Only 26 percent wanted an all-out effort, 

compared with 66 percent who felt beating the Russians was “not too important” and 8 percent who did not know.38 By February 1967, 33 percent of 

Americans had come to believe it was “important to send a man to the moon 

before Russia does,” compared with 61 percent who felt it was not important.39

On 18 March 1965 the cosmonaut Aleksei Leonov exited the Voskhod 2 

spacecraft while in orbit, accomplishing the very first spacewalk. A Harris poll 

done later that month reminded respondents, “the Russians recently sent two 

men into space, and one of them left the space ship and floated in outer space 

for ten minutes,” then asked which of four different feelings they experienced. 

The event made no impression “one way or the other” on 38.0 percent, and 

28.1 percent said, “I was proud that man had taken a major step in conquering space.” Another 17.6 percent were “concerned because it showed how 

far ahead of the United States the Russians are,” and 11.4 percent “didn’t 

really believe they did it.”40 In June 1965 a Gallup poll asked, “Would you 

like to see the amount of money being spent on space exploration increased, 

36. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1285, a November 1963 poll of 1,283 

American adults, Odom Institute.

37. “U.S. Seen Leading in Missile Race in Poll Since Space Shots,” press release, 7 June 1961, 

American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ.

38. Poll of 1,564 American adults by Gallup, October 1964, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.637POS.Q17.

39. Poll of 2,344 American adults by Gallup, 16–21 February 1967, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.741.Q04.

40. Poll of 1,083 American adults by Harris, March 1965, Odom Institute, Harris 1522 

Q12K.
14 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

decreased, or kept about the same as it is now?” Only 16 percent of respondents wanted funding increased, 42 percent were content to see it kept the 

same, 33 percent wanted it cut, and 9 percent expressed no opinion. This is 

a standard pattern found in poll after poll. Optimists may add the 16 percent calling for an increase with the 42 percent wanting current funding to 

continue and conclude that a majority of 58 percent supported the space 

program. Pessimists would argue that twice as many wanted funding cut as 

increased, so the opinion balance actually favors budget reductions.41

That same month, Harris poll respondents were asked, “Does it matter a lot 

to you that the Russians have been ahead of us in our space program?” Only 

10.4 percent said it did. Another 17.4 percent said it mattered to them “some 

but not a lot,” 16.0 percent said “only a little,” and a majority of 54.4 percent said “not at all.”42 Respondents were happy with “the way our man in 

space program is being handled,” with 38.6 percent rating it “excellent” and 

41.7 percent “pretty good.” However, this did not reflect great enthusiasm 

for the Apollo program. The poll went on to tell respondents: “It could cost 

the United States 40 billion dollars to get a man on the moon.” With this in 

mind, 31.7 percent wanted “the moon shot program” cut out entirely, and 

3.5 percent wanted it slowed down. The largest group, 37.9 percent, wanted 

the program kept as is, and only 18.1 percent wanted it speeded up.

Sometimes, after asking a fixed-choice question about support for the 

space program, national polls add an open-ended question asking respondents to explain their answer. Unfortunately, these verbal responses are 

seldom included in computer archives of the study. This poll was an exception. Those who wanted the space program speeded up mentioned justifications like “scientific knowledge,” “more knowledge,” “prestige abroad for the 

US,” “should beat USSR,” “a defense move because we are behind now,” “do 

it well,” and “get it over with.” Those who wanted the program continued at 

its present rate mentioned “speeding it up costs more,” “should spend money 

elsewhere,” “safety is important,” the “program works fine now,” and a “good 

job is more important” than a quick one. Among the justifications other 

people gave for ending the program were such responses as: it is “impossible 

to live on the moon”; “biblical statements” and ideas like “if God wanted 

man” on the Moon, he would already be there; there are “enough problems 

41. Press release, 23 July 1965, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ; poll 

of 2,534 American adults by Gallup, 24–29 June 1965, Roper Center USGALLUP.713.

Q014A.

42. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1531, a poll done in June 1965 of 522 

American adults, Odom Institute.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 15

here on Earth”; “see no point in it”; “money should be spent elsewhere”; and 

“waste of money.”43

In April 1967, only a few weeks after the tragic Apollo 1 fire that killed 

astronauts Gus Grissom, Roger Chaffee, and Ed White, the Harris poll 

included this question: “It could cost the United States $4 billion a year for 

the next 10 years to finally put a man on the moon and to explore other 

planets and outer space. All in all, do you feel the space program is worth 

spending that amount of money on or do you feel it isn’t worth it?” Only 

32.9 percent of respondents said it was worth it, fully 54.5 percent said it 

was not, and the remaining 12.6 percent were not sure. Then Harris asked 

a follow-up question: “If the Russians were not in space, and we were the 

only ones exploring space, would you favor or oppose continuing our space 

program at the present rate?” Of 383 respondents who felt the space program 

was worth it, 26.4 percent would oppose continuing at the present rate if the 

Russians were not in space, and another 3.7 percent were not sure. Of the 

entire group of 1,250 respondents, only 32.9 percent favored “the space project aim of landing a man on the moon,” and 54.5 percent were opposed.44

Harris asked these same questions again in January 1969, the month after 

Apollo 8 successfully circled the Moon. Now, 30.4 percent felt that the cost 

of the program was worth it. This level of support after the success of Apollo 8 

is only 4 percentage points higher than the level reported after the failure of 

Apollo 1. One big difference is the solidity of support among those who felt 

it was worth it. In 1967, 70.0 percent of this group supported continuing at 

the present rate even if the Russians were not in space, but in 1969 this loyal 

fraction was 90.7 percent. Only six months before the first actual Moon landing, support for “the space project aim of landing a man on the moon” had 

strengthened to 39.2 percent, but this was still less than the 48.6 percent that 

opposed the plan.45

Harris also asked respondents to consider a list of 11 government activities, including the space program, asking, “If one program had to be reduced, 

which one would you cut first?” Far and away the most common first 

choice for the budget ax was the space program, with 40.7 percent citing 

it. Remarkably, this was more than twice as many as the 18.4 percent who 

wanted to cut the second choice, “financing the war in Vietnam.” The nine 

43. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1531, a poll done in June 1965 of 522 

American adults, Odom Institute.

44. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1718, a poll done in April 1967 of 1,250 

American adults, Odom Institute.

45. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1877, a poll done in January 1969 of 

American adults with 1,560 responding to these questions, Odom Institute.
16 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

other options were far less likely to be cut: “welfare and relief” (9.5 percent), 

“building more highways” (8.6 percent), “subsidies for farmers” (6.5 percent), 

“anti-poverty program” (6.1 percent), “aid to cities” (5.1 percent), “anti-air 

and anti-water pollution programs” (1.7 percent), “Medicaid” (1.6 percent), 

“anti-crime and law enforcement programs” (1.1 percent), and “aid to education” (0.6 percent).

Back in December 1968, just as NASA was preparing to send Apollo 8 

around the Moon and Richard Nixon was preparing to take over the presidency, a Harris poll asked respondents to react to ideas about six “specific 

areas where it has been suggested the U.S. military defense be strengthened.” 

One idea was, “Convert the space program into a system of nuclear weapon 

space stations.” Almost exactly a quarter, 25.1 percent, felt this ought to be 

done. The largest group, 48.6 percent, felt it should not be done, and the 

remaining 26.4 percent were not sure. Another of the ideas became important just 15 years later in the Reagan administration: “Build up a system of 

anti-missile defenses.” Fully 60.1 percent felt this should be done, and only 

23.2 percent were opposed.46

In June 1969, on the eve of the first lunar landing, Harris repeated its 

questions about support for the effort. Again, only a minority felt it was 

worth the $4-billion price tag, just 35.4 percent compared with 56.4 percent 

of respondents who were convinced the Apollo program was not worth it. 

However, Apollo 10 had just zoomed low over the lunar surface and practiced 

the maneuvers necessary for a landing, so many people may have felt that 

taking the next “small step” actually to get down to the surface was reasonable. At this point 50.1 percent favored “the space project aim of landing a 

man on the moon,” and only 41.6 percent were still opposed.47

A Gallup poll begun the day the Apollo 11 astronauts returned from the 

first Moon landing in 1969 found that only 39 percent of Americans favored 

“attempting to land a man on the planet Mars,” compared with 53 percent 

who opposed the idea.48 About the same time, the Harris poll asked respondents whether they favored or opposed four possible “next steps for the U.S. 

space program. Only 31.5 percent favored “putting a permanent U.S. space 

station up in space with 100 men on it,” and 50.7 percent opposed this idea. 

Opinions were similar, 34.2 percent in favor and 51.3 percent opposed, about 

46. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1900, a December 1968 poll of 1,544 

American adults, Odom Institute. The factor analyses employed pairwise deletion, calling 

for two factors.

47. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1936, a June 1969 poll of 1,589 American 

adults, Odom Institute.

48. Poll of 1,555 American adults by Gallup, 24–29 July 1969, Roper Center USGALLUP.

785.Q02.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 17

“putting a scientific exploration station with 100 men in it on the moon.” 

“Sending men to land on Mars” got a more positive response, 39.2 percent in 

favor compared with 49.1 percent opposed. And 38.0 percent were in favor 

of “making a permanent station in space a United Nations space station,” 

whereas 48.3 percent were opposed. In each case more people opposed the 

option than favored it.49

In July 1999 the Gallup poll asked, “It is now thirty years since the United 

States first landed men on the moon. Do you think the space program has 

brought enough benefits to this country to justify its costs, or don’t you think 

so?” While just 5 percent of respondents expressed no opinion, 55 percent said 

the space program had brought enough benefits, compared with 40 percent 

who said it had not.50 Given the persistent claims of fringe groups that Apollo 

was a hoax, it is worth noting that only 6 percent of respondents believed “the 

government staged or faked the Apollo moon landing.”51 Fully 53 percent 

of those who were old enough said they had watched the Apollo 11 landing 

on television.52 Later that same year, exactly half of American adults felt that 

“landing a man on the moon in 1969” was one of the most important events 

of the 20th century, a further 30 percent considered it “important but not 

the most important,” and 15 percent considered it “somewhat important.” 

Notably, only 5 percent considered the first Moon landing “not important.”53

After the Moon flights that ended in December 1972, Apollo technology was used to loft the Skylab space station and send three crews to it in 

1973 and 1974. The last Apollo flight came in 1975, with a symbolic mission to promote international cooperation and detente by linking up in orbit 

with a Soviet Soyuz spacecraft. By that time work had begun on the Space 

Shuttle program. Because the 1973–1975 flights were limited to Earth’s orbit, 

they marked the beginning of a new and less aggressive phase in the history 

of space exploration, and for many observers the heroic early era of human 

spaceflight ended with the safe return of Apollo 17 on 19 December 1972.

49. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1944, a July 1969 poll of 1,601 American 

adults, Odom Institute.

50. Poll of 1,061 American adults by Gallup, 13–14 July 1999, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.072099.R2.

51. Poll of 1,061 American adults by Gallup, 13–14 July 1999, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.072099.R9.

52. Poll of 1,061 American adults by Gallup, 13–14 July 1999, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.072099.R6.

53. Poll of 1,011 American adults by Gallup, 4–7 November 1999, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.99NOM04.R21M.
18 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

3. Trends in Support After Apollo

Beginning in 1973, interviewers from the General Social Survey (GSS) have 

asked whether the funding level for the “space exploration program” was too 

much money, too little, or “about the right amount.” Figure 1.1 graphs the 

percentage of respondents giving each of these responses through 2004, a 

span of more than three decades.

The Gallup poll provides a comparable set of data, sometimes agreeing 

with the GSS and sometimes disagreeing to a modest extent. For both polls, 

the low point in support since the 1970s came in 1993, when they estimated 

that only 9 percent of those polled wanted funding increased. Gallup’s high 

marks were higher than those from the GSS, hitting 26 percent in 1989 and 

24 percent in 2003. A Gallup poll carried out 23–25 June 2006 found that 

17 percent of Americans wanted funding increased, 48 percent wanted it kept 

at current levels, and 33 percent wanted funding reduced or eliminated altogether.54 Analyzing Gallup data, Mark Gillespie has noted that confidence in 

NASA reacts measurably to news events, peaking during John Glenn’s flight 

on a Space Shuttle mission in 1998 and dropping after failed Mars missions 

54. Joseph Carroll, “Public Divided over Money Spent on Space Shuttle Program,” press 

release, 30 June 2006, Gallup News Service, Princeton, NJ.

0 

10 

20 

30 

40 

50 

60 

70 

1970 1975 1980 1985 1990 1995 2000 2005 

Percent who Say Funding is... 

Year 

Too Little 

About Right 

Too Much 

FIGURE 1.1. Attitudes Toward Space Program Funding

Expressed in the General Social Survey
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 19

in 1993 and 1999.55 Confidence in the Agency and willingness to invest in 

it are related in complex ways, however, and the public might occasionally 

want to increase funding in order to fix a problem and fail to reward successes 

with increased appropriations if it is satisfied that NASA is already on the 

right track.56

The most striking feature of the GSS graph is the low level of support 

for the space program in the early 1970s, improving until about 1980 and 

then holding roughly steady since then. In 1973 only 7.8 percent felt that 

too little was being spent, compared with 61.4 percent who felt that that 

spending was too high. The year 1978 was the last time the GSS found that 

a majority, 50.3 percent, wanted space funding reduced, and in that year 

12.3 percent wanted funding increased. The first Space Shuttle launch was 

on 12 April 1981, incidentally exactly 20 years after the first orbital flight by 

Yuri Gagarin; so public support in 1980 was clearly not a response to its success. Of course, publicity for the Shuttle had been building for years, notably 

during 1977, when the Enterprise repeatedly demonstrated the ability of a 

Shuttle to glide safely to a landing.

A number of writers who have analyzed the polls of this period have suggested that the beginning of this period was anomalous in its low public 

enthusiasm for the space program. For example, Roger D. Launius has noted 

“a significant dip in support in the early 1970s.”57 Sylvia D. Fries has observed: 

“The proportion of Americans opposed to more government expenditures in 

space from 1965 to 1975 increased from one-third to one-half of all adult 

Americans.”58 Sylvia K. Kraemer has argued that public support for the space 

program may have deteriorated because “more Americans saw the Apollo 

program as another effort to ‘beat the Russians’ than as an essential goal of 

U.S. space exploration.”59 Other observers would argue that the very success 

of Apollo, coupled with the lack of a comparably exciting post-Apollo goal, 

was responsible. As one team of poll analysts put the point: “Without the 

55. Mark Gillespie, “Confidence in NASA Slips After Failed Mars Missions,” press release, 16 

December 1999, Gallup News Service, Princeton, NJ.

56. Frank Newport, “Despite Recent High Visibility, Americans Not Enthusiastic About 

Spending More Money on Space Program,” press release, 28 July 1999, Gallup News 

Service, Princeton, NJ.

57. Roger D. Launius, “Public Opinion Polls and Perceptions of US Human Spaceflight,” 

Space Policy 19, no. 3 (2003): 163–175, esp. p. 166.

58. Sylvia D. Fries, “Opinion Polls and the U.S. Space Program,” paper given at the meetings 

of the American Institute for Aeronautics and Astronautics, 29 April 1992, NASA TM109700, 1–11, esp. p. 6.

59. Sylvia K. Kraemer, “Opinion Polls and the U.S. Civil Space Program,” Journal of the 

British Interplanetary Society 46, no. 11 (November 1993): 444–446.
20 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

compelling need to regain international leadership in space, the U.S. civil 

space program foundered in the 1970s. Decreasing public interest in the 

now seemingly routine Moon landings was echoed in a declining national 

space budget.”60

However, there is much evidence for a very different explanation, focusing not on the specifics of space history but on the broader status of science in society. As Georgine Pion and Mark Lipsey have documented, using 

a variety of polls, the 1970s were marked by increased distrust in science 

and technology, associated with distrust in most institutions of society.61 In 

1966 and again in 1971, the National Opinion Research Center (NORC) of 

the University of Chicago asked a random sample of Americans how much 

confidence they had in “science” and “other institutional areas.” The fraction having “a great deal of confidence” in science dropped from 56 percent 

to 32 percent over these five years. Those with great confidence in “major 

U.S. companies” dropped from 55 percent to 27 percent, and the drop was 

from 61 percent to 37 percent for education. These questions were incorporated in NORC’s General Social Survey beginning in 1973, and Table 1.2 

shows a close connection between confidence in science and support for the 

space program. 

After reviewing their poll evidence, Pion and Lipsey conclude that “science 

did suffer from the general disillusionment experienced by all major social 

institutions during the late 1960s and early 1970s.”62 It is worth recalling that 

60. Stephanie A. Roy, Elaine C. Gresham, and Carissa Bryce Christensen, “The Complex 

Fabric of Public Opinion on Space,” Acta Astronautica 47, Issues 2–9 (2000): 665–675, 

esp. p. 668.

61. Georgine M. Pion and Mark W. Lipsey, “Public Attitudes Toward Science and Technology: 

What Have the Surveys Told Us?,” Public Opinion Quarterly 45, no. 3 (1981): 303–316.

62. Pion and Lipsey, p. 313.

TABLE 1.2. Confidence in Science and Support for the Space Program

1973: Confidence in Science 2004: Confidence in Science

Support for Space 

Program Spending

A Great 

Deal

Only 

Some

Hardly 

Any

A Great 

Deal

Only 

Some

Hardly 

Any

Too little 12.0% 6.4% 2.2% 19.7% 7.9% 0.0%

About right 37.4% 29.4% 15.4% 54.0% 47.1% 26.9%

Too much 50.7% 64.2% 82.4% 26.2% 45.0% 73.1%

Total 100% 100% 100% 100% 100% 100%

Respondents 535 673 91 169 215 22
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 21

this was the peak period for the Vietnam War, the Watergate scandal, and the 

psychedelic counterculture. In 1973 the mass media ballyhooed expectations 

that Kohoutek would be the comet of the century, rock musicians dedicated 

albums to it, drug guru Timothy Leary wrote from his prison cell calling 

it “Starseed,” and Moses David of the Children of God proclaimed it was 

ushering in the millennium.63 In the words of Steven Tipton, the early 1970s 

were spent “getting saved from the sixties,” but by 1980 that painful job had 

largely been accomplished and America was looking for more mundane benefits from space.64

In May 1981, a month after the first Space Shuttle launch, the Harris 

poll reminded 1,250 respondents: “There are a number of practical uses that 

the space shuttle may provide by taking as many as 400 flights into space 

and back over the next several years.” Then respondents rated five of these 

practical uses in terms of how important they thought they were. “Doing 

experiments with new pharmaceutical products that can help cure disease” 

was rated “very important” by 81.9 percent. The other four practical uses 

were: “developing a military capability in space beyond what the Russians are 

doing” (68.0 percent); “putting new communications satellites in space at a 

much lower cost” (65.4 percent); “doing scientific research on metals, chemicals, and living in space” (55.6 percent); and “picking up other U.S. space 

satellites and repairing them in space” (47.9 percent). Analysis of correlations 

between these five items shows that developing pharmaceutical products was 

quite distinct from the other four, and the military item was also somewhat 

distinct. More than a quarter century after this poll, it is worth noting that 

new pharmaceutical products of any value have not resulted from the Space 

Shuttle program; the Challenger accident ended the Shuttle’s mission lofting communications satellites and severely limited repair missions, and there 

were not 400 but only 114 launches during that period—two of them ending 

in total destruction of the spacecraft and crew.65

When Ronald Reagan became president in 1981, détente with the Soviet 

Union had already ended, with the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan and the 

U.S. withdrawal from the Moscow Olympics of 1980—followed by the Soviet 

63. Timothy Leary, “Starseed,” 1973, http://www.lycaeum.org/books/books/starseed/starseed.

shtml; Moses David [David Berg], “The Christmas Monster!,” MO Letter GP#269, 

8 September 1973; and “40 DAYS!—And Nineveh Shall Be Destroyed! (Jonah 3:4),” 

MO Letter GP#280, 12 November 1973.

64. Steven M. Tipton, Getting Saved from the Sixties (Berkeley: University of California Press, 

1982).

65. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 812106, a May 1981 poll of 1,250 

American adults, Odom Institute. The average correlations linking each of the items with 

the others, in the order cited, was 0.16, 0.24, 0.32, 0.30, and 0.31.
22 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

boycott of the Los Angeles Olympics four years later. Thus a period began 

during which the military potential of the space program was emphasized. 

In August 1981, halfway between the first two Shuttle flights, a poll done by 

NBC and the Associated Press asked, “Should the emphasis of the U.S. space 

program be primarily on national defense or on scientific exploration?” A 

near majority, 49 percent, answered “national defense,” while 32 percent said 

“scientific exploration,” 10 percent volunteered “both,” and the remaining 

9 percent were “not sure.”66

On 23 March 1983, Reagan proposed development of a system to defend 

the United States against missile attack, the Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI): 

“I call upon the scientific community who gave us nuclear weapons to turn 

their great talents to the cause of mankind and world peace: to give us the 

means of rendering these nuclear weapons impotent and obsolete.”67 Even to 

those who paid close attention to public information about SDI, it was never 

entirely clear how prominent a role the civilian space program or orbiting 

military satellites would play, in contrast to ground-based defensive missiles. 

There was much talk about space-based lasers or particle beams that might 

destroy warheads at a range of thousands of miles, but such weapons have 

not been developed in the subsequent decades and may have been an extreme 

fantasy when they were widely discussed in the 1980s.68

Over the next several years, numerous polls examined attitudes toward 

SDI.69 During this period, many Americans would have preferred to negotiate an end to the militarization of space. A January 1985 Los Angeles Times

poll inquired, “Generally speaking, do you favor or oppose an agreement 

to outlaw the use of all military weapons in outer space?” By far the largest 

group, 43 percent, said they “favor strongly” such an agreement, and another 

16 percent said they “favor somewhat,” meaning that a majority of Americans 

backed international agreement to outlaw space weapons. On the other side of 

the issue, 15 percent “opposed somewhat” and 16 percent opposed strongly, 

with 10 percent “not sure.”70

66. Poll of 1,601 American adults by NBC News and the Associated Press, 10–11 August 

1981, Roper Center USNBCAP.69.R23.

67. Ronald Reagan, “Address to the Nation on National Security,” 23 March 1983, http://

www.commonwealthclub.org/missiledefense/reagansp.html.

68. Robert H. Gromoll, “SDI and the Dynamics of Strategic Uncertainty,” Political Science 

Quarterly 102, no. 3 (1987): 481–500. 

69. Thomas W. Graham and Bernard M. Kramer, “The Polls: ABM and Star Wars: Attitudes 

Toward Nuclear Defense, 1945–1985,” Public Opinion Quarterly 50, no. 1 (1986): 125–

134.

70. Poll of 1,454 American adults by the Los Angeles Times, 19–24 January 1985, Roper 

Center USLAT.93.R089.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 23

One 1985 poll found that 31 percent of Americans had never “heard or 

read anything about a program called the Strategic Defense Initiative, or SDI, 

also known as ‘Star Wars.’”71 Thus the polls needed to explain SDI to respondents, therefore shaping public opinion even as they were trying to measure 

it. For example, a July 1985 Roper poll asked this massive question:

President Reagan has proposed that the United States build a space-based 

defense system (sometimes called “Star Wars”) against incoming missiles. 

Many people think that this is a good idea because it would give us an advantage over the Russians in this area, which would help deter a Soviet attack. 

Many others feel that a space-based defense system is a bad idea because it 

would escalate the arms race and increase the risk of a nuclear confrontation 

with Russia. How do you feel—do you think the United States should or 

should not build a space-based defense system? 

With this explanation in mind, 43 percent felt “we should build it,” 35 percent felt “we should not build it,” and fully 22 percent did not know what 

to think.72

That same poll included this preface to a series of complex questions: 

Here are some arguments that have been made in favor of a space-based 

anti-missile defense system. For an argument to be convincing it has to be 

both important and true. If it isn’t important, or isn’t true, it isn’t convincing. 

Would you tell me for each of those arguments whether you find it a very convincing argument for a space-based anti-missile defense system, or somewhat 

convincing, or not very convincing, or not at all convincing? 

Just 19 percent found the following argument very convincing: “The world 

would be safer if the U.S. and the Soviet Union could each rely on a spacebased anti-missile defense system for their security rather than relying, as 

they do now, on offensive missile systems to deter each other from launching an attack.” Another 30 percent found it somewhat convincing, 21 percent judged it to be not very convincing, and 16 percent said it was not at 

all convincing.73

71. Poll of 1,008 American adults by Marttila & Kiley, September 1985, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.47-406.QKT11.

72. Poll of 1,997 American adults by Roper, 13–20 July 1985, Roper Center USROPER.85-7.

R08.

73. Poll of 1,997 American adults by Roper, 13–20 July 1985, Roper Center USROPER.85-7.

R09D.
24 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Some polls saved their more complex questions for subsets of respondents 

who claimed to be especially knowledgeable. A Gallup poll in October 1985 

focused on the 61 percent of respondents who claimed to have followed the 

“Star Wars” discussion very closely or fairly closely. Of these, 48 percent 

believed that developing a space-based defensive system would increase “the 

likelihood of reaching a nuclear arms agreement with the Soviet Union,” while 

36 percent believed it would decrease the chances, and 16 percent had no 

opinion.74 One 1985 Los Angeles Times poll gave respondents many options. 

While only 10 percent felt SDI would “someday be a leakproof umbrella 

against enemy missiles,” 32 percent felt it could at least “be able to reduce the 

number of missiles that can get through.” Just 5 percent felt SDI would be 

“effective mainly against enemy satellites,” and 6 percent felt it would “be able 

to protect small areas where missiles are stored.” In contrast, 22 percent were 

convinced “a Star Wars system will never be effective at all,” and 25 percent 

were not prepared to venture an opinion.75 However, judgments of the feasibility of Star Wars were probably based neither on adequate knowledge nor 

firm feelings. A year later, a poll for Time magazine found that 57 percent of 

Americans felt “the Star Wars (space-based) defense system is likely to work,” 

far more than the 20 percent who felt it was “not likely to work.”76

A poll by CBS and the New York Times asked: “If it came down to only 

these choices, what should the United States do—work to develop a Star 

Wars system (a defense system in space to destroy incoming missiles) and 

give up negotiations, or work to negotiate a reduction in nuclear missiles and 

give up Star Wars?” A majority of 53 percent was happy to negotiate Star 

Wars away, while 33 percent wanted to develop the system even at the cost 

of forgoing negotiations, and 14 percent could not decide.77 It is difficult to 

tell how closely the public connected Star Wars with the civilian space program, but one poll question suggests not very closely. Immediately after the 

Challenger disaster, Gallup asked: “Does the Shuttle explosion cast doubt 

in your mind on the ability of scientists to construct a reliable space-based 

‘star wars’ defense against nuclear attack—or does one have very little to do 

74. Poll of 1,540 American adults by Gallup, 11–14 October 1985, Roper Center 

USGALLUP.111785.R2.

75. Poll of 2,041 American adults by the Los Angeles Times, 1–7 November 1985, Roper 

Center USLAT.100.R77.

76. Poll of 806 American adults by Yankelovich Clancy Shulman for Time magazine on 15 

October 1986, Roper Center USYANKCS.102086.R13.

77. Poll of 1,659 American adults by CBS News and the New York Times, 6–10 November 

1985, Roper Center USCBSNYT.NOV85.R44.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 25

with the other?” Only 16.2 percent felt the explosion cast doubt on SDI, and 

72.9 percent asserted that the Challenger had little to do with “Star Wars.”78

To the extent that the civilian space program did become associated with 

military defense in the public mind during the 1980s, it became implicated in 

political disagreements about defense. Immediately before the 1988 elections, 

in which Reagan’s vice president, George Bush, defeated Michael Dukakis for 

the presidency, a Yankelovich poll asked registered voters how much should 

be spent on SDI annually. Just 14 percent said “about $5 billion as requested 

by President Reagan,” while 38 percent said “about $4 billion as legislated 

by the U.S. Congress,” and 31 percent said “about $1 billion as proposed by 

Michael Dukakis.” Another 6 percent volunteered that no money should be 

spent at all.79

Rosita Thomas has suggested that the public is more likely to associate 

space with defense during periods of international tensions and to be more 

receptive to joint missions during periods of détente.80 To the extent that a 

given administration’s defense policies are controversial, promoting military 

applications for the space program can polarize attitudes toward space exploration. This works against the development of a broadly based constituency 

for the program and pits long-range goals, such as gaining scientific knowledge, against narrow tactics to deal with current world conditions. Although 

reconnaissance satellites have been a valuable aid to national defense since the 

beginning of the 1960s, space-based laser weapons continue to be apparently 

beyond our technical capabilities more than three decades after Reagan’s 1983 

speech. In retrospect, Star Wars was a fantasy that served, intentionally or 

unintentionally, to put pressure on the Soviet Union, which evolved through 

détente toward disintegration in the latter part of the decade. SDI did little 

to clarify the tension between scientific discovery and mundane applications 

of space technology.

The Space Shuttle Challenger was destroyed during launch on 28 January 

1986, at the moment when Voyager 2’s highly publicized encounter with 

Uranus was promoting the value of robotic missions. Before the day was over, 

President Reagan had spoken to the nation, saying, in part: “We’ll continue 

our quest in space. There will be more shuttle flights and more shuttle crews 

and, yes, more volunteers, more civilians, more teachers in space. Nothing 

78. Poll of 533 American adults by Gallup, 29–30 January 1986, Gallup Organization, 

Princeton, NJ.

79. Poll of 1,006 registered voters by the Daniel Yankelovich Group, 4–7 November 1988, 

Roper Center USDYG.ATS11.R13.

80. Rosita M. Thomas, American Public Opinion and the Space Program (Washington, DC: 

Congressional Research Service of the Library of Congress, 1991), p. 39.
26 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

ends here; our hopes and our journeys continue.”81 Over the following two 

days, Gallup carried out a telephone survey for Newsweek, asking: “Some 

people say the National Aeronautics and Space Administration should concentrate on unmanned missions like the Voyager probe that is now sending back information from the planet Uranus. Others say it is important 

to maintain and develop a manned space program like the Shuttle as well 

as unmanned missions. Which comes closer to your view?” Just 21 percent 

wanted to concentrate on unmanned missions, 67 percent wanted manned 

missions as well, and 12 percent did not know.82

Another telephone poll conducted at the same time by the Roper 

Organization for U.S. News and World Report offered respondents two rather 

complex statements, asking which they agreed with more. Just 36 percent 

agreed with this: “I think the space administration was pushing too hard. It 

was under great economic pressure to get too many flights up into space too 

quickly.” A slim majority, 55 percent, agreed with this: “The space administration has always been very safety conscious and I don’t see any indication 

that pressure caused it to depart from its usual commitment to safety.”83 A 

USA Today poll asked respondents to assume “an investigation of the shuttle 

explosions shows that a similar incident can be avoided,” then asked what 

should be done. A large majority, 72.6 percent, said “the Shuttle Program 

should resume its original schedule.” Much smaller groups said the program 

“should be cut back” (16.1 percent) or be “ended altogether” (6.3). Only 

21.0 percent felt “future shuttle crews [should] be limited to military and 

NASA personnel,” while 72.8 percent felt “civilians such as school teacher 

Christa McAuliffe [should] be allowed to participate.”84

The polls for Newsweek, U.S. News and World Report, and USA Today were 

done hastily with about 500 to 800 respondents. Over the next week, Harris 

was able to poll 1,255 American adults. When reminded that “it is costing 

the U.S. government billions of dollars to develop the full potential of the 

space shuttle,” 66.5 percent said they felt the Shuttle program was worth it. 

The poll also presented respondents with four statements, asking whether 

they felt this way or not. Fully 77.5 percent felt that “no further shuttle flights 

should be conducted until they find out what went wrong in the one that 

81. Ronald W. Reagan, “Explosion of the Space Shuttle Challenger: Address to the Nation,” 

28 January 1986, http://history.nasa.gov/reagan12886.html.

82. Poll of 533 American adults by Gallup for Newsweek, 29–30 January 1986, Roper Center 

USGALNEW.86056.R04.

83. Poll of 502 American adults by the Roper Organization for U.S. News and World Report, 

29–30 January 1986, Roper Center USROPER.644075.Q05.

84. Analysis of original data from USA Today study 9111, a poll done by Gordon S. Black 

Corporation in 1986 of 808 American adults, Odom Institute.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 27

blew up.” Only 37.1 percent felt that “the practice of putting civilians on 

board space flights should be put off until a much later date.” A solid majority (63.7 percent) felt that “the practice of putting astronauts on the shuttle 

flights should be reviewed carefully to see if more flights can be taken which 

don’t require risking human life.” Exactly 50.0 percent felt that “they should 

concentrate on putting up unmanned craft like the Voyager, which can conduct important experiments and learn important facts without risking any 

human life.” Some 44.7 percent definitely did not hold this opinion, and 

5.3 percent were not sure.85

Nearly a month after the Challenger disaster, a Los Angeles Times poll told 

respondents: “NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration) says 

that the benefits of research performed by live astronauts in space far outweigh any possible dangers to their safety. Other people say that unmanned 

space probes would cost less and do the same job without risk to life.” When 

asked their views, 27 percent of Americans felt there should be an even greater 

emphasis on human spaceflight, 41 percent felt the United States should “continue with the same emphasis as before,” and only 24 percent felt there should 

be more emphasis on piloted missions.86 When asked whether “the government should spend one and a half billion dollars for another space shuttle to 

replace Challenger,” 52 percent said yes, compared with only 42 percent who 

opposed this investment.87 Five months after the Challenger accident, only 

11 percent of respondents to an NBC News and Wall Street Journal poll felt 

“the manned shuttle program should be discontinued for good,” and 85 percent stated it should not be discontinued.88

In June 1986 the Rogers Commission Report was published, identifying the causes of the Challenger disaster and recommending improvements. 

NASA published its response, “Actions to Implement the Recommendations 

of The Presidential Commission on the Space Shuttle Challenger Accident,” 

in July.89 In August 1986 a poll conducted for Rockwell International, 

Challenger’s builder, noted “that the Roger’s [sic] Commission on the space 

85. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 861201, a February 1986 poll of 1,255 

American adults, Odom Institute.

86. Poll of 2,241 American adults by the Los Angeles Times, 20–25 February 1986, Roper 

Center USLAT.103.R90.

87. Poll of 2,241 American adults by the Los Angeles Times, 20–25 February 1986, Roper 

Center USLAT.103.R86.

88. Poll of 1,599 American adults by NBC News/Wall Street Journal, 2–3 June 1986, Roper 

Center USNBCWSJ.061186.R28.

89. NASA, “Actions to Implement the Recommendations of The Presidential Commission 

on the Space Shuttle Challenger Accident” (also called the Rogers Commission Report), 14 

July 1986, http://history.nasa.gov/rogersrep/actions.pdf. 
28 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

shuttle accident has finished its work and NASA has announced its plans to 

follow their recommendations.” With this in mind, 72 percent of respondents believed “that the space program can proceed,” while 26 percent felt 

“there should be more investigation of the causes of the accident.”90

In September a Harris poll referred to the report of the Rogers Commission 

and asked a number of questions about the Shuttle program. Some 43.8 percent of respondents felt that “the full story of what happened in the disaster 

of the Challenger has come out.” Despite harboring doubts, 72.8 percent 

felt that “NASA has made, or is making, the basic changes necessary to get 

the space program back on track.” Harris interviewers read a long paragraph 

explaining President Reagan’s plans to replace the Challenger with a new 

Shuttle estimated to cost $2.8 billion, then asked respondents whether they 

thought several aspects of the new space policies were right. Only 20.2 percent thought that “it [would] be possible to pay for the new space shuttle out 

of the current NASA budget,” and 39.2 percent feared “that such important 

other programs as expendable rockets, reusable unmanned vehicles, and space 

stations [would] be neglected.” 

Given that a tenth of respondents were unsure about most of the policies, 

a plurality of 48.4 percent felt “the President was right to ban the shuttle from 

getting paid to launch commercial satellites because doing so could prove to 

be too hazardous.” A large majority, 72.3 percent, felt “the main emphasis in 

the space program now likely will be the military, especially the Air Force, 

which will have the money to finance shuttle trips and to undertake programs 

that will move toward new discoveries in space.” In conclusion, 67.6 percent 

of respondents thought the space program was worth continuing at the current level, but only 36.8 percent were willing to provide more money to overcome the Challenger setback.91 However, Figure 1.1 (see page 18) shows that 

after the Challenger accident there was a marked rise in the fraction of the 

public that wanted space funding increased and a reduction in the fraction 

who wanted funding reduced.

As the Voyager 2 space probe was approaching Neptune in 1989, a 

Gallup poll told respondents: “Some people feel the U.S. space program 

should concentrate on unmanned missions like Voyager 2, which will send 

back information from the planet Neptune. Others say we should concentrate on maintaining a manned space program like the space shuttle.” Some 

90. Poll of 1,200 American adults by Market Opinion Research for Rockwell International, 

1–12 August 1986, Roper Center USMOR.86SPAC.R14.

91. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1255, a September 1986 poll of 1,255 

American adults, Odom Institute. Note: question Q1A_3 in the interview schedule seems 

to have a typographical error in the last word (fired when fined was probably meant), and 

Q1B_5 rambles so much that its meaning is unclear; so they will not be analyzed here.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 29

39.6 percent wanted more emphasis on “unmanned” missions, compared 

with 42.6 percent who preferred “manned” missions.92 A year later, when 

the successful Neptune flyby had passed into history, Gallup asked the question again, and only 34.3 percent favored “unmanned” exploration, while 

47.6 percent favored “manned” missions.93 This comparison suggests that 

spectacular successes can increase enthusiasm for robot probes but that many 

people expect the space program to be about human exploration.

In 1991, George Gallup Jr. and Frank Newport sought to interpret the 

deeper meaning of the public opinion percentages the Gallup organization 

had been reporting over the eight previous years. They observed that most 

Americans felt NASA was doing a good or excellent job, and the United 

States was far ahead of other nations in space. 

Perhaps as a result of these feelings of “space supremacy,” the race to be first 

on Mars has become significantly less important to Americans.... Despite the 

improvement in NASA’s ratings, space exploration remains a low priority for 

most Americans’ tax dollars in comparison to other government programs. 

Overall, more than half of all Americans (56%) think the money this country 

has invested in space research would have been better spent on programs such 

as health care and education.94

This was in May, after the breakup of the Soviet empire and just seven months 

before the USSR formally dissolved, so it may already have seemed clear to 

many Americans that their nation was the sole remaining “superpower” 

that did not any longer need to be competing for propaganda triumphs in 

outer space.

Although Americans respect scientists, few citizens really give very high 

priorities to scientific discovery unless it promises some immediate positive 

impact on their lives—for example, in development of valuable new medical 

treatments. The general public is interested in people before it is interested 

in ideas. Thus piloted spaceflight provides human-interest stories that can 

help ordinary people identify with the entire program. It is perhaps understandable, if not entirely fair, that these stories always seem to focus on the 

astronauts who have what Tom Wolfe called “the right stuff,” rather than on 

the scientists and engineers who have invented the vehicles the astronauts ride 

92. Poll of 2,051 American adults by Gallup, 6–9 July 1989, Gallup Organization, 

Princeton, NJ.

93. Poll of 2,020 American adults by Gallup, 19–22 July 1990, Gallup Organization, 

Princeton, NJ.

94. George Gallup Jr. and Frank Newport, “NASA Rating Up but Public Reluctant To Spend 

More Money on Space,” Gallup Poll News Service 56, no. 2 (10 May 1991): 1–3.
30 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

and thus arguably have even “righter stuff.”95 For instance, immediately after 

the 29 October 1998 launch of Discovery, 77.3 percent of respondents to a 

Gallup poll approved “of NASA sending U.S. Senator John Glenn, a former 

astronaut, back into space this week on a space shuttle mission,” and only 

15.8 percent disapproved.96

On 1 February 2003, the Columbia disintegrated during reentry, and the 

next day Gallup did a quick-action poll of 462 people. An overwhelming 

majority, 81.5 percent, felt the “manned space shuttle program” should continue. When asked how much confidence they had that NASA “will be able 

to prevent accidents like this from happening in the future,” 37.8 percent 

said “a great deal,” 43.6 percent replied “a fair amount,” 11.3 percent admitted “not very much,” and 5.8 percent said “none at all.” Logically, views on 

this issue are the product of beliefs about two issues: how difficult spaceflight 

objectively is and how good a job NASA is doing. Some 44.8 percent felt 

NASA was doing an excellent job, 37.3 percent a good job, 13.0 percent a 

fair job, and only 2.4 percent of respondents said NASA was doing a poor 

job. When asked how much money should be spent on the space program, 

23.7 percent said an increased amount; the majority, 56.3 percent, said 

funding should be kept at current levels; and 16.0 percent wanted funding 

decreased (including 7.3 percent who wanted the program ended).97 Unlike 

the case with Challenger, a replacement Shuttle was not built; so a substantial 

increase in funding was unnecessary.

Five days after the disaster, a Harris poll asked a much larger sample, “In 

light of what happened to the Columbia last week (February 1, 2003), do you 

think that continuing the space shuttle program is or is not worth the risk to 

human life?” Fully 71 percent considered that it is worth the risks, compared 

with 25 percent who judged it was not and 4 percent who were not sure.98 In 

response to another poll, 77 percent felt “the manned space program is worth 

continuing,” even “given the costs and risks involved.”99

In August 2003 a Gallup poll challenged respondents with this difficult 

question: “As you may know, there have been two space shuttle crashes that 

have killed fourteen astronauts since the first space shuttle was launched in 

95. Tom Wolfe, The Right Stuff (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1979).

96. Poll of 1,045 American adults by Gallup, 30–31 October 1998, Gallup Organization, 

Princeton, NJ.

97. “Space Shuttle Crash Reaction Poll,” a Gallup poll of 462 adults, 2 February 2003, 

Gallup Organization, Princeton, NJ.

98. Poll of 1,003 American adults by Time/Cable News Network conducted by Harris 

Interactive, 6 February 2003, Roper Center USHARRIS.Y021803.R37.

99. Poll of 747 American adults by CBS News/New York Times, 10–12 February 2003, Roper 

Center USCBSNYT.200302B.Q68.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 31

1981. Which of the following would you consider to be an acceptable price to 

pay for the U.S. to achieve its goals with the space program?” Just 6.2 percent 

felt a fatal crash every 10 missions would be an acceptable price, compared 

with 7.4 percent who said a crash every 20 missions, 19.3 percent who said 

a crash every 50 missions, and fully 42.9 percent who would not accept fatal 

crashes more often than 1 in every 100 missions. Another 16.9 percent said 

“no space shuttle crashes at all.”100 In September a University of Connecticut 

poll posed this question: 

Suppose an editorial in the New York Times said, “America should stop funding 

the manned space shuttle program. A recent report stated that the [1 February 

2003] crash of the space shuttle Columbia resulted from mismanagement by 

NASA officials and lax safety standards. Space shuttle flights are too risky for 

the benefits they provide.” Would you agree or disagree with the editorial? 

Whereas 10 percent could not decide, 31 percent agreed (14 percent strongly 

agreed, 17 percent somewhat agreed), and 59 percent disagreed (30 percent 

strongly disagreed, 29 percent somewhat disagreed).101

In January 2004 an Associated Press survey asked: “On the whole, do you 

think our investment in space research is worthwhile or do you think it would 

be better spent on domestic programs such as health care and education?” 

Those who felt it would be better to spend on domestic programs outnumbered those who felt space research is worthwhile, 55 percent to 42 percent.102

In late June and early July 2004, when Shuttles were still grounded in the 

wake of the Columbia disaster, the Space Foundation had Gallup ask again 

about the proper balance between manned and unmanned programs. Twothirds of Americans agreed: “It is important for our nation to have a space 

program that uses both manned exploration with astronauts and unmanned 

exploration using robotics, like the recent Mars Rovers” (38 percent strongly 

agreed, 28 percent somewhat agreed). Some 20 percent of respondents were 

“neutral“ about this statement, and 13 percent disagreed (7 percent strongly 

disagreed, 6 percent somewhat disagreed).103

100. Poll of 1,003 American adults by Gallup, 4–6 August 2003, Gallup Organization, 

Princeton, NJ.

101. Poll of 1,005 American adults by Center for Survey Research and Analysis, University of 

Connecticut, 12 September–1 October 2003, Roper Center USCSRA.03MEDIA.RSS2A.

102. Poll of 1,000 American adults by IPSOS-Public Affairs for the Associated Press, 9–11 

January 2004, Roper Center USIPSOSR.011204A.R4.

103. Poll of 1,000 American adults by Gallup for the Space Foundation, 22 June–7 July 2004, 

Roper Center USGALLUP.04SPACE.R3.
32 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

An April 2005 Gallup poll reminded respondents: “As you may know, 

NASA has scheduled a space shuttle launch for July, which would be the 

first launch since a space shuttle was lost in an accident in 2003.” A solid 

majority, 67.4 percent, felt NASA was moving at the right pace. In contrast, 

only 10.2 percent felt NASA was “moving too slowly in re-starting the space 

shuttle program,” and 17.5 percent felt NASA was moving too quickly.104 In 

June 2005, 74 percent of Americans felt “the manned space shuttle program” 

should continue, compared with 21 percent who felt it should end.105

On 26 July 2005, the Discovery was the first Shuttle launched since the 

loss of the Columbia, and unexpectedly a substantial piece of foam came off 

the external fuel tank, the same type of failure that had doomed Columbia. 

A Gallup poll asked, “How confident are you that the space shuttle that is 

currently in space will land safely?” Respondents were surprisingly positive, 

with 36.2 percent saying they were “very confident” and another 45.7 percent 

saying they were “somewhat confident.” Only 14.4 percent were “not too 

confident,” and 2.2 percent were “not at all confident.”106

During the Shuttle era, NASA twice started development of a successor 

vehicle, first the National Aerospace Plane then the X-33, but both projects 

were eventually cancelled because of a combination of daunting technical 

problems and insufficient political support.107 However, the Columbia accident made it clear that the Shuttle’s days were numbered, bringing to a close 

the period of sustained but moderate progress that followed the revolutionary 

period from Sputnik through Apollo. A new period has already begun, and a 

deeper examination of public opinion data can help us understand how well 

prepared American society is for this next phase.

4. Personal Impact of Space Exploration

This section considers how the space program has affected people’s feelings 

and their knowledge, with particular attention to the fact that it has different psychological impacts on different segments of the population that are 

more or less interested and attentive. Significant fractions of the population 

104. Poll of 1,006 American adults by Gallup, 4 April–1 May 2005, Gallup Organization, 

Princeton, NJ.

105. Poll of 1,009 American adults by Gallup for Cable News Network and USA Today, 24 

June–26 June 2005, Roper Center, USGALLUP.05JE024.R07.

106. Poll of 1,004 American adults by Gallup, 5–7 July 2005, Gallup Organization, 

Princeton, NJ.

107. John M. Logsdon, “‘A Failure of National Leadership’: Why No Replacement for the 

Space Shuttle,” in Steven J. Dick and Roger D. Launius, eds., Critical Issues in the History 

of Spaceflight (Washington, DC: NASA, 2006), pp. 269–300.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 33

have felt the emotional impact of major events in the history of spaceflight. 

In May 1971 a Harris poll included a series of items about television, including one about coverage of space exploration. Fully 81 percent of Americans 

agreed: “Nothing can equal seeing the astronauts land and walk on the moon 

as it happened live on TV.” While 3 percent were not sure, just 16 percent 

disagreed with this statement.108 In September 1997 a Harris poll asked 

people: “Do you remember exactly where you were, what you were doing, 

or who you were with when you heard [about eleven newsworthy events]?” 

Psychologists call vivid recollections like this flashbulb memories, and they 

reflect deep impressions the events made.109 Of those respondents old enough 

to have experienced the news “the Challenger had blown up,” fully 78.0 percent had a flashbulb memory. This placed the Challenger disaster just below 

“the news about the Oklahoma City bombing (80.5 percent) and well ahead 

of “President Reagan had been shot” (55.8 percent).110 As time passes, of 

course, fewer and fewer people recall historical events, not just from failing 

memory but because many will have passed away. In 1999 a poll for the Pew 

Research Center for the People and the Press asked “if you happen to remember EXACTLY where you were or what you were doing the MOMENT you 

heard the news.” Whereas 78 percent vividly recalled “the Challenger explosion,” only 54 percent remembered “Armstrong walking on the moon.”111

Many people feel an emotional bond with astronauts or sympathize with 

them when they face challenges and dangers. In April 1970, concerning “the 

Apollo 13 trip to the moon this past week,” the Harris poll asked: “Did you 

personally feel very worried over whether the men in the spaceship would 

get back to earth, somewhat worried, or not very worried?” Fully 54.5 percent said they were “very worried,” and another 24.4 percent were “worried.” 

While 0.9 percent were “not sure,” the remaining 20.1 percent were “not very 

worried.”112 Naturally, there are at least three ways a person could fail to be 

worried. First, they may not have known Apollo 13 had run into trouble, 

but the television news coverage was quite intense. Second, they could have 

known but been confident that NASA could handle the problem. Third, they 

could have anticipated anything might happen to the astronauts but simply 

108. Poll of 1,600 American adults by Louis Harris and Associates, May 1971, Roper Center 

USHARRIS.71MAY.R32D.

109. Roger Brown and James Kulik, “Flashbulb Memories,” Cognition 5 (1977): 73–99.

110. Poll of 1,011 American adults by Harris, September 1997, Odom Institute, H-718316.

111. “Technology Triumphs, Morality Falters,” press release, 3 July 1999, Pew Research 

Center, http://people-press.org/reports/display.php3?PageID=279.

112. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 2025, an April 1970 poll of 1,520 

American adults, Odom Institute.
34 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

not cared, given that people are dying every day from accidents that do not 

attract public concern.

A little insight about what was going on inside people’s minds can come 

from other items in the poll. One poll asked respondents whether getting 

men on the Moon had been worth the cost. Only 38.3 percent felt it was, 

while a majority (56.3 percent) felt the accomplishment was not worth it. Of 

those who felt Apollo was worth the cost, 61.3 percent were very worried, 

compared with only 50.4 percent of those who felt Apollo was not worth the 

cost. Thus part of the worry was a reflection of enthusiasm for the space program, rather than just public interest concern about human beings who were 

in danger. The poll also asked: “Do you expect that on one of the space shots 

an accident will take place and the astronauts won’t get back alive, or do you 

think that probably won’t happen?” A large majority, 71.2 percent, expected 

a fatal accident would happen, compared with only 17.4 percent who felt it 

would not and with 11.3 percent who were not sure.

In describing their personal reaction “when the space shuttle Challenger 

blew up” in 1986,” 63.0 percent said they were “deeply upset,” 28.1 percent were “somewhat upset,” for a combined total of 91.1 percent who said 

they were upset to a significant degree.113 Such feelings were often shared 

with family members. In a USA Today poll done right after the Challenger 

disaster, 49.1 percent of 599 parents said “yes” when asked: “Did you discuss the destruction of the shuttle with your children?”114 In January 1987, 

68.3 percent of respondents to a USA Today poll said they could remember 

exactly what they were doing when they heard of the Challenger disaster a 

year earlier. Respondents were also asked, “Are you more or less interested in 

the U.S. space program since the Challenger tragedy last January,” or “Is your 

interest about the same?” The largest group, 72.7 percent, said their interest 

was the same. However, the fraction whose interest was greater (18.7 percent) was more than twice as large as the fraction whose interest was less 

(7.2 percent).115 The day after the Columbia disaster in 2003, 57.9 percent 

reported being “deeply upset,” and a further 36.0 were “somewhat upset.”116

Perhaps the fact that this was the second loss of a Shuttle in many people’s 

memories diminished the shock slightly. A majority of 70.6 percent indicated 

113. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 861201, a February 1986 poll of 1,255 

American adults, Odom Institute.

114. Analysis of original data from USA Today study 9111, a poll of 808 American adults done 

by Gordon S. Black Corporation in 1986, Odom Institute.

115. Analysis of original data from USA Today study 3002, a poll of 817 American adults done 

by Gordon S. Black Corporation in January 1987, Odom Institute.

116. “Space Shuttle Crash Reaction Poll,” a Gallup poll of 462 adults, 2 February 2003, 

Gallup Organization, Princeton, NJ.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 35

that “yesterday’s tragedy was regrettable, but you thought something like this 

would happen again sooner or later.” 

Over the years, various polls have asked people whether they themselves 

would like to travel into space. Such questions are extremely hypothetical, 

but answers presumably reflect personality traits such as risk tolerance and 

practical considerations like good health and lack of family responsibilities. 

A February 1986 poll that focused on the Challenger disaster asked: “If you 

personally were selected as a civilian to go up on a space shuttle, would you do 

it or not?” Willingness to fly on a Shuttle did not differ much across groups 

that were more or less upset by the accident. Of those who were deeply upset, 

44.5 percent said they “would do it,” compared with 46.9 percent of those 

“somewhat” upset and 37.8 percent of those who were “not much” upset.117

It is possible that positive and negative feelings to some extent cancel out. 

Perhaps people who were very enthusiastic about the space program were 

both more likely to want to go into space themselves and were upset by this 

setback to the space program. In any case, we cannot take answers to questions about personally flying in space at face value.

However, those who answer in the affirmative may include a hard-core, 

pro-space group in the population that is worthy of notice. In 1955 just 

8 percent of respondents to a Gallup poll answered “yes” to the question 

“If you were asked to go along on the first rocket ship to the moon, would 

you want to go or not?”118 Soon after the launch of Sputnik, Gallup asked: 

“Would you volunteer to be the first person to go up in an earth satellite?” 

Only 5 percent said they would, but Gallup pumped up the newsworthiness 

of this figure by extrapolating to the entire population: “5,100,000 Would-be 

Spacemen Volunteer for Satellite Trip!”119 For many years we have known 

that three variables powerfully predict answers to questions about the space 

program: age, education, and gender. For example, in 1965 just 13 percent of 

American adults said they would like to go to the Moon, but the fraction was 

higher among men (18 percent), college-educated people (24 percent), and 

young adults aged 21–29 years (25 percent).120 For another example, a 1969 

news story based on a Gallup poll reported that 54 percent of people aged 

21–29 supported an effort to land a man on the planet Mars, compared with 

117. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 861201, a February 1986 poll of 1,255 

American adults, Odom Institute.

118. George Gallup, “Number Who Think Trip to Moon Possible Has Doubled in 5 Years,” 

press release, 28 January 1955, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ.

119. George Gallup, “5,100,000 Would-be Spacemen Volunteer for Satellite Trip,” press 

release, 18 December 1957, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ. 

120. Poll of 2,534 American adults by Gallup, 24–29 June 1965, Roper Center USGALLUP.713.

Q016; press release, 23 July 1965, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ.
36 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

only 40 percent of those aged 30–49 and 28 percent of those aged 50 and 

older. Among people with college training, 52 percent supported the idea, 

compared with 49 percent of those who had only attended high school and 

25 percent of those with only a grade-school education.121

Until the 1980s public opinion researchers tended to discount gender differences in attitudes about public policies, except for noting a slight tendency 

of more women than men to say they did not have an opinion. Since then, 

some differences may have increased, even as researchers were discovering retrospectively that such differences had long existed in certain areas. Coauthors 

Robert Shapiro and Harpreet Mahajan have argued that men tended to be 

more favorable about policies involving force or violence and women to some 

degree favored compassionate policies or policies that protected people against 

dangers, but they placed the space program in an “ambiguous” category that 

did not fit any of these descriptions.122 In January 1987 a poll done for USA 

Today reminded respondents of “the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger 

a year ago” and asked: “If you were offered the opportunity to ride on a shuttle 

mission, would you do it?” Some 58.2 percent of men claimed they would, 

compared with 26.6 percent of women.123 Perhaps this difference merely represents greater bravado among men or an unwillingness to admit fear.

In 1966, Gallup reported the gender difference thus: “Men appear to be 

the more adventurous sex—at least in terms of space travel. Twenty-three per 

cent of men say they would like to go on the first trip to the moon, compared 

to 13 percent of women.”124 Even when there are high levels of agreement 

about a particular question, these differences exist. For example, a Gallup 

poll soon after the Challenger disaster found that 80 percent of Americans 

favored continuing the Shuttle program. Support was at 88 percent among 

those aged 18–29 but 72 percent among those 65 and older. Fully 89 percent of college graduates favored continuation, but just 60 percent of those 

who had not finished grade school did. The sex difference was similarly great: 

87 percent of men wanting the Shuttle program continued, compared with 

73 percent of women.125

121. “Young Adults Favor Space Push To Mars; Older Persons Opposed,” press release, 

7 August 1969, American Institute of Public Opinion, Princeton, NJ.

122. Robert Y. Shapiro and Harpreet Mahajan, “Gender Differences in Policy Preferences,” 

Public Opinion Quarterly 50, no. 1 (1986): 42–61.

123. Analysis of original data from USA Today study 3002, a poll of 817 American adults done 

by Gordon S. Black Corporation in January 1987, Odom Institute.

124. “First Trip to Moon?—18 Million Americans Are Ready,” press release, 3 August 1966, 

Gallup poll, Princeton, NJ. 

125. “8 in 10 Favor Continuation of Manned Space Shuttle Program,” press release, 23 March 

1986, Gallup poll, Princeton, NJ.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 37

Table 1.3 uses data from the General Social Survey to compare the sexes 

at four points in time, separated by decades. In each year twice as many men 

as women felt that funding for the space program was too low. One way to 

compare the differences across years is in terms of the correlation between 

being male and giving more supportive answers to the question about funding, as measured by a coefficient called gamma. Note that the gamma is largest, indicating a greater tilt toward males, in 1984 when President Reagan’s 

Strategic Defense Initiative was at its height. This is not just a matter of a male 

tendency to support the military, because in fact the sex differences are much 

greater for the space program than for defense budgets. Notably, in 1984, 

18.3 percent of men felt military funding was too low, compared with 17.5 

percent, nearly as high a rate, among women.

The trend from 1984 to 2004 in Table 1.3 hints that the gender difference 

may be declining, although it remains quite large. A Harris poll administered 

right after Pathfinder landed on Mars in 1997 asked: “If it were possible for 

people to travel to Mars, how interested would you be in going?” An identical question was asked about going to the Moon. Among men, 26.9 percent 

were “very interested” in going to Mars, compared with 30.3 percent very 

interested in taking the shorter and presumably less risky trip to the Moon. 

Among women, the percentages were 13.1 and 13.5 percent, respectively.126

Heather Mason Kiefer has interpreted gender-related results of a January 

2004 online Gallup poll of teenagers thus: 

Since Sally Ride became the first American woman in space in 1983, more 

women have taken part in space missions, and one has even commanded a 

space shuttle. However, the fact remains that most astronauts are men. This 

may explain why boys seem to be more eager than girls to go to the Moon and 

Mars. Seventy-four percent of boys told Gallup they want to go to the Moon 

126. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 718288, a 9–14 July 1997 poll of 1,002 

American adults, Odom Institute.

TABLE 1.3. Gender Difference in Support for the Space Program

Year

Percentage Wanting Funding Increase Correlation Between 

Male Respondents and 

Men Women Funding Increase 

1974 11.6 4.8 0.34

1984 18.0 7.3 0.49

1994 14.0 6.0 0.31

2004 19.3 9.3 0.23
38 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

someday, compared with 43% of girls. About two-thirds (64%) of boys would 

like to be the first person on Mars, as would less than a third (31%) of girls.127

In 1998 a major online poll of children ages 13–15 found that 39.9 percent 

of 1,461 boys and 26.0 percent of 1,671 girls strongly agreed with the statement “If I were asked to go along on the first rocket trip to Mars, I would go.” 

Combining both genders, 32.5 percent strongly agreed, and the percentage 

who merely agreed (without “strongly”) was identical between the sexes, at 

29.0 percent. Especially large numbers strongly agreed among children who 

were interested in the following activities: astronomy (47.1 percent), archaeology (42.6 percent), science (39.6 percent), rock climbing (41.0 percent), 

martial arts (42.3 percent), and scouts or guides (41.9 percent).128

Space travel is objectively risky, and males have traditionally been more 

ready to take physical risks than women. It also appears to be a test of physical and mental endurance. Thus perhaps people who say they want to travel 

in space may be males who engage in demanding physical activities here on 

Earth, such as outdoor sports. A poll done in 1989 for the newspaper USA 

Today, primarily devoted to outdoor activities, lets us explore this possibility. The crucial question was: “If you were asked to go along on a rocket 

trip to the moon, and such a trip were possible, would you want to go or 

not?” Altogether, 50.7 percent of the respondents claimed they wanted to 

go—66.1 percent of men and 35.0 percent of women. Other questions asked 

whether the respondent had participated during the previous year in the two 

dozen outdoor activities that are listed in Table 1.4.129 The fact that spaceflight may be quite arduous and require physical stamina may be one reason 

older people are less interested in flying into space personally, but that factor 

cannot easily explain age differences in attitudes about the value of the program. Among 12,840 people who responded to the GSS from 1973 through 

1983, the age group showing the greatest support for the space program was 

those aged 30–39, with 15.4 percent of them calling for a funding increase. 

People in their twenties showed a slightly lower level of enthusiasm, with 

13.4 percent feeling that current funding for the space program was too little. 

The figure was 12.5 percent among those in their 40s. Older people showed 

progressively lower levels of support: ages 50–59 (10.2 percent), 60–69 

127. Heather Mason Kiefer, “Would Today’s Teens Take a Space Odyssey?,” press release, 20 

April 2004, Gallup News Service, Princeton NJ.

128. William Sims Bainbridge, “The First Martians,” Analog 120, no. 7 (2000): 81–89.

129. Analysis of original data from USA Today study no. 3159, a poll of 612 American adults 

conducted by Gordon S. Black Corporation, July 1989, Odom Institute.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 39

(7.5 percent), 70–79 (5.0 percent), and just 4.9 percent of the 288 elderly 

respondents in their 80s wanted space funding increased.

Both social scientists and historians are alert to the difference between 

age effects and cohort effects. An age effect relates simply to how old a person 

is when the data are collected—for example, the fact that more people over 

age 65 will report that they are retired—and this factor will hold over a wide 

TABLE 1.4. Percentage of Respondents Wanting to Go to the Moon

Outdoor Activities

Men Whose Answer 

About the Activity Is

Women Whose 

Answer About the 

Activity Is

Average 

Difference

Between 

Men and 

Women YES NO YES NO

Racquetball 92% 61% 63% 34% 30%

Windsurfing 100% 65% 57% 35% 29%

Scuba diving 83% 65% 71% 34% 28%

Martial arts 63% 66% 83% 34% 23%

Weight lifting or training 76% 60% 56% 31% 20%

Swimming laps 78% 61% 52% 29% 20%

Jogging or running 79% 55% 43% 31% 18%

Water skiing 80% 63% 51% 33% 18%

Sailing 78% 64% 55% 34% 17%

Snow skiing 76% 64% 51% 33% 15%

Tennis 78% 63% 47% 33% 14%

Some other individual sport 74% 62% 47% 31% 14%

Bicycling 74% 59% 41% 29% 13%

Hunting or shooting 68% 65% 55% 34% 12%

Canoeing or kayaking 69% 65% 51% 32% 11%

Traditional team sport 75% 59% 38% 34% 10%

Mountain or rock climbing 78% 64% 39% 35% 9%

Aerobics or dancercise 76% 65% 39% 32% 9%

Ice or figure skating 68% 66% 48% 34% 8%

Tent camping 73% 63% 38% 34% 7%

Hiking or backpacking 70% 65% 40% 33% 6%

Fishing 66% 66% 39% 33% 3%

Walking for exercise 63% 73% 37% 21% 3%

Golf 68% 66% 32% 35% −1%
40 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

range of years when different studies are done. A cohort is a group of people 

born at roughly the same time, who therefore have a similar experience of historical events. For example, men born around 1920 were especially likely to 

serve in the military, because the massive mobilization for the Second World 

War came when they had entered early adulthood. A survey of the general 

public, asking about military service, will get different answers about the connection between age and service, depending on when the survey is administered historically in relation to the dates of past wars.

One could argue that older people are less interested in the space program 

because they do not expect to live long enough to benefit from its future 

accomplishments. Or one could argue that people tend to become more conservative as the years pass, becoming set in their ways and resisting innovation. Whatever the merits of such age-based theories, it is also possible to 

argue that the connection between age and support for the space program in 

1973 through 1983 is really a cohort effect. People who came to adulthood 

before the space program existed learned to be content in a world without 

spaceflight, or they did not learn in school the facts about space that would 

help them understand the program today.

Table 1.5 looks for a cohort effect in four GSS datasets separated by 

decades, dividing respondents into four broadly defined birth cohorts. Each 

cell in the table containing a number is based on at least 100 respondents and 

usually far more, but two cells are empty because of the exigencies of births 

and deaths. Frankly, the numbers do not show very smooth patterns, and this 

may reflect complex responses of the cohorts to historical events as well as the 

random variation stemming from somewhat small numbers of respondents 

for some cells in the table. Without wanting to read too much into the trends, 

it may be worth comparing the last two rows of the table. The 1940–1959 

cohort were growing up during the early, heroic years of the space program. 

When Sputnik was launching in 1957, they were younger than 18; when 

Apollo 11 landed on the Moon in 1969, they ranged in age from about 10 

to 29. In contrast, the 1960–1979 cohort matured after Apollo and may not 

have attained the same level of excitement as the earlier cohort. For each year 

in the table, the 1940–1959 cohort shows more enthusiasm for space than 

the 1960–1979 cohort, although their figures have converged over the years.

In GSS data collected from 1994 through 2004, we see a somewhat different pattern of support by age from 1973 through 1983. Among those aged 

20–29, 13.9 percent say space program funding is too low, compared with 

11.9 percent among those aged 30–39, 13.6 percent of those in their 40s, and 

14.9 percent of those in their 50s. The figure drops to 9.3 percent for those 

aged 60–69, 5.2 percent of those ages 70–79, and 5.3 percent of those aged 

80–89. This pattern suggests a mixture of age effects and cohort effects. People 
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 41

who came of age during the exciting dawn of the space age continue to show 

somewhat greater enthusiasm, and elderly people show little enthusiasm.

Poll after poll has confirmed that people who are more educated respond 

more positively to questions about the space program, and this is probably 

to a very great extent the result of greater understanding of its nature and 

potential. In the early days of spaceflight few people had yet been informed, 

but over time the best-educated or technologically sophisticated individuals have developed a reasonably comprehensive understanding. A September 

1969 Harris poll asked: “Do you recall or not having seen or heard about 

any events on TV which were transmitted over great distances by a communications satellite system?” A huge majority, 82.8 percent, said they had. 

Then the poll sought to learn how well informed the respondents were about 

communication satellites. “Now let me ask you if it is your impression that 

a satellite communications system, such as that which carried [a] live picture 

of the splash-down of the astronauts in the Pacific Ocean, works this way or 

not?” A majority, 65.9 percent, understood that “a TV picture is taken and 

then is sent to a satellite in the sky which relays the picture to the mainland.” 

Fewer, only 46.7 percent, were confident that “the satellites in the sky go 

around the earth and that is why they can send pictures from Europe at only 

certain times.” Most respondents, 69.0 percent, realized that “the satellite 

system does away with costly cables and wires.” The final statement is especially interesting, because it alone was manifestly false: “The satellite system 

works on the principle of using light rays to carry pictures through space.” A 

majority (53.5 percent) agreed that satellites use light rays rather than radio 

waves. Only 16.1 percent of respondents said this was not the way communication satellites work, and fully 30.4 percent were not sure.130

130. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1948, a poll of 2,465 American adults, 

September 1969, Odom Institute.

TABLE 1.5. Birth Cohort, Year of Survey, and Support for the Space Program

Year Respondent 

Was Born

Percentage Saying Too Little Is Being Spent on

the Space Program

1974 1984 1994 2004

1900–1919 6.1 1.2 5.6

1920–1939 10.6 9.1 4.4 10.9

1940–1959 7 19.9 12.2 15.3

1960–1979 9.3 10.3 14.2
42 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Periodically from 1979 through 2001, the Surveys of Public Understanding 

of Science and Technology commissioned by the National Science Foundation 

(NSF) asked respondents how well informed they were on “issues in the 

news,” including “space exploration.”131 Of 21,288 people who were asked 

this question over the years, 12.3 percent said “very well informed,” 50.6 percent said “moderately informed,” and 36.9 percent admitted to being “poorly 

informed.” Table 1.6 shows that well-informed people were also very interested, but a questionnaire survey like this does not allow us to establish cause 

and effect. Perhaps they were interested first and then informed themselves. 

But the data certainly are consistent with the view that NASA’s programs to 

inform the public create interest, and the other rows of the table suggest they 

have wider beneficial effects as well. The NSF surveys contain a science and 

technology quiz, covering areas both close to space exploration and far from 

it. Especially for test items related conceptually to space or to the physical 

sciences, people who say they are well informed about the space program are 

more likely to give the correct answers.

The impact of space exploration depends in significant measure on the 

receptiveness of groups within the general public. It is also true that groups 

differ in their influence, even within a democracy. As we have seen, people 

with more education than the average are more supportive of the space program, and they tend to achieve more influential positions within society. 

Modern society is based on advanced science and technology, so the electorate needs some level of knowledge, both so voters can make their own decisions and so they can at least roughly evaluate the decisions of their leaders.132

Michael Delli Carpini and Lee Sigelman noted in the mid-1980s that socalled yuppies (young urban professionals) were more supportive of the space 

program, with 21 percent calling for an increase in funding versus 12 percent 

among non-yuppies at the time; and these were people who certainly thought 

of themselves as potential leaders.133 A study by Joan Black has shown that 

people are indeed influenced by informal opinion leaders among their friends 

and family members in deciding how to feel about the space program.134

131. Analysis of original data from the NSF’s Surveys of Public Understanding of Science 

and Technology, 1979–2001, available from the Roper Center at the University of 

Connecticut, http://www.ropercenter.uconn.edu/data_access/data/datasets/nsf.html.

132. Jean M. Converse, “Predicting No Opinion in the Polls,” Public Opinion Quarterly 40, 

no. 4 (1976–1977): 515–530.

133. Michael Delli Carpini and Lee Sigelman, “Do Yuppies Matter? Competing Explanations 

of Their Political Distinctiveness,” Public Opinion Quarterly 50, no. 4 (1986): 502–518. 

134. Joan S. Black, “Opinion Leaders: Is Anyone Following?,” Public Opinion Quarterly 46, 

no. 2 (1982): 169–176.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 43

I conclude this section by examining a variable that is related to education and to achievement but that focuses on the person’s ability to be a 

competent opinion leader, whether learned or trained—namely a measure of 

intelligence. The General Social Survey contains a 10-item word test, and the 

sum of the number of right answers is a rough measure of IQ. To be sure, one 

would never want to rely on such a short test to advise an individual about 

educational or career options; but averaged across large numbers of respondents, it is a fairly good proxy for a more complete IQ test.

Combining data across all years of the GSS from 1973 through 2004, just 

12.4 percent of American adults felt that funding for the space exploration 

program was too little, but 18.7 percent of those who scored a perfect 10 on 

TABLE 1.6. Space Awareness and Correct Answers on Science and Technology Quiz

True/False Statement

How Well Informed Is the 

Respondent Concerning Issues 

About Space Exploration?

Very Moderately Poorly

Respondent is very interested in issues about space 

exploration.

75.3% 31.2% 7.3%

Does the Earth go around the Sun, or does the Sun go 

around the Earth? (EARTH AROUND SUN)

85.2% 79.0% 68.7%

Which travels faster: light or sound? (LIGHT) 85.9% 80.6% 71.1%

The universe began with a huge explosion. (TRUE) 54.1% 42.3% 30.0%

Electrons are smaller than atoms. (TRUE) 60.5% 50.7% 39.8%

All radioactivity is man-made. (FALSE) 85.9% 82.3% 72.1%

The center of the Earth is very hot. (TRUE) 89.6% 83.7% 76.2%

The continents on which we live have been moving 

their location for millions of years and will continue to 

move in the future. (TRUE)

89.3% 83.4% 74.5%

Lasers work by focusing sound waves. (FALSE) 62.4% 46.8% 32.2%

The oxygen we breathe comes from plants. (TRUE) 87.5% 86.7% 82.5%

Cigarette smoking causes lung cancer. (TRUE) 96.2% 94.6% 93.2%

Antibiotics kill viruses as well as bacteria. (FALSE) 46.2% 46.0% 39.4%

It is the father’s gene which decides whether the baby 

is a boy or a girl. (TRUE)

63.6% 67.7% 67.3%

Human beings, as we know them today, developed 

from earlier species of animals. (TRUE)

60.6% 49.7% 41.9%

The earliest humans lived at the same time as the 

dinosaurs. (FALSE)

58.5% 51.3% 44.5%
44 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the word test did so.135 In contrast, only 6.6 percent of those scoring zero 

on the word test wanted funding increased. The relationship was consistent 

across the full range of scores on the test, within the limits of statistical certainty. Among those who scored 7, 14.8 percent wanted funding increased, 

compared with 11.7 percent of those scoring 6, bracketing the average of 

12.4 percent. In its 1993–1994 surveys, the GSS included an item about 

belief in astrology that can help us think more deeply about intelligence and 

support for space exploration. Respondents were asked to react to this statement: “Astrology—the study of star signs—has some scientific truth.” Among 

2,592 GSS respondents, 9.9 percent said this was “definitely true,” and 42.6 

responded “probably true.” On the other side of the issue, 24.9 percent felt 

the pro-astrology statement was “probably not true,” and 22.6 percent said 

it was “definitely not true.” Thus more than half of the public is prepared to 

believe that astrology has a scientific basis, and less than a quarter shares the 

view of scientists that it is complete nonsense. 

Figure 1.2 graphs this astrology item and the space program funding item 

across the range of scores on the verbal IQ test. The two lines on the graph 

are not perfectly straight because of random fluctuations in the data across 

the eleven groups of respondents, but they show a clear negative correlation 

between IQ and belief in astrology and a positive correlation between IQ and 

support for the space program. These results remind us that education about 

the realities and potentials of spaceflight face an uphill battle against ignorance as well as indifference. A pessimist might argue the struggle is hopeless, 

on the assumption that IQ is somehow biologically innate in the individual. 

However, scores on the word test are partly the result of education and the 

individual’s motivation to learn. 

Eric Chaisson has written compellingly that accessible results like the 

pictures from the Hubble Space Telescope can serve a powerful educational 

function for the public, communicating vividly the nature of the universe 

in which we dwell. He is appalled by the findings of the NSF study that so 

many people are ignorant of science, but he is also hopeful that vigorous 

space-related educational efforts can improve the situation.136 In March 1997, 

Gallup asked 744 children aged 7–12 whether they considered various subjects “so exciting that you would like to study some more about it in school.” 

Some 60.7 percent felt that “space exploration, including the planets, space 

travel, and special projects like the Hubble Telescope,” was this exciting. They 

135. Analysis based on original GSS data, with appropriate handling of the 1982 and 1987 

oversamples and 2004 weighting procedures; data provided by the Computer-assisted 

Survey Methods Program at the University of California, Berkeley.

136. Eric J. Chaisson, The Hubble Wars (New York: HarperCollins, 1994), p. 31.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 45

showed about the same level of excitement for “new advances in computer 

technology, such as faster processing chips and more sophisticated software” 

(61.8 percent) and “medical research such as cloning and hi-tech ways to 

study and treat human diseases” (65.8 percent).137 Thus NASA’s educational 

efforts are not merely public relations for the space program. Rather, they 

inform attentive people of all ages about the nature of the universe, and they 

encourage all people to exercise their minds to the fullest extent, which is 

beneficial in all aspects of their lives.

5. Motivations for Space Exploration

One way to understand public perceptions of the value of space exploration 

is to examine how people connect it to other government activities. Earlier I 

analyzed trends in support using an item from the GSS that asked whether 

the government was spending “too much money on it, too little money, 

or about the right amount.” In 1973, 1,044 people gave valid answers for 

the “space exploration program” and 10 other funding areas. I performed 

137. “Teenage Study,” a Gallup poll of 744 children aged 7–12, 20–27 March 1997, Gallup 

Organization, Princeton, NJ.

0% 

5% 

10% 

15% 

20% 

25% 

30% 

35% 

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 

Percent Giving Response 

Correct Answers on IQ Test 

Astrology Definitely Has Some Scientific Truth 

Funding for Space Exploration Is Too Little 

FIGURE 1.2. Correlation of IQ, Support for the Space Program, 

and Belief in Astrology
46 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

a factor analysis of these eleven variables.138 A factor analysis first calculates 

correlations linking all pairs of variables, then seeks to find a smaller number 

of dimensions of variation that reduce the complexity of the data without 

losing important information. The result was four factors, essentially four 

mathematical dimensions along which each of the eleven government activities could be graphed. Figure 1.3 is a map in terms of the first two factors 

or dimensions.

The first factor was dominated by two social problem areas, “halting 

the rising crime rate” and “dealing with drug addiction.” The second factor 

emphasized “improving the conditions of Blacks” and “welfare” but also 

brought in “foreign aid,” which was not involved in the first factor. Two other 

areas of government funding were ranked about equally on both of these 

factors, “solving the problems of the big cities” and “improving the nation’s 

education system.” Note that these factors concern social problem areas and 

domestic government programs about which people have significant disagreements and about which the political parties are constantly debating. At 

138. In my analysis I used the original data obtained from the Computer-assisted Survey 

Methods Program at the University of California, Berkeley, and employed listwise 

deletion of cases with missing data, principal components analysis, focusing on factors 

with eigenvalues greater than 1.00 and employing varimax rotation.

Crime 

Drugs 

Cities 

Education 

Environment Health 

Defense 

Blacks 

Foreign Aid 

Welfare 

Space 

–0.4 

–0.2 

0 

0.2 

0.4 

0.6 

0.8 

–0.2 0 0.2 0.4 0.6 0.8 1 

Factor 2 

Factor 1 

FIGURE 1.3. Factor Analysis of Funding Support in Eleven Areas
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 47

the risk of oversimplification, Factor 1 seems to be concerned with imposing 

control on dangerous situations, whereas Factor 2 concerns offering help to 

people in need.

The third factor, which is not graphed in Figure 1.3, is rather different 

from the other three, in that some variables are loaded positively on it while 

others are loaded negatively. Most strongly connected is “the military, armaments and defense,” which is at the negative end of that third dimension. 

Also on the negative end is foreign aid, although not so far. If we could project Figure 1.3 in three dimensions, “defense” would be perhaps three inches 

behind the plane of the printed page, and “foreign aid” would be two inches 

behind. Two other items would appear in front of the plane of the printed 

page—“improving and protecting the environment” and “improving and 

protecting the nation’s health”—reflecting their positive loadings on the third 

factor. It makes sense that these items are paired in this way because foreign 

aid and defense both concern international relations, and there are many connections between the health of a person and the health of the environment.

Where is the “space exploration program?” It heads the fourth factor, with 

the most powerful connection of any of the eleven programs to any single 

factor. “Improving and protecting the environment” shows a moderate connection to the factor, as well, but nothing like the powerful connection of 

the space program. This analysis shows that Americans in 1973 saw space 

exploration as a separate issue, largely unconnected to any of the domestic 

or international issues. Examining the individual associations between space 

exploration and the others, there are small but statistically significant negative correlations with “improving the conditions of Blacks” and “welfare” 

(r = −0.11, r = −0.12), perhaps reflecting the view that money saved by cutting the space program could be used to help poor people.

The same kind of analysis is often instructive when applied to other 

poll data, going back at least as early as 1962, allowing us to see how space 

connected to other issues in people’s minds just a year after President John 

Kennedy had set the goal of reaching the Moon before the end of the 

decade. From May through September, Harris had done statewide surveys in 

Colorado, Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, and New Hampshire, asking respondents “how you think President Kennedy has done” in dealing with 20 things, 

using a four-step response scale from “excellent” down to “poor.” Such polls 

of presidential performance had already become a significant part of political 

culture.139 Combining the five states, with no attempt to weight the sum for 

139. Charles W. Ostrom Jr. and Dennis M. Simon, “Promise and Performance: A Dynamic 

Model of Presidential Popularity,” Public Opinion Quarterly 79, no. 2 (1985): 334–358.
48 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

their populations, I carried out a factor analysis that produced three factors, 

based on data from 807 respondents who expressed views on all 20 issues.140

The first factor emphasized government economic policies, and its top five 

items were: “cutting down on spending” (loading = 0.74), “handling of the 

stock market” (0.74), “keeping the economy healthy” (0.73), “handling U.S. 

Steel’s attempt to raise prices” (0.70), and “medical care for the aged” (0.69). 

“Catching up to the Russians in space development” headed the second factor, 

with a loading of 0.73. The next four items in the factor with space concerned 

the competition with the Soviet Union: “conducting tests of atomic weapons” 

(0.73), “handling the Berlin crisis” (0.66), “handling Khrushchev” (0.59), 

and “handling the crisis in Laos” (0.55). The third factor was dominated by 

one item on the issue of whether Kennedy’s Catholic religion would influence his policies, “not giving federal aid to parochial schools” (loaded = 0.79). 

Reasonably enough, “federal aid to education” was also loaded on this factor 

but way back at a loading of 0.45, given that this item was also involved in 

the first factor.

This same method can be used with several other sets of data, although 

sometimes the results are rather more complex. For example, immediately 

before President Kennedy was assassinated in November 1963, the Harris poll 

asked a national sample: “How would you rate the job President Kennedy has 

done in handling this country’s space program?” Of 1,264 people answering, 

27.6 percent said he was doing an excellent job, 47.4 percent said a pretty 

good job, 14.3 said only fair, and 4.1 said poor, with the remainder not sure. 

The poll later asked people how good a job Kennedy was doing in 16 other 

areas, so I tried a factor analysis following the procedures just described for 

these 16 plus space. Only two factors emerged, and space was equally connected to both of them. It is possible to instruct the Statistical Package for the 

Social Sciences (SPSS) program I was using to look for a particular number of 

factors, so I experimented with expanding the data into more dimensions.141

With six factors the space program wound up heading the sixth factor, 

and no other item was strongly loaded with it. So, on some level, in 1963 

people saw space exploration as a very different issue from the others, just as 

they would do 10 years later in the GSS. Trying an analysis with five factors, 

the space program was strongly loaded on the second factor, right behind 

140. Analysis based on a dataset combining five Harris polls (#1172 in May 1962 in Colorado, 

#1166 in June 1962 in Kentucky, #1173 in June 1962 in New Hampshire, #1195 in July 

1962 in Illinois, and #1212 in September 1962 in Indiana), Odom Institute.

141. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1285, a November 1963 poll of 1,283 

American adults, Odom Institute. Using listwise deletion, the factor analysis was based 

on the 555 respondents who expressed an opinion about all 17 aspects of Kennedy’s 

performance.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 49

“standing firm on Berlin,” “keeping the military defense of the country 

strong,” “working for peace in the world,” “handling Khrushchev,” and “getting Russia to agree to an atomic test ban.” In June of that year, Kennedy had 

given his famous “Ich bin ein Berliner” speech, defending the city which at 

that time was still divided by the Berlin Wall and surrounded by Communist 

East Germany. Kennedy’s long-standing competition with Soviet leader 

Nikita Khrushchev was among the motivations that led Kennedy to propose 

the Apollo Moon program. In this five-factor solution the first factor was primarily about the quality of government, and the first six items, in descending 

order, were: “handling farm problems,” “keeping spending under control,” 

“getting Congress to act on [the president’s] programs,” “moving the country ahead,” “keeping the economy healthy,” and “keeping corruption out of 

government.” Thus Americans were somewhat of two minds in their conceptualization of space exploration. In part, it was a separate issue, unrelated to 

many other things the government was doing, and in part it was connected to 

the superpower competition between the United States and the Soviet Union.

A 1965 poll of college students asked respondents to make two judgments 

about a list of 13 “problems.” First, they judged how much progress had been 

made “in the last few years.” With respect to “getting to the moon and other 

planets,” 78.3 percent said “a lot” of progress had been achieved, and a further 20.6 percent said “some.” Factor analysis allows us to see how the college 

students categorized the issues. “Getting to the moon and other planets” was 

most strongly loaded (0.66) on the fourth factor, right between “finding a 

cure for cancer” (0.71) and “curing the common cold” (0.54). Factor 1 was 

headed by “keeping marriages from breaking up” (l0.69) and “controlling 

narcotics use” (0.62). Factor 2 was headed by “eliminating economic depressions” (0.64) and “eliminating racial barriers” (0.62). Factor 3 was headed by 

“enabling people to use their creative talents fully” (0.77) and “helping the 

individual to work things out” (0.64). So students had placed space exploration in the same science-related category as two medical issues, given that the 

other categories concerned problems facing societal institutions that were not 

related to the natural sciences or engineering.142

Students were also asked to answer this question about each problem: 

“Do you think that your generation will make major strides in [this area] or 

do you think this will continue to be a major problem?” Fully 93.7 percent 

felt their generation could make major strides toward “getting to the moon 

and other planets.” Only one other problem came close—“finding a cure 

142. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1431, a poll of 793 college students, 

February 1965, Odom Institute; the factor analyses used the criterion of eigenvalues 

greater than 1.00 with pairwise deletion of cases with missing data.
50 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

for cancer”—where 81.4 percent thought major strides would be made. A 

factor analysis for these predictions might not be expected to give the same 

results, in part because people may view the future very differently from the 

past and because there was so much agreement about space exploration that 

statistical variation might be too weak to measure respondents’ categorization. However, “getting to the moon and other planets” (loading = 0.51) 

again wound up in the same factor with “finding a cure for cancer” (0.78) and 

“curing the common cold” (0.66). 

In June 1966, Harris asked 1,130 Americans questions about President 

Lyndon Johnson’s performance in 22 areas, including “handling the space 

problem.” The answers were similar to those for Kennedy three years earlier, with 27.3 percent saying he was doing an “excellent” job, 43.9 percent a “pretty good” job, 10.0 percent only “fair,” and 6.3 percent “poor.” 

When I instructed the computer to give me an analysis with only two factors, the space item headed the second factor with a loading of 0.69. Other 

items following the space issue were “getting Congress to pass his program” 

(loading = 0.68), “keeping the military defense of the country strong” (0.66), 

“handling Russia” (0.65), “getting aid to education” (0.63), and “working for 

peace in the world” (0.57). The other factor was headed by “keeping federal 

spending under control” (0.81), “keeping the cost of living down” (0.78), and 

“keeping corruption out of government” (0.70).143

Three factors did a better job of mapping the 22 items, and I also tried 

four-, five-, and six-dimensional solutions. In a three-factor solution the space 

item headed the third factor with a loading of 0.70, followed by “getting 

Medicare for older people” (0.65), “getting aid to education” (0.61), and 

“getting Congress to pass his [President Johnson’s] program” (0.60). To me, 

these sound like examples of discretionary spending. Factor 1 in this analysis 

concerned government management and economic issues: “keeping federal 

spending under control” (0.79), “keeping the cost of living down” (0.71), 

“anti-poverty program” (0.68), “handling foreign aid” (0.66), “keeping corruption out of government” (0.64), and “handling taxes” (0.61). Factor 2 

was all about international tensions: “handling Red China” (0.73), “handling the situation in the Dominican Republic” (0.70), “handling the war in 

Vietnam” (0.68), “working for peace in the world” (0.68), “handling Russia” 

(0.61), “handling Castro and Cuba” (0.52), and “giving leadership to the free 

world” (0.52). 

143. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1635, a June 1966 poll of 1,130 American 

adults, Odom Institute. The factor analyses employed pairwise deletion, and the threefactor solution was the one that preserved all factors with eigenvalues greater than 1.00.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 51

Notice that “handling Russia” and “handling the space problem” wound 

up in different factors in these 1966 data. During the 1960s, doubts progressively grew about whether Russia was really racing the United States to the 

Moon, perhaps beginning with comments Khrushchev had made in a press 

conference in October 1963, suggesting his country was not planning Moon 

flights and was content to live on Earth.144 As far as alert members of the 

public could tell, the United States had caught up with Russia a year before 

this poll, when the first American spacewalk followed the first Russian one by 

only three months. By the time of the poll, the U.S. Gemini program was in 

the dramatic early stages of experimenting with orbital rendezvous.

In July 1969, immediately after the landing of Apollo 11, a Harris poll 

included questions about space, the first in a set concerning President Richard 

Nixon’s performance. A factor analysis looking for two factors from one set 

of 12 items included “his talking to the astronauts when they were on the 

moon,” which led Factor 2 with a loading of 0.81. Other items near the top 

of this factor were: “his trip abroad” (loading = 0.76), “inspiring confidence 

personally in the White House” (0.69), and “his press conferences” (0.68). 

Clearly this factor is about Nixon’s attempts to communicate. The first factor 

was defined by domestic economic and social issues: “keeping down the cost 

of living” (0.83), “his approach to taxes and spending,” “keeping the economy healthy” (0.73), “his approach to crime and law and order” (0.65), and 

“his handling of the race and civil rights question” (0.62). One way to read 

these data is to infer that Nixon talking to the astronauts was simply a politician playing his role as a communicator.

Another battery of items listed eight “possible American-Russian areas 

of negotiation and agreement,” including “agreement to joint exploration 

of space.” The poll first asked respondents whether each was a possible area 

“where some agreement might be reached.” Then the poll asked the respondent: “Regardless of whether you think this is an area where agreement 

might be reached or not, would you favor or oppose agreement between the 

U.S. and Russia?” For the space item, 56.0 percent thought agreement was 

possible, 12.2 were not sure, and 31.9 percent thought it was not possible. 

Setting that judgment aside, 61.8 percent favored joint exploration of space, 

9.9 percent were not sure, and 28.3 percent opposed it. Table 1.7 shows the 

percentage favoring cooperation in each of the eight areas, the percentage 

thinking it was possible, and results of factor analyses for both sets of questions. Interestingly, space exploration heads Factor 1 for favoring cooperation and is tied for first place with thinking it was possible. The two parallel 

144. Joseph G. Whelan, “The Press and Khrushchev’s ‘Withdrawal’ from the Moon Race,” 

Public Opinion Quarterly 32, no. 2 (1968): 233–250.
52 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

factor analyses divide the eight items into the same two sets of five concerning 

improved relations between the United States and Russia, and three items 

concerning joint action toward other nations. It is also interesting to see the 

space item taking such a leading role in definition of the factors, apparently 

because Americans found the idea of cooperation in space quite clear and 

logically connected to other kinds of cooperation.145

145. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1944, a July 1969 poll of 1,601 American 

adults, Odom Institute. The two factor analyses employed pairwise deletion and varimax 

rotation and specified that two factors should result.

TABLE 1.7. In the Month Apollo 11 Landed: Cooperation with Russia

Loadings Loadings

Percentage 

In Favor

Factor 

Fav-1

Factor 

Fav-2

Percentage

Possible

Factor 

Pos-1

Factor 

Pos-2

Improved Interactions with Each Other

Agreement to joint 

exploration of space

61.8% 0.82 0.08 56.0% 0.74 0.13

Agreement for joint 

exploration of the 

oceans

70.6% 0.74 0.25 62.1% 0.66 0.34

Agreement to greatly 

expand trade between 

the two countries

74.1% 0.70 0.27 69.2% 0.74 0.19

Agreement to limit antimissile (ABM) systems71.3% 0.62 0.23 54.4% 0.60 0.29

Agreement for more 

exchange of scholars 

and cultural groups

79.2% 0.60 0.37 78.2% 0.71 0.12

Joint Action Toward Other Nations

Agreement to act 

together to achieve 

peace in the Middle 

East

82.7% 0.33 0.72 58.1% 0.27 0.70

Agreement to take 

joint military action 

if another nation 

threatens to use 

nuclear weapons

66.6% 0.20 0.81 54.7% 0.22 0.78

Agreement on joint 

action to prevent 

Communist China from 

starting wars

73.9% 0.19 0.86 57.5% 0.14 0.82
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 53

In a different July 1969 Harris poll, the interviewer handed the respondent a card, saying, “This card shows the percentage of the federal budget 

now spent for various purposes. Considering priorities, would you like to 

see more or less of the federal money go into each of these purposes?” In 

the case of the space program, only 14.5 percent wanted more spent, while 

63.7 percent wanted less spent, and 21.8 percent were not sure. Absolute 

majorities wanted more spent on veterans’ benefits (62.3 percent); education (77.1 percent); natural resources such as improvement of environment, 

pollution control, and parks (65.7 percent); and housing and community 

development (52.4 percent). 

A factor analysis of the 10 items found four dimensions. Factor 1 was 

headed by natural resources (loading = 0.72) and education (0.54). The second 

factor highlighted health, labor, and welfare (0.82) along with housing and 

community development (0.71). The space program led the third factor with 

a loading of 0.75, followed by international affairs (0.66). The fourth factor 

combined veterans’ benefits (0.75) with national defense (0.62). The remaining items (commerce and transportation, agriculture) were not heavily loaded 

on any factor. The factor analysis reflects the connections among all 10 items, 

but on the level of pairs of items, the space program correlated strongly not 

only with international affairs (0.19) but also with commerce and transportation (0.17), with its correlation with defense coming third (0.12)—keeping 

in mind that correlations are generally much smaller numbers than factor 

loadings are. Note that among this group of issues, which focus on the space 

program in the international context, it was perhaps seen as a mode of transportation rather than primarily in terms of its military relevance.146 In the 

1960s many scholars and historians of technology conceptualized spaceflight 

by analogy with earlier modes of transportation, including even railroads.147

An October 1969 Harris poll listed 16 “problems the United States faces 

at home,” asking how much attention each one deserved. A factor analysis 

produced four factors. “Space exploration” wound up in the fourth factor, 

with a very high 0.86 loading. Only one other item was also strongly loaded, 

“missile defense” at 0.78. The first factor clearly collected social welfare 

problems: poverty (loading = 0.74), racial discrimination (0.71), health care 

(0.65), education (0.60), and housing (0.58). The second factor was civil 

146. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1939, a July 1969 poll of 2,089 American 

adults (about two-thirds of whom were asked this set of questions), Odom Institute. 

The factor analysis employed pairwise deletion and preserved all factors with eigenvalues 

greater than 1.00. 

147. Bruce Mazlish, ed., The Railroad and the Space Program: An Exploration in Historical 

Analogy (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1965).
54 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

infrastructure: highway construction (0.70), mass transportation in and 

around cities (0.61), recreation (0.58), and consumer protection (0.53). The 

third factor concerned crime and taxes: crime on the streets (0.73), organized crime (0.65), and taxes and inflation (0.62).148 Among respondents to 

a January 1971 Harris poll that asked about funding for eight government 

programs, only 16.8 percent wanted the space program increased, as opposed 

to 49.2 percent who wanted it decreased. Some 29.5 percent did not want 

any change in the funding level, and 4.6 percent were not sure. Space wound 

up in the second factor with a loading of 0.71, between “the ABM missile 

system” (0.75) and “the war in Vietnam” (0.54). The first factor consisted of 

“aid to cities” (0.77), “aid to public schools” (0.70), and “programs to control 

air and water pollution” (0.65). The third factor combined “support prices for 

farmers” (0.74) with “foreign military and economic aid” (0.63).149

A December 1974 Harris poll asked respondents to evaluate nine “proposals which have been made for possible agreement between the United States 

and the Soviet Union.” A solid majority of 60.9 percent favored “undertaking 

joint space missions,” with 27.8 opposing and 11.3 percent not sure. Given 

the fact that all the items concerned the narrow topic of agreement between 

the United States and the USSR, it is not surprising that the correlation 

matrix resisted factoring; but when four factors were called for, a rather clear 

structure appeared. “Undertaking joint space missions” loaded 0.83 on the 

third factor, with “exchanging scientists and other technical missions” close 

behind at 0.79. The top two items in the first factor were “undertaking joint 

efforts to solve the world energy shortage” (0.83) and “undertaking joint 

efforts to curb air and water pollution” (0.81). Most heavily loaded on the 

second factor were “giving the Soviet Union the same trade treatment that 

we give other countries” (0.85) and “expanding trade between the United 

States and the Soviet Union” (0.80). The remaining factor was dominated 

by “reducing the number of American and Soviet troops in Europe” (0.85) 

and “substantially limiting the number of nuclear missiles each country 

has” (0.72).150

148. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 1970, an October 1969 poll of 1,982 

American adults, Odom Institute. The factor analyses employed pairwise deletion and 

varimax rotation, preserving all factors with eigenvalues greater than 1.00.

149. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 2055, a January 1971 poll of 3,092 

American adults, Odom Institute. This combines the “not change” and “not sure” 

responses as the middle category between decrease and increase, pairwise deletion, factors 

with eigenvalues greater than 1.00, and varimax rotation.

150. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 2436, a December 1974 poll of 1,843 

American adults, Odom Institute.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 55

A March 1976 poll asked respondents how serious a loss they felt it would 

be if the federal government abolished each of 14 programs. In the case of 

“space programs,” only 21.3 percent felt it would be a “very serious loss,” and 

another 29.7 percent felt cancellation would be “only a moderate loss.” The 

largest group, 40.8 percent, said ending the space program would be “hardly 

a loss” at all, and 8.1 percent were not sure. In a factor analysis seeking four 

factors, “space programs” was loaded 0.73 on the fourth factor, alongside 

defense at 0.75. The first factor brought together “environmental controls” 

(0.70), “aid to cities” (0.67), “business regulation” (0.63), “welfare” (0.62), 

and “revenue sharing” (0.58). The second factor combined “education” 

(0.83), “health” (0.81), and “jobs for [the] unemployed” (0.62). The third 

factor consisted of “law enforcement” (0.75) and “social security” (0.66), two 

personal security issues.151

A July 1977 Harris poll asked about President Jimmy Carter’s performance, 

including “his continuing the space shuttle program.” On this, 12.4 percent 

rated him “excellent,” 37.5 percent “pretty good,” 16.6 percent “only fair,” 

and 10.4 percent “poor.” There were fully 60 other items in the list, and a 

standard analysis produced a bewildering 11 factors. Factor 7 consisted of 

this space item with a loading of 0.69, flanked by two nuclear technology 

items: “his support for production funds for the neutron bomb” (0.73) and 

“his wanting to speed up construction of conventional nuclear plants” (0.58). 

It is worth noting that of all recent presidents, Carter probably understood 

the technical aspects of these issues best, having received some graduate education in nuclear technology. Because of the vast list of performance areas 

respondents were asked to judge, this dataset is probably not comparable to 

the others; but the connection between space technology and nuclear technology is interesting to see.152

A month after President Ronald Reagan announced plans for the Strategic 

Defense Initiative in 1983, a Harris poll asked respondents to rate him on his 

performance in 15 areas, including “his proposing to construct new weapons 

systems in outer space that would be capable of shooting down nuclear missiles with laser and particle beams.” Just 18.9 percent called his performance 

in this area “excellent,” compared with 26.4 percent “pretty good,” 27.2 percent “only fair,” and 27.5 percent “poor.” A factor analysis of responses to all 

15 items put this space issue in the second factor with a strong loading of 

151. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 7681, a March 1976 poll of 1,523 

American adults, Odom Institute. 

152. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. P3725, a July 1977 poll of 1,515 American 

adults, Odom Institute. The factor analyses employed pairwise deletion and preserved all 

factors with eigenvalues greater than 1.00.
56 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

0.72. Only one item was more strongly loaded on this factor, at 0.74 only 

slightly higher: “his handling of nuclear arms reduction negotiations with 

the Russians” (0.74). The next two items strongly associated with this factor 

also stressed defense: “his saying he would not accept cuts from Congress 

on defense spending” (0.70) and “his proposing to the Russians to agree on 

cutting down but not eliminating nuclear missile installations in Europe” 

(0.67). The other factor concerned economic issues: “handling the economy” 

(loading = 0.79), “his handling of Social Security” (0.76), “getting the country out of the recession” (0.74), “helping the unemployed, small business, 

farmers, and others in economic trouble” (0.73), and “his handling of federal 

jobs programs” (0.71).153

The Strategic Defense Initiative is a complex topic, in many ways quite separate from the civilian space program. The SDI technologies that have come 

closest to maturity involved not orbiting lasers or particle beams but surfacelaunched rocket interceptors. As noted earlier, all the publicity about hypothetical space-based defense systems in the mid-1980s may have strengthened 

the connection between space and defense in the public mind. This connection may have weakened subsequently, as space-based weapons faded from the 

news after the mid-1980s. NSF’s Surveys of Public Understanding of Science 

and Technology can confirm the changing popular association of space with 

military applications.154 In 1983, interest in space correlated at a loading of 

0.32 with interest in “military, defense policy.” By 1985, after two years of 

SDI publicity, the correlation had strengthened to 0.44. Figure 1.4 maps the 

changes from 1985 to 2001, showing two superimposed factor analyses of 

these two items plus “new scientific discoveries,” “the use of new inventions 

and technologies,” and “new medical discoveries.” For each of the five topics, 

the open circle plots the 1983 factor loadings, while the solid circle plots them 

for 2001. Naturally, there is some random wandering of the points, but notably space moves away from defense.

A Harris poll in 1993 asked respondents to say whether the country 

should spend more or less on eight different kinds of scientific research. Only 

9.2 percent wanted to spend “a lot more” on “space research on space exploration and development.” Another 20.5 percent said “a little more,” while much 

larger fractions said “a little less” (36.1 percent) and “a lot less” (34.2 percent). 

153. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 832103, an April 1983 poll of 1,250 

American adults, Odom Institute. The factor analyses employed pairwise deletion and 

preserved all factors with eigenvalues greater than 1.00.

154. Analysis of original data from the NSF’s Surveys of Public Understanding of Science 

and Technology, 1979–2001, available from the Roper Center at the University of 

Connecticut, http://www.ropercenter.uconn.edu/data_access/data/datasets/nsf.html.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 57

(A related question found that only 1.4 percent of respondents thought space 

research was most valuable, compared with 66.2 percent for medical research 

and 17.5 percent for environmental research). Figure 1.5 maps the first two 

factors of a three-factor analysis. The third factor was dominated by “defense 

research to develop new weapon systems,” which had a 0.84 loading. The 

space item was the only other one strongly loaded on the factor, with 0.62. 

In terms of ordinary correlations (which are generally much smaller than 

factor loadings), the space item was most strongly associated with “electronic 

research on improved television and electronic equipment” (0.28), followed 

by the defense item (0.24) and “computer research to improve access to information” (0.21). Thus the factor analysis shows space somewhat apart from 

the other seven fields of research but loosely tied to defense, and simple correlations show it connected to defense, computers, and electronics.155

A 1999 poll done for the Pew Center for the People and the Press asked 

respondents their views on “a list of some changes that have taken place over 

the last 100 years.” “Space exploration” received good ratings, with 72 percent saying it had been a change for the better, versus only 6 percent who 

said it was a change for the worse and 17 percent judging it “hasn’t made 

155. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 931107, an 11–15 November 1993 poll of 

1,254 American adults, Odom Institute. The factor analyses employed pairwise deletion 

and preserved all factors with eigenvalues greater than 1.00.

Science 

Space 

Technology 

Defense 

Medical 

0 

0.1 

0.2 

0.3 

0.4 

0.5 

0.6 

0.7 

0.8 

0.9 

1 

0 0.1 0.2 0.3 0.4 0.5 0.6 0.7 0.8 0.9 

Factor 2 

Factor 1 

FIGURE 1.4. Two Factor Analyses Showing Changes Over 16 Years
58 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

much difference.”156 The inventions judged by more people to have been 

improvements were radio (96 percent), automobile (91 percent), computer 

(87 percent), highway system (84 percent), airline travel (77 percent), television (73 percent), and birth control pills (72 percent). Two kinds of technology rated much lower than the space program—nuclear energy (48 percent) 

and nuclear weapons (19 percent). Indeed a majority of 63 percent felt that 

nuclear weapons had made things worse. Respondents were divided into two 

groups, each presented with only half the items; but factor analysis can help 

us see how the space program connects to eight other items. Space exploration was most heavily loaded on the third factor, 0.77, and airline travel was 

not far behind at 0.67. The first factor combined two items related to domestic intimacy: more acceptance of divorce (0.76) and birth control pills (0.48). 

The second factor linked the civil rights movement (0.72) to rock and roll 

music (0.71). The final factor was headed by the invention of the computer 

(0.86) and the invention of television (0.55). “The development of nuclear 

energy” was not strongly loaded on any factor.157

How people conceptualize space exploration depends on the hotly 

debated issues of their historical period and on the mental connections they 

make between it and some of these other issues. Thus mental maps are not 

156. “Technology Triumphs, Morality Falters,” press release, 3 July 1999, Pew Research 

Center, http://people-press.org/reports/display.php3?PageID=279.

157. Analysis of original data from a poll of 1,546 adults, done by Princeton Survey Research 

Associates, 6 April–6 May 1999, Pew Center.

Medical 

Environmental 

Energy 

Transportation 

Computers 

Electronics 

Space 

Defense 

–0.1 

0 

0.1 

0.2 

0.3 

0.4 

0.5 

0.6 

0.7 

0.8 

0.9 

–0.2 –0.1 0 0.1 0.2 0.3 0.4 0.5 0.6 0.7 0.8 0.9 

Factor 1 

Factor 1 

FIGURE 1.5. Factor Analysis of Eight Kinds of Scientific Research
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 59

static but vary over time and across different contexts presented by pollsters. 

Clearly in the 1960s the space program was implicated in the prestige contest 

between the United States and the USSR, and in the early 1980s it took on 

added military connotations. Depending on the other issues presented to 

poll respondents, it could also be connected to transportation and to various scientific and technological activities. At the same time, space stood far 

apart from major social issues, such as government management of health 

and welfare programs, and to a very significant extent was conceptualized by 

Americans as a wholly unique issue.

6. Goals in Space

Some of the questionnaires most useful for assessing the value of space exploration in detail were not administered to random samples of the population 

but to special groups who might be expected to be more knowledgeable or 

thoughtful. For example, in 1960, Raymond A. Bauer asked 1,717 readers of 

the Harvard Business Review to rate five alternative justifications for the space 

program, listed here in Table 1.8. In 1963, Edward E. Furash administered 

the same items to 3,300 Review readers, and in 1986, I obtained responses 

from 1,007 Harvard students.158 All three groups of respondents put “pure 

science research” in first place, but the two polls from the early 1960s placed 

military reasons second. Although the 1986 Harvard students are not strictly 

a comparable group, and their much lower interest in military goals may 

reflect their political liberalism and opposition to the Reagan administration, 

this difference also probably reflects a change over time. The initial impetus 

for the space program may have been international competition, but over 

time this motive has become less important.

On the assumption that physicists should have a better-grounded perspective on space technology than almost any other group in society, Donald 

Strickland surveyed 211 members of the American Physical Society late in 

1963. When asked to rank the motives for the American space program, 

32 percent selected “propaganda and prestige first,” and 14 percent placed 

“military” in second place. Some 5 percent each selected “domestic political” motives, “exploration,” and “basic research in natural sciences.” Another 

158. Raymond A. Bauer, “Executives Probe Space,” Harvard Business Review (September–

October 1960): 6–14, 174–200; Edward E. Furash, “Businessmen Review the Space 

Effort,” Harvard Business Review (September–October 1963): 14–32, 173–190; and 

William Sims Bainbridge, Goals in Space (Albany: State University of New York Press, 

1991), p. 19.
60 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

4 percent cited “economic” goals. Apparently the remaining 35 percent were 

unwilling to evaluate the motives for the space program.159

In January 1987 respondents to a USA Today poll were given a list of 

seven things that might be “man’s next great achievement in space” and asked 

to select the goal they would set. The largest number, 25.2 percent, selected 

“live in space station,” the goal President Reagan had announced three years 

earlier. More than twice as large a group, 54.0 percent, could not select one of 

the proffered goals and chose the default “other” answer. Additional choices 

included “go to other planet” (9.9 percent), “regular space trips” (3.2 percent), “colony on moon” (2.6 percent), and “return to moon” (2.2 percent). 

Perhaps, mercifully, only tiny fractions selected the two goals that were effectively impossible: 1.7 percent wanting the space program to “go to other solar 

system” and 1.1 percent preferring “time travel.”160

Five days after Pathfinder landed on Mars in 1997, Harris asked respondents whether they favored or opposed seven different plans for future space 

exploration. All the plans received favorable responses, but the most support 

was expressed for the least innovative plan: 86.2 percent favored “continuing 

to use the space shuttle for scientific research.” In second place, with 79.9 

percent favoring the idea, was “joint space missions involving Americans, 

Russians, and people from other countries.” Three other plans were essentially 

159. Donald A. Strickland, “Physicists’ Views of Space Politics,” Public Opinion Quarterly 29, 

no. 2 (1965): 223–235.

160. Analysis of original data from USA Today study 3002, a poll done by Gordon S. Black 

Corporation in January 1987 of 817 American adults, Odom Institute.

TABLE 1.8. Priorities for the Space Program

Five Possible Objectives

for the Space Program

Sources of Space Program Objective Rating

Harvard Business Review Harvard 

Students 

1960 1963 1986

Pure science research and gaining of 

knowledge

47% 43% 55.4%

Control of outer space for military and 

political reasons

31% 31% 4.1%

Tangible economic payoffs and research 

results for everyday life on Earth

14% 18% 30.5%

Meeting the challenge and adventure of 

new horizons

8% 8% 9.2%

Winning the prestige race with the Soviet 

Union

3% 5% 0.8%
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 61

tied: “sending more unmanned probes to explore other planets in the solar 

system” (favored by 70.9 percent), “putting a manned US space station in 

space” (70.9 percent), and “putting a manned joint US and International 

space station in Earth’s orbit” (69.6 percent). The two lowest-rated plans 

involved bold human expeditions: “sending a manned rocket to land on 

Mars” (63.7 percent) and “sending a manned rocket to the Moon” (62.9 

percent). Without special instructions, the statistical software would have 

produced a factor analysis with only one factor, and Figure 1.6 shows the 

results when it was instructed to seek two factors. The seven plans are nearly 

in a straight line, from modest plans promoting international cooperation on 

Earth at the upper left to ambitious human missions away from Earth at the 

lower right.161

A remarkable 1980 Harris poll of adults living in Kentucky included two 

unusually detailed questions about the space program, which are analyzed in 

Table 1.9. One question asked respondents to judge how much each of eight 

“sectors of the economy” benefits from the space program. As Table 1.9 shows, 

they judged the space program to be more beneficial for the national government than for state and local governments. Not surprisingly, large majorities 

161. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 718288, a 9–14 July 1997 poll of 1,002 

American adults, Odom Institute. The two factor analyses employed pairwise deletion 

and varimax rotation, and specified that two factors should result; the one factor analysis 

resulted from the criterion of selecting only factors with eigenvalues greater than 1.00.

Continue shuttle 

Joint missions 

Probes 

US station 

Mars 

Moon 

Joint station 

0 

0.2 

0.4 

0.6 

0.8 

1 

0 0.1 0.2 0.3 0.4 0.5 0.6 0.7 0.8 0.9 1 

Factor 2 

Factor 1 

FIGURE 1.6. Factor Analysis of Plans for Future Space Exploration
62 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

saw great benefit for “research” and “education,” but many also saw benefits 

for business and industry, individuals, and, to the least extent, agriculture. 

The second question listed 10 “products, improvements, or scientific discoveries” and asked whether each is “a result of the space program.” Very large 

fractions correctly answered “satellite communication” and “weather prediction methods,” but majorities also saw a connection to “firefighters breathing 

system” (perhaps like a space suit) and a number of electronic devices. Nearly 

half wrongly believed that Teflon, discovered in 1938 and first marketed in 

1946, was a result of the space program. Less than half credited the space 

program with developing synthetic rubber and latex paint.162

A July 1989 Gallup poll asked respondents to judge which of four activities should have the highest priority for the space program. First place went 

to “basic research on the solar system and planets” (30 percent), followed by 

162. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 20038, a 26 March–17 April 1980 poll of 

671 Kentucky residents, Odom Institute.

TABLE 1.9. Benefits to Economic Sectors and Developments from Space

Benefits or Results of Space Program

Governments Federal government 63.5%

State government 39.9%

Local government 26.6%

Institutions Research 85.9%

Education 82.4%

Business and industry 69.5%

Individuals 55.1%

Agriculture 45.2%

Developments Satellite communication 88.1%

Weather prediction methods 86.3%

Firefighters breathing system 69.9%

Rechargeable pacemaker 61.9%

Hand-held calculators 57.6%

Push-button telephones 53.7%

Microwave ovens 53.1%

Teflon 48.1%

Synthetic rubber 33.4%

Latex paint 27.0%
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 63

“mining the natural resources on the moon and other planets” (23 percent), 

“developing zero-gravity manufacturing and other commercial technologies in space” (18 percent), and “developing a space-based defense shield” 

(14 percent).163

The 1986 study of Harvard students mentioned earlier involved a pair of 

questionnaires designed to develop and analyze a list of all the justifications 

for spaceflight that were current in public opinion at the time.164 Given this 

goal, it was less important that the respondents were not a random sample 

than that they thought deeply and possessed a range of viewpoints. The first 

questionnaire asked 1,007 students a series of open-ended questions designed 

to elicit ideas about the value of the space program. From their many thousands of written utterances, statements were collated that expressed 125 separate justifications. These were then placed in the second questionnaire, and 

894 students were asked to rate (on a scale of 0 to 6) how good a justification 

each statement was. Because adequate commercial software was not available 

at the time, a special cluster analysis program was written to categorize the 

statements into groups. 

Here, I reanalyze the original data for 512 students who gave the most 

complete responses and for the most representative 90 items, using modern 

software to do a factor analysis.165 The categorization that follows is probably 

an improvement over the original analysis but gives similar results. The factor 

analysis was done in two stages. The first stage produced 12 factors, and on 

the basis of the highest loadings, 89 of the 90 items could be assigned to a 

dozen appropriate groups. The one item left out had affinities to several factors: “From space, we could find new ways to control pollution and clean 

up our environment.” The first factor combined fully 28 items that could be 

described as idealistic and emotional. For example, the two statements that 

led the factor with equal 0.75 loadings were: “Space exploration is a human 

struggle, expressing the unconquerable human spirit” and “Space exploration 

fulfills the human need for adventure.” 

Naturally, a random sample of Americans, or any other group of respondents, might rate the 125 space goals somewhat differently, but it is interesting to note that the Harvard students did not express much enthusiasm for 

these 28 items, rating them on average 2.4 on the 0-to-6 scale. The second 

163. Gallup poll of 1,253 American adults, 6–9 July 1989, cited by Rosita M. Thomas, 

American Public Opinion and the Space Program (Washington, DC: Congressional 

Research Service of the Library of Congress, 1991), p. 43.

164. Bainbridge, Goals in Space. 

165. William Sims Bainbridge, Social Research Methods and Statistics: A Computer-Assisted 

Introduction (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 1992). A computer disk included with this book 

holds the data plus simple software for analyzing it.
64 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

stage of the work did a second factor analysis of just the 28 idealistic and 

emotional items to see if they could be further categorized. This attempt was 

quite successful; so what follows starts with the four subfactors in Factor 1, 

then describes the 11 other factors. In parentheses after each statement is the 

loading, and for the subfactors the loading on the factor is given first, followed by the loading on the subfactor.

Subfactor 1A concerns the spirit of exploration, suggesting that the human 

need to explore is part of our fundamental nature and requires no further 

justification: “We should explore the unknown” (0.59/0.75); “We should 

boldly go where no man or woman has gone before” (0.65/0.71); “We should 

go into space for the same reason people climb Mt. Everest—because it’s 

there” (0.65/0.66); “Space is the new frontier” (0.64/0.66); “Humans have 

an innate need to search and discover” (0.68/0.65); “We must broaden our 

horizons” (0.56/0.64); “Investigation of outer space satisfies human curiosity” (0.71/0.57); “Space offers new challenges, and civilization would stagnate without challenges” (0.62/0.53); “Space exploration is a human struggle, 

expressing the unconquerable human spirit” (0.75/0.51); and “Space exploration fulfills the human need for adventure” (0.75/0.47).

Subfactor 1B expresses emotions of pride, hope, and aspiration that 

can be generated by space exploration, what psychologists might justly call 

ascendancy: “The space program builds national pride” (0.43/0.83); “Space 

triumphs give us justified pride in our achievements” (0.62/0.77); “The 

exploration of space lifts morale and instills a sense of hope and optimism” 

(0.65/0.66); “Spaceflight reaffirms faith in man’s abilities” (0.71/0.66); 

“Spaceflight is a noble endeavor, expressing the hopes and aspirations of 

humankind” (0.72/0.56); and “The space program provides a goal and a feeling of long-term purpose for humanity” (0.59/0.52).

Subfactor 1C asserts that spaceflight offers inspiration, giving us new perspectives: “In space, we see how small our world is and thus learn humility” 

(0.48/0.74); “The space program gives us new perspectives on ourselves and 

our world” (0.63/0.68); “New experiences and perspectives gained in space 

inspire art, music, and literature” (0.52/0.60); “The space program allows 

people to think beyond the triviality of earthbound conflicts and concerns” 

(0.56/0.56); “The space program encourages people to make achievements 

and solve problems” (0.54/0.49); “The space program inspires young people 

to study the sciences” (0.44/0.47); “Space stimulates the creative human 

imagination” (0.72/0.47); and “The exploration of space is an unselfish quest 

that could benefit all mankind” (0.40/0.46).

Subfactor 1D rejoices in the excitement that space exploration can offer 

individuals: “Space travel is fun” (0.45/0.80); “Space missions are exciting” 
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 65

(0.64/0.77); “The beauty of space creates a sense of wonder” (0.68/0.59); and 

“Space gives people something to dream about” (0.74/0.45).

Factor 2 assembles 13 items with a mean rating of 2.6 on the 0-to-8 scale. 

They concern colonization of outer space: “Earth is too small for us, so we 

must expand off this planet” (0.80); “Space offers room for the expansion 

of the human species” (0.79); “Space settlements could ease the growing 

problem of overpopulation” (0.75); “We could find new worlds we can live 

on or transform a planet to make it habitable” (0.75); “We could colonize 

the moon, Mars, and other satellites or planets of our solar system” (0.74); 

“We need an alternate home planet in case Earth is destroyed by a natural catastrophe or nuclear war” (0.66); “Humans should spread life to other 

planets” (0.65); “We could establish manned space stations, communities in 

space, and space cities” (0.63); “Our future ultimately lies in space” (0.61); 

“Eventually, interstellar travel could be possible, taking people to distant 

stars” (0.58); “We could use raw materials from the moon and planets when 

natural resources are depleted on Earth” (0.51); “In space, we could create 

new cultures, lifestyles, and forms of society” (0.51); and “Farms in space and 

advances in terrestrial agriculture aided by the space program could increase 

our food supply” (0.44).

The 12 items gathered together by Factor 3 were much more popular, 

achieving an average rating of 3.8, and concern technology benefits of space 

development: “The space program contributes much to our technology” 

(0.68); “Technological spin-offs (advancements developed for the space 

program, then applied to other fields) improve everyday life” (0.66); “Space 

research provides valuable, practical information” (0.61); “The space program contributes to the advancement of science” (0.61); “The space program 

produces better computers, calculators, and electronics” (0.58); “The longterm, ultimate benefits of the space program could eventually be important” 

(0.57); “The space program has great benefits for industry” (0.55); “Space 

research tests our scientific theories and promises conceptual breakthroughs” 

(0.54); “Space has great commercial applications and many opportunities for 

business” (0.52); “The space program stimulates the economy and has direct 

economic benefits” (0.48); “Space could offer many unexpected benefits we 

cannot now foresee” (0.45); and “In the weightlessness and vacuum of space, 

we could manufacture new and better alloys, crystals, chemicals, and machine 

parts” (0.41).

The eight items in Factor 4 have a mean rating of 3.9 and concern applications of Earth satellites: “Satellites are an important component in navigation systems” (0.72); “Satellites are useful in surveying and mapping 

Earth” (0.71); “Satellites link all corners of the globe in a complete information and communication network” (0.68); “Meteorology satellites are great 
66 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

aids for predicting the weather and understanding atmospheric patterns” 

(0.67); “Communication satellites improve television transmissions” (0.59); 

“Satellite photography of Earth contributes to geology, oceanography, and 

archaeology” (0.59); “Observations from orbit help us find new sources of 

energy and minerals on Earth” (0.55); and “An orbiting space telescope could 

give astronomers a much better view of the stars” (0.42).

With a mean rating of 3.5, Factor 5 concerns the knowledge to be gained 

by space exploration: “We could discover our origins, learning about the history of the universe and Earth” (0.70); “Through the space program, we could 

learn the origin of life” (0.67); “We could gain greater understanding of the 

world we live in” (0.62); “We could gain a better understanding of the universe as a whole and how it functions” (0.61); “We could gain knowledge 

about ourselves” (0.51); “Space probes increase our knowledge of space, planets, comets, and the entire solar system” (0.43); and “Space research benefits 

physics—in studies of the nature of matter, for example” (0.43).

Human unity is the theme of the five items in Factor 6, with a mean rating 

of 2.6: “The space program generates national unity, encouraging cooperation between numerous sectors of society” (0.61); “The common cause 

of space exploration unites the peoples of the world and could eventually 

create a world community” (0.60); “The space program contributes to world 

peace” (0.59); “Joint space projects between nations improve international 

cooperation” (0.58); and “Competition in space is a constructive outlet for 

nationalistic rivalries that otherwise would take the form of aggression and 

conflict” (0.56).

Harvard students were politically liberal and skeptical of Reagan’s programs, so they gave the military items in Factor 7 the lowest mean rating of 

2.1: “A space-based antimissile system, part of the Strategic Defense Initiative, 

could reduce the danger of war and nuclear annihilation” (0.85); “There are 

great military applications of space” (0.84); “The space program contributes 

to our defense” (0.84); and “Reconnaissance satellites help prevent war and 

nuclear attack” (0.57). A different set of respondents might have rated these 

items higher, but the point of the study was to categorize all the possible 

motives for space development, and clearly these four objectively fit together.

The highest mean rating, 4.2, went to the medical items in Factor 8: “New 

medicines could be manufactured in the zero gravity and vacuum of space” 

(0.75); “Some medical problems could be treated more effectively in the 

weightlessness of space” (0.74); and “Medical research performed in space 

could benefit human health” (0.72).

Also highly rated, with 4.0, were the resources items in Factor 9: “New 

fuels found in space or the development of fusion power in space could help 

solve Earth’s energy problem” (0.67); “Solar power stations in orbit could 
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 67

provide clean, limitless energy to Earth” (0.51); and “We could find new 

mineral resources on the moon, Mars, or the asteroids” (0.49).

Two employment items with a mean rating of 2.6 constituted Factor 10: 

“The space program provides jobs for thousands of people” (0.65); and “The 

space program employs many engineers and scientists who otherwise would 

not be able to utilize their talents” (0.59).

The two items about learning in Factor 11 had a mean rating of 2.9: 

“Space travel makes us realize that Earth is a fragile, unique, unified world 

that deserves more respect and better care” (0.56); and “The space program is 

an educational tool, helping us learn from each other” (0.53).

Finally, the last pair of items in Factor 12 were rated 2.6 and concern pollution removal: “We could preserve Earth’s environment by moving the most 

polluting industries into space” (0.80); and “The moon or the sun could be 

used for safe disposal of toxic materials and nuclear wastes” (0.69).

This study of Harvard students, dating from 1986, probably provides the 

most complete picture of the ideas about the value of the space program held 

in American culture at the time, a period when public opinion on the topic 

had probably matured. As we shift into a new major period in space development, fresh efforts will be needed to understand public opinion as it evolves 

in new directions.

7. Attitudes Toward the Future

For six decades, opinion polls have asked Americans to consider the future 

of spaceflight, and as the Shuttle era comes to a close, their attitudes take 

on a new significance. The loss of Columbia during reentry on 1 February 

2003 emphasized the need to retire this complex, aging vehicle and shift to 

something else. On 14 January 2004, President George W. Bush announced 

“a new plan to explore space and extend a human presence across our solar 

system.”166 With a human mission to Mars as the long-range goal, the United 

States would return to the Moon, using new launch vehicles comparable to 

improved versions of the Saturn rockets used in the Apollo program, abandoning the concept of routine orbital flights with a largely reusable, winged 

vehicle that had been central to the Shuttle program. Would the American 

public support the new vision?

A poll done in February 2003 asked respondents how they would like to 

see money spent if NASA had a budget increase, allowing them to select as 

many as three choices. The leading investment was “making shuttles safer,” 

166. See http://www.nasa.gov/pdf/54868main_bush_trans.pdf.
68 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

marked by 64 percent of respondents, and third place went to “replacing 

space shuttles” with 34 percent. In second place was “aerospace technologies 

to improve flight on earth” at 46 percent, recalling that the first A in “NASA” 

stands for “aeronautics.” In fourth place, however, was “unmanned missions 

to other planets” at 30 percent, a goal that looks far beyond the mundane 

world. Other choices were “expansion of the space station” (25 percent), 

“manned missions to other planets” (19 percent), and “human return to the 

moon” (13 percent).167

In January 2004 a CBS News and New York Times poll asked: “Given the 

costs and risks involved in manned space exploration, do you think building a permanent space station on the moon is worth it, or not?” A majority, 

58 percent, said a Moon station would not be worth it; 35 percent said it 

would be; and the remaining 7 percent did not know.168 One of the biggest 

challenges in opinion polls is how to prepare the respondents to express an 

opinion when they may know little about the given topic. A standard method 

is to describe a topic in a sentence or two, then follow with the question, but 

this technique relies heavily on the exact wording used. For example, consider 

the word expanding in both the introduction and question of a poll done for 

the Associated Press earlier that same month: 

As you may have heard, the Bush administration is considering expanding 

the space program by building a permanent space station on the Moon with a 

plan to eventually send astronauts to Mars. Considering all the potential costs 

and benefits, do you favor or oppose expanding the space program this way 

or do you oppose it? 

The actual plans did not call for increasing the NASA budget, which is what 

many respondents may have understood from the word “expanding.” In any 

case, 43 percent said they favored the idea, and 52 percent were opposed.169

Later that month, Harris Interactive asked what some would call a leading question, suggesting how the money devoted to Mars exploration might 

better be spent: 

As you may know, President Bush has proposed spending billions of dollars to 

send a manned mission to the moon and eventually to Mars. Most estimates 

167. Poll of 900 American adults by Techno Metrica Institute of Policy and Politics for CBS 

News/New York Times, 3–9 February 2003, Roper Center USTIPP.03FEB.R37.

168. Poll of 1,022 American adults by CBS News/New York Times, 12–15 January 2004, 

Roper Center USCBSNYT.011704.R81.

169. Poll of 1,000 American adults by PSOS–Public Affairs for the Associated Press, 9–11 

January 2004, Roper Center USIPSOSR.011204A.R1B.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 69

of the cost of these space programs put it at hundreds of billions of dollars. If 

you could choose, would you spend the billions of dollars proposed for the 

space program on: improving education, balancing the budget, cleaning up 

the environment, space exploration, or enlarging the military? 

Only 9 percent wanted to keep the money in the space program budget, and 

another 4 percent of respondents were not sure. The largest group wanted to 

invest in improving education (40 percent), with smaller groups preferring to 

balance the budget (27 percent), clean up the environment (13 percent), and 

enlarge the military (7 percent).170

At the end of January 2004, a poll carried out by Gallup for CNN and 

USA Today reminded respondents that “the U.S. has landed two robotic 

explorers on Mars that are sending back pictures and data” and asked them 

to evaluate this accomplishment. Fully 70 percent called the landing of Spirit 

and Opportunity “a major achievement,” and another 20 percent considered 

it “a minor achievement.” Only 9 percent said it was “not an achievement at 

all,” and 1 percent had no opinion.171 This poll also asked: “Do you think it 

is worthwhile for the United States to find out whether there were ever living 

creatures on Mars, or not?” A majority, 54.5 percent, felt this would not be 

worthwhile, but a strong minority (44.0 percent) felt it would be.172

Polls had been asking about a trip to Mars for many years. In 1986 fully 

58 percent of respondents agreed that “a joint U.S.-Soviet Union manned 

mission to Mars...should be a long range goal for the civilian space program,” and only 40 percent disagreed.173 The poll was conducted by Market 

Opinion Research for Rockwell International, an aerospace contractor; so 

one wonders if something about the manner in which the poll was done 

produced a higher positive response than other polls about Mars. As with 

many social science agree/disagree questionnaire items, respondents could 

express different levels of agreement; and favorable respondents were evenly 

split between “strongly agree” and “just somewhat agree.” Perhaps the key 

is the phrase “long range goal” in the question, suggesting something that 

might be desirable someday but that need not have any near-term costs. 

Another poll by the same organizations, done two years later, found fully 

170. Poll of 1,003 American adults by Harris Interactive for Time magazine and Cable News 

Network, 14–15 January 2004, Roper Center USHARRIS.Y011604.R22.

171. Half sample of a poll of 1,001 American adults by Gallup for Cable News Network and 

USA Today, 29 January–1 February 2004, Roper Center USGALLUP.04JAN29.R32.

172. Half sample of a poll of 1,001 American adults by Gallup for Cable News Network and 

USA Today, 29 January–1 February 2004, Princeton, NJ.

173. Poll of 1,200 American adults by Market Opinion Research for Rockwell International, 

1–12 August 1986, Roper Center USMOR.86SPAC.R33.
70 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

66 percent in favor of “sending a manned mission to Mars and establishing 

an outpost there for scientific observation and exploration,” with just 30 percent opposed.174 Some polls have explored possible nationalistic motives for 

Mars exploration. A Gallup poll in July 1989, near the 20th anniversary of 

the first Moon landing, asked: “How important do you think it is for the U.S. 

to be the first country to land a person on Mars?” Opinions ranged across 

the given responses: “very important” (19 percent), “somewhat important” 

(32 percent), “not too important” (25 percent), and “not important at all” 

(23 percent).175 Seven years later, 17 percent of Americans said they would 

be “greatly pleased” if “some other country sent the first manned mission to 

Mars,” 36 percent would be “somewhat pleased,” 25 percent “somewhat disappointed,” and 9 percent “greatly disappointed.”176

For the 25th anniversary of Apollo in 1994, a poll for Newsweek magazine told respondents: “Scientists estimate it would cost 50 billion dollars 

over ten years to put a person on Mars.” The largest group, 52 percent, felt 

the United States should “undertake a manned mission to Mars only with 

other nations to share costs and expertise,” whereas just 4 percent wanted the 

United States to “undertake a solo manned mission to Mars” and 41 percent 

felt the country should “not undertake a manned mission to Mars.”177 When 

asked in September 1996, just 13 percent of Americans expected to see “a 

human colony on Mars” in the next 10 years, compared with 84 percent who 

did not.178

On 4 July 1997 the robot rover Pathfinder landed successfully on Mars. A 

Harris poll inquired how much attention respondents had paid to the event; 

23.1 percent said “a lot of attention,” and 43.9 percent said “some attention,” indicating that two-thirds of respondents had been at least somewhat 

interested. Another 24.2 percent said they had paid “not much attention,” 

and 8.9 percent said “none at all.”179 An ABC poll reminded respondents: “As 

you may know, last week the United States landed a probe on Mars that has 

174. Poll of 1,200 American adults by Market Opinion Research for Rockwell International, 

July 1988, Roper Center USMOR.88SPAC.R29.

175. Poll of 1,253 American adults by Gallup, 6–9 July 1989, Roper Center USGALLUP.

071989.R05.

176. Poll of 1,000 American adults by the Institute for Social Inquiry and the Roper Center for 

the National Science and Technology Medals Foundation, 31 May–14 June 1996, Roper 

Center, USISIROP.96TECH.R58.

177. Poll of 751 American adults by Princeton Survey Research Associates for Newsweek, 7–8 

July 1994, Roper Center USPSRNEW.N0794A.R13.

178. Poll of 601 American adults by Princeton Survey Research Associates for Newsweek, 25–

29 September 1996, Roper Center USPSRNEW.96009B.Q18D.

179. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 718288, a 9–14 July 1997 poll of 1,002 

American adults, Odom Institute.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 71

been exploring the surface and testing the makeup of rocks.” Fully 59 percent 

said this success made them “feel more supportive of continued US efforts to 

explore Mars,” 25 percent said “less supportive,” and the remainder had no 

opinion.180 Pathfinder ceased operation late in September, but public support 

continued. More than two years later, 56.3 percent of respondents to a Gallup 

poll said the government should “continue to fund efforts by NASA to send 

unmanned missions to explore the planet Mars,” compared with 40.2 percent 

who wanted funding stopped.181

In March 1999, 35 percent of respondents to a Gallup poll thought there 

was “life of some form on Mars,” but 59 percent felt there was not.182 The 

remarkably successful robot explorers, Spirit and Opportunity, were launched 

toward Mars in June and July 2003, landing in January 2004. An Associate 

Press poll in July 2003 found that 49 percent felt the United States should 

“pursue a program to send humans to Mars,” compared with 42 percent who 

felt it should not.183 Thus the January 2004 announcement by President Bush 

came after a significant amount of public interest. However, this did not mean 

the majority was prepared to spend the money required.

In June 2005, fully 58 percent of Americans opposed “attempting to 

land an astronaut on the planet Mars,” compared with only 40 percent who 

favored the idea.184 These numbers represent a slight deterioration of support 

from July 1999, when 54 percent opposed the idea and 42 percent favored 

it.185 Much more positive opinions were expressed in an August 2006 Gallup 

poll that asked respondents to think deeply about the future: 

In January 2004, a new plan for space exploration was announced. The plan 

includes a stepping-stone approach to return the space shuttle to flight, complete assembly of the space station, build a replacement for the shuttle, go 

back to the moon, and travel to Mars and beyond. If NASA’s budget did not 

exceed one percent of the federal budget, to what extent would you support 

or oppose this new plan for space exploration? 

180. Poll of 505 American adults by ABC News, 8–9 July 1997, Roper Center USABC.071197.

R13.

181. Poll of 501 American adults by Gallup, 9–12 December 1999, Princeton, NJ.

182. Darren K. Carlson, “Life on Mars?,” press release, 27 February 2001, Gallup News 

Service, Princeton, NJ.

183. Poll of 1,034 American adults by International Communications Research for the 

Associated Press, 11–15 July 2003, Roper Center USAP.072803.R3.

184. Poll of 1,009 American adults by Gallup for Cable News Network, 24–26 June 2005, 

Roper Center USGALLUP.05JE024.R08.

185. Poll of 1,060 American adults by Gallup, 13–14 July 1999, Princeton, NJ.
72 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

A majority of 65.9 percent said they supported this plan, including 19.0 percent who supported it strongly, compared with 27.4 percent who opposed it. 

Many members of the general public lack sufficient information about possible future Mars missions, so the careful explanation of the stepping-stone 

approach may have created a positive impression.186 The proviso that no more 

than 1 percent of the federal budget be invested undoubtedly strengthened 

support as well.

In response to another item from this August 2006 poll, 68.9 percent 

agreed that “the scientific, technical and other benefits of space exploration are 

worth the risks of human space flight.” A third item in the questionnaire ran: 

Both China and the U.S. have announced plans to send astronauts to the 

moon. China has announced plans to go to the moon by 2017 and the U.S. 

has announced plans to send astronauts to the moon by 2018, a year later. 

To what extent, if any, are you concerned that China would become the new 

leader in space exploration or take the lead over the U.S.? 

Only 28 percent were somewhat concerned or very concerned, suggesting 

that most Americans did not yet feel a second space race had begun.187

Whatever governments might do in space, at the beginning of the 21st 

century there was renewed hope that private enterprise might help launch 

humanity into the universe, notably through space tourism.188 In 2002 the 

Futron Corporation published a study of the potential market for space tourism, based on a poll of 450 affluent individuals (with a net worth of over 

$1 million or annual incomes of $250,000) done by the Zogby organization. 

Among the features of a suborbital flight that respondents thought would be 

very important to them, 63 percent identified “viewing Earth from space,” 

27 percent cited “experiencing the acceleration of a rocket launch,” 26 percent cited “experiencing what only astronauts and cosmonauts have experienced,” and 24 percent agreed that “experiencing weightlessness” would be 

very important. Among important experiences for orbital flight were “eating, 

sleeping, and exercising in space” (49 percent), “orbiting Earth every 90 minutes” (28 percent), and the opportunity to “stay two weeks on a space station” 

(24 percent). 

186. Ragnar E. Lofstedt, “Public Perceptions of the Mars Sample Return Program,” Space 

Policy 19 (2003): 283–292.

187. Poll of 1,000 American adults by Gallup for the Space Foundation, 2–19 August 2006, 

Princeton, NJ.

188. Tom Rogers, “Space Tourism: A Response to Continuing Decay in US Civil Space 

Financial Support,” Space Policy 14 (1998): 79–81.
The Impact of Space Exploration on Public Opinions, Attitudes, and Beliefs 73

Several questions assessed the willingness of these wealthy respondents 

to buy a tourist ticket on a suborbital flight, in a service projected to rise 

from about 500 passengers in 2006 to 15,000 in 2021, with an estimated 

annual revenue in 2021 of $786 million, when a flight could cost the tourist 

$50,000. The first demonstration of the feasibility of suborbital space tourism, the flight of SpaceShipOne that garnered the $10 million “X-Prize,” 

took place in 2004 on the anniversary of the first Sputnik launch. A second 

Futron/Zogby market study, carried out in 2006, gave similar estimates for 

the year 2021, despite a later assumed start for commercial space tourism 

operations.189 However, SpaceShipOne employed technology that is not 

suitable for orbital flight, and it remains unclear whether human spaceflight 

could become commercially viable during the next couple of decades.

NASA’s plan to return to the Moon was predicated on the assumption of 

constant budgets, rather than a significant increase, so an increase in public 

enthusiasm may not be necessary. The 2004 GSS results suggest the American 

public would support this level of investment. When 1,403 respondents were 

asked to assess current funding for the “space exploration program,” 14.3 percent felt too little was being spent and 43.4 percent said about the right 

amount, for a total of 57.7 who were willing to continue at the present level. 

A large minority, 36.8 percent, felt too much was being spent, and 5.5 percent did not know. If those lacking an opinion are removed from the equation, as was done in Table 1.2, those willing to support the program at current 

levels constitute fully 61.0 percent.190

Polls are not referendums, however much journalists and some politicians 

might want them to be. Through polls, politicians can judge how to build the 

constituencies they need in order to succeed. The polls do show that spaceflight has a substantial constituency within the American public, so investment in the space program makes sense in a mix of investments that serve 

the interests of different constituencies. Funding levels aside, the public has 

positive feelings about space exploration. It is not a controversial subject, 

such as nuclear power may be, having powerful negative as well as positive 

constituencies. Rather, the consensus is that space exploration is a good thing, 

and any debate concerns how aggressively it should be pursued.

In a representative democracy the public does not vote on every little issue. 

Rather, through elections and opinion polls, the public tells government what 

189. “Space Tourism Market Study,” October 2002, Futron Corporation, Bethesda, MD; and 

“Suborbital Space Tourism Demand Revisited,” 24 August 2006, Futron Corporation, 

Bethesda, MD.

190. Analysis of the original GSS data obtained from the Computer-assisted Survey Methods 

Program at the University of California, Berkeley.
74 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

general values it wants government to serve. It is up to elected representatives 

and technical experts to decide how to achieve those goals. The interests of all 

citizens need to be taken into account, and that is the reason why each adult 

deserves one equal vote. However, better-educated citizens are in a better 

position to judge how to achieve the goals the society desires, and they support space exploration more than less-educated people do. Much of government’s investment must serve short-term needs in areas like national defense 

and human services. But some investment must be made in the longer-term 

future, developing new opportunities and the knowledge needed to understand ever better the universe in which we live. The American public is willing 

to continue the voyage of discovery and achievement into outer space.
Part II

Spinoff?

77

Chapter 2

Societal Impact of NASA 

on Medical Technology1

William Sims Bainbridge

1. Introduction

This chapter examines the history of several medically oriented innovations reported in NASA’s annual Spinoff publication in order to better 

understand the processes by which the Agency’s efforts benefit humanity in 

often unexpected ways. The literature on this topic tends to conceptualize 

these innovations as spinoffs from “the space program,” although there is the 

possibility that some originated in NASA’s aviation research and development 

as well. The aim here is not to determine a financial estimate of the annual 

value of spinoffs, nor to critique the reporting of innovation by NASA’s dedicated analysts and writers. Rather, by tracking the historical origins and current impact of selected spinoffs, we can uncover the fundamental factors at 

work. The sample of spinoffs was selected to ensure that a variety of interesting phenomena would be discovered, not to characterize a hypothetical average NASA medical spinoff.

A widely used dictionary defines spin-off as “a collateral or derived product or effect,” equivalent to a by-product.2

 As a subcategory of technology 

transfer, a spinoff is a distinct invention developed in the course of aerospace work and transferred more or less intact to nonaerospace uses. The 

website of NASA’s Scientific and Technical Information Office defines the 

term rather more broadly: “A spinoff is a commercialized product that incorporates NASA technology or NASA ‘know how’ and benefits the public.”3

1. Acknowledgments: Great thanks are due to Trudy E. Bell for the original suggestion that 

led to this study and for her early ideas about its scope and methodology.

2. Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary (Springfield, MA: Merriam-Webster, 1990), s.v.

“spin-off.”

3. See http://www.sti.nasa.gov/tto/spinfaq.htm. Note: The websites referenced in this chapter 

were accessed early in 2007, and many may have changed or vanished since then. Note 

that some URLs default to a different page from the one where data for this study were 

originally found, and other pages were revised over time. Researchers may find the 
78 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Spinoffs must be distinguished from applications, which are intended benefits 

of a technology. Communications satellites, meteorology satellites, and navigation satellites like the Global Positioning System are valuable applications 

of space technology. A 2003 book about spinoffs, It Came from Outer Space,

by Marjolijn Bijlefeld and Robert Burke, asserts: 

Medical technology had benefited greatly from the space program. Noninvasive breast cancer screening, less traumatic breast biopsy techniques, 

magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), cardiac pacemakers and implantable 

defibrillators, kidney dialysis machines, insulin pumps, and fetal heart monitors are just some of the devices and procedures that were introduced using 

technologies developed in the space program.4

For many years scholars have debated the importance of spinoffs, in contrast with many other kinds of secondary benefits from NASA’s work, and the 

degree to which the concept itself is problematic. In the 1960s NASA funded 

a number of social science studies of the potential societal implications of 

space exploration. Top scholars participated, and the results were often published as books by the prestigious MIT Press. For example, one collection of 

essays edited by Bruce Mazlish drew analogies between the building of the 

railroads in 19th-century America and the future building of space-related 

transportation systems. The book started with the working hypothesis that 

space development would turn out to be far more extensive than it has proven 

to be to this point in history, yet qualitatively its observations are still useful. 

A new technology may greatly benefit the economy in ways quite remote 

from the technical advances themselves, and any new technology needs to be 

weighed in comparison with other technologies that might have been developed instead.5

Another collection of essays, edited by William H. Gruber and Donald G. 

Marquis, explored the ways that new technology may diffuse from the original application area to others, a process central to understanding spinoffs.6

Simply put, we can imagine inventions migrating away from their birthplaces 

by a number of means. A spinoff consists of an invention walking on its 

“Wayback Machine” tool at http://archive.org/index.php helpful for locating previous 

versions of Web pages. 

4. Marjolijn Bijlefeld and Robert Burke, It Came from Outer Space: Everyday Products and 

Ideas from the Space Program (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2003), p. x.

5. Bruce Mazlish, ed., The Railroad and the Space Program: An Exploration in Historical 

Analogy (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1965).

6. William H. Gruber and Donald G. Marquis, eds., Factors in the Transfer of Technology

(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1969).
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 79

own legs, so to speak, and maintaining its own individual integrity. People 

outside the original field come into contact with it, perhaps by chance, and 

they adopt it as a whole unit. Perhaps later they modify it, but originally it 

migrates intact and in the form of a distinct, probably patentable invention. 

One of the main other ways in which technological transfer takes place is in 

the minds of people who migrate. A scientist or engineer works with NASA 

on a particular project, gaining experience and a wealth of ideas. Then this 

person takes a different job, or works on the weekends in his or her basement, creating something quite different, perhaps separately patentable. This 

is sometimes called embodied diffusion. A third path involves the social communication of information from one person to another. This was the type 

most closely studied in the 1950s and 1960s, as illustrated by the influential 

books Personal Influence by Elihu Katz and Paul F. Lazarsfeld and Diffusion of 

Innovations by Everett M. Rogers.7

In the language of economics, embodied diffusion and social communication could both be described as mechanisms by which spillover occurs. 

Spillover is the escape of information about an innovation that allows a corporation that did not invent it to copy it or otherwise take advantage of the 

innovativeness of another corporation.8 Often, companies and governments 

keep trade secrets or state secrets, and patent protection is a mechanism for 

balancing the need of an innovator to capture the benefits of the innovation, 

versus the benefit to society more generally if the information is widely disseminated. Spillover might include the specific design details of a particular 

invention, but the term is more usefully employed for the general technical expertise and scientific knowledge of which the invention is one particular instantiation. It is possible that many of the spinoffs listed by NASA are 

better described as spillovers.

A third book in the NASA-MIT series, Second-Order Consequences by 

Raymond A. Bauer, documented a very wide range of kinds of technology transfer that might occur, causing changes that are economic, technological, scientific, managerial, or social. Spinoffs were only one subcategory 

among many that could be distinguished from others in a number of ways. 

For example, spinoffs were a kind of horizontal diffusion, in which an intact 

7. Elihu Katz and Paul F. Lazarsfeld, Personal Influence: The Part Played by People in the 

Flow of Mass Communications (Glencoe, IL: Free Press, 1955); and Everett M. Rogers, 

Diffusion of Innovations (New York: Free Press of Glencoe, 1962).

8. Timothy F. Bresnahan, “Measuring the Spillovers from Technical Advance: Mainframe 

Computers in Financial Services,” American Economic Review 76, no. 4 (1986): 742–755; 

and Adam B. Jaffe, Manuel Trajtenberg, and Michael S. Fogarty, “Knowledge Spillovers 

and Patent Citations: Evidence from a Survey of Inventors,” American Economic Review 

90, no. 2 (2000): 215–218.
80 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

innovation moves from one application to another. They could be distinguished from vertical diffusion, in which general knowledge coming from scientific research performed in the space program moves down and is reshaped 

into a number of inventions in potentially several different fields.9

The general conclusion one draws from the extensive scholarship and 

social science done for NASA decades ago is that spinoffs are a minor part of 

the benefit of the space program, and by implication also of the aeronautical 

research and development supported by NASA. Indeed, given all the many 

analytical rubrics proposed by the host of authors, it becomes rather difficult to distinguish spinoffs precisely from other but similar kinds of impacts. 

A 1976 summary of research on impacts reported: “These findings suggest 

that earlier ‘space spinoff’ studies, which searched for commercial adoption 

of complete NASA-developed systems, were misdirected.”10 Instead, the primary impact of the space program has been to accelerate technological progress across a wide front in many fields. However, there are several reasons 

why it can be useful to take spinoffs seriously. First, the concept may fit some 

innovations really well. The fact that NASA may benefit society in many 

other ways does not negate the significance of whatever spinoffs it may have 

provided. In a pair of major conferences that I helped to organize, scientists, 

engineers, and scholars debated the societal implications of nanotechnology. 

All participants were aware of concerns that nanotechnology might have 

negative unintended consequences, such as possibly health or environmental 

harm from toxic nanoparticles. But a strong consensus emerged that nanotechnology may have a number of positive unintended consequences as well, 

most likely outweighing the negative ones. If applications are intended consequences, then spinoffs are a category of positive unintended consequences, 

containing very distinct innovations.

Second, spinoffs may be easier to communicate to a wide public than the 

more vague unintended benefits of aerospace innovation. The public often 

has difficulty grasping scientific and technical ideas if they do not experience 

them directly in their own lives. One reason may be that the human brain is 

wired to interpret events in terms of narratives in which an individual person 

faces challenges in the pursuit of a clear goal and wins through to obvious 

success.11 Thus humans find it natural to conceptualize innovations in terms 

9. Raymond A. Bauer, Second-Order Consequences: A Methodological Essay on the Impact of 

Technology (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1969).

10. Eli Ginzberg, James W. Kuhn, Jerome Schnee, and Boris Yavitz, Economic Impact of Large 

Public Programs: The NASA Experience (Salt Lake City, UT: Olympus, 1976), p. 46.

11. H. Porter Abbott, “Unnarratable Knowledge: The Difficulty of Understanding Evolution 

by Natural Selection,” in David Herman, ed., Narrative Theory and the Cognitive Sciences 

(Stanford, CA: Center for the Study of Language and Information, 2003), pp. 143–162; 
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 81

of discrete inventions achieved by individual inventors. Social scientists have 

long criticized the popular view of inventions. S. C. Gilfillan has argued that 

it is strictly impossible to draw sharp conceptual lines between one invention 

and another.12 Robert K. Merton has documented that inventions tend to be 

“invented” simultaneously by several different individuals, which means that 

inventions were really made by society, not by individuals, when the level of 

technical culture has reached a level that makes a valuable invention possible.13 But the popular view exists for a reason—namely, that it helps nonspecialists think about complex technical and social issues—and it squares with 

the truth at least part of the time.

Third, thinking in terms of spinoffs can help organize historical research, 

such as the current project. We can hypothesize that a particular innovation 

fits the model of a spinoff, then document the extent to which it actually 

does. We can examine issues like the distinctness of the innovation (clear 

versus ambiguous), the extent to which it was a unique invention versus one 

of many made approximately simultaneously, and the extent to which it consisted of generally applicable scientific discovery versus specific engineering 

design. We can weigh at least qualitatively the extent to which the innovation actually had an impact, versus being a mere technological curiosity. We 

can estimate how much NASA actually contributed to the innovation and 

whether NASA’s contribution derives from the space program or aviation 

research. Importantly, we may find cases in which, when tracking an innovation back to its historical origins, we find that it originated outside NASA but 

passed through NASA on its way toward benefiting society.

Thus there is another function NASA beneficially performs, beyond primary innovation, that can be explored by tracking spinoffs. It can serve as the 

channel, conduit, or vector through which an innovation travels during the 

diffusion process. We can guess that this would most often happen when the 

innovation originally occurred in military technology, because military innovations are often secret, and a route for direct diffusion from the military to 

the consumer economy often does not exist. If an innovation needs to travel 

far from its origin to become valuable applications, logically we would expect 

it to change during the diffusion process, perhaps becoming less distinct but 

broader in applicability. In their 1971 book about spinoffs, Dividends from 

Space, Frederick Ordway, Carsbie Adams, and Mitchell Sharpe have argued: 

“Many products, materials, and new techniques developed for use in the 

and H. Porter Abbott, The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative (New York: Cambridge 

University Press, 2002).

12. S. C. Gilfillan, The Sociology of Invention (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1963).

13. Robert K. Merton, The Sociology of Science (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973).
82 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

space program have been converted into practical dividends in the form of 

new or improved products for home and industry, but it is often difficult to 

pinpoint the degree of space-inspired technology in such conversions.”14 They 

note especially that the aerospace industry works closely with other industries 

and institutions, and it is often ambiguous how significant each of their contributions to a particular innovation really was. 

Ordway, Adams, and Sharpe identify one important mechanism by which 

space technology can foster innovation without actually carrying it out, 

for which they use the word catalyst. Their prime example is the medical 

application of extremely cold liquefied or cryogenic gases, which are used 

as propellants in space rockets. From the earliest Chinese gunpowder rockets to modern intercontinental missiles, the most practical propellants for 

military rockets have been solid, less energetic than some liquids but easier to 

store and handle. However, spaceflight requires the higher energy offered by 

some liquids, and their thrust can also be throttled to provide the fine control needed, for example, for landing on the Moon. The very first liquid-fuel 

rocket, launched in 1926 by Robert Goddard, employed two liquids—gasoline at ambient temperature and liquid oxygen, which must be maintained 

below –183°C. The German V-2 rockets developed in the early 1940s used 

alcohol and liquid oxygen. When the United States began to develop longrange military rockets in the 1950s, all but one used liquid fuels: Redstone, 

Jupiter, Thor, Atlas, and Titan. The exception was the submarine-launched 

Polaris, which used solid fuel because liquid fuels would have been difficult 

to handle and thus dangerous at sea. 

Except for a small number of Titan II ICBMs that remained in service 

until the late 1980s, the military shifted over to solid fuel in the 1960s, from 

the first deployment of Minuteman I in 1962. Thus, after the period when 

military applications had supported the development of technologies for 

producing and handling cryogenic liquids, this function was served by the 

space program, notably in working with liquid hydrogen, which must be kept 

below –253°C. The second- and third-stage engines of the Saturn V moon 

rocket used two cryogenic propellants, liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen, 

as did the main engines of the Space Shuttles. The space program also has 

employed liquid nitrogen, not as a fuel but as a coolant for infrared telescopes 

and for testing of components that normally contact the more dangerous 

liquid hydrogen or liquid oxygen.

Liquid nitrogen is widely used in medicine, notably for cryosurgery, 

where it destroys abnormal tissues by freezing them. Dermatologists today 

14. Frederick I. Ordway III, Carsbie C. Adams, and Mitchell R. Sharpe, Dividends from Space

(New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1971), p. 5.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 83

commonly have a flask of liquid nitrogen in their offices, simply administering tiny drops on selected small areas of their patients’ skin; but there also 

exist very sophisticated systems for employing liquid nitrogen in brain surgery. Ordway, Adams, and Sharpe cite the example of Dr. Irving Cooper, who 

played a central role in developing cryosurgery in the 1950s, in particular 

using a cryoprobe to reach inside the brain and freeze a tiny area implicated 

in a patient’s Parkinson’s disease. To improve this device, Cooper worked with 

space engineers who had developed a small thermocouple device that could 

monitor the temperature of the probe.15 Note that any direct influence from 

the space program came only after the device had been invented and used, in 

facilitating an improvement of it.

One way to estimate the real impact of an innovation is to examine patent 

records. Cooper did not patent his cryoprobes, but a 1994 patent for a similar 

device notes that experiments with cryosurgery began as early as 1865, and 

comments: “Modern applications of cryosurgery are numerous. For example, 

an early cryosurgical apparatus was developed by Dr. Irving Cooper, a New 

York surgeon, and used for treatment of Parkinson’s disease.”16 A search of the 

patent database for “NASA” and “cryosurgery” turned up nine patents to five 

inventors who cited NASA publications about cold temperature science and 

technology, but none of these patents document a close connection between 

the Agency and cryosurgical inventions.17 Thus cryosurgery may or may not 

be a good example of what Ordway, Adams, and Sharpe called the catalyst 

function of the space program. Arguably, the extensive use of cryogenic liquids in the space program supports general development of the industry, and 

other applications benefit indirectly in a variety of ways that may be hard 

to document.

The chemical metaphor that some factor serves as a “catalyst” in facilitating innovation is overused and imprecise. The fundamental idea proposed by 

Ordway, Adams, and Sharpe is that space technology can strengthen an entire 

industry, technological subsystem of the economy, or scientific community. 

The reverse insight is also true. NASA itself is part of a network of agencies, 

and it cooperates with some of the same corporations; so it can be hard to 

evaluate their relative importance in the development of innovations. With 

the focus here on medical spinoffs, we can gain some clarity by considering 

the different roles played by NASA and by two other science agencies of the 

15. Ordway, Adams, and Sharpe, Dividends from Space, p. 33.

16. Arthur A. Fowle, U.S. Patent 5,324,286, “Entrained cryogenic droplet transfer method 

and cryosurgical instrument,” issued 28 June 1994.

17. U.S. Patents 6,530,234; 6,475,212; 6,451,012; 6,346,668; 6,270,494; 6,193,644; 

6,190,378; 6,182,666; and 6,083,166. 
84 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

U.S. federal government: the National Institutes of Health (NIH) and the 

National Science Foundation (NSF).

As described on its own Web site, NIH is a collection of 27 institutes and 

centers, within the wider Department of Health and Human Services, that 

constitute “the primary Federal agency for conducting and supporting medical research.”18 It calls itself “the steward of medical and behavioral research 

for the Nation. Its mission is science in pursuit of fundamental knowledge 

about the nature and behavior of living systems and the application of that 

knowledge to extend healthy life and reduce the burdens of illness and disability.” In pursuit of these goals, it supports activities both in its own laboratories and at universities:

• in the causes, diagnosis, prevention, and cure of human diseases;

• in the processes of human growth and development;

• in the biological effects of environmental contaminants;

• in the understanding of mental, addictive, and physical disorders; and

• in directing programs for the collection, dissemination, and exchange 

of information in medicine and health, including the development and 

support of medical libraries and the training of medical librarians and 

other health information specialists.

The NSF is an independent agency of the U.S. government, which means 

it does not belong to a department represented in the president’s Cabinet, as 

NIH does. Rather, it is governed by the Science Board appointed by the president and confirmed by Congress. It describes itself as “the premier Federal 

agency supporting basic research at the frontiers of discovery, across all fields, 

and science and engineering education at all levels.”19 However, as the guide 

to researchers preparing research grant proposals explains: “Research with 

disease-related goals, including work on the etiology, diagnosis or treatment 

of physical or mental disease, abnormality, or malfunction in human beings 

or animals, is normally not supported.”20 The NSF Directorate for Biological 

Sciences does support much research at universities on fundamental biological phenomena that might provide a scientific basis for new medical technologies. Medically relevant research could be funded by any of the NSF 

directorates. For example, an NSF book describing a vast array of applications points out the importance of fundamental work in materials science 

for medicine: 

18. National Institutes of Health, http://www.nih.gov/about/.

19. National Science Foundation, Investing in America’s Future: Strategic Plan FY 2006–2011

(Arlington, VA: NSF, 2006), p. 1.

20. National Science Foundation, Grant Proposal Guide (Arlington, VA: NSF, 2004), p. 10.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 85

Researchers at Georgia Institute of Technology, California Institute of 

Technology, and Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) are working 

with physicians and biological specialists to develop polymer composites for 

patching wounds, biocompatible casings for cell transplants, scaffolds that 

guide and encourage cells to form tissue, bioreactors for large-scale production of therapeutic cells, and experimental and theoretical models that predict 

behavior of these materials in vivo. Biomaterials have already been developed 

to block unwanted reactions between transplanted cells and host tissue and to 

help prevent scarring during healing.21

Thus NSF may sometimes provide the scientific basis on which NIH can 

build, although NIH also supports fundamental research within the broad 

area of health and medicine. NASA enters the picture in three main ways: 

1) research on the human factors of aviation and spaceflight, 2) research and 

development of broadly based technologies that are intended to support the 

human-centered aspects of NASA’s mission among others, and 3) spinoffs 

that may have been developed for wholly other reasons but which have some 

applicability to health and medicine. Aerospace medicine has been an important topic of NASA research since the very beginning, notably when Project 

Mercury assessed the ability of humans to live and work in space and to 

endure the conditions of launch, orbit, and reentry.22 Technologies like sensors and telemetry developed in connection with the human space program 

relate to other space applications as well as to terrestrial medical care.23 A 

renewed interest in such research is evidenced by NASA’s 2005 Bioastronautics 

Roadmap, an inventory of the research and development issues that must be 

addressed for the future of human spaceflight, especially for very long duration missions.24

2. Spinoffs from 1996

The 1996 edition of Spinoff devoted a page each to 45 examples of “technology twice used,” six examples of which were in the health and medicine field. 

Given that nearly two decades have passed since that annual’s publication, 

21. National Science Foundation, America’s Investment in the Future (Arlington, VA: NSF, 

2000), p. 29.

22. Mae Mills Link, Space Medicine in Project Mercury (Washington, DC: NASA SP-4003, 

1965).

23. Michele Anderson, Manned Space Flight Benefits, NASA TM-107998 (Houston, TX: 

Johnson Space Center, 1987). 

24. Bioastronautics Roadmap: A Risk Reduction Strategy for Human Space Exploration

(Washington, DC: NASA SP–2004–6113, 2005).
86 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

and many of the examples dated from much earlier, there has been ample 

time for impacts to develop. I examine each of these medical spinoffs to 

determine whether it has achieved its promise and to learn how each case 

can illuminate the processes by which technological progress actually takes 

place. Three of the six cases are relatively narrowly defined and claim relatively modest impact, so I consider them first. The final trio of 1996 spinoffs 

involve much the same general area of technology, even having direct connections to each other, and are potentially more important. I begin with a 

technically cute innovation that has not yet proven to be very important for 

human well-being.

Case 1: Bone Density Analyzer

The Mechanical Response Tissue Analyzer (MRTA) is a machine that can 

measure the stiffness or density of large segments of the human body, especially the long bones in arms and legs, by briefly vibrating them and noting the 

response. The machine does not violently shake the human limb but instead 

emits a precisely calibrated buzz between 70 to 1600 cycles per second for 

perhaps 5 seconds. NASA was quite understandably interested in its ability 

to make quick, nondestructive measurements of arm and leg bones, because 

the crews of the 1973–1974 Skylab space stations experienced significant 

calcium loss from their bones. Long-duration spaceflight, whether in Earth 

orbit or on the way to Mars, could weaken bones so much that they become 

brittle and fracture. The culprit is the zero gravity of spaceflight, and creating 

artificial gravity would require larger and more expensive vehicles. To assess 

the value of countermeasures like in-orbit exercise or medication, researchers 

need to be able to measure the bone loss precisely. Ideally, they would want 

to be able to do this during a flight, using light, portable instruments; at present, however, researchers make their measurements before and after a flight 

but not during it.

Beginning in 1977, NASA’s Ames Research Laboratory and Stanford 

University cooperated in research to develop the principles for a bone density 

device. In 1987, listing Professor Charles R. Steele as the inventor, Stanford 

applied for a U.S. patent, which was granted in 1991 as number 5,006,984. 

The patent abstract described the device in detail, including a set of computer 

algorithms that extracted useful measurements from the limb’s resonance 

to the instrument’s vibration at a range of frequencies. While noting that a 

NASA grant had helped fund the research, the patent did not talk about the 

applications for astronauts but suggested the device could be useful in diagnosis and treatment of osteoporosis in postmenopausal women and in assessing the healing of broken bones. Stanford’s patent application cited some 
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 87

prior work, including a French patent dating from 1978 and a 1975 thesis 

by a Stanford student. The fact that the resonance frequency of metal bars or 

the strings in a piano depends partly on their stiffness has been known for 

well over a century. The challenge of the invention was developing a workable 

device on this principle.

While the patent application was pending, in 1989, Gait Scan, a small business in Ridgewood, New Jersey, joined the project. The name of the company 

refers to a computerized instrument podiatrists use to evaluate the pressures 

on the feet of their patients as they walk. Thus Gait Scan was in a logically 

related business that possessed expertise and the motivation to develop MRTA 

for treatment-related diagnosis of skeletal problems. According to the Spinoff

article, “Gait Scan is pursuing applications in monitoring the effects of exercise and rehabilitation on bone stiffness and in osteoporosis, the underlying 

cause of some 1,300,000 bone fractures each year that involve treatment costs 

estimated at close to $4 billion.” The article quoted Dr. Sara Arnaud of Ames 

Research Center’s Life Sciences Division as saying, “The major attraction 

of the technology is the speed and simplicity with which the measurement 

gives a complete picture of bone strength.” The Spinoff article says Gait Scan 

“invested its own funds in refining the technology,” which is true but a little 

misleading, because the company also received Small Business Innovation 

Research (SBIR) grants from NASA in 1990 and 1991 to do just this.25 SBIR 

projects always involve a combination of government and company money. 

As of 2006, the “GaitScan” trademark was held by a Canadian orthotics and 

footwear company, The Orthotic Group, which sells GaitScan systems but 

not MRTAs.26 The abstract describing the 1990 SBIR grant predicts that “the 

device would be used in research centers and in health and fitness facilities as 

a routine means of monitoring the bone strengthening effects of exercise, diet 

and other factors.” 

In 2003, Christopher Callaghan earned his doctorate from Virginia Tech 

on the basis of research establishing the reliability of MRTA in measuring the 

ulnas and tibias of college-age women, reporting generally favorable results.27

As the Web site of the Journal of Clinical Densitometry proclaims, it “publishes 

the latest clinical research on the uses of bone mass and density measurements 

in medical practice.” A 2004 article compared MRTA with the two most 

25. See “Advanced Turbomachinery CFD Design and Analysis Program,” NASA 1990 SBIR 

Phase 1 Solicitation, http://www.sbir.nasa.gov/SBIR/abstracts/90.html; and http://www.sti.

nasa.gov/tto/spinoff1996/24.html.

26. See http://www.theorthoticgroup.com/TOG-TOGGaitScan.html.

27. Christopher Edward Callaghan, “Reliability of Tibial Measurement with Mechanical 

Response Tissue Analysis,” Ph.D. dissertation, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State 

University, 2003.
88 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

commonly used measurement approaches, dual-energy x-ray absorptiometry 

(DXA) and quantitative ultrasound (QUS). DXA estimates bone density, 

based on the bone’s absorption of two weak x-ray beams of different energies. 

Similarly, QUS uses a pair of ultrasound transducers plus computer analysis 

to accomplish the same task. The study found some differences in results 

between MRTA and DXA or QUS but argued that MRTA might be giving a 

more direct measure of the mechanical integrity of the bone.28

In 2005 a team including both Sara Arnaud and Charles Steele published 

an article showing how MRTA was used to compare the bone strength of 

athletes with nonathletes.29 At the 2006 conference of the American Society 

of Biomechanics, Jared Ragone and John Cotton described their research 

using a computer technique called finite element simulation to model how 

MRTA could measure the stiffness of a human tibia. They said that MRTA 

“is less expensive and more portable than DXA, and is a direct measurement 

of mechanical response, which indicates a potential for greater accuracy.”30

However, when Alan L. Burshell, mentioned in the Spinoff article as a medical researcher exploring the potential of MRTA, collaborated with four other 

researchers on a 2005 article measuring bone density, they used DXA instead. 

One obvious reason was that MRTA is limited to studies of the long bones 

in the arm and leg, and this particular study was designed to examine bone 

density as a factor in scoliosis of the spine.31

Steele and Arnaud, with both American and Russian colleagues, had tried 

MRTA out on monkeys in connection with the Soyuz 2229 biosatellite that 

had orbited for two weeks beginning 29 December 1992.32 They reported 

their findings in a 2001 issue of the Journal of Medical Primatology.

33 Bone 

28. Christina Djokoto, George Tomlinson, Stephen Waldman, Marc Grynpas, and Angela 

M. Cheung, “Relationship Among MRTA, DXA, and QUS,” Journal of Clinical 

Densitometry 7, no. 4 (2004): 448–456.

29. Michael T. C. Liang, Sara B. Arnaud, Charles R. Steele, Patrick Hatch, and Alexjandro 

Moreno, “Ulnar and Tibial Bending Stiffness as an Index of Bone Strength in Synchronized 

Swimmers and Gymnasts,” European Journal of Applied Physiology 94 (2005): 400–407.

30. Jared Ragone and John Cotton, “Finite Element Simulation of the MRTA Test of 

a Human Tibia,” paper presented at the 2006 conference of the American Society of 

Biomechanics, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA.

31. R. Hank Routh, Sara Rumancik, Ram D. Pathak, Alan L. Burshell, and Eric A. Nauman, 

“The Relationship Between Bone Mineral Density and Biomechanics in Patients with 

Osteoporosis and Scoliosis,” Osteoporosis International 16 (2005): 1857–1863.

32. “Cosmos 2229 (Bion 10),” http://lis.arc.nasa.gov/lis2/Chapter4_Programs/Cosmos2229/

Cosmos2229.html.

33. T. M. Hutchinson, A. V. Bakulin, A. S. Rakhmanov, R. B. Martin, C. R. Steele, and S. B. 

Arnaud, “Effects of Chair Restraint on the Strength of the Tibia in Rhesus Monkeys,” 

Journal of Medical Primatology 30 (2001): 313–332.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 89

loss in weightlessness was one of the research topics of the 8–21 March 2001 

flight of the shuttle Discovery. The techniques used to measure the astronauts’ 

bones included not only DXA and conventional ultrasound but also a threedimensional method called Quantitative Computed Tomography, similar to 

a CAT scan. However, MRTA was not used.34 The following year, NASA 

again expressed confidence that MRTA could become a valuable spinoff, but 

it is difficult to argue that it has already achieved this status.35

The Mechanical Response Tissue Analyzer seems to be a technically successful innovation that is still being evaluated but has not yet earned a secure 

place either in medical research or clinical diagnosis. The history of technology is strewn with inventions like this. They work and they have certain 

advantages. However, other methods can serve the same goals reasonably well 

and are better established. Sometimes nothing more substantial that fashion 

may decide when one is used rather than another. Sometimes an unwanted 

technology languishes in obscurity for a very long time, until conditions 

change and an opportunity opens up. For example, early versions of both the 

harpsichord and the piano were built in Europe in the 14th century, but the 

harpsichord drove hammer percussion keyboard instruments out of the musical marketplace until the early 18th century, when Bartolomeo Cristofori 

is said to have “invented” the piano in the early 1700s. Cristofori’s work 

was excellent, and his instruments were far more sophisticated than the ones 

built four centuries earlier, but the piano rose to complete dominance over 

the harpsichord more on the basis of changes in musical taste than objective 

technological superiority. Then, after a century-long lapse when not a single 

harpsichord was built in the entire world, this elegant instrument was revived 

in the early 20th century.36

NASA’s Scientific and Technical Information Program likes to distinguish 

spinoffs from successes: “A spinoff is a commercialized product that incorporates NASA technology or NASA ‘know how’ and benefits the public, 

while a success is a NASA technology that is not available on the market but 

34. “Sub-regional Assessment of Bone Loss in the Axial Skeleton in Long-Term Space Flight,” 

NASA Fact Sheet FS-2001-02-39-MSFC, March 2001, http://www.nasa.gov/centers/

marshall/news/background/facts/bone.html.

35. “Weak in the Knees—The Quest for a Cure for Osteoporosis,” NASA feature, 6 May 

2002, http://www.nasa.gov/vision/earth/everydaylife/weak_knees.html.

36. Frank Hubbard, Three Centuries of Harpsichord Making (Cambridge, MA: Harvard 

University Press, 1965); Stewart Pollins, The Early Pianoforte (New York: Cambridge 

University Press, 1995); and Donald Jay Grout and Claude V. Palisca, A History of Western 

Music (New York: W. W. Norton, 1996).
90 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

still yields benefits to the public.”37 In those terms, MRTA is a success but 

not yet a spinoff. It has attracted a good deal of interest and is being used 

in some research, but it has not been deployed widely in clinical applications. Alternatively, we could suggest a different categorization: a potential 

spinoff that is being kept in our culture’s technological inventory for possible 

future use.

Case 2: Balance Evaluation Systems

Before humans actually went into space, it was difficult to predict how zero 

gravity would affect their sense of balance. Weightlessness was sometimes 

called “free fall,” with the implication that people would feel they were falling forever, therefore gripped by terror as well as feeling totally disoriented. It 

turned out, however, that many astronauts found the sensations pleasurable. 

Perhaps two-thirds of astronauts experienced “space sickness” (nausea and 

related symptoms) for a while before apparently adapting, but others were 

not bothered at all.38 Some part of the human sense of balance may require 

gravity, but the balance sense in the inner ear senses motion or rotation from 

inertia—which exists as usual in space—rather than from gravity. However 

well astronauts adapt to zero gravity, when they return to Earth after a longduration mission, they face a second adjustment that can be quite difficult. 

Naturally NASA needed to be able to measure the impact of spaceflight on 

human balance, as a step toward preventing or mitigating the problem.

Spinoff 1996 described two balance evaluation systems, EquiTest and 

Balance Master, developed by NeuroCom International, with NASA support. 

The EquiTest system has the patient stand on a platform inside a structure 

similar in size to a telephone booth but with no rear wall. Wearing a safety 

harness, the patient faces forward. To provide some visual orientation, and 

perhaps a degree of psychological comfort, the front and sides of the enclosure are decorated with a simplified outdoor scene. During the test the platform on which the person is standing will move, and the patient will react to 

maintain balance. A technician stands outside the structure, using a personal 

computer that records the person’s reactions. How the patient reacts to the 

carefully controlled movements of the platform allows assessment of the state 

of the individual’s sense of balance. Balance Master has some similarities but 

37. “Spinoff Frequently Asked Questions,” NASA Scientific and Technical Information (STI) 

Program, http://www.sti.nasa.gov/tto/spinfaq.htm. 

38. Eric Martina and Gary Riccio, “Motion Sickness and Postural Instability After Prolonged 

Exposure to an Altered Gravitoinertial Force Environment (+2Gz),” in S. Stavros Valenti, 

ed., Studies in Perception and Action II (Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 

1993), pp. 366–367.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 91

does not employ an enclosure. The patient stands on a platform and moves 

his or her body. Movements of the body control the movements of a figure 

on a computer screen, and the patient is supposed to move about to get the 

figure to targets on the computer screen. The pictures in the NASA publication and on the company’s current Web site show different patients balancing 

on one foot on the small platform. This platform does not move but senses 

the changing pressures the individual exerts on it. 

It is noteworthy that both devices are still being manufactured by 

NeuroCom after the spinoff was publicized by NASA in 1996, and their 

development dates from more than a decade earlier when the company 

was founded in 1984 in Clackamas, Oregon. NeuroCom’s Web site briefly 

explains the company’s history thus: 

Dr. Lewis Nashner, through cooperative research programs conducted with 

colleagues at a number of academic institutions, developed the concepts 

and technology that are the basis for the company’s products. Computerized 

Dynamic Posturography (CDP) was developed initially with grant support 

from NASA to evaluate the effects of space flight on vestibular function and balance control in astronauts, and with later support from the National Institutes 

of Health to study the effects of disease on balance and mobility functions.39

In 1988, Nashner received US Patent 4,738,269 (“Apparatus and method for 

sensory integration and muscular coordination analysis”), which is an early 

version of EquiTest. He had originally filed an application in 1982, withdrew 

it as inventors often do when patent examiners raise issues or some other problem arises, and filed the successful application in 1986, two years after founding NeuroCom. From 1989 through 1996, Nashner received several other 

related patents: US Patent 4,830,024 (“Apparatus and method for determining the presence of vestibular perilymph fistulae and other abnormal coupling 

between the air-filled middle ear and the fluid-filled inner ear”); US Patent 

5,052,406 (“Apparatus and method for movement coordination analysis”); 

US Patent 5,269,318 (“Apparatus and method for movement coordination 

analysis”); US Patent 5,303,715 (“Apparatus and method for determining 

the presence of vestibular pathology”); US Patent 5,474,087 (“Apparatus 

for characterizing gait”); US Patent 5,476,103 (“Apparatus and method for 

assessment and biofeedback training of leg coordination and strength skills”); 

and US Patent 5,551,445 (“Apparatus and method for movement coordination analysis”). 

39. See http://www.onbalance.com/neurocom/about/index.aspx.
92 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The patent applications cite many relevant scientific articles Nashner had 

published, notably three in the journal Brain Science in the late 1970s, but say 

nothing about NASA support. These facts do not diminish NASA’s contribution to the development of these devices, but they demonstrate that Nashner 

was a highly competent scientist, who holds three degrees from MIT. In 1965 

and 1967 he earned B.S. and M.S. degrees in aeronautical and astronautical 

engineering, and in 1970 a doctorate in biomedical engineering and neuroscience. In the 1970s he joined the Neurological Sciences Institute of what is 

today called Oregon Health and Sciences University, serving as its chair from 

1980 to 1984. Nashner’s continuing interest in astronautics is illustrated by 

the fact that in 1996, with Professor Laurence R. Young, he established the 

Apollo Program Prize at his alma mater, MIT, “to stimulate young people to 

follow in the path of the Apollo Program.”40

An Oregon business magazine reported that “NeuroCom’s initial support 

came largely from Good Samaritan Hospital, which incubated the company 

on-site and provided legal, accounting and payroll help.”41 In 1976, Nashner 

received a Research Career Development Award from the National Institutes 

of Health, followed by other NIH grants through 1985.42 Nashner recently 

explained to an interviewer: 

I was an academic researcher funded by the National Institutes of Health and 

NASA in the area of human balance and movement. My own background 

has been multidisciplinary, including aeronautical engineering, biomedical 

engineering and neuroscience. The research of my colleagues and I provided a 

better understanding of the balance system, and through collaborative studies 

with healthcare professionals led to opportunities for proving better diagnostic and treatment tools to clinicians managing balance disorder patients. The 

additional startup funds for the company were provided primarily by three 

Phase I and two Phase II Small Business Innovation Research Grants (SBIR).43

Clearly, Nashner’s inventions were partially supported by NASA, although 

also by NIH. It is clear that his work sprang from a long-established research 

40. Marie Stuppard, “Aero and Astro Cites 19 Students and Faculty,” MIT Tech Talk, 5 June 

1996, http://web.mit.edu/newsoffice/1996/aeroastro-awards-0605.html.

41. Robin J. Moody, “Bioscience Company Finds the Perfect Balancing Point,” Portland 

Business Journal, 16 May 2003, http://www.bizjournals.com/portland/stories/2003/05/19/

story3.html?page=2.

42. Biosketch of Nashner for a speech given at the University of Pittsburgh, http://www.shrs.

pitt.edu/cms/School/News.asp?id=607.

43. “What Is NeuroCom International?,” interview with Lewis Nashner, Twst.com, 20 March 

2006, http://www.twst.com/notes/articles/tam212.html.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 93

program, although throughout his career some of his inspiration came from 

the space program. EquiTest and Balance Master were successful machines, 

although not very great contributions economically. In 2003, NeuroCom 

reported earnings “between $5 million and $10 million in annual revenue.”44

However, the machines have been used extensively as research instrumentation for studying human balance. For example, researchers at the University 

of Michigan and NASA’s Johnson Space Center employed EquiTest to compare hypotheses about why astronauts sometimes continued to have balance 

problems long after landing.

A potentially important application area for the two instruments is research 

on populations whose systems of balance may be compromised by age or illness. For example, a study by Mark Redfern, Pamela Moore, and Christine 

Yarsky sought to understand what kinds of flooring surfaces helped elderly 

people keep their balance better.45 The researchers tested elderly research subjects standing on seven different kinds of floors, using the EquiTest equipment. Findings were somewhat subtle, but there seemed to be a tendency for 

elderly people to keep their balance better on hard floors than soft ones. As 

many people understand, elderly people are especially susceptible to falling 

down, and the result can be a broken bone or even death. Of course, if they 

do fall, a hard floor may cause more damage than a soft one, so one must 

consider this trade-off when deciding whether to put carpeting in the home 

of an elderly person. These results may seem very simple yet, if substantiated 

by replication studies, could be very valuable precisely because they suggest 

a scientific basis for making decisions that significantly relate to human wellbeing. A literature research revealed more than two dozen articles referring 

to research with NeuroCom’s instruments, in such journals as the Journal of 

Vestibular Research and Aviation, Space, and Environmental Medicine.

Case 3: Anti-Shock Garment

This spinoff concerns a method to counter hypotension, when the victim’s blood pools in the legs and abdomen, by applying external pressure. 

Specifically, NASA’s Ames Research Center had been aware for some years 

that methods developed to keep pilots from blacking out during extreme 

maneuvers might be applied to emergency response when ordinary citizens 

went into shock, whether from the trauma of an accident or a medical crisis, 

44. Robin J. Moody, “Inovise Gets Funds Through Federal Science Grant,” Portland Business 

Journal, 20 June 2003. 

45. Mark S. Redfern, Pamela L. Moore, and Christine M. Yarsky, “The Influence of Flooring 

on Standing Balance Among Older Persons,” Human Factors 39, no. 3 (1997): 445–455.
94 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

and needed to be transported quickly to a hospital. Each emergency-response 

ambulance could carry the anti-shock garment among its equipment, then 

apply it to the lower body of someone who had gone into shock, thereby 

increasing the supply of blood in the upper body. At the hospital the garment 

would be removed as soon as the emergency-room team was ready to address 

the fundamental problem in a more direct way.

A photograph in the Spinoff article shows a patient lying on a stretcher at 

the door of an ambulance as a team of two men works over her. One is giving 

her an IV as the other finishes applying the anti-shock garment. It appears to 

be in four connected sections—one for the lower part of the legs, one applied 

above the knees, one over the hips, and the final one on the stomach. The 

Spinoff story explains that the garment is not inflatable, but the picture shows 

it pressing tightly on the patient’s lower body. The text says, “In addition to 

shunting blood from the patient’s legs and abdomen to the heart, lungs and 

brain, the evenly and sequentially applied counter pressures help curb internal bleeding.” The story says the garment was developed and distributed by 

two California companies, Zoex and Dyna Med, and that an Ames employee 

named Sheri Hillenga had joined Zoex to assist with marketing the item. The 

garment was called Dyna Med Anti-Shock Trousers (DMAST for short), and 

Zoex obtained patents for it in 1992.

The story actually begins much earlier than that. Ordway, Adams, and 

Sharpe report:

In September 1969 Mrs. Mary Phillips, a housewife and mother of two children, was in the Stanford University Hospital bleeding uncontrollably after a 

minor operation. She received 46 pints of whole blood and 64 units of plasma 

in five weeks while doctors sought to control her hemorrhaging. One of the 

doctors recalled that a pressure suit had once been used to control bleeding 

during brain surgery at the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio. A call to NASA’s nearby 

Ames Research Center produced a “g-suit,” modified to fit the small patient. 

Placed on her and inflated for 10 hours, it brought the bleeding to a halt.46

The Spinoff article says Ames developed in 1971 a suit intended to control 

bleeding in the joints of hemophiliac children. A NASA Web site shows a picture from that year of the anti-hemophilia g-suit, apparently a full-body pressure suit.47 The picture also shows a version of the “cool suit,” a liquid-cooled 

garment that could help a person survive excessively hot conditions, or children suffering from hypohidrotic ectodermal dysplasia, an inherited disease 

46. Ordway, Adams, and Sharpe, Dividends from Space, p. 47.

47. Ames image number AC71-8549, http://ails.arc.nasa.gov/Images/Space/AC71-8549.html.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 95

among the consequences of which is a deficiency or lack of sweat glands. This 

is another spinoff from Ames, cited several times by NASA over the years.48

Sheri Hillenga had been involved with the pressure suit efforts at Ames 

as early as 1969 and continued to be interested in the potential of this idea 

until the opportunity came to promote it further. Zoex was a small company in Palo Alto, California, headed by Roxy Rapp. To assist in their marketing effort, Hillenga set up another small company named VMH Visual 

Communications. A Zoex corporation exists today in Houston, Texas, but it 

is a chemical company that does not appear to be related to the Palo Alto company. As of 2002, Hillenga and VMH Visual Communications had moved to 

Ashland, Oregon. Dyna Med was acquired by Galls, which is a subsidiary of 

Aramark Corporation, specializing in equipment for public safety and rescue 

apparel and equipment. It does not currently sell anti-shock trousers.49

Aside from the fact that DMAST is no longer on the market, there are two 

questions about this spinoff. First, how much credit can the space program 

claim for developing anti-shock garments? Second, how valuable are they? 

Within the field of medicine, the original credit for the invention is often 

assigned to George Washington Crile, who described his experiments with 

a rubber suit in the 1903 book Blood-pressure in Surgery.

50 Crile was a leading surgeon who won the Cartwright Prize of Columbia University for his 

research on shock, and his work was widely known. The reference made by 

Ordway, Adams, and Sharpe to the Cleveland Clinic speaks volumes about 

the source of the idea for Ames, because Crile was a founder of that clinic.51

When the Public Broadcasting System published Web pages for its 2002 

program “Red Gold: The Epic Story of Blood,” it included Crile among just 

11 “innovators and pioneers” who deserved biographies. PBS recalled: “He 

devised and used clinically an ingenious ‘pressure suit’ which was capable of 

restoring blood to the circulation by the application of external pressure.”52

A 2000 article published in the student version of the British Medical Journal

said, “Crile’s design was later used in the second world war to prevent blackout 

48. “Liquid Cooled Garments,” Spinoff 1979, p. 100; “Cool Suit,” Spinoff 1987, p. 104; 

“Spinoff from a Moonsuit (Cool Suit),” Spinoff 1989, p. 56.

49. Personal communication from Daniel P. Lockney, editor of NASA Spinoff, 16 January 

2007. 

50. George Washington Crile, Blood-pressure in Surgery: An Experimental and Clinical Research

(Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1903).

51. See http://www.case.edu/artsci/dittrick/cemetery/stop13.htm and http://www.clevelandclinic.

org/aboutus/.

52. “George Washington Crile,” Public Broadcasting System, 2002, http://www.pbs.org/wnet/

redgold/innovators/bio_crile.html.
96 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

of pilots subjected to high gravity forces. During the Vietnam war it was used 

to stabilize patients with haemorrhagic shock during transportation.”53

The application for pilots may be a separate invention, usually attributed 

to the Canadian Dr. Wilbur Franks, who developed the first aviation g-suit 

(or anti-gravity suit) in 1941. Pilots fly in a seated position, and rapid turns 

of the aircraft can therefore force the blood away from the head, causing 

a pilot to lose consciousness. A cancer researcher at the Banting Institute, 

Franks has an honored place in the Banting Research Foundation Hall of 

Fame, which describes him as “inventor of the world’s first anti-gravity suit 

for fighter pilots and the first high-speed human centrifuge, two innovations 

later used in the U.S. space program.”54 When the anti-shock trousers were 

inducted into the Space Foundation’s Hall of Fame in 1996, the NASA press 

release said they “are an adaptation of the anti-gravity flight suits originally 

developed for pilots and astronauts.”55 However, by that time the medical use 

of such devices had a 93-year history of development.

Over the years many U.S. patents have been issued to inventors of antishock trousers. Many of these require inflation, including those described 

in Patent 1,608,239 granted in 1926; patent 3,933,150 in 1976; patent 

4,039,039 in 1977; patent 4,270,527 in 1981; patent 4,355,632 in 1982; 

and patent 5,117,812 in 1992. One claimed advantage of the spinoff trousers is that they do not need to be inflated, but this was also true of the 

similar devices described in Patent 4,577,622, issued to Thomas Jennings 

in 1986; patent 4,848,324, issued in 1989 to Technion of Israel; and patents 5,146,932 and 5,259,397, issued to Francis McCabe in 1992 and 1993. 

Frustratingly, I have been unable to find the patent issued in 1992 mentioned 

in the Spinoff article, and I must assume one was applied for but not granted.

The second problem with this spinoff is that anti-shock trousers may not 

really be beneficial. In their 2003 book on spinoffs, Bijlefeld and Burke have 

noted that the effectiveness of anti-shock trousers has come under increasing criticism.56 Writing in the U.S. Army’s Combat Casualty Care Guidelines: 

Operation Desert Storm in 1991, Colonel Ronald Bellamy surveyed the recommendations of the Advanced Trauma Life Support (ATLS) course of the 

American College of Surgeons and noted: “The military anti-shock trouser 

53. Karen Dickinson and Ian Roberts, “Medical Antishock Trousers (Pneumatic Antishock 

Garments) in Patients After Trauma: A Systematic Review of Randomised Controlled 

Trials,” Student British Medical Journal 8 (February 2000): 25–27.

54. “Dr. Wilbur Franks,” Banting Research Foundation Hall of Fame, http://www.utoronto.ca/

bantresf/HallofFame/Franks.html.

55. “NASA Life-Saving Technologies Enter Space Hall of Fame,” NASA press release 96-69, 

10 April 1996, http://www.nasa.gov/home/hqnews/1996/96-69.txt. 

56. Bijlefeld and Burke, It Came from Outer Space, p. 6.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 97

(MAST) or PASG has been deleted from Army first- and second-echelon 

facilities. Therefore it is no longer a therapeutic option even though it is still 

a part of ATLS.”57

The controversy over the value of anti-shock trousers has been very complicated, because there are many different conditions for which they might 

be used, each perhaps requiring a different judgment. For example, in a 1997 

advisory the New York State Department of Health’s Bureau of Emergency 

Medical Services downgraded its evaluation, listing eleven conditions for 

which the trousers may be harmful, four conditions for which they are probably at least not harmful, and only two where there is some evidence the 

trousers might help, although they remain of “uncertain efficacy”—namely 

“hypotension due to suspected pelvic fracture” and “severe traumatic hypotension (palpable pulse, blood pressure not obtainable).” The advisory pointedly notes that there are no conditions for which the trousers are definitely 

recommended, and reports that “the role of MAST (PAST) in the prehospital 

emergency medical care of adult and pediatric patients is extremely limited.”58

In a text published in 2000, Injury Prevention and Control, Mathew 

Varghese reports: “The use of PASG or MAST is not recommended any more 

in the pre-hospital setting.”59 He especially stresses the danger that they can 

cause complications by restricting the patient’s breathing if used over the abdomen; by cutting off the blood supply, thereby causing tissues to die; and by 

potentially damaging nerves and blood vessels. It is still possible to buy antishock trousers, and three different makes are advertised in supply catalogs for 

emergency response teams—inflatable models from David Clark, Armstrong 

Medical, and Life Support Products.60 However, there is no evidence that the 

anti-shock trousers described in the 1996 spinoff are available; nor are any of 

the other noninflatable competitors that were patented. Inflated trousers may 

take longer to apply, but they adjust better to the contours of the body, take 

up less space in a crowded ambulance, and had achieved a solid position in 

the marketplace, from which it might have been difficult to dislodge them.

57. Ronald F. Bellamy, “The Nature of Combat Injuries and the Role of ATLS in Their 

Management,” in Combat Casualty Care Guidelines: Operation Desert Storm (Washington, 

DC: Walter Reed Army Medical Center, 1991), available at http://www.bordeninstitute.

army.mil/cmbtcsltycare/default.htm.

58. “Medical Anti-Shock Trousers,” Advisory No. 97-04, 7 August 1997, New York State 

Department of Health Bureau of Emergency Medical Services.

59. Mathew Varghese, “Technologies, Therapies, Emotions, and Empiricism in Pre-hospital 

Care,” in Dinesh Mohan and Geetam Tiwari, eds., Injury Prevention and Control (London: 

Taylor and Francis, 2000), 249–264, esp. p. 254.

60. David Clark, http://www.davidclark.com/MAST/medical.shtml; Armstrong Medical, http://

www.armstrongmedical.com; and Allied Healthcare Products, http://www.alliedhpi.com.
98 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Case 4: Heart Pacemaker Technology

A rather more promising spinoff in Spinoff 1996 is the “programmable 

pacemaker” for patients with slow or erratic heart rhythms. Over the years 

NASA has often publicized some of its connections to the development of 

heart pacemakers and the related technology of implantable defibrillators. 

The 1996 Spinoff article mentions several such connections but emphasizes 

recent developments by one company: “Introduced in 1995 by Pacesetter 

Systems, Inc., Sylmar, California, the Trilogy family of pacing systems represents a fourth generation advancement of the programmable unit first developed in the 1970s by NASA, Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory 

and Pacesetter Systems.” Rather than focus narrowly on one example, here 

I consider the wider issue of a series of influences over the years. A range of 

people suffer from bradycardia, a heartbeat that is too slow, some of them in 

otherwise reasonably good health. Therefore, it makes sense to use artificial 

means to speed up their heart beat, and each year hundreds of thousands of 

Americans receive pacemakers to do this job. Thus the benefit to human survival and the quality of life is enormous. 

A pacemaker works by stimulating the heart with a small electronic pulse, 

applied in just the right location. The original pacemakers emitted a constant, 

predetermined rate of pulses. However, this rate might be too fast or too 

slow for some patients, so the development of implantable pacemakers that 

could be programmed at a distance, without surgery, was a considerable step 

forward. Chemical batteries run down over time, so the ability to determine 

the condition of the battery, or to recharge it without removal, could reduce 

the need for further surgery. Ideally, a pacemaker should monitor the heart 

and adjust to the owner’s changing needs. Research in this direction led to 

the possibility of an implantable defibrillator for patients whose hearts might 

unexpectedly beat too fast or in an uncoordinated manner that fails to pump 

the blood properly (called ventricular tachycardia or ventricular fibrillation). 

A brief historical survey is needed to identify the various points at which 

NASA may have had a positive input.

A recent history of pacemakers by Kirk Jeffrey traces the development of 

scientific knowledge about the heart, early experiments with pacemakers in 

the 1920s and 1930s, to Paul M. Zoll’s demonstration of a medically successful pacemaker in 1952 at Beth Israel Hospital in Boston.61 The device 

was hospital equipment for emergency use, external to the patient and using 

a substantial voltage because the electrodes were not placed inside the body, 

61. Kirk Jeffrey, Machines in Our Hearts: The Cardiac Pacemaker, the Implantable Defibrillator, 

and American Health Care (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001).
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 99

available commercially from 1954. A team at the University of Wisconsin 

led by C. Walton Lillehei, a pioneer in the field of open-heart surgery, first 

tried placing an electrode in the heart itself in 1957, initially using 110 volts. 

Seeking safer, low-voltage equipment, Lillehei commissioned Earl Bakken, an 

engineer and owner of a small company called Medtronic, who quickly created a battery-powered, transistorized pacemaker. Released commercially in 

1958, Bakken’s pacemaker was external to the human body but connected to 

internal electrodes and portable. By 1960 pacemakers were being widely used 

to sustain patients with chronic problems rather than only temporarily during 

surgery and the recovery period. Recognizing that long-term users could not 

easily tolerate wires through the skin to external equipment, a Swedish group 

created a fully implantable pacemaker in 1958; and by the end of 1960, eight 

different research groups had developed them.

The most important of the other groups was the partnership of surgeon 

William C. Chardack with electrical engineer Wilson Greatbatch. The two 

worked in simultaneous competition with Lillehei and Bakken and claimed 

the first “clinically successful” pacemaker implantation on 6 June 1960, considering the Swedish work to have been experimental and useless for patients.62

On 22 July 1960, Greatbatch filed a patent application for a “medical cardiac 

pacemaker,” acknowledging Lillehei’s work, and he received Patent 3,057,356 

on 9 October 1962. Beginning in 1960, Greatbatch and Chardack teamed up 

with Lillehei and Bakken to have Medtronic produce pacemakers based on 

Greatbatch-Chardack designs. By 1965 the technology was widely accepted, 

and Medtronic dominated the market for a decade.63

Greatbatch is often described as “the inventor of the implantable cardiac 

pacemaker,” and he clearly played a key role—from his independent experiments with prototypes before collaborating with Chardack to his tireless 

work to improve pacemaker batteries after leaving Medtronic.64 However, the 

idea that a complex device like the cardiac pacemaker had a single inventor 

promulgates false notions of how technological progress works. The National 

Academy of Engineering awarded its 2001 Russ Prize to “Earl E. Bakken 

and Wilson Greatbatch for their independent development of the implantable cardiac pacemaker.”65 A large number of other people also contributed, 

62. Wilson Greatbatch, The Making of the Pacemaker: Celebrating a Lifesaving Invention

(Amherst, NY: Prometheus, 2000), p. 16.

63. Alice M. Vollmar, “Medical Mechanic,” The World and I 18, no. 12 (2003); and “Wilson 

Greatbatch, Electrical Engineer,” an oral history conducted in 2000 by Frederik Nebeker, 

IEEE History Center, Rutgers University, New Brunswick, NJ, http://www.ieee.org/portal/

cms_docs_iportals/iportals/aboutus/history_center/oral_history/pdfs/Greatbatch396.pdf.

64. John A. Adam, “Wilson Greatbatch,” IEEE Spectrum 32, no. 3 (1995): 56–61.

65. See http://www.nae.edu/NAE/awardscom.nsf/weblinks/DWHT-4T7KMA?OpenDocument.
100 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

including Lillehei and Chardack, who were not eligible for the award because 

they were not engineers. Electrical engineers conceptualize a pacemaker as an 

electronic device that generates stimulation pulses, but the pulse generator is 

really only part of an entire system that includes the electrodes, the surgical 

techniques for implantation, and the medical knowledge of where to stimulate the heart in what way and when. Early electrodes tended to break from 

metal fatigue, and their contact with the heart tended to degrade. The first 

durable electrodes were developed by Chardack, not by Greatbatch, described 

in Chardack’s Patents 3,198,195; 3,216,424; and 3,348,548. Much subsequent development work by many people was required to make pacemakers 

programmable, adaptive, and capable of handling problems other than bradycardia or heart block.

Granting Greatbatch’s significance, he represents the first plausible influence of the space program on pacemaker development. While a student at 

Cornell, he had gotten a job building electronic equipment to monitor animals’ heart rate and blood pressure, but what really got him interested in 

biomedical electronics was building amplifiers for monitoring animals’ vital 

signs on suborbital test flights. He also was involved with building amplifiers 

for a predecessor of the Arecibo radio telescope.66 Although these were conceptually related to space exploration, Greatbatch did not work for NASA. 

He refers to the Little Joe launches, but they did not come until after he had 

begun collaborating with Chardack. Also, he says the work he did supporting 

suborbital flights was for the Air Force, and Arecibo was a DARPA-NSF project. In early 1958, when Greatbatch’s collaboration with Chardack began, 

Greatbatch used to call his experimental devices “Tikniks,” in honor of the 

Russian Sputniks that had been launched over the previous several months.67

Late in his life, Greatbatch became an advocate for economic development of 

the Moon, based on harvesting Helium-3 for use as a fuel in fusion reactors 

to solve the Earth’s energy crisis.68

Greatbatch has clearly been inspired by space exploration but not through 

working with NASA, because NASA was only just being founded while he 

was working on his first pacemakers. Today, the head of Medtronic’s pacemaker division is Stephen Mahle, who came to the company in 1972 from 

NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston and who negotiated agreements to use Greatbatch’s lithium batteries when the latter left Medtronic.69

66. Greatbatch, Making of the Pacemaker, p. 233, 29.

67. Jeffrey, Machines in Our Hearts, p. 99.

68. Greatbatch, Making of the Pacemaker, pp. 223–228.

69. “Biography of Stephen Mahle,” Medtronic.com, http://wwwp.medtronic.com/Newsroom/

Biography.do?itemId=1108585002878&lang=en_US.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 101

The cases of Greatbatch and Mahle illustrate two of the mechanisms for technology transfer other than spinoffs. First, a receptive and talented person outside NASA can be inspired by its vision and accomplishments to undertake 

achievements in related areas. Second, an individual who works with NASA, 

or indirectly for a contractor or other NASA partner, and who moves on to 

a new job takes along experience and expertise of a general kind that may 

be quite valuable for technological innovation, quite apart from any specific 

invention NASA may have supported.

Having described the early history of pacemakers, we can now place the 

1996 Spinoff story about programmable pacemakers in context. The story 

actually appears in three earlier issues as well—those for 1980, 1981, and 

1990. Although Medtronic dominated the field in the early days, it did face 

some competition, including that from Pacesetter Systems. An obvious factor 

that limited the performance of implanted pacemakers was that precisely 

because they were enclosed within the human body, the physician could neither make adjustments nor check the battery. Often, patients suffered pacemaker replacement surgery simply because there was no good way to tell 

how much life the battery still had. Thus two-way communication with the 

pacemaker, including the ability to program its performance, would be an 

obvious advantage.

The first programmable heart pacemaker was manufactured by General 

Electric in 1961, and as is often the case for first-generation innovations, it 

was rather crude. The pacemaker included a magnetically operated switch 

that set the heart’s beat rate at either 70 or 100 per minute, with the hope 

that the user himself could select the low rate for rest and the high rate for 

activity by moving a magnetic wand over his skin in a particular way. A more 

elaborate magnetically programmed model was marketed by Medtronic in 

1972, but it also merely selected the speed.70 Both involved using a magnet 

to physically move a component of the pacemaker, rather than being fully 

electronic, but Medtronic introduced a radio-control method in 1973.

The particular commercial product cited by the 1980 Spinoff story was 

called Programalith. Over the years new models were introduced—Synchrony 

and Trilogy—and Pacesetter Systems kept in contact with NASA, presumably 

for two reasons. First, it probably did find continuing inspiration in NASA 

work in telemetry and related technologies, even though the direct spinoff 

occurred in the late 1970s when pacemaker technology was still immature. 

Second, the company and the Agency could take pride in their informal relationship, generating publicity like the Spinoff stories that benefited NASA 

70. Tarun Mittal, “Pacemakers: A Journey Through the Years,” Indian Journal of Thoracic and 

Cardiovascular Surgery 19, no. 5 (2005): 236–249.
102 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

public relations and giving the company some added prestige with the medical profession.

Another potential benefit is more subtle and conjectural but interesting 

because it could apply to many other NASA spinoff technologies. In a competitive, high-technology market, there are pressures on each company to 

go in two opposite technical directions. As sociologists Paul DiMaggio and 

Walter Powell have influentially argued, there are strong pressures on competitors in a well-defined market to become more similar to each other than 

is technically necessary.71 DiMaggio and Powell note that government or professional standards of quality could do this. In the case of pacemakers, there 

was an added factor in that patients, doctors, and health insurance plans constantly change—for example, patients moving to different cities or switching 

their health insurance plans. This means that as cardiologists and heart pacing 

specialists gain new patients these new patients will have different models of 

pacemakers from different manufacturers. As a profession, cardiologists may 

become resistant to a proliferation of models that they would understand less 

well. Although factors like this undoubtedly operate, Kirk Jeffrey has noted 

that pacemakers have not become uniform, commodity products for which 

low cost (given reliability) becomes the key market factor, but manufacturers have continued to innovate.72 In its need to innovate, Pacesetter Systems 

required not only better products but different ones as well.

Depending on the industry, a significant fraction of earnings can come 

from license fees for patents. It can be difficult for a company to make a 

profit, if it must pay multiple heavy fees to other companies for the use of 

their patents. An innovative company may not be able to do business without 

paying some patent licensing fees, but if it has its own patents as well, it can 

trade licenses with the other companies. A current area of practical and scholarly debate concerns patent thickets. These are situations in which a given new 

technology must use several patents held by different firms, and economic 

or regulatory barriers to sharing patents prevent the technology from being 

developed. A traditional solution was patent pools—the major firms agreeing 

to cross-license all the relevant patents, perhaps charging fees only for companies that did not contribute significantly to the pool. However, in recent years 

71. Paul J. DiMaggio and Walter W. Powell, “The Iron Cage Revisited: Institutional 

Isomorphism and Collective Rationality in Organizational Fields,” American Sociological 

Review 48, no. 2 (1983): 147–160.

72. Kirk Jeffrey, “Cardiac Pacing and Electrophysiology at Millennium’s End: Historical 

Notes and Observations,” PACE 22, no. 12 (1999): 1713–1717.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 103

the U.S. federal government has tended to treat patent pools as monopolistic 

practices, thus banning them.73

By innovating, an organization like Pacesetter not only could produce a 

better pacemaker but would also put itself in a better competitive position, 

for three reasons. First, as just noted, it would have patents to cross-license 

with other firms, so long as this did not lead to an illegal patent pool. Second, 

it would have sales advantages in competition with those of other companies that offered different innovations. In such cases, unfortunately, patients 

might need to wait until the patents expire to get pacemakers that combine 

all the beneficial innovations. Third, some of its patents would concern other 

ways of accomplishing the same benefits as patents held by the other companies. Often there is more than one route to a common goal. For example, 

there are at least two ways to avoid having to remove pacemakers often to 

change the batteries. One is simply longer-lasting batteries, perhaps coupled 

with telemetry to assess how much charge remains on it as it ages. The other 

is rechargeable batteries, which sound like a great idea but have problems of 

their own, including the frequent need for costly recharging; they also require 

replacement at some time.

What exactly was the programmable pacemaker a spinoff of? In NASA’s 

Spinoff database the 1980 story says it “incorporated Apollo technology,” 

whereas the 1981 story said it “originat[ed] from spacecraft electrical power 

systems technology.” The 1990 story referred to “bidirectional telemetry 

developed for communication between earth stations and orbiting satellites.” 

The 1996 story explained that Pacesetter drew on different aspects of space 

technology for three different aspects of pacemakers: rechargeable long-life 

batteries, perhaps inspired by spacecraft power systems; single-chip integrated circuits, supposedly developed for microminiaturization of spacecraft 

components; and programmability derived from NASA’s two-way telemetry 

with satellites. Rechargeable batteries were not very much better than the 

best batteries that could not be recharged, at least in their early years. But 

they were valuable for Pacesetter because industry leader Medtronic had put 

so much emphasis on developing the very best nonrechargeable batteries, 

under Greatbatch’s influence. Thus rechargeability was a strategy for competing with Medtronic, as much as it was an innovation that gives patients 

better service. 

73. Gavin Clarkson and David DeKorte, “The Problem of Patent Thickets in Convergent 

Technologies,” in William Sims Bainbridge and Mihail C. Roco, eds., Progress in 

Convergence: Technologies for Human Wellbeing (New York: New York Academy of 

Sciences, 2006), pp. 180–200.
104 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The other technology—improvements of integrated circuit technology—

is a vast field to which NASA undoubtedly contributed greatly and that 

deserves much more extensive treatment than I can provide in this chapter. 

However, as I address later in connection with the Optacon device, often several government agencies also made substantial contributions. So single-chip 

devices are probably not a narrowly defined spinoff but a broad area of progress where NASA’s contribution, which is very significant, is difficult to separate out from those of other contributors, such as the Defense Department, 

computer manufacturers, and the chip makers themselves. Programmability 

is connected to rechargeability in at least two ways. First, both require some 

method for exchanging energy to and from the implanted pacemaker, thus 

potentially building on some of the same expertise. Second, programmability potentially places greater demands on the battery, especially if it involves 

extensive two-way communications. One could power programming and 

telemetry separately from the batteries that stimulate the heart—for example, 

through induction from the external programming device. But the fact that 

Pacesetter combined rechargeability with programmability emphasizes their 

technological connection.

In addition to citing Pacesetter Systems, the 1996 Spinoff story refers to 

work done in the 1970s at the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory. A 

key person in that effort was Robert E. Fischell, who joined the laboratory in 

1959.74 His curriculum vitae lists: “Pacesetter Systems, Inc., Founder, Patent 

Licensor, Director from 1969 to 1986.”75 In the early 1960s he did work for 

the U.S. Navy’s navigation satellite program that led to later NASA connections and to his work with heart pacemakers. In a 1998 autobiographical article, Fischell himself attributes his pacemaker work to his experience helping 

to develop the Navy’s Transit satellite, not to his NASA work.76 Dating from 

1960, Transit was a system of satellites in low polar orbit, the first operational 

satellite navigation system and thus the precursor to the tremendously important Global Positioning System. Fischell’s article explicitly underscores the 

importance of Transit as the source of the three advances he later claimed for 

his pacemakers: telemetry, power system, and microminiaturization. He specifically credits NASA with supporting later work that led to two distinct but 

technically related developments—a programmable implantable medication 

74. Ron Perea, interview with Robert E. Fischell, 16 October 1993, DukEngineer, http://

www.pratt.duke.edu/news/?id=354. 

75. See http://www.psychoceramic.com/Fischell.html. 

76. Robert E. Fischell, “Applications of Transit Satellite Technology to Biomedical Devices,” 

Johns Hopkins APL Digest 19, no. 1 (1998): 60–62.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 105

system for insulin delivery and an implantable heart defibrillator, both of 

which NASA has counted as separate spinoffs.77

Fischell’s early work on Transit exploited magnetism in a number of different ways to control and measure the rotation of an orbiting satellite. In 1963 

and 1964, for example, he received Patents 3,104,080 (“energy absorption 

mechanism”); 3,114,518 (“magnetic despin mechanism”); and 3,118,637 

(“magnetic attitude control”). Two other patents issued in 1969 and 1970 

did not exploit magnetic phenomena: 3,424,907 (“satellite attitude detection system including cosine and spinstate detectors”), based on solar cells 

that located the sun; and 3,489,203 (“controlled heat pipe”), for managing 

heat produced by a satellite’s electronics. Another set of patents issued from 

1971 to 1974 again employed magnetism: 3,611,815 (“frictionless gyroscope”), based on magnetic bearings; 3,767,139 (“spacecraft spin stabilization 

system”), based on a flywheel that would need the magnetic bearings; and 

3,785,595 (“system for sensing and compensating for the disturbance forces 

on a spacecraft”), inertial guidance using magnetism to levitate a mass. All 

these patents were assigned to the U.S. Navy. With Richard T. Ellis, Fischell 

also got Patent 3,489,372 (“satellite spin control system”) in 1970, again 

assigned to the U.S. Navy and exploiting Earth’s magnetic field. The application for his 1973 Patent 3,767,139 on the same topic says the earlier method 

was “utilized, for example, on the AE-B and DME-A satellites launched by 

NASA.” Thus NASA was involved in these early efforts, but the Navy was the 

driver.

According to a very brief biography in MIT’s “Inventor of the Week” 

archive and a University of Maryland alumni newsletter, Fischell first started 

thinking about pacemakers when he happened to see a notice in an academic 

journal about a pacemaker battery with a life of two years, presumably one of 

Greatbatch’s creations.78 Thus the first of his innovations in the field would 

be a system for recharging the batteries of implanted devices. In 1975 he got 

two patents based on charging by means of magnetic induction: 3,867,950 

(“fixed rate rechargeable cardiac pacemaker”) and 3,888,260 (“rechargeable 

demand inhibited cardiac pacer and tissue stimulator”). Both were assigned 

to Johns Hopkins University, and neither patent application referred to either 

the Navy or NASA.

77. “A Boon for the Diabetic (Insulin Pump),” Spinoff 1987, p. 76; and “Implantable Heart 

Aid,” Spinoff 1984, p. 60.

78. “Inventor of the Week Archive,” http://web.mit.edu/invent/iow/fischell.html; “On Alumnus 

Dr. Robert E. Fischell,” The Photon: Spotlight, University of Maryland, physics research 

alumni newsletter, April 2000.
106 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

In 1979, Fischell received patent 4,275,739 (“charge control switch 

responsive to cell casing deflection”) on behalf of the university, but the application included this notice: “The invention described herein was made in the 

performance of work under a NASA 5-23732 contract and is subject to the 

provisions of Section 305 of the National Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958, 

Public Law 85-568 (72 Stat. 435; 42 U.S.C. 2457).” This invention linked 

telemetry with battery charging, because it concerned a small sensor that 

would detect the pressure on a battery casing when it was completely charged. 

Such a system could be useful for satellites—for example, if they used solar 

power to charge storage batteries and needed to know when they were fully 

charged. When Fischell filed the patent application for his implanted drugdelivery system in 1979 (issued as Patent 4,373,527 in 1983), he made it 

programmable but did not cite NASA. In 1983, Arthur F. Hogrefe and Wade 

E. Radford filed for a patent—4,561,443 (“coherent inductive communications link for biomedical applications”)—that involved telemetry and cited 

support from NASA under contract NDPR S-63983B. In 1985, Hogrefe and 

Radford obtained the patent for Johns Hopkins. Clearly, NASA was funding 

some of the work, even if it had not provided the original inspiration.

What appears to be a simple yet important spinoff, a “Programmable 

Pacemaker,” turns out to be a complex story, with NASA providing some 

inspiration to at least a few leaders in the field and supporting research that 

contributed to improved pacemakers. However, other agencies contributed 

at least as much, and the medical community deserves a huge portion of the 

credit. Kirk Jeffrey’s historical study cites Greatbatch frequently but argues 

that the electrical engineers have been given too much credit. To elaborate his 

argument slightly, we can consider the vagueness of the line between science 

and technology and the tendency of observers to hold a simplistic theory that 

progress consists of a series of patentable “inventions.”

An electrical engineer would tend to conceptualize heart pacemaking in 

terms of an electronic device that needed to be invented by an electrical engineer. That is the concept behind the 2001 Russ Prize awarded to Bakken 

and Greatbatch. However, that device could never work until physicians and 

medical researchers had begun to specify when the heart should be stimulated, where, and how much. The heart surgeons and the electrical engineers 

collaborated, and then the annals of electrical engineering gave the credit 

to the electrical engineers. Pacemaking is really a system of many components, including the knowledge of the heart’s complex response to electrical 

stimulation, the surgical procedures, proper designs for electrode leads that 

would neither break nor corrode, and finally the device that produced the 

electrical stimulation.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 107

It is an odd fact of the history of science and technology that Western 

society has come to recognize the intellectual property of engineers but not 

that of scientists. An author or publisher can copyright a book, but doing 

so protects only its particular expression of ideas, not the ideas themselves. 

Patents protect ideas, if for a limited period of time. It might be said that scientists merely discover properties of nature, and nature cannot be patented. 

However, our society considers the ownership of land to be quite acceptable, 

and land is a part of nature. Economic or political historians may be able to 

tell us why this odd state of affairs came to be. If the U.S. patent system is 

merely a practical expedient that serves our economy by encouraging practical innovation, then one unhelpful consequence is that the system reinforces 

the partially false notion that inventions are isolated moments of innovation 

that exist apart from their human and technical environment.

In the case of programmable heart pacemakers, a vast army of individuals 

contributed a library full of ideas, some more important than others. NASA’s 

direct contribution would seem to be relatively minor, providing some inspiration and support for one of the competitors in the market, but having only 

a small influence on the origins of pacemaker technology in general. The 

Spinoff 1996 article correctly describes the spinoff as a set of improvements 

rather than the fundamental invention of pacemakers, but the public may 

not be attentive to such niceties. They may also not be clear that the case 

was one of diffusion of general technical ideas, and the involvement of one 

person (Fischell) who directly linked NASA with pacemakers, rather than an 

invention completed within NASA’s research facilities and then transferred 

to a medical application. Thus one could debate whether the pacemaker is a 

spinoff at all. 

Case 5: Cardiac Monitor

The accelerations of liftoff and reentry and the weightlessness experienced 

between these stressful events place the human heart under unusual conditions. Therefore, both for research purposes and to monitor the well-being 

of astronauts during their demanding missions, it is useful to be able to 

monitor the heart. Spinoff 1996 reports the NASA-supported development 

of the impedance cardiograph. This is not the same thing as the familiar electrocardiograph, which measures the electrical activity of the heart itself as it 

beats. Rather, the aim is to estimate the volume of blood pumped through 

the heart, the so-called cardiac output. Impedance is the effective electrical 

resistance of an object in response to alternating current of a given frequency, 

and the pulsing flow of blood causes the impedance of the human thorax 

to vary. Impedance cardiography can be conceptualized as a special case of 
108 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

plethysmography, measuring the changing volume of a part of the body, usually as blood volume changes. Spinoff 1996 explains that NASA’s interest 

came quite early in the space program: 

In 1965, Johnson Space Center contracted with the University of Minnesota 

to explore the then-known but little-developed concept of impedance cardiography (ICG) as a means of astronaut monitoring. A five-year program 

led to the development of the Minnesota Impedance Cardiograph (MIC), 

an electronic system for measuring impedance changes across the thorax that 

would be reflective of cardiac function and blood flow from the heart’s left 

ventricle into the aorta.79

The Spinoff database says that the work came out of Project Mercury, and 

indeed the hearts of Mercury astronauts were constantly monitored; but this 

was done by means of a conventional if miniaturized electrocardiograph, 

which could not measure the flow of blood directly, only the electrical signals 

generated by the heart as the muscle pumps. There are many ways to infer 

blood flow, but standard medical methods are extremely intrusive, involving catheterization and monitoring the dilution of a dye or actually heating 

the blood to use temperature differential to trace the flow in what is called 

thermodilution. Having experienced a similar dye procedure myself, I know it 

requires extensive equipment, trained staff, and can be done only for a short 

period of time. Thus it is totally unsuited for use on an astronaut during 

flight. Impedance cardiography is nonintrusive, involving a very slight electric current administered between electrodes on the surface of the skin. The 

challenge is that the data collected must be interpreted in terms of a complex 

mathematical model of the impedance of the human body, and thus development of the technology was far from simple.

As was the case for heart pacemakers, research in this area began long before 

a workable system could be built, at least as early as the 1940s. However, the 

point at which developments really took off does seem to have been 1965, 

when NASA began supporting the Minnesota work. The team was highly 

interdisciplinary. William G. Kubicek, often mentioned most prominently in 

scientific publications on the topic, was a professor of physical medicine and 

rehabilitation at the University of Minnesota, with a history of inventions 

employing pneumatic or hemostatic pressure. He was coinventor of a system 

to supply properly humidified air to patients who had received tracheotomies 

or comparable procedures, receiving patent 2,584,450 way back in 1952. 

Like the others mentioned here, the patent was assigned to the University of 

79. Spinoff 1996, “Cardiac Monitor,” p. 51.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 109

Minnesota. In 1962 he received patent 3,050,050 for an “alternating pressure 

seat” for paraplegics that would avoid constantly pressing on the same spot, 

and patent 3,059,635 for a “respirator collar” for iron lungs. 

In 1964, Kubicek and three colleagues filed a patent application for an 

“impedance plethysmograph,” receiving patent 3,340,867 in 1967. This was 

clearly the predecessor of the impedance cardiograph. The patent application 

included a diagram of a transistorized electrical circuit, a diagram showing 

four beltlike electrodes applied to a patient (two around the neck and two 

around the abdomen), and two diagrams analyzing the structure and dynamics of the human torso. The very second sentence of the application states 

clearly: “The invention is particularly useful in determining cardiac output.” 

The coinventors constituted all three other prominent members of the team 

that would develop the impedance cardiograph: Edwin Kinnen, Robert P. 

Patterson, and David A. Witsoe. Someone with a naive understanding of patents would conclude, from reading the application for patent 3,340,867, that 

the team had already invented the impedance cardiograph in 1964, a year 

before NASA provided support. However, a device for measuring the changing impedance of the human body is not yet a system for measuring blood 

flow. There must be a reasonably accurate mathematical model that translates the indicator (variations in impedance) into the real variable it indicates 

(blood flow), and the math must ultimately rest on empirical calibrations. 

Robert Patterson recalls that support from NASA was vital to his endeavors, 

stating that “starting in 1965, our laboratory performed an extensive series 

of animal experiments using dogs instrumented with electromagnetic flow 

meters on the pulmonary artery and aorta, and with catheters placed in the 

aorta and various heart chambers.”80 A key publication, still widely cited, is 

the team’s extensive 1969 report from NASA Contract 101965.81

An indicator of continuing NASA interest is the fact that Patent 

3,957,037 for a “readout electrode assembly for measuring biological impedance” was issued to NASA Administrator James Fletcher in 1976 on behalf 

of the Agency. Spinoff 1996 says that the first operational use of impedance 

cardiography was during the STS-8 Space Shuttle flight in 1983. A 2004 

80. R. P. Patterson, “Fundamentals of Impedance Cardiography,” IEEE Engineering in 

Medicine and Biology Magazine 8, no. 1 (1989): 35–38, esp. p. 36.

81. W. G. Kubicek, D. A. Witsoe, R. P. Patterson, and A. H. L. From, eds., Development and 

Evaluation of an Impedance Cardiographic System to Measure Cardiac Output and Other 

Cardiac Parameters, NASA-CR-101965 (Houston, TX: NASA Manned Spaceflight 

Center, 1969).
110 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

report in NASA Tech Briefs about software to measure human physiological data included two channels of impedance cardiographic data as a matter 

of course.82

Around 1970, the results of this method were highly controversial, perhaps in part because exaggerated claims had been made for impedance measurements in earlier decades, but gradually a considerable scientific literature 

developed calibrating impedance methods against others and demonstrating 

its potential reliability.83 In the cases of the bone density analyzer and balance evaluation system described earlier, the scientific literature supports their 

value, but neither has been the subject of very many studies. The situation 

with impedance cardiography is quite different. I found a huge literature, 

even overwhelming in its volume. This measurement approach is clearly very 

significant, both clinically and in terms of fundamental scientific research. 

One reason why there are so many publications is because the method is not 

straightforward but must infer blood flow from its electrical measurements, 

so there is huge scope for studies to evaluate and improve the performance of 

the technology. The subject is international in scope, with researchers active 

today not only in the United States but in nations as diverse as India, Israel, 

Italy, and the Netherlands.84

Impedance cardiographs based on the original Minnesota Impedance 

Cardiograph concept are being manufactured by a number of companies. 

Bio-Impedance Technology, a small company in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, 

makes them.85 The BioZ line of impedance cardiographs is manufactured by 

82. Bruce C. Taylor, Soumydipta Acharya, Patricia S. Cowings, and William B. Toscano, 

“User Interactive Software for Analysis of Human Physiological Data,” NASA Tech Briefs, 

ARC-15287-1, Ames Research Center, May 2004, available at http://www.techbriefs.com/

component/content/article/1265-arc-15287-1.

83. Joseph M. Van De Water, Bruce E. Mount, James R. Barela, Roger Schuster, and 

Ferdinand S. Leacock, “Monitoring the Chest with Impedance,” Chest 62 (1973): 

597–603.

84. For example, see Paul A Nakonezny, Ray B. Kowalewski, John M Ernest, Louise C. 

Hawkley, David L. Lozano, Daniel A. Litvak, Gary G. Berntson, John J. Sollers III, 

Paul Kizakevich, John T. Cacioppo, and William R. Lovallo, “New Ambulatory 

Impedance Cardiograph Validated Against the Minnesota Impedance Cardiograph,” 

Psychophysiology 38, no. 3 (2001): 465–473; Esther Raaijmakers, Th. J. C. Faes, Henk G. 

Goovaerts, Peter M. J. M. Vriew, and Robert M. Heethaar, “The Inaccuracy of Kubicek’s 

One-Cylinder Model in Thoracic Impedance Cardiography,” IEEE Transactions on 

Biomedical Engineering 44, no. 1 (1997): 70–76; Vinod K. Pandey and Prem C. Pandey, 

“Cancellation of Respiratory Artifact in Impedance Cardiography,” Proceedings of the 

2005 IEEE Engineering in Medicine and Biology Annual Conference, 1–4 September 

2005, Shanghai, pp. 5503–5506; and G. Cotter, A. Schachner, L. Sasson, H. Dekel, 

and Y. Moshkovitz, “Impedance Cardiography Revisited,” Physiological Measurement 27, 

no. 9 (2006): 817–827.

85. See http://www.microtronics-nc.com/BIT/IFM.html.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 111

CardioDynamics of San Diego, California, which had net sales of $30.4 million in FY 2006.86 Brochures for the Minnesota-based Väsamed company 

explicitly say their AcQtrac System is based on the work supported by NASA 

beginning in 1965.87

In 1995, Jaakko Malmivuo and Robert Plonsey summarized a considerable body of research on the accuracy of impedance cardiography, concluding that it is a harmless, easy way to measure the blood pumped by the 

hearts of normal individuals under normal conditions. They cautioned that 

the accuracy declined considerably when dealing with some heart diseases 

or when a normal person was under the influence of drugs, was breathing 

in an unusual manner, or suffering oxygen deficiency (hypoxia).88 In 2004, 

CIGNA HealthCare reviewed impedance cardiography with the hope that its 

lower costs and noninvasive methods could allow it to replace conventional 

methods. However, the company concluded: “CIGNA HealthCare does not 

cover electrical bioimpedance for the measurement of cardiac output because 

such measurement is considered experimental, investigational or unproven.”89

Thus the success of this particular NASA spinoff is significant but incomplete.

Case 6: Telemedicine Program

The sixth medical example published in Spinoff 1996 concerns a very specific 

example of telemedicine that represents much greater possibilities than the 

case itself. From the earliest days of the human space program, NASA needed 

to be able to monitor astronauts’ conditions at a distance and prescribe remedial action when any problems arose. Already during the Mercury missions, 

telemetry had given physicians on the ground information about the astronaut’s blood pressure, heart rate, and body temperature.90

Spinoff 1996 defines telemedicine as “the interactive transmission of medical images and data to provide better health care for people in remote or 

‘medically underserved’ locations.” This is actually a very narrow definition 

that describes NASA’s own original needs and some of the earliest applications 

86. See http://www.cardiodynamics.com/index.html; and “CardioDynamics Reports Fourth 

Quarter and Fiscal 2006 Results,” press release, http://markets.financialcontent.com/stocks/

news/read?GUID=1107905.

87. “AcQtrac System: Cardiovascular Hemodynamic Health” (Eden Prairie, MN: Väsamed), 

p. 4. 

88. Jaakko Malmivuo and Robert Plonsey, Bioelectromagnetism: Principles and Applications of 

Bioelectric and Biomagnetic Fields (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995). 

89. “Electrical Bioimpedance for the Measurement of Cardiac Output Coverage,” position 

number 0200, effective date 15 October 2004, CIGNA HealthCare, p. 1.

90. Link, Space Medicine in Project Mercury. 
112 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

outside the space program. But it falls far short of expressing the full potential 

of the technology. The particular example cited in Spinoff 1996 concerned a 

cooperative effort begun the previous year to offer telemedicine in the underserved South Texas area, involving the University of Texas Health Sciences 

Center at San Antonio (UTHSCSA), South Texas Hospital in Harlingen, the 

Texas Department of Health, participating communities, VTEL Corporation 

in San Antonio, the telecommunications company Sprint, and Healthcare 

Open Systems and Trials (HOST) Consortium in Washington, DC. NASA 

provided expertise plus one-third of the first year’s funding. Of great concern 

to health care researchers and practitioners was the lack of specialized care for 

children suffering from cancer, because their cases are sufficiently rare that 

low-population areas cannot afford local expertise to treat them. The program 

also addressed the increasing rates of tuberculosis in the area. The chief technology employed in this demonstration project was teleconferencing, including distance-learning classes and long-distance professional consultations.

This was far from the first NASA-supported demonstration of telemedicine in a real-world context. In fact, the first had taken place a quarter century earlier with the launch of the Applications Technology Satellite ATS-1 

in 1971. Satellite communications equipment was set up in 26 villages in 

Alaska, and a pilot study was carried out using ATS-1 for radio communications. Paramedical personnel in the villages, who had been trained by the 

Public Health Service, received advice from doctors. The project supported 

not only advice-giving about the cases of particular patients but also education. The University of Washington provided a genetics course to medical students at the University of Alaska, and 22 nurses at remote locations received 

a class in coronary care.91

More extensive pilot efforts were carried out using the ATS-6 satellite, 

which was launched in 1974. In addition to carrying out a variety of scientific 

observations and televising curriculum to Rocky Mountain schoolchildren, 

ATS-6 expanded the Alaskan telemedicine experiments. Where ATS-1 had 

provided a single audio circuit, which did not even permit the two parties 

to speak at the same time, ATS-6 provided high-quality video with multiple 

audio channels that could also carry data. The telemedicine experiments were 

remarkably farsighted, addressing most of the major issues for an operational 

system in areas where research continues even today. In addition to talk and 

pictures, ATS-6 could simultaneously transmit a patient’s pulse and electrocardiogram data. The data could be entered into the patient’s data file in a 

91. Albert Feiner, “Health Care and Education: On the Threshold of Space,” Science 186, no. 

4170 (1974): 1178–1186.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 113

computer. To protect privacy, voice and audio could be scrambled.92 ATS-6 

was the last of the series, and Congress cancelled plans for further experiments 

in these directions.93 This was not the end of telemedicine in Alaska, however. 

Efforts very much like the NASA-supported experiments of the early 1970s 

have continued until the present day, becoming progressively more operational and less experimental. In 1994 the University of Alaska launched a 

new Alaska Telemedicine Project, explicitly based on the ATS-1 and ATS-6 

experiences. By the year 2000 the project was cooperating with the Arctic 

Council, working with representatives from Canada, Denmark (Greenland), 

Finland, Iceland, Norway, Russia, and Sweden. Satellite communications are 

an essential technology for telemedicine in the arctic, and the 2000 report of 

the project uses the word satellite 18 times.94

Similar telemedicine activities in Texas have continued over the decade 

following Spinoff 1996. The University of Texas Medical Branch in Galveston 

set up a Telehealth Center in 1998.95 By the year 2000 the Center for 

Telemedicine at Texas Tech University had taken on a special responsibility 

for the state’s widely dispersed prison population.96 In 2005 the Texas legislature mandated a study to examine how the use of telemedicine for Medicaid 

patients could be facilitated.97 The nature of telemedicine has evolved, 

and new technologies are constantly being introduced. For example, the 

University of Texas Health Sciences Center at San Antonio, which took the 

lead in the experiments described in Spinoff 1996, now offers to all the world 

a major Web-based digital library of streaming videos devoted to medical 

education called the South Texas Regional Family Medicine Grand Rounds 

Virtual Video Library.98

NASA’s involvement has changed as well. In the year 2000, NASA signed 

a memorandum of understanding with the National Cancer Institute to share 

92. F. W. Norwood, “The Satellite Technology Demonstration and Health-Education 

Telecommunications Experiments on ATS-6,” Proceedings of the Royal Society of London

A345, no. 1643 (1975): 541–556.

93. Daniel R. Glover, “ATS 6,” http://roland.lerc.nasa.gov/~dglover/sat/ats6.html. 

94. Carl M. Hild, “Arctic Telemedicine Project Final Report, Presented to the Sustainable 

Development Working Group of the Arctic Council,” Institute for Circumpolar Health 

Studies, University of Alaska, Anchorage, 2000, p. 41.

95. See http://www.utmb.edu/telehealth/about.asp.

96. See http://www.ttuhsc.edu/telemedicine/default.htm; and Jennifer Proctor, “Medicine 

Behind Bars: Texas’ Telemedicine Experiment,” Reporter of the Association of American 

Medical Colleges 9, no. 13 (2000), http://www.aamc.org/newsroom/reporter/oct2000/bars.

htm.

97. Texas Health and Human Services Commission, “Telemedicine in Texas Medicaid 

Pursuant to Senate Bill 1340, 79th Legislature, Regular Session, 2005,” January 2006.

98. See http://familymed.uthscsa.edu/grandrounds/virtual_lib/Virtuallib.htm.
114 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

research on biomedical sensors. As NASA Administrator Daniel S. Goldin 

and his coauthors on a Science article explained: 

The NCI’s need is for technologies that can couple minimally invasive sensing 

and signaling of early molecular signs of cancer in patients and that will have 

the capability for controlled and monitored intervention. NASA’s requirements are for monitoring and maintaining the spacecraft environment, remote 

sensing of life on distant planets, and for diagnosis and treatment of injury 

and emerging disease in astronauts during long-duration space missions.99

Early detection is the key to curing cancer, and the hope is that it will be 

possible to detect cancers long before they would show up in x-rays or by 

touch during physical exams. Indeed, there is hope to identify precancerous 

cells that can be treated immediately. Thus the NASA-NCI collaboration fits 

in with the NCI’s hope to prevent cancers; it also serves NASA’s distinctive but overlapping purposes.100 Ideally this would mean not waiting for the 

patient to visit the doctor’s office but using some kind of simple equipment 

at home that could transmit data to the doctor over the Internet. Indeed, that 

is the new model of telemedicine we are gradually moving toward: patientcentered, prevention-oriented telehealth.

101

Already today, citizens get much of their health and medical information over the Web. Increasingly, doctors and nurses carry tablets and smart 

phones. When Spinoff 1996 was published, experiments were already in progress to give visiting nurses devices that were wirelessly connected to their 

organization’s home office.102 Especially in cases of chronic illness, the elderly, 

and postoperative care, constant electronic communication with the patient 

at home can be a great advantage.103 In a book chapter describing the Texas 

99. Daniel S. Goldin, Carol A. Dahl, Kathie L. Olsen, Louis H. Ostrach, and Richard D. 

Klausner, “The NASA-NCI Collaboration on Biomolecular Sensors,” Science 292, no. 

5516 (2001): 443–444.

100. Barbara K. Rimer, “Cancer Control Research 2001,” Cancer Causes and Control 11, no. 3 

(2000): 257–270.

101. Mary Chaffee, “A Telehealth Odyssey,” American Journal of Nursing 99, no. 7 (1999): 

26–33.

102. Rachel Wilson and Terry Fulmer, “Introduction of Wireless, Pen-Based Computing 

Among Visiting Nurses in the Inner City: A Qualitative Study,” Journal of Community 

Health Nursing 14, no. 1 (1997): 23–37.

103. Mary Tellis-Nayak, “The Postacute Continuum of Care,” American Journal of Nursing 98, 

no. 8 (1998): 44–49; and Ron Chepesiuk, “Making House Calls: Using Telecommunications to Bring Health Care into the Home,” Environmental Health Perspectives 107, no. 

11 (1999): A556–A560.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 115

Telemedicine Project, Jane Preston notes that the problems of health-care 

delivery are not limited to rural populations: 

In the United States, increasing numbers of rural hospitals are closing .... 

The cost of medical care steadily rises. The gaps are spreading between the 

quality of care in urban state-of-the-art medical centers and the quality of 

and access to health care in the remainder of the country. Indeed, the picture 

is stark in rural communities, but it is equally bleak in urban areas where 

access is blocked by prisons walls, traffic, enclaves of poverty and ignorance. In 

short, our country does not provide quality health care equally to all citizens. 

Delivery of medical services is at crisis level.104

This paragraph is ambivalent. While asserting the value of telemedicine for 

patients who live in remote areas, it recognizes that the health and medical 

needs of many other people are not being met either. The trade-offs in providing benefits to some people at the cost of denying them to other people 

made the cost of widespread telemedicine prohibitive for many years. Pamela 

Whitten has argued that early telemedicine projects were all terminated after 

initial experiments and demonstrations because the computing and communications infrastructures were not really in place yet.105 Except for some rural 

areas, the Internet is now ubiquitous in the United States, and increasing 

numbers of users have access to the wide-bandwidth connections needed for 

two-way video conferencing. Internet primarily relies on optical fiber cables 

and to a lesser extent on land-based microwave links and satellite communications. Thus NASA was a pioneer with ATS-1 and ATS-6 but may have 

a diminished role to play in the communications side of telemedicine today.

A major innovation is not merely technical but also social. For example, telemedicine spans governmental boundaries, raising serious questions 

about which jurisdictions will regulate medical practice. In the late 1990s 

the American Journal of Nursing carried several articles on the question. As 

Connie Helmlinger and Kathy Milholland asked in 1997: “In which state 

does a nurse need to be licensed when providing telehealth services to patients 

104. Jane Preston, “Rural Health and the New Media,” in Linda M. Harris, ed., Health and 

the New Media: Technologies Transforming Personal and Public Health (Mahwah, NJ: 

Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1995), pp. 65–86, esp. p. 65.

105. Pamela Whitten, “The State of Telecommunication Technologies to Enhance Older 

Adults’ Access to Health Services,” in Arthur D. Fisk and Wendy A. Rogers, eds., Human 

Factors Interventions for the Health Care of Older Adults (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum 

Associates, 2001), pp. 121–146.
116 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

in another state?”106 A widely discussed answer was that nursing and other 

medical professions would need to consider multistate licensure or some 

other form of regulation that was not tied to a particular geographic area.107

Changing over to a new system that involved unprecedentedly large geographic areas would naturally require a good deal of negotiation. Regulation 

is not the only issue; and in the chaotic health-care system of the United 

States, the issue of who pays for what may be more important. Any government health-care program or geographically widespread health maintenance 

organization will undoubtedly employ telecommunications to an increasing 

extent, but it is not clear how different organizations will cooperate with each 

other, or how they will serve the uninsured who happen to live in rural areas.

One may question the historical significance of premature inventions and 

demonstration projects. Yet, to creative scientists, engineers, and entrepreneurs, they signal possible avenues for advance. For example, the first personal computer worthy of the name was probably the Altair, and the first 

personal computer with the modern mouse and Windows user interface was 

the Alto. Neither was commercially successful, and it was left to the Apple II 

and the MacIntosh to succeed where they had failed. Yet the Altair and the 

Alto directly inspired the later machines.108 It is hard to say where telemedicine would be today without the ATS satellites or the mid-1990s Texas demonstration. Clearly, NASA has shown a direction toward improved health care 

of people in remote areas and, by stimulating development of telemedicine in 

general, has benefited all citizens. This is another example in which NASA’s 

contribution to general progress was more important than any specific invention. A related example is the Digital Library Initiative (DLI), in which I 

was fortunate to participate across its entire history. The DLI began in 1994, 

through a partnership between the National Science Foundation (NSF), the 

Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA), and NASA. DARPA 

had created the Internet for military researchers, and the NSF had civilized it. 

In 1994 the World Wide Web began its explosive growth on the basis of the 

Internet, and I can remember using a beta-test version that year of Mosaic, 

the first full-featured Web browser, which had been developed at the NSFsupported Illinois supercomputer center. NASA did not join the DLI with 

106. Connie Helmlinger and Kathy Milholland, “Telehealth Discussions Focus on Licensure,” 

American Journal of Nursing 97, no. 6 (1997): 61–62, esp. p. 61.

107. David Keepnews, “Emerging Issues in Licensure and Regulation,” American Journal of 

Nursing 96, no. 10 (1996): 70–72; and Lucille A. Joel, “Multistate Licensure?,” American 

Journal of Nursing 99, no. 1 (1999): p. 9.

108. William Sims Bainbridge, entries for “Altair” and “Alto,” in William Sims Bainbridge, ed., 

Encyclopedia of Human-Computer Interaction (Great Barrington, MA: Berkshire, 2004).
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 117

telemedicine in mind, yet the results were valuable for telemedicine in often 

unexpected ways.

Of the first six major DLI projects, NASA was most interested in the 

Alexandria Digital Library, a consortium of universities headed by the 

University of California, Santa Barbara that specialized in “georeferenced 

materials,” which means maps, geographic information systems, and the like. 

But all funding was pooled, so NASA really contributed to all the projects. 

The DLI project at Stanford, which was intended to develop new tools for 

collaborative use of the Internet, produced Google, among other things. The 

second phase of the DLI, which began in 1998, included the National Library 

of Medicine, and many of the projects over the years contributed technologies or ideas that can support or enhance telemedicine.109

3. Selected Other Spinoffs

To get a broader perspective on medical spinoffs and to stay within the historical focus of the work, I examined the five issues of Spinoff from 1976 through 

1980 for examples that were in very different areas from the 1996 examples. 

In addition, I asked the editor of Spinoff to suggest an example that deserved 

to be included here on the basis of its importance.

Case 7: Tactile Reader for the Blind

The 1977 Spinoff described an electronic reading device for the blind as “new 

help for the sightless.” The Spinoff database says: “Derived from NASA technology, the Optacon works by passing a mini-camera over a printed page 

with [the] right hand, the left hand senses a vibrating image of the letters 

the camera is viewing.”110 Optacon stood for Optical TActile CONverter. 

Electrical engineers associated with Stanford University developed this technology: John G. Linvill, James C. Bliss, James D. Meindl, and others. The 

Optacon was not merely an early step in the development of reading devices 

for the blind. It also contributed to the development of the field that today 

is called haptics—information technology that involves the human sense of 

touch.111 Optacon was often used as a research instrument in haptics, and the 

field gained significantly from its heritage in a union of applications for the 

109. Alexandria Digital Library, University of California, Santa Barbara, http://alexandria.sdc.

ucsb.edu/; http://www.dli2.nsf.gov/; and “Stanford Digital Library Technologies,” http://

dbpubs.stanford.edu:8091/diglib/.

110. Spinoff 1977, “New Help for the Sightless (Optacon),” p. 64.

111. Ralph L. Hollis, in Bainbridge, ed., Encyclopedia of Human-Computer Interaction, s.v.

“Haptics.”
118 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

blind and for pilots.112 Tactile output is an important part of haptics, as currently defined, but equally important is technology that involves the human 

kinesthetic sense that responds to forces and movement. The historical origin 

of input-output devices involving the kinesthetic sense is probably the work 

in remote manipulation, notably the robot arms used in the nuclear industry 

to allow humans to handle radioactive materials without hazard.113

The idea of remote manipulators has a long history, and it is difficult to say 

where it originated. Decades ago, science fiction fans tended to attribute the 

invention to leading writer Robert A. Heinlein, whose story “Waldo” in the 

August 1942 issue of Astounding Science-Fiction concerned a disabled scientist 

who had invented a set of remote manipulators for himself, some tiny and 

precise, others huge and powerful. The fictional scientist’s name was Waldo, 

and for a time fans and some engineers called manipulators waldoes. Heinlein 

himself disclaimed any credit for the idea, saying he got it from a 1918 

issue of Popular Mechanics that described how a disabled engineer had made 

mechanical arms for himself.114 Primary credit for developing the “masterslave manipulator” is usually given to Raymond C. Goertz, after whom the 

American Nuclear Society has named its robotics award.115 Working at the 

Argonne National Laboratory around the 1950s, Goertz developed several 

manipulators for handling nuclear materials, and by 1955 the technology 

had been transferred to a corporation, Central Research Laboratories.116 As 

the technology developed further, it became clear that remote manipulators 

would require a sense not only of pressure and movement but also of touch.

Haptics, broadly defined, is important for aviation and spaceflight. The 

old expression flying by the seat of one’s pants recognizes that the physical sensation of acceleration or rotation is important for pilots. But it ignores what 

they feel through their hands. In the modern “fly-by-wire” days, when a computer stands between the control stick and the ailerons and elevators, force 

feedback can help the pilot feel the effect of his or her actions. Given all the 

complex instruments in the cockpit and the advantages of a heads-up display, 

112. Z. Kuc, “A Bidirectional Vibrotactile Communication System: Tactile Display Design and 

Attainable Data Rates,” Proceedings of the Conference on VLSI and Computer Peripherals,” 

8–12 May 1989, Hamburg, Germany, pp. 2/101–2/103.

113. Robert J. Stone, “Haptic Feedback: A Potted History, from Telepresence to Virtual 

Reality,” Proceedings of the First International Workshop on Haptic Human-Computer 

Interaction, 31 August–1 September 2000, Glasgow, Scotland, pp. 1–7; available at http://

www.dcs.gla.ac.uk/~stephen/workshops/haptic/papers/stone.pdf. 

114. Robert A. Heinlein, “Science Fiction: Its Nature, Faults, and Virtues,” in Basil Davenport, 

ed., The Science Fiction Novel (Chicago: Advent, 1969), pp. 14–48, esp. p. 26.

115. “American Nuclear Society,” http://www.ans.org/honors/va-goertz.

116. “History of Telemanipulator Development,” Central Research Laboratories, undated, 

http://www.centres.com/nuclear/manip/maniphis.htm.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 119

it was reasonable for the Air Force and NASA to consider haptic information 

displays, including some that employ the tactile sense. Fundamental research 

in this area would also improve understanding of how the accuracy of the 

human tactile sense is affected by vibration.

The connection between aerospace interest in haptics and the possible applications for visually disabled people was made between the Ames 

Research Center and nearby Stanford University, where John Linvill and 

James Bliss formed a collaboration to attack the problem.117 In a 1997 interview, Bliss explained that there were both accidental and personal dimensions 

to what happened:

After finishing my master’s degree in electrical engineering at Stanford, I 

received a fellowship from the National Science Foundation that would allow 

me to obtain a doctorate in circuit theory at MIT. When I arrived at MIT, 

however, I discovered that the professor who I had hoped would be my thesis 

advisor had switched his research interest to the application of electrical engineering to the problems of blind people. I also became interested in this subject after meeting a research associate at MIT who had been blinded in the 

Battle of the Bulge in World War II. After completing my doctoral thesis, 

“Communication via the Kinesthetic Sense,” I returned to the San Francisco 

Bay Area, started a research group at SRI International to study the visual and 

tactile senses, and [became] an associate professor in electrical engineering at 

Stanford. Professor John G. Linvill, the chair of my department, had a daughter who was blind.118

In a 1996 issue of the newsletter of the Research Laboratory of Electronics at 

MIT, Linvill described his own path to the Optacon:

In 1962, my family and I visited IBM’s research lab near Stuttgart. We saw a 

high-speed printer driven against a fast-moving paper with carbon. It occurred 

to me that you could probably feel this. The fact was it could have drilled a 

hole in your hand. On the way back, I told my family, “I have a great idea to 

help Candy read.” Our daughter Candy was blind and, ever since she was in 

kindergarten, my wife Marjorie had been her Braille teacher. She spent four 

hours a day preparing material for Candy, who went to regular school. I told 

Arnold Shostak at the Office of Naval Research about my idea. The Navy had 

117. Elizabeth A. Muenger, Searching the Horizon: A History of Ames Research Center, 1940–

1976 (Washington, DC: NASA SP-4304, 1985), p. 94.

118. Paul J. Lewis, “An Interview with James C. Bliss,” RE:view 29, no. 2 (1997): 62–63; the 

journal is named RE:view because the RE stands for the “rehabilitation and education” of 

those who have visual impairment.
120 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

people working underwater, and tactile communication seemed like a reasonable thing to work on. That was the beginning of the Optacon, and Candy 

became its principal guinea pig. Today, she’s a clinical psychologist.119

Linvill joined the Stanford faculty in 1955, and Bliss joined SRI in 1956. 

SRI International was originally founded in 1946 by the university as the 

Stanford Research Institute and did not become a separate nonprofit organization until 1970. Bliss took the lead on the NASA contracts and on at 

least two from the Air Force.120 The first projects for Ames involved air jet 

stimulators rather than vibrating reeds. Other support came from the Office 

of Naval Research, and once the possible applications for the blind became 

paramount, substantial grants came from the National Institutes of Health 

and the American Foundation for the Blind.

In 1964, Linvill filed a patent application, issued in 1966 as Patent 

3,229,387, for a “reading aid for the blind.” Applications often describe in 

detail one possible version of the invention, with statements to the effect 

that many other arrangements would also be covered by the patent. Linvill 

described a small, integrated device, hardly more than two inches across, with 

a lens at one end that could scan over the printed text, focusing on a matrix 

of tiny photoelectric light detectors. A circuit from each one would apply 

a signal to the corresponding output unit, when the part of the image it 

saw was dark, representing part of a printed letter. The patent application 

emphasized the tactile output device, which consisted of a matrix of piezoelectric reeds, each of which would vibrate when a small alternating current 

was applied to it. Thus, when the lens received the image of a capital letter A, 

output reeds arranged in that same shape would vibrate and be detected by 

one fingertip of the user.

Notice that this is not an example of modern optical character reading 

(OCR) because it does not interpret the letter. An OCR device for blind people 

could translate the images into Braille on a tactile display or a voice simulated 

by computer speech generation, but the many innovations required to make a 

device on these principles did not exist in the mid-1960s. In the same month 

that the patent was awarded, Linvill and Bliss published a detailed description 

of their research in the Proceedings of the IEEE. They stressed that it involved 

direct translation from visual to tactile, rather than interpretation.121

119. John G. Linvill, “Alumni Profile: John G. Linvill,” RLE Currents 8, no. 1 (1996): 4–5.

120. NASA contracts included NAS 2-912, NAS 2-1679, NAS 2-5409, and NAS 2-2752, and 

NAS 2-4582; Air Force contracts included AF 33(657)-8824 and AF 33(615)-1099.

121. J. G. Linvill and J. C. Bliss, “A Direct Translation Reading Aid for the Blind,” Proceedings 

of the IEEE 54, no. 1 (1966): 40–51.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 121

Two features of this article deserve attention, because they reveal profound 

facts about the Optacon research program. First, the article is objectively of 

high quality, describing first-rate scientific research and fundamental engineering innovation. It includes mathematical formulas as well as circuit diagrams, and it reports the results of training research subjects to see how many 

words per minute they could learn to read. The Optacon is not the result of 

tinkering but of systematic research and development carried out by individuals of great talent and thorough training. The basic idea may sound simple, 

but success required fundamental research in electronics and in the psychology of human perception. For example, the contractor report Bliss filed with 

Ames for contract NAS 2-5409 is a serious study comparing perception and 

short-term memory between visual and tactile senses.122

Second, the Optacon harnesses science and technology for the benefit of 

human beings. Three human subjects volunteered for the pioneering research, 

but their identities are concealed in accordance with privacy standards in 

research. A photograph shows a girl reading from the tactile display, and the 

accompanying text explains: “Our initial subject was a 12-year-old girl who is 

in the seventh grade at a regular school. She is an avid Braille reader.... She 

has been partially blind since she was about 8 months old and totally blind 

since she was about two years old.” The IEEE Web site offers a photograph 

of the same girl demonstrating the Optacon at the 1969 International SolidState Circuits Conference, and she is identified there as Candace Linvill.123

In 1967, Linvill was chair of the Electrical Engineering Department at 

Stanford, and he recruited James D. Meindl from the U.S. Army Signal 

Research and Development Laboratories, in Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, 

to come to Stanford and help develop the integrated circuit chips that would 

mediate between the light sensors and the tactile display.124 Up to this point, 

the Optacon had relied on a computer-controlled instrumentation system 

and was not yet a workable, self-contained, hand-held device. Integrated 

circuits were still new at this point in time. Credit for inventing the first 

integrated circuits is split between Jack Kilby of Texas Instruments and 

Robert Noyce of Fairchild Semiconductor. Kilby filed a patent application 

on 6 February 1959 and received patent 3,138,743 on 23 June 1964. Noyce 

filed 30 July 1959 and received patent 2,981,877 on 25 April 1961. Several 

122. J. C. Bliss, J. W. Hill, and B. M. Wilber, “Tactile Perception Studies Related to 

Teleoperator Systems,” NASA CR-1775 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1971).

123. See http://www.spectrum.ieee.org/print/3646. 

124. Tekla S. Perry, “Wizard of Watts,” biography of James D. Meindel on the IEEE Spectrum

Web site, http://www.spectrum.ieee.org/print/3646.
122 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

patents were required to fully develop the idea, and the technology was still 

in its infancy when the Optacon was developed.

Bliss had received patent 3,353,027 in 1967 for a photocell aiming device 

and patent 3,385,159 in 1968 for a ranging instrument. Both of these devices 

use physical vibration to scan the environment, locating an object within the 

field of view. It is worth noting that, like the Optacon, these patents combine 

a lens, photocells, and vibration to achieve the desired result. It is also worth 

noting some similarities between these two patents and the dominant technical approach to television in the 1920s, before Philo Farnsworth—whom one 

biographer has called the “last lone inventor”—developed the fully electronic 

system that became the basis of the television industry.125 The semimechanical systems of the 1920s employed a rotating disk through which a spiral of 

tiny holes had been punched to scan the image with a photocell in the camera 

and to produce the picture in the display. By the late 1960s all-electronic 

television had a four-decade history and was commonplace, bulky, and 

expensive. Integrated circuits introduced the possibility of creating an entire 

array of photoreceptors at low cost and small size, thus rendering mechanical 

scanning systems obsolete and expensive television cameras unnecessary in 

the Optacon.126

In 1970, with Stanford University as one of their investors, the team created a corporation named Telesensory Systems to manufacture Optacon. 

Linvill and Meindl stayed at Stanford, and Bliss went to the new company. 

Around 1980 the Optacon was one of three competing reading machines 

available on the market. The Stereotoner converted printed letters not to 

tactile images but to sound patterns. Both the Optacon and Stereotoner 

were difficult to learn, and reading speed remained far lower than practiced 

Braille readers could achieve. Only a very small fraction of blind people ever 

used either device. The Kurzweil Reading Machine used a computer to turn 

printed words into recognizable speech. Although underpowered and expensive, it was a harbinger of the future.127

In 1970, Bliss had coauthored a comprehensive survey of sensory aids 

for the blind, with physicist Patrick W. Nye, who was then at the California 

125. Evan I. Schwartz, The Last Lone Inventor: A Tale of Genius, Deceit, and the Birth of 

Television (New York: HarperCollins, 2002).

126. Roger D. Melen and James D. Meindl, “A Transparent Electrode CCD Image Sensor for 

a Reading Aid for the Blind,” IEEE Journal of Solid-State Circuits SC-9, no. 2 (1974): 

41–49.

127. Harvey Lauer, “The Reading Machine That Hasn’t Been Built Yet,” AFB Access World 4, 

no. 2 (2003), http://www.afb.org/afbpress/pub.asp?DocID=aw040204.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 123

Institute of Technology.128 The next year, Nye moved to the Haskins Institute 

in New Haven, Connecticut, which was loosely connected to Yale University 

and already had a long tradition of research on human speech and reading. 

There his team was able to develop the first functional reading machine that 

combined optical character reading with computerized speech synthesis. But 

this was not yet a commercial product. Samuel J. Mason, the MIT professor 

who had interested Bliss in work for the blind, continued to do research in 

this area and produced a reading machine about the same time.129 Innovator, 

entrepreneur, and MIT graduate Ray Kurzweil founded Kurzweil Computer 

Products in 1974 to develop optical character reading, and in 1976 he demonstrated his text-to-speech reading machine.130

Over the years, Telesensory gradually gave greater emphasis to technologies that assisted people with partial vision; in 1996 it finally ceased making 

Optacon, and the company went out of business in 2005.131 Thousands of 

blind people benefited from the Optacon, and a search of the World Wide 

Web in January 2007 revealed a number of testimonials to how it had 

improved individual lives along with many laments that it was no longer 

available. Canon had introduced the technology to Japan, and arguably it 

was better adapted for the many characters of Japanese and Chinese than for 

English, just as text-to-speech technology is more difficult for Chinese than 

for English.132 Quite apart from the direct benefit for blind users, Optacon 

played an important role in stimulating other innovations across the field 

of assistive technologies, and the individuals who developed it continued to 

make contributions to technical progress.

In 1994, Bliss received Grant 9362053 from the NSF to develop an imageprocessing system based on a personal computer for visually disabled people 

and founded his own small company, JBliss Imaging Systems. In 2000 and 

2002 he received a two-stage Small Business Initiation Research grant from 

the NSF (0132058, 0060386) to develop a complete information-handling 

system for such users. The description on the NSF online database describes 

128. Patrick W. Nye and James C. Bliss, “Sensory Aids for the Blind: A Challenging Problem 

with Lessons for the Future,” Proceedings of the IEEE 58, no. 12 (1970): 1878–1898.

129. Robert W. Mann, letter to the editor, Journal of Rehabilitation Research and Development 

38, no. 1 (2001): xvii.

130. “Raymond Kurzweil,” official biography, http://www.kurzweilai.net/bios/bio0005.html?

printable=1.

131. Deborah Kendrick, “From Optacon to Oblivion: The Telesensory Story,” AFB Access 

World 6, no. 4 (2005): http://www.afb.org/afbpress/pub.asp?DocID=aw060403.

132. See “1974 A business group is established to deal with communication support products,” 

in the official company history on the Canon Web site, http://www.canon.com/about/

history/episode06b.html.
124 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the goal: “The research objective is to combine optical character recognition 

(OCR), speech synthesis and recognition technologies, together with displays 

based on the latest vision research to provide an integrated system with a consistent, easy to learn, command structure.”133 In 2005 he retired and licensed 

his technology to a new company that still carries his name, JBliss Low Vision 

Systems—many of whose products use electronics to magnify printed text so 

that people with poor but intact vision can read it.134

In a 2005 survey of research and development of tactile user interfaces, 

Lilly Spirkovska of the Ames Research Center cited the Optacon research 

extensively and reported that the general area remains one of interest for 

NASA.135 Research on vibrating, tactile input for the blind continues. For 

example, Francis Quek at Virginia Tech recently led an NSF-funded group, 

examining the potential for a haptic system to help blind children learn 

mathematics.136 It is based on the premise that gesture is one of the ways that 

humans shape and communicate concepts, and observations of mathematics classes reveal that gesture is often used between teachers and students. 

Of course, blind students cannot see these gestures and thus miss one of the 

dimensions of the mathematical discourse. The hope is that future technology 

could combine sophisticated computer vision with a haptic device such as a 

glove with a matrix of vibrators to communicate the movement of the gestures to the blind students. Thus, while the Optacon may have passed from 

the scene, it helped many blind people until better technology was available 

and contributed to the development of a tradition of research and invention 

that endures today.

The final question, however, concerns how crucial NASA’s contribution to 

the Optacon may have been. The Spinoff database overstates when it says that 

the Optacon was “derived from NASA technology.” NASA contributed some 

funding in the early days, especially for the haptic side of the work, but funding also came from several other sources. A historical account of the development of the Optacon research indicates that the first funding came from 

the Office of Naval Research (ONR); then, between 1966 and 1971, the 

Office of Education in the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare 

133. Abstract of NSF grant 0132058, http://www.nsf.gov/awardsearch/. 

134. See http://www.jbliss.com/overview.htm. 

135. Lilly Spirkovska, “Summary of Tactile User Interfaces Techniques and Systems,” NASA/

TM-2005-213451, Ames Research Center, Moffett Field, CA, 2005.

136. Francis Quek and Madiv McNeill, “Embodiment Awareness, Mathematics Discourse, 

and the Blind,” in William Sims Bainbridge and Mihail C. Roco, eds., Managing NanoBio-Info-Cogno Innovations: Converging Technologies in Society (Berlin: Springer, 2006), 

pp. 266–279. 
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 125

invested $1.8 million because of its interest in technologies for the disabled.137

Although Linvill’s original patent application does not mention NASA, 

applications before the late 1970s tended to focus narrowly on the technical 

claims for the invention; so that omission is not solid evidence. However, in 

their reminiscences Linvill and Bliss never mention NASA. Neither got the 

inspiration for a machine to help the blind from NASA, and the Optacon 

was not itself designed to serve an aerospace purpose. Thus NASA played a 

supporting role, which may have been significant when Linvill and Bliss first 

needed support for their research, but it was not the primary source for the 

technological innovation.

Case 8: Dental Use of Nitinol Wire

A 1979 spinoff was the use of Nitinol wire in dentistry.138 The popular Web 

site www.space.com summarizes the story thus: 

A nickel and titanium alloy known as Nitinol, originally developed by NASA 

for aerospace application, is used in a type of dental arch wire, which has orthodontic application. In contrast to the traditional steel arch wire, the Nitinol 

arch wire reduces the number of times braces require adjustment, since it 

returns to its original shape as teeth are pulled (the alloy is a type of ‘memory 

metal’ which does not kink when bent.).139

An online registry of orthodontists says, “Nitinol (thanks NASA!) is a new 

metal that retains its shape and is strong enough to withstand the force exerted 

by orthodontic appliances.”140 Comments such as these convey the impression 

that NASA invented Nitinol, something that NASA itself does not claim. We 

shall see that NASA did indeed contribute to progress in understanding and 

using this remarkable material, but it was discovered elsewhere.

The name Nitinol explains what this metal is made of and where it originated. The first two syllables are the symbols for nickel (Ni) and titanium 

(Ti). The last syllable is the acronym for the Naval Ordnance Laboratory, 

the place where Nitinol’s qualities and first applications were discovered. The 

Naval Ordnance Laboratory was established in White Oak, Maryland, in 

1944.141 As its name implies, its chief purpose was research on naval gun137. Christophe Lécuyer, What Do Universities Really Owe Industry? The Case of Solid State 

Electronics at Stanford,” Minerva, 43 (2005): 51–71.

138. “Dental Arch Wire,” Spinoff 1979, p. 74.

139. See http://www.space.com/adastra/adastra_spinoffs_050127.html.

140. See http://www.1stbraces.com/orthodontic-braces-article8.shtml. 

141. “White Oak, Maryland,” http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/facility/white-oak.htm.
126 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

nery technologies, which required much expertise in metallurgy. In 1974 it 

merged with the Naval Weapons Laboratory, and the site was relinquished 

by the Navy in 1997. Its current successor is the Carderock Division of the 

Naval Surface Warfare Center in West Bethesda, Maryland.142

In 1959 experienced metallurgist William J. Buehler was carrying out 

research on a number of substances when he observed that alloys of nickel 

and titanium were more ductile—flexible but resistant to impact—than other 

alloys. He then focused his research on nickel-titanium alloys that contained 

approximately equal numbers of atoms of the two elements. Because nickel 

has a greater atomic weight than titanium, about 55 percent of the mass of 

an equal mixture of atoms will consist of nickel. Therefore the alloy he was 

investigating was called 55 Nitinol. The first big clue that it was something 

very special came when Buehler and his assistant had just cast six bars of 55 

Nitinol. To get a quick sense of the properties of the material, Buehler intentionally dropped one bar on the concrete floor, and it made what he later 

called a “very dull thud,” similar to the sound of dropping a lead bar. Not 

expecting this sound, he dropped another, and it rang like a bell. After repeating this simple experiment several times, he discovered that hotter bars made 

a bell-like sound, while cooler bells made a thud. Something about the internal structure of the alloy apparently depended sensitively on temperature. A 

series of experiments, both systematic and accidental, led to the full realization in 1961 that 55 Nitinol is a “memory metal.” It can be formed into a 

shape at one temperature, formed into a second shape at another temperature, then returned to the first temperature, where it spontaneously resumes 

the original shape. 

The next year, Buehler gained expertise on the physics of crystals when 

Frederick E. Wang joined the lab and developed the theory of how Nitinol 

works. In 1961, Buehler and the Navy filed an application for a patent 

explaining methods for making alloys like Nitinol and describing their properties, and patent 3,174,851 was granted in 1965. In 1966, again on behalf 

of the Navy, Buehler filed a patent application for methods to convert heat 

energy to mechanical energy, describing the principles that could power 

an engine based on Nitinol’s ability to change shape in response to changing temperatures, receiving patent 3,403,238 two years later. Other patents 

issued to the Navy based on the research included patent 3,351,463 (“high 

strength nickel-based alloys”) in 1967 and patent 3,753,700 (“heat recoverable alloy”) in 1973.

142. Bob Hardy, “Wacker Reflects on Structures; Materials,” Heritage Lecture Series, 

September 1998, http://www.dt.navy.mil/pao/excerpts%20pages/1998/heri9.html.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 127

According to two brief histories of Nitinol’s discovery by George Kauffman 

and Isaac Mayo, who interviewed both Buehler and Wang, the first successful product was a coupling to join together the hydraulic-fluid lines on the 

Navy’s F-14 jet fighter.143 Nitinol’s ability to return to a former shape was 

used to make it clamp over the ends of two sections of the pipe, holding 

them together. In 1969, John D. Harrison of the Raychem Corporation 

began collaborating with Buehler and Wang, and the resulting idea was called 

“Cryofit” because the low temperature of liquid nitrogen was used to reform 

the couplings. Raychem does not appear to carry the product today, but the 

Aerofit company does, and Cryofit couplings have been used on a variety of 

both military and commercial aircraft.144

It is worth noting two facts about Raychem. First, the company has been 

involved in many patents, and a search for the word Raychem in the U.S. 

Patent and Trademark Office’s patent database turns up fully 2,758 that were 

either issued to Raychem or in some other way cite the company explicitly. 

Coincidentally, the most recent one I found was related to both medicine 

and Nitinol: patent 7,160,322 issued on 9 January 2007 to an individual for 

an “implantable cardiac prosthesis for mitigating prolapse of a heart valve.” 

The base of the device is a mesh, and “the mesh may be formed of a shape 

memory alloy material, such as a nitinol (nickel-titanium alloy) wire” to 

facilitate installation and adjustment. The only publication mentioned in the 

patent application is Raychem’s 1999 product brochure, “Nitinol Solutions.”

Second, an important part of Raychem’s business has long been couplings, 

and a number of patents unconnected to Nitinol describe couplings that 

change shape to seal the connection tightly. Patent 3,574,313 issued in 1971 

concerns a “wraparound closure sleeve” that is “heat recoverable.” This patent 

concerns the physical shape of the sleeve rather than its material but cites earlier patents about plastics with shape-memory qualities, not Nitinol. Patent 

3,379,218 (“closure sleeve for pipes or the like”) issued in 1968 similarly 

assumes the material would be some kind of polymer with a temperaturerelated memory property. In 1971, Buehler and Wang got patent 3,558,369 

on behalf of the Navy for a “method of treating variable transition temperature alloys,” describing alloys in which some or all of the nickel in Nitinol is 

replaced by iron or cobalt. In 1973 patent 3,753,700 was issued to Raychem 

for an alloy in which about 7 percent of Nitinol’s nickel atoms are replaced 

143. George B. Kauffman and Isaac Mayo, “The Story of Nitinol: The Serendipitous Discovery 

of the Memory Metal and Its Applications,” The Chemical Educator 2, no. 2 (1996): 

1–21; and George B. Kauffman and Isaac Mayo, “The Metal with a Memory,” Invention 

and Technology Magazine 9, no. 2 (1993): 18–23.

144. Raychem, http://www.raychem.com/; and Aerofit, http://www.aerofit.com/sma/partnos.htm.
128 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

by iron, claiming superior qualities and reporting: “For example, a hydraulic 

coupling made of the alloy was provided with a heat unstable diameter of 8% 

greater than the heat stable diameter.” The 1973 patent 3,759,552 (“hydraulic coupling with metallic sealing member”) requires a metal having Nitinol’s 

properties and even discusses a nickel-titanium alloy but does not explicitly 

refer to the Navy, Buehler, or Nitinol. Raychem’s 1975 patent 3,872,573 specifically centers on using the Nitinol family of alloys for couplings.

The work that led to dental applications began in 1968, when George B. 

Andreasen in the Department of Orthodontics of the School of Dentistry 

at the University of Iowa read about Nitinol. Andreasen contacted Buehler, 

but at first the Navy was reluctant to release information about this strategically valuable innovation. In 1969, however, Buehler was allowed to send 

Andreasen a three-foot section of Nitinol wire for evaluation. It proved to be 

greatly superior to stainless steel, and Andreasen quickly published articles 

in the leading dentistry journals publicizing this fact. In 1972 he made an 

initial attempt to file for a patent, making a successful application in 1973 

and receiving patent 4,037,324 in 1977. This patent describes exactly the 

innovation reported in the NASA Spinoff publication. Soon, after a little 

more development, the Unitek division of 3M was supplying Nitinol wire to 

orthodontists, and a 1997 company brochure explains that it is easier to use 

than stainless steel, requires less adjustment, and often straightens teeth more 

quickly. The product’s slogan makes this point cutely: “because treatment 

efficiency always comes down to the wire.”145

To this point in the saga, I have not even mentioned NASA. Is the 

spinoff claim entirely spurious? No. Andreasen’s patent application cites a 

very important contribution NASA had made in 1969: “A description of the 

materials and certain of their properties also may be found in the brochure 

entitled ‘Nitinol Characterization Study’ dated September, 1969. This document [is] identified as N-69-36367 or NASA CR-1433.” NASA’s Langley 

Research Center had become interested in the potential of Nitinol, and in 

1967 it gave a contract to Goodyear Aerospace Corporation to study the 

material systematically. Buehler provided samples of Nitinol rods and foil, 

and Battelle Institute, a subcontractor in Columbus, Ohio, processed some 

of the rod into wires of varying diameters: 100, 20, 15, and 10 mils (a mil 

is 1⁄1,000 of an inch). Each kind of sample was studied to determine such 

things as the force involved when it changed shape, its responses to tension 

and compression at various temperatures, how many times it could change 

shape before degrading, and its variable electrical resistance. One series of 

145. “Nitinol: Heat Activated Wire,” product brochure (Monrovia, CA: 3M Unitek, 1997).
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 129

experiments determined how much Nitinol wire would spring back after 

being bent around mandrels of differing diameters. 

After 19 months of research, Goodyear provided Langley with the data 

that became the report. It contains many graphs showing the performance 

of Nitinol under various conditions, which would be useful to engineers in 

determining how to design reliably functional components from the material. 

Earlier tests in Buehler’s lab had given inconsistent results, in part because 

the samples may not have been consistently made; so it was important to 

begin to understand the exact sources of unreliability. The report explained 

that the behavior of a Nitinol object depended very much on the detailed 

history that formed the microscopic grains of which any large piece was composed. The report’s final sentence states: “From these results it is recognized 

that 55-Nitinol has many potential applications in advanced space structures, 

especially where requirements for expandable and erectable structures or selfactuating devices in space are needed.”146

Given the difficulty of manufacturing Nitinol reliably, especially in its early 

days, it was an expensive material. Thus, it could find its first cost-effective 

applications only in fields where there was a premium on high performance. 

When the first major report on the societal implications of nanotechnology 

was published in 2001, one chapter gathered together these demanding application areas: space exploration, national security, and medicine.147 As we have 

just seen, these were the first areas of application for Nitinol, including dental 

wires and the crucial couplings for the F-14’s hydraulic system, plus the space 

applications foreseen by the NASA report. This observation highlights one 

reason why spinoffs from NASA to medical applications may be especially 

common. In both spaceflight and medical care, high performance has a much 

higher priority than in most other sectors of the economy.

The history of Nitinol in dentistry illustrates the important point that 

major inventions in modern technology often require a vast amount of development research that would be far beyond the capability of an individual 

inventor. The search engine of the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office finds 

fully 6,154 patents whose applications contain the word Nitinol, up through 

9 January 2007. Of these, 114 mention NASA. 

Twelve Nitinol-related patents were the direct result of work done 

for NASA. Three early Nitinol patents belonged to the U.S. government: 

4,553,393 for “memory metal actuator”; 4,665,334 for “rotary stepping 

146. William B. Cross, Anthony H. Kariotis, and Frederick J. Stimler, “Nitinol Characterization 

Study,” NASA CR-1433 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1969), p. 58.

147. Mihail C. Roco and William Sims Bainbridge, eds., Societal Implications of Nanoscience 

and Nanotechnology (Dordrecht, Netherlands: Kluwer, 2001), pp. 203–237.
130 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

device with memory metal actuator”; and 4,765,139 for “thermocouple 

for heating and cooling of memory metal actuators.” In 1991 the Tini 

Alloy Company, whose name evokes titanium and nickel, earned patent 

5,061,914 for “shape-memory alloy micro-actuator,” and in 1999 it got 

patent 5,903,099 for “fabrication system, method and apparatus for microelectromechanical devices”—both based on work done for NASA. Five patents belonging to NASA itself describe using microwaves to treat prostate 

enlargement (6,289,249; 6,512,956; 6,592,579; 6,675,050; and 6,944,504), 

with some assistance from Nitinol. SRI International was issued two patents 

based on applications that mentioned Nitinol in describing a range of possible developments: 6,617,963 for “event-recording devices with identification 

codes” and 6,806,808 for a “wireless event-recording device with identification codes.” The remaining 102 patents referred to work at NASA, usually by 

citing a publication. Eight referred to the Goodyear Nitinol characterization 

study, and 66 referred to a 1972 NASA publication based on it that had wider 

distribution: “55-Nitinol—The Alloy with a Memory.”148

Case 9: Springback Foam

Perhaps the best-known NASA spinoff, temper foam, is featured in the FAQ 

on the Spinoff Web site and in fully six editions of Spinoff, from 1976 through 

2005.149 In the 1979 edition it is only three pages away from that other materials development, Nitinol wire.150 Both can be described as memory materials 

that return to their original shape after being deformed, but the two were 

results of totally separate development efforts. The medical applications of 

temper foam are chiefly cushioning for patients, such as hospital pads, wheelchair seats, and the like. Because the material forms gently to the shape of 

the weight it is supporting, it is less likely to put undue pressure on any given 

spot. This may seem like a very humble application, unrelated to cure of disease, but treating hospital patients gently is an essential part of cure, reducing 

stress and injury. 

148. C. M. Jackson, H. J. Wagner, and R. J. Wasilewski, “55-Nitinol—The Alloy with a 

Memory: Its Physical Metallurgy, Properties, and Applications” (Washington, DC: 

NASA SP-5110, 1972). 

149. “Spinoff Frequently Asked Questions,” http://www.sti.nasa.gov/tto/spinfaq.htm; “Versatile 

Padding (Temper Foam),” Spinoff 1976, p. 84; “Shock Absorbing Helmets,” Spinoff 

1977, p. 100; “Temper Foam,” Spinoff 1981, p. 76; “Foam Cushioning,” Spinoff 1988, 

p. 68; “Foot Comfort for the Fashionable,” Spinoff 2002, p. 88; and “Forty-Year-Old 

Foam Springs Back with New Benefits,” Spinoff 2005, pp. 46–49.

150. “Springback Foam,” Spinoff 1979, p. 77.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 131

It is generally agreed that temper foam was invented by Charles A. Yost 

and Charles Kubokawa, although they did not apparently receive a patent for 

the idea. Yost worked for various NASA contractors before starting his own 

company, Dynamic Systems, in 1969. Kubokawa worked at NASA Ames 

from 1963 to 1989.151 Spinoff 2005 says, “As an aeronautical engineer with 

the Systems Dynamics Group at North American Aviation, Inc., Charles Yost 

helped to build a recovery system for the Apollo command module in 1962.” 

While working for Stencel Aero Engineering in Asheville, North Carolina, 

Yost carried out research for NASA on how to improve the survivability of 

airplane accidents. 

The 1968 report Yost coauthored with Ronald W. Oates covered a very 

wide range of topics, such as the rate of survivability when an aircraft hits 

the ground at varying angles and speeds, the main injuries caused when the 

upper bodies of unrestrained passengers flail around during the impact, and 

the difficulty of designing for the protection of passengers of different sizes. 

One section concerned aluminum honeycomb materials for seats to absorb 

the shock of impact, including this criticism of other substances: “Materials 

such as sponge, solid rubber, cork, and paper wadding generally exhibit 

spring characteristics with an attendant rebound problem.”152 The rebound 

would exacerbate the flailing of the upper body, causing injuries when it 

strikes other objects. Aluminum honeycomb crushes somewhat gracefully on 

impact, absorbing much of the shock and not rebounding. The report does 

not mention temper foam but does identify two characteristics that an ideal 

cushioning material should have: 1) adapting to passengers of different shapes 

and sizes, and 2) absorbing shock without immediately rebounding. It also 

announced plans for Yost to work with Ames in a broadly based effort to 

develop a more protective seat system for aircraft.

The company Yost founded says, “Dynamic Systems began research in 

1969 to perfect foam cushion materials having both high energy absorption 

and soft pressure properties. In cooperation with NASA, the materials were 

applied to seating systems, such as wheelchair cushions, ejection seats, and 

crash safety seats for aircraft.”153 The 2005 edition of Spinoff further reports: 

“The Leicester, North Carolina–based company sold the rights to the technology in 1974, but later returned to market second- and third-generation 

derivatives that were less temperature-sensitive and more environmentally 

151. “Living on the Ocean Floor,” National Japanese American Historical Society, 1999, 

http://www.nikkeiheritage.org/nh/fvxin4.html.

152. Charles A. Yost and Ronald W. Oates, “Human Survival in Aircraft Emergencies,” NASA 

CR-1262 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1968), p. 29.

153. See http://www.sunmatecushions.com/about_dynamic_systems_inc.php.
132 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

friendly than the original version.”154 It currently markets a variety of products, including Sunmate and Pudgee, which are varieties of temper foam, and 

Liquid Sunmate, which allows medical personnel to create form-fitting cushions for particular patients. The applications include the health-care field, 

sports equipment, and a sculpture foam for art projects. In addition to the 

original application for aircraft seating, the company also sells the products 

for cars used in mines, racecars, and horse saddle pads.

The great fame that temper foam has achieved did not come through the 

Dynamic Systems company, despite the good work it has done for society 

since Yost founded it in 1969. Rather, its fame has come through the “Swedish 

sleep system” marketed by the Tempur-Pedic company. The investors’ FAQ 

linked from the Tempur-Pedic corporation Web site says:

Tempur-Pedic was originally founded in 1992 after nearly a decade of 

research and development of a product formulation originally designed for 

use by NASA.... In the early 1970’s, NASA engineers developed a viscoelastic memory foam to relieve astronauts of the incredible G-forces experienced 

during lift-off. Tempur-Pedic’s Swedish partners began experiments to perfect 

the NASA formula for consumer use and after nearly a decade and millions 

of dollars of research; the company introduced our improved version—the 

proprietary TEMPUR® pressure-relieving material.... In 1998 Tempur-Pedic 

was awarded the “Certified Technology Seal” from NASA. This seal verifies 

that the underlying product technology was derived from the United States’ 

efforts and experiments in space.155

A bloglike Web site devoted to information about foam mattresses, 

MyFoamMattress.net, disputes this spinoff and argues that bedding companies use the supposed connection to NASA to promote their products, with 

the implication that NASA goes along with this alleged charade in order to 

boost its own reputation in the spinoff area. The core of the argument is this:

The original NASA foam was never suitable for sleeping because it broke 

down in time and lacked the comfort needed to make a good mattress. But 

the Program never intended to use space foam for bedding. Remember, it was 

developed for astronauts’ seats, not for sleeping. Once released to the industrial world, progress was imminent. Years of research and development by 

the Swedish company Tempurpedic did turn this early recipe into an unique 

material now commonly known as memory foam. Some people still like to 

154. “Forty-Year-Old Foam Springs Back with New Benefits,” Spinoff 2005, pp. 46.

155. See http://phx.corporate-ir.net/phoenix.zhtml?c=176437&p=irol-faq.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 133

call it NASA foam. This earned them the Certified Space Technology status 

usually given to a “product that is the direct result of technology developed 

for space.”156

In a sense these antagonistic information sources agree that the foam originally made by Yost’s company was not suitable for ordinary bedding, and 

of course the original spinoff claims concerned specialized medical applications, not mass consumer products like bed mattresses. Millions of dollars of 

research, invested over a decade by the Swedish company, Fagerdala World 

Foams, was required to develop the mattress now distributed in the United 

States under the name Tempur-Pedic. Arguably, Yost’s work for NASA Ames 

was an essential step in the development but only one among many. There 

is nothing wrong with that. Fundamental research and prototyping is often 

much less costly and time-consuming than the later stages of development 

of a commercial product. However, the publicity of the mattress company 

appears to exaggerate NASA’s contribution and to identify it with the space 

program rather than recognizing NASA’s broader mandate.

The entries in the Spinoff database from 1976 and 1979 say that temper 

foam’s origin was “improvement of aircraft seats” and “protective covering 

for aircraft seats.” The 1988 entry says the origin was the “space shuttle.” The 

2005 entry says the origin of the spinoff was “improved airline seating for 

crash and vibration protection.” Except for the 1988 entry, which may simply 

have recognized that the material was being applied to the astronaut seats 

in the Space Shuttle, NASA has consistently acknowledged that the origin 

was in its aviation technology work, not specifically the space program. The 

public tends to think of NASA as “the space program,” however, and the 

Tempur-Pedic company apparently found the futuristic aura of space exploration provided a useful connotation for its advertising campaign.

Temper foam is primarily a spinoff of NASA’s work to develop better technologies for commercial aviation. As a Tempur-Pedic brochure explains: “In 

1998, at a press conference held at its headquarters in Washington, D.C., 

NASA saluted Tempur-Pedic for ‘significant contributions to transferring 

aeronautical and space research technology into the private sector to save 

lives, promote economic opportunity and help improve the quality of life 

for humankind.’ In turn, Tempur-Pedic presented Daniel S. Goldin, NASA 

administrator at the time, with the one-millionth Swedish Neck Pillow 

156. Daniel Burrows and Liz Hoffman, “The Secret of NASA Mattress Foam,” 2006, http://

www.myfoammattress.net/memory/nasa.html.
134 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

produced by the company.”157 The phrase “aeronautical and space research 

technology” allows historians to say it was a spinoff from aeronautical research, 

and the company is free to claim it was a spinoff from space research.

Temper foam can claim some inspiration from the space program. During 

his many years at Ames, Kubokawa was involved with space-related as well 

as aviation-related research. Yost had been involved in some work for Apollo, 

but his interest in spaceflight dates from about 1950, when he decided that 

actual flying saucers could be propelled by electrostatic fields rather than 

rockets. At age 17 he built a Tesla coil seven feet high that literally electrified 

the environment. Late in his life, Yost wrote: “Through my R&D work on the 

Apollo project (1962–1966), I became totally disgusted by the limitations of 

rocket technology. I became totally focused on discovering a means of electric 

propulsion, or flying saucer technology.”158 When Yost died in 2005, he was 

editor of a visionary periodical, Electric Spacecraft, that explored the possibility of propelling space vehicles by means of magnetic or electric fields.159

Despite its fame as a material for commercial bed mattresses, and its application in various sports-related products, temper foam continues to have 

respectable medical applications. To its credit, and also its profit, TempurPedic has campaigned to reduce the serious problem of bedsores in American 

nursing homes through the use of its materials.160 Thus temper foam is a legitimate NASA spinoff, although practical applications have required considerable development work, and the credit is due to NASA’s aeronautics rather 

than space research.

Case 10: Cochlear Implants

This case was suggested to me by Daniel P. Lockney, former editor of NASA’s 

Spinoff. Sometimes called a bionic ear, a cochlear implant substitutes for portions of the human ear that are not functioning properly in deaf people. 

As the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders 

explains, a cochlear implant physically consists of two main parts—one 

positioned outside the head, usually perched at the back of the ear, and the 

implant itself, which is placed deep inside the structures of the inner ear. 

Functionally, the system consists of four parts. A microphone acts just like 

the one in a hearing aid, picking up the sounds. A speech processor translates 

157. “Tempur-Pedic Pressure Relieving Swedish Mattresses and Pillows,” Tempur-Pedic 

International, 2004, p. 3.

158. Charles Yost, “A Biographical Snapshot,” Electric Spacecraft 39 (5 August 2005): 4.

159. See http://www.electricspacecraft.com/journal.htm.

160. See the history of the Tempur-Pedic company at FundingUniverse.com, http://www.

fundinguniverse.com/company-histories/TempurPedic-Inc-Company-History.html. 
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 135

the sounds into a form that can be meaningfully handled by the human nervous system. A transmitter and receiver pass the signals to the implanted part 

of the system. Deep inside the ear, the electrode array stimulates different 

regions of the auditory nerve. Modern cochlear implants allow many users to 

interpret speech and other sounds usefully, but the effect is not a clear duplicate of what people with normal hearing perceive.161

Spinoff 2003 attributes the invention of the cochlear implant to NASA 

employee Adam Kissiah and offers an unusually clear explanation of the circumstances under which he developed it:

Driven by his own hearing problem and three failed corrective surgeries, 

Kissiah started working in the mid-1970s on what would become known as 

the cochlear implant, a surgically implantable device that provides hearing 

sensation to persons with severe-to-profound hearing loss who receive little or 

no benefit from hearing aids. Uniquely, the cochlear implant concept was not 

based on theories of medicine, as Kissiah had no medical background whatsoever. Instead, he utilized the technical expertise he learned while working as 

an electronics instrumentation engineer at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center for 

the basis of his invention. This took place over 3 years, when Kissiah would 

spend his lunch breaks and evenings in Kennedy’s technical library, studying 

the impact of engineering principles on the inner ear.162

This paragraph is packed with interesting information. The fact that 

Kissiah lacked a medical background—and the story mentions no medical 

collaborator—is striking. But it is also interesting to see that the story does 

not seem to describe the stereotype of a spinoff. This is not a case in which 

an invention was made with NASA support to accomplish something for 

the progress of aviation or space exploration, then transferred to other applications outside NASA. Rather, a motivated individual draws on expertise 

acquired through his NASA work to develop something outside his NASA 

responsibilities. Thus, like several other cases considered in this chapter, this 

one calls into question the very concept of spinoff.

In 1977, Kissiah obtained patent 4,063,048 for an “implantable electronic hearing aid,” revised in 1982 as RE31,031. The patent application 

does not cite NASA support but acknowledges: “The invention described 

herein was made by an employee of the United States Government and may 

be manufactured and used by or for the Government for governmental purposes without the payment of any royalties thereon or therefor.” The patent 

161. See http://www.nidcd.nih.gov/health/hearing/coch.asp.

162. Spinoff 2003, p. 14.
136 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

is somewhat unusual in that only a very short period of time passed between 

the application and the awarding of the patent, from 16 March 1977 to 

13 December 1977, rather than the usual two or three years. It does not 

cite any scientific or technical literature, and the only publication mentioned 

is a popular magazine: “A surgical process for implanting such electrodes is 

discussed more fully in an article entitled ‘The Electric Ear’ appearing in the 

April 1974 issue of Newsweek magazine.” This sole citation suggests that other 

people were already attempting to develop cochlear implants, and this was in 

fact the case.

Kissiah’s application cites one previous patent, 3,751,605 “method for 

inducing hearing,” issued in 1973 to Robin P. Michelson on behalf of Beckman 

Instruments, Inc. Michelson’s patent also described an implantable device to 

stimulate the auditory nerve. The difference is that Michelson’s device would 

stimulate the auditory nerve with a single signal, whereas Kissiah’s would 

stimulate different areas with different signals, which is much closer to the 

way the human ear usually works. So Kissiah’s patent is really for a significantly improved cochlear implant, rather than for the very first such device.

Michelson’s patent application cited three earlier patents. In 1969, James 

H. Doyle received patent 3,449,768 for an “artificial sense organ,” on the 

basis of a series of applications filed over the previous eight years that would 

stimulate the auditory nerve with a series of pulses the inventor believed were 

suitable for simulating hearing. In 1965, Behrman A. Docotte and Louis E. 

Adin received patent 3,209,081 for a “subcutaneously implanted electronic 

device” that was like a conventional hearing aid but had an implanted sound 

generator; it did not stimulate the auditory nerve electronically. Way back in 

1939, Héctor Pescador had received patent 2,164,121 for a “hearing apparatus for the deaf” that entered the ear canal rather more aggressively than 

conventional hearing aids but, again, did not stimulate the nerve directly.

A Web site called HearAgain.org “was established to create greater awareness about Adam Kissiah and his work on the implantable hearing device and 

the cochlear implant.”163 This site makes a very clear claim for the importance 

of his invention: “The patent is considered the first patentable design for 

digital electronics stimulation of the acoustic nerve in humans.”164 Indeed, 

the cochlear implants invented by Michelson and Doyle could be described 

as analog devices, rather than digital.

The Web site’s brief biography of Kissiah notes that he received a B.S. degree 

in physics from the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, and worked 

for RCA and Pan American World Airways at Cape Canaveral in support of 

163. See http://www.hearagain.org/about_us.htm.

164. See http://www.hearagain.org/biography.htm.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 137

the testing of Redstone, Jupiter, Mercury, Pershing, and Minuteman rockets. In 1963, he joined NASA and worked on all the piloted rocket programs at Kennedy Space Center until the end of 1989. The site also lists 

honors that Kissiah received, notably “the prestigious NASA Space Act Award 

which included a signed certificate from NASA Administrator Sean O’Keefe 

and $21,000, the largest monetary award ever given to a single inventor in 

Kennedy’s history.”165

As both Spinoff 2003 and HearAgain.org report, an unsuccessful effort was 

made to develop cochlear implants through a company called Biostim, based 

on Kissiah’s patent. After the company’s dissolution, the implication is that 

the technology was widely taken up by other companies. However, one gets 

a very different story if one starts searching for information on the history of 

cochlear implants, rather than working from Kissiah’s patent. Invention of 

a well-functioning, multiple electrode cochlear implant is widely attributed 

to an Australian, Graeme Clark, who successfully implanted his first device 

in 1978. This was the year after Kissiah’s patent, but a functioning device is 

very different from an idea described on paper. One way to assess the relative 

influence of Clark versus Kissiah is to see what the four major manufacturers of cochlear implants say today. The manufacturer called Cochlear offers a 

Flash-enabled timeline on its Web site explaining that Clark began work in 

1967, inspired by his own father’s deafness; became chair of the Department 

of Otolaryngology of the University of Melbourne in 1970; and received a 

research grant in 1977. His first 1978 patient received a 10-channel cochlear 

implant that allowed him to recognize the tune of the beloved Australian song 

“Waltzing Matilda.” The Web site does not mention Kissiah.166 The Web sites 

of the Austrian MED-EL and American Advanced Bionics companies do not 

have history sections and mention neither Clark nor Kissiah.167 The French 

manufacturer Neurelec stakes its own claim to invention of the cochlear 

implant: “In the early 1970’s French scientists and clinicians had been the 

first to design and develop an implantable hearing aid and in 1986, MXM 

launched the Digisonic® programme. This was to lead to the provision of the 

first multi-channel cochlear implant which was entirely digital, re-programmable and which transmitted the whole sound spectrum.”168

In 1995, the Institute of Medicine of the National Academy of Sciences 

published a collection of historical essays titled Sources of Medical Technology. 

Stuart S. Blume’s chapter on the early years of cochlear implantation, up 

165. See http://www.hearagain.org/biography.htm.

166. See http://www.cochlearamericas.com/index.asp.

167. See http://www.medel.com/ and http://www.bionicear.com.

168. See http://www.neurelec.com/en/neurelec_company.html.
138 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

through 1982, does not mention Kissiah. It properly places great emphasis on the fundamental research in biology and medicine that provided the 

knowledge necessary for any invention and cites early clinical experiments 

carried out in France in 1957. It described the resistance that pioneers like 

William House and Blair Simmons faced when they began research in the 

1960s, then gives Michelson much credit. An extended section describes the 

important French work of the 1970s. Blume does mention Clark but only as 

a somewhat late participant in the development of the cochlear implant who 

played a role in finally bringing the technology to the point at which it could 

be exploited commercially.169

One is reminded of the public relations competition between the United 

States and the U.S.S.R. over the rights to claim the inventor of liquid-fuel 

rockets for their nations. Konstantin Eduardovitch Tsiolkovsky was the 

Soviet candidate, and Robert H. Goddard was the American one. Tsiolkovsky 

began earlier but never got beyond the stage of theoretical writing, whereas 

Goddard was later but built working rockets. Clark is Australia’s “inventor,” 

while Kissiah can play this role for the United States and for NASA. Kissiah’s 

patent cannot be ignored. A total of 45 later U.S. patents cite it, most recently 

patent 7,010,354 (“sound processor for cochlear implants”), filed in 2001 by 

Graeme Clark himself and issued to Clark’s Bionic Ear Institute in 2006. The 

fact that Kissiah worked completely outside the conventional medical science 

community may have been a disadvantage for him, as scientific marginality 

was a disadvantage for Tsiolkovsky. Kissiah deserves honor for his contribution, but cochlear implants were developed by dozens of researchers in several 

nations, making them a collective rather than individual invention.

Case 11: Fast Neutron Cancer Tumor Treatment

The 10 previous cases were originally framed as classical spinoffs, but the 

11th is different. Spinoff 1979 placed it in the category of community service, 

although it deals with an experimental medical technology. Fast neutrons 

are a variety of radiation treatment used to destroy cancer cells that are different from x-rays or radioisotopes in that fast neutrons must be produced 

by a particle accelerator such as a cyclotron. NASA’s Lewis Research Center 

(renamed the Glenn Research Center in 1999) in Cleveland, Ohio, had one. 

The Cleveland Clinic teamed up with Lewis to provide fast neutron to some 

of its cancer patients. 

169. Stuart S. Blume, “Cochlear Implantation: Establishing Clinical Feasibility, 1957–1982,” 

in Nathan Rosenberg, Annetine C. Gelijns, and Holly Dawkins, eds., Sources of Medical 

Technology (Washington, DC: National Academies Press, 1995), pp. 97–124.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 139

The cyclotron was invented by Ernest O. Lawrence in 1929, who received 

patent 1,948,384 for it in 1934 and won a Nobel Prize for it in 1939. The 

cyclotron was the first “atom-smasher” research tool that accelerated ions 

to high speed by spinning them in a circle with a fluctuating electric field. 

Neutrons cannot be accelerated directly in a cyclotron because unlike ions 

they are not electrically charged. To make a neutron beam, Lawrence accelerated ions of deuterium, the isotope of hydrogen that contains one proton 

and one neutron, then smashed them into a beryllium target. In 1938, Time

magazine publicized the idea of fighting cancer using a cyclotron-produced 

neutron beam, which Lawrence had developed in collaboration with his physician brother.170

A cyclotron with the power to treat tumors is a large device, expensive 

both to build and to operate. Thus it is not surprising that this method 

of treatment never became commonplace. From 1972 until 1977, about 

700 patients received fast-neuron treatment at three facilities that already 

had cyclotrons for other purposes. Two were educational institutions—the 

University of Washington and Texas A&M University—and the third was 

the Naval Research Laboratory in Washington, DC. The Cleveland Clinic 

began offering this kind of treatment only after the three original facilities 

had already gained five years of experience.171 Spinoff 1979 describes the treatment as experimental, intended to evaluate the benefit for patients as much as 

to provide those benefits. The costs of converting one of the cyclotron’s target 

areas into a treatment room, and of the necessary ancillary equipment, came 

from a grant from the National Cancer Institute. 

The use of cyclotron-generated neutrons to fight cancer continues to be 

a valuable treatment option, but facilities offering it are rare. An information sheet dated 2003 from the Wayne State University Physicians Group 

in Michigan claims: “The neutron cyclotron is now the standard of care for 

institute patients, offering them a treatment success rate that is 10 percent 

higher than that of patients treated with standard, conformal external beam 

radiation therapy.”172 A Web search found other advanced centers offering 

comparable treatment, including the National Superconducting Cyclotron 

Laboratory at Michigan State University, the Clatterbridge Neutron Cancer 

Therapy Cyclotron at Merseyside in the United Kingdom, and the University 

170. “Cyclotrons for Cancer,” Time, 28 November 1938.

171. Robert G. Parker, Herbert C. Berry, Jess B. Caderao, Arthur J. Gerdes, David H. Hussey, 

Robert Ornitz, and Charles C. Rogers, “Preliminary Clinical Results from U.S. Fast 

Neutron Teletherapy Studies,” Cancer 40 (1977): 1434–1438.

172. Wayne State University Physicians Group in Michigan, “Radiation/Oncology Services 

Available,” 2003, http://www.med.wayne.edu/wsupg/specialty/radiation_oncol/services.htm. 
140 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

of Washington Medical Center, which was one of the original three sites. As 

of May 2006, the related Seattle Cancer Care Society said that only three 

such facilities exist in the United States.173 The University of Washington 

cyclotron treats only about 100 patients a year, most of whom suffer from 

salivary gland tumors.

Why would NASA’s Lewis Research Center have needed a cyclotron in 

the 1970s? Lewis was the laboratory where much of the research on advanced 

propulsion systems took place, and the cyclotron was part of the program to 

develop nuclear reactor power for spacecraft.174 Specifically, it was operated by 

the Radiation Physics Branch directed by James Blue. In the 1960s, considerable progress was made developing the technology to build nuclear rocket 

engines that were twice as efficient as chemical engines and rivaled them in 

thrust. Science fiction writers like Robert A. Heinlein had long assumed that 

only nuclear rockets would be capable of supporting a high level of activity 

in space.175 When the nuclear propulsion efforts were cancelled in 1972, it is 

hard to know how important widespread public opposition to nuclear energy 

was versus the Nixon administration’s desire to reduce near-term costs at the 

expense of humanity’s future in space. In any case, the cyclotron lost its original purpose and was available for public service.

Fortuitously, a NASA oral history project interviewed June C. BahanSzucs about her time at Lewis, and she mentioned the original medical use 

of the cyclotron. In the interview, she expressed great distress at the “RIF” 

(reduction in force) firings that occurred at that time and a sense of futility 

that their efforts were not appreciated. About the nuclear energy program, 

she reported: 

As a result of that, something beautiful happened, because Dr. James Blue 

worked there, and he was extremely upset to think that the cyclotron that 

we had was no longer in use, and eventually he got Cleveland Clinic to come 

out, and we gave cancer treatments at NASA, NASA Lewis Research Center, 

at that time. [The patients] would be brought out in [the Cleveland Clinic] 

ambulance, and they would get the horizontal beam of a cancer treatment 

that could [reach cancer that nothing else could reach]. There were only three 

places in the whole world that could give them at that time. You could never 

say that [anyone was] cured from cancer, but after x number of years, seven 

173. See http://www.seattlecca.org/patientsandfamilies/adultCare/treatmentOptions/radiation/

NeutronTherapy/.

174. Mark D. Bowles and Robert S. Arrighi, NASA’s Nuclear Frontier: The Plum Brook Reactor 

Facility (Washington, DC: NASA SP-2004-4533, 2004).

175. Robert A. Heinlein, Rocket Ship Galileo (New York: Scribner, 1947).
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 141

or whatever the [number] was at that time, they had some wonderful success 

stories, and all because of one man.176

Although in principle nuclear reactor rockets could achieve orbit on their 

own power, among the very most promising propulsion systems for space 

vehicles that have already achieved orbit is ion drive, largely developed over 

the same period at Lewis. This kind of engine uses a high-voltage electrical 

field to accelerate ions to a high velocity, much faster than the jet from a 

chemical rocket engine. The source of the energy is usually not chemical but 

can be electricity from solar cells—giving essentially free power so long as the 

spacecraft has not left the inner solar system—or from a nuclear generator. 

Lewis supported a considerable amount of high-quality ion drive research 

in the 1970s, much of it guided by Harold R. Kaufman of Colorado State 

University.177 A cyclotron demonstrated methods that can be used in an ion 

drive. The chief drawback of ion drives is that their thrust is low, so some 

other kind of propulsion is needed to achieve orbit. Kaufman built his first 

working ion drive at Lewis in 1960, but the first spacecraft to use ion propulsion was the highly successful Deep Space 1 probe, which was not launched 

until 1998.178

Perhaps it is appropriate to conclude this consideration of spinoffs with 

this poignant example. Our civilization was apparently not ready to plunge 

forward into outer space, whether with nuclear rockets or by a heavy investment in chemical rockets and ion drive. Thus, one piece of equipment that 

was intended to help humanity reach the stars was diverted to humane medical uses. 

4. Conclusion

Historical scholarship can contribute to the storehouse of knowledge needed 

to make decisions about current issues and planning for the future. This relatively modest study of spinoff from NASA to biomedical technology has 

presented some analytical ideas that may be useful in that context, but it also 

raises questions for future research. Importantly, what is true for spinoffs to the 

medical area may not be true for other categories of science and technology, 

176. Interview with June C. Bahan-Szucs by Sandra Johnson, 29 September 2005, http://www.

jsc.nasa.gov/history/oral_histories/NACA/Bahan-SzucsJC_9-29-05.pdf.

177. Harold R. Kaufman, “Charge-Exchange Plasma Generated by an Ion Thruster,” annual 

report for NASA CR-135318, Colorado State University, Fort Collins, December 1977.

178. “Ion Propulsion: Over 50 Years in the Making,” NASA press release, 6 April 1999, http://

science.nasa.gov/newhome/headlines/prop06apr99_2.htm.
142 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

where the number of reported NASA-related patents is much greater than in 

the medical area.179

At the present time, debates are raging about the plans announced by 

NASA in 2004 for new directions in the space program.180 Critics charge that 

both science and new technology are being downgraded in favor of achieving 

goals that may be interesting to groups in the general public but have only 

limited potential to contribute new technical ideas of broad application.181 A 

group claiming to speak for the international space exploration community 

has specifically argued that much more attention must be given to spinoffs, 

improving both the publicity about them and the means for transferring 

technology from space to applications that have terrestrial benefits.182 This 

will be harder to do, the fewer innovations the world’s space programs actually develop. However, this spinoff-centric view of the value of space neglects 

to take account of the very problematic nature of spinoffs.

The clearest conclusion of this chapter is that the historians and social scientists who advised NASA around 1970 were right. Only rarely does a distinct 

innovation arise completely within the space program and then find applications outside. Rather, the development of space technology is intertwined 

with many other fields of science and engineering advancement. Again and 

again, we have seen that NASA helped improve a technology that already 

existed or supported development of one among many competing versions 

of an innovation. NASA’s most important contribution to technical progress, 

outside space technology itself, has been as an active, general partner with 

other high-tech institutions of society, pushing our scientific knowledge and 

technical abilities forward along a broad front. Spinoff may properly be what 

grammarians call a mass noun or uncountable noun—like water, sand, and 

space itself. Outside of metaphorical uses (e.g., the waters of Mesopotamia or 

the sands of time), without the addition of a measuring unit (e.g., cubic light 

years of space) water, sand, and space cannot be counted. Similarly, spinoff is a 

general flow of technical progress, and to be grammatically correct one might 

want to avoid speaking of “a spinoff” or “spinoffs.” 

179. Adam B. Jaffe, Michael S. Fogarty, and Bruce A. Banks, “Evidence from Patents and 

Patent Citations on the Impact of NASA and Other Federal Labs on Commercial 

Innovation,” Journal of Industrial Economics 46, no. 2 (1998): 183–205.

180. The Vision for Space Exploration (Washington, DC: NASA, 2004).

181. National Research Council, An Assessment of Balance in NASA’s Science Programs

(Washington, DC: National Academies Press, 2006); and Joseph N. Pelton, “Revitalizing 

NASA? A Five-Point Plan,” Space Policy 22 (2006): 221–225.

182. Robert A. Goehlich, Chris Blanksby, Gérardine M. Goh, Yuko Hatano, Bojan Pečnik, 

and Julielynn Wong, “Space Spin-offs: Making Them Known, Improving Their Use,” 

Space Policy 21 (2005): 307–312.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 143

This is really an epistemological, ontological, or social-scientific problem 

more than a grammatical one, but it is aggravated by journalistic goals. In 

1981 and again in 1986, I carried out brief pilot research at the Jet Propulsion 

Laboratory looking at how the scientists and the scientifically sophisticated 

journalists there attempted to make sense for the general public of the discoveries made moment by moment as Voyager 2 encountered the planets 

Saturn and Uranus. Every morning, in the Von Kármán Auditorium, a panel 

of experts presented the latest findings to a large audience of journalists, some 

of whom were famous people but understood little about science. Every afternoon, there was an informal discussion between perhaps a dozen very sophisticated journalists and a few scientists, in which the two professional groups 

struggled to find the right metaphors to communicate ideas broadly but accurately. By the time the news was widely disseminated, it often resembled what 

the public likes to think more than the technical reality.

News is about stories. A news story has protagonists who are specific individuals with names and faces. This is the way ordinary people think about 

innovation. An individual artist or inventor innovates by creating a specific 

thing, easy to see and describe. This prejudice reinforces the false stereotype 

that the space program benefits society through a series of distinct inventions. Unfortunately, the system of government patents and the goals of 

corporate public relations also reinforce this dubious model of innovation. 

How important really was Kissiah’s cochlear implant patent, or Yost’s work 

on temper foam? It is hard to say, but it was interesting to see Australian and 

French cochlear implant inventors promoted by competing companies, and 

a mattress maker claiming its product came from the glamorous space program rather than from a Swedish company’s research or efforts to improve the 

crash-worthiness of airliner seats.

A corollary of spinoffs’ problematic nature is that the extent of NASA’s 

contribution in each case is open to debate. If inventions came nicely packaged in boxes, it would be easier to say who owned them. To NASA’s credit, 

the annual Spinoff reports usually make it clear that a story is about a particular kind of heart pacemaker, associated with a particular company, rather than 

claiming that NASA somehow invented the pacemaker itself. But it is also 

true that some of the innovations described throughout this chapter have not 

been very influential. The anti-shock trousers were a valiant attempt to help 

people, and the people who worked on them deserve credit for their efforts. 

But the particular innovation was not commercially successful, and the value 

of applying general pressure to a shock victim’s lower body has come into serious question in medical circles. Three of the examples involve measurement 

techniques: the bone density analyzer, the balance evaluation system, and the 

impedance cardiograph. All three must be described as successes, but only the 
144 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

third appears to be very important. Even it has not gained full acceptance in 

the medical community. 

The Optacon reader for the blind helped thousands of people but, like so 

many other technologies, was eventually superceded by better technologies. 

This observation places the social science issues in an historical context again. 

In many cases, the propitious time to develop an innovation and to use it may 

come and go. Often, there are alternate ways of solving a problem, and one 

or two gain temporary market dominance while others are kept on the shelf. 

Awareness that there is one way of solving a problem may encourage engineers to see another way. Thus a space-derived innovation that was technically 

sound but could not compete with better-established methods can still be 

judged a success by contributing to the general store of technical knowledge.

This raises the much more general question of the timeliness of medical 

innovations coming from the space program. Here we may apply the astronautical metaphor of a launch window. To reach certain goals in space, one 

must launch neither too early nor too late but only during a limited span of 

time. One historical example is the development of large liquid-fuel launch 

vehicles in the 1950s mentioned earlier. Although best suited for spaceflight, 

these engines were primarily developed for intercontinental ballistic missiles. 

At the time, nuclear warheads were heavy, and the social movement promoting spaceflight convinced government leaders that liquid fuels were the right 

technology for missiles. So, large liquid-fuel vehicles were built that could 

be adapted for spaceflight. But the early 1960s saw a shift back to solid fuel 

rockets for military purposes as the warheads became lighter, the electronics 

and other technologies became more efficient, and the lesser maintenance 

issues with solid fuels was given higher priority for military uses. Thus there 

was a launch window roughly spanning the 1950s during which the military 

was motivated to develop large liquid-fuel rocket technology that then could 

transfer to space applications.183

Many of the examples discussed here date from the early years of the space 

program. During that launch window, NASA was developing space technology almost from scratch, so it needed to innovate in many different areas. 

That means that the opportunities for widely applicable innovations were 

probably at their historical maximum. This chapter has been historical in 

nature, so it has naturally emphasized earlier examples. But recent issues of 

Spinoff cite some very old cases, so this observation is not entirely an artifact 

of my research approach. Clearly, it would be interesting to see a quantitative 

183. William Sims Bainbridge, The Spaceflight Revolution (New York: Wiley Interscience, 

1976); and Bainbridge, “Beyond Bureaucratic Policy: The Spaceflight Movement,” in 

James Everett Katz, ed., People in Space (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 1985).
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 145

study of the dates—for example, of patents or publications—of all spinoffs 

in the NASA database. Logically, as NASA’s research emphasis changes over 

time, the fields benefiting from technology transfer should shift as well.

One other question that arose in my research and probably deserves future 

study concerns the role of fundamental biomedical research. The world’s 

space programs have conducted a considerable amount of biological or medical research in orbit, but I did not happen to encounter an example of a 

spinoff that came from the results of these studies. A systematic study of the 

consequences of orbital biomedical research would be interesting in its own 

right, but one might need to test the hypothesis that such research has drawn 

on a wide range of fields of biology but really has not contributed to them 

in return. The medical spinoffs listed in the spinoff database, and the subset 

of them described here, are only indirectly related to biology. The chief categories they belong to are electrical engineering, mechanical engineering, and 

materials science.

As part of my work at the National Science Foundation from 1999 

through the present, I have had the opportunity to take a leading role in the 

examination of the societal implications of nanotechnology and the remarkable convergence of many fields that is uniting nanotechnology with biotechnology, information technology, and new technologies based on cognitive 

science. In partnership with Mihail C. Roco and others, I have organized 

conferences and edited books summarizing the insights of about 200 leading 

scientists and engineers in these fields.184 Their primary observation—that 

most branches of technology are converging—applies well to several of the 

innovations described in this chapter. They concern a biological organism, 

the human body, but they involve not only knowledge of anatomy, physiology, and neuroscience but also electronics, computing, and the proper selection of materials for electrodes, power supplies, and structural components. 

This awareness reverses the problematic evaluation of the spinoff concept, 

rendering it a virtue. 

184. Roco and Bainbridge, Societal Implications of Nanoscience and Nanotechnology; Converging 

Technologies for Improving Human Performance (Dordrecht, Netherlands: Kluwer, 

2003); Nanotechnology: Societal Implications—Maximizing Benefit for Humanity (Berlin: 

Springer, 2006); Nanotechnology: Societal Implications—Individual Perspectives (Berlin: 

Springer, 2006); Mihail C. Roco and Carlo D. Montemagno, eds., The Coevolution of 

Human Potential and Converging Technologies (New York: New York Academy of Sciences, 

2004); William Sims Bainbridge and Mihail C. Roco, eds., Managing Nano-Bio-InfoCogno Innovations: Converging Technologies in Society (Berlin: Springer, 2006); Progress 

in Convergence: Technologies for Human Wellbeing (New York: New York Academy of 

Sciences, 2006); William Sims Bainbridge, Nanoconvergence (Upper Saddle River, NJ: 

Prentice Hall, 2007).
146 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

In the biomedical area, NASA’s chief contribution cannot be packaged 

neatly in distinct spinoff inventions. Rather, NASA has been an early and 

active promoter of convergence itself. Bringing the separate branches of science and engineering together strengthens all of them, at the small cost of 

making it harder to tell a coherent story to the general public. If spinoff 

stories are one of the best journalistic ways to communicate the benefits of 

the space program, then it will need to be done responsibly. In my personal 

judgment, NASA has been responsible over the years. Either in the Spinoff

stories themselves, in technical NASA publications on the same topics, or in 

the help offered me by the current editor of Spinoff, I always found correct 

information to place the innovation in a broader context, including the clues 

that allowed me to find the other information reported here.

The general public has several misconceptions about NASA spinoffs, 

including having the impression that NASA developed innovations that it 

either was not involved with or where it developed customized version of 

things that already existed. On the Frequently Asked Questions page of its 

“Scientific and Technical Information” Web site, NASA has attempted to correct some of these misperceptions.185 It denies any credit for Tang, Teflon, 

and Velcro. For its own needs, NASA developed improved barcodes, quartz 

clocks, and smoke detectors, which may have had some wider application, 

but it claims no credit for their invention. 

In 1980, a Harris poll asked about 640 adults living in Kentucky to judge 

whether several things were results of “the space program.” Fully 48.1 percent believed that Teflon was, compared with 37.4 percent who felt it was 

not; the remaining 14.5 could not make up their minds. Overwhelmingly, 

Kentuckians believed two direct applications were results of the space program: weather prediction methods (86.3 percent) and satellite communications (88.1 percent). Seven other possible spinoffs got the following levels of 

belief in ascending order: latex paint (27.0 percent), synthetic rubber (33.4), 

microwave ovens (53.1 percent), push-button telephones (53.7), hand-held 

calculators (57.6 percent), and rechargeable pacemakers (61.9). Clearly, the 

public connects the space program with advances in electronics, and the 

rechargeable pacemaker scores higher than any of the seven other spinoffs.186

In conclusion, historians should appreciate spinoff stories because they 

are one of the best ways to communicate the history of the space program 

to members of the public who otherwise may be unaware of it. Quite apart 

185. See http://www.sti.nasa.gov/tto/spinfaq.htm.

186. Analysis of original data from Harris study no. 20038, a 26 March–17 April 1980 poll 

of 671 Kentucky residents, data provided by the Odom Institute, University of North 

Carolina, Chapel Hill.
Societal Impact of NASA on Medical Technology 147

from what they say about the spinoffs themselves, these stories inform people 

about the early days of space exploration, when heavily instrumented animals 

were sent into space before the Mercury astronauts, when Gemini prototyped 

methodologies for the Apollo program, and when the vast complexity of the 

Space Shuttle was being developed. If high-school students study American 

history as a sequence of presidents, wars, and political reforms, in college they 

can be introduced to scholarly history of the United States in all its breadth 

and depth. So, too, spinoff stories are a good introduction to the history of 

space exploration, especially if many students and members of the public can 

be enticed to study the subject more deeply later on.

149

Chapter 3

NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of 

Integrated Circuits

Andrew J. Butrica

Introduction: The Legend

This chapter addresses a specific question: what was the role of NASA 

in improving the manufacture of integrated circuits (ICs) during the 

Apollo era? The answer to that question already is a well-known and accepted 

fact. Indeed, not only has the Agency’s role in advancing integrated-circuit 

production become recognized as fact, it has achieved the status of urban 

legend through the attention showered on the Apollo program and, more 

particularly, on a single project—the Apollo guidance and navigation computers—and through the retelling of the story, most recently on the Internet,1

where the Apollo guidance computer has its own history Web site.2

The key to the legendary impact of NASA electronics is the large number 

of integrated circuits that the Agency bought for the Apollo program, or at 

the very least for the Apollo guidance and navigation computers. Because 

of the extraordinary number of integrated circuits that NASA bought for 

that project, the Agency stimulated the commercialization of the integrated 

1. A search of the Internet produced the following selection of results: Steven J. Dick, 

“Why We Explore,” http://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/exploration/whyweexplore/Why_

We_04.html (accessed 17 November 2005); IEEE Virtual Museum, “Missiles, Rockets, 

and the Integrated Circuit,” http://www.ieee-virtual-museum.org/collection/event.php?id=

3457010&lid=1 (accessed 17 November 2005); IEEE Virtual Museum, “Let’s Get Small: 

The Shrinking World of Microelectronics,” http://www.ieee-virtual-museum.org/exhibit/

exhibit.php?id=159270&lid=1&seq=3 (accessed 17 November 2005); John Roach, “Apollo 

Anniversary: Moon Landing ‘Inspired World,’” 16 July 2004, http://news.nationalgeographic.

com/news/2004/07/0714_040714_moonlanding_2.html(accessed 17 November 2005); Jim 

Grichar, “Wielding the Budget Axe: It’s Time To Abolish NASA,” http://www.lewrockwell.

com/grichar/grichar33.html (accessed 17 November 2005); Hum Mandell, “On a Mission,” 

http://utopia.utexas.edu/articles/alcalde/mandell.html?sec=science&sub=astronomy (accessed 

17 November 2005); and Newsgroups: sci.space.history, http://yarchive.net/space/politics/

nasa_and_ICs.html (accessed 17 November 2005).

2. “The Apollo Guidance Computer,” http://hrst.mit.edu/hrs/apollo/public/index.htm (accessed 

12 April 2006).
150 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

circuit by bringing down their unit cost. According to Eldon C. Hall—who 

helped to create the Apollo guidance computer—NASA bought more than 

one million integrated circuits for the Apollo program between 1962 and 

1967. As a result, between 1961 and 1965, the Apollo program became the 

largest single consumer of integrated circuits. At least one Internet site echoes 

Hall’s sanguine declaration by claiming that the first few prototypes of the 

Apollo computers contained about two-thirds of all the integrated circuits in 

the world.3

Other sources closer to the time period, however, assert that the procurement numbers were smaller. For example, a November 1964 article in 

Aviation Week stated that the number of integrated circuits that NASA had 

purchased up to that date for the entire Apollo program (including more 

than the guidance computers) was 200,000.4

 Furthermore, a 1965 internal 

NASA Headquarters report stated that the Apollo navigation and guidance 

computers used 150,000 “microcircuits.”5

 Although these numbers from 

1964 and 1965 do not represent the total purchased by 1967, when more 

Apollo spacecraft and their computers went into production, one wonders 

nonetheless how the total number of integrated circuits purchased for the 

project reached a million. In the end, the number of integrated circuits that 

NASA bought for the Apollo guidance computers—or for the entire Apollo 

program—is not known with any certainty. The enormous procurement of 

integrated circuits for the Apollo computers, Hall states, “provided the semiconductor industry with an incentive to develop the technologies that gave 

birth to the integrated circuits common in modern electronics. Today, all 

electronic equipment depends on the descendants of these semiconductor 

chips. They are so common and plentiful that their origins are lost in a forgotten history.”6

 The large procurement spurred industry to increase production, 

which brought down the unit price paid by commercial consumers. NASA’s 

role was limited to that of a buyer of a large number of integrated circuits for 

the Apollo computers.

3. Eldon C. Hall, Journey to the Moon: The History of the Apollo Guidance Computer (Reston, 

VA: American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics, 1996), p. 19; and Newsgroups: 

sci.space.history, http://yarchive.net/space/politics/nasa_and_ICs.html (accessed 17 November 

2005).

4. Barry Miller, “Microcircuitry Production Growth Outpaces Applications,” Aviation 

Week, 16 November 1964, 79. Hall, Journey to the Moon, p. 141, states that procurement 

quantities of integrated circuits for the Block I computers approached 200,000 by the 

summer of 1964 but does not provide a source for the statement.

5. NASA Headquarters, Electronic Systems Program Review, April 27, 1965 (Washington, 

DC: NASA Office of Program and Special Reports, 1965), p. 5. The term “microcircuit” 

usually referred to an integrated circuit.

6. Hall, Journey to the Moon, p. 1.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 151

Long before the publication of Hall’s rendition of the Apollo guidance 

computer story, Herbert S. Kleiman laid out the same argument but in more 

detail in his 1966 dissertation. Kleiman focused on the entire Apollo program 

rather than just the guidance computers. While other parts of the Apollo 

program used integrated circuits, he reflected, the guidance computer “has, 

for several reasons, carried the greatest impact.” Citing a published 1964 

statement that NASA so far had purchased 200,000 integrated circuits for 

the Apollo program, and making a conservative price estimate of $20 each, 

he concluded, “It is easy to realize the salutary effects which this purchase 

conveyed for the other IC [integrated circuit] products being offered by the 

firms involved.”7

In the spring of 1964, Kleiman points out, Fairchild Semiconductor—the 

supplier of the “major share” of the Apollo program integrated circuits—

announced “the first off-the-shelf integrated-circuit product line directly 

aimed at stimulating the non-military, non-space market.” He argues that it 

was highly unlikely that the firm could have made this move if it did not have 

NASA support for its higher-priced integrated circuits. At the least, the firm’s 

ability to offer the commercial products “was facilitated by the significant 

NASA support it had.”8 In short, NASA’s large procurements of integrated 

circuits for the Apollo program accelerated the acceptance of integrated circuits as a commercial product. Kleiman’s argument for NASA’s role goes 

beyond just the influence of falling unit prices into the area of psychology. 

The Agency’s decision to use integrated circuits “must have been a powerful 

stimulus on systems designers who were still ‘on the fence’ whether to include 

the IC devices in their own designs,” especially because NASA was using 

them “for the most important mission of the whole space program” and “in a 

critical area where electronic failure was probably equivalent to mission failure or at least a diminution of mission effectiveness.” But, Kleiman admits, 

the influence of this decision is “impossible to measure.” The psychological 

impact of NASA’s decision was to allay the fears of those in industry who were 

hesitant about the future of the technology.9

7. Herbert S. Kleiman, “The Integrated Circuit: A Case Study of Product Innovation,” 

D.B.A. (business administration doctorate) thesis, George Washington University, June 

1966, pp. 210–211. The article was Barry Miller, “Microcircuitry Production Growth 

Outpaces Applications,” Aviation Week, 16 November 1964, p. 79.

8. Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” p. 212. The Fairchild company history Web site bears out 

his claim: “1964: Fairchild introduces the industry’s first linear integrated circuit. It is the 

first IC whose operation is dependent upon matched active and passive components.” 

Fairchild Semiconductor, “A History of Innovation—1964,” http://www.fairchildsemi.

com/company/history_1964b.html (accessed 10 April 2006).

9. Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” pp. 210–211.
152 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

More recently, historian Leslie Berlin has looked again at the initial resistance to the use of integrated circuits. Many engineers, designers, and purchasing agents feared that integrated circuits would put them out of work 

because they perceived their jobs as depending on circuits created from offthe-shelf transistors, resistors, and capacitors. Also, if the manufacturers of 

integrated circuits designed and built the circuits themselves, engineers at 

the customer companies feared that they would have nothing to do. If the 

customer for the integrated circuit was the design engineer, why would a 

design engineer with 25 years of experience want a circuit designed by a 

30-year-old employee of an integrated-circuit manufacturing firm? Finally, 

she notes, some detractors were concerned that even though silicon was ideal 

for making transistors, better materials than silicon were available for making 

resistors and capacitors. Making them out of silicon, they worried, might 

degrade a circuit’s overall performance.10

Along with Apollo, an equally pioneering application of integrated circuits was the Air Force’s Advanced Minuteman Missile program, which 

was the earliest military use of integrated circuits. The decision to build the 

Apollo guidance computers with integrated circuits preceded the announcement in December 1962 that the Minuteman II missile would incorporate 

integrated circuits. Its guidance and control system used about 3,000 integrated circuits, with almost 2,000 of them going into the computer.11 Jerome 

Kraus, in his 1973 study of the semiconductor industry, characterized the 

Minuteman decision to use integrated circuits as being crucial for promoting 

their commercial use because it meant paying Texas Instruments $1.2 million, Westinghouse $300,000, and RCA $300,000 for integrated circuits. By 

1965, shortly after the first flight of the Minuteman II in September 1964, 

the missile production rate was up to six or seven per week—a schedule that 

called for Texas Instruments, Westinghouse, and RCA to supply more than 

4,000 integrated circuits every week.12 The total number of integrated circuits 

purchased for the Minuteman II is not known, yet one wonders whether the 

Minuteman or Apollo used more of them.

10. Leslie Berlin, The Man Behind the Microchip: Robert Noyce and the Invention of Silicon 

Valley (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), p. 136.

11. Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” p. 210; Donald MacKenzie, Inventing Accuracy: A 

Historical Sociology of Nuclear Missile Guidance (Cambridge: MIT, 1990), pp. 206–207; 

and Roy Neal, Ace in the Hole: The Story of the Minuteman Missile (Garden City, NY: 

Doubleday, 1962).

12. Jerome Kraus, “An Economic Study of the U.S. Semiconductor Industry,” Ph.D. thesis, 

New School for Social Research, 1973, p. 45; and Paul E. Ceruzzi, A History of Modern 

Computing, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2003), p. 187.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 153

More to the point, was the military or NASA a larger consumer of integrated circuits during this crucial period in the history of the integrated circuit? Their relative market shares—and by extension their relative influence 

on the development of the integrated circuit—is not knowable because of 

the organization of the available data. When the Department of Commerce’s 

Business and Defense Services Administration tabulated the quantity and 

dollar value of semiconductors consumed in the United States, it used only 

two categories: “defense” and “non-defense.” Starting in 1959, the “defense” 

category included the Defense Department, the Atomic Energy Commission, 

the Central Intelligence Agency, the Federal Aviation Administration, and 

NASA. Furthermore, errors inevitably crept into the numbers. The administration’s quarterly survey asked manufacturers to indicate whether shipments 

were for defense or nondefense customers, but producers did not know the 

ultimate consumer of their products.13 Despite the difficulties in providing 

a quantitative measure of the relative roles of the military (mostly through 

the Minuteman II) and the civilian space Agency (mainly the Apollo program), the historian Paul E. Ceruzzi has provided a qualitative assessment. He 

wrote, “The current ‘revolution’ in microelectronics thus owes a lot to both 

the Minuteman and the Apollo programs. The Minuteman was first; it used 

integrated circuits in a critical application only a few years after they were 

invented. Apollo took the next and equally critical step; it was designed from 

the start to exploit the advantages of integrated logic.”14

In order to understand better the argument that NASA (or the military 

for that matter) primed the production pump that would cause integrated 

circuits to begin flowing into commercial applications, we first must consider the history of the price paid for microcircuits. Manufacturers, of course, 

had begun producing integrated circuits in 1961, before either the Apollo 

or Minuteman decisions to use them. In 1961, only two companies made 

integrated circuits: Fairchild Semiconductor and Texas Instruments. At first, 

both companies offered integrated circuits to only their military customers, 

but in March 1961, Fairchild introduced a series of six compatible Micrologic 

Elements and began selling them to NASA and commercial clients for $120 

each. By summer, the company was manufacturing hundreds of units per 

week as their unit price dropped below $100 for lots of more than a thousand. In October 1961, Texas Instruments brought out a comprehensive 

array of its Series 51 Solid Circuits and sold them at even lower prices. By the 

end of 1961, Fairchild had sold fewer than $500,000 of its Micrologic devices 

at about $100 apiece. Texas Instruments was having such problems selling 

13. Kraus, “Economic Study of the U.S. Semiconductor Industry,” pp. 89–91.

14. Ceruzzi, History of Modern Computing, p. 188.
154 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

integrated circuits that it cut prices from $435 to $76 in 90 days, but with 

little effect. Integrated circuits bought for the Apollo guidance computer in 

1962 in lots of a thousand or more from Fairchild fell from $31.10 to $20.00 

to $11.25 per unit between May and October, but a purchase of 3,000 in 

April 1963 cost $15.00 each.15

Despite these dramatic price reductions from the 1961 highs, the widespread commercial application of integrated circuits did not take place. As 

Berlin has explained, customers did not object to these prices per se. The 

real issue was their cost compared to the cost of buying the individual components that each integrated circuit virtually contained. That cost often was 

as much as 50 times more than just buying the parts. The size, weight, and 

volume advantages of integrated circuits did not outweigh this cost factor.16

The breakthrough, according to Berlin and historian Christophe Lécuyer, 

took place in the spring of 1964, when Fairchild began selling Micrologic 

flip-flop integrated circuits for less than the cost of the discrete components 

needed to build an equivalent circuit and for less than the manufacturing cost 

of the integrated circuit. The goal of the price cut was to stimulate demand for 

integrated circuits and, consequently, to create a commercial market for them 

by making them cheaper than equivalent circuits made of individual diodes, 

transistors, capacitors, and resistors. The price cuts would lure businesses that 

were more aware of parts prices than military contractors. Lécuyer points out 

additionally that Fairchild already had used this price-cutting approach rather 

effectively in the transistor business just a few years before. By assembling 

components in Hong Kong, Fairchild Semiconductor could lower its transistor prices, which in turn enabled the company to sell them for computer and 

consumer-electronics applications.17

As a result of Fairchild’s bold move, in less than a year the demand for 

microcircuits expanded dramatically, and Fairchild received a single order for 

500,000 integrated circuits—the equivalent, according to Berlin, of 20 percent of the entire industry’s output for the previous year. One year later, in 

1966, computer maker Burroughs placed an order for 20 million integrated 

15. Ernest Braun and Stuart MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature: The History and Impact 

of Semiconductor Electronics (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1978), p. 114; 

Michael Riordan and Lillian Hoddeson, Crystal Fire: The Birth of the Information Age

(New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1997), pp. 271–272; Berlin, Man Behind the 

Microchip, p. 136; and Hall, Journey to the Moon, 17 and 80.

16. Berlin, Man Behind the Microchip, p. 136.

17. Berlin, Man Behind the Microchip, p. 137; and Christophe Lécuyer, Making Silicon Valley: 

Innovation and the Growth of High Tech, 1930–1970 (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2006), 

p. 241. He traces the idea back to Robert Freund, “Competition and Innovation in the 

Transistor Industry,” Ph.D. dissertation, Duke University, 1971.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 155

circuits with Fairchild.18 In comparison to these quantities, the procurements 

of integrated circuits for the Apollo and Minuteman programs seem diminutive. Instead of counting acquisition numbers, Lécuyer and Berlin define 

the takeoff point for the commercialization of integrated circuits as a business decision. The Apollo and Minuteman decisions are clearly not part of 

their argument.

In all of these accounts (and others not mentioned here), NASA’s role 

was limited to that of a consumer of industrial products. Is this an accurate 

portrayal of the Agency’s role? Did NASA, for example, contribute to the 

improvement of manufacturing processes through research and development? 

Kleiman, for one, concludes that as a sponsor of research and development, 

NASA had “the least impact upon the advancement of the IC technology” for 

two reasons: the level of the funding and the nature of the programs being 

sponsored. Looking at funding levels, NASA’s role as a sponsor of integratedcircuit research and development was “insignificant” and “slight” compared 

with that of the Air Force. Holding back the Agency’s ability to have more 

than just a minor impact were its “special and peculiar needs.” NASA put a 

high value on reliability as well as reduced size, low weight, and light power 

consumption. The Armed Forces desired these characteristics to a lesser degree, 

and they were of only slight concern in industrial or consumer applications.19

This chapter hopes to transcend the legend and the literature by taking 

a fresh look at NASA’s Apollo-era electronics research. It begins with background sections on integrated circuits and their societal impact, on the history of the transistor and the integrated circuit, and finally on the rise of the 

integrated-circuit industry.

Background

What Is an Integrated Circuit?

Integrated circuits are tiny electronic devices about one centimeter square 

that contain at least two electronic components (such as transistors, diodes, 

resistors, and capacitors) and the connections required to form a circuit. A 

typical integrated circuit today might contain millions of interconnected 

components. Integrated circuits are manufactured in large batches on a 

wafer traditionally consisting of a slice of pure crystalline silicon. The bestknown example of an integrated circuit, also known as a chip, is the microprocessor that is at the heart of every modern computer. They serve in a 

18. Berlin, Man Behind the Microchip, p. 139.

19. Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” 209.
156 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

spectrum of electronic hardware from computers and cellular phones to digital microwave ovens.

The integrated circuit challenged the rising supremacy of the transistor, 

which, following its invention, began to vie with existing electronic technology—namely the vacuum tube. Because the integrated circuit contained 

multiple components (each the equivalent of a vacuum tube)—plus their 

associated capacitors, resistors, and interconnecting conductors—in a single 

miniature device, the new technology quickly made vacuum tubes obsolescent. Integrated circuits offered small size, reliability, fast-switching speeds, 

low power consumption, mass production capability, and ease of adding 

complexity that exceeded the features and advantages of vacuum tubes and 

eventually transistors as well.

The Societal Importance of Integrated Circuits

The advent and subsequent ubiquity of the integrated circuit have become 

an integral part of what has been called the third industrial revolution.20

Because they are found almost everywhere in electronic devices as well as 

in home appliances (dishwashers, refrigerators), automobiles (airbag sensors, engine management, and controls for doors, lighting, seats, heating, 

air-conditioning, and emissions), cellular telephones, and numerous other 

applications, the integrated circuit has achieved enormous social, economic, 

and technological importance. Their usage in computers as tiny microprocessors made possible tremendous reductions in computer size and cost, which 

consequently made computers far more available for previously unimagined 

uses. The gradual shrinking of computers until they fit in a pocket-size cellular telephone has been just one of the enormous societal impacts of the 

integrated circuit.

Integrated circuits, however, have done more than just solve technological problems; they actually have changed the way that engineers designed 

electrical circuits. As historian Berlin has argued, many engineers, designers, 

and purchasing agents feared that integrated circuits would put them out of 

work, and rightly so. Eventually, the integrated circuit and computer-aided 

design would revolutionize both how electronics engineers performed their 

20. One of the oldest works on the so-called third industrial revolution is G. Harry Stine, 

The Third Industrial Revolution (New York: Putnam, 1975). See also Joseph Finkelstein, 

ed., Windows on a New World: The Third Industrial Revolution (New York: Greenwood 

Press, 1989); Joseph Finkelstein, The American Economy from the Great Crash to the 

Third Industrial Revolution (Arlington Heights, IL: Harlan Davidson, 1992); and 

Jeremy Greenwood, The Third Industrial Revolution: Technology, Productivity, and Income 

Inequality (Washington, DC: AEI Press, 1997).
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 157

jobs and the very nature of electrical engineering education.21 Engineers had 

grown accustomed to creating circuits with a minimum of transistors and 

diodes because they were relatively more expensive than resistors and capacitors. But, as it turned out, transistors and diodes were both smaller and easier 

to put on an integrated circuit than resistors or diodes. The result was that the 

circuits most adaptable to integration were digital circuits, with many transistors performing “yes-no” or “on-off” logic functions. Because these logic 

circuits were fundamental to building computers, the integrated circuit not 

only made truly small computers possible, it actually encouraged engineers to 

look for digital solutions to design problems.22

History

Invention of the Transistor

To understand the history of the integrated circuit, one first must consider 

the invention of the transistor because so many of the techniques developed 

to manufacture transistors were the same techniques used later to fabricate 

integrated circuits. Before the integrated circuit came along, the chief semiconductor products were transistors and diodes. Although solid-state diodes 

were manufactured at least as early as World War II, the semiconductor industry did not begin its rapid development until the invention of the transistor. 

The invention of the transistor, once believed to have had a single point of 

origin, is no longer a straightforward story. Indeed, the pioneer of the transistor appears to have been a professor at the University of Leipzig working well 

before World War II, while investigators in France following the war also have 

an apparently valid claim to the title of inventor of the transistor.23

During the early 1920s, Julius E. Lilienfeld, a Polish-born professor of 

physics at the University of Leipzig, conducted experiments with roentgen 

radiation that contributed to the development of the x-ray tube and collaborated with Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin on the design of hydrogen-filled 

dirigibles. As early as 1926, Lilienfeld had applied for several patents for a 

21. On this point, see John G. Linvill, James B. Angell, and Robert L. Pritchard, “Integrated 

Electronics vs. Electrical Engineering Education,” Proceedings of the IEEE 52, no. 12 

(December 1964): 1425–1429.

22. “The Micro World” in A Century of Electricals: An Exhibit by the IEEE History Center 

(1984), http://www.ieee.org/organizations/history_center/general_info/century_menu.html

(accessed 13 April 2006).

23. Kraus, “Economic Study of the U.S. Semiconductor Industry,” p. 2; and Riordan, “The 

Lost History of the Transistor,” IEEE Spectrum 41, no. 5 (May 2004): 44–49.
158 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

complex device remarkably akin to a transistor,24 a multilayer structure consisting of metallic and semiconductor layers. Whether the device could have 

worked is an interesting question that has cropped up from time to time. 

Lilienfeld, however, appears to have lacked the resources to develop his ideas. 

He became a U.S. citizen after leaving Germany for the Virgin Islands in 

1935, at which time he retired from active research. Still, his patents had an 

impact on future developments, for they hindered the patenting of transistor 

technology by researchers at Bell Telephone Laboratories many years later.25

The invention of the point-contact transistor in 1947 by John Bardeen 

and Walter H. Brattain with William Shockley is a story that has been told 

many times and in many ways. Beginning in the 1930s, researchers at the 

Bell Telephone Laboratories in Murray Hill, New Jersey, started looking for a 

solid-state amplifier to replace the multitude of electromechanical relays that 

formed the backbone of the telephone company’s nationwide network of telephone lines. In the course of that research, Bardeen, Brattain, and Shockley 

jointly discovered the so-called transistor effect while studying the properties 

of the semiconductor germanium. As a result, in 1947, Bardeen and Brattain 

constructed a crude transistor apparatus (a so-called point contact transistor) that demonstrated the transistor effect and earned them the Nobel Prize 

in 1956.26

Bell Telephone Laboratories sent samples of this so-called Type A transistor to military, government, corporate, and university laboratories, while 

Western Electric offered to license all comers for its transistor patents on 

payment of a $25,000 advance royalty, an offer made as government antitrust lawyers filed a suit in 1949 seeking to separate American Telephone 

24. Lilienfeld, “Rectifying Apparatus for Alternating Current,” U.S. Patent #1,611,653, 

filed 27 March 1926, issued 21 December 1926; Lilienfeld, “Method and Apparatus for 

Controlling Electric Currents,” U.S. Patent #1,745,175, filed 8 October 1926, issued 

28 January 1930. Virgil E. Bottom, “Invention of the Solid State Amplifier,” Physics Today

17, no. 2 (February 1964): 24–26, discusses these patents in some detail.

25. “Obituaries: Julius E. Lillienfeld [sic],” Physics Today 16, no. 11 (November 1963): 

104; Bottom, “Invention of the Solid State Amplifier,” p. 24; Braun and MacDonald, 

Revolution in Miniature, pp. 29–30 and 48; G. W. A. Dummer, Electronic Inventions, 

1745–1976, 1st ed. (New York: Pergamon Press, 1977), p. 82; David Morton and Joseph 

Gabriel, Electronics: The Life Story of a Technology (Westport, CN: Greenwood Press, 

2004), p. 26; J. B. Johnson, “More on the Solid State Amplifier and Dr. Lilienfeld,” 

Physics Today 17, no. 5 (May 1964): 60–62; and “Solid State Devices,” Electronic Design

24 (23 November 1972): 72.

26. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 70 and 115–141; Michael Eckert and Helmut 

Schubert, Crystals, Electrons, Transistors: From Scholar’s Study to Industrial Research, translated by Thomas Hughes (New York: American Institute of Physics, 1990), pp. 157–166; 

Morton and Gabriel, Electronics, pp. 27–34; and Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in 

Miniature, pp. 41–42 and 46–48.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 159

& Telegraph from its manufacturing arm—Western Electric—while also 

dealing with the Bell telephone patents.27 The transistor’s technological problem was how to manufacture a more rugged version in large numbers. The 

solution came with the invention of the junction transistor, a more practical 

form of the transistor announced by Bell Telephone Laboratories on 4 July 

1951. It featured many advantages over the point-contact transistor: lower 

power consumption, more efficient signal amplification, and less waste heat. 

Meanwhile, the point-contact transistor went into production at Western 

Electric, and in 1952 it entered service in telephone switching equipment.28

Throughout the 1950s, the company manufactured both point and junction transistors, but junction transistors showed more potential. Bell transistor patents at the same time came under legal and technological fire. The 

Radio Corporation of America (RCA) had a cross-licensing deal in electronics 

with Western Electric. Like Bell, RCA was under a Justice Department investigation that culminated in the filing of an antitrust suit in 1954. RCA—

thanks to its cross-licensing arrangement with Western Electric—offered the 

Bell patents without requiring deposits as advance royalty payments. The Bell 

transistor also faced a technological challenge from John Saby’s fabrication 

of an alloy-junction transistor at General Electric’s Schenectady, New York, 

laboratory in 1951, which RCA quickly adapted for mass production.29

The transistors in question were made out of germanium, not silicon. 

Transistors, diodes, and integrated circuits eventually would be created out 

of silicon, not germanium. Silicon was much harder to work with than germanium because of its higher melting point, higher chemical reactivity, and 

other challenging characteristics. In February 1951, Gordon Teal of Texas 

Instruments achieved a breakthrough when he managed to grow individual 

silicon crystals and form p-n junctions, but he did not succeed in creating 

27. The suit was U.S. v. Western Electric Co. and American Telephone & Telegraph Co., Civil 

Action 17–49, U.S. District Court of New Jersey, 14 January 1949. “Semiconductors,” 

Business Week no. 1595 (26 March 1960): 93; and Kraus, “Economic Study of the U.S. 

Semiconductor Industry,” p. 26.

28. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 168, 169, 170–186 and 192–194; Braun and 

MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 54; and Eckert and Schubert, Crystals, Electrons, 

Transistors, p. 166.

29. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 55; “Semiconductors,” 94; Kraus, 

“Economic Study of the U.S. Semiconductor Industry,” p. 27; and Riordan and 

Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 199–200. Subsequently, in a consent decree of 24 January 

1956, AT&T signed a decree leaving Western Electric in the Bell family but freeing 

the Bell patents issued up to that time to one and all. In 1958, RCA signed a consent 

decree ending the Government suit and releasing nearly all of its existing patents royaltyfree. “Semiconductors,” 94–95; and Kraus, “Economic Study of the U.S. Semiconductor 

Industry,” pp. 27–28.
160 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

silicon transistors until 1954. These became the first commercially available 

grown-junction silicon transistors.30

A key new transistor manufacturing process developed around this time 

by both General Electric and Bell Telephone Laboratories simultaneously was 

the diffusion technique. Later it would be vital to the invention and manufacture of integrated circuits. The diffusion process allowed an impurity to 

diffuse into a semiconductor when they were in a vapor state, and the degree 

of diffusion into the semiconductor could be controlled by regulating the 

furnace time and temperature of the process. The addition of complex photolithographic procedures allowed manufacturers to imprint intricate mask patterns on the semiconductor so that diffusion took place only in the selected 

areas. The resulting transistor performed better at higher frequencies and was 

more reliable.31

Fairchild Semiconductor, Motorola, and Texas Instruments also produced 

transistors using the so-called “mesa” technique developed at Bell Telephone 

Laboratories. The technique was so named because the transistors looked like 

miniature mesas of the American Southwest. It involved etching a tiny plateau (the “mesa”) on the surface of a germanium or silicon wafer. After diffusing a layer or two of dopants just beneath this surface, technicians applied 

a patch of inert material (such as wax) on it and treated the surface with a 

strong acid. The acid dissolved the semiconductor everywhere except under 

the patch. Assemblers attached two fine, closely spaced wires to the top of the 

resulting flat-topped protrusion, and a third lead was fastened to the bottom 

layer.32 The mesa transistor had many advantages in addition to the ease with 

which operators could regulate the thickness of its base region. It worked in 

the high-frequency range. It was rugged. It dissipated heat readily. Because 

one could manufacture them in batches to a degree, they were inexpensive 

to produce. Some serious disadvantages common to transistors remained, 

30. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 207 206–207, 208; David C. Brock, “Useless 

No More: Gordon K. Teal, Germanium, and Single-Crystal Transistors,” Chemical 

Heritage 24, no. 1 (Spring 2006): 33–35; Riordan, “Lost History of the Transistor,” 

pp. 44–49; Dummer, Electronic Inventions, p. 111; Eckert and Schubert, Crystals, 

Electrons, Transistors, pp. 173–174; and Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, 

pp. 62–63.

31. Eckert and Schubert, Crystals, Electrons, Transistors, pp. 178–179; Braun and MacDonald, 

Revolution in Miniature, pp. 63; Ross Knox Bassett, To the Digital Age: Research Labs, 

Start-up Companies, and the Rise of MOS Technology (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins 

University Press, 2002), pp. 146–147; and “Semiconductors,” 96 and 101. 

32. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, pp. 83–84; “Semiconductors,” 101; and 

Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, p. 262.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 161

however. For example, electrical connections still had to be made by hand—a 

procedure that was both slow and expensive.33

To resolve the shortcomings of the mesa technique, Jean Hoerni, one of 

the founders of Fairchild Semiconductor, invented the planar process. The 

word “planar” suggested flatness, in contrast to the mesa’s elevated profile. 

Hoerni suggested creating a protective icing layer of silicon dioxide around 

the transistor. This layer allowed manufacturers to control the dopants that 

reached below the silicon dioxide icing. For instance, it would allow gallium 

to diffuse through the layer while stopping phosphorus and other select dopants. The planar process entailed repeating three basis steps. First, oxidation 

created a mask over the wafer. Next, a photolithographic procedure opened 

up “windows” in selected parts of the oxide layer. Finally, impurities were diffused into the exposed silicon. Operators repeated the sequence so that diffusion layers of impurities could be inserted exactly where needed.34

The planar process worked with silicon but not germanium, which was 

incapable of maintaining a silicon oxide layer. When combined with photolithography—which provided a means for creating extremely fine, delicate patterns with tiny features smaller than one-thousandth of an inch across—the 

planar process offered a wealth of new manufacturing possibilities. As a result, 

by 1963, 30 firms were using the planar process to make silicon transistors or 

integrated circuits.35

Another key transistor fabrication process was epitaxial deposition. 

Developed in 1960 by Bell Telephone Laboratories, it involved depositing a 

single crystal layer using silicon vapor on a crystalline substrate. Components 

could be formed in the deposited silicon by planar diffusion without interfering with the substrate. As a result, the substrate contributed mechanical 

strength to the device without undesirable electrical characteristics. Before 

the advent of epitaxial deposition, the semiconductor industry started with 

a crystal as pure as needed in the initial stage, then added impurities at each 

step in a controlled manner. The new Bell method of manufacturing transistors used single crystals grown from the gas phase with controlled impurity 

levels—that is, the desired impurities were introduced as the silicon crystals 

33. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 84.

34. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, p. 262; Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in 

Miniature, p. 85. Bell Telephone Laboratories had used a silicon layer as a mask, but that 

practice did not prevent diffusion of impurities, such as phosphorus, through the mask 

to the areas presumed to be protected beneath the silicon dioxide. Fairchild discovered 

that when the oxide mask itself contained phosphorus, passivation of lower layers was 

complete. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 85.

35. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, p. 263; Morton and Gabriel, Electronics, p. 77; and 

Bassett, To the Digital Age, p. 147.
162 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

were being formed. It also offered the unique advantage of the ability to grow 

very thin regions of controlled purity.36

One of the most important and pervasive transistor—and, later, integratedcircuit—fabrication processes was photolithography. This multiple-stage process is repeated over and over as many times as necessary to make a given 

transistor or integrated circuit. Essentially, it involves transferring a pattern—an intricate design of minute geometric shapes representing electronic 

components and circuit connections on a template (called a “mask”)—to the 

surface of a silicon wafer. The term “photolithography” combines the concepts and processes of both photography and lithography. Lithography (literally “writing on stone”), a printing process invented by the Bavarian actor 

and playwright Alois Senefelder in 1798, is based on the fundamental fact 

that oil and water repel each other. A lithographer draws or paints designs 

on specially prepared limestone with greasy ink or crayons. When the stone 

is moistened with water, the areas of the stone not covered by ink or crayon 

absorb moisture. Then an oily ink is applied with a roller, and this ink adheres 

only to the drawing because the damp parts of the stone repel the ink. Finally, 

a print is made by pressing paper against the inked drawing.37

Photolithography, as the name implies, combines lithography with the 

technology of photography. This multiple-stage process is repeated as many 

times as necessary to make a given chip. As in lithography, the technique 

transfers a pattern—in this case, an intricate design of minute geometric 

shapes on a template (called a mask)—to the surface of the silicon wafer. 

A different mask might be used each time that the process repeats. The first 

step in photolithography is deposition, in which an insulating layer (usually 

of silicon dioxide) is grown or deposited on the slice of silicon. Its purpose is 

to create a barrier layer on the wafer’s silicon substrate that can be patterned 

to form circuit elements using photolithography. After the formation of this 

silicon-dioxide layer, a chemical called a photoresist is applied to the wafer’s 

surface. The photoresist acts much like the oily crayons and ink (or the water) 

in lithography, depending on whether they are positive or negative.

A positive photoresist is exposed to ultraviolet (UV) light wherever the 

underlying material is to be removed. The ultraviolet light changes the 

chemical structure of the photoresist so that it becomes more soluble in 

the developer. The action of sunlight on photographic emulsion is similar. 

The developer solution then washes away the exposed photoresist, leaving 

36. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 86; Dummer, Electronic Inventions, 

p. 127; and Richard L. Petritz, “Contributions of Material Technology to Semiconductor 

Devices,” Proceedings of the IRE 50, no. 5 (May 1962): 1030–1031.

37. See Wilhelm Weber, A History of Lithography (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1966).
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 163

windows of the bare underlying material. With the use of a positive photoresist, the mask contains an exact copy of the pattern that is to remain on the 

wafer. Negative photoresists operate in just the opposite way. Exposure to 

ultraviolet light causes the negative photoresist to become polymerized and 

consequently more difficult to dissolve. The negative photoresist remains on 

the surface wherever it is exposed, and the developer solution removes only 

the unexposed portions. Negative photoresist masks, as a result, contain the 

inverse (or photographic negative) of the pattern to be transferred. Negative 

photoresists were popular in the early history of integrated circuit processing, 

but positive photoresists gradually became more widely used because they 

offered better control of the process for small geometrical features.

Following the application of the photoresist, the integrated circuit is 

heated in a process called soft-baking. This process is critical because it causes 

the photoresist layer to become photosensitive. Soft-baking for too long or 

for not long enough renders the wafer incapable of being made into a batch 

of integrated circuits. The next step—called mask alignment—is equally 

crucial. A mask (also called a photomask) is a square glass plate with a patterned emulsion of metal film on one side. The mask is aligned with the 

wafer so that the pattern can be transferred onto the wafer surface. Once 

the mask is aligned accurately with the pattern on the wafer’s surface, the 

photoresist is exposed through the pattern on the mask with a high-intensity 

ultraviolet light.

There are three primary exposure methods: contact, proximity, and projection. In contact printing, the photoresist-coated silicon wafer comes into 

physical contact with the glass mask and is exposed to ultraviolet light. 

This physical contact permits very high resolutions—finely detailed circuit designs—but debris trapped between the photoresist and the mask 

can damage the mask and cause defects in the pattern. Proximity printing 

attempts to minimize those defects. It is similar to contact printing except 

that a small gap, 10 to 25 microns wide, is maintained between the wafer and 

the mask during exposure. The gap minimizes (but does not necessarily eliminate) mask damage. However, it yields lower resolutions, with the result that 

fewer components can be placed on a given chip. Projection printing avoids 

mask damage entirely. An image of the pattern on the mask is projected onto 

the resist-coated wafer, which is many centimeters away. To achieve high resolution, only a small portion of the mask is imaged at a time. This small image 

field is scanned over the surface of the wafer. Resolutions can be competitive 

(but not equal to) contact printing.

The final stages of photolithography are development (much like photographic development) followed by hard-baking. This last step is necessary 

to harden the photoresist and to improve adhesion of the photoresist to the 
164 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

wafer surface. The various stages of photolithography are repeated numerous 

times, building up the wafer microscopic layer by microscopic layer, until the 

final integrated circuit design is achieved.

Transistor Industry

Thanks to continual development of fresh manufacturing methods, the 

price of transistors fell throughout the 1950s and 1960s. The transistor that 

Fairchild Semiconductor sold for $150 in February 1958 (the 2N697), for 

example, sold for $28.50 in September 1959 and sold for less than 10 cents 

in the mid-1960s. Simultaneously, the number of transistors sold ballooned. 

Between 1954 and 1956, for instance, 17 million germanium and 11 million silicon transistors were sold in the United States, altogether worth about 

$55 million. In 1957, the 10th anniversary of the invention of the transistor, U.S. production of the device was at 30 million per year, with 5 million being made by Western Electric alone. The average cost had fallen to a 

dollar or two each, and annual sales topped $100 million.38 Data gathered 

by the Electronic Industries Association bears out the dramatic expansion of 

the transistor industry. From 1954 to 1960, the compounded yearly growth 

rate of the transistor business was nearly 100 percent—that is, each year, 

on average, the total revenue from transistor sales nearly doubled. For the 

electronics industry in toto, the rate was only about half that at nearly 50 percent. In 1954, transistors brought in one-eighth the amount derived from 

the sales of diodes and rectifiers, but in 1960 that ratio changed in favor 

of the transistor to about 1.3:1. The change was apparent already in 1959, 

when transistors alone accounted for slightly more than half of the industry’s 

$400 million sales. The electronics industry now was advancing on the back 

of the transistor.39

The number of companies making transistors also increased during the 

1950s, and many formed solely to manufacture transistors. For example, 

William Shockley and Arnold Beckman, the latter already wealthy from 

the manufacture of a pH meter of his invention, formed the Shockley 

Semiconductor Laboratory in February 1956. The next year, eight Shockley 

employees left to set up their own company—Fairchild Semiconductor—

with financing from Fairchild Camera and Instruments of New York City, 

which was winning a growing number of satellite and missile contracts. The 

38. Kraus, “Economic Study of the U.S. Semiconductor Industry,” pp. 153–154; Kleiman, 

“Integrated Circuit,” p. 81; Bassett, To the Digital Age, p. 147; Braun and MacDonald, 

Revolution in Miniature, p. 69; and Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, p. 254.

39. Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” p. 78; and “Semiconductors,” 78.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 165

pattern of employees leaving one company to set up their own repeated 

throughout the semiconductor industry (but especially at Fairchild, giving 

birth to the term “Fairchildren”), multiplying the number of manufacturers. 

In 1951, four companies in the United States made transistors for the commercial market. By 1952, there were 8; by 1953, 15; and by 1956, no fewer 

than 26. In 1953, eight of the companies making transistors had been major 

manufacturers of vacuum tubes: General Electric, RCA, Sylvania, Raytheon, 

Philco, Columbia Broadcasting System (CBS), Tung-Sol, and Westinghouse. 

The remaining seven were Western Electric, Motorola, Texas Instruments, 

and four other new companies founded specifically to make transistors, such 

as Germanium Products.40

The largest consumer of transistors was the Defense Department. 

When Western Electric began manufacturing transistors for Bell Telephone 

Laboratories, the company had four wealthy customers: the three military 

services and AT&T. In 1952, for example, the military purchased almost the 

entire output of 90,000 transistors from Western Electric. These early transistors were very expensive and did not contribute to any kind of electronic 

miracle. The history of the integrated circuit would mirror this early growth 

phase. Even though transistor unit prices were at their highest, manufacturers could count on the military as a reliable customer at prices that would 

not find takers in the civilian sector. The military was an ideal customer for 

transistors under these market conditions because they were concerned more 

with availability, reliability, and technical performance than with price. In 

addition, the armed forces were voracious consumers of transistors. A single 

missile might carry as many as 6,000 of them, and its control equipment 

might contain tens of thousands more.41

Between 1952 and 1964, the Defense Department injected some $50 million into the U.S. semiconductor industry, most of it applied to improve 

production conditions. As early as 1951, to improve the manufacture of transistors, the three services assigned responsibility for overseeing the improvement of military transistor production to the Army’s Signal Corps. The goal 

was to increase the availability of the transistor, reduce its cost, and improve 

its performance and reliability. Thus, most of the defense electronics money 

distributed to industry was in the form of production improvement contracts 

40. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 233–237 and 251–252; Braun and MacDonald, 

Revolution in Miniature, pp. 66–67, 124, and 125; “Transistors: Growing Up Fast,” 

Business Week, 5 February 1955, p. 86; Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” p. 78; and Bassett, 

To the Digital Age, p. 45.

41. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 233–234; Eckert and Schubert, Crystals, 

Electrons, Transistors, pp. 168–169; Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, 

pp. 57 and 79; and “Semiconductors,” 78.
166 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

rather than research and development funds. The first of these contracts were 

signed in 1952 with Western Electric, General Electric, Raytheon, Sylvania, 

and RCA. By the early 1960s, when overproduction was eroding manufacturing prices and profits, the only protection that many firms had was to use 

the extra capacity imposed by the military to manufacture yet more devices, 

compensating for low unit prices by raising supplies.42

With the creation of NASA in 1958, the civilian space Agency soon 

became a significant buyer of transistors. The start of the lunar landing effort 

provided the semiconductor industry with a user whose demands for quality 

as well as quantity resulted in further growth. Still, in 1963 the armed services continued to dominate the transistor marketplace. The greatest demand 

came from the Air Force, followed by NASA; both were concerned particularly with reliability and reducing size and weight. The combined value of 

transistors purchased for aircraft ($22.8 million) and missiles ($20.3 million) 

exceeded the value of transistors bought for space applications ($33.0 million). The military market peaked around 1960, when the armed forces 

consumed nearly half the value of all semiconductor shipments made. But 

although military purchases outdistanced other purchases in dollar amounts, 

they did not represent the largest quantities bought. This discrepancy arose 

from the military’s demand for the newest components and for those that 

would meet rigorous specifications, which would have been the most expensive items available.43

Despite the military’s preponderant position in the transistor and solidstate electronics marketplace, commercial demand for transistors outside of 

AT&T began to build during the middle of the 1950s. The first commercial 

use of transistors, of course, was in such company equipment as rural telephone carrier amplifiers and headset amplifiers for operators. Another early 

application was the transistorized hearing aid, which first appeared in 1952. 

In honor of their namesake, Alexander Graham Bell, a lifelong advocate for 

the hearing impaired, Bell Telephone Laboratories waived the patent royalties 

for these hearing aids. Selling transistors for hearing aids was the application that launched Texas Instruments—future manufacturer and inventor of 

integrated circuits—into the commercial market.44 In 1954, however, that 

firm’s military business was beginning to falter, and Texas Instruments sought 

42. Eckert and Schubert, Crystals, Electrons, Transistors, pp. 168; and Braun and MacDonald, 

Revolution in Miniature, pp. 80, 81, and 94.

43. Kraus, “Economic Study of the U.S. Semiconductor Industry,” p. 6; and Braun and 

MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 91.

44. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 205 and 210–211; and Braun and MacDonald, 

Revolution in Miniature, pp. 54 and 55–56.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 167

a new commercial market for its transistors. Through a joint venture with 

the Regency Division of Industrial Development Engineering Associates 

(IDEA), the Texas-based company entered production of so-called transistor 

radios using germanium components. As a result, the first commercial transistor radio, the Regency TR1, hit the market in October 1954, and Texas 

Instruments subsequently became the main supplier of transistors to the 

major radio manufacturers: Admiral, Motorola, RCA, and Zenith.45

Shortly after the appearance of the transistor radio, new commercial applications for the transistor emerged. In 1954, IBM announced that it would 

no longer use vacuum tubes in its computers. Nonetheless, the first commercial use of semiconductors in computers was probably the Remington 

Rand Univac in 1953. The first completely transistorized general purpose 

digital computer—IBM’s 608—used thousands of transistors, which reduced 

its volume by 50 percent and decreased its power consumption by an impressive 90 percent. Eventually even small computers would have a thousand or 

more transistors. Phonographs, dictating machines, pocket pagers, automobile radios and fuel-injection systems, clocks, watches, toys, and transistorized TV sets soon followed, as did such NASA applications as the Explorer 

and Vanguard satellites.46

The Integrated Circuit

Despite the proliferation of transistor applications and sales, these tiny devices 

still had serious flaws that held back their adoption. Early on, a critical problem was the large number of useless transistors on each wafer—commonly 

about 20 percent of a batch. With time, however, the transistor’s Achilles’ heel 

became apparent. Each transistor had to be connected manually—soldered 

in place—with two or three tiny wires. Other components—diodes, resistors, 

and capacitors—required manual soldering as well. Mistakes, imperfections, 

and electrical shorts inevitably resulted. As long as each part had to be made, 

tested, packed, shipped, unpacked, retested, and connected to other parts, 

45. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 211–213; and Dummer, Electronic Inventions, 

p. 116. The perception of the transistor radio as a Japanese product has persisted nonetheless. Japanese transistor radios began with a company known familiarly as Totsuko 

(Tokyo Tsushin Kogyo), founded in 1946, which manufactured a range of electrical and 

electronic equipment from heating pads to voltmeters for the domestic market. After 

developing their own germanium transistor, the company began selling its own radio 

model under the name Sony. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 214 and 217.

46. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 78; Kraus, “Economic Study of 

the U.S. Semiconductor Industry,” pp. 34–35; Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” p. 79; 

“Semiconductors,” 78; Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, p. 254; and Braun and 

MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 78.
168 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

it would be the sheer individuality of components rather than technical or 

production limitations that would constrain semiconductor improvement. In 

the end, no matter how reliable the individual components were, ultimately 

they were only as reliable as the joints connecting them and the manual methods used for wiring circuits. Of course, the need for interconnections grew 

as circuitry complexity increased, with the result that the chance of failures 

caused by soldering also escalated.47

The solution was the integrated circuit. Integrated circuits perform the 

functions of several discrete components (transistors, diodes, capacitors, resistors) and incorporate all necessary interconnections into a single device. The 

term “monolithic” integrated circuit—common in the 1960s—referred to 

the fabrication of the entire device from a single (“mono”) crystal (“lith”). 

With the invention of the integrated circuit, manufacturers could go from 

batch production of individual components to batch fabrication of entire 

circuits on a single wafer. Even more importantly, microcircuits required no 

postproduction soldering of wires between components.

The invention of the integrated circuit as both a concept and a device 

can be understood only within the context of a larger research framework—

namely, the search for miniaturized electronics that began after World War II 

with the invention of the transistor. Miniaturization subsumed a range of 

technological solutions that sought to make everything smaller, lighter, and 

less hungry for power. Miniaturization meant diminutive light bulbs and 

switches; tiny probes to record a person’s pulse, blood pressure, respiration, 

and temperature; and even little vacuum tubes.48 Throughout the 1950s, 

researchers searched for a variety of solid-state solutions to electronics miniaturization. One of the major contenders was thin-film technology, in which 

deposited films of controlled properties and thickness were used to form multilayer electronic circuit elements such as capacitors and resistors. A limiting 

factor to the technology was the inability to form transistors. The focus of 

the armed services was on manufacturing methods (packaging, automation) 

that yielded prefabricated (prefab) modules. Strictly speaking, they were not 

forerunners to the integrated circuit, whose invention addressed the central 

challenge of the interconnection of solid-state components, but scholars 

nevertheless include them in their histories of that device. Their description, 

therefore, is included in the following discussion of the origins of the integrated circuit.

47. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, pp. 76 and 113; Riordan and Hoddeson, 

Crystal Fire, p. 255.

48. Horace D. Gilbert, “Introduction: Miniaturization as a Concept,” in Horace Gilbert, ed.,

Miniaturization (New York: Reinhold Publishing Corporation, 1961), pp. 1–12.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 169

Military Concepts

One of the oldest of these military programs was the Navy Bureau of 

Aeronautics’ Project Tinkertoy, started in 1950 at the National Bureau of 

Standards. The goal of Project Tinkertoy was the automatic assembly and 

inspection of circuit components in a modular package. Silk-screen printing 

techniques formed resistors and capacitors (but not diodes or transistors) over 

printed wiring on steatite49 ceramic wafers 22 millimeters (7⁄8inch) square and 

1.5 millimeters (1⁄16inch) thick. Four to six of these wafers were automatically 

selected, stacked, and joined mechanically and electrically in a stack. Next, 

machine-soldered riser wires were attached at notches along the sides of each 

wafer. The resulting module generally had a tube socket on the top wafer. 

The program was directed toward high production of electronic equipment, 

and a disproportionate amount of the available funds went toward developing mass-production machinery, leaving a number of technical and reliability 

problems unsolved.50

The Navy had spent almost $5 million on Tinkertoy when the project 

came to a halt upon the disclosure in September 1953 that the entire scheme 

was founded on vacuum tube technology, not transistors. At one point, 

ACF Industries attempted to develop a commercial version of Tinkertoy in 

a program called Compac (for component package) and invested more than 

$1 million of its own money. Although the Tinkertoy modular approach to 

electronics packaging found its way into production items, it faded in the 

late 1950s as the transistor began to replace the vacuum tube. Transistors and 

printed wiring came into widespread use toward the end of the program and 

offered far greater potential volume reduction.51

49. Steatite is a type of soapstone consisting almost entirely of talc as well as a type of ceramic 

material made from soapstone with small amounts of additives and heated into a ceramic 

material. Steatite often has been used as an insulator or encasing for electrical components, but its use to form beads and seals dates back thousands of years.

50. Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” p. 47; Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, p. 255; Jack S. 

Kilby, “Invention of the Integrated Circuit,” IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices ED-23, 

no. 7 (July 1976): 648; Michael F. Wolff, “The Genesis of the Integrated Circuit,” IEEE 

Spectrum 13, no. 8 (August 1976): 45–53, esp. 45; Robert L. Henry and C. C. Rayburn, 

“Mechanized Production of Electronic Equipment,” Electronics 26 (December 1953): 

160–165; Eckert and Schubert, Crystals, Electrons, Transistors, p. 179; and Jack J. Staller 

and Arthur H. Wolfson, “Miniaturization in Computers,” in Gilbert, Miniaturization, 

pp. 157–158.

51. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 107; Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” 

p. 48; “Microelectronics Today,” Electronic Industries 21, no. 12 (December 1962): 92; 

Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” pp. 49–50; Edmund L. Van Deusen, “Electronics Goes 

Modern,” Fortune 51, no. 5 (June 1955): 146; Dummer, Electronic Inventions, pp. 108–109; 

R. L. Goldberg, “Solid State Devices: Packaging and Materials,” Electronic Design 24 (23 

November 1972): 126; and Staller and Wolfson, “Miniaturization in Computers,” pp. 157.
170 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Attempting to retain the good features of the Tinkertoy approach and to 

create a transistorized version of Tinkertoy, the Army’s Signal Corps initiated 

its Micromodule52 program in partnership with RCA. The Micromodule concept was an approach to miniaturization that included transistors along with 

printed circuits, dip soldering, and modular construction. The Micromodule 

program attempted to make connections in a uniform, reliable, massproducible fashion akin to the printed-circuit boards that became commonplace following World War II. Utilizing multiple component logic wafers, 

groups of 12 to 18 wafers were mounted vertically with a thin insulating 

material between them. The Micromodule process combined high-density 

packaging, machine assembly, and modular design. Even more money went 

into the new program—$26 million between 1958 and 1963—with the bulk 

of funding going to the prime contractor, RCA.53

The Micromodule program shifted the emphasis of Tinkertoy from automating to miniaturizing electronics packaging. RCA suggested an approach 

that was similar to Tinkertoy but used smaller wafers that were 310 millimeters square and spaced 10 millimeters apart. RCA encapsulated the assembled 

module with an epoxy resin to increase mechanical strength and to provide 

environmental protection. The company’s idea was based on the use of microelements—extremely small components of uniform size and shape that one 

could combine into tiny modules, each capable of performing a complete 

circuit function (for example, an oscillator, amplifier, or gate) according to it 

circuit design. In turn, one could interconnect the modules in various ways 

to constitute a wide variety of electronic assemblies.54

The Signal Corps promoted its Micromodule process as a standard package. Indeed, it was the first attempt at functional modular replacement—that 

is, the treatment of the entire module as a single component. The Signal 

Corps anticipated that by 1964, a million units per year would be rolling 

52. Alternatively spelled “Micro-Module.”

53. Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” pp. 51–52; Staller and Wolfson, “Miniaturization in 

Computers,” pp. 158–159; Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 107; 

“Microelectronics Today,” p. 93; Kilby, “Invention of the Integrated Circuit,” p. 648; 

Stanley F. Danko, Willie L. Doxey, and J. P. McNaul, “The Micro-Module—A Logical 

Approach to Miniaturization,” Proceedings of the IRE 47 (May 1959): 894–904; George 

F. Senn and Rudolph C. Riehs, “Miniaturization in Communications Equipment,” in 

Gilbert, Miniaturization, pp. 105–106; Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, p. 255; 

Wolff, “Genesis of the Integrated Circuit,” p. 45; Dummer, Electronic Inventions, p. 123; 

and Goldberg, “Solid State Devices,” pp. 126–127.

54. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 107; “Microelectronics Today,” 93; 

Dummer, Electronic Inventions, p. 123; Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” p. 52; and Senn 

and Riehs, “Miniaturization in Communications Equipment,” p. 106.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 171

off production lines. Those hopes did not materialize, however. The project 

ended as ignominiously as its predecessor. Just as they were starting to gain 

popularity in the early 1960s, Micromodules became dinosaurs, overtaken 

by more successful miniaturization techniques. The integrated circuit in particular punctured its chances of achieving sufficient production volume to 

support a competitive price.55

The Air Force was not without its electronics miniaturization program, 

but it started much later. The basic goal of its Molecular Electronics (or 

Molectronics) Program was to rearrange the basic molecular structure of 

materials in a controlled manner to cause the material to perform circuit 

functions. In more practical terms, it initially attempted to create circuits 

from single crystals of solid-state materials—the essential concept behind the 

integrated circuit. But by then the invention of the integrated circuit was history. Nevertheless, the Molecular Electronics program got under way through 

an Air Force contract with Westinghouse Electric, which engaged in molecular electronic research and to that end even formed a Molecular Electronics 

Division located in Elkridge, Maryland. The program succeeded in creating 

an amplifier no larger than a dime by 1960.56

The Air Force was especially interested in reducing the size, weight, and 

power consumption of its electronics, probably more so than the Navy or 

Army. The service also hoped that miniaturization would increase component 

reliability. Still, the greater reliability of small semiconductor components 

remained unproven even by the end of the 1950s. The obvious advantages of 

smaller size—reduced size, weight, and power consumption—were sufficient 

incentives to drive miniaturization, but the possibility of greater reliability 

at no greater cost made doubly sure that the miniaturization movement was 

self-sustaining.57 Of all the military miniaturization efforts, that of the Air 

Force most closely resembled (and actually morphed into) integrated circuit 

55. Dummer, Electronic Inventions, p. 123; Goldberg, “Solid State Devices,” pp. 126–127; 

Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 107; and Kleiman, “Integrated 

Circuit,” pp. 51–55.

56. Staller and Wolfson, “Miniaturization in Computers,” pp. 116 and 119; Riordan and 

Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, p. 255; Kilby, “Invention of the Integrated Circuit,” pp. 649–

650; and Smithsonian Science Service, “Molecular Electronic Amplifier Smaller than a 

Dime,” 22 January 1960, http://americanhistory.si.edu/collections/scienceservice/052092.htm

(accessed 13 April 2006).

57. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, pp. 103–104; Kleiman, “Integrated 

Circuit,” pp. 115–119; Dummer, “Miniaturization and Micro-Miniaturization,” Wireless 

World 65 (1959): 545–549; and L. J. Ward, “Microminiaturization,” Journal of the 

Institute of Electronic Engineers 8 (1962): 200.
172 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

technology. The Air Force’s Molecular Electronics work lived on,58 and today 

it is a nanotechnology program funded largely through the Defense Sciences 

Office of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA).59

Geoffrey W. A. Dummer

The earliest formulation of the integrated-circuit idea, however, came from 

not the Pentagon but Geoffrey W. A. Dummer, who worked for the United 

Kingdom’s Royal Radar Establishment at Malvern, England, founded in 1940 

as the Telecommunications Research Establishment to develop radar applications for the Royal Air Force.60 On 5 May 1952, in a talk he gave at a symposium sponsored by the Institute of Radio Engineers (IRE) in Washington, 

DC, Dummer described the concept of the integrated circuit. He declared, 

“With the advent of the transistor and the work in semiconductors generally, 

it seems now possible to envisage electronic equipment in a solid block with 

no connecting wires. The block may consist of layers of insulating, conducting, rectifying and amplifying materials, the electrical functions being connected directly by cutting out areas of the various layers.”61

58. One of the most recent and useful works on the subject is Gianaurelio Cuniberti, Giorgas 

Fagas, and Klaus Richter, eds., Introducing Molecular Electronics (New York: Springer, 

2005). Many of the earliest books on molecular electronics appeared during the 1980s, as 

the field evolved toward nanotechnology. See, for instance, Forrest L. Carter, ed., Molecular 

Electronic Devices (New York: M. Dekker, 1982); Forrest L. Carter, ed., Molecular Electronic 

Devices II (New York: M. Dekker, 1987); Forrest L. Carter, ed., Molecular Electronics: 

Beyond the Silicon Chip, 1st ed. (Fort Lee, NJ: Technical Insights, 1983); Forrest L. Carter, 

ed., Molecular Electronics: Beyond the Silicon Chip, 2nd ed. (Fort Lee, NJ: Technical Insights, 

1985); and Felix T. Hong, Molecular Electronics: Biosensors and Biocomputers (New York: 

Plenum Press, 1989). The pace of publication (and research) picked up during the 1990s. 

Some examples are Pavel I. Lazarev, ed., Molecular Electronics: Materials and Methods

(Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1991); Geoffrey J. Ashwell, ed., Molecular Electronics

(New York: Wiley, 1992); Kristof Sienicki, ed., Molecular Electronics and Molecular 

Electronic Devices (Boca Raton, FL: CRC Press, 1993); Michael C. Petty, Martin R. Bryce, 

and David Bloor, An Introduction to Molecular Electronics (New York: Oxford University 

Press, 1995); J. Jortner and M. Ratner, eds., Molecular Electronics (Malden, MA: Blackwell 

Science, 1997); and Ari Aviram and Mark Ratner, eds., Molecular Electronics: Science and 

Technology (New York: New York Academy of Sciences, 1998).

59. “Molectronics: Overview,” http://www.darpa.mil/mto/mole/ (accessed 23 May 2006).

60. D. H. Tomlin, “The RSRE (Royal Signals & Radar Establishment): A Brief History from 

Earliest Times to Present Day,” IEE Review 34 (1988): 403–407.

61. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 255–256; Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in 

Miniature, pp. 108; Morton and Gabriel, Electronics, p. 76; Dummer, Electronic Inventions, 

p. 109; Dummer, “Solid Circuits: Glimpses into the Future at Malvern Components 

Symposium,” Wireless World 63, no. 11 (November 1957): 516–517; Dummer, “A History 

of Microelectronics Development at the Royal Radar Establishment,” Microelectronics and 

Reliability 4, no. 2 (1965): 194–195; Dummer, “Integrated Electronics Development in 
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 173

Five years later, Dummer convinced his superiors at the Royal Radar 

Establishment to award a contract to the Plessey Company to pursue this 

concept. The result was a metal model that demonstrated how a transistorized 

switching circuit (known as a “flip-flop”) used in computers and other applications might be fashioned from silicon crystals. The device was placed on 

display during the September 1957 International Components Symposium 

held at the Royal Radar Establishment. The flip-flop circuit, contained within 

a tiny piece of silicon approximately 1⁄4 inch (about 6.35 millimeters) square 

by 1⁄8 inch (3.2 millimeters) thick, consisted of four transistors, seven resistors, and three capacitors. The silicon had various sections removed to leave 

thin bridges of material (about 2 centimeters long by 1⁄2 millimeter square) 

with relatively high resistances (around 1,000 ohms [Ω]). Other resistors 

were created by depositing films of resistive material on the surface of the 

silicon, while capacitors were made in a similar manner from thin layers of 

evaporated or plated gold with insulators between them.62

In addition, Dummer managed to convince his employer to place a contract with the Plessey Company in April 1957 for the development of a model 

demonstrating the technique of shaping silicon crystals to control their resistance. This device, too, was on display at the symposium as an illustration of 

the possibilities of solid-circuit techniques. Despite this success in demonstrating the concept, the British government was not forthcoming with additional developmental funding. Consequently, Dummer’s work on conceiving 

and developing the integrated circuit was “quietly shelved.”63

Jack Kilby and Robert Noyce

Jack S. Kilby of Texas Instruments is a long-acknowledged inventor of the 

integrated circuit, but the idea that sparked his work hardly predated that of 

Dummer. On 24 July 1958, Kilby, a recent hire at Texas Instruments, while 

the United Kingdom and Western Europe,” Proceedings of the IEEE 52, no. 12 (December 

1964): 1412–1425.

62. Dummer, “A Review of British Work on Microminiaturization Techniques,” in Electronics 

Reliability and Microminiaturization, vol. 1 (New York: Pergamon Press, 1962), pp. 39–41; 

Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 108; Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal 

Fire, p. 256; Wolff, “Genesis of the Integrated Circuit,” p. 45; Dummer, “A History of 

Microelectronics Development,” p. 195; Dummer, “Solid Circuits: Glimpses into the 

Future at Malvern Components Symposium,” Wireless World 63, no. 11 (November 

1957): 516; and Dummer, “Integrated Electronics Development,” p. 1415.

63. Dummer, “A History of Microelectronics Development,” p. 195; Dummer, “Solid 

Circuits: Glimpses into the Future at Malvern Components Symposium,” p. 516; 

Dummer, “Integrated Electronics Development,” p. 1415; and Braun and MacDonald, 

Revolution in Miniature, p. 108.
174 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

working in the miniaturization laboratory, wrote in his laboratory notebook 

that if circuit elements such as transistors, resistors, and capacitors could be 

made of the same material, they could be included in a single integrated circuit. By 12 September 1958, he had built a simple oscillator integrated circuit 

with five components that were not connected by wires. On 6 February 1959, 

Texas Instruments, on behalf of Kilby, sought a patent for the invention, 

and on 23 June 1964, it received U.S. patent # 3,138,743 for “miniaturized 

electronic circuits.” The patent showed a circuit with only two transistors, 

but also with resistors and two capacitors. After building a prototype device, 

Kilby began work on fabricating more of them using photolithography.64 His 

invention subsequently was considered to have been of such value and importance that in 2000, he shared the Nobel Prize in physics for “his part in the 

invention of the integrated circuit.”65

All the same, though, Kilby’s initial integrated circuit was a kludge. Its 

most serious drawback was the need for individual gold wires to connect 

the components, thereby making the concept difficult to scale up to any 

useful complexity. Meanwhile, Robert N. Noyce, a founder of Fairchild 

Semiconductor, was thinking about new uses for the planar process. Where 

Kilby and Dummer had focused on making different components (diodes, 

transistors, resistors) from the same material, Noyce focused on the electrical connections. Instead of wires manually soldered in place, the company 

would use photolithography to deposit fine lines of metal, such as aluminum. The narrow metal lines running atop the protective glass layer would 

be insulated completely from the electrical activity taking place just beneath 

it. Finally, in a separate fabrication step, one could insert external contact 

wires through tiny holes in the silicon-dioxide layer. The next step would be 

to create multiple devices inside the silicon slice and link them together in 

a single miniature circuit.66 With this new process, one could manufacture 

64. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 256–261; Braun and MacDonald, Revolution 

in Miniature, pp. 102–103; Morton and Gabriel, Electronics, p. 77; Kilby, “Invention of 

the Integrated Circuit,” pp. 650–651; Eckert and Schubert, Crystals, Electrons, Transistors, 

pp. 180–181.

65. The prize acknowledged those whose work was fundamental to modern information 

technology, especially high-speed transistors, laser diodes, and integrated circuits. Kilby 

received one half of the prize money, while the other half was shared by Zhores I. Alferov 

and Herbert Kroemer “for developing semiconductor heterostructures used in highspeed- and opto-electronics.” “Jack St. Clair Kilby (1923–2005): Engineering Monolith,” 

IEEE Spectrum 42, no. 8 (August 2005): 10.

66. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, pp. 263–264; Morton and Gabriel, Electronics, 

p. 77; Bassett, To the Digital Age, p. 46; and Eckert and Schubert, Crystals, Electrons, 

Transistors, pp. 181–183.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 175

hundreds of self-contained circuits—indeed, entire electronic devices—on 

just one silicon wafer.

Knowing that Texas Instruments already had filed for a patent, but not 

knowing its contents, Fairchild Semiconductor began drawing up its own 

patent papers. Their strategy was to focus on a detailed technical description 

that concentrated on the use of the company’s planar techniques to make 

monolithic integrated circuits.67 On July 30, 1959, Fairchild’s attorneys 

filed for their “Semiconductor device-and-lead structure,” and the company 

received U.S. Patent # 2,981,877 on 25 April 1961. That patent showed a 

circuit consisting of only one transistor plus two diodes, two capacitors, and 

four resistors.

Development of the IC Industry

The integrated circuit, like the transistor before it, eventually drove the electronics industry to new heights and changed the very geography of the semiconductor industry. In the early 1950s, the East Coast was the heart of the 

semiconductor business because that was the location of the existing large 

electronics corporations. Later that decade, as many small firms burst into 

the market, the industry remained centered there but coalesced in those areas 

that best suited the new industry’s demands. Long Island and the Boston 

region, especially around the Route 128 ring road, proved most attractive to 

new companies, and one still can find many semiconductor businesses there. 

A second major electronics hub grew up in the Santa Clara Valley south of 

San Francisco, the location of both Shockley Semiconductor and Fairchild 

Semiconductor. The manufacture of integrated circuits above all else was the 

driving force behind the creation of this new West Coast electronics center. 

By 1969, no fewer than 25 semiconductor firms were located there within a 

few miles of each other.68 The rise of the nation’s second semiconductor hub 

was under way.69

The semiconductor industry proved to be no place for large, established 

firms, especially those that had been engaged in making vacuum tubes. 

During the early and mid-1950s, a handful of large, established electronics firms dominated the semiconductor industry. Their position eroded 

rapidly as new companies entered the business. By the end of the 1950s, 

67. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, p. 264.

68. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, pp. 123–124.

69. The reader will understand that the positing of these two semiconductor manufacturing 

regions does not ignore the presence of isolated but essential manufacturers in outlying areas, such as Texas Instruments in Dallas and Motorola’s semiconductor division in 

Phoenix. These exceptions, in fact, prove the rule.
176 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

when dozens of firms were in the semiconductor business, the market leaders were no longer the old established companies but rather the new ones. 

In 1960, in fact, the nation’s two largest transistor manufacturers were Texas 

Instruments and Transitron Electronic Corporation, neither of which had 

ever manufactured a tube.70 Established electronics companies, such as 

Motorola and Westinghouse, desperately tried to catch up with Fairchild 

Semiconductor and Texas Instruments, the pioneers of integrated-circuit 

technology. One company, Teledyne, in its attempt to compete in the new 

market, lured key employees from Fairchild in 1961 to start Amelco, a subsidiary devoted to making integrated circuits. Still, in 1971, the top five 

companies were IBM, Texas Instruments, Motorola, Western Electric, and 

Fairchild Semiconductor—not one of which had been a leader in the commercial semiconductor market in the mid-1950s.71

The first integrated circuits were expensive. As a result, the sales pattern 

of the integrated circuit replicated that of the transistor. The first customers 

again were the armed forces, followed this time by the civilian space Agency. 

One of the first applications was in a small working computer that Texas 

Instruments delivered to the Air Force in October 1960. It had a few hundred bits of solid-state memory. NASA, for its part, purportedly supported 

a portion of the Texas Instruments effort to develop the so-called Series 51 

computer. In 1962, the company received a large contract to design and 

build a family of 22 special circuits for the Minuteman II missile. Meanwhile, 

Fairchild Semiconductor entered into mass production (a relative term) of its 

chips in 1961 and 1962, and it won substantial contracts from NASA and a 

number of commercial equipment makers.72

To understand the rising importance of the integrated circuit, one can 

compare shipments of integrated circuits and shipments of transistors from 

1963 to 1971. In 1963, 302.9 million transistors were shipped versus only 

4.5 million integrated circuits. The number of transistors shipped rose over 

this period to a high of 1,249.1 million in 1969 then began to decline, while 

the number of integrated circuits shipped increased far more steadily, reaching 635.2 million in 1971 compared with 880.7 million transistors in the 

70. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 122; “Semiconductors,” 83. Leo 

and David Bakalar were the founders and primary (87 percent) owners of Transitron, 

located in Wakefield, Mass., and founded in 1952. William B. Harris, “The Company 

That Started with a Gold Whisker,” Fortune 60 (August 1959): 98–101; Braun and 

MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, pp. 110 and 122; Eckert and Schubert, Crystals, 

Electrons, Transistors, pp. 174.

71. Riordan and Hoddeson, Crystal Fire, p. 273; “Semiconductors,” 74; and Braun and 

MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 123.

72. Kilby, “Invention of the Integrated Circuit,” p. 653; and Hall, Journey to the Moon, 141.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 177

same year. These numbers are more impressive when one considers the transistors integrated into microcircuits compared to the total number of individual transistors shipped. The percentage of transistors in integrated circuits, 

only 10.4 percent in 1963, skyrocketed to 94.5 percent in 1971.73 At the 

same time, both the average price of integrated circuits and the percentage 

of integrated circuits purchased by the military fell. Advances in fabrication 

techniques brought down integrated-circuit prices throughout the 1960s. 

Units sold in 1962 cost $100 for small lots and $50 for larger quantities, but 

integrated circuits in 1975 went for a mere 80 cents each. When unit prices 

were the highest, the armed services bought the largest quantities of integrated circuits. According to one source, the Defense Department accounted 

for 100 percent of all integrated circuits purchased in 1962 and 94 percent in 

1963, but that portion slipped to 72 percent in 1965 and only 37 percent in 

1968 as commercial orders rose.74

The first commercial application of the integrated circuit (as had been 

the case for the transistor) was in hearing aids beginning in December 1963. 

Other new nonmilitary uses followed, particularly in computers and space 

applications. Shortly after Fairchild introduced a series of six compatible 

Micrologic Elements and began selling them to NASA and others in March 

1961, a new market for integrated circuits opened up when, only two months 

later, President John Kennedy announced on 25 May 1961 that the United 

States intended to put an astronaut on the Moon by the end of the decade. 

NASA engineers, already concerned about every gram of weight on their 

spacecraft, welcomed the integrated circuit for use in the computer, communication, and other electronic systems required for human spaceflight.75

If the integrated circuit replicated the history of the transistor in many 

ways, it was unquestionably unique in one way. Unlike the transistor, the 

integrated circuit consisted of not one component but many. And the number 

of components that one could fit on a single integrated circuited kept growing. The devices made for computers in 1962 had two to four logic “gates” 

per unit, but those produced in 1975 featured more than 2,000 gates (the 

equivalent of 4,000 bits of memory) each. In addition, the number of integrated circuits that one could manufacture in a single batch grew as the size 

of silicon wafers expanded to 1 inch in 1964 and to 1.5 inches in 1966.76 The 

73. Kraus, “Economic Study of the U.S. Semiconductor Industry,” pp. 80 and 209; and 

Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 112.

74. Kilby, “Invention of the Integrated Circuit,” p. 653; and Braun and MacDonald, 

Revolution in Miniature, p. 113.

75. Braun and MacDonald, Revolution in Miniature, p. 105; and Riordan and Hoddeson, 

Crystal Fire, pp. 271–272.

76. Kilby, “Invention of the Integrated Circuit,” p. 653.
178 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

giddy excitement generated by these and other key advances in integrated 

circuit fabrication undoubtedly induced Gordon Moore, director of research 

and development at Fairchild Semiconductor, to write his famous 1965 

paper titled “Cramming More Components onto Integrated Circuits.” In the 

paper, Moore observed, “The complexity for minimum component cost has 

increased at a rate of roughly a factor of two per year.” The observation, now 

known as Moore’s law, subsequently evolved into the rule that the number of 

components contained on an integrated circuit doubles every year.77

Electronics and NASA

The Challenges

Clearly, NASA had a more than passing interest in integrated circuits. The 

Agency was a major consumer of electronics of all kinds; they were as central 

to the Agency’s mission as launchers. As NASA became involved in supersonic 

transport; satellites for meteorology, navigation, and communication; and 

human spaceflight, the rockets to launch those payloads—and the Mercury, 

Gemini, and Apollo spacecraft themselves—depended massively on electronics. Indeed, electronics were indispensable to all of the Agency’s programs. 

As NASA Administrator James E. Webb explained to an audience in 1964: 

“Our accomplishments in space have stemmed from two principal sources: 

the first, of course, is the modern rocket...; the second—whose importance 

must not be forgotten—is modern electronics. This combination has given us 

a tool whose boundaries are essentially unlimited, except for the finite imaginations of the users.”78 Electronics costs represented a substantial portion of 

NASA’s outlays. “Electronics components,” Webb told Congress, “account 

for over 40 per cent [sic] of the cost of our boosters, over 70 per cent of the 

cost of our spacecraft, and over 90 per cent of the cost of the resources going 

to tracking and data acquisition.”79 These same electronics also played a crucial part in enabling the United States to compete with its Cold War rival the 

Soviet Union in the arenas of both military struggle and international affairs 

and prestige.

77. Gordon E. Moore, “Cramming More Components onto Integrated Circuits,” Electronics

38, no. 8 (April 1965): 114–117.

78. James E. Webb, “Electronics in the Space Age,” address to the National Electronics 

Conference, Chicago, IL, 19 October 1964, pp. 6–7, Folder 3937, NASA Historical 

Reference Collection, NASA History Division, Washington, DC (hereafter, NHRC).

79. James E. Webb to George P. Miller, Chairman, Committee on Science and Astronautics, 

House of Representatives, 21 March 1963, Folder 4884, NHRC.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 179

It was common knowledge that the United States did not possess the large 

boosters used by the Soviet Union to launch their bigger, heavier satellites. 

Thanks to its superior launchers, between 1957 and 1965 the Soviet Union 

piled up one accomplishment after another in space. Miniaturization made it 

possible for the United States to deliver satellites into space that were lighter 

in weight than Soviet satellites. Reduced size, weight, and power requirements 

also were becoming increasingly vital in developing new weapon systems. 

Every pound of missile weight shaved off through miniaturization meant 

greater range, more economical use of fuel, and, in certain cases, heavier payloads. By one estimation, for every pound of weight eliminated, one could 

reduce a missile’s fuel load by 100 pounds. Moreover, the extremely high 

ratio of total vehicle weight to useful payload weight for U.S. launchers in 

1960 was greater than 1,000 to 1, making weight reduction a top priority. 

Electronics also made missiles more accurate. For example, the United States 

needed fewer Minuteman I missiles because its microelectronics significantly 

increased their accuracy.80

The public exhibition of a Sputnik spacecraft at the 1958 Brussels World’s 

Fair (also known as Expo ’58) revealed the backward state of Soviet spacecraft electronics by U.S. standards—or at least provided an opportunity for 

U.S. engineers and managers to disparage Soviet accomplishments. The satellite might have contained some semiconductors, U.S. observers conjectured; 

vacuum tubes were more common in Soviet spacecraft. Many of the Sputnik 

components displayed appeared large and roughly comparable to commercial 

components available in the United States a decade earlier. Moreover, the 

same observers remarked on the extensive use of hand-wiring and the “awkward” character of Sputnik assembly techniques compared with those found 

on U.S. satellites.81

Whether expressed as a “missile gap” or a “space race,” electronics established itself as the sine qua non for defense and space. Electronics provided the weight that counterbalanced the Soviet Union’s lead in heavy-lift 

launchers. But electronics also was the deadweight that held back launch 

80. Olin B. King, “Miniaturization in Missiles and Satellites,” in Gilbert, Miniaturization, 

pp. 58–59; J. D. Hunley, ed., The Birth of NASA: The Diary of T. Keith Glennan 

(Washington, DC: NASA SP-4105, 1993), pp. 23, 31–32 and 40; Roger D. Launius, 

“Introduction,” in Roger Launius and Dennis R. Jenkins, eds., To Reach the High Frontier: 

A History of U.S. Launch Vehicles (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2002), p. 8; 

Gilbert, “Introduction,” pp. 1–3; and Jeffrey Zygmont, Microchip: An Idea, Its Genesis, 

and the Revolution It Created (Cambridge, MA: Perseus, 2003), p. 72.

81. King, “Miniaturization in Missiles and Satellites,” p. 59. In his discussion of the design 

of Sputnik I, Asif A. Siddiqi, Challenge to Apollo: The Soviet Union and the Space Race, 

1945–1974 (Washington, DC: NASA SP-4408, 2000), pp. 161–164, does not mention 

anything about the electronics hardware.
180 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

successes. “A vast majority of our flight failures, not to mention flight delays,” 

Administrator Webb apologetically told a reporter, “arise from electronic 

failures.” Moreover, that the highest percentage of flight failures occurred 

because of electronic components was a “well advertised” fact, according to 

Albert J. Kelley, who was head of the Electronics and Control Directorate at 

NASA Headquarters.82 Kelley knew firsthand how a diode—a small, inexpensive solid-state part—could ruin a mission because he was head of the 1962 

Ranger Board of Inquiry that investigated the failure of Ranger 5. The spacecraft, which was to photograph the lunar surface, instead entered an orbit 

around the Sun. The Kelley board found over a half-dozen problems with the 

Ranger program, and a major program shakeup as well as a postponement 

of the launches of Rangers 6 through 9 resulted. Later, in September 1963, 

as Ranger 6 began its final round of qualifying tests at the Jet Propulsion 

Laboratory, a new problem—discovered by the Lewis Research Center—

derailed all launch plans. Short circuits had led to two acute test failures in the 

General Electric guidance components. Loose gold flakes in certain diodes 

were at fault, and hundreds of the same diodes had already been installed in 

Rangers 6 and 7.83

A new investigation determined that the incidence of gold-flake contamination was so high that most equipment containing it was unsuitable for 

flight. The flaking originated from poorly bonded excess gold cement at the 

attachment of a silicon wafer that supported the post inside the diode. The 

only fix was to replace all the suspect diodes (purchased from Continental 

Devices) and to postpone the flights of Ranger 6 and Ranger 7 until all the 

diodes had been replaced. The “famous and troublesome diodes” escaped 

detection because system and environmental testing could not measure the 

reverse-current resistance of every diode continuously. If a temporary short 

happened while forward voltage was applied, no measurable effect resulted. 

Of course, no tests could simulate the zero gravity of outer space, where the 

gold flakes would float inside the diodes.84

82. C. Wendel, “Blame Electronics for Space Failures,” Electronic News (25 May 1964): 1; 

NASA Headquarters, Space Vehicles, Electronics, and Control Research Program Review, 

March 9, 1963 (Washington, DC: NASA Office of Programs, 1963), p. 132. Hereafter, 

1963 Program Review.

83. All previous Ranger mishaps were the result of electronics failures: the Agena second 

stage shut down prematurely on Ranger 1 and Ranger 2; on Ranger 3, the radio command system of the Atlas rocket malfunctioned and the Ranger’s digital sequencer failed, 

as it did on Ranger 4 as well. R. Cargill Hall, Lunar Impact: A History of Project Ranger 

(Washington, DC: NASA SP-4210, 1977), pp. 173–176, 185–186 and 197.

84. Hall, Lunar Impact, p. 197; NASA Headquarters, Electronics & Control Program Review, 

February 29, 1964 (Washington, DC: NASA Office of Programming, 1964), p. 31. 

Hereafter, 1964 Program Review.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 181

NASA Headquarters, and Kelley’s Electronics and Control Directorate in 

particular, found the diode setback of interest for two reasons: it highlighted 

the need for both future research and better component standards. The 

Agency required “common electronics performance standards which can be 

applied by all.” By measuring newly developed components against adequate 

standards, NASA could create a list of qualified parts that the entire Agency 

would use, instead of qualifying parts for each and every project. Headquarters 

viewed standardization as an important factor in achieving component reliability, too.85 Electronics breakdowns were serious setbacks in the country’s 

efforts to compete against the Soviet Union in both the Cold War and the 

Space Race, just as electronics (especially miniaturization) was looked to as 

the technological means for bridging the launch-weight capability disparity 

between the two powers. Coincidentally, a new technology emerged—at the 

same time as the civilian space Agency—that revolutionized electronics by 

furnishing a new and more efficacious method for achieving miniaturization. 

That technology was the integrated circuit. Sharing equally in the microelectronics spotlight were thin films, an older technology that involved depositing material on a ceramic or glass substrate to form resistors and capacitors, 

and hybrids that combined thin-film and integrated-circuit technologies.86

NASA planned to make extensive use of microelectronics technologies, 

which, Al Kelley noted, were having “a very, very significant impact on all 

the component technology.”87 A survey of NASA centers conducted during 

the summer of 1965 indicated that by 1970, an estimated 70 percent of all 

NASA spacecraft electronics hardware “would be buil[t] in microelectronic 

form.”88 Already the Apollo Navigation and Guidance computer was using 

150,000 microcircuits, and the Agency foresaw its more complex spacecraft 

eventually using microcircuits “by the hundreds of thousands.”89 Integrated 

circuits were attractive to NASA for a number of reasons. For one, they incorporated transistors and diodes, unlike thin-film applications. They also were 

smaller, cheaper, more reliable, and less power-hungry than vacuum tubes. 

One of the biggest drawbacks of integrated circuits, however, was their basic 

85. 1964 Program Review, p. 31; 1963 Program Review, pp. 132 and 134.

86. ARINC Research Corporation, Microelectronic Device Data Handbook, vol. 1 

(Washington, DC: NASA, July 1968), pp. 2-1, 2-2, 2-16, 2-17, 2-55, 2-56, 2-57.

87. 1963 Program Review, p. 134.

88. NASA Headquarters, Electronic Systems Program Review, March 22, 1966 (Washington, 

DC: NASA Office of Program and Special Reports, 1966), p. 49. Hereafter, 1966 Program 

Review.

89. NASA Headquarters, Electronic Systems Program Review, April 27, 1965 (Washington, 

DC: NASA Office of Program and Special Reports, 1965), p. 5. Hereafter, 1965 Program 

Review.
182 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

incompatibility with conditions encountered in space, such as the long times 

that electronic systems had to operate unattended or such physical stresses 

as radiation (which distorted silicon’s crystal structure) and temperature 

extremes.90 Silicon integrated circuits, for example, were not qualified to operate at temperatures higher than 150 degrees centigrade. No suitable substitute 

material for silicon was available, but alternate technologies were promising, 

including thin-film technology (with transistors added in somehow), integrated circuits made from new materials, and even vacuum “microtubes.”91

Integrated circuitry was reducing packaged electronics to the size of a 

“speck” and changing the way NASA was thinking about how it designed 

things. “We can no longer get off the shelf and put together any components we want,” Al Kelley explained. “We have to plan in advance what the 

integrated circuit will be. In one of the simplest circuits you can think of, 

with, say, three elements, there are ten billion combinations that you can put 

together.”92 The solution, again, was standardization. By creating standardized integrated circuits, one could minimize the number of microcircuits that 

NASA would have to build “so we can get some kind of uses out of them at 

reasonable costs.”93

A critical barrier to using integrated circuits was the manufacturing process. Only a small portion of the integrated circuits fabricated on a wafer were 

suitable for NASA’s demanding requirements. To begin with, 25 percent of 

the devices on a completed wafer were unusable for any purpose. Further 

handling of the wafer damaged another 25 percent. In fact, handling and 

assembling electronic devices were major sources of electronics failures in 

general. Of the remaining integrated circuits, another 25 percent were suitable for low-quality commercial applications, 15 percent were good enough 

for high-quality industrial or military uses, and only 10 percent were usable 

in aerospace applications.94 These percentages indicated that if NASA were 

to increase its use of integrated circuits dramatically, the Agency would have 

to learn how to improve integrated-circuit fabrication processes, just as the 

diode debacle had demonstrated the need for standardization and research 

90. NASA Headquarters, Space Vehicles, Electronics, and Control Research Program Review, 

March 9, 1963 (Washington, DC: NASA Office of Programs, 1963), p. 132. Hereafter, 

1963 Program Review.

91. NASA Headquarters, Electronic Systems Program Review, February 14, 1967 (Washington, 

DC: NASA Office of Program and Special Reports, 1967), p. 24. Hereafter, 1967 

Program Review.

92. NASA Headquarters, Space Vehicles, Electronics, and Control Research Program Review, 

March 9, 1963 (Washington, DC: NASA Office of Programs, 1963), p. 134.

93. 1963 Program Review, pp. 134–135.

94. 1963 Program Review, 31; and 1967 Program Review, 20.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 183

(especially in new testing methods). Above all else, the Agency needed reliable 

solid-state electronics.

NASA Electronics Research

NASA did not lack for electronics research personnel or facilities or programs. At Headquarters, electronics research was the concern of the Office 

of Advanced Research and Technology (OART). That office, however, did 

not have a separate electronics division until the Agency’s 1 November 1961 

reorganization. The formation of the office was less a response to President 

John Kennedy’s 25 May 1961 mandate to land an astronaut on the Moon 

by the end of the decade than a consequence of the arrival of the new NASA 

Administrator, James Webb.95 The charter of the new Electronics and Control 

Directorate, according to its director, Albert Kelley, was, “Get NASA into its 

proper role in space electronics research.” The directorate itself was “a oneman operation to start,” according to Kelley, “with essentially the instructions 

to get NASA into the electronics business.” After a year, the staff size grew to 

35 members.96

Funding for electronics research expanded, too. Between 1963 and 1967, 

the electronics research and development portion of the OART budget 

increased from 6.3 percent to 12.5 percent, while the office’s overall budget 

remained at about the same level. The Agency’s spending on just microcircuit 

research in 1963 was at an annual rate of about $1 million,97 and in 1964, for 

the first time, NASA’s funding of integrated-circuit research surpassed that of 

the Army and Navy.98

These numbers tell only part of the story. Additional electronics funding came out of the budgets of other Headquarters organizations, such as 

the Office of Space Science and Applications, as well as the various centers. 

Each center had its own electronics research and development program, in 

fact. The Marshall Space Flight Center, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and 

the Goddard Space Flight Center (all classified as flight centers) tended to 

contract out the work, while the research centers, as they were known (the 

95. Arnold S. Levine, Managing NASA in the Apollo Era (Washington, DC: NASA SP-4102, 

1982), pp. 34–43; 1963 Program Review, p. 85; and 1964 Program Review, p. 1.

96. 1964 Program Review, p. 41; and Albert J. Kelley, interview by Neil Furst, transcript, 20 

May 1968, Boston, 2 and 3, Folder 1168, NHRC. According to Kelley (1964 Program 

Review, p. 1), the Electronics and Control Division formed on 1 November 1961 with 

three people.

97. 1967 Program Review, p. 1; and Philip Trupp, “NASA Stress on Semicon Microcircuits,” 

Electronic News, 21 January 1963, p. 1.

98. But not that of the Air Force. Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” p. 201.
184 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Ames Research Center, the Langley Research Center, and the Lewis Research 

Center), tended to conduct far more internal research. As a result, in 1963, 

for example, Langley had both the largest professional staff engaged in electronics research and development and the largest research and development 

budget. Marshall, however, spent as much as Langley on electronics research 

($5 million) but had a significantly smaller professional research staff.99

These numbers still do not paint the whole picture of NASA’s integratedcircuit research, especially at the centers. In 1962, Al Kelley’s Electronics and 

Control Directorate surveyed the strengths and weaknesses of the various 

centers’ electronics research and technology programs. His task group evaluated the programs in a variety of specific research areas, such as astrophysics, biophysics, engineering instrumentation, communications and tracking, 

advanced computing devices, information theory, advanced electronic devices, 

piloted and automatic flight control, advanced control theory, advanced 

component technology, optical and infrared techniques, inertial and electromagnetic guidance, display technology, flight mechanics, and trajectory 

analysis. For the most part, the survey found that center research projects 

tended to be “specific rather than basic, more technological than fundamental 

in nature, and of more immediate application than those that are supported 

by headquarters.”100 This research orientation reflected the project-oriented 

interests of the centers’ researchers. “A substantial fraction of the capable electronics personnel at the centers are concerned primarily with project management or space flight project engineering” rather than with long-range 

research. Instead of carrying out long-range internal studies, NASA routinely 

conducted long-range research by awarding grants and contracts to universities, nonprofit institutions, and industry. Not surprisingly, then, the survey 

concluded that “a substantial fraction of the capable electronics personnel at 

the centers are concerned primarily with project management or space flight 

project engineering.”101

This propensity to orient management and engineering toward projects and flight missions rather than basic long-range problems was more 

pronounced at the flight centers than at the research centers. Goddard, for 

example, was involved largely in advancing spacecraft technology associated 

with its primary mission: scientific exploration of the area between Earth and 

99. 1964 Program Review, p. 23. 

100. NASA, Electronics Research Center: Need for Space Electronics Research, Organization, 

and Implementation Plans (Washington, DC: NASA, January 1964), p. 25; and NASA, 

Electronics Research Center (Washington, DC: NASA, January 1964), p. 25, Folder 

4881, NHRC.

101. NASA, Electronics Research Center, p. 25.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 185

the Moon. Its electronic research focuses on areas such as spin-stabilization 

techniques, flight sensors, and antenna control. Similarly, the Jet Propulsion 

Laboratory worked to develop better spacecraft to explore the Moon, the 

planets, and interplanetary space, and it was involved heavily in such applied 

research fields as antennas, video systems, photo-scan techniques, and deepspace communications. The Marshall Space Flight Center, concerned with 

developing large chemical-propulsion rocket launchers such as the Saturn 

booster, specialized in guidance, telemetry techniques, lasers, and antennas.102

As a result of the importance of spaceflight projects at these centers, the 

“greatest proportion of NASA’s in-house technical capability in electronics 

and control is vitally enmeshed in flight development and operations,” the 

Kelley study concluded. “Electronics research professionals at these centers, 

reacting naturally to problems that arise on flight projects, rarely have the 

time or the opportunity to take the long-range view, identify problems that 

will hamper future missions, and undertake research designed to lay the foundation for the eventual solution of these problems. In view of the primary 

missions of the centers, this is appropriate. But it yields a climate different 

from that required for a research organization.”103 Electronics work at the 

NASA research centers, according to the survey, was somewhat more basic 

than that carried on at the flight centers but still related to the center’s main 

mission. Ames worked on control and information systems, gravity-oriented 

satellites, and visual displays, while the (Dryden) Flight Research Center—

because of its heavy commitment to aircraft—supported research projects in 

optical devices and airborne infrared temperature sensors for piloted flight. 

The Lewis electronics research program centered on the hardware needs for 

that center’s historical role in propulsion, while Langley devoted much of 

its research effort to such electronics areas as pilot control of spacecraft, rendezvous, docking, radar transponders as tracking aids, and navigation and 

control for glider vehicles.104

Research into the fundamentals of integrated circuits—or electronic components in general—was simply not part of program-oriented work, but the 

centers did have facilities, personnel, and funding for applied work on integrated circuits. In 1965, for example, Langley, Marshall, and Goddard had 

silicon integrated-circuit laboratory facilities, but they were engaged primarily 

in questions of component testing, reliability, and quality control, including 

studies of thin-film and thick-film technologies. They frequently contracted 

102. NASA, Electronics Research Center, p. 33.

103. NASA, Electronics Research Center, pp. 25–26.

104. NASA, Electronics Research Center, p. 33.
186 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

with industry to perform needed research.105 Goddard, for example, began 

with a thin-film laboratory, then added another for making integrated circuits not available commercially. The Center soon developed three different 

microcircuits that ended up bound for use in spacecraft. Goddard staff, however, left the development of microelectronic processes to contractors, such 

as the Philco Corporation.106 Langley, in its film facility,107 developed a new 

process for depositing films of transistors one-thousandth of an inch thick 

on ceramic wafers. Such so-called thick-film transistors previously had to 

be inserted by hand. Center personnel also developed specialized integrated 

circuits and other electronics through contracts with Texas Instruments and 

other firms.108

Marshall had one of the more ambitious Apollo-era electronics programs, 

at least until the Electronics Research Center became operational. One of its 

two chief goals was the conversion of the Saturn launch vehicle electronics to 

integrated circuits to reduce component size and weight and to increase their 

life and reliability. The work took place largely through contracts with industry and academia, although some internal research and development was 

undertaken. The center’s Astrionics Laboratory, Marshall’s “center of gravity” 

for microelectronics research, focused on both thin-film and microcircuit fabrication processes, using internal as well as contractor studies.109

105. Larry Ramsdell, “NASA Quest: Ultimate in IC Reliability,” Electronic News, 8 January 

1968, p. 5; Research Triangle Institute, Microelectronics in Space Research (Washington, 

DC: NASA SP-5031, August 1965), p. 43. The Research Triangle Institute did not 

include the Electronics Research Center.

106. John C. Lyons and David R. Dargo, “Goddard Space Flight Center Microelectronics 

Program,” in Electronics Research Center, Proceedings of Second NASA Microelectronics 

Symposium, 1 June 1967 (Washington, DC: NASA-TM-X-55834, 1967), pp. 1–5. 

Hereafter, ERC, Proceedings.

107. The terms “thick film” and “thin film” referred to microelectronic technologies other than 

integrated circuits. Thick film structures generally contained only conductors, resistors, 

and capacitors deposited on a ceramic substrate; other components, such as transistors, 

had to be added separately.

108. Charles Husson, “Langley Research Center Microelectronics Program,” in ERC, 

Proceedings, pp. 7–14; NASA, Fifteenth Semiannual Report to Congress, January 1–June 

30, 1966 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1966), p. 88; and Ramsdell, “NASA Quest,” p. 5.

109. James C. Taylor, “Microelectronics Program at Marshall Space Flight Center,” in Marshall 

Space Flight Center, Research and Development Operations, Research Achievements 

Review Series No. 5, Electronics Research at MSFC (Huntsville: Marshall Space Flight 

Center, 1965), pp. 21 and 23–24; 1967 Program Review, p. 17; Taylor, “Microelectronics 

Program at Marshall Space Flight Center”; George D. Adams, Salvadore V. Caruso, 

L. L. Folsom, Robert F. DeHaye, and George L. Filip, “Thin-Film Microcircuit 

Development at Marshall Space Flight Center,” in ERC, Proceedings, pp. 41–58. For 

its part, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory studied advanced techniques for interconnecting 

electronic circuits. 1967 Program Review, p. 19.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 187

Microelectronics Reliability

Given the centers’ predilection for mission-oriented research, establishing 

the reliability of integrated circuits and other electronics component would 

seem to be a logical task for them. In fact, each center had its own reliability 

office and programs and—independently of Headquarters and other centers—managed the qualification of flight and other components within the 

organization established for each individual program. Each center and its 

contractors created their own specifications, their own vendor surveys, and 

their own circuit qualifications without any coordination across the Agency. 

As a result, for instance, 750 variations in specification applied to a single type 

of transistor. Of those, 58 variations applied to use in NASA high-reliability 

projects. In addition, a vendor might be surveyed multiple times by different 

centers for the same integrated circuits.110

Headquarters, of course, had a reliability office, too. An organization chart 

dated 17 January 1961 shows the NASA Office of Reliability and Systems 

Analysis, headed by Landis S. Gephart and reporting to the Office of the 

Associate Administrator, who was then Robert C. Seamans, Jr. General 

Management Instruction 4-2-1, “Reliability Policy as Applied to NASA 

Programs,” dated 1 February 1961, instituted policies and procedures for 

achieving reliable systems and defined reliability as “the probability that a 

system, subsystem, component or part will perform its required functions 

under defined conditions at a designated time and for a specified operating period.”111 With the arrival of James Webb, the reliability office became 

linked administratively to quality assurance on 13 October 1961 as the Office 

of Reliability and Quality Assurance within the Office of Programs. A new 

policy statement numerated the responsibilities of the office and charged 

center directors with establishing “a single organizational point for quality assurance responsibility and authority” at each field installation.112 The 

110. 1966 Program Review, p. 50.

111. Levine, Managing NASA in the Apollo Era, p. 32; NASA Management Manual, General 

Management Instructions, “Reliability Policy as Applied to NASA Programs,” 1 February 

1961, Folder “NASA SR & QA (Gen.) through 1966,” Box 18,153, NHRC; and NASA 

Management Manual, General Management Instructions, “Functions and Authority—

Office of Reliability and Systems Analysis,” 16 January 1961, Folder “NASA SR & QA 

(Gen.) through 1966,” Box 18,153, NHRC.

112. Howard M. Weiss, “NASA’s Quality Program: Achievements and Forecast,” 12 September 

1973, 2, Folder “NASA SR & QA (Gen.) through 1966,” Box 18,153, NHRC; and 

NASA Management Manual, General Management Instructions, “Quality Assurance 

Policy as Applied to NASA Programs,” 13 October 1961, Folder “NASA SR & QA 

(Gen.) through 1966,” Box 18,153, NHRC.
188 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Agency also cooperated with the Defense Department in matters of parts and 

system reliability.113

The Columbia Accident Investigation Board has claimed that the reliability office vanished around this time: “Although a NASA Office of Reliability 

and Quality Assurance existed for a short time during the early 1960s, it was 

funded by the human space flight program. By 1963, the office disappeared 

from the Agency’s organizational charts. For the next few years, the only type 

of safety program that existed at NASA was a decentralized ‘loose federation’ of risk assessment oversight run by each program’s contractors and the 

project offices at each of the three Human Space Flight Centers.”114 A cursory look at agency organizational charts dated 1 November 1963, 2 January 

1966, 15 March 1967, and 1 May 1968 appears to support this assertion. 

Nonetheless, NASA Management Instruction 1136.5, dated 17 August 1965, 

indicates that the Agency still had a Reliability and Quality Assurance Office, 

but its director reported to the Deputy Associate Administrator for Industry 

Affairs.115 Contrary to the Columbia Accident Investigation Board, the office 

continued to exist but at a level too low for detection in these upper-level 

Agency organizational charts.

The Headquarters reliability office played a central role in the Agency’s 

quest for reliable electronics components through an organization called 

the NASA Parts Steering Committee. Its membership included representatives from each center and the Headquarters offices of space science, human 

spaceflight, advanced research and technology, tracking and data acquisition, and reliability and quality assurance. The director of the Office of 

Reliability and Quality Assurance served as chairman, with the head of the 

Electronics and Control Directorate assisting as vice chairman. The committee’s major functions included 1) providing advice and assistance on planning and policy regarding parts program, especially regarding technical and 

administrative matters; 2) recommending policies and procedures for centralizing parts management; 3) determining the extent of NASA participation in parts activities outside of the Agency; 4) recommending research and 

development on issues relating to parts and material; 5) advocating ways of 

exchanging parts information and data; 6) proposing standard terminology 

113. On this point, see, among others, W. Fred Boone, NASA Office of Defense Affairs: The First 

Five Years (Washington, DC: NASA HHR-32, 1970), p. 265.

114. Columbia Accident Investigation Board, Report, vol. 1 (Washington, DC: NASA, August 

2003), p. 178.

115. Levine, Managing NASA in the Apollo Era, pp. 44, 51, 56 and 58; and NASA Management 

Instruction (NMI) 1136.5, “Functions and Authority—Reliability and Quality Assurance 

Office,” 17 August 1965, Folder 15,903, NHRC.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 189

and criteria for parts specifications and standards; and 7) reviewing and suggesting changes in proposed or existing NASA-wide documents pertaining 

to parts.116

Virtually little else is known about the committee and its activities; 

however, we are lucky to have some sketchy documentation regarding an 

ad hoc subgroup of the committee that took on the formal name of the 

Microelectronics Subcommittee. The subgroup included representatives from 

all NASA centers and was chaired by the heads of the Office of Reliability and 

Quality Assurance and the Electronics and Control Directorate. Its formation 

reflected the recognition by NASA managers and engineers that microelectronics technology was changing rapidly and that the Agency needed to take steps 

to accommodate the new technology through an Agency-wide approach.117

The Microelectronics Reliability Program aimed to create just such an 

Agency-wide approach to reliability. It resulted specifically from the efforts of 

the Electronics Research Center’s Qualifications and Standards Laboratory to 

“define its role within the NASA complex in the area of Q&S [Qualifications 

and Standards] efforts.” The laboratory “deliberately aimed” their proposal at 

“the microelectronic component field” for several reasons. Among them were 

the fact that the Agency lacked a systematic approach to parts and components, the anticipated rising use of microelectronic parts over the next five 

years to between 50 and 75 percent of the dollar amount spent on components (including integrated circuits), and the belief that “a major proportion 

of the component research and development dollar over the next 10 years will 

be devoted necessarily to the microelectronic component field.”118

The Microelectronics Reliability Program had its roots in the first NASAwide Reliability and Quality Assurance Meeting held at NASA Headquarters 

on 27 October 1965 at the instigation of James O. Spriggs and Robert F. 

Garbarini, who were in the Headquarters Office of Space Science and 

Applications. Participants included representatives from the offices of industrial affairs, space science and applications, human spaceflight, and advanced 

research and technology, as well as the Electronics Research Center. The 

116. “Office of Reliability and Quality Assurance Functions for Potential Transfer to ERC,” 

n.d., Folder “Qualifications & Standards Lab,” Box 1, Record Group (hereafter RG) 

255, Accession Number (hereafter AN) 71A3002, Washington National Record Center, 

Suitland, MD (hereafter WNRC).

117. 1966 Program Review, p. 50.

118. Appendix B, “Microelectronics Reliability Program,” Memorandum, Robert L. Trent to 

W. Crawford Dunlap, “Microelectronics Reliability Program,” 1 November 1965, Folder 

“Qualifications & Standards Lab,” Box 1, RG 255, AN 71A3002, WNRC.
190 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

meeting became a forum for discussing preliminary plans for what would 

come to be called the NASA Microelectronics Reliability Program.119

The essence of the program was to realize reliability by working toward 

three broad interrelated goals: the establishment of NASA-wide standards and 

general specifications for microelectronic parts, the coordination of vendor 

surveys, and the qualification of vendor production lines for general classes of 

microelectronic circuits. NASA could not attain any of these goals—or make 

the NASA Microelectronics Reliability Program work—unless it obtained 

the cooperation of industry. In recognition of that need, the space Agency 

asked the Council of Defense and Space Industry Associations (CODSIA)120

to study the Microelectronics Reliability Program and to make comments 

and suggestions. The CODSIA critique also would provide insight into how 

best to present the program to both industry and the Defense Department in 

order “to give it the best chance of being understood and accepted.”121

The NASA Microelectronics Reliability Program endorsed utilizing three 

modalities to achieve its goals: symposia, a data bank, and research. Three such 

symposia took place during the Apollo era in 1964,122 1967,123 and 1968.124

119. Memorandum, Robert L. Trent to W. Crawford Dunlap, “Microelectronics Reliability 

Program,” 1 November 1965, Folder “Qualifications & Standards Lab,” Box 1, RG 

255, AN 71A3002, WNRC; Reliability and Quality Assurance (Washington, DC: 

NASA CR-156261, 31 October 1965); and John E. Condon, “Introductory Remarks,” 

in Second NASA-Wide Reliability and Quality Assurance Meeting (Washington, DC: 

NASA-TM-102990, 1 January 1966), pp. 5–6.

120. CODSIA was formed in 1964 by industry associations having common interests in the 

defense and space fields. The Department of Defense encouraged the establishment of 

this organization as a vehicle for obtaining broad industry reactions to new or revised 

procurement regulations, policies, and procedures. CODSIA serves as a focal point for 

the Federal Government to submit questions that address policies, regulations, directives, 

and procedures relating to the supplier-purchaser relationship between government and 

industry. These areas have primarily included government acquisition, contracting, and 

management system requirements. Among its member associations was the American 

Electronics Association and the Electronics Industry Alliance. “CODSIA,” http://www.

codsia.org/ (accessed 7 April 2006).

121. 1966 Program Review, pp. 50–51; Memorandum, Robert L. Trent to NASA Headquarters, 

“Industrial Comment on Microelectronics Reliability Program,” 11 March 1966, Folder 

“TECH: Electronic Components Research Office,” Box 6, RG 255, AN 71A2309, WNRC.

122. No published proceedings appear to have issued from the first symposium. Coincidentally, 

the Office of Naval Research organized a somewhat similar meeting in Washington, 

DC, at the Department of the Interior auditorium. Samuel J. Mathis, Jr., Richard E. 

Wiley, and Lester M. Spandorfer, eds., Symposium on Microelectronics and Large Systems

(Washington, DC: Spartan Books, 1965).

123. ERC, Proceedings.

124. “Microelectronics Meeting Breaks Attendance Record,” ERC News, 1 March 1968, 

p. 4, Folder “ERC History House Organ 1966–1969,” Box 8, RG 255, AN 71A-2309, 

WNRC. No proceedings of this third symposium appear to have been printed.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 191

Their stated purpose was the interchange of ideas among NASA, the military, 

industry, and academia. The organizers hoped that better component specifications and better end products would result from coupling user experience with NASA research results. Papers read at the 1967 Microelectronics 

Symposium covered a diversity of topics, such as thin-film transistors, metaloxide semiconductor field-effect transistors (MOSFETs), power integrated 

circuits in the Saturn, microcircuits in the Apollo TV camera, and assuring 

integrated-circuit reliability through the application of scanning electron and 

fast-scan infrared microscopy. The third symposium featured panel discussions on the “Goals of Microelectronics at NASA,” “Methods for Obtaining 

High Reliability Microelectronics,” integrated-circuits applications, analyzing 

integrated circuits, component reliability, film formation and devices, and 

computer-aided circuit design.125

The second group of measures that made up the Microelectronics 

Reliability Program involved organizing and disseminating data on electronics parts through a series of handbooks and a technical data bank.126 Over a 

period of 10 years, the handbook effort yielded more than 60 publications. 

Typical of these was the two-volume Microelectronic Device Data Handbook

published in July 1968.127 Compiled by the ARINC Research Corporation 

of Annapolis, Maryland, for the Electronics Research Center, and reviewed 

by the Army Electronics Command, Ft. Monmouth, New Jersey, it provided 

engineers and circuit designers with guidance for selecting microelectronic 

devices for space systems, with an emphasis on their reliability. Volume I 

contained five sections of text on such topics as system-design considerations, 

testing, the physics of failure, and procurement specifications. Volume II gave 

the characteristics of about 2,000 devices manufactured by 32 companies 

from the Alpha Microelectronics Corporation in Beltsville, Maryland, to 

the Westinghouse Electric Corporation’s Molecular Electronics Division in 

Elkridge, Maryland. The microelectronics covered included a wide variety of 

125. 1965 Program Review, p. 10; ERC, Proceedings; “Research Highlights,” ERC News, 

1 March 1968, n.p., Folder “ERC History House Organ 1966–1969,” Box 8, RG 255, 

AN 71A2309, WNRC.

126. 1966 Program Review, p. 51; 1965 Program Review, p. 10.

127. Even earlier was the Microelectronics Device Data Handbook completed in May 1964 

under contract NASw-831 and developed for use by NASA project engineers, design 

engineers, technicians, and parts specialists as well as by NASA contractors as a ready 

reference for device information. “Office of Reliability and Quality Assurance Functions 

for Potential Transfer to ERC,” n.d., Folder “Qualifications & Standards Lab,” Box 1, RG 

255, AN 71A3002, WNRC.
192 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

integrated-circuit types, thin-film devices, and even metal-oxide silicon (now 

called metal-oxide semiconductor) transistors.128

Subsequently, in April 1969, NASA issued a four-volume handbook on 

the reliability of silicon integrated circuits prepared by Texas Instruments 

for the Marshall Space Flight Center—namely the Quality and Reliability 

Assurance Laboratory of its Parts and Microelectronics Technology Branch. 

The key difference between this Reliability Handbook for Silicon Monolithic 

Microcircuits and the 1968 Microelectronic Device Data Handbook was that 

the previous guide had dealt with microelectronics in general, while the 

Marshall-sponsored effort focused solely on integrated circuits. The first 

volume,129 an introduction to integrated-circuit technology, discussed typical problems experienced with certain applications; the most reliable and 

trouble-free methods of using each type of circuit; how to obtain maximum 

information from manufacturers’ data sheets; the characteristics, advantages, 

and disadvantages of the various package types available; and methods for 

interconnecting packages and assembling circuits into components and systems. The second volume130 focused on failure mechanisms, including defects 

introduced during the manufacturing process, their causes, and screening 

procedures. Volume three131 considered failure analysis exclusively and ranged 

from methods for evaluating integrated circuits prior to opening their packaging to techniques for opening packaging to evaluating integrated circuits after 

opening their packaging.132 The fourth volume133 was the most theoretical. It 

discussed various methods for assessing the reliability of integrated circuits 

and included lengthy sections on statistical and other definitions of reliability.

128. ARINC Research Corporation, Microelectronic Device Data Handbook, Vol. I: Test, 

CR-1110 (Washington, DC: NASA, July 1968), p. iii; ARINC Research Corporation, 

Microelectronic Device Data Handbook, Vol. II: Manufacturer and Specific Device 

Information, CR-1111 (Washington, DC: NASA, July 1968), p. 1-1.

129. W. C. Weger et al., Reliability Handbook for Silicon Monolithic Microcircuits, Vol. 1: 

Application of Monolithic Microcircuits, CR-1346 (Washington, DC: NASA, April 1969).

130. Wilburn O. Shurtleff, Reliability Handbook for Silicon Monolithic Microcircuits, Vol. 2: 

Failure Mechanisms of Monolithic Microcircuits, CR-1347 (Washington, DC: NASA, 

April 1969).

131. Wilton L. Workman, Reliability Handbook for Silicon Monolithic Microcircuits, Vol. 3: 

Failure Analysis of Monolithic Microcircuits, CR-1348 (Washington, DC: NASA, April 

1969).

132. For a discussion of the range of packaging then in use, see J. L. Easterday, D. A. Kaiser, 

and C. H. Burley, Industrial Survey of Electronic Packaging (Redstone Arsenal, AL: 

Redstone Research and Development Directorate, Army Missile Command, November 

1966), p. ii.

133. Jim D. Adams et al., Reliability Handbook for Silicon Monolithic Microcircuits, Vol. 4: 

Reliability Assessment of Monolithic Microcircuits, CR-1349 (Washington, DC: NASA, 

April 1969).
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 193

While these handbooks appeared to duplicate some of the information 

available through manufacturers’ guides to their products, they suffered the 

temporal limitations of all such publications. Microelectronic components 

came and went rapidly, sometimes becoming outmoded in two or three years. 

Therefore, a key element of the NASA Microelectronics Reliability Program 

was the creation of the Technical Data Bank. The data bank was a pilot program managed by Chauncey W. Watt, Chief of the Components Standards 

Branch at the Electronics Research Center. Access was granted to NASA and 

contractor circuit designers to this “comprehensive, up-to-date, and easily 

accessible file of microelectronic technical and qualification data” that contained a full spectrum of technical specifications necessary for buying and 

using qualified parts. It also identified those manufacturers who had been 

qualified to produce specified blocks of microcircuits.134

The reliability and other technical information collected on microelectronics components by all NASA centers and their contractors went into the 

database. When a center or contractor needed a new microcircuit, they could 

consult the Technical Data Bank to see if an approved circuit already existed. 

If not, the center would proceed—using qualified vendors and the NASAwide specification format—to procure the required circuits, then would feed 

the results into the data bank. The availability of a wide range of microelectronics data, NASA hoped, would avoid duplication in the search for qualified parts and vendors, and the standardization of integrated circuits would 

save the Agency money.135

The data bank, developed by the Information Dynamics Corporation of 

Reading, Massachusetts, under contract to the Electronics Research Center, 

contained NASA and manufacturer information on 1,000 specific circuits 

of key interest to NASA. In addition to the Electronics Research Center, 

those centers participating in the program included the Goddard Space Flight 

Center, the Marshall Space Flight Center, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and 

the Ames Research Center. On the Defense Department side, the Air Force 

Rome Air Development Command also participated. The data bank offered 

134. 1966 Program Review, pp. 50–51; “Research Highlights,” ERC News, 1 September 1967, 

n.p., Folder “ERC History House Organ 1966–1969,” Box 8, RG 255, AN 71A2309, 

WNRC; Memorandum, Franklyn W. Phillips, Acting Director, ERC, to NASA 

Headquarters, Office of Advanced Research and Technology, “Information Required 

Concerning Data Centers,” 25 April 1966, Attachment, C. W. Watt, “The NASA 

Microelectronics Reliability Program,” 10 March 1966, Folder “Procedures—Controlled 

Mail ERC #500,” Box 9, RG 255, AN 71A2309, WNRC.

135. 1966 Program Review, pp. 50–51; “Research Highlights,” ERC News, 1 September 1967, 

n.p., Folder “ERC History House Organ 1966–1969,” Box 8, RG 255, AN 71A2309, 

WNRC.
194 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

users three levels of information. One level was the published manual that 

listed the various circuits available and the names of their manufacturers. 

More detailed information was available on microfilm. The third level was a 

computer system that helped engineers find information on peculiar characteristics of a given part.136

The Electronics Research Center—through its Qualifications and 

Standards Laboratory—played a critical role in defining and implementing 

the NASA Microelectronics Reliability Program. The center hoped to participate in the program by acting as the lead center for establishing NASA-wide 

microelectronics standards and specifications, for centralizing data storage 

and retrieval programs for electronic parts, and for qualifying programs for 

flight equipment. In the end, the Qualifications and Standards Laboratory 

did take on the role of Agency-wide program coordinator.137

NASA Electronics Research Center

Electronics Research Task Group

The third prong of the Microelectronics Reliability Program was a striking 

program of basic and applied research undertaken in the Agency’s laboratories, 

especially those located at the Electronics Research Center (ERC). The center 

was at the heart of the Agency’s efforts to obtain reliable integrated circuits 

and other solid-state components. Located in Cambridge, Massachusetts, 

the ERC was within walking distance of MIT. The greater metropolitan 

area abounded in electronics resources and talent: Harvard, the industries 

along Route 128, the Air Force’s Cambridge Research Laboratory and 

Electronics Systems Division at Hanscom Field, MIT’s Lincoln Laboratory 

and Instrumentation Laboratory, and the Mitre Corporation. The Electronics 

Research Center formally opened in September 1964, taking over the administration of contracts, grants, and other Agency business in New England 

from the antecedent North Eastern Operations Office, which had been created in July 1962.138 The center—and the research it conducted—began 

136. “Research Highlights,” ERC News, 1 September 1967, n.p., Folder “ERC History House 

Organ 1966–1969,” Box 8, RG 255, AN 71A2309, WNRC.

137. Memorandum, Robert L. Trent to W. Crawford Dunlap, “Microelectronics Reliability 

Program,” 1 November 1965, Folder “Qualifications & Standards Lab,” Box 1, RG 255, 

AN 71A3002, WNRC; Memorandum, Robert L. Trent to Distribution, “Presentation of 

Proposed Microelectronics Reliability Program,” 11 January 1966, Folder “Qualifications 

& Standards Lab,” Box 1, RG 255, AN 71A3002, WNRC.

138. “Need for Establishment of an Eastern Operations Office,” 31 January 1962, Folder 

4884, NHRC; and NASA News Release, “NASA to Establish Northeastern Operations 

Office,” Release No. 62-155, 3 July 1962, Folder 4884, NHRC.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 195

before its formal opening, operating in rented quarters in Cambridge as well 

as out of Headquarters as the Electronics Research Task Group (ERTG).

The idea of creating the group began with a memorandum of 2 March 1962, 

in which Dr. Robert C. Seamans Jr., then NASA’s Associate Administrator, 

instructed the Office of Advanced Research and Technology to present “a 

plan to strengthen NASA’s capability in the electronics and guidance and 

control field to support current and long range programs” for inclusion in 

the fiscal 1964 budget. In response, Al Kelley’s newly formed Electronics and 

Control Directorate undertook a detailed study of the Agency’s electronics 

research resources and capabilities, studied the Agency’s long-range electronics research needs, and recommended a plan to meet those needs. By June 

1962, Kelley had drafted a plan. He found no lack of electronics expertise 

within NASA in the areas of guidance and navigation, control and stabilization, communications and tracking, and instrumentation and data processing. That expertise, however, was “widely diffused throughout the Centers 

with spotty emphasis, in short a heterogeneous group of bits and pieces.”139

The plan that Kelley developed and refined proposed creating an entirely new 

NASA center, the Electronics Research Center.

The activity that would evolve into the new center started shortly thereafter 

when the Electronics Research Task Group came into being within the Office 

of Advanced Research and Technology on 6 February 1963. The purpose 

and intent in establishing the group was to conduct the necessary technical 

facilities and administrative planning in readiness for such time as Congress 

endorsed the proposed Electronics Research Center.140 In the words of Al 

Kelley, “We wanted to have a technical cadre who could then move up to 

Boston and merge with the Northeast Office and have the nucleus of a center. 

So it was really to get us off and running, and get some people who could 

translate the plans into action.”141 The electronics task group, attached to 

Kelley’s directorate and under his leadership, began organizing and instituting electronics research in advance of the center’s creation. The group’s initial 

efforts reflected its separation into specialized areas denoted organizationally 

as the Electromagnetic Division, the Instrumentation and Data Processing 

139. [Electronics and Control Directorate], “Plan to Implement NASA Electronic Systems 

Technology Capability,” [June 1962], n.p., Folder 4886, NHRC; Albert J. Kelley, interview by Cargill Hall and Richard Dowling, transcript, 28 August 1968, Washington, 

DC, pp. 3–9 and 15–17, Folder 4877, NHRC.

140. 1964 Program Review, pp. 2 and 35.

141. Kelley, interview, by Hall and Dowling, p. 36.
196 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Division, and the Components and Technology Division. Within a year of its 

founding, the group had 20 employees located in Washington, DC.142

Until the task group could move into rental quarters in Cambridge and 

build up the level of its internal research staff, the electronics protocenter would have to rely on contracting for research. “While it is necessary 

to strengthen considerably the in-house capability for electronics systems 

R&D,” a 1962 internal report read, “it is unrealistic to assume that the lag 

in in-house personnel staffing in this technical area will be corrected before 

approximately 1966. Therefore, it is planned that a substantial portion of the 

electronics and control R&D load will be assumed by industry and university 

contracts during this buildup period.”143

One source of work for the electronics task group was the Office of 

Reliability and Quality Assurance, which considered transferring a number 

of studies to the protocenter. One such study (contract NASw-919) was a 

survey of packaging and interconnection problems ($49,000), while another 

was a follow-on review of a microelectronics standardization program that 

included specifications for selection, procurement, and qualification criteria 

and test methods standards. The office also considered transferring oversight 

of the joint program carried out with the Air Force Rome Air Development 

Center that conducted long-term life and stress testing of various types of 

high-reliability, high-usage electronics parts and analyzed failed components. 

A contract with General Electric’s Valley Forge Space Technology Center in 

King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, implemented the program. Another candidate was the Electronics Components Reliability Center (ECRC), a program 

conducted by the Battelle Memorial Institute that included participation by 

NASA, the Air Force Rome Air Development Center, and 12 aerospace contractors. The program had a twofold objective: 1) the collection and dissemination of parts and component reliability and test data among the members 

and 2) research in such areas as parts reliability methodology and the physics 

of aging. NASA funded its participation through the Office of Reliability and 

Quality Assurance (contract NASr-9) at $19,500 annually.144

142. NASA Headquarters, Electronics & Control Program Review, February 29, 1964 

(Washington, DC: NASA Office of Programming, 1964), pp. 35–36. The ERTG was 

structured functionally under the Office of a Manager with two basic research groups, 

Electronics and the other being guidance and control. Also included were the Technical 

Services group for the facilities planning, and a group for administrative functions. 

Ibid., 36.

143. [Electronics and Control Directorate], “Plan to Implement NASA Electronic Systems 

Technology Capability,” [ca. June 1962], n.p., Folder 4886, NHRC.

144. “Office of Reliability and Quality Assurance Functions for Potential Transfer to ERC,” 

n.d., Folder “Qualifications & Standards Lab,” Box 1, RG 255, AN 71A3002, WNRC.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 197

By August 1964, immediately prior to the official start of Electronics 

Research Center operations in Cambridge, the electronics task group was 

overseeing contracts for 1) an investigation of radiation-resistant device phenomena, 2) the physics of failure and reliability for microelectronic and thinfilm devices, and 3) research and development on ferrite memory technology. 

Other research that transferred to the rented Cambridge facilities included 

1) a study of the feasibility of high-temperature thin films, 2) a study of 

glass passivation of integrated circuits, and 3) the development of a thinfilm-space-charge-limited triode (a type of transistor more tolerant of space 

radiation). In addition, the protocenter had 16 pending patent applications 

submitted by researchers working on various grants and contracts. Most (all 

but four) resulted from research carried out by either Pratt & Whitney or the 

Geophysics Corporation of America (GCA).145

The ERC Laboratories

Effective 1 September 1964, the administrative functions and staff of NASA’s 

North Eastern Operations Office merged with the technical research personnel of the Electronics Research Task Group to form the Electronics Research 

Center. Assuring the reliability of NASA’s microelectronics was at the heart of 

the center’s mission. Center research took place in 10 different laboratories: 

space guidance, systems, computers, instrumentation research, space optics, 

power conditioning and distribution, microwave radiation, electronics components, qualifications and standards, and control and information systems. 

Researchers in these laboratories worked in such areas as laser and microwave 

communications, the miniaturization and radiation resistance of electronic 

components, guidance and control systems, photovoltaic energy conversion, 

information display devices, instrumentation, and computers and data processing. The computer-related work encompassed the spectrum of software 

and hardware needs.146

145. NASA, Fourteenth Semiannual Report to Congress, July 1–December 31, 1965 (Washington, 

DC: NASA, 1965), pp. 99–100; Manager, Electronics Research Task Group to Office 

of Legislative Affairs, “Request for Information on Acceleration of Research Contracts,” 

24 August 1964, “Proposals/Contracts,” Box 11, RG 255, AN 71A3002, WNRC; 

“Preliminary History of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration during the 

Administration of President Lyndon B. Johnson: Final Edition,” Manuscript, Vol. 1 

(Washington, DC: NASA, 1969), 1:V-11, 1:V-34, and 1:V-35, NHRC; “National 

Aeronautics and Space Administration Electronics Research Center Patent Docket,” 25 

July 1966, Folder “Reading File—July thru Dec. 1966,” Box 11, RG 255, AN 71A2309, 

WNRC.

146. Associate Administrator for Advanced Research and Technology, “Administrator’s 

Briefing Memorandum,” 23 August 1965, Folder 4884, NHRC; Albert J. Kelley, “Staff 

Report on the Electronics Research Center,” draft, no date, Folder 4883, NHRC.
198 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Much of the effort relating to integrated circuits took place in either the 

Electronics Components or the Qualifications and Standards Laboratories, 

which together comprised the Electronic Components Research Division 

(renamed the Components Division after the 1968 restructuring). In general, 

the Qualifications and Standards Laboratory addressed (among others) problems associated with the processes for fabricating integrated circuits to make 

them more reliable, while the Electronics Components Laboratory focused 

on developing and improving electronic components, including those found 

in integrated circuits. The Component Technology Laboratory had branches 

devoted to advanced research, materials, devices, physical electronics, and 

microelectronics. The Qualifications and Standards Laboratory had two 

major functions. It was the coordinating center (“lead center”) for research 

on qualifications and standards—that is, reliability work—for all of NASA 

on behalf of the Microelectronics Subcommittee. Its second function was 

to perform the basic research needed for reliability work. The Qualifications 

and Standards Laboratory had branches involved in design criteria and component standards, but the laboratory’s largest effort was that of the Failure 

Mechanisms Branch.

An example of the high caliber of the ERC laboratory staff was the head of 

the Electronic Components Research Division, W. Crawford Dunlap. Along 

with Robert N. Hall (of the Hall Effect fame), Dunlap invented General 

Electric’s germanium diode and transistor. He spent 11 years with the 

General Electric Company, first as a member of their Schenectady research 

laboratories, then as a consultant on semiconductors at their Syracuse laboratory. He also had been director of solid-state electronics research at the 

Raytheon Corporation and supervisor of solid-state research at the Bendix 

Research Laboratories. He held 20 patents, including a German patent that 

covered all semiconductor p-n junction devices produced by the alloying or 

diffusion technique and that resulted in a multimillion-dollar licensing payment to the General Electric Company.147

Douglas M. Warschauer directed the Component Technology Laboratory 

(later called the Electronic Materials Laboratory). Before joining the ERC, 

Warschauer was Manager of the Physics Laboratory at the Itek Corporation148

in Lexington, Massachusetts. Previously, he had been a research scientist at 

the Aeronautical Research Laboratory, Wright-Patterson AFB, and MIT’s 

147. NASA News Release, “Van Atta, Dunlap Head Divisions at Electronics Laboratory,” 

Release No. 64-317, 21 December 1964, Folder 4884, NHRC.

148. The Itek Corporation is best known as the manufacturer of lenses and cameras for the 

CORONA and other satellite spying systems. Jonathan E. Lewis, Spy Capitalism: ITEK 

and the CIA (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002).
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 199

Lincoln Laboratory before becoming Principal Research Scientist at the 

Raytheon Corporation. The author of two books, one of which dealt with 

semiconductors and transistors, his research interests included high-pressure 

physics, crystal growth, and the optical and electrical properties of semiconductors and lasers.149

Robert L. Trent directed the Qualifications and Standards Laboratory 

and its three branches concerned with the physics of failure mechanisms, 

design criteria, and component standards. Before joining NASA, Trent 

was Vice President and Resident Manager of CTS Microelectronics, Inc., 

in Ridgefield, Connecticut; Vice President of Research and Development 

at the National Semiconductor Corporation in Danbury, Connecticut; 

and Technical Director of the Sperry Semiconductor Division in Norwalk, 

Connecticut. Earlier, from 1941 to 1957, he worked at the Bell Telephone 

Laboratories supervising systems and circuit development as well as advanced 

development in semiconductor devices and circuits.150

The PREDICT Facility

The heart of the Qualifications and Standards Laboratory was the PREDICT 

facility. PREDICT was an acronym for Process Reliability Evaluation and 

Determination of Integrated Circuit Techniques. More professional and technical staff worked in that facility than in any other part of the Qualifications 

and Standards Laboratory.151 The facility was a pilot plant—outfitted with the 

same production equipment found in industry—that could make complete 

integrated circuits in any quantity or configuration desired from beginning to 

end, except for making the silicon crystals themselves. The intention was not 

to compete with industry, which had neither the time nor the incentive to conduct such research because of a lack of market demand, according to industry 

representatives who examined and commented on the facility’s plans.152

The mission of the PREDICT facility was to study failure mechanisms 

and advanced integrated-circuit fabrication processes in depth as well as the 

149. NASA ERC, “Biographical Information on Dr. Douglas Warschauer,” no date, Box 8, 

RG 255, AN 71A2309, WNRC; and Douglas Warschauer, Semiconductors and Transistors

(New York: McGraw-Hill, 1959).

150. NASA ERC, “Biographical Information on Robert L. Trent,” no date, Box 8, RG 255, 

AN 71A2309, WNRC.

151. Based on a count of ERC employees listed in the 1968 and 1969 telephone directories. NASA Electronics Research Center, Telephone Directory (Cambridge, MA: NASA 

Electronics Research Center, January 1968); and NASA Electronics Research Center, 

Telephone Directory (Cambridge, MA: NASA Electronics Research Center, July 1969).

152. 1967 Program Review, pp. 27–30.
200 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

processes for making thin-film and hybrid153 circuits in order to improve 

their reliability. Research also would investigate manufacturing methods 

for achieving high reliability for long life, sterilization capability, radiation 

resistance, and low-power operation. The basic PREDICT fabrication technology was the planar diffusion process for creating silicon integrated circuits, although the facility also had a complete line of equipment for making 

thin-film devices. The fabrication processes studied included diffusion, 

photolithography, etching, oxidation, masking, isolation, vacuum deposition, passivation, scribing, resistor adjustment, interconnection, and packaging. Photolithography took place in the Photo-Resist laboratory, while the 

Diffusion Room had two furnaces for performing diffusion operations. The 

function of the Interconnection laboratory was self-evident, while studies of 

various packaging techniques occurred in the assembly area.154

PREDICT personnel also applied the knowledge gained in the pilot 

plant to the problems encountered by manufacturers. In one case, a small, 

unnamed NASA subcontractor was having a few problems with process controls. A PREDICT specialist checked out the company’s visual inspection 

techniques. The technician not only improved those inspection techniques 

but also caught a problem in the scribing operation that prepared wafers for 

separation into individual integrated circuits. In another instance, a small, 

unnamed firm was experiencing problems with a complicated processing 

technique that the company had developed to produce a highly stable device. 

After a detailed study, PREDICT workers were able to tell the manufacturer 

the specific processing areas to emphasize in order to obtain the specific electrical characteristics needed. With the aid of an electron microscope, the 

PREDICT technicians detected cracks in an aluminum lead that had been 

bonded ultrasonically to an integrated circuit. The minute cracks were significant in causing the device to fail in the long term.155

153. Hybrid microcircuits involved marrying (or cross-breeding, to continue the analogy) thin 

film and silicon-based integrated-circuit technologies. One could deposit thin films on a 

silicon substrate to improve the capabilities of a silicon integrated-circuit device but at the 

cost of additional fabrication processing steps, increased cost, and (potentially) decreased 

reliability. Another hybrid technology involved depositing a thin film on a substrate to 

create passive components (capacitors, resistors) and interconnections, then inserting silicon integrated circuits. This approach appeared to combine the best attributes of both silicon and thin-film technologies. Some of the television cameras developed for the Apollo 

program utilized Motorola hybrid devices. Research Triangle Institute, Microelectronics in 

Space Research (Washington, DC: NASA SP-5031, August 1965), pp. 13 and 124.

154. 1967 Program Review, pp. 27–30; Albert J. Kelley to Mac C. Adams, Associate 

Administrator, OART, 4 November 1965, Folder “DD/Reading File Sept–Dec 1965,” 

Box 4, RG 255, AN 71A2309, WNRC.

155. Ramsdell, “NASA Quest,” p. 5.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 201

Research Case Studies

A complete examination of the integrated-circuit research carried out at 

the Qualifications and Standards Laboratory, the Electronics Components 

Laboratory, and the PREDICT facility of the NASA Electronics Research 

Center is beyond the scope of this work, as is an assessment of the parallel 

efforts carried out at other NASA centers. Instead, this section uses a series 

of case studies to consider the efforts made to improve processes for fabricating integrated circuits, thin-film devices, and hybrid circuits. The addition of thin-film devices stems from their inclusion along with integrated 

circuits and so-called hybrid circuits as microelectronic devices. Furthermore, 

the case studies include some research conducted by other centers, especially 

the Marshall Space Flight Center, the Goddard Space Flight Center, and the 

Langley Research Center, as well as research performed by industry and academia through grants and contracts administered by the Electronics Research 

Center and other centers.

The presentation of the case studies is in four parts. The first deals with 

understanding the causes of component failure and reliability. The second 

concerns the creation of components impervious to the harsh conditions of 

space, especially radiation and temperature extremes. The third part discusses 

advances in specific fabrication processes, such as ion implantation and separating integrated circuits from the wafer. The final section tackles improvements in testing methods, such as the use of scanning electron microscopes.

Failure and Reliability

NASA’s need for small quantities of high-quality electronics subsystems made 

the statistical approach to testing large numbers of parts uneconomical. As 

Yasushi Sato has shown in his study of Apollo program reliability, NASA officials in charge of reliability at the highest levels, such as Nicholas E. Golovin 

and Landis S. Gephart, were engineers with backgrounds in statistics, and 

they argued for the indirect use of statistical techniques.156 Lower failure rates, 

with the knowledge that an inherently failure-free design procedure had not 

yet been discovered, only compounded the problem by requiring longer testing times. NASA’s approach was to gain more knowledge on new components 

through both research and experience, to achieve high confidence and reliability. Better knowledge of materials, processes and their controls, and the 

physics of both success and failure was obtainable only through research.157

156. Yasushi Sato, “Reliability in the Apollo Program: A Balanced Approach Behind the 

Scenes,” Quest 13, no. 1 (2006): 22–29.

157. 1965 Program Review, p. 7.
202 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute

Typical of the general investigations of failure and reliability carried out by 

NASA was that of Professor Sorab K. Ghandi158 of Rensselaer Polytechnic 

Institute in Troy, New York, initiated in June 1965. His school received a 

noncompetitive NASA contract (NAS 12-34) for research on a “Study of 

Reliability in Microcircuits,” sponsored by the Qualifications and Standards 

Laboratory of the Electronics Research Laboratory.159 One of the three lines 

of investigation that he pursued was the replacement of gold in the fabrication of silicon devices. Jean Hoerni at Fairchild Semiconductor had developed the new technique of gold doping to improve the switching speeds of 

silicon transistors. Going against the conventional wisdom that saw gold as 

a contaminant reducing transistor gain, Hoerni diffused gold on the back 

of the silicon wafer. His gold-doped transistors turned off faster, and David 

Allison and other Fairchild engineers soon applied the technique to new 

switching transistor products used in computing.160 By 1965 gold had found 

extensive use in silicon microelectronics. Usually gold diffusion (Hoerni’s 

doping technique) was the final process in fabricating the devices prior to 

metallization and packaging. The introduction of gold resulted in a number 

of problems, however. Gold has an extremely high diffusion constant, about 

five to six orders of magnitude greater than that of boron and phosphorous, 

the usual semiconductor dopants. Consequently, gold atoms cannot be considered immobile at temperatures 300°C or higher. Also, because gold is a 

noble metal, one could not diffuse elemental gold.161

The diffusion process proceeded from a gold-silicon alloy, which resulted 

in damage to the surface of the wafer to a depth of many microns. This was of 

no consequence when the entire integrated circuit was to be doped with gold. 

In that case, gold was applied to the side of the wafer that constituted the 

substrate, and one removed the damaged layer mechanically prior to packaging. In other cases, however, it was necessary to use the actual face of the wafer 

on which the microcircuit was fabricated. Because the fabrication of integrated circuits used the first few microns of wafer material, the usage of gold 

was not feasible in these instances. Another problem was the metallurgical 

158. Sorab Khushro Ghandi was the author of The Theory and Practice of Microelectronics (New 

York: Wiley, 1968).

159. Electronics Research Center, Monthly Report, Month of June 1965, Folder “Chron File 

1965,” RG 255, AN 71A-2309, WNRC.

160. Lécuyer, Making Silicon Valley, p. 154.

161. S. K. Ghandi, D. N. Arden, F. L. Thiel, E. Henry, and R. Wooley, Final Report on Study 

in Optimization of Microcircuit Design (Troy, NY: Electrical Engineering Department, 

Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, 1 July 1966), pp. 2–3.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 203

incompatibility of gold and aluminum, the material most commonly used 

for integrated-circuit connections (metallization). At elevated temperatures, 

gold, in the presence of aluminum and silicon, gave rise to the common 

complaint called “purple plague,” a serious mechanism for device failure.162

Ghandi and his fellow Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute researchers considered four candidate metals to replace gold in integrated circuits: iron, nickel, 

cobalt, and copper. They focused on nickel because of the existence of a large 

body of knowledge concerning some of its properties in silicon as well as 

Rensselaer’s past experience using nickel in microwave devices. Following a 

literature search on nickel in silicon, the metal seemed to be promising. Their 

subsequent research included diffusing nickel at different temperatures and 

attempted to achieve uniform doping. They concluded that nickel, like gold, 

could be used in high-speed switching devices, but that the behavior of nickel 

in silicon was considerably more complex than that of gold because of effects 

at both extremes of the diffusion temperature range.163

Librascope

Professor R. E. Back of Northeastern University in Boston carried out a similar 

reliability study titled “Study of Reliable Solid-State Circuits” through NASA 

grant (NGR-22-011-007).164 In addition, the Electronics Research Center 

awarded a research contract to the Librascope division of General Precision, 

Inc., for a “Study of Failure and Reliability in Microelectronic Devices” in 

1965. The goal of the Librascope study was to acquire a better understanding of basic failure mechanisms and to identify methods for detecting them 

through testing. Ultimately, NASA hoped, it would lead to methods for 

162. Ghandi et al., Final Report on Study in Optimization of Microcircuit Design, p. 3. A common failure in lead wire connections was called “black plague.” This defect was the result of 

a chemical reaction between gold, aluminum, and silicon. NASA Headquarters, Electronic 

Systems Program Review, April 27, 1965 (Washington, DC: NASA Office of Program and 

Special Reports, 1965), p. 7. The aluminum used for metal connections between components also suffered from “spike-over,” whose cause often was excessive voltage or a continuity interruption resulting from a cracked wafer. 1965 Program Review, p. 8.

163. Ghandi et al., Final Report on Study in Optimization of Microcircuit Design, pp. 3, 4, 6–8, 

and 16; and S. K. Ghandi, K. E. Mortenson, J. N. Park, “Impact Ionization Devices,” 

IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices ED-13, no. 6 (1966): 515–519.

164. NASA, Twelfth Semiannual Report to Congress, July 1–December 31, 1964 (Washington, 

DC: NASA, 1965), p. 228; memorandum, Director, Electronics Research Center, to 

NASA Headquarters, Director, Office of Grants and Research Contracts, “Extension of 

Grant NGR-22-011-007,” 27 October 1965, Folder “Qualifications & Standards Lab,” 

Box 1, RG 255, AN 71A3002, WNRC.
204 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

predicting failure rates through an understanding of failure mechanisms and 

to tests for screening out potentially weak devices.165

The effort focused on aluminum, including the bonding of gold and aluminum. Librascope performed lifetime and heat stress testing of a specific 

type of commercial integrated circuit (known as a NAND/NOR gate) made 

by Fairchild, Motorola, Signetics, and ITT that included both diode transistor logic (DTL) and complementary transistor logic (CTL) circuits. The test 

consisted of temperature cycling from –55°C to +125°C, temperature-step 

stress testing from +200°C nonoperating until failure of units, and operating 

life tests at +125°C.166

After thousands of hours of tests on hundreds of integrated circuits from 

the five manufacturers, Librascope technicians concluded that “the bulk of 

the failures in microelectronic devices at the present time are process failures and not random failures.” Process failures, in fact, had beset the research 

effort. During the first year of the study, for example, Librascope had to 

eliminate Motorola from further consideration because of early incidences of 

purple plague. They rejected ITT completely during the study’s second year 

because of a fundamental fabrication problem, while a different Motorola 

microcircuit exhibited a high incidence of failures in a given region of the 

device studied.167

Librascope found three fabrication processes to be under inadequate control. These were the minimization of the rate of growth of purple plague, the 

minimization of the rate and extent of interaction between thin-film aluminum and the underlying dielectric, and possibly incomplete removal of 

photoresist in wafer regions that had “windows” in the dielectric for thin-film 

electrode connections. The researchers proposed several possible screening 

tests to isolate select problems, including visual inspection prior to sealing 

and vibration and x-ray testing.168

165. Electronics Research Center, Monthly Report, Month of June 1965, Folder “Chron File 

1965,” RG 255, AN 71A-2309, WNRC; and Librascope Group, Study of Failure and 

Reliability in Microelectronic Devices: First Quarterly Report (Glendale, CA: Librascope, 30 

November 1965), 3.

166. Librascope Group, Study of Failure and Reliability, 1965, pp. 4, 24, 25, 43, and “Appendix: 

Test Procedure,” p. 1; Librascope Group, Study of Failure and Reliability in Microelectronic 

Devices: Third Quarterly Report (Glendale, CA: Librascope, May 1966), pp. 1–2.

167. Librascope Group, Study of Failure and Reliability, May 1966, p. 23.

168. Librascope Group, Study of Failure and Reliability, May 1966, pp. 23–24; Librascope 

Group, Study of Failure and Reliability in Microelectronic Devices: Fifth Quarterly Report

(Glendale, CA: Librascope, November 1966). 
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 205

Tritium Tracer

One of the causes of failures in integrated circuits was believed to have been 

hydrogen entrapped between layers of silicon dioxide, but no experimental 

evidence existed to support that belief. In order to investigate the presence of 

hydrogen as a cause of failure, the Electronics Research Center turned to the 

Autonetics Division of North American Aviation, with which it already had a 

contract to study improved process techniques for making silicon integrated 

circuits. The center had the company develop a tritium169 tracer and obtain 

quantitative information on the entrapment of hydrogen in grown silicon 

dioxide layers.170

The Autonetics team, under J. E. Meinhard, began by studying 30 transistors of the type used on the Minuteman II missile, half of which were processed 

with deuterium, a stable isotope of hydrogen. Prior to bringing the tritium 

tracer to bear on their work, the team performed gas analyses of the transistors that indicated the presence of mainly nitrogen, not hydrogen, but they 

admitted that hydrogen may have leaked or diffused into the sealed packages 

during baking. The presence of nitrogen was normal.171 Upon investigation 

with the tritium tracer, Meinhard’s group discovered that significant amounts 

of hydrogen had been retained in the silicon oxide matrix when steam had 

been present in the gas used to oxidize silicon. They carried out a subsequent 

examination of 75 silicon wafers at the company’s General Atomic facilities. 

In addition, they selected 30 general-purpose amplifier microcircuits (10 each 

made by Texas Instruments, Westinghouse, and Norden) to investigate the 

effects of ambient hydrogen on transistor gain. The Norden circuits showed 

nitrogen as the major constituent, and the same gas was the major constituent 

in the Texas Instruments devices. Nonetheless, five contained small amounts 

169. Tritium is a radioactive isotope of hydrogen.

170. Contract NAS 12-4 was with the Autonetics Division of North American Aviation, 

Inc., for $69,000 to study “process techniques to study integrated circuits.” “ERC R&D 

Accomplishments,” no date, “Headquarters—OART,” Box 6, RG 255, AN 71A3002, 

WNRC; “Research Mission Prompts New Thinking on Procurement Methods,” Missiles 

and Rockets 16, no. 22 (31 May 1965): 30; J. E. Meinhard, Process Techniques Study of 

Integrated Circuits, Quarterly Report No. 7 (Anaheim, CA: Autonetics, February 1967); 

and “Component Technology Has ‘Core’ Role,” Missiles and Rockets 16, no. 22 (31 May 

1965): 37.

171. Meinhard, Process Techniques Study of Integrated Circuits, Quarterly Report No. 3 (Anaheim, 

CA: Autonetics, 15 February 1966), pp. 7–8; and Meinhard, Process Techniques Study of 

Integrated Circuits, Quarterly Report No. 5 (Anaheim, CA: Autonetics, 15 May 1966), 

pp. 8–9.
206 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

of carbon dioxide, and four contained helium, which probably stemmed 

from their being pressurized in helium prior to leak testing.172

In contrast, the results obtained from testing the Westinghouse devices 

were “erratic.” Three showed hydrogen contents above 85 percent with a 

smaller percentage of nitrogen, while two devices contained no detectable 

hydrogen but noteworthy amounts of nitrogen and oxygen. The explanation 

appeared to lie in the package-sealing process. The sealing of the integrated 

circuits took place in a continuous-belt furnace that had a nitrogen blanket 

on both ends and a small region of hydrogen at the center of the furnace. As 

a result, the gas composition of the packaged device depended on where in 

the furnace the package became sealed. This study—and the work conducted 

in parallel internally at the Electronics Research Center—provided the first 

direct evidence of hydrogen contamination, a potential failure mechanism in 

microelectronic devices.173

Components

Research carried out at the ERC and other centers on certain components 

was relevant to the advancement of integrated-circuit reliability insofar as 

the improved components would be integrated into those microcircuits and 

would be more resistant to such adverse space conditions as radiation and 

high temperatures. After development of a transistor or diode that met these 

rigorous conditions, the task of manufacturing them as part of an integrated 

circuit would follow. One example of this class of research was the development of a radiation-resistant transistor using thin-film techniques.

Silicon solid-state devices were less tolerant of radiation than conventional, nonsilicon resistors and capacitors, and unquestionably less tolerant 

than thin-film devices, because they contained no silicon. Silicon semiconductors were susceptible to radiation damage because that material consists 

of a single crystalline structure, and dislocations or disturbances in its crystal 

lattice would cause it to deteriorate. Proton radiation and other energetic particles such as that found in space could cause distortions in the silicon crystal lattice, primarily through the displacement of atoms from lattice points 

into interstitial regions, and cause a degradation in performance because of 

changes induced in the material’s physical properties.174

172. Meinhard, Quarterly Report No. 5, p. 13; Meinhard, Quarterly Report No. 7, pp. 3, 7 and 10.

173. Meinhard, Quarterly Report No. 7, p. 12; and “ERC R&D Accomplishments.”

174. 1964 Program Review, pp. 15–16; and Battelle Memorial Institute, Columbus 

Laboratories, A Study of the Effect of Space Radiation on Silicon Integrated Circuits: Final 

Report, vol. 1 (Columbus, OH: Battelle Memorial Institute, 1965), p. 39.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 207

Battelle Memorial Institute

In order to understand the impact of radiation on specific commercially 

available solid-state devices, NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center paid the 

Columbus, Ohio, laboratories of the Battelle Memorial Institute to investigate the effect of space radiation on silicon integrated circuits in 1964 and 

1965. The study looked at 16 types of integrated circuits representing various prevalent logic configurations,175 functions, and fabrication techniques 

(such as planar epitaxial or triple-diffusion planar processes) made by five 

different companies. Battelle exposed them to a 3-Mev electron environment 

under different electrical conditions until they failed. The researchers came to 

several conclusions. Among those was that no one class of microcircuits was 

inherently superior to another, but those using faster transistors (usually epitaxial transistors) were more resistant to failure.176 In a subsequent leg of the 

study conducted in 1965 and 1966, the Battelle technicians examined four 

other types of integrated circuits, including digital MOS (metal-oxide semiconductor) circuits, manufactured by nine companies,177 by exposing them 

to electron radiation until failure. Again, they exposed all devices to 3 Mev 

of electron energy, except the MOS circuitry, which they exposed to 1.5 Mev 

electrons. Again, they reached several conclusions about circuit types, transistor gain, and the failure mechanisms. They also concluded that currently 

available MOS microcircuits resisted lower radiation exposures better than 

the other three genres of circuits studied.178

The Mead Triode

Another critical component research area was in the development of thinfilm devices capable of resisting space radiation. The earliest of these was a 

so-called Mead triode, named after the microelectronics pioneer Professor 

Carver A. Mead of the California Institute of Technology (later Gordon and 

Betty Moore professor emeritus), who first proposed making an all-evaporated 

thin-film triode in a particular manner in 1961. Mead’s triode was a new 

175. The logic configurations were Resistor-Capacitor-Transistor Logic (RCTL), ResistorTransistor Logic (RTL), Diode-Transistor Logic (DTL), Emitter-Coupled Logic (ECL), 

and Transistor-Transistor Logic (T2L). Battelle Memorial Institute, Study of the Effect of 

Space Radiation, pp. iv, 5, and 7.

176. Battelle Memorial Institute, Study of the Effect of Space Radiation, pp. ii, 1, 2, and 162.

177. The manufacturers were Amelco, Fairchild, General Instrument, Motorola, Philco, 

Radiation Incorporated, Signetics, and Westinghouse. The MOS devices were the General 

Instrument 7531 and 7532 and the Fairchild μM400. Battelle Memorial Institute, Study 

of the Effect of Space Radiation, p. 6.

178. Battelle Memorial Institute, Study of the Effect of Space Radiation, pp. ii and iii.
208 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

type of device that used the principle of tunnel emission, a concept from 

quantum mechanics that was just then being explored in solid-state electronics following the discovery of the tunneling effect in 1958 by Leo Esaki, a 

Japanese physicist then working for the Sony Corporation. For his discovery 

Esaki received the Nobel Prize in physics in 1973.179 Tunneling phenomena 

provided a path for electrons, and the voltage applied to the Mead triode 

determined the number of electrons in motion and that, in turn, allowed one 

to turn the triode into an amplifying device.180

Mead showed that one could create a controlled electron source by using a 

metal-insulator-metal diode structure in which the second metal layer was very 

thin. By adding an additional insulator and a metal collector layer, one also 

could devise a triode. Mead built and studied both diode and triode devices 

made from several kinds of materials but found that he obtained the best triodes 

when making them out of aluminum oxide (Al2O3) insulating films as well as 

tantalum pentoxide (Ta2O5).181 In 1962, with funding from the Air Force and 

NASA, Gulu T. Advani and two other researchers at MIT’s Electronic Systems 

Laboratory attempted to construct a Mead triode out of aluminum and aluminum oxide, but utilizing thin-film fabrication techniques, and succeeded.182

University of Virginia

Beginning in 1962, Professor Robert L. Ramey and a group of graduate 

students at the Research Laboratories for the Engineering Sciences at the 

University of Virginia, in Charlottesville, performed a more intensive study 

of these thin-film devices under a grant from the Langley Research Center. 

The initial idea was to develop thin-film devices for use in various instruments, but the state of the art required substantial theoretical investigation 

to develop the basic knowledge of the physics of thin films to create practical 

devices. During the first year of the study, from December 1962 to December 

1963, Ramey focused on developing the accuracy of the equipment used to 

deposit the films and evaluating and calibrating the equipment.183

179. Berlin, Man Behind the Microchip, p. 66.

180. 1964 Program Review, p. 16.

181. Carver A. Mead, “Operation of Tunnel Emission Devices,” Journal of Applied Physics 32 

(1961): 646–652.

182. Gulu T. Advani, James G. Gottling, and Martin S. Osman, Thin Film Triode Research

(Cambridge: MIT Electronic Systems Laboratory, March 1962).

183. Robert L. Ramey, A Study of Thin Film Vacuum Deposited Junctions, Annual Status Report

(Charlottesville: University of Virginia, January 1964), pp. 1, 2, and 27 (hereafter Ramey, 

January 1964); Ramey, A Study of Thin Film Vacuum Deposited Junctions, Semiannual Status 

Report (Charlottesville: University of Virginia, June 1967), p. 2 (hereafter Ramey, June 1967).
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 209

The next phase called for research into three basic areas of thin-film phenomena—conductivity, Hall effect, and photoelectric effects—utilizing both 

single films and rectifying junctions between dissimilar films. In 1965, during 

the study’s third year, the laboratory entered various theoretical and analytical 

areas of research on thin films as well as some developmental work that eventually led to the issuance of two U.S. patents.184 Having achieved control over 

the physical and electronic properties of the deposited films, Ramey devised 

a method for depositing germanium films with controlled-hole mobility that 

led to the first NASA patent to emerge from the research.185 Their research 

into the design and fabrication of thin-film electronic devices had placed them 

in a position to capitalize on the abilities they developed through the Langley 

grant. The laboratory, moreover, had developed a “boat” for the evaporation 

of insulating films (such as those made from silicon monoxide, SiO).186

Hughes Aircraft Research

While the University of Virginia study contributed to knowledge of the 

physics of thin-film devices, including space charge effects,187 NASA needed 

practical applications of that knowledge to the solution of space electronics 

problems. The Electronics Research Center therefore decided to develop a 

thin-film space-charge-limited triode, specifically for NASA spacecraft with 

orbits in the Van Allen radiation belt, based on the theoretical concepts of 

G.T. Wright, published in 1963.188 The development effort took place at both 

184. Robert Ramey, Hugh S. Landes, and Eugene A. Manus, “Active Microwave Irises and 

Windows,” U.S. Patent #3,649,935, filed 18 August 1970, issued 14 March 1972, 

assigned to NASA; and Ramey, Landes, and Manus, “Thin Film Microwave Iris,” U.S. 

Patent #3,676,809, filed 28 May 1970, issued 11 July 1972, assigned to NASA.

185. Robert Ramey and William D. McLennan, “Depositing Semiconductor Films Utilizing 

a Thermal Gradient,” U.S. Patent #3,420,704, filed 19 August 1966, issued 7 January 

1969, assigned to NASA.

186. Ramey, January 1964, p. 27; and Robert Ramey, A Study of Thin Film Vacuum Deposited 

Junctions, Semiannual Status Report (Charlottesville: University of Virginia, July 1965), 

pp. 2–3 (hereafter Ramey, July 1965).

187. Ramey, July 1965, p. 18; and Robert Ramey, A Study of Thin Film Vacuum Deposited 

Junctions, Annual Status Report (Charlottesville: University of Virginia, December 1965), 

p. 2.

188. G. T. Wright, “Space-Charge-Limited Solid-State Devices,” Proceedings of the IEEE 30 

(November 1963): 1642–1652; Hughes Aircraft Company, Solid State Research Center, 

Development of a Thin-Film Space-Charge-Limited Triode, Final Report (Newport Beach, 

CA: Hughes Aircraft Company, June 1966), p. 7. On the development of the device, 

see also Rainer Zuleeg and Peter Knoll, “A Thin-Film Space-Charge-Limited Triode,” 

Proceedings of the IEEE 54, no. 9 (September 1966): 1197–1198; and Knoll and Zuleeg, 

“A Thin-Film Space-Charge-Limited Triode,” Proceedings of the IEEE 55, no. 2 (February 

1967): 249.
210 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the ERC and the Microelectronics Division of the Hughes Aircraft Company 

in Newport Beach, California. Hughes started work in March 1965 and produced results by June 1966 under the leadership of Rainer Zuleeg.189

Space charge is the electrical current that results when a metal object is 

heated to incandescence in a vacuum. When a metal object is placed in a 

vacuum and is heated to incandescence, the energy is sufficient to cause electrons to “boil” away from the surface atoms and surround the metal object in 

a cloud of free electrons. Because the resulting electron cloud has a negative 

charge, any nearby positively charged object will attract it, thus producing 

an electrical current that passes through the vacuum. Space charges also can 

occur within a solid, liquid, or gas.

The Hughes study considered both experimental and theoretical aspects 

of thin-film space-charge-limited triodes, including their development, their 

limitations, and the feasibility of manufacturing them via photolithography 

and related processes. Zuleeg’s team created several versions of the thin-film 

space-charge-limited triode. In fact, prior to winning the NASA contract, the 

team already had fabricated one consisting of silicon layered on sapphire. The 

production of the device for NASA, however, utilized more sundry materials and fabrication processes. The original device had a mesa structure, not 

unlike early transistors, but in the course of development Hughes replaced it 

with a planar structure.190

Learning how to make batches of this special device was a rocky road. The 

batches of devices processed under the NASA contract initially yielded very 

few operable devices as a result of manufacturing problems in the etching and 

mask design steps. Subsequent lots underwent a number of fabrication variations in order to determine approaches to solving these problems. As a result, 

the last five batches yielded higher portions of usable devices. The Hughes 

researchers concluded that the availability of better silicon films in the near 

future would result in better fabrication results.191

The results of a range of radiation tests were promising. In addition, it 

appeared that the space-charge-limited triode had considerable potential as 

a microwave amplifier. Zuleeg’s team believed that, among other advantages, 

189. “Preliminary History of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration during the Administration of President Lyndon B. Johnson: Final Edition,” Manuscript, 

Vol. 1 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1969), V-34; 1967 Program Review, p. 18; and NASA, 

Fourteenth Semiannual Report to Congress, p. 99.

190. Hughes Aircraft Company, Development of a Thin-Film Space-Charge-Limited Triode, 

pp. 4 and 7.

191. Kenneth G. Aubuchon, Peter Knoll, and Rainer Zuleeg, Research for Development of 

Thin-Film Space-Charge-Limited Triode Devices (Newport Beach, CA: Hughes Aircraft 

Company, May 1967), pp. 27–29, 31, and 65.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 211

the devices appeared to be capable of straightforward integration into highspeed and high-frequency (3 to 4 GHz) circuits. The thin-film space-chargelimited triode offered a specific advantage over regular integrated circuits 

built on silicon wafers. The disadvantage of the wafer arose from the fact 

that all the electronic parts in the integrated circuit were coupled electrically 

via the conductive substrate, and this coupling limited the operation of the 

device at high frequencies. From NASA’s point of view, the thin-film triode 

had several advantages. Because it was a thin-film device, it was compatible 

with other thin-film technologies, thereby simplifying their usage over silicon wafer microcircuits. Additionally, the space-charge-limited triode offered 

high-speed, radiation-resistance, and high-temperature capabilities.192

Texas Instruments

That the space-charge-limited triode could operate at high frequencies (3 to 

4 GHz) was encouraging, because NASA wanted to take advantage of the 

many benefits gained by operating at higher frequencies, especially in the 

microwave range. It was in this vein that the Electronics Research Center’s 

Microwave Radiation Laboratory commissioned Texas Instruments to 

develop a microwave integrated circuit as part of its millimeter and submillimeter circuits and component program. The first step (R&D 65-45, “Solid 

State Integrated Microwave Circuits”) was a study to define the specific problem areas associated with integrated circuits at microwave frequencies. The 

goal was to help to solve the disadvantages of integrated circuits at microwave 

frequencies, such as circuitry restrictions, tight tolerances, element isolation, 

and low reactance Q’s.193

Throughout the first phase of the study program, Texas Instruments made 

extensive use of the results of company-sponsored research and, especially, the 

work done by the firm on the Molecular Electronics for Radar Applications 

(MERA) program under contract with the Air Force Systems Command 

192. Aubuchon, Knoll, and Zuleeg, Research for Development of Thin-Film Space-ChargeLimited Triode Devices, pp. 1, 57, 62, and 65; Hughes Aircraft Company, Development of 

a Thin-Film Space-Charge-Limited Triode, p. 47; and 1967 Program Review, p. 25.

193. NASA Research and Technology Coordinated Documentation Form, 26 October 1964, 

Folder “FY1965 Program Actions,” Box 9, RG 255, AN 71A3002, WNRC; G. M. 

Trafford to W. E. Kock, “Procurement Request for a Research Study on Solid State 

Integrated Microwave Circuits,” 19 March 1965, Folder “Official File (R&D) Calendar 

Year 1964,” Box 9, RG 255, AN 71A3002, WNRC; ERC, Task Approval Document, 

19 February 1965, Folder “Official File (R&D) Calendar Year 1964,” Box 9, RG 255, 

AN 71A3002, WNRC.
212 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.194 Subsequently, under Contract NAS 

12-75, Texas Instruments conducted analytical studies and completed preliminary designs of a solid-state silicon, integrated-circuit telemetry transmitter capable of operating in the S band (2 to 4 GHz)—which was used 

for air-traffic control and long-range weather applications—as well as in the 

meteorological telemetry band of 1700 to 1710 MHz (L band). The design 

goal was to create an FM transmitter with an output of 2 watts at 15 percent 

efficiency. The estimated size of the completed device was 2 inches × 2 inches 

× 3 inches and its weight about 2 pounds. Hardware was available as well 

as a report. Laboratory devices currently under evaluation were capable of 

1 watt at 2 GHz.195 The Texas Instruments team—actually Albert E. Mason, 

Jr., project engineer; and Louis I. Farber, engineer—initially studied solidstate microwave devices, techniques, and components capable of functioning 

in the frequency range of 1 to 6 GHz. They looked at a number of devices, 

including transistors, thin-film devices, and so-called Schottky barrier diodes. 

They eventually would use this information to design a simple hypothetical 

microwave FM telemetry transmitter.196

The leap to frequencies above 1 gigahertz was considerable, as integrated 

circuits in 1964 and 1965 could achieve a bandwidth of 100 MHz, a considerably small fraction of 1 GHz. Laboratory transistors had been built capable of continuous-wave power outputs of about 1 watt at frequencies above 

2 GHz. Part of the problem was that the small size of integrated circuits 

gave rise to inductance and parasitic capacitance. For several years prior to 

the NASA study, Texas Instruments had been working toward extending the 

frequency response and power-handling capability of transistors and had succeeded in developing a new generation of UHF silicon transistors—namely, 

the TI3016A silicon planar transistor. Under laboratory conditions Texas 

Instruments was able to create devices that developed an output of 30 mW 

at 4.5 GHz with a pulsed input of 10 mW at 2.25 GHz. They also experimented with power amplifiers under the military’s MERA program, and they 

built an entire single-stage 500 mW preamplifier as a single integrated circuit 

through selective epitaxial deposition.197

194. Texas Instruments Incorporated, Study of Solid-State Integrated Microwave Circuits

(Washington, Government Printing Office, 31 December 1965), p. iv. 

195. The contract actually called for a transmitter with wider specifications: 1 to 5 watts of 

output power at 1 to 2 GHz. “ERC R&D Accomplishments”; and Texas Instruments 

Incorporated, Study of Solid-State Integrated Microwave Circuits, p. 3.

196. Texas Instruments Incorporated, Study of Solid-State Integrated Microwave Circuits, pp. iii, 

iv, and 145.

197. Texas Instruments Incorporated, Study of Solid-State Integrated Microwave Circuits, pp. 1, 

21, 24, 27, and 32.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 213

The Texas Instruments engineers produced a microwave integrated circuit, 

but their conclusion at the end of the NASA study was that the knowledge 

gained about the devices, techniques, and components studied was fleeting 

because of the rapid progress being made in microwave integrated circuits. 

Before finalizing the design of the transmitter, they argued, it would be necessary to update the study by examining the latest work in microwave integrated 

circuits.198 Texas Instruments was so certain that the NASA work would lead 

to useful new microwave integrated circuits that it asked NASA upfront for a 

waiver of the Agency’s patent rights in 1965 in advance of signing a contract. 

The company claimed to have made a substantial investment of its own funds 

as well as those of the MERA program. However, NASA pointed out that 

the internal funds had underwritten work on devices that did not operate 

at microwave frequencies, and the MERA dollars only confirmed NASA’s 

position that the work in microwave integrated circuits had been done with 

government money, which precluded the issuance of a waiver. In fact, the 

Agency concluded that communications in the microwave range (1 GHz to 6 

GHz) had no “general commercial application” and that the government had 

been the principal developer of these devices.199

Improving the IC Fabrication Process

The ERC’s Electronics Component and Qualifications and Standards laboratories conducted substantial research internally as well as through grants and 

contacts with industry and academia aimed at improving the processes for 

fabricating integrated circuits. The centers equally were involved in the effort, 

but the Electronics Research Center distinguished itself as the leader in basic 

research intended to increase fundamental understanding of the physics and 

chemistry of those processes. The goal, as always, was to fabricate better, more 

reliable integrated circuits.

Ion Implantation

One of the most promising techniques for improving the fabrication of 

integrated circuits was ion implantation.200 Pioneered at Bell Telephone 

198. Ibid., p. 147.

199. Memorandum, R. E. Walsh, Contract Negotiator, to J. T. Dennison, Director, Technology 

Utilization, “Request by Texas Instruments, Incorporated, for Waiver of Title under New 

Technology Clause—Proposed Contract ERC-R&D 65-45,” 11 August 1965, “(T) 

Chronological File—Mr. Dennison (1965),” Box 15, RG 255, AN 71A-2309, WNRC.

200. For a short history of ion implantation, see Richard Fair, “History of Some 

Early Developments in Ion-Implanted Technology Leading to Silicon Transistor 

Manufacturing,” Proceedings of the IEEE 86 (1998), pp. 111–137.
214 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Laboratories in the late 1940s and early 1950s for the manufacture of transistors, ion implantation was one of the oldest methods for introducing the 

impurities—called dopants—that created the so-called n and p areas in silicon or germanium to form transistors or diodes.201 As a result of this pioneering work with transistors and diodes, ion implantation in silicon and 

germanium was a given. But in light of the vulnerability of silicon to space 

radiation, NASA hoped to utilize other materials in integrated circuits. Its 

research therefore focused on the possibility of using ion implantation with 

alternative materials.

At the same time, industry—with financial assistance from the armed 

forces (the Naval Avionics Facility at Indianapolis, for instance)—was investigating silicon-based ion implantation techniques. In 1964, CBS Laboratories 

was looking at the feasibility of creating active semiconductor p-n junction 

and tunnel devices via electron-beam technology. They already had built 

backward and tunnel diodes. The CBS researchers successfully doped silicon 

substrates with indium using an ion gun controlled by electronic raster circuits similar to those that manipulate the electron beam in television picture 

tubes. Because the researchers could control the ion gun quite finely, industry 

hoped that the technique could lead to the eventual elimination of the banks 

of costly diffusion furnaces that were part and parcel of the integrated-circuit 

manufacturing process and might solve some of the problems encountered in 

forming transistors and diodes on thin-film substrates. Indeed, the ultimate 

goal of the CBS research was a thin-film technique that would have had all 

the advantages of planar silicon technology.202

The ion implantation research overseen by the Electronics Research 

Center appears to have resulted from an unsolicited proposal submitted in 

1965 by the Sprague Electric Company. That company, through the National 

Research Corporation acting as its subcontractor, conducted a 12-month 

study of techniques that used a focused ion beam, instead of the conventional masking and diffusion techniques, to create reliable, radiation-resistant 

integrated circuits. Initially they produced a wafer of n-p-n transistors doped 

via ion implantation. Heat treatment for radiation damage followed in the 

same vacuum machinery as the ion implantation. Eventually, they extended 

201. J. Stephen, “Ion Implantation in Semiconductor Device Technology,” Radio and Electronic 

Engineer 42, no. 6 (June 1972): 265–283; Dummer, Electronic Inventions, p. 106; and 

William Shockley, “Forming Semiconductive Devices by Ionic Bombardment,” U.S. 

Patent #2,787,564, filed 28 October 1954, issued 7 April 1957.

202. Frank Leary, “Microelectronics,” Space/Aeronautics (February 1964): 71. The 

Westinghouse Central Research Laboratory also was using a rastered electron beam, but 

to polymerize photoresist material preparatory to diffusing p-n junctions in silicon, in 

order to ease mask requirements and reduce costs. Ibid.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 215

the wafer pattern to add resistors and capacitors to complete the integrated 

circuit design.203

A far more ambitious study soon ensued. Between 1967 and 1970 the 

Hughes Research Laboratories in Malibu, California, examined ion implantation on behalf of the Electronics Research Center. During the first phase 

of the study, completed in October 1967, the laboratory demonstrated that 

one could form p-n junctions in gallium arsenide (GaAs) and silicon carbide 

(SiC) using ion implantation. The next step was an evaluation of the devices 

resulting from implanted zinc, cadmium, tin, and sulfur in gallium arsenide 

and antimony and bismuth in silicon carbide.204 The Hughes researchers presented their results at two professional meetings held in 1968.205

As the research of the Hughes team progressed into 1969, they achieved 

a first: doping phosphorus and antimony in silicon carbide. The potential 

advantage of ion implantation over other fabrication processes, the Hughes 

team reported, was demonstrated best in the formation of silicon carbide p-n 

junctions. Industry normally grew the hexagonal form of silicon carbide at 

temperatures of 2,500°C or above and normally carried out the diffusions for 

forming junctions at 2,000°C to 2,500°C. Typically one had to maintain these 

high temperatures for several hours. In contrast, the Hughes investigators 

succeeded in producing p-n junctions in silicon carbide by ion-implanting 

203. Electronics Research Center, Task Approval Document, Research and Development, 

17 June 1965, “FY1965 Program Actions,” Box 9, RG 255, AN 71A3002, WNRC; 

Memorandum, Director, Electronics Research Center, to Associate Administrator for 

Advanced Research and Technology, “Request for Approval of FY 1965 R&D Task,” 

and attachment, “Research and Technology resume,” “Official File (R&D) Calendar Year 

1965,” Box 9, RG 255, AN 71A3002, WNRC. Contract R&D 66-60, “Ion Implantation 

Technique Study,” $55,000, “Procurement Request Status Report,” attached to 

Memorandum, Chief of Procurement to Director, “Monthly Report—November 1965,” 

3 December 1965, “Code AA Activity reports—1965,” Box 15, RG 255, AN 71A-2309, 

WNRC.

204. R. G. Hunsperger, H. L. Dunlap, and O. J. Marsh, Development of Ion Implantation 

Techniques for Microelectronics (Washington, DC: NASA, October 1968), pp. 1–2.

205. The meetings were those of the Electrochemical Society Meeting, held in Boston, 

7 May 1968, and the IEEE Solid State Device Research Conference, Boulder, 17 June 

1968. Hunsperger, Dunlap, and Marsh, Development of Ion Implantation Techniques for 

Microelectronics, p. 3. An abstract of the Boulder paper appeared as R. G Hunsperger, 

Marsh, and Carter A. Mead, “The Presence of Deep Levels in Ion Implanted p-n 

Junctions in GaAs and Their Effect on the Electrical Characteristics,” IEEE Transactions 

on Electron Devices 15, no. 9 (September 1968): 687–687. A more complete version 

appeared as Hunsperger, Marsh, and Mead, “The Presence of Deep Levels in Ion 

Implanted Junctions,” Applied Physics Letters 13, no. 9 (1968): 295–297.
216 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

nitrogen, phosphorus, or antimony, then annealing them at temperatures as 

low as 1,000°C for only 1 to 2 minutes.206

Further successes came out of the Hughes research. They continued to 

improve their processing and fabricating techniques, and by the end of the 

study in August 1970 they demonstrated the ability to form good quality 

p-type layers by implanting cadmium or zinc at room temperatures, while 

producing n-type layers with sulfur ions. Ultimately the Hughes effort contributed to the development of new techniques for doping semiconductors 

through ion implantation instead of diffusion and masking processes. They 

showed, too, that one could dope materials through ion implantation that 

one could not dope using standard fabrication processes. Another key advantage to implantation was the ability to use low temperatures in place of the 

high temperatures required for the diffusion process. Implantation also permitted one a far better degree of control of the formation of patterns as integrated circuits became smaller and smaller still.207

Separation Anxiety

One of the most critical stages in the fabrication of integrated circuits was 

their separation from the wafer. A significant portion (upwards of 75 percent 

in some cases) of them were damaged or destroyed routinely during their 

separation from the wafer mainly by scratching or breaking them.208 Any 

solution to this problem would have obvious benefits for industry, because it 

would mean reaping more useful integrated circuits per batch. Two researchers in the Failure Mechanisms Branch of the Electronics Research Center—

Irving Litant and Anthony J. Scapicchio—came up with a solution, which 

subsequently received a U.S. patent and earned the inventors employee recognition awards.209

206. Dunlap, Hunsperger, and Marsh, Development of Ion Implantation Techniques for 

Microelectronics (Washington, DC: NASA, October 1969), pp. 1 and 4.

207. Dunlap, Hunsperger, and Marsh, October 1969, pp. 5–6; Marsh, Dunlap, R. Hart, and 

Hunsperger, Development of Ion Implantation Techniques for Microelectronics (Washington, 

DC: NASA, 1970), pp. xi and 1; and 1967 Program Review, p. 26.

208. Irving Litant and Anthony J. Scapicchio, “Apparatus and Method for Separating a Semiconductor Wafer,” U.S. Patent #3,493,155, filed May 1969, issued 3 February 1970, p. 4.

209. “Research Highlights,” ERC News, 1 June 1969, n.p., Folder “ERC History House Organ 

1966–1969,” Box 8, RG 255, AN 71A2309, WNRC; NASA, Twenty-Second Semiannual 

Report to Congress, July 1–December 31, 1969 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1970). Upon 

the closing of the Electronics Research Center in 1970, both Litant and Scapicchio transferred to the Department of Transportation’s Transportation Systems Center. Boyd C. 

Myers II, A Report on the Closing of the NASA Electronics Research Center (Washington, 

DC: NASA, 1 October 1970), pp. 201–202.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 217

Typically one scribed silicon wafers, and the lines so formed determined 

the boundaries of the integrated circuits. Then one flexed the wafer in such a 

manner as to separate the integrated circuits from the wafer. Operators used 

saws or ultrasonic cutters to separate the microcircuits. In some cases they 

might employ a curved cylindrical anvil or a roller. Technicians had to flex 

the wafer in one direction then in another before cutting, and they had to be 

careful to minimize damaging and contaminating the circuits. Several other 

techniques were in use, but they all suffered from the same difficulties.

The Litant-Scapicchio technique entailed using an open-ended cylindrical 

chamber that contained a convex hemisphere on which one placed the scribed 

wafer. An operator placed a flexible diaphragm over the wafer and convex 

hemisphere and positioned a second chamber over the convex hemisphere. 

Fluid pressure introduced into the upper chamber forced the flexible diaphragm downward and onto the wafer. As the pressure increased, the flexible 

diaphragm “walked” across the surface of the wafer. The pressure continued to 

increase until the entire wafer was broken. After the turning off of the pressure 

and the removal of the upper chamber and flexible diaphragm, the wafer was 

in the form of numerous chips. During the entire operation the integrated 

circuits did not come in contact with each other, thereby avoiding damage to 

the microcircuits. The separation of the integrated circuits was clean, clear-cut, 

and orderly along the scribed lines, and little if any flakes or dust formed as a 

result. In actual practice the inventors achieved very high yields.210

Irving Litant also invented a method for locating leaks in hermetically 

sealed containers intended for use in testing packaged electronics. Sensitive 

electronic devices, such as transistors and integrated circuits, frequently were 

packaged in metal containers that had been sealed hermetically in small protective metallic or ceramic enclosures to protect them from a variety of environmental contaminants. The problem was that once these packages were 

sealed, one had to test to ensure that the seals were tight.211 Of course, various 

testing methods already existed. One method—prescribed by the Defense 

Department (MIL-STD-202C)212—consisted of immersing the device in a 

bath of ethylene glycol or glycerol heated to 150°C and watching for bubbles 

of gas escaping. This method was highly unreliable, however, and several other 

methods were available. A method in use at the Electronics Research Center 

210. Litant and Scapicchio, “Apparatus and Method,” p. 4.

211. Litant, “Method for Detecting Leaks in Hermetically Sealed Containers,” U.S. Patent 

#3,548,636, filed 30 September 1968, issued 22 December 1970, assigned to NASA; and 

Litant, Leak Detection in Hermetically Sealed Devices (Washington, DC: NASA, October 

1969), p. 1.

212. L. D. Hanley, J. Partridge, and E. C. Hall, The Application of Failure Analysis in Procuring 

and Screening of Integrated Circuits (Cambridge: MIT, October 1965), pp. 48–49.
218 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

employed the standard helium leak detector but modified significantly by 

the addition of a sample container having a controlled orifice. The particular advantage of this method was that leaks intermediate between gross and 

fine could be detected reliably. Litant’s improved, patented method basically 

involved introducing a low-boiling fluorocarbon liquid (Freon 11, for example) into the sealed container through any leak, and the detection of the resultant vapor escaping from the leak by means of a halogen leak detector. The 

technique allowed one to pinpoint leaks and to determine the leak rate.213

Researchers at the Electronics Research Center developed several additional 

methods for improving the integrated-circuit fabrication process, such as the 

use of lasers to scribe wafers. Laser-scribing eliminated the tiny cracks that 

often formed at the intersection of scribe lines, minimized or eliminated the 

preparation of the scribe channels, and increased yield during the breaking 

process. NASA touted the laser technique as being able to compete successfully 

with existing methods as a high-speed production tool for scribing wafers.214

The Electronics Research Center also was in the middle of the push toward 

computer-aided design of circuits, including those that would become integrated circuits.215 Universities and the armed services were the key players 

in the development of the new techniques. The Joint Services Electronics 

Program,216 for example, invested heavily in the computer design of integrated circuits at the University of California, Berkeley. The most widely used 

design software developed was a circuit simulation program known as the 

Simulator Program with Integrated Circuits Emphasis (SPICE).217

The Electronics Research Center had an “extremely active” program in 

computer-aided circuit design. Its focus was on circuit analysis techniques 

to the design of microelectronic circuits. The center contracted out much 

of the research (as had the military) through various grants and contracts to 

a number of universities,218 such as Villanova University in Pennsylvania219

213. Litant, Leak Detection, pp. 1, 2, 3, and 5–6.

214. The work was carried out by C. Calihan of Spacerays, Inc., Burlington, MA, under contract to the Electronics Research Center. “Laser Scribing of Silicon Wafers,” NASA Tech 

Brief, Brief 70-10437, October 1970.

215. 1967 Program Review, p. 30.

216. On the JSEP, see A. L. Gilbert and B. D. McCombe, “The Joint Services Electronics 

Program: An Historical Perspective,” in Arnold Shostak, ed., Fortieth Anniversary of the 

Joint Services Electronics Program (Arlington, VA: ANSER, 1986), pp. 2–5.

217. Gary Akin, “Consider the Epoch of Electronics,” Leading Edge (August 1990): 9; and 

W. Oldham and D. Angelakos, “University of California, Berkeley,” Shostak, Fortieth 

Anniversary of the Joint Services Electronics Program, pp. 9–11.

218. 1967 Program Review, p. 30.

219. Tsute Yang and Henry T. Koonce, Semi-Annual Report on Computer-Aided Circuit Analysis

(Villanova: Villanova University, December 1965); Yang and Koonce, Semi-Annual 
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 219

and MIT in Massachusetts.220 The Electronics Research Center took center 

stage on 11–12 April 1967 when it hosted its computer-aided circuit 

design seminar at MIT’s Kresge Auditorium. Participants came from IBM 

and its Watson Research Center, Bell Telephone Laboratories, Los Alamos 

Scientific Laboratory, the Sandia Corporation, Rice University, the Boeing 

Corporation, the Air Force Weapons Laboratory (Kirtland, New Mexico), 

the Bendix Radio Division, and of course the Electronics Research Center—

the only NASA center participating in the seminar. The event concluded with 

a panel discussion on time-sharing versus batch processing.221

The total NASA computer-aided design program comprised more than 

the design and analysis of integrated circuits. The computer-aided “efforts 

include techniques for diagramming circuits and modeling the components, 

the automated production of the masks and layouts from which the actual 

circuits are made, and the reduction and analysis of test data. To date [March 

1969], these efforts have produced a series of computer programs suitable 

for analyzing digital circuit designs and laying out the precision masks used 

in device fabrication. In Fiscal Year 1970, these efforts will continue with 

emphasis on a broader range of circuit types, the development of automated 

test instrumentation, and the elimination of hand-drawn layouts in the device 

fabrication process. Our aim in this area is to capitalize on the facilities and 

competence of industrial and university research and direct selected investigations of particular interest to meeting future aerospace operational needs.”222

Testing Methods

An essential and critical stage in the manufacture of reliable integrated circuits was their testing. Microscopes had long been a standard tool for the 

nondestructive testing of transistors and later microcircuits. The screening 

Report on Computer-Aided Circuit Analysis (Villanova: Villanova University, June 1966); 

Yang and Koonce, Semi-Annual Report on Computer-Aided Circuit Analysis (Villanova: 

Villanova University, December 1966).

220. MIT Electronic Systems Laboratory, Computer-Aided Electronic Circuit Design (Cambridge: 

MIT Electronic Systems Laboratory, June 1965); MIT Electronic Systems Laboratory, 

Computer-Aided Electronic Circuit Design (Cambridge: MIT Electronic Systems Laboratory, 

June 1966); and MIT Electronic Systems Laboratory, Computer-Aided Electronic Circuit 

Design (Cambridge: MIT Electronic Systems Laboratory, January 1967).

221. NASA Electronics Research Center, Computer-Aided Circuit Design Seminar (Cambridge, 

MA: Electronics Research Center, 1967), passim.

222. “Oral Statement of Francis J. Sullivan, Director of Electronics and Control, National 

Aeronautics and Space Administration, Before the Subcommittee on Advanced Research 

and Technology, Committee on Science and Astronautics, House of Representatives,” 11 

March 1969, Folder 2243, NHRC.
220 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

procedures for the Apollo program, carried out by the Raytheon Corporation’s 

Space and Information Systems Division, called for the use of microscopes 

in testing integrated circuits for the guidance and navigation computers. In 

general, technicians performed inspections at determined minimum magnifications—for example, at a minimum magnification of 150 times to discover 

scratches on the chip’s surface or corrosion of the metallic connections. Other 

checks required minimal magnifications of only 80 times and some as low as 

20 times.223

Microscopes also served as a critical tool in the three tests prescribed for 

detecting packaging leaks. These were known as the helium or “radiflo” leak, 

the nitrogen bomb, and the hot glycerol bubble tests, the latter being performed in accordance with specifications laid out by the Defense Department 

(MIL-STD-202C). The tritium tracer was not available yet. For these tests 

the Apollo program specified the use of binocular microscopes capable of 

magnification of only 7 to 10 times in order to observe the stream of bubbles 

that would indicate a package leak.224

Such visual observations were standard practice for both NASA and the 

military, but were inadequate for testing for a range of failure mechanisms. 

The Apollo guidance and navigational computer integrated circuits underwent tests to determine whether their leads were too long or came in contact 

with each other. Microscopes were incapable of penetrating their packaging, 

so x-raying proved an excellent screening procedure. However, the technique 

was useless for devices that employed aluminum leads (the material of choice 

for integrated-circuit connections) because that metal is transparent to x rays. 

A major improvement came out of the ERC’s Qualifications and Standards 

Laboratory, when the staff succeeded in using an x-ray spectrograph to measure the thickness of aluminum deposited on silicon to within ± 10Å. The 

spectrograph operated in conjunction with a vacuum evaporator for depositing aluminum film and a diffusion furnace to study aluminum interfaces.225

Scanning Electron Microscope

One of the routine instruments utilized by industry today for testing integrated circuits on the production line is the electron microscope. Electron 

microscopes already had been around for decades when the integrated circuit 

223. L. D. Hanley, J. Partridge, and E. C. Hall, The Application of Failure Analysis in Procuring 

and Screening of Integrated Circuits (Cambridge: MIT, October 1965), pp. 2 and 36–39.

224. Hanley, Partridge, and Hall, Application of Failure Analysis, pp. 48–49.

225. Ibid., p. 15; and “ERC R&D Accomplishments.”
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 221

came along, as they date back to the 1930s and 1940s.226 Adapting them 

to integrated-circuit testing on a production line was not a straightforward 

proposition for a number of reasons. To begin with, early in the development 

of the electron microscope, a question arose concerning two different types 

of lens systems. It was not at all obvious whether the electromagnetic lens or 

the electrostatic design would prove to be superior. Their application to the 

manufacture of integrated chips would appear to have had to wait until 1965, 

when Cambridge Instruments introduced the first commercial scanning electron microscope (the Stereoscan).227

The electron microscope held out promise because of the extremely small 

sizes involved with integrated circuits. They had an area of about 1 square 

millimeter, and some contained dozens of transistors, diodes, and resistors. 

The electrical interconnections between them often were but a few microns 

wide, which made physical contact with them for testing not only difficult 

but also dangerous to their mechanical and electrical integrity.228

Already during the 1950s, some experimental work had taken place in the 

scientific study of semiconductors with electron microscopes.229 Still, given 

the variety of electron microscopes available (at least for scientific research), 

which one would be the most appropriate instrument for integrated-circuit 

testing was not clear. Therefore, to determine the electron microscope type 

226. For the history of the electron microscope, see Ladislaus Marton, Early History of the 

Electron Microscope (San Francisco: San Francisco Press 1968); Peter W. Hawkes, ed., The 

Beginnings of Electron Microscopy (Orlando, FL: Academic Press, 1985); John Reisner, 

“An Early History of the Electron Microscope,” Advances in Electronic and Electron 

Physics 73 (1989): 134–230; Ernst Ruska, “The Development of the Electron Microscope 

and of Electron Microscopy,” Reviews of Modern Physics 59 (July 1987): 627–638; and 

O. H. Griffith and E. Engel, “Historical Perspective and Current Trends in Emission 

Microscopy, Mirror Electron Microscopy and Low-Energy Electron Microscopy,” 

Ultramicroscopy 36 (May 1991): 1–28.

227. Gregory C. Kunkle, “Technology in the Seamless Web: ‘Success’ and ‘Failure’ in the 

History of the Electron Microscope,” Technology and Culture 36, no. 1 (January 1995): 

81; “Major Events in the Development of the Electron Microscope and Its Application to 

Cell Biology,” http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/bv.fcgi?rid=mboc4.table.1751 (accessed 

11 May 2006). This article is from an online version of Bruce Alberts, Alexander Johnson, 

Julian Lewis, Martin Raff, Keith Roberts, and Peter Walter, Molecular Biology of the Cell, 

4th ed. (New York: Garland Science, 2002).

228. Leon C. Hamiter, Jr., “Fast Scan Infrared Microscope for Improving Microelectronic 

Device Reliability,” 1 in Research and Development Operations, Marshall Space Flight 

Center, Research Achievements Review, Vol. 2, Report No. 5 (Huntsville, AL: Marshall 

Space Flight Center, 1966).

229. See, for example, J. W. Allen and K. C. A. Smith, “Electron Microscopy of Etched 

Germanium Surfaces,” Journal of Electronics 1 (1956): 439–443; and C. W. Oatley and 

T. E. Everhart, “The Examination of p-n Junctions in the Scanning Electron Microscope,” 

Journal of Electronics 2 (1957): 568–570.
222 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

best suited to the inspection of integrated circuits, Dr. James E. Cline and 

colleagues in the ERC’s Failure Mechanisms Branch undertook a study of two 

candidate types.230 Although historians have focused on the development of 

scanning electron microscopes by General Electric and RCA,231 the application of electron microscopy to the production of integrated circuits appears 

to have begun at the Westinghouse Research Laboratories in Pittsburgh well 

before the availability of the Cambridge Instruments microscope. In 1960, 

Oliver C. Wells, Thomas E. Everhart, and R. K. Matta built an advanced 

scanning electron microscope (called the Micro-Scan) specifically to study 

solid-state devices and to improve the fabrication of integrated circuits. 

Researchers at Marshall’s Astrionics Laboratory purchased a Micro-Scan and 

used it starting in 1966 as a research tool to investigate failure mechanisms in 

integrated circuits.232

About the same time, a different research team at the Goddard Space Flight 

Center began examining how to use scanning electron microscopy in the manufacture of integrated circuits. Robert J. Anstead, John W. Adolphsen, and 

Samuel R. Floyd in the Quality Assurance Division, who published their initial results in 1968, attempted to analyze failure modes in semiconductors and 

wire plating. As the Goddard team continued its investigation of solid-state 

reliability physics, they focused on specific problems whose solution was not 

230. James E. Cline, James M. Morris, and Seymour Schwartz, “Scanning Electron Mirror 

Microscopy and Scanning Electron Microscopy of Integrated Circuits,” IEEE Transactions 

on Electron Devices 16, no. 4 (April 1969): 371–375.

231. See, especially, Gregory C. Kunkle, “Technology in the Seamless Web: ‘Success’ and 

‘Failure’ in the History of the Electron Microscope,” Technology and Culture 36, no. 1 

(January 1995): 80–103. Cyrus C. M. Mody, “Corporation, Universities, and Instrumental 

Communities: Commercializing Probe Microscopy, 1981–1996,” Technology and Culture

47, no. 1 (January 2006): 56–80, discusses the scanning tunneling microscope, a later 

development. Mody dismisses the importance of the scanning electron microscope in 

the history of nondestructive testing because its use required “breaking and discarding 

expensive silicon wafers.” Ibid., 64. Both articles suffer or benefit—depending on one’s 

perspective—from their overwhelming historiographical bent. A sorely needed history of 

the application of scanning electron microscopy to the production of solid-state devices 

remains to be written.

232. G. Berryman and T. R. Edwards, Marshall Space Flight Center, “Evaluation of 

Semiconductor Devices Using the Scanning Electron Microscope,” in ERC, Proceedings,

p. 424; Thomas E. Everhart, Oliver C. Wells, and R. K. Matta, “A Novel Method of 

Nondestructive Semiconductor Device Measurements,” IEEE International Electron 

Devices Meeting 9 (1963): 72–72G; Thomas E. Everhart, Oliver C. Wells, and R. K. Matta, 

“A Novel Method of Nondestructive Semiconductor Device Measurements,” Proceedings 

of the IEEE 52, no. 12 (December 1964): 1642–1647. See also Oliver C. Wells, Thomas 

E. Everhart, and R. K. Matta, “Automatic Positioning of Device Electrodes Using 

the Scanning Electron Microscope,” IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices 12, no. 10 

(October 1965): 556–563; and Oliver C. Wells, Scanning Electron Microscopy (New York: 

McGraw-Hill, 1974).
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 223

readily at hand through optical microscopy. The electron microscope allowed 

them to see conditions previously unseen. Among these problems were the 

discontinuities in integrated-circuit aluminum connections. By 1970 they 

had completed developing the application of scanning electron microscopy to 

integrated-circuit production lines for the detection of metallization faults.233

Fast-Scan Infrared Microscope

A different line of attack was taken up by researchers at the Marshall Space 

Flight Center under Leon C. Hamiter Jr. through a contract with the Raytheon 

Corporation. Their microscope operated in the infrared spectrum. Infrared 

illumination of integrated circuits would furnish inspectors with several 

advantages over optical microscopy. For one, silicon is essentially transparent 

at infrared wavelengths. Of course, one of the most obvious advantages is that 

infrared inspection avoided contact with the microcircuit, thereby reducing 

the likelihood of damage during examination. NASA considered this ability 

important to Agency research into what made electronic parts fail and hoped 

that the microscope one day might ease the inspection load in the assembly 

of spacecraft systems.234

The fast-scan infrared microscope that Marshall and Raytheon developed 

measured small temperature differences in the integrated circuit that pointed 

to possible trouble areas. Wherever electric current flows, a portion of it turns 

into heat (called power dissipation), so that wherever current flows the temperature of the part through which it flows rises. Experience showed that electronic parts that operated significantly hotter or colder than average tended 

to fail first.235

233. Robert J. Anstead, “Failure Analysis Using a Scanning Electron Microscope,” [IEEE] 

Sixth Annual Reliability Physics Symposium, Los Angeles, CA, November 6–8, 1967

(New York: Electron Devices and Reliability Societies of the Institute of Electrical and 

Electronics Engineers, 1968); Robert J. Arnstead and Samuel R. Floyd, “Thermal Effects 

on the Integrity of Aluminum to Silicon Contacts in Silicon Integrated Circuits,” IEEE 

Seventh Annual Reliability Physics Symposium, Washington, DC, December 2–4 (New York: 

Electron Devices and Reliability Societies of the Institute of Electrical and Electronics 

Engineers, 1969); John W. Adolphsen and Robert J. Anstead, “The Use of the Scanning 

Electron Microscope as a Semiconductor Production Line Quality Control Tool,” 

in Charles P. Marsden, ed., Silicon Device Processing, NBS SP-337 (Washington, DC: 

National Bureau of Standards, 1970), pp. 384–397.

234. Contract NAS 8-11604 for the “design, development, and evaluation of a fast-scan infrared detection and measuring instrument to assess the true electrical performance and 

thermal characteristics of microelectronics devices.” “Office of Reliability and Quality 

Assurance Functions for Potential Transfer to ERC,” n.d., “Qualifications & Standards 

Lab,” Box 1, RG 255, AN 71A3002, WNRC; and 1965 Program Review, p. 9.

235. 1965 Program Review, p. 8.
224 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The fast-scan infrared microscope consisted of a pedestal located inside on 

the left side of the infrared microscope unit system. The operator mounted 

the integrated-circuit device to be examined on this pedestal. A binocular 

optical microscope aided the operator in positioning and inspecting the 

device. The heat from the microcircuit undergoing testing was scanned by 

the motion of a mirror, and various mirrors reflected and focused the heat 

on the cryogenically cooled infrared detector. The output of the detector was 

recorded as a function of the scanning mirror’s position and by inference the 

location of the heat source.236

The optics of the infrared microscope provided magnification, while the 

scanning-mirror system provided a fast rate of scanning not unlike that used 

in television. Each infrared “snapshot” depicted an area 10 microns across. 

Scanning speed was 10 frames per second (at 100 lines per frame, 1,000 lines 

per second). The instrument’s design simplified signal processing as much as 

possible, but still providing a single frame image of the scanned target as well 

as a read-out of infrared radiation amplitude over time on a continuous basis. 

The microscope furnished output in two forms. One was an analog signal 

with a maximum frequency of 100 Hz, and another was an indexed video 

signal, which made it ideal for recording output on a conventional videotape 

recorder. One then could reproduce the data from the recorder as video 

images on an oscilloscope, and the line scans could be recorded directly on a 

strip chart recorder. Furthermore, one could use the recorder data as input to 

an analog-to-digital converter whose output was fed into a buffer unit for 

storage and future computer processing.237

The Marshall researchers foresaw uses for the fast-scan infrared microscope beyond the inspection of production-line solid-state devices. For example, one could place prototype integrated circuits in the unit, producing a 

“thermal map” that would enable design engineers to verify its operation, 

in particular to eliminate excessive power dissipation and unwanted heating 

of sensitive components. In addition, one could compare the thermal maps 

of production circuits with standards established for each basic device. Any 

significant variations during the production process would become apparent. 

From these thermal maps, then, both circuit designers and production personnel could institute changes in order to correct defects or other anomalous 

236. Ibid. 

237. Leon C. Hamiter, Jr., “Fast Scan Infrared Microscope for Improving Microelectronic 

Device Reliability,” in ERC, Proceedings, pp. 436–439; and Hamiter, “Fast Scan 

Infrared Microscope for Improving Microelectronic Device Reliability,” in Research and 

Development Operations, Marshall Space Flight Center, Research Achievements Review, 

vol. 2, Report No. 5 (Huntsville: Marshall Space Flight Center, 1966), pp. 2–3.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 225

qualities. Hamiter and his Marshall colleagues looked forward to placing the 

instrument in a microcircuit manufacturer’s plant for about three months of 

testing to establish the relationship between the effectiveness and efficiency of 

infrared testing of integrated circuits.238

Impacts and Conclusions

The purpose of this chapter was to determine what, if any, role NASA had 

in improving the manufacture of integrated circuits during the Apollo era. It 

tackled that question on two fronts. The first was a reconsideration of the role 

of the decision to utilize integrated circuits for the Apollo guidance and navigation computers on the growth of the integrated-circuit industry, especially 

the stimulus of commercial—as opposed to governmental—applications. 

The second front was a broader examination of NASA’s integrated-circuit 

research and development efforts during that same time period.

The Legend Revisited

The long-standing argument is that the integrated-circuit industry took off 

because NASA purchased a large number of them for the Apollo guidance 

and navigation computers (or for the entire Apollo program in alternate 

versions of the story). Those hefty purchases induced industry to introduce 

changes that led to commercial applications of the integrated circuit.239 Some 

scholars also have pointed to the role of military buys of integrated circuits for 

the Minuteman II; however, those followed the initial NASA procurements 

for the Apollo program.240 Paul Cerruzi perhaps has best summed up the relative contributions of these two significant procurements of the first integrated 

circuits, when he wrote: “The current ‘revolution’ in microelectronics thus 

owes a lot to both the Minuteman and the Apollo programs. The Minuteman 

was first; it used integrated circuits in a critical application only a few years 

after they were invented. Apollo took the next and equally critical step; it was 

designed from the start to exploit the advantages of integrated logic.”241

238. Hamiter, “Fast Scan Infrared Microscope,” in Research Achievements Review, pp. 4–5; and 

Hamiter, “Fast Scan Infrared Microscope,” in ERC, Proceedings, pp. 439–440 and 443.

239. Hall, Journey to the Moon; Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit”; Eli Ginzbert, James W. Kuhn, 

Jerome Schnee, and Boris Yavitz, Economic Impact of Large Public Programs: The NASA 

Experience (Salt Lake City, UT: Olympus Publishing Company, 1976), pp. 57–59, just to 

name three sources.

240. Ceruzzi, History of Modern Computing, p. 188; Neal, Ace in the Hole; MacKenzie, 

Inventing Accuracy; Kleiman, “Integrated Circuit,” p. 210; and Kraus, “Economic Study 

of the U.S. Semiconductor Industry,” p. 45.

241. Ceruzzi, History of Modern Computing, p. 188.
226 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Leslie Berlin and Christophe Lécuyer have provided an alternative account 

that shifts the focus from the number of integrated circuits bought by the government to the price that customers paid for them. As long as the price of integrated circuits exceeded the price of the individual components represented 

in the integrated circuit, Berlin has argued, commercial consumers stayed 

away from them. But in 1964, when Bob Noyce of Fairchild Semiconductor 

decided to lower the unit price of certain integrated circuits below that of the 

aggregated components, businesses began to buy them. Although the price of 

integrated circuits had been declining since their introduction, commercial 

sales did not take off until Noyce lowered prices below the price paid for the 

equivalent components. Furthermore, the lowered prices were below what it 

cost Fairchild Semiconductor to make them. The large government procurements were not a motivating factor, and in fact they are not part of the narrative that Berlin and Lécuyer weave.242

Because the legend relies on the large size of government procurements 

prior to 1964, one must wonder the extent to which those purchases actually 

were large, especially compared with the commercial buys that began following the 1964 price drop. Eldon Hall generally cites 200,000 as the number of 

integrated circuits that NASA bought for the Apollo guidance and navigation 

computers. The total number of integrated circuits that the Air Force bought 

for the Minuteman II is unknown. We do know, however, that each missile’s 

guidance and control system used about 3,000 integrated circuits, and that 

by 1965, shortly after the first flight of the Minuteman II in September 1964, 

missile production rate was up to six or seven per week—a schedule that 

called for Texas Instruments, Westinghouse, and RCA to supply over 4,000 

integrated circuits every week.243

Even though the size of these procurements seems big, they pale in comparison to those made by industry once Noyce lowered the price of certain 

integrated circuits. Within a year of the price cuts, Fairchild Semiconductor 

received a single order for 500,000 microcircuits, a number equal to a fifth 

of the entire industry’s production output for the preceding year, according 

to Berlin, and the computer manufacturer Burroughs put in an order for 

several millions in 1966. Fairchild Semiconductor now was selling integrated 

circuits in lots of 500,000,244 more than double the number of integrated 

242. Lécuyer, Making Silicon Valley, p. 241; Berlin, Man Behind the Microchip, pp. 136–139. 

The small exception is that Fairchild worked hard to overcome customers’ objections to 

the IC. One thing they did was to participate “in several widely publicized reliability 

tests sponsored by the federal government, including experiments for the Apollo project.” 

Berlin, Man Behind the Microchip, p. 137.

243. Ceruzzi, History of Modern Computing, p. 187.

244. Berlin, Man Behind the Microchip, p. 139.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 227

circuits in all of the Apollo guidance and navigation computers. The commercial demand for standardized integrated circuits for computers outpaced government demand immediately and established a new meaning of 

“big” for integrated-circuit purchases. One wonders, therefore, the extent to 

which the significantly smaller NASA and Air Force procurements actually 

had an impact on the commercialization of integrated circuits. The question 

demands new research.

Both the Apollo legend and the Berlin-Lécuyer thesis focus on large-scale 

purchases of standardized integrated circuits that Fairchild Semiconductor 

and Texas Instruments churned out in large numbers. Mass production 

is a relative term in this context. But the production and consumption of 

standardized integrated circuits on a large scale did not constitute the entire 

market for integrated circuits, but only one part of it. Alongside the largescale standardized market was another that comprised smaller lots of specialized integrated circuits with electrical characteristics designed to meet 

a consumer’s particular needs. As one NASA publication characterized the 

market: “In space research, requirements exist for small quantities of special 

microelectronic devices and for large quantities of standardized devices.”245

NASA had a voracious appetite for these specialized microelectronic products. Scholars, moreover, have provided a number of examples in which the 

production of small lots of specialty integrated circuits played a crucial role 

in the history of electronics firms, but without overtly making this point. For 

example, Berlin tells us that when Fairchild Semiconductor was a newly created company hungry for its first order, it obtained one from IBM for 100 

transistors with special characteristics (capable of switching 150 milliamps 

while operating at 60 volts and 50 MGz) for which IBM agreed to pay $150 

each. In Berlin’s words, “The IBM order made Fairchild Semiconductor.”246

The example of Signetics shows a conscious effort to make lots of specialized integrated circuits instead of large numbers of standardized devices. 

With little capital, the company reasoned, they could not compete with 

Fairchild in the low-cost, high-volume transistor market, so they decided to 

concentrate their resources on microcircuits. As a result, Signetics became 

the first corporation to specialize in integrated circuits in the United States. 

When the founders discovered that microcircuits were in little demand, they 

had their engineers design logic circuits of the type known as diode transistor logic (DTL) and familiar to most system firms. After six months the firm 

realized that the demand for custom integrated circuits was more limited 

245. Research Triangle Institute, Microelectronics in Space Research (Washington, DC: NASA 

SP-5031, August 1965), p. 127.

246. Berlin, Man Behind the Microchip, pp. 92–93.
228 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

than they originally had thought, so they switched to a family of standard 

integrated circuits based on a DTL configuration in the belief that these had 

certain inherent advantages over the other types of logic configurations. Still, 

they were getting nowhere with sales, so the company hired a military sales 

specialist whose only job was to garner military research and development 

contracts. Success arrived in 1963, when Signetics won a $159,000 contract 

to develop a high-speed DTL family for the Signal Corps. Signetics’ fortunes began to change. Signetics’ DTL rapidly became the standard in the 

market. That same year, the Pentagon began to require that defense contractors utilize microcircuits to the maximum extent possible, thereby creating 

a large market for integrated circuits “that went well beyond the Apollo and 

Minuteman II programs.”247

NASA, then, was a consumer of both standardized integrated circuits 

produced en masse and small-lot specialty integrated circuits. The common 

portrayal of the space agency as just a buyer of integrated circuits is far from 

the actuality, however. Both consumption patterns drove the space agency to 

undertake its own research and development programs—not to mention the 

construction and operation of its own fabrication facilities—not just to be a 

better customer of industry but to guide the direction of scientific research 

and the development of technology and manufacturing processes. The case 

studies provided above bear witness to NASA’s internal and external research 

and development efforts related to the manufacture of better integrated circuits, whether to achieve greater reliability or devices capable of withstanding 

the rigorous conditions of space.

The case studies also portray a government research effort that was on the 

cutting edge along with industry, academia, and other government laboratories. NASA combined internal research with contracted work to some degree 

as a response to the 1962 Report to the President on Government Contracting 

for Research and Development by David Bell, Director of the Bureau of the 

Budget, and others.248 More importantly, under Administrator James Webb, 

NASA research was woven into a web of institutional relationships, a socalled university-industry-government complex, for waging “war” on the 

technological frontier. For Webb, this complex was not a necessary evil but 

a positive boon.249 To understand NASA research during the Apollo era, we 

therefore must understand it as taking place within this institutional web.

247. Lécuyer, Making Silicon Valley, pp. 140, 212, 229, 230, 231, 233, 236.

248. Levine, Managing NASA in the Apollo Era, pp. 75–84.

249. Walter A. McDougall, ...The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age

(Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985), p. 381.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 229

Technology Utilization

NASA was not only committed to accomplishing improvements in the 

manufacture of integrated circuits but also made a concerted effort to gather 

information internally on those accomplishments. The Electronics Research 

Center, for example, regularly generated documents that fed the Agency’s 

hunger for news of its own success. The monthly reports compiled in 1965, 

for example, included information on expenses for research and development 

programs, the construction and rental of facilities, personnel growth, visitors 

to the center, and research news.250 With the start of weekly reports, such as 

those for 1967, the focus shifted to appointments of new senior-level personnel, meetings and symposia, and research and development results (not to 

mention the ongoing news of facility construction).251

The activities and successes documented in the weekly and monthly 

reports flowed upward through the NASA bureaucracy to Headquarters, 

where the information supported a number of efforts, not the least of which 

was technology utilization (or “spinoff”). The Headquarters reorganization of 

1963 included the creation of the Office of Technology Utilization in order 

to work out means by which the technical byproducts of space research and 

development could be disseminated most effectively to private industry and 

other users. This effort was a major undertaking, according to Levine, because 

it involved identifying useful technology, evaluating its potential, supporting research on technology transfer (often through grants to universities and 

research institutes), and matching data collected with potential users.252 The 

office253 promoted the use and diffusion of the technological innovations that 

developed from NASA research activities. These innovations stemmed from 

work conducted internally within the Agency’s laboratories or in academic 

or industrial facilities under contract with NASA. One of the chief, but certainly not the sole, outlet for the dissemination of NASA technical successes 

was the Tech Brief. Each Tech Brief discussed one innovation in detail with 

appropriate diagrams and technical drawings and included information on 

how businesses could license the technology. A list of selected Tech Briefs that 

250. The 1965 monthly reports are in “Chron File 1966,” Box 3, RG 255, AN 71A-2309, 

WNRC.

251. Weekly reports for 1967 are in “Chron File-September 1967,” “Chron File-October 

1967,” “Chron File-November 1967,” and “Chron File-December 1967,” Box 11, RG 

255, AN 71A-2309, WNRC. 

252. Edward E. Furash, “The Problem of Technology Transfer,” in Raymond A. Bauer and 

Kenneth J. Gergen, eds., The Study of Policy Formation (New York: Free Press, 1968), 

pp. 281–328; and Levine, Managing NASA in the Apollo Era, pp. 42–43.

253. Also known as the Office of Technology Utilization and Policy Planning.
230 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

issued from the integrated-circuit work of the Electronics Research Center is 

offered in Appendix A.

As a means of improving industrial practices, the diffusion of technical 

knowledge through publications with technical illustrations harkens back to 

the 18th century and the Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des 

arts et des métiers par une société de gens de lettres.

254 Published under the direction of Denis Diderot and Jean le Rond d’Alembert, the work consisted of 21 

volumes of text, 11 volumes of plates, and some 72,000 articles written by 

over 140 contributors. Among articles on philosophy, religion, history, and 

other topics, the compilers included a substantial number of scientific and 

technical entries relating to what today would be called physics, chemistry, 

astronomy, and medicine as well as automatons, glassblowing, metallurgy, 

and papermaking, not to mention articles devoted to discovery (“découverte”) 

and invention (“invention”) itself.

The Encyclopédie, like the NASA Tech Briefs, spread technical and scientific knowledge in a passive manner. That is, the publication made the information available, but it did not engage an end user of the knowledge in any 

active manner. Consequently, gauging the effectiveness of the Encyclopédie

approach is difficult, if not impossible. The case of the NASA Tech Briefs, 

however, is not so daunting because of the evolution of the legal context of 

innovation. Unlike the technological practices spread by the encyclopédistes

of the 18th century, NASA operates in a society that legalizes and regulates 

technological change. Thus, if a business chose to use one of the innovations 

described in a Tech Brief, it would ask NASA for a license to use it. The 

records of the licensing of Tech Brief innovations therefore provide a valuable 

index of the transfer of knowledge from NASA research programs to the commercial sector. Unfortunately, such records are unavailable because they are 

either off-limits to researchers or have been destroyed as part of the Agency’s 

records management policy.

Patent waivers provide a second legalistic trace of technology transfer, 

but only for those innovations created by industry under contract to NASA. 

When work under a NASA contract or grant led to a new discovery or invention, the rights to it belonged to NASA under the National Aeronautics and 

Space Act of 1958. The argument was that the invention had been funded by 

254. Denis Diderot and Jean le Rond d’Alembert, Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné 

des sciences, des arts et des métiers par une société de gens de lettres (Paris: Briasson [etc.], 

1751–1765), republished as Charles Coulston Gillispie, ed., intro. and notes, A Diderot 

Pictorial Encyclopedia of Trades and Industry; Manufacturing and the Technical Arts in 

Plates, Selected from L’Encyclopedie; ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des 

métiers, 2 vols. (New York: Dover Publications 1959). Selections from the work have been 

translated into English several times.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 231

“the people” and should belong to them through the government. Granting a 

patent to the contractor would create a monopoly (the intent of patent law) 

that could hinder technological development within the aerospace industry. 

Contractors, of course, opposed this policy and claimed that it would discourage industry from bidding on NASA contracts, but clearly the number 

and size of the companies placing bids appears to belie that point.

As a way of allowing industry to enjoy the rights to such inventions, 

Section 305, “Patent Rights in Inventions,” of the NASA Act of 1958 gave 

the NASA Administrator the right to waive “all or any part” of those patent 

rights under conditions outlined in the Act. However, the waiver did not 

give away the Agency’s rights to use the invention at no charge. These waiver 

provisions applied to inventions resulting from work carried out by industry 

and academia as well as by NASA employees. From time to time, therefore, 

a firm or university would request a patent waiver, so that they could exploit 

the invention for their own advantage. Whether NASA granted the waiver or 

not, behind the intent to request a waiver was the belief that the invention 

had commercial utility as well as potential economic impact. One cannot 

calculate what that economic impact was or might have been, but one can 

document the perception that an invention made with NASA funding had 

commercial potential through these requests for patent waivers. A list of the 

patent waiver requests and their disposition is included in Appendix B.

Technology Utilization and Congress

While technology utilization (and the gathering of internal information 

for Tech Briefs) functioned to diffuse technical knowledge gained through 

NASA-sponsored research programs, it also served an auxiliary political purpose. Technology utilization had become a political issue by August 1964, 

when Congress authorized the establishment of a National Commission on 

Technology, Automation, and Economic Progress. As spelled out in Public 

Law 88-444, the commission’s four primary functions were to identify and 

assess the past effects and the current and prospective role and pace of technological change; to identify and describe the impact of technological and 

economic change on production and employment and the social and economic effects on the nation’s economy, workforce, communities, families, 

social structure, and human values; to define those areas of unmet community and human needs toward which application of the new technologies 

might most effectively be directed; and to assess the most effective means 

for channeling new technologies into promising directions, including civilian 

industries where accelerated technological advancements will yield general 

benefits, and assess the proper relationship between governmental and private 
232 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

investment in the application of new technologies to large-scale human and 

community needs.255

Politicians, scholars, and others were trying to come to grips with society’s 

relationship with technology.256 What followed from this intellectual trend 

and the congressional commission in particular was the need of NASA to not 

just conduct successful research programs, but also to demonstrate that the 

research results had some positive benefit to society. From that moment forward, technology utilization was no longer just about technical knowledge, 

but also had socioeconomic and political implications (“societal impacts”).

The evaluation of how particular technologies affected society came into 

vogue as “technology assessments,” particularly following congressional 

debate on the question.257 NASA programs did not escape the critical eye of 

these technology assessments. They became the subject of a myriad of studies 

(still ongoing) into the “impact” of NASA research on society. They had a 

variety of foci. Some looked at NASA’s impact on biomedical research258 that 

often responded to political pressures being brought to bear on NASA. For 

example, one major study looked at the use of NASA technology by industry 

in the Midwest,259 where the Agency had no centers, but where congressional 

members, such as Rep. Donald Rumsfeld (R-IL), pressured NASA to spend 

255. Richard Lesher and George J. Howick, Assessing Technology Transfer (Washington, DC: 

NASA SP-5067, 1966), preface.

256. Not coincidentally, this was also the period that saw the emergence of science technology 

and society studies and the first U.S. edition of the writings of Jacques Ellul on technology and society (La technique; ou, L’enjeu du siecle): Ellul, The Technological Society, translated by John Wilkinson, introduction by Robert K. Merton, 1st ed. (New York: Knopf, 

1964). It appeared more recently in English as Ellul, The Technological Bluff, translated by 

Geoffrey W. Bromiley (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1990). For Ellul’s ideas on 

technology and society, see also the translation of his Entretiens avec Jacques Ellul: Jacques 

Ellul on Religion, Technology, and Politics, translated by Joan Mendès France (Atlanta, GA: 

Scholars Press, 1998).

257. An excellent source on the early technology assessment movement is the collection 

of essays in George Washington University, Program of Policy Studies in Science and 

Technology, Readings in Technology Assessment: Selections from the Publications of the 

Program of Policy Studies in Science and Technology (Washington, DC: George Washington 

University, 1975).

258. See, for instance, Southwest Research Institute, Southwest Research Institute Assistance to 

NASA in Biomedical Areas of the Technology Utilization Program, Quarterly Progress Report 

No. 4 (San Antonio, TX: Southwest Research Institute, 19 September 1967); and United 

Aircraft Corporation, Biosciences and Technology, Space and Life Sciences Department, 

Hamilton Standard Division, Medical and Biological Applications of Space Telemetry

(Washington, DC: NASA SP-5023, July 1965).

259. Howard M. Gadberry, Utilization of NASA-Generated Space Technology by Midwestern 

Industry, Quarterly Progress Report No. 1 (Kansas City, MO: Midwest Research Institute, 

1962), and subsequent reports.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 233

more money in the region.260 Also along these same lines of regional politics, 

NASA always listed the distribution of its grants and contracts by state.

These impact studies are of particular interest to an investigation of NASA’s 

role in the manufacture of integrated circuits because several of them that 

date from the Apollo era and immediately thereafter attempted to address 

that very question. Nonetheless, for several reasons they left much to be 

desired in terms of an answer to the question of NASA’s impact. For example, 

a 1976 study purporting to deal with “the NASA experience” repeatedly gave 

information on not just NASA, but on NASA and the Defense Department 

combined, referring in several places to “space-defense.”261 The crux of the 

problem in separating NASA from military economic impacts lies in the 

categories devised by the Department of Commerce’s Business and Defense 

Services Administration to tabulate data. The only categories were “defense” 

and “non-defense.” Starting in 1959, the “defense” category included NASA, 

along with the Atomic Energy Commission, the Central Intelligence Agency, 

and the Federal Aviation Administration (not to mention, of course, the several components of the Defense Department).262

Attempts to assess retrospectively the impact of NASA research programs 

on society have suffered additional problems. One of the major suppliers 

of these studies has been the Denver Research Institute of the University 

of Denver, which has conducted impact studies for NASA since almost the 

founding of the space agency.263 During the 1970s the institute prepared and 

updated from time to time a Benefits Briefing Notebook for NASA’s Office 

of Technology Utilization. Although the overt purpose of the Notebook was 

to “provide the Agency with accurate, convenient, and integrated resource 

information on the transfer of aerospace technology to other sectors of the 

U.S. economy” for use in “speeches, articles, or other purposes,”264 at least one 

260. Ken Hechler, Toward the Endless Frontier: History of the Committee on Science and 

Technology, 1959–1979 (Washington, DC: U.S. House of Representatives, 1980), 

pp. 220–229.

261. Ginzbert et al., Economic Impact of Large Public Programs, pp. 57, 60, 68.

262. Kraus, “Economic Study of the U.S. Semiconductor Industry,” pp. 89–91.

263. According to John G. Welles, Lloyd G. Marts, Robert H. Waterman Jr., John S. Gilmore, 

and Robert Venuti, The Commercial Application of Missile/Space Technology, Part 1 (Denver, 

CO: Denver Research Institute, September 1963), p. iii, the institute began working on a 

NASA impact-study grant in November 1961, just two years after the Agency’s creation.

264. Denver Research Institute, NASA Benefits Briefing Notebook (Denver, CO: Denver 

Research Institute, 1976), preface. See also Martin D. Robbins, John A. Kelley, and Linda 

Elliott, Mission-Oriented R & D and the Advancement of Technology: The Impact of NASA 

Contributions, 2 vols. (Washington, DC: NASA, 1972).
234 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

unmentioned purpose likely was to provide NASA with fodder for congressional hearings.

Even though electronics was not one of the “benefit cases” investigated 

by the Denver Research Institute, they did not overlook success stories 

related to the manufacture of integrated circuits. The one that stands out was 

titled “microelectronics production quality assurance” and classified under 

the rubric “manufacturing capital goods.” The Notebook states that supporting documentation for the technology transfers was available from NASA’s 

own Office of Technology Utilization. The basis for the claims made in the 

“microelectronics production quality assurance” entry, however, provided no 

NASA source but rather an earlier study conducted by the Denver Research 

Institute’s own 1973 study, Industrial Products and Practices.

265 One wonders 

about the ultimate source of information because of the nature of the claims 

made in the Notebook.

The “microelectronics production quality assurance” entry discusses two 

supposed impacts of NASA relevant to the manufacture of integrated circuits: 

certified production lines and the use of scanning electron microscopes. It 

begins with this statement: “NASA established reliability program and procurement standards for microelectronic products in 1964 to assure best manufacturing practices would be used by suppliers.”266 Several sources contradict 

this statement. Although NASA Headquarters, at least, had a reliability office 

at least as early as January 1961, and a General Management Instruction relating to reliability policy appeared at least as early as February 1961,267 these 

did not deal specifically with microelectronics. In fact, the Microelectronics 

Reliability Program did not begin until October 1965 at the earliest.268

The “microelectronics production quality assurance” next states that NASA 

“introduced [the] concept of [a] Certified Production Line (CPL) so that 

entire production lines, rather than products themselves, were certified for 

NASA procurement after [the] vendor had established quality control practices and in-house evaluation methods to satisfy NASA inspection teams.” 

265. A search for this study has turned up nothing.

266. Denver Research Institute, NASA Benefits Briefing Notebook, entry B-1. 

267. Levine, Managing NASA in the Apollo Era, pp. 32; NASA Management Manual, General 

Management Instructions, “Reliability Policy as Applied to NASA Programs,” 1 February 

1961, Folder “NASA SR & QA (Gen.) through 1966,” Box 18,153, NHRC; NASA 

Management Manual, General Management Instructions, “Functions and Authority—

Office of Reliability and Systems Analysis,” 16 January 1961, Folder “NASA SR & QA 

(Gen.) through 1966,” Box 18,153, NHRC.

268. Memorandum, Robert L. Trent to W. Crawford Dunlap, “Microelectronics Reliability 

Program,” 1 November 1965, Folder “Qualifications & Standards Lab,” Box 1, RG 

255, AN 71A3002, WNRC; Reliability and Quality Assurance (Washington, DC: NASA 

CR-156261, 31 October 1965); and Condon, “Introductory Remarks,” pp. 5–6. 
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 235

The Defense Department, according to the Denver Research Institute, later 

adopted the Certified Production Line approach, and industry, as a result of 

adopting it, increased productivity significantly, with one vendor boosting 

yields by 20 percent.269 What is most ambiguous about the wording of the 

text is that NASA appears to have introduced the Certified Production Line 

in 1964.

The Certified Production Line statements do not jibe entirely with an 

article on the history of spare parts at NASA written by Leon Hamiter, who 

led the Marshall group that developed the original line certification standards, which became the basis for the military’s production line certification standards and which applied to the manufacture of integrated circuits. 

The individual who introduced these changes at NASA actually came to the 

Agency from the military. Hamiter states that in 1964, J. L. “Larry” Murphy 

came to NASA from the Navy, and over the following years, he planned and 

implemented the NASA Standard Parts Program as well as NASA’s use of the 

military’s parts specification system, line certification program, and other reliability and quality assurance measures.270

As a result, the NASA Microcircuit Line Certification Program began in 

1968, and NASA certified the first microcircuit lines in 1969. In August 

1968, Marshall Space Flight Center was conducting a pilot effort of its specification 85-M-03877 for line certification, mainly for the Skylab Program (but 

eventually for the Shuttle and its associated space station), to prove the value 

of the concept.271 However, as late as 1971 a NASA-wide line certification 

requirements document was awaiting publication. In the military’s procurement specifications system, manufacturers must follow the practices outlined 

in MIL-M-38510 as well as the certification requirements for microcircuits 

laid out in MIL-STD-976, which originated as the NASA Microcircuit Line 

Certification Program.272 The origins of NASA’s certified production line, 

then, do not date back to 1964, but the close connection between NASA and 

269. Denver Research Institute, NASA Benefits Briefing Notebook, entry B-1.

270. Leon Hamiter, “The History of Space Quality EEE Parts in the United States,” paper 

presented at the ESA Electronic Components Conference, ESTEC, Noordwijk, The 

Netherlands, 12–16 November 1990, ESA SP-313 (March 1991), http://www.cti-us.com/

HistoryEEESpacePartsinUSA.pdf (accessed 24 May 2006).

271. M. F. Nowakowski and F. Villella, “Microelectronics Research for Shuttle and Space 

Station,” in Marshall Space Flight Center, Research and Development Operations, 

Research Achievements Review 3, Report 11 (Huntsville, AL: Marshall Space Flight Center, 

1970), pp. 59–63, describes the steps to be controlled in the manufacturing process.

272. Leon Hamiter and Howard Weiss, “NASA’s Quality Program—Achievements and 

Forecast,” 21 May 1971, pp. 9–10, Folder “NASA SR & QA (Gen.) through 1966,” 

Box 18,153, NHRC. According to Weiss, p. 9, who was Deputy Director of Reliability 

and Quality Assurance at NASA Headquarters, NASA and the Defense Department 
236 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the armed forces in the development of these manufacturing specifications is 

rather certain.

The Denver Research Institute entry also refers to the application of scanning electron microscopes to the production of integrated circuits. Their 

statements are close to being on firm ground, but not entirely grounded 

in the facts. Indeed, NASA played a far more significant role in applying 

scanning electron microscopy to the manufacture of integrated circuits than 

their entry acknowledges. The entry begins by stating that “Marshall [Space 

Flight Center] obtained one of [the] first scanning electron microscopes ever 

built.”273 The statement is not quite accurate. Scanning electron microscopes 

had been around for a few decades by the 1960s. Moreover, they probably did 

not buy one of the earliest ones sold by Westinghouse under the name MicroScan and first developed in 1960, as detailed earlier in the section “Scanning 

Electron Microscope.” By their own admission, the researchers in Marshall’s 

Astrionics Laboratory did not start to experiment with the Micro-Scan as 

a tool for studying integrated-circuit failure mechanisms until 1966.274 The 

span of time between 1960 and 1966 suggests that this was not the first 

Micro-Scan that Westinghouse sold.

The Denver Research Institute entry further states that Marshall “developed SEM [scanning electron microscopy] inspection techniques to analyze 

failure modes for microelectronics [and] provided failure analysis reports to 

microelectronic vendors and encouraged manufacturers to use SEM for [the] 

same purpose.”275 As discussed in the section “Scanning Electron Microscope,” 

Marshall researchers did study device failure mechanisms with their MicroScan, but I also noted the work of the team at the Goddard Space Flight 

Center, which certainly outpublished the Marshall researchers on the subject 

of applying scanning electron microscopy to the manufacture of microcircuits. These two groups were not the full extent of the effort underwritten by 

NASA dollars, however.

Three investigators at the University College of North Wales in Bangor—

with underwriting from both the Navy Office of the Ministry of Defence 

collaborated on creating “General Specification For Microcircuits,” MIL-M-38510, 

which called for line certification of items of the highest reliability level.

273. Denver Research Institute, NASA Benefits Briefing Notebook, entry B-1.

274. G. Berryman and T. R. Edwards, Marshall Space Flight Center, “Evaluation of 

Semiconductor Devices Using the Scanning Electron Microscope,” in ERC, Proceedings, 

p. 424; Everhart, Wells, and Matta, “A Novel Method of Nondestructive Semiconductor 

Device Measurements,” IEEE International Electron Devices Meeting 9 (1963): 72–72G; 

and Everhart, Wells, and Matta, “A Novel Method of Nondestructive Semiconductor 

Device Measurements,” Proceedings of the IEEE 52, no. 12 (December 1964): 1642–1647.

275. Denver Research Institute, NASA Benefits Briefing Notebook, entry B-1.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 237

and NASA—also looked into the use of the scanning electron microscope to 

study solid-state failure mechanisms. Despite some positive results, they concluded, however, that the instruments currently available were not versatile 

enough to exploit completely the utility of the scanning electron microscope 

and that the irradiation from the microscope actually altered the properties of 

the device being examined.276

Yet another group working on the use of scanning electron microscopy in 

the production of solid-state devices with sponsorship from NASA’s Electronics 

Research Center was at Texas Instruments. Building at least partially on the 

work of Westinghouse researchers Oliver C. Wells, Thomas E. Everhart, and 

R. K. Matta (who designed the Micro-Scan), they found that the instrument 

furnished useful information quickly and, in some cases of corrosion failure, 

provided answers that other methods were unable to deliver.277 The Denver 

Research Institute entry elaborates on the Texas Instruments study of the 

scanning electron microscope. “[The] largest producer of microelectronics,” 

they declare, “Texas Instruments (Texas), with annual sales over $1 billion.” 

The company was “certified by NASA and used 2 [SEMs] for quality assurance and failure analysis.”278 The company did conduct carry out work for 

NASA under the rubric of the “Development of quality standards inspection 

criteria and reliability screening techniques for large-scale integrated circuits” 

because they requested a patent waiver for the techniques developed under 

the NASA contract in 1968.279

The Interplanetary Monitoring Platform

Returning to the earliest technology utilization studies, one finds that NASA 

was using integrated circuits in a substantial number of applications that 

required small lots of specialized devices. A survey of electronics in NASA 

space programs carried out by the Research Triangle Institute, in Durham, 

276. P. R. Thornton, D. V. Sulway, and D. A. Shaw, “Scanning Electron Microscopy in Device 

Diagnostics and Reliability Physics,” IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices ED-16, no. 4 

(April 1969): 360–370. See also D. A. Shaw, D. V. Sulway, and R. C. Wayte, The Further 

Development of Scanning Electron Microscopy in the Microelectronics Field, Semiannual 

report, 1 January–30 June 1968 (Washington, DC: NASA, 30 June 1968); and I. G. 

Davies, D. A. Shaw, D. V. Sulway, P. R. Thornton, and R. C. Wayte, Device Failure 

Analysis by Scanning Electron Microscopy (Washington, DC: NASA, 1 January 1968).

277. Ronald H. Cox, Delbert L. Crosthwait, Jr., and Robert D. Dobrott, “The Application of 

the Scanning Electron Microscope to the Development of High-Reliability Semiconductor 

Products,” IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices ED-16, no. 4 (April 1969): 376–380.

278. Denver Research Institute, NASA Benefits Briefing Notebook, entry B-1.

279. NASA, Nineteenth Semiannual Report to Congress, January 1–June 30, 1968 (Washington, 

DC: NASA, 1968), p. 176.
238 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

North Carolina, in 1965 found integrated circuits in a range of electronic 

equipment aboard spacecraft and on the ground, from the amplifier circuits 

in a digital tape recorder to the data processor on the Orbiting Geophysical 

Observatory, from analog-to-digital converters to the ground support equipment for the Apollo guidance computer.280

To these quotidian applications of the integrated circuit one must add 

a rather impressive, if little known, one. Launched on 26 November 1963, 

the Interplanetary Monitoring Platform (IMP)—not the Apollo guidance 

and navigation computers and not the Minuteman II—carried the first integrated circuits into space.281 Part of the Explorer series282 of NASA probes, 

the Interplanetary Monitoring Platform was Goddard’s proposal to establish 

a network of 11 satellites that would collect data on space radiation in support of the Apollo program. Its instruments investigated plasma (ionized gas), 

cosmic rays, and magnetic fields in interplanetary and cislunar space from a 

variety of solar and terrestrial orbits.

The first Interplanetary Monitoring Platform (called variously IMP 1, IMP 

A, and Explorer 18, among other names) functioned normally until 30 May 

1964, then intermittently until 10 May 1965, when it was abandoned. The 

integrated circuits had not contributed to any of the spacecraft’s anomalous 

performance. The mission was a scientific success. The data transmitted to 

Earth provided the first direct evidence of a collisionless magnetohydrodynamic shockwave surrounding Earth and its magnetosphere. The spacecraft 

also provided information on the nature of the transition region between the 

magnetopause and shock front; the magnitude, direction, and variations of 

the interplanetary magnetic field; and the energy and fluxes of the solar wind 

and solar and cosmic rays.283

The existence of the Van Allen Radiation Belts (evidenced by earlier 

Explorer probes) forced scientists to revise their theories of how the Sun’s 

particle radiations affected Earth’s atmosphere. In the process they made 

280. Research Triangle Institute, Microelectronics in Space Research (Washington, DC: NASA 

SP-5031, August 1965), pp. 101–114 and 118–121.

281. Specifically, they were SN510 and SN514 integrated circuits manufactured by Texas 

Instruments. Research Triangle Institute, Microelectronics in Space Research, p. 95; Edgar 

G. Bush, The Use of Solid Circuits in Satellite Instrumentation (Greenbelt, MD: Goddard 

Space Flight Center, July 1964), esp. I and 1–6; and John Rhea, “ERC Is Focal Point of 

Future Efforts,” Aerospace Technology 21, no. 11 (20 November 1967): 54.

282. The IMP series consisted of Explorers 18, 21, 28, 33, 34, 35, 41, 43, 47, and 50.

283. Goddard Space Flight Center, Interplanetary Monitoring Platform, IMP I—Explorer 

XVIII, Second Interim Status Report (Greenbelt, MD: Goddard Space Flight Center, 

July 1965), pp. 1–4 (hereafter, Goddard, IMP I); and Goddard Space Flight Center, 

Interplanetary Monitoring Platform, IMP II—Explorer XXI, Flight Report (Greenbelt, MD: 

Goddard Space Flight Center, August 1965), p. 1 (hereafter, Goddard, IMP II).
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 239

another fundamental discovery that occupied much of space physicists’ satellite research in the 1960s: the existence of a previously unpredicted region 

above the ionosphere called the magnetosphere. The discovery of the Van 

Allen Belts also focused attention on the interaction between the Sun and 

Earth’s magnetic field. Gradually a new picture began to emerge. The particles in the so-called solar wind were deflected around Earth by the planet’s 

magnetic field in a manner similar to the way the bow of a boat turns aside 

water. The first Interplanetary Monitoring Platform measured a distinct “bow 

shock” area where the solar wind encountered Earth’s magnetic field. In fact, 

IMP A crossed the magnetopause and the bow shock many times.284

The second platform, launched 3 October 1964, continued the radiation 

research of its predecessor on the radiation environment of cislunar space and 

the quiescent properties of the interplanetary magnetic field but also initiated 

monitoring that would enable NASA to predict solar flares for the Apollo 

program. One of the Agency’s concerns was the possible radiation hazard that 

solar cosmic ray events might pose for astronauts. NASA was concerned primarily with solar cosmic rays. When events such as solar flares occur, a greater 

number of solar cosmic rays are released into space. One of the missions of 

the Interplanetary Monitoring Platform network was to determine how great 

a hazard these events might create for humans traveling in space.285

The Interplanetary Monitoring Platform program did not just demonstrate 

how integrated circuits were advancing scientific knowledge. Later platforms 

also tested cutting-edge integrated circuit technology. One of the newest form 

of solid-state devices was the metal-oxide semiconductor field-effect transistor 

(MOSFET), a form of field-effect transistor composed of a channel of n-type 

or p-type semiconductor material (usually silicon, hence many writers once 

used the term “metal-oxide silicon”). The “metal” in the name refers to the 

metallic-oxide gate element used to control the transistor’s operation.

The MOS decision is astoundingly daring in light of the novelty of 

the technology. The MOS transistor had been invented only in 1960, by 

M. M. “John” Atalla and Dawon Kahng, two engineers at Bell Telephone 

Laboratories, and the formal announcement of the MOS transistor’s existence as a potentially useful technology occurred only in 1963. In 1963 the 

MOS transistor still was not ready to be sold as a product, but IBM and 

Fairchild Semiconductor had research programs, even though they would not 

284. Homer E. Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space Science (Washington, DC: 

NASA, 1980), pp. 179–180; and Lane E. Wallace, Dreams, Hopes, Realities: NASA’s 

Goddard Space Flight Center: The First Forty Years (Washington, DC: NASA, 1999), 

pp. 84–85.

285. Goddard, IMP II, pp. 1–2; and Wallace, Dreams, Hopes, Realities, p. 86.
240 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

be the firms to bring the MOS transistor to market. MOS technology was 

much slower than the standard transistors found in integrated circuits, but its 

simplicity of fabrication allowed manufacturers to incorporate more transistors into integrated circuits.286

The new MOS technology promised to solve one of spacecraft designers’ 

growing predicaments, the need for greater electronic capability on board 

for communications and other functions. One can measure this capability in 

terms of the number of communication channels and the number of transistors used. For example, Explorer 12 (launched 16 August 1961) utilized 20 

channels and 200 transistors, while Ariel 1 (an ionospheric probe launched 

26 April 1962) made use of 90 channels and 600 transistors. The first three 

Interplanetary Monitoring Platforms, in contrast, employed had 175 channels and 1,200 transistors, surpassed quickly by the next two platforms, which 

would have 256 channels and over 2,000 transistors.287

The central core of electronics for the Interplanetary Monitoring Platforms 

was supposed to be a standardized design, but in reality the electronic systems 

underwent redesign for each successive flight, while still keeping down weight 

and size.288 To address the growing need for more channels and electronic 

circuitry that demanded an increasing number of transistors, the designers of the Interplanetary Monitoring Platforms electronics turned to MOS 

technology for the IMP D (Explorer 33), IMP E (Explorer 34), and IMP F 

(Explorer 35). IMP D launched on 1 July 1966, while IMP E and IMP F 

went up on 24 May 1967 and 19 July 1967. The electronics on the IMP D 

and IMP E were far complex than those on the first platforms. One difference was the greater functional complexity of its encoding system. IMP A had 

about 5,000 electrical parts, of which 3,000 were not resistors (that is, capacitors, diodes, transistors, and MOSFETs). If the Goddard Space Flight Center 

engineers had used the same circuit design and fabrication technique as on 

the IMP A, they estimated that the encoding system would have had about 

9,400 electrical parts, of which 5,600 would not be resistors. Ironically, the 

IMP A encoding system had pushed the state of the art using conventional 

components, but now the IMP D would have to go another route.289

286. Dawon Kahng, “A Historical Perspective on the Development of MOS Transistors and 

Related Devices,” IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices ED-23, no. 7 (July 1976): 655–

657; Bassett, To the Digital Age, pp. 3, 12–13; and Lécuyer, Making Silicon Valley, p. 256.

287. Arthur D. Little, An Examination of the Applicability of Microelectronic Circuits to the 

Telemetry and Command Subsystems of Several Applications Spacecraft (Washington, DC: 

NASA, May 1965), II.2 and III.1.

288. Ibid., III.1.

289. Donald C. Lokerson, IMP D&E (AIMP) PFM Encoding System Interface Document

(Greenbelt, MD: Goddard Space Flight Center, August 1966), p. 25.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 241

The designers took several steps to reduce the number of parts going 

into IMP D. One was to eliminate thousands of parts by redesigning several 

circuits. The engineers rejected using regular integrated circuits as building 

block circuits, because the integrated circuits were still under development 

and would not be ready for the IMP D and E flights. The other approach 

was to use MOS field effect transistors in a basic building block circuit. The 

Goddard designers saw two promising things happening as a result. One was 

that about 93 percent of the system could be built as MOSFET blocks or 

resistors, and the other was that the total number of parts used would dip 

to less than 4,000, with less than 1,000 of them not being resistors. This 

approach resulted in the IMP D employing about the same number of parts 

as the IMP A encoding system, but with fewer nonresistor parts, even though 

the IMP D had about twice the functional complexity as the IMP A.290

Goddard decided to go with the “new animal” for a number of reasons, 

including its electrical properties and the reduction of parts, not to mention that using the MOS technology would keep the spacecraft on schedule. 

“Its disadvantage,” Goddard engineers declared, “is that ‘SUPPOSEDLY’ 

less is known about its long term reliability than is known about the conventional approach.” The engineer in charge had been assured “by competent personnel” that the manufacturing processes required to make an all 

MOSFET monolithic chip were considerably fewer than those for conventional circuits.291

The two basic MOSFET blocks for the IMP D were manufactured by 

the General Micro Electronics Company in California. Surprisingly, they did 

not buy them from semiconductor leader Fairchild, which had announced in 

October 1964 its MOS transistor called the FI-100. The announcement was 

timed to coincide with the release of reliability tests on the devices to show 

a lack of reliability and stability problems with MOS transistors. Already, 

however, Frank Wanlass had left Fairchild Semiconductor in December 1963 

to join the start-up General Micro Electronics, formed in the summer of 

1963 by former Fairchild technical and marketing people. The firm hired 

him specifically to get into the MOS business. General Micro Electronics, 

not Fairchild, was the first to introduce an MOS transistor in May 1964.292

Wanlass provided the driving force behind the first major push to sell MOS 

large-scale integrated circuits. Wanlass held many meetings with prospective 

290. Ibid., pp. 25–26.

291. Ibid., pp. 26 28.

292. Ibid., p. 28; Bassett, To the Digital Age, pp. 110, 116, 117, 150–151; Ginzbert et al., 

Economic Impact of Large Public Programs, p. 64; and Lécuyer, Making Silicon Valley, 

p. 256.
242 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

customers to promote MOS technology; however, the government was 

General Micro Electronics’ most important early customer. Key to garnering 

these contracts was the firm’s personnel. Art Lowell, the company’s founder, 

was a retired Marine colonel who previously headed the avionics branch of 

the Navy’s Bureau of Weapons and while there had championed the use of 

integrated circuits in naval systems in the early 1960s. The company’s “first 

MOS contract was for a chip with six to seven MOS transistors for NASA’s 

Interplanetary Monitoring Platform satellite.”293 No wonder, then, that the 

Goddard engineers, regarding their experience working with General Micro 

Electronics, reported: “The cooperation received from that plant has been 

outstanding in that ‘prototype’ blocks of both types were delivered within a 

month after they received our drawings.” The MOS technology fit the bill, 

and, in the words of the engineers: “The blocks worked very well.”294

Final Thoughts

This chapter has reexamined the role of NASA’s Apollo program—in particular the Apollo guidance and navigation computer project—as a catalyst in 

the commercial success of the integrated circuit. While the procurements of 

integrated circuits may have seemed big, subsequent commercial purchases 

dwarfed them. Yet the relatively smaller NASA buys would have had a larger 

impact in the initial integrated-circuit market whose size was considerably 

small. Furthermore, any discussion of the impact of NASA’s procurements 

must also take into account the near simultaneous purchases of integrated 

circuits for the Minuteman II missile. One must question whether the injection of government dollars into the two major manufacturers of integrated 

circuits really had an impact on their overall business viability. Both Fairchild 

Semiconductor and Texas Instruments were engaged profitably in the production and sale of transistors, diodes, and other electronic devices. The problem 

was not one of stimulating the producers but of stimulating the consumers.

Scholars Lécuyer and Berlin have provided a different picture of how the 

integrated circuit achieved commercial success, one in which governmental 

procurements are absent. The key was Robert Noyce’s decision to lower the 

price of certain integrated circuits below the price of the individual components represented by the microcircuit and below the cost of manufacturing the 

integrated circuit. The same strategy had worked before but with transistors. 

293. Bassett, To the Digital Age, pp. 110 and 150–151; and Lécuyer, Making Silicon Valley, 

p. 240. Philco-Ford acquired General Micro Electronics in 1966. Ginzbert et al., 

Economic Impact of Large Public Programs, p. 66.

294. Lokerson, IMP D&E (AIMP) PFM Encoding System Interface Document, p. 28.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 243

Their interpretation therefore reshapes the problem in terms of stimulating 

demand rather than production. Furthermore, it precludes NASA’s purchases 

of integrated circuits from having had an impact on the manufacture of integrated circuits for a commercial market.

This chapter also looked at NASA research programs that dealt with the 

manufacture of integrated circuits and found a substantial amount of activity. 

The driving force behind the activity was the Agency’s struggle to achieve component reliability. Much of the effort took place at the Electronics Research 

Center, the Agency’s lead center for electronics research during the Apollo 

era, as well as at other Centers such as the Goddard Space Flight Center 

and the Marshall Space Flight Center. What distinguished the Electronics 

Research Center from their other centers in this field of endeavor was its possession of a pilot plant for studying the fabrication of integrated circuits called 

the PREDICT facility.

The research programs discussed in the case studies presented here covered 

a range of aspects of the manufacture of integrated circuits. Some were investigations of the underlying chemical and physical mechanisms that caused 

integrated circuits and other solid-state devices to fail, such as gold and 

hydrogen contamination. Other research involved testing commercial integrated circuits under various physical conditions, such as heat and radiation. 

In some cases, such as the thin-film space-charge-limited triode and microwave integrated circuits, NASA efforts focused on creating new components 

based on recent scientific discoveries or on perfecting thin-film technologies 

that promised to complement or perhaps even replace integrated circuits in 

hostile space environments.

The space agency’s efforts to improve the integrated-circuit fabrication 

process seem more impressive, but only because the processes and testing 

methods developed have become familiar aspects of semiconductor manufacturing. Researchers studied the use of ion implantation and invented new 

patented techniques for separating wafers into chips and for discovering leaks 

in semiconductor packaging, while others collaborated with universities and 

the armed forces in the development of computer-aided circuit design. X-ray 

and infrared radiation became the basis for new testing procedures, and the 

scanning electron microscope became a quality control tool on the integratedcircuit production line. Finally, one needs to recall that the first integrated 

circuit to fly in space was not in a Minuteman II missile or an Apollo capsule, 

but on Goddard’s Interplanetary Monitoring Platform.

Still, these successes beg the question of whether or not NASA’s research 

programs had any impact on integrated circuits outside the Agency. Mainly 

because of the lack of documentation, demonstrating the transfer of a discovery or innovation from a laboratory conducting work on behalf of NASA 
244 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

to its application in industry, commerce, or agriculture is like trying to nail 

Jell-O to the wall. However, uncommon circumstances allow one to perform 

a sort of “thought experiment” regarding NASA’s impact on the manufacture 

of integrated circuits. A thought experiment (Gedankenexperiment) is a wellstructured hypothetical question that uses “What if?” reasoning—an imagined scenario, if you will—to understand the way things actually are. One can 

perform such a thought experiment in the case of integrated circuits because 

NASA’s Electronics Research Center, which performed the lion’s share of the 

Agency’s electronics research during the Apollo era, shut its doors in 1970. 

Among many other activities, the center’s Qualifications and Standards 

Laboratory performed important analyses of components for a number of 

NASA space programs. One such investigation carried out by the laboratory 

for the Jet Propulsion Laboratory involved integrated-circuit failure modes 

and mechanisms for the Mariner ’69 program.295

Qualifications and Standards also conducted failure analysis on a group 

of defective plastic-encapsulated transistors furnished by a system contractor 

working for the Manned Spacecraft Center (now the Johnson Space Center). 

The transistors were a part of the Apollo lunar scientific equipment package. 

The failure modes were determined and a report was sent to the contractor involved together with a compilation of guidelines established by users 

of high-reliability devices on the suitable application of plastic encapsulated 

microelectronics. In another instance the laboratory evaluated a specification 

(S45OP3) for a semiconductor screening technique that Goddard had developed for the Nimbus weather satellite because the Center wanted to apply the 

specification across all of Goddard’s programs.296

With the closing of the Electronics Research Center in 1970, did NASA 

suddenly experience incidents involving defective integrated circuits? In May 

1971, Centaur-Mariner H was lost because of an integrated circuit that functioned as an operational amplifier (part RN709) in the pitch channel rate 

gyro in the flight control system. The associated zener diode also was suspect, 

but in the end the cause of the mission failure was a $5 integrated circuit. The 

cost of the lost spacecraft was about $60 million. In addition, the discovery of 

295. The use of integrated circuits on Mariner ’69 is discussed in Edward Clinton Ezell and 

Linda Neuman Ezell, On Mars: Exploration of the Red Planet, 1958–1978 (Washington, 

DC: NASA, 1984), p. 243; and “Research Highlights,” ERC News, 1 August 1968, 

n.p., Folder “ERC History House Organ 1966–1969,” Box 8, RG 255, AN 71A2309, 

WNRC. Integrated circuitry and packaging techniques were directly borrowed from 

Mariner Venus 67 (aka Mariner 5) and the 1969 Mars craft. Ezell and Ezell, On Mars, 

p. 167.

296. “Research Highlights,” ERC News, 1 January 1969, n.p., Folder “ERC History House 

Organ 1966–1969,” Box 8, RG 255, AN 71A2309, WNRC.
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 245

cracks in the silicon integrated circuits in the new Centaur computer resulted 

in a cost of $500,000 for replacement. Next, four Skylab system test failures 

occurred because of shorts in microcircuits caused by “gold-ball” contamination. As a result, NASA had to retrofit some 3,000 integrated circuits at a cost 

of about $4 million. Finally, a metallization problem in integrated circuits 

caused a complete shutdown of the manufacturer’s production line, thereby 

holding up delivery of some 40,000 integrated circuits for NASA projects at 

Goddard, JPL, and Marshall.297

Despite the efforts to establish the Microelectronics Reliability Program 

during the 1960s, a draft NASA Management Instruction instituting it 

was not drawn up until late in 1970, and the Microelectronics Reliability 

Program was established by NMI 5300.4 on 4 June 1972. Its purpose was to 

ensure necessary reliability and quality of procured microcircuits in a costeffective manner. The Management Instruction established the microcircuit 

reliability program, which culminated the efforts of the Microelectronics 

Subcommittee. The program provided a uniform approach for the specification, testing, and procurement of microelectronics. Where NASA utilized 

military specifications, NASA requirements were merged with those of the 

Defense Department. As for fulfilling the testing and analysis role played by 

the Qualifications and Standards Laboratory, NASA now utilized the Quality 

Engineering and Evaluation Laboratory of the Naval Ammunition Depot 

(later the Naval Weapons Support Center) in Crane, Indiana.298

297. J. L. Murphy to Members of the Microelectronics Subcommittee, “Minutes of the 

Sixteenth Meeting of the Microelectronics Subcommittee,” 22 July 1971, Folder “Chron 

R&QA 1970–1973,” Box 18,153, NHRC; Virginia P. Dawson and Mark D. Bowles, 

Taming Liquid Hydrogen: The Centaur Upper Stage Rocket, 1958–2002 (Washington, 

DC: NASA, 2004), p. 120; Memorandum, Director, Reliability & Quality Assurance 

to Assistant Administrator for Industry Affairs & Technology Utilization, “Resource 

Requirements for Implementation of the NASA Microelectronics Reliability Program,” 

24 August 1972, Folder “Chron R&QA 1970–1973,” Box 18,153, NHRC.

298. Memorandum, Director, Reliability & Quality Assurance, to Assistant Administrator for 

Industry Affairs & Technology Utilization, “Resource Requirements for Implementation 

of the NASA Microelectronics Reliability Program,” 24 August 1972, Folder “Chron 

R&QA 1970–1973,” Box 18,153, NHRC; Memorandum, Director, Reliability & 

Quality Assurance to Distribution List, “Request for Issue Clearance on Draft NASA 

Management Instruction NMI 5320.(X) ‘NASA Microelectronics Reliability Program,’” 

11 December 1970, Folder “Chron R&QA 1970–1973,” Box 18,153, NHRC; Associate 

Administrator for Organization and Management to NASA Installations, “18th Meeting 

of the NASA Parts Steering Committee,” 19 March 1973, Folder “Chron R&QA 1970–

1973,” Box 18,153, NHRC.
246 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Appendix A

NASA Tech Briefs

The following are Tech Briefs issued by the Electronics Research Center that 

deal with integrated-circuit technology. The list in table 3.1 is not comprehensive but is limited by the availability of documentation.

TABLE 3.1. NASA Tech Briefs for Integrated Circuits Issued by the Electronics

Research Center

Title of Tech Brief Brief 

Number Date Issued

1 Thermal and bias cycling stabilizes planar silicon devices 67-10176 June 1967

2 Failure rates for accelerated acceptance testing of silicon 

transistors

68-10541 December 1968

3 Reliable method for testing gross leaks in semiconductor 

component packages

68-10562 December 1968

4 Improved method of dicing integrated circuit wafers into 

chips

69-10441 September 1969

5 Microelectronic device data handbook 69-10687 December 1969

6 Reducing contact resistance at semiconductor to metal 

or aluminum to metal interfaces

69-10689 December 1969

7 Controlled substrate cooling improves reproducibility of 

vapor deposited semiconductor composites

69-10732 December 1969

8 Technique for depositing silicon dioxide on indium 

arsenide improves adhesion

70-10475 September 1970

9 New method for photoresist stripping 70-10497 September 1970

10 Laser scribing of silicon wafers 70-10437 October 1970

11 Growth of single-crystal gallium nitride 70-10473 October 1970

12 Glass-to-metal bonding process improves stability and 

performance of semiconductor devices

70-10477 October 1970

13 Copper-titanium eutectic alloy improves electrical and 

mechanical contact to silicon carbide

70-10444 November 1970

14 Aluminum-silicon eutectic alloy improves electrical and 

mechanical contact to silicon carbide

70-10445 November 1970

15 p-n junctions formed in gallium antimonide 70-10500 November 1970
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 247

Appendix B

Patent Waiver Requests

This appendix provides information on the patent waivers requested by 

industry and academia for work relating to integrated circuits (and thin-film 

technology in some instances) conducted with financial support from NASA. 

The discussion is limited because the source of data, NASA’s semiannual 

reports to Congress, lists patent waiver information only from 1963 (the 9th 

semiannual report) to 1969 (the 22nd semiannual report). A total of 27 such 

waiver requests appear in these reports. With three exceptions, the requests 

came from companies. Some were major aerospace firms, such as General 

Dynamics, North American Rockwell, and the Lockheed Missiles and Space 

Company, while others were key electronics businesses that supplied the aerospace industry, such as IBM and TRW. Those leading the pack in requesting waivers were Texas Instruments, Westinghouse, and CBS Laboratories. 

Outside of industry, only the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and the 

California Institute of Technology requested waivers. Table 3.2 indicates the 

number of patent waiver requests reported by company and institution.

TABLE 3.2. Patent Waiver Requests by Company/Institution

Company/Institution Waiver Request 

Number

Texas Instruments 5

Westinghouse 4

CBS Laboratories 3

Hughes Aircraft Company 2

Philco Corporation 2

Electro-Optical Systems, Inc. 1

General Dynamics, Electronics Division 1

International Business Machines (IBM) 1

General Precision, Librascope Group 1

Lockheed Missiles and Space Company 1

North American Rockwell, Autonetics Division 1

Thompson Ramo Wooldridge (TRW) 1

Tyco Laboratories 1

California Institute of Technology (CalTech) 1

Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) 2
248 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Table 3.3 comprises the list of waiver requests found through a search of 

the semiannual reports. It indicates the year of the disposition of the waiver 

request, the description of the “invention,” and the name of the “petitioner” 

as listed in the semiannual reports, and whether the waiver was denied. All 

but a few were granted. The citation information denotes in condensed form 

the number of the semiannual report and the page number. For example, a 

reference in NASA, Ninth Semiannual Report to Congress, January 1–June 30, 

1963 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1963), page 190, would read “9:190.”

TABLE 3.3. Patent Waiver Requests by Invention and Petitioner Name

Year Invention Petitioner Granted/

Denied Reference

1963 Modular-circuit package IBM Granted 9:190

1966 Integrated circuit Electro-Optical 

Systems

Granted 15:177

1966 Delivery, development, fabrication, and 

delivery of improved MOS transistors

Philco Denied 16:235

1966 R&D of a thin-film space charge limited 

triode

Hughes Aircraft Granted 16:236

1967 Contacts for semiconductor devices, 

particularly integrated circuits, and methods 

for making the same

Westinghouse Granted 17:191

1967 Microelectronic S-band receiver General 

Dynamics

Granted 17:193

1967 R&D thin-film space-charge limited-triode 

device

Hughes Aircraft Granted 17:193

1967 Silicon carbide semiconductor junction 

device

Tyco 

Laboratories

Granted 18:198

1967 Semiconductor fabrication technique 

permitting examination of epitaxially grown 

layers

Westinghouse Granted 18:199

1967 Study of cold substrate deposition of thinfilm passive elementsLibrascope 

Group

Granted 18:201

1967 Study of failure modes in silicon solid-state 

devices

Philco Granted 18:201

1968 Solid state triode CalTech Granted 19:174

1968 Integrated circuit thin-film magnetometer Lockheed Granted 19:175

1968 Investigation of single-crystal ferrite thin 

films

North American

Autonetics

Denied 19:176

1968 Development of quality standards inspection 

criteria and reliability screening techniques 

for large-scale integrated circuits

Texas 

Instruments

Granted 19:176

(continued)
NASA’s Role in the Manufacture of Integrated Circuits 249

Year Invention Petitioner Granted/

Denied Reference

1968 (Complementary Micropower Transistor) 

Complementary J-K Flip-Flop using 

transistor logic

Texas 

Instruments

Granted 20:210

1968 (Complementary multiple emitter 

micropower) high-speed, low-power magic 

gate

Texas 

Instruments

Granted 20:210

1968 Process for fabricating integrated circuits 

having matched complementary transistors 

and product

Texas 

Instruments

Granted 20:210

1968 Monolithic circuit and high Q capacitor Texas 

Instruments

Granted 20:210

1968 Shielding method and device for 

polycrystalline and epitaxy growths

TRW Granted 20:210

1968 Method for producing dimensionally stable 

photosensitive resist patterns

CBS 

Laboratories

Granted 20:211

1968 Method for producing reliable contacts b/n 

resistors & low sensitivity materials

CBS 

Laboratories

Granted 20:211

1968 Method for restoring the electrical properties 

of ion bombarded semiconductor devices

CBS 

Laboratories

Granted 20:211

1969 Solid state device MIT Granted 21:208

1969 Fabrication of compound semiconductor 

films

MIT Granted 21:209

1969 Integrated circuit with multiple collection 

current

Westinghouse Denied 21:209

1969 Semiconductor integrated circuit having 

complementary MIS and Darlington bipolar 

transistor elements

Westinghouse Denied 21:209

251

Chapter 4

NASA’s Role in the

Development of MEMS

(Microelectromechanical Systems)

Andrew J. Butrica

Introduction

I

n various venues, NASA has claimed to have been instrumental in the 

development of microelectromechanical systems (MEMS). For example, a 

recent Agency publication stated: “MEMS applications are directly traceable 

to the miniature accelerometers [devices that detect changes in acceleration] 

NASA developed in the 1970s to measure changes in speed of small objects 

or activity levels of people or animals during human space flight. MEMS 

technology is used now in consumer products to trigger automobile airbags, 

regulate pacemakers and even keep washers and dryers balanced. MEMSbased products have grown into a $3 billion per year industry. The original 

NASA-sponsored work on an MEMS accelerometer is referenced in 83 patents; the earliest reference was made in 1975 and the latest in 2003.”1

This particular passage suggests a rather limited role for NASA in promoting MEMS research—namely in the specific area of “miniature accelerometers”—but the question really is rather broader. This chapter looks at the 

particular case of NASA’s subsidy of accelerometer development during the 

1970s, including the claim of references to the “original NASA-sponsored 

work on an MEMS accelerometer” in 83 patents dating from 1975 to 2003. 

However, this investigation necessarily must cast a broader net into the field 

of biomedical instrumentation to capture more faithfully the context within 

which NASA subsidized the creation of the MEMS accelerometer.

This exploration of NASA’s early contributions to MEMS research will 

be somewhat untidy out of necessity. To begin with, no scholarly history 

1. NASA Public Affairs Office, NASA Hits: Rewards from Space, NP-2004-04-349-HQ, 

p. 5, http://www1.nasa.gov/pdf/54862main_hits.pdf (accessed 9 August 2005); NASA, 

Rewards from Space: How NASA Improves Our Quality of Life, p. 4, http://www.nasa.

gov/pdf/54862main_benefits.pdf (accessed 9 August 2005); and Newsletter, Metropolitan 

Detroit Science Teachers Association, no. 9 (Winter 2004): 13, http://www.mdsta.org/

MDSTA_News.1203.pdf (accessed 20 March 2006).
252 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

of MEMS exists to date. Very little MEMS research took place prior to the 

1980s, the period of this study, and the term “MEMS” itself did not exist 

until 1987,2 as MEMS began to take off both commercially and as an organized discipline. Determining where within NASA this inquiry ought to 

focus is similarly fraught with ambiguity. Integrated-circuit technologies and 

manufacturing processes are the sine qua non of MEMS research, and several 

NASA Centers not only performed research in integrated circuits but also had 

their own integrated-circuit fabrication facilities. Without ignoring this wideranging activity within NASA, this chapter focuses on the early MEMS work 

carried out at Stanford University’s Integrated Circuits Laboratory, because 

the development of the “miniature accelerometer” in question took place 

there. Likewise, NASA’s Ames Research Center takes center stage because of 

its role as underwriter of the accelerometer project and other MEMS research. 

Appendix A provides an overview of the MEMS research that NASA’s Ames 

Research Center underwrote at Stanford University.

Finally, in addition to looking into NASA’s claim, this inquiry also asks 

whether the NASA-funded MEMS work had any social, technological, or economic impact. By focusing on NASA’s relationship with Stanford University, 

this chapter points out the need for further research on the space agency’s role 

in the development of the electronics industry in Silicon Valley. Historians 

have examined the development of Silicon Valley from the perspective of 

industry’s influence on Stanford3 as well as relations between Stanford and 

the federal government.4 Their silence on the role of NASA suggests that the 

2. The first use of the term MEMS was in conjunction with a series of workshops sponsored 

by the National Science Foundation (NSF) that took place in 1987 and 1988. See the 

Report of the NSF Workshop on Microelectromechanical Systems Research: Kaigham 

J. Gabriel, J. F. Jarvis, and William S. Trimmer, “Small Machines, Large Opportunities: 

A Report on the Emerging Field of Microdynamics,” in William S. Trimmer, ed., 

Micromechanics and MEMS: Classic and Seminal Papers to 1990 (New York: IEEE Press, 

1997), pp. 117–144.

3. Christophe Lécuyer, Making Silicon Valley: Innovation and the Growth of High Tech, 1930–

1970 (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2006); Leslie Berlin, The Man Behind the Microchip: Robert 

Noyce and the Invention of Silicon Valley (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005).

4. Stuart W. Leslie, The Cold War and American Science: The Military-Industrial-Academic 

Complex at MIT and Stanford (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993); Stuart W. 

Leslie, “Profit and Loss: The Military and MIT in the Postwar Era,” Historical Studies 

in the Physical and Biological Sciences 21 (1990): 59–85; Stuart W. Leslie, “Playing the 

Education Game to Win: The Military and Interdisciplinary Research at Stanford,” 

Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences 18 (1987): 55–88; Rebecca S. 

Lowen, “‘Exploiting a Wonderful Opportunity’: Stanford University, Industry, and the 

Federal Government, 1937–1965,” Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, 1990; and 

Rebecca S. Lowen, Creating the Cold War University: The Transformation of Stanford

(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997).
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 253

Agency was a missing actor in the Silicon Valley story, despite the location of 

the Ames Research Center in the middle of that region. In the end, however, 

one question remains: Was NASA’s role so critical that the Agency should 

get the credit it claims for MEMS development? Before directly investigating 

that claim, this chapter first reviews what MEMS are and sketches an outline 

of their early history.

MEMS History

What Are MEMS?

The term “microelectromechanical system” in the United States (other terms 

are used elsewhere in the world) denotes a specialized class of integrated circuits. The manufacture of MEMS devices entails the same techniques utilized 

in the fabrication of integrated circuits, such as photolithography, etching, 

and doping. However, the idea behind MEMS is not to make tiny electronic 

circuits but to create miniature devices capable of performing mechanical 

or other functions. The term “micromachining” broadly refers to the use of 

integrated-circuit and other precision fabrication techniques to make MEMS, 

and it connotes the distinct nature of the devices thus formed. As with integrated circuits, MEMS are made not individually but in large batches on 

wafers, and this batch production lowers unit cost. Today, a MEMS chip 

might contain both the MEMS device—such as a sensor or accelerometer—

and the electronic circuitry associated with it.5 MEMS are extremely small, 

but they are not as tiny as nanotechnologies. MEMS range in size from below 

1 μm (1 micrometer or micron,6 equal to 1 × 10–6 meters) to above 1 mm 

(1 millimeter, equal to 1 × 10–3 meters). In other words, they are smaller than 

a drop of water or the thickness of a human hair. Even smaller are nanotechnologies. They are measured in nanometers, which are increments equal to 

one billionth of a meter (1 × 10–9 meters).

Although MEMS devices did not achieve wide commercial success until 

the 1980s, their origins extend back into the 1950s and 1960s, when researchers began to appreciate the fact that one could make discrete electronic 

components—transistors and diodes as well as entire integrated electronic 

circuits—from silicon, germanium, and other semiconductors. At the same 

time, some researchers realized that one might create miniature sensors and 

5. Gregory T. A. Kovacs, Micromachined Transducers (Boston: WCB McGraw-Hill, 1998), 

p. 1; and David Morton and Joseph Gabriel, Electronics: The Life Story of a Technology

(Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2004), p. 146.

6. “Micron” is the term used by manufacturers of integrated circuits in place of micrometer, 

which is one millionth of a meter. A human hair is about 50 micrometers wide.
254 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

other devices out of these same materials. By the 1980s the devices fabricated on wafers included gears, shafts, belts, pulleys, valves, springs, mirrors, 

nozzles, and connectors as well as a wide spectrum of sensors.7 They quickly 

found their way into ink-jet printers, automobiles, mobile telephones, and a 

multitude of medical and scientific applications, such as the instrumentation 

used in a recent study of glacier activity. Indeed, today MEMS devices are 

nearly ubiquitous.8

Feynman’s Challenge

For many, the moment that marked the beginning of MEMS was a 1959 

talk given by the influential physicist Richard P. Feynman (1918–1988). For 

others, it is the defining moment for the birth of nanotechnology.9 His scientific and societal contributions spanned the theory of quantum electrodynamics, the development of the atomic bomb, and the investigation of the 

Space Shuttle Challenger disaster. In 1965, for his work on quantum electrodynamics, Feynman received the Nobel Prize along with Julian Schwinger 

and Sin-Itiro Tomonaga.10

Feynman spent much of his career teaching at the California Institute of 

Technology (Caltech). On 29 December 1959 at the annual meeting of the 

7. Kovacs, Micromachined Transducers, p. 1; Kurt Petersen, “Prologue,” in Kovacs, 

Micromachined Transducers, p. iii; Edward Regis, Nano: The Emerging Science of 

Nanotechnology: Remaking the World Molecule by Molecule (Boston: Little, Brown, 1995), 

p. 209; and Sharon Begley, “Welcome to Lilliput: Devices Smaller Than a Pinhead 

Explore the Newest Scientific Frontier,” Newsweek 117, no. 15 (15 April 1991): 61.

8. General Motors Corporation’s Cadillac Division used chips with tiny embedded 

accelerometers to help dissipate bumps in the 1993 model of its Seville Touring Sedan 

and other automobiles. Peter Coy, “Mighty Mites Hit It Big,” Business Week, April 26, 

1993, p. 93; Erico Guizzo, “Into Deep Ice,” IEEE Spectrum 42, no. 12 (December 2005): 

28–35, especially 32–33; James D. Meindl, interview by Jennifer Ross-Nazzal, Houston, 

TX, and Atlanta, GA, 11 January 2005, transcript, p. 19; Stephen Terry, interview by 

Jennifer Ross-Nazzal, Moffett Field, CA, 4 October 2004, transcript, NASA History 

Office, NASA Headquarters, Washington, DC (hereafter NHO), pp. 26–27; and Kurt 

W. Petersen, interview by Jennifer Ross-Nazzal, Moffett Field, CA, 5 October 2004, 

transcript, NHO, pp. 11–12.

9. For those hailing Feynman’s challenge as the start of nanotechnology, see, for instance, 

John Gribbin and Mary Gribbin, Richard Feynman: A Life in Science (New York: 

Dutton, 1997), 170: “hailed today as the first clear statement of the possibilities of 

nanotechnology”; Regis, Nano, pp. 72 and 77; and Jagdish Mehra, The Beat of a Different 

Drum: The Life and Science of Richard P. Feynman (New York: Oxford University Press, 

1994), 446. 

10. For Feynman’s biography, see James Gleick, Genius: The Life and Science of Richard 

Feynman (New York: Pantheon Books, 1992); Gribbin and Gribbin, Richard Feynman; 

Mehra, Beat of a Different Drum; and Richard P. Feynman with Christopher Sykes, No 

Ordinary Genius (New York: W.W. Norton, 1994).
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 255

American Physical Society—held that year at Caltech—Feynman gave a presentation titled “There’s Plenty of Room at the Bottom.” In it, he considered 

the ability to manipulate matter on an atomic scale and some interesting 

ramifications, particularly the possibility of denser computer circuitry and 

microscopes capable of seeing things much smaller than were visible through 

scanning electron microscopes. Feynman proposed that it might be possible to manipulate material at the atomic level using a top-down approach. 

One would use ordinary machine shop tools to develop and operate a set of 

1⁄4-scale machine shop tools, then employ those to develop 1⁄16-scale machine 

tools, including miniaturized hands to operate them. This reduction in scale 

would continue until the tools were able to manipulate atoms directly.

Feynman recognized that this process periodically would require redesigning the tools as different physical forces and effects came into play. For 

example, gravity would diminish, but the effects of surface tension and van 

der Waals attraction11 would increase. Feynman concluded his talk with a 

pair of challenges that turned out to be remembered a lot longer than the 

details of his presentation. The physicist offered prizes of $1,000 each to the 

first person to create an electrical motor smaller than .04 cm (1⁄64 of an inch) 

and to the first person to write the information from a book page on a surface 

1⁄25,000 smaller in linear scale.12

The prize offers spurred innovation but failed to generate any fundamentally new fabrication techniques. Feynman’s motor challenge was met 

by a meticulous craftsman—William H. McLellan, an engineer at ElectroOptical Systems in Pasadena, California—using conventional tools. In 1985, 

Tom Newman, a Stanford University graduate student, collected the second 

Feynman prize by succeeding in reducing the first paragraph of Charles 

Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities by 1⁄25,000.

13 These responses met the conditions 

11. The phrase “van der Waals attraction” refers to the forces of attraction or repulsion between 

molecules or between parts of the same molecule other than those caused by covalent 

bonds or the electrostatic interaction of ions with one another or with neutral molecules.

12. Richard Feynman, “There’s Plenty of Room at the Bottom,” in Horace D. Gilbert, ed., 

Miniaturization (New York: Reinhold Publishing Corporation, 1961), pp. 282–296; and 

Feynman, “There’s Plenty of Room at the Bottom,” pp. 3–9, in Trimmer, Micromechanics 

and MEMS. The talk also is available at http://www.zyvex.com/nanotech/feynman.html

(accessed 22 February 2006). For an account of the talk and how people reacted to it, see 

Regis, Nano, pp. 72–77; and Mehra, Beat of a Different Drum, pp. 441–446.

13. Newman used an electron beam to write the opening page in an area of 5.9 × 5.9 μm. 

T. H. Newman, K. E. Williams, and R. F. W. Pease, “High Resolution Patterning System 

with a Single Bore Objective Lens,” Journal of Vacuum Science Technology B5, no. 1 

(January–February 1987): 88–91. William McLellan built an electric motor 1⁄64 of an 

inch on a side in 1960. Regis, Nano, pp. 72–77; Mehra, Beat of a Different Drum, p. 445. 

The first micromotor (.0001 of an inch across) was made at the University of California 

at Berkeley in 1988. The creation of a tiny, nanotechnology-scale motor was achieved 
256 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

that the physicist had laid out, but they did not stimulate the rise of either 

MEMS or nanotechnology.

First MEMS Devices

Despite the failure of Feynman’s challenges to stimulate technological innovation, the development of MEMS devices already was under way when he 

gave his 1959 American Physical Society presentation. The pressure sensor 

(also called a strain gauge) was the first MEMS invention and success story. 

They became a MEMS cash cow for decades because of the wide commercial 

demand for them, the demand to make them smaller and more reliable, and 

their relative simplicity as a MEMS technology.14 Pressure sensors measure 

strain or pressure because of the piezoresistive property of the material (traditionally, metallic foil or a very fine wire arranged in a grid pattern) used 

in their construction. The piezoresistive effect, first reported in 1856 by the 

British scientist Lord Kelvin, is the phenomenon in which the resistance of 

a metallic wire increases with increasing strain and decreases with decreasing 

strain.15 Thus, as the strain on a pressure sensor increases, the electrical resistance of its metallic element increases in direct proportion to the amount of 

strain, and the change can be detected and measured as a change in voltage.

These sensors remained essentially wire gauges until the 1950s, when a 

key discovery of one of silicon’s many physical properties occurred. In 1953, 

Charles S. Smith, a physics professor at Case Institute of Technology,16 took a 

sabbatical to work at Bell Telephone Laboratories, where he studied the piezoresistivity of the semiconductors germanium and silicon. Smith published 

later by Mehran Mehregany at Case Western Reserve University. Begley, “Welcome to 

Lilliput,” p. 61; William F. Allman, “Shrinking the Future,” U.S. News & World Report

no. 112 (9 March 1992): 53; and Gary Stix, “Frothing a Raindrop,” Scientific American

266, no. 5 (May 1992): 128.

14. Terry, interview, pp. 26 and 27; Kurt E. Petersen, “Silicon as a Mechanical Material,” 

Proceedings of the IEEE 70, no. 5 (May 1982): 439; Obert N. Tufte, Paul W. Chapman, 

and Donald Long [all three of the Honeywell Research Center, Hopkins, MN], “Silicon 

Diffused-Element Piezoresistive Diaphragm,” Journal of Applied Physics 33, no. 11 

(1962): 3322–3327; Wolf D. Frobenius, A. C. Sanderson, and Harvey C. Nathanson 

[of Westinghouse], “A Microminiature Solid-State Capacitive Blood Pressure Transducer 

with Improved Sensitivity,” IEEE Transactions on Biomedical Engineering 20, no. 4 (July 

1973): 312–314.

15. B. E. Noltingk, “History of Electrical Devices for Measuring Strains and Small 

Movements,” Journal of Scientific Instruments 32 (1955): 157–158; and Kovacs, 

Micromachined Transducers, p. 211.

16. Case Institute of Technology became Case Western Reserve University after its 1967 

merger with Western Reserve University.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 257

the results of his research in the prominent Physical Review in 1954.17 The 

measurements that he obtained indicated that one could use germanium or 

silicon, instead of metal, to construct strain gauges. In fact, Smith discovered 

that sensors using germanium and silicon potentially could be far more sensitive than traditional metal gauges.

Not long after Smith’s discovery, commercial production of silicon-based 

pressure sensors began. One of the pioneers in this field was the New Jersey–

based firm Kulite Semiconductor Products, founded in 1960 by Anthony 

D. Kurtz specifically to manufacture silicon-based strain gauges. Kurtz, who 

had undergraduate and doctoral degrees in physics from the Massachusetts 

Institute of Technology, worked in laboratories at MIT and Honeywell in 

Boston before starting his own company.18 As the company’s patent stated, 

silicon-based gauges had “recently...come into widespread use.” The silicon 

strain gauges were integrated on a thin silicon substrate and employed resistors created by a diffusion process. The thin silicon substrate was mounted on 

a base to act as a diaphragm for sensing pressure changes.19

Kurtz’s former employer, Honeywell, also fabricated silicon sensors as early 

as 1962.20 Their proprietary method for making thin diaphragms involved 

mechanically milling a cavity into a silicon substrate. The firm did not begin 

to apply so-called micromachining techniques until 1970, when Honeywell 

employed isotropic etching to micromachine silicon diaphragms, and in 

1976 started making use of anisotropic etching. Etching is isotropic or anisotropic depending on whether or not the etching takes place along the crystallographic lines of the silicon wafer.21 In 1971 researchers at Case Western 

Reserve University developed a pressure sensor as a part of their biomedical 

applications program. The development of miniature sensors and probes for 

a gamut of biomedical uses was an important branch of MEMS sensor evolution. When National Semiconductor began selling the first high-volume 

17. Charles S. Smith, “Piezoresistance Effect in Germanium and Silicon,” Physical Review 94, 

no. 1 (April 1954): 42–49.

18. “Biography: Dr. Anthony D. Kurtz, Chief Scientist and CEO,” http://www.kulite.com/

biography.asp (accessed 28 August 2005).

19. David J. Frist, Anthony D. Kurtz, and Jean-Pierre Pugnaire, “Temperature Compensated 

Semiconductor Strain Gage Unit,” U.S. patent 3,245,252, filed 18 November 1961, 

issued 12 April 1966, assigned to the Kulite-Bytrex Corporation, Newton, MA.

20. Tufte, Chapman, and Long, “Silicon Diffused-Element Piezoresistive Diaphragm,” 

pp. 3322–3327.

21. For a discussion of the history of anisotropic etching, see Kenneth E. Bean, “Anisotropic 

Etching of Silicon,” IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices 25, no. 10 (October 1978): 

1185–1192.
258 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

pressure sensor in 1974, piezoresistive pressure sensor technology became a 

low-cost, batch-fabricated manufacturing technology.22

Among the many new types of pressure sensors was the MEMS capacitive pressure sensor, developed and demonstrated first at Stanford University 

in 1977 by Craig S. Sander, James W. Knutti, and James D. Meindl in the 

Integrated Circuits Laboratory. Instead of measuring resistance to detect 

pressure changes, capacitive sensors use electrical capacitance—that is, the 

storage of electrical charge. Capacitive pressure sensors are inherently more 

sensitive to pressure changes than piezoresistive sensors, but the signal from 

a capacitive sensor easily can be lost in electronic noise. The diaphragm of 

the Stanford sensor, which was recessed about 5 micrometers into the silicon 

wafer, served as one plate of a capacitor. The other capacitor plate was a metal 

film on a sheet of glass anodically bonded to the wafer.23

Major Early MEMS Advances

One of the most important early MEMS achievements was the invention 

of surface machining in 1965 by researchers at the Westinghouse Research 

Laboratories in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. More precisely, Harvey C. Nathanson 

and Robert A. Wickstrom created a device called a resonant gate field effect 

transistor, or resonant gate transistor for short. It was no ordinary transistor but 

a type of metal-oxide semiconductor transistor. A metal-oxide semiconductor 

field-effect transistor (MOSFET) consists of a channel of N-type or P-type 

semiconductor material (usually silicon). The “metal” in the name referred 

to the metallic-oxide gate element used to control the transistor’s operation.24

22. Eugene M. Blaser and D. A. Conrad, “Active Integrated Pressure Transducer,” Biomedical 

Sciences Instrumentation 8 (1971): 83–85; and “Historical Background,” http://mems.

cwru.edu/shortcourse/partI_1.html (accessed 2 March 2006).

23. James B. Angell, Stephen C. Terry, and Phillip W. Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical 

Devices,” Scientific American 248, no. 4 (April 1983): 55; and Cheng-Hsien Liu, 

PowerPoint presentation for course titled “Micro-Electro-Mechanical Transducers,” 

Fall 2004, “MEMS Technology: The Past, Present, and Future,” p. 13, http://memsliu.

pme.nthu.edu.tw/~liuch/transducer/Lecture2_History_ho.pdf (accessed 9 January 2006). 

Although more than one source—including one from Stanford—gives priority to 

Stanford for the first capacitive sensor built using integrated-circuit processes, Anthony D. 

Kurtz, “Pressure Sensitive Transducers Employing Capacitive and Resistive Variations,” 

U.S. patent 3,748,571, filed 7 September 1972, issued 24 July 1973, assigned to Kulite 

Semiconductors Products, preceded the Stanford work.

24. Harvey C. Nathanson and Robert A. Wickstrom, “A Resonant-Gate Silicon Surface 

Transistor with High-Q Band-pass Properties,” Applied Physics Letters 7 (1965): 84–86; 

Harvey C. Nathanson, William E. Newell, Robert A. Wickstrom, and John Ransford 

Davis, Jr., “The Resonant Gate Transistor,” IEEE Transactions Electron Devices ED 14, 

no. 3 (March 1967): 117–133; Ross Knox Bassett, To the Digital Age: Research Labs, 

Start-up Companies, and the Rise of MOS Technology (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins 
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 259

The Westinghouse MOSFET consisted of a plated-metal cantilever beam 

suspended over the channel region of the transistor. The cantilever beam served 

as the gate electrode. The device probably was the earliest micromechanical 

cantilever beam experiment. When the device operated as a high-Q (“high 

quality”)25 electromechanical filter, a DC voltage applied to the beam biased 

the transistor at a convenient operating point while the input signal electrostatically attracted the beam through the input force plate, thereby effectively 

increasing the capacitance between the beam and the channel region of the 

transistor. When the device operated as an analog filter, the input signal caused 

the beam to vibrate. Only when the signal contained a frequency component 

corresponding to half the beam’s mechanical resonant frequency were the 

beam motions large enough to induce an output from the underlying transistor structure.26

Practical, commercial use of the Westinghouse resonant gate transistors 

never materialized for a number of reasons. Some reasons arose from technical problems, while others had to do with overall trends in electronics. The 

most serious technological difficulties Nathanson and Wickstrom encountered were 1) reproducibility and predictability of resonant frequencies, 

2) temperature stability, and 3) device failure from fatigue. The main trend in 

electronics was toward digital circuits, higher frequencies of operation, higher 

accuracies, and lower voltages—all of which militated against the resonant 

gate transistor and similar devices.27

The importance of this electromechanical curiosity in the history of MEMS 

was the process devised for creating it—namely, the so-called sacrificial layer 

technique. As a result, the concept of “surface” micromachining—an essential 

MEMS fabrication technique—was born. Surface micromachining indicated 

that the silicon substrate served primarily as a mechanical support on which 

the micromechanical elements were fabricated. The beam’s fabrication began 

with deposition of a spacer layer, followed by application of a photoresist and 

removal of those areas where the beam was to be plated. After application of 

the plating, one stripped the photoresist and etched away the spacer layer, 

University Press, 2002), pp. 147 and 148. The work was done under contract with the Air 

Force. Harvey C. Nathanson, John Ransford Davis, and Terence R. Kiggins, “Resonant 

Gate Transistor with Fixed Position Electrically Floating Gate Electrode in Addition to 

Resonant Member,” U.S. patent 3,590,343, filed 31 January 1969, issued 29 June 1971, 

assigned to Westinghouse Electric Corporation, p. 4.

25. “High-Q” or “high-quality” factor in physics and electrical engineering rates the decay 

(energy dissipation) of anything oscillating. A “high-Q” means a lower rate of energy 

dissipation and that the oscillations die off at a slower rate.

26. Petersen, “Silicon as a Mechanical Material,” pp. 443–444.

27. Ibid., p. 444.
260 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

leaving the plated beam suspended above the surface by a distance corresponding to the thickness of the spacer film.28

On the other hand, a commercially successful MEMS application initiated during the mid-1970s was the micromechanical ink-jet nozzle array, the 

foundational technology for today’s ink-jet printers. Ernest Bassous, Larry 

Kuhn, and their colleagues at the IBM Thomas J. Watson Research Center 

did the pioneering work on these MEMS devices, developing many different 

nozzle systems.29 Although ink-jet nozzles per se dated back to the 1960s, 

their creation did not entail the use of integrated-circuit fabrication techniques. Subsequently in 1979 Hewlett-Packard developed its own MEMS 

ink-jet nozzles.30

The 1970s also saw the rise of MEMS applications—as well as an array of 

other electronic devices—in automobiles. During those years of awareness of 

oil consumption imposed by international events—not to mention the first 

federal regulations on automotive fuel economy and pollution—the pressures 

on automotive engineers for engine economy and emissions were at their 

highest. At the same time, however, tooling costs and customer openness to 

the required changes curbed the rate at which automotive engineers and managers could meet the new economic and pollution requirements by downsizing. A major part of the solution unavoidably involved embracing more 

electronics, and sensors came to play a central role in the new electronic automobiles. As Lee Iacocca, the chairman of the Chrysler Corporation, declared 

in 1976: “The world will beat a path to the door of a man with a better MAP 

[manifold absolute pressure] sensor.”31

28. R. T. Howe, “Surface Micromachining for Microsensors and Microactuators,” Journal 

of Vacuum Science and Technology 16 (1988): 1809–1813; and Petersen, “Silicon as a 

Mechanical Material,” p. 443.

29. Ernest Bassous, Howard H. Taub, and Lawrence Kuhn, “Ink Jet Printing Nozzle Arrays 

Etched in Silicon,” Applied Physics Letters 31 (1977): 135–137; Ernest Bassous and 

E. F. Baran, “The Fabrication of High Precision Nozzles by the Anisotropic Etching of 

(100) Silicon,” Journal of the Electrochemical Society 125 (1978): 1321; Petersen, “Silicon as 

a Mechanical Material,” pp. 431–432; Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical 

Devices,” pp. 50–51; Ernest Bassous, “Nozzles Formed in Mono-Crystalline Silicon,” 

U.S. patent 3,921,916, filed 31 December 1974, issued 25 November 1975, assigned 

to IBM; and Bassous, Kuhn, Arnold Reisman, and Taub, “Ink Jet Nozzle,” U.S. patent 

4,007,464, filed 23 January 1975, issued 8 February 1977, assigned to IBM.

30. See, for example, Richard G. Sweet, “High Frequency Recording with Electrostatically 

Deflected Ink Jets,” Review of Scientific Instruments 36 (January 1965): 131; and Morton 

and Gabriel, Electronics, p. 146. Sweet was affiliated with the Systems Techniques 

Laboratory, Stanford Electronics Laboratories, Stanford University.

31. William G. Wolber and Kensall D. Wise, “Sensor Development in the Microcomputer 

Age,” IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices ED-26, no. 12 (December 1979): 1864–1865.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 261

Automotive engine control sensor art became the pacing factor in the introduction of microcomputer-based engine controls. By 1979 about 15 percent 

of the automobiles produced in the United States had sensor-controlled electronic engine systems, and about 25 percent of the automobiles built around 

the world had at least one electronic engine control loop. During 1982 and 

1983, among the more successful mass-produced MEMS products produced 

for the automobile industry were manifold absolute pressure sensors. The 

next MEMS device to make an appearance in the automobile was the airbag 

system, which used MEMS accelerometers to detect a crash by sensing the 

change in acceleration. The MEMS devices, the size of a dime and costing 

but a few dollars each, replaced an electromechanical accelerometer that was 

roughly the size of a soda can, weighed several pounds, and cost about $15 

each. The airbag accelerometer has been one of the real MEMS success stories 

over time.32

The Growth of the MEMS Field

MEMS eventually came to have a number of new automobile applications, 

including their use to check tire inflation levels and to control skidding. 

The takeoff of the MEMS field during the 1980s and 1990s was remarkable. The first start-up companies committed to commercializing applications 

other than pressure sensors—Microsensor Technology, Inc., and Transensory 

Devices, Inc.—started up in 1981 and 1982. A reflection of the growth of 

MEMS was the coining of the term around 1987, when a series of three workshops on Microdynamics and MEMS took place in July 1987 in Salt Lake 

City, Utah; in November 1987 in Hyannis, Massachusetts; and in January 

1988 in Princeton, New Jersey. By the mid-1990s MEMS device revenue 

already was measured in billions and stood at about $10 billion in 2000—

more than the $8 billion predicted in 1993. In 2001 the market-research firm 

Frost & Sullivan estimated that the total MEMS market, then at $1.4 billion, 

would increase at a compound annual growth rate of 17 percent through 

2004, when they expected the market to exceed $3 billion. Automotive applications such as airbag sensors composed one-third of the total market, while 

32. William G. Wolber, “Automotive Engine Control Sensors ’79—An Overview Update,” 

in Second International Conference on Automotive Electronics, 29 October–2 November 

1979 (London: Institution of Electrical Engineers, 1979), p. 125; Wolber and Wise, 

“Sensor Development in the Microcomputer Age,” p. 1865; Allman, “Shrinking the 

Future,” p. 52; Coy, “Mighty Mites Hit It Big,” pp. 92–94; Charles P. Poole, Jr., and 

Frank J. Owens, Introduction to Nanotechnology (Hoboken, NJ: J. Wiley, 2003), 333; 

Petersen, “Prologue,” p. iii; Terry, interview, p. 30; James B. Angell, interview by Jennifer 

Ross-Nazzal, San Francisco, CA, 5 October 2004, transcript, NHO, p. 19; and Morton 

and Gabriel, Electronics, p. 146.
262 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the medical market was the second largest industry using MEMS in products 

such as disposable blood pressure sensors.33

Supporting this surprising growth in the United States was fundamental research undertaken largely at such research universities as the University 

of California at Berkeley, MIT, the University of Wisconsin, and Georgia 

Institute of Technology. By about 1983 every leading university in the United 

States had established major research programs. MEMS industrial research 

also took off during the 1980s and 1990s. In the early 1980s only about five 

Fortune 500 companies had research programs in MEMS, while by the end 

of the 1990s, more than 25 such companies were contributing to the technology. Government funding of research also played a role. In 1991 the National 

Science Foundation (NSF) and the Defense Advanced Research Projects 

Agency (DARPA) together spent $2.5 million per year on micromachines. 

At the same time, private funding of research was between $1.5 million and 

$2.5 million a year.34

One measure of the growth of MEMS was its development as a discipline 

reflected in the emergence of specialized journals and conferences. A pioneering work was Kurt Petersen’s “Silicon as a Structural Material,” a review article 

of the state of the field at that time, which included micromachining and 

device applications.35 Before 1980 articles on solid-state sensors were scattered in the journals of various fields, such as electronic devices, automobiles, 

instrumentation, materials, physics, and analytical chemistry. The journal 

Sensors and Actuators, first published in 1980, aimed to provide a forum for 

papers in the field. The American Institute of Physics began publishing its 

quarterly Journal of Micromechanics and Microengineering in 1991, while the 

Journal of Microelectromechanical Systems, a quarterly joint publication of the 

Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers (IEEE) and the American 

Society of Mechanical Engineers (ASME), started in 1992.36

MEMS conferences began much earlier, and again sensor research led 

the way. The International Conference on Solid State Sensors and Actuators, 

established in 1981, is a biannual (odd years) meeting that rotates between 

33. Coy, “Mighty Mites Hit It Big,” p. 92; Petersen, interview, pp. 11–12; Petersen, 

“Prologue,” p. iii; “Historical Background”; Technical Insights, MEMS: Powerhouse for 

Growth in Sensors, Actuators, and Control Systems, 2nd edition (Englewood, NJ: John 

Wiley & Sons, 2001); and “MEMS: Smaller Is the Next Big Thing,” NASA Tech Briefs, 

August 2001, http://www.findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qa3957/is_200108/ai_n9002755

(accessed 27 March 2006).

34. Coy, “Mighty Mites Hit It Big,” p. 93; Petersen, “Prologue,” p. iii; and Begley, “Welcome 

to Lilliput,” p. 61.

35. Petersen, “Silicon as a Mechanical Material,” pp. 420–457.

36. Petersen, “Prologue,” p. iii.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 263

the United States, Japan, and Europe. The conference publishes a technical 

digest, and some of the papers appear in special issues of Sensors and Actuators. 

The International Meeting on Chemical Sensors is a biannual conference 

(held in even years) that also rotates between the United States, Japan, and 

Europe. It publishes a technical digest as well, along with selected papers 

in Sensors and Actuators B. In addition, in the United States a Workshop 

on Solid-State Sensors and Actuators has taken place at Hilton Head, South 

Carolina (in even years), and publishes a technical digest of the papers presented. Furthermore, the international IEEE Workshop on Micro Electro 

Mechanical Systems met six times beginning in 1987 and ending in 1993, 

and each workshop published a proceedings digest. Of course, because of the 

interdisciplinary interest in MEMS, a number of conferences in other fields 

also offered sessions on MEMS.37

Biomedical Instrumentation 

To understand why NASA might be interested in funding MEMS research, 

one first must consider the Agency’s interest in biomedical instrumentation 

that followed logically from its missions to send animals and humans into 

space. The focus of this effort at NASA Headquarters was the Office of Life 

Science Programs. The creation of tiny biomedical instruments for taking cardiovascular, neurological, and other measurements and transmitting the data 

wirelessly to recording stations was a vital piece of this endeavor, at a time 

when continuous monitoring of this physiological information was a rather 

novel idea.38

The sensors and other biomedical instruments that NASA undertook to 

build and improve assisted in conducting tests on animals and plants in a 

space environment—that is, to determine the effects of weightlessness on 

them. For that purpose, for example, NASA launched three so-called biosatellites between 1966 and 1969 that transported fauna and flora into space 

and performed various experiments on them.39 Additional animal trials took 

place in Earth-bound laboratories as well. Yet another application for these 

37. Petersen, “Prologue,” p. iii.

38. John A. Pitts, The Human Factor: Biomedicine in the Manned Space Program to 1980

(Washington, DC: NASA Special Publication-1985-4213, 1985), pp. 40 and 73–74; 

and Stanley M. Luczkowski, “Bioinstrumentation,” in Richard S. Johnston, Lawrence 

F. Dietlein, and Charles A. Berry, eds., Biomedical Results of Apollo (Washington, DC: 

NASA SP-1975-368, 1975), p. 485. 

39. On this program, see Thomas P. Dallow, Dennis W. Jenkins, and Joseph F. Saunders, 

“The NASA Biosatellite Program,” Astronautics and Aeronautics 4 (January 1966): 48–

52; or the more elusive Biosatellite Project Historical Summary Report, TM-X-72394 
264 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

tiny sensors was to look for life on other planets. For that purpose the Jet 

Propulsion Laboratory created the Voyager Biological Laboratory for a future, 

but later canceled, undertaking to seek out signs of life on Mars.40 The twin 

Viking spacecraft, however, took up that mission in 1975.

Astronauts, too, benefited from the sensor and biotelemetry research. 

Research on human biomedical instrumentation took place at both the 

Electronics Research Center (ERC) in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and the 

Ames Research Center. Researchers in Cambridge cooperated with Dr. Harold 

Klein, Assistant Director for Life Sciences at Ames,41 on projects of mutual 

interest, and starting in 1964, Gene A. Vacca, in the NASA Headquarters 

Office of Advanced Research and Technology, coordinated bioinstrumentation research at both centers.42 Research in life sciences started at Ames 

in 1961 with the arrival of scientists Richard S. Young and Vance Oyama, 

who built a small “penthouse” laboratory atop the instrument research building, and in November 1961 the Center hired Webb E. Haymaker, a worldrenowned neuropathologist, to direct new activities in that field.43

The Ames-Stanford Biomed Link

The size and scale of the life sciences effort at Ames echoed in the number 

and scope of organizational departments that Klein’s Life Sciences Office 

oversaw. Each of the three divisions—Exobiology, Environmental Biology, 

and Biotechnology—in turn consisted of several branches. For example, the Environmental Biology Division included branches dealing with 

(Washington, DC: NASA, 1969), which focuses more on mission planning, launchers, 

and spacecraft design.

40. NASA, Sixteenth Semiannual Report to Congress, July 1–December 31, 1966 (Washington, 

DC: NASA, 1967), pp. 83, 86, and 88–90. On the Mars Voyager mission, see Curtis 

Peebles, “The Original Voyager: A Mission Not Flown,” Journal of the British Interplanetary 

Society 35 (1982): 9–15.

41. Ames Research Center (ARC), Telephone Directory (Moffett Field, CA: ARC, November 

1964), p. 56. 

42. Chief, Program & Resources Office, Electronics Research Center, to Chief, Instrumentation 

Research Laboratory, Electronics Research Center, “Details on IRL Contact with NASA 

Centers,” 30 December 1965, Folder “December [1965],” Box 16, Record Group 

(hereafter RG) 255, Accession Number (henceforth Acc. No.) 71A2309, Washington 

National Records Center, Suitland, MD (hereafter WNRC); William Rambo, memo 

for the record, “NASA Study Program File,” regarding “Mr. Gene Vacca, NASA Project 

Officer,” 30 October 1964, Folder 5, “Chron File 1964 Oct.-Dec.,” Box 2, ACCN 97-

093, Papers of William R. Rambo, SC 132, Department of Special Collections, Stanford 

University Libraries, Stanford, CA (hereafter Rambo Papers).

43. Glenn E. Bugos, Atmosphere of Freedom: Sixty Years at the NASA Ames Research Center, 

SP-4314 (Washington, DC: NASA SP-2000-4314, 2000), p. 57. 
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 265

Neurobiology, Experimental Pathology, Physiology, and Biochemical 

Endocrinology.44 Splicing these new research disciplines into a laboratory 

whose historical foundation was aerodynamics and wind tunnels was not a 

trouble-free operation, as Glenn Bugos, the official NASA Ames historian, 

has pointed out. Researchers in the life sciences, he wrote, “seemed grafted 

onto the Center. They used different disciplines, procedures and language. 

Many of the leading biologists were women, at a time when women were still 

sparse in the physical sciences. The biologists looked for success from different audiences.”45

The idea at both Ames and the ERC was to combine sensors and transmitters, so that NASA could implant them in the body of an astronaut permanently for continuous monitoring, while the astronaut moved about freely 

without having to be attached by cables. The emphasis, a NASA Headquarters 

report stated, was on “small, light-weight instruments that do not require an 

umbilical cord.” The sensor readings would travel to an onboard telemetry 

transmitter via “a small, low-powered radio link.” The wireless sensor system 

allowed the astronaut “freedom of motion and small weight so that the instruments will not impede his motion.” The effort also involved replacing current 

sensors and data links—all of which were analog—with digital equivalents.46

NASA’s thinking was that because “extended manned space missions 

require the astronaut to perform demanding functions, complete freedom of 

motion is essential. Hence, attached leads, wires and cables are considered an 

impediment. In addition, it is desirable to eliminate skin chafing and irritation that would result from long-term application of sensors applied directly 

to the skin.” As Albert J. Kelley, at the time Deputy Director of the ERC, 

explained: “We visualize teams of scientist-astronauts spending months in 

outer space conducting exacting scientific investigations including extravehicular research.... It will be important to medically monitor them with devices 

which are totally remote rather than attached to their skin. Unattached and 

unimplanted sensors...will allow complete freedom of movement and eliminate discomfort.”47

Equally integral to NASA’s biomedical instrumentation programs was a 

major attempt to transfer the technology to society (“spinoff” or, in the language 

of the period, “technology utilization”). Since 1963, NASA Headquarters had 

44. ARC, Telephone Directory (1964), pp. 56–57. 

45. Bugos, Atmosphere of Freedom, p. 58.

46. NASA Headquarters, Space Vehicles, Electronics, and Control Research Program Review

(Washington, DC: Office of Programs, Management Reports, 9 March 1963), p. 113.

47. NASA, Electronics Research Center, news release No. 65-12, 7 April 1965, Folder 

“Procurement Branch,” Box 9, RG 255, Acc. No. 71A3002, WNRC.
266 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the Office of Technology Utilization48 to formulate and implement the means 

by which NASA could disseminate the technical byproducts of space research 

and development most effectively to private industry and other users.49 The 

office also involved itself in evaluating how successfully the space agency had 

passed on its research results to society, a process that came into general vogue 

as “technology assessments,” particularly following congressional debate on 

the question.50 NASA’s impact on biomedical research was the subject of at 

least three such assessments.51

The School of Medicine at Stanford University was an important player 

in spinning off NASA biomedical technology with the support of the space 

agency. Explicitly for that purpose, the School’s Cardiology Division set up 

the Biomedical Technology Transfer team with NASA funding and cooperation in July 1970. Under the direction of Donald C. Harrison, the team 

consisted of members drawn from the Medical School faculty and NASA 

engineers, including James A. White, whose expertise was instrumentation 

and who was head of the Ames Research Center’s Instrumentation Division. 

In addition, individuals from the School of Medicine and Stanford University 

at large participated as consultants. The institutions participating in the 

Stanford program included medical centers, hospitals, and private physicians 

located throughout the West.52

48. Also known as the Office of Technology Utilization and Policy Planning.

49. Edward E. Furash, “The Problem of Technology Transfer,” in Raymond A. Bauer and 

Kenneth J. Gergen, eds., The Study of Policy Formation (New York: Free Press, 1968), 

pp. 281–328; and Arnold S. Levine, Managing NASA in the Apollo Era (Washington, DC: 

NASA SP-1982-4102, 1982), pp. 42–43. 

50. An excellent source on the early technology assessment movement is the collection 

of essays in George Washington University, Program of Policy Studies in Science and 

Technology, Readings in Technology Assessment: Selections from the Publications of the 

Program of Policy Studies in Science and Technology (Washington, DC: George Washington 

University, 1975).

51. See, for instance, Bio-Dynamics, Inc., Study of the Transferral of Space Technology to 

Biomedicine: Final Report (Cambridge, MA: Bio-Dynamics, 21 February 1964); United 

Aircraft Corporation, Biosciences and Technology, Space and Life Sciences Department, 

Hamilton Standard Division, Medical and Biological Applications of Space Telemetry

(Washington, DC: NASA SP-1965-5023, July 1965); and Southwest Research Institute, 

Southwest Research Institute Assistance to NASA in Biomedical Areas of the Technology 

Utilization Program, Quarterly Progress Report No. 4 (San Antonio, TX: Southwest 

Research Institute, 19 September 1967).

52. NASA, “NASA-Stanford Research Team,” news release, 19 August 1971, box 18,422, 

NASA Historical Reference Collection, NASA History Office, NASA Headquarters, 

Washington, DC (hereafter NHRC); ARC, Telephone Directory (1964), p. 52; and 

Stanford University School of Medicine, Cardiology Division, Biomedical Technology 

Transfer: Applications of NASA Science and Technology: Final Report, July 1, 1971–

September 30, 1972 (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University, 1972), pp. 2–3, 5, and 8–12.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 267

Cardiology led the program because heart illnesses were “by far the leading 

single cause of death in the United States” and the Cardiology Division was “a 

nationally recognized authority” in the field. The Cardiology Division reported 

to NASA. “One major technological need” in cardiology as well as in other 

areas of medicine was “the development of improved electrodes. Over the past 

15 years, there has been little improvement in generally available electrodes.” 

According to one report, “the Stanford team has considered electrode technology a problem of major medical importance.” These electrodes became the 

initial focus of MEMS research at Stanford, but in the Department of Electrical 

engineering, not the School of Medicine. In addition to electrodes, the program 

tackled the creation of an apnea monitor, a miniature electrocardiogram (ECG) 

telemetry unit for ambulatory patients, and a temperature telemeter for gastrointestinal tract diagnoses as well as the digital transmission of medical data.53

Stanford was not the only school to participate in such NASA biomedical 

technology transfer efforts. As early as March 1966, the Solid State Laboratory 

of the Research Triangle Institute in Research Triangle Park, North Carolina, 

near Durham, Raleigh, and Chapel Hill, undertook a major effort to apply 

“NASA science and technology” to biomedical problems and enlisted the 

support of the Duke University Medical Center, the Bowman-Gray School of 

Medicine Department of Biomedical Engineering at Wake Forest College, the 

University of North Carolina Medical School as well as Rockefeller University, 

Monte Fiore Hospital, and the Albert Einstein Institute in New York.54

Stanford University did not act just as a middleman by fostering the 

adoption of NASA biomedical technologies but also performed research to 

originate such technologies. As early as the fall of 1961, NASA had research 

contracts with a number of universities, businesses, and military laboratories 

for research in the life sciences. Many of these dealt with methods for studying blood flow, and a contract with Corbin-Farnsworth, Inc., called for the 

company to develop a remote blood pressure monitoring transducer.55

Stanford University received a substantial sum of funding from NASA 

for biomedical research thanks to the efforts of Joshua Lederberg, who in 

1958 won the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine with Edward L. Tatum 

53. Biomedical Technology Transfer, pp. 4 and 21–22; and NASA, “NASA-Stanford Research 

Team.”

54. J. N. Brown, Jr., “Biomedical Applications of NASA Science and Technology,” Quarterly 

Progress Report 3, 15 December 1966–14 March 1967, Research Triangle Institute, 

Research Triangle Park, NC, 1967, pp. ii and 1–3. 

55. NASA, Research Grants and Contracts: Quarterly Program Report (Washington, DC: 

NASA, 1 October 1961), pp. 19–20.
268 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

and George Beadle.56 In the spring of 1962, Lederberg submitted a proposal to NASA Headquarters for the construction of a $600,000 Biomedical 

Instrumentation Laboratory at Stanford. The Agency provided $535,000 

for its construction between September 1962 and March 1965. Even earlier, beginning 1 April 1960, NASA Headquarters underwrote a long-term 

research project undertaken by Lederberg on microorganisms. By 1980, 

NASA had furnished $4,673,087 for the effort.57 This was the largest life sciences research effort that NASA funded at Stanford, judging from the totality of NASA life sciences grants and research contracts extended to Stanford 

researchers between 1960 and 1980.58

The Ames Research Center began funding biomedical research at Stanford 

University on 1 October 1961, when the facility commissioned Frank Morrell, 

M.D., and Lenore K. Morrell, Ph.D., to undertake a study of the physiological mechanisms involved when humans adapted to monotonous environments. Ames continued to underwrite the Morrells through September 

1967, providing a total of $316,614, making this one of the most high-priced 

efforts paid for by Ames.59 Dozens of grants and research contracts followed, 

too numerous for repetition here. However, a description of the largest contracts, those totaling over $200,000, gives an idea of what Ames was funding 

at Stanford.

The largest contract, totaling $1,229,032 between 1968 and 1980, went 

to Donald C. Harrison, head of the Stanford School of Medicine Cardiology 

56. Nobelprize.org, “Joshua Lederberg: Biography,” http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/medicine/

laureates/1958/lederberg-bio.html (accessed 17 August 2006).

57. NASA, Research Grants and Contracts: Supplementary Program Report (Washington, DC: 

NASA, 1 March 1962), p. 13; NASA, NASA’s University Program (Washington, DC: 

NASA, June 1969), p. 26; and NASA, NASA’s University Program (Washington, DC: 

NASA, 1979), p. 27.

58. This statement is based on an examination of life sciences grants and contracts in the 

space agency’s reports. These reports include 1) the quarterly reports issued during the 

1960s alternatively as NASA, Research Grants and Contracts: Quarterly Program Report,

and NASA, NASA University Research Grants and Contracts: Quarterly Status Report, and 

located in boxes 18,414–18,416 at the NHRC; and 2) the annual reports published as 

NASA, NASA’s University Program, available at the NHRC and in library government 

document collections. Information on the life sciences grants and research contracts 

was extracted from these sources and constituted as a set of spreadsheets that included 

separate listings by Stanford Principle Investigator, Ames contract overseer, and total 

dollar amounts. These spreadsheets collectively are referred to in this chapter as the Ames 

Life Sciences Research at Stanford Database. 

59. NASA, Grants and Research Contracts (1 February 1962), p. 4; NASA, Research Grants 

and Contracts: Quarterly Program Report (Washington, DC: NASA, 1 July 1964), p. 84; 

NASA, Research Grants and Contracts: Quarterly Program Report (Washington, DC: 

NASA, 1 January 1966), p. 146; and NASA, Research Grants and Contracts: Quarterly 

Program Report (Washington, DC: NASA, 1 April 1967), p. 79.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 269

Division, for “evaluation of the cardiovascular system during various circulatory stresses.”60 The second largest research contract went to James D. Meindl, 

a professor of electrical engineering who was a key player in Stanford’s early 

MEMS research. The funding for the research, for “ultrasonic Doppler measurement of renal artery blood flow,” amounted to $695,154 from 1972 to 

1979.61 Max Anliker, a professor of aeronautics and astronautics in the School 

of Engineering from 1958 to 1971, received $482,486 from Ames for a study 

of “biomechanics within the field of cardiovascular physiology” between 

September 1967 and June 1973.62

Ames paid for a study of the “effects of altered gravitational stress on fluid 

balance and the circulation of the blood,” by John A. Luetscher, Jr., who 

led the transformation of the Stanford University Medical Center into an 

academic medical school from a hospital-based institution located in San 

Francisco, disbursing a total of $392,090 between 1970 and 1980.63 In order 

to design and develop special experimental hardware, the Ames Biosatellite 

program paid out $372,123 to Colin S. Pittendrigh, known as the “father 

of the biological clock,” for his pioneering work between 1969 and 1974.64

Lastly, Thomas R. Kane, a professor of mechanical engineering, conducted 

research on the “dynamics of the human body in free fall” from 1966 to 1971 

for Ames, which paid him $245,396.65

60. NASA’s University Program (1969), p. 24; NASA, NASA’s University Program (Washington, 

DC: NASA, May 1972), p. 28; NASA, NASA’s University Program (Washington, DC: 

NASA, 1973), p. 24; NASA, NASA’s University Program (Washington, DC: NASA, 

1974), p. 20; and NASA’s University Program (1979), p. 27.

61. NASA’s University Program (1979), p. 27.

62. NASA’s University Program (1973), p. 23. For biographical information on Anliker, 

see Stanford Magazine, November–December 2002, “Obituaries: Faculty/Staff,” http://

www.stanfordalumni.org/news/magazine/2002/novdec/classnotes/obituaries.html (accessed 

18 August 2008).

63. NASA’s University Program (1979), p. 27. For biographical information on Luetscher, 

see Myron H. Weinberger, “John Arthur Luetscher, Jr. (1913–2005),” Hypertension

47 (2006): 627–628, http://hyper.ahajournals.org/cgi/content/full/47/4/627 (accessed 14 

August 2008).

64. NASA’s University Program (1974), p. 18. On Pittendrigh, see Stanford University, “Colin 

Pittendrigh, ‘Father of Biological Clock,’ Dies at 77,” news release, http://news-service.

stanford.edu/pr/96/960325pittendrig.html (accessed 15 August 2008).

65. NASA’s University Program (1972), p. 29. On Kane, see his Web site, Stanford Engineering 

Faculty, “Thomas R. Kane,” http://me.stanford.edu/faculty/facultydir/kane.html (accessed 

22 August 2008).
270 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Instrument Design

This varied research represented an extension of the work being conducted at 

the Ames Research Center by its own staff. Within the Ames organization, 

researchers in the life sciences divisions worked in tandem with technicians 

from James White’s Instrumentation Division. In contrast, an examination 

of the grants and research contracts in the life sciences that Ames awarded 

to Stanford faculty indicates that the overseers of the funding (the NASA 

contract representatives) were all in the life sciences divisions.66 The collaboration of life scientists and instrument technicians echoes the relationship that 

Thomas Edison had with instrumentmakers such as John Kreuzi in his laboratory.67 It also raises questions about the friction between the scientists of the 

life sciences divisions and the Instrumentation Division that Bugos describes. 

Indeed, some of the earliest biomedical work at Ames grew out of the laboratory’s aerodynamic culture and its need for testing instruments.

Such was the case of the miniature capacitive accelerometer that Grant 

W. Coon, a member of the Measurements Research Branch of the Ames 

Instrumentation Division,68 developed and patented in 1959, originally for 

testing model aircraft and missile parts in wind tunnels. Patent records show 

that Coon’s work soon entered the domain of biomedical instrumentation.69

In order to measure blood pressure, one mounted his tiny (“ultraminiature”) 

diaphragm-type capacitance transducer on the end of a cardiac catheter. The 

device allegedly was small enough to be inserted into a baby.70 By 1967, Ames 

staff members were testing the probes on anesthetized dogs. The probes were 

less than 0.13 cm (.05 inches) in diameter, and after they entered an artery, 

technicians maneuvered them into the left ventricle to measure the blood 

pressure inside the dog’s artery.71

66. Ames Life Sciences Research at Stanford Database.

67. William Kennedy-Laurie Dickson and Antonia Dickson, The Life and Inventions of 

Thomas Alva Edison (New York: T.Y. Crowell, 1894), p. 107.

68. ARC, Telephone Directory (15 October 1963), pp. 7 and 44. 

69. Grant W. Coon, “Diaphragm Type Capacitance Transducer,” U.S. patent 3,027,769, 

filed 3 March 1959, issued 3 April 1962, assigned to NASA; Grant W. Coon and Donald 

R. Harrison, Miniature Capacitive Accelerometer Especially Applicable to Telemetry, ARC 

72 (Moffett Field, CA: Ames Research Center, 1 November 1966); Grant W. Coon, A 

Capacitive Accelerometer Suitable for Telemetry, NASA TM-X-2644 (Moffett Field, CA: 

Ames Research Center, 1 September 1972). See as well John Dimeff, James W. Lane, and 

Grant W. Coon, “New Wide-Range Pressure Transducer,” Review of Scientific Instruments

33 (1962): 804–807.

70. Grant W. Coon, Ultraminiature Manometer-Tipped Cardiac Catheter, ARC 10054 

(Moffett Field, CA: Ames Research Center, 1 December 1967).

71. NASA Tech Brief, “Ultraminiature Manometer-Tipped Cardiac Catheter,” December 

1967, Folder 6911, NHRC. Coon later developed a capacitive pressure transducer 
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 271

Coon was not the only member of the Ames Instrumentation Division 

investigating biomedical devices for the space program. Indeed, as Edwin P. 

Hartman pointed out in his history of Ames: “Although the life-science and 

the physical-science groups at Ames had little in common, mutual benefits 

occasionally arose from their being together.... One area in which the physical scientists were able to help the life scientists was in instrument design.” 

Thomas Benton Fryer and Gordon J. Deboo, he added, “were particularly 

active in this field.”72 Fryer, born 17 July 1925, spent the first 13 years of his 

life in China, where he was born. When his family returned to the United 

States in the late 1930s, Fryer attended high school, and during World 

War II he joined the Marine Corps, which sent him to the universities of 

Colorado and Michigan. Upon his graduation as an electrical engineer from 

the University of Michigan at the end of the war, Fryer worked for the Naval 

Research Laboratory for two years and, in 1949, began work at Moffett Field, 

one of several laboratories operated by the National Advisory Committee for 

Aeronautics (NACA) and which became NASA’s Ames Research Center in 

1958.73 Fryer’s career at Ames thus spanned from the NACA wind tunnels 

years into the era of biomedical research.

Fryer, then assistant chief of the Electronics Research Branch, and 

Gordon Deboo worked with Charles M. Winget from the Physiology Branch 

(Environmental Biology Division).74 Before becoming a research scientist at 

Ames, Winget, who received a Ph.D. in comparative physiology from the 

University of California at Davis in 1957, had a postdoctoral fellowship at 

the National Institutes of Health and a teaching position at the University 

of Guelph in Canada. Starting in 1977, Winget taught a graduate course in 

biorhythms at UC Davis.75 Avian biorhythms were the subject of his research 

with Fryer and Deboo.

specifically for high-temperature environments, which built on his earlier work. Grant 

W. Coon, “Trielectrode Capacitive Pressure Transducer,” U.S. patent 3,948,102, filed 

17 July 1975, issued 6 April 1976, assigned to NASA; and Grant W. Coon, Trielectrode 

Capacitive Pressure Transducer, ARC-10711 (Moffett Field, CA: Ames Research Center, 

1 February 1975).

72. Edwin Hartman, Adventures in Research: A History of Ames Research Center, 1940–1965

(Washington, DC: NASA SP-1970-4302, 1970), p. 483. 

73. Michael Taylor, “Thomas Benton Fryer—NASA Engineer,” San Francisco Chronicle, 9 July 

2005, p. B-7; electronic edition, SFGate.com, http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/

c/a/2005/07/08/BAGHJDKORC1.DTL&type=printable (accessed 30 September 2008).

74. ARC, Telephone Directory (December 1967), pp. 9, 13, 40, 46, and 50. As late as 1963, 

the Electronics Research Branch was known as the Measurements Research Branch. ARC, 

Telephone Directory (1963), p. 44.

75. A. H. Smith, E. M. Bernauer, A. L. Black, R. E. Burger, J. H. Crowe, J. M. Horowitz, G. P. 

Moberg, and E. M. Renkin, “History of Physiology at University of California, Davis,” 
272 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Winget, Fryer, and Deboo developed an instrument that made measurements inside living subjects and transmitted the information to an external 

source that recorded the data. Hartman described it as “particularly useful.”76

Applying the device to research on various birds, they obtained quantitative measurements of fowl ovulation and oviposition, determined their heart 

rates and deep body temperatures, and analyzed the circadian cycles of those 

temperatures.77 Winget also oversaw a research contract on circadian rhythms 

undertaken by Stanford University professor Colin Pittendrigh, whose specialty was biological clocks.78

The system that Fryer and Deboo developed with Winget—battery 

included—was no larger than a penny, but it used individual electronic components rather than an integrated circuit.79 In 1965, Fryer and Deboo actually 

considered using integrated circuits because of their small size and potentially 

higher reliability. They rejected the idea, however, because of what they perceived as the many disadvantages of integrated-circuit technology: high cost, 

relatively high power requirements, poor component tolerances, low yields, 

limited component value ranges, the fact that some components—such as 

tantalum capacitors—could not be integrated, and the experimental nature at 

that time of radio-frequency integrated circuitry.80

Cardiovascular studies at Ames also drew on the collaboration of instrument 

and life sciences researchers. For example, in 1967, Deboo and Jack M. Pope 

in the Electronics Research Branch developed a so-called cardiotachometer 

with David B. D. Smith in the Human Performance Branch (Biotechnology 

The Physiologist 29, no. 5 supplement (1986): 52, http://www.the-aps.org/publications/

tphys/legacy/1986/issue5/46.pdf (accessed 22 August 2008).

76. Hartman, Adventures in Research, p. 483.

77. Charles M. Winget, E. G. Averkin, and Thomas B. Fryer, “Quantitative Measurement 

by Telemetry of Ovulation and Oviposition in the Fowl,” American Journal of Physiology

209, no. 4 (October 1965): 853–858; and Charles M. Winget and Thomas B. Fryer, 

“Telemetry System for the Acquisition of Circadian Rhythm Data,” Aerospace Medicine

37, no. 8 (August 1966): 800–803.

78. NASA’s University Program (1972), p. 30. 

79. Thomas B. Fryer, Gordon J. Deboo, and Charles M. Winget, Miniature Long Life 

Temperature Telemetry System, TM-X-56104 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1964); Gordon 

J. Deboo and Thomas B. Fryer, “Miniature Biopotential Telemetry System,” American 

Journal of Medical Electronics 13 (July–September 1965): 138–142; Thomas B. Fryer, 

Gordon J. Deboo, and Charles M. Winget, “Miniature Long-Life Temperature Telemetry 

System,” Journal of Applied Physiology 21, no. 1 (January 1966): 295–298; and Thomas 

B. Fryer, “Survey of Biomedical Instrumentation Developments at Ames Research 

Center,” National Biomedical Sciences Instrumentation Symposium, Biomedical Sciences 

Instrumentation; Proceedings, vol. 3 (1967): 103–112.

80. Deboo and Fryer, “Miniature Biopotential Telemetry System,” p. 140.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 273

Division).81 The instrument detected and displayed the human heart rate during 

physiological studies.82 Later, in 1972, Fryer and Pope devised and patented 

a digestible temperature transmitter. This endoradiosonde measured human 

deep body temperature to indicate general health, but it also was useful for 

investigating animal circadian rhythms.83 Fryer, Pope, and Winget also developed a multiple-channel transmitter capable of measuring several body temperatures simultaneously for a more complete study of the circadian rhythm 

of deep body temperatures.84 In addition, Pope worked with John Dimeff, 

who had become the head of the Instrument Division, in designing an apparatus that automatically detected if hospital patients with surgically implanted 

tracheotomy tubes failed to breathe. Like many of these biomedical devices, 

it featured a miniature radio transmitter that allowed technicians to monitor 

patients from a remote location and freed the patient of extraneous wires.85

By 1970, Fryer could point to a substantial array of tiny biomedical instruments that he and his fellow members of the Instrument Division had devised 

for wirelessly transmitting data on live subjects. Some devices telemetered electroencephalogram (EEG) and electrocardiogram (ECG) signals (known also 

as biopotential data) to recording equipment, while others measured pressure 

using commercially available solid-state strain gauges planted in animal subjects. Yet other instruments recorded internal body temperatures in humans 

and animals. However, if one looks at the overview of Ames progress in this 

field that Fryer provided in 1970, one does not encounter any reference to 

integrated circuits or the processes for making them.86

81. ARC, Telephone Directory (1967), pp. 30, 34, and 50.

82. Gordon J. Deboo, Jack M. Pope, and David B. D. Smith, “Cardiotachometer with Linear 

Beat-to-Beat Frequency Response,” Psychophysiology 4 (1967): 486–492.

83. Jack M. Pope, Thomas B. Fryer, and Harold Sandler, An Ingestible TemperatureTransmitter, ARC-10583 (Moffett Field, CA: Ames Research Center, 1 July 1972); Jack 

M. Pope and Thomas B. Fryer, “Miniature Ingestible Telemeter Devices to Measure 

Deep-Body Temperature,” U.S. patent 3,971,362, filed 27 October 1972, issued 27 July 

1976, assigned to NASA.

84. Thomas B. Fryer, Jack M. Pope, and Charles M. Winget, An Implantable Multi-Channel 

Temperature Transmitter, TM-X-61199 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1967).

85. John Dimeff and Jack M. Pope, Automatic Patient Respiration Failure Detection System with 

Wireless Transmission, ARC-10174 (Moffett Field, CA: Ames Research Center, 1 October 

1968); and Jack M. Pope, John Dimeff, and S. Abraham, “A Wireless Respiration Failure 

Detection System,” Medical and Biological Engineering 12, no. 3 (May 1974): 348–354, 

which states: “Research supported by the Anita Oliver Lunn Foundation.” 

86. A good review of these instruments and techniques is provided in Tom Fryer, Implantable 

Biotelemetry Systems (Washington, DC: NASA SP-1970-5094, 1970). 
274 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The one exception is a telemeter that Fryer himself devised in 1966 and 

patented for implanting in animals.87 He offered that one could build it 

either from conventional discrete parts or as an integrated circuit.88 Fryer, as 

an electrical engineer and assistant chief of the Electronics Research Branch 

(which became the Electronic Instrument Development Branch in 1971),89

was knowledgeable about integrated-circuit technology, but he rejected it in 

1970 because of its excessive cost and the state of the art. He explained that 

“the making of the necessary masks and the processing of monolithic integrated circuits” was “very expensive”; as a result, “custom-made circuits for 

specific requirements of biotelemetry are impractical. The standard off-theshelf devices are inexpensive because of the economics of mass production, 

but to date they have not met the power and voltage requirements of this 

application.... The present state of the art makes it impractical to construct 

a circuit, such as the temperature transmitter, on one monolithic integrated 

circuit; the circuit is too complex for one chip without very poor production 

yields and resultant high cost.”90

Fryer’s thinking may have represented the “state of the art” in thinking 

at the Ames Research Center regarding the application of integrated-circuit 

technologies to biomedical instrumentation in 1970. That thinking, however, 

did not stop him from being the first Ames employee to oversee a MEMS 

project at Stanford University starting in November 1969.91 By then, Stanford 

already had produced its first MEMS device. The exact details of how Ames 

came to initiate MEMS research at Stanford are not clear; however, a probable narrative emerges from the recollections undertaken for this chapter in 

conjunction with extant information on grants and research contracts let to 

Stanford by the Ames Research Center.

Ames and MEMS

According to Kensall D. “Ken” Wise, one of the leading figures of Stanford’s 

pioneering MEMS research, Nigel C. Tombs, a NASA Ames employee, “may 

have provided the spark” that instigated that MEMS project.92 There is reason 

87. Tom Fryer, “Telemeter Adaptable for Implanting in an Animal,” U.S. patent 3,453,546, 

filed 5 November 1966, issued 1 July 1969, assigned to NASA.

88. Tom Fryer, Miniature Bioelectric Device Accurately Measures and Telemeters Temperature, 

ARC-52 (Moffett Field, CA: Ames Research Center, 1 February 1966).

89. ARC, Telephone Directory (October 1971), p. 48.

90. Fryer, Implantable Biotelemetry Systems, p. 83.

91. NASA, NASA’s University Program (1972), p. 28.

92. Kensall D. Wise, telephone interview by Jennifer Ross-Nazzal, Houston, TX, and Ann 

Arbor, MI, 6 December 2004, transcript, NHO, p. 16.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 275

to believe that Tombs may have ignited the interest of the Ames Research 

Center in the Stanford MEMS work, for he was intimately involved in the 

research that Ames funded at Stanford and he had specialized knowledge 

of integrated-circuit fabrication techniques. Tombs was a recent arrival at 

Ames, having come from the ERC as part of NASA’s closing of that facility. The Center’s termination entailed merging the ERC’s bioinstrumentation 

projects, including studies in bionics, bioinstrumentation, human spacecraft 

monitoring, the bioinstrumentation of flight experiments, and advanced biosensors with those at Ames. Transferred to Ames effective on 27 June 1970, 

Tombs worked for the Measurement Sciences Branch under Boris Ragent.93

Although new to Ames and NASA as a whole, Tombs brought with him 

a long career of laboratory work and innovation that stretched back to his 

native country of England.

Born in Swindon, England, a small town about 80 miles west of London, 

on 27 November 1925, Tombs earned a B.S. from the Royal College of 

Science in 1945 and a Ph.D. from Imperial College in 1949 before working 

for the General Electric Company, Ltd., at their Hirst Research Laboratories. 

Established in 1919 in Wembley, the Hirst was the first industrial research 

laboratory in England.94 During his 10 years at General Electric, Tombs was 

the group leader of their magnetic material research laboratories95 and received 

six British patents relating to the manufacture of permanent magnets and 

assigned to General Electric.96 He also developed a new technique for making 

93. Boyd C. Myers II, A Report on the Closing of the NASA Electronics Research Center, 

Cambridge, Massachusetts (Washington, DC: NASA, 1 October 1970), pp. 232 and 234; 

and Glenn Bugos, e-mail message to author, 1 September 2005.

94. The General Electric Company, Ltd., was not at all associated with the U.S. company of 

the same name but was founded by two German immigrants, Hugo Hirst and Gustav 

Binswanger (later Bying). On the GE laboratories, see “Physics in Industry at the 

Wembley Laboratories,” Nature 111 (10 March 1923): 344–345; and Sir Robert Clayton 

and Joan Algar, “GEC Hirst Research Centre,” Physics in Technology 16 (1985): 76–84; 

as well as Robert Clayton and John Algar, The GEC Research Laboratories 1919–1984

(London: P. Peregrinus in association with the Science Museum, 1989).

95. Who’s Who in Government, 1st edition (Chicago: Marquis Who’s Who, 1972), p. 511; and 

Who’s Who in Government, 2nd edition Chicago: Marquis Who’s Who, 1975), p. 624. 

96. The patents were found through a search of Nigel C. Tombs as inventor in the database 

maintained by the European Patent Office at http://ep.espacenet.com/ (accessed 17 January 

2006). In chronological order by filing date, the following are the patents in question: 

Tombs, “Improvements in or relating to the manufacture of permanent magnets,” GB 

patent 761,459, filed 8 September 1953, issued 14 November 1956, assigned to General 

Electric; Tombs, “Improvements in or relating to the production of gamma ferric oxide,” 

GB patent 755,852, filed 8 September 1953, issued 29 August 1956, assigned to General 

Electric; Tombs, “Improvements in or relating to apparatus for the manufacture of 

powdered materials,” GB patent 749,265, filed 10 September 1953, issued 23 May 1956, 

assigned to General Electric; Tombs, “Improvements in or relating to the manufacture of 
276 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the ceramic dielectric material used to make capacitors for radios and other 

electronic equipment and assigned the patent to General Electric in Britain as 

well as to Hazeltine Research, Inc., of Chicago in the United States.97

Upon leaving General Electric in 1959, Tombs and his wife moved to 

the United States, where he worked on semiconductor devices in RCA’s 

Semiconductor and Materials Division in Somerville, New Jersey, which at 

the time was engaged in fabricating a novel type of device known as a metaloxide semiconductor (MOS).98 Next, briefly in 1961, Tombs was head of 

General Precision’s solid-state laboratory, and carried on solid-state research at 

the Sperry Rand Research Center in Sudbury, Massachusetts, before working 

for NASA.99 At Sperry Rand, Tombs’s research turned toward the improvement of integrated-circuit fabrication processes, as witnessed by his patent 

applications. His new technique involved depositing an insulating film of silicon nitride (Si3

N4) on a silicon chip in an atmosphere of silane (SiH4) and 

ammonia at temperatures ranging from 600°C to 1,000°C. The silicon nitride 

replaced the silicon oxide commonly used to form p-n junctions (the building blocks of solid-state circuitry) in integrated circuits and as the insulating 

dielectric in MOS transistors and diodes. By baking at temperatures below the 

norm (1,000°C), the process was far less likely to cause faults in the resulting 

permanent magnets,” GB patent 723,496, filed 5 October 1953, issued 9 February 1955, 

assigned to General Electric; Tombs, “Improvements in or relating to the manufacture of 

permanent magnets,” GB patent 723,497, filed 5 October 1953, issued 9 February 1955, 

assigned to General Electric; Tombs, “Improvements in or relating to the manufacture 

of magnetizable powder cores,” GB patent 811,935, filed 1 June 1955, issued 15 April 

1959, assigned to General Electric. The search revealed several additional patents relating 

to magnets issued in West Germany and the United States but assigned to the Société 

d’Electro-Chimie d’Electro-Métallurgie et des Aciéries Electriques d’Ugine of Paris. That 

company specialized in, among other electrochemical products, steel alloys. See Charles 

Le Menestrel, Ugine: Histoire des aciéries electriques (Lyons: Editions Lyonnaises d’Art et 

d’Histoire, 1994).

97. The original patent was Tombs, “Improvements in or relating to ceramic dielectric 

composition,” GB patent 698,946, filed 26 May 1950, issued 28 October 1953, assigned 

to General Electric. The same patent then was assigned to Hazeltine in the United States: 

Tombs, “Ceramic dielectric materials and methods of producing the same,” U.S. patent 

2,768,901, filed 22 May 1951, issued 30 October 1956, assigned to Hazeltine. Tombs, 

“Improvements in or relating to the manufacture of ceramic bodies composed of one or 

more oxides,” GB patent 828,066, filed 21 November 1955, issued 17 February 1960, 

assigned to General Electric, represents an improvement on the manufacturing process.

98. Kenyon Kilbon, “Pioneering in Electronics: A Short History of the Origins and Growth 

of RCA Laboratories, Radio Corporation of America, 1919 to 1964,” unpublished 

manuscript, revised August 1964, pp. 317–318, available at the David Sarnoff Library, 

“Pioneering in Electronics,” http://www.davidsarnoff.org/kil.html (accessed 2 August 008); 

and Bassett, To the Digital Age, pp. 42–43.

99. Who’s Who in Government, 1st edition (Chicago: Marquis Who’s Who, 1972), p. 511; and 

Who’s Who in Government, 2nd edition Chicago: Marquis Who’s Who, 1975), p. 624.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 277

solid-state products. Sperry Rand considered the technique so important that 

it filed for patents in Canada, Europe, and the United States.100

Thus, before working at NASA, Tombs possessed intimate knowledge of 

integrated-circuit fabrication techniques and had contributed to the advancement of that knowledge. Furthermore, published sources indicate that while 

at Ames, Tombs personally assisted in the MEMS research undertaken at 

Stanford. In two journal articles published in IEEE journals, Stanford graduate student Samaun Samadikun acknowledged the “cooperation and guidance” of “N. Tombs.”101 He also noted that Tombs had assisted him in testing 

the sensors on animals.102 Given this social propinquity and his familiarity 

with integrated-circuit fabrication techniques, he very well “may have provided the spark” that Ken Wise attributed to him.103

In acknowledging the “cooperation and guidance” of Ames personnel, 

Samadikun also thanked “J. [John] Dimeff, and B. [Benjamin] Beam of 

the NASA Ames Research Center.”104 John Dimeff put forth his own claims 

as the initiator of the Ames MEMS research at Stanford in a letter dated 

29 August 2005 and faxed to Ames historian Glenn Bugos.105 Dimeff’s claims 

are dubious at best; they appear to present a cloudy and at times counterfactual recollection of events, suggesting a tangential role at best. Dimeff asserted 

that the MEMS contracts let to Stanford “were both the result of concepts I 

100. Tombs, “Silane Method for Making Silicon Nitride,” U.S. patent 3,573,096, filed 23 

June 1965, issued 30 March 1971, assigned to Sperry Rand Corporation. A search of 

the European Patent Office database reveals that Tombs also received a patent for the 

invention in Britain, Canada, France, West Germany, the Netherlands, and Sweden. In 

all instances Sperry Rand was the assignee.

101. Samaun Samadikun, Kensall D. Wise, E. Nielsen, and James B. Angell, “An IC 

Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical Instrumentation,” 1971 IEEE International 

Solid-State Circuits Conference Digest of Technical Papers 14 (February 1971): 104; and 

Samaun Samadikun, Kensall D. Wise, and James B. Angell, “An IC Piezoresistive Pressure 

Sensor for Biomedical Instrumentation,” IEEE Transactions on Biomedical Engineering

BME-20, no. 2 (March 1973): 109.

102. Samadikun, Wise, and Angell, “An IC Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical 

Instrumentation,” pp. 108 and 109; and Samaun Samadikun, “An Integrated Circuit 

Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical Instrumentation,” Ph.D. dissertation, 

Stanford University, August 1971, pp. 39–42.

103. The author was unable to reach Tombs for comment. Tombs’s telephone number is 

unlisted, and he did not respond to two letters sent to him by the author.

104. Samadikun, Wise, Nielsen, and Angell, “An IC Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for 

Biomedical Instrumentation,” p. 104; and Samadikun, Wise, and Angell, “An IC 

Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical Instrumentation,” p. 109. 

105. Letter, John Dimeff to Glenn Bugos, 29 August 2005, attachment to e-mail, from Glenn 

Bugos, 7 September 2005, furnished to author by Bugos, historian to NASA’s Ames 

Research Center.
278 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

suggested.”106 He lacked Tombs’s background in the fabrication of integrated 

circuits; rather, he was steeped in the laboratory’s tradition of aerodynamics 

and wind-tunnel testing as one of its major instrument designers. According 

to Ames historian Edwin Hartman: “The development of wind-tunnel 

instrumentation was an activity which grew in complexity and volume, and 

before the end of 1958 represented a rather large part of the total instrument 

development effort.” With the formation of the new Instrument Research 

Division, Dimeff became its chief. Hartman also noted Dimeff’s contribution to the improvement of the magnetometer, a device that measures the 

direction and intensity of a magnetic field, and Dimeff patented a few magnetometer and electrometer improvements during the 1960s.107 His patents 

from the 1950s included a wire strain gauge, a device for pairing several 

underground circuits, and a type of potentiometer—an apparatus for varying 

voltage in a circuit.108 Dimeff clearly understood electrical instruments, but 

that knowledge did not imply a grasp of or familiarity with integrated-circuit 

fabrication techniques.

Dimeff also claimed that the contract for “an improved pressure transducer” 

“was placed with Professor [James B.] Angell at Stanford and monitored by 

my Assistant Division Chief, [Benjamin H.] Ben Beam.”109 However, NASA 

records state that the monitor on the pressure sensor contract was Tom Fryer, 

not Ben Beam, who was not listed as a supervisor of any MEMS contracts.110

In 1969, Beam was the Assistant Chief of the Instrumentation Division 

106. Ibid.

107. Hartman, Adventures in Research, pp. 246, 279, and 478. Dimeff obtained several patents 

for improvements to magnetometers as well as electrometers: Dimeff and Grant W. 

Coon, “Vibrating element electrometer with output signal magnified over input signal 

by a function of the mechanical Q of the vibrating element,” U.S. patent 3,384,820, 

filed 17 May 1965, issued May 1968, assigned to NASA; Dimeff, “Electrostatic charged 

particles analyzer having deflection members shaped according to the periodic voltages 

applied thereto,” U.S. patent 3,532,880, filed 30 January 1968, issued 6 October 1970, 

assigned to NASA; Dimeff, “Cryogenic apparatus for measuring the intensity of magnetic 

fields [a cryogenic magnetometer],” U.S. patent 3,437,919, filed 1 July 1965, issued April 

1969, assigned to NASA.

108. Dimeff, “Directly strained, capacitance strain gauge,” U.S. patent 2,933,665, filed 5 April 

1956, issued 19 April 1960, assigned to NASA; Dimeff, “Apparatus for coupling a plurality 

of ungrounded circuits to a grounded circuit,” U.S. patent 3,059,220, filed 2 July 1959, 

issued 16 October 1962, assigned to NASA; Dimeff, “Servomotor capacitance-coupled 

potentiometer wiper circuit,” U.S. patent 2,844,776, filed 15 November 1955, issued 

22 July 1958, assigned to NASA.

109. Letter, John Dimeff to Glenn Bugos, 29 August 2005.

110. The names of the six contract monitors for the four MEMS contracts can be found in 

NASA’s University Program (1972), pp. 25 and 28; NASA’s University Program (1973), 

p. 26; NASA’s University Program (1974), p. 23; NASA, NASA’s University Program

(1977), p. 25; and NASA’s University Program (1979), p. 28.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 279

directly under Dimeff,111 but during essentially all of the pressure sensor 

contract period—that is, from November 1969 to September 1972, he was 

Assistant Chief of the Research Facilities and Instrumentation Division but 

reporting to Angelo Giovannetti, not Dimeff, who had moved up the organizational ladder to be the Assistant Director for Advanced Instrumentation 

in the Office of the Director of Research Support.112 Still, it is probable that 

Beam played some part in the Stanford work given Samadikun’s acknowledgment of Beam’s assistance, as cited earlier, but the nature of that work he 

left unspecified.

Dimeff’s letter also offered a muddied recollection of a second MEMS 

contract, again based on concepts that he suggested. The contract was 

with “someone (?) at Stanford” and called for that person to “machine” a 

groove into a block of silicon to be “covered to form a column for a mass 

chromatograph.”113 The contract in question did not relate to a “mass chromatograph” but rather to a gas chromatograph—an entirely different genre of 

scientific instrument. One would expect the author of the concept, especially 

a person whose entire career was spent on instrumentation, to recall such a 

fundamental difference. The chromatograph was perhaps the most important 

of the MEMS devices created at Stanford with NASA funding and certainly 

received the most funding.

Dimeff correctly identified the (initial) Ames contract monitor as 

“Ralph Donaldson of my Division.”114 Ralph W. Donaldson, Jr., was in the 

Measurement Sciences Branch of the Instrumentation Division in 1969 

and therefore in Dimeff’s division at that time. But during the period of the 

chromatograph contracts—that is, from 1971 to 1980—Donaldson did not 

report to Dimeff. Rather, he was in the Electronic Instrument Development 

Branch and reported to Boris Ragent and Tom Fryer (Deboo, starting in 

1977).115 Dimeff’s understanding of the purpose of the gas chromatograph 

contract seems muddled, to say the least. He stated that the intent was to 

“support [the] biological research of Dr. Joan Dannellis [sic] of the Life 

111. ARC, Telephone Directory (August 1969), p. 46.

112. ARC, Telephone Directory (November 1970), p. 46; ARC, Telephone Directory (1971), 

pp. 47 and 48; ARC, Telephone Directory (November 1972), pp. 46 and 47.

113. Letter, John Dimeff to Glenn Bugos, 29 August 2005.

114. Ibid.

115. Information on their positions is from ARC, Telephone Directory (1969), pp. 9 and 46; 

ARC, Telephone Directory (1971), pp. 9 and 48; ARC, Telephone Directory (1972), pp. 9 

and 47; ARC, Telephone Directory (May 1974), pp. 9 and 50; ARC, Telephone Directory

(July 1975), pp. 9 and 50; ARC, Telephone Directory (January 1977), pp. 10 and 52; 

ARC, Telephone Directory (1977–1978), pp. 9 and 51; ARC, Telephone Directory (April 

1979), pp. 9 and 50; and ARC, Telephone Directory (October 1980), pp. 10 and 54.
280 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Sciences Directorate.”116 Joan Vernikos more recently, from 1993 to 2000, 

was Director of Life Sciences at NASA Headquarters. Before joining Ames 

in 1966, she held several academic posts at, among other places, the Ohio 

State University Medical School, the Stanford University Medical Center’s 

Department of Psychiatry, and the University of London. Her research 

focused on understanding the hormonal and behavioral mechanisms that 

trigger responses to stress and applying that knowledge to aviation and space 

applications as well as developing a framework for discerning how spaceflight 

and terrestrial gravitation affect the human body.117

Joan Vernikos Danellis began her career at Ames in the Physiology Branch 

(Environmental Biology Division) under Jiro Oyama, and from 1972 to 

1975 she was the Chief of the Human Studies Branch within the Biomedical 

Research Division, whose head was Harold “Hal” Sandler. Subsequently, 

until at least 1980, she had an unspecified position in Sandler’s Biomedical 

Research Division.118 During her tenure at Ames, Vernikos Danellis oversaw a number of contracts at Stanford. She did not monitor the first two of 

those contracts by herself, but with Charles Winget, the more senior Ames 

employee, and they reflected his interest in circadian rhythms and her concern 

with hormone levels. The subsequent contracts that she supervised covered 

research carried out from 1969 to 1977 and investigated such issues as adrenaline activity during bed rest, the effects of changing gravitational stress on 

body fluids and blood circulation, and the influence of chronic and repeated 

stress on the pituitary adrenal system. The gas chromatograph, Vernikos has 

affirmed, was not relevant to her research.119

A preponderance of evidence, on the other hand, indicates that the objective of the gas chromatograph research—at least from NASA’s perspective—

was for the Mars Viking mission. Such was the recollection of Ken Wise, 

who was the principle investigator on the first gas chromatograph contract. 

116. Letter, John Dimeff to Glenn Bugos, 29 August 2005.

117. The Victory Speakers’ Bureau, “Dr. Joan Vernikos,” http://artofvictory.com/Vernikos.htm

(accessed 4 September 2008); and “Dr. Joan Vernikos,” http://www.joanvernikos.com/

about/bio.php (accessed 4 September 2008).

118. ARC, Telephone Directory (1964), pp. 8 and 50; ARC, Telephone Directory (1969), pp. 8 

and 50–51; ARC, Telephone Directory (1971), pp. 8 and 45; ARC, Telephone Directory

(1972), pp. 7 and 44; ARC, Telephone Directory (1974), pp. 8 and 47; ARC, Telephone 

Directory (1975), pp. 8 and 51; ARC, Telephone Directory (1977), pp. 8 and 51; ARC, 

Telephone Directory (1977–78), pp. 8 and 50; ARC, Telephone Directory (1979), pp. 9 and 

55; and ARC, Telephone Directory (1980), pp. 9 and 53.

119. NASA’s University Program (1972), pp. 28 and 30; NASA’s University Program (1973), 

pp. 20 and 21; NASA’s University Program (1975), p. 27; NASA’s University Program

(1976), p. 30; and NASA’s University Program (1977), pp. 22 and 24; and notes, telephone 

conversation with Joan Vernikos, 24 November 2008.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 281

In addition, one of the graduate students who benefited from the chromatograph funding asserted in his dissertation that “the idea of a miniature GC 

[gas chromatograph] column etched in silicon was conceived by NASA for a 

small, lightweight, and rugged chromatograph to be landed on Mars in the 

Viking 75 probe.” Elsewhere, the same student declared that the chromatograph potentially could be used on “planetary probes.”120

The person who emerges as a key individual from a look at the extant grant 

and research contract records121 as well as publications by Stanford graduate 

students—not to mention his own account of events—is Harold “Hal” Sandler. 

Born in 1929 and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio, Sandler majored in chemistry 

and mathematics at the University of Cincinnati and graduated from its medical school with a degree in internal medicine in 1955. After being drafted and 

assigned to the Navy in 1961, he set off on a career in aerospace medical 

research at the Navy’s medical aviation laboratory in Johnsville, Pennsylvania, 

where Neil Armstrong and other astronauts trained.122 He next took a position 

at Ames in 1965 and participated in various studies related to weightlessness; 

however, his main interest was in biomedical instrumentation, a sine qua non 

for understanding bodies in a state of real or artificial weightlessness.123

From the start Hal Sandler was in the Biomedical Research Division, 

which was in John Billingham’s Biotechnology Division under Harold Klein, 

and by 1971 he was branch chief. Shortly after arriving at Ames, Sandler 

told a NASA interviewer that he contacted John Dimeff, who led the 

Instrumentation Division and was, in Sandler’s words, “the godfather, or the 

enabler, of the bioinstrumentation project.” He also struck up a “lifelong 

friendship” with Tom Fryer.124

120. NASA’s University Program (1972), p. 25; Wise, interview, p. 16; Stephen Clark Terry, 

“A Gas Chromatography System Fabricated on a Silicon Wafer Using Integrated 

Circuit Technology,” Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, 1975, p. 1; Stephen Clark 

Terry, John Hallock Jerman, and James Angell, “A Gas Chromatographic Air Analyzer 

Fabricated on a Silicon Wafer,” IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices, ED-26, no. 12 

(December 1979): 1886.

121. Ames Life Sciences Research at Stanford Database.

122. James R. Hansen, First Man: The Life of Neil A. Armstrong (New York: Simon & Schuster, 

2005), pp. 54–55.

123. Finding Aid, Harold Sandler Papers, MS-352, Special Collections and Archives, Wright 

State University Libraries, Dayton, OH, pp. 3–4; Harold Sandler, telephone interview 

by Jennifer Ross-Nazzal and Rebecca Wright, Houston, TX, and Bainbridge Island, WA, 

15 October 2004, transcript, NHO, pp. 3–4.

124. ARC, Telephone Directory (1967), pp. 33 and 50; ARC, Telephone Directory (December 

1968), pp. 32 and 50; ARC, Telephone Directory (1969), pp. 31 and 50; ARC, Telephone 

Directory (1971), pp. 29 and 44; and Sandler, interview, 2004, p. 5.
282 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Sandler states that he fostered and encouraged the Ames effort to develop 

miniature sensors that one could implant in the bodies of subjects, be they 

humans or animals, as well as telemetry systems for broadcasting those sensor 

readings for use by researchers. As a result, his name appeared regularly in 

Stanford dissertations and as a MEMS contract supervisor. For example, 

Samaun Samadikun acknowledged his help in testing his device on animals. 

Stephen C. Terry, whose 1975 dissertation dealt with the development of a 

miniature gas chromatograph, also recognized Sandler’s help. In addition, 

Sandler was the sole monitor during the first year of the gas chromatograph 

contract, beginning on 1 September 1973.125

At the same time, Sandler became aware that implantable biomedical sensors had become commercially available with the founding in 1967 

of Konigsberg Instruments, Inc., in Pasadena, California, by former Ames 

employee Eph Konigsberg.126 Sandler and others at Ames realized that they 

needed to make their sensors, such as those designed by Fryer and Deboo, 

much smaller. According to Sandler, the shift from dogs to monkeys as 

research subjects demanded smaller instruments. “No one wanted to use 

the dog, which was my favorite subject for study for long-term space effects. 

An animal I had little experience with, the monkey, was being touted as the 

only thing that they would consider, and they weren’t even very eager about 

that. Well, if I was going to start working in monkeys, everything had to be 

reduced by a factor of ten.”127

Ames, however, lacked the capability to achieve significant reductions in 

scale through the application of integrated-circuit technology, the need for 

which Sandler characterized as “critical.” Dimeff, Sandler recalled, attempted 

to start an integrated-circuit laboratory at Ames, but “it sputtered and it 

failed. Costs were way too high, and talent wasn’t available,” because of the 

growing demands of Silicon Valley businesses. Fryer, as noted earlier, also 

lamented the high cost of integrated-circuit technology. Ames lacked an 

integrated fabrication facility, such as the PREDICT laboratory (Process 

Reliability Evaluation and Determination of Integrated Circuit Techniques) 

125. Samadikun, “An Integrated Circuit Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor,” p. iii; Terry, “Gas 

Chromatography System,” p. v; NASA’s University Program (1974), p. 23; and NASA’s 

University Program (1980), p. 34.

126. Sandler, interview, 2004, p. 6; Konigsberg Instruments, “Company Overview,” http://

www.konigsberginc.com/ (accessed 24 November 2008); and notes, telephone conversation 

with Harold Sandler, 24 November 2008.

127. Sandler, interview, 2004, p. 13.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 283

built at the ERC, which allowed that center’s staff to create experimental 

integrated circuits.128

Ames, lacking its own integrated-circuit fabrication capability, needed to 

find a job shop where they could have experimental devices manufactured to 

order. According to Sandler, Dimeff suggested that he visit “several individuals 

starting an IC [integrated circuit] lab over at Stanford and see what could be 

worked out.” At that point he met James A. Meindl, and the MEMS collaboration between Ames and Stanford began.129 Subsequently, however, Sandler 

recalled that Fryer, with whom he worked closely on implantable sensors and 

telemetry, probably had the idea to exploit the pioneering MEMS research 

that Stanford was carrying out.130 Shading his recollections is Sandler’s selfadmitted desire to ensure that Dimeff received credit for the biomedical 

accomplishments of Ames. “If any good has come from all these efforts,” he 

told NASA interviewers, “I would really like to share them with him.”131

Could Tom Fryer have played a role in instigating the Ames MEMS projects at Stanford?132 In addition to Hal Sandler’s recollection, one can point 

to the fact that Fryer was heading Ames’s biomedical instrumentation effort 

prior to Sandler’s arrival at Ames in 1965, as witnessed by his writings in 

this area133 and his position as Assistant Chief in the Measurements Research 

128. Ibid. The PREDICT laboratory is discussed in chapter 3, “NASA’s Role in the 

Manufacture of Integrated Circuits,” in this volume.

129. Sandler, interview, 2004, p. 13.

130. Notes, telephone conversation with Harold Sandler, 24 November 2008.

131. Sandler, interview, 2004, p. 5. He shared this sentiment. Notes, telephone conversation 

with Harold Sandler, 24 November 2008.

132. Fryer could not be contacted, having died in 2005.

133. The list of Tom Fryer’s writings prior to 1965, usually coauthored with Deboo, is rather 

long. The following can be found by searching the NASA Technical Reports Server, http://

ntrs.nasa.gov/search (accessed 14 November 2005): Gordon J. Deboo and Tom Fryer, 

“An Improved, Miniaturized Bio-Medical Amplifier,” TM-X-51506, 1963, 13-page 

manuscript submitted for publication in IEEE Transactions on Biomedical Electronics; 

Gordon J. Deboo and Tom Fryer, A Miniature Bio-Potential Telemetry System, TM-X54931 (Moffett Field, CA: Ames, March 1964); Gordon J. Deboo and Tom Fryer, “A 

Solid State Preamplifier for Micro-Electrode Studies,” TM-X-51731, May 1964, 4-page 

manuscript submitted for publication in the Journal of Physiology; Tom Fryer and 

Gordon J. Deboo, “A High-Performance Miniature Biopotential Telemetry System,” in 

Robert Plonsey, ed., Engineering in Medicine and Biology: Proceedings of the 17th Annual 

Conference on Engineering in Medicine and Biology, vol. 6 (Cleveland, OH: Conference 

Committee, 1964), p. 39; Tom Fryer and Charles W. Beck, “A Low-Power Analogto-Digital Converter,” TM-X-51840, 21 July 1964, 12-page manuscript submitted 

for publication in Electronics Magazine; Winget, Averkin, and Fryer, Quantitative 

Measurement by Telemetry of Ovulation and Oviposition in the Fowl. In addition, two 

manuscripts prepared prior to 1965 appeared as Tom Fryer and Gordon J. Deboo, “A 

High-Performance Miniaturized Preamplifier for Biological Applications,” Medical 
284 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Branch and Electronics Research Branch.134 Also in support of Fryer as the 

instigator of the Stanford collaboration is the fact that when he retired in 

1979 and formed Biomedical Monitoring Systems, Inc.,135 the collaboration 

ended.136 Dimeff left in 1975, when he formed Dimeff Associates of San Jose, 

California,137 but Sandler remained at Ames until January 1987,138 several 

years after the Ames MEMS projects were over.

The Rashomon effect variations in these narratives likely reflects the different hierarchical levels at which these individuals participated. Within the 

Stanford integrated-circuit laboratory, Ken Wise and Samaun Samadikun 

interacted with Nigel Tombs, who helped with the animal testing. It is probable that this social propinquity—combined with Tombs’s knowledge of 

integrated-circuit fabrication methods and his role as monitor on a different MEMS contract139—led to the perception that Tombs was the principal behind Ames’s interest in MEMS research. Dimeff, Sandler, and Fryer 

were at the opposite end of the hierarchy, being part of upper management 

with Dimeff above Fryer as Chief of the Instrumentation Division. Dimeff 

undoubtedly played a role in this story, but his dubious claims and counterfactual recollection of events suggests a tangential role at best. His rise 

within the Ames bureaucracy at this time probably took him farther and 

farther away from the details, but he assuredly was in a position to approve 

Electronics and Biologic Engineering 56 (April 1965): 203–204; and Gordon J. Deboo 

and Tom Fryer, “Miniature Biopotential Telemetry System,” American Journal of Medical 

Electronics 4 (July–September 1965): 138–142.

134. For example, ARC, Telephone Directory (1963), p. 44; and ARC, Telephone Directory

(1964), p. 53.

135. Taylor, “Thomas Benton Fryer—NASA Engineer.”

136. NASA’s University Program (1980), p. 34, lists the contract, although it is not to be found 

among the Stanford contracts in NASA, NASA’S University Program Active Projects Fiscal 

Year 1982 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1983), pp. 29–41.

137. Manta, “Dimeff Assoc,” http://www.manta.com/coms2/dnbcompany_9018r (accessed 17 

October 2008). Further corroboration of his departure is found in the Ames telephone 

directories, which listed him in May 1974 but not in July 1975. See ARC, Telephone 

Directory (1974), p. 49; and ARC, Telephone Directory (1975). On the other hand, a search 

of U.S. patents on both Google and the U.S. Patent Office database, http://patft.uspto.gov/ 

(accessed 23 October 2005) for “John Dimeff” reveals that the last two patents that he 

received and assigned to NASA had filing dates in December 1975. Dimeff, “Optically 

selective, acoustically resonant gas detecting transducer,” U.S. patent 4,055,764, filed 

22 December 1975, issued 25 October 1977, assigned to NASA; and Dimeff, “Selfcalibrating radiometer,” U.S. patent 4,030,362, filed 22 December 1975, issued 21 June 

1977, assigned to NASA. The filing dates, however, reflected when the NASA patent 

attorney had completed his paperwork, irrespective of Dimeff’s participation in the 

patent application process.

138. Sandler, interview, 2004, p. 30.

139. NASA’s University Program (1972), p. 25.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 285

and encourage Sandler’s ventures. As James Meindl of Stanford recalled, 

Dimeff was “more at an administrative or management level in those days 

and, as far as I was aware, not doing research the way Hal Sandler and some 

of his friends were.”140 Nonetheless, it is not conceivable that Dimeff may 

have advised Sandler to look into the possibility of using Stanford facilities. 

Finally, Tombs, not Dimeff, was a more believable candidate as the inventor 

of the MEMS projects.

Once Sandler arrived at Ames, he unquestionably was the prime mover 

in expanding the Center’s biomedical instrumentation effort. That effort, 

however, already was in progress, and Fryer was leading the way. The published grant and research contract records are more puzzling than clarifying 

of Sandler’s role. He told NASA interviewers that the gas chromatograph was 

not his project but belonged rather “to help people who were on the third 

floor, above us,” meaning those searching for extraterrestrial life.141 Ironically, 

as stated earlier, he was the first monitor on the gas chromatograph contract.142

Fryer, who supervised the first MEMS contract, was an electrical engineer and an instrumentmaker in search of solutions to the specific problems 

related to the development of small-scale sensors and allied telemetry systems. 

The Stanford integrated-circuit laboratory, given the lack of a comparable 

capability at Ames, could serve him capably as a job shop for experimenting 

with what he characterized as the costly advanced technology of integratedcircuit fabrication techniques. Dimeff may have told him about the Stanford 

facility, or he may have learned on his own.

The sensor work carried out under the first MEMS contract, monitored 

by Fryer, fit perfectly with his research agenda, but it readily could have dovetailed with Sandler’s instrument needs. Indeed, Samadikun acknowledged his 

help in animal testing his devices.143 Therefore, Tom Fryer may have played 

an important role in Ames’s entry into MEMS research. This suggested role 

for Fryer in no way is meant to disparage Sandler’s vital role in spearheading 

the development of state-of-the-art biomedical instruments nor his probable 

principal role (within the Ames Life Sciences Divisions) in leading the Center 

into carrying out MEMS research at Stanford University. I now turn to look 

at a better-documented account, the emergence of the Stanford Integrated 

Circuits Laboratory and its research agenda.

140. Meindl, interview, p. 4.

141. Sandler, interview, 2004, p. 28.

142. Ames Life Sciences Research at Stanford Database.

143. Samadikun, “An Integrated Circuit Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical 

Instrumentation,” p. iii.
286 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Stanford MEMS Research

Stanford Integrated Circuits Laboratory

The Stanford University Electrical Engineering Department had a long-standing interest in the possibilities that integrated circuits opened up and authorized the construction of their own integrated-circuits laboratory. Having 

a laboratory where one could fabricate chips was a prerequisite for exploring MEMS because the creation of MEMS devices resulted directly from 

the application of integrated-circuit fabrication techniques. Initially, integrated-circuit technology research took place in the Solid-State Electronics 

Laboratory, a part of the Stanford Electronics Laboratories (SEL) managed 

by the university’s Electrical Engineering Department. The main architect of 

Stanford’s solid-state electronics program was Professor John G. Linvill, who 

had been hired from Bell Telephone Laboratories in 1955. During the mid1960s he incorporated integrated circuits into Stanford’s electrical engineering courses and research.144

One of Linvill’s key hires in that effort—and for the eventual entry into 

MEMS research—was James B. Angell. Angell received his S.B. and S.M. 

degrees in 1946 and his Sc.D. degree in 1952, all in electrical engineering, 

from MIT. From 1951 to 1960 he had been with the Research Division of the 

Philco Corporation in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where he managed solidstate circuit research and led a group studying the principles of evaluating 

and applying transistors and other solid-state devices, especially to computing and high-frequency applications. Previously, from 1946 to 1951, Angell 

had been a research assistant in the MIT Research Laboratory of Electronics, 

where he studied noise in tracking radars. In 1960 he joined the Stanford 

faculty, becoming a full professor in 1962 and then director of the SolidState Electronics Laboratory in 1964, replacing Linvill, who now was executive head of the Electrical Engineering Department. Angell also directed the 

Solid-State Industrial Affiliates program from 1964 to 1970.145

In 1965, as the Integrated Circuits Laboratory was becoming involved in 

MEMS work, the size of its faculty, staff, and facilities were rather modest. 

The laboratory initially consisted of about four rooms in the basement of 

the McCullough Building, built in 1964 by H. J. Brunnier Associates but 

144. Christophe Lécuyer, “What Do Universities Really Owe Industry? The Case of Solid 

State Electronics at Stanford,” Minerva 43, no. 1 (Spring 2005): 52 and 53.

145. William P. Rambo to “SEL Staff,” 21 September 1964, Folder 4, “Chron File 1964 Aug.-

Sept.,” Box 2, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers; Lécuyer, “What Do Universities Really Owe 

Industry?,” p. 56; Dawn Levy, “James Angell, Electrical Engineer and Former Carillonneur, 

Dies,” Stanford Report 38, no. 19 (8 March 2006): 2; and Angell, interview, p. 9.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 287

dedicated in October 1965.146 The firm also had built the Varian Laboratory 

for physics research and teaching in 1961.147 The National Science Foundation 

underwrote the building’s construction costs in part. The principal occupants 

of the McCullough Building included the Center for Materials Research, 

which involved faculty from engineering, physics, chemistry, and other 

departments as well as groups from the Stanford Electronics Laboratories and 

the Department of Applied Physics. The idea was to promote interdisciplinary research by fostering “communication” among researchers in several fields. 

Associated with the Integrated Circuits Laboratory was the Integrated Circuit 

Fabrication Laboratory, where faculty and students could make experimental 

integrated circuits.148 The collocation of the two laboratories in the basement 

of the McCullough Building created a fruitful synergy between integratedcircuit fabrication, research, and teaching.

During its earliest years the Integrated Circuits Laboratory received outside funding from a variety of sources. The National Institutes of Health 

(NIH) provided its main support, with the National Institute of General 

Medical Sciences providing more than a million dollars a year in funding. 

Later, the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health (NIOSH) 

began underwriting the work, providing at least a half-million dollars. In 

contrast, some of those associated with the Integrated Circuits Laboratory 

recalled that NASA funding at Stanford University (not just the Integrated 

Circuits Laboratory) was usually about $100,000 per year. A small amount 

of additional funding came from the National Science Foundation.149 This 

picture of NASA funding, as discussed later in this chapter, does not portray 

the Agency’s underwriting of Stanford research accurately.

An initial grant that was crucial in the history of the Integrated Circuits 

Laboratory came from the U.S. Office of Education. The $1,800,000 grant 

funded the miniaturization of the Optacon, a device recently developed at 

146. Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” p. 49; Lécuyer, “What 

Do Universities Really Owe Industry?,” p. 58; Terry, interview, pp. 4 and 13; Meindl, 

interview, p. 10; and Memo, Rambo to Angell et al., 4 October 1965, Folder 11, “Chron 

File 1965 Sept.-Oct.,” Box 2, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers.

147. “H. J. Brunnier Associates,” http://www.hjbrunnier.com/projects.html?Catalog=Universities

(accessed 7 October 2005).

148. Rambo to Angell and Prof. Melvin Chodorow, “Research Equipment Funds,” 23 February 

1966, Folder 13, “Chron File 1966 Jan.-Feb.,” Box 2, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers; 

[Rambo], “The Jack A. McCullough Building,” no date, but location in folder dates it 

to 4 October 1965, Folder 11, “Chron File 1965 Sept.-Oct.,” Box 2, ACCN 97-093, 

Rambo Papers; Meindl, interview, p. 15; Terry, interview, p. 4; and Angell, interview, 

p. 9.

149. Meindl, interview, pp. 9 and 17; Terry, interview, pp. 4 and 24; and Petersen, interview, 

pp. 14 and 15.
288 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Stanford University that scanned printed pages and communicated a vibrating facsimile of each letter to the reader’s finger. Linvill was interested in 

building the device because he hoped that it would help his blind daughter, Candace, to read printed materials. Thanks to the grant, according to 

historian Christophe Lécuyer, Linvill had the financial resources to transform the Integrated Circuits Laboratory from a teaching facility into a 

research operation.150

This characterization of the laboratory’s funding, though, ignores the 

critical importance of military underwriting that historian Stuart W. Leslie 

has emphasized.151 In 1947, Stanford began receiving contract funding from 

the Joint Services Electronics Program for work carried out in the Stanford 

Electronics Research Laboratories (known as the Stanford Electronics 

Laboratories after 1955). The Joint Services Electronics Program came into 

being in March 1946 initially to take over financial support of the MIT 

Research Laboratory of Electronics152 and similar laboratories at Harvard and 

Columbia Universities. In 1947 the Joint Services Electronics Program consolidated four separate contracts that Stanford had with the Office of Naval 

Research into a single contract and added supplementary financial support 

from the Army and the Air Force.153

The solid-state program of the Stanford Electronics Laboratories reflected 

changing military priorities for more compact, reliable, and durable electronics for guided missiles, communications, and so-called smart weapons. The 

school’s contract with the military electronics program increasingly emphasized solid-state research, as did its contracts with the individual services. A 

$250,000 Air Force contract for studies of adaptive systems (for improving 

the reliability of military electronics systems) supported about half of the 

150. Lécuyer, “What Do Universities Really Owe Industry?,” pp. 59–60. Linvill set up a 

company, Telesensory, to manufacture the Optacon. See Deborah Kendrick, “From 

Optacon to Oblivion: The Telesensory Story,” AccessWorld 6, no. 4 (July 2005), http://

www.afb.org/afbpress/pub.asp?DocID=aw060403 (accessed 27 March 2006); and Harvey 

Lauer, “The Reading Machine That Hasn’t Been Built Yet,” AccessWorld 4, no. 2 (March 

2003), http://www.afb.org/afbpress/pub.asp?DocID=aw040204 (accessed 27 March 2006).

151. Leslie, Cold War and American Science; Leslie, “Profit and Loss,” pp. 59–85; and Leslie, 

“Playing the Education Game to Win,” pp. 55–88.

152. On the MIT Research Laboratory of Electronics, see Andrew Butrica, To See the Unseen: 

A History of Planetary Radar Astronomy (Washington, DC: NASA, 1996), p. 28.

153. A. L. Gilbert and B. D. McCombe, “The Joint Services Electronics Program: An Historical 

Perspective,” in Arnold Shostak, ed., Fortieth Anniversary of the Joint Services Electronics 

Program (Arlington, VA: ANSER, 1986), pp. 2–5; Leslie, Cold War and American Science, 

pp. 25 and 58; and S. E. Harris and J. S. Harris, “Stanford University Electronics 

Laboratory and Microwave-Ginzton Laboratory,” in Shostak, Fortieth Anniversary of the 

Joint Services Electronics Program, p. 105. 
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 289

Stanford Electronics Laboratories’ total solid-state electronics effort. Between 

1948 and 1960 the program represented a sizable fraction of the Stanford 

Electronics Laboratories support, including some of the early seed money to 

establish the first integrated-circuits laboratory at Stanford and the first work 

on processing and fabrication. In 1960 military dollars continued to dominate 

the Stanford Electronics Laboratories’ external funding sources. In that year it 

received $330,000 from the joint services contract plus another $2.3 million 

from individual contracts with the three armed services. Meanwhile, the laboratories received only $200,000 from all other sources, including just $32,000 

from the National Science Foundation. NASA’s contribution, according to 

Leslie, increased dramatically from virtually nothing to roughly a third of 

the laboratories’ budget over the following decade (the 1970s), but Defense 

Department money and interests continued to dominate.154 However, as for 

the Integrated Circuits Laboratory, the 1970s witnessed a dramatic and pivotal shift in support away from military dollars, as discussed below.

For several years what would become the Integrated Circuits Laboratory 

operated informally and without a name within the Solid State Laboratory. 

According to Lécuyer, the Integrated Circuits Laboratory originated in 1964, 

when Professor Robert L. Pritchard developed a laboratory course on microcircuits and established the Integrated Circuits Laboratory as a component 

of the department’s Solid State Laboratory. Pritchard’s microcircuits course 

familiarized students with the complex processes—such as photolithography 

and thin-film deposition techniques—employed in the making of integrated 

circuits.155 Nonetheless, Stanford Electronics Laboratories documents reveal a 

different and later origin for the Integrated Circuits Laboratory.

The key event was the recruitment of James D. Meindl by Linvill in 1967 

to direct the laboratory as its founding director and to undertake research in 

medical electronics. Meindl, who received a Ph.D. in electrical engineering in 

1958 from Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, first learned about integrated circuits in 1959, while working at the Army’s Signal Corps Research 

and Development Laboratories in Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, where he 

became the founding director of the Integrated Electronics Division in 1965. 

Upon arriving at Stanford, Meindl turned to nearby Shockley Semiconductor 

for the expertise to process advanced integrated circuits. He hired Jacques 

Beaudoin, an experienced Shockley research engineer, and made him the 

154. Leslie, Cold War and American Science, p. 73; and Harris and Harris, “Stanford University 

Electronics Laboratory and Microwave-Ginzton Laboratory,” pp. 106 and 107.

155. Lécuyer, “What Do Universities Really Owe Industry?,” p. 58.
290 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

laboratory’s chief engineer.156 In this way the Integrated Circuits Laboratory 

continued to build its strengths in integrated-circuit technology and processing by borrowing industry talent.

In 1967, when Meindl joined the electrical engineering faculty, the 

Stanford campus was in the throes of antiwar protests. Meindl intended to 

submit two proposals. One was a joint proposal with the medical school 

to the NIH; the other was a submission to the Central Intelligence Agency 

(CIA). When Meindl witnessed campus reaction to the CIA recruiting effort, 

he wondered about the propriety of the CIA proposal and possible repercussions with the Research Policy Committee, even though the proposed 

research would be unclassified and carried out in the open—in short, within 

the conditions approved by the Academic Council.157

The decision to steer in the direction of biomedical research was momentous, as the field of biomedical electronics was growing. The professional 

movement had started already during the 1950s, with the formation of the 

Professional Group on Medical Electronics within the Institute of Radio 

Engineers (IRE) and the annual conferences on electronic instrumentation 

run by the American Institute for Electrical Engineering (AIEE). Following 

the 1963 merger of the AIEE and the IRE to form the Institute of Electrical 

and Electronics Engineering (IEEE), the IRE Professional Group became the 

IEEE Professional Group on Bio-Medical Engineering and later the IEEE 

Engineering in Medicine and Biology Society.158 Meanwhile, also during the 

early 1960s, the NIH took significant steps to support biomedical engineering. First, it created a committee under the National Institute of General 

Medical Sciences to evaluate program and project applications. Then, it set 

up a biomedical engineering training study section to evaluate training-grant 

applications, many of which served biophysics and biomedical engineering. 

156. Meindl, interview, pp. 2–4; “Microelectronics Pioneer Awarded IEEE Medal of 

Honor,” The Institute (March 2006), p. 4; and Lécuyer, “What Do Universities Really 

Owe Industry?,” p. 59. Meindl was John M. Fluke Professor of Electrical Engineering 

and Associate Dean for Research, School of Engineering. In 2006 the IEEE recognized 

Meindl’s contributions to microelectronics—including the sensors that he developed for 

a portable electronic reading aid for the blind—by awarding him its Medal of Honor, the 

organization’s highest award. “Microelectronics Pioneer Awarded IEEE Medal of Honor,” 

p. 4.

157. Rambo to Prof. W. F. Baxter, “Research Proposal Prepared by Professor Meindl,” 

8 November 1967, Folder 8, “Chron File 1967 Oct.-Dec.,” Box 3, ACCN 97-093, 

Rambo Papers.

158. “The Whitaker Foundation: A History of Biomedical Engineering,” http://www.whitaker.

org/glance/history.html (accessed 27 March 2006).
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 291

A special “floating” study section processed applications in bioacoustics and 

biomedical engineering.159

Meindl went ahead with the NIH proposal in a very big way. His preparations led to a major funding proposal to the National Institute of General 

Medical Sciences (application GM 17940-01) for its Integrated Electronics 

for Medical Applications Program. The research proposal, titled “Integrated 

Electronics for Medical Applications,” asked for $1,396,400 for the five-year 

period from 1 September 1970 to 31 August 1975. The proposal represented 

a milestone in the evolution of the Integrated Circuits Laboratory, not to 

mention the Stanford Electronics Laboratories and Stanford University.

In its “broad statement of research objectives,” the proposal laid out the 

rationale for why the NIH should invest in integrated-circuit technology. It 

asserted that the “promising potential of this technology in medical research 

and practice is largely unfulfilled.” The objective of the proposed program 

was “to bring to bear the combined talents of integrated electronics engineers 

and medical personnel in an intensive effort to advance medical research and 

practice through the application of integrated electronics.” The program consisted of four projects, each of which aspired to apply integrated-circuit technology “primarily toward innovative solutions to generic problems in medical 

research and practice, and secondarily toward immediate solutions of particular problems.”160

The four projects were labeled “large-scale integration,” “transducers,” 

“telemetry systems,” and “advanced technology.” “Large-scale integration” was 

the term in current use for the creation of “hundreds, thousands, and tensof-thousands of transistors and associated circuit elements in a single silicon 

substrate” and was, in the language of the proposal, “the most important force 

in modern electronics.” Among the actual devices mentioned were ones to 

allow the blind to read texts, “unique multi-element biopotential sensors and 

stimulators based on integrated circuit technology” for neurological applications, and “totally implantable telemetry systems...for accurate measurement 

of instantaneous blood flows and related variables” to be used in cardiovascular 

physiology and urology.161

The range of faculty committed to the program of research reflected the 

interdisciplinary nature of the proposed work as well as the efforts of Meindl 

to marry the Electrical Engineering Department and the School of Medicine. 

The electrical engineering faculty involved in the program comprised Meindl, 

159. Ibid. 

160. P. I. Meindl, “Integrated Electronics for Medical Applications,” application GM 17940-

01, March 1970, Folder 5, “N.I.G.M.S.,” Box 6, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers.

161. Ibid. 
292 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

then associate professor of electrical engineering; John G. Linvill, chairman 

of the department; James B. Angell, associate chairman of the department; 

and James C. Bliss, associate professor of electrical engineering. The School 

of Medicine faculty consisted of Arnold Starr, assistant professor of medicine 

(neurology); William W. Angell, assistant professor of cardiovascular surgery; 

Eugene Dong, Jr., assistant professor of cardiovascular surgery; and Duncan 

E. Govan, assistant professor of surgery (urology).162

To sell the program to the National Institute of General Medical Sciences, 

Meindl organized a one-day site visit for the institute’s personnel on 16 March 

1970. Meindl gave an overview of the program; talks by William Rambo, associate dean for research at the School of Engineering, and Dr. Robert J. Glaser, 

vice president for medical affairs and dean of the School of Medicine, followed. 

The medical school and electrical engineering faculty then gave presentations 

on the proposed research program, much of it based on research recently carried out by doctoral students. Several, of course, dealt with sensory aids for 

the blind, while others involved brain probes and telemetry systems linked to 

implanted blood flowmeters.163 In addition, a brochure for graduate studies 

at Stanford had been prepared for a new program on “bioengineering.”164 All 

of the work soon paid off; the school won the grant.165

The grant fostered a funding shift of the Integrated Circuits Laboratory’s 

budget from military to health research. This shift is borne out by funding data 

contained in Meindl’s grant application. It indicates that laboratory faculty 

already had military dollars through the Joint Services Electronics Program 

for research on “testing of LSI [Large Scale Integration] circuits,” “micropower integrated circuits,” “micropower circuits for medical electronics,” and 

“models in integrated circuits.” Those funds supported just 5 percent of each 

professor’s time. NASA, too, was underwriting “research on pressure sensors 

for biomedical instrumentation” (since October 1969), which accounted for 

10 percent of one professor’s time. It was the first MEMS project underwritten by NASA. In addition, the laboratory already received Office of Education 

funds, which supported 10 percent of one faculty position,166 and it planned 

162. Ibid. 

163. “National Institute of General Medical Sciences Site Visit,” 16 March 1970, Folder 5, 

“N.I.G.M.S.,” Box 6, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers.

164. Stanford University School of Engineering, “Engineering in Biology and Medicine: 

Preliminary Brochure on Graduate Programs for Stanford Engineering Students,” March 

1970, Folder 5, “N.I.G.M.S.,” Box 6, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers.

165. Meindl to Rambo, “NIH Grant,” 1 October 1970, Folder 31, “Solid State Correspondence 

Miscellaneous,” Box 6, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers.

166. An August 1969 listing of Solid-State Electronics Laboratory research indicates that 

the Office of Education money (OEG 0-8-071112-2995) was supporting even more 
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 293

to submit grant proposals to both the Public Health Service and the National 

Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke. The goal, the proposal stated, 

was for the NIH to become the primary supporter of Stanford research in 

biomedical integrated-circuit applications: “It is intended that this NIH 

program will increase substantially the research on integrated electronics for 

medical applications at Stanford. It is anticipated that the proposed program 

will be the major source of support for this research at Stanford.”167

The shift to medical applications also became visible in the work carried out for the Joint Services Electronics Program. An obvious example is 

Meindl’s work on “micropower integrated circuits for medical electronics,” 

which started in October 1968. The program’s broad objective was to investigate the application of integrated-circuit technology to medical electronics 

by looking at such issues as low-power drain uses and small size. Specifically, 

Meindl investigated two problems. One was the design of a battery-operated 

optical-tactile reading aid for the blind that translated the optical image of 

a printed character to a tactile facsimile that a reader sensed with his or her 

finger. The second problem was the design of a totally implantable telemetry system for monitoring instantaneous blood flow within an animal or a 

human being. The device used a Doppler flow probe to obtain an FM signal 

whose frequency was proportional to the blood’s velocity.168

Contrary to Lécuyer’s assertion, as stated earlier, it was only after Meindl 

successfully won this key NIH grant for biomedical research that the appellation Integrated Circuits Laboratory came into use, not earlier in 1964. For 

some time SEL Director William Rambo had been planning “to recognize 

the momentum in our Integrated Circuits research separate from the SolidState Electronics activities, through the formal identification of an Integrated 

Circuits Laboratory, with Professor James Meindl as Director.”169 In 1970, 

Rambo informally organized the Integrated Circuits Laboratory with Meindl 

as its head, but no formal announcement came forth until March 1971. The 

initial integrated-circuits faculty consisted of Meindl, Linvill, Angell, and 

Malcolm McWhorter, all of whom had been associated with the Solid-State 

Electronics Laboratory. With the official announcement of the formation of 

faculty time. See Attachment, Stanford Electronics Laboratory, “Program and Abstracts 

of Papers for Stanford University Electronics Research Review,” August 1969, Folder 32, 

“Electronics Research at Stanford-1970,” Box 6, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers.

167. Meindl, “Integrated Electronics for Medical Applications.”

168. Angell to Rambo and Dr. D. C. Bacon, “Recommendation Regarding ONR–JSEP 

Funding for 1970–1971,” 21 April 1970, Folder 31, “Solid State Correspondence 

Miscellaneous,” Box 6, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers.

169. Rambo to SEL Personnel, “Organizational Changes,” 26 March 1971, Folder 29, “SEL 

Laboratory Reorganization,” Box 5, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers.
294 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the Integrated Circuits Laboratory in 1971, Angell relinquished his responsibilities in the Solid-State Electronics Laboratory because of his “substantial 

time commitment” in the Electrical Engineering Department, where he had 

been chair of graduate admissions since 1969, handling some 1,200 applications per year.170

By the early 1980s the Integrated Circuits Laboratory was outgrowing the 

McCullough Building basement. The school undertook an important fundraising campaign to construct and equip a new building that would enable 

the expansion of MEMS and integrated-circuit research. Stanford succeeded 

in convincing some 20 key Silicon Valley–based electronics companies to 

contribute to the new facility, including the Hewlett-Packard Development 

Company, Xerox’s Palo Alto Research Center, and the Intel Corporation. As 

a result, the new Integrated Circuits Laboratory found a new home inside the 

Center for Integrated Systems, which Linvill established in 1980. The Center 

brought together the activities of four laboratories (Solid-State, Integrated 

Circuits, Computer Systems, and Information Systems) and included a new 

fabrication facility. Today, the McCullough Building houses the Laboratory for 

Advanced Materials Research.171 The Integrated Circuits Laboratory became 

much larger and grander. It is currently the home to 14 faculty members, 

9 research associates, 100 Ph.D. students, and 10 full-time staff members. 

Specific areas of research include gate dielectrics, diffusion, deposition, etching, ion implantation, and associated thermal processing. One of the laboratory’s areas of expertise is the simulation of complex fabrication sequences and 

the ability to predict accurately the resulting device structures.172

The Brain Probe

The rise of MEMS work at Stanford University took place within this larger 

context of a research and funding shift from the military to medicine. The 

shift also entailed a cross-pollination between the Electrical Engineering 

Department and the medical school. The first MEMS device to issue from 

the integrated-circuit laboratory reflected this mix of military and medical 

170. Rambo to Dr. D. C. Bacon, Linvill, Dr. Ralph Smith, “SEL Laboratory Organization,” 

16 December 1970, Folder 29, “SEL Laboratory Reorganization,” Box 5, ACCN 97-

093, Rambo Papers; Rambo to Prof. Gerald Pearson, “Organization of the Solid-State 

Electronics Laboratory,” 15 March 1971, Folder 29, “SEL Laboratory Reorganization,” 

Box 5, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers; and Levy, “James Angell, Electrical Engineer and 

Former Carillonneur, Dies,” 2.

171. Meindl, interview, pp. 10–11; Angell, interview, p. 10; Lécuyer, “What Do Universities 

Really Owe Industry?,” p. 65; and “Stanford Materials Science and Engineering,” http://

mse.stanford.edu/ (accessed 27 March 2006).

172. “Integrated Circuits Laboratory,” http://cis.stanford.edu/icl/ (accessed 27 March 2006). 
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 295

elements. Specifically, the project received funding from the Joint Services 

Electronics Program and involved creating a biomedical instrument whose 

conception came from the medical school faculty.

The device was the project of a graduate student, Kensall D. Wise, 

who arrived at the Stanford Electrical Engineering Department in 1965. 

Subsequently, Wise became a key figure in the development of MEMS at 

Stanford. From 1964 to 1965 he worked at Bell Telephone Laboratories in 

the Digital Device Integration Department, where he was concerned with the 

design, integration, and testing of high-speed circuitry. Wise became a graduate research assistant for Angell, whose research at the time centered on the 

reliability of integrated circuits, so Wise spent his first year at Stanford dealing 

with reliability and redundancy in integrated circuits.173

The details of how the biomedical project came about are not clear. The 

two accounts given by Angell and Wise are not mutually exclusive and involve 

a similar timeline. The dissimilarities between the two versions may reflect 

the differing perspectives of a professor and a graduate student. According 

to Angell, in the spring of 1966 representatives from the Departments of 

Neurology and Electrical Engineering met to discuss projects on which 

they could cooperate, particularly ones appropriate for the newly furnished 

integrated-circuits laboratory. In view of the difficulties encountered in 

manufacturing conventional microelectrodes, Angell recalled, the group discussed the application of integrated-circuit technology to the manufacture 

of microelectrodes. As a result, in September 1966 a project started to examine the question in detail, and it also became Ken Wise’s doctoral dissertation. Wise carried out the research under Angell in the Electrical Engineering 

Department and Starr in the Medical School’s Department of Neurology. 

The main research interests of Starr, who had been a research associate in 

neurobiology at the National Institutes of Health from 1960 to 1962, were 

the physiological processes related to hearing.174

Wise recalled a somewhat different series of events. The starting points 

of the project from his perspective were a seminar given in May of 1966 by 

the Stanford University head of neurology before the Electrical Engineering 

173. Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” pp. 49–50; Kensall Wise, 

James Angell, and Arnold Starr, “An Integrated-Circuit Approach to Extracellular 

Microelectrodes,” IEEE Transactions on Bio-Medical Engineering BME-17, no. 3 (July 

1970): 247; and Wise, interview, pp. 3 and 4.

174. James Angell, “Study of Hearing with a New Multielectrode Microprobe,” grant 

application NS 08834-01A1, Public Health Service, for the period 1 July 1970 to 30 June 

1973, for a total of $169,103, in Folder 31, “Solid State Correspondence Miscellaneous,” 

Box 6, ACCN 97-093, Rambo Papers; and Wise, Angell, and Starr, “An IntegratedCircuit Approach to Extracellular Microelectrodes,” p. 247.
296 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Department and a proposal written by Professor John L. Moll in the Electrical 

Engineering Department. In his dissertation, Wise acknowledged Moll “for 

his original ideas in the conception of this project” but also Starr for his “suggestions and encouragement.”175

Moll played a seminal role in semiconductor development over his long 

career. While working as a recently minted Ph.D. (in electrical engineering 

from Ohio State University) at Bell Telephone Laboratories from 1952 to 

1958, Moll argued for using silicon in the manufacture of semiconductor 

switches instead of germanium. Daunting technical problems had to be overcome, but Moll and his group succeeded with the help of Carl Frosch in the 

laboratory’s chemistry department. Moll left Bell Telephone Laboratories in 

1958 to teach and research the physics of silicon devices at Stanford. Moll 

also was the recipient of at least one NASA grant. In 1964, for example, 

he investigated the metallurgical, electrical, and optical properties of gallium phosphide—a compound utilized in various semiconductor devices, 

including light-emitting diodes (LEDs)—with funding from NASA’s Lewis 

Research Center in Cleveland, Ohio.176

In response to the neurology seminar, Wise recalled, Moll suggested using 

photolithographic techniques similar to those he had seen under development at Bell Telephone Laboratories to create a probe capable of recording 

electrical impulses from multiple sites in the central nervous system. The idea 

was radically different from Linvill’s Optacon, which did not plug directly 

into the brain; however, Linvill’s concerns may have spurred interest in Moll’s 

project. A couple of proposals submitted to the NIH failed to find support; the brain probe instead received underwriting from the Joint Services 

Electronics Program.177

175. Wise, interview, p. 5; and Kensall Wise, “A Multielectrode Microprobe for Biopotential 

Recording,” Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, Department of Electrical 

Engineering, May 1969, p. v.

176. Michael Riordan and Lillian Hoddeson, Crystal Fire: The Birth of the Information Age

(New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1997), pp. 221 and 222; Solid-State Electronics 

Laboratory, Fundamental Studies of the Metallurgical, Electrical, and Optical Properties of 

Gallium Phosphide: Quarterly Progress Report for Period April 1–June 30, 1964, NASA 

Lewis Research Center Grant NsG-555 (Stanford, CA: Stanford Solid-State Electronics 

Laboratory, 1964); Solid-State Electronics Laboratory, Fundamental Studies of the 

Metallurgical, Electrical, and Optical Properties of Gallium Phosphide: Quarterly Progress 

Report for Period July 1–September 30, 1964, NASA Lewis Research Center Grant NsG555 (Stanford, CA: Stanford Solid-State Electronics Laboratory, 1964). The research 

began in February 1964 and continued until at least 1972. NASA, Office of University 

Affairs, NASA’s University Program: Interim Report of Active Grants & Research Contracts

(Washington, DC: NASA, May 1972), p. 27.

177. Wise, interview, pp. 4, 5, and 21; Wise, “Multielectrode Microprobe for Biopotential 

Recording,” p. v; Wise, Angell, and Starr, “An Integrated-Circuit Approach to Extracellular 
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 297

Moll’s project—a device to record electrical pulses from multiple sites in 

the brain—became not just the topic of Wise’s doctoral thesis but his introduction to MEMS as well. Furthermore, it was the first Stanford project that 

had to do with the fabrication of so-called micromachined devices (the term 

“micromachined” did not come into currency until later). Although Stanford 

researchers were carrying out various sensor projects, this was the first that 

involved precision silicon etching. The goal was to etch individual silicon 

islands containing transistors precisely and to connect them together with 

tiny gold beams. The faculty and staff of the integrated-circuits laboratory did 

not possess such capabilities, so Wise spent the summer of 1966 back at the 

Bell Telephone Laboratories in Murray Hill, New Jersey, talking to the people 

who were doing precision etching work, and then he brought that technical 

knowledge back to Stanford.178

The probe that Wise designed was intended to measure electrical potentials 

(voltages) in animal brains. Its electrodes were small enough to make contact 

with individual neurons. Wise chose gold for the electrodes because of its 

resistance to protein poisoning and its proven suitability for high-resolution 

electroforming. He formed each gold electrode on a silicon structure that 

provided the electrode needed material strength, because gold lacked the requisite rigidity for the probe electrodes. A thin coating of silicon oxide (glass) 

over the silicon structure insulated it from surrounding tissue. Removing the 

coating just at the electrode tip formed the recording area, and the insulated electrode projected beyond the silicon structure a short distance (10 to 

50 microns) to minimize tissue damage at the recording site.179

Wise created the tiny silicon device using photolithography, a fundamental technique for manufacturing integrated circuits. He employed an acidresistant, light-sensitive lacquer as a photoresist. The probe manufacturing 

process took place in four steps: 1) substrate preparation, 2) metallization, 

3) insulation, and 4) finishing. Starting with a thermally oxidized silicon wafer 

only 50 microns thick, he defined an oxide pattern on the wafer. Wise used 

the pattern as an etching mask as he formed mesas by removing the silicon 

to a depth of 25 to 35 microns. He then oxidized the wafer again, defining 

Microelectrodes”; Contract Nonr-225(83) in Attachment, Stanford Electronics Laboratory, 

“Program and Abstracts of Papers for Stanford University Electronics Research Review,” 

August 1969, Folder 32, “Electronics Research at Stanford-1970,” Box 6, ACCN 97-093, 

Rambo Papers, pp. 20–21.

178. Wise, interview, pp. 4 and 5; and Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical 

Devices,” pp. 49–50.

179. Wise, “Multielectrode Microprobe for Biopotential Recording,” pp. 25–26; and Wise, 

Angell, and Starr, “An Integrated-Circuit Approach to Extracellular Microelectrodes,” 

p. 238.
298 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

new oxide patterns on both sides of the wafer. The next step, metallization, 

created the gold electrodes. He then deposited a thin layer of silicon-dioxide 

insulation over the wafer using a radio-frequency glow-discharge system.180

This technique allowed thin, uniform films of high-quality glass to deposit 

at temperatures below 300°C. Another photoresist operation selectively 

removed the deposited silicon dioxide to form the recording site at the electrode tip. The probe was now ready for the finishing operation, in which Wise 

separated the individual probes from the wafer, attached the output wires, 

and mounted each probe in a suitable handle. The complete manufacturing 

sequence represented between one and two man-weeks of work. Typically, 

Wise realized from 20 to 30 probes from a single silicon wafer, and two to 

three wafers constituted a typical processing run. He did not consider the 

fabrication time to be excessive.181

The brain probe underwent evaluation by testing it in five anesthetized 

living cats. The probes went into an opening of about 1 cm in their skull. In 

all, 40 probes went through this testing procedure. Of them, 18 recorded the 

activity of several cells, and 7 successfully recorded from individual cells. Only 

five electrode tips broke in over 60 passes through the brain with the probes. 

The silicon structure was strong enough to penetrate the dura, a tissue layer 

surrounding the brain, but the projecting electrodes lacked that strength. 

Despite their advantages over conventional probes, these tiny probes had 

their disadvantages and required further development. Eventually, however, 

Wise’s work led to the development of a variety of brain probes.182

After completing his dissertation in 1969, Wise remained at Stanford as 

a research associate in the Electrical Engineering Department, continuing to 

apply integrated-circuit technology to biomedical sensors. In 1974, however, 

he began teaching at the University of Michigan, where he resumed his brain 

probe efforts, this time with funding from NIH, in particular from the Neural 

Prosthesis Program of the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and 

Stroke (NINDS). Today, the electrodes are used all over the world for research 

in neuroscience in such areas as deafness, epilepsy, and Parkinson’s disease.183

180. Prof. Robert H. Weissman provided the glow-charge system. Wise, “Multielectrode 

Microprobe for Biopotential Recording,” p. v.

181. Wise, Angell, and Starr, “An Integrated-Circuit Approach to Extracellular 

Microelectrodes,” pp. 239–241; and Wise, “Multielectrode Microprobe for Biopotential 

Recording,” pp. 26–35.

182. Wise, Angell, and Starr, “An Integrated-Circuit Approach to Extracellular Microelectrodes,” 

pp. 244–246; Wise, “Multielectrode Microprobe for Biopotential Recording,” pp. 36–

37; and Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” p. 50.

183. Wise, interview, pp. 8–9; Kensall Wise, NIH grant 3N01NS012384-00181, “Intracortical 

Recording Electrode Arrays,” NINDS, from September 1981 to September 1984; James 
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 299

The Biomedical Pressure Sensor

The first MEMS project that the Stanford Electrical Engineering Department 

and its associated Integrated Circuits Laboratory carried out with funding 

from the Ames Research Center was a biomedical pressure sensor. The sensor 

was the creation of Samaun Samadikun in collaboration with Ken Wise and 

James Angell, and it was the subject of Samadikun’s doctoral dissertation 

undertaken in the Department of Electrical Engineering and completed in 

August 1971.184

Wise’s experience with the brain probe and his knowledge of MEMS techniques were integral to the success of Samadikun’s doctoral work. Indeed, 

Wise was the one who guided Samadikun into that particular area of research. 

His dissertation project was to integrate both the pressure sensor and its associated circuitry on a single silicon chip. The student had to solve three problems. One was how to fashion the diaphragms out of silicon. A second was 

how to integrate the pressure-sensitive sensors on the diaphragms, and the 

last problem was how to separate the finished chips from the wafer.185

How the Sensor Worked

The heart of the device was a thin-diaphragm piezoresistive pressure sensor. 

The piezoresistive effect provided an observable resistance change that 

changed in direct proportion to the amount of pressure applied. The diaphragm magnified the stress placed on it (even small amounts of stress), 

and the magnification was proportional to the square of the ratio of the diaphragm diameter to its thickness. Piezoresistors interconnected to form a 

so-called bridge sensed the stresses in the diaphragm caused by pressure. The 

term “bridge” refers to an electrical arrangement invented by the English scientist Charles Wheatstone to measure resistance. It traditionally consists of 

four resistors arranged in such a way that one can determine the value of an 

unknown resistance when the resistances of the others are known. In the case 

Angell, “Integrated Circuit Transducers,” NIH grant 5P01GM017940-030002, National 

Institute of General Medical Sciences, fiscal 1972, 1973, and 1974, which appears 

to have involved electrodes in cats. On the Neural Prosthesis Program, see “Neural 

Prosthesis Program,” http://www.ninds.nih.gov/funding/research/npp/index.htm (accessed 

27 March 2006).

184. Samadikun, “An Integrated Circuit Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical 

Instrumentation,” Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, August 1971.

185. Samadikun, e-mail message to author, 1 February 2006; and Samadikun, “An Integrated 

Circuit Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical Instrumentation,” p. iii.
300 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

of the sensor, the unknown value was the piezoresistance of the sensor, which 

changed in direct proportion to the amount of pressure exerted on it.186

For the sensor to work with small pressures, a pressure magnification 

scheme was necessary. Nearly all sensors based on the piezojunction effect 

utilized some sort of stylus to magnify the effect of the pressure. By concentrating the force on a small area at the point of a needle, large stresses affected 

a small area. Another approach used a cantilever-beam structure in which one 

formed the stress-sensitive devices on one side of the beam, one end of which 

was clamped to a rigid supporting structure. One applied force at the free end 

of the beam. A third method involved a diaphragm structure consisting of a 

circular diaphragm mounted on the tip of a catheter. One could achieve large 

pressure magnification, if one ensured a large ratio between the diaphragm 

diameter and its thickness. This is the route that Samadikun chose.187

Samadikun evaluated the effectiveness of his sensors by measuring the 

blood pressure of laboratory dogs with them. He and Nigel Tombs first tested 

them in a pressurized water bath before trying them on animals. The trials 

on live dogs went well. “Everything went smooth without a hitch during that 

first experiment,” Samadikun recalled. After sterilizing the sensors in a chemical solution, Samadikun and Tombs inserted them into the left descending 

aorta of an anesthetized canine, then they guided the probe to the desired 

upstream location with the help of a fluoroscope. The tests appeared to demonstrate that the device could withstand rough treatment during insertion 

into a dog, and no noticeable reaction occurred either with the silicon or the 

epoxy sealant during measurements that lasted 90 minutes in the animal’s 

cardiovascular system.188

The Etching Technique

Silicon pressure sensors, of course, were not novel. Rather, the novelty of 

the Stanford work lay in the etching process used to create the diaphragm. 

Rather than electrochemical etching or another known method, Samadikun 

used anisotropic etching. During discussions with Wise, who had experience 

186. James Angell, “Research on Pressure Sensors for Biomedical Instruments,” Final Report 

NASA-Ames Grant #05-020-401, NASA CR-142351 (Washington, DC: NASA Center 

for AeroSpace Information, 19 February 1975), p. 1.

187. Samadikun, Wise, and Angell, “An IC Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical 

Instrumentation,” p. 102; and Samadikun, “An Integrated Circuit Piezoresistive Pressure 

Sensor for Biomedical Instrumentation,” pp. 17–25.

188. Samadikun, e-mail message to author, 1 February 2006; Samadikun, Wise, and Angell, 

“An IC Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical Instrumentation,” pp. 108 and 109; 

and Samadikun, “An Integrated Circuit Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical 

Instrumentation,” pp. 39–42.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 301

with both isotropic and anisotropic etching, Samadikun and Wise decided 

to use a wet etching technique to make the diaphragms and to explore different methods of stopping the etching process to produce diaphragms with 

thicknesses that were independent of the etch rate. Their discussions also gave 

rise to the idea of using an anisotropic etching of a V-groove in (100) silicon 

for two distinct purposes: to control the thickness of the diaphragm and to 

separate the sensor chips from the finished wafer.189

In isotropic etching, material is removed from the wafer substrate in a 

nondirectional manner (in relationship to the crystal planes) via chemical 

etching. Anisotropic (or nonisotropic) etching is rather different and an 

important commercial process in manufacturing integrated circuits. When 

photolithography is used to print resist lines on silicon wafers, to adequately 

reproduce very tiny lines (below 0.1 micrometers) into underlying silicon 

and metal layers on a wafer positioned horizontally, the direction of the etching must be vertical only, so that the etching compound does not spread in 

the horizontal plane. Anisotropic etching requires a substrate with a welldefined crystalline structure, which silicon typically exhibits. The anisotropic 

etch is directional along the exposed plane in the crystal lattice. As atoms are 

removed from the crystal lattice, different planes are exposed to the etching 

substance. Since the density of atoms on the planes varies, the etching rate 

varies significantly. Potassium hydroxide (KOH) dissolves the silicon that has 

been left exposed by the photolithography masking step. Such alkali solvents 

dissolve the silicon in a highly anisotropic way, with some crystallographic 

directions dissolving up to a thousand times faster than others. This is a 

common method for creating V-shaped grooves in silicon wafers.190

Several etching chemicals were available to Samadikun, including hydrazine, pyracatechnol, and potassium hydroxide. He chose potassium hydroxide, 

which was relatively inexpensive and easy to handle. The way in which he used 

this anisotropic etching technique made possible a novel thickness-monitoring 

scheme that also acted as a chip separation etch. Samadikun produced the 

first devices himself as a “proof of concept” of the procedure, then fabricated 

189. Samadikun, e-mail message to author, 1 February 2006.

190. The invention of anisotropic etching at Bell Telephone Laboratories in 1967 was a key 

milestone in the history of MEMS. See Herbert A. Waggener, Roger C. Kragness, and 

A. L. Tyler, “Anisotropic Etching for Forming Isolation Slots in Silicon Beam Leaded 

Integrated Circuits,” International Electron Devices Meeting Abstracts 11, no. 1 (October 

1967): 68; Herbert A. Waggener, Roger C. Kragness, and A. L. Tyler, Electronics 40 

(1967): 274; and Roger C. Kragness and Herbert A. Waggener, “Precision Etching of 

Semiconductors,” U.S. patent 3,765,969, filed 13 July 1970, issued 16 October 1973, 

assigned to Bell Telephone Laboratories.
302 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

batches of sensors with diaphragm diameters of 0.5 mm and thicknesses of 

only 5 microns, surrounded by a 0.15-mm-wide ring of thick silicon.191

Several years after Samadikun left Stanford for his home in Indonesia, 

Wise applied for a patent to cover the diaphragm-forming technique and 

gave credit to Samadikun as his fellow inventor. Issued in 1975, the patent 

provides a rather detailed discussion of a generalized technique for forming 

thin regions of predetermined thickness in a silicon wafer, rather than its specific application to form diaphragms. The process exploited the anisotropic 

properties of silicon and the fact that certain anisotropic etching compounds 

had etch rates several hundred times larger in the (100) crystallographic direction than along other directions.192 For a discussion of relevant silicon crystallography, see the technical essay (Appendix B) at the end of this chapter.

The Source of Funding

Samadikun’s work on the sensor—including the development of the specific 

anisotropic etching process—was underwritten unequivocally by NASA, 

although not his initial studies at Stanford. Support for his first five quarters of study came from the United Nations International Atomic Energy 

Agency, with a NASA grant taking care of the remainder of his schooling. 

Samadikun specifically cited the NASA grant (NGL-05-020-401) that supported his sensor research in his dissertation193 as well as in subsequent publications—namely, a paper he read at the 1971 IEEE International Solid-State 

Circuits Conference194 and an article published in the IEEE Transactions on 

Biomedical Engineering,

195 which Stanford simultaneously duplicated as a 

NASA Contractor Report.196 After Samadikun left Stanford in 1971, NASA 

continued to underwrite the sensor research until September 1973, when 

191. Samadikun, Wise, and Angell, “An IC Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical 

Instrumentation,” p. 105; Samadikun, e-mail message to author, 1 February 2006; and 

Angell, “Research on Pressure Sensors for Biomedical Instruments,” p. 1.

192. The following discussion is from Wise and Samadikun, “Method for Forming Regions of 

Predetermined Thickness in Silicon,” U.S. patent 3,888,708, filed 10 April 1974, issued 

10 June 1975.

193. Samadikun, “An Integrated Circuit Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical 

Instrumentation,” p. iii.

194. Samadikun, Wise, Nielsen, and Angell, “An IC Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for 

Biomedical Instrumentation,” p. 104.

195. Samadikun, Wise, and Angell, “An IC Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical 

Instrumentation,” p. 101.

196. Samadikun, Wise, and Angell, An IC Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical 

Instrumentation, NASA-CR-142604 (Washington, DC: NASA Center for AeroSpace 

Information [CASI], 1 March 1973). 
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 303

NIH picked up its funding with a contract for a study of the “Physiology 

of the Oviduct” and a grant from the Integrated Electronics for Medical 

Applications Program.197 Thus, looking at the full range of funding for 

Samadikun and the sensor, although NASA funded a portion of the research, 

one also must recognize the assistance from the United Nations International 

Atomic Energy Agency and the National Institutes of Health.

The Gas Chromatograph

Another early MEMS device developed in the Stanford Integrated Circuits 

Laboratory was a gas chromatograph on a silicon wafer. A gas chromatograph 

is an instrument that identifies and measures gases found in an unknown 

mixture by separating, identifying, and quantifying each gas in the mixture. First, a sample of the mixture is injected by a valve into a long capillary 

column, through which it is flushed by an inert carrier gas (usually helium). 

The walls of the capillary column are lined with a thin layer of a material, 

such as silicone oil or a polymer, so that different gases have different degrees 

of solubility with the lining material. As the gases passed through the column, 

they were adsorbed and desorbed repeatedly in the lining. Because the time a 

component gas remained adsorbed depended on its solubility, each gas traveled through the column at a different rate. As a result, the gases emerged at 

different but specific and predictable times. The output stream passed over a 

detector that measured a given property of the gas (its thermal conductivity, 

for example). The detector’s output signals, then, corresponded to the individual gases.198

The creation of the miniature gas chromatograph was the subject of dissertation research carried out by Stephen Clark Terry, who completed his 

degree in 1975.199 Ultimately, his work relied on two other Stanford dissertations on thermal-conductivity detectors for gas chromatographs. The 

first, completed in 1973, was that of Frederick Andrew Perner, who compared thermistor and pyroelectric types of detectors. Perner acknowledged 

receiving financial help from IBM and Dr. Glenn C. Carle of NASA’s Ames 

Research Center in the form of a grant (NGL 05-020-543) specifically for 

the miniature gas chromatograph project.200 Carle was in the Life Detection 

197. Angell, “Research on Pressure Sensors for Biomedical Instruments,” pp. 1, 3, and 6.

198. Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” p. 51.

199. Terry, “Gas Chromatography System.”

200. Frederick Andrew Perner, “A Pyroelectric Thermal Conductivity Detector for a Miniature 

Gas Chromatography System,” Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Electrical Engineering, 

Stanford University, October 1973, p. iv. The published abstracts of NASA grants, 
304 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Systems Branch, whose chief was Vance Oyama, who is perhaps best known 

for the Viking mission search for life on Mars.201

Based on Perner’s results, Terry took a different approach. He later used 

the thermal-conductivity detector developed by John Hallock “Hal” Jerman, 

whose dissertation was underwritten not by NASA but NIOSH.202 Jerman’s 

contribution was to design a detector that could be fabricated using the planar 

process. Its basic configuration emerged during a major redesign of the entire 

integrated-circuit gas chromatograph.203 The chromatograph also was representative of the interdisciplinary effort that the McCullough Building was 

supposed to foster, having benefited from the support of Assistant Professor 

L. M. “Bill” Stephenson of the Chemistry Department. More than that, the 

device grew out of the growing expertise and pioneering MEMS endeavors of 

the Integrated Circuits Laboratory. For example, it relied on the laboratory’s 

experience with photolithography and the special anisotropic etching techniques had been developed for the fabrication of tiny brain probes on Wise’s 

dissertation and Samadikun’s sensors.204

Description of the Chromatograph

Terry’s gas chromatograph was extremely small. Indeed, the silicon wafer on 

which it was built was only 5 cm (2 inches) in diameter. The device consisted 

of a capillary column, a sample-injection valve, and a thermal-conductivity 

detector—all of which fit on a wafer. One of the technical challenges was the 

volume of the capillary column, which was much smaller than that of a conventional column. Chromatographs operate properly only if the volume of the 

injected sample gas is much smaller than the volume of the column. Therefore, 

it was necessary to design a miniature sample-injection valve to accompany the 

miniature capillary column. Because of the necessity of minimizing the internal volume between the valve and the column as well as between the column 

and the detector, the valve and column were fabricated on the same wafer, and 

the detector was a silicon chip mounted on the wafer.205

however, state that Ralph W. Donaldson Jr. was the contract monitor. NASA’s University 

Program (1973), p. 26.

201. ARC, Telephone Directory (1974), pp. 5 and 48.

202. John Hallock Jerman, “A Miniature, Thin-Film Thermal Conductivity Detector for an 

Integrated Gas Chromatograph,” Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, May 1981, p. vii.

203. Ibid., p. 33.

204. Terry, “Gas Chromatography System,” pp. v and 1.

205. Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” p. 51; and Kovacs, 

Micromachined Transducers, p. 869.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 305

The capillary column was a groove 1.5 meters long, wound into a spiral so 

that it fit on the wafer. A glass plate bonded to the wafer formed the top surface of the column. At the input end of the column, a hole led to the bottom 

surface of the wafer. The helium carrier gas entered the column through this 

hole. A short distance away, another hole in the column channel led to a valve 

on the back surface of the wafer. The sample gas entered a separate channel 

through yet another hole and flowed through the channel to the valve, where 

the valve injected it into the capillary column.206

The valve seat on the back surface of the wafer consisted of a silicon sealing 

ring, which surrounded both the input and the output openings, and a silicon seating ring, which surrounded only the output opening that led to the 

capillary column. A diaphragm of nickel and Teflon was clamped against the 

sealing ring. Normally, a spring held the plunger of a solenoid against the diaphragm, pushing it against the seating ring. When the solenoid was actuated, 

the plunger withdrew and the diaphragm relaxed, allowing gas to flow from 

the input opening over the seating ring and into the output opening. The 

effective dead volume of the valve was the volume of the capillary-column 

orifice, which was only 4 nanoliters.207

At the output end of the capillary column, another etched hole led to a 

gas channel etched into the bottom surface of the wafer. The chip on which 

the thermal-conductivity detector was built was inverted over this channel 

and clamped to the wafer. The detector was a thin-film metal resistor on a 

thermally isolating membrane of Pyrex glass in the middle of the chip. A 

constant electric current passed through the resistor, and changes in its resistance were monitored. Sample gases had thermal conductivities lower than 

that of the carrier gas. Therefore, they removed less heat from the resistor and 

so increased its resistance and created voltage peaks. The amplitude of each 

voltage peak was proportional to the quantity of a given gas in the mixture.208

Micromachining the Gas Chromatograph

The micromachining of the chromatograph wafer began with etching the 

valve seat. The valve well, the sealing ring, and the seating ring were defined 

by isotropic etches through concentric circular openings in the oxide layer 

on the back of the wafer. The holes in the valve and at the ends of the capillary columns and the sample-gas channels resulted from an anisotropic etch 

through square openings defined in the silicon oxide on the front surface of 

206. Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” pp. 51–52.

207. Ibid., p. 52.

208. Ibid., p. 52.
306 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the wafer. The capillary column and the carrier-gas channels were delineated 

by an isotropic etch through a silicon oxide pattern on the front wafer surface.209 At this point, the capillary column was a shallow spiral groove about 

200 micrometers across at the surface of the wafer and 40 micrometers deep. 

The open spiral was made into an enclosed channel by stripping the silicon 

oxide off the surface and bonding the wafer to a plate of Pyrex glass using a 

technique called anodic bonding (sometimes called electrostatic bonding or 

the Mallory process as well). The possibility that extruded glue or solder might 

block the shallow capillary column precluded both as bonding agents.210

Next, one oxidized the wafer and covered it with a layer of Pyrex glass 

deposited by a technique called sputtering. After the depositing of thin-film 

metal resistors on top of the glass, an anisotropic etch through square openings in the silicon oxide on the back of the wafer removed the entire thickness 

of silicon, leaving a membrane of thermally isolating glass under each set of 

resistors. One then sawed the wafer into chips, attached wires to each device, 

and the front surface of each chip was clamped over the gas channel at the end 

of the capillary column.211 Because the capillary column had such a minute 

volume, the miniature gas chromatograph required much smaller amounts 

of carrier gas than a conventional chromatograph. This economy of carrier 

gas and the device’s small size made it possible to build lightweight portable 

chromatographs. In fact, in 1983 a portable instrument consisting of five 

miniature chromatographs and a microcomputer was under development by 

Microsensor Technology, a company founded by Jerman to commercialize his 

MEMS-based integrated gas chromatograph.212

The Source of Funding

The Ames Research Center unquestionably was behind the development of 

the gas chromatograph on a silicon wafer. In his dissertation, Stephen Terry 

209. Terry, “Gas Chromatography System,” pp. 41–51; Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon 

Micromechanical Devices,” p. 52; and Petersen, “Silicon as a Mechanical Material,” 

pp. 434–435.

210. Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” pp. 52–53. For a discussion 

of anodic bonding, see G. Wallis and D. I. Pomerantz, “Field Assisted Glass-Metal 

Sealing,” Journal of Applied Physics 40, no. 10 (October 1969): 3946; Timothy Alan 

Nunn, “A Silicon Absolute Pressure Transducer for Biomedical Applications,” Ph.D. 

dissertation, Stanford University, Department of Electrical Engineering, October 1977, 

pp. 91–92.

211. Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” p. 53.

212. “About Iolon,” http://www.iolon.com/mteam.html (accessed 28 March 2006). Microsensor 

Technology still exists. See “Microsensor Technology,” http://www.microsensortech.com

(accessed 27 March 2006).
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 307

acknowledged NASA funding and specifically thanked Ralph Donaldson, 

Hal Sandler, and Glenn Carle of Ames. NASA also funded the earlier work 

on miniature thermal-conductivity detectors built on a chip by Perner, whose 

studies received additional support from IBM.213 On the other hand, Jerman’s 

dissertation was not underwritten by NASA but rather by NIOSH.214 Joint 

publications based on their gas chromatograph theses did not report a single 

or consistent funding source. For instance, a 1977 technical report authored 

by Terry and Jerman stated that their funding source was NIOSH under 

contract NIOSH-210-76-0140,215 but their 1979 article written with Jim 

Angell and published in the peer-reviewed IEEE Transactions on Electron 

Devices reported financial support from both NIOSH and NASA.216 The 

dual funding of the research showed up in the projected uses of the gas chromatograph. The apparatus was “expected to find application in the areas of 

portable ambient air quality monitors, implanted biological experiments, and 

planetary probes.”217

Clearly, the NASA grant preceded the NIOSH contract. Aside from 

the earlier underwriting of Perner’s dissertation, a NASA contractor report 

submitted by James Angell in 1974—prior to the completion of Terry’s 

dissertation in 1975—stated specifically that the space agency had funded 

the technology for fabricating the very small valves whose function was to 

introduce a small sample of the gas to be analyzed into the main carrier gas 

stream flowing through the chromatograph’s column.218 NASA appeared to 

213. Terry, “Gas Chromatography System,” p. v; Perner, “Pyroelectric Thermal Conductivity 

Detector for a Miniature Gas Chromatography System,” p. iv. Perner specified NASA 

grant NGL 05-020-543, while Terry’s dissertation acknowledged NASA grant NGR 05-

020-690.

214. Jerman, “Miniature, Thin-Film Thermal Conductivity Detector,” p. vii. 

215. Stephen Clark Terry and John Hallock Jerman, Feasibility Study of a Pocket-Sized Gas 

Chromatographic Air Analyzer, report SEL-77-027 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University, 

Stanford Electronics Laboratories, July 1977), cover and p. 1. The final report on the 

project, filed with the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health in 1981, 

indicates that the work was supported by the agency’s Division of Physical Sciences and 

Engineering in Cincinnati, Ohio. James B. Angell, John Hallock Jerman, Stephen Clark 

Terry, and S. Saadat, A Prototype Gas Analysis System Using a Miniature Gas Chromatograph, 

NIOSHTIC #00113750 and #PB83-105122 (Cincinnati: NIOSH, April 1981). 

216. Terry, Jerman, and Angell, “Gas Chromatographic Air Analyzer Fabricated on a Silicon 

Wafer,” p. 1880. This source also provided a different NIOSH contract number: 210-77-

0159. The possibility that the two contracts were for different fiscal years might explain 

the discrepancy in NIOSH contract numbers.

217. Terry, Jerman, and Angell, “Gas Chromatographic Air Analyzer Fabricated on a Silicon 

Wafer,” p. 1886.

218. James Angell, “Interim Status Report on Research on Miniature Gas Analysis Systems,” 

NASA CR-138138, 2 January 1974, p. 1.
308 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

be the sole underwriter of the research at that point, with the NIOSH money 

coming later as Jerman joined the effort.

The NIOSH money was available because the Occupational Safety and 

Health Act of 1970 had authorized the Secretary of Health, Education, and 

Welfare to prescribe regulations requiring employers to measure, record, and 

make reports on the exposure of employees to gases and substances that might 

endanger their safety or health. Chronic exposure to a large number of the 

gases found in industrial environments is potentially dangerous to workers. 

To record worker exposure and to enforce the law, the federal government 

needed to be able to provide or to suggest to employers monitoring methods 

of suitable accuracy for making measurements of employee exposure. The 

miniature gas chromatograph fit the bill for this regulatory need.219

Silicon Accelerometer

A third pioneering MEMS device developed at the Stanford Integrated Circuits 

Laboratory was an accelerometer, first described in the 1977 Stanford dissertation of electrical engineering graduate student Lynn Michelle Roylance.220

Accelerometers measure, display, and analyze acceleration (a change in the 

amount or direction of velocity) but also can measure vibrations. In 1977 

accelerometers were not entirely new. Several MEMS lectures posted on the 

Internet claim that Kulite Semiconductor Products demonstrated a silicon 

accelerometer in 1970, but they do not present any evidence or cite any 

sources for their assertion.221 Amid a number of patents issued to Kulite at 

the time for transducers,222 devices that convert energy from one form into 

219. Terry and Jerman, Feasibility Study of a Pocket-Sized Gas Chromatographic Air Analyzer, p. 1.

220. Lynn Michelle Roylance, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer for Biomedical 

Applications,” Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, November 1977.

221. See, for example, Cheng-Hsien Liu, PowerPoint presentation, “Micro-Electro-Mechanical 

Transducers,” p. 13; Kristofer S. J. Pister, “Introduction to MEMS Design and Fabrication,” 

slide 2, http://www-bsac.eecs.berkeley.edu/~pister/245/2005S/Lectures/Intro.ppt (accessed 9 

January 2006); and Haixia Zhang, “Lecture 1: Introduction to MEMS,” for course MEMS 

Devices and Design, Spring 2004, p. 14, http://ime.pku.edu.cn/mems/courses/device&design/

Lecture_01_Introduction_to_MEMS_ZHX.pdf (accessed 9 January 2006).

222. See, for example, Anthony D. Kurtz and Joseph R. Mallon, Jr., “High Temperature 

Transducers and Housing Including Fabrication Methods,” U.S. patent 3,800,264, filed 

14 March 1972, issued 26 March 1974, assigned to Kulite Semiconductors Products; 

Anthony D. Kurtz and Charles L. Gravel, “Semiconductor Transducers Having 

H-Shaped Cross-Sectional Configurations,” U.S. patent 3,739,315, filed 18 May 1972, 

issued 12 June 1973, assigned to Kulite Semiconductor Products; Anthony D. Kurtz, 

“Pressure Sensitive Transducers Employing Capacitive and Resistive Variations,” U.S. 

patent 3,748,571, filed 7 September 1972, issued 24 July 1973, assigned to Kulite 

Semiconductors Products.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 309

another, a search of European and United States patents reveals two, filed in 

1970 and 1971, for an accelerometer that one could insert into a subject’s 

blood stream.223 Surprisingly, in light of the implied priority for the Kulite 

accelerometer given by Internet sources, the 1970 patent presents a rather 

different picture of the current state of the art. “Presently,” the patent reads, 

“a great number of such devices are manufactured by using monolithic integrated circuit techniques.”224 This language infers that Kulite was not first and 

calls into question our knowledge of MEMS history.

The heart of Roylance’s accelerometer was a flexible beam micromachined 

out of silicon. In 1972, Wolf Dietrich Frobenius and other Westinghouse 

researchers announced the creation of an accelerometer that used a flexible metal beam. It was compatible with integrated-circuit technology and 

could be fabricated in batches.225 The originality of the work carried out at 

Stanford is attested to by a recent work, one whose author provided footnotes 

and sources. Gregory T. A. Kovacs wrote: “One of the earliest examples of 

a micromachined piezoresistive strain-gauge accelerometer (or, in fact, any

micromachined accelerometer) is the device made by Roylance and Angell 

(1979) for use in biomedical implants to measure heart wall accelerations.”226

Description of the Accelerometer

The first descriptions of the miniature accelerometer appeared in Roylance’s 

dissertation and an associated technical report, both dated November 1977.227

Later, she and her professor, James Angell, discussed the accelerometer in a 

presentation given at the 1978 IEEE Solid-State Circuits Conference,228 and 

223. Anthony D. Kurtz, Joseph R. Mallon, and Charles L. Gravel, “Electromechanical 

Transducers and Housings,” U.S. patent 3,654,579, filed 11 May 1970, issued 4 April 

1972, assigned to Kulite Semiconductor Products; and Anthony D. Kurtz, Charles L. 

Gravel, and Joseph R. Mallon, “Transducers Employing Integral Protective Coatings and 

Supports,” U.S. patent 3,753,196, filed 5 October 1971, issued 14 August 1973, assigned 

to Kulite Semiconductors.

224. Kurtz, Mallon, and Gravel, “Electromechanical Transducers and Housings,” col. 1.

225. Wolf Dietrich Frobenius, S. A. Zeitman, M. H. White, D. D. O’Sullivan, and R. G. Hamel, 

“Microminiature Ganged Threshold Accelerometers Compatible with Integrated Circuit 

Technology,” IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices 19, no. 1 (January 1972): 37–40.

226. Kovacs, Micromachined Transducers, p. 229.

227. Roylance, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer”; and Lynn Michelle Roylance, 

Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer for Biomedical Applications, SEL-77-044 

(Stanford, CA: Stanford Electronics Laboratories, Integrated Circuits Laboratory, 

November 1977).

228. Lynn Michelle Roylance and James B. Angell, “A Miniature Integrated Circuit 

Accelerometer,” 1978 IEEE International Solid-State Circuits Conference Digest of Technical 

Papers 21 (February 1978): 220–221.
310 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

described it in some detail in an article published in the IEEE Transactions 

on Electron Devices in 1979.229 The accelerometer built on previous work carried out in the Stanford Integrated Circuits Laboratory on silicon sensors for 

biomedical applications (the Wise and Samadikun dissertations) and the gas 

chromatograph. Its fabrication combined standard integrated-circuit photolithography techniques with controlled etching processes, the same methods that had been used to fabricate the sensors and gas chromatograph. The 

impetus for its development arose from discussions with biomedical researchers, which suggested two specific applications. The first addressed problems 

encountered by obstetricians and gynecologists during late pregnancy and 

labor. It assumed that motion within the uterus correlated with the movements of the fetal heart, because the force of blood being pumped to the 

extremities tended to move the fetus within its buoyant environment. If 

one could measure motion in the uterus, theoretically it might signal to the 

doctor that the fetus was in difficulty early enough to prevent serious injury 

or death. The other more feasible application was to measure the motion of 

the heart wall over the course of the cardiac cycle. A matrix of miniature sensors sutured to the heart muscle would provide detailed information about 

the force of contraction of various sections of the heart wall and, eventually, 

information about velocity and displacement as well. A better understanding 

of the mechanics of the heart also might enable such a matrix of sensors to 

signal the early phases of coronary occlusion, the prelude to a heart attack.230

The accelerometer was a major advance in the size and weight of such 

devices. Roylance described it as “more than an order of magnitude reduction 

in volume and mass compared to commercially available accelerometers with 

equivalent sensitivity.” It was light enough (less than 0.02 grams) to allow 

highly accurate, highly sensitive measurements of changes in heart muscle 

motion. It also was small enough (2 mm × 3 mm × 0.06 mm) for several of 

them to fit inside a pill that, when swallowed, could monitor the magnitude 

and direction of the pill’s movement through the intestinal tract, while telemetry circuitry inside the pill transmitted the signals to an external receiver.231

Essentially, the device was a glass-silicon-glass sandwich. The center silicon layer—the heart of the device—was a very thin (15 micron) cantilevered 

beam of silicon surrounded by a 200-micron-thick silicon supporting rim. 

The rim provided a rigid support for one end of the beam, an area for contact 

229. Lynn Michelle Roylance and James B. Angell, “Batch-Fabricated Silicon Accelerometer,” 

IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices 26, no. 12 (1979): 1911–1917.

230. Roylance, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” pp. iv, 1, and 3.

231. Ibid., p. 6; Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” p. 45; and 

Petersen, “Silicon as a Mechanical Material,” p. 441.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 311

pads, and mounting surfaces parallel to the plane of the beam. The beam widened at its free end into a rectangular paddle that supported a mass composed 

of a dense substance such as gold or silicon.232

The resistor diffused into the top surface of the beam changed its value in 

proportion to the amount of acceleration because of the stress produced in 

the beam by changes in velocity. A second resistor, placed in an area free of 

stress, compensated for temperature changes that the device otherwise might 

sense incorrectly as acceleration. Wells etched into the glass caps, which were 

sealed to the supporting rim using anodic bonding, formed a cavity completely enclosing and protecting the beam, yet allowed it to deflect freely up 

to a given distance determined by the depth of the wells.233

Fabrication of the Silicon Accelerometer

In general, Roylance fabricated the accelerometer in a batch process that 

used standard integrated-circuit techniques (photolithography and diffusion) as well as special anisotropic etching techniques to shape the silicon 

and glass. The starting material was n-type (100) silicon, chosen because the 

preferred (110) direction for p-type piezoresistors coincided with the pattern 

orientation of anisotropic etchants (such as potassium hydroxide) in silicon. 

Roylance could achieve precise dimensional control even with a large etch 

depth, because etching the (111) planes took place two orders of magnitude 

slower than (100) and (110) surfaces.234 The first step in creating the accelerometers was to etch half a dozen widely spaced alignment holes completely 

through the wafer. Next, Roylance grew a 1.5-micron layer of thermal silicon 

oxide over the silicon wafer, then performed two photolithographic and diffusion steps in order to form the 10 Ω/square p+ contacts and the 100 Ω/square 

P piezoresistors. The photolithography stripped away the front silicon oxide 

but left intact the back oxide layer as a mask for the final etching. She did not 

apply a metal coating to the silicon because of the lack of electrical connections with those components.235

232. Roylance and Angell, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” p. 220; and Roylance 

and Angell, “Batch-Fabricated Silicon Accelerometer,” p. 1911.

233. Roylance and Angell, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” p. 220; and Roylance 

and Angell, “Batch-Fabricated Silicon Accelerometer,” pp. 1911–1912.

234. Roylance, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” p. 19–46; Roylance and Angell, 

“Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” p. 220; Roylance and Angell, “BatchFabricated Silicon Accelerometer,” p. 1911; and Kovacs, Micromachined Transducers, p. 229.

235. Roylance, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” pp. 19–46; and Kovacs, 

Micromachined Transducers, p. 229.
312 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The remaining processing steps shaped the cantilevered beam, the silicon 

mass (if gold was not used), and the window where the glass overhung the 

silicon. After opening windows in the backside oxide layer, Roylance etched 

away the silicon around the beam and mass as well as in the area where the 

beam was to be thinned. She stopped the etching when the beam area was 

twice the desired final thickness. A photolithography on the top surface of the 

partially etched wafer defined the air gap around the beam and the window 

opening. The final etch engraved the beam from the bottom plus the air-gap 

regions from both top and bottom. The moment the silicon disappeared from 

the large window openings signaled the end of the etching. The final step was 

to strip away the remaining silicon oxide.

The materials from which she prepared the glass cover plates were 

200-micron-thick pieces of #7740 Pyrex glass polished optically flat on one 

side. The silicon-glass bonding process dictated the type of glass. The glass 

had to be slightly conductive at the bonding temperature and its thermal 

expansion rate had to match that of silicon. Unfortunately, the Pyrex glass 

was not nearly as easy to etch as silicon. Roylance etched wells in the top and 

bottom glass covers using a chrome-gold etch mask and a mixture of 30 percent nitric acid (HNO3

) and 70 percent hydrogen fluoride (HF) at 48°C. 

With the masking layer stripped away, she deposited aluminum on the top 

glass to form the metal bonding pads.236

The next steps were to sandwich the silicon wafer between the two glass 

wafers, bond them, then separate the individual devices from the wafer. 

Assembling the accelerometer sandwich involved attaching gold masses (if 

used) and aligning and bonding the glass covers to the silicon. Only after 

completion of the bonding process did Roylance break apart the individual 

accelerometers and begin packaging them. The anodic bonding process produced a hermetic and irreversible seal between silicon and glass. It consisted 

of aligning the glass and silicon, raising the temperature to about 400°C, then 

applying 600 V between the silicon and the glass. The advantages of anodic 

bonding included its simplicity, the lack of glue or solder, and visual inspection of the bonding results. Bonded areas appeared dark gray, while other 

areas were much lighter in color and showed interference fringing. Finally, 

with the top and bottom covers bonded, Roylance separated the individual 

devices using a dicing saw and attached the leads.237

236. Roylance, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” pp. 19–46; and Kovacs, 

Micromachined Transducers, p. 230.

237. Roylance, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” pp. 19–46; and Kovacs, 

Micromachined Transducers, p. 230.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 313

The Source of Funding

Determining the source of funding for Roylance’s research on the silicon 

accelerometer is not a straightforward proposition. An article about the 

device published in a 1979 issue of IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices, for 

example, provided no acknowledgment of the research’s funding source.238

Nonetheless, an unspecified amount of initial support evidently came from 

the Joint Services Electronics Program under grant N000-14-67-A-0112-

0004.239 The semiannual report submitted to the Joint Services Electronics 

Program for the first half of 1973 promised that the Integrated Circuits 

Laboratory would undertake “a new project dealing with charge-coupled 

devices for analog delay lines” later in the year.240 The following report mentioned no work on charge-coupled devices, but it did include a new undertaking called Project 4606, “A Solid-State Accelerometer.” The principal 

investigator was James Angell; Lynn Roylance was listed as “staff.” The project’s objective was “to fabricate a miniature accelerometer, based on acceleration-induced strain in a piezoresistor, using integrated-circuit technology.” 

This was the very device that Roylance created for her dissertation. The report 

contained a photograph of the first such device, about 2.1 mm long and 

shaped like a bone.241

The subsequent semiannual report—for the first half of 1974—included 

a resume of progress made on the accelerometer,242 but the next report 

failed to mention the project. Instead, Project 4606 had become “Precision 

Chemical Machining of Single-Crystal Silicon,” which Angell was carrying 

out as principal investigator with Stephen Terry and Phillip Barth. It involved 

perfecting techniques for fabricating very thin layers of silicon on insulated 

substrates, such as silicon dioxide or on a glass matrix.243 One can conclude 

therefore that underwriting for Roylance’s dissertation research during the 

238. Roylance and Angell, “Batch-Fabricated Silicon Accelerometer,” pp. 1911–1917.

239. Angell, Interim Report, p. A-1.

240. Stanford Electronics Laboratories, Semi-Annual Status Report No. 124, 1 January through 

30 June 1973, Report SU-SEL-73-028 (Stanford, CA: Stanford Electronics Laboratories, 

June 1973), p. 18.

241. Stanford Electronics Laboratories, Semi-Annual Status Report No. 125, 1 July through 

31 December 1973, Report SU-SEL-73-051 (Stanford, CA: Stanford Electronics 

Laboratories, December 1973), pp. 20–22.

242. Stanford Electronics Laboratories, Semi-Annual Status Report No. 126, 1 January through 

30 June 1974, Report SU-SEL-74-043 (Stanford, CA: Stanford Electronics Laboratories, 

June 1974), pp. 27–29.

243. Stanford Electronics Laboratories, Semi-Annual Status Report No. 127, 1 July through 

31 December 1974, Report SU-SEL-74-056 (Stanford, CA: Stanford Electronics 

Laboratories, December 1974), pp. 33–35.
314 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

second half of 1973 and the first half of 1974 came from the Joint Services 

Electronics Program.

The process by which NASA began funding the research is uncertain. In 

January 1974, when James Angell reported to NASA regarding the gas chromatograph effort under grant NGR 05-02-690, he included a separate appendix, titled “Solid State Accelerometer,” that furnished the space agency with 

developmental information on Roylance’s silicon accelerometer. The work, he 

explained, was underwritten by the Joint Services Electronics Program and 

was being “reported here for informational purposes only.”244 It is possible 

that Angell’s description of the accelerometer interested Ames researchers, 

who agreed to have Roylance continue her research under the gas chromatograph grant. Acknowledgment of the NASA funding, namely grant NGR 

05-020-690 (which funded the gas chromatograph), appeared in the first 

two published descriptions of the silicon accelerometer: Roylance’s dissertation and its associated technical report, both of which appeared in November 

1977.245 The same NASA grant also received recognition in the published 

précis of a paper on the accelerometer that Roylance and Angell delivered at 

the 1978 IEEE Solid-State Circuits conference.246 Angell continued as the 

grant’s principal investigator until 1980, three years after Roylance completed 

her dissertation, and it still was for “miniature gas analysis systems.”247

Impact Evaluations

The Biomedical Pressure Sensor

NASA and NIH

NASA funding paid for development of this MEMS device and its testing on 

dogs, and the sensor successfully tested their blood pressure.248 The Stanford 

sensor effort continued after the NASA underwriting ended in September 

1973, with money from the National Institutes of Health. The NIH support was indicative of the laboratory’s funding shift away from its traditional 

sponsor, the Joint Services Electronics Program, to its new backers within 

the health research establishment. From 1972 to 1974, while NASA was 

funding the pressure sensor, James Angell was principal investigator on a 

244. Angell, Interim Report, p. A-1.

245. Roylance, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” p. iii; and Roylance, Miniature 

Integrated Circuit Accelerometer, cover and p. iii.

246. Roylance and Angell, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” p. 220.

247. NASA’s University Program (1980), p. 28.

248. Samadikun, Wise, and Angell, “An IC Piezoresistive Pressure Sensor for Biomedical 

Instrumentation,” p. 109.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 315

National Institute of General Medical Sciences grant to develop integratedcircuit sensors that Stanford tested on cats. Later, he was principal investigator on a major grant between 1977 and 1986 from the National Center for 

Research Resources to develop a “resource” for creating biomedical sensors 

and transducers using integrated-circuit fabrication techniques.249 The successful development of the pressure sensor with NASA dollars thus helped 

to propel Stanford University and its Integrated Circuits Laboratory in their 

quest for patronage from the NIH. Any statements that NASA makes about 

its contribution to the development of the sensor must concede the role of 

the NIH money as well. 

MEMS Techniques

In addition, NASA supported the development of a new integrated-circuit 

fabrication technique—a variety of anisotropic etching—that made possible the measured production of the diaphragm. An additional application 

of this technique took place at Stanford even before approval of the WiseSamadikun patent for the process in the dissertation research of Timothy A. 

Nunn. Finished in October 1977, Nunn’s dissertation involved creating a 

miniature pressure transducer on a silicon wafer. The effort was underwritten by both the NIH and NASA—through the gas chromatograph grant.250

In many ways, Nunn’s work continued that of Wise and Samadikun, and it 

represented NASA’s continuing support of biomedical sensor development at 

the Integrated Circuits Laboratory. Nunn’s device measured absolute pressure 

using a thin silicon diaphragm and a piezoresistive bridge circuit, much like 

that of Wise and Samadikun. Nunn later applied for a patent, and in it he 

specifically proposed using the Wise-Samadikun anisotropic etching process 

to control the thickness of the diaphragm.251 The diffusion of the technique 

was a technological success and laid the foundation for future technological 

growth, but no indication of its commercial application has appeared yet.

249. These were grants no. 5P01GM017940-020002 (for 1972), 5P01GM017940-030002 

(for 1973), and 5P01GM017940-040002 (for 1974). These grants were found via a 

search on NIH Computer Retrieval of Information on Scientific Projects (CRISP), http://

crisp.cit.nih.gov/ (accessed 11 March 2006), for “Angell, James” as PI. 

250. Nunn, “Silicon Absolute Pressure Transducer for Biomedical Applications,” pp. iv–vi.

251. Timothy Alan Nunn, “Miniature absolute pressure transducer assembly and method,” 

U.S. patent 4,079,508, filed 13 May 1976, issued 21 March 1978, assigned to Stanford 

University, especially p. 7.
316 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Bandung High Tech Valley

Perhaps one of the longest lasting and most direct contributions of this 

MEMS work was not in the United States at all but overseas, and not technological but social. After receiving his doctoral degree from Stanford, Samaun 

Samadikun joined the Department of Electrical Engineering of the Bandung 

Institute of Technology in Bandung, Indonesia. There, he became professor of electronics in 1974 and subsequently the first director of the InterUniversity Center for Microelectronics (1984–1989), where he also was a 

senior researcher. Samadikun later served his government as director general 

of Energy, Ministry of Mining and Energy (1978–1983), and as chairman 

of the Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI) (1989–1995). He has received 

several awards and honors, including the 1998 Award of the Association of 

South Eastern Asian Nations in recognition of his meritorious service to science and technology, and he was a Founding Fellow of the Islamic Academy 

of Sciences and a Founding Fellow of the Indonesian Academy of Sciences.252

Samadikun attempted to raise interest in creating something like Silicon 

Valley in Indonesia in an area now dubbed the Bandung High Tech Valley. 

It benefits from the same ingredients as Silicon Valley: a confluence of businesses, universities, and government agencies engaged in the production and 

exploitation of science and technology. Upon his return from Stanford, where 

he acquired firsthand knowledge of how Silicon Valley operated, Samadikun 

brought that knowledge back to Indonesia, where he pushed the idea of creating a similar high-tech area based on semiconductors and telecommunications. Although that dream still remains unrealized, Samaun Samadikun is 

considered one of its key proponents.253

The Gas Chromatograph

The miniature gas chromatograph efforts of Terry, Perner, and Jerman, 

although funded initially by NASA, received important additional support 

from the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health. This additional financing allowed the gas chromatograph on a chip to evolve into a 

prototype device and eventually a commercial product. Terry and Jerman 

received two patents for the improved gas chromatograph in 1984—one 

of which was assigned to Stanford University and the other to Microsensor 

252. “Prof. Samaun Samadikun,” http://www.ias-worldwide.org/profiles/prof63.htm (accessed 6 

January 2006).

253. Budi Rahardjo, “A Story of Bandung High-Technology Valley,” 2002, http://64.233.179.

104/search?q=cache:p3vqaj9OOgcJ:budi.insan.co.id/articles/a-portrait-of-BHTV2.

doc+%22Samaun+Samadikun%22&hl=en&start=6 (accessed 6 January 2006).
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 317

Technology, Inc., in Fremont, California,254 a manufacturer of gas analysis 

equipment. The firm became MTI Analytical Instruments in 1981 and in 

1998 was purchased by the Hewlett-Packard Company, which incorporated 

it into its Chemical Analysis Group.255 NASA’s funding of the Stanford gas 

chromatograph therefore served as an early stimulus to the development of a 

product taken up by the gas-analysis industry.

In his discussion of the gas chromatograph, Kurt Petersen, in his groundbreaking 1982 article on MEMS technologies and techniques, declared it 

to be “one of the more ambitious, practical, and far-reaching applications 

of silicon micromechanical techniques.”256 More recently, Gregory Kovacs 

described the contribution of the gas chromatograph to the development of 

MEMS techniques in the following terms: “Perhaps the first active micromachined valve was that demonstrated by Terry (1975) and Terry et al. (1979) 

as a component of an integrated gas chromatography system. While external actuation was used, the basic concepts of the micromachined silicon valve 

seats spelled out in this work continue to be used in subsequent micromachined 

valves. Two designs were tested, one using a silicon diaphragm/silicon valve 

seat arrangement, and the other using a Teflon-coated polyimide (Kapton) 

membrane/silicon valve seat design. Both designs required hand assembly (as 

is presently still the case, in general) and used external actuation, but demonstrated principles that would later be applied to truly batch-fabricated micromachined valves”257 (emphasis added).

The original intent of NASA funding for the chromatograph was for 

the Viking mission to Mars, which launched twin probes to the planet in 

search of evidence of life in August and September 1975.258 A good number 

of records support this notion. For example, according to Ken Wise, the 

Integrated Circuits Laboratory worked on a silicon-chip gas chromatograph 

254. Jerman and Terry, “Gas Chromatography System and Detector and Method,” U.S. patent 

4,471,647, applied 22 March 1982, issued 18 September 1984, assigned to Stanford 

University; Jerman and Terry, “Miniature Gas Chromatograph Apparatus,” U.S. patent 

4,474,889, applied 26 April 1982, issued 2 October 1984, assigned to Microsensor 

Technology. Patent 4,471,647 states that the U.S. government had rights to the invention 

because the NIOSH (not NASA) had funded its development.

255. “HP to Acquire MTI Analytical Instruments; Purchase Targeted to Expand HP’s GC 

Analysis Business,” Business Wire, 17 February 1998, http://www.findarticles.com/p/articles/

mi_m0EIN/is_1998_Feb_17/ai_20296835 (accessed 9 January 2006).

256. Petersen, “Silicon as a Mechanical Material,” p. 434.

257. Kovacs, Micromachined Transducers, p. 827.

258. For a history of the Mars Viking mission, see Edward Clinton Ezell and Linda Neuman 

Ezell, On Mars: Exploration of the Red Planet, 1958–1978 (Washington, DC: NASA SP1984-4212, 1984). 
318 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

for the Mars Viking project.259 In addition, in his dissertation Terry wrote 

that “the idea of a miniature GC [gas chromatograph] column etched in silicon was conceived by NASA for a small, lightweight, and rugged chromatograph to be landed on Mars in the Viking 75 probe.”260

The development of the miniature gas chromatograph for the Viking mission, however, did not guarantee that it flew to Mars as part of the Viking 

mission. The timing of the initial development of the gas chromatograph 

by Terry (who completed his dissertation in 1975) and the earlier work by 

Perner (completed in October 1973) preceded the launch of the two Viking 

probes in August 1975. While this timeline appears to support the possibility that Viking used the Stanford chromatograph, textual descriptions of 

the chromatographs that went to Mars point in a different direction. These 

devices were part of the Viking biology instrument that between 1970 and 

the spring of 1975 the TRW Systems Group—under contract to Martin 

Marietta Corporation—designed, built, and tested to search for signs of life 

on Mars.261

The Viking biology instrument was actually three systems in a single integrated package, each of which performed a distinct experiment intended to 

reveal the presence of life on Mars. The complexity of the instrument arose 

from the large number of different functions that had to be performed in 

order to conduct biological analyses of the Martian surface material. Only 

one of the scientific instruments included in the biology package was a miniaturized gas chromatograph capable of measuring parts per million concentrations of such metabolic gases as methane.262

The gas chromatograph was part of the gas exchange experiment for the 

detection of biological activity in the Martian soil. Its function was to measure 

changes in the concentration of gases caused by the metabolism and growth 

of microorganisms. The experiment—devised by Vance I. Oyama of NASA’s 

Ames Research Center along with Bonnie J. Berdahl and Glenn C. Carle, also 

at Ames—was based on a common characteristic of life on Earth—namely 

that all organisms produce and/or consume various gases, such as hydrogen, 

nitrogen, methane, and carbon dioxide. In the gas exchange experiment, the 

259. Wise interview, p. 16.

260. Terry, “Gas Chromatography System,” p. 1. Also, Terry, Jerman, and Angell, “Gas 

Chromatographic Air Analyzer,” p. 1886, states that the gas chromatograph potentially 

could be used on “planetary probes.”

261. F. S. Brown, H. E. Adelson, M. C. Chapman, O. W. Clausen, A. J. Cole, J. T. Cragin, 

R. J. Day, C. H. Debenham, R. E. Fortney, R. I. Gilje, D. W. Harvey, J. L. Kropp, S. J. 

Loer, J. L. Logan, Jr., W. D. Potter, and G. T. Rosiak, “The Biology Instrument for the 

Viking Mars Mission,” Review of Scientific Instruments 49, no. 2 (February 1978): 140.

262. Ibid., p. 140.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 319

metabolism and growth of the microorganisms were stimulated either by 

humidifying the soil or contacting the soil with a watery solution containing 

a variety of nutrients and growth factors. The gas chromatograph periodically 

analyzed the resulting (if any) changes in gas composition.263

Thus, the gas chromatograph column was but a small part of the complex 

mechanism designed to conduct the gas exchange experiment. The lower portion of the gas exchange experiment module contained what was called the gas 

chromatographic analysis assembly, a specialized gas chromatograph for the 

analysis of gases of biological interest. The assembly basically was a conversion 

to flight hardware of the chromatographic system used in the laboratory.264

The TRW general description of the biology instrument stated that “gases 

and liquids move through tiny plumbing network controlled by 39 miniature 

solenoid valves.”265 These valves were complex mechanisms that controlled 

the flow of gases, liquids, and vapors within the chromatograph assembly 

and the two other experimental apparatus. The valves could not have been 

those developed at Stanford, because TRW characterized them as solenoids—

devices that consist of wire-wound coils—not the silicon-based valves created 

by Terry. And diagrams of the valves plainly establish that they were not constructed from silicon on a chip.266

Glenn Carle described the laboratory hardware as early as 1970,267 probably as Perner was starting his comparison of thermistor and pyroelectric types 

of thermal-conductivity detectors with a grant from Carle. The description 

of the flight hardware also strongly suggests that the chromatograph column 

was not built on a silicon wafer. It states that the entire gas chromatographic 

analysis assembly, which was 9 cm square by 6 cm high (larger than the 5 cm 

of the silicon wafer), consisted of “a gas sampling system, a pair of matched 

porous polymer bead chromatographic columns, and a thermistor thermalconductivity detector.”268 Although Perner’s research considered thermistor 

detectors, he demonstrated that a detector with a pyroelectric crystal as a 

263. Ibid., p. 158.

264. Ibid., p. 161.

265. TRW Systems Group, “Biology Instrument,” no date, Folder 5496, NHRC.

266. Brown et al., “Biology Instrument for the Viking Mars Mission,” p. 175; H. E. Adelson, 

F. S. Brown, and R. I. Gilje, “Looking for Life on Mars,” Quest 1, no. 2 (Fall 1977): 

41–42.

267. Glenn Carle, Journal of Chromatographic Science 8 (1970): 550–556. For a description 

of the process, see Vance Oyama and Glenn Carle, “Pyrolysis Gas Chromatography 

Application to Life Detection and Chemotaxonomy,” Journal of Gas Chromatography 5 

(March 1967): 151–154.

268. Brown et al., “Biology Instrument for the Viking Mars Mission,” p. 161.
320 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

sensing element was 500 times more responsive than a thermistor.269 This 

evidence does not indicate that Perner’s research impacted the design of the 

Viking gas chromatographs.

The apparatus that went to Mars incorporated “a pair of matched porous 

polymer bead chromatographic columns.” This description precludes the construction of the columns as grooves in a silicon wafer like the Stanford device. 

The size of the gas chromatograph and its column were too large, moreover. 

TRW described the gas chromatograph as “only three and a half inches in 

diameter” and containing “coiled tubes” with an inside diameter “about the 

size of a pencil lead” and “filled with porous polymer beads.”270 In addition, 

a published photograph of the gas chromatographic analysis assembly makes 

the fact unequivocally clear that the chromatograph was not constructed on a 

silicon wafer.271 The Stanford miniature gas chromatograph therefore did not 

fly on the Viking Mars mission. Rather, its destiny appears to have lain in the 

field of medicine.

The Accelerometer

Although the Joint Services Electronics Program initially funded the accelerometer work, NASA subsequently picked up the tab—and for a longer 

period of time. Thus, the statement made by NASA that the Agency developed tiny accelerometers during the 1970s “to measure changes in speed of 

small objects or activity levels of people or animals during human space flight” 

is essentially true for the most part, even though the purported intention of 

the grant under which the work was performed was to develop a miniature 

gas chromatograph. Other NASA claims regarding the MEMS accelerometer 

are harder to corroborate—namely that “the original NASA-sponsored work 

on an MEMS accelerometer is referenced in 83 patents; the earliest reference 

was made in 1975 and the latest in 2003.”272

This nature of this claim gives rise to a number of difficulties. A search 

of the online U.S. patent database273 for “Roylance, Lynn” in all fields for 

269. Terry, “Gas Chromatography System,” p. 102.

270. Adelson, Brown, and Gilje, “Looking for Life on Mars,” p. 45.

271. Brown et al., “Biology Instrument for the Viking Mars Mission,” p. 161.

272. NASA, “Big Functions in a Small Package,” p. 5; NASA Public Affairs Office, NASA Hits: 

Rewards from Space; NASA, “Big Functions in a Small Package,” p. 4; and NASA Public 

Affairs Office, NASA Hits: Rewards from Space. 

273. “United States Patent and Trademark Office,” http://www.uspto.gov/patft/index.html

(accessed 13 March 2006). A search of the European patent database, which includes 

U.S. patents, produced a single result; however, this database does not permit users to 

search all patent fields, such as the reference sections. European Patent Office, home page 

http://ep.espacenet.com/ (accessed 13 March 2006).
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 321

the period 1976 to the present (August 2008) revealed only 31 patents that 

referred to the work of Lynn Roylance, not 83.274 These references, moreover, 

appeared no earlier than 1984. Without exception, they all cited her 1979 

IEEE article,275 while four cited her dissertation as well. The first three patents 

that referenced Roylance’s work were inventions by researchers at Honeywell. 

They also cited published works by Stanford researchers Petersen and Terry.276

An examination of these patents showed that Roylance’s article and dissertation were cited in those sections of the patent text called “references cited” 

and “other references” as being part of the relevant technical literature consisting of all publications plus issued patents. Cited patents fall in a separate 

category of “prior art.” In patent parlance, her publications were provided in 

the body of the patent to indicate “the background of the invention”—that 

is, the known “art,” in order to differentiate the patented invention (a new 

thing) from the art (the established knowledge).

References to Roylance’s accelerometer necessarily had to fall in this category of prior art, because the patent office never issued a patent for the device. 

With the disclosure of the invention in a technical publication, obtaining a 

patent was out of the question. The device, according to Roylance, had its 

own technological problems, some of which were indigenous to all straingauge accelerometers.277 In addition, because of the beam thickness minimum imposed by the micromachining technology as well as the small volume 

available for the mass, the lowest accelerations it could detect (from ±10 to 

±15 g) were above the lowest range detectable by commercial units (±5 g).278

The device’s biggest failing, Roylance opined, was that it sensed movement 

along only one axis, not three.279 On the other hand, the good news was 

that one could fabricate the accelerometer inexpensively in batches. A 5 cm 

274. The original search, conducted in March 2006, produced only 14 hits. The oldest patent 

was Robert G. Johnson and Robert E. Higashi, “Method of Making Semiconductor 

Device,” U.S. patent 4,472,239, filed 8 July 1983, issued 18 September 1984. The most 

recent reference to Roylance’s work is Jian Liu, Carl L. Hansen, and Stephen R. Quake, 

“Microfluidic Rotary Flow Reactor Matrix,” U.S. patent 7,413,712, filed 30 April 2004, 

issued 19 August 2008.

275. Roylance and Angell, “Batch-Fabricated Silicon Accelerometer,” p. 1911–1917.

276. Johnson and Higashi, “Method of Making Semiconductor Device”; Philip J. Bohrer, 

“Flow Sensor,” U.S. patent 4,478,076, filed 30 September 1982, issued 23 October 1984; 

and Bohrer and Johnson, “Flow Sensor,” U.S. patent, 4,478,077, filed 30 September 

1982, issued 23 October 1984.

277. Roylance, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” pp. 153, 154, and 158.

278. Ibid., p. 158.

279. Notes, telephone conversation with Lynn Roylance, 27 September 2008.
322 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

(2 inch) wafer cost about $40 but yielded approximately 200 accelerometers 

(about 20 cents each).280

Did the miniature accelerometer have any societal impacts? The patent 

literature search furnishes only a fragile link between invention and the open 

literature. The results of that search should not lead inexorably to the assumption that the accelerometer (and its associated fabrication techniques) did not 

have an impact on later work. Once a discovery enters the arena of public 

knowledge, whatever applications follow potentially may never materialize in 

any patent or technical literature search, but they still may be part and parcel 

of a manufacturing trade secret or other form of “art.”

Nonetheless, the search for societal impacts is disappointing. For example, an article published in the Scientific American in 1983 by associates of 

the Stanford Integrated Circuits Laboratory mentioned the accelerometer in 

passing but did not state that it was under commercial development, unlike 

other MEMS devices described.281 Subsequently, a wide variety of more complex piezoresistive accelerometers were fabricated, but not until the 1990s.282

Perhaps the lack of issue from the accelerometer invention was the immature 

nature of the technology itself. In 1982 chip-sized accelerometers still had 

no commercial importance. Technological barriers seem to have remained. 

Such cantilever-beam accelerometers made by etching clear through the wafer 

had to address serious packaging problems. Special top and bottom motionlimiting plates, for example, had to be included in the assembly to prevent 

beam damage during possible acceleration overshoots.283

In the end, the sum of Roylance’s achievement was to demonstrate the feasibility of the concept of creating a miniature accelerometer using integratedcircuit fabrication techniques as well as the viability of the techniques used 

in its construction.284 However, if one looks for a linear development of the 

technology—that is, one in which each advance depends directly on the progress realized by the preceding discovery—the type of technological progression implicit in NASA’s claims regarding its accelerometer investment such a 

linear sequence does not exist. The first three patents that reference Roylance’s 

publications, for improvements in sensors and their manufacture by researchers at Honeywell, do not link their work to that of Roylance or anyone else 

280. Roylance, “Miniature Integrated Circuit Accelerometer,” pp. 158–159.

281. Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” p. 45.

282. Kovacs, Micromachined Transducers, p. 231.

283. Petersen, “Silicon as a Mechanical Material,” p. 449.

284. Notes, telephone conversation with Lynn Roylance, 27 September 2008.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 323

at Stanford in this fashion.285 The claim of a direct technological evolutionary line from the Ames-Stanford device to modern MEMS accelerometers is 

not valid.

Conclusions

NASA indeed got something for its money from the NASA Ames investment in MEMS research at Stanford’s Integrated Circuits Laboratory. And 

so did society. The sensor work—continued under NIH funding—produced 

a patented (that is, technologically new) method for anisotropic etching in a 

silicon wafer, and an improved version of the sensor contributed to research 

carried out under the auspices of the NIH. The Wise-Samadikun patented 

technique for anisotropic etching had an immediate use in the Nunn patent 

and, as part of the patent literature, it achieved a modicum of technological success but no apparent commercialization. However, subsequent patents 

incorporating the Wise-Samadikun technique may have seen commercial 

use. NASA’s investment in the gas chromatograph also paid off as a commercialized product.

The paucity of MEMS research carried out at the Stanford Integrated 

Circuits Laboratory with NASA funding compared to that carried out under 

the sponsorship of the armed forces or the health establishment appears to 

reinforce the impression that NASA was not a major player in the development of Silicon Valley, despite the presence of the Ames Research Center in 

its midst. Nonetheless, historian Stuart Leslie has stated that NASA’s financial 

contribution to the Stanford Electronics Laboratories rose from nothing to 

about a third of its budget during the 1960s, although Defense Department 

money continued to dominate.286 Where did that NASA money go?

Perhaps the recipient of the largest amount of NASA funding within 

the Stanford Electronics Laboratories was the Stanford Center for Radar 

Astronomy. The center was a joint venture of Stanford University and the 

Stanford Research Institute created in 1962 to foster scientific and engineering efforts and to provide graduate student training in radar astronomy 

and space science. A NASA grant underwrote the center itself, while additional military and civilian awards supported a range of theoretical and 

285. These are the three patents cited above—namely, Robert G. Johnson and Robert E. 

Higashi, “Method of Making Semiconductor Device,” U.S. patent 4,472,239, filed 

8 July 1983, issued 18 September 1984; Philip J. Bohrer, “Flow Sensor,” U.S. patent 

4,478,076, filed 30 September 1982, issued 23 October 1984; and Bohrer and Johnson, 

“Flow Sensor,” U.S. patent, 4,478,077, filed 30 September 1982, issued 23 October 

1984—all assigned to Honeywell.

286. Leslie, Cold War and American Science, p. 73.
324 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

experimental radio and radar research on space, ionospheric, and communication theory topics.287 It was the umbrella organization for Von Eshleman, 

Robert A. Helliwell, and Oswald G. Villard, Jr., who had NASA grants totaling $1,285,751 in 1969. In addition, NASA paid for the construction of 

research laboratory facilities as part of the Space Engineering Building to the 

tune of over $2 million.288

In contrast, integrated circuits and MEMS failed to receive a substantial 

amount of NASA sponsorship. The time was ripe for the Stanford Electronics 

Laboratories and its Integrated Circuits Laboratory to shift the brunt of its 

financial support away from the armed forces. As William Rambo, associate 

dean for research at the School of Engineering, wrote to the electrical engineering faculty, students, and staff in 1970, in a rather understated manner: 

“Important questions are underway concerning our research, particularly 

those projects supported by the Department of Defense.”289 NASA dollars 

certainly could have provided a civilian haven for research, but they did not 

flow into integrated-circuit research with the same volume as they did elsewhere within the Electrical Engineering Department. But did NASA want 

to spend such sizable sums on MEMS? Exobiology at Stanford, on the other 

hand, received ample funding. In 1969, for example, as Ames began funding 

the first MEMS project, NASA Headquarters awarded Joshua Lederberg in 

the Stanford School of Medicine a $535,000 grant for the construction of 

biomedical instrumentation facilities as well as a $410,000 grant for “cytochemical studies of planetary microorganisms.”290

By this measure at least, NASA’s funding level of MEMS research was low 

alongside the sums the Agency was investing in the Stanford Medical School 

or the Stanford Center for Radar Astronomy. Still, for this relatively small 

investment, NASA and society reaped a not insignificant return. NASA’s 

investment was still insufficient to realize the full potential of the research; 

money from other sources aided in developing these MEMS projects. In 

short, NASA was not the sole underwriter of these MEMS advances. Should 

NASA, in making pronouncements about its contribution, acknowledge the 

role of other agencies in encouraging the Stanford effort? Indeed, NASA does 

not deserve sole credit for fostering the origins of MEMS at Stanford, and its 

financial contribution was far from representing the lion’s share of support. 

287. Butrica, To See the Unseen, p. 155.

288. NASA’s University Program (1969), pp. 22–26.

289. Memo, Rambo to EE Students, Staff, and Faculty, “Electronics Research at Stanford,” 

11 May 1970, Folder 32, “Electronics Research at Stanford-1970,” Box 6 [no accession 

number], Rambo Papers.

290. NASA’s University Program (1969), pp. 22 and 26.
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 325

The Agency also should acknowledge that the Stanford MEMS effort already 

was under way, when NASA’s Ames Research Center began to work with 

Stanford on MEMS projects. If one shifts one’s perspective from that of 

NASA to that of the Stanford MEMS program, the space agency definitely 

did not play a central or defining role.
326 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Appendix A

NASA Grants and Research Contracts to Stanford

Ames MEMS Research Only

Ames contract monitor Ames branch Subject of 

research Dates

Total 

dollar 

amount

Stanford 

principal 

investigator

Contract 

or grant 

number

Thomas B. 

Fryer

Electronics 

Research 

Branch

Research 

on pressure 

sensors for 

biomedical 

instrumentation

11/1969–

9/1972

$80,000 James B. 

Angell

NGR 

05-020-401

Ralph W. 

Donaldson, 

Jr., and Nigel 

C. Tombs

Measurement 

Sciences 

Branch

Research on 

integrated 

circuits for 

gas chromatography

6/1971–

10/1971 

$3,725 Kensall D. 

Wise

NAS 

2-6491

Ralph W. 

Donaldson, 

Jr.

Electronic 

Instrument 

Development

Research 

miniature 

gas analysis 

systems

5/1971–

2/1973

$35,000 James B. 

Angell

NGR 

05-020-543

Harold 

Sandler, 

Ralph W. 

Donaldson, 

Jr., and Glenn 

C. Carle

Biomedical 

Research 

Division

Miniature 

gas analysis 

systems

9/1973–

11/1980

$282,632 James B. 

Angell

NGR 

05-02-690
NASA’s Role in the Development of MEMS (Microelectromechanical Systems) 327

Appendix B

Technical Essay291

Silicon has a distinctive cubic crystal structure. At each corner of the cube 

as well as in the center of each of the cube’s faces sits an atom of silicon. The 

cubes interlock in such a way that several atoms from neighboring cubes are 

located in each individual cube. The axes of the individual cubes form an 

orthogonal coordinate system (x, y, z) that allows one to specify directions 

(vectors) and planes within the crystal. A crystalline direction is labeled by 

three coordinates called the Miller indexes, which are whole number (integer) 

multiples of the length of one edge of a single cube. The same set of indexes 

designates the planes perpendicular to that direction.

For instance, a [110] direction or vector points diagonally across the face 

of a given cube. The coordinates of the vector also designate the complete set 

of atomic planes perpendicular to that direction. The notation (100) describes 

all the planes perpendicular to the x axis. Because the crystal structure is symmetrical, the x, y, and z directions are interchangeable. As a result, one can 

describe all equivalent directions and sets of planes. The notation <110> designates the diagonals across any face of a unit cube, and the notation [110] 

designates the sets of planes perpendicular to all <110> vectors. The different 

bracket styles thus distinguish planes from directions as well as generalized 

planes and directions from specific planes and directions.

The orientation of the crystalline structure is a fundamental property that 

the fabrication of MEMS devices exploits, because some etching chemicals 

attack different crystal directions at diverse rates. Most anisotropic etching 

chemicals move quickly in the crystalline direction perpendicular to the 

(110) plane but less speedily in the direction perpendicular to the (100) 

plane. The direction perpendicular to the (111) plane etches rather slowly, if 

at all. Anisotropic etching chemicals create holes composed of flat walls, while 

isotropic etching consistently produces a rounded hole.

What determines the specific shape of an anisotropically etched hole is the 

crystalline orientation of the wafer surface along with the shape and orientation of the openings in the photolithographic mask on that surface and the 

dependence of the etching chemical itself on the orientation of the silicon. A 

square opening leaning along the <110> directions of a <100> wafer yields a 

pyramid-shaped pit with [111] side walls. If the opening is larger, the point of 

intersection of the [111] planes is deeper, and one can create a flat-bottomed 

pit by stopping the etching before it reaches that depth. On the other hand, 

291. Abstracted from Angell, Terry, and Barth, “Silicon Micromechanical Devices,” pp. 46–48.
328 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

a rectangular opening made on the same wafer yields a V-shaped pit. One 

also can create holes with parallel side walls by etching a wafer with a dissimilar surface orientation. A <110> wafer has two sets of [111] planes that 

are perpendicular to the surface but not to each other. If one orients an oxide 

opening on a <110> wafer in a certain fashion, the etching process creates a 

hole with vertical side walls. The side walls that intersect at angles less than 90 

degrees (acute angles) are linked to still other planes. These are just some of 

the various shapes that one can form using this method. 
Part III

The World at Large

331

Chapter 5 

Powering Space Exploration: 

U.S. Space Nuclear Power, Public

Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

Roger D. Launius

1. Introduction

Since the dawn of the Space Age more than 50 years ago, the United States has pursued a variety of methods for delivering electrical power to spacecraft in flight. Nuclear power systems are the only ones that have been found 

acceptable for deep space missions. While these technological systems have 

made possible a myriad of accomplishments in space, especially the successful flights to the outer planets, the details of space nuclear power generation 

are virtually unknown to even the most knowledgeable observers. What is

known, furthermore, is frequently limited to the often-incomplete reporting 

of controversies over the propriety of using nuclear systems for space power. 

This chapter traces the development of this technology from its origins in the 

1960s to the present. It describes the evolution of the systems involved and 

the decision-making process whereby NASA chose to adopt one approach 

over another. Finally, it analyzes the public debate over the employment of 

these technologies for spaceflight.

2. Satellite Power Systems in Summary

Flying in space requires reliable, uninterrupted, stable electrical power, not 

only for engines to maneuver and navigate but also for onboard systems 

that perform a range of functions.1 One of the critical components of any 

1. There are several general works on space power systems. These include Mukund R. Patel, 

Spacecraft Power Systems (New York: CRC, 2004); A. K. Hyder, R. L. Wiley, G. Halpert, 

D. J. Flood, and S. Sabripour, Spacecraft Power Technologies (London: Imperial College 

Press, 2000); Martin J. L. Turner, Rocket and Spacecraft Propulsion: Principles, Practice, 

and New Developments (Chichester, UK: Springer Praxis Books, 2004); Donald B. 

Mackay, Design of Space Powerplants (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1963); Peter 

Frankel, “Space Electric Power System,” Lockheed Technical Report LR 17558, February 

1964; and S. Lieblein and H. O. Slone, “Electric Power Generation Systems for Use 
332 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

satellite, either in Earth’s orbit or dispatched elsewhere, is the power system 

that allows the operation of its many systems. There are only four methods 

of providing the electrical power needed for spacecraft, all of them with positives and negatives. The first method, and the one used on the first spacecraft 

launched into orbit, was batteries. Their wattage was limited, but even more 

limited was their longevity. Within a few weeks they always ran down and 

the spacecraft’s systems no longer operated. For example, about three weeks 

after the launch of Sputnik 1 on 4 October 1957, its batteries ran down and 

it ceased to broadcast telemetry, although it remained in orbit for about 90 

days after launch.2

Second, to help resolve that problem, NASA pioneered in the 1960s fuel 

cell technology, which generated more electricity for the size of the cell and 

had a longer effective life. Even so, fuel cells have an effective life of less than 

two months.3 Of course, this may change in the future as NASA pursues 

more efficient fuel cells for its human exploration program that could have 

remarkably long lives.4 Third, photovoltaic solar cells emerged in the 1960s 

as a useful alternative to batteries and fuel cells. They have a long life measured in years rather than weeks or months, and with additional refinement 

they have become the critical power generation technology for most spacecraft.5

 They have one important drawback, however: they require the Sun’s 

powerful light source to be effective. For spacecraft traveling into deep space 

beyond Mars, where the Sun becomes much less intense, photovoltaic systems up to this point have proven insufficient. This may change in the future 

in Space,” in Advances in Aeronautical Sciences, Vol. 4, Second International Congress in 

the Aeronautical Sciences, Proceedings, Zurich, Switzerland, Sept. 12–16, 1960 (New York: 

Pergamon Press, 1962), pp. 1131–1152.

2. Hyder et al., Spacecraft Power Technologies, p. 1. 

3. A. John Appleby, Fuel Cell Handbook (New York: Van Reinhold Co., 1989); Leo Blomen 

and Michael Mugerwa, Fuel Cell Systems (New York: Plenum Press, 1993); Barton 

C. Hacker and James M. Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans: A History of Project 

Gemini (Washington, DC: NASA Special Publication-1977-4203, 1977), pp. 148–152, 

208–215; Karl Kordesch and Günter Simader, Fuel Cells and Their Applications (New 

York: VCH, 1996); David L. Douglas and Herman A. Liebhafsky, “Fuel Cells: History, 

Operation, and Applications,” Physics Today 13, no. 6 (1960): 26–30; Karl V. Kordesch, 

“25 Years of Fuel Cell Development (1951–1976),” Journal of the Electrochemical Society

125, no. 3 (1978): 77C–91C;Marvin Warshay and Paul R. Prokopius, The Fuel Cell in 

Space: Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow (Cleveland, OH: Lewis Research Center, NASATM-102366, 1989); and Hyder et al., Spacecraft Power Systems, pp. 223–234. 

4. John H. Scott, “Fuel Cell Development for NASA’s Human Exploration Program: 

Benchmarking with ‘The Hydrogen Economy,’” Transactions of the ASME (2007): 8 pp., 

http://ntrs.nasa.gov/archive/nasa/casi.ntrs.nasa.gov/20070023719_2007023572.pdf (accessed 

24 October 2007). 

5. Hyder et al., Spacecraft Power Systems, pp. 71–149.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

333

as new technologies increase the efficiency of energy collection and power 

management, but past and present capabilities have not allowed their use.6

Accordingly, when requirements are for short mission times or systems do 

not require high power, chemical and/or solar energy may be used effectively 

to make electricity. But for the generation of high power levels over longer 

periods of time, especially farther away from the Sun, nuclear energy has thus 

far been the only way to satisfy mission requirements.

For this reason, as well as others of a more sublime nature, many spacecraft 

designers have adopted nuclear power technology as a means of powering 

spacecraft on long deep space missions. As the chief of NASA’s nuclear electric power program remarked in 1962: 

Basically, radioisotopes are of interest because they represent a compact source 

of power. The energy available in radioisotopes is many orders of magnitude 

larger than that available in batteries, and thus they constitute a unique, concentrated energy source that may be used for space purposes if design requirements are met. Radioisotope power is inherently reliable. It cannot be turned 

on or off. There are no moving parts of oriented arrays. It will provide heat 

energy in accordance with the fixed laws of radioactive decay. This heat is 

absorbed in a device that converts the heat directly into electricity.7

There are several types of nuclear power that could be employed, everything 

from small reactors to nuclear heaters to the dominant technology of radioisotope thermoelectric generators (RTGs). In those small space nuclear reactors, 

energy could be generated through controlled fission of uranium. The heat 

created through this process would then be used to power either a thermoelectric or a dynamic turbine or alternator conversion system. While excess 

heat would be dissipated through a radiator, electricity generated through this 

process would serve to power the spacecraft. These reactors had the capability to generate more than 100 kilowatts of electricity, making them much 

more powerful than other forms of energy generation in space, including 

RTGs. The simpler process of allowing the natural decay of an isotope and 

harnessing its heat to generate electricity with an RTG, however, has become 

the preferred method for supplying the power needs of American deep space 

probes; it has also been used on some Earth orbital and lunar spacecraft (see 

figures 5.1 and 5.2). It operates by releasing heat during the decay process 

6. “Why the Cassini Mission Cannot Use Solar Arrays,” JPL Fact Sheet, November 1996.

7. Fred Shulman, “The NASA Nuclear Electric Power Program,” in Morris A. Zipkin and 

Russell N. Edwards, eds., Power Systems for Space Flight (New York: Academic Press, 

1963), pp. 15–27, quotation from pp. 17–18.
334 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

of a suitable radioactive material which is then converted into electricity by 

means of an array of thermocouples, with the outer end of each thermocouple connected to a heat sink. Radioactive decay of the fuel produces heat 

that flows through the thermocouples to the heat sink, generating electricity in the process. The thermocouples are then connected through a closed 

loop that feeds an electrical current to the power management system of the 

spacecraft. Indeed, all U.S.-launched systems have used plutonium-238 for 

this purpose.8

In addition to its longevity, space nuclear power offers a significant saving 

in terms of mass associated with an individual mission when compared to 

the other possibilities. As policy analyst Steven Aftergood reports: “For all 

8. Steven Aftergood, “Background on Space Nuclear Power,” Science & Global Security 1, 

nos. 1–2 (1989–1990): 93–107.

Credit: NASA

FIGURE 5.1. Forty-one RTGs have been used successfully on 23 spacecraft since 

1961. This graphic shows the range of missions that have been powered by nuclear 

power sources. 
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

335

practical purposes, nuclear reactors are required when moderate to high levels 

of continuous power are required for an extended period.”9 Another observer, 

admittedly one committed to exploiting space nuclear power much more 

aggressively than has been done thus far, writes: 

Nuclear power has been used for deep space vehicles for over 40 years. RTGs 

have been used for spacecraft electrical power since 1961. All RTGs have operated as designed, both in normal operations and accident conditions. RTGs 

were designed carefully with consideration for the accident environments that 

might be experienced during every phase of the launch. The design requirement is to protect public and worker health and safety during all phases of 

operations during launch and accident conditions.10

These systems have provided power ranging from 2.7 watts on the very early 

systems to 500 watts on more recent flights.11 Even so, while RTGs have been 

a proven, reliable technology, they have fostered only relatively low power 

9. Ibid., p. 94.

10. Beverly A. Cook, “Making Space Nuclear Power a Reality,” 2005, p. 3, AIAA-2005-0101.

11. James H. Lee, “Aerospace Nuclear Safety: An Introduction and Historical Overview,” 

paper presented at the International Topical Meeting: Advanced Reactor Safety, 

Pittsburgh, PA, 17–21 April 1994. 

Credit: NASA

FIGURE 5.2. This figure compares the various types of power available for spacecraft. The longer the duration of the mission, the more necessary space nuclear 

power becomes.
336 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

efficiency—only about 7 percent at the beginning of the mission—and 

researchers have consistently sought to improve on that fact.12

Of course, the conversion of heat into electricity as done by an RTG is 

not a new concept. It was discovered more than 150 years ago by the German 

physicist Thomas Johann Seebeck, who first observed that electric voltage 

might be produced when two dissimilar but conductive materials were joined 

in a closed circuit and the two junctions were kept at different temperatures. 

These junctions gained the name thermocouples, and they generated electricity through the movement and interactions of the electrons the two materials. The thermocouples in RTGs therefore use heat from the natural decay of 

radioactive plutonium-238 to heat one material of the thermocouple, while 

the other remains cold from the temperatures in space, and electricity results 

from the interactions.13

Beginning in the late 1940s, several threads converged to make it possible 

to develop and use radioisotope thermoelectric generators. First, the Atomic 

Energy Commission (AEC) began to develop radioisotopes for atomic weapons. This prompted scientific research to understand the nature of the halflives of various isotopes, decay processes, and charge separation. Second, 

scientists began to experiment with the development of small nuclear power 

generators for a variety of uses on Earth, especially at the poles and under the 

seas where scientific instruments could be placed and left alone for months 

at a time. The first bench-test RTGs emerged from the Mound Laboratory 

(operated for the AEC by the Monsanto Research Corporation) in 1953 and 

quickly found application in Antarctica to power scientific research stations.14

Indeed, Mound scientists Kenneth Jordan and John Birden had hit upon the 

RTG as a possibility almost by accident. They had been frustrated in their 

efforts to use decaying radioactive materials to boil water to drive a steam turbine. They then decided to apply the thermocouple principle to harness heat 

12. David J. Anderson, Wayne A. Wong, and Karen L. Tuttle, “An Overview and Status of 

NASA’s Radioisotope Power Conversion Technology NRA,” p. 1, 2007, AIAA-2007-

0022221.

13. DOE Fact Sheet, “Space Radioisotope Power Systems: Multi-Mission Radioisotope 

Thermoelectric Generator,” April 2002.

14. B. C. Blanke and J. H. Birden, “Nuclear Battery—Thermocouple Type, Final Report,” 

Mound Laboratory, MLM-1106, AD 251119, 1960; M. Benedict and T. H. Pigford, 

Nuclear Chemical Engineering (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1957); B. C. Blanke, 

J. H. Birden, and K. C. Jordan, “Nuclear-Battery-Thermocouple Type Summary Report,” 

Monsanto Research Corp., MLM-1127, 1962; B. C. Blanke, “Nuclear-Thermocouple 

Conversion,” Proceedings of the 12th Annual Battery R&D Conference, 1958; K. C. Jordan 

and J. H. Birden, “Thermal Batteries Using Po-210,” Mound Laboratory, MLM-984, 

1954; and J. G. Morse, “Energy for Remote Areas,” Science 139, no. 3560 (1963): 

1175–1180.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

337

from decaying isotopes and, after working out the calculations quickly, built 

a successful model of an RTG. The Jordon/Birden principle soon became 

the basis for all radioisotope thermoelectric generators.15 Third, advances 

in thermoelectricity and semiconductors for the first time made the type of 

power source offered by RTGs feasible. As William R. Corliss and Douglas G. 

Harvey commented about this heady time in a 1964 textbook on the subject: 

“The right ingredients were present and the dough began to rise.”16

3. Origins of Nuclear Power Systems for Spaceflight

In the latter part of the 1940s, several engineers began to consider the possibility of using nuclear power sources for space exploration. The seminal 

document in this consideration appeared in 1946 from the newly established 

RAND Corporation on a “preliminary design of an experimental worldcircling spaceship,” exploring the viability of orbital satellites and outlining the technologies necessary for their success.17 It did not take long for 

scientists and engineers to graft nuclear power sources onto their considerations, and 1947 brought the first publications concerning the subject.18 By 

1949, a full-scale analysis by RAND had sketched out the large-scale use 

of nuclear power sources for satellites in Earth’s orbit.19 Beginning in 1951, 

at the request of the Department of Defense (DOD), the AEC sponsored 

research into nuclear power for spacecraft to support the Project Feedback 

study of the United States Air Force (USAF), leading to the development of a 

reconnaissance satellite. By June 1952, as reported in an early classified study 

of the effort, “preliminary results of the reactor analyses were available; all 

were favorable to the feasibility of the proposal.” This extensive and positive 

discussion of radioisotopic power for space application led to an exponential 

growth in interest in isotopic power for space satellites. A year later, in May 

1953, USAF Headquarters took the next step by authorizing development 

15. Carol Craig, RTG a Source of Power: A History of the Radioisotopic Thermoelectric Generators 

Fueled at Mound (Miamisburg, OH: Mound Public Relations, 1983).

16. William R. Corliss and Douglas G. Harvey, Radioisotope Power Generation (Englewood 

Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1964), p. 9.

17. Project RAND, Douglas Aircraft Company’s Engineering Division, “Preliminary Design 

of an Experimental World-Circling Spaceship,” SM-11827, 2 May 1946, RAND 

Corporation.

18. M. A. Greenfield and C. Starr, “Studies on Nuclear Reactors: Temperature Stability of an 

Epithermal Reactor,” NAA-SR-6, November 1947, North American Aviation, Inc.

19. S. L. Gender and H. A. Kock, “Auxiliary Power Plant for the Satellite Rocket: A 

Radioactive Cell-Mercury Vapor System to Supply 500 Watts for Durations of Up to 

One Year,” RAND Report, February 1949.
338 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

work on a nuclear power source for satellites. This research effort led directly 

to the nuclear power systems used on spacecraft in the early 1960s.20 The 

AEC oversaw this effort, pursuing two related avenues. The first led to a small 

nuclear reactor and the second to the RTG. Codenamed SNAP (for Systems 

for Nuclear Auxiliary Power), these systems were numbered with the odd 

numbers designating RTGs and even numbers for the reactors. For the RTGs, 

SNAP-1 was built at the Mound Laboratory under AEC supervision in 1954. 

It used a thermocouple heated by polonium (Po)-210 for fuel. Exceeding all 

expectations, SNAP-3 used advanced thermoelectric conversion devices with 

the first Po-210 fuel capsules; the capsules would soon become a standard in 

future RTGs. In the reactor arena, the SNAP-2 system used a 50-kilowatt 

reactor system weighing about 600 pounds and employing liquid NaK—a 

sodium (Na) and potassium (K) alloy—as a coolant to transfer heat through 

a mercury loop. This reaction—basic chemistry, really—produced 3 kilowatts 

of electricity. This led to the research on two additional space power units, 

SNAP-8 and SNAP-10, which emphasized a metal hydride reactor technology first used in SNAP-2.21

These efforts led to a long-standing record of success in meeting the electrical needs of deep space vehicles while offering both reliable and safe operations. As Richard Engler commented: 

The history of the radioisotope power program is basically a success sto[r]y, 

although it is certainly not one of linear success. The program was initiated 

by the AEC under impetus from the Department of Defense but first went 

public late in that decade as part of the “Atoms for Peace” movement, with 

President Eisenhower showing an atomic battery to the world and extolling 

its peaceful potential uses. Subsequently, while the Defense Department supported mostly test applications of the radioisotopic power devices in space, 

20. Robert L. Perry, “Origins of the USAF Space Program, 1945–1956” (Space Systems 

Division Supplement), in History of Deputy Commander (AFSC) for Aerospace Systems, 

1961, Vol. 5, ch. 3, Andrews Air Force Base, MD; available at http://www.fas.org/spp/

eprint/origins/part08.htm (accessed 26 October 2007). See also and Corliss and Harvey, 

Radioisotope Power Generation, pp. 10–11.

21. G. M. Anderson and F. H. Featherstone, “The SNAP Programme: U.S. AEC’s SpaceElectric Power Programme,” Nuclear Engineering 5 (October 1960): 460–463; William 

R. Corliss, “Nuclear Power in Outer Space,” Nucleonics 18 (August 1960): 58–60; 

William R. Corliss, “Parameters for Radioisotope Generator Design,” American Institute 

of Electrical Engineers, preprint CP 62-1239, 1962; R. C. Hamilton, “Auxiliary Power 

for Space Probes,” Astronautics 4 (August 1959): 30–34; and K. P. Johnson, “Power 

from Radioisotopes,” Atomic Energy Commission, AECU-4373, 1958; SNAP Nuclear 

Generator Press Kit (Washington, DC: Atomic Energy Commission, 26 June 1961), 

“Attachment 2: SNAP Fact Sheet,” note, p. 2.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

339

the program reached its pinnacle of success through uses by the civilian space 

agency, NASA.

This technology proved exceptionally quiet for most of its history, until the 

latter 1970s when concerns about all things nuclear erupted in the public 

consciousness. This was in part because it involved neither explosive power 

nor a human-built reactor to operate.22 Even so, it has been discussed at 

the highest levels of national discourse. President John F. Kennedy in 1961 

believed that nuclear power would be used to send an American into space, 

while “Nuclear Power will sustain him there.”23

The possibilities of space nuclear power first entered the public sphere 

in January 1959 when President Dwight D. Eisenhower posed for a photo 

op with an RTG in the Oval Office of the White House (see figure 5.3). It 

was SNAP-3, the AEC-developed power source that so many involved in the 

22. Richard E. Engler, “Atomic Power in Space: A History,” DOE/NE/32117-H1, 

Department of Energy, March 1987, p. 2.

23. Kennedy’s quotation appears in “Special Report on Nuclear Energy in Space,” Nucleonics 

19 (April 1961): cover.

Credit: Department of Energy

FIGURE 5.3. On 16 January 1959 this photograph appeared in Washington, DC, 

newspapers to show the president’s interest in radioisotope thermoelectric generators. President Dwight D. Eisenhower with officials from the Atomic Energy 

Commission examines in the Oval Office an RTG developed specifically to provide 

spacecraft with the power necessary to operate. 
340 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

space program pinned their hopes on for exploration of the solar system. AEC 

officials hailed this RTG as a “significant breakthrough”—one that was reliable, simple, flexible, and safe. Just as importantly, they said, “We can tailor 

the product to fit the customer.”24 In the context of the post-Sputnik hightechnology competition with the Soviet Union in the late 1950s, Eisenhower 

undoubtedly viewed this showing of the first RTG as a useful propaganda 

device, graphically demonstrating American technological verisimilitude. 

He emphasized that this nuclear device was not destructive; rather, it was 

a means of supporting peaceful scientific expeditions for ramifications for 

the positive development of humanity. Accordingly, the SNAP-3 served as a 

proof-of-concept for Eisenhower’s Atoms for Peace initiative, a positive use 

of nuclear technology around the globe. Its small size, inconspicuousness, 

and nonthreatening nature served Eisenhower well in helping to defuse the 

caustic international confrontations between the United States and the Soviet 

Union (see figure 5.4).25

RTGs have evolved over the past fifty years from the early SNAP systems 

to the current General Purpose Heat Source (GPHS) system that has flown 

on a wide range of NASA deep space missions. For instance, the Galileo mission to Jupiter contained two RTGs, while Ulysses had one RTG to power 

its systems. The GPHS had a thermal power of 4.4 kilowatts and contained 

a total plutonium mass of 9.4 kilograms.26 Because of the low wattage of 

these systems, all space probes flown by NASA have been power constrained. 

For example, the Cassini spacecraft launched to Saturn in 1997, with power 

supplied by three GPHS RTGs, has the most electrical power on board any 

deep space vehicle. But they produced only 900 watts of on-board electrical 

power at the time of launch. When compared to the number of 60-watt light 

bulbs in a normal home, the power for Cassini paled in comparison. To help 

resolve this constraint, a two-pronged effort has been pursued to enhance the 

24. “President Shows Atom Generator,” Evening Star (Washington, DC), 16 January 1959, 

p. 1.

25. “First Atom Battery Developed by U.S.,” Washington Post, 17 January 1959, p. 1; “5-Lb. 

Device Hailed as Big Breakthrough,” Evening Star, 16 January 1959, p. 1; and “Hearings 

Before Subcommittee of the Joint Committee on Atomic Energy Congress of the United 

States, Eighty-Fifth Congress Second Session on Outer Space Propulsion by Nuclear 

Energy,” 22 and 23 January and 6 February 1958.

26. Gary L. Bennett et al., “The General-Purpose Heat Source Radioisotope Thermoelectric 

Generator: Power for the Galileo and Ulysses Missions,” Proceedings of the 21st 

Intersociety Energy Conversion Engineering Conference, August 1986, Vol. 3, pp. 

1999–2011.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

341

wattage of RTGs and to economize on what may be accomplished with a 

limited amount of electricity.27

This research has led to a coordinated R&D effort, under the direction 

of the AEC (renamed the Department of Energy in 1977) and NASA, over 

many years to advance technology along a broad range of space power areas.

Basic research:

• Photovoltaic energy conversion

• Chemical energy conversion

• Thermal (nuclear) energy conversion

• Power management

• Thermal management

Focused research:

• Space nuclear power

• Surface power and thermal management

27. Cook, “Making Space Nuclear Power a Reality,” p. 1; and Robert E. Gold, Ralph 

L. McNutt Jr., Paul H. Ostdiek, and Louise M. Prockter, “Radioisotope Electric 

Propulsion As an Enabler of Comprehensive Reconnaissance of Small Bodies,” Spacecraft 

Reconnaissance of Asteroid and Comet Interiors (2006). 

Credit: NASA 

FIGURE 5.4. The figure provides a chronology of the major elements of space 

nuclear power since the 1950s. Radioisotope thermoelectric generators have satisfied the power generation need of deep space probes to explore the outer planets 

since the 1960s.
342 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

• Earth-orbiting platform power and thermal management

• Deep space probe power and thermal management

• Laser power beaming

• Mobile surface power systems

As Gary L. Bennett, the dean of space nuclear power at NASA, and electrical engineer Ronald C. Cull remarked in the context of NASA’s Space 

Exploration Initiative (SEI) in 1991:

The ongoing NASA research and technology program in space energy conversion provides a foundation from which to build the focused technology programs to meet the SEI power requirements. An augmented program focusing 

on space nuclear power, high capacity power, surface power and thermal management, Earth- orbiting platform power and thermal management, spacecraft power and thermal management for deep-space vehicles, laser power 

beaming, and mobile surface systems power has been defined to develop the 

specific focused technologies for SEI applications.28

4. Space Nuclear Power and the Early Satellite Efforts

The application of nuclear power to spaceflight really began in the 1950s, 

when the Navy, through its contractor, the Applied Physics Laboratory (APL) 

of Johns Hopkins University, developed the first RTGs for space applications. Specifically, Transit, the first navigation satellite, flew an RTG in 1965. 

Intended as a method of ensuring the capability of the inertial navigation systems of the U.S. Navy’s Polaris ballistic missile submarines, the Transit system 

promised 80–100 meter accuracy. Accordingly, it supported one-third of the 

nation’s strategic triad in enabling targeting and ensuring that the deterrent 

threat posed to the Soviet Union was real.29 It originated on 18 March 1958, 

when the APL’s Frank T. McClure wrote two memoranda to APL Director 

Ralph E. Gibson: “Yesterday I spent an hour with Dr. [William H.] Guier and 

Dr. [George C.] Weiffenbach discussing the work they and their colleagues 

have been doing on Doppler tracking of satellites. The principal problem 

28. Gary L. Bennett and Ronald C. Cull, “Enabling the Space Exploration Initiative: NASA’s 

Exploration Technology Program in Space Power.” (Washington, DC: NASA-TM-4325, 

1991), p. 11.

29. William H. Guier and George C. Weiffenbach, “Genesis of Satellite Navigation,” Johns 

Hopkins APL Technical Digest 1, no. 2 (1997): 178–181; and H. D. Black, R. E. Jenkins, 

and L. L. Pryor, “The TRANSIT System, 1975,” JHU/APL TG 1306 (Laurel, MD: Johns 

Hopkins University Applied Physics Laboratory, December 1976).
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

343

facing them was the determination of the direction in which this work should 

take in the future. During this discussion it occurred to me that their work 

provided a basis for a relatively simple and perhaps quite accurate navigation 

system.” Most important, McClure noted, it offered the solution to a vexing 

problem of genuine military significance during the Cold War.30

The first Transit satellite, Transit 1A, took off from the Space Operations 

Center at Cape Canaveral, Florida, on 17 September 1959 but failed during 

launch. A second satellite, Transit 1B, was launched on 13 April 1960 and 

operated for 89 days. There followed a succession of Transit satellites, with 

a general development of greater capability and longevity interspersed with 

failures of missions. An important and troubling issue was how to maximize 

the spacecraft’s useful service life on orbit—the best that the Navy could 

achieve seemed to be about a year with batteries and solar arrays.31 RTGs 

offered a ready alternative. As John Dassoulas of APL recalled: “I had been 

looking into the possibilities of isotopic power since we first began the Transit 

program. We had a five-year goal for the life of the operational Transit, and 

we weren’t confident that the hermetic seals on batteries would hold up for 

five years.”32

Dassoulas attended a space technology symposium in 1959 that prompted 

his conversion to the belief that nuclear space power had real potential for 

Transit. By happenstance, he sat on the airplane back to Washington, DC, 

near Col. G. M. Anderson of the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC). Their 

conversation led to a visit to the Martin Nuclear Division in Baltimore to 

learn more about the RTG program then under way. While the bench-test 

RTGs at Martin used polonium (Po-210) as a fuel source, with its relatively 

short half-life of 138 days, it led to longer-lived systems using plutonium 

(Pu-238) as the isotope of choice for the heat source. As two veterans of this 

project recalled: 

As word spread about a possible flight opportunity, many proposals, including 

some not so credible ones, were put forward. It was clear to those working the 

30. Frank T. McClure, quoted in Vincent L. Pisacane, “The Legacy of Transit: Guest Editor’s 

Introduction,” Johns Hopkins APL Technical Digest 19, no. 1 (1998): 5–10, quotation 

from p. 7.

31. Robert J. Danchik, “An Overview of Transit Development,” Johns Hopkins APL Technical 

Digest 19, no. 1 (1998): 18–26; Patrick W. Binning and Jay W. Middour, “A Brief History 

of NRL’s Early Firsts in Spaceflight,” AAS 07-327, 10 August 2007; and Bradford W. 

Parkinson, Thomas Stansell, Ronald Beard, and Konstantin Gromov, “A History of 

Satellite Navigation,” Navigation: Journal of the Institute of Navigation 42, no. 1 (1996): 

109–164.

32. John Dassoulas as quoted in Engler, “Atomic Power in Space,” p. 22.
344 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

spacecraft design that most of these proposals had not been developed with 

the entire system in mind. One alternative scheme proposed Strontium-90 

(90Sr) as the isotope of choice; however, it involved implementing a shield 

of mercury around the SNAP device (to protect the workers) that could presumably be drained off prior to launch. This would have imposed significant 

design constraints in safety, reliability, and weight that were clearly unacceptable. It should be noted that none of these suggestions came from the SNAP 

office of the AEC.33

In the end the Transit 4A and 4B satellites were provided with SNAP-3B 

power sources by the AEC. Both satellites also used solar cells supplying 

35 watts at the start of the mission in addition to the RTG. 

An early and persistent issue in the use of nuclear power sources for spacecraft was that of safety. It took time and energy to acquire approval to launch 

these nuclear systems, however. The first tests to assure the safety of RTGs 

for Transit spacecraft were conducted in the fall of 1960, and the DOD formally requested that the AEC initiate a program in February 1961 “to provide two plutonium-238 isotope-fueled generators for TRANSIT satellites to 

be launched in June and July.”34 A detailed safety analysis conducted under 

AEC auspices in March 1961 focused on potential hazards that might result 

from launch or reentry failures. It concluded that, because of the shielding 

developed for the RTG and the nature of the system itself, “if the radioisotope generator considered is launched in the trajectory proposed for Transit 

vehicles, it will not produce a significant radiation hazard.”35

The AEC’s Glenn Seaborg proved a persistent advocate for this mission. 

He officially asked the president on 6 May 1961 to approve the launch, citing 

the findings of a hazards study that “any danger to the public is extremely 

unlikely.” He added, “I call this to your attention since this first application of a nuclear auxiliary power source in space is likely to have a wide 

public impact.”36 The Department of State resisted this launch, in no small 

part because of its international implications, but the DOD and the AEC 

persisted and eventually succeeded in obtaining approval. Before the Transit 

33. John Dassoulas and Ralph L. McNutt Jr., “RTGs on Transit,” paper presented at Space 

Technology and Applications International Forum, February 2007, Albuquerque, NM.

34. John Graham, Acting Chairman of AEC, to Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, 10 May 

1961, DOE archives, Washington, DC.

35. D. G. Harvey and T. J. Dobry, Safety Analysis of the Transit Generator (Baltimore: The 

Martin Company, MND-P-2479, March 1961), p. vii; and AEC General Manager 

memorandum for Glenn Seaborg and the Commissioners, “Impact Test Results for the 

Transit Generator,” 22 April 1961, DOE archives.

36. Glenn Seaborg to Chet Holifield, JCAE Chair, date uncertain, DOE Archives.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

345

launch there had been no AEC protocol for delivery of Pu-238 for the integration tests; AEC officials hand-carried the RTG to the Applied Physics 

Laboratory in the trunk of a private automobile. Security stood guard over 

the system, and engineers completed their integration tests as quickly as possible. Thereafter, they delivered the RTG to Martin Nuclear in Baltimore, 

where it underwent shipment to Cape Canaveral.37

As this took place, the public learned of the impending launch of a 

nuclear power plant and organized a protest. Picking up on the high-level 

discussions inside the Kennedy administration, on 16 May 1961, the New 

York Times broke the story, suggesting that the “problem confronting the 

Administration...is not so much a technical decision as one of diplomatic, 

political, and psychological considerations.”38 Three days later, the New York 

Times pressed the issue, highlighting concerns from State Department officials “that in the event of an unsuccessful launching, the satellite, with its 

radioactive parcel, could fall on Cuba or some other Latin-American country.” They feared, in the politically charged involvement over the failed Bay of 

Pigs invasion of Cuba, that this would add fuel to any international incident 

that might result. Some even expressed concern that other nations might 

“take offense about having radioactive materials flown over their territory.”39

Accordingly, the DOD reconfigured Transit 4A to fly without the RTG, 

reluctantly accepting a lesser capability on orbit. The story differs as to how 

the approval finally came down to fly the RTG on Transit 4A. Some believed 

that it was the culmination of a month-long set of internal negotiations 

between the DOD and the State Department to proceed with the June 1961 

launch of Transit 4A, with final approval clearing the spacecraft for launch on 

23 May 1961.40 Others claimed that it contained the RTG only because of 

the intervention of President Kennedy, who personally gave an approval to 

proceed during a small dinner party at which Seaborg pled the case for the 

mission. Regardless, about two days before the scheduled liftoff, a military 

team flew the RTG from Baltimore to Patrick Air Force Base in Florida, 

where the launch team destacked the payload and inserted the SNAP-3 

system. The vehicle then launched from Launch Complex 17 on 29 June 

1961, and operated for 15 years before the satellite was finally shut down. 

37. Dassoulas and McNutt, “RTGs on Transit.”

38. “Nuclear Power Is a Space Issue,” New York Times, 16 May 1961.

39. “U.S. Hesitates to Use Atom Device in Satellite Flight Across Cuba,” New York Times, 19 

May 1961, p. 2.

40. Glenn T. Seaborg to DOE General Manager, 8 June 1961, Washington, DC; and Howard 

C. Brown Jr. to Glenn T. Seaborg, 23 June 1961, as cited in Engler, “Atomic Power in 

Space,” pp. 25, 125.
346 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Transit 4B followed on 15 November 1961 and operated until June 1962, 

when a thermoelectric converter in the power unit failed. The satellite ceased 

communications on 2 August 1962, but there were some reports of picking 

up telemetry from it as late as 1971.41

The launch of Transit 4A made headlines. The New York Journal-American

offered a positive story. It reported: “The successful orbiting of the nuclear 

device...gives American scientists a significant lead over Russia in the race to 

harness atomic power for space exploration.”42 Previous concerns voiced by 

officials from the State Department withered with the success of this flight, 

and serious intergovernmental opposition never found traction thereafter. By 

October, Seaborg was promoting the use of atomic power as the logical technology to power spacecraft. He asserted: 

The presence of the “atomic battery” in the satellite is a symbol of a “marriage” 

that was bound to occur—between Space and the Atom. We have known for 

some time that the two were made for each other. No one would be tempted, 

at the present time, to abandon other sources of energy for space. However, 

the atom has made greater strides toward coming of age for space application 

in the past few years than many of us could have hoped. The day is not far off 

when atomic energy will be available in many different packages for practical 

use in space vehicles.43

At the same time, he lobbied with Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, the 

chair of the Space Council, for greater use of space nuclear power. He argued 

that the success of the first mission could be replicated over and over, providing efficient power systems for spacecraft.44

The initial successes prompted the development of the Transit 5B series 

of satellites containing nuclear power sources. Launched atop Thor Able-Star 

41. S. J. De Amicis, Artificial Earth Satellites Designed and Fabricated by the Johns Hopkins 

University Applied Physics Laboratory, JHU/APL SDO 1600 (rev.) (Laurel, MD: Johns 

Hopkins University Applied Physics Laboratory, 1987); National Research Council 

(NRC), “Past U.S. Nuclear Power and Propulsion Programs,” Priorities in Space Science 

Enabled by Nuclear Power and Propulsion, Committee on Priorities for Space Science 

Enabled by Nuclear Power and Propulsion, Space Studies Board, National Research 

Council (Washington, DC: National Academies Press, 2006), Appendix A; and Dassoulas 

and McNutt, “RTGs on Transit.”

42. “3-in-1 Satellite Is World’s First,” New York Journal-American, 29 June 1961, p. 1.

43. Glenn T. Seaborg, “Nuclear Power and Space,” presentation at International Symposium 

on Aerospace Nuclear Propulsion, Hotel Riviera, Las Vegas, NV, AEC press release, 24 

October 1961, DOE archives.

44. Glenn T. Seaborg to Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, 4 November 1961; and Lyndon 

B. Johnson to Glenn T. Seaborg, 6 November 1961, both in DOE archives.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

347

rockets, Transit 5BN-1 reached orbit on 28 September 1963; but it achieved 

gravity-gradient stabilization upside down, which limited its signal output 

to the ground. Transit 5BN-2 was launched with an RTG power source on 

5 December 1963 and operated for approximately one year. The last RTGpowered navigation satellite, Transit 5BN-3, was launched on 12 April 1964 

but failed to achieve orbit, and its failure prompted widespread concern. 

As a U.S. GAO report noted in the latter 1990s: “In 1964, a TRANSIT 

5BN-3 navigational satellite malfunctioned. Its single RTG, which contained 

2.2 pounds of plutonium fuel, burned up during reentry into Earth’s atmosphere. This RTG was intended to burn up in the atmosphere in the event of 

a reentry.”45

It did, and this sent shock waves through the world community. The 

Atomic Energy Commission tried to assuage the public’s fears, reporting that 

“from previous safety analysis and tests it had been concluded the reentry 

will cause the plutonium-238 fuel to burn up into particles of about onemillionth of an inch in diameter. These particles will be widely dispersed...

and would not constitute a health hazard.”46 This proved too optimistic. One 

study concluded that “a worldwide soil sampling program carried out in 1970 

showed SNAP-9A debris present at all continents and at all latitudes.”47 As 

reported in New Scientist, within a decade after its reentry, atmospheric measurements “showed that about 5 percent of its plutonium-238 remained in 

the atmosphere. The activity of the release is about 10 percent of that of 

plutonium-239 released in all tests of nuclear weapons in the atmosphere up 

to now. It is the main source of plutonium-238 in the environment.”48

NASA’s economic impact statement, conducted in advance of the Cassini 

space launch in 1996, added: 

Since 1964, essentially all of the SNAP-9A release has been deposited on 

the Earth’s surface. About 25 percent...of that release was deposited in the 

northern latitudes, with the remaining 75 percent settling in the southern 

hemisphere.... The release into the atmosphere was consistent with the RTG 

design philosophy of the time. (Subsequent RTGs, including the RTGs on 

45. U.S. GAO Report, “Space Exploration: Power Sources for Deep Space Probes,” U.S. 

GAO/NSIAD-98-102, May 1998, p. 18. 

46. AEG press release, 22 April 1964, attached to a letter from Glenn Seaborg to the Executive 

Secretary, National Aeronautics and Space Council, 23 April 1964, DOE archives.

47. “Emergency Preparedness for Nuclear-Powered Satellites” (Paris: Organization for 

Economic Cooperation and Development and Swedish National Institute for Radiation 

Protection, 1990), p. 17.

48. “Ariadne,” New Scientist, 2 March 1991, p. 88. See also William J. Broad, “Fallout from 

Nuclear Power in Space,” Science 219, no. 4580 (1983): 38–39.
348 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the Cassini spacecraft, have been designed to contain the Pu-238 fuel to the 

maximum extent possible, recognizing that there are mass and configuration 

requirements relative to the spacecraft and its mission that must be considered with the design and configuration of the power source and its related 

safety requirements.)49

Such reports, and the concerns that they engendered, led to the development 

of a very rigorous testing and safety program and to the restriction of space 

nuclear power to only those missions for which it was absolutely critical.

Its immediate result was to prompt the Navy to rely thereafter on solarpowered satellites because of the many high-level approvals necessary to 

launch a nuclear power system and the safety hazard inherent in failure. Of 

the six objectives for this series of satellites listed here, only three were fully 

met (3, 4, and 5), while the remainder were at best partially resolved:

1. Provide a means by which U.S. Navy ships may navigate anywhere in 

the world.

2. Demonstrate satisfactory operation of all satellite subsystems.

3. Demonstrate satisfactory operation and potential long life capability of 

the SNAP 9-A power supply.

4. Improve our understanding of the effects of ionospheric refraction on 

radio waves.

5. Demonstrate satisfactory operation of the satellite-borne data injection 

memory system.

6. Increase knowledge of the Earth’s shape and gravitational field.

Each of these satellites contained a SNAP-9A power source: a cylinder 

30.48 centimeters in diameter by 20.32 centimeters high with four radiating fins, weighing 12.3 kilograms. They provided, when working correctly, 

25 watts at 6 volts for a projected satellite lifetime of five years in space.50

At the same time, the U.S. military flew one nuclear reactor in space, 

solely as a test program, in the mid-1960s. Designated SNAPSHOT, this 

mission was launched from Vandenberg Air Force Base, in California, on 

3 April 1965, with the SNAP-10A reactor. A heritage project based on earlier 

SNAP reactors, the 435-kilogram system produced 500 watts of energy for 

49. NASA Office of Space Science, “Cassini Final Environmental Impact Statement,” June 

1995, pp. 3–44, http://saturn.jpl.nasa.gov/spacecraft/safety/chap3.pdf (accessed 1 July 

2008). 

50. Gary L. Bennett, “Space Nuclear Power: Opening the Final Frontier,” AIAA 2006-4191, 

presentation at Fourth International Energy Conversion Engineering Conference and 

Exhibit (IECEC), San Diego, CA, 26–29 June 2006, pp. 3–4.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

349

one year. Precautions abounded for this test: for example, the reactor was 

not started until the spacecraft reached orbit. The test was successful until 

43 days into the mission, when a voltage regulator on the carrier vehicle, an 

Agena upper stage, failed, and the test had to be terminated.51 Thereafter, as 

Canadian nuclear policy analyst Michael Bein commented: 

The only U.S. satellite thus far to carry a nuclear fission reactor failed in 1965 

after 43 days aloft and was subsequently boosted into a 4,000-year orbit in 

order that its radioactivity might have time to decay to safer levels before it 

descends to Earth. Injection into higher orbit is the method of reactor “disposal” preferred by both the American and Soviet programs.52

5. Space Nuclear Power at High Tide

The period between the flights of the Transit navigational satellites and the 

flights of NASA’s outer planetary probes, Voyagers 1 and 2, in the late 1970s 

may best be characterized as the high tide of space nuclear power. During that 

time NASA flew no fewer than 14 RTGs, and the DOD operated another 

11, while the Soviet Union launched 20 on various spacecraft. These included 

RTGs on the Apollo lunar missions, the flights of Pioneers 10 and 11, the 

Viking missions to Mars, and the so-called “Grand Tour” of the solar system 

made by Voyagers 1 and 2. Throughout this period, furthermore, the technology evolved and became increasingly capable. Table 5.1 depicts the total 

number of RTGs launched to date by the United States on space missions.

Viewing the efforts of the DOD, NASA officials determined that, although 

the possible use of reactors for space power was rejected, RTGs would be 

helpful in its planetary exploration program. For example, as reported in the 

Atomic Energy Commission’s SNAP Fact Sheet: “NASA’s inquiries about 

using RTGs for Project Surveyor—the unmanned soft lunar exploration program—had led to work at the AEC on SNAP-11. This device, to be filled 

with curium-242, would weigh 30 pounds, and would provide a minimum 

of 18.6 watts of power continuously for 90-day lunar missions.”53 While 

51. Ibid., p. 5; D. W. Staub, “SNAP 10A Summary Report,” Atomics International Report 

NAA-SR-12073, 25 March 1967; S. S. Voss, “SNAP (Space Nuclear Auxiliary Power) 

Reactor Overview,” June 1982–December 1983, Air Force Weapons Lab, Kirtland AFB, 

NM, Final Report, copy in DOE History Office; and Steven Aftergood, “Nuclear Space 

Mishaps and Star Wars,” Bulletin of Atomic Scientists 42, no. 8 (1986): 40–43, esp. p. 40.

52. Michael Bein, “Star Wars and Reactors in Space: A Canadian View,” 1986, http://www.

animatedsoftware.com/spacedeb/canadapl.htm#ref28 (accessed 1 July 2008). 

53. “AEC SNAP Fact Sheet,” 1 September 1963, quoted in Engler, “Atomic Power in Space,” 

p. 34.
350 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

TABLE 5.1. U.S. Spacecraft Using Radioisotope Systems 

Spacecraft Power 

Source

No. 

RTGs* Mission Type Launch Date Status

Transit 4A SNAP-3 1 Navigational 29 Jun 1961 Currently in orbit

Transit 4B SNAP-3 1 Navigational 15 Nov 1961 Currently in orbit

Transit 5BN-1 SNAP-9A 1 Navigational 28 Sep 1963 Currently in orbit

Transit 5BN-2 SNAP-9A 1 Navigational 5 Dec 1963 Currently in orbit

Transit 5BN-3 SNAP-9A 1 Navigational 12 Apr 1964 Aborted; burned up

Nimbus B-1 SNAP-19 2 Meteorological 18 May 1968 Aborted; retrieved

Nimbus III SNAP-19 2 Meteorological 14 Apr 1969 Currently in orbit

Apollo 11 ALRHU Heater Lunar 16 Jul 1969 On lunar surface

Apollo 12 SNAP-27 1 Lunar/ALSEP 14 Nov 1969 On lunar surface

Apollo 13 SNAP-27 1 Lunar/ALSEP 11 Apr 1970 Aborted in Pacific

Apollo 14 SNAP-27 1 Lunar/ALSEP 31 Jan 1971 On lunar surface

Apollo 15 SNAP-27 1 Lunar/ALSEP 26 Jul 1971 On lunar surface

Pioneer 10 SNAP-19 4 Planetary 2 Mar 1972 Heliopause

Apollo 16 SNAP-27 1 Lunar/ALSEP 16 Apr 1972 On lunar surface

Triad-01-1X Transit-RTG 1 Navigational 2 Sep 1972 Currently in orbit

Apollo 17 SNAP-27 1 Lunar/ALSEP 7 Dec 1972 On lunar surface

Pioneer 11 SNAP-19 4 Planetary 5 Apr 1973 Heliopause

Viking 1 SNAP-19 2 Mars Lander 20 Aug 1975 On Martian surface

Viking 2 SNAP-19 2 Mars Lander 9 Sep 1975 On Martian surface

LES 8, LES 9 MHW-RTG 2, 2 Communication 14 Mar 1976 Currently in orbit

Voyager 2 MHW-RTG 3 Planetary 20 Aug 1977 Heliopause

Voyager 1 MHW-RTG 3 Planetary 5 Sep 1977 Heliopause

Galileo GPHS-RTG 2 Planetary 18 Oct 1989 Intentionally 

deorbited into 

Jupiter

Ulysses GPHS-RTG 1 Planetary 6 Oct 1990 Sun’s polar regions

Mars Pathfinder LWRHU Heater Mars Lander 4 Dec 1996 Operated on Mars

Cassini GPHS-RTG 3 Planetary 15 Oct 1997 Operating at Saturn

New Horizons GPHS-RTG 1 Planetary 19 Jan 2006 En route to Pluto

*All U.S. RTGs are fueled by plutonium-238; the SNAPSHOT reactor was fueled by 

uranium-235.

Source: Gary L. Bennett, James J. Lombardo, and Bernard J. Rock, “Development and Use 

of Nuclear Power Sources for Space Applications,” Journal of the Astronautical Sciences 29, 

no. 4 (1981): 321–342; Nicholas L. Johnson, “Nuclear Power Supplies in Orbit,” Space 

Policy 2, no. 3 (1986): 223–233; and Gary L. Bennett, “Space Nuclear Power: Opening the 

Final Frontier,” AIAA 2006-4191, presentation at Fourth International Energy Conversion 

Engineering Conference and Exhibit (IECEC), San Diego, CA, 26–29 June 2006, p. 2.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

351

NASA chose to forego RTG usage for Surveyor, the Agency adopted it for 

the Apollo lunar landing program. It had a willing partner in Glenn Seaborg 

and the AEG. A report advocating the use of RTGs emerged from the AEC 

in February 1964, emphasizing the appropriateness of space nuclear power 

for extended and deep space missions because the “performance of ambitious 

space missions will require amounts of reliable power so large that they can 

be achieved only from nuclear systems.”54 A similar report from NASA’s Jet 

Propulsion Laboratory in 1964 advocated the employment of RTGs to power 

deep space probes in cases where solar power would be insufficient to meet 

the needs of the spacecraft.55 In June 1965, NASA and the AEC reached 

agreement on the establishment of a joint Space Nuclear Systems Division. 

Harry Finger, the senior official working on space nuclear issues, emphasized 

the need “to develop systems that bracket as broad a range of potential mission uses as possible, and parallel with this, continue to push the technology 

into more advanced areas in order to try to improve the performance and life 

capability of these systems.”56

Even with this impetus, it took five years after the loss of Transit 5BN-3 for 

another RTG to reach orbit, and the effort to achieve it was slow and prickly. 

As never before, NASA weighed in to ensure the safety of the RTGs from 

any conceivable accident. The AEC was a willing accomplice, of course, and 

took this charge seriously. The management structure evolved to carry out 

this mission. First, the two organizations used the joint office to coordinate 

all efforts, giving it both authority and responsibility to conduct the program 

effectively and safely. Like the larger Apollo program, the joint office pursued 

RTG efforts with the same top-down leadership style that was so successful elsewhere, emphasizing configuration control and project management 

as the only true means of achieving acceptable results. This centralization 

of design, engineering, procurement, testing, construction, manufacturing, 

spare parts, logistics, training, and operations worked well. The approach was 

lauded in the November 1968 issue of Science magazine, the publication of 

the American Association for the Advancement of Science:

54. U.S. Atomic Energy Commission, “Systems for Nuclear Auxiliary Power: A Report by 

the Commission,” TID-201O3, February 1964.

55. Eric S. Pedersen, “Heat-Sterilizable Power Source Study for Advanced Mariner Missions,” 

JPL Technical Memorandum No. 33–780, 1 July 1964, NASA Center for Aerospace 

Information, Linthicum, MD.

56. “Agreement Between the Atomic Energy Commission and the National Aeronautics 

and Space Administration on Space Nuclear Systems,” draft prepared by AEC General 

Manager, 22 January 1965; and “AEC Creates Division of Space Nuclear Systems: Harold 

B. Finger Named Director,” AEC press release, 17 June 1965, both in NASA Historical 

Reference Collection.
352 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

In terms of numbers of dollars or of men, NASA has not been our largest 

national undertaking, but in terms of complexity, rate of growth, and technological sophistication it has been unique.... It may turn out that [the space 

program’s] most valuable spin-off of all will be human rather than technological: better knowledge of how to plan, coordinate, and monitor the multitudinous and varied activities of the organizations required to accomplish great 

social undertakings.57

Finger employed the same approach in building and flying the RTGs used 

in the Apollo program and other missions of NASA. The AEC’s Bernard Rock 

reflected on this approach to overseeing the RTG program and its influence 

on other activities of his organization: “My background was technical, but 

I soon saw how important management was in the NASA scheme of things 

and I sensed that this concern with management was correct. I went out 

and enrolled in some courses in engineering administration.... Apollo was 

many orders of magnitude greater in size and complexity than” other AEC 

programs and it was successful largely because of its rigorous management.58

The SNAP-27 RTG became the power supply for the Apollo Lunar Surface 

Experiments Package (ALSEP) that was left on the Moon by all Apollo missions but the first one (see figure 5.5). This was largely because of the scientific objectives of the Apollo program. Of course, the reasons for undertaking 

Apollo had little to do with furthering scientific understanding. Its impetus 

rested almost solely on Cold War rivalries and the desire to demonstrate technological verisimilitude to the peoples of all the nations of the world. Even so, 

a great deal of good scientific knowledge emerged from the exercise as scientists gained entrée to the program and maximized the scientific return on this 

investment. They succeeded in having established at each of the landing sites 

a self-contained experiments package that would measure, record and send 

data back to Earth on a variety of factors, such as seismic occurrences, surface vibrations, responses of the Moon to fluctuations in solar and terrestrial 

magnetic fields, and changes in the low concentrations of gas in the virtually 

nonexistent lunar atmosphere.59

Ongoing debates about the size and mass of experiments, as well as their 

power requirements, roiled the mission planning efforts throughout the mid1960s. The scientists agreed that the first investigations should relate to geology (especially sample collection), geochemistry, and geophysics. They also 

57. Dael Wolfe, “The Administration of NASA,” Science 163 (15 November 1968): 753.

58. Bernard Rock, as quoted in Engler, “Atomic Power in Space,” p. 59.

59. Edgar M. Cortright, ed., Apollo Expeditions to the Moon (Washington, DC: NASA SP1975-350, 1975), pp. 240–241. 
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

353

agreed that the early landings should focus on the return of as many diverse 

lunar rock and soil samples as feasible, the deployment of long-lasting surface 

instruments, and the geological exploration of the immediate landing areas 

by each crew. These could be expanded later to include surveys of the whole 

Moon and detailed studies of specific sites in the equatorial belt.60

The scientific “geeks” exploited this opportunity to place more than 50 

experiments on the various Apollo missions and, in the case of the last landing mission, to have one of their own, Harrison Schmitt, undertake fieldwork 

on the Moon. The science packages deployed on the Moon included the following types of experiments:

60. NASA 1965 Summer Conference on Lunar Exploration and Science, Falmouth, Massachusetts, 

July 19–31, 1965 (Washington, DC: NASA SP-88, 1965), pp. 7–12, 16–19. 

Credit: NASA

FIGURE 5.5. On the Moon in 1969, Apollo 12 astronaut Alan Bean prepares to load 

the plutonium-238 heat source in the SNAP-2 thermoelectric generator. This generator produced 73 watts of power for the Apollo Lunar Surface Experiments Package 

for nearly eight years. 
354 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

• Soil Mechanics Investigation studied the properties of the lunar soil 

(Apollo 11, 12, 14, 15, 16, and 17).

• Solar Wind Composition Experiment collected samples of the solar wind 

for analysis on Earth (Apollo 11, 12, 14, 15, and 16).

• Passive Seismic Experiment detected lunar “moonquakes” and provided 

information about the internal structure of the Moon (Apollo 11, 12, 

14, 15, and 16).

• Laser Ranging Retroreflector measured very precisely the distance 

between the Earth and the Moon (Apollo 11, 14, and 15).

• Lunar Dust Detector studied the effects of lunar dust on the operation 

of the experiment package (Apollo 11, 12, 14, and 15).

• Lunar Surface Magnetometer measured the strength of the Moon’s magnetic field (Apollo 11, 12, 15, and 16).

• Lunar Portable Magnetometer measured the strength of the Moon’s 

magnetic field (Apollo 14 and 16).

• Cold Cathode Gauge measured the abundance of gases in the lunar 

atmosphere (Apollo 12, 14, and 15).

• Suprathermal Ion Detector Experiment studied the lunar ionosphere 

(Apollo 12, 14, and 15).

• Solar Wind Spectrometer measured the composition of the solar wind 

(Apollo 12 and 15).

• Active Seismic Experiment provided information about the structure of 

the upper 100 meters of the lunar regolith (Apollo 14 and 16).

• Charged Particle Lunar Environment Experiment measured plasmas 

around the Moon (Apollo 14). 

• S-Band Transponder Experiment measured regional variations in the 

Moon’s gravitational acceleration (Apollo 14, 15, 16, and 17).

• Bistatic Radar Experiment measured scattering of radar waves from the 

lunar surface (Apollo 14).

• Heat Flow Experiment measured the amount of heat coming off of the 

Moon (Apollo 15, 16, and 17). 

• Metric and Panoramic Cameras provided systematic photography of the 

lunar surface (Apollo 15, 16, and 17).

• Laser Altimeter measured the heights of lunar surface features (Apollo 

15, 16, and 17).

• X-ray Fluorescence Spectrometer Experiment measured the composition 

of the lunar surface (Apollo 15, 16, and 17).

• Gamma-ray Spectrometer Experiment measured the composition of the 

lunar surface (Apollo 15, 16, and 17).

• Alpha Particle Spectrometer Experiment measured radon emission from 

the lunar surface (Apollo 15, 16, and 17).
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

355

• Orbital Mass Spectrometer Experiment measured the composition of the 

lunar atmosphere (Apollo 15, 16, and 17).

• Bistatic Radar Experiment measured the scattering of radar waves from 

the lunar surface (Apollo 15, 16, and 17).

• Subsatellite measured regional variations in the Moon’s gravitational 

acceleration and magnetic field and the distribution of charged particles around the Moon (Apollo 15, 16, and 17).

• Far Ultraviolet Camera/Spectrograph took pictures and spectra of astronomical objects in ultraviolet light (Apollo 16).

• Cosmic Ray Detector measured very high-energy cosmic rays from the 

Sun and other parts of our galaxy (Apollo 16 and 17).

• Active Seismic Experiment provided information about the structure of 

the upper 100 meters of the lunar regolith (Apollo 16 and 17).

• Lunar Surface Magnetometer measured how the strength of the Moon’s 

magnetic field varied over time (Apollo 16).

• Traverse Gravimeter Experiment measured how the Moon’s gravitational acceleration varied at different locations near the landing site, 

which helped to measure the thickness of the basalt layer in this region 

(Apollo 17).

• Lunar Neutron Probe measured the penetration of neutrons into the 

lunar regolith, which helped to measure the overturn rate of the regolith (Apollo 17).

• Surface Electrical Properties measured the propagation of electrical 

waves through the lunar crust (Apollo 17).

• Lunar Seismic Profiling Experiment provided information about the 

structure of the upper kilometer of the lunar crust (Apollo 17).

• Lunar Atmospheric Composition Experiment measured the composition 

of the Moon’s tenuous atmosphere (Apollo 17).

• Lunar Ejecta and Meteorites Experiment measured the impact of small 

meteorites on the Moon (Apollo 17).

• Lunar Surface Gravimeter attempted to detect gravity waves (Apollo 17).

• Apollo Lunar Sounder Experiment used radar to study the structure of 

the upper kilometer of the lunar crust (Apollo 17).

• Ultraviolet Spectrometer Experiment studied the composition of the 

lunar atmosphere (Apollo 17).

• Infrared Radiometer measured the cooling of the Moon’s surface at 

night as a way to determine the physical properties of the lunar soil 

(Apollo 17).
356 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Collectively, these experiments yielded more than 10,000 scientific papers 

and a major reinterpretation of the origins and evolution of the Moon.61

The Bendix Aerospace Systems Division developed the Apollo Lunar 

Surface Experiments Package (ALSEP) to support these activities, to be 

powered by a Pu-238-fueled, 75-watt isotopic power unit built by General 

Electric. This unit later had to be downsized to 50 watts, and ultimately the 

SNAP-27 was useful only when armed by an astronaut during extravehicular 

activity (EVA). It would therefore provide power on the Moon throughout 

the long (14-Earth-day) lunar night for the ALSEP but could not be used 

on robotic missions.62 All but Apollo 11 used the SNAP-27, and that first 

mission used a smaller, nuclear heating unit. George E. Mueller, NASA’s 

Associate Administrator for Manned Space flight, explained why:

We have sharpened the focus on some of the problems involved. The first 

landing mission represents a large step from orbital operations.... The 1⁄6 g 

lunar surface environment will be a new experience. We cannot simulate it 

completely on Earth. We find that we simply do not have as much metabolic 

data as we would like in order to predict with high confidence, rates in a 

1⁄6 g environment. Only educated guesses are possible on the difficulties the 

astronaut will have in maneuvering on the surface or the time it will take him 

to accomplish assigned tasks.... The decision not to carry ALSEP on the first 

mission is due to the time necessary for deployment and not to any concern of 

operating with the RTG. You have the strongest advance assurance I can give 

61. Donald A. Beattie, Taking Science to the Moon: Lunar Experiments and the Apollo Program

(Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), pp. 252–253; Bevan M. 

French, “The New Moon: A Window on the Universe,” n.d., unpublished paper, Bevan 

M. French Biographical Files, NASA Historical Reference Collection; Sen. Frank Moss, 

“The Value of Lunar Science,” Congressional Record, 29 January 1976, p. S797; William 

K. Stevens, “Lunar Science Thrives in Wake of Apollo,” New York Times, 17 July 1979, 

pp. C-1, C-3; Bevan M. French, What’s New on the Moon (Washington, DC: NASA 

EP-131, 1977); Carlton C. Allen, Richard V. Morris, and David S. McKay, “Oxygen 

Extraction from Lunar Soils and Pyroclastic Glass,” Journal of Geophysical Research 101, 

no. E11 (1996): 26,085–26,095; William H. Gregory, “Data Show Moon As Ever 

More Complex,” Aviation Week & Space Technology, 16 April 1973, pp. 38–43; Billy 

Goodman, “Apollo’s Geology Lesson,” Air & Space (June–July 1994): pp. 42–51; and 

Louis Varricchio, “Inconstant Moon—A Brief History of U.S. Lunar Science from 1840 

to 1972,” unpublished paper in NASA Historical Reference Collection.

62. J. R. Bates, W. W. Lauderdale, and H. Kernaghan, “ALSEP Termination Report,” NASA 

Reference Publication 1036 (Washington, DC: NASA, 1979); A. A. Pitrolo, B. J. Rock, 

W. C. Remini, and J. A. Leonard, “SNAP-27 Program Review,” in Proceedings of the 

Fourth Intersociety Energy Conversion Engineering Conference, 22–26 September 1969, 

Washington, DC.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

357

that ALSEP will be carried on the second mission. I also foresee significant 

RTG use in the future as lunar exploration progresses.63

The first use of the RTG on Apollo 12 proved a moment of truth for its proponents. Not that they were unconcerned for the safety of the astronauts—

all precautions were taken, but the crew had trouble deploying the system. 

Astronaut Alan Bean easily deployed the ALSEP as intended, but he could not 

activate the RTG. As Mission Commander Pete Conrad relayed to Mission 

Control: “It really gets you mad, Houston.... Al put the tool on, screwed it 

all the way down and the fuel element would not come out of the kit. He’s 

taking the tool off and working it again.” Bean added: “I tell you what worries 

me, Pete. If I pull on it too hard, it’s a very delicate lock mechanism...just 

get the feeling that it’s hot and swelled in there or something. It doesn’t want 

to come out.... Come out of there, rascal.” Bean used a common technique 

when frustrated by a mechanical device—he got a hammer. That sent the 

RTG staff into a spin, but his light taps were sufficient to dislodge the fuel 

capsule and activate the RTG. The SNAP-27 then began to produce power 

for the ALSEP as intended and operated thereafter without any problem. The 

first use of an RTG on a human mission was successful.64

In no small measure because of the ALSEP’s capacity for sustained operation, the Apollo program proved one of the most significant scientific expeditions ever undertaken. Lunar geologist Don Wilhelms commented on the 

state of knowledge about the Moon resulting from Apollo in his outstanding 

1993 recollection, To a Rocky Moon: 

I think that to a first approximation we can summarize the geologic style of 

the Moon very simply. Primary and secondary impacts, helped by a little lava 

and minor faulting, have created almost the entire range of lunar landforms. 

The cosmic impact catastrophes have alternated with gentle volcanic extrusions and an occasional fire fountain originating deep in the Moon’s interior. Horizontal plate motions like those of Earth are unknown on the Moon. 

Vertical motions are more important, but only in the settling of the mare mascons and in the rise of crater floors that are not loaded with mare basalt. The 

Moon’s face has been molded by the rise of basaltic magmas into receptacles 

63. George E. Mueller to Glenn T. Seaborg, 13 November 1968, NASA Historical Reference 

Collection.

64. Cortright, Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, p. 225; “Exuberance Sets Tone of First EVA,” 

Aviation Week & Space Technology, 24 November 1969, pp. 19–21; and “Scientists 

Concede Value of Man in Lunar Experiment Deployment,” Aviation Week & Space 

Technology, 1 December 1969, pp. 20–21.
358 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

dug in plagioclase-rich terra material by impacts. The Moon is neither cosmic 

exotica nor a little Earth.65

As reported in Science in 1973: “Man’s knowledge of the Moon has been 

dramatically transformed during the brief 31⁄2 years between the first and last 

Apollo landing[s].”66

The only other difficulty with the RTGs used in the Apollo program came 

as a result of the failure of Apollo 13 and the near-loss of the crew. Like its 

sister missions, Apollo 13 had an ALSEP on the lunar module powered by 

an RTG that would have been left on the Moon had the mission not been 

aborted. As it was, the lunar module returned to Earth with the capsule and 

crew and was jettisoned over the Pacific Ocean prior to the crew’s reentry 

into the atmosphere. It was targeted for the Tonga Trench, one of the deepest 

points in the Pacific, and all evidence suggests that the RTG impacted the 

ocean as intact. Crews trolled the area in search of debris, measuring radioactivity in the area. They found none. Everyone involved in the investigation agreed that the lunar module had broken up on reentry, as anticipated, 

but that the graphite-encased plutonium-238 fuel cask survived the breakup 

and went down intact to more than 20,000 feet in the depths of the Tonga 

Trench. Some RTG insiders went on television to reassure the public that no 

one was in danger from the RTG. Even so, there was not much public outcry. 

One AEC engineer close to the program recalled that he received only 

two questions about this potential safety issue; he assured them that there 

was no reason for concern. The AEC issued a statement about two weeks 

after the Apollo 13 mission, indicating that “air sampling over the predicted 

impact area of the SNAP-27 fuel cask freed from the Apollo 13 lunar module 

showed no traces of radiation above that already present in the atmosphere. 

The absence of additional radiation indicates that the cask containing the plutonium fuel survived as designed the heat of reentry, impacted in the South 

Pacific intact and sank to the ocean bottom.”67 Some antinuclear power activists never accepted this conclusion, but no compelling evidence to the contrary has ever been brought forward.

A major shift in the use of space nuclear power came with NASA’s decision 

to pursue outer-planetary exploration. In the early 1960s several scientists 

65. Don E. Wilhelms, To a Rocky Moon: A Geologist’s History of Lunar Exploration (Tucson: 

University of Arizona Press, 1993), p. 344.

66. Allen L. Hammond, “Lunar Science: Analyzing the Apollo Legacy,” Science 179, no. 

4080 (1973): 1313–1315.

67. Director, AEC Public Information, “Response to Queries On SNAP-27 Reentry,” 28 

April 1970, DOE History Office; and Beattie, Taking Science to the Moon, pp. 130–131.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

359

realized that once every 176 years, both the Earth and all the giant planets 

of the solar system gather on one side of the Sun, making possible closeup observation of all the planets in the outer solar system in a single flight. 

This geometric line-up made up Voyager’s so-called “Grand Tour.” Moreover, 

the flyby of each planet would bend the spacecraft’s flight path and increase 

its velocity enough to deliver it to the next destination. This would occur 

through a complicated process known as “gravity assist,” something like a 

slingshot effect, whereby the flight time to Neptune could be reduced from 

30 to 12 years. Such a configuration was due to occur in the late 1970s, and 

it led to one of the most significant space-probe efforts undertaken by the 

United States.68

For such a lengthy mission, NASA would need a long-lasting power 

source. Solar power would not work because of the distance from the Sun; the 

logical, perhaps the only realistic, answer was to use RTGs to generate power 

on the spacecraft. To prepare the way for a more extensive Grand Tour, NASA 

conceived Pioneer 10 and Pioneer 11 as outer solar system probes stripped 

bare through successive budgetary constraints that forced a somewhat less 

ambitious effort than originally intended (see figure 5.6). Both were small 

nuclear-powered, spin-stabilized spacecraft that Atlas–Centaur launched. 

Pioneer 10 was launched on 3 March 1972. It arrived at Jupiter on the night 

of 3 December 1973, and although many were concerned that the spacecraft 

might be damaged by intense radiation discovered in Jupiter’s orbital plane, 

the spacecraft survived, transmitted data about the planet, and continued on 

its way out of the solar system, away from the center of the Milky Way galaxy.

In 1973, NASA launched Pioneer 11, providing scientists with their first 

close-up view of Jupiter. The close approach and the spacecraft’s speed of 

107,373 miles per hour, by far the fastest ever reached by an object launched 

from Earth, hurled Pioneer 11 across the solar system some 1.5 billion 

miles toward Saturn, where it encountered the planet’s south pole within 

26,600 miles of its cloud tops in December 1974. In 1979, Pioneer 11 again 

encountered Saturn, this time passing within 13,000 miles of the planet, where 

it discovered two new moonlets and a new ring, and charted Saturn’s magnetosphere, its magnetic field, its climate and temperatures, and the general 

68. Henry C. Dethloff and Ronald A. Schorn, Voyager’s Grand Tour: To the Outer Planets and 

Beyond (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2003); Richard L. Dowling, 

William J. Kasmann, Michael A. Minovitch, and Rex W. Ridenoure, “The Origin of 

Gravity-Propelled Interplanetary Travel,” in J. D. Hunley, ed., History of Rocketry and 

Astronautics: Proceedings of the Twenty-fourth History Symposia of the International Academy 

of Astronautics, Vol. 19, AAS History Series (San Diego: Univelt, Inc., 1997), pp. 63–

102; Gary A. Flandro, “Discovery of the Grand Tour Voyager Mission Profile,” in Mark 

Littmann, ed., Planets Beyond (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1988), pp. 95–98.
360 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

structure of its interior. In 1990, Pioneer 11 officially departed the solar 

system by passing beyond Pluto and heading toward interstellar space at the 

center of the Milky Way galaxy. Pioneer 11 ended its mission 30 September 

1995, when the last transmission from the spacecraft was received.69

69. Mark Wolverton, The Depths of Space: The Pioneers Planetary Probes (Washington, DC: 

Joseph Henry Press, 2004); Robert Hotz, “The Last Liftoff,” Aviation Week & Space 

Technology, 11 December 1972, p. 17; “Pioneer 10 Blazes Path to Jupiter, Beyond,” 

Aviation Week & Space Technology, 10 December 1973, p. 21; “Pioneer 11 Retargeted 

for Saturn Encounter,” Aviation Week & Space Technology, 25 March 1974, p. 18; “Use of 

Isotopic Nuclear Systems on the NASA PIONEER Spacecraft” (staff paper), 30 December 

1971, DOE Archives; “Pioneer’s Success Buoys Saturn Hopes,” Aviation Week & Space 

Technology, 9 December 1974, p. 16; Palmer Dyal, “Pioneers 10 and 11 Deep Space 

Missions,” NASA Technical Memorandum 102269, February 1990, NASA Center for 

Aerospace Information, NASA HQ, Washington, DC; Charles F. Hall, “Pioneer 10 and 

Pioneer 11,” Science 188, no. 4187 (1975): 445–446; and J. W. Dyer, “Pioneer Saturn,” 

Science 207, no. 4429 (1980): 400–401.

Credit: NASA

FIGURE 5.6. The Pioneer 10 and 11 spacecraft, launched in 1972 and 1973, respectively, used RTGs to power them on their voyages to Jupiter and Saturn. Four RTGs 

are mounted on two booms extending from the spacecraft, shown here in tandem. 
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

361

Earth received Pioneer 10’s last, very weak signal on 22 January 2003. The 

last time a Pioneer 10 contact actually returned telemetry data was 27 April 

2002. At last contact, Pioneer 10 was 7.6 billion miles from Earth, or 82 times 

the nominal distance between the Sun and Earth. At that distance it takes 

more than 11 hours and 20 minutes for the radio signal, traveling at the speed 

of light, to reach Earth. The spacecraft will continue to coast silently as a ghost 

ship into interstellar space, heading generally toward the red star Aldebaran, 

which forms the eye of the constellation Taurus (The Bull). Aldebaran is about 

68 light years away. It will take Pioneer 10 more than two million years to 

reach it. “From Ames Research Center and the Pioneer Project, we send our 

thanks to the many people at the Deep Space Network (DSN) and the Jet 

Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) who made it possible to hear the spacecraft signal 

for this long,” said Pioneer 10 Flight Director David Lozier at the time of the 

last contact.70

Both Pioneer 10 and 11 were remarkable space probes, stretching from a 

30-month design life cycle into a mission of more than 20 years and returning useful data not just about the Jovian planets of the solar system but also 

about some of the mysteries of the interstellar universe.71 The program—perhaps this is an understatement—was a huge success. Such success would not 

have resulted without the four RTGs on each spacecraft providing power. 

Each Pioneer spacecraft employed four SNAP-19 generators as the sole power 

source mounted in tandem pairs on extendable booms 120 degrees apart. As 

stated in the SNAP-19 final report: 

For this first all-nuclear power application in outer space, each RTG is required 

to produce 30 watts at high probability (0.995) at Jovian encounter, which is 

specified to occur up to 36 months after delivery to NASA. This performance 

is to be achieved in accord with the constraints of 38 to 42.5 watts at delivery 

and a maximum weight of 30.5 pounds. The flight time through the asteroid 

belt and up to encounter with Jupiter is between 20 and 30 months. Thus, 

the 36-month specification includes six months operation (most with RTG 

output shorted) prior to launch and the maximum travel time. 

70. “Pioneer 11 to End Operations after Epic Career,” NASA press release, 29 September 

1995, NASA Historical Reference Collection.

71. Richard O. Fimmel, James A. Van Allen, and Eric Burgess, Pioneer: First to Jupiter, 

Saturn, and Beyond (Washington, DC: NASA SP-1980-446, 1980); Richard O. Fimmel, 

William Swindell, and Eric Burgess, Pioneer Odyssey (Washington, DC: NASA SP-1977-

396, 1977); and “Farewell Pioneer 10: Spacecraft Sends Its Last Signal,” Space Times: 

Magazine of the American Astronautical Society 42 (May–June 2003): 19.
362 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

This report added: “The fuel is in the form of pucks, about 2 inches in diameter and 0.2 inch thick, of plutonium moly cermet (PMC). Eighteen pucks 

comprise a complete fuel stack for the capsule.”72

The spacecraft also had a dozen radioisotope heater units (RHUs), each 

generating 1 watt, to heat components in space. They were strategically placed 

in the Thruster Cluster Assembly, near the Sun sensor, and at the magnetometer. There was no problem with the long-term power capabilities of these 

RTGs. As one account of the mission noted: “The spacecraft continued to 

make valuable scientific investigations in the outer regions of the solar system 

until routine tracking of the probe was stopped on 31 March 1997, for budgetary reasons, and NASA formally decommissioned it.”73

In the meantime, NASA technicians prepared to launch what became 

known as the Voyager probes. Even though the four-planet mission was 

known to be possible, it soon became too expensive to build a spacecraft that 

could go the distance, carry the instruments needed, and last long enough 

to accomplish such an extended mission. Thus, the two Voyager spacecraft 

were funded to conduct intensive flyby studies of Jupiter and Saturn only—

in effect repeating on a more elaborate scale the flights of the two Pioneers. 

Nonetheless, the engineers designed as much longevity into the two Voyagers 

as the $865-million budget would allow. NASA launched them from the 

Kennedy Space Center, Florida: Voyager 2 lifted off on 20 August 1977, and 

Voyager 1 entered space on a faster, shorter trajectory on 5 September 1977. 

The three RTGs on the two Voyagers each weighed 56 kilograms, had a diameter of 42.2 centimeters, and a length of 114 centimeters. Like the SNAP-27 

that served as a power source on the Moon during the Apollo mission, this 

RTG consisted of a cylindrical fuel supply surrounded by rings of thermocouples. Again, there were cooling fins attached to the cold shoes of the thermocouples. Using plutonium-238 as the fuel source, as in previous missions, 

these elements were shaped so that each pellet produced approximately 250 

watts of thermal power. 

The fuel modules were encased in a heat- and impact-resistant shell 

designed to prevent a vehicle accident from releasing plutonium. The testing 

on this power source showed that the RTG containers would remain intact 

even in a launch-vehicle explosion or a reentry accident.74 As the mission 

72. Teledyne Isotopes, “SNAP 19 Pioneer F & G Final Report,” IESD 2873-172, DOE 

Report, June 1973, pp. I-1-I-5. 

73. “Pioneer 10: Last Signal Sent from RTG-powered Spacecraft,” Nuclear News (April 

2003): 65–67.

74. Francis de Winter, Gerhard Stapfer, and Enrique Medina, “The Design of a Nuclear 

Power Supply with a 50 Year Life Expectancy: The JPL Voyager’s SiGe MIIW RTG,” 

paper presented at 1999 IECEC, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada; Martin Marietta 
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

363

progressed, having successfully accomplished all its objectives at Jupiter and 

Saturn by December 1980, additional flybys of the two outermost giant 

planets, Uranus and Neptune, proved possible—and irresistible—to mission scientists. Accordingly, as the two spacecraft flew across the solar system, 

remote-control reprogramming was used to redirect the Voyagers for the 

greater mission. Eventually Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 explored all the giant 

outer planets, 48 of their moons, and the unique systems of rings and magnetic fields those planets possess.75

The two spacecraft returned information to Earth that has revolutionized 

solar-system science, helping resolve some key questions while raising intriguing new ones about the origin and evolution of the planets. The two Voyagers 

took well over 100,000 images of the outer planets, rings, and satellites as 

well as millions of magnetic, chemical spectra, and radiation measurements. 

They discovered rings around Jupiter, volcanoes on Io, shepherding satellites 

in Saturn’s rings, new moons around Uranus and Neptune, and geysers on 

Triton. The last imaging sequence was Voyager 1’s portrait of most of the solar 

system, showing Earth and six other planets as sparks in a dark sky lit by a 

single bright star, the Sun. Now traveling out of the solar system in the early 

21st century, Voyager 2 has reached the heliopause and sent back the first 

information ever received from the outer boundary of our solar neighborhood. It revealed that at a distance of 83.7 astronomical units the spacecraft 

had five encounters with the termination shock, something unexpected as it 

passed into interstellar space.76

As of 2015, Voyager has continued to return scientific data. 

Communications remain possible until its nuclear power sources can no 

longer supply enough electricity to power critical subsystems. Originally built 

to explore Jupiter and Saturn, Voyager 1 is today farther from Earth than any 

other human-made object and speeding outward at more than 38,000 miles 

per hour. Both spacecraft carry phonograph records (primitive DVDs) that 

contain sounds and images portraying the diversity of life and culture on 

Earth. Perhaps 40,000 years from now, when the Voyager spacecraft come 

within the vicinity of nearby stars, these records will be discovered and played 

by an intelligent alien being, if such exists. On the 22 April 1978 broadcast 

Corporation, Denver Division, “Viking 75 Project Mission Planning Handbook,” 

Contract No. NAS1-9000, June 1974, HB-3720438, JPL 49, Box 9, folder 126, JPL 

Archives, Pasadena, CA; and Langley Research Center, Viking Project Office, “Viking 

75 Project Plan,” n.d. [1975], M75-131-1, JPL 49, Box 3, folder 36, JPL Archives, 

Pasadena, CA.

75. Dethloff and Schorn, Voyager’s Grand Tour. 

76. “Scientific Exploration: What a Long, Strange Trip It’s Been,” Nature 454 (3 July 2008): 

24–25; and Ron Cowen, “Postcards from the Edge,” Science News, 5 July 2008, pp. 8–10.
364 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

of the television program Saturday Night Live, comedian Steve Martin breathlessly announced that extraterrestrials had found the record and sent back 

the message “Send more Chuck Berry.”77 Again, such success would not have 

resulted without the RTGs on each spacecraft providing electrical power.

One observer has called the 1970s the “golden age” of planetary science, 

perhaps a bit of an overstatement, but appropriate in certain ways in part 

because of the power capabilities of the RTGs placed on planetary probes.78

Virtually every year in that decade brought the launch of at least one major 

planetary probe and the start of several others that were not launched until 

the late 1980s.79 Indeed, 12 planetary probes launched during the 1970s visited all of the planets of the solar system, some landing on such bodies as 

Mars. The solar system exploration program of the 1970s was the stuff of 

legend and myth, in some measure because of its success. Yet it was also much 

more. It represented a rich harvest of knowledge about Earth’s neighboring 

planets, a transformation of our understanding of the solar system’s origin 

and evolution, and a demonstration of what might be accomplished using 

limited resources when focusing on scientific goals rather than large human 

spaceflight programs aimed at buttressing American prestige.80

6. Reconsideration and Retrenchment

From the very first conceptualization of space, nuclear power engineers worried about its safety. Even more than nuclear reactor power plants and submarines powered by nuclear reactors, the challenges of ensuring the safety of 

individuals in the event of catastrophe consumed the designers and builders 

of RTGs. The AEC used plutonium-238 as the fuel of choice for RTGs primarily because it emits “alpha” particles, known to be the least-penetrating 

type of radiation, incapable of supporting a chain reaction, and sustaining a 

77. David Samuels, “Alien Tongues,” in Debbora Battalia, ed., E.T. Culture: Anthropology in 

Outerspaces (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005), pp. 112–113.

78. Robert S. Kraemer, Beyond the Moon: A Golden Age of Planetary Exploration, 1971–1978

(Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2000).

79. There were launches in 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, and 1978.

80. As Representative George E. Brown Jr. (D-CA) remarked in a speech to the National 

Academy of Sciences in 1992, “it is also important to recall that some of our proudest 

achievements in the space program have been accomplished within a stagnant, no-growth 

budget. The development of...the Viking lander, Voyagers I and II, Pioneer Venus...

were all carried out during the 1970s, when the NASA budget was flat. It would be wise 

to review how we set priorities and managed programs during this productive time.” 

(George E. Brown Jr., Remarks, 9 February 1992, copy in NASA Historical Reference 

Collection.)
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

365

long half-life.81 This meant that the danger to living organisms rested with 

ingesting radioactive particles dispersed in the atmosphere should the capsule 

containing the fuel be breached in an explosion on launch or during a reentry. 

The key to safety therefore relied on redoubling efforts to ensure successful 

launches and hardening the containers in the event of catastrophe. 

Extensive and ongoing tests by the AEC/DOE on a successive generation 

of plutonium-238 fuel capsules served to lessen this danger to the extent that 

nuclear space power’s advocates have argued it had little risk. As one statement from an engineering firm working on this technology stated: 

The potential hazard is essentially zero. The fuel modules are unlikely to be 

bre[a]ched in any accident, but even if all of the coatings and containers were 

to fail, there is little chance that any person would consume enough material 

to cause any health consequences. Plutonium oxide is a dense and relatively 

nonreactive material; it is most likely that it would rapidly fall out of the air 

and sink to the bottom of the ocean.82

The Atomic Energy Commission, later the DOE, also enforced a rigorous 

process of reviews and approvals to obtain permission to launch an RTG on 

a mission. Its regulators forever questioned every aspect of the construction 

of the hardware, the safety of the transporting and handling, the placement 

of the RTGs on the spacecraft, the reliability of the launch vehicles, and the 

conduct of the mission as a whole.83

For the first decade and a half of space nuclear power, the public—even 

though it had an interest in the risk that RTGs and space nuclear reactors 

portended—did not register serious misgivings about the use of this technology in space. This changed rather dramatically in the later 1970s in response 

to two incidents, one directly bearing on space operations and the other a 

dramatic ground accident. On 24 January 1978, the Soviet Cosmos 954 

reentered the atmosphere, spreading thousands of pieces of radioactive debris 

over more than 100,000 square kilometers of northwest Canada. A few of the 

recovered fragments showed a high degree of radioactivity. “The Cosmos 954 

reactor included 110 pounds of highly enriched uranium 235,” according 

to the Time story reporting on the incident. “This is a long-lived fuel whose 

‘half-life’—the time it takes for half the material to lose its radioactivity—is 

81. “What Is Plutonium-238?” APP RPS Pu-238 FS 1210-12.pdf.

82. Adams Atomic Engines, Inc., “Cassini,” Atomic Insights 2, no. 6 (1996), http://www.

atomicinsights.com/sep96/Cassini.html (accessed 4 July 2008). 

83. Engler, “Atomic Power in Space,” pp. 55–62; James H. Lee and Dave Buden, “Aerospace 

Nuclear Safety: An Introduction and Historical Overview,” paper presented at Advanced 

Reactor Safety Conference, Pittsburgh, PA, 17–21 April 1994.
366 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

an astonishing 713 million years.”84 These reports prompted U.S. President 

Jimmy Carter to propose a moratorium on the use of nuclear power for spaceflight. “If we cannot evolve those fail-safe methods, then I think there ought 

to be a total prohibition against [nuclear-powered] Earth-orbiting satellites,” 

he said. A permanent ban, of course, did not take place, but what did result 

was a more strict control regime that emerged in the aftermath of the accident, recompense for the government of Canada and its citizens, and a delay 

of more than a decade in the launch of RTGs on U.S. space probes, and then 

exclusively for outer planetary missions.85

The Cosmos 954 incident raised the consciousness of the public about the 

potential hazards of nuclear power in space. Coupled with the public’s intense 

reaction to the serious accident at Unit 2 of the Three Mile Island nuclear 

power plant in Pennsylvania in March 1979, the Cosmos 954 event quickly 

eroded support for the use nuclear power in any setting. By October 1981, 

according to one study, a majority of Americans opposed nuclear power for 

the first time since the advent of the atomic age: “In fact, over the last four 

surveys spanning 7 years [through 1988], opposition has exceeded support by 

a margin of about 2:1, a complete flip-flop from the earliest Harris survey.”86

The significance of the Three Mile Island accident to public perceptions 

of risk tied to the technology cannot be overestimated. Although most analysts had believed prior to that accident that public perceptions of risk were 

related to serious loss of life and destruction of property, this accident defied 

the model. “Despite the fact that not a single person died, and few if any 

latent cancer fatalities are expected,” wrote Paul Slovic in Science magazine, 

“no other accident in our history has produced such costly societal impacts.” 

It stampeded the public toward more expensive and arguably more environmentally destructive power sources. It made virtually impossible the 

84. “Cosmos 954: An Ugly Death,” Time, 6 February 1978, http://www.time.com/time/

magazine/article/0,9171,945940-1,00.html (accessed 4 July 2008). 

85. Glenn H. Reynolds and Robert P. Merges, Outer Space: Problems of Law and Policy 

(Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1998), pp. 179–186; W. K. Gummer, F. R. Campbell, 

G. B. Knight, and J. L. Richard, Cosmos 954: The Occurrence and Nature of Recovered 

Debris (Hull, Quebec: Canadian Government Publishing Center, INFO-0006, 1980), 

p. 11; Philip J. Klass, “Technical, Political Concerns Impede Space Nuclear Power,” 

Aviation Week & Space Technology, 1 February 1988, p. 59; and Carl Q. Christol, 

“International Liability for Damage Caused by Space Objects,” American Journal of 

International Law 74 (April 1980): 346–371.

86. Eugene A. Rosa and Riley E. Dunlap, “Poll Trends: Nuclear Power, Three Decades of 

Public Opinion,” Public Opinion Quarterly 58, no. 2 (1994): 295–324, quotation from 

p. 296. See also Connie de Boer and Ineke Catsburg, “A Report: The Impact of Nuclear 

Accidents on Attitudes Toward Nuclear Energy,” Public Opinion Quarterly 52, no. 2 

(1988): 254–261.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

367

continuation of the nuclear power capability of the nation and the advancement of that technology. “It may even have led to a more hostile view of 

other complex technologies, such as chemical manufacturing and genetic 

engineering,” Slovic added. This increasing public concern was not mirrored 

in the scientific and technical communities, which contended that the risk 

was manageable.87 For the next two decades this opposition to nuclear power 

would be manifested in direct confrontations with antinuclear activists on all 

launches of spacecraft using RTGs for on-board power.

7. Direct Resistance to the Use of RTGs: The Galileo and

Cassini Missions

After the Three Mile Island accident the use of RTGs in space missions met 

direct opposition from the antinuclear community. Five missions employing nuclear material have been flown since that accident—Galileo (1989), 

Ulysses (1990), Mars Pathfinder (1996), Cassini (1997), and New Horizons 

(2006)—and all of them received some form of public opposition. Also, with 

the loss of Challenger in a fiery explosion on 28 January 1986, any probe 

with nuclear material to be deployed from the Space Shuttle received serious 

scrutiny from the public. The Galileo and Cassini missions were what most 

concerned antinuclear activists, and efforts to prevent both launches took 

extravagant turns. On 18 October 1989, NASA’s Galileo spacecraft, again 

with RTGs to provide on-board power, began a gravity-assisted journey to 

Jupiter, where it sent a probe into the atmosphere and observed the planet 

and its satellites for several years beginning in December 1995. 

Jupiter was of great interest to scientists because it appeared to contain 

material in an original state left over from the formation of the solar system, 

and the mission was designed to investigate the chemical composition and 

physical state of Jupiter’s atmosphere and satellites. A mission in the planning 

since the late 1970s to be deployed from the Shuttle, after the loss of the 

Challenger, Galileo brought together government officials and the public to 

force a review of what was proposed. Representative Edward Markey (D-MA) 

persuaded the Department of Energy to release its risk analysis of the Galileo 

and Ulysses mission launches, which contained the disturbing conclusion 

that launch failures on those flights could result in between 202 and 386 

cancer deaths, more than quintuple the national average. 

The proposed use of the Centaur liquid hydrogen–liquid oxygen upper 

stage attached to the space probe as the vehicle that would propel Galileo 

87. Paul Slovic, “Perception of Risk,” Science 236, no. 4799 (1987): 280–285.
368 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

and Ulysses from the Shuttle’s cargo bay on their journeys ensured that an 

explosion on launch would be more destructive than any ever experienced 

before. The post-Challenger accident probability estimates and the high volatility of the Centaur upper stages persuaded NASA Administrator James C. 

Fletcher to scrap plans to use Centaurs from the payload bay. This decision 

led to a reconsideration of the manner in which NASA would send Galileo 

on its way beyond Earth’s orbit. An inertial upper stage (IUS), though much 

less powerful than the Centaur, was called upon to do the job of sending the 

spacecraft to Jupiter; but it would require the use of complex orbital mechanics, including flyby gravity assists of Venus and Earth, to reach Jupiter. The 

same process took place with Ulysses, a mission dedicated to solar astronomy, 

which deployed in 1990.88

NASA also considered replacing the two RTGs on the spacecraft with 

solar arrays because of the political issues associated with a launched nuclearpowered satellite in an environment of considerable public opposition. The 

project team eventually rejected this replacement because of several technical 

factors. As the study team for the alternate Galileo power system noted: “In 

view of the insurmountable mass and schedule difficulties associated with a 

solar retrofit of Galileo, the study team concluded that the only alternative 

to an RTG-powered Galileo mission would be to cancel the Galileo mission 

and design a completely new, solar-powered spacecraft for the late 1990s.” 

Based on this conclusion, NASA pursued and eventually received permission 

to deploy the RTG-powered Galileo spacecraft from the payload bay of the 

Space Shuttle in 1989.89

The space agency’s environmental impact statement analyzed the physical hazards of the mission and concluded that, as in all such space missions, 

the launch sequence held the most potential hazard to living things on the 

Earth’s surface: 

88. H. Josef Hebert, “Questions Raised About Launching Spaceships with Nuclear Payloads,” 

Associated Press, 19 February 1986; Eliot Brenner, “Study Estimates Plutonium Risks 

from Shuttle Blast,” United Press International, 18 March 1986; “Space Agency Readies 

Environmental Statement,” United Press International, 23 November 1987, all in NASA 

Historical Reference Collection. See also Philip M. Boffey, “Nuclear Reactor Hazard 

Is New Concern in Shuttle Flights,” New York Times, 18 March 1986, p. C1; Kathy 

Sawyer, “NASA Junks Rocket Plan Because of Safety Concerns,” Washington Post, 20 June 

1986, p. A1; and Virginia P. Dawson and Mark D. Bowles, Taming Liquid Hydrogen: 

The Centaur Upper Stage Rocket, 1958–2002 (Washington, DC: NASA SP-2004-4230, 

2004), pp. 207–212.

89. Jet Propulsion Laboratory, “Jupiter Solar Mission Alternative Feasibility Study,” JPL 

D-6679, 15 August 1989, p. iii, NASA Center for Aerospace Information.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

369

An intensive analysis of the proposed action indicates that the possible health 

and environmental consequences of launch or mission anomalies pose small 

risks.... The accident estimated to be most probable would pose very small 

health risks and very small probability of detectable environmental contamination. The maximum credible accident (having a probability of one in 

10 million) would be an accidental reentry into the Earth’s atmosphere during 

a planned VEEGA [Venus-Earth-Earth-Gravity Assist] flyby, releasing Pu238 

upon impact with the ground. The very low probability “maximum case” 

would lead to an increase of an estimated 9.8 cancer fatalities over a 70-year 

period among a population of 83,000 persons, which normally would have an 

estimated 16,000 cancer fatalities over the same period.90

Antinuclear groups filed lawsuits to prevent the launch, alleging that the 

spacecraft’s two RTGs posed an unacceptable risk to the residents of Florida 

and making a connection to the Challenger Space Shuttle accident in 1986 

as an unacceptable worst-case scenario with nuclear material aboard. Such a 

potent carcinogen as plutonium-238, they argued, would render large areas 

of Florida uninhabitable and infect the bones and lungs of millions of people 

along the coast. Because the plutonium-238 would be encased in hardened 

graphite containers, NASA’s engineers insisted that the risk was minimal, 

even in a Challenger-like explosion. Tests on those containers, they argued, 

had absorbed shocks and concussions more than 10 times as severe as a rocket 

explosion. The antinuclear activists refused to accept these arguments, noting 

that 3 of 22 U.S. missions with nuclear material aboard had failed, and asserting that the nation should not take that chance again. There the matter rested 

until adjudicated. 

A centerpiece of antinuclear concern—and this may have been one of 

the driving forces in catalyzing opposition to the launch—was the unique 

mission profile of the Galileo probe. Because of Galileo’s deployment from 

the Space Shuttle, it would be able to reach Jupiter only by using a gravityassist trajectory that required it to pass close to Venus and have two swings 

past Earth before slingshotting it to Jupiter. This Venus–Earth–Earth Gravity 

Assist (VEEGA) mission profile was ingenious in many ways, and it allowed 

Galileo to encounter many interesting objects in space, including Venus, 

asteroid 243 Ida, and asteroid 951 Gaspra.91 Concerned not only about the 

90. NASA Office of Space Science, “Draft Environmental Impact Statement for the Galileo 

Mission (Tier 2),” December 1988, NASA TM-102926, NASA Center for Aerospace 

Information, pp. ii–iii.

91. Jet Propulsion Laboratory, “The Galileo Tour Guide,” p. 3, http://www2.jpl.nasa.gov/

galileo/tour/2TOUR.pdf (accessed 5 July 2008).
370 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

explosion of the Space Shuttle Challenger in 1986 and the possibility of such 

an accident with nuclear material aboard but also with this VEEGA trajectory, antinuclear activists redoubled efforts to prohibit the launch. What 

if the trajectory calculations were slightly off? The possibility for Galileo’s 

uncontrolled reentry into the Earth’s atmosphere on one of its flybys only 

added to larger concerns about the use of nuclear power in space. Protesters 

had a point, Carl Sagan allowed. Although a strong supporter of the Galileo 

mission, he weighed in with this opinion before the launch in 1989; he also 

allowed that “there is nothing absurd about either side of this argument.”92

The lawsuit that went before Judge Oliver Gasch in the U.S. District 

Court in the District of Columbia arguing that NASA had violated the 

National Environmental Protection Act (NEPA) by failing to fully document 

the launch dangers in its environmental impact statement. Just two days 

before the scheduled launch on 12 October 1998, Judge Gasch rendered his 

decision on this case, ruling that NASA had fulfilled the letter of the law concerning NEPA and that the launch could move forward. “The court will not 

substitute its own judgment regarding the merits of the proposed action for 

that of the government agencies,” he wrote. “NEPA itself does not mandate 

particular results, but simply prescribes the necessary process.” Having followed the NEPA process, Gasch noted, NASA had appropriately discharged 

its responsibilities under the law, and he rejected the plaintiff’s request for a 

restraining order, directing that NASA continue the Galileo launch on the 

Space Shuttle. 

NASA had finally received permission to proceed; but just as this took 

place, the launch had to be delayed because of a technical malfunction on 

the Shuttle.93 Delaying the launch allowed the antinuclear opposition time to 

file an appeal, but the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals rejected this appeal on 

16 October 1989. The launch was rescheduled for 18 October, and despite 

several protests at Kennedy Space Center in the days leading up to the launch, 

92. Carl Sagan, “Benefit Outweighs Risk: Launch Galileo Craft,” USA Today, 10 October 

1989, inquiry page.

93. Florida Coalition for Peace & Justice v. Bush, Civil Action No. 89-2682-OG, United 

States District Court for the District of Columbia, 1989 U.S. Dist. Lexis 12003, filed 

and decided on 10 October 1989; W. Mitchell Waldrop, “Rifkin Tried To Stop Galileo 

Launch,” Science 246 (6 October 1989): 30; W. Mitchell Waldrop, “Stop the Plutonium 

Shuttle!” Science 246 (22 September 1989): 1328; “The Lethal Shuttle,” Nation, 

22 February 1986, p. 16; “Launch Hazards of Atomic Satellites Studied,” Washington 

Post, 19 May 1986, p. A11; “NASA Says a Nuclear Generator on Satellite Will Pose 

Little Risk,” New York Times, 7 January 1989, p. 9; Jay Malin, “Galileo Survives Suit, but 

Mishap Delays Liftoff,” Washington Times, 11 October 1989, p. A3; and Kathy Sawyer, 

“Faulty Engine Computer Delays Launch of Shuttle,” Washington Post, 11 October 1989, 

p. A3.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

371

the Shuttle finally launched. It deployed without incident once in Earth’s 

orbit and began its lengthy journey to Jupiter.94

Because of a unique orbital inclination, Galileo passed both Venus and 

Earth and made the first close flyby of asteroid Gaspra in 1991, providing 

scientific data on all before reaching Jupiter in 1995. Until 2003, Galileo 

continued to transmit scientific measurements back to Earth for analysis. 

Galileo’s mission has led to a reinterpretation of understanding about Jupiter, 

its moons, and the outer solar system. A short list of Galileo’s most important 

discoveries includes the following: 

• Evidence for liquid water ocean under the surface of Europa, one of 

the moons of Jupiter. 

• Discovery of a satellite (Dactyl) circling the asteroid Ida. 

• Discovery of an intense interplanetary dust storm (the most intense 

ever observed). 

• Discovery of an intense new radiation belt approximately 31,000 miles 

above Jupiter’s cloud tops.

• Detection of Jovian wind speeds in excess of 400 miles per hour.

• Detection of far less water in Jupiter’s atmosphere than was previously 

estimated on the basis of earlier Voyager observations and models of 

the Comet Shoemaker-Levy 9 impact.

• Detection of far less lightning activity (about 10 percent of that found 

in an equal area on Earth) than anticipated. Individual lightning 

events, however, are about 10 times stronger on Jupiter than on Earth. 

• Discovery of a nearly equal amount of helium in Jupiter as is found in 

the Sun (24 percent compared to 25 percent).

• Extensive resurfacing of Io’s surface due to continuing volcanic activity 

since the Voyagers flew by in 1979.

• Preliminary data supporting the tentative identification of intrinsic 

magnetic fields for two of Jupiter’s moons, Io and Ganymede. 

The flight team for Galileo ceased operations in February 2003 after a final 

playback of scientific data from the robotic explorer’s tape recorder. The team 

prepared commands for the spacecraft’s on-board computer to manage the 

remainder of its life. Galileo coasted for the next seven months before taking 

a 21 September 2003 plunge into Jupiter’s atmosphere as a means of ensuring 

94. “NASA Clears Atlantis for Liftoff Tuesday,” Washington Post, 15 October 1989, p. A18; 

“NASA Deploys Guards As Shuttle Launch Nears,” Washington Post, 16 October 1989, 

p. A20; Kathy Sawyer, “Galileo Launch Nears; Court Appeal Rejected,” Washington Post, 

17 October 1989, p. A3; and Launch to Landing,” Galileo Messenger, November 1989, 

pp. 1–2.
372 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

that its nuclear propellant did not cause any mischief in the future, thereby 

ending what turned out to be a remarkably successful mission.95

The Cassini space probe—the largest interplanetary probe ever launched, 

weighing 6.3 tons and extending 22 feet in length—was a joint NASA, 

European Space Agency (ESA), and Italian Space Agency (ASI) mission to 

study Saturn and its rings, moons, and magnetic environment. Launched 

on 17 October 1997, atop a Titan IV rocket from Cape Canaveral, Florida, 

Cassini required three RTGs with 72 pounds of plutonium-238 to power a 

wide array of scientific instruments at Saturn. Like Galileo, although without 

the Space Shuttle as the Earth-launch vehicle, Cassini would require gravityassist to reach Saturn in 6.7 years. It followed a Venus–Venus–Earth–Jupiter 

Gravity Assist (VVEJGA) trajectory that energized the antinuclear community as had nothing since the Galileo launch. Cassini’s three General Purpose 

Heat Source (GPHS) RTGs and 117 lightweight radioisotope heater units 

(RHUs) provided the necessary electrical power to operate its 19 instruments 

and maintain the temperatures of critical components as well as the Huygens 

probe that was destined for deployment by parachute onto the surface of 

Titan, Saturn’s largest moon (see figures 5.7, 5.8, and 5.9). Those three RTGs 

provided 888 watts of electrical power at mission beginning but would still 

generate 596 watts after 16 years of operation. As always, Cassini’s RTGs were 

tested extensively to ensure that they could withstand any conceivable destructive force associated with the flight. Also, as had been the practice for many 

years, independent safety analyses by General Electric, Lockheed Martin, and 

other technical organizations assessed possible risks from prelaunch fires and 

explosions, launch accidents, and spacecraft crashes and uncontrolled reentry. 

Three major reports resulted from those efforts, with the final one prepared a 

year in advance of the projected launch.96

This material, along with additional studies by the Department of Energy 

and NASA, went to an independent Interagency Nuclear Safety Review 

Panel responsible for judging whether to recommend a decision in favor of 

95. Several books on the Galileo mission have been published: Michael Meltzer, Mission to 

Jupiter: A History of the Galileo Project (Washington, DC: NASA SP-2007-4231, 2007); 

David M. Harland, Jupiter Odyssey: The Story of NASA’s Galileo Mission (Chichester, 

UK: Springer-Praxis, 2000); Daniel Fischer, Mission Jupiter: The Spectacular Journey 

of the Galileo Spacecraft (New York: Copernicus Books, 2001); and Cesare Barbieri, 

Jürgen H. Rahe, Torrence V. Johnson, and Anita M. Sohus, eds., The Three Galileos: 

The Man, the Spacecraft, the Telescope (Dordrecht, The Netherlands: Kluwer Academic 

Publishers, 1997).

96. Michael V. Frank, “Analysis of Inadvertent Reentry of Cassini RTG’s,” American Institute 

of Physics 1-56396-846-0/99, 1999; Chris Barret, “So, What’s an RTG and Are They 

Safe?,” unpublished paper in possession of author; and NASA Fact Sheet, “Spacecraft 

Power for Cassini,” July 1999, NASA Historical Reference Collection.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

373

launch to the President of the United States. As a GAO audit of the Cassini 

mission documented: 

The processes used by NASA to assess the safety and environmental risks associated with the Cassini mission reflected the extensive analysis and evaluation 

requirements established in federal laws, regulations, and Executive branch 

policies. For example, DOE designed and tested the RTGs to withstand likely 

accidents while preventing or minimizing the release of the RTG’s plutonium 

dioxide fuel, and a DOE administrative order required the agency to estimate 

the safety risks associated with the RTGs used for the Cassini mission. Also, 

federal regulations implementing the National Environmental Policy Act of 

1969 required NASA to assess the environmental and public health impacts 

of potential accidents during the Cassini mission that could cause plutonium 

dioxide to be released from the spacecraft’s RTGs or heater units. In addition, 

a directive issued by the Executive Office of the President requires an ad hoc 

interagency Nuclear Safety Review Panel. This panel is supported by technical experts from NASA, other federal agencies, national laboratories, and 

Credit: Department of Energy

FIGURE 5.7. The General Purpose Heat Source (GPHS) has been a mainstay design 

of the planetary science program since the 1970s. Each of the RTG’s 18 modules 

contained four plutonium-238 fuel pellets, the graphite shell, and the aeroshell. 
374 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

academia to review the nuclear safety analyses prepared for the Cassini mission. 

After completion of the interagency review process, NASA requested and was 

given nuclear launch safety approval by the Office of Science and Technology 

Policy, within the Office of the President, to launch the Cassini spacecraft.97

97. GAO Report, “Space Exploration,” pp. 3–4.

Credit: NASA

FIGURE 5.8. Lockheed Martin Missile and Space Co. employees Joe Collingwood, 

at right, and Ken Dickinson retract pins in the storage base to release an RTG in 

preparation for hoisting operations on 19 July 1997. This RTG and two others were 

installed on the Cassini spacecraft for mechanical and electrical verification testing in 

the Payload Hazardous Servicing Facility. 
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

375

This detailed and involved process led to the conclusion that, although 

risk could not be eliminated entirely, the chances of any breech of the 

plutonium-238 container were exceptionally low. The estimated health effect 

of an accident was that over a 50-year period not one more person would die 

of cancer caused by radiation exposure than if there were no accident. These 

analyses also found that during Cassini’s Earth encounter the chance that the 

Credit: NASA

FIGURE 5.9. Jet Propulsion Laboratory workers Dan Maynard and John Shuping 

prepare to install an RTG on the Cassini spacecraft in the Payload Hazardous 

Servicing Facility (PHSF) on 18 July 1997. The three RTGs that provide electrical 

power to Cassini on its mission to the Saturnian system underwent mechanical and 

electrical verification testing in the PHSF. 
376 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

vehicle would accidentally reenter Earth’s atmosphere was less than one in a 

million (see figure 5.10).98

None of this review convinced the antinuclear community, however, 

and it mobilized to prohibit the Cassini launch. The well-organized STOP 

CASSINI! campaign rested its opposition on a set of charges different from 

those leveled by the earlier Galileo protesters; it claimed that NASA’s technical 

98. Lisa Herrera, “U.S. Department of Energy Advanced RTG Program,” IECEC-98-246, 

paper presented at the 1998 IECEC conference, Albuquerque, NM; Robert J. Noble, 

“Radioisotope Electric Propulsion,” Nuclear News, November 1999; C. Edward Kelly and 

Paul M. Klee, “Cassini RTG Acceptance Test Results and RTG Performance on Galileo 

and Ulysses,” and NASA, “Cassini Launch Press Kit,” October 1997, NASA Historical 

Reference Collection, pp. 65–69. 

Credit: NASA

FIGURE 5.10. Environmental health specialist Jamie A. Keeley, of EG&G Florida, 

Inc., uses an ion chamber dose rate meter to measure radiation levels in one of three 

RTGs that will provide electrical power to the Cassini spacecraft on its mission to 

explore the Saturnian system prior to its launch in 1997. The three RTGs and one 

spare are being tested and monitored in the Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator 

Storage Building in KSC’s Industrial Area. The RTGs on Cassini are of the same 

design as those flown on the Galileo and Ulysses spacecraft. 
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

377

risk assessment omitted, neglected, or underestimated the welfare of the 

public as a whole. Accepting, as the Galileo opponents had not, that NASA 

had fulfilled the letter of the law, this campaign asserted that the government 

as a whole had to be redirected away from the use of nuclear power or weaponry in any form whatsoever. Sociologist Jürgen Habermas has suggested that 

when the “instrumental rationality” of the bureaucratic state intrudes too 

precipitously into the “lifeworld” of its citizenry, they rise up in some form 

to correct the state’s course or to cast it off altogether. The “lifeworld” is evident in the ways in which language creates the contexts of interpretations 

of everyday circumstances, decisions, and actions. Habermas argues that the 

“lifeworld” is “represented by a culturally transmitted and linguistically organized stock of interpretive patterns.”99

The STOP CASSINI! campaign represented an effort to exile nuclear 

material from the “lifeworld” of modern America, as protesters expressions 

of discontent demonstrated, and they could obtain no resolution from the 

“instrumental rationality” residing in the state. They took direct action and 

justified it, without a tinge of conscience, as necessary for the greater good. 

Opponents of Cassini organized a rally of about 1,500 participants at Cape 

Canaveral in May 1997, with several prominent disarmament leaders speaking. They received publicity from CNN and the NBC local affiliate as well as 

from print journalists and radio stations. They argued for greater involvement 

in choosing the technologies used on spacecraft, specifically nuclear power 

sources. They tried to sensitize the public to dangers from the use of nuclear 

power for space exploration and addressed not only environmental risks but 

also the motives behind the reason for using nuclear power. 

One protester commented: 

The military has made an unholy alliance with NASA in its quest for space 

domination. Now people-power and a commitment to compassion and conscience must be brought into an area where it is not wanted and where it is 

lacking. There must be resistance to the U.S. push to weaponize and nuclearize space...a renegade government spending massive amounts of money to 

weaponize and nuclearize space, and at the same time saying that no money is 

available for schools and other social needs. This issue is not about losing our 

democracy—we have lost it.100

99. Jürgen Habermas, The Theory of Communicative Action, Vol. 2, Lifeworld and System: A 

Critique of Functionalist Reason (Boston: Beacon Press, 1987), p. 124.

100. The protester is quoted in Victoria Pidgeon Friedensen, “Protest Space: A Study of 

Technology Choice, Perception of Risk, and Space Exploration,” M.S. thesis, Virginia 

Polytechnic Institute and State University, 1998, pp. 49, 90–94.
378 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The STOP CASSINI! campaign received coverage from many of the major 

U.S. news outlets, and the Internet buzzed with discussion of its efforts to 

end the Cassini mission. It deserved credit for gaining the attention of several 

members of Congress, who demanded additional analysis from NASA and 

the DOE. Courtroom proceedings, in comparison to those for Galileo, were 

virtually nonexistent. 

When Cassini launched safely on 14 October 1997, the press gave credit 

to the protesters for forcing NASA to reconsider its use of nuclear power in 

space and to undertake more extensive testing and verification of systems. A 

vigil outside the main gate of Kennedy Space Center by the STOP CASSINI! 

campaign was peaceful. It had raised important questions about this technology and its meaning for society. As one scholar noted, NASA responded 

poorly to this challenge in terms of public communication. The Agency 

believed that more information would resolve the crisis, but there is little 

reason to suppose that this would be the case, as the protest had more to do 

with ideology and values than with assessments of objective knowledge.101

In the end the Cassini mission has been conducted with stunning success. 

Cassini is the first spacecraft to orbit Saturn, beginning 1 July 2004, and to 

send a probe (Huygens), launched on 15 January 2005, to the surface of 

Saturn’s moon Titan. But even before its Saturnian encounter, the Cassini 

mission advanced science by finding individual storm cells of upwelling 

bright-white clouds in dark “belts” in Jupiter’s atmosphere and by conducting a radio signal experiment on 10 October 2003 that validated Einstein’s 

theory of general relativity. At Saturn, Cassini has discovered three new 

moons (Methone, Pallene, and Polydeuces), observed water-ice geysers erupting from the south pole of the moon Enceladus, obtained images appearing 

to show lakes of liquid hydrocarbon (such as methane and ethane) in Titan’s 

northern latitudes, and discovered a storm at the south pole of Saturn with 

a distinct eye wall. Cassini, like Galileo at Jupiter, has demonstrated that icy 

moons orbiting gas giant planets are potential refuges of life and attractive 

destinations for a new phase of robotic planetary exploration.102

101. Ibid., p. 93.

102. Roger Guillemette, “New and Improved Titan Launch Clears Path for Cassini,” Quest: 

The Magazine of Spaceflight 5, no. 4 (1996): 38; David M. Harland, Mission to Saturn: 

Cassini and the Huygens Probe (Chichester, UK: Springer-Praxis, 2003); Laura Lovett, 

Joan Horvath, and Jeff Cuzzi, Saturn: A New View (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 

2006); Robert T. Mitchell, “The Cassini Mission at Saturn,” Acta Astronautica 61, no. 1 

(2007): 37–43; and Robert T. Mitchell, “The Cassini Mission Exploring Saturn,” Acta 

Astronautica 63, nos. 1–4 (2008): 61–67.
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

379

8. Conclusion

The use of radioisotope thermoelectric generators to power spacecraft to the 

outer planets has proven a boon to the space program in the first 50 years 

of its history. Yet use of this technology invites opposition because of the 

danger inherent in any launch or reentry to Earth’s atmosphere. There have 

been failures in the past, duly taken notice of by the public, and in each 

instance refinements and additional requirements to ensure future safety have 

resulted. This is as it should be. The issue had receded so far from public consciousness by 2006—in no small measure because of the success of the safety 

program, the efforts to ensure public understanding of how mission surety 

was undertaken, and the rarity of the use of RTGs—that the New Horizons 

spacecraft launched to Pluto and the Kuiper Belt in the outer solar system 

did not receive much public opposition (see figure 5.11). From a societal 

perspective, however, the protests to past launches raised important questions 

that remain at the center of the debate. As the scholar Victoria Friedensen 

has commented:

1. NASA provided inadequate assessment that did not include multi-failure 

mode testing and had inadequate explanations of the risk.

2. The risk to the citizens and visitors to the region around the Kennedy 

Space Center, while low in probability, had very high consequence. Nor 

was the liability to be borne by NASA alone—the public would bear 

the costs of the consequences. NASA was not perceived as trustworthy 

enough to prevent accidents.

3. The risk to the global population was untenable for a scientific project. 

The protestors did not feel that the United States was truly responsible 

for the lives and well-being of all humans. No one asked global consent 

before increasing global risk.

4. The potential destructive capabilities that humans have created on Earth 

must not be carried into the future or onto other planets. The protestors 

based their opposition on strictly moral, strictly future terms and objected 

to NASA’s counter proposition. An incommensurability of worldviews 

fueled the controversy.103

Such concerns are entirely appropriate and require additional consideration 

in the future as humanity seeks to extend its presence throughout the solar 

system. The story of RTGs and space nuclear power is thus one of technological advance and concern from certain segments of society that the 

103. Friedensen, “Protest Space,” pp. 90–91.
380 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

consequences of that technological advance might be too great a burden for 

the public to bear. 

Physician and policy analyst Daniel Sarewitz points up the problem in the larger framework of U.S. government science and technology 

decision-making:

At present, most citizens have only two options for involving themselves in 

decision-making about science and technology—the diffuse mechanisms of 

voting, and the direct but often unmediated local action that is commonly 

associated with not-in-my-backyard sentiments. A middle ground that 

enhances opportunities for public participation, while also providing mechanisms for technical input and open dialogue between scientists and the laity 

remains to be defined.... It does depend on the creation of avenues by which 

the public judgment can be brought to bear on important issues of science 

and technology policy, and on granting the public a stake in decision-making 

processes. The policy goal is not to substitute “common sense” for technical 

knowledge but to allow democratic dialogue to play its appropriate role in 

Credit: NASA

FIGURE 5.11. New Horizons is the most recent U.S. spacecraft to be 

powered by RTGs, depicted here in an artist’s conception. 
Powering Space Exploration: U.S. Space Nuclear Power,

Public Perceptions, and Outer Planetary Probes

381

decision-making that is inevitably dominated not by authoritative data but by 

subjective criteria and social norms.104

Advancing the future of nuclear power for space exploration remains a task 

not without difficulties. In the aftermath of the controversies over Galileo and 

Cassini, without significant social input and conscientious efforts to involve 

a broad constituency, more aggressive efforts will probably have considerable 

difficulty getting past the stage of paper studies. As it stands at present, the 

continued use of nuclear power for spacecraft must remain, to adopt a phrase 

offered by President Bill Clinton concerning the legality of abortion, “safe, 

legal, and rare.”

104. Daniel Sarewitz, Frontiers of Illusion: Science, Technology, and the Politics of Progress

(Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1996), pp. 182–183.

383

Chapter 6

NASA and the Environment:

An Evolving Relationship

W. Henry Lambright

The advent of the Space Age has paralleled the rise of the environmental movement. NASA was born in 1958, a year after Sputnik. Although the 

environmental movement can be traced back many years before the Space 

Age, it began its modern incarnation in 1962 with Rachel Carson’s Silent 

Spring. That book took environmentalism well beyond its traditional conservation thrust and linked it with pollution and the negative impacts of 

industrial civilization. NASA, as a scientific and technological organization, 

has intersected with the environmental movement in at least three ways since 

its formation. First, it had direct impacts through the images of satellites 

viewing Earth. These environmental satellites have pioneered remote sensing 

technology. This mission to Earth has aimed to inform, improve, and protect 

the global and regional environment. Protection encompassed early warnings of environmental insults caused by humans or disasters from Mother 

Nature. Second, indirectly, through its mission from Earth, NASA has provided a new understanding of the home planet by the study of other celestial 

bodies. Comparative planetology is a new field that has come into existence. 

Third, some environmentalists perceive NASA as having potentially negative impacts on the environment of Earth or other bodies in the solar system 

and universe.

These three points of intersection do not exhaust all the possible ways 

NASA and the environment connect, but they are central. They are key 

aspects of a very large, complex, and diffuse subject. Space technology has 

clearly had revolutionary impacts. Revolutionary technology—rockets and 

the spacecraft they propel—have had implications that have cascaded through 

society over the years. The environment is only one of the impacts of space 

technology, and NASA only one of the agencies responsible for space technology. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) and 

the Department of Defense (DOD) have space programs. But NASA has 

been especially critical owing to its role as a civilian research and development 
384 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

agency responsible for new technology. From its very outset as an agency, 

when NASA launched meteorological satellites, it actively entered the environmental field at its technological frontier, although it did not articulate that 

fact at the time. Two decades later, its environmental role had advanced to the 

point where it publicly proclaimed its “Mission to Planet Earth.” In the early 

twenty-first century, NASA Administrator Sean O’Keefe, in listing NASA’s 

prime purposes, spoke of its responsibility to assist “the home planet.”1 In 

viewing Earth as a whole, NASA has helped create a new “Earth system science” that integrates the Earth sciences with space technology to enhance 

understanding and prediction of major geophysical events, from hurricanes 

to global warming.

But NASA’s Earth-oriented mission is only one way the space agency has 

influenced the environment. The “environmental movement,” as it is called, 

is more than a set of interest groups, individuals, and institutions. It is a 

set of values, an attitude, and a way of thinking. In understanding NASA’s 

environmental role, it is essential to see how its technology has enabled scientists studying other planets to better understand this one. Space technology 

opened up the solar system for comparison. Long before “global warming” 

on Earth became a household word, scientists like the late Carl Sagan were 

pointing to a “runaway greenhouse” effect on Venus. Astronauts on the Moon 

compared its desolation to the plenitude of life on Earth. Comparison made 

many observers realize the apparent uniqueness of the home planet and 

its vulnerability.

The environmental movement, from Rachel Carson on, has called attention to the negative features of technology, and this feature of the movement has not omitted NASA. NASA is a source of environmental threat in 

the minds of some because of its space mission. By sending probes to Mars 

and other planets, some fear contaminating them with Earthly organisms. By 

returning them (and people) to Earth, some in the environmental movement 

fear bringing an “Andromeda Strain” back to Earth that will wreck the home 

planet and wipe out its denizens. Also, some environmentalists note the need 

of NASA to power spacecraft with nuclear batteries—and perhaps someday 

with nuclear reactors. There have been acrimonious protests on environmental grounds aimed at stopping certain spaceflights. Perhaps the most serious 

threat comes from the pollution of the near-Earth space by debris. NASA is 

one of many space agencies in the world. The space debris problem is real and 

1. See O’Keefe’s address at Syracuse University’s Maxwell School of Citizenship and Public 

Affairs, 12 April 2002, available from http://www.hq.nasa.gov/office/codez/plans/Pioneer.pdf

(accessed 8 August 2013). The phrase “To understand and protect our home planet” 

became part of NASA’s mission statement that year.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 385

will only grow with time. Such debris threatens space assets in orbit, including the International Space Station (ISS). Some of this debris occasionally 

falls down to Earth. Space debris has not attracted much attention outside 

specialist circles, but it may be regarded as an emergent environmental issue.

Like any revolutionary technology, spaceflight has positive and negative 

impacts. Most of the impacts thus far have been strongly positive. However, 

NASA’s Earth-oriented mission is by no means noncontroversial. Knowledge 

has impacts on policy. Environmental policy affects institutions and people, 

sometimes requiring a change in behavior. When policy is controversial, the 

science behind it can also be an object of political conflict. This has been 

increasingly the case recently with global warming, perhaps the most contested subject in environmental policy. Ironically, global warming has made 

NASA controversial with conservatives who oppose emissions controls based 

on scientific discovery. But it has likewise made NASA controversial with 

environmentalists who see the administration using research to delay policy 

when what is needed is regulatory “action.”

This chapter seeks not to praise or condemn NASA but to track the history of NASA’s intersection with the environmental movement since its earliest days to the present. As noted, there are three dominant themes in this 

history: mission to Earth, comparative planetology, and possible negative 

impacts of space technology. The mission to Earth via environmental satellites is by far the most coherent and sustained story. It is a centerpiece of this 

chapter. However, the other two components are also critical to the intersection. The three themes overlap and influence one another over time. This 

chapter emphasizes how a space agency evolves an environmental mission 

and role and contributes positively or negatively to a larger environmental 

consciousness. Also, because NASA is a research and development (R&D) 

agency, it has to find ways to relate to operating agencies that use its environmental information—and that relation can be problematic. These issues 

notwithstanding, the space agency has been a catalyst for environmental 

thinking and policy over the years. It is an important role likely to continue 

and could even grow in the future.

The Apollo Years: Beginnings

The Advent of Environmental Satellites

In its early years, especially when it went to the Moon, NASA did not have 

an overt “environmental” mission. It did have an “applications program.” 

NASA’s initial environmental thrust began with its applications program. 

In 1960, NASA launched the Television Infrared Observation Satellite, or 
386 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

TIROS, a weather satellite. For the first time, meteorologists saw weather 

patterns from space, patterns on a huge scale, early information, and the 

journeys of giant storms over vast distances. They immediately saw how 

such images would enable improved weather forecasts. In 1961, a TIROS 

satellite helped track an extremely dangerous hurricane, Carla, which was 

approaching the Gulf Coast. Early warning led to the evacuation of more 

than 350,000 people. NASA and the Weather Bureau subsequently worked 

out a relationship whereby NASA developed new satellites and the Weather 

Bureau took control of the satellites once they became operational. In 1963, 

NASA Administrator James Webb reorganized NASA. He created a new 

Office of Space Science and Applications (OSSA). In his view, the linkage 

of space science and applications was critical. As NASA did more in space, it 

would spin off useful applications to Earth. The applications could in turn 

show politicians and the public why space science was worthy of support.2

NASA in the mid-1960s developed Nimbus, a next-generation weather 

satellite. However, the Weather Bureau found Nimbus more expensive than it 

could afford. This refusal to accept Nimbus generated a controversy between 

NASA and the Weather Bureau, embroiling the Defense Department, another 

user of weather information. The White House came in as an arbitrator. The 

outcome was an agreement by NASA to upgrade TIROS for the Weather 

Bureau and retain Nimbus for research purposes. The more advanced Nimbus 

class of weather satellites was of more interest to scientists than to Weather 

Bureau operators. Scientists were a different kind of user group, and they 

saw potential in space satellite observations to learn more about the upper 

atmosphere in new ways. Atmospheric research became a major focus for 

NASA as a result, and NASA gradually became involved in understanding climate change. At this point, climate change did not stand for global warming 

through pollution. The public policy issue was largely in the future, but space 

technology was beginning to make a difference in this complex area. Thus, 

weather satellite applications could be for practical and research objectives. 

They could have dramatic impact in hurricane warning and showed their 

potential a number of times. For example, in 1969, the extremely disastrous 

Hurricane Camille was spotted and tracked by weather satellites. Scores of 

people evacuated who might otherwise have lost their lives.

Also during the late 1960s, NASA developed the first satellites to study 

land resources. Possible user agencies (the Department of the Interior, the 

Department of Agriculture) saw potential for them for application to their 

2. Homer Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space Science (Washington, DC: 

NASA SP-4211, 1980), p. 321. This section on the 1960s is based on Newell’s chapter 

19, “Space Science and Practical Applications.”
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 387

missions. They exerted a pull on NASA for further technology development 

and application. NASA stated that such Earth resource satellites were still 

experimental and would be ready for operational use in the early 1970s.

Space Science

Space science, however, soon showed how it could also have broad implications for the environment along with applications satellites. In 1962, the 

first spacecraft successfully to view another planet, Mariner, found Venus 

incredibly hot. Carl Sagan said this condition was the result of a “runaway 

greenhouse” effect. Subsequent probes in the decade confirmed this view. 

The hostility of Venus to anything resembling life moved NASA, OSSA, 

and the emerging planetary science community to focus ever more on what 

was always their top priority—Mars. The fabled “Red Planet,” the subject 

of so much speculation for so many years, was now within reach of robotic 

space probes.3

Throughout the remainder of the decade, successive Mariner missions 

were sent to view Mars from a distance. An atmosphere was detected, but it 

was extremely thin and would be hostile to humanlike creatures. However, 

astronomers and other scientists were elated with their view of the other planets. A new field—comparative planetology—evolved, one that could compare and contrast atmospheres of different planets. Understanding planets 

required more than astronomers, and old disciplines—geology, meteorology, 

chemistry, and physics—were mutually useful in interpreting other planets. 

NASA Administrator Webb encouraged the building of academic “space science” as an interdisciplinary enterprise. He insisted that the largest NASA 

university grants, which sometimes included new “space” buildings, house 

interdisciplinary teams. He even wanted social scientists and humanists 

involved in considering the societal implications of space.

Human Spaceflight

Far and away, the top priority of NASA in the 1960s was human spaceflight. 

Apollo defined NASA, but even Apollo had an environmental dimension. 

Scientists associated with Apollo worried about the threat of bacterial contamination. Although there were those who were concerned about “forward 

contamination”—the bringing of bacterial life to the Moon—the major concern of Apollo scientists was bringing back to Earth a humanity-destroying 

“Andromeda Strain.” NASA began sterilizing robotic surveyors sent to the 

3. Spencer Weart, The Discovery of Global Warming (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University 

Press, 2003), pp. 87–89.
388 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Moon to look for landing sites. There was a debate among technical people 

about whether and how much sterilization was enough to prevent forward 

contamination. Decisions were made to have contamination facilities created 

for Moon samples (rocks, soil, and so on) brought back by astronauts, and 

even for the astronauts themselves.

A field called exobiology emerged along with comparative planetology.4

Supported by OSSA, this field was mainly concerned with discovery of extraterrestrial life, and exobiologists especially worried about the contamination 

issue. Scientists were fully conscious that the Soviet Union was a potential 

polluter, as was the United States. They lobbied for international action. In 

1967, when the Outer Space Treaty was promulgated, article IX included this 

statement: “Parties to the Treaty shall pursue studies of outer space including 

the Moon and other celestial bodies, and conduct exploration of them so as to 

avoid their harmful contamination and also adverse changes in the environment of the Earth resulting from the introduction of extraterrestrial matter 

and, where necessary, shall adopt appropriate measures for this purpose.”5

The Outer Space Treaty was signed by many nations, including the United 

States and the USSR.

The climax of the 1960s came in 1969 with Apollo 11, when men actually 

landed on the Moon and were returned safely to Earth. However, there was 

a remarkable prelude to Apollo 11 in Apollo 8, in 1968. This flight in particular underlined the connection of NASA to the environmental movement, 

which was coming on strong at the same time.

The Inspiration of Apollo’s Images

Apollo 8 was the first piloted flight to and around the Moon. Coming soon 

after the Apollo fire that had killed three astronauts in 1967, Apollo 8 was 

an astounding feat of skill, technology, and courage. It was also inspirational 

because of what the astronauts did. On Christmas Eve, the three Apollo 8 

astronauts came around the Moon and turned on their television cameras so 

millions could join them in viewing the Moon below. They read from the 

book of Genesis and wished the people of Earth a merry Christmas. One 

of the astronauts, Jim Lovell, drew the Moon-Earth comparison graphically: 

“The vast loneliness of the Moon up here is awe-inspiring. It makes you realize 

4. See Steven Dick and James Strick, The Living Universe: NASA and the Development of 

Astrobiology (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers, 2004), for the origins of planetary protection, 

exobiology, and so on, especially chapter 3.

5. “Treaty on Principles Governing the Activities of States in the Exploration and Use of 

Outer Space, Including the Moon and Other Celestial Bodies,” signed at Washington, 

DC; London; and Moscow, 27 January 1967.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 389

just what you have back there on Earth.”6 For the first time ever, human beings 

were orbiting a celestial body far away—250,000 miles—from their home 

planet. They saw Earth as a whole. Another of the Apollo 8 astronauts, Bill 

Anders, took hundreds of photographs of Earth from the Apollo spacecraft. 

These photos revealed the sheer beauty of the blue Earth in the desolate blackness of space. Then came Apollo 9, 10, and—finally—Apollo 11. On 20 July 

1969, Neil Armstrong climbed down the ladder of his landing craft, placed 

his foot on the Moon, and took “one small step for [a] man, one giant leap 

for mankind.” It was an epochal moment in human history, and a large portion of the planet’s population watched in rapt silence. As with Apollo 8, the 

astronauts took pictures of Earth. These pictures, especially “Earthrise” from 

the Moon’s horizon, soon became icons of the environmental movement.7

Many environmental leaders used the view from space to galvanize 

public interest for their cause. Stuart Brand, founder and publisher of the 

Whole Earth Catalog, was one. His catalog, begun in 1968, emphasized 

environmental values, “tools” for environmentally friendly living, and an 

“Earth consciousness.”8 Another advocate of the “Whole Earth” view was 

James Lovelock. Working in the late 1960s with NASA’s Caltech-based Jet 

Propulsion Laboratory (JPL), Lovelock began conceptualizing Earth as an 

evolving, self-regulating system. He called this notion his “Gaia Hypothesis,” 

which held that Earth was a living system, with all parts interacting in a mutually supportive way. Gaia was the name of the ancient Greek Earth goddess.9

In late 1972, an Apollo 17 astronaut snapped a picture of the entire Earth. 

This photo quickly replaced “Earthrise” as the chief image of Earth from space 

for the environmental movement. According to geographer Neil Mahar, this 

second image was visual evidence of a need to think of space not as a frontier 

but as a place within which Earth had its own special identity and human 

beings everywhere on the planet were interdependent with one another and 

with nature. This image fit the “Whole Earth” and “living Earth” mood of 

the times. Environmentalists used the image to bring home the view of Earth 

as a vulnerable, fragile planet. “Think globally, act locally” became the call to 

arms.10 It was ironic that a prime spinoff of Apollo was a new appreciation 

of Earth.

6. Lovell as quoted in Marina Benjamin, Rocket Dreams (New York: Free Press, 2003), p. 47.

7. Ibid., p. 49.

8. Benjamin, Rocket Dreams, p. 129; Neil Maher, “Gallery: Shooting the Moon,” 

Environmental History (July 2004): 527–531.

9. Dick and Strick, Living Universe, p. 49.

10. Maher, “Gallery.”
390 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The 1970s: NASA in an Environmental Decade

As Apollo journeys to the Moon ended with Apollo 17, the new decade 

brought the environment to the fore as a national policy priority. The decade 

began with the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) in 

1970—an agency embodying the environmental ethic. At the same time, 

the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) was also 

created. While encompassing the former Weather Bureau, NOAA promised 

also to give priority to larger ocean and atmospheric issues. Also in 1970, the 

first Earth Day took place. One of the photographs taken by Apollo 8’s crew 

was used as the flag of the celebration. Earth Day gave way to a major international conference in Stockholm, Sweden. This in turn led to the formation 

of a United Nations Environmental Program (UNEP). UNEP was intended 

to provide a global forum for environmental concerns that cut across national 

boundaries. International concerns included desertification, deforestation, 

ocean pollution, and transboundary air pollution.

In 1973–74, environmental issues took a new turn as the Arab oil boycott 

caused energy emergencies to become an overriding challenge. As the United 

States and other nations coped with energy emergencies, certain environmentfriendly technologies, such as wind power, solar energy, and conservation, 

came to the fore. Space seemed far removed from the era’s pressing challenges 

to the nation. NASA’s relevance was in question. Initially, NASA’s priorities 

and those of the nation were at variance. The man who had succeeded Webb 

as NASA Administrator, and to whom fell the task of selling to President 

Richard Nixon a post–Apollo program, was Tom Paine. A visionary, Paine 

wanted to go beyond the Moon to Mars. He wanted a space station and 

Moon bases. He wanted to build on—not retreat from—the bold program of 

the 1960s. He used the term “swashbuckling” to describe his view of NASA’s 

spacefaring role. In stressing large-scale exploration, Paine was out of sync 

with Nixon and congressional sentiment, however. Frustrated, he left and was 

succeeded by Administrator James Fletcher in April 1971.11

The Environmental Administrator

Fletcher recognized there was no hope in selling the kind of space program 

Paine wanted. The only piloted program Nixon would support was the minimal program that would keep human spaceflight viable. In 1972, Fletcher 

persuaded Nixon to adopt the Space Shuttle as NASA’s flagship for the 1970s. 

The Shuttle maintained the NASA human spaceflight program as Apollo 

11. Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere, pp. 288–289.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 391

phased down and out.12 In 1973, Skylab, a mini space station, was launched 

using mainly Apollo parts and a Saturn V rocket. Skylab astronauts looked 

outward at the universe and also down at Earth. The Skylab missions continued briefly and then ended.

What else would NASA do? Fletcher had to chart the Agency’s course in 

a way that fit the times. Homer Newell, who worked for Fletcher, described 

his leader’s style as conveying “moderation and cost consciousness.” Fletcher 

sought to project “an image of applying space knowledge and capabilities to 

problems of concern to the man on the ground, and to do it economically.” 

The Space Shuttle fit this approach in that it was intended to replace the 

expensive Saturn and other expendable rockets with a cost-effective, reusable 

vehicle. Fletcher sold the Shuttle as a workhorse that could put large satellites 

into orbit for “users”—including the Defense Department. The original purpose—transit to and from the space station—was dropped, since the space 

station was not part of the Nixon decision.13

Fletcher especially saw in NASA’s applications satellites a way to relate 

NASA to the new federal priorities, especially the environment. The space 

historian Roger Launius has written that this practical and societally conscious attitude came easily to Fletcher. According to Launius, Fletcher’s interest in the environment was genuine and derived from his Mormon roots and 

its “stewardship” principles. He explicitly connected NASA with preservation and restoration of the environment. In congressional testimony in 1973, 

Fletcher declared: “NASA is called the Space Agency, but in a broader sense, 

we could be called an Environmental Agency .... Everything we do...helps 

in some practical way to improve the environment of our planet and helps us 

understand the forces that affect it. Perhaps that is our essential task, to study 

and understand the Earth and its environment.”14

Right from the beginning of his tenure, Fletcher emphasized the environmental role of NASA. In 1972, the Earth resources technology satellite was 

launched as Landsat. It joined the weather and atmospheric science-oriented 

satellites as showing NASA’s importance to environmental values. A series of 

demonstration programs were launched to persuade user agencies and industry that Landsat imagery could aid them in their decisions. In 1978, the 

Carter administration touted Landsat as capable of helping forecasts of world 

food harvests. Sometimes the potential users took a strong interest, and other 

12. Ibid., p. 289.

13. Ibid., p. 397.

14. Launius, “A Western Mormon in Washington, DC: James C. Fletcher, NASA, and the 

Final Frontier,” Pacific Historical Review (1995): 236. 
392 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

times they thought space-based remote sensing satellites might be a solution 

looking for a problem.

The Stratospheric Ozone Issue

Throughout his tour as NASA’s leader, Fletcher persisted to extol NASA as a 

friend of the environment. He proactively sought environmental missions for 

which he thought NASA was relevant. The one that ultimately proved most 

significant as a Fletcher legacy pertained to stratospheric ozone. In 1973, 

NASA performed research that indicated the Shuttle might produce chlorine, 

a highly reactive chemical theorized to deplete ozone in the atmosphere. Was 

the Space Shuttle an environmental threat? Not long before, environmentalists had helped get the supersonic transport (SST) killed. This concern 

about ozone depletion was reinforced the next year, when Mario Molina 

and Sherwood Rowland published a paper in Nature arguing that the real 

danger for ozone depletion was not airplanes or other exotic technology (for 

example, a Shuttle) but rather a mundane and common family of industrially 

produced compounds known as chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs). These chemicals were used in spray cans, refrigerators, air conditioners, and the like. At 

ground level, CFCs were not a threat. High in the stratosphere, however, they 

were a peril, depleting ozone and thus enhancing skin cancer. A controversy 

followed, in which scientists, industry, environmentalists, and others contested the “truth.”

It was not immediately clear which agency—NASA, NOAA, or the 

National Science Foundation (NSF)—should take responsibility for determining if ozone depletion was a real or bogus threat, whether caused by 

CFCs, Shuttles, or airplanes. In any event, given Fletcher’s environmental 

orientation and NASA’s need to be relevant to changing national priorities, 

the space agency went after this mission. In June 1975, Congress passed legislation directing NASA “to conduct a comprehensive program of research, 

technology, and monitoring of the phenomena of the upper atmosphere.” 

In 1977, the year Fletcher stepped down as NASA Administrator, Congress 

required NASA to issue biennial reports to Congress on the status of ozone 

depletion and what was known. The 1975 and 1977 legislation solidified 

NASA as the lead agency in stratospheric ozone research and linked NASA 

with policy. Fletcher had achieved his aim of moving NASA in an environmental direction.15

15. W. Henry Lambright, NASA and the Environment: The Case of Ozone Depletion

(Washington, DC: NASA SP-2005-4538, 2005), pp. 7–8.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 393

Comparative Planetology

Landsat and ozone depletion represented NASA’s most direct foray into the 

environmental field in the 1970s. At the same time, indirectly, the comparative planetology area also advanced NASA’s environmental claims. Mariner 9, 

which went up in 1971, found a huge dust storm on Mars that had altered the 

planet’s climate. Carl Sagan argued that this discovery pointed to issues for 

climate change on Earth. In 1975, NASA’s largest and most ambitious planetary mission up to this time, Viking, was launched. Viking’s goal was to land 

equipment on Mars and determine if life might exist there. The results were 

largely inconclusive and, for many, negative on the issue of life. Nevertheless, 

Viking generated enormous interest in Mars and its comparison with Earth. 

Viking also stimulated interest in NASA’s planetary protection requirements. 

Sterilization techniques were developed and applied to the Viking spacecraft 

to prevent forward contamination.16

Lovelock’s Gaia hypothesis was getting better known as Lovelock went to 

conferences and spoke out. In 1974, he published his thesis “that all living 

things on Earth, along with the lithosphere, oceans, and atmosphere, act as 

a unified, synergistic system...analogous to the body of a single organism, 

which homeostatically controls environmental conditions in the oceans, the 

atmosphere, and so on, so that they remain within the range needed to support life.”17 Lovelock continued to publish and defend his thesis throughout 

the decade. In 1979, Gaia got top billing in a “Conference on Life in the 

Universe.” Lovelock’s studies of Earth as a system and planetary scientists’ 

work on Mars, Venus, and other planets seemed to be converging at least in 

ideas, if not yet in government programs.

The environmental movement of the 1970s was an amalgam of science 

and emotion about Earth. Lovelock’s “notion of the Earth as a living being 

struck a chord with a wide range of nature lovers, from indigenous cultures 

who thought of the Earth as a sacred spirit to mystics who sought the ‘oneness’ in nature, and environmentalists who were all too aware of how delicate 

was the balance of equilibrium in a complex system: cut down a rain forest in 

one part of the globe and you create a desert in another.”18 There was also a 

sense of utopia—seeking a better Earth, a purer Earth, a cleaner Earth.

16. See Dick and Strick, Living Universe, chapter 4, “Vikings to Mars.”

17. Ibid., p. 49.

18. Benjamin, Rocket Dreams, p. 51.
394 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

O’Neill’s Appeal

As energy shortages joined environmental interests, the notion of “limits to 

growth” gained prominence, aided by a book of the same name. One of the 

more interesting ways in which space enthusiasts, energy-conserving advocates, and environmentalists came together in the 1970s was within the concept of communes in space. Gerard O’Neill, a noted Princeton physicist, 

published a visionary article in the journal Physics Today in 1974. There, he 

outlined a scheme for human migration beyond planet Earth. As O’Neill 

continued to write and speak, his ideas attracted a considerable following. 

What captured the imagination of many people was his concept of colonies 

in space. Such colonies would be eco-friendly, relying on solar energy and 

recycling. Stuart Brand, of Whole Earth Catalog fame, was a follower, as were 

others who wanted a better and “greener” life. O’Neill was a serious scientist. He received NASA support to develop his ideas. In 1976, he testified at 

a standing-room-only congressional hearing. O’Neill showed how environmental values, energy technology, and space exploration could be harmonized. He appealed even to those for whom “growth” was a desirable value. 

O’Neill showed a way to escape Earth’s limits by extending humankind’s presence into space.19 O’Neill’s colonies were to be situated at Lagrangian points 

in space, where gravity between Earth and the Sun would hold the required 

structures in check and provide stability. His ideas spawned a society of followers, called the L5 society. The momentum behind many of his ideas faded 

in the 1980s, and the charismatic O’Neill died in 1992.

Another energy-related notion that had currency in space and environmental circles in the 1970s was that of a solar-power satellite (SPS). Studied 

under NASA and Department of Energy funding, the SPS required an array 

of solar cells equivalent to Manhattan scale in space. A number of these giant 

satellite systems would be situated in space at a point where a given array 

would have a fixed spot above Earth. An SPS would capture solar energy and 

microwave it to a receiving station on Earth. From there, it could be inserted 

into an electrical grid. Enough SPS systems and the whole world could be 

powered by solar energy and the need for electricity-related fossil fuels obviated.20 Although the idea of SPS solved some environmental issues, it created 

others. The SPS remained in the “study state” subsequent to the 1970s, never 

getting any real traction in policy.

19. Ibid., pp. 121–138.

20. David Goodstein, Out of Gas: The End of the Age of Oil (New York: Norton, 2004), 

pp. 111–112.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 395

Orbital Debris

Some of these ideas about people living in space or depending on solar-power 

satellites may have stimulated more attention, at least within NASA, to environmental threats in space. The debris issue continued to grow slowly and 

quietly. In 1979, NASA established an Orbital Debris Program Office at 

Johnson Space Center (JSC) to begin tracking the space junk orbiting Earth. 

Debris, like comparative planetology and space colonies, was one component 

of NASA’s environmental role. NASA gave most attention to the component 

of putting environmental monitoring satellites into space. It was in this satellite field that NASA’s environmental role was most salient and direct. However, 

debris could strike environmental satellites along with other space assets. At 

the end of the 1970s, NASA launched two important new Earth observation 

satellites. One was Nimbus 7, a satellite specially equipped to study problems 

of the upper atmosphere—namely, ozone depletion. The second was Seasat, a 

satellite instrumented to test a variety of oceanographic sensors.

Seasat only operated from 28 June 1978 to 10 October 1978, but it 

showed oceanographers how the view from space could advance their field. 

Seasat measured sea surface temperatures as well as wind speed, temperature, and other features.21 Along with atmospheric and land satellites, Seasat 

pointed up the potential the comparative planetologists had noted when they 

speculated about doing for Earth what Viking scientists had done for Mars. 

Like Lovelock, they envisioned that the ability to view Earth as a total system 

provided new insights and was made possible by space technology.

Turning Concepts into a Program: The 1980s

James Beggs was appointed NASA Administrator in 1981 by President 

Ronald Reagan. At the time he came into office, the Shuttle program at long 

last was reaching a point of testing. As Beggs saw it, the time was near when 

NASA needed another major developmental mission of flagship status to 

keep the Agency viable. Beggs saw a space station as “the next logical step.” 

It would be a laboratory in space and also a “base camp” for piloted missions 

back to the Moon and eventually to Mars. The problem he had was to get a 

presidential decision from Reagan to initiate the program. There were those 

around Reagan—his science advisor, who thought a space station a bad idea; 

his budget director, who thought it too expensive—who stood in the way. It 

would take a while to persuade the President. Reagan was giving priority to 

21. NASA, “Seasat 1978 Overview,” 10 February 1998, http://southport.jpl.nasa.gov/scienceapps/

seasat.html.
396 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

building up U.S. defense capability, nuclear weapons included. Some space 

scientists, including Sagan, drawing on work in comparative planetology, 

argued that nuclear war could have an effect of triggering “nuclear winter.” 22

Environment as a Backup Mission

While he waited for the right moment to approach Reagan on the space station decision, Beggs looked for other initiatives. What was possible? Beggs’s 

Associate Administrator for OSSA, Burton Edelson, was also looking for 

new missions from his vantage point. Edelson recalled the Viking experience: “Viking’s intended landing spot was found to be unsuitable.... [This 

caused NASA] to call in the nation’s leading Mars specialists for an intensive 

three-week meeting covering all aspects of the planet. The meeting led to the 

selection of a safe landing area. At the end, one of the scientists involved, 

Michael McElroy of Harvard University, repeated something he had begun 

to tell other scientists: ‘You know, we’ve never done anything like this for 

the Earth.’ ”23

Edelson believed the moment had arrived to take a comprehensive look at 

planet Earth. He fastened on the concept of “global monitoring” by satellites. 

As an engineer, Edelson envisioned the launch of very large platforms in space 

to monitor all the environmental ills of the planet through multiple sensors. 

Land, atmosphere, ocean, ice—everything would be combined holistically. 

The program had to be big—the platforms big—because the problems of 

monitoring global change were large. Also, intuitively, Edelson knew NASA 

needed big programs to survive, much less prosper. He took his concept to 

Beggs. Beggs did not want to put OSSA’s idea ahead of the space station, 

but he could see how a global-monitoring mission could help sustain NASA 

as it moved from the Shuttle to the space station era. He told Edelson to 

move ahead.24

While Edelson, the OSSA Administrator, was developing his program 

plans, one of the scientists under OSSA was moving much faster. This was 

James Hansen, who headed the Institute for Space Studies in New York City, 

a division of the Goddard Space Flight Center, which in turn received most 

of its funds from OSSA. Hansen was a man who marched to his own drummer. Trained in physics and astronomy under James Van Allen, the discoverer 

of radiation belts named after him, Hansen started out studying Venus at the 

22. Dick and Strick, Living Universe, pp. 122–125.

23. Burton Edelson, “Mission to Planet Earth,” Science 227, no. 4185 (25 January 1985): 6.

24. The origins of NASA’s “Mission to Planet Earth” are recounted in W. Henry Lambright, 

“Entrepreneurship and Space Technology: The Ups and Downs of ‘Mission to Planet 

Earth,’ ” Public Administration Review (March–April 1994): 97–104.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 397

University of Iowa. He contemplated how the greenhouse effect had rendered 

Venus inhospitable to life. Hansen subsequently began working on simulations of Earth’s climate for the purpose of understanding the human impact 

on climate change on his own planet. What he discovered made him very 

worried. Rather than wait quietly, he decided to sound the alarm. He sent 

Walter Sullivan, the veteran science writer of the New York Times, a report he 

was about to publish, announcing that Earth was getting noticeably warmer. 

For the first time, the greenhouse effect made page one of the New York Times. 

The warming, it was stated, could cause a disastrous sea level rise.25

Hansen’s New York Times gambit no doubt raised eyebrows in the Reagan 

White House, which was blunting the edge of many of the environmental 

and energy initiatives it had inherited from President Jimmy Carter. Within 

NASA, Hansen was seen as an asset but also as a maverick. In any event, 

NASA wanted to mount a program that would determine if Hansen was 

right. Beggs decided to act. In 1982, NASA convened a scientific group 

headed by Richard Goody of Harvard to study the concept of linking space 

to global habitability, and it gave the idea its blessing. Beggs now went to a 

United Nations (UN) Conference on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space, where 

he called for “an international cooperative project to use space technology to 

address natural and manmade changes affecting habitability of Earth.” The 

reaction was overwhelmingly negative—from other agencies, scientists, and 

the White House. Beggs had moved too fast. Critics saw NASA as engaged in 

bureaucratic empire building. “It came across like NASA was trying to take 

over the world,” Edelson recollected.26 Beggs had broached a technological 

vision without a political coalition to undergird it.

Beggs subsequently told Edelson to keep “working” on the Earthmonitoring system, but to do so quietly and spend time to build support 

for the program. Beggs turned to persuading the President to launch the 

space station program and in 1984 got Reagan to agree. Edelson, meanwhile, 

mended fences and built support. From 1983 to 1986, NASA engaged in 

a broad-gauged planning process. A committee—the Earth System Science 

Committee—involving Earth scientists from many disciplines was established. The “Earth System” concept was key. It conveyed the “holistic view.” 

NASA also invited the NSF, responsible for basic research in Earth science 

fields, and NOAA, with authority in operational weather and oceans programs, to attend the meetings. At the same time, Edelson set up a new unit 

25. Weart, Discovery of Global Warming, p. 143.

26. Edward Edelson, “Laying the Foundation,” Mosaic 19, no. 314 (fall–winter): 6–7.
398 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

within OSSA (the Earth Sciences and Applications Division) to recruit and 

strengthen the status of Earth scientists within the space agency.27

Ozone Depletion

While planning this comprehensive Earth-monitoring initiative, NASA was 

becoming increasingly involved in projecting a visible leadership role dealing 

with the problem of ozone depletion.28 The wisdom of Fletcher’s moves in 

the 1970s to position NASA in this area of policy became clear in the mid1980s, as ozone depletion rose on the national and international agenda. In 

1985, British scientists using ground-based studies discovered extraordinary 

and unexpected ozone depletion over Antarctica. NASA followed up with 

satellite observations confirming what became known as the “ozone hole.” 

The media provided eerie and graphic images of the Antarctic ozone hole and 

spoke of a global environmental threat, especially skin cancer from unfiltered 

sunlight, if the hole spread. Environmentalists, the media, and politicians 

throughout the world demanded action.

Edelson decided the time had come to “surface” again. In 1985, he wrote 

an editorial for Science in which he proclaimed the need for a new “Mission 

to Planet Earth.” Meanwhile, parallel to NASA’s planning effort, scientists 

under the auspices of the National Academy of Sciences were working with 

colleagues in other countries developing what came to be called a “global 

change” research agenda. The difference between the two planning exercises 

was NASA’s emphasis on the role of space satellites, whereas this other effort 

emphasized ground- or ocean-based research. As for satellites, NASA got 

approval at this time from the White House and Congress to develop a new 

satellite dedicated to the ozone issue called the Upper Atmosphere Research 

Satellite (UARS).

In 1986, NASA’s Earth System Science Committee produced a report that 

proposed a very extensive R&D program extending well into the twenty-first 

century. Its most significant recommendation from a NASA perspective was 

for the development of an Earth Observation System (EOS). The EOS would 

constitute the large platforms for Earth monitoring that Edelson had envisioned in 1981. The EOS would consist, at least initially, of two 13-ton platforms carrying a large range of sensors. These platform-sensor systems would 

provide comprehensiveness and simultaneity of atmospheric, oceanic, and 

land monitoring. Other platforms could be supplied by other nations. The 

biggest difference conceptually between the EOS of 1986 and the Edelson 

27. Lambright, “Entrepreneurship and Space Technology,” pp. 99–100.

28. Lambright, NASA and the Environment.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 399

vision of 1981 was the linkage of EOS with the space station. It would be 

physically connected in some way rather than be freestanding in a separate 

orbit. As OSSA had to build an external coalition, so it had to build an internal coalition. The space station was the 800-pound gorilla within NASA. 

NASA leadership was anxious to link the station and scientific community. 

OSSA saw it better to cooperate than compete with the station.29

Everything seemed set for NASA to go to the White House and Congress 

in 1986 to get the new environmental mission and the EOS formally adopted 

as a major program. NASA’s work in ozone depletion was going well. It had 

played a “lead agency” role in sponsoring expeditions to Antarctica to prove 

or disprove the CFC theory, and the evidence was mounting that CFCs were 

indeed the cause of depletion. NASA was linked to policy-makers, via assessments of research, who were moving in the direction of a treaty to deal with 

CFCs. NASA was an ally in the view of environmentalists in and out of 

government. Unfortunately, in January 1986, the Space Shuttle Challenger 

exploded shortly after takeoff, taking seven lives, including Christa McAuliffe, 

the first teacher in space. For a time, chaos reigned at NASA, and virtually 

everything was put on hold. NASA was hurt immensely by the fact that Beggs 

had left NASA in late 1985 to fight what was proved to be a false criminal 

charge stemming from his pre–NASA work in the private sector. William 

Graham, Beggs’s deputy, sought to run NASA in the immediate aftermath 

of the Challenger incident, as acting Administrator, and was overwhelmed. 

Reagan appointed Graham his science advisor and brought James Fletcher 

back to help NASA in 1986 to help the Agency recover. It would be 1989 

before NASA returned the Shuttle to flight.

Fletcher, meanwhile, sought to get his Agency—under attack on all 

fronts—to think positively about its future. He asked astronaut Sally Ride, 

first U.S. woman in space, to produce a report on NASA priorities. She did 

so in 1987. Her report used the phrase “Mission to Planet Earth” (MTPE), 

listing it prominently among four “leadership initiatives” for the Agency’s 

future. Fletcher embraced the Ride report and the new Earth mission. With 

the Shuttle grounded and the space station mired in cost overruns and delays, 

NASA’s environmental program could be a source of pride and support. In 

1987, the Montreal Protocol was concluded, with NASA pivotal in the effort 

to provide a base of technical information for the negotiations. The protocol called for emissions control and continuing refinements in the policy to 

eliminate ozone-destroying chemicals through research.

29. Lambright, “Entrepreneurship and Space Technology,” p. 100.
400 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Edelson left OSSA in this year and was succeeded by Len Fisk. Fisk 

inherited a program long in the planning and with a strong constituency of 

support. It had momentum. Ozone depletion was the vanguard of the globalmonitoring effort. “Mission to Planet Earth” was indeed a growing activity of 

NASA now, with the EOS projected to cost $30 billion over a 15-year period 

of development and use. All that was needed was adoption by the President 

and Congress to make the program official.

The Rise of Climate Change

The following year, 1988, NASA continued its ozone-depletion work, waiting for a national policy decision. As it did so, NASA found itself increasingly 

involved with the climate change issue. This issue was rising fast on the federal 

agenda, helped by a very hot summer—and NASA scientist James Hansen’s 

willingness to testify before Congress about the threat of global warming. 

Hansen declared that he could state “with 99 percent confidence” that there 

was a long-term warming trend under way, and he strongly suspected that 

the greenhouse effect was to blame. Talking with reporters afterward, he was 

more direct, saying it was time to “stop waffling, and say that the evidence 

is pretty strong that the greenhouse effect is here.” These statements—and 

their use by politicians, environmentalists, and media—helped trigger further action by other groups.30 An international conference of scientists and 

policymakers in Toronto called for a 20 percent reduction of global carbon 

emissions by 2005. Two UN organizations—the World Meteorological 

Organization (WMO) and the United Nations Environmental Program—

created a separate body of scientists, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate 

Change (IPCC). The IPCC was a large, diffuse, international group of scientists, many government-connected, whose task was to periodically assess the 

state of knowledge about global warming as an aid to policymakers.31

Seeing momentum building on climate change, Reagan’s science advisor, 

Graham, convened an interagency panel, the Committee on Earth Sciences, 

to get ahead on the issue. Representatives on the committee from NASA, 

NOAA, and NSF proposed a coordinated interagency program called the 

U.S. Global Change Research Program (USGCRP), of which NASA’s 

Mission to Planet Earth/EOS would be a significant part. The space and 

nonspace facets of the program would be integrated. They asked that these 

agencies’ budgets relevant to global change would be considered as a whole. 

The Office of Management and Budget (OMB), which had been promoting 

30. Weart, Discovery of Global Warming, p. 155.

31. Ibid., p. 158.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 401

interagency coordination, liked what it heard and encouraged the agencies to 

plan together. In 1988, they readied an initiative to send to the President—

USGCRP. NASA’s MTPE was thus a component—the largest dimension by 

far in expense—of this interagency program.32

The environment was an issue in the presidential election of 1988. George 

H. W. Bush said that if elected, he would be the “environmental president.” 

Further, he declared that Americans need not worry about the greenhouse 

effect because under him the “White House Effect” would take care of the 

problem. NASA was meanwhile working two fronts at once in global environmental research. It was expanding its ozone-depletion program from 

Antarctica to include the Arctic. At the same time, it was positioning itself 

to be active in global warming in a large-scale way via the Earth Observation 

System. Other environmental issues of concern to NASA—planetary protection and space debris—remained of continuing interest, but they were below 

the radar screen compared with ozone depletion and climate change.

In 1989, NASA returned to flight with the Shuttle, and Fletcher retired 

from NASA for the second time. He clearly had encouraged NASA’s environmental role—both times as Administrator. George H. W. Bush was now 

President. NASA, its sister agencies in the USGCRP, and the environmental 

community, among others, waited to see if he would follow through on his 

campaign pledge to be the environmental president.

The George H. W. Bush Years

Global Change as a Presidential Priority

Bush appointed Richard Truly, a retired admiral and former astronaut, NASA 

Administrator in 1989. Truly’s priorities lay with piloted spaceflight and especially the Shuttle. His interest in other programs was lukewarm, but he did 

nothing to constrain NASA’s drive for a Mission to Planet Earth. It looked as 

though NASA were on a growth curve in overall budget now that the Shuttle 

was flying again, and there would be funding for a number of major programs. 

Bush appointed Allan Bromley, a Yale chemist, as his science advisor. He told 

Bromley to propose a few initiatives in science and technology that he could 

back. Plans for the USGCRP initiative were literally sitting on Bromley’s desk, 

inherited from his predecessor. Bush had economic advisors who were skeptical of the global-warming thesis. They worried that CO2

 emission reduction 

of the kind environmentalists wanted would wreck the economy. They urged 

Bush to support research to narrow the uncertainties before taking action to 

32. Lambright, “Entrepreneurship and Space Technology,” p. 100.
402 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

regulate emissions, and Bush agreed. Environmentalists saw research as desirable but argued it should not be used as an excuse to delay regulatory policy. 

In the ozone case, NASA had tied research to policy because policy-makers 

wanted to act and felt a sense of urgency because of the ozone hole. In global 

change (that is, climate change), policy-makers felt no such urgency. NASA 

was given the go-ahead for a major new research program but had no official 

mandate to connect it to policy.

In July 1989, in a speech commemorating the Apollo Moon landing, 

Bush proclaimed that NASA would go back to the Moon, this time to stay, 

and then on to Mars. He also endorsed NASA’s Mission to Planet Earth. 

Congress, controlled by Democrats, dismissed the Moon-Mars decision as 

empty rhetoric. The MTPE decision was another matter. Al Gore, a leader in 

the Senate on both environmental and space policy, said MTPE was NASA’s 

real priority.33 NASA was talking about at least a 15-year program costing 

$30 billion. Sustained observations were deemed essential to understanding 

trends in global change. A $30 billion program was a long way from the relatively modest “applications” programs of earlier years. MTPE would not only 

be a new mission; it was projected to be the biggest robotic program in NASA 

history. NASA would supply two platforms. The European Space Agency 

might provide a third, and Japan a fourth. The EOS was therefore conceived 

as international in participation, a global program in more than one way. It 

was the Earth scientists’ version of Apollo.

In 1990, the President made the USGCRP (and thus MTPE) his first 

presidential research priority. Congress appropriated $191 million to get the 

EOS, the centerpiece of MTPE, under way. NASA’s new mission was now 

fully adopted. As if to symbolize the fact that the EOS could stand on its own 

feet, NASA Administrator Truly decoupled the EOS from the space station in 

terms of both planned configuration and budget. In surviving to this point, it 

was helpful to the EOS to be part of the space station. But there was no technical reason why they had to be coupled. Many scientists believed the EOS 

should be in a very different orbit from the space station. And environmental 

advocates of MTPE/EOS believed the program was more worthwhile than 

the space station.

In this year, a prestigious outside group, headed by Norman Augustine, 

the CEO of Martin Marietta, convened to examine the NASA program 

at the behest of the White House. There was considerable concern about 

NASA due to a series of problems, the most notable of which was the Hubble 

Telescope’s blurred vision. The Augustine panel endorsed NASA’s Mission 

to Planet Earth. Like the Ride report, the Augustine report made NASA’s 

33. Ibid., pp. 100–101.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 403

environmental mission virtually coequal with the human and space science 

(Mission from Earth) programs. Augustine’s report recommended substantial 

raises in the NASA budget to accommodate the various missions.34

Senator Gore, who embodied the environmental movement’s views, supported MTPE/EOS but advocated that NASA find ways to get scientific 

knowledge about climate change out sooner than the EOS portended. He 

noted it would take almost a decade to develop and deploy the two complex 

sensor-platform systems. To NASA’s consternation, its own Hansen suggested 

a smaller $200 million satellite dedicated to climate (“Climsat”), that could 

be launched much sooner.35 Hansen was widely perceived as a close advisor to 

Gore on climate change. Some observers speculated that if Gore ever became 

President, he would make Hansen his science advisor. Gore’s concern was the 

pace of the program. Even as NASA’s MTPE/EOS program won presidential 

and congressional support to get adopted, it was sharply criticized by other 

lawmakers. Not because of pace or purpose, but its cost. The larger policy issue 

haunting NASA was money to pay for all the programs on its plate. Space, 

environment, and many other policy initiatives of Bush were giving way to an 

overriding national priority to restrain budget growth and reduce the deficit 

accumulated since Reagan took office. There was bipartisan consensus about 

deficit reduction, not about spending on the global environment.

To enforce budget discipline, Bush and Congress in 1990 agreed to a 

spending cap. That cap affected most agencies, including NASA. Within 

NASA, the EOS was projected to ramp up in cost in succeeding years. Unless 

checked, it could rival the space station, also ramping up at the same time. 

The administration and Congress grew concerned. Could MTPE achieve 

its purposes through some less costly technical approach? NASA said its 

approach was best. Bromley, Bush’s science advisor, sought external advice 

from the National Academy of Sciences (NAS). NAS found that the twoplatform concept NASA had proposed was more elaborate than necessary. 

One platform, not two, would be sufficient for the simultaneous observations NASA desired. The instruments on the second platform might be better 

arrayed on a number of smaller, more specialized satellites.

Hansen, meanwhile, continued to question his own agency’s strategy, 

publishing an article arguing for his Climsat. He said he was for the EOS, but 

global warming could not wait for the EOS to be fully deployed. There were 

various scientific skeptics where global warming was concerned. The scientific 

body established to assess global warming for the UN, the IPCC, issued its 

first report in 1990. It confirmed that global warming was taking place but 

34. Ibid., p. 101.

35. Ibid.
404 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

stopped short of saying humans were the cause.36 Everyone seemed to agree 

on the need to narrow uncertainty by research. The issue was how much to 

spend, how long to wait—before policy action.

Full Implementation Thwarted

MTPE, and with it the EOS, was officially adopted in 1990. (MTPE was 

the overall program in OSSA. The EOS was the principal satellite development project.) But before implementation could begin in earnest, influential 

critics forced NASA to revise its plans. Bush had created a National Space 

Council (NSC), headed by Vice President Dan Quayle, to deal with crossagency space policy issues. The NSC and the OMB both saw a train wreck 

ahead for NASA because of a static budget and growing programs—the space 

station and the EOS. They created a blue-ribbon task force, the Engineering 

Review Board, in 1991 specifically to address the question of EOS design 

and cost saving. Meanwhile, the media began painting the EOS in the language of “big science,” and, in the budget context of 1991, big science was 

suddenly bad.

Speaking to the Maryland Space Business Round Table, OSSA’s Associate 

Administrator, Lennard Fisk, expressed frustration with those who criticized 

the EOS for being too big and expensive. He rejected Hansen’s interim satellite as well. Fisk argued: “It is simple reality that to determine how the Earth 

will respond to increased concentrations of greenhouse gases will require 

a detailed, comprehensive, and complete understanding of how the Earth 

works. There is no early version of this. No version in which you do some 

concentrated research in some limited area, and then all truth is revealed. The 

Earth is too complicated, and its workings too interrelated. If the comprehensive nature of this research effort makes it by definition big science, then so 

be it. It’s a big Earth. And there are big consequences for getting the wrong 

answers.” He explained that the EOS was not a “breakthrough mission.” 

Rather, it was an “evolutionary” program that would provide ever-greater 

understanding of the impacts of greenhouse gases over time. There would be 

“simpler missions of smaller spacecraft” along the way, leading to “the more 

detailed and complete measurements that EOS was to make. EOS would 

provide simultaneity and comprehensiveness in data about Earth. EOS was 

the route “to build the definitive story of how the Earth works, and what will 

be the future of our planet home.”37

36. Weart, Discovery of Global Warming, p. 162.

37. Lennard Fisk, “Mission to Planet Earth” (talk to Maryland Space Business Round Table, 

26 February 1991).
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 405

Unfortunately for Fisk, opponents of the space station used the EOS as 

leverage against the space station. There was a serious attempt to kill the station in Congress in 1991. The station survived, but the Washington Post called 

the vote “a political victory, not a budget victory.” To support the space station, other programs would likely suffer, and that meant the EOS—the other 

megaprogram. In the summer of 1991, the Engineering Review Board recommended EOS’s redesign, with the twin 13-ton platforms split into a fleet of 

smaller satellites. At the same time, Congress, while appropriating $271 million for the EOS ($65 million less than requested), wrote into the legislation 

a cap on the program through fiscal year 2000 at $11 billion—$6 billion less 

than NASA had projected as required for the two-platform design.38

Ironically, in September, as NASA contemplated how to comply with the 

Engineering Review Panel recommendations and congressional strictures, it 

began implementing its Mission to Planet Earth program. The first satellite 

under MTPE was the Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite, the $740 million 

ozone-depletion-monitoring satellite. Approved earlier, UARS was folded into 

the MTPE program as the initial satellite project. As Fisk had noted, there 

would be an evolution of spacecraft leading up to the EOS. UARS was the first. 

It was a fitting start given the impetus ozone depletion had played in launching NASA’s expanded environmental mission. By the end of the year, NASA 

had reluctantly abandoned its two-platform design. It split the two platforms 

into a fleet of six satellites. These six satellites would carry fewer instruments 

than the two comprehensive platforms would have done. Simultaneity and 

comprehensiveness—the twin values OSSA planners wanted—would be sacrificed. The first of the six satellites was scheduled to go up in 1998, about the 

same time NASA planners had once hoped the EOS as a whole would go up. 

But money constraints meant stretching the program.

Goldin’s “Faster, Better, Cheaper” Mantra

In early 1992, President Bush forced NASA Administrator Truly to resign 

due to differences in priorities between the White House and the NASA 

leader. The differences pertained more to human spaceflight than to the EOS, 

especially the Moon-Mars program Bush had announced. This program had 

gone nowhere, in part because Truly had not pushed it, but more because 

Congress did not take it seriously and never funded it. Bush appointed 

Daniel Goldin, an aerospace executive from TRW, as NASA Administrator. 

Goldin had crossed swords with NASA previously over the relative merits of 

the large platforms versus the smaller satellites. Fisk had allegedly threatened 

38. Lambright, “Entrepreneurship and Space Technology,” p. 102.
406 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

to withhold contracts from TRW if Goldin continued to push his “smallsat” ideas. Goldin was appointed in part because of his belief that NASA 

could accomplish its missions more quickly with smaller systems employing 

more advanced technology. This approach—called “faster, better, cheaper” 

(FBC)—became Goldin’s mantra.39

Constrained politically on changing the space station, Goldin particularly 

emphasized savings in the unmanned part of NASA. He imposed a 30 percent 

cut in the “run-out budget” (expenditures to 2000) on the EOS. This meant 

it would fall further, from $11 billion to $8 billion. To enforce his views, 

he abolished OSSA; moved Fisk to Chief Scientist; and, in place of OSSA, 

created three smaller (and less powerful) entities. One of these offices was 

Mission to Planet Earth. Fisk soon left NASA. Without the strong-minded 

Fisk as a counter, Goldin was able to rework the EOS in his FBC model.40

The Arctic Ozone Hole

While these events were transpiring in NASA’s organizational context, other 

important events took place that weakened NASA’s credibility as an environmental agency and its effort to have a bipartisan base of political support. 

NASA’s research in the Arctic had expanded. At the beginning of February 

1992, project leaders detected signals they believed portended serious depletion problems in the Northern Hemisphere. They debated whether to sound 

an alarm or wait two months until the expedition’s end and make sure concerns about ozone depletion in the Arctic were valid before saying anything 

in public. An ozone hole over the Arctic could have dire consequences, especially for people who lived in the far Northern Hemisphere. NASA’s general 

rule was, “If we are arguing about it, it doesn’t belong in a press release or 

congressional testimony.” Violating that rule, NASA decided to issue a warning. On 3 February, at NASA Headquarters, expedition leaders held a news 

conference. They said that an ozone hole over the Northern Hemisphere “was 

increasingly likely” and had to be taken seriously. “We’re not concerned with 

just remote regions now,” said Michael Kurylo of NASA. “What we’re dealing with extends to very populated regions.” With ozone loss increasing, a 

30 percent loss by March was possible. “Everyone should be alarmed about 

this,” warned Kurylo.41

39. Stephanie Roy, “The Origin of the Smaller, Faster, Cheaper Approach in NASA’s Solar 

System Exploration Program,” Space Policy 14 (1998): 166.

40. Roy, “Origin of the Smaller, Faster, Cheaper Approach,” pp. 165–167; Lambright, 

“Entrepreneurship and Space Technology,” p. 103.

41. Lambright, NASA and the Environment, pp. 30–31.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 407

The reaction from environmentalists was immediate: “It’s frightening,” 

said Liz Cook of Friends of Earth. “If the phenomenon ever occurs on a 

broader scale, it could be the final curtain for all life in the planet,” said 

Karen Lohr of Greenpeace. The media were also alarmed, and influential 

media called on President Bush to accelerate the phaseout of ozone-depleting 

chemicals. A New York Times editorial, “The Ozone Hole over Mr. Bush’s 

Head,” termed ozone depletion an issue of global importance and noted 

that “the life-protecting ozone layer may now be thinning above President 

Bush’s summer home in Kennebunkport, Maine.” In an editorial called 

“The Vanishing Ozone Layer,” the Washington Post declared: “Once again, it 

turns out that the protective ozone layer in the sky is being destroyed faster 

than even the pessimists had expected.” Time magazine’s cover headline was 

“Vanishing Ozone: The Danger Moves Closer to Home.”42

Feeling pressure to act, Bush signaled a willingness to consider a faster 

timetable if necessary. A spokesman for the CFC industry said leading firms 

would find substitutes faster if required. Senator Gore said Bush had had a 

wake-up call thanks to the “ozone hole...pointed to and predicted about 

Kennebunkport.” It was about time for Bush “to think seriously about doing 

something,” Gore demanded. Gore took the floor of the U.S. Senate to introduce a bill to halt CFC production by 1995. He termed the information 

in the NASA news conference “an immediate, acute, emergency threat.” 

Following the debate, the U.S. Senate called for a halt as soon as possible, 

not specifying a date, but voting 96–0 in favor of speed-up. On 11 February 

1992, Bush announced that he was ordering American manufacturers to end, 

by 31 December 1995, virtually all production of chemicals that destroyed 

ozone. He had that authority under the Clean Air Act, if he found the 

Montreal Protocol deadline of 2000 inadequate.43

The media and environmentalist barrage continued, as did Gore’s use of 

the “crisis” for his own purposes. But in early March, the dreaded ozone hole 

over the Northern Hemisphere failed to materialize as predicted. Satellite 

monitoring confirmed there was no emergency. The NASA scientist in charge 

of monitoring said there was no ozone hole over the Northern Hemisphere. 

As for Senator Gore’s point about Kennebunkport, he said: “I can tell you 

categorically there is no ozone hole over Kennebunkport. There never has 

been an ozone hole over Kennebunkport, and I don’t really expect one.”44

On 30 April 1992, NASA ended its Arctic project and admitted error in 

sounding an alarm prematurely. Ozone loss had occurred, but there was no 

42. Ibid., pp. 31–32.

43. Ibid., pp. 31–32.

44. Ibid., p. 33.
408 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

hole. NASA subsequently was strongly criticized by the conservative media, 

such as the Washington Times and the Wall Street Journal. NASA went from 

being a hero to a goat in ozone science and policy, at least in some quarters. 

NASA’s work in ozone depletion would continue in the future, particularly 

in monitoring ozone loss and thus compliance with the Montreal Protocol.45

After 1992, the political spotlight turned increasingly away from ozone 

and to the global warming issue. But one result of the ozone controversy was 

that the connection between NASA and Gore was now etched strongly in 

the minds of many of Gore’s political enemies. Gore had published a book 

in 1992, Earth in the Balance, claiming the environmental crisis was grave 

and needed immediate governmental intervention. He was especially worried 

about climate change. The ozone-depletion affair made some conservatives 

believe that Gore and NASA were in alliance, with NASA supplying evidence 

for Gore’s cause. Especially for conservative Republican critics, NASA’s credibility was hurt doubly—by being wrong on the Arctic ozone hole and being 

a supposed tool of Gore and his environmentalist friends.

Bush meanwhile had backed off from his campaign pledge to emphasize 

environmental values as he saw the economy in trouble. Worried about the 

economy and his reelection potential, he resisted going beyond research in 

climate policy. Many European nations wanted targets, deadlines, and regulations. In June 1992, an Earth Summit in Rio de Janeiro took place, and Bush 

reluctantly attended. It culminated in a Framework Convention on Climate 

Change, signed by 150 governments. The convention called for emission 

reduction to 1990 levels by 2000, but there was nothing binding on those 

who signed.46 In the presidential campaign of 1992, Bush criticized Gore, the 

vice-presidential candidate, as “the ozone man.” Gore hit back. The election 

of Bill Clinton as President and Vice President Gore seemed to augur well for 

NASA’s Mission to Planet Earth and the environmental movement.

Clinton-Gore and NASA’s Environmental Role

In January 1993, Bill Clinton moved into the White House as President. 

With Gore as Vice President, everyone expected global warming to get 

higher priority. In organizing Clinton’s White House Office of Science and 

Technology, Jack Gibbons, Clinton’s science advisor, elevated Robert Watson 

to the new post of associate director of the Office of Science and Technology 

45. The subsequent ozone history is found in Lambright, NASA and the Environment, 

pp. 33–57.

46. Lamont Hempel, “Climate Policy on the Installment Plan,” in Environmental Policy, 6th 

ed., ed. Norman Vig and Michael Kraft (Washington, DC: CQ Press, 2006), pp. 294–297.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 409

Policy (OSTP) for the environment. Watson came from NASA, where he 

had won acclaim for the way he led the Agency’s ozone-depletion program 

in investigating the Antarctic Ozone Hole and advising policy-makers at the 

time of the Montreal Protocol. The Clinton-Gore administration gave general support to the existing U.S. Global Change Research Program, NASA’s 

Mission to Planet Earth, and the EOS. But Clinton and Gore were more 

interested in policy for emissions reduction than the research side of global 

warming. They already believed global warming was a problem. They wanted 

“action.” Ironically, Mission to Planet Earth and the USGCRP—large-scale 

research efforts—were more a clear focal point of presidential attention under 

Bush than they were under Clinton and Gore.47 Goldin, meanwhile, was 

retained and given great leeway in running NASA. Clinton abolished the 

National Space Council. Goldin reported nominally to Gibbons but could 

see Gore when he needed to do so and established a relatively good relationship with the Vice President.

Goldin brought a new scientist-administrator from outside NASA to 

lead Mission to Planet Earth, Charles Kennell, an astrophysicist from the 

University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). Kennell replaced Shelby 

Tilford, who had been in charge of the program, and found he had to deal 

with a number of problems. Under Goldin’s pressure, the EOS had been 

downsized to approximately $7.25 billion for the period to 2000. Moreover, 

the program had significant technical problems with its data-handling 

system, known as the Earth Observing System Data and Information System 

(EOSDIS). Kennell had Goldin’s support, now that Goldin had restructured 

the EOS along FBC lines. Also, Goldin knew that Mission to Planet Earth 

was one way he could connect NASA to Gore’s priorities.

The centerpiece of Mission to Planet Earth remained the EOS. However, 

other environmental satellite programs with more specific missions were 

folded into this program. These included Landsat, a program NASA had 

initiated in the 1970s and then spun off to NOAA in the 1980s. NOAA, 

in turn, had tried to privatize the program, deemed operational, but to no 

avail. Landsat images proved useful during the Persian Gulf War, and in 1992 

legislation had placed the program under DOD and NASA. Under Clinton, 

in 1993 it was made a NASA program again, although its operational status 

made it an uncomfortable fit for NASA. The dilemma was that no other federal agency really wanted to adopt the orphan effort.

Goldin’s heart was with “mission from Earth,” particularly the Mars exploration program, and most of his mental energy and actual time necessarily 

47. W. Henry Lambright, The Challenge of Coordinating “Big Science” (Washington, DC: 

IBM, 2003), pp. 10–13.
410 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

went to the space station effort, by far NASA’s most controversial and complex program. However, events external to NASA forced Goldin to think 

about Mission to Planet Earth. The congressional elections of 1994 brought 

the Republicans to power in both houses of Congress for the first time in 

decades. Led by House Speaker Newt Gingrich, they brandished a “Contract 

with America.” That contract called for drastic cuts in government programs, 

including those that might have anything to do with regulatory/environmental controls affecting the economy.

Saving Mission to Planet Earth

Clinton, stung by the elections and seeing the Republican Congress out to 

dramatically cut programs and balance the federal budget, sought to retake 

the initiative in early 1995. He declared that he himself would cut the federal 

budget, provide middle-class tax relief, and end “big government.” The cuts 

affected most agencies, and NASA was asked to reduce its budget $5 billion below its anticipated spending over the ensuing five years. Goldin was 

shocked because he had been a “poster boy” for government reinvention and 

downsizing since the outset of the Clinton-Gore years. He had thought he 

had taken his lumps, done his duty, and could promise his agency stability. 

That was not to be. He went along with the White House policy and soon 

waxed enthusiastic about the cuts and how to use them to reinvent NASA 

even more than he had already done.

As Goldin was deciding how to adapt NASA to the Clinton reductions, he 

was hit by additional demands from the House Republicans that the EOS be 

cut another $2.5 billion below Clinton’s parings. Why the EOS? The answer 

was that the House Republicans saw NASA’s Mission to Planet Earth as Gore’s 

baby. Moreover, the EOS was aimed at global warming, and global warming 

was “political” science. In a press briefing, Representative Dana Rohrabacher 

(R-CA), chair of the House Science Committee’s Energy and Environmental 

Subcommittee, explained the rationale. He derided the USGCRP and the 

EOS as “scientific nonsense.” Global warming, he said, is at best “unproven, 

and at worst...liberal claptrap.” The chair of the House Science Committee, 

Robert Walker (R-PA), likewise attacked NASA’s Earth Observation System, 

now calling for a cut of $2.7 billion in it over the ensuing seven years. NASA 

Administrator Goldin said such a cut would not only hurt NASA but “would 

dismantle the national approach to U.S. global change research.”48

48. As quoted in W. Henry Lambright, “The Rise and Fall of Interagency Cooperation: The 

U.S. Global Change Research Program,” Public Administration Review (January–February 

1997): 41.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 411

At Walker’s instigation, the National Academy of Sciences evaluated the 

state of MTPE/EOS. The report provided views that helped both friends 

and critics of MTPE/EOS make their case. Representative George Brown 

(D-CA), senior Democrat on the House Science Committee and an EOS 

advocate, found NAS had “endorsed the scientific underpinnings and research 

direction of the Global Change Research Program.” He noted that the report 

offered cold comfort to critics of the USGCRP and the EOS. Moreover, the 

report argued against further cuts, delays, and design changes in the EOS. 

Noting that Republican leaders in the House and Senate had asked for the 

report, he declared: “Now we will see if they have the wisdom to heed it.” 

Walker had a different view, noting that the report did indicate room for 

cost savings in the EOS and a “lack of coordination among agencies involved 

in USGCRP.”49

The struggle between the Congress and President over budget cuts was 

fierce and went way beyond the EOS, involving a host of social, regulatory, 

and other environmental efforts. The battle caused two shutdowns of government in 1995. In the end, however, the public blamed the Republicans 

more than Democrats for the shutdowns, and Gingrich backed down. The 

EOS survived, but additional cuts were almost inevitable given NASA’s overall budget, which was contracting under pressure from both Clinton and 

Congress. The year 1996 saw a continuation of the congressional-presidential 

struggle, but the issues were different, and the EOS was no longer the major 

target it had been.

NASA sent various probes up to look at components of the global climate 

change problem, but not Hansen’s Climsat. It struggled to keep the EOS 

as comprehensive as possible, incorporating up-to-date technology—the 

“better” in Goldin’s faster, better, cheaper mantra. Restructured yet again, the 

EOS moved in the direction of three moderate-sized satellites, rather than the 

six marked by the initial restructuring. One satellite would emphasize land, 

another water, and a third air. The 1990–2000 budget for the EOS, once 

$17 billion, now fell to $6.8 billion, and Kennell made it clear that “further 

reductions will translate into knowledge reductions.”50 NASA spoke of a program that had been “restructured,” “rescoped,” “rebaselined,” and “reshaped” 

since its beginning.

Ironically, as the EOS had contracted, the global warming issue had grown 

in significance. The IPCC produced its periodic assessment of the science 

and, in 1996, stated for the first time that “discernible human influence” on 

49. Ibid., pp. 41–42.

50. “Senators Rally Around NASA, Mission to Planet Earth,” American Institute of Physics 

Bulletin of Science Policy News (17 May 1996).
412 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

climate systems was now evident.51 Hansen continued to speak out, comments that no doubt resonated with Gore and the environmental community, grated conservative Republicans in Congress, and caused consternation 

in NASA’s executive suite. Hansen was quoted in Newsweek as saying: “As you 

get more global warming, you should see an increase in the extremes of the 

hydrological cycle—droughts and floods and heavy precipitation.” Writing 

in the June 1996 issue of Geophysical Research Letters, he called 1995 the 

hottest year for the planet on record.52 There were still scientific skeptics, 

and Hansen stood out in his stridency, but a scientific consensus in favor of 

human impacts on global warming was solidifying.

If anything, the rancorous dispute between Clinton and Congress that 

shut down the government helped the President get reelected. Again, Clinton 

retained Goldin as NASA Administrator. Kennell departed and was eventually succeeded by Ghassem Asrar, chief scientist for the EOS. The program 

had a measure of stability now and was finally building hardware and working out the glitches in the EOSDIS data system. The schedule for the EOS 

satellites was slipping, but the goal was to launch them one at a time, as they 

became ready, around the turn of the century. Meanwhile, the program kept 

active through the smaller Earth probes. In 1997, for example, a satellite 

to measure tropical rainfall, called the Tropical Rainfall Measuring Mission 

(TRMM), went up. Although more engaged in emissions policy than climate R&D, the Clinton-Gore White House influenced MTPE/EOS to some 

degree, stressing a need to go beyond the “Earth system science” paradigm to 

also study regional impacts. This regional level was where the major risks and 

vulnerabilities from global warming would show up. NASA adapted, adding 

regional thrusts and also giving more attention to practical applications of 

remote sensing in general.53

El Niño

One of the application areas where NASA scored positively lay with a particular climate change-related disaster, El Niño. NASA’s MTPE included a 

specialized satellite for measuring sea surface temperatures, called TOPEX/

Poseidon, developed with the French. This particular satellite proved especially valuable in detecting El Niño. El Niño was a periodic warming of the 

Pacific that caused long-range climate effects responsible for droughts in 

51. Hempel, “Climate Policy on the Installment Plan,” p. 294.

52. Sharon Begley, “He’s Not Full of Hot Air,” Newsweek (22 January 1996): 24–27; 

Randolph Schmid, “NASA: 1995 Hottest Year on Record,” Huntsville Times (14 July 

1996): A4.

53. Lambright, Challenge of Coordinating “Big Science,” p. 13.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 413

one country and floods in another. There had been a major, devastating El 

Niño in 1982–83 that scientists had not detected until it was well under way. 

NASA, NOAA, and the scientific community labored in the subsequent years 

to develop the satellite- and ocean-based technology that would enable early 

warning of the onset. TOPEX/Poseidon, developed in the late 1980s and 

early 1990s, was to El Niño what UARS was to ozone depletion.

In March 1997, TOPEX/Poseidon “caught red-handed the big rise in sea 

level that was spreading across the [Pacific] ocean” from the mid-Pacific to the 

South American coast. This discovery was followed in April by the rise of sea 

surface temperature that began off the coast of Ecuador and Peru and then 

spread north and south. Further studies confirmed the El Niño’s beginning. 

This early detection was a demonstration of the power of space technology 

to advance knowledge of large-scale changes on Earth.54 El Niño was related 

to short-term climate policy. The long-term climate policy of global warming 

remained conflictual.

Global Warming

The year 1997 was quite important in terms of global warming policy. Clinton 

in June addressed a special session of the UN, calling for “realistic and binding limits” on emissions but offering no specific targets for the United States. 

A major international conference dealing with emissions was coming up in 

December in Kyoto. The Senate in July passed a resolution 95–0 instructing 

the Clinton administration to refrain from signing any forthcoming climate 

protocol that did not include measures to be undertaken by developing countries. Clinton said in October that the United States would commit to reducing emissions to 1990 levels by 2012 and then pass further restrictions.55

This statement seemed to be one more thrust in the ongoing battle between 

Clinton and Congress where climate change was concerned. For NASA, it 

meant the Agency had to walk a careful line—pursuing “good science” and 

avoiding the acrimonious tug-of-war on global warming policy between the 

two branches.

Indeed, NASA now faced a problem new to it—serious opposition from 

some environmentalists. Most of the time, the environmental movement was 

mildly supportive of NASA or indifferent. It spent its political capital on issues 

of immediate consequence. NASA’s R&D agenda for climate change was of 

secondary interest, at best. The environmental groups’ position was that R&D 

was necessary but not sufficient and should not substitute for regulation and 

54. Madeline Nash, El Niño (New York: Warner Books, 2002), pp. 91, 114.

55. Hempel, “Climate Policy on the Installment Plan,” p. 294.
414 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

other steps to stop global warming. Like Clinton and Gore, environmental 

groups wanted emissions controls. However, the Cassini launch to Saturn was 

what really brought NASA into the realm of environmental controversy in a 

negative way, at least in regard to one aspect of its work.

Nuclear Power in Space

The issue was nuclear power in space. What was new was the level of controversy, not the application. NASA had been using nuclear batteries (batteries 

powered by the decay of certain nuclear materials) since the 1960s. They were 

deemed necessary for space vehicles for which solar power and conventional 

chemical fuels were impractical. As the matter of space debris grew as a concern, the potential threat of nuclear materials rose with it. Even more, the 

1980s debate over the Reagan initiative known as Star Wars, which seemed 

to some critics to presage the militarization of space, made various observers more sensitive to NASA’s nuclear connection. The question came to a 

head for NASA in 1997, when the Cassini mission to Saturn was scheduled 

to launch.

Cassini used nuclear batteries to power it on its long journey to Saturn. 

What made Cassini so controversial was that it used far more nuclear materials than most probes and employed a “swing-by” technique to gain momentum—that is, it launched into a particular orbit that swung it back around 

Earth and then toward Saturn. An opposition group concerned about radioactive debris, the Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice, mobilized grassroots and national opposition. Groups opposed to space-based weapons also 

became involved as allies. In September, two congressional lawmakers asked 

for the launch’s delay. NASA found itself on the defensive in a public relations 

and media war. Cassini did go up in October, but NASA was burned by the 

controversy and made aware that if it was to use nuclear materials in future 

spacecraft, as it thought desirable and even essential for some missions, it 

might face opposition from antinuclear forces.56

Debris and Global Warming

The nuclear issue exacerbated the space pollution or debris issue. As debris 

had proliferated over the years, efforts to mitigate it enlarged. In 1995, NASA 

and DOD issued guidelines regulating the design and operation of spacecraft 

56. Victoria Friedensen, “Protest Space: A Study of Technology Choice, Perception of Risk, 

and Space Exploration,” 11 October 1999, available at http://scholar.lib.vt.edu/theses/

available/etd-120899-134345/ (accessed 30 July 2014).
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 415

so as to guard against the growth of orbital debris.57 However, NASA was criticized by the National Research Council in 1997 for underestimating the risk 

of space debris, not only to the Shuttle but to the prospective International 

Space Station. Nuclear propulsion and near-space pollution were areas where 

NASA had some measure of control. It could do little about the global warming debate, in which it was enmeshed. No matter what it did or did not do, 

it was criticized. In December, Al Gore, defying Congress, went to the Kyoto 

Summit and agreed to binding emissions targets for the United States. The 

United States, he said, would reduce its emissions 7 percent below 1990 levels 

by 2008–12. A number of other developed nations, such as Canada, Japan, 

and many European countries, agreed to emissions reductions also—but not 

many developing nations, including China and India, did so. While backing 

his Vice President and making the United States officially party to the convention, Clinton said he would not submit the Kyoto Protocol to the Senate 

for ratification. The United States would still attempt to meet its obligations 

under the protocol, Clinton insisted.58 Meanwhile, scientific study would 

continue, with NASA the primary funder.

Triana

These larger policy events associated with global warming made the political setting for MTPE/EOS continually unsettled. In 1998, NASA followed 

the advice of supporters in the White House and Congress and sought to 

depoliticize its environmental mission somewhat by changing its name from 

Mission to Planet Earth to the more neutral “Earth Science.” The problem in 

depoliticization was that Vice President Gore would not distance himself. In 

March 1998, Gore challenged NASA to build a new satellite to provide live 

images of Earth from outer space. “This new satellite, called Triana, will allow 

people around the globe to gaze at our planet as it travels in its orbit around 

the Sun for the first time in history,” said Gore. The satellite would act as a 

mirror for the planet, capturing the motions of changing clouds, the movement of weather systems, and the destructive paths of large fires.59

57. NASA Office of Safety and Mission Assurance, “NASA Safety Standard: Guidelines and 

Assessment Procedures for Limiting Orbital Debris,” August 1995.

58. Norman Vig, “Presidential Leadership and the Environment,” in Environmental Policy, 

5th ed., ed. Norman Vig and Michael Kraft, pp. 110–111; Hempel, “Climate Policy on 

the Installment Plan,” pp. 299–300.

59. Office of the Vice President, “Vice President Gore Challenges NASA To Build a New 

Satellite To Provide Live Images of Earth from Outer Space,” White House press release, 

13 March 1998.
416 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Gore leaned on NASA’s Administrator, Goldin, to spend $20 million to 

put up this satellite. Gore wanted it to provide a 24-hour Earth channel and 

help create the planetary consciousness that had existed at the time of the first 

Apollo pictures and subsequent Earth Day. Triana would carry a small telescope or camera and make its observations from 1 million miles away at “L1,” 

a Lagrangian point between Earth and the Sun where gravity forces were balanced. Gore hoped especially to reach young people. The Triana name came 

from Rodrigo de Triana, the sailor who had first spotted the New World on his 

journey with Columbus in 1492. Gore’s association with the satellite helped 

and also hurt in getting support, however. It obviously helped with the OMB 

and Goldin, but it hurt with the Republican Congress. To satisfy Congress, 

NASA added scientific purposes along with the educational and inspirational 

features of most interest to Gore. Gore lobbied Congress, but congressional 

views were decidedly mixed. Some derisively dubbed it “Goresat.”60

The Triana debate continued into 1999. As NASA added scientific requirements making it more useful (for example, studying impacts of the Sun on 

Earth’s climate), Triana’s cost went up. Gore’s price of $20 million went up to 

$50 million and then rose to $220 million, according to some reports. What 

Gore was really after was to use space for inspiration. He knew that Apollo 

pictures of Earth from the Moon had helped animate the environmental 

movement in its early days. Gore believed that continuing to monitor the 

planet from afar, with pictures easily available to all, would inspire another 

generation. Goldin spoke up for Triana, but it was subject to partisan criticism because of its origin with a man who wanted to be President.

NASA had Triana reviewed by the National Academy of Sciences. The 

NAS panel found merit in the program. The panel said that the scientific 

objectives of the project “are consonant with published science strategies and 

priorities for collection of climate data sets and the need for development 

of new technologies.” Neal Lane, the President’s science advisor, echoed the 

panel view that the mission would “enhance our understanding of the Earth’s 

energy balance and how it affects our climate systems.” The panel also noted 

that the cost—now put at $75 million—was “reasonable.”61 Congress enacted 

legislation allowing Triana to be developed but barring its placement in orbit 

before 1 January 2001. Triana’s fate depended on the election.

60. “Scripps Institution, GSFC Picked To Put Goresat at L-1 Point,” Aerospace Daily, article 

117803 (29 October 1998).

61. “Statement of Neal Lane, Assistant to the President for Science and Technology on 

NASA’s Triana Mission,” SpaceRef.com, 8 March 2000, available at http://www.spaceref.

com/news/viewpr.html?pid=1079 (accessed 30 July 2014).
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 417

The Space Station Goes Up

In 1999, the first elements of the International Space Station went into orbit. 

These were U.S.-Russian elements, with many more to come. In 2000, an 

all-important service module, developed by the Russians, went up; shortly 

thereafter, “permanent” human habitation began, although assembly had far 

to go. As before, the debris issue was raised in connection with human safety 

on the ISS. NASA indicated that further assembly would include protective 

shields. Meanwhile, astronauts would exercise collision-avoidance procedures 

as necessary.

The EOS Begins

While the political spotlight was on Triana and the Space Station, NASA’s 

priority in Earth Science was to get the EOS into orbit. The first of the three 

EOS satellites was Terra. Originally scheduled for a 1998 launch, it was reset 

for late 1999. On 19 December, the $1.3 billion satellite went up carrying five separate instrument packages, three from NASA and one each from 

Canada and Japan. Its primary aim was to monitor how solar radiation interacted with Earth’s land masses, and oceans. Asrar, Associate Administrator 

for Earth Science, emphasized the satellite’s potential contribution to understanding climate change.62

Following adjustments in orbit, Terra produced its first images, released 

publicly in April. They showed “haze shrouding cities in India, heat radiating 

from the Sahara, and pollution over the Appalachians.” Terra would be in orbit 

for years and was expected to produce huge volumes of data. NASA said it 

would evaluate how Terra and the next two EOS satellites performed and how 

the data were used before proposing major follow-on work. There was concern on the part of Earth scientists and their political supporters that NASA 

did not have firm plans for Earth monitoring beyond the EOS. Asrar issued 

a statement in which he promised “the next decade...to be an exciting one.” 

The goal was to move beyond “characterizing the Earth system to genuinely 

understanding how it works, so that we can begin to predict future change.” 

He indicated that the necessary technological systems would be developed 

to make this possible.63 Maybe so, but Senator Barbara Mikulski (D-MD), 

a senior member of the Senate appropriations committee overseeing NASA, 

pointed out in April 2000 that there would be a change in administrations 

62. Michael Mecham, “Terra Launch Puts EOS Program on Track,” Aviation Week and Space 

Technology (1 January 2000): 38.

63. Ghassem Asrar, “Earth Science in the New Decade,” available at http://ipp.nasa.gov/

innovation/Innovation_83/Wel-EarthScience.html (accessed 30 July 2014).
418 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

and that without firm plans, the program could suffer a hiatus.64 This would 

be especially true if the Republicans recaptured the White House.

George W. Bush Takes Over

In January 2001, George W. Bush became President. His victory over Gore, 

much contested, nevertheless sealed Triana’s fate once and for all. He also put 

much of Earth Science research and development on hold while determining future programs and budgets. Bush retained Goldin while he looked for 

a successor. During the campaign, he had pledged to curb greenhouse gases. 

But in March, he announced that the United States would withdraw from 

the Kyoto Treaty. When his decision was met with outrage by environmentalists and frustration by European allies, Bush asked the National Academy of 

Sciences for its view of the global warming question. In June, the panel told 

Bush that not only was global warming a problem, it was getting worse. This 

finding did not get Bush to change his mind on Kyoto, however. He met 

with massive protests the next month, when he went to Europe to attend a 

European Council meeting. Not long afterward, 178 countries, including all 

European allies, signed a document in Bonn to proceed with the Kyoto agreement without the United States.65

Bush countered by saying he would support further research on climate 

change and policy action as necessary. Meanwhile, the IPCC released its third 

assessment, providing new and compelling evidence of climate risks, humankind’s role, and possible consequences.66 Bush created a Climate Change 

Research Initiative (CCRI) that subsumed the USGCRP and the EOS. He 

put James Mahoney, Assistant Secretary of the Department of Commerce, in 

charge of the CCRI. Mahoney said he would develop a strategic plan for a 

government-wide research program to deal with climate change. While the 

new administration evolved its strategic plan, it also cut NASA’s Earth Science 

budget pending a determination of how the Earth Science program fit into 

the administration’s revised climate change strategy under CCRI. Meanwhile, 

Terra continued to perform well. It was found extremely helpful in regional 

problems. Designed to detect pollution, deforestation, and urban growth, 

Terra plotted smoke, identified hot spots, and helped in fighting forest fires.67

64. “NASA’s Plans for Earth Sciences Reevaluation Draw Mikulski Fire,” Aerospace Daily (14 

April 2000): 73.

65. Vig, “Presidential Leadership and the Environment,” p. 119.

66. Hempel, “Climate Policy on the Installment Plan,” p. 306.

67. Maggie Fox, “USA: New NASA Satellite Gives Insight into Climate,” Reuters (19 April 

2000); Reuters, “Pollution Revealed by NASA Satellite,” Washington Times (20 April 

2000): A9.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 419

O’Keefe as Administrator

At the beginning of January, Sean O’Keefe joined NASA as Administrator. 

He retained Asrar as head of Earth Science. O’Keefe was formerly Deputy 

Director of the OMB and was appointed mainly to address a $4.8 billion 

overrun on the International Space Station that Goldin left. He had no strong 

background in space policy. Nor was he particularly attuned to environmental policy. However, as a former Navy secretary and son of a Navy nuclear 

submariner, O’Keefe was quite interested in nuclear applications to space. 

Ed Weiler, Associate Administrator for Space Science, believed NASA needed 

to use nuclear batteries and eventually fission reactors to maximize science 

payoffs from deep space probes requiring lengthy stays in orbits where solar 

energy and chemical propulsion were impractical.

One of O’Keefe’s first initiatives was to revive the nuclear propulsion activity at NASA, relatively moribund since Cassini. O’Keefe said that nuclear 

propulsion should be pursued as a priority. In launching what would eventually be called Project Prometheus, O’Keefe took a very different position from 

NASA’s traditional nuclear strategy—stealth. He said NASA had to be open 

and proactive about nuclear propulsion. Environmentalists and others needed 

to understand the risks and benefits, and NASA should engage the potential 

opposition at the outset. In staffing the initiative, O’Keefe gave attention 

to hiring people for public outreach as well as developing the science and 

technology. O’Keefe fully intended Prometheus to go beyond nuclear batteries to nuclear fission reactors, seen as needed for human Mars missions as 

well as distant robotic expeditions. He did not propose specific destinations, 

however. Instead, he pushed for developing technologies that could enable 

the reaching of any destinations. Where nuclear propulsion was concerned, 

O’Keefe knew he had to engage the environmentalists to get acceptance.68

Columbia and the Issue of Debris

On 1 February 2003, the Space Shuttle Columbia disintegrated, an event 

that dealt a severe blow to NASA. The Earth Science mission of NASA was 

less affected than human spaceflight, to be sure, but still was hurt as the whole 

Agency reeled. Columbia had other impacts for NASA’s environmental role. 

For example, the fact that debris from Columbia was strewn over East Texas 

and Louisiana had dramatically raised awareness of the debris issue generally, 

and that of nuclear debris in particular. As more spacefaring nations became 

68. W. Henry Lambright with Agnes Schaefer and Jessica Widay, “Federal Agency Strategies 

for Incorporating the Public in Decision-Making Processes: Case Studies for NASA,” 

report to NASA, 18 April 2005, pp. 46–62.
420 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

active, the orbital debris problem would grow, and there was a possibility of 

debris falling from orbit to an inhabited part of the planet. NASA certainly 

had already been conscious of the debris-from-orbit problem, and the issue 

had come up in the Cassini dispute. It had also become a mild issue in considering Space Station risks. In 2001, the Station had to dodge a large tool 

that an astronaut had previously lost during some external activity. It had to 

move to a slightly higher orbit. This event had not gotten much publicity, but 

Columbia made debris a media highlight. Now many people were aware of 

the debris issue, and NASA was fortunate that Columbia debris did not cause 

a disaster on the ground. Also, the debris question had to be considered in 

Prometheus planning.

A more positive issue became apparent in 2003, as NASA-supported 

researchers reported that the rate of ozone depletion was decreasing. This 

meant that the Montreal Protocol was working as intended. Evaluating how 

well this treaty was working by monitoring ozone depletion had become 

accepted as part of NASA’s environmental role, building on NASA’s previous 

work in ozone depletion.69 This fact also raised a problem for NASA and the 

nation. NASA’s R&D mission required it to advance technology, not simply 

monitor ozone treaty compliance routinely. What were the boundaries in 

NASA’s environmental mission: Could not NOAA or some other agency take 

over NASA’s ozone-monitoring functions and pay the bill? NASA needed 

money to tackle new missions, especially in climate change, and the missions 

had to be defined and approved by the administration and Congress. And 

there was the perennial problem of Landsat, which had gone through various 

generations and now, in its seventh, seemed destined to die. Whose responsibility was it? NASA had it by default and wished to disengage.

Aqua and Future Planning

On 4 May 2002, NASA launched the second of its EOS series: Aqua. As its 

name implied, Aqua’s mission was to study the global water cycle. Costing 

approximately $1 billion, Aqua, like Terra, had a long-term (15-year) mission to build a comprehensive database for detecting environmental changes. 

As Terra emphasized land surface connections with climate change, so Aqua 

would concentrate on water dynamics, such as precipitation and evaporation.70 Meanwhile, EOSDIS, the $2.5 billion computer system, was grappling with the massive data sorting and disseminating task the EOS required 

69. Lambright, NASA and the Environment, pp. 44–45.

70. Brian Berger, “NASA Aqua Mission To Study Global Water Cycle,” Space News (29 April 

2002): 18.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 421

to make the satellites useful. Aqua sent back pictures of sea surface temperature and brightness. Like Terra, Aqua involved other nations (Japan and 

Brazil). Enlisting international partners had become one way Earth Science 

managers at NASA had coped with cutbacks in the 1990s. It was a strategy to 

share costs to retain as much of the science as possible.

In early December 2002, a three-day meeting concerned with planning the 

new U.S. Climate Change Research Initiative took place. All indications were 

that Bush, like his father, would support a broad interagency research program. This was good news for NASA and promised to keep the Agency active 

in global environmental monitoring. The question was what, specifically, it 

would do. NASA needed decisions. Whatever it did would presumably be 

linked with an international initiative being planned—a “system of systems.”

A System of Systems

The U.S. State Department held an international Earth Observation Summit 

in the summer of 2003. Many nations attended. The summit was in part a 

response to the “public diplomacy” problem the President had created with 

his Kyoto decision. It was an effort for the United States to project leadership 

in climate change rather than appear a negative force. It was also a sensible 

idea technically. NASA hoped to build on its remote sensing capability. Other 

nations had environmental monitoring satellites. Why not link these capabilities into a “system of systems?” the State Department conference asked. 

Following the conference, NASA announced that it would develop, on an 

accelerated pace, a new climate change-oriented satellite called Glory. It would 

incorporate an advanced sensor. Glory would go up in 2007, two years earlier 

than previously planned. It had been intended that the new sensor would go 

on a multiagency, operations-oriented technical system called the National 

Polar-Orbiting Operational Environmental Satellite System (NPOESS) to be 

launched at the end of the decade. Glory was intended to demonstrate “commitment to studying the causes and consequences of climate change.”71

The EOS Is Complete: What Next?

On 14 January 2004, President Bush unveiled a new vision for space exploration at NASA: “to the Moon, Mars, and Beyond.” In line with the new priority, Administrator O’Keefe subsequently reorganized the Agency, creating a 

new Exploration Systems Mission Directorate and streamlining other units. 

He merged NASA’s separate Earth Science and Space Science programs into a 

71. Brian Berger, “Reversing Course,” Space News (25 July 2005): 10.
422 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

single organization, the Science Mission Directorate. In July, NASA launched 

Aura, the third and final leg of the EOS. Another billion-dollar satellite, Aura 

would make comprehensive measurements of the atmosphere and also take 

over for the aging UARS in monitoring ozone trends. It would take the closest look ever at the smoke, aerosols, and other pollutants affecting air quality around the world. The EOS was now complete—land, water, and air.72

Pulling the data together and determining its meaning was where EOSDIS 

and the cadre of Earth Science users around the world came in.

At the same time, State Department–initiated planning went forward for 

linking EOS and post-EOS satellites to the Global Earth Observation System 

of Systems (GEOSS), as it was called. Fifty nations were now involved in 

planning this global network. Also in 2004, Mahoney built on 2003 meetings and drafts and produced the finalized Bush Climate Change Science 

Program strategy. It gave a new legitimacy, under Bush, for larger-scale R&D 

on climate change and its impacts and role for NASA. The issue critics raised 

in connection with the report was whether the administration would back 

the words with money.73 The financial impact of the President’s Moon-Mars 

vision and NASA reorganization so far did not appear good for Earth science. 

A House Science Committee analysis found that of NASA’s fiscal year 2006 

budget request of $5.47 billion for the Science Mission Directorate, only 

$1.36 billion would be spent on Earth science, a drop of 8 percent below 

the 2005 level and 12 percent less than the 2004 level. Projections showed a 

further decline in fiscal year 2007.74

Organizations representing the Earth science community complained, 

as did Congressman Sherwood Boehlert (R-NY), Chair of House Science 

Committee. Boehlert argued that although he agreed with the exploration 

priority, it did not have “a blank check.” He wanted greater “balance” in 

NASA programs. A man with environmental credentials, Boehlert made it 

clear that he wanted to protect Earth Sciences.75 O’Keefe had worked hard to 

get the exploration initiative off to a good start. NASA was trying to do something large and new at a time when the nation was engaged in war and facing 

huge deficits. He used the Exploration Vision to provide a vehicle for deciding 

72. Tariq Malik, “Last EOS Satellite To Study Air Quality at Earth’s Surface,” Space News (14 

June 2004): 8.

73. Richard Kerr, “Climate Change Gets a Qualified Go-Ahead,” Science (27 February 2004): 

1269–1271.

74. Brian Berger, “NASA’s Exploration Focus Blamed for Earth Science Cuts,” Space News

(2 May 2005): 4.

75. Ibid.
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 423

priorities. The closer to this Exploration mission, the higher the priority programs had. Earth Science seemed distant from the Exploration Vision.

In its effort to save money in Earth Science, NASA decided to cancel 

the Glory mission and put the spacecraft’s featured sensor, a greenhouse 

gas–measuring instrument, back on NPOESS as originally intended. That 

was a decision made as part of the fiscal year 2006 budget process under 

O’Keefe. O’Keefe left NASA in February, and his successor, Mike Griffin, 

who joined NASA in April, had to deal with criticism of the budget cuts to 

Earth Science in general and the cancellation of Glory in particular when he 

became Administrator. The National Academy of Sciences and the National 

Research Council (NRC) criticized the Earth Science cuts. It produced 

a report, “Earth Science and Applications from Space: Urgent Needs and 

Opportunities to Serve the Nation,” which questioned the technical feasibility of NASA’s relying on NPOESS to host sensors from canceled or scaledback missions. Glory was but the most notable example of a disturbing trend, 

the NAS-NRC said, for NASA to depend on NPOESS for its Earth science 

future. It said that Glory’s termination should be reconsidered. Five legislators, including Boehlert, protested the Glory cut. In July, NASA announced 

that it was reversing course and reinstating the Glory mission. It was now 

scheduled for 2008 and would incorporate a second instrument, making it 

even more consequential in climate change research.76

The issue of Glory pointed to a conflict between environmental policy 

goals seen in the State Department initiative and interagency climate change 

research strategy on the one hand, and the President’s space vision on the other. 

The former favored NASA’s Earth Science program. The latter (the President’s 

Exploration policy) put it at risk in NASA priority-setting. A devastating 

tsunami that hit nations bordering the Indian Ocean in late December 2004 

gave Earth Science funding proponents ammunition, however. In mid-February, more than 60 governments approved the GEOSS project, established 

a secretariat to run it, and approved a 10-year implementation plan. This 

interagency, international effort required a NASA role.77

Griffin as Administrator

The reversal of the Glory decision was but one of a number of changes Griffin 

was making in decisions inherited from O’Keefe. Another important decision relevant to the environment was to scale back and reorient Prometheus, 

76. Berger, “Reversing Course.”

77. Missy Frederick, “Government Industry Officials Tout Benefits of GEOSS,” Space News 

(1 August 2005): 20.
424 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

O’Keefe’s nuclear initiative. Griffin had to find money somewhere to augment the Moon-Mars effort. In cutting back, he looked to find funds in 

programs whose objectives were very distant or, in his view, not well thought 

out to help pay for more immediate priorities, including an augmentation of 

Earth Science funds. Griffin clearly had his work cut out for him, implementing the Bush vision while seeking “balance” among NASA programs at a time 

of budget constraint. With the EOS now at last a reality, it was obvious in 

2005 that NASA had evolved over the years a significant environmental mission, and that mission had enough momentum and support to keep it going.

Issues had to do with future direction, content, and funding. As to direction, climate change and global warming provided a long-run rationale for 

the EOS and certain specialized satellites such as Glory. The problem was 

how to make room for satellites that performed special or gap-filling roles, 

such as the Ice, Cloud, and land Elevation Satellite (ICESat), launched in 

2003, did. ICESat took images of the melting Arctic ice caps, the early warning signals of global warming. The old satellites had to give way, in terms 

of funding, for newer priorities, like ICESat. But phasing out satellites was 

difficult, as NASA found not only with Landsat, but with TRMM. This 

rainfall-measuring satellite was slated for termination by NASA’s senior program manager. But users and their legislative allies argued that it still functioned and should be maintained. When Hurricane Katrina devastated the 

Gulf Coast in late August, early September 2005 satellites of various kinds 

from different providers were shown to be extremely useful throughout the 

disaster cycle—from early warning through event to postdisaster planning. 

The political atmosphere of this time made killing TRMM difficult indeed 

for Griffin.

NASA, thanks to Bush’s January 2004 decision, had a strategy for human 

spaceflight—a vision for the future that served as a basis for prioritizing. It 

needed a similar vision and long-term strategy for its role in the environment. 

The questions of what would be next beyond the EOS as a centerpiece and 

why remained to be answered. Until NASA had a clear strategy, its decisions 

would seem ad hoc and fragmented, and its Mission to Planet Earth would 

be vulnerable to critics.

Conclusion

NASA has had a major role relative to the environmental movement from 

its beginning. As NASA got under way in the in the 1960s, so too did the 

modern environmental movement. NASA influenced environmental values 

most dramatically in the early days of space through images of Earth taken by 

Apollo astronauts. Earth Day and the environmentalism of the 1970s owed 
NASA and the Environment: An Evolving Relationship 425

much to ideas about Earth as a living organism in which humanity and the 

physical environment had to coexist. The mission-from-Earth simultaneously 

led to a better understanding of Earth based on comparative planetology. 

Along the way, other themes emerged of environmental interest, such as forward and backward contamination, space debris, and energy.

NASA’s most direct, important, and sustained contribution to the environmental movement was through its environmental monitoring satellite programs. These were especially encouraged in the 1970s by Administrator James 

Fletcher. In the 1980s, NASA built on the policy and technical advances of 

prior years and played a truly critical role in environmental protection as the 

lead science agency in ozone depletion. The ozone experience, successful not 

only in science but in connecting science to policy (as with the Montreal 

Protocol), became a template for an enlarged effort in climate change. It also 

provided NASA with an early taste of its need to be careful in issuing warnings, given the controversial nature of environmental issues.

The EOS, planned in the 1980s, became the main priority of NASA’s 

environmental program in the 1990s. In turning EOS plans into hardware 

reality, NASA faced a twofold challenge. First, the EOS was a massive environmental program in an agency whose space priorities lay more with missions from Earth. Second, EOS’s greatest strength in terms of connection 

with environmental values—namely, providing knowledge about climate 

change—could also be an issue controversial with conservatives who saw climate change (that is, global warming) as “political” science. With the shift of 

congressional control to Republicans in 1995, NASA’s political setting altered 

dramatically. NASA’s change of program name, from Mission to Planet Earth 

to Earth Sciences, was an effort in part to take EOS out of the line of partisan 

fire. The EOS survived, albeit in a form vastly shrunken from what it had 

been planned to be. Funding constraints, related in part to partisan political conflict, downsized the program throughout the 1990s. The structure 

of the EOS, as it emerged in the early twenty-first century, was commendable but did not provide the simultaneous and comprehensive observations 

originally foreseen.

What’s next for NASA in terms of environmental satellites in the twentyfirst century? The answer is not obvious. Since this chapter was written, the 

Obama administration came to power. It terminated the NPOESS program. 

However, it gave priority to the issue of climate change. A political issue that 

hurt NASA environmental satellite funding under Bush became an asset under 

Barack Obama. The problem was that as Congress moved into Republican 

control in the Obama years, NASA environmental satellites related to climate 

change again became a target for cutbacks.
426 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Meanwhile, NASA connects with the environment in ways other than 

through environmental satellites. These include debris and planetary protection from forward and backward contamination. Finally, the more NASA 

moves outward to “the Moon, Mars, and Beyond” and learns about other 

worlds, the more that comparative planetology knowledge will contribute to 

understanding the home planet. NASA will continue to be a space agency 

with an environmental mission. That mission is also likely to be controversial. 

While a national need, the environment, especially global warming, takes 

NASA into a political thicket. NASA is often caught between environmentalists and their supporters who want it to do more and conservatives who 

want it to do less, if “more” leads to regulations they abhor. Although NASA 

clearly has a future in the environmental field, the form that mission will take 

remains a decision in the making.
427

Chapter 7

Societal Impacts of 

Applications Satellites

David J. Whalen

First, I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before 

this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon and returning him safely to 

the Earth....

Secondly, an additional $23 million together with $7 million already available, 

will accelerate development of the Rover nuclear rocket....

Third, an additional $50 million will make the most of our present leadership, by 

accelerating the use of space satellites for worldwide communications.

Fourth, an additional $75 million—of which $53 million is for the Weather 

Bureau—will help give us at the earliest possible time a satellite system for worldwide weather observation.

—John F. Kennedy, “Special Message to the Congress

on Urgent National Needs,” 25 May 1961

Part I: Beginnings

Defining what is or is not an applications satellite is occasionally difficult. President Kennedy’s two choices, weather and communications 

satellites, easily fit the bill. Perhaps navigation satellites are also clearly applications satellites. Spy satellites also seem to fit, but I would maintain that 

Landsat—and possibly commercial land remote-sensing satellites—do not 

fit. The dictionary has several meanings for “application” that suggest the difference between applications satellites and others—“an act of putting to use: 

capacity for practical use.” This suggests that practical use may be a helpful 

differentiator. I would add several more constraints: continuous use, and not 

used exclusively for science or R&D. One more constraint that I would like 

to add is the requirement that someone be willing to pay for the application 

satellite—someone other than NASA.
428 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

There are three types of applications satellites that have been successfully 

introduced since the launch of Sputnik in 1957: remote sensing (including reconnaissance and weather), communications, and navigation. Remote 

sensing initially was the most important. The United States was faced with 

an enemy whose country, whose entire society, was completely closed. 

Reconnaissance satellites were among the first space projects pursued—even 

before Sputnik—in the hope that they would provide greater knowledge 

about the threat posed by the Soviet Union. Navigation satellites—especially 

those for use by Polaris submarines—were also seen as having an important 

military application. In the past decade, navigation satellites have become the 

most pervasive “dual-use” (military and civilian) satellites.

Principal civilian applications have been communications and weather 

forecasting. It should be no surprise that Kennedy included these two in his 

famous 25 May 1961 speech.1 By the time Kennedy made this speech, Hughes 

Aircraft Company, AT&T, ITT, and other corporations had invested almost 

$100 million in communications satellite R&D. These companies saw satellite communications as a profitable commercial enterprise. Others saw satellite 

communications as something the government should do. Weather satellites 

did not have a powerful champion at first. Academia was initially more interested in “science” than in applications, more interested in radiation budget 

experiments than in cloud pictures. But the television infrared observation satellite (TIROS), a product of the reconnaissance satellite program, soon drew 

interest from academia and the Weather Bureau. Polar-orbiting satellite observations have been continuous since 1960. It would be another decade before 

geosynchronous meteorological satellites—the kind used to bring weather pictures to our televisions today—would be a reality.

All of these applications satellites have had major impacts on society in 

the second half of the twentieth century. Communications satellites have had 

the greatest economic impact. They will soon be a $200 billion industry. 

Reconnaissance satellites had the greatest geopolitical impact. They probably 

made the world a safer place, especially in the 1960s and 1970s. Weather satellites have saved thousands of lives and billions of dollars. Civilian use of navigation satellites and specifically the Global Positioning System (GPS), which 

was originally a military application, has become widespread. Aircraft, ships, 

boats, cars, and hikers have all become dependent on what is now the most 

obvious dual-use system. Remote sensing includes reconnaissance, weather, 

and land-use applications. All three of these have had successes, but land-use 

observation satellites (civil remote sensing) have never found a champion. 

1. “President John F. Kennedy’s Challenge to the Nation,” NASA, http://www.nasa.gov/

topics/history/features/john_f_kennedy.html (accessed 24 October 2014).
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 429

Started by NASA, transferred to NOAA, and finally spun off to industry, civil 

and commercial remote sensing have found only one major paying customer: 

the government—especially the intelligence agencies. This chapter discusses 

the development of these applications satellites and their societal impacts, 

which have changed over time. The twentieth-century impacts are still only 

sketchily known. The twenty-first-century impacts of these and other applications satellites remain to be seen.

1. Before Sputnik

As early as the nineteenth century, there were always some who speculated 

about space. Science-fiction writers were the earliest, but they were quickly 

followed by rocket pioneers, science fact writers, and the military. Between 

the end of World War II and the actual launch of Sputnik, interest in space 

increased dramatically, especially interest in applications satellites.

Science Fiction

Possibly the first science-fiction story about applications satellites was 1869’s 

“The Brick Moon” by Edward Everett Hale (1822–1909).2 Hale’s Moon was 

designed to act as a navigational beacon for sailors. Jules Verne (1828–1905) 

is the best-remembered science-fiction writer of the nineteenth century, but 

he never seems to have written about applications satellites. H. G. Wells 

(1866–1946) began writing science fiction in the 1890s, but also seems to 

have neglected applications satellites. George O. Smith (1911–1981) published a short story in 1942, “QRM-Interplanetary,” which may have put the 

idea of communications satellites in the heads of Arthur C. Clarke and John 

R. Pierce. All of these writers contributed to the excitement and glamour of 

space but don’t seem to have been excited about communications satellites.

Rocket Pioneers

Konstantin Eduardovitch Tsiolkovsky (1857–1935) was born in Russia to 

a Polish father on 17 September 1857. His seminal article “Exploration of 

the Universe with Reaction Machines” was first published in the monthly 

magazine The Science Review in 1903. Like many other early writers on space, 

Tsiolkovsky emphasized the conquest of space rather than space applications. 

His writings on rocketry were probably the first to explore the science and 

2. Edward Everett Hale, “The Brick Moon,” Atlantic Monthly 14, nos. 10–12 (1869): 451–

460, 603–611, and 679–688. Serialized in The Atlantic, 1869–1870.
430 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

technology of rocket engines. His contributions were eventually recognized 

by the Soviet Union.

Another pioneer was the American Robert Hutchins Goddard (1882–

1945). Like Tsiolkovsky’s, Goddard’s writings were primarily concerned with 

the development of rocket technology. Unlike Tsiolkovsky, however, Goddard 

did not wax lyrical about the wonders of spaceflight—at least in part because 

some of his early work on rockets was ridiculed. He does not seem to have 

written much, if anything, about applications satellites. Hermann Julius 

Oberth (1894–1989) was born in Transylvania, but was ethnically German. 

His doctoral dissertation on rocketry was rejected by the University of Munich 

in 1922. In 1923, Oberth published “Die Rakete zu den Planetenräumen” 

(The Rocket into Interplanetary Space)—a 92-page version of his dissertation 

that was expanded to 429 pages in 1929. He was later associated with Wernher 

von Braun’s group.

Science Fact

Herman Potočnik (1892–1929), who wrote as Hermann Noordung, was 

a Slovene rocket engineer and pioneer of cosmonautics (astronautics). He 

is chiefly remembered for his work addressing the long-term habitation of 

space. At the end of 1928, Potočnik published his sole book, Das Problem der 

Befahrung des Weltraums: Der Raketen-Motor (The Problem of Space Travel: The 

Rocket Motor), in Berlin.3 He conceived a space station in detail and calculated its geostationary orbit. This is apparently the earliest reference to the use 

of twenty-four-hour orbits. Arthur C. Clarke (1917–2008), who had apparently never heard of Potočnik, published an article in the October 1945 issue 

of Wireless World entitled “Extra-terrestrial Relays.”4 In this article, Clarke 

discusses the advantages of twenty-four-hour geostationary orbits that would 

allow a satellite to maintain position over the same portion of the equator 

indefinitely. Clarke foresaw the use of space stations at this altitude for radio 

and television broadcasts. In the following decade (1954), Clarke wrote to 

Dr. Harry Wexler, then chief of the Scientific Services Division of the U.S. 

Weather Bureau, about satellite applications for weather forecasting.

RAND, a Douglas Aircraft Company R&D unit at the time, published its 

famous “Preliminary Design of an Experimental World-Circling Spaceship” 

on 2 May 1946.5 Chapter 2 of this document, drafted by Louis Ridenour, was 

3. Hermann Noordung, Das Problem der Befahrung des Weltraums: Der Raketen-Motor

(Berlin: Richard Carl Schmidt & Co, 1929).

4. Arthur C. Clarke, “Extra-terrestrial Relays,” Wireless World 51, no. 10 (1945): 305–308. 

5. RAND, “Preliminary Design of an Experimental World-Circling Spaceship,” SM-11827, 

2 May 1946.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 431

titled “Significance of a Satellite Vehicle.” Greatest significance is given to the 

use of rockets (satellite vehicles) as bombardment vehicles, but next in importance is the observation capability of a satellite over enemy territory. This 

observation capability would allow accurate bomb damage assessment after 

raids and weather observation before the raids. The document also discusses 

the advantages of satellites as communications relay stations. The simplicity 

of operations if satellites are in geostationary orbits is addressed in passing. 

It appears that the RAND authors had not read Clarke’s article. The value of 

then-current communications through the ionosphere is given as $10 billion.

In 1947, RAND published the first of many follow-ups to the 1946 

report. These reports, prepared under the direction of James E. Lipp, covered a variety of topics. The 1947 report, “Communication and Observation 

Problems of a Satellite,” continued the discussion of satellite communications 

and brought up the issue of a “spy satellite” for the first time.6 RAND continued its studies of reconnaissance and weather satellites. In 1951, RAND published a report titled “Inquiry into the Feasibility of Weather Reconnaissance 

from a Satellite Vehicle,” by William Kellogg and Stanley Greenfield, and 

another on the “Utility of a Satellite Vehicle for Reconnaissance,” by James 

E. Lipp, Stanley M. Greenfield, and R. S. Wehner.7 Perhaps more important 

for the space race was an earlier RAND report, “The Satellite Rocket Vehicle: 

Political and Psychological Problems.”8 This document was considered by 

Walter McDougall as “the birth certificate of American space policy.”9

John R. Pierce (1910–2002) was, like Clarke, a science-fiction writer, but 

he was also an engineering manager at Bell Telephone Laboratories (BTL). 

In “Don’t Write: Telegraph,” published in Astounding Science Fiction in 1952, 

Pierce discussed some possibilities regarding communications satellites.10

In 1954, he was asked to give a space talk to the Princeton section of the 

IRE (the Institute of Radio Engineers, now the Institute of Electrical and 

6. D. K. Bailey and A. S. Mengel, “Communication and Observation Problems of a 

Satellite,” RA-15028, RAND, 1 February 1947.

7. William Kellogg and Stanley Greenfield, “Inquiry into the Feasibility of Weather 

Reconnaissance from a Satellite Vehicle,” RAND R-218, RAND, April 1951; James 

E. Lipp, Stanley M. Greenfield, and R. S. Wehner, “Utility of a Satellite Vehicle for 

Reconnaissance,” RAND R-217, RAND, April 1951.

8. Paul Kecskemeti, “The Satellite Rocket Vehicle: Political and Psychological Problems,” 

RAND RM-567, RAND, 4 October 1950.

9. Walter A. McDougall, ...the Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age

(New York: Basic Books, 1985), p. 108.

10. J. J. Coupling [John R. Pierce], “Don’t Write: Telegraph,” Astounding Science Fiction 49 

(March 1952). Pierce wrote at least 20 articles for Astounding Science Fiction under his 

pen name, J. J. Coupling, and at least one under his real name.
432 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Electronics Engineers [IEEE]).11 According to Pierce: “The idea of communication satellites came to me. I didn’t think of this as my idea, it was just in 

the air. Somehow, I had missed Arthur Clarke’s paper on the use of manned 

synchronous satellites for communication.” In 1958, Pierce and his colleague 

Rudolf Kompfner prepared a presentation on satellite communications for 

a conference. This presentation was later published in the Proceedings of the 

IRE, in March 1959.12

The Military

The Navy, the Army, and the Air Force all pursued space applications. The 

Navy may have been first with its Committee for Evaluating the Feasibility of 

Space Rocketry (CEFSR), which may have spurred the (Army) Air Force to 

sponsor the RAND study. The Navy followed up by sponsoring many of the 

scientific payloads that were launched from White Sands on German V-2s. 

When the V-2s were exhausted, the Naval Research Laboratory (NRL) funded 

development of the Viking sounding rocket built by the Glenn P. Martin 

Company. The Navy Viking and Aerobee sounding rockets would later be 

the precursors to the Vanguard (improved Viking, Aerobee, and solid) launch 

vehicle—and eventually the Thor-Delta (Thor, Aerobee, and solid) rocket. 

The Army V-2 “Rocket Team” under von Braun would eventually become 

part of the Army Ballistic Missile Agency (ABMA) at Huntsville, Alabama. 

The (Army) Air Force Intercontinental Ballistic Missile (ICBM) program was 

canceled just as the Air Force became a separate service in 1947. The Korean 

War and the Soviet nuclear test slowly brought the Air Force ICBM program 

back to life and encouraged the Air Force (spurred by RAND) to look at the 

possibility of developing reconnaissance and other applications satellites.

2. The Pioneers: After Sputnik

In the immediate aftermath of Sputnik, many programs that had been sitting 

on the shelf or suffering from low priority suddenly became high-priority 

programs. The military program emphasized reconnaissance, and the NASA 

program by 25 May 1961 emphasized putting a man on the Moon; but in the 

short term, applications satellites looked to be productive, cheap, and doable.

11. This talk was later published as John R. Pierce, “Orbital Radio Relays,” Jet Propulsion 25 

(April 1955): 153–157.

12. John Robinson Pierce and Rudolf Kompfner, “Transoceanic Communication by Means 

of Satellites,” Proceedings of the IRE 47 (March 1959): 372–380.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 433

Reconnaissance

RAND continued to be a major proponent of satellite reconnaissance, but 

RAND was a think tank, not a manufacturer or an operator. In the mid1950s, a series of RAND studies—produced by the von Neumann committee (Teapot) and the Killian committee (TCP)—created a major change 

in U.S. strategic thinking. The von Neumann committee recommended an 

upgrading of ICBM program design and priority (specifically the Atlas) to 

take into account the lighter, more powerful thermonuclear weapons then 

available. The Killian committee found that the United States was vulnerable 

to a surprise attack and recommended that a more capable reconnaissance 

satellite be designed and fielded. All of the early RAND recommendations 

had been for a “direct readout” satellite—one that transmitted pictures to 

the ground electronically. Many of the studies assumed a standard television 

camera. Weapon System 117L (WS-117L) was originally an Air Force direct 

readout satellite. 

By 1957, members of the Killian committee were dissatisfied with the Air 

Force program; they wanted a “film return” satellite, and they wanted the 

program to be managed by the CIA. The success of the U-2 seemed to indicate that the CIA was better at bringing new technology into operation in a 

short period of time. Within a few months, the WS-117L program had been 

reoriented to include CORONA (film return), MIDAS (early warning), and 

SAMOS (direct readout—later to include film return). The first Discoverer 

(CORONA) launch was on 28 February 1959; it was a failure—as were most 

launches over the next two years. The first successes were in August 1960, 

when space reentry vehicles (SRVs) were recovered from the ocean and in 

midair. From 1959 to 1972, almost 150 CORONA (KH-1 through KH-4B) 

satellites were launched on Thor-Agena vehicles. After August 1960, most 

were successful.13

Navigation

In the days immediately following the launch of Sputnik in October 1957, 

scientists and engineers worked to analyze the spacecraft’s signal and its orbit. 

The Minitrack system designed for Vanguard provided data from which orbits 

could be calculated, as did optical telescopes and radio telescopes. Bill Guier 

13. Much of the information on CORONA comes from Merton E. Davies and William R. 

Harris, “RAND’s Role in the Evolution of Balloon and Satellite Observation Systems 

and Related U.S. Space Technology,” RAND R-3692-RC, September 1988; and Dwayne 

A. Day, John M. Logsdon, and Brian Latell, Eye in the Sky: The Story of the Corona Spy 

Satellites (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1998).
434 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

and George Weiffenbach of the Johns Hopkins University Applied Physics 

Laboratory (APL) had none of these instruments, but they could listen to the 

satellite’s signal and monitor the change in its frequency due to the Doppler 

effect. They used this Doppler shift to compute an orbit for the Soviet satellite. Frank McLure (1916–1973) realized that if the orbit were known, the 

Doppler information could be used to determine the position of the radio 

receiver on the ground.

In 1958, McLure described the potential for developing a space-based 

navigation system to Ralph E. Gibson, APL’s director. Within a few weeks, 

McLure and Gibson proposed a navigation system to the Navy. All space 

projects were transferred to the Advanced Research Projects Agency (ARPA) 

in 1958, but in 1959 responsibility for Transit—more formally the Navy 

Navigation Satellite System (NNSS)—was assigned to the Navy. In 1961, 

the Kennedy administration made the Air Force responsible for all space programs. Success came in spite of “musical chairs” management. The earliest 

Transits were launched from Cape Canaveral on the Thor-Able and Thor 

Able-Star. Transits 1A through 3B were spherical. Later Transits were drumshaped to provide more real estate for solar cells. The last two experimental 

Transit satellites demonstrated that precise navigation was possible using two 

frequency beacons broadcasting the satellite ephemerides (orbits). This system 

was so robust that it was capable of determining the harmonics of Earth’s 

gravitational field and the effects of propagation through the ionosphere. The 

last satellites were also able to demonstrate the availability of the satellites 

when in a near-circular orbit at about 1,000 kilometers and inclined about 

66 degrees. Transits 4A and 4B also demonstrated the use of nuclear power 

rather than solar cells. The Transit Research and Attitude Control (TRAC) 

satellite was launched with Transit 4B to demonstrate the benefits of gravitygradient stabilization.

The prototype operational satellites, the Transit 5 series, were meant to 

provide an operational capability while looking at some final design tradeoffs. 

The most important of these was probably the comparison of nuclear power 

and solar cells. An additional complication was the decision to launch the 

operational satellites on the Scout launch vehicle rather than the Thor AbleStar. The nominal reason was lower cost, but the Thor Able-Star had been 

replaced by the higher performance Thor-Delta, which was in many ways an 

improved Thor Able-Star. Unfortunately, the Delta was not yet operational 

from Vandenberg, where polar launches were performed. All experimental 

launches had been made from Cape Canaveral, but the operational satellite 

would be in a polar orbit that could be achieved only from Vandenberg. Scout 

had a much lower payload capacity than either Thor variant. The Transit 5A 

series used solar power, the 5B series used nuclear power, and the 5E series 
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 435

measured the space environment. The A series was launched on Scout. The B 

and E series were launched as a dual payload on Thor Able-Star. Transit 5C1 

was an improved A series satellite. After the last 5B series satellite, the decision was made to use solar power because of price and politics.

The operational satellites were called Oscars and were initially built by 

the Naval Avionics Facility Indianapolis (NAFI). NAFI-built Oscars were 

launched on Thor but lasted only a few weeks. Oscars 1, 2, 3, 5, and 7 were 

assembled at NAFI and launched, but Oscars 4, 6, 8, 9, and 10 were reworked 

and assembled by APL before launch. The APL-refurbished satellites worked 

for about a year. It was eventually discovered that a thermal problem caused 

the satellites to fail at about the one-year mark. Oscars 11–17 were built 

at APL. A contract was signed with RCA to build Oscars 18–32. Starting 

with Oscar 12, Transit satellites tended to last a decade or more. This caused 

a problem: there were too many satellites on hand. Eventually, they were 

placed in storage. By the late 1980s, the Scout launch vehicle could launch 

two Oscars at once. This procedure was known as SOOS (stacked Oscars on 

Scout). The TIP (Transit Improvement Program) and Nova satellites continued the Transit line, but by the 1980s a new Air Force program was beginning 

to replace Transit: the Navstar or GPS (Global Positioning System) satellites.

APL built the original Transit satellites for updating the position information on the inertial navigation systems of Polaris submarines. The last group 

of transit satellites, Oscars 18–32 and the Novas, were built by RCA. The satellites broadcast ephemeris information continuously at 150 and 400 megahertz. The final constellation consisted of six satellites in a polar orbit with a 

nominal 600-nautical-mile altitude; others were “stored-in-orbit” spares. The 

first Transit launch was in 1960; the last Transit launch was in August 1988. 

The system was operational in 1963 and opened to commercial use in 1967. 

The Transit program terminated navigation service in 1996. Predictable positioning accuracy was 500 meters for a single-frequency receiver and 25 meters 

for a dual-frequency receiver. Coverage was worldwide but not continuous 

because of the relatively low altitude of the Transit satellites and the precession of satellite orbits.14

Weather

Weather observation in the United States goes back to early colonial times, 

but systematic recording of weather observation started in 1849 with a cooperative agreement between the Smithsonian Institution and the telegraph 

14. Much of the material on navigation satellites comes from the Transit History issue of 

Johns Hopkins APL Technical Digest 19, no. 1 (1998).
436 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

companies. A National Weather Service was authorized in 1870 and implemented as part of the Army Signal Service. The service was transferred to the 

Department of Agriculture in 1891 and named the U.S. Weather Bureau. 

In 1940, the Bureau was transferred to the Department of Commerce.15 By 

the 1950s, the idea of weather satellites was beginning to surface. In 1951, 

RAND published “Inquiry into the Feasibility of Weather Reconnaissance 

from a Satellite Vehicle,” and Arthur C. Clarke depicted polar and geosynchronous “metsats” in the endpapers of The Exploration of Space.

16 In 1954, 

a tropical storm was discovered accidentally when pictures taken from an 

Aerobee sounding rocket were analyzed. Also in 1954, Dr. Harry Wexler, 

the Weather Bureau’s chief scientist, presented a paper titled “Observing the 

Weather from a Satellite Vehicle” at the Third Symposium on Space Travel.17

In 1955, when the decision was made to launch a satellite during the 

upcoming International Geophysical Year (IGY), weather observation and 

radiation balance payloads were considered and eventually flown on Vanguard 

and Explorer satellites. Harry Wexler (1911–1962) worked at the U.S. Weather 

Bureau from 1934 until his death in 1962—with some time out from 1942 

to 1946, when he served with the Army in World War II. He received his 

undergraduate education at Harvard and his Ph.D. in meteorology from MIT. 

Wexler was a proponent of weather observation in space for many years. His 

1954 paper, advice on the IGY satellite payloads, and support of television 

infrared observation satellite (TIROS) were critical to the successes of satellite 

meteorology. He was a supporter of Verner Suomi’s experiments on Explorer.

Verner Suomi (1915–1995) taught high school science in Minnesota until 

World War II, when he joined the Civil Air Patrol, where he first acquired 

knowledge of—and a passion for—meteorology. The war brought him to 

the University of Chicago, where he trained air cadets in basic meteorology. 

Suomi received his Ph.D. from the University of Chicago in 1953. His doctoral thesis involved measuring the heat budget of a cornfield. Measuring the 

difference between the amount of energy absorbed and the amount of energy 

lost in a cornfield led him to think about Earth’s heat budget—especially 

Earth’s albedo. The obvious way to measure albedo was from space. Suomi’s 

radiometer was flown on Explorer VII in 1959.

15. Much of the material in this and subsequent paragraphs is from J. Gordon Vaeth, Weather 

Eyes in the Sky: America’s Meteorological Satellites (New York: Ronald Press Company, 1965).

16. Arthur C. Clarke, The Exploration of Space (New York: Harper, 1951).

17. Harry Wexler, “Observing the Weather from a Satellite Vehicle” (paper presented at the 

Third Symposium on Space Travel, held at the Hayden Planetarium, New York City, 

4 May 1954).
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 437

In spite of the influence of scientists like Wexler and Suomi, the first 

weather satellite was a product of the military. TIROS was RCA’s losing entry 

in the Air Force WS-117L competition that was won by Lockheed in 1956. 

The Army was persuaded to support the development of TIROS as a polarorbiting weather satellite. The project was transferred to ARPA and eventually 

to NASA in 1958. The satellite had two television cameras: one wide-angle 

and one narrow-angle (high-resolution) on TIROS-1 and -2, both wideangle on succeeding TIROS satellites. TIROS-8 pioneered the Automatic 

Picture Transmission (APT) camera system. TIROS satellites had the cameras 

mounted on the base of the satellite, aligned with the spin axis. This meant 

that the cameras were Earth-pointing for only a small fraction of their orbits. 

TIROS-9 pioneered the “cartwheel” configuration, wherein the cameras were 

mounted on the sides of the spacecraft, the spacecraft spin axis was aligned 

with orbit-normal, and pictures were taken continuously. All launches were 

from Cape Canaveral into high-inclination (48-degree) orbits until TIROS-9 

and -10 were launched into sun-synchronous polar orbits. Sun-synchronous 

orbits (SSO) allowed pictures to be taken at the same local time every day 

(usually early morning).

The Pentagon recognized the disadvantages of the TIROS baseplatemounted cameras and the advantages of sun-synchronous orbits. Joseph V. 

Charyk, director of the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), concluded 

that NASA development of a better weather satellite would be delayed and 

expensive. He also was uncomfortable with the international commitments 

NASA had made to share TIROS weather pictures. Weather information was 

critical to NRO—too many pictures showed nothing but clouds. In 1961, 

Charyk sponsored what was to become the Defense Meteorological Satellite 

Program (DMSP). The program envisioned an improved RCA TIROS 

launched on a Scout launch vehicle from Vandenberg. The satellite was much 

lighter than TIROS and carried a single television camera that would “snap” 

pictures of Earth when the horizon sensors indicated that the camera was 

pointed in the appropriate direction. Scout launch-vehicle failures led to a 

decision to use a Thor with a new second stage (Burner). Unfortunately, that 

launch vehicle would not be available for more than a year. In order to maintain an “intelligence” weather-observation capability, the expensive ThorAgena combination would be used. This allowed two DMSP/P-35 satellites 

to be launched together on one rocket. The Thor-Agena variant was known as 

block 3A (presumably TIROS was block 1A and the Scout-launched DMSP 

was block 2A). The first Thor-Burner launch was a failure (a second-stage heat 

shield did not deploy properly), but the rest were very successful. The block 

4A, Thor-Burner–launched satellites were heavier than the earlier DMSP satellites, presumably because they now carried two cameras like the civilian 
438 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

TIROS. At about this time (around 1963), it was decided that the nextgeneration civilian weather satellite, TOS (TIROS Operational System, also 

known as ESSA) would be a copy of DOD’s DMSP block 4A rather than 

the NASA Nimbus, which became a research vehicle and later the model 

for the Earth Resources Technology Satellite (ERTS/Landsat). The block 5 

satellites were three-axis-stabilized rather than spin-stabilized. A variant of 

block 5 became the civilian Improved TOS (ITOS, also known as NOAA). 

The DMSP program remained classified until late 1972, when DMSP data 

were routinely delivered to the Weather Bureau.18

Communications

While several pre–World War II mentions of satellite communications have 

been found, the first well-known discussion was Arthur C. Clarke’s 1945 

article in Wireless World.

19 Perhaps of greater importance were later articles by 

John R. Pierce in Jet Propulsion (1955) and Proceedings of the IRE (1959).20

Clarke was a member of the British Interplanetary Society and a budding 

science-fiction author. Pierce was also a science fiction author, but, more 

important, he was the Director of Communications Research at AT&T’s 

Bell Telephone Laboratories (BTL). In early March 1958, Pierce and Rudolf 

Kompfner of AT&T, independent inventors of the traveling-wave tube, 

saw a picture of the shiny 100-foot sphere that William J. O’Sullivan of the 

National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA) Langley Aeronautical 

Laboratory was proposing to launch into space for atmospheric research.21

It reminded Pierce of the 100-foot communications reflector he had envisioned in 1954. The recent invention of the maser amplifier made reception of reflected communications signals more practical than it had been in 

1954. He visited the NACA at Langley to confirm his understanding of the 

sphere, and by the end of the month he was discussing the project with Hugh 

Dryden in Washington.

Later that summer (July), Pierce and Kompfner participated in an Air 

Force–sponsored meeting on communications at Woods Hole, Massachusetts. 

18. Most of the material on DMSP is taken from R. Cargill Hall (an NRO historian), 

“Chapter Three: Weather Reconnaissance,” n.d. (1988?), originally classified TOP 

SECRET/TALENT KEYHOLE. Other sources include the http://earth.nasa.gov/history

and http://www.astronautix.com Web sites.

19. Clarke, “Extra-Terrestrial Relays,” pp. 303–308.

20. John R. Pierce, “Orbital Radio Relays,” Jet Propulsion 25, no. 4 (1955): 153–157; Pierce 

and Kompfner, “Transoceanic Communication by Means of Satellites,” pp. 372–380.

21. Donald C. Elder, Out from Behind the Eight-Ball: A History of Project Echo (San Diego, 

CA: American Astronautical Society, 1995), p. 25.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 439

They were unimpressed with the plans of the Air Force, which to them seemed 

unrealistic. While there, Pierce met William H. Pickering of JPL, who had 

received his Ph.D. from Caltech the year before Pierce. The three engineers 

discussed among themselves the possibility of launching a sphere such as 

O’Sullivan’s for communications experiments. Pickering volunteered the support of JPL (which eventually resulted in use of the JPL Goldstone station as 

the West Coast station for Echo). To support this plan, Kompfner and Pierce 

wrote a paper22 that they presented at an Institute of Radio Engineers (IRE) 

conference on “extended range communications” at the Lisner Auditorium of 

George Washington University in Washington, DC, on 6–7 October 1958.23

In April 1960, AT&T began to prepare a passive follow-on experiment to 

Echo. Huge, 3,600-square-foot horn antennas would be built on either side of 

the Atlantic. Forty-kilowatt transmitters would beam television signals up to 

a duplicate of Echo in a higher orbit—2,000 miles. Unfortunately, the studies showed that passive satellite TV transmission would be of marginal signal 

quality. In a 13 May 1960 letter to Leonard Jaffe at NASA Headquarters, 

Kompfner described the current AT&T/BTL research program as shifting 

to active satellites. In this letter, Kompfner reviews the active satellite component/subsystem studies that had been under way since late 1959.24 Echo 1 

was launched into a 1,000-mile circular orbit on 12 August 1960. During the 

first orbit of the 100-foot sphere, a recording of President Dwight Eisenhower 

speaking was transmitted from JPL’s Goldstone, California, Earth station to 

AT&T’s Holmdel, New Jersey, Earth station. Later experiments included 

telephone, Teletype, and facsimile transmissions. On 23 August, the first 

transatlantic voice transmission was executed from Holmdel to Jodrell Bank, 

England. In spite of Echo’s success, it was clear that active, rather than passive, 

satellites were the technology to develop.25 By 1960, Pierce had convinced 

AT&T management to build and launch a medium-Earth-orbit (MEO) satellite system. Pierce had also energized two young engineers—Harold Rosen 

and Donald D. Williams—at Hughes Aircraft Company to prove wrong 

his 1959 argument that geosynchronous-Earth-orbit (GEO) satellites were 

beyond the state of the art.

AT&T’s plan to launch a satellite system was put on hold when NASA 

refused to provide launch services. NASA argued that launch vehicles were 

22. Pierce and Kompfner, “Transoceanic Communication by Means of Satellites.”

23. J. R. Pierce, The Beginnings of Satellite Communications (San Francisco: San Francisco 

Press, 1968), pp. 9–12. 

24. A. C. Dickieson, “TELSTAR, The Management Story,” unpublished monograph, Bell 

Telephone Laboratories, 1970, pp. 34–39.

25. NASA, Fourth Semi-Annual Report to Congress (Washington, DC: GPO, 1961), pp. 10–17.
440 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

in short supply and must be rationed. The rationing mechanism would be 

a competition to design an MEO communications satellite. Proposals were 

submitted to NASA by seven companies—including Hughes (Syncom) and 

AT&T (Telstar). RCA won the competition with Relay in May 1961, but 

AT&T was allowed to purchase launch services; by the end of that summer, 

the Hughes satellite was jointly funded by NASA and DOD.

Less than a year after the 27 July 1961 AT&T-NASA agreement, AT&T 

was ready to launch its Telstar 1 satellite. The Andover station—with its huge 

$10 million, 60-foot by 60-foot horn antenna and maser-amplifier receiver—

had been ready since the beginning of the year and was officially operational 

in April.26 The Pleumeur-Bodou station in France, essentially a copy of the 

huge AT&T horn, was started in February and finished on 7 July 1962. Three 

days of tracking and radio frequency calibration ensued between that date 

and the launch. The British station at Goonhilly was also ready for launch. 

On 10 July 1962, at 0825 universal time (UT) (4:25 a.m. EST), the Delta 

carrying Telstar 1 lifted off from its pad at Cape Canaveral. At 1836 UT 

(2:36 p.m. EST), Pleumeur-Bodou technicians reported they had been tracking the 136-megahertz VHF telemetry beacon since 1802 UT. At 2045 UT 

(6:02 p.m. EST), Andover was able to track the 136-megahertz beacon for 

several minutes, allowing AT&T engineers to examine telemetry data, which 

indicated that all was well.27 At 2318 UT (11:18 p.m. EST), the first pass 

with mutual visibility (both stations could see the satellite) between Andover 

and Europe began. After telemetry indicated that all was well, the command 

to turn on the communications repeater was sent. At 2325 UT (11:25 p.m. 

EST), the Andover transmitter was turned on. At 2347 UT (11:47 p.m. 

EST), the Pleumeur-Bodou station reported receiving an excellent video 

signal from Andover. Goonhilly was unable to receive a good signal due 

to ground station problems (a misunderstanding of the polarization of the 

signal). AT&T had placed a commercially funded communications satellite 

in orbit before the government-funded projects, but the Communications 

Satellite Act would be passed in less than two months. AT&T, after spending more than $100 million (in 1960 U.S. dollars), was out of the satellite 

manufacturing business for good. The Relay and Syncom satellites would be 

launched over the next two years.

26. The Andover station was also referred to as the Rumford, Maine, station, and as Space Hill.

27. Pierce, Beginnings, pp. 161–162.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 441

The Communications Satellite Act of 1962

Just after NASA’s announcement of the Relay communications satellite 

program award to RCA, President John F. Kennedy delivered a speech to 

Congress on “urgent national needs.” In this famous 25 May 1961 speech, 

Kennedy promised to land a man on the Moon and also asked the Congress 

to provide the funds that “will make the most of our present leadership, 

by accelerating the use of space satellites for worldwide communications.” 

This speech has been characterized as being driven by the events of April 

1961—Yuri Gagarin’s orbital flight and the Bay of Pigs—but his comments 

echo the Wiesner Committee’s “Report to the President-Elect of the Ad Hoc 

Committee on Space,” delivered to Kennedy on 10 January 1961.28 They are 

also consistent with his State of the Union message of 30 January 1961:

Finally, this Administration intends to explore promptly all possible areas of 

cooperation with the Soviet Union and other nations “to invoke the wonders 

of science instead of its terrors.” Specifically, I now invite all nations—including the Soviet Union—to join with us in developing a weather prediction 

program, in a new communications satellite program and in preparation for 

probing the distant planets of Mars and Venus, probes which may someday 

unlock the deepest secrets of the universe.29

In any case, politics—Cold War politics—would be a driver in deployment 

of communications satellites.

NASA Administrator James Webb believed—as did Jerome Wiesner 

(President’s Science Advisory Committee, or PSAC), Lee Loevinger 

(Department of Justice), Philip J. Farley (Department of State), and Edward 

Welsh (Space Council)—that satellite communications was an inherently 

governmental function. Eisenhower and his NASA Administrator, T. Keith 

Glennan, believed that telecommunications was a private function in the 

United States. The Federal Communications Commission (FCC) believed 

that satellite communications should be managed by the international telecommunications companies—much as they had managed the transoceanic 

telephone cables. NASA believed that the Agency should be in charge of 

satellite communications. The Space Council—especially the staff as directed 

by Welsh—worked very hard to address all the issues. Monopoly was of great 

28. Wiesner Committee, “Report to the President-Elect of the Ad Hoc Committee on 

Space,” 10 January 1961, http://www.hq.nasa.gov/office/pao/History/report61.html.

29. John F. Kennedy, “State of the Union,” 30 January 1961, http://www.infoplease.com/t/hist/

state-of-the-union/174.html.
442 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

concern. Many were concerned that, while avoiding the Scilla of AT&T, they 

were creating the Charybdis represented by what later became COMSAT. 

The Space Council drafted an Administration Bill in November 1961. 

It was delivered to Kennedy in December. The Administration Bill provided for a public-private corporation directly regulated by the President. 

Before it was submitted, Senator Robert Kerr (D-OK) submitted a similar 

bill that gave more control to the international communications carriers—

as the FCC recommended. Kerr negotiated powerfully with the administration, but after several of his amendments were accepted, he supported the 

Administration Bill (of which he was a cosponsor) and fought a bill introduced by Senator Estes Kefauver (D-TN) that advocated government ownership. The Administration Bill passed the House by a vote of 354 to 9 and, 

after a liberal filibuster, passed the Senate by a vote of 66 to 11. On 31 August 

1962, President Kennedy signed the bill into law.

Congress had first looked at satellite communications as early as 1959 and 

had spent much of 1961 and half of 1962 in hearings and debates on the 

subject. The Kennedy administration had put satellite communications on 

its agenda from the start—much of the Space Council’s efforts in 1961 were 

devoted to satellite communications. All the departments and agencies of 

government had been heard from, but what was intended or expected wasn’t 

really clear. The State Department had been a constant presence in the Space 

Council meetings and the congressional hearings. The State Department felt, 

as did President Kennedy, that the space race was just an extension of the 

Cold War and that satellite communications was part of the space race. State 

had wanted a government monopoly on satellite communications. They were 

afraid that the profit motive would bypass service to the Third World countries that might fall into the communist camp. Although other countries were 

invited to participate, the assumption had been that the U.S. entity would 

own the satellites.30

The Interim Agreements

COMSAT had been advised by the common carriers—especially AT&T—

that bilateral arrangements between COMSAT and each of the foreign post, 

telegraph, and telephone (PTT) organizations were preferable. AT&T had 

made bilateral arrangements for all of the submarine telephone cables and for 

Telstar, but NASA had stepped in and insisted that only the U.S. government 

30. David J. Whalen, Origins of Satellite Communications, 1945–1965 (Washington, DC: 

Smithsonian Institution Press, 2002), pp. 70–100. Edward Welsh interviewed by Thomas 

Safely, 19 July 1984, COMSAT History Project (CHP) Oral Histories, archived at the 

Johns Hopkins University. 
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 443

could negotiate international agreements. As foreign ministries became 

involved, rather than PTTs, negotiations took a new direction. In fact, even as 

bilateral negotiations were being considered and before the incorporators had 

met, a U.K.–Canada–United States (Foreign Ministry/State Department) 

conference on satellite communications took place in Washington. William 

Gilbert Carter (of the State Department) met with the Conference of European 

PTTs (CEPT) and representatives of several European countries in late 1962. 

This meeting resulted in a query to Dean Rusk asking what was going on. By 

May of 1963, CEPT formed a new organization, Conference Européenne des 

Télécommunications par Satellites (CETS), to negotiate as a bloc with the 

United States. In October of 1963, the International Telecommunications 

Union (ITU) held an Extraordinary Administrative Radio Conference 

(EARC) in Geneva to discuss frequencies for satellite communications. The 

American delegation was led by Ambassador Joseph McConnell, but most 

of the American negotiations were conducted by Joe Charyk, assisted by 

Sieg Reiger. Somewhat to the negotiators’ surprise, COMSAT got almost 

everything it wanted out of the conference.31 One question (of many) that 

brought about the liberal filibuster against the Communications Satellite Act 

was whether the act provided for sufficient oversight by the U.S. President of 

the international negotiations that COMSAT was to undertake. Within the 

State Department, this was the question of whether satellite communications 

was “to be seen as a major foreign policy activity of the United States with a 

strong technical private enterprise component; or was it going to be seen as 

primarily a technical enterprise component with some foreign policy adjunct 

to it.”32 State argued that this was a race with the Russians and therefore 

political. Satellite communications was also global in a way that cables never 

had been. Finally, demonstrating peaceful space applications that benefited 

the Third World was of extreme importance. This even led to State’s preference for geosynchronous orbit, as it allowed less-developed companies to 

participate with a single, cheaper Earth station than could be used with the 

Telstar-type MEO polar orbiter. After NASA diplomacy in 1961 and 1962, 

and State diplomacy in 1962 through 1964, it was hard to put the genie back 

in the bottle: satellite communications discussions would be with foreign 

offices first and PTTs second.33

COMSAT, and later Intelsat, had a major problem: Were these organizations “commercial” entities, in the limited sense that government-owned 

31. Joseph McConnell, interviewed by Frederick Durant III, 18 July 1985, CHP. William 

Gilbert Carter, interviewed by Nina Seavey, 15 July 1985, CHP.

32. Carter interview, 15 July 1985.

33. Joseph V. Charyk, interviewed by Nina Seavey, 1 April 1986, CHP.
444 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

PTTs were “commercial,” or were they instruments of foreign policy? If they 

were “commercial” entities, then their purpose was to earn a profit for their 

owners by providing global satellite communications. If they were profitoriented, then decisions should be based on costs and profits. For a long 

period, the purchase of American satellites by COMSAT and Intelsat was 

based on the cost-benefit analysis that showed which satellites would provide 

the best service—and hence greatest profits—at the lowest cost. If Intelsat 

and COMSAT were instruments of foreign policy, then profits were irrelevant. If these organizations were instruments of technological advance, then 

each country should obtain “work” (manufacturing contracts) in proportion to their contribution of funding. This later became the European Space 

Agency’s (ESA) principle of juste retour.

34 In early 1964, the United States 

(State Department and COMSAT) met with CETS in Rome. It was clear 

at this meeting that the Europeans would insist on some amount of control 

over satellite communications. They did not want to be supplicants asking 

for permission to use an American national asset. The next meeting was in 

London with additional participation. Before this meeting, Leo Welch, the 

COMSAT chairman of the board, insisted that John A. Johnson, who had 

joined COMSAT from NASA the previous December, be chairman of the 

U.S. delegation. After some discussion, Johnson was made vice chairman, 

with Abram Chayes from the State Department serving as nominal chair. 

At this meeting, it became obvious that there would be two agreements: a 

government-to-government agreement and a PTT-to-PTT agreement, with 

COMSAT as the American PTT. The final version of the interim agreements 

was presented to the world on 20 August 1964 in Vatican City, where 14 

countries immediately signed. It is interesting to note that most of the negotiations were between the Europeans (CETS/CEPT) and the United States. It is 

even more interesting to note that during this negotiation process, COMSAT 

contracted for the geosynchronous Early Bird and raised $200 million in an 

initial public offering (IPO).35 The three most important consequences of this 

interim agreement were 1) COMSAT would not go it alone, but it would 

manage the interim system under an Interim Communications Satellite 

Committee (ICSC); 2) the organization would have both foreign office and 

PTT representation; and 3) a new definitive agreement would be negotiated 

in five years.36

34. Charyk interview, 1 April 1986. 

35. Ibid.

36. A dry but fairly complete discussion of both the interim and permanent (definitive) 

agreements can be found in Marcellus S. Snow, The International Telecommunications 

Satellite Organization (Neu-Isenburg: Momos Verlagsgesellschaft, 1987). 
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 445

Early Bird and Intelsat II

Early Bird was launched in April 1965 and entered service in June. A few 

months later, the interim organization adopted the name Intelsat. Four 

Intelsat II series satellites were launched in 1966–1967; three were successful. 

The Intelsat II series was launched to support NASA’s Apollo program. Early 

Bird covered only the Northern Hemisphere over the Atlantic Ocean Region 

(AOR). The Intelsat II series spacecraft covered the globe and were located 

over both the AOR and the Pacific Ocean Region (POR).

Part II: Maturity

All four major applications—reconnaissance, weather, communications, and 

navigation—had been “proved” in the decade after Sputnik. These were not 

R&D projects—they were operational!

1. COMSAT and Intelsat to 1979

Eight Intelsat III series satellites were launched between 1968 and 1970; six 

were successful. In orbit, these six satellites suffered from thermal problems 

that caused the despun antenna to stick. The first two series were built by 

Hughes with no international content. The third series was built by TRW 

and had some minimal international content. The fourth series was another 

Hughes satellite, but by this time, the interim arrangements were coming 

unstuck. By 1969, Intelsat membership had grown to 68. More than 15 

countries were operating more than two dozen Earth stations. The hope of 

bringing modern communications to the Third World was beginning to be 

realized, but the industrialized nations were still dominant.

The Intelsat Definitive Agreements

When it came time to meet to discuss the definitive arrangements in February 

1969, the old disagreements were still present. The ICSC, representing the 

Intelsat consortium, had been dominated by COMSAT. John A. Johnson 

had been elected as Chairman of the ICSC—only reasonable considering 

COMSAT’s more-than-60-percent “ownership.” Johnson has been described 

by Brenda Maddox as “the archetypical all-American boy grown up to be bank 

president. Tall, brusque, with fierce blue eyes, and what seemed to be more 

than the ordinary number of teeth.”37 Maddox refers to all the COMSAT 

37. Brenda Maddox, Beyond Babel (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1972), p. 92.
446 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

negotiators as “tall, abrasive men, inexperienced in diplomacy.”38 Dr. Reinhold 

Steiner, who represented Switzerland, Austria, and Liechtenstein, referred 

to Johnson as “the most xenophobic fellow I’ve ever met.... [H]e hates 

foreigners.”39 Many of the Europeans—especially the French—were annoyed 

at the limited amount of data they were getting. Some of this was blamed on 

COMSAT and some on the State Department. It was true that the United 

States wished to limit the export of aerospace knowledge. The Munitions 

Control Board worried about weapons use; the State Department and the 

administration worried about diluting the “single global system”: Intelsat.40

The first Plenipotentiary Conference was held from 24 February to 

21 March 1969 in Washington, DC. All but one of Intelsat’s 68 member 

states sent a delegation. As was well understood by then, there was no basis 

for agreement among the 68 member states. The conference did make clear 

where there was agreement, where there might be agreement, and where there 

would never be agreement. Some indication of where things might be headed 

was the reception that Katherine Johnsen of Aviation Week & Space Technology

got when she tried to interview the members of the ICSC in 1967: 17 agreed 

to be interviewed; only John A. Johnson refused. Similarly, at an ICSC meeting in December 1968, a vote was taken as to whether COMSAT should 

remain as manager: the result was 17 to 1 against.41 The 1969 conference 

established a Preparatory Committee, which, while not allowed to negotiate, 

would prepare draft agreements for consideration by the full conference in 

1970. The Preparatory Committee looked at the same issues that the conference had considered: structure, legal, finances, and operations. Three sessions were held in June–July, September, and November–December of 1969. 

Between 37 and 42 member nations attended, as did observers from nonmembers, the ITU, and the UN. Progress was made in all areas, and several 

reports were prepared for the 1970 conference.42

38. Ibid., p. 86.

39. Quoted in Michael Kinsley, Outer Space and Inner Sanctums (New York: Wiley, 1976), 

pp. 115–116.

40. Many faulted Lewis Meyer at COMSAT for not providing information to the ICSC. 

The United States had also issued National Security Action Memorandum 338 (NSAM 

338) in this timeframe (1966–1967), which prohibited the launch of non-Intelsat 

communications satellites. This was also the period during which France withdrew from 

NATO.

41. Katherine Johnsen, “France Backs UN Intelsat Control,” Aviation Week & Space 

Technology, 13 February 1967. See also Maddox, Beyond Babel, pp. 103–104.

42. Richard R. Colino, “The INTELSAT Definitive Arrangements: Ushering in a New Era in 

Satellite Telecommunications,” European Broadcasting Union, 1973, p. 16.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 447

The Resumed [Second] Plenipotentiary Conference took place between 

16 February and 20 March 1970. Sixty-seven of the 75 members of 

Intelsat participated, and a host of nonmembers observed. The Preparatory 

Committee reports were read and discussed, but a proposal from Australia 

and Japan (Document 93) appeared to resolve most of the outstanding 

issues. Not all issues were resolved—and time did not allow elaborating 

Document 93 into a formal legal document. An Intersessional Working 

Group (IWG) was established to develop a draft set of agreements based 

on Document 93 for presentation at the third conference, scheduled for 

1971.43 In contrast to the Preparatory Committee, the IWG was authorized 

to negotiate. Three sessions were held in May–June, September–October, and 

November–December 1970. Between 47 and 48 members attended the IWG 

sessions—significantly more than had attended the Preparatory Committee 

sessions. On 31 December 1970, the IWG submitted drafts of the Intelsat 

Agreement and Operating Agreement to the final conference.44 The third and 

final conference began on 14 April 1971. Voting required a two-thirds majority to change bracketed (unresolved) text in the two agreements. On Friday, 

21 May 1971, 73 of 78 members attending voted in favor of the final texts of 

the two agreements—France, the Malagasy Republic, Monaco, and Mexico 

abstained,45 and one member was absent. On 20 August 1971, the agreements were opened for signature, and by 14 December 1972, two-thirds of 

the members had signed—60 days later, on 12 February 1973, the interim 

agreements were terminated and the new agreement entered into force.46

The strange public-private, commercial-political nature of COMSAT was 

also reflected in the structure of Intelsat. Intelsat had two “governing bodies”: 

nations signed the Intelsat Agreement (also referred to as the Intelsat Treaty), 

but telecommunications entities (Signatories) signed the Intelsat Operating 

Agreement. The Intelsat Assembly of Parties consisted of the sovereign governments that signed the Intelsat Agreement. Voting in the assembly was 

by country: one nation, one vote. Its powers were limited. The Meeting of 

Signatories consisted of all the telecommunications entities that signed the 

Intelsat Operating Agreement. Voting in the meeting was on the basis of 

shares, and the shares were allocated (and paid for) on the basis of usage. 

43. Australia, Japan, and Canada had a strong influence on Intelsat deliberations as a third 

party in disputes between the United States and the Europeans. Much later, the Third 

World countries would favor the United States as more interested in providing them with 

the best and cheapest technology.

44. Colino, “The INTELSAT Definitive Arrangements,” pp. 16–19.

45. Note that three of the four abstainers are Francophone.

46. Colino, “The INTELSAT Definitive Arrangements,” pp. 19–21.
448 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

This system has been referred to as “one telephone call, one vote.” A Board of 

Governors had functions similar to the ICSC, or to the functions of a commercial board of directors. The board consisted of about 20 members, each 

having a minimum specified investment, and individual representatives of 

member-groups whose total investment met the minimum specified (about 

2 percent). Finally, there was a manager—COMSAT for six years after the 

agreements entered into force (terminating 12 February 1979)—reporting to 

a secretary general until 31 December 1976 and to a director general thereafter. The details of the agreements and the compromises that led to them are 

detailed in a book by Richard R. Colino of COMSAT. Colino participated 

in the negotiations and was later Intelsat director general himself. The major 

antagonists, the United States and the Franco-Europeans, each compromised 

in some way, but the result was both semicommercial and semipolitical. It 

could be argued that the State Department got what it wanted because the 

Third World countries seemed to have been guaranteed international communications at reasonable rates and with some national control—at least 

control of their own Earth stations. The Europeans continued to complain 

that satellite contracts went exclusively to the United States (until the 1990s), 

but the Third World countries preferred cheaper, higher-quality American 

satellites and launch vehicles.

COMSAT’s Intelsat III and IV spacecraft had not officially been slated 

for geosynchronous orbit when the Intelsat III contract was put out for bids. 

Hughes decided not to bid an MEO option, which allowed TRW to sneak 

in a winning bid. There was some attempt at international “sharing” of the 

contract, but it was minimal (about 6 percent). The Intelsat III series was 

designed for multiaccess (more than one signal in a transponder). Effective 

Isotropic Radiated Power (EIRP) increased to 27 decibel-watts (dBW) from 

Intelsat II’s 15 dBW and the 10 dBW of Early Bird. Unfortunately, three of 

the eight Intelsat III satellites had bad Delta launches at a time when Delta 

reliability was better than 90 percent. These satellites were the first to provide 

coverage of the Indian Ocean Region (IOR).

Almost in parallel to the Intelsat III program was the Intelsat IV program. The first three generations of Intelsat had relatively limited capacity. 

Intelsat IV would be a significant increase in power, number of transponders, 

mass, and coverage options. The first three generations had Earth coverage 

only. Intelsat III was considered a big advance because it had a despun antenna 

that always pointed at Earth, dramatically increasing EIRP. Intelsat IV had 

two narrow-beam antennas covering the Eastern and Western hemispheres. 

The Intelsat IV payload design is still the basis for modern communications 

satellite payload design. The bus design had been proven on TACSAT, and 

the stabilization technique would be used by Hughes into the twenty-first 
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 449

century. Because of its size, this series would use the Atlas-Centaur launch 

vehicle instead of the Delta. About 20 percent of the content was provided by 

international manufacturers.

It was no surprise when Intelsat discovered that North Atlantic traffic was greater than that in the Pacific Ocean Region or the Indian Ocean 

Region. Two Intelsat IV satellites had insufficient capacity to satisfy traffic 

demands. A tradeoff was made between waiting for the Intelsat V series and 

upgrading the Intelsat IV series. The result, Intelsat IVA, had 20 rather than 

12 transponders. 

Intelsat-IVA-F6 was the last satellite launched by COMSAT as Intelsat 

“manager.” The definitive agreements left the company without a major role 

in satellite development. COMSAT still monitored construction under contract to Intelsat, but executive decisions were made by Intelsat.

2. COMSAT and Intelsat after 1979 

COMSAT was looking for a mission after 1979. The company tried domestic satellites (COMSTAR with AT&T, Satellite Business Systems [SBS] with 

IBM), broadcast satellites (STC), software, ground systems, and especially 

Earth stations (RSI). None of them worked. By the mid-1980s, the company’s profits were bouncing up and down. It seemed that every other year 

the company lost tens or hundreds of millions of dollars. Intelsat did well in 

these years. It was still the largest and most profitable satellite company. It had 

few business barriers because its owners were the national PTTs. In the late 

1980s, competition did affect Intelsat. More dangerous, the U.S. government 

began seeking to destroy its monopoly status.

Intelsat V

The launch of the three-axis stabilized RCA Satcom F1 in 1975 changed 

the standard communications satellite design. Future satellites—at least for 

Intelsat and most of the U.S. domestic communications satellite (DOMSAT) 

operators—would be three-axis stabilized, with large high-power solar arrays, 

and with frequency reuse through cross-polarization. In addition, within a 

few years, the Ku-band frequencies would dominate U.S. and European satellite service. Intelsat V may not have started these trends, but it certainly 

took advantage of them. The Intelsat V series was the first to be launched on 

multiple vehicles: Atlas-Centaur (AC) and Ariane (Ar). During the Intelsat V 

series development, the need for a maritime communications system for lease 

to Inmarsat resulted in L-band payloads on Intelsat 505–509.
450 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Competition and Other Problems

The FCC was not a particular friend to COMSAT, but neither were they 

enemies. Because it was a monopoly, COMSAT was often treated by the 

FCC as if it were AT&T. The Earth station ownership, authorized user, and 

rate decisions hampered COMSAT’s abilities to find new work. As the 1980s 

began, a new threat appeared. The Nixon administration had opened domestic satellite communications to all “qualified” applicants; now the Reagan 

administration opened up the international satellite communications business to “separate systems”—separate, that is, from COMSAT and Intelsat. 

There had long been concerns that COMSAT/Intelsat was a monopoly, and 

monopolies are “bad.” The precipitating event may have been the 11 March 

1983 filing by Orion Satellite Corporation for authority to develop a private 

international communications satellite system. While the FCC was considering the application, the National Telecommunications and Information 

Administration (NTIA, part of the Commerce Department) and the State 

Department began feuding over policy.

Less than a year later, on 13 February 1984, Pan American Satellite 

Corporation (PanAmSat) also filed for authority to launch an international 

satellite communications system. Several other companies filed between 

these two, but Orion and PanAmSat would eventually launch satellites. On 

28 November 1984, Reagan announced that separate systems were required 

in the national interest. On the basis of the President’s decision, the FCC 

began granting conditional licenses. On 25 July 1985, the FCC issued its 

Separate Systems Report and Order. On 1 June 1988, PanAmSat’s PAS-1 was 

launched and eventually drifted to a longitude of 45 degrees west to provide 

transatlantic service. That same year, the fiber-optic TAT-8 cable began to 

provide service across the Atlantic—service that was cheaper than Intelsat’s. 

The transatlantic telephone cables had always competed with satellite transmission across the Atlantic, but the savings, if any, were minimal. Fiber-optic 

cables were cheaper and provided higher-quality transmissions and much 

higher data rates.

The Rest of the Intelsat Satellites

Hughes had pioneered geosynchronous orbit with Syncom 2. The corporation had been awarded contracts for Early Bird, the Intelsat II series, and 

the Intelsat IV/IVA series. In 1982, Hughes was awarded the contract for 

the Intelsat VI series. It would be the last satellite Hughes would build for 

Intelsat and the last large spin-stabilized satellite. It would also be the last 

large Intelsat satellite (recognizing that the definition of large changes over 

time). The second launch (603) was on a Titan rocket. The Titan failed, and 
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 451

the satellite was subsequently boosted into orbit by a Space Shuttle “rescue” 

mission. For a little over $1 billion, this $100 million (probably $150 million, including launch) satellite was reused.

Intelsat VII was the second series built by Ford Aerospace (later Space 

Systems Loral). If Hughes had built all the even series (II, IV, VI), Ford was 

starting to win all the odd series (V, VII, and later IX). The Intelsat V series 

was considered by Santiago Astrain (the first director general of Intelsat) to be 

the most successful series. Intelsat VI had been designed with the heavy traffic 

of the North Atlantic in mind. The Intelsat VII series was intended to replace 

Intelsat V satellites over the Pacific and Indian oceans (the POR and AOR).

Intelsat wanted to ensure that it always had two qualified manufacturers. It 

did not want to be tied too closely to any one manufacturer. After Intelsat VI, 

Hughes was no longer on Intelsat’s list of preferred manufacturers (a mutual 

decision). RCA (later GE, then Martin-Marietta, now Lockheed Martin) 

had built the first commercial operational three-axis satellite. The RCA satellites had dominated the American market—bought by RCA Americom, 

Southern Pacific (Spacenet), and GTE (GSTAR). It was chosen to build the 

Intelsat VIII series.

The Intelsat VIII series was less successful than expected. Intelsat returned 

to Ford/Loral for its next series. This was the first spacecraft of seven 

Intelsat 9-series satellites ordered from Space Systems/Loral. Intelsat 901 was 

ordered in December 1996. The 4,723-kilogram mass spacecraft carries 42 

C-band and 14 Ku-band operating transponders, using the LS-1300 satellite 

bus. The satellite’s solar arrays generate between 10 kilowatts of power (beginning of life) and 8.6 kilowatts (end of life). The satellite was designed for a 

13-year lifespan. 

COMSAT and Lockheed

How did it all begin? In 1995, Lockheed and Martin Marietta merged. The 

earlier combination of RCA Astro and GE Space that had been purchased 

by Martin Marietta became Lockheed Martin Commercial Space Systems 

(LMCSS). Martin Marietta had been looking at getting into communications satellite operations rather than (or in addition to) manufacturing. Profit 

margins in manufacturing looked slim compared with operations. Martin 

Marietta may have been already looking “across the street” at COMSAT in 

1992. Was this a Norm Augustine (of Martin Marietta) and Betty Alewine 

(COMSAT) deal? What did the Russian deals and Brian Dailey have to do 

with anything? Russ McFall (of MM, then of LMT) was looking to buy a 

real satellite operator. Did no one understand the implications of “direct 

access”? COMSAT and Intelsat at one time had offices facing each other on 
452 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

L’Enfant Plaza in downtown Washington, DC. Intelsat moved to offices well 

up Connecticut Avenue near the suburbs. COMSAT was looking for new 

office space that would be cheaper than L’Enfant Plaza. Rock Spring Plaza 

in Bethesda, Maryland, was the choice for the new office. Lockheed Martin 

would eventually be a neighbor.47 In 1996, C. J. “Pete” Silas was named chairman of COMSAT after the retirement of Melvin Laird.48 Shortly thereafter, 

Bruce Crockett left COMSAT to “pursue other business interests.” “By removing Crockett, the board essentially repudiated his vision of making COMSAT 

a communications and entertainment conglomerate.” Crockett had changed 

the name from Communications Satellite Corporation (CSC) to COMSAT. 

Crockett had been taken in by the glamour of entertainment. Perhaps most 

annoying to COMSAT executives and board members, Crockett had spent 

all of his time on entertainment, attending most Denver Nugget NBA and 

Colorado Avalanche NHL games. Also in 1996, Caleb B. Hurt was elected 

to the Board of Directors. He was a former president and COO of Martin 

Marietta, which had just merged with Lockheed. A formal announcement 

was made on 24 March 1997 that COMSAT was restructuring: this included 

putting COMSAT Radiation Systems, Inc. (CRSI, another Crockett acquisition), and Ascent up for sale. There were no buyers for Ascent—eventually 

the stock would be spun off to COMSAT shareholders. CRSI would be easier 

to sell.49 During this period, Edwin I. Colodny replaced C. J. Silas as chairman of the board.50 Colodny was ill at the time. The year 1997 proved to be a 

difficult one for COMSAT: shareholders were unhappy with the low earnings 

and slow revenue growth, and at the June shareholders meeting there was a 

proxy battle. COMSAT sued its ex-CEO, Crockett, accusing him of “conspiring” to replace the company’s board.51 Many old problems persisted and got 

worse—fiber-optic cable competition; competition from PanAmSat; difficulties selling Ascent and RSI; and the failed merger with CONTEL, Skypix, 

and Satellite Television Corporation (STC). It was clear that the decades-old 

task of finding a new focus for COMSAT was a failure. Neil Bauer of Orion, 

47. David S. Hilzenrath, “COMSAT Tentatively Agrees To Move Offices to Bethesda,” 

Washington Post (15 November 1990): E1–E2; Daniel S. Hilzenrath, “COMSAT 

Completes Agreement To Move to Bethesda,” Washington Post (12 July 1991): C1.

48. S&P Daily News (23 April 1996) (LN).

49. Mike Mills, “Ailing COMSAT To Sell Unit Making Satellite Dishes,” Washington Post

(24 March 1997): A9; Doug Abrahms, “Comsat Doesn’t Want To Play Anymore,” 

Washington Times (25 March 1997): B6, B10.

50. S&P Daily News (30 April 1997) (LN).

51. “COMSAT Files Suit Against Ex-CEO,” Dow Jones News (24 April 1997).
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 453

one of the “separate systems,” could ask: “What does COMSAT really own?”52

Betty Alewine, who had replaced Crockett at COMSAT World Systems, now 

replaced him as president of COMSAT. Alewine saw satellite service and 

network services as the corporation’s future.53 Alewine sold off COMSAT’s 

Philcomsat shares and most of its ICO shares, spun off Ascent, and prepared 

to sell RSI—all of this in the midst of stockholder revolts and potshots from 

competitors and Congress. Robert S. Koppel, vice president of international 

regulatory affairs for WorldCom, spoke for many when he said, “COMSAT’s 

role as middleman is an anachronism.” In 1996, one-fifth of COMSAT revenues came from two customers: the U.S. government (14 percent) and AT&T 

(7 percent); these two customers had represented more than a fourth of its 

revenues (15 percent and 12 percent, respectively) in 1994. International satellite services (Intelsat and Inmarsat) were profitable; network services were 

not. In September 1997, COMSAT sold the Clarksburg COMSAT Labs 

building for $45 million with a 10-year leaseback at $5 million a year. By 

early 1998, it seemed clear that COMSAT was on the market. Early in the 

year, COMSAT denied that it was being acquired by Loral.54 A few months 

later, the FCC approved the Loral/Orion merger.55 Retired COMSAT vice 

president Sidney Metzger claimed COMSAT benefited all consumers. The 

original AT&T Telstar concept was too expensive.56 In July, fallout from 

the Cox report caused aerospace stocks to tumble: COMSAT shares fell to 

$28.75 from $42 over a “couple months.”57 COMSAT claimed it was in the 

process of “unlocking the value of investments in Intelsat and Inmarsat.” On 

20 September, Lockheed announced plans to purchase COMSAT after failing to buy Northrup-Grumman for $8.3 billion. The Lockheed offer was for 

49 percent of the COMSAT stock at $45.50 per share, with the last 51 percent to be purchased with one share of Lockheed for two shares of COMSAT. 

The total value of the purchase was about $2.7 billion.

John Sponyoe, CEO of the newly formed Lockheed Martin Global 

Telecommunications subsidiary (LMGT), said the deal had been in the 

52. Quoted in Doug Abrahms, “COMSAT’s Dominance of the Skies Under Fire,” Washington 

Business Times (23 June 1997): D12–D14.

53. Mike Mills, “A Signal Change at COMSAT,” Washington Business (18 August 1997): 

12–14.

54. “COMSAT Denies Acquisition Report,” Washington Business Journal (18 February 1998). 

55. “FCC Approves Loral/Orion Merger,” Satellite News (9 March 1998): 8.

56. Sidney Metzger, “COMSAT Success Story,” Space News (6–12 July 1998). 

57. Jerry Knight, “A Probe of US-China Policy Pummels Satellite Stocks,” Washington Business

(13 July 1998): 7. The Cox report was a congressional report alleging Chinese spying on 

U.S. ICBM, computer, and nuclear weapons designs, aided and abetted by profit-seeking 

American companies.
454 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

works for 18 months (since March 1997). The Lockheed offering of $45.50 

was about a third higher than the market price of $341⁄8. COMSAT was 

apparently vulnerable to takeover due to its small size. Lockheed also had 

$1.7 billion worth of stock in Loral, Iridium, and L-3.58 Lockheed shares 

went down $3.50 to $100. Analysts saw the need for vertical consolidation emphasizing services.59 Lockheed shares fell another $6 to $94, while 

COMSAT shares climbed. The Bliley bill passed the House, allowing greater 

than 49 percent ownership but also direct access.60 Direct access allowed customers to deal directly with Intelsat, bypassing COMSAT. Bear, Sterns & Co. 

was advising Lockheed. LMGT also owned all or part of LMI, Americom 

Asia-Pacific (AAP), Astrolink, ACeS, and other communications systems.61

Lockheed’s purchase of COMSAT fit into the pattern of the previous two 

decades. Hughes had picked up Western Union’s Westar in the 1980s and 

PanAmSat in 1997. RCA Americom had picked up GTE (and Southern 

Pacific) before being acquired by GE. Loral had bought AT&T’s Telstar in 

1997. And now Lockheed was buying COMSAT. Lockheed was trying to 

become “commercial,” and this seemed to be the way—especially with the 

boom in telecommunications generally and “dot-coms” specifically. This 

would be a really good deal for COMSAT shareholders but not necessarily 

for Lockheed. Mickey Alpert, a former COMSAT STC executive, did not 

“think COMSAT [had] a sustainable, ongoing business.”62 But Brian Daley, 

COO at LMGT, argued that “this initiative is intended to leverage our core 

skills in satellite communications and take advantage of the higher-margin 

services business.”63 By 1999, LMGT had other problems. At the 19 May 

fourth session of the LMI Board of Directors, LMI-2 and LMI-3 were authorized at 83W and 3W.64 LMI-1 would be launched in September, and it was 

75 percent sold. Unfortunately, those transponders didn’t stay sold and were 

leased at prices well below cost. Furthermore, the contract between Lockheed 

58. Tim Smart, “Lockheed Seeks To Buy COMSAT for $2.7 billion,” Washington Post (21 

September 1998): A01.

59. “Space Services Could Be Next Fertile Consolidation Ground,” Aerospace Daily (29 

September 1998); “Lockheed Martin-COMSAT To Combine,” Lockheed Martin, press 

release, 20 September 1998; Leslie Wayne, “Lockheed To Buy COMSAT, Satellite Access 

Seller, for $2.7 Billion,” New York Times (21 September 1998): A11.

60. “Lockheed Buying COMSAT,” CNNmoney.com (21 September 1998).

61. “LockMart Swallows COMSAT,” Space Daily (21 September 1998).

62. “Lockheed Martin’s Planned Buyout of COMSAT Will Build Satellite Services,” Satellite 

News (28 September 1998): 5.

63. Sam Silverstein, “Lockheed, COMSAT Designing Powerful Union,” Space News (28 

September–4 October 1998): 6.

64. “The Fourth Session of the LMI Board of Directors,” Intersputnik International 

Organization of Space Communications (Intersputnik), press release, 19 May 1999.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 455

and Intersputnik had expensive flaws. Nonetheless, John Sponyoe promised 

to launch three more spacecraft.65 On 16 June, Lockheed extended its tender 

offer for COMSAT to 31 August.66 On 20 August 1999, COMSAT shareholders voted to accept the Lockheed Martin (LMT) offer (99 percent of 

votes, 74 percent of shares). The plunge in value of Lockheed shares reduced 

the value of the deal from $2.7 billion to $2.2 billion.67 By 8 September, 

COMSAT shares were down 10 percent, to $301⁄2. Lockheed was still unable 

to shed its 16 percent of Loral—a condition for its purchase of COMSAT. The 

merger had to be completed by 18 September.68 On 15 September, the FCC 

authorized Lockheed to purchase 49 percent of COMSAT. Lockheed was also 

authorized to buy COMSAT Government Services, Inc. (CGSI).69 In addition to buying 49 percent of the shares at $45.50 per share, the remaining 

51 percent would be a share-for-share deal (Lockheed had split). Lockheed 

would also assume $455 million in COMSAT debt.70 On 16 September, 

the Department of Justice authorized the Lockheed-COMSAT merger.71 On 

20 September, Lockheed formally bought 26 million shares of COMSAT for 

$45.50 each; 48 million shares were offered.72 On 22 September, PanAmSat 

appealed the FCC’s approval of the Lockheed purchase.73 On 15 October, 

Lawrence Eagleburger resigned as a COMSAT director; he was replaced by 

John Sponyoe, the CEO of LMGT.74 On 22 November, Lockheed attempted 

to add an amendment to an appropriations bill allowing the purchase of the 

remaining 51 percent; the amendment failed. Lockheed had to wait for the 

Orbit Act of 2000 (S 376) to pass.75

65. “Lockheed Martin Intersputnik To Begin Communications Service in September,” 

Intersputnik, press release, 7 June 1999.

66. “Lockheed Martin Extends Tender Offer for COMSAT Until August 31,” Aerospace 

Daily (16 June 1999).

67. Tim Dobbyn, “COMSAT Shareholders Back Lockheed Sale,” Space.com (20 August 1999).

68. “COMSAT Shares Fall as Lockheed Bid Falters,” Space.com (September 1999).

69. “FCC Authorizes Lockheed Martin To Purchase up to 49 Percent of COMSAT,” FCC 

News (15 September 1999).

70. Tim Smart, “FCC OKs Lockheed-COMSAT Deal,” WashingtonPost.com (15 September 

1999).

71. “Receives Department of Justice Clearance for COMSAT Corp. Merger,” S&P Daily 

News (5 October 1999).

72. “Lockheed Martin Completes COMSAT Tender Offer,” Aerospace Daily (21 September 

1999).

73. “PanAmSat Appeals FCC Approval of Lockheed Martin–COMSAT Deal,” Aerospace 

Daily (22 September 1999).

74. “Announces Change to Board of Directors,” S&P Daily News (6 January 2000).

75. “Lockheed Martin Fails To Get COMSAT Provision Through House,” Aerospace Daily

(22 November 1999).
456 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The Orbit Act of 2000

In 1996, the GAO made a report to Congress, requested by Thomas J. 

Bliley, Jr. (R-VA), on restructuring.76 In 1997, Bliley and Edward J. Markey 

(D-MA) submitted a bill (HR 1872) to privatize Intelsat and Inmarsat.77

Senator Conrad Burns (R-MT) and his Communications Subcommittee 

held hearings on 30 July 1997 on “Satellites and the Telecommunications 

Act.” The FCC, the NTIA, and the State Department testified, as did Intelsat, 

PanAmSat, and Comsat.78 The claim was made that COMSAT’s markup on 

Intelsat pricing was as much as 86 percent.79 On 25 March 1998, the House 

committee passed the Bliley bill (HR 1872, including a variant of “fresh 

look,” an opportunity to renegotiate all COMSAT contracts with Intelsat). 

Intelsat’s Tony Trujillo commented that the bill was fatally flawed.80 HR 1872 

passed the entire House on 6 May 1998. The House bill provided for both 

“direct access” and a variant of “fresh look.” Senator Burns introduced a different bill (S 2365) on 29 July that was seen as more favorable to COMSAT.81

PanAmSat claimed that S 376 did not go far enough. On 21 January, Tom 

Bliley asked the FCC to reject any COMSAT ownership greater than 10 percent until after the passage of reform legislation. On 5 May 1999, the full 

Senate Committee approved Orbit (S 376).82 On 1 July, S 376 (Orbit) was 

passed unanimously by the Senate. “Fresh look” was not allowed, but “direct 

access” was. Trujillo of Intelsat described the bill as “the heavy hand of the 

U.S. Congress.”83 PanAmSat and many other firms argued that it was unfair 

to allow Lockheed to buy COMSAT with privileges unchanged. Senator Lott 

insisted that Burns allow “direct access” by 1 July 2002. The Bliley House 

bill passed in 1998 had removed almost all COMSAT privileges.84 In early 

2000, Burns tried to cut a deal with Bliley (who had also sponsored the 

76. “Telecommunications: Competitive Impact of Restructuring the International Satellite 

Organizations,” GAO/RCED-96-204, GAO Report, July 1996.

77. Doug Abrahms, “Bearing Weight of 141 Nations, Intelsat Tries To Change Itself,” 

Washington Business Times (23 June 1997): D13–D14.

78. U.S. Senate Commerce, Science and Transportation Committee, Subcommittee on 

Communications, Hearing on Satellites and the Telecommunications Act, 30 July 1997.

79. “Ending a High-Flying Monopoly,” Washington Post (20 March 1998): A10.

80. Quoted in “House Commerce Committee Passes Bliley Bill, but Hurdles Remain,” 

Satellite News (30 March 1998): 1.

81. Sam Silverstein, “COMSAT Prefers Senate Bill,” Space News (3–9 August 1998): 3.

82. “International Satellite Reform Bill Approved by Committee,” press release, U.S. Senate 

Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation Committee, 5 May 1999.

83. Quoted in Daniel Sood, “Senate Unanimously Passes Satellite Reform,” Space.com (1 July 

1999).

84. “Senate Satellite Bill Faces Tough Fight in the House,” Aerospace Daily (6 July 1999).
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 457

Telecommunications Act of 1996) and began a partnership with Billy Tauzin 

(R-LA) and John Dingell (D-MI).85 On 17 February, the House and Senate 

conference committee reached a compromise. Direct access was allowed, and 

the Intelsat IPO was deferred to 1 January 2003.86 On 4 April, an FCC Public 

Notice was published to the effect that LMT had applied to transfer control 

of COMSAT to LMT/CGS.87 On 31 July, the FCC authorized Lockheed to 

merge with COMSAT in accordance with the provisions of the 17 March 

2000 Orbit Act.88

The End of COMSAT

Lockheed Martin Global Telecommunications did not last long. On 

7 December 2001 (the 60th anniversary of Pearl Harbor), LMGT announced 

that it was shutting down its operations. Some units would be absorbed by 

other Lockheed divisions; some units would be sold off; and some units would 

simply disappear. Earlier that year, much of COMSAT Laboratories was sold 

to ViaSat. In January 2002, the sale of COMSAT Mobile Communications 

to Telenor was finalized. In March 2002, Lockheed sold its remaining 

COMSAT World Systems facilities to Intelsat. Finally, in 2004, COMSAT 

General’s remaining facilities were also sold to Intelsat by Lockheed. The public-private experiment was over.

The New Intelsat

Passage of the Orbit Act on 17 March 2000 forced Intelsat to “privatize.” 

The two years between the passage of the House bill and the Senate bill 

allowed plenty of time for Intelsat to plan its future. In any case, none of this 

was a surprise. Bliley had begun his march toward “privatization” at least as 

early as 1996. The direction U.S. policy would take was probably clear from 

the early 1980s, when “separate systems” became U.S. policy. Competition 

from fiber-optic cables and domestic satellites grown to regional satellites 

also made it clear that Intelsat must change. At the Twenty-Fourth Intelsat 

Assembly of Parties in 1999, Intelsat resolved to create a new “private” organization—still owned by the Signatories—and a residual intergovernmental 

85. Brody Mullins, “A Satellite Bill: A Career in ORBIT?” National Journal (5 February 

2000): 405–406.

86. Greg Schneider, “Accord Reached on Bid for COMSAT,” Washington Post (18 February 

2000): E01; Mary Motta, “Lockheed Gets Good News on COMSAT Deal,” Space.com

(19 February 2000).

87. FCC Public Notice, Report No. SAT-00040, 4 April 2000.

88. “Commission Authorizes Lockheed Martin To Take Control of COMSAT,” FCC News

(31 July 2000).
458 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

organization (IGO) to protect disadvantaged users. Intelsat LLC was formed 

and on 18 January 2000 applied for transfer of the Intelsat licenses to the 

new private organization. On 8 August 2000, the FCC issued its Intelsat LLC 

Licensing Order. This order allowed Intelsat to transfer its licenses to Intelsat 

LLC upon “privatization.” 

On 18 July 2001, Intelsat, the intergovernmental treaty organization, 

became Intelsat Ltd., a private holding company based in Bermuda with a 

wholly owned subsidiary, Intelsat LLC, which would hold the U.S. licenses. 

With this “privatization,” Intelsat Ltd. lost all of its immunities as an international treaty organization and became a U.S. telecommunications carrier 

with no special privileges. On 28 January 2005, the signatories sold their 

shares in Intelsat Ltd. to a private equity organization, thus completing the 

privatization.89 The Intelsat 10 series went to Astrium, a European conglomerate. Intelsat signed two launch services contracts, one with Boeing Launch 

Services for a Sea Launch Zenit-3SL vehicle and the second with International 

Launch Services (ILS) for a Proton M/Breeze M vehicle for the launch of the 

two Intelsat X series satellites (IS-10-01 and IS-10-02). These spacecraft have 

a design lifespan of 13 years each and are the first Intelsat satellites to use 

plasma propulsion for in-orbit stationkeeping. EIRP levels are 37 dBW to 

42 dBW for zone beams, 37 dBW to 41 dBW for hemi beams (IS-10-02), 

and up to 54.9 dBW for spot beams (Ku-band). Both satellites were to be 

launched in 2003, but only 10-02 was launched.90

Merger with PanAmSat

After the dot-com crash and general telecom meltdown of the early twentyfirst century, market share and profitability became critical. On 28 August 

2005, Intelsat and PanAmSat agreed to merge. The merger of the second and 

fourth largest FSS companies produced a giant that owns between a quarter 

and a third of all FSS satellites. What makes this merger particularly strange 

is that PanAmSat was formed as the anti-Intelsat by René Anselmo in 1984. 

The PanAmSat motto was “Truth and technology will triumph over bullshit 

and bureaucracy.” Anselmo despised the COMSAT-Intelsat monopoly. The 

PanAmSat mascot was the dog Spot—usually seen urinating on the leg of a 

representative of “bullshit and bureaucracy.” Intelsat agreed to buy PanAmSat 

Holding Corporation for $3.2 billion in cash. The merged companies would 

form the world’s largest satellite company and give the companies a more 

89. Details of the “privatization” and the residual IGO (ITSO) can be found in Kenneth 

D. Katkin, “Communication Breakdown? The Future of Global Connectivity After the 

Privatization of Intelsat,” http://law.bepress.com/expresso/eps/508.

90. Intelsat, press release, Hamilton, Bermuda, 15 January 2002.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 459

diversified set of businesses. The new company would own 53 satellites spanning the globe and generate annual revenues of more than $1.9 billion.91

On 7 July 2006, the $6.4 billion purchase of PanAmSat was completed, 

creating a merged company carrying one-quarter of the world’s commercial 

satellite-delivered television programming. The acquisition left PanAmSat a 

wholly owned subsidiary of Intelsat. The combined company would initially 

lose money. PanAmSat earned $72.7 million in 2005, but Intelsat lost about 

$325 million. Intelsat chief executive David McGlade told the Washington 

Post that, given the level of debt and interest payments, the company did not 

expect to become profitable in the foreseeable future. He said the company’s 

investors had been pleased with Intelsat’s positive cash flow and its heavy 

backlog of orders. The traditional core of Intelsat’s business had been telephony, a difficult market in recent years. The combined company would be 

more diverse with the addition of PanAmSat’s television customers.92

3. Commercial Satellite Communications

Intelsat was an example of what would later be called a nongovernmental organization (NGO) or a treaty organization. With the exception of 

COMSAT, most of the Intelsat Signatories were governmental organizations. 

They were not truly “commercial.” They were—again with the exception of 

COMSAT—monopolistic national telephone companies. They were not 

broadcasters and were amazingly shortsighted about the benefits of television 

via satellite, except as a stunt.

Anik and Open Skies

Neither the Communications Satellite Act of 1962 nor the Interim Intelsat 

Agreements precluded domestic communications satellites (DOMSATs). It 

was assumed—and later made explicit—that DOMSATs should not interfere with Intelsat. In the United States, both Hughes and COMSAT had 

discussed providing domestic satellite communications as early as 1964. On 

21 September 1965—less than six months after the launch of Early Bird—

ABC requested authorization from the FCC to launch a television satellite 

to link television networks with their local affiliates. The FCC returned the 

filing, and six months later, on 2 March 1966—less than a year after the 

launch of Early Bird—the FCC issued a Notice of Inquiry (Docket 16495) 

91. Yuki Noguchi, “Intelsat Agrees to Merger Deal with PanAmSat,” Washington Post (29 

August 2005): A7.

92. “Intelsat Completes Merger with PanAmSat,” 7 July 2006, http://broadcastengineering.

com/beyond_the_headlines/intelsat_mergers_panamsat/?r=1.
460 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

into the matter of “Establishment of Domestic Non-Common Carrier 

Communications Satellite Facilities by Non-Governmental Entities.”93 It 

is hard to understand from a half-century later why the FCC dithered—

but dither it did. Since the “Above 890 [MHz]” decision of 1959, the FCC 

had been trying to inject competition into the telecommunications industry. Congress was of a similar mindset—although their goal seemed to 

emphasize the AT&T monopoly. It was two years from the submission of 

AT&T’s petition for authorization to launch a satellite to the passage of the 

Communications Satellite Act of 1962. It would take more than seven years 

to authorize DOMSATs. The FCC was confused about the law; national 

policy; and the effect on Intelsat, markets, and technology. Like Intelsat and 

COMSAT, the FCC didn’t seem to be sure that there was a viable market 

for DOMSATs. The Ford Foundation responded with a proposal to create 

a Broadcasters Non-Profit Service Corporation (BNS). The BNS would 

provide a total of 44 transponders: six commercial and five noncommercial 

in each of the four continental U.S. time zones. On 20 October 1966, the 

FCC issued a “Supplemental Notice of Inquiry.” The Ford Foundation and 

COMSAT suggested that COMSAT launch a pilot program to see if there 

was a commercial market for the service. The Johnson administration had put 

together a Task Force on Communications Policy, which reported to Johnson 

in December 1968 recommending COMSAT’s pilot program.94 The chairman of the task force was Eugene V. Rostow (hence the Rostow report), and 

the vice chairman was James D. O’Connell. The Nixon administration had 

a different idea. They rejected the Rostow report and favored “open entry”—

that is, any organization with the money to launch a satellite system should 

be allowed to do so. A small working group was put together in 1969 to formulate Nixon administration policy. Among the members of the group was 

Clay T. Whitehead. Whitehead’s boss, Peter Flanigan, sent a memo to Dean 

Burch at the FCC recommending open entry (or “open skies”) on 23 January 

1970. The FCC issued its first report on Docket 16495 a few weeks later. In 

February 1970, Nixon proposed that an Office of Telecommunications Policy 

be formed within the White House and headed by Whitehead. Congress had 

been complaining for some time that the FCC was delaying a decision. The 

FCC was clearly under the gun. Thirteen entities had filed for authorization 

to launch DOMSATs. In March 1972, the FCC released a proposed second 

report and order on DOMSATs, requesting that the filers consolidate their filings. Nobody liked this. The actual second report and order were released on 

93. Much of the discussion of the early days of DOMSATs is from Robert S. Magnant, 

Domestic Satellite: An FCC Giant Step (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1977).

94. President’s Task Force on Communications Policy, Final Report (Washington, DC: U.S. 

GPO, 1969).
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 461

16 June 1972 after a 4-to-3 vote by the commissioners. The dissenters objected 

to the restrictions on AT&T and COMSAT. A final report on DOMSAT was 

issued on 22 December 1972 that modified (but retained) these restrictions.

Meanwhile, Canada had quickly decided to launch a Canadian satellite 

to service the Far North. In 1967, the Chapman report recommended that 

a satellite system be developed. In 1969, Telesat Canada was established. 

On 9 November 1972, Anik A1—a Hughes HS-333—was launched on an 

American Delta launch vehicle. The first six commercial communications satellites would all be Hughes HS-333s launched on Delta rockets.

RCA Global Communications began service to Alaska on Anik. RCA may 

have been first into service, but the telegraph company Western Union was 

the first U.S. company to launch its own satellite.

RCA built its own satellite using the services of RCA Astro-Electronics in 

East Windsor, New Jersey, and RCA Canada in Montreal. The RCA satellites 

had twice the number of transponders and twice the power of the HS-333. 

They were the first operational (as opposed to the experimental ATS-6 and 

Symphonie) three-axis stabilized communications satellites.

AT&T had built its own experimental Telstar satellites but opted to buy 

Hughes satellites for its operational program. More accurately, it leased satellites 

from COMSAT. AT&T was constrained to provide only point-to-point services—that is, it was prohibited from offering television distribution services.

Indonesia was the third nation to launch a commercial geosynchronous 

communications satellite business. The Palapa series, like Anik and Westar, 

was based on the HS-333. Within a few years of the first launch, the tens of 

thousands of Indonesian islands were connected via satellite.

The Television Revolution

The original U.S. filing for a domestic communications satellite had been 

made by ABC with encouragement from Hughes. COMSAT and Intelsat 

had never been much interested in television; some at COMSAT had argued 

that only four television transponders were necessary—one for each network 

(ABC, CBS, NBC, and educational television). Some at RCA (the owners of 

NBC) had argued that at least 20 transponders were needed—one for each of 

the four networks in each of the four time zones plus one for each National 

Football League (NFL) game. While a few had seen the future, the explosion 

in television (especially nonnetwork cable television) was a shock. Within 

a few years, there were a dozen satellites carrying more than 200 transponders. Two-thirds of the traffic was television—a ratio that persists to this day. 

By the 1990s in the United States—earlier in Europe—dedicated direct-tohome broadcast satellites had revenues in the tens of billions of dollars.
462 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The Explosion and Consolidation

The 1970s had seen several new satellite communications entities: Telesat 

Canada, Western Union, RCA, AT&T/COMSAT, Indonesia, and India. 

The 1980s would see an explosion, followed by ruthless consolidation in the 

1990s and 2000s.

Satellite Business Systems

Satellite Business Systems (SBS) was COMSAT’s real attempt to enter into 

the domestic satellite communications business. COMSAT had entered the 

domestic satellite communications field with AT&T in the 1970s. COMSAT 

provided COMSTAR satellites, which AT&T leased. The first COMSTAR 

was launched in 1976. Before the COMSTAR launch, COMSAT had taken 

over an MCI-Lockheed venture and had looked for partners. Eventually, 

COMSAT teamed with IBM (and Aetna) on SBS, the first serious attempt 

to use Ku-band frequencies. COMSTAR was profitable but led nowhere. 

SBS was a disaster. Satellite Television Corporation (STC), COMSAT’s venture into direct-to-home television, was also a disaster. Since the late 1960s 

and early 1970s, when it became obvious that COMSAT would no longer 

be Intelsat Manager—nor would it be the domestic monopoly operator—

COMSAT had been looking for a mission. COMSAT never found that 

mission. Its success in bringing global satellite communications into being 

brought COMSAT no continuing purpose.

The SBS satellites had reasonably good performance, but the market IBM 

had envisioned simply wasn’t there. The first five satellites were HS-376 spinners—probably the most successful design ever launched. This success was 

interesting; the satellites had performance well below comparably priced threeaxis satellites built by Ford Aerospace and RCA Astro-Electronics. COMSAT 

sold its one-third share to IBM and Aetna in 1984. In 1985, SBS was sold 

to MCI, Aetna receiving cash while IBM received MCI stock and SBS-4 

through -6. IBM later sold its Satellite Transponder Leasing Corporation to 

Hughes Communications, Inc. (HCI), in 1989.95

Hughes Communications, Inc.

Hughes had been considering becoming a satellite manufacturer since 1959, 

when Harold Rosen and Donald Williams came up with the design for 

what became Syncom. They had prospered as a satellite manufacturer for 

95. Donald H. Martin, Communications Satellites, 1958–1995 (Los Angeles: Aerospace Press, 

1996), pp. 228–232.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 463

two decades, but they saw opportunities in the marketplace that were not 

being addressed—or were being addressed poorly. Their first satellites were 

HS-376s, like SBS, but with conventional C-band payloads.

HCI acquired Western Union’s Westar satellites in 1988. In 1989, HCI 

acquired the SBS satellites from IBM. HCI merged with PanAmSat in 

1997—after which Hughes owned two-thirds of the PanAmSat stock. In 

2004, after Rupert Murdoch bought Hughes Electronics to control DirecTV, 

he sold PanAmSat to a private equity firm: KKR. In that same year, Intelsat 

also was sold to a private equity firm. In 2006, the two companies merged. 

It is not clear that they will ever be profitable after the private owners raided 

their treasuries and acquired huge debts, but the merged company controls 

almost one-third of all FSS transponders.96

Pan American Satellite Corporation

Pan American Satellite Corporation (PanAmSat) was the brainchild of René 

Anselmo. Anselmo founded PanAmSat in 1982—before “separate systems” 

had been finally approved. His enemy was the COMSAT/Intelsat monopoly. A World War II Marine, a native of Boston—and not a native Spanish 

speaker—Anselmo was able to manage Televisa and create the Spanish 

International Network. In the period immediately after the Challenger disaster and the failures of several other launch vehicles, Anselmo managed to get 

a “deal” on both satellite (ex-American Satellite) and launch vehicles. He had 

difficulty negotiating landing rights but eventually ordered three more satellites. He was ranked #1 in Space News’s 2004 (the 15th anniversary of Space 

News) “Top 100.”

Anselmo emphasized marketing and lobbying. PanAmSat had no in-house 

engineering or operations support for years. When PanAmSat “merged” with 

HCI, the technocratic culture at Hughes was very different from PanAmSat. 

With the Hughes merger in 1997, PanAmSat now owned the satellite assets 

of Western Union, Hughes, and SBS.

Societé Européenne des Satellites

Luxembourg has a long history of providing “pirate” radio and television to its 

European neighbors with “official” government-controlled electronic media. 

Jan Stenbeck was the first financial backer of Clay Whitehead’s Coronet satellite project. This was later taken up by Societé Européenne des Satellites 

(SES) in 1985. The SES Astra television satellites were first based on RCA/

96. Steve Pearlstein, “Sweet Deals Buried Intelsat in Debt,” Washington Post (18 August 

2006): D1, D5. Also Martin, Communications Satellites, pp. 232–237.
464 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

GE designs—in fact, Astra-1B was originally RCA/GE Satcom K-3. Astra’s 

first customer was Rupert Murdoch’s U.K.-based Sky TV. By the end of 1990, 

all of Astra-1A’s transponders were leased.

As the Astra-1 satellites at 19.2E were leased out, it became obvious that 

a second orbital location would be necessary. The Astra-2 satellites were 

launched into 28.2E. The money earned from the Astra direct-to-home television satellites allowed SES to buy GE Americom (ex-RCA Americom) in 

2001 and to buy shares of AsiaSat in 1999 and shares of Sirius in 2000. In 

2006, SES bought New Skies Satellite (NSS), the Intelsat spinoff.

Eutelsat

Eutelsat was brought forth by ESA with the grudging consent of the PTTs. 

In May 1977, Eutelsat was formed (nominally by the PTTs) and in July 

awarded a contract for a satellite. The experimental satellites, OTSs (orbital 

test satellites), were in the process of being launched, and Olympus (also 

known as H-Sat), the DBS experiment, was being considered. The definitive 

Eutelsat agreements were agreed upon in 1982. Formal operations began in 

1985, two years after the first Eutelsat satellite was launched. The European 

Communications Satellites (ECS-1 through -5) were designed by ESA and 

built by the MESH consortium led by Hawker Siddley (British Aerospace).97

Eutelsat I (ECS) was succeeded by the Eutelsat II series. A television directto-home series, Hot Bird, was launched beginning in 1995. Transatlantic 

service was begun with the Atlantic Bird series in 2001. In 2006, Eutelsat 

became the third-largest communications satellite operator after Intelsat/

PanAmSat and SES Global.

4. Military Satellite Communications

From NOTUS and Advent to the Initial Defense Communications

Satellite Program

Roy W. Johnson presented ARPA’s communication satellite program with 

1) SCORE, the Atlas package flown in 1958; 2) Courier, another store-andforward payload, but this time on a real satellite; 3) a polar-orbit real-time 

repeater; and 4) a 24-hour equatorial orbit (that is, geosynchronous) realtime repeater. Although the terminology was not used in the open sessions, 

97. Arturo Russo, “The Third Phase of the Telecommunications Programme: ECS, MARECS, 

and Olympus,” in A History of the European Space Agency, 1958–1987, vol. 2, The Story 

of ESA, 1973–1987, ed. J. Krige, A. Russo, and L. Sebesta (Noordwijk: European Space 

Agency, 2000), pp. 229–282. Additional data from Martin, Communications Satellites, 

pp. 282–290.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 465

ARPA was describing the Notus Program: Steer, Tackle, and Decree. Steer is 

especially interesting because it was a UHF communication satellite for the 

Strategic Air Command (SAC). In the event of war, SAC bombers would 

head out over the North Pole en route to the Soviet Union. Steer, a system 

of polar satellites, would provide decision-makers with the ability to communicate with the bombers. Tackle was an intermediate step to Decree, the 

24-hour orbit satellite. Tackle would be a similar satellite in a more easily 

achievable 10,000-kilometer orbit. The ARPA communications program 

budget for 1959 was $15 million but would rise to $60 million in 1960 and 

$100 million per year thereafter. This did not include spending for Centaur, 

the high-energy upper stage, or Saturn. The problems of the 24-hour orbit 

satellite might require the payload capability of this much larger launch vehicle.98 After canceling Advent in the summer of 1962, DOD had decided 

to develop a smaller, lower-orbit satellite (MACS) for its Initial Defense 

Communications Satellite Program (IDCSP). In April 1963, Lieutenant 

General Alfred Dodd Starbird, Director of the Defense Communications 

Agency (DCA), described the program to Congress, and in May, study proposals were solicited from industry. Two study teams were funded: one led 

by General Electric, the Advent contractor, and another led by Philco, the 

Courier contractor.

DSCS-I to DSCS-III

In October 1964, Philco-Ford Corporation (later Ford Aerospace, today 

Space Systems Loral) was awarded the IDCSP (DSCS I: Defense Satellite 

Communications System I) contract after an attempt by COMSAT to insist 

that it had a monopoly on U.S. satellite communications—including military satellite communications. Eugene Fubini, then Director of Defense 

Research and Engineering (DDRE), had lost all belief in the possible success of geosynchronous-orbit satellites, ensuring that the Initial Defense 

Communications Satellite Program would be a medium-Earth-orbit (MEO) 

system. The launch of the 45-kilogram satellites was eventually assigned to 

Titan. The enormous lift capability of Titan meant that 8 satellites could 

be launched at a time into near-synchronous orbit. IDCSP/DSCS would 

use X-band frequencies (8/7 GHz) rather than the commercial C-band 

98. U.S. Congress, House, 87th Congress, 2nd Session, Committee on Science and 

Astronautics, Hearings, Project Advent—Military Communications Satellite Program

(Washington, DC: GPO, 1962), pp. 90–91.
466 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

(6/4 GHz). The satellite had one 3-watt, 20-MHz transponder providing an 

EIRP of 7 dBW. Design lifetime was 18 months, but most lasted far longer.99

DSCS II, the follow-on to IDCSP (DSCS I) was a vastly more sophisticated 

satellite: more than 10 times the mass and power of IDCSP. DSCS II satellites 

had two narrow-beam and one Earth-coverage antennas with 20-watt (later 

40-watt) 50/125-MHz (Earth-coverage) and 50/185-MHz (narrow-beam) 

transmitters. The antennas were de-spun—EIRP was increased to 28 dBW 

Earth-coverage and 40 dBW through each narrow-beam antenna (43 dBW if 

transmitted through only one narrow-beam antenna). These satellites were a 

scaled-up version of Intelsat III, also built by TRW. They were similar in size 

and DC power to the contemporaneous Intelsat IV satellites. Two satellites 

were launched at a time on a Titan IIIC (T34D for last two).

DSCS III was as much a step up in capability as DSCS II had been. In this 

case, the satellite had beam forming, anti-jam, and nuclear detonation survivability well beyond anything launched heretofore. The satellite had six X-band 

transponders (two 40 watt and four 10 watt) and a 70-watt UHF transponder. 

As with DSCS II, DSCS III was a generation behind commercial satellites in 

its payload and fell further behind with its extremely slow deployment. Early 

launches were two-on-a-T34D, followed by Atlas II and IIA launches. The 

last two satellites were launched on Delta 4M rockets, part of the Air Force’s 

Evolved Expendable Launch Vehicle (EELV) program. DSCS III was the first 

military-communications satellite to be N-S stationkept.

FltSatCom, UFO, and Milstar

If the Defense Satellite Communications System program was to replace the 

Advent satellite in the Tackle strategic communications portion of NOTUS, 

there still had to be a tactical satellite to provide UHF communications in 

the Steer tactical portion of NOTUS. TACSAT had a 30-watt X-band payload and a 230-watt UHF payload. It had almost as much power as DSCS 

III and pioneered a unique spin-stabilization system that was later used on 

the Intelsat IV series. The single TACSAT was launched on 9 February 1969. 

TACSAT and the Lincoln Experimental Satellite (LES) series had demonstrated UHF communications between satellites and mobile tactical users, 

but an operational system was needed—especially after TACSAT failed in 

1972. FltSatCom was to be that operational system, but it would be several years before it was launched. In the meantime, COMSAT provided the 

Marisat satellites—a variant of the dependable Hughes HS-333 with UHF 

and L-band capability. Three of these satellites were launched in 1976—one 

99. Much of the military satellite information is from Martin, Communications Satellites.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 467

has just been retired after almost 30 years of service. FltSatCom was built by 

TRW. The design was reused for the NASA TDRS satellite later. The satellite 

had a large UHF parabolic receive antenna. In addition to UHF transponders, the satellite had some X-band and Ka-band (30/20 GHz) capability. All 

were launched by Atlas-Centaur.

The Navy had initially planned a four-satellite constellation similar 

to DSCS III. This was later doubled using LeaseSat. The UHF follow-on 

program (UFO) was the first military-communications satellite to model 

its satellite (HS-601) and procurement (firm-fixed price) on commercial 

models. At 1,300-kilogram and 3 kilowatts, it was also the biggest militarycommunications satellite when first launched.

Milstar was intended to replace UFO and implement a new Air Force 

Strategic Satellite System. Block 1 were low data rate (LDR) satellites while 

Block 2 were medium data rate satellites. Milstar had extreme robustness and 

survivability, although Block 2 sacrificed some of this robustness for added 

payload. Milstar was extremely expensive. It provided less than 5 percent of 

the communications capacity of a commercial communications satellite for 

about five times the price. This satellite used some of the higher frequency 

Ka-band and V-band spectra.

The Wideband Gapfiller Satellite, Advanced Extremely High Frequency, 

and Transformational Communications Satellite 

DSCS III was an aging program in the 1980s. The Service Life Enhancement 

Program (SLEP) added more capability, but this was still 1960s and 1970s 

technology. The last DSCS III launch was in 2003. Its wideband replacements were Wideband Gapfiller Satellites (WGS), with WGS-1 launching in 

2007, WGS-2 and -3 in 2009, and WGS-4 in 2012. The contract for WGS 

was awarded to Boeing Satellite Systems (BSS, formerly Hughes) in 2001. 

The satellite bus is based on the Boeing 702. The UFO was the first militarycommunications satellite to be firmly based on a commercial satellite bus 

(with the partial exceptions of DSCS II and Marisat). The last launch was in 

1999. The constellation needs to be replaced immediately. Its narrowband 

replacement is the MUOS (Multi-User Objective System). The MUOS contract was awarded in 2004 to Lockheed Martin, and the first launch was in 

2012. The last Milstar was launched in 2003. Although DSCS III has significant protection (anti-jam, nuclear survival), Milstar was the official provider 

of “protected” service. Its replacement, the AEHF (Advanced Extremely High 

Frequency) satellite, was launched in 2010. In 2000 the AEHF satellite contract was awarded to a “national team” led by Lockheed Martin. The satellite 

was based on the Lockheed A2100 satellite bus. The pièce de résistance in the 
468 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

military satellite communications universe was to be TSAT, the transformational communications satellite, but it was canceled in 2009. An Advanced 

Polar System will be part of TSAT. All of these satellites are late. Each has a 

price tag in the billion-dollar range (per satellite). 

DOD Use of Commercial Communications Satellites

The 1990–1991 Gulf War saw a scramble for commercial satellite bandwidth 

in which DOD was pitted against commercial news organizations. Military 

communications satellite capability was not enough! In retrospect, DOD’s 

need for commercial satellite communications during that war was relatively 

small—about 100 megabits per second (Mbps). In the current action in Iraq 

and SWA (Southwest Asia), about 3 gigabits per second (Gbps) of commercial satellite communications is in use—a 30-fold increase. As shown in table 

7.1, this increase came despite the vastly reduced size of the forces involved.

TABLE 7.1. Increasing Demand for SATCOM Since 1990100

Operations 

Desert 

Shield/Storm

Operation 

Noble Anvil

Operation 

Enduring 

Freedom

Operation 

Iraqi 

Freedom

Total SATCOM Used (Mbps) 100 250 750 2,400

Total Force Engaged 500,000 51,000 55,000 235,000

Number of 5,000 Military 

Member Force Increments

100 10.2 11 47

SATCOM Used per 5,000 

Military Members (Mbps)

1 24.5 68.2 51.1

Increasing Demand for SATCOM Since 1990

Congress, after hearing the complaints about DOD’s competing with news 

organizations for bandwidth, directed DOD (in the fiscal year 1992 Defense 

Appropriations Act) to analyze its needs for commercial-satellite communications and discuss these needs with commercial providers. DOD’s response 

was the Commercial Satellite Communications Initiative (CSCI). A result 

of this initiative was DOD’s conclusion that commercial providers of both 

fixed satellite services (FSS, typical C-band and Ku-band) and mobile satellite 

services (MSS, typically L-band and S-band) could satisfy many of DOD’s 

needs. DOD specified that new small terminals should have commercial 

100. Much of the material in this section was obtained from National Research Council, The 

Global Positioning System (Washington, DC: National Academy Press, 1995), pp. 145–

276, and http://www.astronautix.com.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 469

(C- and Ku-band) as well as military (X-band) capabilities. They also implemented the managed transponder contract (MTC), which allowed DOD to 

purchase full transponders for at least a year. The MTC contract was awarded 

to COMSAT in 1995. Not surprisingly, most task orders went to Intelsat—in 

which COMSAT had a stake—although a few went to PanAmSat or other 

providers when Intelsat coverage was inadequate. After a few years, DOD end 

users were complaining that the MTC contract was too constraining. Users 

wanting a few MHz for less than a year were unable to use the MTC. A new 

contract, DSTS-G, allowed users to obtain bandwidth of any amount, anywhere, for any amount of time. To avoid what were perceived as high costs on 

the managed transponder contract, three small businesses received indefinite 

delivery indefinite quantity (IDIQ) contracts in 2001 that allowed them to 

compete for DOD’s commercial satellite communications business. Because 

the three vendors were not tied to a single satellite-communications provider, 

they offered bandwidth from many different providers. The providers competed with each other for the vendors’ business, and the vendors competed 

for DOD’s business. DOD established a set of terms and conditions for the 

DSTS-G program that were incompatible with commercial terms and conditions offered by the bandwidth providers. The DSTS-G contractors signed on 

to these terms and conditions with very limited ability to “pass through” the 

DOD requirements. In addition to providing a host of systems engineering 

services before and after the task order award, the DSTS-G vendors monitored the radio frequency performance of all the links they supplied. After 

many complaints, a June 2006 DOD Spend Analysis showed that DSTS-G 

prices were 25 percent below market. But what of the future? High-definition 

TV and the recovery from the telecom meltdown of 2000 will fill the commercial satellites. It may never be possible again to provide 100 transponders 

for warfighters in a specific place.

5. Government Meteorological Satellites

The military and the intelligence community were the initial sponsors of 

weather satellites. NASA took over part of this remit, and by the mid-1960s 

the Weather Bureau (the Environmental Science Services Administration, 

or ESSA, then the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, 

or NOAA) took responsibility for polar weather satellites. Geostationary 

weather satellites seem to have been championed by NASA and transferred to 

the Weather Bureau almost immediately after their launch in the 1970s. The 

military and the intelligence community retained a separate polar weather 

satellite program into the twenty-first century, but a single National Polar 

Orbit Environmental Satellite System (NPOESS) was in the works, amid 
470 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

much disarray. TIROS Operational System (TOS) was eventually named 

ESSA for its sponsor. The TOS had NASA and DOD design participation 

as well as the inputs of ESSA itself. While the original name implied that the 

program had gone from “experimental/developmental” to “operational,” the 

Weather Bureau had been using TIROS data for some time—and NASA 

never relinquished its design and “support” role. ESSA-1, -2, and -9 were 

launched from Cape Canaveral, and the rest were launched from Vandenberg. 

A significant Delta-V (velocity) advantage is obtained by launching south 

from Vandenberg, rather than launching east from the Cape, which requires 

a “dogleg” maneuver to place the satellite in a polar orbit.

Improved TOS (ITOS)

The Improved TOS (ITOS) was a fairly major departure. Instead of spinstabilization, three-axis stabilization was used. The satellite was torqued using 

Earth’s magnetic field to maintain one face pointed at Earth at all times. New 

sensors were carried beyond the TV cameras used until then. The payload of 

the first two satellites consisted of four TV cameras (automatic picture transmission and wide-angle) similar to those used on the TOS/ESSA satellites. 

NOAA-2 through NOAA-5 had radiometers instead of television cameras. 

Satellites subsequent to ITOS-1 were called NOAA-# if they were successful. Since the advent of TOS, ESSA had become the National Oceanic and 

Atmospheric Administration (NOAA).

TIROS-N

By the late 1970s, the success of both the polar and geosynchronous weather 

satellites was assured. There had been some concern in the 1950s and 1960s 

that “cloud pictures” did not fit into the very sophisticated numerical weather 

models that were being developed to run on advanced computers. A “picture” 

did not provide the vertical “sounding” of temperature, pressure, and winds 

that modern meteorology needed. As early as 1954, the value of satellite pictures for major storm (for example, hurricane) observation was recognized. 

By the time the ITOS series was launched, vertical sounding instruments had 

been placed on polar weather satellites. The TIROS-N satellite provided more 

instruments than had ever been flown before. It was almost a research satellite as well as an operational satellite. From the first launch of TIROS-1 in 

1960, the civilian weather satellites were launched on Delta launch vehicles—

probably the most reliable rocket until the commercial Atlas. The earliest 

satellites were launched into high-inclination orbits (48°)—and eventually 

into Sun-synchronous polar orbits (~100°). Altitude varied somewhat but 

was usually about 900 kilometers. The first two TOS satellites—and the last 
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 471

TOS—were launched from Cape Canaveral, but all the rest were launched 

from Vandenberg Air Force Base. TIROS-N and later polar weather satellites would still be launched from Vandenberg, but they had grown from 

about 100 kilograms to about 1,000 kilograms. Delta lift capacity had also 

been growing, but not as fast. Future launches would be by Atlas. NOAA-15 

through -16 were launched on Titan II, but NOAA-18 saw a return to Delta.

Geosynchronous Weather Observation

In spite of Arthur C. Clarke’s work, NASA first looked at geosynchronous 

orbit (GEO) as a place for weather satellites. A consequence of the stationary 

orbit over the equator was that a GEO weather satellite could take continuous 

pictures of about one-third of Earth’s surface. The polar weather satellites only 

took one picture (two if we include night-time infrared pictures) of a given 

location each day. Verner Suomi joined the National Science Foundation 

(NSF) in 1962 to serve as Associate Program Director for their Atmospheric 

Sciences Division. In 1964, he joined the U.S. Weather Bureau, where he 

served as Chief Scientist for one year. In 1965, Suomi and Robert Parent, a 

professor in electrical engineering, started the Space Science and Engineering 

Center (SSEC) at the University of Wisconsin–Madison with funding from 

NASA and the NSF. While at SSEC, Suomi developed the spin-scan camera. 

Suomi and Parent’s spin-scan camera was launched on ATS-1 in 1966. The 

camera scanned an east-west strip of Earth with each rotation of the spinning 

satellite. By the slight tilting of a mirror in the camera with each rotation, a 

multistrip image of Earth could be created in less than 30 minutes.

Applications Technology Satellites (ATS)

The applications technology satellites had originally been conceived as 

advanced Syncom satellites. The creation of COMSAT following the 

Communications Satellite Act of 1962 led to suggestions that communications satellite R&D by NASA was inappropriate as COMSAT was a private entity. NASA was more than willing to add a meteorological payload, 

and DOD asked that gravity-gradient (GG) stabilization and medium-Earth 

orbit (MEO) experiments also be conducted.

The first five ATS satellites were all built by Hughes. None of the gravitygradient experiments worked. All of the cameras and all the C-band transponders worked. ATS-1 and ATS-3 were complete successes, taking the first 

black-and-white (ATS-1) and first color (ATS-3) pictures of Earth from geosynchronous orbit. The first three ATS launches were on Atlas-Agenas (A-A), 

the second two on Atlas-Centaurs (A-C), and the sixth on a Titan. ATS-1 
472 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

and ATS-3 were deactivated in 1978. ATS-5—a nominal failure—provided 

communications services for many years.

Synchronous Meteorological Satellites (SMS)

The experimental/operational synchronous meteorological satellites (SMS) 

were built by Ford Aerospace. Their lighter weight allowed the use of the 

cheaper, more reliable Delta launch vehicle. All carried a Visible Infrared 

Spin Scan Radiometer (VISSR) built by Hughes Santa Barbara Research 

Center. SMS-1 was placed over the Atlantic, and SMS-2 was placed over the 

Eastern Pacific.

Geostationary Operational Environmental Satellites (GOES)

The geostationary operational environmental satellites—GOES-1 through 

GOES-3—were identical to the SMS-1 and SMS-2 satellites. GOES-4 

through GOES-7 were built by Hughes. The more advanced GOES-8 through 

GOES-12 have an imager much like the advanced TIROS-N polar-orbiting 

satellites. Attitude control is three-axis, and detailed position and pointing 

are obtained using the Very High Resolution Radiometer imager. (In 1998, 

the Advanced Very High Resolution Radiometer imager came online.) As 

with the polar satellites, GOES now combines operational capabilities and 

research capabilities. One satellite is usually positioned over the Atlantic at a 

longitude of 75 degrees west (GOES-East) and another at 135 degrees west 

(GOES-West). Early in the program, satellites were placed over the Indian 

Ocean to provide “global” coverage for the Global Atmospheric Research 

Program (GARP). European, Indian, and Russian satellites now provide 

Indian Ocean coverage while Japan provides coverage of the Western Pacific. 

Any “extra” GOES satellites are stored at a longitude of 105 degrees west—

ready to replace GOES-East or GOES-West.

International Cooperation

Meteorological data have always been shared with other countries. In 1977, 

both Europe and Japan launched geosynchronous-orbit weather satellites. When the GOES-NEXT program was delayed, the Europeans loaned 

NOAA a Meteosat. When the Japanese MTSAT was delayed, NOAA loaned 

the Japan Meteorological Agency (JMA) a GOES. Starting from the prime 

meridian, the European Organisation for the Exploitation of Meteorological 

Satellites (EUMETSAT) covers the Eastern Atlantic from a longitude of 

0 degrees east and the Indian Ocean from a longitude of 62 degrees east. The 

Japan Meteorological Agency covers the Western Pacific from a longitude of 
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 473

140 degrees east (and 155 degrees east). NOAA covers the Eastern Pacific 

from a longitude of 135 degrees west and the Western Atlantic from a longitude of 75 degrees west. The five satellites of these three agencies monitor 

Earth’s weather—except for polar latitudes—continuously. These countries 

also cooperate by sharing polar weather data. Russia also supports this activity.

6. Dual-Use Navigation Satellites

After the poor reliability of the Transit satellites built by the Naval Avionics 

Facility Indianapolis (NAFI), RCA built the rest.

Developing Navstar GPS

It was always clear that Transit had significant limitations. The accuracy was 

good enough for nuclear weapons (<1 kilometer) but not good enough for 

conventional weapons. The fix took some time to obtain—making Transit 

almost useless for moving objects. The Navy continued research—especially 

at the Naval Research Laboratory—on improvements. The Air Force started 

a new program, Project 621B, in 1964. By 1972, DOD wanted just one program: a system that could be used to navigate fast-moving aircraft and even 

to deliver conventional weapons. In 1973, the Navstar Global Positioning 

System (GPS) program was approved. Over the next few years, arguments 

and tradeoffs between the Navy and the Air Force were adjudicated—mostly 

on their merits—and the GPS Block I launches began in 1978. Transit was 

kept in operation until 1996.101

The Satellites

There is very little difference between the various GPS blocks. In all cases, 

the satellites are in 12-hour circular orbits inclined 55 degrees to the equator. 

There are six orbital planes, each containing four satellites. Two L-band frequencies are broadcast (L1: 1,575.42 MHz and L2: 1,227.60 MHz), containing the time (Universal Time Coordinated and a pseudo–random noise code) 

and satellite position. Differences between the satellite time and the vehicle 

time provide range measurements—three range measurements allow a position to be determined to within 10 meters to 100 meters. The civilian (SPS) 

signal has a conditional access (CA) code that degrades accuracy. Military 

users can get position to within a few meters. A contract for eight Block I 

101. Much of the material in this section was obtained from National Research Council, The 

Global Positioning System (Washington, DC: National Academy Press, 1995), pp. 145–

276, and http://www.astronautix.com.
474 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

satellites was awarded to North American (Rockwell) in 1974. A contract 

modification for an additional four Block I satellites was awarded in 1981. 

Navstar-12 was produced as the Block II qualification model. There was only 

1 failure out of 11 launches.

Block II/IIA added nuclear detonation detectors and many improvements. 

The satellite was still manufactured by Rockwell, but the launch vehicle was 

now a Delta 6925 for Block II and a Delta 7925 for Block IIA. There was 

only 1 failure in 33 launches.

After building 44 GPS satellites, Rockwell lost the “replacement” contract 

to General Electric Astro Space (formerly RCA Astro Electronics, currently 

Lockheed Martin Commercial Space Systems). The Block IIR satellites were 

based on the Astro Space series 4000 geosynchronous-communications satellite. The 1989 contract was for 21 satellites. Many improvements in cost, 

lifetime, autonomy, and precision were made on the IIR series.

Block IIF and Block III

In 1997, the Air Force awarded a contract for six GPS satellites and 27 

options to Rockwell (now Boeing). In 2000, the decision was made to rebid 

the contract. A series of studies for a “generation after next” system, Block III, 

was begun in 2000. This was revised in 2003 and again in 2005. Lockheed 

Martin won the Block III competition in 2008, but launch has been delayed 

until at least 2017.

Civil and Commercial GPS

The decision to allow Transit use by commercial ships seems to have been 

made at an early date. By 1961, NASA had assumed responsibility for “commercial” maritime satellite navigation applications. By 1962, aircraft navigation was added to the mix. By 1964, the idea of a “traffic management” 

satellite had been developed. NASA added these tasks to its applications technology satellites program and began thinking about an aeronautical communications satellite. The maritime side of this was given extra urgency when 

the Torrey Canyon ran aground on the Cornish coast in March 1967, spilling 

120,000 tons of oil.102 By 1995, civilian use of GPS exceeded military use. 

Ten years later, GPS was the established navigation system—an “international 

102. Abraham Hyatt, memo to Deputy Administrator and Associate Administrator, “Informal 

Discussions Regarding Navigation Satellites,” 7 September 1961, NHO; Alton B. 

Moody, “Navigation Satellite Progress,” National Electronics Congress, 9 October 1962, 

NHO; “NAV/TRAF SAT program,” Space Daily (21 April 1964): 118; Walter Sullivan, 

“How To Navigate with Satellites,” New York Times (2 April 1967): E7.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 475

utility.” Most other systems were in the process of shutting down. But GPS 

remained a military system: use could be denied during a military emergency. 

The Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) started a program in 1995 called 

the Wide Area Augmentation System (WAAS) that would facilitate the use 

of GPS for instrument landings. This would obviate the need to build the 

Microwave Landing System (MLS) scheduled to replace the old Instrument 

Landing System (ILS). Most MLS systems in the United States have been 

turned off and replaced by GPS.103

Global Orbiting Navigation Satellite System and Galileo

As GPS replaced all previous navigation (and instrument landing) systems, 

many foreign countries became quite concerned that transportation safety 

was dependent on an American military system. In part to assuage these fears, 

and to increase the precision of GPS, selective availability (SA)—a system that 

ensured lower civilian accuracy—was turned off on 1 May 2000. Somewhat 

earlier, the Soviet Union had launched its own navigation system, the Global 

Orbiting Navigation Satellite System (GLONASS), in 1982. The system was 

fully operational in 1995. Unfortunately, the collapse of the Soviet economy 

left Russia unable to maintain the system for several years. A planned replenishment was scheduled for completion by 2011. Both GPS and GLONASS 

are military systems that allow civilian use. The European Galileo system will 

be completely civilian-run by a private consortium. The four Galileo In-Orbit 

Validation Experiment (GIOVE) satellites were to be launched by 2008. The 

30-satellite operational system will be complete by 2019. Galileo will provide 

greater accuracy (about 1 meter) and will work in buildings and under trees. 

Galileo and GPS will be compatible.104

7. Mobile Satellite Communications

Almost from its inception, COMSAT was involved with mobile satellites. The interest came from two sources: the maritime industry and the 

airline industry.

103. David Field, “U.S. To Let Airliners Navigate by Its Satellites,” Washington Times (28 

March 1995): B7; Warren E. Leary, “Civilian Uses Are Proposed for Satellites,” New York 

Times (1 June 1995): A23.

104. Ibid.
476 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

First Is Aerosat

Robert Kester of the FAA’s National Aviation Facilities Experimental Center 

noticed in 1964 that Syncom 2 had Telemetry, Tracking and Command 

(TT&C) frequencies close to aviation frequencies. He persuaded NASA and 

Hughes to modify the TT&C equipment slightly. Kester teamed with Roland 

Boucher at Hughes. Their first experiment involved teletype signals received 

from the satellite. Somewhat later, the Airline Transport Association arranged 

for a Pan American World Airways (Pan Am) flight to carry a modified radio 

and teletype rig across the Pacific. Roland Boucher of Hughes used the VHF 

CMD/TLM channel of Early Bird to communicate with a Pan American 

707 in 1965. ATS-1 and ATS-3 had VHF transponders to experiment with 

satellite-to-aircraft communications; ATS-5 had an L-band transponder.105

The FAA was also interested in aircraft-to-satellite communications. Both 

NASA and the FAA turned to the European Space Research Organisation 

(ESRO, later the ESA) to garner European support for a transatlantic aeronautical satellite service. In 1965, COMSAT proposed a VHF “Aerosat” 

to the FAA. The Hughes HS-303A (Intelsat II) would be the basis for an 

HS-303B with two VHF transponders (later four VHF transponders). 

COMSAT also considered “cross-strapped” C/VHF transponders in a 

1967 proposal to the FAA. The Europeans feared U.S. North Atlantic hegemony and preferred L-band frequencies—as did FAA research (but not Air 

Traffic Control) staff. COMSAT proposed VHF and L-band over the Pacific, 

but this caused concern at NASA with respect to their arrangements with 

ESRO. Both the Europeans and NASA were opposed to the COMSAT proposal. ARINC106 requested that COMSAT return to an all-VHF satellite, 

resulting in a 1968 COMSAT proposal to the FAA for a four-channel VHF 

satellite. In anticipation of Aerosat, all early 747s had a hump behind the 

cockpit with a VHF slot-dipole satellite antenna. In 1968, at the European 

Space Conference (ESC) meeting at Bad Godesberg, there was a discussion 

of air traffic control satellites. The ESC asked the European Space Research 

Organization and ELDO to provide research.107 The International Civil 

105. Lorenza Sebesta, “The Aeronautical Satellite System: An Example of International 

Bargaining,” in History of the European Space Agency, 1958–1987, ed. Krige, Russo, and 

Sebesta, vol. 2, Story of ESA, p. 361.

106. ARINC, as it is known today, was incorporated in 1929 as Aeronautical Radio, 

Incorporated. It was chartered by the Federal Radio Commission (later the Federal 

Communications Commission) to serve as the airline industry’s single licensee and 

coordinator of radio communication.

107. John Krige, Arturo Russo, and Lorenza Sebesta, “The Development of ESA,” in History 

of the European Space Agency, 1958–1987, ed. Krige, Russo, and Sebesta, vol. 2, Story of 

ESA, Aerosat section, pp. 44–46; Sebesta, “Aeronautical Satellite System,” pp. 357–386.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 477

Aviation Organization (ICAO) entered the discussion, forming a panel 

with members from Australia, Canada, France, the Federal Republic of 

Germany, Japan, the United Kingdom, the United States, the International 

Air Transport Association (IATA), the ITU, and the WMO. The IATA and 

United States favored VHF—all others favored L-band.108 In 1969, Herman 

Bondi, the ESRO Director General, approached Thomas Paine, the new 

NASA Administrator, to coordinate efforts. The first meetings were held in 

June 1969 at NASA Headquarters. NETCOS, the NASA/ESRO Air Traffic 

Control System committee, developed an outline of the joint NASA/ESRO 

project.109 A NASA/ESRO mission specifications draft was submitted to 

ICAO. Clay Whitehead’s Office of Telecommunications Policy (OTP) stated 

that the FAA, not NASA, would be responsible for aeronautical satellites. 

The OTP also decided that L-band, not VHF, would be used. While the 

Office of Telecommunications Policy favored a purely commercial solution, 

the Aerosat team would consist of the FAA, the Government of Canada, 

and ESRO—the FAA to be replaced by a commercial entity; ESRO could 

choose a U.S. entity. A complicated bidding system was set up to determine that U.S. entity. The candidates were effectively limited to RCA and 

COMSAT. COMSAT won with a very brief proposal. At about this time, the 

ITU World Administrative Radio Conference for Space Telecommunications 

(Geneva, 1971), or WARC 71, allocated two 7.5 MHz bands at 1.6 GHz for 

maritime satellite service and two 15 MHz bands for aeronautical satellite 

service at 1.6 GHz (L-band). An intergovernmental organization to operate Aerosat was established in August 1974 by United States, the ESA, and 

Canada. Australia and Japan could also participate. The Aerosat Council was 

chaired by David R. Israel, Deputy Associate Administrator of the FAA. In 

December 1974, three teams were ready to bid on Aerosat: COSMOS (GE, 

Aerospatiale, MBB, Marconi, Selenia, Siemens, and SAT), MESH (TRW, 

Matra, Saab, Hawker-Siddeley, Fiat, and ERNO), and STAR (RCA, CSF, 

BAC, Dornier, Fiat, Montedel, Ericcson, and RCA Ltd.). Hughes did not put 

in a bid because of the requirement for extensive international content.110 The 

Aerosat Space Segment Board, on 22 January 1975, announced the schedule for the request for proposal (RFP) (due on 1 March), proposals (due on 

15 June), and award (granted on 15 November). There would be two satellites over the Atlantic separated by 25 degrees. The first launch would be by 

108. Sebesta, “Aeronautical Satellite System,” p. 361.

109. Ibid., p. 363.

110. “Aerosat RFPs To Be Issued in July, Three Bidders Seen,” Defense/Space Daily (6 December 

1974): 192–193.
478 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the end of 1979, the second eight months later.111 An RFP was issued, and 

a winning proposal was submitted by GE in September 1976. Three good 

technical proposals were submitted—GE was cheaper.112 There was no notice 

to proceed, however. The airlines revolted—they had not been consulted. 

By September 1977, the Aerosat Program was over, but the Aerosat Council 

hung on until 1982.

Next Is Marisat

In the 1960s, there were studies by the Inter-Governmental Maritime 

Consultative Organization (IMCO), later the International Maritime 

Organization (IMO), on the use of satellites for maritime communications. 

In 1971, ITU WARC 71 allocated “two 7.5 MHz bands at 1.6 GHZ for 

maritime communications and two at 15 MHz for aeronautical communications. Separate from the commercial maritime need, in 1972 the U.S. Navy 

was looking for a replacement—a “gapfiller”—for Tacsat (and LES-6) until 

the Fleet Satellite Communications System (FltSatCom) could be launched. 

COMSAT, teamed with Hughes, proposed a hybrid UHF/L-band satellite 

with C-band feeder links. The international record carriers (IRCs) complained, resulting in sharing of the venture: RCA 8 percent, WUI 3.41 percent, and ITT 2.3 percent. In February 1973, COMSAT announced a new 

program at a meeting in London. There was to be no European participation. 

In May 1973, COMSAT signed a contract with Hughes for $40 million for 

three satellites. By early 1976, Atlantic & Pacific UHF ground stations were 

ready in Southbury, Connecticut, and Santa Paula, California. In 1978, an 

Indian Ocean ground station was in place: the Yamaguchi station of KDD.113

The Marisat satellites had relatively limited capability, but it was enough 

for the U.S. Navy—and the satellites even obtained some commercial business. By 1978, the Navy was worried that FltSatCom would be operational 

much later and began discussing a Marisat II program.

Inmarsat

At some point, it was decided that INTELSAT could not provide maritime 

communications. At least part of the rationale was that the USSR wanted 

to be part of the maritime communications effort but did not want to join 

INTELSAT. In the 1975–1976 timeframe, IMCO arranged a Convention on 

111. ESA, press release, 23 January 1976; COMSAT General, press release, 23 January 1976.

112. ESA, press release, 10 September 1976.

113. Much of the material on Marisat—and some on Aerosat and Inmarsat—was obtained in 

an interview with Ed Martin of COMSAT.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 479

the International Maritime Satellite Organization–Inmarsat. An Operating 

Agreement on the International Maritime Satellite Organization–Inmarsat 

was developed, and the document was opened for signature in 1976. At a 

meeting in Norway in 1978, the Inmarsat “constitutive” agreements were 

reached. The United States did not sign at this time. Eventually, Congress 

enacted the Maritime Satellite Act of 1978 and chose COMSAT as the 

American “signatory” to the Inmarsat agreements. The Inmarsat agreements 

entered into force on 16 July 1979. There was substantial controversy over 

which satellites to use for the new maritime system: Marisats, Intelsat Vs with 

MCS, or Marecs—an ESA/Eutelsat system based on the ECS satellite.

Part of the Europe–United States political dispute ended with the location of Inmarsat headquarters in London and a bias toward European satellite contracts. When Inmarsat began operations, it leased three Marisats (at 

longitudes of 15 degrees west, 72.5 degrees east, and 176.5 degrees east), 

four Intelsat-Vs with MCS (at longitudes of 18.5 degrees west, 63 degrees 

east, 66 degrees east, and 180 degrees east), and two Marecs (at longitudes 

of 26 degrees west and 177.5 degrees east). The second generation would be 

owned by Inmarsat. The contract was awarded to the MESH consortium led 

by British Aerospace, but with an American (Hughes) payload.

The timing of the third generation was determined by the rapid uptake of 

Inmarsat services—not the Inmarsat II lifetimes. The new satellites had spot 

beams and frequency reuse capability. In a reversal of the second-generation 

satellite contract, the bus was American (the old RCA Astro, then GE, now 

Lockheed Martin).

LEOs and MEOs

In the 1990s, several new satellite constellations in low-Earth orbit (LEO) 

and medium-Earth orbit (MEO) were considered and built. All ended up in 

bankruptcy. Almost all have emerged from bankruptcy and are attempting to 

build a place for themselves in the market. None has yet to show that this is 

possible. All were looking at some form of cell phone–like communications.

8. Military Reconnaissance Satellites

The Air Force, the CIA, and CORONA

The Air Force (aided by its RAND think tank) began the development of 

a reconnaissance satellite on 16 March 1955. The program—initially called 

Advanced Reconnaissance Satellite (ARS), then SENTRY, and finally 

SAMOS—was slow to mature. On 7 February 1958, President Eisenhower 

authorized the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) to proceed with CORONA. 
480 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

From 1959 to 1971, CORONA was the principal U.S. reconnaissance satellite (along with a few ARGON and LANYARD special-purpose satellites). 

SAMOS was eventually canceled. In 1960, a joint program office was formed 

and designated the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO). The NRO 

was staffed by the CIA and the Air Force. The existence of the NRO was 

“revealed” on 18 September 1992. The entire CORONA program was declassified on 24 February 1995. Later programs are still classified, making accurate descriptions difficult.

GAMBIT

The KH-7 and KH-8 GAMBIT satellites provided increased resolution (about 

0.5 meter) over the CORONA satellites (about 3 meters). The CORONA 

satellites had grown in size from 800 kilograms to about 2,000 kilograms 

(two SRVs), but they were all launched by Thor-Agena launch vehicles. The 

KH-7 satellites were launched on Atlas-Agenas. The heavier (3,000-kilogram) 

KH-8 satellites were launched on Titans. About 100 GAMBITs were 

launched between 1963 and 1984, with about a 95 percent success rate. Early 

GAMBITs had lifetimes of days, but over time, their lifetimes grew to weeks.

Manned Orbiting Laboratory 

The Air Force had always wanted to put humans in space. The Manned 

Orbiting Laboratory (MOL) was their great opportunity to do so. Although 

the laboratory had many goals, its primary purpose was the KH-10 (DORIAN) 

reconnaissance system. The vehicle would have weighed about 15,000 kilograms. First authorized in 1962–1963, the laboratory would eventually be 

canceled in 1969 after an expenditure of billions of dollars.

The Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty

Starting in the late 1960s, the United States and the USSR began discussing 

arms limitation. The Soviet Union had established—or was establishing—

rough parity in nuclear weapons and ICBMs. Both sides were developing anti-ballistic missile (ABM) systems. In the process of negotiating the 

Strategic Arms Limitation Talks (SALT I, the ABM treaty), it was agreed that 

“national technical means” would be used to verify compliance and that no 

interference with these means would be allowed. Spy satellites were legal!

Big Bird

It has been argued that the KH-9 was developed as a backup to the Manned 

Orbiting Laboratory. The vehicle weighed over 11,000 kilograms—almost 
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 481

four times the weight of a KH-8 GAMBIT and not much less than the 

MOL—but the laboratory mirror was not used until the KH-11 Kennan 

satellite in 1984. Big Bird carried a television camera as well as film cameras 

and four SRVs. It was launched by Titan 3D rockets. Big Birds increased satellite lifetimes to months. Of 20 KH-9 launches, only 1 failed, the last launch 

in 1986. Declassification was progressing until the fall of 1997. There were 

even plans to place a KH-9 in the then-new Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center, a 

Smithsonian annex, near Dulles Airport. According to Dwayne Day, a military space historian who has written about CORONA and other spy satellites, Big Bird probably “gathers dust in a classified warehouse...only a few 

yards down from the Lost Ark of the Covenant.”114

The Rest of the Spy Satellites

Perhaps the biggest improvement in spy satellites was the all-electronic, 

direct-readout KH-11 Kennan/Crystal and its successor, the KH-12/KH-11B 

Improved Crystal. These satellites finally provided the capability that SENTRY/

SAMOS had hoped for: real-time direct readout, facilitated by communications relay satellites including Satellite Data System (SDS), the Tracking and 

Data Relay Satellite System (TDRSS), and Milstar. About two dozen of these 

satellites have been launched. The Improved Crystal weighs almost 20,000 

kilograms and can only be launched by the Shuttle or Titan 4. Lifetimes are 

now measured in years. The KH-12 carries about 7,000 kilograms of fuel—its 

lifetime is over 10 years. In addition to the visible and infrared capabilities of the 

KH satellites, at least a half-dozen Lacrosse radar satellites have been launched. 

Image intelligence (IMINT) and human (spy) intelligence (HUMINT) have 

been supported by various forms of signal intelligence (SIGINT), including 

satellite SIGINT. These included Navy systems from the 1960s (Grab, Dyno, 

Poppy), ferrets launched with KH-9 satellites, Air Force systems (Canyon, 

Vortex, Mercury), and the CIA’s Aquacade. Many of these satellites are now in 

geosynchronous or Molniya orbits—and are all but invisible.

9. Civil Land Remote Sensing Satellites

The Earth Resources Technology Satellite (ERTS, later Landsat) was seen 

as another task (land remote sensing) NASA should perform. It met with 

a number of objections over the early years—primarily from DOD (which 

was worried about compromising spy satellite technology) and the Office of 

114. Dwayne A. Day, “The Invisible Big Bird: Why There Is No KH-9 Spy Satellite in 

the Smithsonian,” The Space Review (8 November 2004), available at http://www.

thespacereview.com/article/263/1 (accessed 28 August 2014).
482 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Management and Budget (which worried about expenses). Initial support 

came from the Interior (Geological Survey) and Agriculture Departments. 

NASA tried to push applications by funding Interior and Agriculture studies, but it remained the case that no one wanted to pay for Landsat data, 

although they were more than happy to accept free data. The first generation 

(Landsat-1 to -3) was met with little interest, but by the time the second 

generation was launched, NASA had developed a constituency for Landsat. 

Unfortunately, there were still no institutions willing to fund Landsat.115

The 15 years between the launch of Landsat-5 and the next successful 

Landsat launch were frustrating for all concerned. In 1979, President Carter 

had decided to move land remote sensing to NOAA—and eventually to 

private industry. The Reagan administration tried to accelerate the transfer 

to private industry, but there were no takers. COMSAT had volunteered to 

consider taking over the Landsat program if the geosynchronous weather 

satellites were included. In 1983, Congress made it clear that weather satellites would remain under government control. In 1984, the Department of 

Commerce released an RFP for privatization and eventually signed a contract with the Earth Observation Satellite Company (EOSAT), consisting 

of RCA, Hughes, and others, to take over Landsat operations. At about this 

time, the National Research Council published the report Remote Sensing 

of the Earth from Space: A Program in Crisis, and Congress passed the Land 

Remote Commercialization Act of 1984. The act gave NOAA responsibility 

for “licensing” commercial remote sensing satellites.116

10. Commercial Remote Sensing Satellites

The French Système Pour l’Observation de la Terre (SPOT) remote sensing satellite had been launched in 1986 and offered “commercial” services. 

Many countries jumped on the bandwagon, but true commercial programs 

took a while to move forward. Eventually, the Land Remote Sensing Act of 

1992 provided enough incentives for companies to come forward. In 1993, 

DigitalGlobe/WorldView/EarthWatch (Ball) and Space Imaging (Lockheed) 

were issued licenses for their first satellites. Orbimage (Orbital Sciences) followed in 1994. About two dozen satellites have been launched since 1997, 

but commercial markets do not exist to maintain these relatively small and 

115. Pamela E. Mack, Viewing the Earth: The Social Construction of the Landsat Satellite System

(Cambridge: MIT Press, 1990).

116. Space Applications Board, Remote Sensing of the Earth from Space: A Program in Crisis

(Washington, DC: National Academy Press, 1985).
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 483

inexpensive satellites. The largest market is still the intelligence agencies, especially the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency (NGA).

Part III: Impact and Future

1. Evaluating the 20th-Century Societal Impact of Applications Satellites

From the twentieth century, Americans looked back at the fifteenth century 

and saw Columbus’s discovery of the New World as the most important 

event. From the twenty-fifth century, Americans may look back at the twentieth century and see the Moon landings as the most important event. It may 

be more realistic to say that applications satellites had more of an impact than 

human exploration or the amazing discoveries made in planetary science and 

astrophysics. There have been commercial, military, safety, and globalization 

effects that outweigh the lunar landing—at least in the opinion of some.

Commercial

Revenues for commercial satellite applications have been dominated by 

satellite communications.117 Revenues approach $200 billion, primarily in 

services, but also in network and consumer ground equipment. Somewhat 

surprisingly, sales of commercial GPS receivers have made navigation satellites the second most profitable application. Weather and reconnaissance 

satellites could be made profitable, but the perception of these as military or 

safety applications makes this unlikely. Land remote sensing has remained 

a military/intelligence application. None of the “commercial” remote sensing companies can survive without the intelligence agencies—especially the 

National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency—as a customer.

Communications Services

The SIA/Tauri “State of the Satellite Industry Report” covering 2014 breaks 

satellite communications into three areas: consumer services (BSS/DTH), 

fixed services (FSS), and mobile services (MSS). Revenues from all combined 

added up to $122.9 billion in 2014. Consumer services dominated with revenues of $100.9 billion. About $25 billion in ground system revenues should 

also be added. Manufacture of communications satellites generated revenues 

of about $6 billion, as did launch services.

117. Much of the material for this section comes from the Satellite Industry Association (SIA) 

and Futron. See SIA/Futron, “State of the Satellite Industry Report,” June 2006.
484 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Ground Equipment

The SIA/Tauri report states that ground equipment revenues were about 

$58 billion in 2014. About half of this was satellite communications equipment, but the other half was revenue from the sale of GPS receivers. Unlike 

satellite services (BSS, FSS, and MSS), revenues from ground equipment are 

spread across a large number of providers.

Weather Satellites

The commercial value of weather satellites was indicated in the mid-1980s, 

when the Reagan administration was trying to privatize Landsat. COMSAT 

offered to take over Landsat only if it was also given the weather satellites. 

NOAA has provided a compendium of economic statistics in which the costs 

of weather and climate events are summarized along with some estimates of 

the benefits of weather forecasting. Severe weather causes damages well in 

excess of $10 billion every year. Benefits are estimated at over $10 billion per 

year. Benefits to agriculture, construction, and transportation would presumably increase this total.118

Land Remote Sensing Satellites

Various U.S. laws and policy statements eventually created a commercial land 

remote sensing satellite industry—sparked in part by the apparent success 

of the French SPOT satellite. Although revenues are fast approaching the 

billion-dollar range, the “commercial” aspect is minimal.

Satellite Manufacturing

The SIA/Futron figure for satellite manufacturing ($7.8 billion) is dominated 

by the “commercial” sale of satellites to governments, including the sale of 

many nonapplications satellites. The total due to applications satellites is 

probably about $4 billion. Communications satellites represent about half of 

this total. Most of these manufacturers are subsidiaries of larger companies, 

making it harder to separate revenues from applications satellites. Almost all 

of these companies/subsidiaries were near bankruptcy during the telecom/

dot-com meltdown at the turn of the century.

118. NOAA, “Economic Statistics for NOAA,” U.S. Department of Commerce, May 2005, 

pp. 10, 38.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 485

Launch Industry

Launching applications satellites generates billions of dollars in revenues 

every year Like satellite manufacturing, the launch industry took a big hit 

during the telecom/dot-com meltdown at the turn of the century. In the 

United States at the time, all but Shuttle launches were “commercial.” It is 

noteworthy that the Atlas had a reliability record that was stagnant at about 

85 percent when commercial launches became a fact of life. Since then, the 

Atlas has had a 100 percent reliability record.

U.S. Share

The United States dominated the applications satellite field for many years. 

This dominance has eroded over time. The United States still dominates satellite navigation and is the most powerful player in the satellite communications and reconnaissance sectors, but it is no longer dominant over the entire 

applications satellite field. The European Galileo and Russian GLONASS 

may end U.S. dominance of satellite navigation also. While the United States 

pioneered weather satellites, those quickly became internationalized. This was 

why DOD/NRO launched its own weather satellites.

Military Security

I wouldn’t want to be quoted on this, but we’ve spent thirty-five or forty billion 

dollars on the space program. And if nothing else had come out of it except the 

knowledge we’ve obtained from space photography, it would be worth ten times 

what the program has cost. Because tonight we know how many missiles the enemy 

has and, it turned out, our guesses were way off. We were doing things we didn’t 

need to do. We were building things we didn’t need to build. We were harboring 

fears we didn’t need to harbor.

—Lyndon B. Johnson, Nashville, March 1967

Without reconnaissance satellites, the United States probably would have 

deployed 10,000 Minuteman ICBMs—not 1,000. Without reconnaissance 

satellites, the ABM, SALT, START, and other disarmament treaties and agreements would not be possible. The closest the world came to World War III 

was the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962. Current reconnaissance capabilities would have detected the missiles (and warheads) before their presence 

became a crisis. In 1962, strategic reconnaissance using CORONA satellites 

was limited by the amount of film on board. Tactical (real-time) reconnaissance 

was done by aircraft—especially the U-2. The missiles were detected—but 
486 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

too late to avoid a crisis. Since the 1990s, and probably earlier, U.S. military 

might has included a strong space component: reconnaissance, weather, navigation, and communications. What has been added is a space-enhanced ability to wage war. Many munitions are delivered with GPS-guidance systems. 

Unmanned aerial vehicles are commanded and their pictures recovered via a 

communications satellite—typically a commercial communications satellite. 

The United States has waged two wars in the Persian Gulf and another in 

Afghanistan in which space applications were defining.

Civilian Safety

Applications satellites have changed the risks U.S. citizens face. The hurricanes of 1900 and 1938 came from nowhere and killed people on the shoreline who had no idea a major storm was coming. Galveston on 8 September 

1900 had a population of about 36,000; by nightfall, one in six would 

be dead. The 1938 New England hurricane completely wiped out several 

vacation areas and flooded sea-level Providence, Rhode Island, and interior 

Hartford, Connecticut. The Galveston hurricane of 1900 may have been the 

deadliest natural disaster in the United States, but it doesn’t even appear on 

any list of storms sorted by damage cost. In contrast, in September 2005, 

Galveston was evacuated over the single bridge linking it to the mainland 

before Hurricane Rita hit that month. Evacuation was probably easier to 

enforce after the Hurricane Katrina disaster a month earlier. Katrina was 

among the most costly hurricanes to hit the United States, but the death 

toll—in spite of poor evacuation plans—was much lower than it might have 

been. The inflation-adjusted cost of Katrina damage was 100 times the cost 

of the 1900 Galveston hurricane damage, but the death toll was one-third. 

NOAA predicted landfall at New Orleans more than two days in advance. 

The day before landfall, the local NOAA office recommended immediate 

evacuation.119 Weather satellites don’t just provide cloud pictures and warnings of hurricanes. They also detect forest fires, volcanoes, and severe storms; 

and they provide measures of rainfall and winds. Weather satellites allow us 

to see hurricanes developing and plot their tracks; communications satellites 

can relay that information anywhere in the world. Any modern explorer can 

outfit herself with a GPS receiver, a satellite telephone, and a satellite DARS 

radio for much less than $1,000 (mostly for the telephone). This will enable 

her to know her position to within meters, keep in touch with world events 

(including weather), and call for help if necessary.

119. From Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Katrina, http://www2.sunysuffolk.

edu/mandias/38hurricane, and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Rita.
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 487

One World

Submarine telephone and telegraph cables allowed elites to communicate 

as early as 1858, but satellite communications opened up communications links to the middle classes and even to the “poor” of the industrialized 

world. Television via satellite has made global news instantaneous. Marshall 

McLuhan’s Global Village has arrived. Unfortunately, it is a very combative 

and relatively ignorant village with vendettas everywhere, but communication is education as well as propaganda. The benefits of weather satellites 

are global; weather is global. Nowhere is beyond the reach of a determined 

explorer with a GPS receiver. Although satellites didn’t predict the Indian 

Ocean tsunami in December 2004 that devastated parts of Indonesia, 

Thailand, Bangladesh, and other Indian Ocean coastlines, pictures of the devastation were broadcast worldwide in almost real time. Wars are now brought 

into the living rooms of the middle class around the world. Famine and civil 

war in Darfur were topics of conversation everywhere. This “global village” is 

still more a series of tribal villages, but humanity is becoming more and more 

aware of its connectedness.

2. Looking Toward the Future

As the great American Yogi Berra once said: “It’s tough to make predictions—

especially if they involve the future.” He also said: “The future ain’t what it 

used to be.”

Reconnaissance Satellites

The great success of reconnaissance satellites was in allowing the United States 

visibility into the Soviet Union. That visibility allowed the United States to 

reduce expenditures on strategic weapons and eventually to reduce strategic 

weapons. It also allowed the United States to target the Soviet Union more 

effectively. This “tactical” rather than “strategic” use of spy satellites was obvious in both Gulf Wars. The need for real-time, high-resolution tactical information seems to be satisfied by unmanned aerial vehicles. Global Hawk can 

loiter for 24 hours while relaying visible, infrared, and radar imagery over a 

battlefield—or a country. It may be that future reconnaissance satellites will 

emphasize broad coverage rather than high-resolution “tactical” imagery. 

Communications Satellites

It seems likely that satellite communications will grow very little in the immediate future. The C-band and Ku-band sky is full. There is little room for 

more satellites. More compelling, these satellites are only about 60 percent 
488 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

full. The growth of direct-to-home services—from television to Internet services—should continue, but this may just fill existing satellites. Exploitation 

of other bands—especially Ka-band—may be more distant than was expected 

in the 1990s. On the other hand, the transition to high-definition television 

(HDTV) will use three (or more) times the bandwidth of current television 

programs. HDTV alone may use up all the available commercial communications satellite bandwidth.120 During the Second Gulf War, 80 percent of 

military use of satellite communications was provided via commercial satellites. The military has still not figured out how to fulfill future satellite communications needs.

Weather Satellites

Geosynchronous weather satellites have grown from weather monitors to 

scientific instruments for weather prediction and climate change forecasts. 

Capabilities will continue to grow, but it seems unlikely that more satellites 

will be launched—other than replacements. It may be that polar weather 

satellites will only exist as scientific satellites, if at all. Global cooperation 

has been a hallmark of weather satellites. Weather is a global phenomenon. 

It seems highly likely that a global warning system for all hazards will soon 

be available.

Navigation Satellites

GPS and its rivals—GLONASS and Galileo—will continue to serve dual uses. 

This is a real problem. GPS was designed as a weapon. The United States must 

always have the capacity to turn it off. On the other hand, turning GPS off will 

surely result in the loss of lives.

Nonmilitary Land Remote Sensing Satellites

The existing “commercial” systems have one “anchor tenant”—the intelligence community. While there are many uses and “needs” for land remote 

sensing, only the intelligence community is willing to pay. As weather pictures become multispectral and gain higher resolution, the dependence of the 

intelligence community will only increase.

120. “Satellite Services Demand—The Future in High Def,” Futron (9 June 2006).
Societal Impacts of Applications Satellites 489

3. Conclusion: Technology, Society, and Technology Development

The first space application to be “operationalized” was remote sensing, with 

the launch of the first Discoverer on 28 February 1959. One could argue that 

“success” wasn’t achieved until August 1960, but in any case, this was the first 

application where significant funds were expended. These funds came from 

DOD (the Air Force) and the intelligence community (the CIA). NASA was 

not involved, nor were commercial firms involved, except as manufacturers or 

other contractors. In 1972, NASA launched the first ERTS/Landsat satellite, 

but it is not clear that remote sensing has ever been truly “commercialized,” 

although one can argue that by the 21st century it was possible to buy fairly 

high-resolution imaging on the open market.

The second space application to be “operationalized” was navigation, with 

the launch of the first Transit on 17 September 1959. Transit funding came 

from DOD (the Navy), as did funding for GPS/Navstar (the Air Force) later. 

In 1967, Transit use by the civilian maritime industry was allowed. While 

funding for the satellites has come exclusively from DOD, this application 

has definitely been “commercialized,” as evidenced by the billions of dollars 

expended every year for GPS receivers.

The third space application to be “operationalized” was weather, with the 

launch of the first TIROS on 1 April 1960. TIROS was based on the RCA 

proposal for a reconnaissance satellite. Initial funding came from the Army, 

but the project was transferred to NASA. NASA funded TIROS and many of 

its upgrades, although many of these upgrades were initially funded by DOD 

on the Defense Meteorological Satellite Program (DMSP). The Weather 

Bureau (ESSA) eventually began funding the operation of the satellites and, 

somewhat later, satellite procurement. NASA seems to have taken the lead 

on geosynchronous weather satellites—launching the first Synchronous 

Meteorological Satellite (SMS-1) in 1974. “Commercialization” of this application probably started with the launch of TIROS-1, but transfer to the 

Weather Bureau didn’t formally occur until TOS (the TIROS Operational 

System) in 1966.

The fourth space application to be “operationalized” was communications, with the first launch of Telstar on 10 July 1962. Earlier dates (Courier 

and Echo in 1960) and later dates (Syncom 2 in 1963) can be proposed, but 

it is fascinating to observe that the most “commercial” of all space applications was the last to be actually launched. Not surprisingly, it was the first 

to be “commercialized”—in every sense of that word—when Early Bird was 

launched on 6 April 1965. Funding for the earliest communications satellites is complicated. By far, the largest investor was AT&T, but much of that 

investment was for manufacturing capability. NASA was the second largest 
490 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

investor—funding most of Syncom and all of Relay. Hughes was the third 

largest investor and may have gained the greatest profit by building protoSyncom with its own funds. Communications satellites showed the most 

interesting behaviors—possibly because they are so commercial. The failures—Aerosat, SBS, STC, the LEOs, and the MEOs—all seemed to have 

misread the market for their offerings. The international projects (Inmarsat 

and Intelsat) seemed to have generated geopolitical hassles.

It is interesting to note that the earliest space applications are the ones 

developed by or for the Department of Defense (reconnaissance and navigation). It should be no surprise that the most commercial of all the applications 

(communications) shows the greatest commercial funding and the earliest 

“commercialization.” The role of NASA is hard to evaluate. NASA seems to 

have been more of a facilitator than anything else. NASA had no real part 

in reconnaissance and navigation but certainly “facilitated” the development 

of weather satellites. It is also possible to claim that NASA “facilitated” the 

development of communications satellites. If NASA had not been involved, 

AT&T would have gone ahead with its MEO Telstar system. This might have 

made it very difficult for the Hughes “better idea” to make it into a marketplace that was dominated by AT&T.

It would be interesting to examine the effect on NASA priorities of its 

R&D agency status. Any application developed by NASA would have to be 

given away. Perhaps one measure of NASA’s influence would be to examine 

what would have happened without NASA. Reconnaissance, navigation, and 

communications satellites would have been developed by DOD and industry, 

but the weather story is more complicated. The Department of Defense didn’t 

want its weather pictures circulated. DMSP is proof of this. It is not clear that 

the Weather Bureau would have invested the funds that NASA made available. NASA is still supporting the development of weather satellites.

Applications satellites are not as glamorous as Moon landings—or Mars 

landings—but they have made a huge difference in the world we live in: 

financially, culturally, and in the areas of safety and security. They have created the global village. It is a feisty, angry, violent village, but there are fewer 

unknowns and a greater chance for peace and prosperity. 
491

Chapter 8

Impacts of the

Apollo Program on NASA,

the Space Community, and Society

Eligar Sadeh

Introduction

The civil space program in the United States depends on the widespread conviction that our common experience as a state and global community, now and in the future, will be the better for it.1

 One important dimension of this, which is the focus of this chapter, is that society benefits from a 

civil space program. The societal benefits are a result of state-directed mobilization of resources and investments in the exploration and development of 

space. The impacts of civil space programs and projects in the United States 

span from ones specific to technology development and innovation, as well as 

advances in science and knowledge, to others that entail political, managerial, 

economic, and educational ones. This chapter is focused on a critical review 

and evaluation of these impacts in relation to the Apollo program undertaken by NASA. The investigation involves an assessment of the near-term 

impacts of the Apollo era, defined herein as 1961–72, and a consideration of 

long-term consequences.

The argument put forward and discussed is that the societal impacts 

in the near term and societal consequences in the long term are in general 

unintended, but in some cases there are intended impacts and consequences. 

The preponderance of unintended influences is evident in the ways in which 

Apollo shaped the broader contours of societal culture—that is, Apollo 

inspired; it fostered an “imagination capital.” This capital was leveraged for 

political prestige and leadership; for federal and industrial investments in 

research and development (R&D); and as a means to generate interest in 

1. This is a view reflected in space history literature. See, among others, Roger D. Launius, 

“Historical Dimensions of the Space Age,” in Space Politics and Policy: An Evolutionary 

Perspective, ed. Eligar Sadeh (Netherlands: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2002); Walter A. 

McDougall, ...the Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age (Baltimore, 

MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997); and Carl Sagan, Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of 

the Human Future in Space (New York: Random House, 1994).
492 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

education related to the science, technology, engineering, and math (STEM) 

disciplines. Intended impacts and consequences are limited to those within 

the space program itself and to a few specific cases external to the space arena. 

Apollo determined how NASA approached the management and planning 

of space programs and projects, and consequences in these areas were present with the implementation of the U.S. Vision for Space Exploration (also 

known as VSE or Vision). Outside the space arena, there exist impacts and 

consequences in the areas of city planning, in the systems-architecting discipline, and in the economic and educational areas.

This chapter is divided into four sections, each of which investigates 

aspects of Apollo program impacts and consequences. The first part deals 

with what is characterized in this study as the “Apollo Paradigm.” An assessment of the political, technological, and exploration dimensions of this paradigm surveys the links between Apollo and impacts on societal culture. The 

second part examines management and planning impacts and consequences. 

This involves the impacts of systems management approaches dealing with 

the development of these management practices in the U.S. Department of 

Defense (DOD), NASA’s application of these practices with the Apollo program, and the longer-term consequences for the present of NASA’s approach 

to management. In addition to this, several other influences dealing with 

management and planning are evaluated, including the effects of systems 

management practices used with Apollo; systems engineering applications for 

city planning; how the best practices and lessons learned from the Apollo program influenced large-scale systems architecting; and the transfer of systems 

management know-how, applied to Apollo by NASA, to the European space 

program. The third part of the chapter deals with economic impacts. Therein 

a number of impacts and consequences are probed, including economic multiplier and productivity impacts, employment, and technology spinoffs as a 

result of investments made by the government in space-related R&D. In the 

fourth part of the chapter, the educational impacts concerning STEM disciplines are scrutinized.

Apollo Paradigm

The Apollo program was a watershed or turning point in history.2 It was an 

endeavor that demonstrated both the technological and economic prowess of 

2. Although there is not a clear definition of a turning point, most historians, if not all, would 

agree that the “focusing events” that marked the rise of the Space Age, like Sputnik and 

Apollo, do indeed represent historical turning points. See Roger D. Launius, “Overview: 

What Is a Turning Point in History, and What Were They for the Space Age?” in Societal 
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 493

the United States and established technological preeminence for the United 

States over rival states—namely, the former Soviet Union.Attributable to the 

Apollo program is a paradigm that instilled a certain belief system. This belief 

system incorporated an ethos that encompasses politics, technology, and 

exploration. It is in this belief system that Apollo set a new standard by which 

to gauge human achievement—if humans can put a human on the Moon, 

then they can do all else, both technically and socially.3

Political Ethos

As a large-scale national project, Apollo itself represented an important political symbol.4

 As one scholar wrote: “The quintessential large-scale national 

technological project, Apollo, was far removed from political and social controversies of the time, alienated essentially no one, and...was experienced 

vicariously by the public.”5 Apollo served as a unifying symbol in an otherwise fragmented and pluralistic domestic polity. Internationally, the program 

was propelled by “prestige,” an intrinsic element in the international relations 

between states.6 Despite these historical claims, there remains some uncertainty as to how symbolism and prestige affect politics beyond the intangible 

aspects—that is, in a concrete, tangible way.7 Given this uncertainty, why 

then do states pursue large-scale national projects, and more to the point 

here, why did the United States undertake the Apollo program? One answer 

to this lies in a rational assessment of risks and benefits associated with the 

endeavor. The political decision-making process that led to Apollo is characterized by such an assessment.8

 The political benefits related to the Cold War 

Impact of Spaceflight, ed. Steven J. Dick and Roger D. Launius (Washington, DC: NASA 

SP-2007-4801), pp. 19–39.

3. Andrew Chaikin, “The Impact of Apollo” (presented at the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 

Conference, NASA History Division and National Air and Space Museum Department 

of Space History, Washington, DC, 19–21 September 2006); Roger D. Launius, Apollo: 

A Retrospective Analysis, Monographs in Aerospace History, no. 3 (Washington, DC: 

NASA SP-2004-4503, reprinted in July 2004).

4. Gerald M. Steinberg, “Large-Scale National Projects as Political Symbols,” Comparative 

Politics 19, no. 3 (1987): 331.

5. Murray Edelman, The Symbolic Uses of Politics (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1974).

6. Vernon Van Dyke, Pride and Power: The Rationale for the Space Program (Urbana: 

University of Illinois Press, 1964); Hans Morgenthau, Politics Among Nations: The Struggle 

for Power and Peace (New York: Knopf, 1972).

7. Van Dyke, Pride and Power; Amitai Etzioni, Moon Doggle: Domestic and International 

Implications of the Space Race (New York: Doubleday, 1964).

8. John M. Logsdon, The Decision To Go to the Moon: Project Apollo and the National Interest 

(Cambridge, MA: Massachusetts Institute of Technology [MIT] Press, 1970).
494 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

and the United States’ national interests outweighed the transaction costs—

the economic and technical risks associated with Apollo.

A second answer concerns the political influence of technocratic groups 

that govern the implementation of the space program, as well as programs 

such as Apollo; large-scale, state-directed technology development promotes 

the scientific, professional, and bureaucratic groups.9 These groups are rooted 

to the military-industrial complex and are often influential in extracting 

governmental resources for their preferred programs and projects. This is 

evident with congressional appropriations for the Apollo program and the 

justification of those outlays on the basis of benefits to the aforementioned 

groups. Apollo was justified or rationalized in a number of ways that sought 

to benefit these groups: to advance science and technology; to promote scientific and technical education; to support national security needs; to apply 

the knowledge gained in managing Apollo; and to benefit industry through 

technology R&D, innovation, spinoffs, models of efficiency, and stimulation 

of the economy.10

A third answer deals with the particular role of Apollo as a political 

symbol. In this regard, Apollo is associated with impacts on national and 

foreign policies as well as ideological benefits. The prestige factor of Apollo is 

an important impact that played a role in the Cold War. The rise of the Space 

Age transformed the Cold War into a total war where national and international prestige—and the wherewithal of states to force technological progress, 

innovation, and modernization—became essential political goals. For both 

the John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson U.S. presidential administrations, Apollo met vital political needs related to the Cold War confrontation 

with the former Soviet Union. Space technology was drafted into the cause of 

national prestige and was embraced as a political panacea. The international 

image of the United States, as well as its standing in science and technology, advanced considerably after the successful completion of the Apollo 11 

mission; people and states abroad knew that the United States had achieved 

this endeavor.11

Part and parcel of Apollo was the “frontier narrative” attached to the 

program. This narrative—which is associated with historical ideas rooted in 

exploring, conquering, exploiting, and closing the frontier and is exemplified 

in United States history by the westward expansion and ideology of Manifest 

9. Don K. Price, The Scientific Estate (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1965).

10. James L. Kauffman, Selling Outer Space: Kennedy, the Media, and Funding for Project 

Apollo, 1961–1963 (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1994).

11. United States Information Agency (USIA) Office of Research and Assessment, “Effects of 

the Moon Landing on Opinions in Six Countries,” 12 September 1969.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 495

Destiny12—became a way for the public to understand the space program 

while reaffirming U.S. values and institutions during the uncertain years and 

challenges of the Cold War.13 The launching of Sputnik by the Soviet Union 

in 1957 highlighted these challenges, and this event represents a turning 

point or watershed event that led to societal sea change.14

Sputnik presented national and international challenges to the United 

States. Nationally, Sputnik challenged the idea of limited government investments in R&D and questioned the superiority of U.S. institutions and 

values, such as a democratic system of governance, bureaucracy tempered 

by public and political accountability, political freedoms, and open inquiry 

and dissemination of knowledge. Internationally, Sputnik suggested Soviet 

strategic parity with the United States, questioned the military assumptions 

upon which the “free world” was based, and undermined U.S. world prestige 

and leadership. Sputnik signaled that U.S. sociopolitical and socioeconomic 

systems were anachronistic in a Space Age characterized by explosive technological advance.

“Sputnik posed a great challenge,” wrote the scholar Walter McDougall. 

“As a foreign threat with military overtones, it was clearly the government’s 

business. As a blow to U.S. credibility, it seemed to demand a response in kind. 

As a technocratic accomplishment, involving the integration of science and 

engineering under the aegis of the state, it called into question the assumptions 

behind U.S. military, economic, and educational policy—every means by 

which the mobilization of brainpower is achieved.”15 These challenges resulted 

in a number of impacts within the scope of this chapter. First, it fostered 

changes in the role of government regarding R&D and technology utilization. This is entailed in the economic themes related to technology development, innovation, applications, and utilization. Second, it led to the creation 

of NASA in 1958 and played a role that led to the support and implementation of the Apollo program. Apollo became an “implementation model” to be 

emulated. Through adaptation of planning and management methods used by 

DOD in ballistic missile development to the context of Apollo, NASA forged 

systems and project management models that impacted the administration of 

12. There are historians who have critiqued the associations made between Apollo and 

westward expansion and Manifest Destiny. See Patricia N. Limerick, “Imagined Frontiers: 

Westward Expansion and the Future of the Space Program,” in Space Policy Alternatives, 

ed. Radford Byerly (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1992).

13. Kauffman, Selling Outer Space.

14. Launius, “Overview: What Is a Turning Point in History.”

15. McDougall, ...the Heavens and the Earth, p. 139.
496 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

NASA programs other than Apollo. Third, Sputnik ushered in educational 

reforms that addressed issues with STEM education.

Technological Ethos

The U.S. civil space program instilled a societal belief in the power of science 

and technology. This technological ethos is best characterized by the “Space 

Age America” theme advanced by the leadership at NASA, most principally 

NASA Administrator James E. Webb, and supported by U.S. Presidents 

and Congresses of the Apollo era through the Johnson administration. This 

America is one where science and technology are harnessed for peaceful purposes and for solving social issues. It is an America where space promotes education in the sciences and engineering. Space Age America is an America with 

unlimited promise, potential, and hope that humanity can shape a better 

future for society. “Here was limitless space, limitless opportunity, limitless 

challenge...,” wrote McDougall. “The activist state fulfilled the individual 

through education, welfare, incentives, new technology .... Apollo would 

open up new realms for the individual in stimulation of the economy and 

elevation of the human spirit. What was more, the space program...seemed 

a model for society without limits, an ebullient and liberal technocracy...

Space Age America.”16

Space Age America was about how to undertake large-scale endeavors of 

public value through technocratic governmental agencies and large budgetary 

outlays. This model for society is based on the idea of the “Moon-Ghetto” 

metaphor put forward in the Apollo era: if we can go the Moon, then we 

can use the same know-how in organizing human affairs to solve societal 

problems and to advance societal goals. The argument was that the Apollo 

program instilled an ethos in harnessing the power of science and technology 

for solving social problems, for fostering education in STEM disciplines, and 

for advancing economic prosperity. It is these ideas that served as some of the 

philosophical underpinnings of President Johnson’s “Great Society” agenda 

and programs.

One of NASA’s missions was to use science and technology emanating 

from the space program to strengthen the economic and educational interests 

of the United States. The technocracy and bureaucracy needed to undertake 

Apollo was viewed by Webb as needing to fulfill societal ends, like stimulation of the economy, education, and new technology harnessed to solve 

16. Ibid., p. 362.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 497

societal problems.17 Through Apollo, space became linked to the organizational vitality of the state and to modernization, especially in terms of statesponsored and state-directed R&D. Webb contended that Apollo was more a 

management exercise than anything else and that the technological challenge, 

while sophisticated and impressive, was largely within grasp.18 More difficult 

than this was ensuring that those technological skills were properly managed 

and used, and in this use there are applications in new thought processes and 

in information and knowledge that serve as a powerful engine of progress 

relevant to other social goals.

Another impact of the technological ethos are the influences on the level 

of public confidence in the ability of government to perform; the Apollo 

program, through the planning and management skills applied therein with 

successful results, helped to create a culture of competence engendering high 

levels of public confidence in the U.S. federal government.19 Trust in government among the public was more than 70 percent with the start of the Apollo 

program in 1961, and within the 55 percent to 60 percent range during the 

piloted Apollo missions.20

The level of public confidence in NASA as to what the government can do 

competently is sustained as a longer-term consequence. From the flight of the 

first Space Shuttle in 1981 to 1994, between 60 and 80 percent of the public 

approved of the civilian space effort.21 In 1997, one survey of public attitudes 

toward the federal government found that 85 percent viewed the government 

as very successful in working toward the goal of space exploration.22 This 

was the highest favorable rating of all the categories considered, including 

national defense, economic growth, environment, health and safety issues, 

civil rights, education, crime, poverty, moral values, illegal immigration, and 

the reduction of drug abuse. The demonstration of competence surrounding Apollo proved that the United States possessed the skill, technology, and 

17. James E. Webb, Space Age Management: The Large-Scale Approach (New York: McGrawHill Book Company, 1969).

18. Launius, Apollo: A Retrospective Analysis.

19. Howard E. McCurdy and Roger D. Launius, “If We Can Go to the Moon...Political 

Power and Public Confidence,” undated and unpublished manuscript.

20. Statistical data are graphed in McCurdy and Launius, “If We Can Go to the Moon”; also 

see Herbert E. Krugman, “Public Attitudes Toward the Apollo Space Program, 1965–

1975,” Journal of Communication (autumn 1977): 87–93.

21. “Public Support for the United States Space Program: Results from a National Tracking 

Study of Registered Voters,” prepared for Rockwell International, Yankelovich Partners, 

Inc., 1994; “Public Support for the U.S. Space Program,” prepared for Rockwell 

International, Yankelovich Partners, Inc., 1993.

22. Council for Excellence in Government, “Findings from a Research Project About 

Attitudes Toward Government,” 21 March 1997, Washington, DC.
498 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

wealth to complete voyages to space; it is this sense of accomplishment that 

Apollo and NASA symbolized. This helped maintain support for a human 

spaceflight program when Apollo ended, even as national leaders debated 

and questioned the goals of the programs—that is, the Space Shuttle and 

International Space Station (ISS) programs.23

Exploration Ethos

There is the argument put forward by those involved in the civil space program, among them the late Carl Sagan, that tangible impacts and consequences are inadequate to sustain political and popular support for space 

exploration. Rather, an intangible exploration ethos is needed. For Sagan and 

other space historians, the primary justification of space exploration lies in 

the imperatives of human nature.24 Sagan wrote: “We are the kind of species that needs a frontier—for fundamental biological reasons. Every time 

humanity stretches itself and turns a new corner, it receives a jolt of productive vitality that can carry it for centuries. There is a new world next door. 

And, we know how to get there.”25

The exploration ethos of the Apollo era encapsulates this intangible factor. 

One significant impact of this ethos is how Apollo forced the people of the 

world to view planet Earth in a new way.26 One of the Apollo 8 astronauts 

who circumnavigated the Moon, the first humans exposed to images of the 

“Earthrise” over the lunar horizon, said that “we came all this way to explore 

the Moon, and the most important thing is that we discovered the Earth.”27

The “Earthrise” images have had implications that go well beyond the space 

area—a vision of the planet Earth as a holistic natural and social system.28

The “Earthrise” images offer an environmental perspective that played a 

role in spawning the modern environmental movement and Earth system 

23. Howard McCurdy, Space and the American Imagination (Washington, DC: Smithsonian 

Institute Press, 1997).

24. One theme among space historians that is reflected in the literature deals with the “human 

imperative in space exploration.” See Roger D. Launius, “Historical Dimensions of the 

Space Age,” in Space Politics and Policy, ed. Sadeh, pp. 3–25.

25. Sagan, Pale Blue Dot, p. 285.

26. Launius, Apollo: A Retrospective Analysis.

27. “William F. Anders,” International Space Hall of Fame, New Mexico Museum of Space 

History, http://www.nmspacemuseum.org/halloffame/detail.php?id=71 (accessed 25 March 

2012).

28. There is some skepticism among historians regarding the purported influence of the 

“Earthrise” images. This was an issue that was discussed recently at the Societal Impact 

of Spaceflight Conference, NASA History Division and National Air and Space Museum 

Department of Space History, 19–21 September 2006, Washington, DC.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 499

sciences. The environmental movement was galvanized in part by this new 

perception of the planet and the need to protect it and the life that it supports. “Earthrise” as harbinger of Earth observations enabled scientists to 

study Earth’s environmental system in a systemic, holistic fashion. As a social 

system, “Earthrise” provides humanity with a new perspective, with implications for states and international relations. Apollo set into place images that 

reflect the globalization that exists today. Sagan stated that the gift of Apollo 

to humanity, justified by the Cold War and the nuclear arms race, is the stunning transnational vision of “Earthrise” and that global cooperation is the key 

to humanity’s survival.29

Associated as well with “Earthrise” are the social and spiritual impacts on 

the space explorers themselves.30 The Apollo astronauts represent one set of 

these space explorers. One work in this area compiled and assessed the views 

of a number of space explorers, astronauts, and cosmonauts and found that 

their space experiences are represented by an “overview effect.”31 The views of 

the space explorers as they related to the “overview effect” cover the following 

themes: an abiding concern and passion for the well-being of Earth relating to the themes of globalization, transnationalism, and global cooperation; 

a recognized need for a stewardship perspective and a global participatory 

management of the planet that is addressed within environmentalism; and an 

awareness that everything is interconnected, which is the basis for holistic and 

systemic views and thinking.

Related to the exploration ethos, and particularly to the Apollo astronauts, is Apollo as an iconographic symbol. The societal impact of this is 

best exemplified by MTV’s use of an Apollo image. This image suggests that 

the mythology of the astronaut in American culture established a representation of the “best” that the United States has to offer the world. This reflects 

back to the prestige and competence factors discussed earlier in the chapter. 

Historians have further made the point that the Apollo astronauts served as 

surrogates for the society that they represented, impacting the way in which 

humanity views its future. As Roger Launius has said: “The astronauts represented a powerful generational theme, the young, powerful warrior guided 

by an older, prescient, and often mystical leader or leaders who envision a 

wonderful future for the nation. In this context, the astronaut is making safe 

29. Sagan, Pale Blue Dot.

30. Denis Cosgrove, “Contested Global Visions: One-World, Whole-Earth, and the Apollo 

Space Photographs,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 84, no. 2 (1994): 

270–294. Also see Andre Chaikin, A Man on the Moon (London: Viking Penguin, 1994); 

Chaikin discusses the social aspects of “Earthrise” images.

31. Frank White, The Overview Effect: Space Exploration and Human Evolution, 2nd. ed. 

(Reston, VA: American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics [AIAA], 1998).
500 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the way for the civilization to go forward, to progress toward a utopian future 

elsewhere in the cosmos.”32

Longer-Term Consequences of the Apollo Paradigm

The conditions of the political system in the 1960s supported the political, technological, and exploration worldviews of the Apollo paradigm. 

Interestingly, the beginnings of the demise of the paradigm are rooted in 

the management difficulties faced by Webb after 1965, which culminated 

in the 1967 Apollo launch pad fire that killed three Apollo astronauts, followed by Webb’s resignation as NASA’s Administrator in 1968. By the end 

of the 1960s, the paradigm was no longer valid in changed societal circumstances.33 A number of factors precipitated the demise of the Apollo paradigm: the counterculture movement in the United States of the 1960s, the 

development and rise of the environmental movement, the energy crisis of 

the 1970s, the economic malaise in the United States exemplified by high 

inflation in the 1970s, a conservative reaction against big government that 

Space Age America represented, sustained use of satellite systems for Earth 

observations and robotic probes for planetary and cosmological exploration, 

the advent of virtual reality systems, and the privatization and downsizing of 

government activities.

The post-Apollo era was marked by a decline in support for human space 

exploration as measured by appropriated dollars from the federal government. Fulfilling the challenge of placing humans on the Moon and implementing a foreign policy of détente, which ended the space race and relaxed 

Cold War tensions between the United States and the former Soviet Union, 

led to an emphasis on the building of a human spaceflight infrastructure. To 

this end, economics and enabling technologies were critical supporting variables. Human spaceflight was wedded to space utilization and a “mission to 

infrastructure” in low-Earth orbit (LEO). This course of action is exemplified 

by both the United States and Soviet/Russian space programs, and it involved 

programs and projects like the Salyut and Mir space stations, Apollo-Soyuz, 

Skylab, the Space Shuttle, Shuttle-Mir, and the International Space Station.

This implied that Apollo’s exploration belief system gave way to a “postApollo” utilitarian belief in which other social and political concerns dominated space policy in the United States. In short, U.S. space policy became 

32. Roger Launius, “Heroes in a Vacuum: The Apollo Astronaut as Cultural Icon” (43rd 

AIAA Aerospace Sciences Meeting, AIAA 2005-702, Reno, NV, 10–13 January 2005).

33. Eligar Sadeh, “Human Mission from Earth: Finding Rationales for Exploration of the 

Moon and Mars,” Space Policy 17, no. 3 (2001): 205–212.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 501

ancillary policy.34 At the time, science and technology became increasingly 

viewed as “autonomous” forces that could be not be controlled or guided 

to the benefit of society as thought by the advocates of Space Age America. 

This was compounded by the fact that the application of technology did not 

necessarily solve social ills, was very often found to be destructive to the environment, and was used for military purposes, such as the war in Vietnam.

From a utilitarian outlook, space offered a platform for dealing with earthly 

priorities. Rather than advance prestige and leadership through human space 

exploration achievements, the United States sought to lead in practical scientific and technological capabilities with tangible economic returns. Even 

though the rhetoric and metaphors in support of “Apollo-like” political and 

exploration beliefs resurfaced during the 1980s, concrete political support 

in terms of funding was absent. Concomitantly, the theme of space utilization was advanced—at the expense of exploration—through government 

support for the commercialization of space activities. As a result, presidential and congressional politics were incongruous with sustaining the human 

space exploration efforts begun with Apollo. NASA also encountered organizational changes in its cultural makeup that led to planning problems and 

errors of judgment as exemplified by the decision to launch the Space Shuttle 

Challenger in January 1986. By way of illustration, NASA went from an 

R&D culture during Apollo to an operational one afterward; from a frontier 

mentality and the propensity to assume risk to a utilitarian (that is, applications and operations) outlook and the propensity to avoid risk; and from an 

engineering culture to a more bureaucratic, managerial one.35

Since the end of the Apollo era, a fundamental concern of the space 

community is the search for justifications that entail impacts or benefits 

to support human space exploration missions. This spawned a number of 

studies and reports in the United States. NASA’s post-Apollo plans called 

for resources to implement the development of a space shuttle, an orbital 

space station, a nuclear space tug, a human-tended lunar base, and human 

34. Ancillary policy is a policy of continuation and incrementalism. This is the norm for 

public policy-making in the United States Congress. Ancillary policy does not solve 

an identified national problem and is more apt to represent a continuing government 

commitment, even though the bureaucracy it maintains may have been set up for that 

purpose long ago. Ancillary policy has low agenda status; it receives only limited public 

attention, public funds, and efforts of public officials. See Roger D. Launius and Howard 

E. McCurdy, eds., Spaceflight and the Myth of Presidential Leadership (Chicago: University 

of Illinois Press, 1997).

35. Howard E. McCurdy, Inside NASA: High Technology and Organizational Change in the 

U.S. Space Program (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993).
502 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

expeditions to Mars.36 In the 1980s and 1990s, a series of reports and initiatives for human space exploration missions were proposed.37 These reports 

justified future space program scenarios on the basis of national benefits, such 

as prestige, leadership, technological development and innovation, and economic growth.

For example, the Space Exploration Initiative proposed by President 

George H. W. Bush in 1989 was justified with a number of factors that 

encompassed increasing national prestige, advancing science education, 

developing technologies, commercializing space, and strengthening the economy.38 The Ride Report (1987) provided a systematic analysis of the civilian 

space program to show how the United States had lost its leadership position 

in space relative to the Soviet Union, principally as it related to maintaining a 

permanent human presence in LEO.39 On this basis, Sally Ride developed a 

space strategic development plan for the twenty-first century based on restoring American leadership status. This requires that the United States possess 

capabilities that enable it to act independently and impressively in the space 

environment when and where it chooses.

NASA’s strategic-planning process focused on developing its enterprises to 

meet the goals of various governmental and domestic public constituencies 

with the benefactors being policy-makers, science communities, aeronautics 

and aerospace industries, other governmental agencies, the public sector, and 

academic communities within the United States.40 A number of different 

36. Space Task Group, NASA, “The Post-Apollo Space Program: Directions for the Future,” 

September 1969.

37. Pioneering the Space Frontier, report of the National Commission on Space (New 

York: Bantam Books, 1986); Sally K. Ride, Leadership and America’s Future in Space, 

report to the NASA Administrator (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 

August 1987); “Report of the 90-Day Study on Human Exploration of the Moon and 

Mars,” NASA report prepared for the NASA Administrator (Washington, DC: NASA, 

November 1989); Norm R. Augustine, Report of the Advisory Committee on the Future of 

the U.S. Space Program (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1990); Thomas 

P. Stafford, America at the Threshold: America’s Space Exploration Initiative (Washington, 

DC: Government Printing Office, 1991).

38. Stafford, America at the Threshold.

39. Ride, Leadership and America’s Future in Space.

40. NASA Administrator Daniel S. Goldin put into place a strategic-planning process at 

NASA during his tenure as Administrator from 1992 to 2001 as mandated by the United 

States Congress—that is, the Congressional Government Performance and Results Act. 

The common planning process led to a realignment of NASA programs and projects to 

fit the goals and objectives of that plan. See Charles Pellerin, former NASA Associate 

Administrator for Strategic Planning, NASA, interview by author on 27 November 

1995; and Alan M. Ladwig and Gary A. Steinberg, “Strategic Planning and Strategic 

Management Within NASA,” unpublished report, 1996.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 503

strategic plans were formulated beginning in 1994.41 For example, the strategic plan from 2006, put into place a “one NASA Vision” that emphasized 

R&D and an exploration ethos reminiscent of the Apollo era. The 2006 plan 

was tailored to specify how NASA would implement the goals of the Vision. 

In the area of human spaceflight, this entails near-term goals of the Space 

Shuttle’s return to flight and the completion of the ISS, as well as longer-term 

goals of a lunar return program to enable lunar base development and human 

missions to Mars. Of note in relation to the Apollo-impacts theme of this 

chapter is that the strategic-planning process is indicative of centralized control on the planning and development of NASA programs and projects, akin 

to systems management practices used by NASA with Apollo.42

On the one hand, there are negative impacts surrounding the demise of 

the Apollo paradigm in that the premises of the political, technological, and 

exploration views were not sustained. Yet the paradigm sustained an impact 

on the civil space program in the United States. The ideas rooted in the 

paradigm led to consequences in how the space program is rationalized and 

justified, very often on the basis of societal impacts as the aforementioned 

examples suggest, and on the planning and management approaches and 

practices applied by NASA.

Management and Planning Impacts and Consequences

The historical claim concerning the management and planning impacts and 

consequences of Apollo is that one of the most valuable influences of the 

Apollo program was human rather than technological. This implies better 

knowledge on how to plan, manage, and implement great social undertakings 

that involve the development and application of large-scale technological systems.43 It is this claim that served as the basis for the Space Age America theme 

and the technological ethos of the Apollo paradigm. This part of the chapter 

first explores how NASA adapted management and planning practices used 

by DOD and then assesses how NASA’s use of these practices affected the 

civil space program in the United States.

41. NASA, The New Age of Exploration: NASA’s Direction for 2005 and Beyond (Washington, 

DC: NASA, February 2005), available at http://www.nasa.gov/pdf/107490main_FY06_

Direction.pdf (accessed 25 March 2012); NASA, 2006 NASA Strategic Plan (Washington, 

DC: NASA, 2006), available at http://www.nasa.gov/pdf/142302main_2006_NASA_

Strategic_Plan.pdf (accessed 25 March 2012).

42. Eligar Sadeh, “Management Dynamics of NASA’s Human Spaceflight Programs,” Space 

Policy 22, no. 4 (2006): 235–248.

43. Dael Wolfle, “The Administration of NASA,” Science (15 November 1968): 753.
504 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

U.S. Department of Defense as a Model

The U.S. space program created an unprecedented demand for managers 

with both technical and administrative competence in industry and government. In meeting this demand, an enhanced understanding of the application of management to the technology development process was realized. This 

impact entails matrix-type communications; an environment of managing 

with high levels of reliability, performance, and accountability; the involvement of top managers in the technology development process; systems management approaches; and new uses of contracting methods—for example, 

incentive contracting and total package procurement. It is acknowledged and 

documented in the literature that many of the management models used for 

civil space were developed by the U.S. military, particularly in the development of ballistic missile programs and space launch vehicles. Of note is that 

systems management methods were incorporated into NASA from DOD.

Innovation on NASA’s part is evident in how management at NASA 

incorporated DOD “best practices” into a civilian program. NASA was able 

to integrate effective management controls in the Apollo program. Phased 

planning and configuration management techniques, used successfully by the 

U.S. military for ballistic missile development, were integrated into the management of Apollo. DOD’s development and application of phased planning 

for the Titan III program—which entailed defining the project’s objectives, 

costs, and schedules in a preliminary design phase—became a DOD standard 

by the mid-1960s, one that NASA adopted in 1967.44 By 1961, the U.S. 

Air Force (USAF) Ballistic Missile Division developed configuration management, which was also independently created by the Jet Propulsion Laboratory 

(JPL).45 Configuration management, further explained in the later section on 

“Apollo Management as a Model for the Vision,” is a managerial technique 

to control design and technical changes and to link that to cost predictions 

and controls. The technique emerged as a primary contractor control process, enhanced the reliability of systems, and emerged as a standard process 

throughout the aerospace industry.46 Systems management approaches were 

the “secrets of success” in enabling NASA to meet its lunar goal of placing 

44. Stephen B. Johnson, “From Concurrency to Phased Planning: An Episode in the History 

of Systems Management,” in Systems, Experts, and Computers: The Systems Approach in 

Management and Engineering, World War II and After, ed. Thomas P. Hughes and Agatha 

C. Hughes (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2000), pp. 93–112.

45. Stephen B. Johnson, “Space Business,” in Space Politics and Policy, ed. Sadeh, pp. 241–280.

46. Stephen B. Johnson, The United States Air Force and the Culture of Innovation, 1945–1965 

(Washington, DC: United States Air Force, 2001).
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 505

humans on the Moon and returning them to Earth safely during the decade 

of the 1960s and early 1970s.47

The Program Evaluation and Review Technique (PERT) represented 

another case of NASA incorporating a DOD system management model. 

PERT is a model for project management that was invented by the U.S. 

Navy Special Projects Office in 1958 as part of the Polaris mobile submarinelaunched ballistic missile project, which was developed as a direct response to 

the international challenges posed by Sputnik.48 PERT is a method for analyzing the tasks involved in completing a given project, principally the time 

needed to complete each task and to complete the total project. The method 

was applied to simplify the planning and scheduling of large-scale, complex 

technical projects. NASA incorporated PERT and applied it as a system management practice in dealing with the development of the Saturn space launch 

vehicle.49 During the early phases of the Saturn program, NASA’s Marshall 

Space Flight Center management regarded PERT as a very successful effort 

and as the best source of information available on the status of hardware programs. Notwithstanding this, the PERT network was phased out due to cost 

considerations by the first Saturn launch in 1967.

This suggests that the overall impacts of PERT are open to question. In 

many cases, PERT was introduced too late to make much of an impact on 

funding and schedules. The value of PERT was seen more as a preliminary 

planning tool and coincidental to managing the ongoing complexity within 

the Apollo program.50 As more complexity emerged within the systems used 

for Apollo, PERT was difficult and costly to use; lagged in real-time usefulness; and was subject to manipulation to avoid exposure of cost, schedule, 

and technical problems.

47. Stephen B. Johnson, The Secret of Apollo: Systems Management in the American and 

European Space Programs (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002).

48. “PERT did not build the Polaris, but it was extremely useful for those who did build the 

weapon system to have many people believe that it did...the program’s innovativeness in 

management methods was...as effective technically as rain dancing...it mattered not that 

management innovations contributed little directly to the technical effort; it was enough 

that those outside the program were willing to believe that management innovation had 

a vital role in the technical achievements of the Polaris.” See Harvey Sapolsky, The Polaris 

Systems Development (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1972), p. 125.

49. Johnson, Secret of Apollo.

50. “The only way you ever got PERT really implemented was to go around and ask the guy 

who was supposed to be doing it where he stood on his PERT program, and you could 

usually find that he had his own program in his desk drawer. PERT was the thing he was 

talking to you about, but whether it actually meshed with what was going on...was in 

some instances coincidental.” George Mueller, interview by Martin Collins, National Air 

and Space Museum, 2 May 1988.
506 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Apollo Management as a Model for the Vision

NASA leaders acquired and organized unprecedented resources to accomplish the tasks of Apollo. In many ways, Apollo was just as great a management feat as a technical one. The management models and methods 

developed and used met the enormously difficult engineering, technological, 

and organizational integration requirements of the Apollo program.51 Public 

management of Apollo provided better knowledge on how to plan, manage, 

and implement great social undertakings that involve the development and 

application of large-scale technological systems. NASA employed program 

management concepts that centralized authority and emphasized systems 

engineering. Systems management approaches were critical to Apollo’s success. Understanding the management of complex, technical projects for the 

successful completion of a heterogeneous task was a critical outgrowth of the 

Apollo effort.52

A comprehensive assessment of Apollo program management identified 

a number of dynamic and evolutionary management structures and process 

within an environment of program controls.53 This encompasses the development of cohesive and flexible patterns of management in NASA and industry; 

management visibility based on detailed monitoring and auditing systems 

that allowed for the flow of information both vertically and horizontally; the 

successful correlation and definition of multiple program interfaces in both 

NASA and industry; the establishment of real-time, flexible management 

reporting systems that balanced freedom of innovation with control discipline for the accomplishment of program objectives; and the development of 

a balance between NASA’s in-house and industrial capabilities.

One important theme that emerges is that program management of Apollo 

combined centralized planning and a hierarchical organization with decentralized and flexible technology development processes. Centralized bureaucratic 

processes overlaid technical accountability systems characterized by project 

51. Webb, Space Age Management; Arnold Levine, Managing NASA in the Apollo Era

(Washington, DC: NASA SP-4102, 1982); W. Henry Lambright, Powering Apollo: James 

E. Webb of NASA (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995); Sylvia K. 

Kraemer, “Organizing for Exploration,” in Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents 

in the History of the U.S. Civil Space Program, ed. John Logsdon, vol. 1, Organizing for 

Exploration (Washington, DC: NASA SP-4407, 1995); Robert C. Seamans, Jr., Project 

Apollo: The Tough Decisions, Monographs in Aerospace History, no. 37 (Washington, DC: 

NASA SP-2005-4537, 2005).

52. Launius, Apollo: A Retrospective Analysis.

53. Apollo Program Management, Staff Study for the Subcommittee on NASA Oversight, 

Committee on Science and Astronautics, United States House of Representatives, 91st 

Cong. (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1969).
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 507

management and systems engineering methods. This allowed for organizational accountability. NASA integrated the relatively autonomous technical 

cultures within its Centers through a centralized management structure that 

applied the formal controls of systems and configuration management.

A specific way that control was put into place was by imposing an organizational structure on the technical work teams. In relation to the technical engineering teams working on Apollo, engineers initially coordinated 

changes among themselves in committees. With the integration of systems 

management into NASA, managers inserted themselves into the engineering teams to understand what was happening and soon required the engineers to give cost and schedule estimates for design and hardware changes.54

An important method to control the development of technology, in light 

of the rapid technological innovation and change, was that of configuration 

management. This method provided an essential link between engineering 

coordination and centralized organizational control. Even though program 

controls used for Apollo permitted NASA to have centralized management 

at Headquarters, the information received there was then distributed to the 

NASA Centers; managers at Headquarters availed themselves of the technical 

competence and knowledge at the Centers, and the project mangers at the 

Centers were kept current on Headquarters activities.55

Organizational management practices during Apollo represented a continuing process of adjustment and adaptation to the dynamics of change 

internal and external to NASA. Flexible management processes were essential to success.56 NASA’s organizational scheme was one of simultaneous centralization and decentralization, a “desired disequilibrium.”57 Organizational 

flexibility was an essential part NASA’s managerial ethos. Webb realized that 

NASA could not be governed solely by classical principles of “scientific management” that sought to institutionalize stability and order with centralized 

and hierarchical organizational structures. In order to manage large-scale 

technological systems and allow for technological innovation, Webb recognized that organizations needed to retain flexible, decentralized management 

patterns and processes; Webb balanced scientific management based on control with a decentralized technical culture at NASA.

54. Johnson, Secret of Apollo.

55. Seamans, Project Apollo: The Tough Decisions.

56. Erasmus H. Kloman, “NASA Organization and Management from 1961 to 1965: The 

Vision and the Reality,” in Issues in NASA Program and Project Management, ed. Francis 

T. Hoban (Washington, DC: NASA SP-6101-02, 1989); Phillip K. Tompkins, Apollo, 

Challenger, Columbia: The Decline of the Space Program, A Study in Organizational 

Communication (Los Angeles: Roxbury Publishing Company, 2005).

57. Webb, Space Age Management.
508 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Simultaneous centralization and decentralization were advanced by the 

“triad” decision-making structure that Webb had established. Webb shared 

top-level decision-making at NASA with two Associate Administrators, Hugh 

L. Dryden and Robert C. Seamans, Jr.58 Webb met the pressures of political 

accountability being responsive to the concerns of the President and Congress; 

Dryden ensured technical authority; and Seamans functioned as a bureaucratic manager through the application of systems management approaches 

at the Agency. The triad successfully navigated among political pressures of 

accountability and the drive for technical excellence in terms of high performance and high reliability.

The consequences of the Apollo management model concern the direct 

application of the systems management approaches to the Space Shuttle and 

ISS programs. This application, however, was a negative one. With the end 

of Apollo, systems approaches were less effective. This is due to the fact that 

Apollo was characterized by a “closed systems program” in the sense that the 

program was largely shielded from external changes.59 Many of the management problems attributable to the Space Shuttle and the ISS are a result of 

how these programs are continuously managed with political accountability 

in mind and within an environment of political change. The operational view 

of these technological systems further constrained the direct utility of systems 

approaches used with Apollo. The systems approaches used for Apollo were 

optimal for the experimental and developmental nature of the technology for 

that program. These systems approaches were not readily adaptable to management processes with the Space Shuttle and the ISS that often emphasized 

operational and economic cost-control imperatives. To add to these issues, 

NASA management departed from the Apollo organizational model in the 

abandonment of strong Headquarters control and in a weakened emphasis 

on systems engineering. NASA Centers gained more power, even shunting 

Headquarters aside in many respects, and NASA emerged more as a bureaucratic agency with a diminished capacity for technical competence and engineering excellence.60

58. Dr. Hugh L. Dryden was Director of the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics 

from 1947 until the creation of NASA. He was named Deputy Administrator of NASA in 

1958 and served in that capacity until his death in 1965. In 1960, Robert C. Seamans, Jr. 

joined NASA as an Associate Administrator. In 1965, after the death of Dryden, Seamans 

became Deputy Administrator. During his years at NASA, he worked closely with the 

U.S. Department of Defense in research and engineering programs. Seamans advised 

NASA on the developments in the military space program that were of relevance for 

public management at the Agency, such as systems management and systems engineering.

59. P. W. G. Morris, “Science, Objective Knowledge, and the Theory of Project Management,” 

Proceedings of the ICE—Civil Engineering 150, no. 2 (1 May 2002): 82–90.

60. McCurdy, Inside NASA.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 509

Longer-term consequences of the Apollo-era management models are 

evident in how NASA implemented the VSE. With this Vision, NASA’s 

Administrator used the phrase that the exploration systems architecture61

directed at the development of lunar transportation systems: that is, “Apollo 

on steroids.”62 The idea is that NASA is looking at Apollo as a technical model 

on how to get back to the Moon. There is a similar analogy in the management area. In making this analogy, the management idea of “desired disequilibrium” that NASA Administrator Webb put forward to describe a need for 

healthy tension between centralized aspects of management (such as control 

over cost and schedule) and decentralized aspects of management (such as 

ensuring that authority over technical competence and engineering is at the 

NASA Centers) is what NASA is copying.

Griffin stated in 2006: “Webb once characterized his role during the 

Apollo program in the following way: ‘The process of management became 

that of fusing at many levels a large number of forces, some countervailing, 

into a cohesive, but essentially unstable whole, and keeping it in the desired 

direction.’ This is it, exactly, and that perspective serves me well today.”63 Rex 

Geveden, Associate Administrator at the time, added: “In fact, we are looking 

for an appropriate level of tension, an appropriate level of constructive disagreement, or that desired disequilibrium that Webb referred to, that unfortunately after Apollo was subordinated to program management authority. 

We want to go to a meeting and to have the engineering director upset with 

the project manager for not following one of his recommendations. We have 

not had enough healthy tension in the Agency. That tension should exist all 

the way to the top of the management chain.”64

The establishment of the Associate Administrator position at NASA, along 

with the Deputy Administrator position, put into place a leadership at NASA 

61. Exploration Systems Architecture Study, Final Report (Washington, DC: NASA TM-2005-

21406, November 2005), available online at http://www.nasa.gov/pdf/140649main_

ESAS_full.pdf (accessed 25 March 2012).

62. NASA Administrator Michael Griffin described the new spacecraft intended to fulfill 

U.S. President George W. Bush’s national vision for a piloted return to the Moon as 

“Apollo on steroids.” “NASA Administrator Griffin and Congress: NASA’s Exploration 

Architecture,” American Institute of Physics Bulletin of Science Policy News no. 138 (22 

September 2005), available online at http://www.aip.org/fyi/2005/138.html (accessed 25 

March 2012).

63. Michael D. Griffin, “Remarks at the Mars Society Convention” (Washington, DC, 

3 August 2006), available online at http://www.spaceref.com/news/viewsr.html?pid=21597

(accessed 25 March 2012).

64. Eligar Sadeh, “Public Management Dynamics of NASA: Interview with NASA Associate 

Administrator Rex Geveden,” Astropolitics: International Journal of Space Politics and 

Policy 4, no. 1 (2006): 109.
510 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

that was based on the triad model that Webb had used during the Apollo 

era. NASA determined that Webb’s management model was NASA’s most 

successful one and decided to emulate that model. In this emulation, it is the 

same basic type of model in terms of a balance of power between political, 

institutional or organizational, and technical aspects of management. There 

are three organizational changes at NASA today that reflect this balance of 

power. These changes represent the means by which NASA is integrating 

systems management controls that were applied with the Apollo program. 

The key changes include the separation of institutional and programmatic 

managerial authority, independent technical authority, and integrated financial management—NASA’s Integrated Enterprise Management Program.65

Related to these changes are the issues of culture and organizational change at 

NASA and the impacts of Apollo in this regard.

Culture frames the context for public management in terms of norms 

of behavior—how organizations do things and task-related behavior. The 

primary cultures of relevance to NASA are competency and control. The 

competency culture is decentralized and is characterized by a number of 

traits: decentralized and informal, redundant patterns of communication 

and authority based on independent engineering and automatic responsibility for critical review and oversight of technical issues; an exploration ethos 

and emphasis on R&D directed at technical excellence; risk-taking aimed 

at avoiding the error of launching an unreliable spacecraft; and “culture of 

the engineer” and associated values relating to in-house technical capabilities for systems integration as well as contractor oversight and monitoring.66

Competency is practiced through an emphasis on technical accountability, 

project- and team-based management approaches, and systems engineering. 

The “original technical culture” that NASA inherited from its predecessor 

organizations, the NASA Centers today, is one of competency.

These organizations and their associated cultures are composed of the U.S. 

National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics and that organization’s experience with engineering by technical committee and peer-review processes; the 

U.S. Army Ballistic Missile Agency and in-house technical development; the 

U.S. Navy’s Research and Ordinance Labs, with a focus on in-house engineering and R&D; and project management methods developed by the U.S. 

65. An extensive review of these organizational changes is assessed in Sadeh, “Management 

Dynamics of NASA’s Human Spaceflight Programs,” and in Sadeh, “Public Management 

Dynamics of NASA.”

66. Gary D. Brewer, “Perfect Places: NASA as an Idealized Institution,” in Space Policy 

Reconsidered, ed. Radford Byerly (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1989); McCurdy, Inside 

NASA; and Tompkins, Apollo, Challenger, Columbia.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 511

Army for missile and rocket development. During the Apollo era, 80 percent 

of NASA’s technical workforce had corporate memory of these organizations, 

and the original technical culture largely set the context for how the Centers 

and NASA as an Agency worked.67

Control is a culture that permeated NASA from its ties to the U.S. Air 

Force and program and project management systems in industry. The control culture is a centralized one characterized by the following: hierarchical 

patterns of communication based on centralized bureaucratic processes and 

procedures for program and project control through documentation and 

standard operating procedures; an operational and utilization ethos rooted in 

notions of efficiency, as well as applications and benefits of space technology; 

aversion to the risk of launching an unreliable spacecraft; and a “culture of the 

bureaucratic” that values contracting out and the model of corporate power 

and systems control.68 Control is practiced through systems approaches to 

management and related practices of configuration management.69

The cultural traits related to competency and control shifted in NASA’s 

history. In the Apollo era, the original technical culture was predominant. 

As Apollo moved to fruition, the original technical culture changed as cultural aspects of control took hold. This dynamic of cultural change is largely 

due to two factors. First are the budgetary contraction and the associated 

political pressures that NASA faced after Apollo. This resulted in managing 

to economic considerations and notions of efficiency. These notions led to 

workforce changes at NASA that emphasized a management culture with 

reductions in engineers and less in-house technical expertise.70 Three critical organizational changes that NASA recently implemented—separation 

of institutional and programmatic authority, independent technical authority, and integrated financial management—represent an attempt to put into 

place cultural and organizational management changes at NASA that are 

more reflective of the cultural traits and management practices that existed 

during the Apollo era.

67. Kraemer, “Organizing for Exploration.”

68. The model of corporate power indicates that NASA’s industrial contractors in the 

aerospace-defense sector assumed more control and associated responsibilities relative 

to NASA. During the Apollo era, contractor penetration was practiced by NASA, and 

NASA possessed the in-house technical capacity for contractor oversight and monitoring 

as well as more of a role in systems integration. As Apollo came to fruition in 1968–69, 

the balance of power began to shift as the contractor assumed the lead role in systems 

integration, and NASA became more of an oversight bureaucracy with diminished 

capacity for monitoring and penetrating the contractor.

69. Johnson, Secret of Apollo.

70. McCurdy, Inside NASA.
512 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Systems Approaches to City Planning

The development of systems management approaches in the space program 

enables systemic design, development, and implementation of large-scale, 

complex systems. Systems management approaches were viewed to have applications for socioeconomic problems dealing with urban-and city-planning 

and administration.71 The evidence shows that impacts are at the level of ideas 

and potential applications, and not in terms of direct impacts that can be 

attributed to systems management practices applied to the Apollo program.

A systems approach facilitates a number of aspects that apply to these 

areas. These range from definition and detailed description of system boundaries to functional descriptions of the system in terms of component subsystems and their operational interactions; determination of objectives and 

criteria for optimal system performance; examination of alternative configurations of system elements that approximate optimal system performance; 

the determination of the consequences of each configuration as to feasibility, 

adaptability, and cost effectiveness; and objective presentation of alternatives 

to support decision-making. These aspects of a systems approach can allow 

for the analysis of urban city planning problems in an integrated fashion.72

In the 1960s, NASA and those in the aerospace community put forward 

this argument and tried to bring the benefits of management as applied to 

Apollo to city administration. The basic idea is that both NASA and city 

institutions require appropriate organizational architectures for successful 

problem-solving within complex environments that entail organized, disciplined, and highly structured human activities oriented to numerically stable 

goals.73 Examples of this in the city setting deal with communication, power, 

transportation services, crime, pollution controls, and waste management.74

71. Frank B. Coker, “How To Streamline the Translation of Aerospace Techniques to NonAerospace Applications” (paper presented at the AIAA Third Annual Meeting, Boston, 

MA, 29 November–2 December 1968); Vernal M. Tyler and Carl F. Asiala, “The 

Aerospace Role in Planning Cities of the Future” (paper presented at the AIAA Third 

Annual Meeting, Boston, MA, 29 November–2 December 1968); Thomas O. Paine, 

“Space Age Management and City Administration,” Public Administration Review 29 

(1969): 654–658.

72. Tyler and Asiala, “Aerospace Role in Planning Cities of the Future.”

73. Paine, “Space Age Management and City Administration.”

74. Harold D. Watkins, “Systems Engineering Aids Social Problems,” Aviation Week and 

Space Technology (31 January 1966).
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 513

Managerial Heuristics and Systems Architecting

Systems architecting is related to systems management approaches of the 

1950s that were formulated to help with the development of ballistic missile programs in the United States. The first standard for systems architecting was developed by the USAF. As discussed earlier, NASA’s incorporation 

and adoption of systems management practices, pioneered in part by the 

USAF, played a critical role in the managerial success of Apollo. Systems 

architecting is the art and science of creating and building large-scale, complex systems and then developing system-level solutions.75 System architects 

concentrate on initial system definition and design in making use of systems 

engineering specialties to develop satisfactory and feasible system concepts. 

This architectural approach is needed most as systems become more complex 

and heterogeneous.

The influence of best practices and lessons learned from the management 

and planning of the Apollo program can be thought of as managerial heuristics. Heuristics are simple and efficient rules of thumb proposed to explain 

how people make decisions typically when facing complex problems or 

incomplete information. The managerial heuristics derived from the Apollo 

program impacted the practice of systems architecting.

The Apollo program generated a number of important heuristic perspectives about complex, large-scale civil programs and represents an exemplar 

case study for the application and formulation of systems architecting in 

terms of both what to do and what not to do. To illustrate, a heuristic that 

grew out of Apollo is that a system is successful when the natural intersection of technology, politics, and economics is found. Apollo was a successful 

program because of the significant support across these elements. Purpose 

orientation is another key element in modern systems architecting; a clear 

and useful purpose is vital for a successful system. Apollo’s purpose and prioritization to put humans on the Moon by the end of the 1960s to demonstrate technological and political superiority over the former Soviet Union 

represents purpose orientation.

Systems architecting begins with and is responsible for maintaining the 

integrity of the system’s purpose. A system will develop and evolve much 

more efficiently if there are stable intermediate forms. As the purpose of a 

system evolves, stable intermediate forms allow the system’s functionality to 

be altered. When purpose changes, the whole program does not need to be 

terminated, but rather can just fall back to the last stable form and refocus. As 

75. Mark W. Maier and Eberhardt Rechtin, The Art of Systems Architecting, 2nd ed. (London: 

Taylor and Francis, CRC Press, 2000).
514 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

this relates to Apollo, the decision to bypass an orbiting Earth infrastructure, 

such as a space station element, for supporting exploration of the Moon, and 

choosing instead a direct lunar mission design—that is, lunar orbiter rendezvous—drove infrastructure and technical requirements that were less reusable 

when NASA’s post-Apollo mission changed.76 In connection to this consequence is the realization that the best engineering solutions are not necessarily 

the best political solutions. There were engineers who wanted to approach 

technology development more incrementally, like Wernher von Braun’s incremental approach with the Saturn V space launch vehicle, but the political 

desire to demonstrate technological and political superiority over the Soviet 

Union derailed intermediate infrastructure forms. The political pressures to 

be successful with Apollo contributed to the consequence of failed long-term 

planning for human space exploration at NASA after Apollo.

The case of post-Apollo planning demonstrates a negative impact of 

Apollo—how not to develop and sustain a long-term strategic program of 

human space exploration. This was highlighted earlier with the fact that, due 

to political pressures to achieve the Apollo goal, the technical system was not 

designed with stable, intermediate forms to allow use of the Apollo system in 

ways that were practical politically and economically for other functionality, 

like developing an infrastructure in LEO. Although NASA leaders understood this problem, the political priority of Apollo thwarted the implementation of any solutions.77

76. For a historical account of the decision at NASA to go with lunar orbital rendezvous, see 

James R. Hansen, Enchanted Rendezvous: John C. Houbolt and the Genesis of the LunarOrbit Rendezvous Concept, Monographs in Aerospace History, no. 4 (Washington, DC: 

NASA, 1999).

77. Wernher von Braun mapped out a broad and strategic post-Apollo plan with multiple 

intermediate and stable forms, and Webb argued with President Kennedy in 1962 for a 

more balanced space program. Webb urged the President to view Apollo as one of NASA’s 

priorities in addition to robotic scientific missions and application satellites.

 There was a tape recording of a White House meeting that took place on 21 November 

1962, during which President Kennedy made clear his administration’s priority that 

the United States land on the Moon before the Soviet Union. The tape is particularly 

noteworthy for the window it provides into presidential decision-making. Faced with the 

option of directing federal funds more generally across the entire space program, President 

Kennedy argued with NASA Administrator James E. Webb for a more focused approach 

toward the lunar landing. Having such a goal, the President argued, would carry the 

country’s entire space effort forward and have the same outcome NASA was seeking. See 

“Presidential Meeting in the Cabinet Room of the White House,” 21 November 1962, 

Presidential Recordings Collection, tape #63, available online at http://www.jfklibrary.org

(accessed 12 September 2006).
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 515

Transfer of Systems Management to the European Space Program

The transfer of systems management know-how from NASA to the European 

space effort resulted in European autonomy in space.78 This facilitated 

European success with large-scale space projects—namely the European 

Spacelab and the Ariane space launch vehicle. The United States initially promoted international space cooperation with Europe as part of a strategy to 

recover the loss of prestige linked to the 1957 Sputnik crisis.79 This strategy 

involved the demonstration of political leadership among its European allies 

by engaging them in cooperative space ventures. Space leadership implied 

that institutional and resource asymmetries in NASA’s favor allowed it to 

insist upon its preferences for space cooperation—“clearly defined and distinct managerial interfaces,” “no exchange of funds,” “distinct technical 

responsibilities,” and “protection of sensitive technology”—as preconditions 

for United States-European cooperation.80 Europe was willing to accept these 

preferences, very often as a dependent and junior partner, to realize its specific 

functional preferences aimed at fostering space science programs, acquiring 

large-scale systems management and administrative know-how, and developing applied space technology capabilities.81

The initial years of cooperation took the form of bilateral arrangements 

involving launch services provided by the United States in exchange for 

some form of payload sharing on European scientific satellites. Agreements 

were reached between NASA and the United Kingdom, Italian, French, and 

German national space programs. With the institutionalization of a unified 

European effort in space sciences in 1964, represented by the European Space 

Research Organisation (ESRO),82 a series of Memoranda of Understanding 

(MOUs) were reached with NASA. These MOUs facilitated NASA’s launch 

services for a series of ESRO satellites in exchange for scientific results 

obtained from these missions. These satellite missions involved ESRO and 

High Eccentric Orbiting Satellite scientific satellite programs. In both of 

78. Johnson, Secret of Apollo.

79. Lorenza Sebesta, United States–European Cooperation in Space During the Sixties, European 

Space Agency (ESA) HSR-14 (Noordwijk, Netherlands: ESA Publications Division, 

July 1994).

80. Eligar Sadeh, “International Space Cooperation,” in Space Politics and Policy, ed. Sadeh.

81. Johnson, Secret of Apollo.

82. The European Space Agency was formed in 1975 on the basis of the European Space and 

Research Organization.
516 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

these programs, the Europeans extensively borrowed from NASA’s systems 

management models used with Apollo.83

In addition to this, a policy of technology transfer, which was endorsed 

by U.S. President Johnson in 1966, was directed at the development of a 

European-based expendable launch vehicle named Europa.84 The European 

Community began these efforts in 1962 with the creation of the European 

Space Vehicle Launcher Development Organisation (ELDO). The willingness of the United States to allow for some technology transfer, such as 

in-flight hardware and technical information, was driven by foreign policy 

preferences. These preferences were to narrow the “technology gap” between 

the United States and Europe—a gap that was primarily in the managerial 

and organizational areas related to large-scale systems management capabilities.85 Narrowing the gap was important to the United States to stimulate 

economic and industrial growth in Europe and to enhance strategic alliances 

with Europe vis-à-vis the Soviet Union. Despite the efforts, ELDO failed in 

its attempts to develop Europa. The Europa program failed due to the inability of ELDO to acquire and adapt to the model of large-scale systems and 

engineering management. From its inception in 1962, ELDO was organized 

for failure, and it was disbanded in 1972.

After U.S. presidential and congressional approval of NASA’s Space 

Shuttle Program in 1972, Europe pursued cooperation with NASA on 

Spacelab. Europe sought cooperation on Spacelab because of a lack of confidence in its own capabilities, especially in large-scale systems management 

know-how and the belief that its technological and managerial capabilities 

could only be improved through cooperation with NASA.86 Cooperation 

83. Arturo Russo, The Definition of Scientific Policy: ESRO’s Satellite Programme in 1969–

1973, ESA HSR-6 (Noordwijk, Netherlands: ESA Publications Division, March 1993); 

Arturo Russo, Choosing ESRO’s First Scientific Satellites, ESA HSR-3 (Noordwijk, 

Netherlands: ESA Publications Division, November 1992); Arturo Russo, ESRO’s First 

Scientific Satellite Programme, 1961–1966, ESA HSR-2 (Noordwijk, Netherlands: ESA 

Publications Division, October 1992).

84. The restraints on technology transfer were still extensive. Restraints dealt with every aspect 

of technology critical to the development of communication satellite capabilities and 

production techniques as well as equipment and manufacturing processes pertaining to 

satellites and launch vehicles or components thereof. See Lorenza Sebesta, The Availability 

of American Launchers and Europe’s Decision “To Go It Alone,” ESA HSR-18 (Noordwijk, 

Netherlands: ESA Publications Division, September 1996).

85. For an overview of this “technology gap” and U.S. policy on technology transfer to 

Europe from 1964 to 1972, see Sebesta, Availability of American Launchers. Also see 

Lorenza Sebesta, “The Politics of Technological Cooperation in Space: U.S.-European 

Negotiations on the Post-Apollo Program,” History and Technology 11 (1994): 319–326.

86. John M. Logsdon, “U.S.-European Cooperation in Space Science: A 25-Year Perspective,” 

Science 223, no. 4631 (1984): 11–16.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 517

on Spacelab proved the European view correct, and Spacelab engendered an 

“Americanization” of the European space effort in terms of large-scale systems management and organizational techniques. This played an important 

role in the technical success of Spacelab, the successful development of the 

Ariane space launch vehicle, and Europe’s enhanced space capabilities across 

the board from the development of space science, telecommunications, and 

Earth-observing satellite programs in the 1970s and 1980s.

The transfer of system management know-how used with Apollo to 

European space efforts translated into more of an equal, cooperative partnership with the U.S. civil space program. Such a partnership indicates symmetry in European technological capabilities, interdependent cooperation 

outcomes in terms of contributions to critical-path technologies and infrastructural components, participation in systems and technical management, 

and project leadership roles.87 By the late 1980s, Europe’s capabilities in 

expendable launch vehicle technology, as well as space science, telecommunications, and remote sensing satellites, were not only comparable to those 

of NASA and the United States but, from a commercial standpoint, were 

competitive and more successful in capturing market share in the 1980s. In 

its relations with Europe, the United States is faced with both cooperation 

and economic competition.

The impacts shifted the balance of power between the U.S. and European 

space programs. The transfer of systems management triggered a diminished 

European dependence on the U.S. space program; allowed for Europe to 

emerge as a genuine, more equal partner with the United States in civil space 

as exemplified by ESA’s involvement with the ISS; and enabled Europe to 

achieve autonomous space capabilities.

Economics

Examined in this section are the impacts and consequences of Apollo on 

the U.S. economy. The key question often asked is whether the civil space 

program is beneficial for the national economy. How NASA affects the U.S. 

economy consumes a large part of any debate about the Agency’s programs 

and projects.88 The problems involved in assessing the direct benefits that 

NASA provides resulted in political advocacy directed at continued increases 

in spending for the Agency with the perspective that the indirect impacts 

of NASA’s program on the economy are sufficient to justify its cost. In the 

87. Sadeh, “International Space Cooperation.”

88. W. D. Kay, Defining NASA: The Historical Debate over the Agency’s Mission (Albany: State 

University of New York Press, 2005).
518 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

1970s and 1980s, NASA commissioned a number of studies that undertook 

a comprehensive economic analysis of the impact of the civil space program 

on the national economy. NASA officials hoped that the results of the studies 

would show very robust impacts on the economy, legitimizing the benefits 

from investments in space.89

The common theme is that NASA expenditures, and space activities more 

generally, affect the economy as a source of job creation and employment, 

through productivity gains, and through the development of new technologies that are spinoffs from space technologies, creating an economic multiplier effect manifested in a return on investment (ROI).90 Albeit there is 

evidence to support these economic impacts to a degree, it is noteworthy that 

the impacts on the U.S. economy as a whole are not as large as claimed by 

NASA or by political advocates of the space program. NASA spent approximately $40 billion on R&D from 1961 to 1974. This represented 12 percent 

of total federal R&D spending in the United States.91 Even though civil space 

R&D was a large function of NASA and federal government spending on 

R&D in space is a sizable share of overall federal R&D spending, the actual 

ROI of R&D spending was calculated to be at 14 percent. This figure correlated with other types of R&D spending; spending on NASA did bring with 

it a favorable ROI, but it did not produce dramatic economic benefits that 

could not be achieved by nonspace-related R&D.

By the 1980s, these impacts lessened. Space-related R&D funding, which 

reached a peak of more than 20 percent of U.S. R&D in 1965, declined to a 

low of 3 percent of U.S. R&D in the mid-1980s.92 Furthermore, it was determined that the relationships between aggregate U.S. technology changes and 

developments related to R&D spending on NASA are largely speculative.93

89. Henry R. Hertzfeld, “Space as an Investment in Economic Growth,” in Exploring the 

Unknown, ed. Logsdon.

90. Molly K. Macauley, “Economics of Space,” in Space Politics and Policy, ed. Sadeh; “Final 

Report: The Economic Impact of NASA R&D Spending,” prepared for NASA, contract 

NASW-2741, Chase Econometric Associates, April 1976; “Short and Long-Term Impacts 

of NASA R&D Spending on the Economy,” unpublished manuscript, 9 February 1976; 

“Final Report: The Economic Impact of NASA R&D Spending,” prepared for NASA, 

contract NASW-2741, Chase Econometric Associates, April 1975; “Economic Impact of 

Stimulated Technological Activity,” prepared for NASA, contract NASW-2030, Midwest 

Research Institute, 22 November 1971.

91. Report of the Comptroller General of the United States, “NASA Report May Overstate 

the Economic Benefits of Research and Development Spending,” 18 October 1977.

92. National Science Foundation, Science and Engineering Indicators (Washington, DC: 

United States Government Printing Office, 2000); Hertzfeld, “Space as an Investment in 

Economic Growth.”

93. “The Economic Impact of NASA R&D Spending,” prepared for NASA, contract NASW3346, Chase Econometric Associates, 15 April 1980.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 519

Economists are unable to show a strong positive correlation between R&D 

spending and overall economic growth.94 There are two primary reasons for 

this finding. The first one is that space-related economic data involving data 

quality and collection are inadequate for economic impact analysis.95 The 

second is that most Government-supported R&D is directed to the production of public goods, whose primary social value is not measured in real economic terms.

Public Goods

A host of activities take place in space for the general benefit of society, including the use of space for national defense, environmental monitoring, and the 

collection of science data and information. According to the legislation that 

established NASA in 1958, the U.S. space program is to expand knowledge 

about Earth’s atmosphere and about outer space, develop and operate space 

vehicles, preserve the leadership of the United States in inventing and applying aeronautics and space technology, and cooperate with other nations in 

space projects. A special characteristic of these activities is that many people 

can benefit from them simultaneously without reducing their availability to 

others or adding to the costs of these activities. For instance, the benefits of 

R&D are available to everyone, and augmenting the number of citizens who 

benefit does not increase the costs of the activities. Activities with this type of 

attribute are known as public goods.

A gap in space economics research exists in the measure of intangible 

impacts associated with space exploration, such as education, national prestige 

and geopolitical influence, cultural influences, and a greater understanding of 

space science.96 To ignore these intangible values leads to underestimating the 

public-good benefits of space activities. This chapter addresses in part some 

of these intangible aspects through an assessment of Apollo program impacts 

dealing with foreign policy, cultural, and educational influences.97

94. Office of Technology Assessment, Research Funding as an Investment: Can We Measure the 

Returns? A Technical Memorandum (Washington, DC: United States Congress OTA-TMSET-36, April 1986).

95. Henry R. Hertzfeld, Office of Space Commercialization, Space Economic Data

(Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Commerce, December 2002).

96. Macauley, “Economics of Space.”

97. Economic returns emanating from NASA’s space science programs have been studied. 

Even though this specific impact is beyond the scope of this chapter, it is indicative of 

impacts as they relate to public goods. See Henry R. Hertzfeld, “Measuring the Economic 

Returns from Successful NASA Life Sciences Technology Transfers,” Journal of Technology 

Transfer 27, no. 4 (2002): 311–320.
520 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Employment

Space activities are often judged as being good for the economy on the basis 

of direct job-creating potential, such as the number of jobs in the aerospace 

sector. Space-related jobs are also a cost, not a benefit, to the taxpayers who 

are not employed in the federal space program. As economists agree, wages 

belong on the cost side, not the benefit side, of the accounting ledger; for 

this reason, jobs are not properly the basis of measuring the benefits of 

space activities.98 The cost of carrying out any activity—the labor, facilities, 

and operations—is an expense whether carried out by the government or a 

private-sector company.

Even if one wanted to make the case for space as a source of aerospace 

jobs, given that the bulk of space-related jobs are in aerospace, the macroeconomic impact on the United States is relatively small. Aerospace jobs account 

for less than 0.5 percent of total employment in the U.S. economy. Even at 

the peak of spending on Apollo in fiscal year 1966, the civil space program 

employed 400,000, while the total U.S. civilian employment stood at 74 million.99 A further argument against the job-creation impact is that many of the 

new technologies developed through space R&D can be considered laborsaving and productivity-type gains. This allows producers of goods and services to employ fewer people and maintain or even increase production levels. 

Important examples are robotic techniques and automated instrumentation.

Multiplier

Another prevalent view of economic impacts is that space activities lead to multiplier effects on the economy. The multiplier describes a relationship among 

activities in which one set of economic activities causes a host of other activities to take place, thus cascading the effects throughout the economy.100 The 

multiplier theme relates to NASA’s contributions to macroeconomic growth in 

productivity as a result of R&D investments.101 Macroeconomic studies that 

assessed productivity impacts, which can be attributed in large part to R&D 

98. Macauley, “Economics of Space.”

99. M. A. Holman, The Political Economy of the Space Program (Palo Alto, CA: Pacific Books, 

1974).

100. Economic multipliers can be controversial because the initial public investment must 

originate somewhere, usually from the private sector. Thus the public project, even 

with superb multipliers, may or may not be better than a private investment based on 

competitive market and economic factors. David Livingston, “Winning the Public’s 

Support for Space Development Programs and Funding” (Space Technology and 

Applications International Forum [STAIF] 2005, Albuquerque, NM).

101. Research Funding as an Investment.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 521

expenditures with NASA’s Apollo program, concluded that there is anywhere 

from a 7:1 to a 14:1 cost-benefit ratio.102 Longer-term assessments placed 

the benefit at 9:1 over a 20-year period (1974–94).103 These studies tended 

to indicate significant impacts on economic productivity as a result of civil 

space R&D. Concomitantly, these studies did contain some major liabilities 

as to the assumptions made, and subsequent studies refuted the favorable 

cost-benefit ratio. For example, in a replication of one study that showed the 

14:1 return, it was discovered that productivity changes from NASA R&D 

spending were not statistically different from zero.104 In 1990, a NASA study 

concluded that, “because of the small size of NASA spending for R&D, and 

because of difficulties inherent in quantifying either the costs or benefits of 

R&D, single number claims...of the economic payoff of NASA R&D can 

be easily assailed.”105

The conclusion reached by NASA is that econometric modeling, which 

underlies macroeconomic studies, deals with an excessive number of variables 

in the economic equations used and that the economic projections as to multiplier effects are dependent on these variables that do change. The problems 

with the multiplier approach are so acute that the U.S. Office of Management 

and Budget (OMB), confronted with frequent use of the multiplier by many 

federal government agencies, issued guidelines for evaluating the benefits 

and costs of federal programs. OMB stated, with regard to multiplier effects: 

“Employment or output multipliers that purport to measure the secondary 

effects of government expenditures on employment and output should not be 

included in measured social benefits.”106

Nevertheless, there was an inspirational value of Apollo highlighted with 

the Apollo paradigm earlier in this chapter. Though it can be argued that 

102. “Final Report: The Economic Impact of NASA R&D Spending,” prepared for NASA, 

contract NASW-2741, Chase Econometric Associates, April 1976; “Final Report: The 

Economic Impact of NASA R&D Spending,” prepared for NASA, contract NASW2741, Chase Econometric Associates, April 1975.

103. In 1988, the Midwest Research Institute, under contract to the National Academy of 

Public Administration, performed an analysis that replicated a 1971 Midwest Research 

Institute study that showed a 9-to-1 cost-benefit ratio for NASA R&D programs. This 

finding held up to sensitivity analysis; however, NASA did not release the study as it was 

subject to many technical economic qualifications. See Hertzfeld, “Space as an Investment 

in Economic Growth.”

104. “The Economic Impact of NASA R&D Spending,” prepared for NASA, contract NASW3346, Chase Econometric Associates, 15 April 1980.

105. NASA Office of Special Studies, “Measuring the Impact of NASA on the Nation’s 

Economy,” unpublished report, September 1990. Also see Jerome E. Schnee, “Space 

Program Impacts Revisited,” California Management Review 20, no. 1 (1977): 62–73.

106. U.S. Office of Management and Budget, “Guidelines and Discount Rates for BenefitCost Analysis of Federal Programs,” Circular No. A-94, 29 October 1992.
522 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

from a strict macroeconomic view, NASA spending affects the economy no 

differently than other types of federal spending for goods and services, the 

inspirational value of Apollo did foster a wealth-building process. Wealth 

building in this context refers to the combined use of engineering, technology, and human skills to maximize the creation, production, and delivery of 

goods and services that are needed to raise the standard of living, increase 

employment, spur education, and grow the national economy.107 Aspects of 

all these wealth-building processes are evident to an extent in the impacts of 

Apollo in the areas of public goods, employment, and multiplier impacts, as 

well as in the technical spinoffs and educational impacts discussed next.

The Apollo program did lead to further development and innovation in 

some industries, such as in helping to develop telecommunications systems 

for commercial use and more opportunities for space business in piloted 

spaceflight, as well as in information technologies.108 The links between 

NASA, Apollo, and advances in satellite communications systems are examined in the spinoffs section in this chapter. The Apollo program positioned 

NASA as a “new” source of government contracts. NASA informally used 

the “10 percent rule” for contracting: NASA kept 10 percent of funds inhouse to train its own engineers and gain experience, and the remaining 

90 percent went to industry. This allowed some aircraft companies that were 

not involved with the space and missile business to enter the field, such as 

Grumman, which won a contract for the Apollo Lunar Module. Table 8.1 

highlights some of the major space projects linked to Apollo that helped to 

form the development of the space industry in the 1960s. Impacts of Apollo 

also extended beyond the space industry. One noteworthy example of an 

industry impact took place in the area of information technologies. North 

American, the contractor for the Apollo spacecraft shown in table 8.1, established a partnership with International Business Machines (IBM) for an 

automated system to manage large bills of material for the construction of 

107. See Legacy of Apollo: Enduring Gifts to Humanity. This documentary was produced by 

the Connell Whittaker Group, LLC. The documentary takes a new look at how the 

Apollo program radically reinvaded the global community, a new economy, and an 

environmental consciousness. Also see Livingston, “Winning the Public’s Support for 

Space Development Programs and Funding.” David Livingston is the creator of radio 

interview show called The Space Show. He has interviewed thousands of personalities in the 

space community. One common theme among these individuals is that Apollo was what 

inspired them to pursue space-related careers, including those aimed at space commercial 

development. See http://www.thespaceshow.com (accessed 13 September 2006).

108. NASA inherited many of its programs from the Department of Defense and inherited the 

same set of industrial contractors that supported the space and missile business that began 

in the 1950s. See Johnson, “Space Business.”
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 523

the spacecraft. This led to the design and development of the Information 

Control System and Data Language/Interface. In 1969, this development 

became Information Management System/360, and it was applied to the 

information technology sector.

Spinoffs

NASA continually makes the case that concrete gains in social or economic 

value are a result of particular NASA-stimulated products or processes. The 

claim is that the return benefits of these products and processes (spinoffs) 

represent a significant dividend to the taxpayer and investment in aerospacerelated R&D.109 This concerns direct and indirect benefits from inventions 

and innovations as a result of NASA R&D programs, as well as patents and 

licenses resulting from R&D programs as a measure of the transfer of technology to the private sector.110

In the early 1960s, NASA established a technology utilization program 

with the objective to develop a means of transferring aerospace technology 

into useful applications by nonaerospace industries. In terms of Apolloderived inventions, however, the economic impact is minimal. One study 

showed that none of the identified NASA-derived inventions are “major.”111

Another study that assessed the 1959–79 period documented that of the 

109. NASA Office of Special Studies, “Measuring the Impact of NASA on the Nation’s 

Economy,” September 1990.

110. Research Funding as an Investment. For a history of patents as they apply to NASA, see 

Sylvia K. Kraemer, “Federal Intellectual Property Policy and the History of Technology: 

The Case of NASA Patents,” History and Technology 17 (2001): 183–216.

111. Holman, Political Economy of the Space Program.

TABLE 8.1. Major Space Projects of the 1960s

Project Name Contractor

Mercury Capsule McDonnell

Gemini Capsule McDonnell

Saturn IB, Saturn IC, Saturn S-II, Saturn S-IV Chrysler, Boeing, North American, Douglas

Apollo Command and Service Module North American

Apollo Lunar Excursion Module Grumman

Surveyor Hughes

Lunar Orbiter Boeing

Information is taken from Johnson, “Space Business.”
524 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

197 NASA patents licensed to industry, 54 were commercialized.112 This 

does represent an impact, yet in the same period, NASA owned more than 

3,500 patents.113

On the basis of this measure, NASA’s technology utilization program was 

not successful. One reason for this outcome is a factor of how space systems 

and technologies are optimized for very specialized and complex functions 

that are unlikely to be adaptable to other needs.114 A 1972 report regarding 

Apollo R&D spending found that more than 50 percent of the technology 

spinoffs were employed within aerospace and defense sectors and that the 

spinoffs only had a moderate economic impact and relatively low scientific 

and social impacts.115 Notwithstanding all this, there is value in information 

dissemination and publications describing advances in technology that could 

“in theory” be applied to help solve specific social problems. Most of the NASA 

documentation on spinoffs with commercial potential does focus on such an 

approach, which is characterized by cutting-edge research that is under way 

or recently completed at NASA with plausible commercial realization.

Important impacts of spinoffs are in secondary benefits through adaptation of advances in space technology to commercial development and use. 

During the Apollo era, NASA R&D played a role in the technology innovation process that established the infrastructure in the development of new 

industries, such as those based on communications satellites. Firms used 

NASA contracts to put them into a position to manufacture commercial 

space systems. This is exemplified by industrial R&D investments; industrial 

R&D peaked in 1965–66, and this paralleled the growth in federal funding 

for Apollo in the 1960s.116

Despite these developments, the Cold War politics of the Apollo era 

impacted efforts in industry to capitalize on the technical infrastructure to 

commercialize space.117 This is due to a number of factors, encompassing 

112. Henry R. Hertzfeld, “The Economic Impact of Civilian Space Research and Development 

Expenditures” (National Academy of Sciences, “National Research Council Colloquium: 

The Role of Federal R&D,” 21 November 1985).

113. Ibid.

114. Richard S. Rosenbloom, “The Transfer of Space Technology,” report submitted to the 

Committee on Space, American Academy of Arts and Sciences, NASA Grant NsG-253-

62, March 1965.

115. Martin D. Robbins et al., “Mission-Oriented R&D and the Advancement of Technology: 

The Impact of NASA Contributions,” Denver Research Institute, May 1972.

116. National Science Foundation, Science and Engineering Indicators (Washington, DC: U.S. 

Government Printing Office, 2006).

117. Joan Lisa Bromberg, NASA and Space Industry (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University 

Press, 1999); Ann Markusen and Joel Yudken, Dismantling the Cold War Economy (New 

York: Basic Books, 1992).
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 525

how national security concerns and superpower confrontation issues of the 

Cold War hindered the ability to form alliances with foreign companies and 

sell abroad; how private-sector R&D was skewed toward satisfying NASA’s 

technical agenda, which is not particularly congruent with commercial needs; 

how NASA was given responsibility for commercial policy in the space sector 

even though its culture was inimical to commercialization; and how companies, through favorable cost-plus contracting and government subsidies, 

became dependent on the government and tended to follow whatever direction government funding marked out. This overall dependency on government was not necessarily negative for commercial prospects. As discussed 

earlier, the Apollo era facilitated the development of the technical know-how 

and infrastructure that were necessary for commercialization. In addition to 

this, national interests did exist to promote space commerce. The notable case 

is that of space-based telecommunications systems.

During the Apollo era, the United States pursued a foreign policy strategy 

of “space diplomacy” based on preeminence and leadership in all space sectors. This strategy viewed the development of international telecommunications systems favorably. Two important developments followed. First, the 

U.S. Congress passed legislation that created a public, federally funded corporation, Communications Satellite Corporation (COMSAT), with the goal 

to set up an international communications satellite system as soon as possible. This system was established through the creation of the International 

Telecommunications Satellite Consortium (INTELSAT), of which COMSAT 

was the leading entity, as it managed and possessed a majority interest in 

INTELSAT during the Apollo era. U.S. space policy goals “evinced the same 

spirit that informed Apollo: do something great in space, do it before the 

Soviets, and aim it in part at the Third World.”118 These goals focused on 

national prestige and strengthening relations with developing states while 

realizing regional and global telecommunications systems with the resulting 

economic impacts to society.

NASA made contractual investments in developing early (1960–65) telecommunications systems. The first system, a passive communications satellite 

named Echo, was a NASA-funded project.119 The second system, an active 

system known as Telstar, was funded by AT&T in cooperation with NASA 

118. McDougall,...the Heavens and the Earth, p. 359.

119. Donald C. Elder, “Something of Value: Echo and the Beginnings of Satellite 

Communications,” in Beyond the Ionosphere: Fifty Years of Satellite Communications, ed. 

Andrew J. Butrica (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1997).
526 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

for space launch.120 Additional investments included NASA’s Relay contract 

to RCA; COMSAT’s selection of Hughes’s geosynchronous orbiting satellites 

for its experimental test and for its initial constellation of four satellites supported by a contract from NASA for the Apollo program; and a NASA contract to TRW in December 1965 for an advanced system of six spacecraft.121

The U.S. government, in part due to impacts from the Apollo program, influenced advances in telecommunications satellite technology and the development of the satellite communications sector.122

Over the course of the Apollo era, there were also a number of documented 

cases of technology utilization in the areas of electrical machinery, communications equipment, and instruments. A general surge of technological 

innovation is traceable to technology transfer from Apollo, not as inventions 

derived from the Apollo program but as improvements and wider application of devices or materials already in existence, including improvements in 

production processes.123 The impact was in causing technology advances to 

occur at an earlier time than would have likely taken place without NASA 

funding and support.

Within the context of this theme, there are several examples in relation 

to spinoffs: requirements for computing capability and need for electrical 

component miniaturization in the Apollo spacecraft design; launch and guidance developments related to Apollo that triggered R&D in microelectronics, computer design, and software; application of digital imaging processing 

techniques, originally developed for analysis of the Moon photographs, to the 

enhancement of computerized axial tomography (CAT) scan and magnetic 

resolution imaging medical data; requirements with Apollo to monitor astronaut body functions, which stimulated progress in medical telemetry; and 

the demand for metalized films for temperature control on Apollo hardware 

120. David J. Whalen, “Billion Dollar Technology: A Short Historical Overview of the 

Origins of Communications Satellite Technology, 1945–1965,” in Beyond the Ionosphere, 

ed. Butrica.

121. Johnson, “History of Space Business.”

122. Advances in telecommunications satellite technology are due to a number of leading 

commercial developers, as well as contributors that include not only NASA but also 

the Department of Defense, the National Science Foundation, universities, research 

laboratories, and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Leading developers included Ball 

Aerospace, Fairchild, Hughes Aircraft, Lockheed-Martin, TRW, and Ford Aerospace (now 

Space Systems Loral). See Joseph N. Pelton, “The History of Satellite Communications,” 

in Exploring the Unknown, ed. Logsdon.

123. Paul D. Lowman, “T Plus Twenty-Five Years: A Defense of the Apollo Program,” Journal 

of British Interplanetary Sciences 49 (1996): 71–79; F. Douglas Johnson et al., “NASA 

Tech Brief Program: A Cost Benefit Evaluation,” Denver Research Institute, May 1977.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 527

and spacecraft, which led to the development and application of such films to 

food packages, tents, space blankets for accident victims, and flame suits.124

One particular area of impact, often claimed by those in the space community and verified in this chapter, deals with the spinoff from the development of the Apollo Guidance Computer (AGC) and the use therein of 

integrated circuit (IC) technology. The decision in 1962 to design the AGC 

using IC logic devices was critical to Apollo’s computer success.125 At the same 

time, IC technology helped create the computer industry by providing users 

with more speed and functionality.

The first computer to use ICs was the Block I version of AGC. In designing AGC, engineers saw the IC as a way to reduce size and weight. To suit 

the needs of the Apollo mission, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology 

(MIT), which was contracted with designing AGC, specified its own IC 

“logic gate” chips and developed a flight computer that incorporated thousands of these chips.126 The use of ICs for the AGC impacted the computer 

industry at an important stage in its development. This helped other industries find applications for ICs, and use of the technology proliferated rapidly.

Technical applications, as a result of spinoffs, are also evident in the longer 

term relative to Apollo. Since 1976, NASA has published a recurring report, 

Spinoffs, highlighting technical applications as a result of NASA investments. 

In addition to this, presidential and congressional policies encouraged NASA 

to move beyond undertaking fundamentally space-based activities to a broader 

role in providing new technologies for commercial markets on Earth.127

Concomitantly, economists urge caution about the use of spinoffs as an 

appropriate measure of the benefits of space activities. Spinoffs as a measure 

of technical innovation involve upstream development dealing with R&D 

investments and then downstream processes of turning these investments into 

economic value. As this section discussed, the upstream links to Apollo exist, 

but the downstream processes are limited. Although spinoffs can occur from 

upstream development, and this is evidence of a potential economic impact, 

there is an issue when the spinoff technologies versus the economic value 

become the basis for justifying space expenditures. The argument offered by 

124. See Office of the Chief Technologist, NASA Spinoff, Apollo Spinoffs, http://spinoff.nasa.

gov/Spinoff2012/pdf/Spinoff2012.pdf (accessed 25 March 2012).

125. See Eldon Hall, Journey to the Moon: The History of the Apollo Guidance Computer 

(American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics, 1996); NASA Office of Logic 

Design, “A Scientific Study of the Problems of Digital Engineering for Space Flight 

Systems, with a View to Their Practical Solution,” http://klabs.org/richcontent/Misc_

Content/AGC_And_History/AGC_History.htm (accessed 15 September 2006).

126. Hall, Journey to the Moon: The History of the Apollo Guidance Computer.

127. Kay, Defining NASA.
528 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

critics of the civil space effort is that if consumers wanted, or there is market 

demand for, these new products, then funding R&D specifically directed 

toward those products is more effective. Although spinoffs bring social benefits, their cost of development undertaken as a part of a space project is more 

expensive then the cost of developing them directly since these benefits are 

at best indirect in relation to the mission objectives of any space project.128

Other Economic Impacts

There are examples where Apollo fostered other economic impacts not discussed in this chapter. These impacts are in two areas. One is the local economic impact as a result of tourists going to visit NASA Centers and view 

space launches—for example, the impact on restaurants and hotels near the 

Kennedy Space Center benefiting from expenditures by visitors going to 

the Center to view launches. Apollo 11 led to local economic impacts on 

the county in Florida where the Kennedy Space Center is located.129 These 

impacts concerned increased spending and tax monies to the county. In this 

case, costs to the county were minimal in comparison to the economic benefits, and the intangible benefits received from the Apollo 11 launch were 

believed to be immeasurable, like visibility for the county.

The problem with this impact is that it counts as benefits what are in fact 

transfers of income from some consumers and producers to other consumers 

and producers.130 It also overlooks less desirable transfers of income burdens 

like traffic congestion and higher prices for residents near NASA Centers. 

In addition, if the impacts are added to the primary activity, then the multiplier can be large for any activity that involves the public. Hence the impacts 

related to Apollo in this example are not unique, as there is no discriminating 

among the economic value of different activities.

The second area of impact deals with economic development as a result of 

the location of NASA Centers and their contractual partnerships with industry 

to enable the large-scale technological development needed for Apollo. These 

partnerships provided jobs and skills to regional areas throughout the United 

128. Singling out the effect of government influence on the products’ markets can also be 

difficult. For example, Tang, Velcro, and Teflon are all frequently cited as spinoffs from 

the Apollo program, but they were actually developed before the Apollo program began. 

However, the program might have refined these products or brought them to broader 

attention and thus expanded commercial markets. Whatever the case, these issues further 

confound the effort to use spinoffs as a justification for investing in space. See Macauley, 

“Economics of Space.”

129. Brevard County Planning Department, “The Impact of Apollo 11 on Brevard County, 

Florida,” undated document.

130. Macauley, “Economics of Space.” 
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 529

States. The policy of “clustering” around a NASA Center, whereby a core of 

industries forms around a central NASA hub, led to economic growth.131 To 

illustrate, U.S. southern states, due to the location of NASA Centers there, 

benefited economically, especially given the lower income levels and lesser 

amounts of industrialization and urbanization that exist there relative to many 

other parts of the United States. High-income, industrialized, and urbanized 

states that did in fact receive the larger share of NASA R&D allocations during 

Apollo and afterwards also benefited economically.132 The Houston area with 

the Johnson Space Center, the Orlando area with the Kennedy Space Center, 

and Sunnyvale in California with the Ames Research Center are illustrative of 

economic benefits as a result of clustering around a NASA Center.

Research undertaken on the economic impacts of federal R&D allocations to states found that scientific and technical innovations can be expected 

to bring benefits to the geographic regions in which they are located.133

Innovations represent long-term impacts, as they deal with a process of technical diffusion incorporating refinements in technology development over 

many years.134 There are also benefits to a region on the basis of the technical 

workforce that space activities generate and require, as this workforce is a 

versatile resource that is productive and transferable to nonspace sectors. If 

131. NASA Center histories document and discuss regional impacts based on the policy of 

“clustering.” The NASA Marshall Space Flight Center history by Andrew J. Dunar and 

Stephen P. Waring, Power To Explore: A History of Marshall Space Flight Center, 1960–

1990 (Washington, DC: NASA SP-4313, 1999), has a chapter on regional economic and 

social impacts in the Huntsville, AL, area. This and other NASA Center histories make it 

quite clear that the economic and social impacts on the region in which a NASA Center 

is located is significant. See Elizabeth A. Muenger, Searching the Horizon: A History of 

Ames Research Center, 1940–1976 (Washington, DC: NASA SP-4304, 1985); Henry C. 

Dethloff, Suddenly Tomorrow Came...: A History of the Johnson Space Center, 1957–1990 

(Washington, DC: NASA SP-4307, 1993); and Mack R. Herring, Way Station to Space: 

A History of the John C. Stennis Space Center (Washington, DC: NASA SP-4310, 1997).

132. Willard I. Zangwill, “Top Management and the Selection of Major Contractors at 

NASA,” California Management Review 12, no. 1 (1969): 43–52.

133. During the Cold War, aerospace and defense spending became a major determinant of 

regional economic prosperity or decay. The West, Gulf, and East Coast regions of the 

United States reaped enormous gains from the distribution of federal R&D monies. See 

Ann Markusen, Peter Hall, Scott Campbell, and Sabina Deitrick, The Rise of the Gunbelt: 

The Military Remapping of America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991).

134. One specific area of impact related to innovations took place in advanced manufacturing 

techniques. John A. Alic, Lewis Branscomb, Harvey Brooks, Ashton B. Carter, and 

Gerald L. Epstein, Beyond Spinoff: Military and Commercial Technologies in a Changing 

World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Business School Press, 1992).
530 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

many of the aerospace jobs are concentrated in a geographical region, then 

these jobs can become a benefit to people living in the region.135

There is also literature that questions these regional economic impacts. 

One author on the subject that deals more broadly with government R&D 

in aerospace and defense argues a “depletion” hypothesis.136 The argument is 

that aerospace and defense spending is dictated by the needs of government; 

fails to generate economic growth; diverts intellectual, financial, and material 

resources away from civilian and commercial industries; militarizes society; 

retards R&D; and preempts a significant share of U.S. capital stock.

Education

The quality of STEM education in the United States is an ongoing concern 

of decision-makers. Following World War II, scientists, engineers, and mathematicians expressed concerns about the quality of precollege instruction in 

their fields and about the number of students who went on to college and 

studied STEM subjects. The curriculum was out of date and difficult for 

teachers to master in order to develop an understanding of the key concepts 

and ideas in STEM fields.137 This crisis in education was exacerbated by the 

beginnings of the Space Age with the launch of Sputnik in 1957.

One of the primary forces shaping the science reforms of the 1950s and 

1960s was the National Science Foundation (NSF). The NSF’s education 

effort prior to Sputnik was confined to promoting science fairs and clubs and 

funding summer institutes for teachers. Following Sputnik, however, the NSF 

increased its support for curriculum development at a rapid pace. By 1960, 

the programs of the Education Directorate at NSF represented 42 percent 

of the NSF annual budget.138 This science reform movement was sustained 

through the Apollo program and ended with the Apollo 11 lunar landing.139

NASA plays a role in inspiring youth and fostering impacts on STEM 

education. Investments made by NASA, beginning with the Apollo era and 

135. Loyd S. Swenson, “The Fertile Crescent: The South’s Role in the National Space Program,” 

Southwestern Historical Quarterly 71, no. 3 (1968): 377–392.

136. Seymour Melman, Our Depleted Society (Austin, TX: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 

1965). Also see Seymour Melman, Pentagon Capitalism: The Political Economy of War

(New York: McGraw-Hill, 1970); and Seymour Melman, The Permanent War Economy: 

American Capitalism in Decline (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1974).

137. P. Dow, “Sputnik Revisited: Historical Perspectives on Science Reform” (prepared for the 

symposium “Reflecting on Sputnik: Linking the Past, Present, and Future of Educational 

Reform,” Washington, DC, 4 October 1997).

138. National Science Foundation, Science and Engineering Indicators, 2000. 

139. Dow, “Sputnik Revisited.” 
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 531

sustained to the present, encompass curriculum and teaching enhancement 

activities for primary and secondary schools; supplemental training in STEM 

subjects for college teachers; cooperative education and work-study programs; and university and college grants and assistantships.140 During Apollo, 

there was a dramatic increase in the number of U.S.-citizen students pursuing 

advanced degrees in STEM disciplines. As the Apollo program was terminated and NASA’s funding cut, the number of students going into STEM 

fields correlated with the downward trend in NASA’s budget, especially with 

regard to graduate studies at the Ph.D. level.141

Given NASA’s share of the entire federal R&D budget, particularly in the 

Apollo era, investment in higher education in STEM fields was relatively large 

as compared to other educational investments. In 1965, for instance, NASA 

allocations to its university-related programs and research amounted to more 

than 85 percent of all non-NASA federal appropriations to universities.142

Following Apollo 11, R&D obligations in the industrial sector declined and 

did not experience another surge until over a decade later, when Cold War 

investments in military technology resulted in another period of growth. This 

decline resulted in a negative impact on STEM education.

These downward trends highlight more current times, and by some 

accounts, there is a major workforce crisis in the aerospace and defense 

industrial sector.143 In physics and advanced mathematics, for example, U.S. 

high-school seniors score significantly below the international average on performance tests.144 The trend continues at the undergraduate levels. There is a 

downward trend in the United States relative to foreign states in science and 

engineering university degrees granted per capita.145 At the graduate level, 

the problem persists for the United States. At U.S. universities, 25 percent 

of graduate students in the sciences and 40 percent of graduate students in 

technology, engineering, and math disciplines are foreign nationals.146

A contributing factor to these tends is a general disinterest in STEM 

fields. The argument that money put into the space program is better spent 

140. These are the principal means by which NASA seeks to promote the continuing 

replenishment of the nation’s STEM workforce.

141. Office of Management and Budget, “Space Activities of the U.S. Government,” 2002.

142. Space Policy Institute, “The Apollo Education Initiative: Origins, Activities, and Results,” 

(George Washington University, Washington, DC, June 1990).

143. “Final Report of the Commission on the Future of the United States Aerospace Industry,” 

November 2000.

144. National Science Foundation, Science and Engineering Indicators, 2002. 

145. Ibid.

146. “Final Report of the Commission on the Future of the United States Aerospace Industry,” 

November 2000.
532 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

by putting it directly into the educational system to encourage students to 

pursue STEM areas is a misconception, as the United States is already one 

of the top spenders per student in the world.147 The bottom line is that students need something to inspire their efforts. Thus, the positive impact of 

space exploration on STEM education is without precedent, as is evident 

with aspects of the Apollo paradigm and the inspirational value of Apollo as 

explained earlier in this chapter.

University Programs

During the Apollo era, NASA established a Sustaining University Program 

(SUP) that envisioned the university as a repository of knowledge to meet 

public goals and general societal problem-solving.148 NASA established SUP 

in 1962. SUP was Webb’s primary vehicle for relating NASA to societal purposes.149 However, evaluations of SUP highlighted the problematic nature 

of relations between government and universities instead of demonstrating 

positive societal impacts.150 The goal of SUP was to further university and 

college interest in the integration and synthesis of knowledge, but the impacts 

of the program were limited to the aeronautics and space goals as established 

by NASA.151 SUP was not able to institutionalize the educational innovations 

that it sought. There is no direct evidence that the long-range objectives of 

the SUP program were met.152 These objectives involved the development of 

a university capable of responding as an institution to societal problems and 

issues, capable of multidisciplinary and interdisciplinary research and teaching, and able to accelerate knowledge transfer from the university or college 

to society.

147. National Science Foundation, Science and Engineering Indicators, 2000. 

148. W. Henry Lambright, “Using Universities: The NASA Experience,” Public Policy (1972): 

61–82; W. H. Kohl, “The Potential Influence of NASA’s Long-Range Technological 

Needs on the Restructuring of University Engineering Curricula,” Advisory Council 

Meeting, 2–3 October 1969.

149. Webb, Space Age Management. 

150. The university feels its essential character to be threatened when the government attempts 

too firmly to direct it along any given path. In addition, science at the university and 

college levels was more oriented to goals defined by society, like social, urban, and 

environmental problems.

151. Lambright, “Using Universities”; Task Force To Assess NASA University Programs, 

Office of Technology Utilization, A Study of the NASA Sustained University Program

(Washington, DC: NASA SP-185, 1968).

152. Study of the NASA Sustained University Program; Thomas W. Adams and Thomas P. 

Murphy, “NASA’s University Research Programs: Dilemmas and Problems on the 

Government-Academic Interface,” Public Administration Review 27, no. 1 (1967): 10–17.
Impacts of the Apollo Program on NASA, the Space Community, and Society 533

Conclusions

The societal benefits that are linked to the Apollo program are both humancentered and technical. Intended societal impacts of Apollo are limited and 

more or less confined to the Apollo era. Such impacts were found to exist in 

a number of areas, including city planning, systems architecting, economics, 

and education. One common theme regarding all these areas is that impacts 

clearly exist in theory, but are generally limited in practice to a few technical 

cases, like PERT, Information Management System/360, ICs, and some of 

the economic and educational benefits that are linked to federal investments 

in space-related R&D. In the economic and education areas, which are most 

often associated with impacts on society, the claims were found to be greater 

than the actual evidence suggests. It was discovered that the intended economic benefits were no different from those that could result from other 

types of federal R&D investments. And with education, the impacts of 

Apollo failed to engender any longer-term institutional changes.

The unintended societal impacts and consequences traced to Apollo are 

much broader and are sustained to the present. Of significance is how the 

political formulation of Apollo put into place a paradigm that served as the 

conceptual basis for many impacts. The Apollo paradigm was based on an 

ethos that the technology and know-how acquired with Apollo could be 

applied to the space program and elsewhere to establish what was called Space 

Age America and Space Age management. The European space program benefited from the transfer of managerial know-how used with Apollo. Also, it is 

this notion of Space Age management that led NASA to emulate the technical and management models used with Apollo to implement more current 

space exploration strategies and plans.

Unintended impacts and consequences are also shown with the inspirational value of Apollo. This value did more for building wealth than probably 

any other civil pursuit. This “wealth factor” was evident in a variety of ways. 

These include the role of Apollo in engendering prestige, confidence, and an 

air of competence for the U.S. government; the role of Apollo as a “grand 

laboratory” for the developments, innovations, and applications of technologies for societal benefit; the role that Apollo played in the development of 

the space industry; and the motivation that Apollo provided for students to 

pursue STEM disciplines and education. From a broader historical perspective, one cannot predict what space exploration will bring. Undoubtedly, it 

will bring with it, as Apollo did, changes in how humanity views planet Earth 

and in how humans and institutions interact with society. Space exploration 

informs humanity’s grandiose search for and interaction with the future. The 

space odyssey is perpetuated by explorers, discoverers, and seekers. Explorers 
534 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

venture into the unknown cosmos; discoverers pursue cumulative knowledge 

about Earth and space; and seekers search for underlying models and causal 

factors to explain cosmological phenomena. Apollo set humanity on a trajectory to interact with the future: to, in the end, become a spacefaring species 

and society.
535

Chapter 9

An Astrosociological Perspective on 

the Societal Impact of Spaceflight1

Jim Pass

Introduction

Astrosociology was introduced in 2004 to begin the process of studying the relationship between space exploration and societies in a systematic 

manner. This chapter seeks to make the case for two broadly defined arguments: 1) space exploration has already transformed societies to an extensive 

degree—that is, it has already affected every aspect of social life; and 2) space 

exploration will continue to transform societies and other aspects of social 

life to an increasing extent into the future. A third related argument focuses 

on the idea that we know too little about the impact of space exploration 

on society and culture, and we need to understand it better in order to take 

advantage of the knowledge gained. We should look everywhere for potential 

knowledge and wisdom, which can come from a scientific discipline or a 

literary source such as science fiction.2 The major approach of this chapter 

is to discuss these issues in the context of the need to develop astrosociology. 

Historians have probably conducted the greatest amount of research in 

this area, which is extremely important, but now we have passed the point for 

social scientists to organize and join them under the banner of astrosociology to construct a single, easily identifiable body of knowledge and related 

literature. The social and behavioral sciences in addition to the humanities 

(hereafter referred to as the “social sciences” for brevity) must organize themselves into a single field and work with the space community through formal 

collaborative channels regarding space issues relevant to both the natural and 

social sciences. Historically, this has not occurred. Recent events have demonstrated that the time is right for this outdated historical pattern of separation 

1. I wish to thank former NASA Chief Historian Dr. Steven J. Dick for providing me with 

this opportunity to introduce astrosociology and its implications to NASA and the space 

community. In addition, I wish to thank our late colleague, Albert A. Harrison.

2. Simone Caroti, “Defining Astrosociology from a Science Fiction Perspective,”Astropolitics

9, no. 1 (2011): pp. 39–49.
536 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

between the natural sciences and social sciences to end in the area of space 

theory and research.

Astrosociology fills a void that spans nearly the entire Space Age. Previously, 

the absence of a social science field that could potentially contribute unique 

insights focusing on the societal impact of space exploration has slowed the 

pace of accumulating knowledge in this area of study. In essence, we have settled for less than the full potential of the rich heritage of an entire branch of 

science.3 The seriousness of this situation has not continued without notice, 

however. For example, several sociologists pointed out the indifference of sociology (my particular discipline) during the final two or three decades of the 

twentieth century. Their recommendations went largely unheeded, however:

B.J. Bluth,4 for example, advocated the study of space issues from a sociological perspective long ago. [William Sims] Bainbridge5

 made an important 

observation about sociology’s indifference. Part of his argument involved the 

recognition that in the face of a substantial interest in space on a societal scale 

(among citizens and space scientists), sociologists are less well prepared to 

deal with it compared to the scientists in the so-called “hard sciences.” [Alvin] 

Rudoff,6 in considering the importance of astrosocial issues, asked a simple 

though very revealing question: “And where is sociology?” A simple conclusion thus presents itself. Bluth, Bainbridge, Rudoff, along with [Allen] Tough7

and many others, have long recognized the potential value of the “sociology of 

space” to the discipline and to society. Proponents of astrosociology continue 

to marvel at its absence in the face of this untapped potential.8

3. Jim Pass, “Astrosociology and Space Exploration: Taking Advantage of the Other Branch 

of Science,” Space Technology and Applications International Forum (STAIF) Conference 

Proceedings 969, no. 1 (2008): 879–887, http://www.astrosociology.org/Library/PDF/

STAIF2008_OtherBranch.pdf (accessed 16 March 2012).

4. B.J. Bluth, “Sociology and Space Development,” in T. Stephen Cheston (Principal 

Investigator), Space Social Science, http://er.jsc.nasa.gov/seh/sociology.html (accessed 16 

March 2012).

5. William Sims Bainbridge, Goals in Space: American Values and the Future of Technology

(New York: State University of New York Press, 1991).

6. Alvin Rudoff, Societies in Space (American University Studies, Series XI, Anthropology 

and Sociology, vol. 69), (New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 1996), p. 75.

7. Allen Tough, “Positive Consequences of SETI Before Detection,” Acta Astronautica 42, 

no. 10–12 (1998): 745–748.

8. Jim Pass, “Inaugural Essay: The Definition and Relevance of Astrosociology in the TwentyFirst Century, Part Two: Relevance of Astrosociology As a New Subfield of Sociology,” 

(2004), 6–7, http://www.astrosociology.org/Library/Iessay/iessay_p2.pdf (accessed 16 March 

2012).
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 537

Many social scientists from other disciplines made similar observations 

and called for the formal establishment of a new field dedicated to the study 

of “space and society.” Moreover, many independent social scientists (such 

as Albert A. Harrison, Steven Dick, and Ben Finney) have dedicated their 

careers to the study of space issues. Indeed, Harrison has supported astrosociology from the beginning. As discussed in the next section, the time had 

finally come in 2004 for social scientists to organize themselves around a 

single field known as astrosociology.

An astrosociological perspective is important to understanding space 

exploration because it makes the connection between space and the human 

cultural drive to explore the unknown. Space exploration represents an imperative based on a number of historical forces.9

 Social and cultural phenomena include the relationship between space and society and thereby reflect 

a society’s involvement in space. They demonstrate a long-term pattern of 

migration and investigation of new frontiers.10 Space exploration represents a 

logical continuation of the expansion of the human presence from its starting 

point. While humanity has expanded from its common place of origin and 

explored the surface of Earth rather extensively, space represents a boundless 

new ecology for humanity to investigate.

As the founder of the field of astrosociology, I would argue that NASA 

and the entire space community desperately require more of the type of input 

only possible from social scientists. The era of ignoring them has reached 

its limit for a number of reasons made evident in this chapter. The slight 

breakdown of the so-called “great divide” between the space and social science communities, the subject of the first discussion to follow, only recently 

began. However, this new shift indicates a growing recognition by an increasing number of members within the space community that conceptual, theoretical, and empirical traditions within the social science disciplines possess 

important value for the future of spaceflight and space exploration.

NASA and other space agencies need to fully understand these shifting 

conditions in order to take advantage of newly emerging social and cultural 

patterns by embracing the new field of astrosociology. They require an organized field among the social sciences for the sake of smoother collaboration. 

Moreover, the space community has yet to tap the theoretical and empirical 

data pertinent to its future development. Much of this data is readily applicable to space missions and other pertinent aspects of the space community’s 

understanding of space exploration in space and on Earth.

9. Ibid.

10. For an excellent discussion, see Ben Finney and Eric M. Jones, Interstellar Migration and 

the Human Experience (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985).
538 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Recently, the space community began its path toward a comprehensive 

appreciation for the potential contributions of the social sciences to spaceflight, space settlement, utilization and exploitation of space resources, and 

space exploration. While psychologists have participated with NASA and 

the space community for decades now, this new appreciation and recognition involves sociology and the other social sciences (i.e., those social sciences traditionally barred or simply ignored by space scientists, engineers, 

and even space enthusiasts). What accounts for this drastic change? For one 

thing, space exploration is on the verge of expanding beyond the scope of the 

traditional space agencies in terms of social control and participation. This 

expansion will create social forces that affect societies on a much greater and 

more fundamental basis. This chapter attempts to glimpse into the future 

based on present social and cultural conditions to make predictions about 

how spaceflight and space exploration will contribute significantly to social 

change affecting social systems around the globe, including changes from 

their traditional orientations and priorities.

Bridging the Great Divide

For nearly the entire course of the Space Age, the space community and 

social sciences refused to interact with one another to any appreciable extent. 

Marilyn Dudley-Rowley11 has characterized this as the great divide between 

aerospace and sociology (though all the social sciences followed a similar pattern during the past 50 years or so). Until now, engineers could solve the 

major problems of spaceflight with minimal help from psychologists, including those specializing in human factors research. Soon, this will not prove 

possible. The growing implications of this fact do not exist without notice.

Recently, space agencies and professional organizations around the world 

began to take a renewed look at the social and cultural consequences of past 

events and future implications of their work. A NASA-sponsored conference 

in September 2006 focused on the societal implications of spaceflight, with 

the following objective: “The purpose of this conference is to undertake a 

broad overview of the societal impact of space exploration, especially as illuminated by historical research. The purpose is not to conduct an exercise in 

public affairs or a debate over public policy, but to examine with rigorous 

research what the impact has been, both nationally and internationally. This 

11. Marilyn Dudley-Rowley (aka Marilyn Dudley-Flores), “The Great Divide: Sociology and 

Aerospace” (2004), http://astrosociology.org/Library/PDF/submissions/The%20Great%20Divide_

CSA2004.pdf (accessed 16 March 2012).
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 539

is an enormous topic, so we cannot be comprehensive, but we can be broadly 

representative of the major areas of impact.”12

The very existence of this conference potentially indicates that we are 

finally moving in a new and productive direction. The emphasis on the societal 

impact of the space program in the past provides me with optimism for the 

future. The participants addressed the historical implications of space exploration quite well at this conference, and this certainly bears on the emphasis 

in this chapter. However, the unfolding history of space exploration and our 

ability to take advantage of it for future projects and missions must receive 

attention. Through a proper understanding of the societal impact of space 

exploration during the preceding years of the Space Age, and even much earlier in our history, we can become more productive and more appreciative of 

its effects and, more important, it potential.

I hope that NASA is beginning to take this general area of study seriously enough to provide ongoing conferences about the societal (and even 

the astrosociological) issues—beyond the good work confined to its History 

Program Office—and consistent with this, to appropriate funds to conduct 

relevant research for the benefit of NASA and the space community in general. The implications, if taken seriously, will unquestionably provide benefits 

for the Agency in all of its operational and research divisions. As a major 

suggestion, NASA should invite more social scientists to conduct socialscientific research in collaboration with the Agency. After all, social scientists 

comprise the experts in this area and can adapt a great many concepts and 

empirical findings from terrestrial social groups to those existing in space. 

Astrosociologists will add a wealth of theoretical and empirical knowledge 

gained over hundreds of years to the space community, thereby adding a 

missing component long overdue while working well with those conducting 

human factors research.

What has not been clear until recently is that the physical sciences and the 

social sciences represent complementary approaches, while neither can provide all of the answers to questions becoming more relevant in the future—or 

perhaps it was never appreciated nearly enough. To use a common metaphor, these two branches of science represent the two sides of the single coin 

known as space exploration. In the future, the natural and physical scientists 

within the space community cannot continue to ignore the social science side 

because humanity will expand into the cosmos; and no human activity, not 

even space exploration, occurs in a social vacuum.

12. Steven J. Dick and Roger D. Launius, eds., Societal Impact of Spaceflight (Washington, 

DC: NASA SP-2007-4801, 2007).
540 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

The European Space Agency (ESA) also recognizes the astrosociological implications of space exploration. Its Web site discusses the benefits for 

Europe including 1) competitiveness in high technology, 2) creation of new 

jobs, 3) quality of life, 4) research and education, and 5) “cultural benefits.”13

Moreover, ESA held an event, Second Space and Society Conference: Space 

Options for the 21st Century, following the first stand-alone conference 

sponsored by the International Academy of Astronautics (IAA).14 Clearly, 

ESA recognizes the cultural and social benefits of its mission—a very astrosociological approach! Another example is the third Asian Space Conference 

(ASC), which occurred in March 2007. It catered to the traditional members 

of the space community, including space scientists and engineers, but it also 

emphasized sociology, the other social sciences, and the humanities.

These types of official declarations and the corresponding changes in professional conferences around the world represent a historically shifting stance 

from a dismissal or skepticism of the relevance of the social sciences to one 

that embraces their contributions that seemed to occur most visibly with the 

turn of the twenty-first century. From my perspective, they all focus on astrosociological issues and always have, although a formal field was missing before 

2004. The next step involves convincing the leadership of space agencies and 

professional associations within the space community to recognize astrosociology as the scientific approach to study these cultural and social forces in a 

formal manner. One major way to do this involves recognizing the merits of 

astrosociology as they did those of astrobiology. In fact, the astrobiology model

serves as a good example of how to proceed.15 The two fields are similar in a 

number of ways, and complementary as well. One of the similar challenges 

involves convincing a diverse group of scientists and other professionals to 

both agree with the merits of this new field and then to actually participate in 

its development. Astrobiology accomplished this feat. In contrast, astrosociology finds itself largely in the midst of the acceptance stage among many in 

the mainstream, accelerated in 2015 by a new Journal of Astrosociology.

Budding astrosociologists now encourage these trends, and take advantage of them when they present themselves, in various ways. As an example, a group from the social science and space communities recently formed 

13. European Space Agency (ESA), “Home Page,” http://www.esa.int/ESA (accessed 16 March 

2012).

14. European Space Agency (ESA), “Space and Society Conference: Space Options for the 

21st Century,” http://www.esa.int/SPECIALS/TTP2/SEM8OVRMTWE_2.html (accessed 

19 March 2012).

15. Albert A. Harrison, “Overcoming the Image of Little Green Men: Astrosociology and 

SETI,” (2005), http://www.astrosociology.com/library/pdf/submissions/overcoming%20lgm_

harrison.pdf, (accessed 12 March 2012).
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 541

the Astrosociology Working Group (AWG) within the American Institute 

of Aeronautics and Astronautics (AIAA), now under the sponsorship of 

the Society and Aerospace Technology Technical Committee, and recently 

upgraded to the Astrosociology Subcommittee. Inroads such as this within 

the space community will result in a permanent presence of the field of astrosociology and should result in its full acceptance by space agencies and professional organizations over time. This would certainly represent a boon to this 

developing field for both the social science and space communities.

In May 2008, the Astrosociology Research Institute (ARI) was inaugurated.16 ARI represents the next step in fulfilling our mission of developing astrosociology in ways that only a formally structured organization can 

accomplish. The assistance of two particular categories of supporters serves as 

a strong driver of ARI programs. Specifically, ARI seeks to provide assistance, 

resources, and opportunities for 1) students who wish to pursue astrosociology in their academic careers, and 2) faculty and independent scholars who 

wish to accommodate students interested in astrosociology and/or for those 

who wish to pursue the field themselves as professional astrosociologists.

Understanding the various elements of the societal impact of space exploration represents the core objective of the new field of astrosociology. In this 

instance, the fact that NASA sponsored a conference centered on the societal 

impact of spaceflight is remarkable in itself because the Agency is essentially 

acknowledging the relevance of the social sciences to the space program—

an admission that was not forthcoming in official channels for most of its 

history. Spaceflight and exploration have always affected societies on Earth. 

The aerospace industry affects the workforce, its accomplishments impact the 

larger culture, and the first landing on the Moon captivated people around 

the world, for example, yet NASA never elicited the assistance of the social science community in a big way. On the other hand, the social science community never strongly pushed for entrance into the space community’s exclusive 

club, even while social and cultural forces related to space reshaped the social 

structures and cultures (and subcultures) of the United States and other social 

systems around the world. Social scientists must take much of the blame for 

16. ARI is a nonprofit public benefit corporation with a 501(c)(3) status, for which I serve as 

the Chief Executive Officer. Joining me as officers are Christopher M. Hearsey (Deputy 

Executive Officer) and Simone Caroti (Secretary/Treasurer), both of whom replaced 

Thomas Gangale and Marilyn Dudley-Flores, who were the original officers, early 

advocates of the field, and early collaborators following the onset of the astrosociology 

movement. The official Web site for the Astrosociology Research Institute is http://

www.astrosociology.org. The Web site http://www.astrosociology.com continues to exist to 

accommodate the Virtual Library as an archive to match older references. (The new 

Virtual Library refers to http://www.astrosociology.org and duplicates older references.)
542 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

neither addressing the impact of these societal forces nor forcefully demonstrating the importance of social scientific research to the space community.

Two facts seem incontrovertible. First, the general absence of the social 

sciences in the study of “space and society” issues over the course of the Space 

Age for so long has severely limited our knowledge about the impact of exploration on society (despite the good work by a limited number of historians 

and social scientists). Second, and relatedly, if we remedied the unheeded 

need to bring in astrosociologists and independent social scientists, it would 

greatly assist the space community in catching up with the past as well as 

understanding the present and future consequences of space exploration on 

society. We are indeed late in addressing this fundamental area of inquiry 

from an organized social-scientific perspective, but it seems that we have 

finally begun to do so.

For example, the discipline of sociology should address the impact of 

human spaceflight and exploration and, in fact, all social and cultural phenomena related to space, due to its very orientation. Philosophers and others 

created sociology over 200 years ago in order to study all aspects of social life. 

Space-related phenomena are no less important aspects of social life than acts 

of deviance or the social forces related to social movements, both of which 

receive an inordinate amount of sociological scrutiny. 

The promise of sociology resides in its potential capacity to recognize the connections between individuals and both the social structures and the cultural 

communities comprising their society.17 This fundamental application of 

the sociological imagination seems obvious when considering the historical 

development of the discipline, and its attention to “normal” social phenomena. However, the ongoing failure to apply the sociological imagination to an 

understanding of [social phenomena related to space] demands special consideration of astrosociological issues. Modern human activities...related to 

space, characterizing the space age, have been taking place since [before the] 

1950s, yet their impact on society over the years is largely unknown due to 

a significant level of sociological indifference and perhaps even a certain level 

of contempt.18

Similar arguments apply to the other social science disciplines, such as psychology, economics, history, political science, and anthropology, and indeed 

astrosociology has transformed itself into a multidisciplinary field. The contributions of other social scientists to the work of historians would provide an 

17. C. Wright Mills, The Sociological Imagination (New York: Oxford University Press, 1959).

18. Pass, “Inaugural Essay, Part Two,” 5–6.
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 543

additional dimension to our understanding of the impact of space exploration. We have much to learn about the impact of all space-related patterns of 

behavior on the social structures and cultures of societies around the world. 

Astrosociology can organize this effort due to its very concentration on these 

types of issues.

This chapter attempts to address some of the major areas of specialization 

within the new field of astrosociology that are pertinent to the purpose and 

spirit of the NASA conference cited earlier. In fact, the very focus of astrosociology centers on the interface between space and society from a social science perspective. As will become evident, although most of the space-related 

behavior occurs on Earth at the present time, an increasingly larger proportion will begin to occur over the next few decades in space and on bodies 

other than Earth. Social and cultural forces will affect migrating populations 

isolated from Earth. It will serve these populations much better to account 

for these effects and plan for positive social conditions rather than reacting 

to negative social patterns that develop and prove difficult to alter once they 

become established.

I did not take an outlandish position when I argued that the serious development of a social science field such as astrosociology was long overdue in 

2004. The suddenness of the collaboration between the space and social science communities seemed too easily accomplished unless some underlying 

set of like-minded principles existing on unofficial channels of communication. The timing just happened to coincide with the development of astrosociology; it seems that the proponents of astrosociology ended up in the right 

place at the right time. While astrosociology is not yet deeply entrenched 

in the space community, it definitely has become a recognizable presence 

at space and social science conferences since 2004. As a new field, astrosociology will find acceptance only if it proves itself as an important scientific 

field—a reality that seems assured by the timing of events currently set into 

motion. With the acceptance of the members of the space community and 

a growing number of social scientists gravitating toward this new field, it 

seems as though it is finally time for the social sciences to enter the Space Age 

in a formal manner. We can hope, at least, that sociology and the social sciences enter the Space Age now that we have celebrated the 50th anniversary 

of spaceflight.

Definition, Scope, and Relevance of Astrosociology

Although many social scientists had conducted astrosociological research for 

years before the establishment of astrosociology, the field is bound to become 

more successful when the social scientists interested in studying space are 
544 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

organized rather than isolated, without adequate support from their disciplines or adequate collaboration between one another. Lack of organization 

also carries with it the reduced likelihood that students in social science programs will select space exploration as their career focus. In contrast to previous calls for a new field, astrosociology has demonstrated surprising growth 

in both the social science and space communities. Within the social science 

community, astrosociology is now developing on a two-prong basis as 1) a 

sociological subfield, and 2) most importantly, as a general social science field. 

Within the space community, astrosociology represents the field comprised of 

the social sciences with which it can easily identify and collaborate in a way 

that builds constructive knowledge in innovative ways not possible before.

The basic definition of astrosociology has evolved to the study of astrosocial phenomena (that is, the social, cultural, and behavioral patterns related 

to outer space) with the addition of the “behavioral” component in 2009.19

Astrosocial phenomena, logically enough, comprise a subset of all social, 

cultural, and behavioral phenomena. I coined the term “astrosocial” to refer 

specifically to phenomena characterized by a relationship between human 

behavior and space phenomena. For example, an undiscovered asteroid hurtling toward Earth is a space phenomenon. In contrast, the discovery of that 

asteroid and subsequent actions to cope with it as a potential threat represent astrosocial phenomena. This particular category of social phenomena 

has traditionally received very little attention from the social science and 

space communities. Yet the Societal Impact of Spaceflight conference that 

took place in September 2006 did, in fact, focus on astrosocial phenomena! 

Such phenomena date back to the time that the first human being looked 

up at the heavens and attempted to comprehend the meaning of space and 

the planets and stars within it. Human spaceflight represents a much shorter 

historical period, although it nevertheless affected society for more than 50 

years in a number of different ways. While the level of understanding in this 

area is currently limited due to the small number of contributions from most 

of the social science perspectives, the significance of these effects finally began 

to garner serious attention in recent years. After a long, unproductive period 

before 2003, astrosociology now possesses the great potential to bridge the 

great divide.

While astrosocial phenomena do indeed exist, identifying and understanding them requires the rigor of science. According to Howard E. McCurdy, and 

19. Jim Pass, “Pioneers on the Astrosociological Frontier: Introduction to the First Symposium 

on Astrosociology,” Space, Propulsion & Energy Sciences Forum: SPESIF-2009, 1103, no. 1 

(2009): 375–383, doi: 10.1063/1.3115541, (accessed 12 March 2012).
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 545

others, “Events in spaceflight have social, cultural, and ideological effects.”20

He also warns, however, that we must be careful when attributing events as 

causes that trigger various effects because what appears to be correlation and 

even causation is often just a coincidental set of circumstances.21 Because 

astrosociology is a scientific field, astrosocial phenomena are only defined as 

such when there is a verifiable connection between society (including social, 

cultural, and behavioral effects) and outer space. Otherwise, they are phenomena of other varieties. The astrosociologist must be careful to make the correct distinction between the two. Furthermore, astrosocial phenomena often 

exist as subtle or disguised patterns that are difficult to identify. Scientific 

investigation is the only course of action as space advocacy is no substitute 

for the scientific method based on the two-way interaction between theory 

and observation.

It is important to remember that the focus of space exploration remains on 

space, of course, but astrosocial phenomena currently affect terrestrial societies most strongly. 

Astrosociology seeks to involve sociologists in the study of space-centered 

human activities whether these occur on Earth or in space itself.22 Perhaps 

the most obvious opportunities are in human space exploration. Here, social 

scientists might study social policy and political support, space advocacy 

groups, private sector businesses and public agencies that have vested interests 

in space, and groups of people who live on the high frontier.23

The significance of an astrosociological perspective relates more to its 

future than to its past, although present and past impacts require study as 

well. Indeed, as a species, we have only engaged in spaceflight for just over 

50 years. “Recognizing that contemporary human efforts in space are best 

viewed as the tip of an iceberg and as possible precursors of grander future 

efforts,” writes Harrison, “astrosociology proposes to move sociology into the 

20. Howard E. McCurdy, “Has Spaceflight Had an Impact on Society? An Interpretative 

Framework,” in Societal Impact of Spaceflight, Steven J. Dick and Roger D. Launius, eds. 

(Washington, DC: NASA SP-2007-4801, 2007), p. 8.

21. Ibid., 4–16.

22. Harrison, “Overcoming the Image of Little Green Men,” p. 9; Jim Pass, “Inaugural Essay: 

The Definition and Relevance of Astrosociology in the Twenty-First Century, Part One: 

Definition, Theory, and Scope” (2004), http://www.astrosociology.com/Library/Iessay/iessay_

p1.pdf (accessed 12 March 2012); see Jim Pass, “Invitation to Astrosociology: Why the 

Sociologist–Space Enthusiast Should Consider It” (2005), http://astrosociology.org/Library/

PDF/submissions/Invitation%20to%20Astrosociology.pdf (accessed 16 January 2012). 

23. Harrison, “Overcoming the Image of Little Green Men,” 9. 
546 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

space age.... Astrosociology deals with the broad, societal contexts of activity pertaining to space, as well as actual space exploration including human 

space exploration and the search for extraterrestrial life.”24 Harrison’s comments concerning sociology pertain to all of the social sciences, and thus they 

all have the opportunity to contribute to the development of astrosociology.

In initiating the development of astrosociology, I envisioned three major 

goals: 1) to organize social scientists interested in space, 2) to develop a coherent body of knowledge and associated literature, and 3) to form a stable, 

formalized collaborative structure between the social sciences and the space 

community. Each of these goals receives ongoing attention and thus improvement on a slow and steady basis. The growing group of pioneering astrosociologists has made important strides within the space community and among 

individuals within the social science community. Ironically, sociology and 

the other social sciences continue to ignore it at the macro level even as more 

individual scholars and scientists, mostly young professionals and students, 

begin to gain a greater sense of excitement as a result of their recognition of 

the value of astrosociology. It seems that established professional social scientists not already interested in space will stay away from it, and even criticize it, 

while the current new generation of students includes individuals much more 

open to the idea of pursuing astrosociology as a career specialization. The 

status quo usually proves difficult to change in any discipline or organization. 

This represents a major challenge for contemporary proponents.

Based on the foregoing discussion, it remains important to remember 

that one does not need to be a sociologist to become an astrosociologist! The 

perfect analogy is astrobiology. Those who flocked to the pursuit of astrobiology included biologists, to be sure, but they also included planetary scientists, geologists, paleogeologists, astronomers, chemists, computer scientists, 

roboticists, artists, and those from a myriad of different disciplines in addition to biologists. Anyone interested in the relationship between space and 

society (including human behavior in all of its aspects) is a potential astrosociologist. Despite difficulties in academic programs as they now exist, those 

who pursue astrosociology will find themselves working on the cutting edge 

of a new field of study—they will be part of the cadre of astrosociology’s pioneers who shape the development of a new field.25

24. Ibid., 14. 

25. Pass, “Pioneers on the Astrosociological Frontier.”
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 547

Applied Astrosociology

Incontrovertibly, applied astrosociology—defined as the purposeful application 

of astrosociological knowledge to solve practical problems and other issues—

will become more relevant in the future as humans begin to create a permanent presence in space. As I wrote in 2006, “Applied astrosociology is defined 

as the application of astrosociological (or astrosocial) knowledge to address 

practical problems or concerns related to astrosocial phenomena. In addition 

to solving space-related problems, then, applied astrosociologists employ the 

same knowledge gained for space research toward solving real issues related 

to astrosocial phenomena that exist in space or on the Earth.”26 This practical dimension of astrosociology becomes important because the knowledge 

gained through research possesses applications for both terrestrial and extraterrestrial issues.

The need to take into account the social and cultural ramifications of space 

exploration undoubtedly awaits humanity in the future. In fact, even now 

the need to understand the effects of space exploration on terrestrial societies 

has begun to receive an increased level of attention. Moreover, the planning 

of space settlements and other human space missions has begun to include 

astrosociological input. While the possibilities exceed our current imaginations, applied astrosociology will demonstrate its applicability to the areas 

listed here as a starting point.

Some of the relevant areas of applied astrosociology include long-duration 

space missions, social problems and their solutions, planetary defense, spacefaring societies, space settlements (i.e., “space societies”), implications of astrobiology and the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI), space policy 

and space law, astrosocial change, medical astrosociology, and interplanetary 

relations. Most of these areas receive attention later in this chapter. The field 

of astrosociology actually covers a much larger scope than listed here because 

it includes any type of social or cultural pattern that involves human interaction.27 The application of astrosocial knowledge to solving a problem or meeting a goal makes this new field even more important due to the challenges 

humanity faces in the near future. Space has affected societies tremendously 

thus far in the history of human societies, but much more comprehensive, 

transformative effects lurk in the future. The Space Age has only begun.

26. Jim Pass, “Applied Astrosociology: The New Imperative to Protect Earth and Human 

Societies,” (AIAA 2006-7511), (2006), 5, http://arc.aiaa.org/doi/pdf/10.2514/6.2006-

7511 (accessed 10 March 2012).

27. For a more comprehensive discussion of the scope of astrosociology and astrosociological 

specializations, see Jim Pass, “Viewpoint: Astrosociology As the Missing Perspective,” 

Astropolitics 4, no. 1 (2006): 91.
548 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Even this partial listing of topics related to applied astrosociology demonstrates that 1) a great many topics do in fact exist, 2) astrosociology will 

only become more relevant as space exploration advances, and 3) a single 

field is necessary to bring organization to all these seemingly disparate topics 

that normally remain isolated from one another within their social science 

disciplines. Without something like astrosociology to provide recognition 

and order to the relationship of space exploration and societal consequences, 

the importance of astrosocial phenomena to societies around the world will 

remain unclear to most and studied on an individual basis to a large extent. 

This long-standing status quo has served us poorly in the past. Ignorance is 

far from bliss when it comes to the effects of astrosocial phenomena. They 

affect us on a daily basis so we should understand them. Part of the development of astrosociology can occur by conducting research, presenting papers 

at conferences, and seeking publication of works. For the most part, its development has depended on these activities. However, these activities do have 

limitations. Astrosociology faces challenges within the relevant programs of 

educational institutions. Inroads in this general area remain untapped yet 

indispensable for long-term success.

Expanding Space into Social Science Classrooms

Space undoubtedly brings excitement into the classroom. Students participate more intensely in their schoolwork and become more likely to study 

longer during their time away from school. However, not every student is 

drawn to the natural sciences, math, or engineering. Many students become 

attracted to the social sciences and humanities instead.

We must open ourselves up to more inclusive possibilities for the future. 

Rather than utilizing space exploration to stir the imaginations of only potential space scientists and engineers among our youth, we should also do so to 

motivate all potential scientists. As an additional step, we must utilize space 

exploration to encourage potential astrosociologists to follow a different, though 

related, path. In order to ensure the greatest, most comprehensive understanding of humanity’s destiny in space, we must encourage students in the physical 

sciences and engineering disciplines, who serve as the usual targets. Moreover, 

we need to encourage those in the social and behavioral sciences, and the 

humanities, to become involved in the study of astrosocial phenomena in an 

astrobiological context.28

28. Jim Pass, “Astrosociological Implications of Astrobiology (Revisited)” (2010), 415, doi: 

10.1063/1.3326269 (accessed 12 March 2012). 
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 549

With the growing importance of studying astrosocial phenomena, it now 

seems like a good time to expand the scope of space in the classroom, to 

broaden the treatment of space phenomena so as to emphasize their social 

and cultural implications as well as their practical applications.

To prepare ourselves for the gargantuan task of conducting research on the 

impact of astrosocial phenomena, which remains inadequately studied, we 

must incorporate space into the social science classrooms of our schools at all 

levels. NASA’s current approach on education focuses on the various STEM 

(science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) disciplines of natural 

and physical sciences, technology, engineering, and mathematics. However, 

it almost totally disregards the social sciences, specifically, astrosociology. We 

need to bring the social sciences into the current effort and reference the new 

orientation by changing the acronym to STEMA—the A refers to the field 

of astrosociology and a focus on astrosocial phenomena—to reflect a more 

inclusive approach to education involving outer space.29 The A represents all 

of the social sciences and humanities. Members of the public generally support the dream of space exploration,30 and the student population probably 

supports it even a bit more strongly. Many social science students will become 

more enthusiastic about their studies, as I found in an informal survey in 

three of my sociology classes in 2005–2006.31 Even students who go into the 

social sciences outside of astrosociology will find space an interesting topic 

and become better-informed members of the public.

The social sciences have made innumerable discoveries regarding human 

behavior and social life within terrestrial societies, most of which have nothing to do with space. However, many research findings are universal enough 

to be applicable to space research and may serve as a complementary collection of insights outside the scope of the space community’s everyday concerns. The means in which social structures function in the form of social 

groups of all sizes—from couples to organizations and from institutions to 

societies—provides invaluable data for groups going into space. In addition, 

research on isolated groups with military and other forms of command structures provides invaluable lessons for future groups in space. More general 

research findings involving social interaction in a variety of social settings 

provide untapped information for the space community.

29. Pass, “Enhancing Space Exploration by Adding Astrosociology to the STEM Model.” 

30. Howard E. McCurdy, Space and the American Imagination (Washington, DC: Smithsonian 

Institution Press, 1997).

31. Pass, “Enhancing Space Exploration by Adding Astrosociology to the STEM Model,” 

10–14.
550 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

With the space community increasingly cognizant of the need to include 

the social sciences even in the near term, it seems wise for NASA and other 

space agencies to bring the social sciences (that is, astrosociology) into the 

classroom in an active manner alongside the traditional STEM fields or at 

least advocate openly for their inclusion in the classroom. High-ranking 

NASA officials from the Education Division have acknowledged the need, 

and they have claimed that NASA does not discourage astrosociology-related 

subjects in the classroom. At the same time, NASA only promotes the STEM 

fields when, in reality, we need to train space scientists, engineers, technicians, mathematicians, and astrosociologists for space exploration in the near 

future. The discussions in the next section should make this statement abundantly clear. We must emphasize STEMA, rather than STEM, to meet the 

needs of the future generations of space explorers. Many current students at 

various academic levels would find inspiration in the introduction of space 

into their social science classes, just like those who gravitate toward the natural science and engineering disciplines. Many of them would feel uninspired 

to pursue academic careers without it, potentially contributing to the unacceptable dropout rate at many schools.

Only a formal collaboration between the space and social science communities can ensure a comprehensive understanding of the issues involving 

humanity’s movement into space.32 We should encourage all scientists, scholars, and the various technicians interested in space to study it regardless of 

their perspective or background.33 The future demands a viable multidisciplinary field.34 The status quo will not serve us as well into the future as it did 

during the initial half century of the Space Age. Admittedly, this proposition 

serves to encourage the development of the new field that I founded, but 

there are additional benefits at the societal, group, and individual levels of 

analysis that require application of the scientific method.

The justifications of the need to develop the field of astrosociology will 

become all the more unmistakable in the discussions that follow. Next, some 

of the important specializations of astrosociology receive brief attention. The 

purpose of the following section is to present the reader with an appreciation of the astrosociological approach as well as to demonstrate the need to 

32. Jim Pass, “Astrosociology and the Space Community: Forging Collaboration for 

Better Understanding and Planning,” The Space Review, 8 August 2005, http://www.

thespacereview.com/article/424/1 (accessed 18 March 2012).

33. Jim Pass, “Invitation to Astrosociology: A New Alternative for the Social ScientistSpace Enthusiast,” in Living in Space: Cultural and Social Dynamics, Opportunities, and 

Challenges in Permanent Space Habitats, eds. Sherry Bell and Langdon Morris (ATWG 

[self-published], 2009), 71–89. 

34. Pass, “Astrosociology and the Space Community.” 
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 551

develop this new field. In the process, scientists and scholars from both the 

social science and space communities will hopefully recognize the importance 

of astrosociology to their disciplines and the benefits of collaboration.

The Future of Exploration, Society, and Astrosociology

As humanity moves further into the twenty-first century, space exploration 

and its related activities will increasingly alter societies in both predictable 

and unfathomable ways. Its significance will grow in all facets of astrosocial phenomena (for example, scientific inquiry and discovery, technological 

innovation, travel, tourism, settlement, and exploitation). Unless postindustrial societies plummet into dystopias or otherwise experience compromised 

growth, astrosocial phenomena will become ubiquitous within societies around the world. The large scope of potential topics falling under the 

purview of astrosociology dictates that few of them can receive attention in 

this chapter.

Nevertheless, contemplating the future with a focus on astrosocial phenomena, however brief and limited the treatment offered here, easily demonstrates the need to develop astrosociology by both the social science 

community and the space community. In fact, it seems incredible that it has 

taken this long to establish such a field. Astrosocial phenomena will only 

become more forceful in reshaping societies, and therefore we must begin 

to address these social forces and even attempt to take advantage of them. 

The latter is impossible, of course, without a proper understanding of the 

phenomena involved. And the rich tradition of understanding within the 

realm of the social sciences will serve to bolster our overall appreciation and 

understanding of astrosocial phenomena. The topics that follow include both 

theoretical and applied astrosociology, which normally possess an interactive 

relationship to one another.

Spaceflight Altered: Phasing Out the Traditional Crew Model

As Thomas Gangale35 has pointed out quite clearly, the ability to continue 

with the crew model of spaceflight will prove impossible to continue as 

social groups and larger populations move farther and farther from Earth. 

Impracticability makes impossible the current protocol in which crewmembers follow along with items on a list with mission control, step-by-step, to 

fit the maximum number of activities into the mission. “For nearly half a 

35. Thomas Gangale, “Practical Problems in Astrosociology,” Space (AIAA 2006-7474) 

(2006), http://arc.aiaa.org/doi/abs/10.2514/6.2006-7474 (accessed 10 March 2012).
552 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

century, nearly every minute of every flight has been scripted and directed 

by Mission Control,” Gangale writes. “Although there has been some loosening up during long-duration, near-Earth orbit missions, sometimes forced 

by a revolt of the crew, this culture of control remains largely intact and well 

entrenched. Human spaceflight is expensive, and the culture of control is 

inevitably driven to squeeze every last drop of value from every minute of 

human labor in space.”36

When distance along with social, cultural, and psychological impediments 

render instantaneous communications impossible, and as the delay of replying becomes increasingly burdensome, those living aboard spacecraft and 

in other space locales will find themselves on their own to a greater extent. 

They will select their own pace of work and social life in other areas. Earthbased authority will lessen as dictates from the home planet evolve from “mission control” to more of a “help-desk” or mission-assistance relationship.37

Members of space missions and populations living in space “societies” (that 

is, settlements) will need to become autonomous over time as they face local 

problems and developments. Shorter-duration flights (though longer by contemporary standards) and two-way missions will involve these problems to a 

lesser extent.

What effect will this shift of authority have on the societal impact of spaceflight? The simple answer to this question is that the nature of the impact of 

space exploration will change.

Isolation due to an increased distance and duration of the mission contributes to unintended circumstances as past experiences on space stations have 

hinted. The effects of isolation on the crew behavior require understanding 

and planning. Because greater distance results in increased isolation, longduration missions far from Earth will pose significant social-cultural and psychological challenges. The nearly full social control of space crews becomes 

unsustainable once their proximity to Mission Control makes instantaneous 

communication impossible. Crews become more autonomous under such 

circumstances. Controllers on Earth lose their authority as certain social conditions come into play. In addition, the duration of the mission alone produces important effects, even when the distance is not great, such as when 

orbiting Earth. The longer the mission, the more isolation results in a greater 

social cohesion of the group in space and more problems developing between 

the crew and the ground.

New norms (social rules of conduct) and values (ideas about what is 

important) develop. As time goes by, these new norms and values increasingly 

36. Ibid., 3. 

37. Ibid., 2. 
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 553

favor group needs and desires over those of mission controllers. These social 

and cultural trends intensify if a long duration accompanies a great distance. 

One-way missions to settlements, for example, will almost certainly involve 

an intensification of this process of separation. Increasingly, crewmembers 

will make decisions for themselves and “inform” Earth-based officials of their 

choices. At some point, when members of space societies finally view themselves as autonomous on social, economic, political, and other dimensions, 

there is the potential that they will cease to inform their original controllers 

and seek to set up interplanetary relations with them. Although this last development seems like a far distant reality, now is the time to think about preparations for this outcome. Increasing isolation and duration of spaceflight will 

begin soon, even with today’s level of technology, so we must think about the 

progression toward these “far-off” developments as points along a continuum 

rather than eventualities so distant that we do not need to worry about them. 

We should collect astrosociological data from the current point onward.

An important astrosocial force comes from the isolation of populations 

away from Earth. Social groups on Earth have a long history of becoming 

ethnocentric when forming their in-group identity and contrasting their 

membership from the out-group (that is, outsiders who are not members). 

Ethnocentrism (allegiance to one’s group) develops and leads members of the 

isolated group to thinking of themselves as an independent entity to some 

extent independent of terrestrial authorities. Members begin to feel that their 

own group is superior to others, in this case, groups that reside on Earth. 

The original relationship with Earth will become more confrontational to the 

extent that ethnocentricity increases.

Applied astrosociologists can assist in the creation of social systems and 

their cultures for space travel and settlement before the mission begins. We 

can encourage social cohesion and ethnocentrism from the very beginning 

of training. In this way, we can make the survival of the crew or settlement 

socially sustainable. And realistically, we can construct institutions and groups 

to deal with the inevitable independence of the space-bound population. This 

step will probably prove difficult to accept because the affiliated group on 

the Earth will need to relinquish a great amount of social control to make 

it possible. Next, let us consider the example of a space settlement or “space 

society” that cannot operate utilizing the traditional crew model because of a 

new level of social-cultural complexity.

Phasing out of the traditional crew model will unquestionably become a 

necessity due to the practical limitations of communications and the other 

forces. The consequences of isolation will necessitate the planning and instituting of new organizational models. We must prepare for such occurrences 

from the initial planning stages. As Harrison has stated quite clearly, we need 
554 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

to expand human factors beyond the study of “biomedical adaptation and 

the human-machine interface, and to include personality, social relationships, 

and the broad political and organizational contexts for human activity in 

space. Increasing crew size, increasing diversity of crew composition, increasing mission duration, and burgeoning technology prompt us to rethink the 

human side of spaceflight.”38 In other words, we need to expand our astrosociological imaginations when it comes to spaceflight as well as other issues 

involving humans and space.

Constructing Space Societies

Many future problems will require the contributions of social scientists in 

collaboration with scientists, architects, and engineers within the space community. A good example involves the placement of human populations into 

enclosed, isolated habitats far from Earth. Although engineering solutions 

can construct a physical environment that can sustain the population on a 

biological basis, this capability cannot ensure the success of the settlement 

due to its inattention to the critical issues related to the social environment. 

Moreover, the interior of the habitat must encourage a healthy social life 

for the residents of the settlement. In general, then, as the complexity of 

space exploration increases in the future, the need for astrosociology will only 

increase as social-scientific issues become increasingly pertinent and recognizable, contributing both to problems and solutions to those problems.

Even today, NASA and other space agencies, as well as researchers in corporations and educational institutions, make plans for space settlements they 

target for the near future (between 2020 and 2040). Unfortunately, they usually do so without much regard for social-scientific aspects of their missions. 

The contributions by astrosociologists, while becoming more recognized, 

remain best characterized almost as afterthoughts. Special accommodation 

efforts on the part of space community scientists, engineers, space architects, 

and others must occur in order to allow astrosociologists to participate in the 

planning stages of space settlements (or space societies) and other projects.

We must view permanent space settlements as the standard—a goal to 

strive for even at present. To a noteworthy extent, at some point in the future 

human exploration will require moving into the solar system in a methodical and calculated manner, establishing a permanent presence along the way. 

Using this methodology, the explorers can remain in a particular part of the 

solar system and even move farther away from Earth, rather than coming 

38. Albert A. Harrison, Spacefaring: The Human Dimension (Berkeley: University of California 

Press, 2001), p. 278.
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 555

all the way back to terrestrial soil and starting over again from scratch. 

Populations will exist in space either on a permanent or long-term basis, and 

thus the traditional crew model as described earlier cannot work. This will 

save time and resources, although it will also provide a great number of challenges that are biological, psychological, and social-cultural in nature.

The definition of space society remains a vital concept for the future of 

space travel, exploration, and settlement. This term implies that any social 

group sent into space for an extended period must be capable of sustaining 

itself on a variety of different dimensions that we take for granted within our 

own societies here on Earth. As I wrote in 2006, “For present purposes, space 

society is defined as a space colony/settlement in which members of the population 1) share a common culture, 2) live within a closed physical environment, and 3) cooperate with one another, social groups, and institutions in 

order to meet the social needs of all its citizens.”39 The social environment is 

just as vital for long-term survival as the physical environment.40 Traditionally, 

planners concentrated on the physical structure and life-support systems of 

a settlement. Because the social sciences did not participate in the planning, 

the internal social environment was most commonly overlooked. Practically, 

however, we are sending human beings to live in these physical environments. 

We must consider what happens after they arrive at these physical environments, even if they allow for the biological survival of humans. Survival is not 

the standard we should use. We should think in terms of livability.

When thinking about space societies, one must think about the survival 

of the population as a social structure, whatever its size may be. Even a small 

group represents a microsociety because that social structure must provide for 

the needs of each of its members. The larger the size of the population, the 

more complex becomes the overall social structure and the more impersonal 

become the relationships. Social structures require construction lest we leave 

the members of these isolated groups of people to fend for themselves in the 

midst of inevitable chaos. Social structures (groups, organizations, institutions) provide regulation to social life and deal with social problems once they 

arise. Conflict can arise to an extent that people harm one another even while 

their physical environment keeps them safe on a biological level.

Thus the larger culture and its subcultures also require planning, just as 

the physical elements of the settlement. The larger culture serves to regulate 

social life so that the members of the settlement understand what is expected 

39. Jim Pass, “The Astrosociology of Space Colonies: Or the Social Construction of 

Societies in Space,” AIP Conference Proceedings, 813, no. 1 (2006), 1153–1161, doi: 

10.1063/1.2169297, (accessed 10 March 2012).

40. Ibid., 7.
556 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

of them. The formal rules or expectations, or norms, must exist from the very 

beginning. Also, the informal rules—at least the important ones—require 

familiarity by settlers, including terms of their enforcement. These types of 

ideas must receive a great deal of attention in the selection of the population 

and the training of those chosen to live in the space society. On Earth, the 

socialization process normally requires a period of many years to acclimate 

the new citizen into the social milieu. In this situation it must occur over 

a very short period. In addition to learning the norms or rules of behavior, 

the new citizen of a space society must learn the important values. Social life 

becomes more organized and predictable when ideas and things valued by 

society receive widespread agreement. These elements of the culture serve to 

bind the citizens together and regulate social life.

Space societies represent one future element of space exploration and 

spaceflight. These types of manifestations of humanity’s expansion into our 

solar system will also affect those of us living on Earth. Space societies are 

unlikely to be self-sufficient, at least the early ones, so economic trade will 

become necessary. Again, to the extent that these slivers of human civilization can survive away from the home planet, a new sort of planetary relations 

(think “foreign relations” between nations on Earth) will become necessary. 

The separation of human groups from terrestrial societies will also result in a 

high degree of ethnocentrism in which the space society citizens view themselves as independent.

At this point in our history, however, most current space missions and 

space science discoveries directly affect terrestrial societies as they have since 

the inception of the Space Age. We are orbiting Earth or utilizing scientific 

knowledge and technological innovation for our benefit here on our home 

planet. We collect scientific knowledge for its own sake and for application to 

terrestrial concerns. The technologies developed for the space program may 

find applications in other areas of social life such as medicine, law enforcement, public safety, or aviation. How does space exploration affect societies 

today? It does so in ways we tend to overlook. At the same time, it could do 

much more if social scientists worked together with space scientists, engineers, 

and architects to solve some of the most serious problems facing humanity 

on Earth. The consideration of social problems by the space community is 

extremely relevant today—the problems are serious issues and they affect even 

space scientists—and space can offer unique insights and solutions that may 

otherwise never receive consideration due to a lack of social-scientific input.
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 557

Utilizing Space to Solve Social Problems

Many critics of the space program point to the idea that terrestrial social 

problems should receive attention and even resolution before we “waste” federal dollars on a “useless” program such as one dedicated to space exploration. Contrary to this opinion, evidence that confirms the benefits of space 

exploration is readily available. Depending on the study, the U.S. space program returns from 7 to 10 times on its investment. Not many other federal 

programs can claim the same thing. This is not the point, however. From a 

social science perspective, the space program exists, it affects society, and thus 

it demands study! I refer to the discipline of sociology here, but the other 

social science disciplines regard space in much the same way. As a community, 

sociologists tend to fall into this category despite their mandate to study all

social phenomena.41

As a subset of all existing phenomena, astrosocial phenomena never did 

receive their due attention even while the most exciting events witnessed by 

human beings, such as the Apollo landings on the Moon and the spectacular photographs sent by the Voyager probes, were taking place. One must 

ask a simple question in this regard: Why? In 2004, I offered one possible 

explanation for this confounding situation: “Why do astrosocial phenomena 

continue to exist for nearly 50 years since the advent of the Space Age without significant recognition or attention by sociologists? Based on personal 

communications with critics within the sociological community, one reason 

looms large as a vital contributor to this problem. Quite simply, human 

behavior related to space lacks legitimacy as a substantive area of scholarly 

treatment.”42 This situation is not reasonable, obviously, because astrosocial 

phenomena exist in the daily lives of ordinary citizens. 43 Most of these patterns of interaction may take place on Earth, but they still relate to space and 

more will take place in space as this century advances.

One reason that so many sociologists and social scientists in general seem 

reluctant to recognize astrosociology as a legitimate field relates to their mistaken assumption that it somehow relates to the pseudosciences due to its 

focus on outer space. “These critics argue that astrosociology must focus on 

41. Peter L. Berger, Invitation to Sociology: A Humanist Perspective (New York: Anchor Books, 

Doubleday, 1963).

42. Jim Pass, “Space: Sociology’s Forsaken Frontier” (2004), http://astrosociology.org/Library/PDF/

submissions/Space_Sociology%27s%20Forsaken%20Frontier.pdf (accessed 12 March 2012). 

43. Jim Pass, “The Potential of Sociology in the Space Age: Developing Astrosociology To 

Fill an Extraordinary Void,” (2006), 3–4, http://astrosociology.org/Library/PDF/submissions/

Potential%20of%20Astrosociology.pdf (accessed 11 March 2012).
558 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

the several pseudosciences that relate to space in some way including astrology as well as paranormal topics, alien detections on or near Earth, alien 

abductions, UFOs, crop circles, and cattle mutilations. Such assumptions are 

erroneous. These topics do not fall under the purview of the space sciences. 

Therefore, the controversies related to the perceived illegitimacy of these 

topics are not under review here given that such topics are not relevant to 

astrosociology.”44 Astrosociology faces a similar challenge that the Search for 

Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) overcame in this general area in which 

critics disparage the legitimacy of the field based on an incorrect characterization of it.45 In time, this unfounded view of astrosociology will fade into a 

positive, objective analysis of the field. Important reasons exist for this change 

of view, including practical reasons related to applied astrosociologists seeking 

to find long-term solutions to enduring social problems.

Astrosocial phenomena represent an important subject for reasons that 

involve much more than the resolution of problems related exclusively to 

space exploration. Their study can result in benefits that contribute to solving 

social problems on Earth. Besides assisting the developing nations that face 

staggering socioeconomic conditions, the problems plaguing human societies 

in general on a global basis require serious attention. Space-capable nations 

already cooperate with one another to conduct space missions. They could 

likewise use those same relationships to tackle the global social problems that 

threaten all societies.

Examples of social problems include explosive population growth, energy 

crises, global warming, pollution and other forms of environmental stress, 

destruction of habitats, global catastrophes (such as volcanic eruptions, 

tsunamis, and earthquakes), and impact by a cosmic body.46 These represent social problems because they are harmful and they are either societally 

induced or affect the well-being of societies, or both. A pertinent subclassification of social problems is astrosocial problems, which includes those that 

are amenable to solution by space-based resources.47 Thus, in the context of 

this discussion, I really refer to astrosocial problems when referring to social 

problems. Realistically, however, most social problems can be mitigated by the 

establishment of new astrosocial phenomena, as we have seen the unrealistic 

scenario in which space prisons can ameliorate crime on Earth in sciencefiction literature and other forms of entertainment. In the distant future, 

space societies can assist by moving large numbers of people off the surface 

44. Pass, “Space: Sociology’s Forsaken Frontier,” 22. 

45. Harrison, “Overcoming the Image of Little Green Men.” 

46. Pass, “The Potential of Sociology in the Space Age.”

47. Ibid. 
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 559

of Earth for other reasons, such as the overpopulation on Earth. This migration pattern will also protect our species in case large-scale natural disasters or 

cosmic impacts result in the loss of large numbers of people.

Social problems exist within the social lives of individuals and as larger, 

stable patterns of social interaction. Likewise, the solutions to these problems 

will come from all aspects of social life including those related to astrosocial 

phenomena. Space-based solutions to terrestrial problems represent nothing 

new in the course of the Space Age. Technology transfers and spinoffs from 

spaceborne research find application in other societal institutions, such as 

medicine and other economic industries. The difference that astrosociology 

brings involves the insights brought to bear on these problems within their 

social and cultural contexts. Solutions will require a strong collaboration 

between astrosociologists and members of the space community to determine 

current conditions and social forces that produce harm, as well as finding 

socially/culturally viable (and acceptable) solutions.

Moreover, social problems (e.g., deviance) will follow human populations into space. We need to apply all methods at our disposal to solve them, 

whether they manifest themselves in space or in terrestrial environments. 

There is no doubt that space scientists and engineers can assist us on Earth to 

solve our problems. Conversely, astrosociologists can minimize these problems in space habitats to a much greater extent than would be the case without 

their involvement through their recognition and application of preventative 

solutions. Social scientists have studied these problems for hundreds of years 

within terrestrial societies. We would do well to put that acquired knowledge 

into practical use in outer space. Many of the problems that arise will involve 

relationships between people, rather than people with their machinery, so we 

need to deal with that eventuality. 

Perhaps the greatest “social problem” that currently limits the participation of social scientists in the solution of the traditional problems traces 

back to their assessment of space as an unimportant area of concern and thus 

unworthy of funding for research. This perspective is ludicrous if one simply 

considers the potential of space-based solutions to such problems as understanding global warming and the ozone hole, mapping various resources using 

space-based radar, studying the weather, and accessing alternative resources 

for energy use and other needs. The successful development of astrosociology focuses on the connections between space and society, demonstrating the 

significance of astrosocial phenomena and their potential for solving some of 

the seemingly intractable problems of societies around the world. Individuals 

from social science disciplines increasingly defy the prevalent “wisdom” of 

their leaders by deciding to support astrosociology. The need exists for them 
560 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

to bring astrosociology into the classroom. To put it mildly, that is a good 

thing for the social science community and for the space community.

Astrosociological Contributions to Planetary Defense

There are social problems and then there are social problems. Planetary 

defense may be the ultimate social problem because the impact of an asteroid 

or comet fragment may place entire societies and even entire civilizations in 

grave peril. The human species and individuals are in danger, of course, but 

so are societies and their cultures. In this case, a space phenomenon becomes 

relevant to societies due to the very real threat of the survival of human 

beings along with their social systems and cultures. The field of astrosociology 

becomes relevant in this regard in terms of identifying this problem in a new 

context for those within the space community. In addition, it becomes relevant because of its contributions for reducing the potential consequences of 

this problem in collaboration with space-community experts. The problems 

posed involve astrosocial phenomena both in the sense of human beings recognizing the problem and societies (not just people) trying to devise solutions 

to protect themselves. Solutions will require collaboration between experts 

in the social science and space communities that include making tradeoffs 

between optimal protection schemes and practical implementations based on 

complex socioeconomic variables.

Although the general likelihood of an asteroid striking Earth that is capable of destroying societies and threatening the human species is not high at 

any given moment, the likelihood of a strike by a society-killer or even a 

civilization-killer is approximately 1 in 20,000 (based on an estimate by David 

Morrison).48 This is similar to the odds that an individual has of dying in a 

plane crash—more likely than dying in a tornado or from a bite or sting from 

an insect, but less likely than dying in a car crash or from electrocution.49 If a 

nation were devastated by a cosmic impact during the next two generations, it 

would certainly represent a stroke of bad luck. However, that it will occur at 

some point in the future is a fact.

If the threat is indeed real and inevitable, even if we cannot predict when 

it will occur, then we have an obligation to address the problem. As I wrote 

in 2006: 

48. David Morrison as cited in Jim Pass, “Applied Astrosociology: The New Imperative 

to Protect Earth and Human Societies,” American Institute of Aeronautics and 

Astronautics Space Conference & Exposition Proceedings (AIAA 2006-7511) (2006), 3, 

doi: 10.2514/6.2006-7511 (accessed 14 March 2012).

49. Ibid. 
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 561

The proposal offered here will change societies around the world in ways 

unseen in the past. This new strategy represents an ideal type (i.e., the extreme 

form of implementation). The ideal type represents the best system humanity 

can produce to detect, defend, and survive any threat by any object regardless 

of reaction time or cost to implement. Meeting the requirements of ideal type 

would be impossibly expensive and require an outrageously large infrastructure, so we must decide as individual societies and as a species how close we 

wish to approximate this model of the “perfect” planetary defense system.50

The perfect plan—one that would protect all of a society’s social and cultural 

assets, including vital ideas and physical structures—could never become 

reality. Its exorbitant cost and cutting-edge technology to implement it would 

prove prohibitive. Anything built represents some sort of compromise from 

the ideal type, something that will fall far short of the perfect system.

I proposed a three-stage plan of protection that includes 1) detection; 

2) defense, and, if all else fails; 3) survival.51 For the most part, the space 

community addresses the first two components of the plan while the third 

component rarely receives its due attention. We tend to strive for a perfect 

detection system coupled with a perfect defensive system, although detection 

schemes receive most of the attention. When the experts realize that anything 

rivaling perfection is impossible, they rarely take the next step of planning 

for the survival of the social and cultural structures that shape our sense of 

social reality. The astrosociological approach will hopefully change this mainstream approach in line with a greater concentration on the survival component of the overall defense system. This includes the reactions of populations 

to the announced threat of a cosmic impact.52 Government agencies must 

prepare themselves.

The comprehensive, three-prong strategy that I propose combines the space 

community and the astrosociology community in a way that becomes mutually beneficial for each one as well as for the overall project. If we committed 

to a global strategy, ethical concerns (a specialty of social scientists) would 

inevitably arise. For example, what types of contributions would developing 

nations make if they could not provide financing? Perhaps they could provide 

land, labor, or other resources if pieces of the system needed placing within 

50. Pass, “Applied Astrosociology,” 7. 

51. Ibid., 8. 

52. Albert A. Harrison, “Psychological Factors Influencing Responses to Major Near Earth 

Object Impacts,” 2004 Planetary Defense Conference: Protecting Earth from Asteroids

(AIAA 2004-1462) doi: 10.2514/6.2004-1462.
562 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

their borders.53 If a developing nation were the target of a rogue space object 

whose impact had no global repercussions, would developed nations spend 

the resources to attempt an interception? Astrosociologists can bring insights 

and research methods that enhance the planning of a planetary defense system 

in an additive way to the normal concerns of space professionals.

We must come to terms with the fact that we are a fragile species living 

on a fragile planet. This fragility extends to our societies and their cultures. 

With this in mind, it becomes rather obvious that we need to protect our 

species and our planet; but we must also protect our societies and our cultures to the best of our abilities. The expertise in the areas of social systems, 

cultures, and human behavior—as related to space—falls under the purview 

of astrosociology. Acknowledgment of the value of the social science perspective to this field of study does indeed occur from time to time.54 The problem lies in the formal cooperation with social scientists on an ongoing basis. 

Astrosociologists become valuable partners when uniting the survival component with the other two. Together with experts in the space community, 

astrosociologists specializing in this area can better understand the problem 

and thereby develop practical solutions in a cooperative manner. Passing on 

the problem to future generations is arguably irresponsible, considering we 

possess the science, knowledge, and technology to provide at least partial 

solutions today.

Transformation into Spacefaring Societies55

Social change is probably the most fundamental law of both sociology and 

astrosociology. We cannot always predict the course of the change, but we can 

state emphatically that change will occur as time passes. We can try to make 

predictions and adjustments, however, based on what happened in the past 

compared with how things operate today. One prediction that makes sense in 

the midst of accelerating social change based largely on innovations in science 

and technology concerns the role of space exploration. Are we moving toward 

a spacefaring society in the United States or something else? Failed social systems have shown us that although progress is common, it is never assured.56

53. Pass, “Applied Astrosociology.”

54. Ibid. 

55. For a general discussion, see Jim Pass and Albert A. Harrison, “Shifting from Airports to 

Spaceports: An Astrosociological Model of Social Change toward Spacefaring Societies,” 

American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics Space Conference & Exposition Proceedings

(AIAA 2007-6067) (2007), doi: 10.2514/6.2007-6067 (accessed 15 March 2012).

56. Jim Pass, “An Astrosociological Perspective on Space-Capable vs. Spacefaring Societies,” 

Physics Procedia 20 (2011): 369–384, doi: 10.1016/j.phpro.2011.08.033.
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 563

Nevertheless, one could easily argue that the movement toward a spacefaring 

society is exceptionally plausible given the trends of the twentieth century. It 

is an argument that finds support here.

The United States and the few other nations capable of spaceflight on 

their own accord do not exemplify spacefaring societies as many laypersons, 

dictionaries, and space professionals commonly define it. This characterization only implies that they are examples of what I have termed space-capable 

societies, those that possess at least the capacity to reach low-Earth orbit.57 The 

mere ability to reach space successfully represents a minimum requirement—

merely a starting point: “All social scientists [i.e., astrosociologists] should 

reserve the term spacefaring society for properly characterizing the transformation of an entire social system that reaches a threshold in which a specific set 

of social and cultural characteristics exist.”58 In other words, a spacefaring 

society would represent a new set of socioeconomic conditions in which contemporary developed nations change from postindustrial organization to one 

significantly and closely intertwined with space. 

Thus astrosocial phenomena affect a spacefaring society in all aspects of its 

functioning. That is, all social institutions incorporate space into their daily 

operations. Even foreign policy involves space-based cooperative and conflict 

negotiations. Space policy comes to the forefront:

A unique set of social conditions typifies a spacefaring society. Every major 

institution is highly involved in some way with carrying out space policy as 

a high priority, and thus space law is well developed. A space-based economy 

flourishes, for example. Astrosocial phenomena are highly pervasive and vital 

for the society’s survival. Space issues are intertwined in a multitude of ways 

into the everyday social interactions taking place in subcultures, social groups, 

organizations, and institutions. The larger culture reflects the importance 

of astrosocial phenomena through their incorporation as highly important 

values, strong norms protecting them, and their omnipresence in a spacedominated material culture.59

Again, while there is no guarantee for the long-term transformation into a 

spacefaring society, it is arguably a likely scenario unless dystopian social conditions intervene. One should be careful not to view spacefaring societies as 

utopias, either. While social conditions will improve, significant social problems will likely remain with solutions continuing as works in progress.

57. Pass, “Inaugural Essay, Part Two,” 2. 

58. Ibid., 15. 

59. Pass, “Inaugural Essay, Part Two,” 17–18. 
564 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

One social pattern that seems rather obvious (and referenced earlier in 

this chapter) involves a new reliance on space for successful commerce. The 

entire economic system would involve space-based activities closely related 

to terrestrial activities. Astrosocial phenomena would be ubiquitous in everyday social life. The mining of asteroids for use on Earth (but also for space 

societies) is just one example of this.60 Early on, a space tourism industry 

could conceivably develop into a large industry that helps establish the path 

toward a spacefaring future. The privatization of space will be critical, as will 

the guidance of government regulations that attempt to create a stable regulatory environment and a fair “marketplace” that serve at least some of the 

interests of the nation. Private industry and government (including NASA) 

will need to improve their working relationships even more strongly, as each 

possesses different, though complementary, characteristics and capabilities. 

Space advocacy groups will need to recognize this and develop more mainstream personas within the population of any particular society moving along 

the path toward a spacefaring future.

Societies in the Space Age continue to change partly due to astrosocial 

forces. From the time that the Soviet Union employed societal resources to 

achieve sending Sputnik into space in 1957, the scientific and technological innovations that developed were adapted to solving problems on Earth, 

including the improvement of the standard of living for space-capable nations. 

Efforts to send mammals and then a human into space in 1961 increased the 

transfer of space-based innovations to terrestrial uses. The history of the Space 

Age is replete with examples of technology transfers and spinoffs resulting 

in products and processes that improved the social conditions of societies 

around the world. The very movement toward a spacefaring society promises 

to continue and probably accelerate this socioeconomic pattern.

Astrosociologists represent the proper scientists to study these types of 

emerging patterns. Space scientists and engineers focus on issues that have 

traditionally ignored astrosocial phenomena, as they should, given the purpose of their work and the history of separation from the social science community. Even so, this does not imply that astrosociological issues are irrelevant 

to the space community, and certainly not to the societies in which their work 

occurs. This fact demonstrates only that different scientists concentrate on 

their own traditional areas of study, and relationships between the social and 

natural sciences tend to remain separated from one another.

Aerospace workers and NASA employees conduct activities that fall 

into the category of astrosocial phenomena, another demonstration of the 

60. For a full discussion, see John S. Lewis, Mining the Sky: Untold Riches from the Asteroids, 

Comets, and Planets (New York: Basic Books, 1996).
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 565

relationship between members of the space community and astrosociology. 

As such, both greater understanding and planning result from a formal collaborative structure between space researchers from the social sciences and 

those from the natural sciences—that is, between those within the astrosociology community and the space community as we currently recognize 

them. It is indisputable that space exploration affects societies on Earth. It 

is also indisputable that social scientists possess the expertise in the area of 

human behavior. Space scientists, engineers, and architects possess knowledge 

exclusive to the space community. Thus, each community provides insights 

unique to its distinctive perspective. By bringing the two together, we achieve 

insights never attainable within one community or the other. The development of astrosociology within the social sciences and as a collaborative field 

with the space community can finally provide realization of this potential.

Although this wisdom is not new, it deserves mention in this context. We 

must expand to explore the unknown as a society, even as a civilization and 

ultimately as a species, or we shall meet the same fate as past societies that 

failed to do so. We will perish from Earth and make no human impact on the 

universe beyond our home planet. Students of history know this, and sociologists and other social scientists know this, yet the bulk of our population may 

not take it to heart; and most politicians—who control the resources and set 

the tone through the regulatory environment they create—may lack the longterm vision necessary to move in a direction consistent with the development 

of a spacefaring society. Astrosociologists can provide policymakers with historical data about past failures and informed advice about how to proceed 

in the future as space exploration becomes more and more entrenched in 

everyday social life.

Astrosociological Ties to Astrobiology and SETI

The contemporary search for extraterrestrial (nonhuman) life reflects the 

greatest level of sophistication yet of an investigation into the one question that has generated great curiosity and speculation within human minds 

throughout history: Are we alone in the universe? Never before have human 

beings delved into an organized search for life elsewhere in our galaxy with the 

current unprecedented utilization of science and technology. On an objective 

basis, either a positive or negative answer is monumental, although it seems 

that ruling out extraterrestrial life is an impossible task. The actual discovery 

of extraterrestrial life, on the other hand, would hit humanity over the head 

like an asteroid plummeting to Earth.

What does astrosociology have to do with astrobiology and SETI? Probably 

the main aspect of this relationship deals with the fact that the search for 
566 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

nonhuman extraterrestrial life in the cosmos, whether successful or not, possesses social and cultural implications—and that societal effects are too rarely 

investigated.61 Although social scientists have made important strides in this 

area, the nature of the exploration of this relationship will become more rigorous with the development of astrosociology. Assuming that astrosociology 

attains even a glimmer of the popularity of astrobiology, a greater understanding of this relationship should develop. The outcomes of these studies that 

combine the two fields will present us with new benefits. A brief discussion of 

some key issues should suffice to demonstrate several of the interconnections 

between astrobiology and astrosociology. The social-scientific dimension has 

much to contribute; much more than it was able to offer during the first 

50 years of the Space Age—largely because humanity is posed to increase its 

presence in space in the twenty-first century.

Starting in the twentieth century, hope has increased regarding the likelihood of the existence of extraterrestrial life.62 And within the past decade 

or so, the prospect for detection of extraterrestrial life has grown even more 

dramatically. In Earth’s most inhospitable environments, we recently began 

to find a surprising characteristic of terrestrial life that challenges previous 

assumptions. Life on Earth seems much more determined to survive than 

previously assumed, as we find it thriving in environments once thought 

to be inhospitable to living organisms: “Terrestrial extremophiles or organisms adapted to live in extreme conditions demonstrate that life is far more 

tenacious than previously believed. They include tubeworms that represent 

life not dependent on the Sun’s energy, discovered deep on the ocean floor,” 

and others that live in caves and other extreme terrestrial biosphere niches.63

Investigators have also discovered life in other environments. We now know 

that hearty organisms exist in harsh places that include the rods of nuclear 

power plants, acidic lakes, and boiling hot springs.64 These extremophiles 

provide researchers with a greater expectation that extraterrestrial organisms 

could demonstrate the same tenacity. Is our galaxy devoid of any type of life? 

Many astrobiologists believe it unlikely with the discovery of extremophiles as 

61. Pass, “Astrosociological Implications of Astrobiology (Revisited)”; Steven J. Dick, 

“Cultural Aspects of Astrobiology,” in When SETI Succeeds: The Impact of HighInformation Contact, ed. Allen Tough,(Bellevue, WA: Foundation for the Future, 2000), 

pp. 145–152; Albert A. Harrison, After Contact: The Human Response to Extraterrestrial 

Life (New York: Perseus Publishing, 1997).

62. See Steven J. Dick, The Biological Universe: The Twentieth Century Extraterrestrial Life 

Debate and the Limits of Science (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Pass, 

“Astrosociological Implications of Astrobiology (Revisited).”

63. Pass, “Astrosociological Implications of Astrobiology (Revisited).”

64. Pass, “Astrosociological Implications of Astrobiology (Revisited).”
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 567

well as amino acids and various organic compounds floating in nebulae and 

other environments. But the absence of direct proof still prevails.

SETI, now considered part of astrobiology, concentrates on the loftier goal 

of detecting intelligent extraterrestrial life. This brings up related questions to 

the one posited earlier: Are we the only intelligent beings in the Milky Way 

galaxy? Even more profoundly, are we the only intelligent beings in the entire 

universe? The growing number of extrasolar planets, most notably “super 

Earths,” discovered by astronomers and cosmologists, provides greater hope 

for the existence of beings who can build civilizations that produce a significant level of science and technology capable of creating radio signals, including television and radio broadcasts. If such civilizations exist, the likelihood 

is that they will possess social, scientific, and technological characteristics far 

advanced of us.

The search itself affects human beings, societies, science, and technology 

in positive ways. Allen Tough,65 who coined the modern usage of the term 

astrosociology and inspired me to begin development of the new field, wrote 

about the positive social consequences of SETI in 1995. Among other things, 

he pointed out that SETI causes humanity to contemplate a host of significant questions:

For some people both inside and outside the SETI community, the concrete 

search activities trigger thought and discussion of the following questions. 

Who is out there? What are they like, what are their fundamental values and 

priorities, where are they heading, what do they know about us, and what sorts 

of detectable communications might they be using? What role will they play 

in our long-term future? Might some extraterrestrials be so alien, so deeply 

weird, that we cannot even imagine their thought patterns, communications, 

and behavior? Where is cosmic evolution heading, and where is human civilization heading?66

How humanity deals with questions concerning extraterrestrial life reflects 

back on humanity. Therefore, this is a serious area of scientific investigation 

and research (from both an astrobiological and astrosociological perspective) 

and it is unrelated to a search for “little green men.”67 It addresses humanity’s 

relationship to the rest of the universe and various other astrosociological 

65. Allen Tough, “Positive Consequences of SETI Before Detection,” preprint of paper IAA-95- 

IAA.9.2.06 for the 46th International Astronautical Congress, October 1995, Oslo, Norway, 

http://www.astrosociology.org/Library/PDF/Positive%20Consequences%20of%20SETI%

20Before%20Detection.pdf (accessed 18 March 2012).

66. Ibid., 2–3. 

67. Harrison, “Overcoming the Image of Little Green Men.” 
568 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

issues such as whether a particular society’s attention is directed inward or 

toward the cosmos. An inward outlook results in a greater focus on terrestrial social problems approached with terrestrial solutions, for example, and 

a reduced focus on space activities. The decreased impact of astrosocial phenomena that occurs under this scenario tends to slow progress toward transforming a space-capable society into a spacefaring society. 

The connection between astrobiology and astrosociology relates most fundamentally to the fact that the very exercise of conducting astrobiological and 

SETI research is fundamentally a category of human behavior, an important 

part of the astrosociology’s purview.

As soon as we begin to discuss astrobiological issues, including SETI, we inevitably begin to consider social and cultural issues. The search for life of any 

variety inevitably creates repercussions for societies and their citizens. Space 

scientists (e.g., astrobiologists, planetary geologists, even aerospace engineers) 

discuss astrosociological issues when attempting to explain (or justify) their 

efforts to the public. We can see it in many of the documentaries focusing 

on alien life...aired on television and in the other media. Thus, astrobiological issues possess fundamental, and thus unavoidable, astrosociological implications. The common questions bring this home. First, are we alone in the 

universe? Where do we fit into the big cosmological picture? Is it important 

for us to seek answers in an organized way? What happens to our societies 

if we discover extraterrestrial intelligence? Alternatively, what happens even 

if we “only” discover microbial life? The two subdisciplines are intertwined. 

Cultural and social considerations from a [astro]sociological perspective are 

imperative additions to considerations currently discussed by those from 

the [space community]. Again, it is the development of a multidisciplinary 

approach that provides [the] greatest potential for achieving our greatest level 

of understanding.68

Regarding the last point, along with the other areas of specialization, then, 

this area of research should involve a strong collaboration between astrobiologists and SETI researchers from within the space community and those 

astrosociologists who specialize in these areas. Astrobiology and SETI will 

likely become a major specialization within the field of astrosociology for 

social scientists, as many already study these issues as individual investigators.

68. Jim Pass, “The Sociology of SETI: An Astrosociological Perspective” (2005), 16–17, http://

www.astrosociology.org/Library/PDF/submissions/Sociology%20of%20SETI.pdf (accessed 18 

March 2012).
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 569

Detection of extraterrestrial life would alter the human condition as we 

know it. The human reaction would vary by culture and more finely by subculture. The leaders of societies in their various capacities must be careful not 

to underestimate the impact of positive detection:

There are important questions about the days, weeks, and months after detection, then the intervening years as we get used to the idea that we are not 

alone, and then the long-term consequences, which will mirror in their significance the discoveries of Galileo, Newton, and Darwin. These questions 

embrace most fields of human endeavor. They are of obvious import for science. However, the point of this meeting is to examine the broader societal 

issues, and so focus on human behavior. Key areas are anthropology, sociology, 

and individual, group, and social psychology. Reactions will vary according 

to the social attributes of individuals, and the social, economic, and political contexts within which the discovery has occurred. Other important questions are the history of analogous events in our past; political, institutional, 

international, governmental and legal affairs; the effects on different organized 

and diffuse religions; the media; and education. There are broad cultural and 

ethical issues.69

The implications quoted here demonstrate that many social scientists actually conducted what amounts to astrosociological research before the establishment of the field—and the same is true for the other specializations of 

astrosociology. Furthermore, it points to at least a certain level of interest by 

NASA in astrosociological issues, as it sponsored this conference held at Ames 

Research Center back in 1999.

Authorities will need to prepare themselves for outbursts of hysteria, joy, 

violence, and a host of different emotional reactions. Religious groups, as well 

as other types of groups, will vary in terms of how they react and whether 

they even accept the findings that indicate extraterrestrial life.70 Detection 

may even accelerate the growth of space programs of various societies. It may 

unite humanity a bit more closely than the past. Conversely, it may have the 

opposite effect if some nations reject the findings and separate themselves 

69. Albert A. Harrison and Kathleen Connell, eds., Workshop on the Societal Implications of 

Astrobiology: Final Report (Mountain View, CA: Ames Research Center, NASA Technical 

Memorandum, 1999), 47, http://astrobiology.arc.nasa.gov/workshops/societal/societal_report.

pdf (accessed 18 March 2012).

70. See Douglas A. Vakoch, “Roman Catholic Views of Extraterrestrial Intelligence: 

Anticipating the Future by Examining the Past,” in When SETI Succeeds, ed. Allen Tough 

(Bellevue, WA: Foundation for the Future, 2000, pp. 165–174; Douglas A. Vakoch and 

Y. S. Lee, “Reactions to Receipt of a Message from Extraterrestrial Intelligence: A CrossCultural Empirical Study,” Acta Astronautica 46, no. 10–12 (2000): 737–744. 
570 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

from nations that accept the existence of extraterrestrial life. We can expect 

a heightened level of social conflict and other reactions that require study. 

“Astrosociology can...help us understand how various agencies and organizations (alone or in combination) are likely to react to discovery.”71 Another 

area of interest relates to how we respond to a message from an extraterrestrial 

intelligence. What type of responding message(s) do we send back? Do we 

respond at all? What happens if some entities (including nations) want to 

respond and others do not? Each of these issues requires continuing theorization and investigation by social scientists—that is, by astrosociologists 

and collaborating organizations and individual researchers. As with the other 

areas of specialization, collaboration with space scientists and engineers will 

undoubtedly result in innovative ideas and approaches to the search.

The relationship between astrobiology and astrosociology exists because 

the social interactions carried out by humans to accomplish the search for 

extraterrestrial life are based on a set of organized social structures coupled 

with a subculture focused on seeking out life in the universe. Even without an 

announcement of success forthcoming in the near future, and even without 

consideration of the implications if such an announcement became a reality, 

the very attempt to seek out life in an organized manner merits the attention of astrosociologists from a number of disciplines, including sociology, 

psychology, anthropology, and history. If this is the case, astrosociology must 

investigate this behavior along with the implications of long-term failure and, 

of course, success. The social and cultural implications of this work make it 

too important to ignore. In fact, it is imperative that astrosociologists participate alongside their space-community counterparts to attain comprehensive 

knowledge; both for its own sake and for practical application should some 

type of reaction prove necessary.

Conclusions

The astrosociological perspective brings the social sciences into the Space Age 

by fostering the creation and development of a field dedicated to the study 

of the impact of space exploration. That is, astrosociology precisely focuses 

on the social, cultural, and behavioral effects of space exploration (that is, 

astrosocial phenomena). Created in 2004, it continues today to investigate 

the issues related to forms of astrosocial phenomena neglected in the past. 

Although we are far behind where we should be in understanding these 

issues, we have nonetheless begun to address them in a formal and organized 

71. Albert A. Harrison, “The Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence: Astrosociology and 

Cultural Aspects,” Astropolitics (Special Issue: Astrosociology) 9, no. 1 (2011), 74.
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 571

manner—an approach that is more than 50 years overdue. And while no one 

advocates that all social scientists and humanities scholars who focus on space 

issues should become astrosociologists, those who do take this new path will 

benefit by the coordination of effort and recognition of their work, not to 

mention the satisfaction of conducting pioneering work.

The seemingly coincidental events of 1) bridging the great divide (collaboration), and 2) developing astrosociology demonstrate that the “societal 

impact of spaceflight and space exploration” represents an extremely timely 

topic for scientists interested in outer space from within both the space and 

social science communities. Applied astrosociology will prove itself invaluable 

as space missions begin to involve large crews, long-duration spaceflights, and 

isolated space environments (e.g., space societies). Social problems on Earth 

and in space will experience at least partial amelioration as well. Theoretical 

astrosociology will posit the roots of social change produced by astrosocial 

forces related to areas of social life such as space law72 and ideas in culture. 

(Regarding the latter, a good example involves to the connections between 

the Apollo Moon landings and folk beliefs that were common in a number 

of different subcultures around the world.)73 Because tangible benefits, or 

simply the knowledge gained, exist on Earth as well as in space, astrosociology 

is relevant to humans in both past and contemporary societies. Before there 

was spaceflight, there was astronomy that produced astrosocial phenomena, 

which in turn impacted on ancient cultures.

Although the great divide between the social sciences and the space community spans nearly the entire length of the Space Age, this has changed in 

recent years. The permanent development of astrosociology creates a recognizable and relevant field for space scientists, engineers, academic researchers, 

space advocates, and the public. Astrosociology can serve to bind the social 

science and space communities together by providing a new field that involves 

the fundamental elements of both camps. A real need exists for the creation of 

a permanent collaborative structure between the two so that space scientists, 

engineers, and other space professionals can take advantage of astrosociological knowledge and astrosociologists can take advantage of space-related 

knowledge. Collaboration allows each side of the divide to increase its level 

of knowledge about astrosocial phenomena—the interrelationship between 

space phenomena and social/cultural phenomena.

72. Christopher M. Hearsey, “The Nexus Between Law and Astrosociology,” Astropolitics

(Special Issue: Astrosociology) 9, no. 1 (2011): 28–38.

73. For example, see Virgiliu Pop, “Space Exploration and Folk Beliefs on Climate Change,” 

Astropolitics (Special Issue: Astrosociology) 9, no. 1 (2011): 50–62.
572 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

An added benefit for the space community relates to the movement of 

astrosociologists into the space community as planners alongside their 

space-community counterparts so that social-scientific knowledge becomes 

available for practical application to missions and projects. With the space 

agencies and professional associations within the space community finally 

acknowledging the importance of astrosociological issues for themselves as 

well as for societies around the world, the time to develop astrosociology 

within both the space and social science communities now makes sense for 

everyone. Astrosociology can bridge the two communities by emphasizing 

the integration of space science and social science in the study and planning 

of future missions.74 Astrosociology can serve as a uniting force resulting in a 

formal collaborative structure between the natural sciences and social sciences 

in the particular area of space research.

The societal impact of spaceflight and space exploration has increased as 

the Space Age has continued, with a surge of influences during the Apollo 

era and the two preparatory programs preceding it. Before that, humans 

contemplated their place in the universe and the possibility of life beyond 

Earth. These ideas have affected cultural development in past societies, and 

remnants still exist in contemporary cultures around the world. Today, current programs such as the International Space Station (ISS) and the Cassini 

mission continue to influence social change. Having celebrated the 50th 

anniversary of the Space Age, the influences of space exploration will only 

increase if we continue to follow a similar pattern into the distant future. A 

radical change in the future involves adding the social sciences to mainstream 

space research, which represent the other side of the coin known as “space 

exploration.” Future endeavors will receive advantages from the greater level 

of comprehensiveness gained through the cooperation between the two major 

scientific branches.

Unless we plan to send only robots to Mars for the unforeseeable future, 

we must assume that human exploration will occur, including the need for 

human beings to live there. That is, assuming that private spaceflight increases 

and NASA eventually intends to send human beings beyond low-Earth orbit 

to the Moon, Mars, and beyond, then we must initiate a scheme looking 

seriously at astrosociological issues in space, not to mention doing something 

about our continuing ignorance of how space exploration affects societies 

existing on Earth. Social science research requires the participation of trained 

social scientists (including astrosociologists) rather than continuing to rely on 

74. For more details, see Jim Pass, “Developing Astrosociology for the Space Sciences”(2006), 

http://astrosociology.org/Library/PDF/submissions/Developing%20Astrosociology.pdf

(accessed 18 March 2012).
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 573

speculative declarations unsupported by proper empirical investigation. To 

address this need, we need to train astrosociologists.

Astrosociology exists precisely to study the societal impact of space exploration and spaceflight. No doubt should exist about the relevance of this new 

multidisciplinary field despite arguments to the contrary. What critics usually 

fail to appreciate is the fact that the societal impact of space exploration and 

spaceflight currently affects terrestrial societies most strongly. It is true that 

the ISS houses an ongoing crew of six or fewer for a sustained period, and the 

average stay of any particular crew member lasts only six months. However, 

the experience and data acquired onboard the ISS have produced invaluable 

astrosocial knowledge for human societies on Earth in addition to that for 

future space missions. Moreover, the space program in the United States has 

contributed in innumerable ways to the character of social life, including the 

high standard of living and quality of life. It has contributed to the accelerated pace of social change and will most probably continue to do so on an 

even more pronounced basis. Those involved in projects for the space program work on the planet Earth and contribute significantly to the economy 

and other societal dimensions as posited in this chapter.

Even 50 years represents only a tiny blip in the existence of humanity. 

Nevertheless, we find ourselves close to the point in which the procedures 

that made past missions possible, including the Moon landing, can no longer 

do so for missions beyond our nearest neighbor. We will need to adapt, and 

we should employ astrosociologists to assist in the planning and evaluations 

of mission details. All the while, our societies will likely continue to change 

in new and unexpected ways that bring us closer to a spacefaring societal 

structure. How do we know when that point in our history arrives? What are 

its important characteristics? What does this mean for humanity? Answers to 

such questions will come from astrosociologists.

When space exploration increases to the point at which human beings 

live in space on a more sustained or permanent basis, terrestrial societies will 

experience the effects—but so will human space societies. Space travel and 

exploration will become normal aspects of social life carried out by Earthlings 

living in multiple locations. Earth societies will take on increasingly spacefaring characteristics. Moreover, an additional element will develop. Space societies on planetary bodies and within space-based habitats will denote the spread 

of humanity beyond Earth. These human beings may regard themselves as a 

type of human being, although not necessarily Earthlings. They will probably 

move along new evolutionary paths due to differences in gravity, radiation, 
574 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

other conditions, and even genetic manipulation.75 Humans may come to 

regard themselves as Martians, for example, and thus evaluate themselves as 

something quite different.

As implied throughout this overall discussion, the societal impacts of 

spaceflight and space exploration will most likely increase as the twenty-first 

century advances. Human populations will find themselves increasingly distant, and thus isolated, from the bulk of humanity living on Earth. Logically, 

it seems that we should prepare for this eventuality by learning the greatest 

number of lessons possible before venturing too far into the cosmos.76 Critics 

of spaceflight often argue that these types of ventures are unsustainable and 

too dangerous for humans. We should determine early on if this is correct 

or discover the limitations of human biology if living in space is possible. 

In doing so, we can apply those lessons to new social environments beyond 

Earth. More important for humanity, these lessons will also find application 

in social life in terrestrial societies. As we move toward spacefaring societies 

and a potential single spacefaring human civilization, the knowledge accumulated in this area will prove invaluable.

In large measure, the message of this chapter relates to the proposition 

that spaceflight and space exploration already impact positively on terrestrial human societies, and furthermore that these sorts of impacts, along with 

those of new categories, will impact humanity throughout the solar system in 

the years to come. This list provides a partial summary of the benefits of space 

exploration from an astrosociological perspective. Through space exploration, 

we investigate (among other things):

1. the structure of the universe and other matters via the space sciences;

2. ways of improving technologies to study space phenomena, leading to 

social change that improves social conditions on Earth;

3. better methods of understanding Earth and thereby formulating better 

solutions for protecting it into the future;

4. new ways to ameliorate seemingly intractable social problems of 

all types;

5. how to utilize space technologies for societal applications (i.e., technology transfers and spinoffs);

75. For example, see Dawn L. Strongin and E.K. Reese, “Earthlings on Mars: The Physiological 

Psychology of Cultural Change, in Living in Space: Cultural Dynamics, Opportunities, and 

Challenges in Permanent Space Habitats, eds. Sherry Bell and Langdon Morris (ATWG: 

[self-published], 2009).

76. Jim Pass, “Moon Bases As Initial ‘Space Society’ Trials: Utilizing Astrosociology to Make 

Space Settlements Livable,” Space Technology and Applications International Forum (STAIF) 

Conference Proceedings 880, no. 1 (2007): 806–813, http://astrosociology.org/Library/PDF/

STAIF2007_Moon%20Base.pdf (accessed 19 March 2012).
An Astrosociological Perspective on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight 575

6. how human beings can reshape space environments through the construction of both physical environments and social environments that 

characterize space societies;

7. the future of our terrestrial societies (including movement toward a 

spacefaring future);

8. the possibility of extraterrestrial life (both simple and intelligent) 

beyond Earth;

9. and, ultimately, how well humans function biologically and socially 

beyond Earth.

The lessons we learn in these areas of investigation, as the last item implies, 

teach us in the end about who we are as members of particular societies and 

as members of the humanity. Are we destined to remain on Earth without 

exploring space? What if the conditions on our planet deteriorate and finally 

fail to sustain us?

So why should contemporary societies allocate serious resources to explore 

outer space? Perhaps the most important reason from an astrosociological perspective relates to the idea that the exploration of space in all of its manifestations produces benefits for societies that invest in such ventures. In contrast, 

societies that have forsaken expansion in some form of exploration eventually find themselves on the decline and possibly on their way to extinction. 

Space exploration shapes space-capable societies more strongly because of its 

impact on their cultures, including national pride and excitement generated 

by the exploration itself. But the impact of space exploration also positively 

affects humanity as a whole. Even citizens of developing countries ultimately 

benefit in numerous ways. Space exploration affects all of humanity due to a 

multitude of different forces it creates, including technological innovations, 

scientific discoveries, inspirational mission successes, and the potential to 

bring together nations in cooperation despite disagreements in other areas 

of social life. It provides developing states with the opportunity to join the 

world of nations in a way that would prove impossible on their own. The very 

existence of astrosocial phenomena means that social scientists need to study 

them. Beyond gaining new knowledge, there are also practical benefits. With 

the assistance of astrosociologists, it becomes possible to identify problems, 

devise solutions, and implement them more readily, and to share them among 

all of humanity’s nation-states more quickly and justly.

Humanity has only begun to experience the positive effects of space exploration. Even so, our understanding of astrosocial phenomena continues to 

lag far behind the impact of their contemporary and historical influences 

due to the historical absence of the field now known as astrosociology. While 

we must therefore continue to pursue space exploration for all the reasons 
576 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

provided in this chapter and elsewhere; we must also expand our study of its 

effects from an astrosociological perspective in an earnest manner. After all, 

human spaceflight is ultimately about humans—a fact we must continue to 

bear in mind as the effects of space impact more forcefully on humanity at all 

levels of social reality as the twenty-first century unfolds, whether individuals 

live in space or on Earth.
577

About the Authors

William Sims Bainbridge earned his doctorate from Harvard University with 

a dissertation on the space program, published as The Spaceflight Revolution. 

He is the author of 21 books, 4 textbook-software packages, and about 250 

shorter publications in the social science of technology, information science, 

and culture. Goals in Space was a questionnaire study of motivations for space 

exploration, Dimensions of Science Fiction explored popular conceptions of the 

future in space, and The Virtual Future (2011) considered some computerenabled alternatives if human spaceflight proves too costly. Among his recent 

projects are editing The Encyclopedia of Human Computer Interaction (2004) 

and coediting Nanotechnology: Societal Implications—Improving Benefits for 

Humanity (2006), Managing Nano-Bio-Info-Cogno Innovations: Converging 

Technologies in Society (2006), Progress in Convergence (2006), and Leadership 

in Science and Technology (2012). Bainbridge represented the social sciences 

on five advanced technology initiatives at the National Science Foundation: 

High Performance Computing and Communications, Knowledge and 

Distributed Intelligence, Digital Libraries, Information Technology Research, 

and Nanotechnology. He also represented computer and information science on the Nanotechnology and Human and Social Dynamics initiatives, 

among others. 

Andrew Butrica earned a doctorate in the history of technology and science from Iowa State University in 1986. He was a Chercheur Associé at the 

Center for Research in the History of Science and Technology (Centre de 

Recherches en Histoire des Sciences et Techniques) at the Cité des Sciences 

et de l’Industrie in Paris before embarking on a career as a research historian. 

Among other books, he has written To See the Unseen (1996), which won the 

Leopold Prize of the Organization of American Historians, and Single Stage 

to Orbit: Politics, Space Technology, and the Quest for Reusable Rocketry (2003), 

a history of the Reagan Revolution and the DC-X experimental rocket, 

which won the 2005 Michael C. Robinson Prize of the National Council on 
578 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Public History. More recently, Butrica has written monographs on NASA’s 

role in the manufacture of integrated circuits during the Apollo era and the 

Agency’s contributions to the early history of microelectromechanical systems 

(MEMS). Currently, he is writing a history of NASA’s deep space navigation. 

Steven J. Dick served as NASA Chief Historian and Director of the NASA 

History Office from 2003–2009, as the 2011–2012 Charles A. Lindbergh 

Chair in Aerospace History at the National Air and Space Museum, and 

as the 2013–2014 Baruch S. Blumberg NASA–Library of Congress Chair 

in Astrobiology. He obtained his bachelor’s degree in astrophysics (1971) 

and his master’s and doctoral degrees (1977) in history and the philosophy 

of science from Indiana University. He worked as an astronomer and historian of science at the U.S. Naval Observatory in Washington, DC, for 

24 years, including 3 years on a mountaintop in New Zealand, before joining 

NASA in 2003. Among his books are Plurality of Worlds: The Origins of the 

Extraterrestrial Life Debate from Democritus to Kant (1982) (translated into 

French), The Biological Universe: The Twentieth Century Extraterrestrial Life 

Debate and the Limits of Science (1996), and Life on Other Worlds (1998), 

the latter translated into Chinese, Czech, Greek, Italian, and Polish. Dick’s 

most recent books are (with James Strick) The Living Universe: NASA and 

the Development of Astrobiology (2004) and a comprehensive history of the 

U.S. Naval Observatory, Sky and Ocean Joined: The U.S. Naval Observatory, 

1830–2000 (2003). The latter received the Pendleton Prize of the Society for 

History in the Federal Government. 

Dick is also editor of Many Worlds: The New Universe, Extraterrestrial 

Life, and the Theological Implications (2000); (with Keith Cowing) Risk and 

Exploration: Earth, Sea, and Stars (2005); (with Roger Launius) Critical 

Issues in the History of Spaceflight (2006) and Societal Impact of Spaceflight

(2007); Remembering the Space Age (2008); (with Mark Lupisella) Cosmos 

and Culture: Cultural Evolution in a Cosmic Context (2009); and NASA’s First 

50Years: Historical Perspectives (2010). His book Discovery and Classification in 

Astronomy: Controversy and Consensus was published by Cambridge University 

Press in 2013. He is the recipient of the Navy Meritorious Civilian Service 

Medal, the NASA Exceptional Service Medal, the NASA Group Achievement 

Award for his role in NASA’s multidisciplinary program in astrobiology, 

and the 2006 LeRoy E. Doggett Prize for Historical Astronomy from the 

American Astronomical Society. He has served as chairman of the Historical 

Astronomy Division of the American Astronomical Society, as president of 

the History of Astronomy Commission of the International Astronomical 

Union, and as president of the Philosophical Society of Washington. He was 

elected a Fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science 
About the Authors 579

in 2011 and is a corresponding member of the International Academy of 

Astronautics. Minor planet 6544 Stevendick is named in his honor.

W. Henry (Harry) Lambright is a professor of public administration 

and international affairs and also political science at the Maxwell School 

of Syracuse University. He is the author or editor of seven books and more 

than 275 articles, papers, and reports. His books include Powering Apollo: 

James E. Webb of NASA (1995) and Space Policy in the 21st Century (2003). A 

long-standing student of leadership and change in government, he recently 

received support from IBM for monographs on other NASA Administrators: 

Transforming NASA: Dan Goldin and the Remaking of NASA (2001), Executive 

Response to Changing Fortune: Sean O’Keefe As NASA Administrator (2005), 

and Launching a New Mission: Michael Griffin and NASA’s Return to the Moon

(2009). Lambright is also currently researching a book under NASA sponsorship on Mars exploration. 

He has served as a guest scholar at the Brookings Institution, as the director of the Science and Technology Policy Center at the Syracuse Research 

Corporation, and as the director of the Center for Environmental Policy and 

Administration at the Maxwell School of Syracuse University. He has also 

served as an adjunct professor in the Graduate Program of Environmental 

Science in the College of Environmental Science and Forestry at the State 

University of New York. Lambright’s interest in NASA and space policy goes 

back to his years as a graduate student. Early in his career, he served as a 

special assistant at NASA, working in the then Office of University Affairs 

and writing speeches for NASA Administrator Tom Paine. The recipient of 

a range of grants from federal and private organizations for his research in 

science and technology policy, Lambright is frequently cited in the media. 

He teaches courses in science, technology, and public policy as well as energy 

and environmental policy. He has a bachelor’s degree from Johns Hopkins 

University and master’s and doctoral degrees from Columbia University.

Roger D. Launius is a senior curator in the Division of Space History at the 

Smithsonian Institution’s National Air and Space Museum in Washington, 

DC. Between 1990 and 2002 he served as NASA Chief Historian. A graduate of Graceland College in Lamoni, Iowa, he received his doctorate from 

Louisiana State University–Baton Rouge in 1982. He has written or edited 

more than 30 books on aerospace history, including Globalizing Polar Science: 

Reconsidering the International Polar and Geophysical Years (2010); Smithsonian 

Atlas of Space Exploration (2009); Robots in Space: Technology, Evolution, and 

Interplanetary Travel (2008); Societal Impact of Spaceflight (2007); Critical 

Issues in the History of Spaceflight (2006); Space Stations: Base Camps to the Stars

(2003; 2nd edition 2009), which received the history manuscript prize of the 
580 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics (AIAA); Reconsidering a 

Century of Flight (2003); To Reach the High Frontier: A History of U.S. Launch 

Vehicles (2002); Imagining Space: Achievements, Possibilities, Projections, 1950–

2050 (2001); Reconsidering Sputnik: Forty Years Since the Soviet Satellite (2000); 

Innovation and the Development of Flight (1999); Frontiers of Space Exploration

(1998; revised edition 2004); Spaceflight and the Myth of Presidential Leadership

(1997); and NASA: A History of the U.S. Civil Space Program (1994, revised 

edition 2001). Launius is a Fellow of the American Association for the 

Advancement of Science, the International Academy of Astronautics, and the 

American Astronautical Society and is an Associate Fellow of the AIAA. He 

also served as a consultant to the Columbia Accident Investigation Board in 

2003 and presented the Harmon Memorial Lecture on the history of national 

security space policy at the United States Air Force Academy in 2006. He is 

frequently consulted by the media for his views on space issues and has been a 

guest commentator on National Public Radio and major television networks.

Jim Pass received his doctorate in sociology at the University of Southern 

California in 1991. He created the field of astrosociology in 2003 to begin the 

process of studying the relationship between space exploration and societies 

in a systematic manner. The intention from the beginning was to organize 

individual social scientists already conducting research into space issues and 

to attract new ones to join the effort with the goal of building a recognizable 

body of astrosociological literature. As an avid space enthusiast, he longed to 

combine his interest in space exploration with sociology. In December 2002, 

he came across an online article by Allen Tough about the social implications of the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) that mentioned the 

importance of establishing a new field that focused on the social ramifications 

of space exploration. “Astrosociology” was mentioned as one of two possible 

labels for such a new field. Upon seeing this term, Pass purchased the domain 

Astrosociology.com and set out to define this new field. Several months later, 

in July 2003, he uploaded the site’s first content. While astrosociology started 

out as a sociological subfield, it became a multidisciplinary field that includes 

the social and behavioral sciences, the humanities, and the arts. Pass has taught 

sociology at Long Beach State and Long Beach City College in California for 

more than 15 years, although today he devotes most of his time working to 

advance the development of astrosociology along with his colleagues and a 

growing number of supporters. He serves as the chief executive officer of 

the Astrosociology Research Institute (ARI). The Web site for ARI is now 

Astrosociology.org. The goal of ARI is to develop astrosociology as an academic 

field with a strong emphasis on attracting students to assist in its development. He was instrumental in establishing the Astrosociology Subcommittee 
About the Authors 581

within the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics. Pass has written more than 30 conference papers and publications that address the reasoning for developing astrosociology and provide introductions of several of 

its subfields. Most of Pass’s papers are available in the ARI virtual library at 

Astrosociology.org along with those of other authors.

Eligar Sadeh is the president of Astroconsulting International, which 

empowers space and defense programs with the critical skills to optimize outcomes. He serves as a research professor with the Center for Space Studies at 

the University of Colorado, Colorado Springs; as part of the adjunct faculty 

at the International Space University; and as editor of Astropolitics, an academic journal focused on space policy and technology. Previously, Sadeh held 

professorships in space and defense studies in the department of space studies 

at the College of Aerospace Sciences of the University of North Dakota and at 

the United States Air Force Academy. He also worked for Lockheed Martin as 

a systems engineer. Sadeh served as a research associate with the Eisenhower 

Center for Space and Defense Studies at the United States Air Force Academy 

and with the Space Policy Institute of George Washington University. Sadeh 

instructs professional development courses for the University of Colorado, 

the NASA Academy of Program/Project and Engineering Leadership, and 

the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics. He has written a 

number of publications, including Space Strategy in the 21st Century: Theory 

and Policy, The Politics of Space: A Survey, and Space Politics and Policy: An 

Evolutionary Perspective, as well as articles in Astropolitics, Space Policy, and 

Acta Astronautica. He earned a doctorate that focused on science and technology studies from Colorado State University, a master’s degree in International 

Studies from the Hebrew University, and a bachelor’s degree in aerospace 

engineering sciences from the University of Colorado.

David J. Whalen is an associate professor of space studies at the University 

of North Dakota. He was chair of the space studies department from 2007 

to 2010. He has been an engineer and engineering manager in the communications satellite industry for more than 30 years. He has also worked 

on weather satellites (INSAT, GOES-NEXT), Earth-observing satellites 

(Landsat), and science satellites (GRO, Hubble). He is an Associate Fellow 

of the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics. He is a member 

of the AIAA History Technical Committee and was a member of the AIAA 

Communications Systems Technical Committee from 2007 to 2010. Over 

the past 20 years, Whalen has written about space history and space policy in 

addition to his engineering work. He holds a bachelor’s degree in astronomy 

from Boston University; a master’s degree in astronomy from the University 

of Massachusetts; a master’s degree in business administration from the 
582 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

College of William and Mary; and a doctorate in science, technology, and 

public policy from George Washington University. He has taught university and industrial courses in orbit determination and maneuver planning, 

satellite communications, space policy, and the history of technology. His 

book Origins of Satellite Communications, 1945–1965 (2002) was published by Smithsonian Institution Press. He is currently finishing a book 

about the Comsat corporation. He has made many presentations at AIAA, 

the Pacific Telecommunications Conference, the Society for the History of 

Technology Conference, and NASA conferences. He has published articles 

and book reviews on space history, space policy, and space technology in a 

variety of publications, including IEEE Technology and Society and Technology 

and Culture.
583

The NASA History Series

Reference Works, NASA SP-4000:

Grimwood, James M. Project Mercury: A Chronology. NASA SP-4001, 1963.

Grimwood, James M., and Barton C. Hacker, with Peter J. Vorzimmer. 

Project Gemini Technology and Operations: A Chronology. NASA SP-4002, 

1969.

Link, Mae Mills. Space Medicine in Project Mercury. NASA SP-4003, 1965.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1963: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4004, 1964.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1964: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4005, 1965.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1965: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4006, 1966.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1966: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4007, 1967.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1967: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4008, 1968.

Ertel, Ivan D., and Mary Louise Morse. The Apollo Spacecraft: A Chronology, 

Volume I, Through November 7, 1962. NASA SP-4009, 1969.

Morse, Mary Louise, and Jean Kernahan Bays. The Apollo Spacecraft: A 

Chronology, Volume II, November 8, 1962–September 30, 1964. NASA 

SP-4009, 1973.

Brooks, Courtney G., and Ivan D. Ertel. The Apollo Spacecraft: A Chronology, 

Volume III, October 1, 1964–January 20, 1966. NASA SP-4009, 1973.

Ertel, Ivan D., and Roland W. Newkirk, with Courtney G. Brooks. The 

Apollo Spacecraft: A Chronology, Volume IV, January 21, 1966–July 13, 

1974. NASA SP-4009, 1978.
584 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1968: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4010, 1969.

Newkirk, Roland W., and Ivan D. Ertel, with Courtney G. Brooks. Skylab: 

A Chronology. NASA SP-4011, 1977.

Van Nimmen, Jane, and Leonard C. Bruno, with Robert L. Rosholt. NASA 

Historical Data Book, Volume I: NASA Resources, 1958–1968. NASA 

SP-4012, 1976; rep. ed. 1988.

Ezell, Linda Neuman. NASA Historical Data Book, Volume II: Programs and 

Projects, 1958–1968. NASA SP-4012, 1988.

Ezell, Linda Neuman. NASA Historical Data Book, Volume III: Programs and 

Projects, 1969–1978. NASA SP-4012, 1988.

Gawdiak, Ihor, with Helen Fedor. NASA Historical Data Book, Volume IV: 

NASA Resources, 1969–1978. NASA SP-4012, 1994.

Rumerman, Judy A. NASA Historical Data Book, Volume V: NASA Launch 

Systems, Space Transportation, Human Spaceflight, and Space Science, 

1979–1988. NASA SP-4012, 1999.

Rumerman, Judy A. NASA Historical Data Book, Volume VI: NASA Space 

Applications, Aeronautics and Space Research and Technology, Tracking and 

Data Acquisition/Support Operations, Commercial Programs, and Resources, 

1979–1988. NASA SP-4012, 1999.

Rumerman, Judy A. NASA Historical Data Book, Volume VII: NASA Launch 

Systems, Space Transportation, Human Spaceflight, and Space Science, 

1989–1998. NASA SP-2009-4012, 2009.

Rumerman, Judy A. NASA Historical Data Book, Volume VIII: NASA Earth 

Science and Space Applications, Aeronautics, Technology, and Exploration, 

Tracking and Data Acquisition/Space Operations, Facilities and Resources, 

1989–1998. NASA SP-2012-4012, 2012.

No SP-4013.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1969: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4014, 1970.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1970: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4015, 1972.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1971: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4016, 1972.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1972: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4017, 1974.
The NASA History Series 585

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1973: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4018, 1975.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1974: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4019, 1977.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1975: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4020, 1979.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1976: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4021, 1984.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1977: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4022, 1986.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1978: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4023, 1986.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1979–1984: Chronology of Science, Technology, 

and Policy. NASA SP-4024, 1988.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1985: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

Policy. NASA SP-4025, 1990.

Noordung, Hermann. The Problem of Space Travel: The Rocket Motor. Edited 

by Ernst Stuhlinger and J. D. Hunley, with Jennifer Garland. NASA 

SP-4026, 1995.

Gawdiak, Ihor Y., Ramon J. Miro, and Sam Stueland. Astronautics and 

Aeronautics, 1986–1990: A Chronology. NASA SP-4027, 1997.

Gawdiak, Ihor Y., and Charles Shetland. Astronautics and Aeronautics, 

1991–1995: A Chronology. NASA SP-2000-4028, 2000.

Orloff, Richard W. Apollo by the Numbers: A Statistical Reference. NASA 

SP-2000-4029, 2000.

Lewis, Marieke, and Ryan Swanson. Astronautics and Aeronautics: A 

Chronology, 1996–2000. NASA SP-2009-4030, 2009.

Ivey, William Noel, and Marieke Lewis. Astronautics and Aeronautics: A 

Chronology, 2001–2005. NASA SP-2010-4031, 2010.

Buchalter, Alice R., and William Noel Ivey. Astronautics and Aeronautics: A 

Chronology, 2006. NASA SP-2011-4032, 2010.

Lewis, Marieke. Astronautics and Aeronautics: A Chronology, 2007. NASA 

SP-2011-4033, 2011.

Lewis, Marieke. Astronautics and Aeronautics: A Chronology, 2008. NASA 

SP-2012-4034, 2012.
586 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Lewis, Marieke. Astronautics and Aeronautics: A Chronology, 2009. NASA 

SP-2012-4035, 2012.

Flattery, Meaghan. Astronautics and Aeronautics: A Chronology, 2010. NASA 

SP-2013-4037, 2014.

Management Histories, NASA SP-4100:

Rosholt, Robert L. An Administrative History of NASA, 1958–1963. NASA 

SP-4101, 1966.

Levine, Arnold S. Managing NASA in the Apollo Era. NASA SP-4102, 1982.

Roland, Alex. Model Research: The National Advisory Committee for 

Aeronautics, 1915–1958. NASA SP-4103, 1985.

Fries, Sylvia D. NASA Engineers and the Age of Apollo. NASA SP-4104, 1992.

Glennan, T. Keith. The Birth of NASA: The Diary of T. Keith Glennan. 

Edited by J. D. Hunley. NASA SP-4105, 1993.

Seamans, Robert C. Aiming at Targets: The Autobiography of Robert C. 

Seamans. NASA SP-4106, 1996.

Garber, Stephen J., ed. Looking Backward, Looking Forward: Forty Years of 

Human Spaceflight Symposium. NASA SP-2002-4107, 2002.

Mallick, Donald L., with Peter W. Merlin. The Smell of Kerosene: A Test 

Pilot’s Odyssey. NASA SP-4108, 2003.

Iliff, Kenneth W., and Curtis L. Peebles. From Runway to Orbit: Reflections 

of a NASA Engineer. NASA SP-2004-4109, 2004.

Chertok, Boris. Rockets and People, Volume I. NASA SP-2005-4110, 2005.

Chertok, Boris. Rockets and People: Creating a Rocket Industry, Volume II. 

NASA SP-2006-4110, 2006.

Chertok, Boris. Rockets and People: Hot Days of the Cold War, Volume III. 

NASA SP-2009-4110, 2009.

Chertok, Boris. Rockets and People: The Moon Race, Volume IV. NASA 

SP-2011-4110, 2011.

Laufer, Alexander, Todd Post, and Edward Hoffman. Shared Voyage: 

Learning and Unlearning from Remarkable Projects. NASA SP-2005-

4111, 2005.

Dawson, Virginia P., and Mark D. Bowles. Realizing the Dream of Flight: 

Biographical Essays in Honor of the Centennial of Flight, 1903–2003. 

NASA SP-2005-4112, 2005.
The NASA History Series 587

Mudgway, Douglas J. William H. Pickering: America’s Deep Space Pioneer. 

NASA SP-2008-4113, 2008.

Wright, Rebecca, Sandra Johnson, and Steven J. Dick. NASA at 50: 

Interviews with NASA’s Senior Leadership. NASA SP-2012-4114, 2012.

Project Histories, NASA SP-4200:

Swenson, Loyd S., Jr., James M. Grimwood, and Charles C. Alexander. This 

New Ocean: A History of Project Mercury. NASA SP-4201, 1966; rep. ed. 

1999.

Green, Constance McLaughlin, and Milton Lomask. Vanguard: A History. 

NASA SP-4202, 1970; rep. ed. Smithsonian Institution Press, 1971.

Hacker, Barton C., and James M. Grimwood. On the Shoulders of Titans: A 

History of Project Gemini. NASA SP-4203, 1977; rep. ed. 2002.

Benson, Charles D., and William Barnaby Faherty. Moonport: A History of 

Apollo Launch Facilities and Operations. NASA SP-4204, 1978.

Brooks, Courtney G., James M. Grimwood, and Loyd S. Swenson, Jr. 

Chariots for Apollo: A History of Manned Lunar Spacecraft. NASA 

SP-4205, 1979.

Bilstein, Roger E. Stages to Saturn: A Technological History of the Apollo/

Saturn Launch Vehicles. NASA SP-4206, 1980 and 1996.

No SP-4207.

Compton, W. David, and Charles D. Benson. Living and Working in Space: 

A History of Skylab. NASA SP-4208, 1983.

Ezell, Edward Clinton, and Linda Neuman Ezell. The Partnership: A History 

of the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project. NASA SP-4209, 1978.

Hall, R. Cargill. Lunar Impact: A History of Project Ranger. NASA SP-4210, 

1977.

Newell, Homer E. Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space Science. NASA 

SP-4211, 1980.

Ezell, Edward Clinton, and Linda Neuman Ezell. On Mars: Exploration of 

the Red Planet, 1958–1978. NASA SP-4212, 1984.

Pitts, John A. The Human Factor: Biomedicine in the Manned Space Program 

to 1980. NASA SP-4213, 1985.

Compton, W. David. Where No Man Has Gone Before: A History of Apollo 

Lunar Exploration Missions. NASA SP-4214, 1989.
588 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Naugle, John E. First Among Equals: The Selection of NASA Space Science 

Experiments. NASA SP-4215, 1991.

Wallace, Lane E. Airborne Trailblazer: Two Decades with NASA Langley’s 737 

Flying Laboratory. NASA SP-4216, 1994.

Butrica, Andrew J., ed. Beyond the Ionosphere: Fifty Years of Satellite 

Communications. NASA SP-4217, 1997.

Butrica, Andrew J. To See the Unseen: A History of Planetary Radar 

Astronomy. NASA SP-4218, 1996.

Mack, Pamela E., ed. From Engineering Science to Big Science: The NACA and 

NASA Collier Trophy Research Project Winners. NASA SP-4219, 1998.

Reed, R. Dale. Wingless Flight: The Lifting Body Story. NASA SP-4220, 1998.

Heppenheimer, T. A. The Space Shuttle Decision: NASA’s Search for a Reusable 

Space Vehicle. NASA SP-4221, 1999.

Hunley, J. D., ed. Toward Mach 2: The Douglas D-558 Program. NASA 

SP-4222, 1999.

Swanson, Glen E., ed. “Before This Decade Is Out...” Personal Reflections on 

the Apollo Program. NASA SP-4223, 1999.

Tomayko, James E. Computers Take Flight: A History of NASA’s Pioneering 

Digital Fly-By-Wire Project. NASA SP-4224, 2000.

Morgan, Clay. Shuttle-Mir: The United States and Russia Share History’s 

Highest Stage. NASA SP-2001-4225, 2001.

Leary, William M. “We Freeze to Please”: A History of NASA’s Icing Research 

Tunnel and the Quest for Safety. NASA SP-2002-4226, 2002.

Mudgway, Douglas J. Uplink-Downlink: A History of the Deep Space 

Network, 1957–1997. NASA SP-2001-4227, 2001.

No SP-4228 or SP-4229.

Dawson, Virginia P., and Mark D. Bowles. Taming Liquid Hydrogen: The 

Centaur Upper Stage Rocket, 1958–2002. NASA SP-2004-4230, 2004.

Meltzer, Michael. Mission to Jupiter: A History of the Galileo Project. NASA 

SP-2007-4231, 2007.

Heppenheimer, T. A. Facing the Heat Barrier: A History of Hypersonics. 

NASA SP-2007-4232, 2007.

Tsiao, Sunny. “Read You Loud and Clear!” The Story of NASA’s Spaceflight 

Tracking and Data Network. NASA SP-2007-4233, 2007.
The NASA History Series 589

Meltzer, Michael. When Biospheres Collide: A History of NASA’s Planetary 

Protection Programs. NASA SP-2011-4234, 2011.

Center Histories, NASA SP-4300:

Rosenthal, Alfred. Venture into Space: Early Years of Goddard Space Flight 

Center. NASA SP-4301, 1985.

Hartman, Edwin P. Adventures in Research: A History of Ames Research 

Center, 1940–1965. NASA SP-4302, 1970.

Hallion, Richard P. On the Frontier: Flight Research at Dryden, 1946–1981. 

NASA SP-4303, 1984.

Muenger, Elizabeth A. Searching the Horizon: A History of Ames Research 

Center, 1940–1976. NASA SP-4304, 1985.

Hansen, James R. Engineer in Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical 

Laboratory, 1917–1958. NASA SP-4305, 1987.

Dawson, Virginia P. Engines and Innovation: Lewis Laboratory and American 

Propulsion Technology. NASA SP-4306, 1991.

Dethloff, Henry C. “Suddenly Tomorrow Came...”: A History of the Johnson 

Space Center, 1957–1990. NASA SP-4307, 1993.

Hansen, James R. Spaceflight Revolution: NASA Langley Research Center from 

Sputnik to Apollo. NASA SP-4308, 1995.

Wallace, Lane E. Flights of Discovery: An Illustrated History of the Dryden 

Flight Research Center. NASA SP-4309, 1996.

Herring, Mack R. Way Station to Space: A History of the John C. Stennis Space 

Center. NASA SP-4310, 1997.

Wallace, Harold D., Jr. Wallops Station and the Creation of an American 

Space Program. NASA SP-4311, 1997.

Wallace, Lane E. Dreams, Hopes, Realities. NASA’s Goddard Space Flight 

Center: The First Forty Years. NASA SP-4312, 1999.

Dunar, Andrew J., and Stephen P. Waring. Power to Explore: A History of 

Marshall Space Flight Center, 1960–1990. NASA SP-4313, 1999.

Bugos, Glenn E. Atmosphere of Freedom: Sixty Years at the NASA Ames 

Research Center. NASA SP-2000-4314, 2000.

Bugos, Glenn E. Atmosphere of Freedom: Seventy Years at the NASA Ames 

Research Center. NASA SP-2010-4314, 2010. Revised version of NASA 

SP-2000-4314.
590 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Bugos, Glenn E. Atmosphere of Freedom: Seventy Five Years at the NASA Ames 

Research Center. NASA SP-2014-4314, 2014. Revised version of NASA 

SP-2000-4314.

No SP-4315.

Schultz, James. Crafting Flight: Aircraft Pioneers and the Contributions of 

the Men and Women of NASA Langley Research Center. NASA SP-2003-

4316, 2003.

Bowles, Mark D. Science in Flux: NASA’s Nuclear Program at Plum Brook 

Station, 1955–2005. NASA SP-2006-4317, 2006.

Wallace, Lane E. Flights of Discovery: An Illustrated History of the Dryden 

Flight Research Center. NASA SP-2007-4318, 2007. Revised version of 

NASA SP-4309.

Arrighi, Robert S. Revolutionary Atmosphere: The Story of the Altitude Wind 

Tunnel and the Space Power Chambers. NASA SP-2010-4319, 2010.

General Histories, NASA SP-4400:

Corliss, William R. NASA Sounding Rockets, 1958–1968: A Historical 

Summary. NASA SP-4401, 1971.

Wells, Helen T., Susan H. Whiteley, and Carrie Karegeannes. Origins of 

NASA Names. NASA SP-4402, 1976.

Anderson, Frank W., Jr. Orders of Magnitude: A History of NACA and NASA, 

1915–1980. NASA SP-4403, 1981.

Sloop, John L. Liquid Hydrogen as a Propulsion Fuel, 1945–1959. NASA 

SP-4404, 1978.

Roland, Alex. A Spacefaring People: Perspectives on Early Spaceflight. NASA 

SP-4405, 1985.

Bilstein, Roger E. Orders of Magnitude: A History of the NACA and NASA, 

1915–1990. NASA SP-4406, 1989.

Logsdon, John M., ed., with Linda J. Lear, Jannelle Warren Findley, Ray 

A. Williamson, and Dwayne A. Day. Exploring the Unknown: Selected 

Documents in the History of the U.S. Civil Space Program, Volume I: 

Organizing for Exploration. NASA SP-4407, 1995.

Logsdon, John M., ed., with Dwayne A. Day and Roger D. Launius. 

Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents in the History of the U.S. Civil 

Space Program, Volume II: External Relationships. NASA SP-4407, 1996.
The NASA History Series 591

Logsdon, John M., ed., with Roger D. Launius, David H. Onkst, and 

Stephen J. Garber. Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents in the 

History of the U.S. Civil Space Program, Volume III: Using Space. NASA 

SP-4407, 1998.

Logsdon, John M., ed., with Ray A. Williamson, Roger D. Launius, Russell 

J. Acker, Stephen J. Garber, and Jonathan L. Friedman. Exploring the 

Unknown: Selected Documents in the History of the U.S. Civil Space 

Program, Volume IV: Accessing Space. NASA SP-4407, 1999.

Logsdon, John M., ed., with Amy Paige Snyder, Roger D. Launius, Stephen 

J. Garber, and Regan Anne Newport. Exploring the Unknown: Selected 

Documents in the History of the U.S. Civil Space Program, Volume V: 

Exploring the Cosmos. NASA SP-2001-4407, 2001.

Logsdon, John M., ed., with Stephen J. Garber, Roger D. Launius, and Ray 

A. Williamson. Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents in the History 

of the U.S. Civil Space Program, Volume VI: Space and Earth Science. 

NASA SP-2004-4407, 2004.

Logsdon, John M., ed., with Roger D. Launius. Exploring the Unknown: 

Selected Documents in the History of the U.S. Civil Space Program, Volume 

VII: Human Spaceflight: Projects Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo. NASA 

SP-2008-4407, 2008.

Siddiqi, Asif A., Challenge to Apollo: The Soviet Union and the Space Race, 

1945–1974. NASA SP-2000-4408, 2000.

Hansen, James R., ed. The Wind and Beyond: Journey into the History of 

Aerodynamics in America, Volume 1: The Ascent of the Airplane. NASA 

SP-2003-4409, 2003.

Hansen, James R., ed. The Wind and Beyond: Journey into the History of 

Aerodynamics in America, Volume 2: Reinventing the Airplane. NASA 

SP-2007-4409, 2007.

Hogan, Thor. Mars Wars: The Rise and Fall of the Space Exploration Initiative. 

NASA SP-2007-4410, 2007.

Vakoch, Douglas A., ed. Psychology of Space Exploration: Contemporary 

Research in Historical Perspective. NASA SP-2011-4411, 2011.

Ferguson, Robert G., NASA’s First A: Aeronautics from 1958 to 2008. NASA 

SP-2012-4412, 2013.

Vakoch, Douglas A., ed. Archaeology, Anthropology, and Interstellar 

Communication. NASA SP-2013-4413, 2014.
592 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Monographs in Aerospace History, NASA SP-4500:

Launius, Roger D., and Aaron K. Gillette, comps. Toward a History of the 

Space Shuttle: An Annotated Bibliography. Monographs in Aerospace 

History, No. 1, 1992.

Launius, Roger D., and J. D. Hunley, comps. An Annotated Bibliography of 

the Apollo Program. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 2, 1994.

Launius, Roger D. Apollo: A Retrospective Analysis. Monographs in Aerospace 

History, No. 3, 1994.

Hansen, James R. Enchanted Rendezvous: John C. Houbolt and the Genesis of 

the Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept. Monographs in Aerospace History, 

No. 4, 1995.

Gorn, Michael H. Hugh L. Dryden’s Career in Aviation and Space. 

Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 5, 1996.

Powers, Sheryll Goecke. Women in Flight Research at NASA Dryden Flight 

Research Center from 1946 to 1995. Monographs in Aerospace History, 

No. 6, 1997.

Portree, David S. F., and Robert C. Trevino. Walking to Olympus: An EVA 

Chronology. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 7, 1997.

Logsdon, John M., moderator. Legislative Origins of the National Aeronautics 

and Space Act of 1958: Proceedings of an Oral History Workshop. 

Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 8, 1998.

Rumerman, Judy A., comp. U.S. Human Spaceflight: A Record of Achievement, 

1961–1998. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 9, 1998.

Portree, David S. F. NASA’s Origins and the Dawn of the Space Age. 

Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 10, 1998.

Logsdon, John M. Together in Orbit: The Origins of International Cooperation 

in the Space Station. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 11, 1998.

Phillips, W. Hewitt. Journey in Aeronautical Research: A Career at NASA 

Langley Research Center. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 12, 1998.

Braslow, Albert L. A History of Suction-Type Laminar-Flow Control with 

Emphasis on Flight Research. Monographs in Aerospace History, 

No. 13, 1999.

Logsdon, John M., moderator. Managing the Moon Program: Lessons Learned 

from Apollo. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 14, 1999.
The NASA History Series 593

Perminov, V. G. The Difficult Road to Mars: A Brief History of Mars 

Exploration in the Soviet Union. Monographs in Aerospace History, 

No. 15, 1999.

Tucker, Tom. Touchdown: The Development of Propulsion Controlled Aircraft 

at NASA Dryden. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 16, 1999.

Maisel, Martin, Demo J. Giulanetti, and Daniel C. Dugan. The History 

of the XV-15 Tilt Rotor Research Aircraft: From Concept to Flight. 

Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 17, 2000. NASA SP-2000-4517.

Jenkins, Dennis R. Hypersonics Before the Shuttle: A Concise History of the 

X-15 Research Airplane. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 18, 

2000. NASA SP-2000-4518.

Chambers, Joseph R. Partners in Freedom: Contributions of the Langley 

Research Center to U.S. Military Aircraft of the 1990s. Monographs in 

Aerospace History, No. 19, 2000. NASA SP-2000-4519.

Waltman, Gene L. Black Magic and Gremlins: Analog Flight Simulations 

at NASA’s Flight Research Center. Monographs in Aerospace History, 

No. 20, 2000. NASA SP-2000-4520.

Portree, David S. F. Humans to Mars: Fifty Years of Mission Planning, 

1950–2000. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 21, 2001. NASA 

SP-2001-4521.

Thompson, Milton O., with J. D. Hunley. Flight Research: Problems 

Encountered and What They Should Teach Us. Monographs in Aerospace 

History, No. 22, 2001. NASA SP-2001-4522.

Tucker, Tom. The Eclipse Project. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 23, 

2001. NASA SP-2001-4523.

Siddiqi, Asif A. Deep Space Chronicle: A Chronology of Deep Space and 

Planetary Probes, 1958–2000. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 24, 

2002. NASA SP-2002-4524.

Merlin, Peter W. Mach 3+: NASA/USAF YF-12 Flight Research, 1969–1979. 

Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 25, 2001. NASA SP-2001-4525.

Anderson, Seth B. Memoirs of an Aeronautical Engineer: Flight Tests at Ames 

Research Center: 1940–1970. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 26, 

2002. NASA SP-2002-4526.

Renstrom, Arthur G. Wilbur and Orville Wright: A Bibliography 

Commemorating the One-Hundredth Anniversary of the First Powered 

Flight on December 17, 1903. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 27, 

2002. NASA SP-2002-4527.
594 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

No monograph 28.

Chambers, Joseph R. Concept to Reality: Contributions of the NASA Langley 

Research Center to U.S. Civil Aircraft of the 1990s. Monographs in 

Aerospace History, No. 29, 2003. NASA SP-2003-4529.

Peebles, Curtis, ed. The Spoken Word: Recollections of Dryden History, The 

Early Years. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 30, 2003. NASA 

SP-2003-4530.

Jenkins, Dennis R., Tony Landis, and Jay Miller. American X-Vehicles: An 

Inventory—X-1 to X-50. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 31, 

2003. NASA SP-2003-4531.

Renstrom, Arthur G. Wilbur and Orville Wright: A Chronology 

Commemorating the One-Hundredth Anniversary of the First Powered 

Flight on December 17, 1903. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 32, 

2003. NASA SP-2003-4532.

Bowles, Mark D., and Robert S. Arrighi. NASA’s Nuclear Frontier: The Plum 

Brook Research Reactor. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 33, 2004. 

NASA SP-2004-4533.

Wallace, Lane, and Christian Gelzer. Nose Up: High Angle-of-Attack and 

Thrust Vectoring Research at NASA Dryden, 1979–2001. Monographs in 

Aerospace History, No. 34, 2009. NASA SP-2009-4534.

Matranga, Gene J., C. Wayne Ottinger, Calvin R. Jarvis, and D. Christian 

Gelzer. Unconventional, Contrary, and Ugly: The Lunar Landing Research 

Vehicle. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 35, 2006. NASA 

SP-2004-4535.

McCurdy, Howard E. Low-Cost Innovation in Spaceflight: The History of 

the Near Earth Asteroid Rendezvous (NEAR) Mission. Monographs in 

Aerospace History, No. 36, 2005. NASA SP-2005-4536.

Seamans, Robert C., Jr. Project Apollo: The Tough Decisions. Monographs in 

Aerospace History, No. 37, 2005. NASA SP-2005-4537.

Lambright, W. Henry. NASA and the Environment: The Case of Ozone 

Depletion. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 38, 2005. NASA 

SP-2005-4538.

Chambers, Joseph R. Innovation in Flight: Research of the NASA Langley 

Research Center on Revolutionary Advanced Concepts for Aeronautics. 

Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 39, 2005. NASA SP-2005-4539.
The NASA History Series 595

Phillips, W. Hewitt. Journey into Space Research: Continuation of a Career 

at NASA Langley Research Center. Monographs in Aerospace History, 

No. 40, 2005. NASA SP-2005-4540.

Rumerman, Judy A., Chris Gamble, and Gabriel Okolski, comps. U.S. 

Human Spaceflight: A Record of Achievement, 1961–2006. Monographs in 

Aerospace History, No. 41, 2007. NASA SP-2007-4541.

Peebles, Curtis. The Spoken Word: Recollections of Dryden History Beyond 

the Sky. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 42, 2011. NASA 

SP-2011-4542.

Dick, Steven J., Stephen J. Garber, and Jane H. Odom. Research in NASA 

History. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 43, 2009. NASA 

SP-2009-4543.

Merlin, Peter W. Ikhana: Unmanned Aircraft System Western States Fire 

Missions. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 44, 2009. NASA 

SP-2009-4544.

Fisher, Steven C., and Shamim A. Rahman. Remembering the Giants: Apollo 

Rocket Propulsion Development. Monographs in Aerospace History, 

No. 45, 2009. NASA SP-2009-4545.

Gelzer, Christian. Fairing Well: From Shoebox to Bat Truck and Beyond, 

Aerodynamic Truck Research at NASA’s Dryden Flight Research Center. 

Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 46, 2011. NASA SP-2011-4546.

Arrighi, Robert. Pursuit of Power: NASA’s Propulsion Systems Laboratory 

No. 1 and 2. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 48, 2012. NASA 

SP-2012-4548.

Goodrich, Malinda K., Alice R. Buchalter, and Patrick M. Miller, comps. 

Toward a History of the Space Shuttle: An Annotated Bibliography, Part 2 

(1992–2011). Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 49, 2012. NASA 

SP-2012-4549.

Gelzer, Christian. The Spoken Word III: Recollections of Dryden History; The 

Shuttle Years. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 52, 2013. NASA 

SP-2013-4552.

Ross, James C. NASA Photo One. Monographs in Aerospace History, 

No. 53, 2013. NASA SP-2013-4553.

Launius, Roger D. Historical Analogs for the Stimulation of Space Commerce. 

Monographs in Aerospace History, No 54, 2014. NASA SP-2014-4554.
596 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Buchalter, Alice R., and Patrick M. Miller, comps. The National Advisory 

Committee for Aeronautics: An Annotated Bibliography. Monographs in 

Aerospace History, No. 55, 2014. NASA SP-2014-4555.

Chambers, Joseph R., and Mark A. Chambers. Emblems of Exploration: 

Logos of the NACA and NASA. Monographs in Aerospace History, No. 

56, 2015. NASA SP-2015-4556.

Electronic Media, NASA SP-4600:

Remembering Apollo 11: The 30th Anniversary Data Archive CD-ROM. 

NASA SP-4601, 1999.

Remembering Apollo 11: The 35th Anniversary Data Archive CD-ROM. 

NASA SP-2004-4601, 2004. This is an update of the 1999 edition.

The Mission Transcript Collection: U.S. Human Spaceflight Missions from 

Mercury Redstone 3 to Apollo 17. NASA SP-2000-4602, 2001.

Shuttle-Mir: The United States and Russia Share History’s Highest Stage. NASA 

SP-2001-4603, 2002.

U.S. Centennial of Flight Commission Presents Born of Dreams—Inspired by 

Freedom. NASA SP-2004-4604, 2004.

Of Ashes and Atoms: A Documentary on the NASA Plum Brook Reactor 

Facility. NASA SP-2005-4605, 2005.

Taming Liquid Hydrogen: The Centaur Upper Stage Rocket Interactive 

CD-ROM. NASA SP-2004-4606, 2004.

Fueling Space Exploration: The History of NASA’s Rocket Engine Test Facility 

DVD. NASA SP-2005-4607, 2005.

Altitude Wind Tunnel at NASA Glenn Research Center: An Interactive History 

CD-ROM. NASA SP-2008-4608, 2008.

A Tunnel Through Time: The History of NASA’s Altitude Wind Tunnel. NASA 

SP-2010-4609, 2010.

Conference Proceedings, NASA SP-4700:

Dick, Steven J., and Keith Cowing, eds. Risk and Exploration: Earth, Sea and 

the Stars. NASA SP-2005-4701, 2005.

Dick, Steven J., and Roger D. Launius. Critical Issues in the History of 

Spaceflight. NASA SP-2006-4702, 2006.

Dick, Steven J., ed. Remembering the Space Age: Proceedings of the 50th 

Anniversary Conference. NASA SP-2008-4703, 2008.
The NASA History Series 597

Dick, Steven J., ed. NASA’s First 50 Years: Historical Perspectives. NASA 

SP-2010-4704, 2010.

Societal Impact, NASA SP-4800:

Dick, Steven J., and Roger D. Launius. Societal Impact of Spaceflight. NASA 

SP-2007-4801, 2007.

Dick, Steven J., and Mark L. Lupisella. Cosmos and Culture: Cultural 

Evolution in a Cosmic Context. NASA SP-2009-4802, 2009.

599

Index

A

ABC

polling activity by, 1, 70–71

television satellite, launch of, 459–60, 461

ABM (anti-ballistic missile) systems, 480

ABM treaty (Strategic Arms Limitation 

Talks), 480

abortion, 381

accelerometer

airbag system MEMS accelerometer, 261

commercial applications for, 322

concept and function of, 308–11, 320

cost of fabrication, 321–22

development of, NASA role in, 320–23

electromechanical accelerometer, 261

impact and importance of, 320–23

MEMS accelerometer, NASA role in 

development of, 251, 252, 314

MEMS accelerometer research, 308–14

MEMS accelerometer research, funding 

for, 313–14

patents for and related to, 251, 320–23, 

321n274, 323n285

technical problems with, 321–22

ACF Industries, 169

AcQtrac System, 111

Adams, Carsbie, 81–83, 94

Adin, Louis E., 136

Admiral, 167

Adolphsen, John W., 222

Advanced Bionics, 137

Advanced Extremely High Frequency 

(AEHF) satellite, 467–68

Advanced Reconnaissance Satellite (ARS), 

479

Advanced Research and Technology, Office 

of (OART), 183, 195, 264

Advanced Research Projects Agency 

(ARPA), 434, 437, 464–65

Advanced Trauma Life Support (ATLS), 

American College of Surgeons, 96–97

Advani, Gulu T., 208

Advent, 465, 466

AEHF (Advanced Extremely High 

Frequency) satellite, 467–68

Aerobee sounding rocket, 432, 436

Aerofit, 127

aeronautical research and development, 

spinoffs from, 80

Aerosat, 476–78

Aerosat program, 490

aerospace

aerospace medicine technologies, 85

divide between sociology and, 537, 

538–43, 571–72

poll questions about funding for, 68

Aerospatiale, 477

Aetna, 462

Afghanistan, 486

Aftergood, Steven, 334–35

age and support for space program, 35–36, 

37–41

Agriculture, Department of, 386–87, 436, 

482

airbags, automobile, 251, 261

aircraft, transistor purchases for, 166

Air Force, U.S.

Advanced Minuteman Missile program 

and integrated circuits development 

and use, 152–54, 155, 176–77

applications satellites, interest in, 432, 489

Ballistic Missile Division, 504

Cambridge Research Laboratory, 194

configuration management practices, 504

Page numbers in bold indicate tables and illustrations.
600 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

data bank of electronics parts, use of by, 

193

Electronics Systems Division, 194

Evolved Expendable Launch Vehicle 

(EELV) program, 466

fly-by-wire systems and haptic information displays, 118–19

ICBM program, 432, 433

integrated-circuit research, funding for, 

183n98

integrated circuits development and Air 

Force electronics miniaturization 

program, 171–72

Mead triode funding from, 208

meeting about communications at Woods 

Hole, 438–39

Molecular Electronics (Molectronics) 

Program, 171–72

nanotechnology program of, 172

navigation satellite program, 473, 489

Project 621B program, 473

reconnaissance satellite development by, 

337–38, 479–81

resonant gate transistor, development of 

under contract with, 258–59n24

Rome Air Development Command, 193, 

196

Stanford Electronics Laboratories, funding for, 288–89

Strategic Satellite System, 467

systems management practices in, 511, 

513

tactile communication, support for 

research on, 120

transistor use by, 166

Air Force Weapons Laboratory, 219

Airline Transport Association, 476

air pollution and funding for anti–air pollution programs, poll question about, 

16, 54

air-traffic control telemetry transmitter, 212

Alaska

Anik satellite service in, 461

telemedicine programs in, 112–13

albedo, 436

Albert Einstein Institute, 267

Aldebaran, 361

Alewine, Betty, 451, 453

Alexandria Digital Library, 117

Alferov, Zhores I., 174n65

Allison, David, 202

alloy-junction transistors, 159

Almond, Gabriel, 9–10

Alpert, Mickey, 454

Alpha Microelectronics Corporation, 191

Altair, 116

Alto, 116

aluminum

honeycomb material for seat cushions 

made from, 131

integrated circuits, aluminum leads on, 

200, 203n162, 220, 223

metallurgical incompatibility of gold and, 

202–3, 203n162

triode fabrication with, 208

aluminum oxide, 208

Amelco, 176, 207n177

American College of Surgeons, Advanced 

Trauma Life Support (ATLS), 96–97

American Foundation for the Blind, 120

American Institute for Electrical 

Engineering (AIEE), 290

American Institute of Aeronautics and 

Astronautics (AIAA), Astrosociology 

Working Group (AWG), 541

American Institute of Physics, 262

American Nuclear Society, 118

American Physical Society, 59–60, 254–55

American Society of Biomechanics, 88

American Society of Mechanical Engineers 

(ASME), 262

American Telephone & Telegraph. See

AT&T (American Telephone & 

Telegraph)

Americom Asia-Pacific (AAP), 454

Ames Research Center/Ames Research 

Laboratory

accelerometer development, role in, 252, 

314

aerodynamics and wind tunnel research 

at, 265, 270, 271, 278

anti-shock garment research, 93–95

biomedical instrumentation research at, 

264–85

biomedical instrument design research at, 

270–71n71, 270–74

biomedical pressure sensor, funding for, 

299, 302–3, 314–15, 326

Biomedical Research Branch, 326

Biomedical Research Division, 280, 281

biomedical research funding from, 

267–70, 268n58, 324

biosatellite program, 263, 269

Biotechnology Division, 264, 272–73, 281
Index 601

bone density analyzer, research to support 

development of, 86, 87

collaboration and friction between scientists and Instrument Division at, 

265, 270

data bank of electronics parts, use of by, 

193

electronics research and development at, 

183–85

Electronics Research Branch/Electronic 

Instrument Development Branch, 

271, 271n74, 272–73, 274, 279, 

284, 326

Environmental Biology Division, 

264–65, 271, 280

Exobiology Division, 264

gas chromatograph research, support and 

funding for, 303–4, 306–8, 314, 

315, 316–20, 326

Human Performance Branch, 272–73

Instrumentation Division, 266, 270–74, 

278–79, 281, 284

Instrument Research Division, 278

integrated circuit research at, 282–83

integrated-circuit technology use in biomedical instrumentation, rejection 

of, 272, 274

Life Detection Systems Branch, 303–4

Life Sciences Directorate, 279–80

Life Sciences Division, 87, 285

Life Sciences Office, 264

location of, 253, 323

Measurement Sciences Branch, 275, 279, 

326, 326

Measurements Research Branch, 270, 

271n74, 283–84

MEMS research at, 252, 274–85, 

278n110

MEMS research funding from, 275

Moffett Field laboratories at, 271

name change of, 271

Physiology Branch, 271, 280

Pioneer Project, acknowledgment for 

assistance in receiving radio signals 

from probes, 361

protective seat system research and temper 

foam development role, 131, 133

regional impact of, 529

Stanford biomedical research, role 

in, 264–69, 283–85, 284n136, 

323–26, 326

Stanford MEMS research, role in, 

283–85, 284n136, 323–26, 326

tactile communication, support for 

research on, 120, 121, 124

amplifiers

amplifier microcircuits, testing of for nitrogen, helium, and hydrogen, 205–6

biomedical use of, 100

Centaur-Mariner H loss and failure of, 

244–45

maser amplifier, 438

miniaturization of, 170, 171

solid-state amplifiers, invention of, 158

transistor use in, 166

ancillary policy, 500–501, 501n34

Anders, Bill, 389

Anderson, G. M., 343

Andover station (Rumford, Maine, station/

Space Hill), 440, 440n26

Andreasen, George B., 128

Andromeda Strain, 384, 387–88

Angell, James B.

accelerometer research, 309–10, 313–14

background and experience of, 286

biomedical pressure sensor research, role 

in, 278, 299, 314–15

Electrical Engineering Department role 

of, 294

gas chromatograph research, report on 

funding for, 307–8

Integrated Circuits Laboratory role of, 293

NIH research, role in, 292

Solid-State Electronics Laboratory role 

of, 286

Wise’s research under, 295

Angell, William W., 292

Anik, 461

animals

avian biorhythms research, 271–72

biomedical instrumentation research to 

monitor, 263, 282

biomedical pressure sensor research with, 

300, 314–15

capacitance transducer testing on dogs, 270

implantable telemetry system for monitoring blood flow in, 293

MEMS and monitoring of, 251

monitoring during test flights, 100, 147

monkeys, start of work with, 282

size of instruments for use in, 282

trials in laboratories on, 263
602 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

anisotropic etching, 257, 300–302, 301n190, 

304, 305–6, 311–12, 315, 323, 327–28

Anliker, Max, 269

anodic bonding (electrostatic bonding, 

Mallory process), 258, 306, 311, 312

Anselmo, René, 458, 463

Anstead, Robert J., 222

Antarctica, 398, 399, 401, 409

anti-ballistic missile (ABM) systems, 480, 

485

antimony, 215–16

anti-shock garments, 93–97, 143

apnea monitor, 267

Apollo guidance and navigation computers

integrated circuits development and use in, 

149–59, 176–77, 225–28, 242, 527

MIT design and development of, 527

number of integrated circuits purchased 

for, 150–51, 150nn4–5, 155, 

226–27, 242

price of integrated circuits for, 154

suppliers of integrated circuits for, 151, 

176, 226

testing integrated circuits for, 220

Apollo Paradigm, 492–533, 503

demise of, 500

exploration ethos, 498–500, 498n24, 

498n28, 533–34

longer-term consequences of, 500–503, 

501n34, 502n40

political ethos, 493–96, 495n12

technological ethos, 496–98, 503

Apollo program

Apollo 1 mission and fire, 15, 500

Apollo 8 mission, 15, 16, 388–89, 390, 

498

Apollo 9 mission, 389

Apollo 10 mission, 389

Apollo 11 mission, 16, 17, 334, 341, 

350, 353–54, 356, 388, 389, 528

Apollo 12 mission, 350, 353–54, 353, 

356, 357

Apollo 13 mission, 33–34, 350, 358

Apollo 14 mission, 350, 353–54, 356

Apollo 15 mission, 350, 353–56

Apollo 16 mission, 350, 353–56

Apollo 17 mission, 17, 341, 350, 

353–56, 389, 390

Apollo Lunar Surface Experiments 

Package (ALSEP), 334, 350, 

352–58, 353

Apollo-Soyuz mission, 17, 500

appreciation of Earth as spinoff of, 389, 

533–34

budget and funding for, 34, 494

Command and Service Module, contractor for, 523

command module recovery system, 131

confidence and trust in government 

during, 497–98

contamination concerns and, 387–88

economic impact of, 492, 517–30, 

519n97, 522n107, 529n131, 

529nn133–134, 533

educational impact of, 491, 530–32, 

531n140, 533

electronics for, 178

emotional bonds with astronauts, poll 

questions about, 33–34

end of, 17

faked Moon landing, opinions about, 17

history of space program, communication 

of, 147

hybrid circuit use in, 200n153

as iconographic symbol, 499–500

images from Apollo mission and appreciation for Earth, 388–89, 390, 416, 

424, 498–99, 498n28

importance of landing a man on Moon, 

opinions about, 17

inspirational value of, 388–89, 416, 

521–22, 533–34

integrated circuit manufacturing and, viii

Lunar Excursion Module, contractor for, 

523

management and planning impacts and 

consequences, 492, 495–96, 497, 

503–17, 533

management structure for, 351–52

pacemaker technology development and, 

103

prestige from, 352, 491–92, 493–96, 533

public opinions and attitudes toward, 

12–17, 19–20

reliability program for, 201

RTG use in spacecraft for, 334, 341, 349, 

350, 351

scientific objectives of, 352–58

societal impact of, viii, 491–92, 533–34

transistor failure analysis research for 

lunar equipment package, 244

as turning point in history, 492–93, 

492–93n2

Apollo Program Prize, 92
Index 603

Apple II, 116

applications compared to spinoffs, 78

applications satellites

civilian safety and, 486

definition of, 427–28

direct-readout satellites, 433

early concepts and programs, 385–87, 

432–45, 489–90

environmental mission of NASA and, 

391–92

film return satellites, 433

future of, 487–88

geostationary orbit, 430–31, 469, 472, 

482

geosynchronous-Earth-orbit (GEO) 

satellites, 428, 439, 450, 465, 481, 

488, 526

interest in before Sputnik, 429–32

launch of, revenue from, 485

manufacturing and sales of, 484

NASA role in development of, 489–90, 

525–26, 526n122

revenues from commercial satellites, 483

rocket pioneers and, 429–30

science-fiction stories about, 429, 438

societal impact of, viii, 428–29, 483–87, 

489–90

space technology and development of, 78

types of, 428

United States domination of, 485

See also communications satellites; environmental/Earth resources satellites; 

navigation satellites; reconnaissance 

satellites; weather/meteorology 

satellites

Applications Technology Satellites

ATS-1, 112, 113, 115, 471–72, 476

ATS-3, 471–72, 476

ATS-5, 472, 476

ATS-6, 112–13, 115, 461

development and purpose of, 471–72

launch vehicles for, 471

Applied Physics Laboratory, Johns Hopkins 

University, 98, 104–6, 342–43, 345, 

434, 435

Aqua, 420–21

Aquacade system, 481

Aramark Corporation, 95

Arctic, 401, 406–8

Arctic Council, 113

Arecibo radio telescope, 100

Argonne National Laboratory, 118

ARGON satellites, 480

Ariane launch vehicle, 449, 515

Ariel 1, 240

ARINC (Aeronautical Radio, Incorporated), 

191, 476, 476n106

Armstrong, Neil, 281, 389

Armstrong Medical, 97

Army, U.S.

applications satellites, interest in, 432

Ballistic Missile Agency, 432, 510–11

Combat Casualty Care Guidelines, 96–97

Electronics Command, 191

integrated-circuit research, funding for, 

183

rocket development by and V-2 Rocket 

Team, 432

Signal Corps Micromodule program, 

170–71, 170n52

Signal Corps Research and Development 

Laboratories, 121, 289

Signal Corps use of DTL circuits, 228

Signal Corps use of transistors, 165

Signal Service and weather observations, 

436

weather satellite development, 437

Arnaud, Sara, 87, 88–89

ARPA (Advanced Research Projects 

Agency), 434, 437, 464–65

ascendancy, 64

Ascent, 452, 453

Asian Space Conference, 540

AsiaSat, 464

Asrar, Ghassem, 412, 417, 419

Associated Press polls, 22, 31, 71

Association of South Eastern Asian Nations, 

316

asteroids, mining of, 564

Astrain, Santiago, 451

Astra television satellites, 463–64

Astrionics Laboratory, 186, 222

Astrium, 458

astrobiology

background of astrobiologists, 546

popularity of, 566

recognition of discipline, 540

relationship to astrosociology, 540, 546, 

565–70

space exploration and, viii

astrochemistry, viii

astrogeology, viii

Astrolink, 454

astrology, 44, 45
604 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

astronauts/humans

biomedical instrumentation research to 

monitor, 263, 264, 265, 282, 526

human body in free fall, research on 

dynamics of, 269

as iconographic symbol, 499–500

implantable telemetry system for monitoring blood flow in, 293

MEMS and monitoring of, 251

monitoring heart of, 107–8, 109

telemetry and monitoring condition of, 

111, 526

astrosociology

academic programs for, 546, 548–51

applied astrosociology, 547–48, 571

background of astrosociologists, 546

benefits of perspective, 570–76

benefits of space exploration from perspective of, 574–76

coining of term, 567

crew model of spaceflight, 551–54, 571

definition and scope of, 543–51

development of, viii–ix, 535–38, 543, 

570–71

divide between aerospace and sociology, 

537, 538–43, 571–72

formal establishment of discipline, call 

for, 536–37

founding, 535, 537, 570

future of exploration, society, and, 

551–70

goals of, 546

justifications of the need to develop, 

550–51

pioneers in development of, 546

planetary defense, contributions to, 

560–62

recognition of discipline, 540–41, 557–58

relationship to astrobiology, 540, 546, 

565–70

relevance and significance of, 545–46, 548

social problems, using space to solve, 

557–60, 571, 574

social science classrooms, expanding space 

into, 548–51

societal impact of spaceflight, conferences 

on, 538–39, 540, 541, 544

societal impact of spaceflight, study of, 

572–76

spacefaring societies, transformation into, 

562–65, 573–75

space societies, creation of, 554–56, 571, 

573–75

Astrosociology Research Institute (ARI), 

541, 541n16

Astrosociology Working Group (AWG), 

American Institute of Aeronautics and 

Astronautics (AIAA), 541

astrotheology, viii–ix

AT&T (American Telephone & Telegraph)

antitrust suit against, 158–59, 159n29

communications satellite development by, 

428, 438–40, 489–90

domestic communications satellites, 449, 

462

FCC DOMSAT report and, 461

leasing of satellites by, 461

monopoly status of, 460

satellite manufacturing by, end of, 440

Telstar, 440, 442, 453, 454, 461, 490, 

525–26

transistor use by, 165, 166

Atalla, M. M. “John,” 239

Atlantic Bird, 464

Atlas rockets

Atlas-Agena launch vehicles, 471, 480

Atlas-Centaur launch vehicles, 359, 449, 

467, 471

development of, 7

propellant for, 82

reliability of, 470, 485

satellite launches with, 466, 470, 471

atmosphere

comparative planetology and research 

on, 387

satellites and research on, 386

See also ozone depletion

Atomic Energy Commission (AEC). See

Energy, Department of/Atomic Energy 

Commission (AEC)

atoms, Feynman challenge to manipulate 

material on atomic level, 254–56, 

255–56n13

Atoms for Peace initiative, 338–40

atom-smasher research tool, 139. See also

cyclotron

Augustine, Norman “Norm,” 402–3, 451

Aura, 422

Australia, 447, 447n43, 477

Austria

Intelsat representation, 446

Sputnik, public knowledge of launch of, 9
Index 605

automobiles

airbags, MEMS use in, 251, 261

engine control sensors, 261

MEMS use in, 254, 254n8, 260–61

pollution requirements and manifold absolute pressure (MAP) sensors, 260

skid control and MEMS, 261

tire inflation level and MEMS, 261

avian biorhythms research, 271–72

aviation

airplane accidents, research to improve 

survivability of, 131, 133, 143

haptics and, 118–19

mobile satellite communications, 475–78

B

BAC, 477

Back, R. E., 203

Bahan-Szucs, June C., 140–41

Bainbridge, William Sims, 536

Bakalar, David, 176n70

Bakalar, Leo, 176n70

Bakken, Earl, 99–100, 106

balance

age and, 93

flooring surfaces and, 93

free-fall sensation and weightlessness, 90

impact of spaceflight on, 90, 93

patents related to evaluation of, 91–92

weightlessness and sense of balance, 90

balance evaluation systems

Balance Master, 90–93

EquiTest, 90–93

importance of, 143–44

NASA contributions to development of, 

92–93

patents related to, 91–92

studies about, 110

success of, 143–44

Ball Aerospace, 526n122

Bandung High Tech Valley, 316

Bandung Institute of Technology, 316

Banting Institute, 96

Banting Research Foundation Hall of Fame, 

96

barcodes, 146

Bardeen, John, 158

Barth, Phillip, 313

Bassous, Ernest, 260

Battelle Memorial Institute, 128–29, 196, 

207, 207n175, 207n177

batteries

pacemaker batteries, 62, 98, 99, 100, 

101, 103, 104, 105–6, 146

rechargeable pacemakers, 62, 98, 103–4, 

105, 146

satellites, charging batteries for, 106

solar power for charging, 106, 343

spacecraft, provision of electrical power 

with, 332

telemetry and charging of, 106

useful life for providing power for spacecraft, 343

Bauer, Neil, 452–53

Bauer, Raymond A., 12, 59, 79–80

Beadle, George, 268

Beam, Benjamin “Ben,” 277, 278–79

Bean, Alan, 353, 357

Beaudoin, Jacques, 289–90

Beckman, Arnold, 164

Beckman Instruments, Inc., 136

Beggs, James, 395–96, 397, 399

Bein, Michael, 349

Belgium, 9

Bell, Alexander Graham, 166

Bell, David, 228

Bellamy, Ronald, 96–97

Bell Telephone Laboratories

anisotropic etching invention at, 301n190

communications satellite development by, 

438–40

computer-aided design of circuits, seminar on, 219

Digital Device Integration Department, 

295

epitaxial deposition process and transistor 

manufacturing, 161–62

ion implantation process, 213–14

mesa technique and transistor manufacturing, 160–61

MOS transistor development at, 239

patents for transistors, 158–59, 159n29

planar process and transistor manufacturing, 161n34

semiconductor research at, 199

transistor development by, 158–59

Bendix Aerospace Systems Division, 356

Bendix Radio Division, 219

Bendix Research Laboratories, 198

Benefits Briefing Notebook (Denver Research 

Institute), 233–37, 233n263

Bennett, Gary L., 342
606 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Berdahl, Bonnie J., 318

Berlin, Leslie, 152, 154–55, 156, 225–26, 

242

Beth Israel Hospital, 98

bidirectional telemetry, 103

Big Bird, 480–81

Bijlefeld, Marjolijn, 78, 96

Billingham, John, 281

Binswanger (Bying), Gustav, 275n94

Bioastronautics Roadmap, 85

Bio-Impedance Technology, 110

biological clock research, 269, 272

Biomedical Monitoring Systems, Inc., 284

biomedical research

accelerometer development, 251, 308–14

Ames research, 264–85

Ames-Stanford biomedical research 

link, 264–69, 283–85, 284n136, 

323–26, 326

astronauts/humans, instrumentation 

research to monitor, 263, 264, 265, 

282, 526

avian biorhythms research, 271–72

biomedical sensors, research on, 113–14, 

257

brain probe, 294–99, 298n180

Congress and funding for, 232–33

funding for, 267–70, 268n58, 315, 324

growth of field and research programs, 

290–94

instrument design research at Ames, 

270–71n71, 270–74

NASA contributions to, 145–46

NASA interest in, 263–64, 526

NIH support for Stanford biomedical 

research, 290–93

piezoresistive pressure sensor research, 

299–303, 310, 314–15, 326

pressure sensor development, 257

sensors and transmitters, implantation 

of, 265

Stanford Electrical Engineering 

Department and School of 

Medicine, collaboration between, 

291–92, 304

technology utilization, technology transfer, and dissemination of information, 265–69

Bionic Ear Institute, 138

biopotential data/electrocardiogram (ECG) 

signals, 273

biosatellite program, 263, 269

Biostim, 137

BioZ impedance cardiographs, 110–11

bird biorhythms research, 271–72

Birden, John, 336–37

Black, Joan, 42

black plague, 203n162

Blacks, poll questions about improving 

conditions of, 46–47, 46

Bliley, Thomas J. “Tom,” Jr., 454, 456–57

blind and visually disabled people

assistive technologies for, stimulation of 

innovation in, 123–24

haptics and assistive devices for, 117–20, 

124

OCR devices, 120

patents for devices to assist, 120, 123–24, 

125

research on applications to assist, 119, 

291, 293

tactile reader for. See Optacon (Optical 

TActile CONverter) device

Bliss, James C., 117, 119, 120–21, 122–24, 

125, 292

blood pressure

capacitance transducer on cardiac catheter 

for measuring, 270

disposable blood pressure sensors, 262

remote blood pressure monitoring transducer, 267

Blue, James, 140–41

Blume, Stuart S., 137–38

Bluth, B. J., 536

Boehlert, Sherwood, 422, 423

Boeing Corporation, 219, 523

Boeing Launch Services, 458

Boeing Satellite Systems (BSS), 467

Bohrer, Philip J., 323n285

Bondi, Herman, 477

bone density

bone loss during long-duration spaceflights, 86

bone loss in weightlessness, 86, 88–89

Gait Scan system, 87

Mechanical Response Tissue Analyzer 

(MRTA), 86–90, 110, 143–44

Boucher, Roland, 476

Bowman-Gray School of Medicine 

Department of Biomedical 

Engineering, Wake Forest College, 267

brain probe, 294–99, 298n180

Brand, Stuart, 389, 394

Brattain, Walter H., 158
Index 607

Brazil, 9, 421

“The Brick Moon” (Hale), 429

British Aerospace (Hawker Siddley), 464, 

477, 479

Broadcasters Non-Profit Service 

Corporation (BNS), 460

Bromley, Allan, 401, 403

Brown, George E., Jr., 364n80, 411

budgets and funding

accelerometer research, funding for, 

313–14

Apollo program, 34, 494

balancing the budget, poll questions 

about, 69

biomedical pressure sensor, NASA funding for, 299, 302–3, 314–15, 326

biomedical research, funding for, 267–70, 

268n58, 315, 324

Contract with American and budget cuts, 

410–11

deficit reduction and spending cap under 

Bush administration, 403

Earth Observation System funding, 400, 

403, 404, 405, 406, 409, 410–11, 

425

electronics costs as portion of NASA missions, 178

electronics research funding, 183–84, 

183n98

environmental satellites, funding for, 425

gas chromatograph research, funding for, 

279–82, 285, 303–4n200, 306–8, 

307nn215–16, 314, 315, 316–18

government activities, poll questions 

about funding, 45–59, 46, 57, 58

Integrated Circuits Laboratory, funding 

for, 287–88, 289, 292–93, 323, 

324, 326

International Space Station funding, 419

MEMS research funding, 262, 275, 

323–26, 326

Mission to Planet Earth/Earth Science 

funding, 400, 401, 402, 403, 404, 

410–11, 418, 422–23

Moon program, poll questions about 

value of, 12–16, 34

NASA budget and funding, 403, 404, 

410–11, 422, 518–19

national debt, poll questions about, 5

policy decisions, results of polls, and decisions about, 73–74

poll questions about, 5–6, 18–20, 18, 

20, 28, 30, 31, 38–39, 43–44, 45, 

53–54, 67–74

probe mission priorities over human 

spaceflight programs, 364, 364n80

scientific research, funding of, 56–58, 58

space race between United States and 

Soviets, role in, 8

Stanford Electronics Laboratories, funding for, 288–89, 323, 324

Stanford University, NASA funding for 

research at, 287, 289, 323–26, 326

Triana funding, 416

Buehler, William J., 126–29

Bugos, Glenn, 265, 270, 277

Burch, Dean, 450

Burke, Robert, 78

Burns, Conrad, 456–57

Burroughs, 154–55, 226

Burshell, Alan L., 88, 96

Bush administration and George H. W. 

Bush

deficit reduction efforts under, 403

election of, 25

environmental and energy policies under, 

401–8, 409

environmental values campaign pledge, 

401, 408

Space Exploration Initiative proposal, 502

Bush administration and George W. Bush

election of, 418

environmental policy and space vision, 

conflict between, 423

environmental policy under, 418–24, 425

Kyoto Protocol withdrawal by, 418, 421

Mars, plans for exploration of and 

manned missions to, 67, 68–69, 71

Moon, Mars, and Beyond space vision, 

421–24, 426

space program changes under, 67

Bying (Binswanger), Gustav, 275n94

C

cadmium, 215, 216

calculators, hand-held, 62, 146

California Institute of Technology (CalTech)

American Physical Society meeting at, 

254–55

medical technology research at, 85

patent waiver requests, 247, 247, 248

Callaghan, Christopher, 87

Cambridge Instruments, 221, 222
608 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

cameras

spin-scan camera, 471

TIROS satellite cameras, 437–38

Camille, Hurricane, 386

Canada

Aerosat program, 477

communications satellite launch by, 461

Cosmos 954 incident and radioactive 

debris in, 365–66

Intelsat agreements, 447n43

Kyoto Summit and Protocol, 415

Sputnik, public knowledge of launch of, 9

telemedicine project, cooperative role in, 

113

Terra satellite instrument package, 417

cancer

cure for, opinions about, 4, 49–50

detection of, biomedical sensor research 

for, 113–14

fast-neutron cancer tumor treatment, 

138–41

telemedicine and care for children with, 

112

Canon, 123

cantilever beams, 259–60, 300, 310–12, 322

Canyon system, 481

capacitive pressure sensors/transducers, 258, 

258n23, 270, 270–71n71

capacitors

integrated circuit use of, 157, 168, 173, 

174, 175

thin-film technology and formation of, 

168

Tinkertoy project and silk-screen printing 

of, 169

Cape Canaveral

Cassini launch from, 372

Cassini protests at, 376–78

RTG delivery to, 345

satellites launched from, 343, 434, 437, 

440, 470, 471

Carderock Division, Naval Surface Warfare 

Center, 126

cardiac-output monitor and impedance 

cardiography, 107–11, 143–44

CardioDynamics, 110–11

cardiovascular system. See heart and cardiovascular system

Carla, Hurricane, 386

Carle, Glenn C., 303–4, 307, 318, 319–20, 

326

Caroti, Simone, 541n16

Carpini, Michael Delli, 42

Carson, Rachel, 383, 384

Carter, William Gilbert, 443

Carter administration and Jimmy Carter

environmental and energy initiatives 

under, 397

funding for nuclear technology, 55

land remote sensing, privatization of, 482

Landsat, capabilities of, 391–92

nuclear power for spaceflight, moratorium on, 366

presidential performance polls about, 55

Case Western Reserve University/Case 

Institute of Technology

merger to create Case Western Reserve 

University, 256n16

nanotechnology research at, 255–56n13

pressure sensor development by, 257

Cassini

characteristics and size of, 372

economic impact statement for, 347–48

launch of, 378, 414

opposition to and protests against launch 

of, 367, 376–78, 381, 414

RTG use on, 334, 340, 350, 367, 

372–78, 373, 374, 375, 376

safety analyses and reports, 372–77

Saturn mission of, 372, 378, 414

social change and, 572

success of, 378

Venus–Venus–Earth–Jupiter Gravity 

Assist for, 372, 414

C-band frequencies, 451, 463, 465–66, 

468–69, 471, 478, 487–88

CBS (Columbia Broadcasting System)

polling activity by, 1, 24, 68

television satellite, launch of, 461

transistor manufacturing by, 165

CBS Laboratories

patent waiver requests, 247, 247, 249

semiconductor research at, 214

Centaur launch vehicles

ARPA communications satellite program, 

465

Atlas-Centaur launch vehicles, 359, 449, 

471

Centaur-Mariner H, 244–45

Galileo and Ulysses launch vehicles, 

367–68

Center for Integrated Systems, 294

Center for Science, Mathematics, and 

Engineering Education, 11
Index 609

Center for Telemedicine, Texas Tech 

University, 113

Central Intelligence Agency (CIA)

applications satellites, interest in, 489

as defense consumer of innovations, 233

integrated circuits use by, 153

Meindl proposal for research for, 290

reconnaissance satellites, 479–81

satellite program management by, 433

centralized processes, decentralized processes, 

and control, 503, 506–11, 511n68

Central Research Laboratories, 118

ceramic dielectric material, 276, 276n97

Certified Production Line (CPL) concept, 

234–36, 235–36n272

Ceruzzi, Paul E., 153, 225

CFCs (chlorofluorocarbons), 392, 399, 407

Chaffee, Roger, 15

Chaisson, Eric, 44

Challenger, 21, 24–28, 33, 367, 369, 399

Chardack, William C., 99–100

Charyk, Joseph V., “Joe,” 437, 443

Chayes, Abram, 444

China

Kyoto Summit and Protocol, 415

Moon mission, plans for, 72

spying by, alleged reports of, 453, 453n57

chip, 155. See also integrated circuits

chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs), 392, 399, 407

chromatograph, gas

concept and function of, 303–5

fabrication process, 305–6, 310, 317

funding for, 279–82, 285, 303–4n200, 

306–8, 307nn315–316, 314, 315, 

316–18, 326

impact and importance of, 279, 316–20

objective of research on, 280–81

patents for, 316–17, 317n254

research and development of, 303–8

Chrysler, 523

CIGNA HealthCare, 111

circadian rhythm research, 272, 273, 280

cities, poll question about funding for aid 

to, 16, 46–47, 46, 54, 55

city planning, systems management 

approach to, 492, 512, 533

Clark, Graeme, 137, 138

Clarke, Arthur C., 429, 430, 431, 432, 436, 

438, 471

Clatterbridge Neutron Cancer Therapy 

Cyclotron, 139

Clean Air Act, 407

Cleveland Clinic

fast-neutron cancer tumor treatment 

through, 138, 139, 140–41

founder of, 95

pressure suit use during surgery at, 94

climate change/global warming

atmospheric research and understanding 

of, 386

causes of, 404, 411–12

concern about by scientists, 384, 411–12

confirmation of, 403–4

controversies over policy and regulatory 

action, 385

dust storms on Mars and, 393

economic concerns about environmental 

initiatives, 401–2

effects of, 412–13

emissions control and Montreal Protocol, 

399, 407, 408, 409, 420, 425

emissions policy under Clinton, 409, 

412, 413–14, 415

global carbon emissions, call for reduction of, 400

global changes research, 398, 400–402, 

409

global warming, pollution, and concept 

of climate change, 386

greenhouse effect and, 384, 387, 396–97, 

400

human impact on, 397

increase in, 418

increase in concern about, 400–401, 408, 

411–12

Kyoto Summit and Protocol, 413, 418, 

421

NASA plans for Earth monitoring 

beyond EOS, 417–18, 424, 425–26

pollution and, 386

regional impacts, study of, 412

research on and policy development to 

address, 401–8, 410–12

skepticism about, 401–2, 403–4, 410–12

space technology use to address natural 

and manmade changes, 397, 412–13

See also ozone depletion

Climate Change Research Institute (CCRI), 

418

Climate Change Science Program, 422

Climsat, 403, 404, 411

Cline, James E., 222

Clinton administration and Bill Clinton

abortion policy of, 381
610 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

election of, 408

environmental policy under, 408–18

reelection of, 412

clocks, quartz, 146

closed systems program, 508

CNN polls

budget and funding questions, 5

Mars, questions about exploration of, 69

start of polling activities, 1

cobalt, 203

Cochlear, 137

cochlear implants

concept and function of, 134–35

importance of, 143

invention of, 135–38

NASA contributions to development of, 

135, 138

patents for, 135–36, 137, 138

CODSIA (Council of Defense and Space 

Industry Associations), 190, 190n120

cold, opinions about cure for, 49–50

Cold War

communications satellites and, 441, 442

electronics technology and, 178, 181

prestige from Apollo program and, 352, 

493–94, 533

public opinions and attitudes and, 8

space race and, 442

technology transfer and politics of, 

524–25

Colino, Richard R., 448

college students

Harvard students, poll of about space 

goals, 59, 60, 63–67

opinions and attitudes of, 49–50

Collingwood, Joe, 374

Colodny, Edwin I., 452–53

Colorado State University, 141

Columbia, 30–32, 34–35, 67, 419–20

Columbia Accident Investigation Board, 188

Columbia Broadcasting System. See CBS 

(Columbia Broadcasting System)

Columbia University

Cartwright Prize, 95

electronics research laboratory at, 288

Combat Casualty Care Guidelines, 96–97

Commerce, Department of

Business and Defense Services 

Administration, 153, 233

Weather Bureau transfer to, 436

Commercial Satellite Communications 

Initiative (CSCI), 468–69

Committee for Evaluating the Feasibility of 

Space Rocketry (CEFSR), 432

“Communication and Observation 

Problems of Satellites” (RAND), 431

Communications Satellite Act (1962), 

440–42, 443, 459, 460, 471

Communications Satellite Corporation 

(CSC), 452. See also COMSAT

communications satellites

active satellites, 439, 525–26

as applications satellites, 427–28

Cold War politics and, 441, 442

commercial communications satellites, 

use of by DOD, 468–69, 488

commercial development and launch of, 

428, 441–42, 459–64, 489–90

design of, 448–49, 450–51, 462, 466

direct access, 454, 456–57

domestic communications satellites 

(DOMSATs), 449, 459–63

early concepts and programs, 431–32, 

438–45, 489–90, 525–26, 526n122

economic impact of, 428

future of, 487–88

government role in development and 

launch of, 428, 441–42, 525–26, 

526n122

growth and consolidation in, 462

increasing demand for, 468–69, 468

launch vehicles for, shortage of, 439–40

maritime communication system, 449

military satellite communications, 464–69

mobile satellite communications, 475–79

monopoly over, concerns about, 441–42, 

449

monopoly over, end to, 450

passive satellites, 439, 525

profits from, 483

public attitudes toward space exploration 

and benefits of, 65–66

public understanding of operation of, 41

satellite communications as foreign policy 

activity, 443–44, 525–26

Shuttle flights for launching, 21

societal impact of, 428, 487

space technology and development of, 62, 

78, 146

telecommunication companies as managers of, 441–42

telemedicine projects and, 111–17

See also COMSAT

Compac, 169
Index 611

comparative planetology

atmospheric research through, 387

environmental mission of NASA and, 

393

objective and purpose of, 383, 387

uniqueness and vulnerability of Earth, 

realization of through, 384, 425

complementary transistor logic (CTL) 

circuits, 204

Components Division/Electronic 

Components Research Division, 198

Component Technology Laboratory/

Electronic Materials Laboratory, 198

Computer-assisted Survey Methods 

(CSM) Program, University of 

California, Berkeley, 7

computers

computer-aided design of circuits, 

218–19, 243

personal computers, development of, 

116

See also Apollo guidance and navigation 

computers

Computers in Spaceflight (Tomayko), viii

COMSAT

Aerosat program, 476–77

competition for, 450, 452

contracts in proportion to contribution 

of funding, 444

costs and profits, 443–44, 449

creation of, 441–42, 525

data from, limits on, 446, 446n40

definitive agreements, 445–49

DOD contract for transponders, 469

domestic communications satellites, 

449, 462

end of, 457

FCC DOMSAT report and, 461

last satellite launched by, 449

leasing of satellites from, 461

Lockheed merger, 451–57

markup on pricing by, 456

mission of, 449

monopoly status of, 441–42, 450

negotiations and interim agreements, 

442–44

office of, 451–52

pilot program for DOMSATs, 460

purchase of by Lockheed, 453–55, 

456–57

restructuring of, 452–53

Satellite Business Systems (SBS), 462

COMSAT Government Services, Inc. 

(CGSI), 455

COMSAT Mobile Communications, 457

COMSAT Radiation Systems, Inc. 

(CRSI), 452

COMSAT World Systems, 457

COMSTAR satellites, 462

Conference Européenne des 

Télécommunications par Satellites 

(CETS), 443

Conference of European PTTs (CEPT), 

443, 444

Conference on the Peaceful Uses of Outer 

Space, United Nations, 397

configuration management practices, 504, 

507, 511

Congress, U.S.

ancillary policy, 501n34

Clean Air Act, 407

Communications Satellite Act, 440–42, 

443, 459, 460, 471

Contract with American and budget 

cuts, 410–11

government shutdowns by, 411, 412

Land Remote Sensing Act, 482

Maritime Satellite Act, 479

Orbit Act, 454, 455–57

space race between United States and 

Soviets, role in, 8

technology utilization, politics, and, 

231–37, 232n256, 233n263, 

235–36n272

Triana debate in, 416

Conrad, Pete, 357

conservation, energy emergencies and, 

390, 394, 500

contamination and forward contamination concerns, 384, 387–88, 393, 

425, 426

CONTEL, 452

Continental Devices, 180

control, centralized processes, and decentralized processes, 503, 506–11, 

511n68

Cook, Liz, 407

cool suit treatment for hypohidrotic ectodermal dysplasia, 94–95

Coon, Grant W., 270–71, 270–71n71

Cooper, Irving, 83

copper, 203

Corbin-Farnsworth, Inc., 267

Corliss, William R., 337
612 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

CORONA satellites, 433, 479–80, 481, 

485–86

Coronet satellite project, 463

corporate power, model of, 511, 511n68

Cosmos 954 incident, 365–66

Cosmos and Culture, ix

COSMOS consortium, 477

Cotton, John, 88

Council of Defense and Space Industry 

Associations (CODSIA), 190, 190n120

Coupling, J. J. (John R. Pierce), 429, 

431–32, 431n10, 438–39

Courier, 464, 465–66, 489

Cox report, 453, 453n57

crew model of spaceflight, 551–54, 571

Crile, George Washington, 95–96

crime, poll questions about spending to 

curb, 5, 16, 46–47, 46, 54

Cristofori, Bartolomeo, 89

Crockett, Bruce, 452

Cryofit couplings, 127

cryogenic gases/liquids

medical use of, 82–83

propellant use of, 82

space program use of and general development of industry, 83

cryosurgery

cryoprobe for, 83

experiments with, 83

liquid nitrogen use for, 82–83

CSCI (Commercial Satellite 

Communications Initiative), 468–69

CSF, 477

CTS Microelectronics, Inc., 199

Cuban Missile Crisis, 485–86

Cull, Ronald C., 342

culture and cultural traits of NASA, 506–11

curium-242, 349

cyclotron, 138–41

D

Dactyl, 371

Dailey, Brian, 451

d’Alembert, Jean le Rond, 230

Daley, Brian, 454

Danellis, Joan Vernikos, 279–80

Dassoulas, John, 343

data bank of electronics parts, 191, 193–94

David, Moses, 21

David Clark, 97

Deboo, Gordon J., 271–73, 279, 282

debris/space debris

concern about, 401, 414–15

falling from orbit to Earth, possibility of, 

385, 419–20

mitigation efforts, 414–15, 426

pollution of near-Earth space by, 384–85

radioactive debris, 347–48, 358, 365–66, 

414, 419–20

threat to space assets in orbit from, 385, 

395, 415, 417, 420

tracking space junk, 395

decentralized processes, centralized processes, 

and control, 503, 506–11, 511n68

Decree, 465

Deep Space 1 probe, 141

deep space missions

nuclear power systems for, 331, 333–34, 

334, 419

photovoltaic solar cells, limitation of use 

for, 332–33

RTG use during, 351, 358–64, 367–68

Deep Space Network (DSN), 361

Defense, Department of (DOD)

applications satellites, interest in and 

funding for, 489, 490

Certified Production Line (CPL) concept, 

adoption of, 235, 235–36n272

commercial communications satellites, 

use of by DOD, 468–69, 488

Commercial Satellite Communications 

Initiative (CSCI), 468–69

communications satellite development by, 

526n122

communications satellites, increasing 

demand for, 468–69, 468

data bank of electronics parts, use of by, 

193

as defense consumer of innovations, 233

integrated circuits use by, 153, 177

Landsat program, 409

management and planning practices in, 

495–96, 503–5

NASA programs from, 522n108

Nimbus weather satellite use by, 386

nuclear power systems for spacecraft, role 

in development of, 338–39

sealed container, procedures for locating 

leaks in, 217, 220

space program of, 383–84

space race between United States and 

Soviets, role in, 8
Index 613

Stanford Electronics Laboratories, funding for, 289

transistor use by, 165–66

Transit satellite, support for launch of, 

344–45

Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency 

(DARPA)

Defense Sciences Office and Air Force 

nanotechnology program, 172

DLI project role, 116

MEMS research funding from, 262

Defense Meteorological Satellite Program 

(DMSP), 437–38, 489, 490

Defense Satellite Communications System I 

(DSCS I), 465–66

Defense Satellite Communications System 

II (DSCS II), 466

Defense Satellite Communications System 

III (DSCS III), 466, 467

Defense Sciences Office, Defense Advanced 

Research Projects Agency (DARPA), 

172

defibrillators, implantable, 98, 105

Delta rockets

reliability of, 448, 470

satellite launches with, 440, 448, 461, 

466, 470, 471, 472, 474

Thor-Delta rockets, 432, 434–35

Denmark, 113

Denver Research Institute, University of 

Denver, 233–37, 233n263

depletion hypothesis, 530

Desert Shield/Desert Storm Operations, 468

deuterium, 205

diaphragm production, process for, 257, 

300–302, 315

Dick, Steven, 537

Dickinson, Ken, 374

Diderot, Denis, 230

diffusion, embodied, 79

diffusion, horizontal and vertical, 79–80

Diffusion of Innovations (Rogers), 79

diffusion process for semiconductor manufacturing, 160, 202–3, 214–15, 214n202

Digisonic programme, 137

DigitalGlobe/WorldView/EarthWatch, 482

Digital Library Initiative (DLI), 116–17

DiMaggio, Paul, 102

Dimeff, John, 273, 277–79, 278n107, 281, 

282–85, 284n137

Dimeff Associates, 284

Dingell, John, 457

diodes

germanium use in, 198

gold-flake contamination, 180–81

integrated circuit use of, 157, 168, 175, 

181

ion implantation process, 214

Ranger program and failure of, 180–81, 

182

sales of compared to sales of transistors, 

164

silicon use in, 159

solid-state diodes, 157

diode-transistor logic (DTL) circuits, 204, 

207n175, 227–28

DirectTV, 463

dirigibles, 157

Discovery

bone loss in weightlessness research on, 89

Glenn return to space on, 30

launch of and Columbia accident, 32

Dividends from Space (Ordway, Adams, and 

Sharpe), 81–82

Docotte, Behrman, 136

domestic communications satellites 

(DOMSATs), 449, 459–63

Donaldson, Ralph W., Jr., 279, 303–4n200, 

307, 326

Dong, Eugene, Jr., 292

“Don’t Write: Telegraph” (Pierce/Coupling), 

431

Doppler effect, 434

DORIAN satellites, 480

Dornier, 477

Douglas, 523

Doyle, James H., 136

drug addiction, poll questions about spending on, 46–47, 46

drug-delivery systems, implantable, 104–5, 

106

Dryden, Hugh L., 438, 508, 508n58

Dryden Flight Research Center, 185

dryers and washers, balancing, 251

DSCS I (Defense Satellite Communications 

System I), 465–66

DSCS II (Defense Satellite 

Communications System II), 466

DSCS III (Defense Satellite Communications 

System III), 466, 467

DSTS-G, 469

dual-energy x-ray absorptiometry (DXA), 

88, 89
614 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Dudley-Rowley, Marilyn (Marilyn DudleyFlores), 538, 541n16

Dukakis, Michael, 25

Duke University Medical Center, 267

Dummer, Geoffrey W. A., 172–73, 174

Dunlap, W. Crawford, 198

Dyna Med, 94, 95

Dyna Med Anti-Shock Trouser (DMAST), 

94–97

Dynamic Systems, 131–32

Dyno system, 481

E

Eagleburger, Lawrence, 455

Early Bird, 444–45, 448, 450, 459, 476, 

489

Earth

appreciation of as spinoff of Apollo, 389, 

533–34

Earth-monitoring system program, 396, 

397–98, 400

Earth system science, creation of, 384

heat budget of, 436

images from Apollo mission and appreciation for, 388–89, 390, 416, 424, 

498–99, 498n28

images from Triana and appreciation for, 

415–16

IMP and data collection about atmosphere, 238–39

living system, Earth as, 389, 393, 395

magnetosphere, 239

Moon-Earth comparison, 388–89

NASA plans for Earth monitoring 

beyond EOS, 417–18, 424, 425–26

uniqueness and vulnerability of, realization of, 384, 425

See also Mission to Planet Earth (MTPE)/

Earth Science

Earth, mission from

Goldin interest in, 409

priority of, 409–10, 425

understanding Earth through, 383, 425

Earth Day, 390, 424–25

Earth in the Balance (Gore), 408

Earth Observation Satellite Company 

(EOSAT), 482

Earth Observation Summit, 421

Earth Observation System (EOS)

adoption of, 400, 404

Aqua satellite, 420–21

Aura satellite, 422

budget and funding for, 400, 403, 404, 

405, 406, 409, 410–11, 425

CCRI creation and, 418

Clinton administration support for, 409

completion of, 422, 424

depoliticization of, 425

design of, 398–99, 402, 403, 404–5, 425

development and purpose of, 398–99

environmental research with, 401, 402–3, 

410–12, 424, 425

evolution of spacecraft leading to, 404, 

405

faster, better, cheaper revision of, 406, 

409, 411

GEOSS link to, 422

international partners in, 398, 402, 421

MTPE role of, 402, 404, 409

NASA plans for Earth monitoring 

beyond, 417–18, 424, 425–26

regional impacts, study of, 412

satellite fleet to replace original platform 

concept, 405

schedule for satellites, 412

space station connection to, 399, 402, 405

support for implementation of, 404–5

Terra satellite, 417, 418, 420, 421

USGCRP role of, 400–401

Earth Observation System Data and 

Information System (EOSDIS), 409, 

412, 420–21, 422

Earth resources satellites. See environmental/

Earth resources satellites

Earth Resources Technology Satellite 

(ERTS)/Landsat, 391–92, 409, 420, 

424, 438, 481–82, 484, 489

“Earthrise,” 389, 498–99, 498n28

Earth Science program. See Mission to 

Planet Earth (MTPE)/Earth Science

Earth Sciences, Committee on, 400

Earth Sciences and Applications Division, 

397–98

Earth Summit, 408

Earth System Science Committee, 397, 398

EarthWatch/DigitalGlobe/WorldView, 482

Echo satellite, 439, 489, 525

economics

Apollo program, impact of, 492, 517–30, 

519n97, 522n107, 529n131, 

529nn133–134, 533

Cassini economic impact statement, 

347–48

communications satellites, impact of, 428
Index 615

contracts and space projects, 522–23, 

522n108, 523

economic concerns about environmental 

initiatives, 401–2

Moon, economic development of, 100

multiplier, 520–23, 520n100, 521n103

public goods, 519, 519n97, 522

regional impact of NASA Center, 

528–29, 529n131

return on investment (ROI), 518

space program, economic benefits of, 

61–62, 62

spinoff technologies, 523–28

technology development and, 78

tourism, impact of, 528, 564

wealth-building processes, 522, 533

Edelson, Burton, 396, 397–400

education

Apollo program impact on, 491, 530–32, 

531n140, 533

funding for, poll questions about, 16, 

46–47, 46, 53–54, 55, 69

medical education, Web-based digital 

library of videos for, 113

NASA educational efforts, 44–45

science education in United States and 

launch of Sputnik, 10–11, 496, 530

social science classrooms, expanding space 

into, 548–51

space program as educational tool, 67

support for space program and, 35–36, 

41–45, 74

Sustaining University Program (SUP), 

532, 532n150

See also science, technology, engineering, and math (STEM) disciplines; 

science, technology, engineering, 

math, and astrosociology (STEMA) 

disciplines

Education, Office of, 287–88, 292, 

292–93n166

educational television, 461

Effective Isotropic Radiated Power (EIRP), 

448, 458, 466

EG&G Florida, Inc., 376

Einstein, Albert, 378

Eisenhower administration and Dwight 

Eisenhower

atomic power, support for peaceful uses 

of, 338, 339–40, 339

communications satellite development 

by commercial, private companies, 

support for, 441

Echo 1 satellite and recording of, 439

reconnaissance satellite development, 

authorization of, 479

RTG development for spacecraft, support 

for, 339–40, 339

space race between United States and 

Soviets, role in, 8

electricity/electrical power

for flying saucers, 134

ion drive propulsion, 141

methods for providing, 332, 335

requirement for flying in space, 331–32

research and development activities to 

advance power technologies, 341–42

See also radioisotope thermal generators 

(RTGs)

Electric Spacecraft, 134

electrocardiogram (ECG) signals/biopotential data, 273

electrocardiogram (ECG) telemetry unit, 267

electrocardiograph, 107

Electrochemical Society Meeting, 214n202

electrodes, 99, 100, 267

electroencephalogram (EEG), 273

electrometers, 278, 278n107

Electronic Components Research Division/

Components Division, 198

Electronic Industries Association, 164

Electronic Materials Laboratory/Component 

Technology Laboratory, 198

Electronics and Control Directorate, 180, 

183, 183n96, 188–89, 195

electronics and microelectronics

Apollo and Minuteman programs and 

development of, 153, 225

challenges for NASA, 178–83

conditions encountered in space, resistance to harsh, 181–82, 197, 201, 

206–13

costs as portion of NASA missions, 178

electrical circuit design and integrated 

circuits, 156–57

flight failures and electronic failures, 

179–81

microelectronics use by NASA, 181

military concepts for miniaturization of 

electronics, 169–72, 169n49, 170n52

miniaturization of electronics and integrated circuits, 168, 526
616 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

miniaturization of electronics and launch 

of satellites, 179

production quality assurance program, 

234–36, 235–36n272

reliability requirements for Air Force, 

155, 171

reliability requirements for NASA, 155, 

243–45

spacecraft electronics and the space race, 

178–79

standards and specification requirements, 

development of by NASA, 181, 182, 

190–94, 196, 235–36, 235–36n272

symposia on microelectronics, 190–91, 

190n122

temperature and failure of, 223–25

See also integrated circuits; transistors

Electronics Components Laboratory, 198, 

201, 213

Electronics Components Reliability Center 

(ECRC), 196

electronics research by NASA

failure and reliability research, 196, 197, 

201–6

funding for, 183–84, 183n98

integrated-circuits research, 185–86, 

186n107, 186n109

packaging and interconnection problems, 

196

personnel and facilities for, 183–86, 

183n96

programs and resources for, 183–87, 195, 

228, 243–45

project- and mission-orient research, 

183–87

reliability offices, programs, and handbooks, 187–94, 191n127, 243–45

standards and specification requirements, 

development of, 181, 182, 190–94, 

196, 235–36, 235–36n272

testing method standards, 196

thin-film technology research, 185–86

university-industry-government complex, 

228

Electronics Research Center (ERC)

biomedical instrumentation research at, 

264, 265, 275

closing of, 216n209, 244, 275

Components Division/Electronic 

Components Research Division, 198

Components Standards Branch, 193

Component Technology Laboratory/

Electronic Materials Laboratory, 198

computer-aided design of circuits, seminar on, 219

contracted research activities for, 196

data bank of electronics parts, 191, 

193–94

Electronic Components Research 

Division, 198

Electronics Components Laboratory, 198, 

201, 213

Failure Mechanisms Branch, 198, 

216–17, 222

formation of, 195, 197

handbooks on electronics parts, 191–93, 

191n127

integrated-circuit fabrication processes 

research, 199–200

integrated circuits research by, 186n105, 

243–44

laboratories at, 197–200

location of, 194

Microelectronics Subcommittee, 198

Microwave Radiation Laboratory, 211

opening of, 194–95

personnel for, 196, 197–99, 199n151

PREDICT facility, 199–201, 243, 282–83

Qualifications and Standards Laboratory, 

189, 194, 198, 199, 201, 213, 220, 

244, 245

scope of activities and research at, 

194–97, 243–44

space-charge-limited triode, development 

of, 209–11, 243

Tech Briefs from, 229–30, 246, 246

transistor failure analysis research at, 244

Electronics Research Task Group (ERTG), 

194–97, 196n142

Components and Technology Division, 

196

Electromagnetic Division, 195

Instrumentation and Data Processing 

Division, 195–96

electron microscopes, 200, 220–23, 

222n231, 234, 236–37

Electro-Optical Systems, 247, 248, 255

electrostatic bonding (anodic bonding , 

Mallory process), 258, 306, 311, 312

Ellis, Richard T., 105

Ellul, Jacques, 232n256

El Niño, 412–13
Index 617

embodied diffusion, 79

emitter-coupled logic (ECL) circuits, 

207n175

employment opportunities as benefit of 

space program, 67, 520

Enceladus, 378

Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné des 

sciences, des arts et des métiers par une 

société de gens de lettres (Diderot and 

d’Alembert), 230

Enduring Freedom, Operation, 468

energy

conservation and energy emergencies, 

394, 500

environmental and energy initiatives, 397

oil boycott and energy emergencies, 390

Energy, Department of/Atomic Energy 

Commission (AEC)

as defense consumer of innovations, 233

integrated circuits use by, 153

management structure for RTG program, 

351–52

nuclear power systems for spacecraft, role 

in development of, 338–40, 339, 

343–46, 351

radioisotope development by, 336

research and development activities to 

advance power technologies, 341–42

RTGs, support for use of, 351

safety reviews and approvals before launch 

of RTGs, 365, 372–73

solar-powered satellite (SPS), 394–95

Transit satellite, support for launch of, 

344–45

Engineering in Medicine and Biology 

Society, 290

engineers/engineering

applications satellites, interest of engineers in in, 430–32

astrosociological issues and, 564–65, 

571–72

convergence of branches of technology, 

145–46

credit to engineers for innovation, 106–7

Engler, Richard, 338–39

Enterprise, 19

environment

Bush (G. H. W.) administration policies, 

401–8, 409

Bush (G. W.) administration policies, 

418–24, 425

Clinton administration policies, 408–18

contamination and forward contamination concerns, 384, 387–88, 393, 

425, 426

depoliticization of environmental mission, 415–16, 425

economic concerns about environmental 

initiatives, 401–2

energy and environmental initiatives, 397

environmental policy, 385

funding to improve and protect, poll 

questions about, 46–47, 46, 54, 69

images from Apollo mission and appreciation for Earth, 388–89, 390, 416, 

424, 498–99, 498n28

images from satellites and, 383

images from Triana and appreciation for 

Earth, 415–16

impact of NASA on, viii, 383–85

insults to, early warnings of, 383

Montreal Protocol and environmental 

policy, 399, 407, 408, 409, 420, 425

NASA environmental mission, 384, 

384n1, 385, 390–92, 395, 398–405, 

415–16, 420, 424–26

NASA plans for Earth monitoring 

beyond EOS, 417–18, 424, 425–26

national policy and, 390

space vision and environmental policy, 

conflict between, 423

threat from technology, 384–85

See also pollution

environmental/Earth resources satellites

budget and funding for, 425

civil land remote sensing satellites, 481–82

Climsat, 403, 404, 411

development and launch of, 385–87, 

395, 398

global monitoring satellites, 396

Glory, 421, 423, 424

Ice, Cloud, and land Elevation Satellite 

(ICESat), 424

importance of research with, 425

Landsat/Earth Resources Technology 

Satellite (ERTS), 391–92, 404, 409, 

420, 424, 438, 481–82, 484, 489

land-use observation satellites, 428–29

mission to Earth via, 385

priority of, 425

remote sensing technology for, 383, 

391–92

smaller satellites, support for by Goldin, 

405–6
618 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

system of systems by linking satellite 

capabilities, 421, 422

Triana, 415–16, 418

See also Earth Observation System (EOS)

environmental movement

attitudes, values, and way of thinking of, 

384, 424–25

beginning of, 383, 424

opposition to NASA by environmentalists, 413–14, 500

science-emotion amalgam about Earth 

and, 393

Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), 

390

Environmental Science Services 

Administration (ESSA)

ESSA satellites/TIROS Operational 

System (TOS), 438, 470–71, 489

polar weather satellites, responsibility for, 

469–71

See also National Oceanic and 

Atmospheric Administration 

(NOAA)

epitaxial deposition process, 161–62

EquiTest, 90–93

Ericcson, 477

ERNO, 477

Esaki, Leo, 208

Eshleman, Von, 324

ethylene glycol, 217

Europa, 371, 516

Europe

cooperative space ventures with United 

States, 515–17, 516n84, 533

environmental satellite coverage by, 472

Kyoto Protocol withdrawal by Bush, reaction to, 418

Kyoto Summit and Protocol, 415

meteorological data sharing and international cooperation, 472–73

space program of, transfer of systems 

management to, 515–17, 533

European Communications Satellites, 464

European Organisation for the Exploitation 

of Meteorological Satellites 

(EUMETSAT), 473

European Space Agency (ESA)

astrosociological implications of space 

exploration, recognition of, 540

Cassini space probe role, 372

EOS role of, 402

Eutelsat, 464

formation of, 515n82

juste retour principle, 444

Space and Society Conference, 540

systems management practices, transfer 

to, 515–17, 533

European Space Conference (ESC), 476–77

European Space Research Organisation 

(ESRO), 476, 476–77, 515, 515n82

European Space Vehicle Launcher 

Development Organisation (ELDO), 

476–77, 516

Eutelsat, 464, 479

Everhart, Thomas E., 222, 237

Evolved Expendable Launch Vehicle (EELV) 

program, 466

exobiology

objective and purpose of, 388

Stanford research on, 324

exploration ethos, 498–500, 498n24, 

498n28, 533–34

Exploration of Space, The (Clarke), 436

“Exploration of the Universe with Reaction 

Machines” (Tsiolkovsky), 429–30

Exploration Systems Mission Directorate, 

421

Explorer IMP series. See Interplanetary 

Monitoring Platform (IMP)

Explorer satellites

Explorer 1 satellite, 10

Explorer VI satellite, 436

transistor use in, 167

weather observation payloads on, 436

Extraordinary Administrative Radio 

Conference (EARC), 443

extraterrestrial life

detection of, 569–70

emotional reactions to finding, 569–70

exobiology and discovery of, 388

intelligent extraterrestrial life, goal of 

detecting, 567

messages from, 570

messages to, 363–64, 570

search for, 547, 565–70

“Extra-terrestrial Relays” (Clarke), 430

extravehicular activity (EVA), 356

F

F-14 fighter jet hydraulic system, 127, 129

Fagerdala World Foams, 133

Failure Mechanisms Branch, 198

Fairchild, 526n122

Fairchild Camera and Instruments, 164
Index 619

Fairchild Semiconductor

commercialization of and commercial 

applications for integrated circuits, 

153–55, 226–27, 226n242

founding of company, 164–65

gold doping technique, 202

integrated circuit invention by, 121, 

174–75

integrated circuit manufacturing by, 

153–54, 175, 176, 242

location of, 175

mesa technique and transistor manufacturing, 160–61

Micrologic Elements, 153–54, 177

Moore’s law and number of components 

on single circuit, 178

MOS circuits manufactured by, testing 

for radiation resistance of, 207n177

MOS technology research at, 239–40

off-the-shelf integrated-circuit product 

line, development of, 151–52, 

151n8

planar process and transistor manufacturing, 161, 161n34

price of integrated circuits from, 153–55, 

226

specialized integrated circuit manufacturing, 227

supplier of integrated circuits for Apollo 

program, 151, 176, 226–27

testing integrated circuits manufactured 

by, 204

transistor prices and sales numbers, 164

Farber, Louis I., 212

Farley, Philip J., 441

farmers, poll question about funding for 

subsidies for, 16

Farnsworth, Philo, 122

fast-neutron cancer tumor treatment, 

138–41

fast-scan infrared microscope, 223–25

Federal Aviation Administration (FAA)

as defense consumer of innovations, 233

integrated circuits use by, 153

National Aviation Facilities Experimental 

Center, 476

Wide Area Augmentation System 

(WAAS), 475

Federal Communications Commission 

(FCC)

COMSAT monopoly and treatment of by 

FCC, 450

domestic communications satellites, 

459–61

Intelsat licensing order and privatization, 

458

Lockheed purchase of COMSAT, 

approval of, 455–57

Orbit Act and direct access to Intelsat, 456

telecommunication companies as managers of communications satellites, 

support for, 441

Feedback, Project, 337–38

ferrite memory technology, 197

Feynman, Richard P., 254–56

FI-100 transistor, 241

Fiat, 477

fiber-optic cables, 450, 452–53, 457

films, development of, 526–27

Finger, Harry, 351, 352

finite element simulation, 88

Finland, 113

Finney, Ben, 537

Fischell, Robert E., 104–6, 107

Fisk, Lennard, “Len,” 400, 404–6

fixed satellite services (FSS), 458, 463, 

468–69, 483, 484

Flanigan, Peter, 450

flashbulb memories, 33

Fleet Satellite Communications System 

(FLTSATCOM), 466–67, 478

Fletcher, James C.

Centaur launch vehicle, decision to not 

use, 368

environmental interests of, basis for, 391

environmental mission of NASA under, 

390–92, 398, 399, 425

leadership style of, 391

patent for biological impedance electrode 

assembly, 109

retirement and legacy of, 392, 401

return to NASA after Challenger accident, 399

as successor to Paine, 390

flight controls, 118–19

flip-flop circuits, 154, 173, 249

Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice, 414

Floyd, Samuel R., 222

FLTSATCOM (Fleet Satellite 

Communications System), 466–67, 478

fluorocarbon liquid, locating leaks in sealed 

containers with, 218

flying saucers, electrostatic propulsion of, 134

FM transmitters, 212, 212n195
620 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Ford Aerospace (Space Systems Loral), 451, 

453, 454, 455, 462, 465, 472, 526n122

Ford Foundation, 460

foreign aid, poll questions about spending 

on, 46–47, 46

Framework Convention on Climate 

Change, 408

France

Aerosat program, 477

cooperative space ventures with, 515

data from COMSAT, limits on, 446

Intelsat agreements, 447, 447n45

NATO, withdrawal from, 446n40

scientific development and military 

strength of United States and 

Soviets, opinions about, 10, 10

Sputnik, public knowledge of launch of, 9

Système Pour L’Observation de la Terra 

(SPOT) satellite, 482–83, 484

TOPEX/Poseidon development, 412

Franks, Wilbur, 96

Friedensen, Victoria, 379

Frobenius, Wolf Dietrich, 309

frontier narrative, 494–95, 495n12

Frosch, Carl, 296 

Fryer, Thomas Benton, “Tom,” 271–74, 

278, 279, 281, 282, 283–84nn132–

133, 283–85, 326

Fubini, Eugene, 465

fuel cell technology, 332

Furash, Edward E., 59

Futron Corporation, 72–73

G

Gagarin, Yuri, 4, 19

Gaia Hypothesis, 389, 393, 395

Gait Scan, 87

Galileo

discoveries made by, 371

end of mission and plunge into Jupiter’s 

atmosphere, 371–72

environmental impact statement on, 

368–69, 370

Jupiter mission of, 367–72, 378

opposition to and protests against launch 

of, 367–72, 381

permission to deploy from Space Shuttle, 

368–70

RTG use on, 334, 340, 350, 367–68

solar array retrofit of, 368

Venus–Earth–Earth Gravity Assist for, 

368, 369–70, 371

Galileo In-Orbit Validation Experiment 

(GIOVE) satellites, 475, 485, 488

gallium arsenide, 215–16

gallium phosphide, 296, 296n176

Galls, 95

Gallup, George, Jr., 29

Gallup Organization, 7

Gallup polls

budget and funding questions, 5, 12–14, 

18–19

Challenger accident and questions about 

manned space program, 26

Columbia accident and questions about 

space program, 30–32

German bombs, opinions about, 3

goals in space, attitudes toward, 62–63

man flying to Moon, changing opinions 

about, 3–4, 4n5

Mars, questions about exploration of and 

manned missions to, 16, 71–72

Mars, questions about life on, 71

national defense and military capabilities 

in space, questions about, 24

space exploration, questions to children 

about interest in, 44–45

space race between United States and 

Soviets, questions about, 8, 11

start of polling activities, 1

travel into space, questions about personal 

interest in, 35–36, 37–38

Voyager 2 discoveries and questions about 

manned space program, 28–29

Galveston hurricane, 486

GAMBIT satellites, 480–81

Gangale, Thomas, 541n16, 551–52

Ganymede, 371

Garbarini, Robert F., 189

Gasch, Oliver, 370

gas chromatograph. See chromatograph, gas

gases, measurement and reporting on 

employee exposure to, 308

Gaspra (asteroid 951), 369, 371

GE Americon/RCA Americom, 451, 454, 

464

Gedankenexperiment (thought experiment), 

244

Gemini program

contractor for capsule, 523

electronics for, 178

history of space program, communication 

of, 147

public opinions and attitudes toward, 51
Index 621

gender and support for space program, 

36–38, 39

General Dynamics, 247, 247, 248

General Electric (GE)

Aerosat program, 477, 478

alloy-junction transistor fabrication by, 

159

communications satellite manufacturing 

by, 451, 463–64, 465

diodes manufactured by, failure of, 180

germanium diode and transistor research 

at, 198

GE Space, 451

pacemaker manufacturing by, 101

RTG manufacturing by, 356

RTG safety analysis by, 372

scanning electron microscope development by, 222

transistor manufacturing by, 165

transistor manufacturing for defense 

consumers, 166

Valley Forge Space Technology Center, 

196

General Electric Astro Space, 474, 479

General Electric Company, Hirst Research 

Laboratories, 275–76, 275n94, 

275–76nn96–97

General Instrument, 207n177

General Micro Electronics Company, 241–42

General Motors Corporation, Cadillac 

Division, 254n8

General Precision, Inc.

Librascope division, 203–4, 247, 248

solid-state laboratory, 276

General Purpose Heat Source (GPHS) 

system, 340, 372, 373

general relativity theory, 378

General Social Survey (GSS), 6, 18–19, 18, 

20–21, 20, 37, 38–39, 40–41, 43–44, 

73

Geophysics Corporation of American 

(GCA), 197

Georgia Institute of Technology, 85, 262

GEOSS (Global Earth Observation System 

of Systems), 422, 423

geostationary operational environmental 

satellites (GOES), 472 

geostationary orbit satellites, 430–31, 469

geosynchronous-Earth-orbit (GEO) satellites, 428, 439, 450, 465, 471, 481, 

488, 526

Gephart, Landis S., 187, 201

germanium

depositing films with controlled-hole 

mobility, development of process 

for, 209

ion implantation in, 214

mesa technique and transistor manufacturing, 160–61

miniature devices made from, 253–54

piezoresistivity of, 256–57

planar process and, 161

semiconductor switch use of, 296

transistor radio use of, 167, 167n45

use of in diodes, 198

use of in transistors, 158, 159, 198

Germanium Products, 165

Germany

Aerosat program, 477

cooperative space ventures with, 515

robot bombs, opinions about existence 

of, 3

scientific development and military 

strength of United States and 

Soviets, opinions about in West 

Germany, 10, 10

Sputnik, public knowledge of launch of, 9

Geveden, Rex, 509

Ghandi, Sorab K., 202–3

Gibbons, Jack, 408, 409

Gibson, Ralph E., 342–43, 434

Gilfillan, S. C., 81

Gillespie, Mark, 18

Gingrich, Newt, 410, 411

Giovannetti, Angelo, 279

glacier activity, 254

Glaser, Robert J., 292

Glenn, John, 18, 30

Glennan, T. Keith, 441

Glenn P. Martin Company, 432

Global Atmospheric Research Program 

(GARP), 472

Global Earth Observation System of 

Systems (GEOSS), 422, 423

Global Hawk, 487

Global Orbiting Navigation Satellite System 

(GLONASS), 475, 485, 488

Global Positioning System (GPS)

civil and commercial GPS, 474–75

civilian safety and, 486

development of, 473, 489

future of, 488

impact on society, 428

munitions use of, 486
622 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

precursor to, 104

profits from sales of receivers for, 483, 

484

satellite blocks, 473–74

space technology and development of, 78

Transit satellite replacement with, 435

Wide Area Augmentation System 

(WAAS), 475

global village, 487

Glory, 421, 423, 424

glow-charge/glow-discharge system, 298, 

298n180

glycerol, 217, 220

Goddard, Robert Hutchins, 82, 138, 430

Goddard Space Flight Center

data bank of electronics parts, use of by, 

193

electronics research and development at, 

183–86, 243–45

electron microscope research at, 222–23, 

236

Institute for Space Studies, 396

integrated circuit failures and projects at, 

245

integrated circuit research at, 201

integrated circuit testing methods, 

research on, 222–23

Interplanetary Monitoring Platform 

(IMP), 238–42, 238n282

Quality Assurance Division, 222–23

semiconductor screening technique used 

at, 244

silicon solid-state devices, research on 

effect of space radiation on, 207

Goertz, Raymond C., 118

GOES (geostationary operational environmental satellites), 472

gold

gold doping technique, 202

gold-flake/gold-ball contamination, 

180–81, 243, 245

integrated circuit use of, 202–3, 

203n162, 243, 245

metallurgical incompatibility of aluminum and, 202–3, 203n162

nickel as replacement for, 203

Goldin, Daniel S.

administrator role of, 405–6, 409, 412, 

418

biomedical sensors, research on, 114

budget and funding reductions and 

NASA program, 410–11

Clinton administration and NASA programs under, 409–12

faster, better, cheaper mantra of, 405–6

neck pillow from Tempur-Pedic for, 

133–34

smaller satellites, support for, 405–6

strategic planning process for NASA, 

502n40

Triana, pressure to build and launch, 

415–16

Golovin, Nicholas E., 201

Good Samaritan Hospital, 92

Goody, Richard, 397

Goodyear Aerospace Corporation, 128–29, 

130

Google, 117

Goonhilly station, 440

Gore, Al

climate change, concerns about, 412

defeat of, 418

Earth in the Balance, 408

election of as vice president, 408

environmental interests of, 408

environmental research, concern about 

pace of, 403

Kyoto Summit atfgtendance and signing 

of Protocol, 415

MTPE priority for NASA, 402

ozone depletion, NASA, and, 408

ozone depletion policy and halt of CFC 

production, support for, 407

ozone man label for, 408

Triana, support for, 415–16

Govan, Duncan E., 292

GPS. See Global Positioning System (GPS)

Grab system, 481

Graham, William, 399, 400

gravity

adjustment to following long-duration 

spaceflight missions, 90

balance sense and, 90

Grand Tour of solar system and slingshot 

effect of gravity assist process, 359

gravitational stress on fluid balance and 

blood circulation, study of, 269, 280

Lagrangian points, 394, 416

manipulation of material on atomic level 

and, 255

Venus–Earth–Earth Gravity Assist for 

Galileo mission, 368, 369–70, 371

Venus–Earth gravity assists for Ulysses 

mission, 368
Index 623

Venus–Venus–Earth–Jupiter Gravity 

Assist for Cassini mission, 372, 414

See also weightlessness/zero gravity

Greatbatch, Wilson, 99–101, 105, 106

Great Britain/United Kingdom

Aerosat program, 477

cooperative space ventures with, 515

Royal Radar Establishment, 172–73

scientific development and military 

strength of United States and 

Soviets, opinions about, 10, 10

space race between United States and 

Soviets, opinions about, 11–12

Sputnik, public knowledge of launch of, 9

Great Society programs, 496

Greenfield, Stanley, 431

greenhouse effect

Bush policy toward, 401

climate change and, 397, 400

on Earth, 397

sensor for measuring, 423

on Venus, 384, 387, 396–97

Greenland, 113

Griffin, Michael “Mike,” 423–24, 509, 

509n62

Grissom, Gus, 15

Gruber, William H., 78–79

Grumman, 522, 523

g-suit (anti-gravity suit)

blackout prevention for pilots, use of for, 

95–96

hemophiliac children, treatment of with, 

94

invention of, 96

GTE (GSTAR), 451, 454

Guier, William H. “Bill,” 342–43, 433–34

Gulf Wars, 409, 468, 486, 487, 488

H

Habermas, Jürgen, 377

Hale, Edward Everett, 429

Hall, Eldon C., 150–51, 226

Hall, Robert N., 198

halogen leak detector, 218

Hamiter, Leon C., Jr., 223, 225, 235

handbooks on electronics parts, 191–93, 

191n127

Hansen, Carl L., 321n274

Hansen, James, 396–97, 400, 403, 404, 

411, 412

haptics, 117–20, 124

harpsichord, 89

Harris, William B., 176n70

Harrison, Albert A., 537, 545–46, 553–54

Harrison, Donald C., 266, 268–69

Harrison, John D., 127

Harris polls

awareness of space issues and response to 

poll questions, 41

benefits of space program, questions 

about, 61–62, 62

budget and funding questions, 5, 13, 

14–16

Challenger accident and questions about 

manned space program, 26–27, 28

Columbia accident and questions about 

space program, 30

emotional impact of major spaceflight 

events, questions about, 33–34

goals in space, attitudes toward, 60–61

Kennedy administration, polls about, 

47–48

Mars, questions about exploration of and 

manned missions to, 16–17, 68–69

Mars exploration, poll questions about, 70

Moon, opinions about scientific exploration station on, 16–17

nuclear power, attitude toward to, 366

scientific research, questions about funding of, 56–57

Shuttle flights, opinions about practical 

uses of, 21

travel into space, questions about personal 

interest in, 37

Hartman, Edwin P., 271, 278

Harvard Business Review readers, poll of, 

59, 60

Harvard University

electronics research laboratory at, 288

ERC location and, 194

poll of students about space goals, 59, 60, 

63–67

Harvey, Douglas G., 337

Haskins Institute, 123

Hawker Siddley (British Aerospace), 464, 

477, 479

Haymaker, Webb E., 264

Hazeltine Research, Inc., 276, 276n97

HDTV (high-definition television), 488

Health, Education, and Welfare, 

Department of

Occupational Safety and Health Act 

and measurement and reporting on 

employee exposure to gases, 308
624 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Office of Education and Optacon development, 124–25

health, poll questions about funding to 

improve and protect, 46–47, 46, 

53–54, 55

Health and Human Services, Department 

of, 84

Healthcare Open Systems and Trials 

(HOST) Consortium, 112

hearing aids, 166–67, 177

Hearsey, Christopher M., 541n16

heart and cardiovascular system

cardiac-output monitor and impedance 

cardiography, 107–11, 143–44

cardiac prosthesis for heart valve prolapse 

mitigation, 127

cardiotachometer research, 272–73

cardiovascular physiology, study of biomechanics within field of, 269

cardiovascular system, evaluation of 

during circulatory stress, 268–69

defibrillators, implantable, 98, 105

electrodes, development of improved, 267

gravitational stress on fluid balance and 

blood circulation, study of, 269

heart wall accelerations and silicon MEMS 

accelerometer research, 309–14

implantable telemetry system for monitoring blood flow, 293

renal artery blood flow, research on measurement of, 269

See also pacemaker technology

Heinlein, Robert A., 118, 140

heliopause, 363

helium

gas chromatograph use of, 303, 305

Helium-3, harvesting for use of as fuel, 

100

Jupiter and Sun, helium content of, 371

presence of when testing transistors and 

microcircuits, 206

sealed container, locating leaks in, 220

sealed container, locating leaks in with, 

218

Helliwell, Robert A., 324

hemophiliac children, g-suit treatment for, 94

heuristics, 513

Hewlett-Packard Company, 260, 294, 317

Higashi, Robert E., 321n274, 323n285

high-definition television (HDTV), 488

high-Q (high-quality) electromechanical 

filter, 259, 259n25

highways, poll question about funding for 

building, 16

Hillenga, Sheri, 94, 95

Hirst, Hugo, 275n94

Hirst Research Laboratories, General 

Electric Company, 275–76, 275n94, 

275–76nn96–97

H. J. Brunnier Associates, 286–87

Hoerni, Jean, 161, 202

Hogrefe, Arthur F., 106

Honeywell, 257, 321, 323n285

horizontal diffusion, 79–80

Hot Bird, 464

House, William, 138

HS-303A satellites, 476

HS-333 satellites, 461, 466–67

HS-376 satellites, 462, 463

H-Sat (Olympus), 464

Hubble Space Telescope, 44–45, 402

Hughes Aircraft Company

Aerosat program, 477

ATS satellites from, 471

Earth Observation Satellite Company 

role, 482

last satellite built for Intelsat, 450–51

Microelectronics Division, 209–11

PanAmSat, 454

patent waiver requests, 247, 248

satellite development and manufacturing by, 428, 439, 445, 448–49, 

450–51, 461, 462–63, 489–90, 526, 

526n122

Surveyor project, 523

Syncom/Syncom 2, 440, 450, 462–63, 

476, 489, 490

Westar, 454

Hughes Communications, Inc. (HCI), 

462–63

Hughes Research Laboratory, 215–16

Hughes Santa Barbara Research Center, 472

humans. See astronauts/humans

humidified air for patients, system to supply, 

108

Hurt, Calab B., 452

Huygens probe, 372, 378

hybrid circuits, 200, 200n153, 201

hydrazine, 301

hydrogen, liquid, 82

hydrogen contamination and failure of integrated circuits, 205–6, 205nn169–170, 

243

hydrogen fluoride, 312
Index 625

hypohidrotic ectodermal dysplasia, cool suit 

treatment for, 94–95

hypotension and anti-shock garments, 

93–97, 143

I

Iacocca, Lee, 260

IBM (International Business Machines)

computer-aided design of circuits, seminar on, 219

domestic communications satellites, 449, 

462, 463

Information Management System/360, 

522–23, 533

information management system development by, 522–23

ink-jet printer technology development 

by, 260

integrated circuit manufacturing by, 176

MOS technology research at, 239–40

patent waiver requests, 247, 247, 248

research lab of, 119

specialized integrated circuits for, 227

thermal-conductivity detectors for 

gas chromatographs, funding for 

research on, 303–4, 307

Thomas J. Watson Research Center, 260

transistor use in computers manufactured 

by, 167

Watson Research Center, 219

Ice, Cloud, and land Elevation Satellite 

(ICESat), 424

Iceland, 113

Ida (asteroid 243), 369, 371

impedance cardiography and cardiac-output 

monitor, 107–11, 143–44

impedance plethysmograph, 109

Improved TOS (ITOS)/NOAA satellites, 

438, 470, 471

India, 110, 415, 462, 472

Indian Ocean tsunami, 423, 487

Indonesia

high-tech area in, 316

Palapa communications satellites, 461, 462

Indonesian Academy of Sciences, 316

Indonesian Institute of Sciences, 316

Industrial Development Engineering 

Associates (IDEA), Regency Division, 

167

Industrial Products and Practices (Denver 

Research Institute), 234

industrial revolution, third, 156

Information Dynamics Corporation, 193

Information Management System/360, 

522–23, 533

infrared microscope, fast-scan, 223–25

Initial Defense Communications Satellite 

Program (IDCSP), 465–66

Injury Prevention and Control (Varghese), 97

ink-jet printer technology, 254, 260

Inmarsat (International Maritime Satellite 

Organization), 449, 453, 456–57, 

478–79

“Inquiry into the Feasibility of Weather 

Reconnaissance from a Satellite Vehicle” 

(Kellogg and Greenfield), 431, 436

inspirational aspects of space exploration, 

64, 388–89, 416, 521–22, 533–34

Institute for Space Studies, 396

Institute of Electrical and Electronics 

Engineers (IEEE)

Engineering in Medicine and Biology 

Society, 290

formation of, 290

IEEE Transactions on Biomedical 

Engineering, 302

IEEE Transactions on Electron Devices, 

307, 310, 313

International Solid-State Circuits 

Conference, 302

Journal of Microelectromechanical Systems, 

262

Medal of Honor award from, 290n156

Professional Group on Bio-Medical 

Electronics, 290

Solid-State Circuits Conference, 309–10, 

314

Solid State Device Research Conference, 

214n202

Workshop on Micro Electro Mechanical 

Systems, 263

Institute of Radio Engineers (IRE)

communications satellite talk by Pierce 

to, 431–32, 439

Dummer talk at symposium sponsored 

by, 172

Professional Group on Medical 

Electronics, 290

Instrument Landing System (ILS), 475

insulin delivery, programmable implantable 

system for, 104–5, 106
626 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

integrated-circuit case studies

component development for resistance 

to radiation and space conditions, 

201, 206–13, 207n175, 207n177, 

212n195, 214–15, 243

fabrication processes research, 210, 213–

19, 214n202, 215n205, 216n209, 

218n214, 243

failure and reliability research, 201–6, 

203n162, 205nn169–170, 243–45

testing methods research, 201, 219–25, 

222n231, 243

integrated circuits

acceptance of and psychological impact of 

NASA use of, 151, 226, 226n242

Air Force electronics miniaturization program and development of, 171–72

aluminum leads, 200, 203n162, 220, 223

avian biorhythms research, rejection of 

integrated circuit use in, 272

Centaur-Mariner H loss and failure of, 

244–45

Certified Production Line (CPL) concept, 

234–36, 235–36n272

commercialization of and commercial 

applications for, 149–50, 151–52, 

151n8, 153–55, 156, 177, 226–27, 

242–43

components, increase in number on 

single circuit, 177–78

components of, 155–56, 168, 177–78

computer-aided design of, 218–19, 243

concept and function of, 155–56, 168

conditions encountered in space, resistance to harsh, 181–82, 197, 201, 

206–13, 243

cost of compared to cost of individual 

components, 154, 226

cost of integrated circuits for Minuteman 

II program, 152

cost/price of, 153–54, 176–77, 226, 

242–43, 243

defense and non-defense consumers of, 

153

development and use of, Air Force role in, 

152–54, 155, 176–77, 242

development and use of, NASA role in, 

viii, 104, 149–52, 153–54, 155, 

176–77, 225–28, 242–45, 252, 527

diffusion process for manufacture of, 160, 

202–3, 214–15, 214n202

diode use in, 157, 168, 175, 181

drawbacks of and barriers to using, 

181–83

electrical circuit design and, 156–57

fabrication of, NASA role in, viii

fabrication process and quality of, 182–83

fabrication processes research, 199–200

fabrication process improvements, 200, 

201, 213–19, 214n202, 215n205, 

218n214, 243, 276–77, 277n100

failure and reliability, causes of, 201–6, 

243–45

first use of in space, 238, 238n281, 243

gold use in fabrication of, 202–3, 

203n162, 243, 245

handbook on reliability of silicon integrated circuits, 192–93

hybrid circuits, 200, 200n153, 201

hydrogen contamination and failure of, 

205–6, 205nn169–170, 243

importance of, 156–57

industry to manufacture, development of, 

175–78, 175n69

inspection techniques, 200

invention of, 121, 121–22, 168, 172–75, 

174n65

ion implantation process, 213–16, 

214n202, 243

microwave integrated circuits, 211–13, 

212n195, 243

miniaturization of electronics and, 168

monolithic integrated circuits, 168, 175

Moon mission plans and, 177

nickel use in fabrication of, 203

number produced and shipped, 176–77, 

226–27

number purchased for Apollo program, 

150–51, 150nn4–5, 155, 226–27, 

242

number purchased for Minuteman II 

program, 152, 155, 226–27, 242

Optacon device development and, 

121–22

pacemaker technology development and, 

103, 104

patents for, 121–22, 174, 175

photolithographic procedures for manufacture of, 162–64, 174

planar technique for manufacturing, 

174–75

production quality assurance program, 

234–36, 235–36n272
Index 627

research activities of NASA, 185–86, 

186n107, 186n109

resistance to use of, 152

scribing silicon wafers, 217, 218, 

218n214

sealed container, locating leaks in, 

217–18, 220, 243

separation from wafer, processes to avoid 

damage during, 216–19, 243

silicon solid-state devices, effect of space 

radiation on, 206–7, 207n175, 

207n177

silicon use in, 152, 155, 159, 173–75

silicon wafers, size of, 177–78

specialized integrated circuits, 227–28, 

237–42

standardization of by NASA, 182–83, 193

Tech Briefs on, 229–30, 246, 246

temperature and failure of, 223–25

temperature telemeter, rejection of integrated circuit use in, 274

testing methods, nondestructive, 201, 

219–25, 222n231, 234, 236–37

transistor technology compared to, 156

transistor use in, 157, 168, 172–75, 177, 

181

wafers, separation into individual circuits, 

200

Integrated Electronics for Medical 

Applications Program, 291, 303

Integrated Enterprise Management 

Program, 510

Intel Corporation, 294

intelligence and response to poll questions, 

43–45, 45

Intelsat (International Telecommunications 

Satellite Consortium)

competition for, 449, 450, 457

costs and profits, 443–44

creation of, 525

data from COMSAT, limits on, 446, 

446n40

definitive agreements, 445–49

DOD contract for transponders, 469

Intelsat II series satellites, 445, 450, 451, 

476

Intelsat III series satellites, 445, 448, 466

Intelsat IV/IVA series satellites, 445, 

448–49, 450, 451, 466

Intelsat V series satellites, 449, 451, 479

Intelsat VI series satellites, 450–51

Intelsat VII series satellites, 451

Intelsat VIII series satellites, 451

Intelsat IX series satellites, 451

Intelsat Agreement/Intelsat Treaty, 447–48

Intelsat Operating Agreement, 447–48

Intelsat X series satellites, 458

Interim Communications Satellite 

Committee and renaming as 

Intelsat, 444–45

management role of, 445

maritime communications and, 478

markup on pricing by COMSAT, 456

membership in, 445

monopoly status of, 449, 450

office of, 451–52

Orbit Act and direct access, 454, 456–57

PanAmSat merger, 458–59

privatization of, 456–58

profits and success of, 449, 453

sale of to private equity firm, 463

structure of, 447–48

telephony as core business of, 459

Interagency Nuclear Safety Review Panel, 

372–76

Inter-Governmental Maritime Consultative 

Organization (IMCO)/International 

Maritime Organization (IMO), 478–79

Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change 

(IPCC), 400, 403–4, 411–12, 418

Interim Communications Satellite 

Committee (ICSC), 444

Interior, Department of, 386–87, 482

International Academy of Astronautics 

(IAA), 540

International Air Transport Association 

(IATA), 477

International Atomic Energy Agency, 

United Nations, 302, 303

International Civil Aviation Organization 

(ICAO), 476–77

International Components Symposium, 173

International Conference on Solid State 

Sensors and Actuators, 262–63

International Geophysical Year (IGY), 436

International Launch Services (ILS), 458

International Maritime Organization 

(IMO)/Inter-Governmental Maritime 

Consultative Organization (IMCO), 

478–79

International Meeting on Chemical Sensors, 

263

International Space Station (ISS)

astrosocial knowledge from, 573
628 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

budget and funding for, 419

collision-avoidance procedures and protective shields for debris threat to, 417

completion of, 503

crew on, size of and length of stay by, 573

elements of, launch into orbit of, 417

planning for, 409–10

social change and, 572

space debris threat to, 385, 415, 417, 420

space utilization and, 500

systems management practices in, 508

International Telecommunications Union 

(ITU), 443, 446, 477, 478

Internet

collaborative use of, tools for, 117

creation of, 116

DLI projects, 116–17

World Wide Web growth and, 116

Interplanetary Monitoring Platform (IMP)

Ariel 1, 240

Explorer 12, 240

Explorer 18/IMP 1/IMP A, 238–39, 

238n282, 240–41

Explorer 33/IMP D, 240–41

Explorer 34/IMP E, 240–41

Explorer 35/IMP F, 240

Explorer series, 238, 238n282

first use of integrated circuits in space, 

238, 238n281, 243

specialized integrated circuits for, 237–42

standardization of design for, 240

success of missions, 238

supplier of MOS transistors for, 241–42

Inter-University Center for Microelectronics, 

316

Io, 363, 371

ion drive propulsion, 141

ion implantation, 213–16, 243

Iraq, 468

Iraqi Freedom, Operation, 468

iron, 203

iron lung, respirator collar for, 109

Islamic Academy of Sciences, 316

isolation on crew behavior, 552–53, 571

isotopic power, 337, 343. See also radioisotope thermal generators (RTGs)

isotropic etching, 257, 301, 305–6

Israel, 110

Israel, David R., 477

Italian Space Agency (ASI), 372

Italy

cooperative space ventures with, 515

impedance cardiography research, 110

scientific development and military 

strength of United States and 

Soviets, opinions about, 10, 10

Sputnik, public knowledge of launch of, 9

It Came From Outer Space (Bijlefeld and 

Burke), 78

Itek Corporation, 198, 198n148

ITOS (Improved TOS)/NOAA satellites, 

438, 470, 471

ITT, 204, 428

J

Jaffe, Leonard, 439

Japan

Aerosat program, 477

Aqua satellite role of, 421

EOS role of, 402

Intelsat agreements, 447, 447n43

Kyoto Summit and Protocol, 415

meteorological data sharing and international cooperation, 472–73

Sputnik, public knowledge of launch of, 9

Terra satellite instrument package, 417

transistor radio production by, 167n45

JBliss Imagine Systems, 123–24

JBliss Low Vision Systems, 124

Jeffrey, Kirk, 98, 102, 106

Jennings, Thomas, 96

Jerman, John Hallock “Hal,” 304, 306, 

316–17

Jet Propulsion Laboratory

communications satellite development by, 

526n122

configuration management practices, 504

data bank of electronics parts, use of by, 

193

electronics research and development at, 

183–85, 186n109

Goldstone station, 439

integrated circuit failures and projects at, 

245

Mariner ‘69 program, 244, 244n295

Pioneer Project, acknowledgement for 

assistance in receiving radio signals 

from probes, 361

Ranger program testing at, 180

RTGs, support for use of, 351

Voyager 2 discoveries, research on communication to public about, 143

Voyager Biological Laboratory, 264

Jodrell Bank radio telescope, 11
Index 629

Johnsen, Katherine, 446

Johns Hopkins University, Applied Physics 

Laboratory, 98, 104–6, 342–43, 345, 

434, 435

Johnson, John A., 444, 445–46

Johnson, Lyndon B.

communications policy under, 460

Europa launch vehicle, authorization for 

development of, 516

Great Society programs under, 496

nuclear power systems for spacecraft, support for use of, 346

presidential performance polls about, 

50–51

prestige from Apollo program and Cold 

War, 494

Johnson, Robert G., 321n274, 323n285

Johnson, Roy W., 464

Johnson Space Center/Manned Spacecraft 

Center

balance research at, 93

impedance cardiography research at, 108

Orbital Debris Program Office, 395

regional impact of, 529

transistors research for, 244

Joint Services Electronics Program, 218, 

288, 289, 292, 293, 295, 313–14

Jordan, Kenneth, 336–37

Journal of Microelectromechanical Systems, 

262

Journal of Micromechanics and 

Microengineering, 262

junction transistors, 159

Jupiter

Galileo mission to, 367–72

knowledge/information about and 

Cassini mission, 378

knowledge/information about and 

Galileo mission, 371, 378

knowledge/information about and 

Pioneer 10 mission, 359

knowledge/information about and 

Pioneer 11 mission, 359

knowledge/information about and 

Voyager probes, 363

RTG use for missions to explore, 334, 

340, 350, 362–63, 367–68

scientific interest in, 367

Voyager probes missions to, 362–63

Jupiter rockets, 82, 137

K

Kahng, Dawon, 239

Kane, Thomas R., 269

Katrina, Hurricane, 424, 486

Katz, Elihu, 79

Kauffman, George, 127

Kaufman, Harold R., 141

Keeley, Jamie A., 376

Kefauver, Estes, 442

Kelley, Albert J. “Al”

biomedical sensors and transmitters, 

implantation of, 265

diode failure and Ranger program, 180–81

electronics research and development 

programs, survey of, 184, 185, 195

Electronics Research Center creation, role 

in, 195

electronics research mission of NASA, 

183, 183n96

microelectronics use by NASA, 181

Kellogg, William, 431

Kelvin, Lord, 256

Kennedy administration and John F. 

Kennedy

applications satellite development and use 

under, 427, 428, 441

Communications Satellite Act, signing of 

by, 442

Moon mission plans under, 177, 183, 441

Moon mission priority under, 514n77

nuclear power systems for spacecraft, support for use of, 339

presidential performance polls about, 

47–49

prestige from Apollo program and Cold 

War, 494

satellites using RTGs, support for launch 

of, 345

Kennedy Space Center

antinuclear protests at, 370–71

Cassini protests at, 378

Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator 

Storage Building, 376

regional impact of, 529

rocket program at, 137

RTG use and risks to citizens in area, 379

tourism impact at, 528

Voyager probes launches from, 362

Kennell, Charles, 409, 411, 412

Kentucky residents, poll of about space 

program, 61–62, 62, 146

Kerr, Robert, 442
630 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Kester, Robert, 476

KH-7 GAMBIT satellites, 480

KH-8 GAMBIT satellites, 480, 481

KH-9 GAMBIT satellites, 480–81

KH-10 DORIAN satellites, 480

KH-11 Kennan/Crystal satellites, 481

KH-12/KH-11B Improved Crystal satellites, 

481

Khrushchev, Nikita, 48, 49, 51

Kiefer, Heather Mason, 37–38

Kilby, Jack S., 121, 173–74, 174n65

Killian committee (TCP), 433

kinesthetic sense, 118, 119

Kinnen, Edwin, 109

Kissiah, Adam, 135–38, 143

KKR, 463

Kleiman, Herbert S., 151, 155

Klein, Harold, 264

Knutti, James W., 258

Kompfner, Rudolf, 432, 438–39

Konigsberg, Eph, 282

Konigsberg Instruments, Inc., 282

Koppel, Robert S., 453

Korean War, 8, 432

Kovacs, Gregory T. A., 309, 317

Kraemer, Sylvia K., 19

Kraus, Jerome, 152

Kreuzi, John, 270

Kroemer, Herbert, 174n65

Ku-band frequencies, 449, 451, 458, 462, 

468–69, 487–88

Kubicek, William G., 108–9

Kubokawa, Charles, 131, 134

Kuhn, Larry, 260

Kuiper Belt, 379

Kulite Semiconductor Products, 257, 

258n23, 308–9

Kurtz, Anthony D., 257

Kurylo, Michael, 406

Kurzweil, Ray, 123

Kurzweil Computer Products, 123

Kurzweil Reading Machine, 122

Kyoto Summit and Protocol, 413, 418, 421

L

L5 society, 394

Lacrosse radar satellites, 481

Lagrangian points, 394, 416

Laird, Melvin, 452

Land Remote Sensing Act, 482

land remote sensing satellites, 383, 391–92, 

481–83, 488. See also environmental/

Earth resources satellites

Landsat/Earth Resources Technology 

Satellite (ERTS), 391–92, 409, 420, 

424, 438, 484, 489

land-use observation satellites, 428–29

Lane, Neal, 416

Langley Research Center

atmospheric research sphere development 

at, 438

electronics research and development at, 

183–86, 186n107

integrated circuit research at, 201

Nitinol wire research role of, 128–29

thin-film technology research for, 208–9

LANYARD satellites, 480

laser-scribing silicon wafers, 218, 218n214

latex paint, 62, 62, 146

launch window, 144

Launius, Roger, 12, 19, 499–500

law enforcement programs, poll question 

about funding for, 16, 55

Lawrence, Ernest O., 139

Lazarsfeld, Paul F., 79

L-band frequencies, 212, 449, 466, 468–69, 

473, 476–77, 478

Leary, Timothy, 21

LeaseSat, 467

Lécuyer, Christophe, 154–55, 225, 226, 

242, 288, 289, 293

Lederberg, Joshua, 267–68, 324

LEDs (light-emitting diodes), 296, 296n176

Leonov, Aleksei, 13

Leslie, Stuart W., 288, 289, 323

Lewis Research Center/Glenn Research 

Center

cyclotron at and fast-neutron cancer treatment, 138, 140–41

electronics research and development at, 

183–85

ion drive research at, 141

LED research, funding for, 296, 296n176

nuclear reactor power for spacecraft, 

research on, 140–41

Radiation Physics Branch, 140

Ranger program testing at, 180

Librascope division, General Precision, Inc., 

203–4, 247, 248

Liechtenstein, 446

Life Science Programs, Office of, 263

Life Support Products, 97
Index 631

lifeworld, 377

light-emitting diodes (LEDs), 296, 296n176

Lilienfeld, Julius E., 157–58

Lillehei, C. Walton, 99–100

Lincoln Experimental Satellite (LES)

LES 6, 478

LES 8, 334, 350

LES 9, 334, 350

UHF communications with, 466

Linvill, Candace “Candy,” 119–20, 121, 288

Linvill, John G.

Integrated Circuits Laboratory grant for 

work on Optacon, 287–88

Integrated Circuits Laboratory role of, 

293

NIH research, role in, 292

Optacon, development and manufacturing of, 117, 119–21, 122, 288n150

patent for Optacon and NASA role in 

development of, 125

solid-state electronics program, role in, 

286

Linvill, Marjorie, 119

Lipp, James E., 431

Lipsey, Mark, 20–21

liquid-fuel rockets, 82, 138, 144

Liquid Sunmate, 132

Litant, Irving, 216–18, 216n209

Literary Digest poll, 2

Liu, Jian, 321n274

Lockheed Martin

AEHF satellite program, 467–68

communications satellite manufacturing 

by, 451, 526n122

COMSAT merger, 451–57

merger to form, 451

MUOS program contract, 467

RTG safety analysis by, 372

Lockheed Martin Commercial Space 

Systems (LMCSS), 451, 474, 479

Lockheed Martin Global 

Telecommunications (LMGT), 

453–55, 457

Lockheed Missiles and Space Company, 

247, 247, 248

Lockney, Daniel P., 134

Loevinger, Lee, 441

logic circuits, 157

Lohr, Karen, 407

Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory, 219

Los Angles Time polls, 22, 24, 27

Lott, Trent, 456

Louisiana, 419–20

Lovell, Jim, 388–89

Lovelock, James, 389, 393, 395

low-Earth orbit (LEO) spacecraft and satellites, 479, 490, 500, 502, 514

Lowell, Art, 242

Lozier, David, 361

Luetscher, John A., Jr., 269

Lunar Orbiter, 523

Luxembourg, 463–64

M

MacIntosh, 116

Maddox, Brenda, 445–46

magnetism

patents for exploitation of, 105

satellite control and guidance with, 105

magnetometers, 278, 278n107

magnetosphere, 238, 239

magnets, patents related to permanent, 275, 

275–76n96

Mahajan, Harpreet, 36

Mahar, Neil, 389

Mahle, Stephen, 100–101

Mahoney, James, 418, 422

Malagasy Republic, 447, 447n45

Mallory process (anodic bonding, electrostatic bonding), 258, 306, 311, 312

Malmivuo, Jaakko, 111

management and planning impacts and consequences, 492, 495–96, 497, 503–17, 

533

centralized processes, decentralized 

processes, and control, 503, 506–11, 

511n68

configuration management practices, 504, 

507, 511

DOD management and planning practices, 495–96, 503–5

heuristics, 513

Program Evaluation and Review 

Technique (PERT), 505, 505n48, 

505n50, 533

systems architecting, 492, 509, 513–14, 

533

systems management approach to city 

planning, 492, 512, 533

systems management practices, 492, 

495–96, 504–5, 506–10, 512–13, 

515–17, 533

triad decision-making structure, 508

Manifest Destiny, 494–95, 495n12
632 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

manifold absolute pressure (MAP) sensors 

and pollution requirements, 260

manipulators

master-slave manipulators, development 

of, 118

remote manipulation and robot arms, 118

waldoes, 118

Manned Orbiting Laboratory (MOL), 

480–81

Marconi, 477

Marecs, 479

Mariner missions

Centaur-Mariner H, 244–45

Mariner 5 (Mariner Venus 67), 244

Mariner 9 mission, 393

Mariner ‘69 program, 244, 244n295

Mars missions, 387, 393

Venus missions, 387

Marisat satellites, 466–67, 478, 479

maritime communication system, 449, 

466–67, 475, 478–79

Maritime Satellite Act, 479

Market Opinion Research, 69–70

Markey, Edward J., 367, 456

Marquis, Donald G., 78–79

Mars

colonization of, 65, 70

dust storms on, 393

exploration of and manned missions to, 

poll questions about, 16–17, 68–72

failed mission to and public support for 

space program, 18–19

forward contamination concerns and 

exploration of, 384, 393

joint missions to, poll questions about, 

69, 70

knowledge/information about and 

Mariner missions, 387, 393

landing area for Viking probe, 396

life on, development of sensors to look 

for, 264, 304, 318–20

life on, poll questions about, 71

mission to, plans for, 67, 390, 402, 405, 

409, 503, 572–73

Moon, Mars, and Beyond space vision 

and missions to, 421–24, 426

nationalistic motives for exploration of, 70

Pathfinder probe for exploration of, 

70–71, 334, 367

probe missions to explore, 364, 387

Prometheus project and propulsion technology for mission to, 419

public support for Mars program, 6

RTG use for missions to explore, 334, 

349, 350

Spirit and Opportunity rovers for exploration of, 31, 69, 71, 334

travel to, questions about personal interest in, 37–38

Viking probe program, 264, 280–81, 304, 

317–20, 318n260, 393, 395, 396

Marshall Space Flight Center

Astrionics Laboratory, 186, 222

Certified Production Line (CPL) concept, 

development of, 235

data bank of electronics parts, use of by, 

193

electronics research and development at, 

183–86, 243

electron microscope research at, 222, 236

fast-scan infrared microscope, role in 

development of, 223–25

integrated circuit failures and projects at, 

245

integrated circuit research at, 201

integrated circuit testing methods, 

research on, 222

PERT use at, 505

Quality and Reliability Assurance 

Laboratory, Parts and 

Microelectronics Technology 

Branch, 192

Saturn launch vehicles electronics, conversion to integrated circuits, 186

silicon integrated circuits, handbook on 

reliability of, 192–93

Martin, Steve, 364

Martin Marietta

communications satellite manufacturing 

by, 451

merger with Lockheed, 451

Martin Nuclear Division, 343, 345

maser amplifier, 438

Mason, Albert E., Jr., 212

Mason, Samuel J., 123

Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT)

Apollo Guidance Computer design and 

development, 527

Apollo Program Prize, 92

computer-aided design of circuits, 

218–19

Electronic Systems Laboratory, 208

ERC location and, 194

Instrumentation Laboratory, 194
Index 633

Lincoln Laboratory, 194, 198–99

Mead triode research at, 208

medical technology research at, 85

MEMS research at, 262

patent waiver requests, 247, 247, 249

Research Laboratory of Electronics, 286, 

288

Matra, 477

Matta, R. K., 222, 237

Maynard, Dan, 375

Mayo, Isaac, 127

Mazlish, Bruce, 78

MBB, 477

McAuliffe, Christa, 26, 399

McCabe, Frank, 96

McClure, Frank T., 342–43

McConnell, Joseph, 443

McCullough Building, 286–87, 294, 304

McCurdy, Howard E., 544–45

McDonnell, 523

McDougall, Walter, 431, 495

McElroy, Michael, 396

McFall, Russ, 451

McGlade, David, 459

MCI, 462

McLellan, William H., 255, 255–56n13

McLeod, Jack, 8–9

McLuhan, Marshall, 487

McLure, Frank, 434

McWhorter, Malcolm, 293

Mead, Carver A., 207–8

Mead triode, 207–8

Mechanical Response Tissue Analyzer 

(MRTA), 86–90

clinical use of, 89–90

development of, 86–87

importance of, 86, 143–44

patent for, 86–87

reliability of, 87–89

studies about, 110

success of, 89–90, 143–44

MED-EL, 137

Medicaid, poll question about funding for, 

16

medical data, digital transmission of, 267

medical education, 113

medical technologies

aerospace medicine, 85

biomedical research and, 145

Harvard students, poll of about space 

goals and development of, 66

high-performance requirements in, 129

importance of, 143–44

MEMS use in, 254, 262

NASA contributions to, viii, 85, 141–47

NIH research on, 84, 85

NSF funding for research on, 84–85

space technology and development of, 78

timeliness of medical innovations, 144

medium-Earth-orbit (MEO) satellite, 

439–40, 443, 448, 465, 471, 479, 490

Medtronic, 99, 100–101, 103

Mehregany, Mehran, 255–56n13

Meindl, James D., 117, 121, 122, 258, 269, 

283, 285, 289–94, 290n156

Meinhard, J. E., 205–6

memory foam. See temper foam

MEMS. See microelectromechanical systems 

(MEMS)

Mercury, Project

contractor for capsule, 523

electronics for, 178

history of space program, communication 

of, 147

impedance cardiography research during, 

108

medical research for, 85

Mercury rockets, 137

Mercury system, 481

Merton, Robert K., 81

mesa technique, 160–61, 210

MESH consortium, 464, 477, 479

metal-oxide semiconductor field-effect 

transistors (MOSFETs), 191, 239–42, 

258–59

metal-oxide semiconductor/metal-oxide 

silicon (MOS) technology, 192, 207, 

207n177, 239–42, 248, 258, 276–77

meteorology satellites. See weather/meteorology satellites

Methone, 378

Metzger, Sidney, 453

Mexico 

Intelsat agreements, 447 

Sputnik, public knowledge of launch of, 9

Meyer, Lewis, 446n40

Michelson, Robin P., 136, 138

Michigan State University, National 

Superconducting Cyclotron 

Laboratory, 139

Microcircuit Line Certification Program, 

234–36, 235–36n272

microcircuits, 150n5. See also integrated 

circuits
634 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

microelectromechanical systems (MEMS)

Ames research on, 252, 274–85, 278n110

Ames-Stanford MEMS research, start of, 

283–85, 284n136, 323–26, 326

beginning of, 254–56

brain probe research, 294–99, 298n180

cantilever beam fabrication, 259–60, 300, 

310–12, 322

capacitive pressure sensors, 258, 258n23

commercial applications for, 251, 

253–54, 254n8, 260–61

concept and function of, 253–54

development of, collaboration with 

Stanford University for, viii, 252

development of, NASA role in, viii, 

251–53, 314, 323–26, 326

early advances in, 258–61

fabrication processes, 253

Feynman challenge to manipulate 

material on atomic level, 254–56, 

255–56n13

first devices, 256–58

flexible beam fabrication, 309

funding for research on, 262, 275, 

323–26, 326

gas chromatograph research, 279, 

280–81, 282, 285, 303–4n200, 

303–8, 307nn315–316, 310, 314, 

315, 316–20, 326

growth of field and market, 261–63

history of, 253–63

impact of research on, 252–53, 314–23, 

318n260

journals and conferences on, 262–63

patents for, 251

photolithographic procedures, 296, 

297–98

piezoresistive pressure sensor research, 

299–303, 310, 314–15, 326

research on, 251–52

sacrificial layering technique, 259–60

silicon accelerometer research, 308–14

silicon crystalline orientation, etching 

processes, and, 301–2, 327–28

size of, 253

surface machining and micromachinging, 

invention of, 258–59n24, 258–60

term MEMS, first use of, 252, 252n2, 261

university research programs on, 262

Microelectronic Device Data Handbook, 

191–93, 191n127

microelectronics. See electronics and 

microelectronics

Microelectronics Reliability Program, 

189–94, 234, 245

Microelectronics Subcommittee, 198

Microelectronics Symposia, 190–91, 

190n122

Micrologic Elements, 153–54, 177

micromachining, 253, 257, 297

Micromodule program, 170–71, 170n52

micromotor, 255–56n13

microprocessors, 155, 156. See also integrated circuits

Micro-Scan, 222, 236, 237

microscopes

electron microscopes, 200, 220–23, 

222n231, 234, 236–37

fast-scan infrared microscope, 223–25

magnification levels for inspections, 220

sealed container, observing bubbles to 

locating leaks in, 220

testing integrated circuits and transistors 

with, 219–20

Microsensor Technology, Inc. (MTI 

Analytical Instruments), 261, 306, 

316–17

microwave amplifier, 210

microwave integrated circuits, 211–13, 

212n195, 243

Microwave Landing System (MLS), 475

microwave ovens, 62, 146

MIDAS satellites, 433

Mikulski, Barbara, 417–18

military and defense

applications satellites, interest in, 432

commercial communications satellites, 

use of by DOD, 468–69, 488

communications satellites, 464–69

communications satellites, increasing 

demand for, 468–69, 468

defense policies, changing opinions 

about, 25

defense spending, poll questions about, 

46–47, 46, 53–54, 57, 57, 58, 69

Harvard students, poll of about space 

goals and defense policies, 66

Integrated Circuits Laboratory, funding 

for, 288, 323

militarization of space, concerns about, 

414

military defense and nuclear weapon space 

stations, poll questions about, 16
Index 635

miniaturization of electronics concepts, 

169–72, 169n49, 170n52

national defense and military capabilities 

in space, opinions about, 21–25

reconnaissance satellites and national 

defense, 25, 485–86

Stanford Electronics Laboratories, funding for, 288–89, 323, 324

Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI)/Star 

Wars, 21–25, 37, 56, 66, 414

transistor use by, 165–66

weather satellite development, 437

military anti-shock trouser (MAST), 96–97

Milky Way galaxy, 359, 360

Milstar, 467, 481

Minitrack system, 433

Minnesota Impedance Cardiograph (MIC), 

108–9, 111

Minuteman II program

cost of integrated circuits for, 152

integrated circuits development and use 

in, 152–54, 155, 176–77, 225–28, 

242

number of integrated circuits purchased 

for, 152, 155, 226–27, 242

suppliers of integrated circuits for, 152, 

176, 226

transistors and microcircuits used on, 

testing of for nitrogen, helium, and 

hydrogen, 205–6

Minuteman missiles

miniaturization of electronics and accuracy of, 179

Minuteman I, 82

reconnaissance satellites and deployment 

of, 485

testing of, 137

Mir space station, 500

missiles and intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs)

anti-missile defense system, poll question 

about, 16

development of, 7, 432

disarmament treaties and agreements, 

480, 485

German robot bombs, opinions about 

existence of, 3

ICBM program, upgrade recommendation for, 433

liquid fuels for, 82, 144

miniaturization of electronics and range 

and accuracy of, 179

race between United States and Soviets to 

develop, 7–8

SDI and defense against attacks by, 

21–25, 37, 56

solid fuels for, 82, 144

transistor purchases for, 166

transistor use on, 165

See also Minuteman missiles

Mission to Planet Earth (MTPE)/Earth 

Science

administrators of, 409

adoption of, 400, 404

Augustine report on, 402–3

budget and funding for, 400, 401, 402, 

403, 404, 410–11, 418, 422–23

Clinton administration support for, 409

depoliticization of, 415–16, 425

environmental role of NASA and, 384, 

398–405, 421–25

environmental satellites and, 385

EOS role in, 402, 404, 409

implementation of, 405

name change to Earth Science, 415, 425

office creation after elimination of OSSA, 

406

origins of, 396

purpose of, 383

regional impacts, study of, 412

USGCRP role of, 400–402

See also ozone depletion

Mitre Corporation, 194

mobile satellite communications, 475–79

mobile satellite service (MSS), 468–69, 483, 

484

MOL (Manned Orbiting Laboratory), 

480–81

Molecular Electronics (Molectronics) 

Program, 171–72

Molecular Electronics for Radar 

Applications (MERA) program, 

211–13

Molina, Mario, 392

Moll, John L., 296–97

Molniya orbit, 481

Monaco, 447, 447n45

Monroe, Alan, 1

Monsanto Research Corporation, Mound 

Laboratory, 336, 338

Montedel, 477

Monte Fiore Hospital, 267

Montreal Protocol, 399, 407, 408, 409, 

420, 425
636 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Moon

Apollo 11 and landing on, 388

bases on, plans for, 390, 503

budget and funding questions and value 

of Moon project, 12–16, 34

Chinese mission to, plans for, 72

colonization of, 60, 65

contamination concerns about samples 

from, 388

desolation of compared to Earth, 384

economic development of, 100

faked landing on, opinions about, 17

forward contamination concerns and 

exploration of, 387–88, 425, 426

importance of landing a man on, opinions 

about, 17

knowledge/information about and 

ALSEP, 334, 350, 352–58, 353

Lunar Orbiter, 523

man flying to, changing opinions about, 

3–4, 4n5

mission to, Kennedy administration plans 

for, 177, 183

mission to, priority of under Kennedy, 

514n77

mission to and integrated circuits, 177

Moon, Mars, and Beyond space vision 

and missions to, 421–24, 426

Moon-Earth comparison, 388–89

public support for Moon program, 6

return to, plans for, 67, 72, 73, 402, 405, 

572–73

routine landings on and public opinion 

toward space budget, 20

RTG use for missions to explore, 334, 

349, 350, 351

scientific exploration station on, opinions 

about, 16–17

spacecraft to return to, 509, 509n62

space station on, public opinions about, 68

travel to, questions about personal interest 

in, 35, 37–38, 39

Moon-Ghetto metaphor, 496

Moore, Betty, 207

Moore, Gordon, 178, 207

Moore, Pamela, 93

Moore’s law, 178

Morrell, Frank, 268

Morrell, Lenore K., 268

Morrison, David, 560

MOS (metal-oxide semiconductor/metaloxide silicon) technology, 192, 207, 

207n177, 239–42, 248, 258, 276–77

Mosaic, 116

Motorola

hybrid circuit development by, 200n153

integrated circuit manufacturing by, 

175n69, 176

location of, 175n69

mesa technique and transistor manufacturing, 160–61

MOS circuits manufactured by, testing for 

radiation resistance of, 207n177

testing integrated circuits manufactured 

by, 204

transistor manufacturing by, 165

transistor radio production by, 167

Mound Laboratory, Monsanto Research 

Corporation, 336, 338

MTI Analytical Instruments (Microsensor 

Technology, Inc.), 261, 306, 316–17

Mueller, George E., 356–57

Multi-User Objective System (MUOS), 467

Munitions Control Board, 446

MUOS (Multi-User Objective System), 467

Murdoch, Rupert, 463, 464

Murphy, J. L. “Larry,” 235

N

nanotechnology

Air Force program for, 172

birth of, 254–56

convergence of branches of technology, 

145–46

high-performance requirements and, 129

motor, creation of nanotechnology-scale, 

255–56n13

negative consequences of, 80

positive consequences of, 80

size of, 253

societal implications of, 80, 145

NASA

Committee on Earth Sciences role, 400

creation of and Sputnik, 10, 383

cultural worldviews, contributions to 

enrichment of, ix

culture and cultural traits, 506–11

defense and non-defense consumers of 

innovations from, 153, 233

DLI project role, 116

DOD programs transferred to, 522n108

educational efforts of, 44–45
Index 637

environmental mission of, 384, 384n1, 

385, 390–92, 395, 398–405, 

415–16, 420, 424–26

individual achievement at, difficulty in 

identifying, viii

leadership structure at, 508, 509–10

management structure and power of 

Centers, 508

mission of, 496–97, 500–503, 502n40

North Eastern Operations Office, 194, 

195, 197

ozone depletion research and credibility 

of, 408

post-Apollo goals and support for, 19–20, 

500–503, 514, 514n77

public confidence in and support for, 

18–20, 29–30, 497–98

regional impact of NASA Center, 

528–29, 529n131

relevance of, questions about, 390

reorganization of, 386, 421–23

science and technology, contributions to, 

vii–viii, 141–47

societal impact of spaceflight, conference 

on, 538–39, 541, 544

strategic planning process, 502–3, 

502n40

technical culture at Centers, 510–11

universe, contributions to understanding 

of, ix

NASA Headquarters

Electronics and Control Directorate, 180, 

183, 183n96, 188–89, 195

History Program Office, 539

management structure and power of, 508

Office of Advanced Research and 

Technology (OART), 183, 195, 264

Office of Life Science Programs, 263

Office of Reliability and Quality 

Assurance, 187–89, 196

Office of Reliability and Systems Analysis, 

187

Office of Space Science and Applications, 

183, 189

Office of Technology Utilization/Office 

of Technology Utilization and Policy 

Planning, 229, 229n253, 233–34, 

265–66, 266n48

Parts Steering Committee, 188–89

Reliability and Quality Assurance 

Meeting, 189–90

NASA Space Act Award, 137

Nashner, Lewis, 91–93

Nathanson, Harvey C., 258–59, 258–59n24

National Academy of Engineering, Russ 

Prize, 99–100, 106

National Academy of Sciences

Earth Science cuts, criticism of, 423

educational reform, symposium about, 11

global changes research agenda of, 398

global warming review by, 418

MTPE/EOS evaluation and report by, 

411

Triana review by, 416

National Academy of Sciences, Institute of 

Medicine, 137–38

National Aeronautics and Space Act, 

230–31

National Aerospace Plane, 32

National Aviation Facilities Experimental 

Center, 476

National Bureau of Standards, 169

National Cancer Institute, 113–14, 139

National Center for Research Resources, 

315

National Commission on Technology, 

Automation, and Economic Progress, 

231–32

national defense. See military and defense

National Environmental Protection Act 

(NEPA), 370

National Football League (NFL), 461

National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency 

(NGA), 483

National Institute for Occupational Safety 

and Health (NIOSH), 287, 304, 

307–8, 307nn215–216, 316

National Institute of General Medical 

Sciences, 287, 290–91, 315

National Institute of Neurological Disorders 

and Stroke, 293, 298

National Institute on Deafness and Other 

Communication Disorders, 134

National Institutes of Health (NIH)

biomedical engineering, support for, 

290–91

biomedical pressure sensor, funding for, 

303, 314–15

brain probe research, funding for, 296, 

298

federal government department responsible for, 84

gas chromatograph research, funding for, 

315
638 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

goals and mission of, 84

Integrated Circuits Laboratory, funding for, 287

integrated-circuit technology, investment in, 291–93

Meindl proposal for research for, 

290–93

research activities at, 84, 85

Research Career Development Award, 

92

Stanford biomedical research, support 

for, 290–93

Visually impaired people, support for 

research on applications to assist, 

120, 291

National Library of Medicine, 117

National Oceanic and Atmospheric 

Administration (NOAA)

Committee on Earth Sciences role, 400

creation of, 390

Earth science research by, 397

land remote sensing, transfer to, 482

Landsat program, 409

meteorological data sharing and international cooperation, 472–73

NOAA satellites/Improved TOS 

(ITOS), 438, 470, 471

ozone-depletion research, role in, 392

ozone monitoring by, 420

polar weather satellites, responsibility 

for, 469–71

space program of, 383–84

See also Environmental Science 

Services Administration (ESSA)

National Opinion Research Center 

(NORC), 20–21

National Polar-Orbiting Operational 

Environmental Satellite System 

(NPOESS), 421, 423, 425, 469–70

National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), 

437, 480

National Research Corporation, 214–15

National Research Council (NRC), 415, 

423, 482

National Science Foundation (NSF)

Committee on Earth Sciences role, 400

communications satellite development 

by, 526n122

Directorate for Biological Sciences, 84

DLI project role, 116

Earth science research by, 397

governance of, 84

McCullough Building construction, 

funding for, 287

medical research funding by, 84–85

MEMS research funding from, 262

MEMS term usage and workshops 

sponsored by, 252n2

ozone-depletion research, role in, 392

public awareness of space issues, commissioning of surveys to measure, 

42, 44, 56

research role of, 84

science education in United States and 

launch of Sputnik, 530

Stanford Electronics Laboratories, 

funding for, 289

Stanford University, funding for, 287

Visually impaired people, development of assistive technologies for, 

123–24

National Semiconductor Corporation, 

199, 257–58

National Space Council (NSC), 404, 409

National Superconducting Cyclotron 

Laboratory, Michigan State 

University, 139

National Telecommunications and 

Information Administration 

(NTIA), 450, 456

National Weather Service, 436

Naval Ammunition Depot/Naval 

Weapons Support Center, 245

Naval Avionics Facility/Naval Avionics 

Facility Indianapolis, 214, 435, 473

Naval Research Laboratory, 139, 271, 

432, 473, 510–11

Naval Surface Warfare Center, Carderock 

Division, 126

Naval Weapons Laboratory/Naval 

Ordnance Laboratory, 125–26, 

510–11

navigation satellites

accuracy of, 435

as applications satellites, 427–28

development and launch of, 428, 

433–35

dual-use applications, 428

dual-use satellites, 473–75

early concepts and programs, 433–35, 

489, 490

future of, 488

importance of, 428
Index 639

Navy program for, 104–5, 342–43, 

434–35

polar orbit of, 434

profits from, 483

RTG use on, 350

societal impact of, 428

space technology and development 

of, 78

See also Global Positioning System 

(GPS); Transit satellites

Navstar GPS. See Global Positioning 

System (GPS)

Navy, U.S.

applications satellites, interest in, 432

Bureau of Weapons, 242

Fleet Satellite Communications 

System (FLTSATCOM), 

466–67, 478

integrated-circuit research, funding 

for, 183

magnetism, patents related to the 

exploitation of, 105

medical aviation laboratory, 281

navigation satellite program, 104–5, 

342–43, 434–35, 473–75

Nitinol wire development and use by, 

126–28

objectives for satellites, 348

Office of Naval Research, 119–20, 

124, 288

Office of Naval Research meeting on 

electronics reliability, 190n122

reconnaissance satellites, 481

rocket development by, 432

Special Projects Office, 505n50

Tinkertoy project, 169–70, 169n49

UHF follow-on program (UFO), 467

Navy Navigation Satellite System 

(NNSS), 434. See also Transit 

satellites

NBC

polling activity by, 1, 22, 27

television satellite, launch of, 461

Neptune

knowledge/information about and 

Voyager probes, 363

RTG use for missions to explore, 334

slingshot effect of gravity assist process 

and length of time for probe to 

reach, 359

Voyager 2 discoveries about and opinions about space program, 28–29

Voyager probes missions to, 363

Netherlands, 110

Neurelec, 137

NeuroCom International, 90–93

Neurological Sciences Institute, 92

Newell, Homer, 391

New Horizons, 334, 350, 367, 379, 380

Newman, Tom, 255, 255–56n13

Newport, Frank, 29

news and news stories

results of polls as news, 1

science knowledge and news sources, 9

Voyager 2 discoveries, news stories 

about, 143

New Skies Satellite (NSS), 464

Newsweek

poll for about Mars exploration, 70

poll for following Challenger accident 

and questions about manned 

space program, 26

New York State Department of Health, 

Bureau of Emergency Medical 

Services, 97

New York Times polls

national defense and military capabilities in space, questions about, 24

space station on Moon, questions 

about, 68

start of polling activities, 1

nickel, 203

Nimbus weather satellite

controversy over cost and capabilities 

of, 386

development of, 386, 438

Nimbus 7, 395

Nimbus B-1, 350

Nimbus III, 334, 350

research with, 386, 438

semiconductor screening technique 

for, 244

Nitinol wire

applications for, 127–30

dental use of, 125, 128, 129

manufacturing of, difficulty and cost 

of, 129

memory-metal properties of, 125, 

126, 129–30

name of, basis for, 125

NASA contributions to progress in 

understanding and using, 125, 

128–30
640 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

nickel-titanium alloy research and development of, 125–26

patents for, 126–28, 129–30

nitric acid, 312

nitrogen, liquid

coolant use of, 82

medical uses for, 82–83

propellant use of, 82

testing uses for, 82

nitrogen, presence of when testing transistors and microcircuits, 205–6

nitrogen bomb test, 220

Nixon administration and Richard M. Nixon

communications policy under, 450, 460

military defense and nuclear weapon space 

stations, poll questions about, 16

NASA programs under, 390

presidential performance polls about, 

51–53

satellite communications, end to 

monopoly on, 450

space program funding under, 140

Nobel Prizes

cyclotron invention, 139

integrated circuit invention, 174, 174n65

physiology or medicine research, 267–68

quantum electrodynamics research, 254

transistor invention, 158

tunneling effect, discovery of, 208

Noble Anvil, Operation, 468

nongovernmental organization (NGO), 459

nonrandom sampling methodology, 2–3

Noordung, Hermann (Herman Potočnik), 

430

Norden, 205–6

North American Rockwell/North American 

Aviation

Apollo program, contract for, 522–23, 523

Autonetics Division, 205–6, 205n170, 

247, 248

General Atomic facilities, 205–6

GPS satellite contract, 474

hydrogen contamination and failure of 

integrated circuits, research on, 

205–6, 205nn169–170

patent waiver requests, 247, 247, 248

Systems Dynamic Group, 131

Northeastern University, 203

Northrup-Grumman, 453

Norway, 9, 113

NOTUS program, 464–65, 466

Nova satellites, 435

Noyce, Robert N., 121, 174–75, 226, 

242–43

NPOESS (National Polar-Orbiting 

Operational Environmental Satellite 

System), 421, 423, 425, 469–70

nuclear power

half-life of fuel, 343, 364–66

Polaris ballistic missile submarines, 342, 

428, 435, 505, 505n48

public opinions and attitudes toward, 

366–67

safety issues and concerns, 364

submarines powered by, 364

trains and airplanes powered by, opinions 

about, 4

nuclear power plants

Carter administration and funding for 

nuclear technology, 55

safety issues and concerns, 364

Three Mile Island incident, 366–67

Nuclear Safety Review Panel, 372–76

nuclear systems for space power

advantages of, 333

approval process for launching satellites 

powered by, 348

Atoms for Peace initiative, 338–40

comparison to other types of power, 335

controversies over use of, viii, 331, 414

deep space missions, use as power for, 

331, 333–34, 334, 419

development of, 336–37

environmental concerns about, 384

evolution of systems, 331, 340–42, 341, 

349–64

high tide of space nuclear power, 349–64

military defense and nuclear weapon space 

stations, poll questions about, 16

moratorium on after Cosmos 954 incident, 366

nuclear reactor power for spacecraft, 

Lewis Research Center research on, 

140–41

nuclear rocket engines, development of, 

140, 141

opposition to and protests against use of, 

345, 369–71, 376–78, 379, 384, 

414

origins of use for spaceflight, 337–42, 341

Prometheus, Project, 419, 420, 423–24

safety issues and concerns, 335, 344–47, 

358, 379–81, 384

types of, 333–34
Index 641

See also radioisotope thermal generators 

(RTGs)

nuclear weapons and defense capabilities, 

395–96

Nunn, Timothy A., 315

Nye, Patrick W., 122–23

O

Oates, Ronald W., 131

Obama, Barack, 425

Oberth, Hermann Julius, 430

“Observing the Weather from a Satellite 

Vehicle” (Wexler), 436

Occupational Safety and Health Act, 308

ocean monitoring

Aqua satellite, 420–21

El Niño and TOPEX/Poseidon, 412–13

Seasat, 395

O’Connell, James D., 460

Odum Institute for Research in Social 

Science, University of North Carolina–

Chapel Hill, 7

oil boycott and energy emergencies, 390, 

500

O’Keefe, Sean, 137, 384, 419, 421–24

Oklahoma City bombing, 33

Olympics, 21–22

Olympus (H-Sat), 464

O’Neill, Gerard, 394

online polling, 2–3

open skies/open entry policy, 460–61

opinion research, 2

Opportunity, 31, 69, 71, 334

Optacon (Optical TAcatile CONverter) 

device

benefits of, 123

cessation of manufacture of, 123

concept and function of, 117

development of, 119–25

development of, contribution of government agencies to, 119–20, 124–25

haptics research and, 117–20, 124

importance of, 144

integrated circuits and, 104, 121–22

Integrated Circuits Laboratory grant for 

work on, 287–88

manufacture of, 122, 288n150

miniaturization of, funding for, 287–88

NASA contributions to development of, 

117, 120, 121, 124–25

patent for, 120, 125

research with, 117–19

stimulation of innovation in assistive 

technologies, 123–24

optical character reading (OCR) devices, 

120, 123–24

Orbimage, 482

Orbit Act, 454, 455–57

Orbital Debris Program Office, 395

Orbiting Geophysical Observatory, 238

Ordway, Frederick, 81–83, 94

Oregon Health and Sciences University, 92

Orion Satellite Corporation, 450, 452–53

The Orthotic Group, 87

Oscars, 435

O’Sullivan, William J., 438, 439

Outer Space Treaty, 388

overview effect, 499

oxygen, liquid, 82

Oyama, Vance, 264, 304, 318

ozone depletion

Antarctica, ozone research in, 398, 399, 

401, 409

Arctic, ozone research in, 401, 406–8

causes of, 392, 399, 407

decrease in, 420

increase in ozone hole, 406–8

Montreal Protocol and policy to address, 

399, 407, 408, 409, 420, 425

NASA environmental mission and 

research on, 398–400, 425

research on and policy development to 

address, 392, 401–2, 406–8

satellites to monitor and study, 395, 

398–400

P

pacemaker technology, 98–107

batteries for pacemakers, 62, 98, 99, 100, 

101, 103, 104, 105–6, 146

bidirectional telemetry and, 103

collaboration and development of, 106–7

concept and function of pacemakers, 98, 

106

electrodes, 99, 100

history of development of, 98–101

innovation in, 102–3

integrated circuit development and, 103, 

104

MEMS and pacemaker regulation, 251

NASA contributions to, 100–107, 143, 

146

patents for, 99, 100, 102–3

programmable pacemakers, 101–7
642 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

purpose and benefits of pacemakers, 98

rechargeable pacemakers, 62, 62, 98, 

103–4, 105, 146

telemetry and, 101, 103, 104, 106

Pacesetter Systems, Inc., 98, 101–3, 104

Paine, Thomas “Tom,” 390, 477

paint, latex, 62, 62, 146

Palapa communications satellites, 461, 462

Pallene, 378

Pan American Satellite Corporation 

(PanAmSat), 450, 452, 454, 455, 456, 

458–59, 463, 464, 469

Pan American World Airlines (Pan Am), 476

paraplegics, alternating pressure seats for, 109

Parent, Robert, 471

Parkinson’s disease, 83

Parts Steering Committee, 188–89

patents

balance evaluations system patents, 91–92

cochlear implant patents, 135–36, 137, 

138

impact of innovations, estimating 

through patent records, 83

integrated circuit patents, 121–22, 174, 

175

licensing of innovations, 102–3, 229, 230

Nitinol wire patents, 126–28, 129–30

Optacon device patent, 120, 125

pacemaker technology patents, 99, 100, 

102–3

patent pools, 102

patent rights and patent waivers, 230–31, 

247–49, 247, 248, 249

patent thickets, 102

prior art, 321

progress as series of patentable inventions, 

106–7

protection of innovations with, 79, 107

Pathfinder probe, 70–71, 334, 367

Patrick Air Force Base, 345

Patterson, Robert P., 109

Payload Hazardous Servicing Facility, 374, 

375

Perner, Frederick Andrew, 303–4, 307, 316, 

318n260, 319–20

Pershing rockets, 137

Persian Gulf Wars, 409, 468, 486, 487, 488

Personal Influence (Katz and Lazarsfeld), 79

Pescador, Héctor, 136

Petersen, Kurt, 262, 317, 321

Pew Research Center for the People and the 

Press, 7, 33, 57–58

pharmaceutical products, development of, 

21

Philco-Ford Corporation, 465. See also Ford 

Aerospace (Space Systems Loral)

Philco/Philco Corporation

microelectronics research by, 186

MOS circuits manufactured by, testing 

for radiation resistance of, 207n177

patent waiver requests, 247, 248

transistor manufacturing by, 165

Phillips, Mary, 94

phosphorus, 215–16

photolithographic procedures

integrated circuit manufacturing, 174

MEMS accelerometer research, 311–12

MEMS brain probe manufacturing, 296, 

297–98

MEMS gas chromatograph, 304

transistor manufacturing, 160, 161, 

162–64

photovoltaic solar cells, 332–33

piano, 89

Pickering, William H., 439

Pierce, John R. (J. J. Coupling), 429, 

431–32, 431n10, 438–39

piezoresistive effect and piezoresistive property of material, 256–57

piezoresistive pressure sensors, 256–58, 

299–303, 314–15, 326

pilots, pressure suits to prevent blackout, 

95–96

Pion, Georgine, 20–21

Pioneer 5 probe, 11

Pioneer 10 probe

end of mission, 361

mission of, 359–62

radio signals from, length of time to 

receive, 361

RTG use on, 334, 349, 350, 359–62, 360

Pioneer 11 probe

end of mission, 360

mission of, 359–62

RTG use on, 334, 349, 350, 359–62, 

360

Pioneer Venus project, 364n80

Pittendrigh, Colin S., 269, 272

planar process, 161, 161n34, 210

planets/solar system

colonies on/settlement of, 60, 65, 70, 394, 

538, 547, 554–56, 571, 573–75

gas chromatograph as planetary probe, 

317–20, 318n260
Index 643

Grand Tour of solar system and slingshot 

effect of gravity assist process, 359

Grand Tour of solar system by probes, 

349, 359, 362–64, 364nn79–80

icy moons orbiting gas planets, 378

launches of planetary probes to explore, 

364, 364n79

life on, development of sensors to look 

for, 264

Moon, Mars, and Beyond space vision 

and exploration of, 421–24, 426

planetary defense, astrosociological contributions to, 560–62

planetary protection, concern about, 401

RTG use for missions to explore, 334, 

340, 349, 350, 358–64

Venus–Earth–Earth Gravity Assist for 

Galileo mission, 368, 369–70, 371

Venus–Earth gravity assists for Ulysses 

mission, 368

Venus–Venus–Earth–Jupiter Gravity 

Assist for Cassini mission, 372, 414

See also comparative planetology

plants, 263

Plessey Company, 173

plethysmography, 107–8, 109

Pleumeur-Bodou station, 440

Plonsey, Robert, 111

Pluto

New Horizons mission to explore, 379

Pioneer 11 mission to and beyond, 360

RTG use for missions to explore, 334, 

350

plutonium-238, 334, 336, 343–45, 347–48, 

350, 356, 358, 362, 364–65, 372, 375

plutonium-239, 347

point-contact (Type A) transistors, 158–59

Polaris ballistic missile submarines, 342, 

428, 435, 505, 505n48

Polaris rockets, 82

polar-orbiting satellites, 428, 434, 437

political ethos, 493–96, 495n12

polls and surveys of public opinion

age and support for space program, 

35–36, 37–41

age effects, 39–41

analytic techniques, 1

Apollo, opinions and attitudes toward, 

12–17

Apollo, trends in support after, 18–32

astrology, questions about, 44, 45

atomic power for trains and airplanes, 4

awareness of space issues and response to 

poll questions, 41–43, 43

budget and funding questions, 5–6, 

12–16, 18–20, 18, 20, 28, 30, 31, 

38–39, 43–44, 45, 53–54

budget and funding questions for future 

programs, 67–74

cancer, cure for, 4

Challenger accident and questions about 

manned space program, 24–28

cohort effects, 39–41, 41

college students, opinions and attitudes 

of, 49–50, 59, 60, 63–67

Columbia accident and questions about 

space program, 30–32

education and support for space program, 

35–36, 41–45, 74

emotional bonds with astronauts, poll 

questions about, 33–34

emotional impact of major spaceflight 

events, questions about, 32–35

functions of surveys, 1

future of spaceflight, attitudes toward, 

67–74

gender and support for space program, 

36–38, 39

German robot bombs, opinions about 

existence of, 3

goals in space, attitudes toward, 59–67

government activities, poll questions 

about funding, 45–59, 46, 57, 58

intelligence and response to poll questions, 43–45, 45

Kentucky residents, poll of about space 

program, 61–62, 62, 146

knowledge of public and basis for 

responses to, 3

man flying to Moon, changing opinions 

about, 3–4, 4n5

Mars, opinions about exploration of and 

manned missions to, 16–17, 68–72

motivations for space exploration, 45–59

NASA, public confidence in and support 

for, 18–20, 29–30, 497–98

national defense and military capabilities 

in space, questions about, 21–25

news and news stories about, 1

personal impact of space exploration, 

32–45

policy decisions and results of polls, 1, 

73–74

presidential elections and, 2
644 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

questionnaire design, 1, 3

questions, framing of, 5–6

reliability and validity of, 2–3

safety of space program, questions about, 

26–27, 67–68

sampling methodologies, 2–3

science and technology, public confidence 

in and support for space program, 

20–21, 20

scientific research, questions about funding of, 56–58, 58

Shuttle flights, opinions about practical 

uses of, 21

space exploration, questions to children 

about interest in, 44–45

space race between United States and 

Soviets, questions about, 8, 11–15, 

19–20, 48–49, 50–51, 59

Space Shuttle, opinions and attitudes 

toward, 18, 19, 21–32

Sputnik, opinions and attitudes toward, 

7–12

statistical significance and sampling methodologies, 2–3

telephone service and, 2

theories, testing with poll data, 1

travel into space, questions about personal 

interest in, 35–39, 39

trends, tracking will poll data, 1

value of, 73–74

Voyager 2 discoveries and questions about 

manned space program, 25–26, 27, 

28–29

See also presidential performance polls

pollution

funding for anti-air and anti-water pollution programs, poll question about, 

16, 54

global warming and, 386

Harvard students, poll of about space 

goals and pollution removal, 67

manifold absolute pressure (MAP) sensors 

and pollution requirements, 260

polonium-210, 338, 343

Polydeuces, 378

Pope, Jack M., 272–73

Poppy system, 481

potassium hydroxide, 301, 311

potentiometer, 278

Potočnik, Herman (Hermann Noordung), 

430

poverty and funding for anti-poverty programs, poll question about, 16, 53–54

Powell, Walter, 102

power dissipation, 223, 224

Pratt & Whitney, 197

PREDICT (Process Reliability Evaluation 

and Determination of Integrated 

Circuit Techniques) facility, 199–201, 

243, 282–83

“Preliminary Design of an Experimental 

World-Circling Spaceship” (RAND), 

430–31

presidential performance polls

Carter administration, 55

Johnson administration, 50–51

Kennedy administration, 47–49

Nixon administration, 51–53

Reagan administration, 55–56

pressure sensor (strain gauge), 256–58, 

278–79

pressure suits

anti-shock garments, 93–97

blackout prevention for pilots, use of for, 

95–96

cool suit treatment for hypohidrotic 

ectodermal dysplasia, 94–95

g-suit (anti-gravity suit), invention of, 96

g-suit treatment for hemophiliac children, 

94

Preston, Jane, 115

prisons, poll questions about spending on, 5

Pritchard, Robert L., 289

Das Problem der Befahrung des Weltraums: 

Der Raketen-Motor (The Problem 

of Space Travel: The Rocket Motor, 

Potočnik), 430

Process Reliability Evaluation and 

Determination of Integrated Circuit 

Techniques (PREDICT) facility, 

199–201, 243, 282–83

Professional Group on Medical Electronics, 

Institute of Radio Engineers (IRE), 290

Programalith, 101

Program Evaluation and Review Technique 

(PERT), 505, 505n48, 505n50, 533

Prometheus, Project, 419, 420, 423–24

Proton M/Breeze M vehicle, 458

public goods, 519, 519n97, 522

Public Health Service, 293

public opinions and attitudes

awareness of space issues and response to 

poll questions, 41–43, 43
Index 645

changes in, vii

communications satellites, understanding 

of operation of, 41

goals in space, attitudes toward, 59–67, 60

Harvard students, opinions of about 

space goals, 59, 60, 63–67

human spaceflight risks, opinions about, 

72

impact of space program on, 6–7

importance of understanding changes 

in, vii

intelligence and, 43–45, 45

interest in people before interest in ideas, 

29–30

joint missions and cooperation between 

United States and other countries, 

public attitudes toward, 51–52, 52, 

54, 60, 61, 69

knowledge of and basis for, 3

nuclear power, opposition to, 366–67

opinion research, 2

policy decisions and results of polls, 1, 

73–74

science and technology, public confidence 

in and support for space program, 

20–21, 20, 497–98

science awareness survey and launch of 

Sputnik, 8–9

science knowledge and news sources, 9

social-psychological research, 2

space exploration and public interest 

in science and technology, 6, 42, 

44–45, 56–59, 65–66

space race between United States and 

Soviets, 7–15, 10, 19–20, 48–49, 

50–51, 59

spinoff technologies, misconceptions 

about, 146

themes that shape, vii

See also polls and surveys of public opinion

Pudgee, 132

purple plague, 203, 204

pyracatechnol, 301

Q

“QRM-Interplanetary” (Smith), 429

Quake, Stephen R., 321n274

Qualifications and Standards Laboratory, 

189, 194, 198, 199, 213, 244

Quality Engineering and Evaluation 

Laboratory, Naval Ammunition Depot/

Naval Weapons Support Center, 245

Quantitative Computed Tomography, 89

quantitative ultrasound (QUS), 88, 89

quantum electrodynamics research, 254

quartz clocks, 146

Quayle, Dan, 404

Quek, Francis, 124

quota sampling methodology, 2

R

Radford, Wade E., 106

radiation

data collection on space radiation, 

238–39, 238n282

radiation-resistant components, development of, 181–82, 197, 201, 206–13, 

214–15, 243

radioactive debris, 347–48, 358, 365–66, 

414, 419–20

Radiation Incorporated, 207n177

radiflo test, 220

radioisotope heater units (RHUs), 362, 372

radioisotope thermal generators (RTGs)

accident environments, 335

advantages of, 334–35, 335

characteristics and size of, 360, 361–63, 

372, 373

comparison to other types of power, 335

concept and function of, 333–34

controversies over use of, viii

deep space missions, use as power for, 

333–34, 334, 367–68

design of, 335, 347–48

development of, 336–37, 342

difficulties associated with systems, 357

evolution of, 340–42, 341, 349–64

failure of, injection into higher orbit as 

disposal method after, 349

failure of and radioactive debris, 358

high tide of space nuclear power, 349–64

impact-resistant container to protect from 

accidental release of plutonium, 

362–63, 365

location of on Pioneer 10 and 11 spacecraft, 360

malfunction of satellite using and release 

of debris, 347–48

management structure for program, 

351–52

opposition to and protests against use of, 

345, 369–71, 376–78, 379

origins of use for spaceflight, 337–42, 

339, 341
646 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

plutonium-238 use in, 334, 336, 343–45, 

347–48, 350, 356, 358, 362, 

364–65, 372, 375

power/wattage provided by, 335–36, 

340–41, 348, 361, 372

safety and reliability of, 335–36, 338–40

safety issues and concerns, 335, 344–47, 

358, 364–78, 379–81

safety reviews and approvals before launch 

of RTGs, 365

satellite and spacecraft use of, 350

satellite applications, early use for, 

342–49, 434

support for use of, 351

testing and safety program for, 348, 379

See also SNAP (Systems for Nuclear 

Auxiliary Power)

Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator 

Storage Building, Kennedy Space 

Center Industrial Area, 376

Ragent, Boris, 275, 279

Ragone, Jared, 88

“Die Rakete zu den Planetenräumen” (“The 

Rocket into Interplanetary Space,” 

Oberth), 430

Rambo, William, 292, 293, 324

Ramey, Robert L., 208–9

random sampling methodology, 2

RAND/RAND Corporation

applications satellites, interest in, 430–31

nuclear power, origins of use for spaceflight, 337

reconnaissance satellite development, 479

reconnaissance satellite recommendations 

from, 431, 433

weather satellite recommendations from, 

431, 436

Ranger program

diode failure and, 180–81

electronics failures, 180, 180n83

Ranger 1, 180n83

Ranger 2, 180n83

Ranger 3, 180n83

Ranger 4, 180n83

Ranger 5, 180

Ranger 6, 180

Ranger 7, 180

Rapp, Roxy, 95

Raychem Corporation, 127–28

Raytheon/Raytheon Corporation

electronics research at, 198, 199

fast-scan infrared microscope, role in 

development of, 223–24

Space and Information Systems Division, 

220

transistor manufacturing by, 165

transistor manufacturing for defense 

consumers, 166

RCA (Radio Corporation of America)

Aerosat program, 477

antitrust suit against, 159, 159n29

Earth Observation Satellite Company 

role, 482

Micromodule program, 170–71, 170n52

MOS manufacturing by, 276

patents for transistors, 159n29

Relay satellite, 440, 441, 490, 526

Satcom F1, 449

Satcom K-3, 464

satellite development and manufacturing by, 435, 437, 451, 461, 462, 

463–64, 473

scanning electron microscope development by, 222

Semiconductor and Materials Division, 

276

supplier of integrated circuits for 

Minuteman II program, 152, 226

television transponders, number needed, 

461

transistor manufacturing by, 159, 165

transistor manufacturing for defense 

consumers, 166

transistor radio production by, 167

RCA Americom/GE Americon, 451, 454, 

464

RCA Astro-Electronics/RCA Astro, 451, 

461, 462, 474, 479

RCA Canada, 461

RCA Global Communications, 461

RCA Ltd., 477

Reagan administration and Ronald Reagan

anti-missile defense system, poll question 

about, 16

attitude of Harvard students toward, 59, 

66

Challenger accident and speech to nation, 

25–26

defense capabilities and nuclear weapons 

priorities under, 395–96

deficit growth under, 403

emotional impact of shooting of, poll 

questions about, 33
Index 647

environmental and energy policies under, 

397, 400–401

land remote sensing, privatization of, 

482, 484

polling about budget under, 5–6

presidential performance polls about, 

55–56

satellite communications, end to 

monopoly on, 450

SDI, proposal to develop, 21–25, 37, 56, 

66, 414

space policies of, opinions about, 28

space station project decision by, 395–96, 

397

reconnaissance satellites

as applications satellites, 427–28

development and launch of, 337–38, 

428, 432, 433

direct-readout satellites, 433

early concepts and programs, 431, 433, 

490

film return satellites, 433

future of, 487

Harvard students, poll of about space 

goals and defense policies, 66

impact on society, 428

importance of, 428

military satellites, 479–81

military security and, 25, 485–86

national defense and, 25

nuclear power systems for, 337–38

profits from, 483

remote sensing technology use by, 

428–29

rectifiers, 164

Redfern, Mark, 93

“Red Gold,” 95

Redstone rockets, 82, 137

Regency TR1 transistor radio, 167

Reiger, Sieg, 443

Relay satellite, 440, 441, 490, 526

Reliability and Quality Assurance, Office of, 

187–89, 196

Reliability and Quality Assurance Meeting, 

189–90

Reliability and Systems Analysis, Office of, 

187

Reliability Handbook for Silicon Monolithic 

Microcircuits, 192–93

Remington Rand Univac computer, 167

remote sensing technology

applications satellites use of, 428–29, 489

civil land remote sensing satellites, 

481–82

commercial remote sensing satellites, 

482–83

environmental satellites use of, 383, 

391–92

future of remote sensing satellites, 488

land remote sensing, privatization of, 

482, 484

profits from satellites, 483, 484

renal artery blood flow, research on measurement of, 269

Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, 202–3

Report to the President on Government 

Contracting for Research and 

Development (Bell), 228

Research Triangle Institute, 186n105, 

237–38, 267

resistor-capacitor-transistor logic (RCTL) 

circuits, 207n175

resistors

integrated circuit use of, 157, 168, 173, 

174, 175

thin-film technology and formation of, 

168

Tinkertoy project and silk-screen printing 

of, 169

resistor-transistor logic (RTL) circuits, 

207n175

resonant gate field effect transistor/resonant 

gate transistor, 258–59, 258–59n24

resources, Harvard students, poll of about 

space goals and development of, 66–67

Rice University, 219

Ride, Sally, 37–38, 399, 502

Ridenour, Louis, 430–31

Rita, Hurricane, 486

Rock, Bernard, 352

Rockefeller University, 267

“The Rocket into Interplanetary Space” 

(“Die Rakete zu den Planetenräumen,” 

Oberth), 430

rockets

cryogenic gases/liquid propellants, 82

development of, 432

ion drive propulsion for, 141

liquid-fuel rockets, 82, 138, 144

nuclear rocket engines, development of, 

140, 141

pioneers in development of, 429–30

race between United States and Soviets to 

develop, 7–8
648 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

scientific payloads launched with, 432

societal impact of, 383–84

solid-fuel rockets, 82, 144

space applications for liquid-fuel rocket 

technology, 82, 144

Rockwell International

poll for about Mars exploration, 69–70

poll for following Challenger accident, 

27–28

See also North American Rockwell/North 

American Aviation

Roco, Mihail, 145

Rogers, Everett M., 79

Rogers Commission Report, 27–28

Rohrabacher, Dana, 410

Roper Center, University of Connecticut, 7

Roper polls, 5–6, 23, 26

Rosen, Harold, 439, 462–63

Rostow, Eugene V., 460

Rowland, Sherwood, 392

Royal Air Force, 172

Royal Radar Establishment 

(Telecommunications Research 

Establishment), 172–73

Roylance, Lynn Michelle, 308–14, 320–23, 

321n274

RTGs. See radioisotope thermal generators 

(RTGs)

rubber, synthetic, 62, 62, 146

Rudoff, Alvin, 536

Rumford, Maine, station (Andover station/

Space Hill), 440, 440n26

Rumsfeld, Donald, 232–33

Rusk, Dean, 443

Russ Prize, National Academy of 

Engineering, 99–100, 106

S

Saab, 477

Saby, John, 159

sacred spirit, Earth as, 393

sacrificial layering technique, 259–60

Sagan, Carl, 370, 384, 387, 393, 498, 499

SALT I (Strategic Arms Limitation Talks), 

480, 485

Salyut space station, 500

Samadikun, Samaun

acknowledgement of assistance in research 

by, 277, 279, 282, 284, 285

anisotropic etching, role in development 

of variation of, 300–302, 315, 323

Bandung High Tech Valley, role in creation of, 316

piezoresistive pressure sensor research, 

299–303, 310, 315

SAMOS satellites, 433, 479–80, 481

Sander, Craig S., 258

Sandia Corporation, 219

Sandler, Harold “Hal,” 280, 281–85, 307, 

326

Sarewitz, Daniel, 380–81

SAT, 477

Satellite and Telecommunications Act, 

456–57

Satellite Business Systems (SBS), 449, 462, 

463, 490

Satellite Data System (SDS), 481

“The Satellite Rocket Vehicle” (RAND), 431

satellites

approval process for launching nuclearpowered satellites, 348

atmospheric research with, 386

batteries for, charging of, 106

bidirectional telemetry with, 103

cooperative space ventures between 

United States and Europe, 515–17, 

516n84

environment and images from, 383

information from, interest in, 428

launch of from Shuttle, 391

magnetism and control and guidance of, 

105

manufacturing and sales of, 484

miniaturization of electronics and launch 

of, 179

nuclear power use for, early applications, 

342–49

nuclear power use for, origins of, 337–42, 

341

number of satellites in orbit, opinions 

about, 11–12

power requirements for, 331–32

public attitudes toward space exploration 

and benefits of, 65–66

scientists as users of information from, 386

solar-powered satellite (SPS), 394–95

solar power use on, 344, 348

space race between United States and 

Soviets, 7–12

space technology and development of, 

62, 146

transistor use in, 167
Index 649

See also applications satellites; environmental/Earth resources satellites

Satellite Television Corporation (STC), 449, 

452, 462, 490

Satellite Transponder Leasing Corporation, 

462

Sato, Yasushi, 201

Saturn

Cassini mission to, 372, 414

knowledge/information about and 

Cassini mission, 378

knowledge/information about and 

Pioneer 11 mission, 359–60

knowledge/information about and 

Voyager probes, 363

RTG use for missions to explore, 334, 

350, 362–63, 372–78

Voyager 2 discoveries about, research on 

communication to public about, 143

Voyager probes missions to, 362–63

Saturn rockets

contractors for, 523

electronics on, conversion to integrated 

circuits, 186

improved version of, 67

propellants for Saturn V moon rocket, 82

satellites launched with, 465

Saturn V rocket, 391, 514

S band, 212

Scapicchio, Anthony J., 216–17, 216n209

Schmitt, Harrison, 353

Schramm, Wilbur, 9

Schwinger, Julian, 254

science, technology, engineering, and math 

(STEM) disciplines

educational impact of Apollo program, 

491, 530–32, 531n140, 533

interest in and promotion of education 

related to, 491–92, 549, 550

Sputnik and interest in, 10–11, 496

science, technology, engineering, math, and 

astrosociology (STEMA) disciplines, 

548–51

science and technology

advances in, consequences of and 

decision-making about, 379–80

Cold War and technology transfer, 

524–25

convergence of branches of technology, 

145–46

defense and non-defense consumers of 

innovations, 153, 233

diffusion of technical knowledge, 

229–31, 246, 246

engineers and credit for innovation, 

106–7

environmental threat from, 384–85

individuals responsible for contributions, 

difficulty in identifying, viii

inventions, simultaneous by different 

individuals, 81

licensing of innovations, 102–3, 229, 230

migration of technology from original 

applications, 78–79

NASA contributions to, vii–viii, 141–47

personal credit for contributions to, viii

practical capabilities, development of, 

500–503

progress as series of patentable inventions, 

106–7

public confidence in and support for 

space program, 20–21, 20

public interest in, 6, 29–30

public understanding of, NSF polls on, 

42, 44, 56

public understanding of through spinoffs, 

80–81

scientific development and military 

strength of United States and 

Soviets, opinions about, 10, 10

scientific research, questions about funding of, 56–58, 58

societal impact of research programs, 

231–37, 232n256, 233n263, 

235–36n272

societal impacts of space technology, 

383–84

space exploration and public interest in, 

6, 42, 44–45, 56–59, 65–66

space program technology and general 

development of industries or scientific communities, 83–85

spillover, 79

successful technology, delays in adoption 

of, 89–90

technological ethos, 496–98, 503

technology transfer, 78–85, 101, 141–47, 

516n84

technology utilization, politics, and 

Congress, 231–37, 232n256, 

233n263, 235–36n272

technology utilization, technology transfer, and dissemination of information, 229–31, 265–69, 523–28
650 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

See also spinoff technologies

Science and Technology Policy, Office of 

(OSTP), 408–9

science fiction and applications satellites, 

429, 438

Science Mission Directorate, 421–22

Scientific and Technical Information 

Program (NASA), 89–90

scientists

applications satellites, interest in, 430–32

astrosociological issues and, 564–65, 

571–72

collaboration and friction between 

scientists and Instrument Division at 

Ames, 265, 270

credit for innovation by, 106–7

global warming concerns of, 384

information from satellites, interest in, 428

satellite information, use of by, 386

SCORE, 464

Scout launch vehicle, 434–35, 437

SDI (Strategic Defense Initiative)/Star Wars, 

21–25, 37, 56, 66, 341, 395–96, 414

Seaborg, Glenn, 344–46, 351

Sea Launch Zenit-3SL vehicle, 458

sealed container, locating leaks in, 217–18, 

220, 243

Seamans, Robert C., 187, 195, 508, 508n58

Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence 

(SETI), 547, 565–70

Seasat, 395

seat cushions

aluminum honeycomb material for, 131

characteristics of ideal cushioning material, 131

survivability of airplane accidents and, 

131, 133, 143

temper foam applications, 131–32, 133, 

134, 143

Seattle Cancer Care Society, 140

Second-Order Consequences (Bauer), 79–80

Seebeck, Thomas Johann, 336

Selenia, 477

semiconductors

Commerce Department data on semiconductor use, 153

diffusion process for semiconductor manufacturing, 160, 202–3, 

214–15, 214n202

Fairchildren and employees leaving companies and starting new companies, 

164–65

integrated circuit development, incentive 

for, 150

location of semiconductor industry, 175, 

175n69

metal-oxide semiconductor/metal-oxide 

silicon (MOS) technology, 192, 

207, 207n177, 239–42, 248, 258, 

276–77

semiconductor switch use of silicon 

instead of germanium, 296

transistor invention and development of 

semiconductor industry, 157

Senefelder, Alois, 162

sensors

aerospace medicine and development of, 

85

biomedical sensors, research on, 113–14, 

257

biomedical sensors and transmitters, 

implantation of, 265

blood pressure sensors, disposable, 262

capacitive pressure sensors/transducers, 

258, 258n23, 270, 270–71n71

development of to measure effects of 

space environment on, 263

journals and conferences on, 262–63

life on other planets, development of sensors to look for, 264

manifold absolute pressure (MAP) sensors 

and pollution requirements, 260

miniature devices made from silicon and 

germanium, 253–54

piezoresistive pressure sensors, 256–58, 

299–303, 310, 314–15, 326

pressure sensor (strain gauge), 256–58, 

278–79

silicon-based strain gauge, 257

Sensors and Actuators, 262, 263

SENTRY satellites, 479, 481

Service Life Enhancement Program (SLEP), 

467

Shapiro, Robert, 36

Sharpe, Mitchell, 81–83, 94

Shepard, Alan, 13

shock and anti-shock garments, 93–97, 143

Shockley, William, 158, 164

Shockley Semiconductor Laboratory, 164, 

175, 289–90

Shoemaker-Levy 9 comet, 371

Shostak, Arnold, 119

Shuping, John, 375

Siemens, 477
Index 651

Sigelman, Lee, 42

Signetics, 204, 207n177, 227–28

silane, 276–77, 277n100

Silas, C. J. “Pete,” 452

Silent Spring (Carson), 383

silicon

anisotropic etching to micromachine, 

257, 300–302, 301n190, 304, 

305–6, 311–12, 315, 323, 327–28

anodic bonding (electrostatic bonding, 

Mallory process), 258, 306, 311, 312

challenges of working with, 159

conditions encountered in space, resistance to harsh, 181–82, 197, 201, 

206–13, 243

crystalline orientation and anisotropic 

etching, 301–2, 327–28

diaphragm biomedical pressure sensor, 

299–303, 310, 314–15, 326

diaphragm production, process for, 257, 

300–302, 315

diodes, use of in, 159

epitaxial deposition process and transistor 

manufacturing, 161–62

gold use in fabrication of devices made 

with, 202–3, 203n162

growth of individual crystals, development of process for, 159–60

growth of individual crystals and control 

of purity levels, 161–62

handbook on reliability of silicon integrated circuits, 192–93

hybrid circuits, 200, 200n153, 201

integrated circuit silicon wafers, size of, 

177–78

integrated circuits made with, drawbacks 

of and barriers to using in space, 

181–82

integrated circuit use of, 152, 155, 159, 

173–75

ion implantation in, 214–15

isotropic etching to micromachine, 257, 

301, 305–6

mesa technique and transistor manufacturing, 160–61

mesa technique and triode fabrication, 

210

miniature devices made from, 253–54

piezoresistivity of, 256–57

planar process and transistor manufacturing, 161, 161n34

planar process and triode fabrication, 210

research activities of NASA, 185–86

scribing wafers, 217, 218, 218n214

semiconductor switch use of, 296

separation from wafer, processes to avoid 

damage during, 216–19, 243

shaping crystals to control resistance, 173

space radiation effects on, 206–7, 

207n175, 207n177, 214–15

strain gauge, silicon-based, 257

surface machining and micromachinging, 

invention of, 258–59n24, 258–60

transistor use of, 152, 159–60

wafers, separation into individual circuits, 

200

“Silicon as a Structural Material” (Petersen), 

262

silicon carbide, 215–16

silicon dioxide/silicon oxide, 161, 161n34, 

162, 174, 205, 276–77, 297–98, 

305–6, 311–12, 313

silicon nitride, 276–77, 277n100

Silicon Valley

development of electronics industry in, 

252–53

Indonesian version of, 316

NASA role in development of, 252–53, 

323

Stanford integrated circuit research, support from companies in, 294

Simmons, Blair, 138

Simulator Program with Integrated Circuits 

Emphasis (SPICE), 218

Skylab space station, 17, 86, 235, 245, 391, 

500

Skypix, 452

Sky TV, 464

Slovic, Paul, 366–67

Small Business Innovation Research (SBIR) 

grants, 87, 123–24

Smith, Charles S., 256–57

Smith, David B. D., 272–73

Smith, George O., 429

Smithsonian Institution, 435–36, 481

smoke detectors, 146

SNAP (Systems for Nuclear Auxiliary 

Power)

characteristics and size of, 348

development of, 337–38

failure of, injection into higher orbit as 

disposal method after, 349

high tide of space nuclear power, 349–64

mercury shield around, 344
652 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

numbering of, 338

satellite and spacecraft use of, 350

SNAP-1, 338

SNAP-2, 338, 353

SNAP-3, 338, 339–40, 339

SNAP-3B, 344–46

SNAP-8, 338

SNAP-9A, 347–48

SNAP-10, 338

SNAP-10A reactor, 348–49

SNAP-11, 349

SNAP-19, 361–62

SNAP-27, 356, 357, 362

See also radioisotope thermal generators 

(RTGs)

SNAPSHOT, 348–49

social communication, 79

social problems, using space to solve, 

496–97, 557–60, 571, 574

social-psychological research, 2

social science classrooms, expanding space 

into, 548–51

Societé Européenne des Satellites (SES), 

463–64

Society and Aerospace Technology Technical 

Committee, 541

sociology of space, 536. See also

astrosociology

sodium-potassium alloy, 338

solar power

comparison to other types of power, 335

energy emergencies and advances in, 390

Harvard students, poll of about space 

goals and development of, 66–67

ion drive propulsion and solar cells, 141

photovoltaic solar cells, 332–33

satellite batteries, charging with, 106, 343

satellites, use of on, 344, 348

satellites, use on, 434–35

solar array retrofit of Galileo, 368

solar-powered satellite (SPS), 394–95

solar system. See planets/solar system

solar wind, 238–39

solid-fuel rockets, 82, 144

Sony/Sony Corporation, 167n45, 208

Southern Pacific (Spacenet), 451, 454

South Texas Hospital, Harlingen, 112

South Texas Regional Family Medicine 

Grand Rounds Virtual Video Library, 

113

Southwest Asia, 468

Soviet Union/Russia

breakup of Soviet Union, 25, 29

Cosmos 954 incident, 365–66

environmental satellite coverage by, 472

joint missions and cooperation with 

United States, public attitudes 

toward, 51–52, 52, 54, 60, 61, 69

liquid-fuel rockets, invention of, 138

meteorological data sharing and international cooperation, 473

reconnaissance satellite information 

about, 428

relationship with United States and SDI, 

21–25

scientific development and military 

strength of United States and 

Soviets, opinions about, 10, 10

SDI and defense against attacks by, 21–25

spacecraft electronics, 178–79

space nuclear power development by, 341

space race between United States and, 

7–15, 10, 19–20, 48–49, 50–51, 

59, 495, 514n77

Sputnik, public knowledge of launch of, 9

technology competition between United 

States and, 340

telemedicine project, cooperative role in, 

113

Soyuz 2229 biosatellite, 88–89

Soyuz spacecraft and Apollo-Soyuz mission, 

17, 500

space

colonies in/settlement of, 60, 65, 70, 394, 

538, 547, 554–56, 571, 573–75

Lagrangian points, 394, 416

militarization of, concerns about, 414

peaceful use of outer space, conference 

on, 397

societal implications of, 387

Space Age America theme, 496–98, 500, 

501, 503, 533

Space and Society Conference, 540

space charge, 210

space-charge-limited triode, 197, 209–11, 

243

Space Council, 441–42

spacecraft

contamination and forward contamination concerns and sterilization of, 

384, 387–88, 393, 425, 426

lunar transport system, design of, 509, 

509n62
Index 653

nuclear power use for, origins of, 337–42, 

341

nuclear reactor power for, Lewis Research 

Center research on, 140–41

radio signals from, length of time to 

receive on Earth, 361

societal impact of, 383–84

space debris. See debris/space debris

space diplomacy and foreign policy strategy, 

525

space exploration

ascendancy and, 64

benefits of from astrosociological perspective, 574–76

benefits of space program, 491, 533–34

benefits of space program, communication of, 142–43, 146–47

colonization goals, 60, 65, 70

contamination concerns and, 387–88, 

425, 426

economic benefits of space program, 

61–62, 62

employment opportunities as benefit of 

space program, 67, 520

environmental policy and space vision, 

conflict between, 423

excitement of, 64–65

exploration ethos, 498–500, 498n24, 

498n28, 533–34

false stereotypes about benefits to society, 

143

goals in space, attitudes toward, 59–67, 60

history of space program, communication 

of, 146–47

human spaceflight risks, public opinions 

about, 72

inspirational aspects of, 64, 388–89, 416, 

521–22, 533–34

justification of and imperatives of human 

nature, 498, 498n24

knowledge and understanding from, 

535–38

knowledge from, public attitudes toward, 

66

large-scale plans under Paine, 390

Moon, Mars, and Beyond space vision, 

421–24, 426

new disciplines spawned from, viii–ix

overview effect and, 499

personal impact of, 32–45

privatization of, 573

probe mission priorities over human 

spaceflight programs, 364, 364n80

public confidence in and support for 

space program, 18–20, 29–30, 

497–98

public interest in science and technology 

and, 6

public opinions and attitudes toward, 

73–74

Reagan space policies, opinions about, 28

safety of space program, poll questions 

about, 26–27, 67–68

science and technology, public confidence 

in and support for space program, 

20–21, 20

social problems, using space to solve, 

496–97, 557–60, 571, 574

societal impact of, 78–81, 535–43, 

572–76

space utilization and, 500–501

spinoff-centric view of value of space, 142

spirit of exploration and human need to 

explore, 64

support for, decline in, 500

swashbuckling spacefaring role of NASA, 

390

transformation from, 535

transistor purchases for, 166

travel into space, questions about personal 

interest in, 35–39, 39

unity and, 66

See also budgets and funding

Space Exploration Initiative (SEI), 341, 

342, 502

spacefaring societies, transformation into, 

562–65, 573–75

spaceflight/human spaceflight

balance and, 93

benefits of from astrosociological perspective, 574–76

bone loss/calcium loss during long-duration spaceflight missions, 86

contamination concerns and, 387–88, 

425, 426

crew model of, 551–54, 571

environmental dimension of, 387–88

gravity, adjustment to following longduration spaceflight missions, 90

haptics and, 118–19

high-performance requirements in, 129

isolation on crew behavior, 552–53, 571
654 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Moon, Mars, and Beyond space vision, 

421–24, 426

privatization of, 573

societal impact of, 572–76

space utilization and, 500–501

support for, decline in, 500

tourism, space, 72–73, 564

Space Foundation, 31

Space Foundation, Hall of Fame, 96

Space Hill (Andover station/Rumford, 

Maine, station), 440, 440n26

Space Imaging, 482

Spacelab, 515, 516–17

Space Nuclear Systems Division, 351

space policy

ancillary policy, 500–501, 501n34

birth certificate of, 431

Reagan space policies, opinions about, 28

space race

Cold War politics and, 442

Moon mission priority under Kennedy 

and, 514n77

public opinions and attitudes toward 

United States–China race, 72

public opinions and attitudes toward 

United States–Soviet/Russia race, 

7–15, 10, 19–20, 48–49, 50–51, 59

science education in United States and 

launch of Sputnik, 10–11, 496, 530

spacecraft electronics and, 178–79

Sputnik, satellites, and start of, 7–12, 495

technological capabilities, opinions about, 

9–10, 10

who was winning, opinions about, 11–15

space science, interdisciplinary study of, 387

Space Science and Applications, Office of 

(OSSA)

creation of, 386

Earth-monitoring system program, 396, 

397–98, 400

Earth Sciences and Applications Division, 

397–98

electronics research funding from budget 

of, 183

elimination of, 406

Microelectronics Reliability Program role 

of, 189

purpose of, 386

SpaceShipOne, 73

Space Shuttle program

approval for, 390–91

beginning of, 17

Challenger accident, 21, 24–28, 33, 367, 

369, 399

Columbia accident, 30–32, 34–35, 67, 

419–20

cost-effective, reusable vehicle, value of, 

391

development of successor vehicle, 32

end of, 32, 67

environmental threat from, 392

first Shuttle launch, 19

Galileo deployment from, 368–70

history of space program, communication 

of, 147

launches as commercial, 485

microcircuit line certification for, 235

practical uses of Shuttle flights, opinions 

about, 21

propellants for Shuttles, 82

publicity about Shuttle capabilities, 19

public opinions and attitudes toward, 18, 

19, 21–32

purpose of, 391

return to flight after accidents, 26–32, 

399, 401, 503

satellite launches from, 391

Shuttle-Mir mission, 500

space debris threat to shuttles, 415

space utilization and, 500

STS-8 use of impedance cardiography, 

109

systems management practices in, 508

space sickness, 90

space societies, creation of, 554–56, 571, 

573–75

space stations

base camp purpose of, 395

early concepts of, 430

EOS connection to, 399, 402, 405

on Moon, opinions about, 68

opposition to and attempts to cancel 

program for, 405

plans for, 390

poll questions about, 16–17

Reagan administration decision about, 

395–96, 397

United Nations space station, opinions 

about, 17

See also Skylab space station

Space Systems Loral (Ford Aerospace), 

451, 453, 454, 455, 462, 465, 472, 

526n122

space utilization, 500–501
Index 655

spacewalk, 13, 51

Spanish International Network, 463

Sperry Rand Research Center, 276, 

277n100

Sperry Semiconductor Division, 199

SPICE (Simulator Program with Integrated 

Circuits Emphasis), 218

spillover, 79

Spinoff report, vii–viii, viii n2, 77, 85–86, 

143, 527

spinoff technologies

applications compared to spinoffs, 78

attribution to individuals, viii

attribution to NASA and accuracy of 

claims, vii–viii, 141–47, 528n128

benefits of, 61–62, 62, 65, 80–81, 

523–28

benefits of to NASA, 101–2

catalyst function to facilitate innovation, 

82–85

Cold War and technology transfer, 

524–25

communication of history of space program and, 146–47

definition of spinoff, 77–78, 142–43

economic impact of, 523–28

false stereotypes about benefits to society, 

143

high-performance requirements in spaceflight and medical care and, 129

importance of, 143–44

importance of, debate about, 78

invention walking on its own legs, 78–79

misconceptions about, 146

NASA report on, vii–viii, viii n2, 77, 

85–86, 143, 527

programs responsible for, 77

public understanding of science and 

technology through, 80–81

space program and spinoff-centric view of 

value of space, 142

space program technology and general 

development of industries or scientific communities, 83–85

spillover and, 79

studies of potential societal implications 

of space exploration and, 78–80

successes compared to spinoffs, 89–90

technology transfer, 78–85, 101, 141–47

technology utilization, politics, and 

Congress, 231–37, 232n256, 

233n263, 235–36n272

technology utilization, technology transfer, and dissemination of information, 229–31, 265–69, 523–28

tracking back to historical origins, 81–83

spin-scan camera, 471

Spirit, 31, 69, 71, 334

spirit of exploration, 64

Spirkovska, Lilly, 124

Sponyoe, John, 453–54, 455

SPOT (Système Pour L’Observation de la 

Terra) satellite, 482–83, 484

Sprague Electric Company, 214–15

Spriggs, James O., 189

springback foam. See temper foam

Sprint, 112

Sputnik and Sputnik II

batteries for electrical power for, 332

challenge to US by launch of, 495–96

exhibition of and observation of Soviet 

spacecraft electronics, 179

launch of, 7

public claims of seeing, 8

public opinions and attitudes toward, 

7–12

science awareness survey and launch of, 

8–9

science education in US and launch of, 

10–11, 496, 530

as turning point in history, 492–93n2

SRI International (Stanford Research 

Institute), 119, 120, 130

Standard Parts Program, 235

Stanford Center for Radar Astronomy, 

323–24

Stanford University

accelerometer research, 308–14

antiwar protests at, 290

Biomedical Instrumentation Laboratory, 

268, 324

biomedical research at, Ames role in, 

264–69, 283–85, 284n136, 323–26, 

326

biomedical research at, NIH support for, 

290–93

biomedical research funding from NASA, 

267–70, 268n58, 324

Biomedical Technology Transfer team, 

266

bone density analyzer, research to 

develop, 86–87

brain probe research, 294–99, 298n180
656 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

capacitive pressure sensor development at, 

258, 258n23

Cardiology Division, School of Medicine, 

266–69

Center for Integrated Systems, 294

Center for Materials Research, 287

Computer Systems Laboratory, 294

DLI project role, 117

Electrical Engineering Department, 121, 

286, 291–92, 294–96, 298, 299, 

324

Electrical Engineering Department and 

School of Medicine, collaboration 

between, 291–92, 304

electrode development and MEMS 

research at, 267

exobiology research at, 324

gas chromatograph research, 279, 

280–81, 282, 285, 303–4n200, 

303–8, 307nn315–316, 310, 314, 

315, 316–20, 326

Information Systems Laboratory, 294

Integrated Circuit Fabrication Laboratory, 

287

Integrated Circuits Laboratory, 252, 258, 

285–94

Integrated Circuits Laboratory, funding 

for, 287–88, 289, 292–93, 323, 

324, 326

Laboratory for Advanced Materials 

Research, 294

McCullough Building, 286–87, 294, 304

MEMS development and collaboration 

with, viii, 252

MEMS research at, Ames role in, 

283–85, 284n136, 323–26, 326

MEMS research funding from NASA, 275

NASA funding for research at, 287, 289, 

323–26, 326

Optacon device, role in development of, 

117, 119–22

piezoresistive pressure sensor research, 

299–303, 314–15, 326

Solid-State Electronics Laboratory, 286, 

289, 292–93n166, 293–94

Space Engineering Building, 324

Stanford Electronics Laboratories, 291

Stanford Electronics Laboratories, funding for, 288–89

Stanford Electronics Laboratories/

Stanford Electronics Research 

Laboratories, 286, 287

Varian Laboratory, 287

Starbird, Alfred Dodd, 465–66

STAR consortium, 477

Starr, Arnold, 292, 295

Star Wars/Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI), 

21–25, 37, 56, 66, 341, 395–96, 414

State, Department of

data from COMSAT, limits on, 446

Earth Observation Summit, 421

environmental policy and space vision, 

conflict between, 423

government monopoly over satellite communications, support for, 442

Orbit Act and direct access to Intelsat, 

456

satellite communications as foreign policy 

activity, 443–44, 525–26

satellite system of systems, 421, 422

space diplomacy and foreign policy 

strategy, 525

space race as extension of Cold War, 352

Third World, communication capabilities 

for, 448

Transit satellite, resistance to launch of, 

344–45, 346

state secrets, 79

steatite, 169, 169n49

Steele, Charles R., 86, 88–89

Steer, 465, 466

Steiner, Reinhold, 446

Stenbeck, Jan, 463

Stencel Aero Engineering, 131

Stephenson, L. M. “Bill,” 304

Stereoscan, 221

Stereotoner, 122

Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center, 481

Stockholm, environmental conference in, 

390

strain gauge (pressure sensor), 256–58, 

278–79

Strategic Air Command (SAC), 7, 465

Strategic Arms Limitation Talks (SALT I), 

480, 485

Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI)/Star Wars, 

21–25, 37, 56, 66, 341, 395–96

Strategic Satellite System, 467

Strickland, Donald, 59–60

Strontium-90, 344

Sullivan, Walter, 397

Sunmate, 132

sun-synchronous orbits, 437

Suomi, Verner, 436–37, 471
Index 657

supersonic transport (SST), 392

Surveyor, Project, 349, 351, 523

Surveys of Public Understanding of Science 

and Technology, 42, 44, 56

Sustaining University Program (SUP), 532, 

532n150

Sweden, 113

Swinehart, James, 8–9

Switzerland, 446

Sylvania, 165, 166

Symphonie, 461

synchronous meteorological satellites (SMS), 

472, 489

Synchrony, 101

Syncom/Syncom 2, 440, 450, 462–63, 476, 

489, 490

Système Pour L’Observation de la Terra 

(SPOT) satellite, 482–83, 484

systems architecting, 492, 509, 513–14, 533

Systems for Nuclear Auxiliary Power. See

SNAP (Systems for Nuclear Auxiliary 

Power)

systems management practices, 492, 

495–96, 504–5, 506–10, 512–13, 

515–17, 533

T

Tackle, 465, 466

TACSAT, 448, 466

tactile communication, research on, 120, 

121, 124

tactile reader for the blind. See Optacon 

(Optical TAcatile CONverter) device

Tang, 146, 527n128

tantalum pentoxide, 208

Tatum, Edward L., 267–68

Tauzin, Billy, 457

TDRS (Tracking and Data Relay Satellite)/

TDRSS (Tracking and Data Relay 

Satellite System), 467, 481

Teal, Gordon, 159–60

Teapot (von Neumann committee), 433

Tech Briefs, 229–30, 246, 246

Technical Data Bank, 191, 193–94

Technion, 96

Technology Utilization/Technology 

Utilization and Policy Planning, Office 

of, 229, 229n253, 233–34, 265–66, 

266n48

Teflon, 62, 62, 146, 527n128

telecommunication industry

monopolies and competition in, 450, 

460–61

open skies/open entry policy, 460–61

Telecommunications Act, 456–57

Telecommunications Research 

Establishment (Royal Radar 

Establishment), 172–73

Teledyne, 176

telehealth, 114, 114n101

Telehealth Center, 113

telemedicine

advantages and benefits of, 114–15

challenges and limitations of, 115–16

concept and definition of, 111–12

DLI projects and, 116–17

licensure of medical professionals and, 

115–16

NASA contributions to programs and 

research on, 112, 113–17

programs and experiments using, 112–13

technologies for, 112–17

telemetry

aerospace medicine and development of, 

85

astronauts, monitoring condition of with, 

111, 526

battery charging and, 106

bidirectional telemetry, 103

implantable telemetry system for monitoring blood flow, 293

pacemaker technology and, 101, 103, 

104, 106

Telenor, 457

telephones

integrated circuit use in, 156

MEMS use in mobile telephones, 254

push-button telephones, 62, 146

transistors use in telephones, telephone 

lines, and switching equipment, 

158, 159, 166

telephone service and polls, 2

Telesat Canada, 461, 462

telescopes, 82

Telesensory Systems, 122, 123, 288n150

Televisa, 463

television industry

ABC satellite, launch of, 459–60, 461

broadcast satellites, 461

direct-to-home broadcast satellites, 461

electronic system as basis for, 122
658 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

HDTV (high-definition television), 488

television transponders, number needed, 

461

Television Infrared Observation Satellite 

(TIROS)

cameras on, 437–38

development and launch of, 385–86, 

437–38, 489

importance of, 386

ITOS (Improved TOS)/NOAA satellites, 

438, 470, 471

sun-synchronous orbits, 437

support for development of, 436

TIROS-1, 437, 489

TIROS-2, 437

TIROS-8, 437

TIROS-9, 437

TIROS-10, 437

TIROS-N, 470–71, 472

TIROS Operational System (TOS)/ESSA 

satellites, 438, 470–71, 489

upgrade of, 386

weather information from, 386, 428

Telstar, 440, 442, 453, 454, 461, 490, 

525–26

temperature

digestible temperature transmitter, development of, 273

temperature extremes in space, component resistance to, 181–82, 197, 

201, 209–11

temperature telemeter research, 267, 

273–74

temper foam

importance of, 143

invention of, 131

medical applications for, 130, 132, 134

memory properties of, 130

NASA contributions to development of, 

131, 132–34

seat-cushion applications for, 131–32, 

133, 134, 143

Tempur-Pedic mattress use of, 132–34

Terra, 417, 418, 420, 421

Terry, Stephen C., 282, 303–8, 313, 

316–18, 319, 321

Tesla coil, 134

Texas

Columbia accident and debris in, 419–20

telemedicine programs in, 112, 113, 

114–15

Texas A&M University, 139

Texas Department of Health, 112

Texas Instruments

amplifier microcircuits made by, testing 

of, 205–6

electron microscope research at, 237

hearing aid applications for transistors 

manufactured by, 166–67

integrated circuit invention by, 121, 

173–75

integrated circuit manufacturing by, 

153–54, 175n69, 176, 242

integrated-circuit research at, 186

location of, 175n69

mesa technique and transistor manufacturing, 160–61

microwave integrated circuits, 211–13, 

212n195

Molecular Electronics for Radar 

Applications (MERA) program, 

211–13

patent waiver requests, 247, 247, 249

price of integrated circuits from, 152–54

Series 51 computer, 176

Series 51 Solid Circuits, 153–54

silicon integrated circuits, handbook on 

reliability of, 192–93

silicon transistors, development of, 

159–60

supplier of integrated circuits for 

Minuteman II program, 152, 176, 

226

transistor manufacturing by, 165, 166–67

transistor radio production by, 167, 

167n45

Texas Tech University, Center for 

Telemedicine, 113

thermal-conductivity detectors for gas chromatographs, 303–4, 307, 319–20

thermodilution, 108

thick-film technology, 186, 186n107

thin-film technology

capacitor formation with, 168

conditions in space and use of, 182, 197, 

243

germanium films, development of process 

for depositing, 209

high-temperature thin films, 197

hybrid circuits, 200, 200n153, 201

ion implantation and thin-film technique, 

214

miniaturization of electronics and, 168
Index 659

radiation-resistant components, development of, 206–11

research activities of NASA, 185–86, 

186n107, 200

resistor formation with, 168

space-charge-limited triode, 197, 209–11, 

243

transistors, inability to form from, 168, 

181

Third World, communication capabilities 

for, 443–44, 445, 447n43, 448, 487, 

525

Thomas, Rosita, 25

Thomas J. Watson Research Center, 260

Thompson Ramo Wooldridge. See TRW 

(Thompson Ramo Wooldridge)

Thor rockets

propellant for, 82

Thor-Able rockets, 434

Thor Able-Star rockets, 346–47, 434, 435

Thor-Agena launch vehicles, 433, 437, 

480

Thor-Burner launch vehicles, 437

Thor-Delta rockets, 432, 434–35

thought experiment (Gedankenexperiment), 

244

3M, Unitek division, 128

Three Mile Island incident, 366–67

Tikniks, 100

Tilford, Shelby, 409

Time polls, 24

Tini Alloy Company, 130

Tinkertoy project, 169–70, 169n49

Tipton, Steve, 21

TIROS Operational System (TOS)/ESSA 

satellites, 438, 470–71, 489

Titan, 372, 378

Titan rockets

propellant for, 82

satellite launches with, 450–51, 465, 466, 

471, 480, 481

Titan II ICBMs, 82

Titan III program, 504

Titan IV launch vehicle, 372

Tokyo Tsushin Kogyo (Totsuko), 167n45

Tomayko, James E., viii

Tombs, Nigel C., 274–77, 275–76nn96–97, 

277n100, 278, 284, 285, 326

Tomonaga, Sin-Itiro, 254

Tonga Trench, 358

TOPEX/Poseidon, 412–13

Torrey Canyon, 474

TOS (TIROS Operational System)/ESSA 

satellites, 438, 470–71, 489

Totsuko (Tokyo Tsushin Kogyo), 167n45

Tough, Allen, 536, 567

tourism, space, 72–73, 564

tourism to NASA Centers, 528

tracheotomy tubes, transmitters to monitor, 

273

Tracking and Data Relay Satellite (TDRS)/

Tracking and Data Relay Satellite 

System (TDRSS), 467, 481

trade secrets, 79

Transensory Devices, Inc., 261

Transformation Satellite Communications 

System (TSAT), 468

transistor radios, 167, 167n45

transistors

alloy-junction transistors, 159

commercial applications for, 166–67, 

167n45, 177

diffusion process for manufacture of, 160

epitaxial deposition process for manufacture of, 161–62

expansion of transistor industry and sale 

of transistors, 164–67

failure analysis research on, 244

germanium use in, 158, 159, 198

gold use in fabrication of, 202–3

integrated circuit technology compared 

to, 156

integrated circuit use of, 157, 168, 

172–75, 177, 181

invention and manufacturing processes 

for, 157–64

ion implantation process, 214

junction transistors, 159

limitations in manufacturing and reliability of, 167–68

mesa technique for manufacture of, 

160–61, 210

metal-oxide semiconductor field-effect 

transistors (MOSFETs), 191, 

239–42

military and defense consumers of, 

165–66

military concepts for miniaturization of 

electronics, 169–72, 170n52

NASA demand for, 166

patents for, 158, 159n29

photolithographic procedures for manufacture of, 160, 161, 162–64
660 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

planar process for manufacture of, 161, 

161n34

point-contact (Type A) transistors, 

158–59

price of, 164, 165, 242–43

reliability of, 160

reliability requirements for NASA and 

military, 166

resonant gate field effect transistor/resonant gate transistor, 258–59

sealed container, locating leaks in, 

217–18, 220

silicon use in, 152, 159–60

thick-film transistors, 186, 186n107

transistor-transistor logic (T2L) circuits, 

207n175

Transit Improvement Program (TIP), 435

Transit Research and Attitude Control 

(TRAC) satellite, 434

Transitron Electronic Corporation, 176, 

176n70

Transit satellites

accuracy of, 435

building and assembly of, 435

characteristics and shape of, 434

commercial ships use of, 474

development of, 104–5, 342–43, 489

launch of, 434, 435

limitations of, 473

Oscars, 435

precision of navigation with, 434, 473

reliability of, 473

responsibility for, 434

RTG use on, 342–47, 350, 434

solar power use on, 434–35

Transit 1A, 343

Transit 1B, 343

Transit 4A, 334, 344–46, 350, 434

Transit 4B, 334, 344–46, 350, 434

Transit 5A series, 434–35

Transit 5BN-1, 334, 346–47, 350

Transit 5BN-2, 334, 346–47, 350

Transit 5BN-3, 347, 350, 351

Transit 5B series, 434–35

Transit 5C1, 435

Transit 5E series, 434–35

Transit 5 series, 434–35

Transit Triad-01-1X, 334, 350

Transportation Systems Center, Department 

of Transportation, 216n209

treaty organization, 459

Trent, Robert L., 199

triad decision-making structure, 508

Triana, 415–16, 418

Trilogy, 101

triodes

Mead triode, 207–8

space-charge-limited triode, 197, 209–11, 

243

thin-film triode, advantages of, 210–11

tritium and tritium tracer, 205–6, 205n169, 

220

Triton, 363

Tropical Rainfall Measuring Mission 

(TRMM), 412, 424

Trujillo, Tony, 456

Truly, Richard, 401, 402, 405

TRW (Thompson Ramo Wooldridge)

Aerosat program, 477

communications satellite development 

and manufacturing by, 445, 448, 

466, 526n122

FLTSATCOM (Fleet Satellite 

Communications System), 467

Goldin role at, 405–6

instrument development to search for life 

on Mars, 318, 319, 320

patent waiver requests, 247, 247, 249

TSAT (Transformation Satellite 

Communications System), 468

Tsiolkovsky, Konstantin Eduardovitch, 138, 

429–30

tsunami, 423, 487

Tung-Sol, 165

tunnel emission and tunneling effect, 208

Tyco Laboratories, 247, 248

U

U-2 program, 433, 485–86

UARS (Upper Atmosphere Research 

Satellite), 398, 405, 413, 422

UHF communication satellites, 465, 

466–67, 478

UHF follow-on program (UFO), 467

UHF silicon transistors, 212

Ulysses, 334, 340, 350, 367–68

United Kingdom. See Great Britain/United 

Kingdom

United Nations Conference on the Peaceful 

Uses of Outer Space, 397

United Nations Environmental Program 

(UNEP), 390, 400
Index 661

United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on 

Climate Change (IPCC), 400, 403–4, 

411–12, 418

United Nations International Atomic 

Energy Agency, 302, 303

United States (U.S.)

cooperative space ventures with Europe, 

515–17, 516n84, 533

defense capabilities and nuclear weapons 

priorities under Reagan administration, 395–96

frontier narrative of, 494–95, 495n12

government, confidence and trust in 

during Apollo program, 497–98

joint missions and cooperation with 

Russia, public attitudes toward, 

51–52, 52, 54, 60, 61, 69

Kyoto Protocol withdrawal by, 418, 421

liquid-fuel rockets, invention of, 138

relationship with Soviets and SDI, 21–25

science education in and launch of 

Sputnik, 10–11, 496, 530

scientific development and military 

strength of United States and 

Soviets, opinions about, 10, 10

space race between Soviets and, 7–15, 

10, 19–20, 48–49, 50–51, 59, 495, 

514n77

Sputnik as challenge to, 495–96

superpower status of, 29

technology competition between Soviets 

and, 340

United States Climate Change Research 

Initiative, 421

United States Global Change Research 

Program (USGCRP), 400–402, 409, 

410–11, 418

United States Information Agency (USIA) 

poll, 11–12

Unitek division, 3M, 128

unity, peace, and space exploration, 66

universe

NASA contributions to understanding 

of, ix

other cultures throughout, understanding 

potential for, ix

University College of North Wales, 236–37

university-industry-government complex, 

228

University of Alaska, 112, 113

University of California, Berkeley

computer-aided design of circuits, 218

Computer-assisted Survey Methods 

(CSM) Program, 7

MEMS research at, 262

micromotor creation at, 255–56n13

University of California, Santa Barbara, 117

University of Connecticut, Roper Center, 7

University of Connecticut poll, 31

University of Denver, Denver Research 

Institute, 233–37, 233n263

University of Iowa, School of Dentistry, 

Department of Orthodontics, 128

University of Leipzig, 157

University of Michigan, 93, 298

University of Minnesota, 108–9, 111

University of North Carolina–Chapel Hill, 

Odum Institute for Research in Social 

Science, 7

University of North Carolina Medical 

School, 267

University of Texas Health Sciences Center 

at San Antonio (UTHSCSA), 112, 113

University of Texas Medical Branch, 113

University of Virginia, Research Laboratories 

for the Engineering Sciences, 208–9

University of Washington, 112

University of Washington Medical Center, 

139–40

University of Wisconsin, 99, 262

Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite 

(UARS), 398, 405, 413, 422

uranium 235, 365–66

Uranus

knowledge/information about and 

Voyager probes, 363

RTG use for missions to explore, 334

Voyager 2 discoveries about, research on 

communication to public about, 

143

Voyager 2 discoveries about and opinions 

about space program, 25–26, 27

Voyager probes missions to, 363

USA Today polls

budget and funding questions, 5

Challenger accident and questions about 

manned space program, 26

emotional impact of major spaceflight 

events, questions about, 34–35

goals in space, attitudes toward, 60

Mars, questions about exploration of, 69

travel into space, questions about personal 

interest in, 36, 38

U.S. News and World Report, 26
662 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

uterus, measurement of motion of, 310

“Utility of a Satellite Vehicle for 

Reconnaissance” (Lipp, Greenfield, and 

Wehner), 431

V

V-1 buzz bomb missiles, 3

V-2 rockets

development of, 7

poll questions about, 1, 3

propellants for, 82

scientific payloads launched with, 432

Vacca, Gene A., 264

vacuum tubes, 156, 165, 167, 169

Van Allen, James, 396

Van Allen radiation belts, 209, 238–39, 396

Vandenberg Air Force Base, 348–49, 434, 

437, 470, 471

van der Waals attraction, 255, 255n11

Vanguard launch vehicle, 432

Vanguard satellite, 7, 167, 433, 436

Varghese, Mathew, 97

Varian Laboratory, 287

Väsamed, 111

Velcro, 146, 527n128

Venus

greenhouse effect on, 384, 387, 396–97

hostility of environment on, 387, 397

knowledge/information about and 

Mariner missions, 387

Venus–Earth–Earth Gravity Assist for 

Galileo mission, 368, 369–70, 371

Venus–Venus–Earth–Jupiter Gravity 

Assist for Cassini mission, 372, 414

Verne, Jules, 429

Vernikos Danellis, Joan, 279–80

vertical diffusion, 79–80

VHF transponders/satellites, 476–77

ViaSat, 457

Vietnam War

anti-shock garment use during, 96

financing of, public opinion about, 15, 

54

military use of technology during, 501

public disillusionment during, 20–21

public opinion about handling of, 50

Viking probe program

budget and funding for, 364n80

instruments and sensors for use in 

missions, 264, 280–81, 317–20, 

318n260

Mars missions, 264, 280–81, 304, 

317–20, 318n260, 393, 395, 396

Oyama role in missions, 304

RTG use during, 334, 349, 350

Viking 1, 334, 350

Viking 2, 334, 350

Viking sounding rocket, 432

Villanova University, 218–19

Villard, Oswald G., Jr., 324

Virginia Tech, 124

Visible Infrared Spin Scan Radiometer 

(VISSR), 472

Vision for Space Exploration (VSE), 492, 

503, 509–10

Visually disabled people. See blind and visually disabled people

VMH Visual Communications, 95

von Braun, Wernher, 7, 430, 432, 514, 

514n77

von Neumann committee (Teapot), 433

Vortex system, 481

Voskhod 2 spacecraft, 13

Voyager 1 probe

budget and funding for, 364n80

mission of and information from, 359, 

362–64

phonograph records of information about 

life and culture on Earth for extraterrestrial life, 363–64

RTG use on, 334, 349, 350, 362–63

Voyager 2 probe

budget and funding for, 364n80

discoveries by and opinions about 

manned space program, 25–26, 27, 

28–29

discoveries made by, research on communication to public about, 143

mission of and information from, 359, 

362–64

phonograph records of information about 

life and culture on Earth for extraterrestrial life, 363–64

RTG use on, 334, 349, 350, 362–63

termination shock encounters of, 363

Voyager Biological Laboratory, 264

VTEL Corporation, 112

W

WAC Corporal rocket, 7

Wade, Serena, 9
Index 663

Wake Forest College, Bowman-Gray School 

of Medicine Department of Biomedical 

Engineering, 267

“Waldo” (Heinlein), 118

Walker, Robert, 410–11

Wall Street Journal, 27

Wang, Frederick E., 126–28

Wanlass, Frank, 241–42

Warschauer, Douglas M., 198–99

washers and dryers, balancing, 251

Watergate scandal, 21

water pollution and funding for anti-water 

pollution programs, poll question 

about, 16, 54

Watson, Robert, 408–9

Watt, Chauncey W., 193

Wayne State University Physicians Group, 

139

wealth-building processes, 522, 533

Weapons System 117L (WS-117L), 433, 

437

weather

National Weather Service, authorization 

of, 436

recording of weather observations, 

435–36

Weather Bureau, 386, 390, 436, 469

weather/meteorology satellites, 435

as applications satellites, 427–28

cameras on, 471

civilian safety and, 486

development and launch of, 385–86, 428

early concepts and programs, 431, 

435–38, 489, 490

environmental role of, 384

future of, 488

geostationary orbit satellites, 469, 472, 

482

geosynchronous satellites, 428, 471, 488

government satellites, 469–73

importance of information from, 386, 

437

international cooperation and data sharing, 472–73

practical and research objectives of, 386

profits from, 483

public attitudes toward space exploration 

and benefits of, 65–66

remote sensing technology use by, 

428–29

RTG use on, 350

societal impact of, 428, 483, 484, 486

space technology and development of, 78

synchronous meteorological satellites 

(SMS), 472, 489

weather prediction methods

satellites and, 365–86

space technology and development of, 

62, 146

weather telemetry transmitter, 212

Webb, James E.

Apollo program and stimulation of 

economy, education, and technology, 496–97

balanced space program, support for, 

514n77

centralized processes, decentralized 

processes, and management style of, 

507–8, 509–10

communications satellites, support for 

government role in, 441

electronics, importance of to space exploration, 178

management difficulties faced by, 500

Paine as successor of, 390

reliability office changes under, 187

reorganization of NASA under, 386

research activities under, 228

Space Age America theme under, 496

space science study, support for, 387

Sustaining University Program under, 532

triad decision-making structure established by, 508

Wehner, R. S., 431

Weiffenbach, George C., 342–43, 434

weightlessness/zero gravity

balance sense and, 90

biomedical instrument development to 

determine effects of, 263

bone loss in, 86, 88–89

free-fall sensation and, 90

Weiler, Ed, 419

Weissman, Robert H., 298n180

Welch, Leo, 444

welfare and relief, poll question about funding for, 16, 46–47, 46, 53–54, 55

Wells, H. G., 429

Wells, Oliver C., 222, 237

Welsh, Edward, 441

Westar, 454, 463

Western Electric, 158–59, 159n29, 164, 

165, 166, 176
664 Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight

Western Union

communications satellite launch by, 461, 

462

Westar, 454, 463

Westinghouse/Westinghouse Electric/

Westinghouse Research Laboratories

accelerometer development by, 309

amplifier microcircuits made by, testing 

of, 205–6

electron beam and diffusion process, 

214n202

electron microscope research at, 222, 237

integrated circuit manufacturing by, 176

integrated circuit testing by, 222

Molecular Electronics Division, 171, 191

Molecular Electronics Program, 171

MOS circuits manufactured by, testing 

for radiation resistance of, 207n177

patent waiver requests, 247, 247, 248, 

249

supplier of integrated circuits for 

Minuteman II program, 152, 226

surface machining, invention of by, 

258–59, 258–59n24

transistor manufacturing by, 165

Wexler, Harry, 430, 436–37

Wheatstone, Charles, 299

White, Ed, 15

White, James A., 266

Whitehead, Clay T., 450, 463, 477

Whitten, Pamela, 115

Whole Earth Catalog, 389, 394

Wickstrom, Robert A., 258–59, 258–59n24

Wide Area Augmentation System (WAAS), 

475

Wideband Gapfiller Satellites (WGS), 467

Wiesner, Jerome, 441

Wilhelms, Don, 357–58

Williams, Donald D., 439, 462–63

wind power, 390

Winget, Charles M., 271–73, 280

Wise, Kensall D. “Ken”

anisotropic etching, role in development 

of variation of, 300–302, 315, 323

biomedical pressure sensor research, 299, 

300–302, 310, 315

brain probe research, 294–99, 

298–99n183

gas chromatograph research, 280–81, 

317–18

MEMS research at Stanford, start of, 274, 

277, 284

Witsoe, David A., 109

Wolfe, Tom, 29–30

Workshop on Solid-State Sensors and 

Actuators, 263

World Administrative Radio Conference for 

Space Telecommunications (WARC 

71), 477, 478

WorldCom, 453

World Meteorological Organization 

(WMO), 400, 477

WorldView/DigitalGlobe/EarthWatch, 482

Wright, G. T., 209

Wright-Patterson Air Force Base

Aeronautical Research Laboratory, 198

Air Force Systems Command, 211–12

X

X-33 aircraft, 32

X-band frequencies, 465–66, 467, 469

Xerox, 294

x-ray screening procedures and x-ray spectograph, 220

Y

Yankelovich polls, 5, 25

Yarsky, Christine, 93

Yost, Charles A., 131–32, 133, 134, 143

Young, Laurence R., 92

Young, Richard, 264

Z

Zenith, 167

Zeppelin, Ferdinand von, 157

zinc, 215, 216

Zoex, 94, 95

Zogby polls, 72–73

Zoll, Paul M., 98–99

Zuleeg, Rainer, 210–11
National Aeronautics and Space Administration

Office of Communications

NASA History Program Office

Washington, DC

2015