NASA 50th ANNIVERSARY PROCEEDINGS 

NASA'S FIRST 50 YEARS 

HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVES 
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

NASA's first 50 years : historical perspectives / Steven J. Dick, editor

p. cm

NASA SP-2010-4704.

Includes bibliographical references and index

1. United States. National Aeronautics and Space Administration--

History. 2. Astronautics--United States--History. I. Dick, Steven J. II. 

Title: NASA's first fifty years.

TL521.312.N383 2009

629.40973--dc22 

2009015085 

I S B N 978-0-16-084965-7

9 7 8 0 1 6 0 8 4 9 6 5 7

9 0 0 0 0

uS eht yb elas roF

pg.erotskoob :tenretnI

5 )202( :xaF 

For sale by the Superintendent of Documents, U.S. Government Printing Office

Internet: bookstore.gpo.gov Phone: toll free (866) 512-1800; DC area (202) 512-1800

Fax: (202) 512-2104 Mail: Stop IDCC, Washington, DC 20402-0001

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ISBN 978-0-16-084965-7
Y E A R S

Steven J. Dick

Editor

NASA SP-2010-4704
Speakers onstage at the NASA Headquarters Auditorium during NASA’s 50th anniversary conference, 28 

October 2008. Left to right: John Krige, Maura Mackowski, Michael Neufeld, Edward Goldstein, Michael 

Meltzer, Joseph Tatarewicz, Stephen Johnson, Andrew Butrica, Steven Dick, Linda Billings, Richard Hallion, 

John Logsdon, Tony Springer, Rob Ferguson, Erik Conway, David DeVorkin, Jennifer Ross-Nazzal, and James 

Fleming. Not shown: NASA Administrator Michael Griffin, Howard McCurdy, W. H. Lambright, J. D. Hunley, 

and Laurence Bergreen.
To the Employees of the 

National Aeronautics and Space Administration 

During Its First 50 Years 

and Their Predecessors at the 

National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth 

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; 

Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth 

of sun-split clouds—and done a hundred things 

You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung 

High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there, 

I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung 

My eager craft through footless falls of air . . . 

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue 

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace 

Where never lark, nor even eagle flew— 

And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod 

The high, untrespassed sanctity of space, 

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

“High Flight” 

by Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr. 

No. 412 squadron, Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) 

Killed 11 December 1941 at age 19

A poem beloved by aviators and astronauts alike
THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY BLANK
Table of Contents

Acknowledgments xi

Introduction // Steven J. Dick xiii

PART I: NASA at 50

Chapter 1 // Michael D. Griffin

NASA at 50 1

Chapter 2 // Howard E. McCurdy

Inside NASA at 50 11

PART II: Crosscutting Themes

Chapter 3 // Robert R. MacGregor 

Imagining an Aerospace Agency in the Atomic Age 31

Chapter 4 // W. Henry Lambright

Leading in Space: 50 Years of NASA Administrators 49

Chapter 5 // J. D. Hunley

Space Access: NASA’s Role in Developing Core Launch-Vehicle Technologies 79

vii
NASA’s First 50 Years

Chapter 6 // John Krige

NASA’s International Relations in Space: 

An Historical Overview 109

Chapter 7 // Linda Billings

Fifty Years of NASA and the Public: What NASA? What Publics? 151

PART III: Aeronautics

Chapter 8 // Anthony M. Springer

NASA Aeronautics: A Half Century of Accomplishments 183

Chapter 9 // Robert G. Ferguson

Evolution of Aeronautics Research at NASA 205

Chapter 10 // Richard P. Hallion

The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier 223

PART IV: Human Spaceflight and Life Sciences

Chapter 11 // John M. Logsdon

Fifty Years of Human Spaceflight: Why Is There Still a Controversy? 275

Chapter 12 // Stephen B. Johnson

From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure: The Uses and 

Abuses of Systems Engineering and Project Management at NASA 287

Chapter 13 // Michael J. Neufeld

The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s Long-Term Planning for 

Human Spaceflight 325

Chapter 14 // Maura Phillips Mackowski

Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight 349

viii
Table of Contents

PART V: Space Science

Chapter 15 // Laurence Bergreen

Voyages to Mars 375

Chapter 16 // David DeVorkin

The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy 389

Chapter 17 // Joseph N. Tatarewicz

Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System 427

Chapter 18 // Michael Meltzer

NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System 453

Chapter 19 // Andrew J. Butrica

Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy: 

A Synergetic Relationship 479

PART VI: Earth Science and Applications

Chapter 20 // Edward S. Goldstein

NASA’s Earth Science Program: 

The Space Agency’s Mission to Our Home Planet 503

Chapter 21 // James R. Fleming 

Earth Observations from Space: 

Achievements, Challenges, and Realities 543

Chapter 22 // Erik Conway 

Earth Science and Planetary Science: 

A Symbiotic Relationship? 563

ix
NASA’s First 50 Years

PART VII: NASA’s Role in History

Chapter 23 // Steven J. Dick

Exploration, Discovery, and Culture: NASA’s Role in History 587

About the Authors 663

Acronyms and Abbreviations 677

The NASA History Series 687

Index 699

x
Acknowledgments

I wish to thank the organizing committee for the NASA 50th anniversary 

conference on which this volume is based, including Michael Neufeld, Roger 

Launius, Linda Billings, and the staff of the NASA History Division in the 

Office of External Relations: Stephen Garber, Nadine Andreassen, Jane Odom, 

Colin Fries, John Hargenrader, and Liz Suckow. Henry Fingerhut provided 

important support to the production process, carried out by the staff of the 

Communications Support Services Center (CSSC) at NASA Headquarters.

I wish to thank Administrator Michael Griffin for his opening remarks, 

which constitute chapter 1 of this volume, as well as all the authors for their 

contributions to this landmark conference and volume. In the Office of 

External Relations, I would like to thank Assistant Administrator for External 

Relations Michael F. O’Brien, Deputy Assistant Administrator Al Condes, and 

Tina Alexander for their support.

It has been an honor and a privilege to serve as NASA’s Chief Historian 

during its 50th anniversary. Let us hope 50 years hence NASA will look back 

on a record of accomplishment as astonishing as its first half century.

Steven J. Dick

NASA Chief Historian

April 2009

xi
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Introduction

After considerable discussion in the wake of the Soviet launch of Sputnik, in the 

spring of 1958 President Dwight D. Eisenhower ordered that a bill be drafted 

to create a civilian space agency for the United States. The bill was sent to 

Congress on 2 April 1958, was passed after lengthy congressional debate, and 

was signed into law 29 July. When NASA began operations on 1 October 1958, 

no one could have foreseen the full scope of the adventures and accomplishments, the triumph and tragedy that would occur under its auspices over the 

next 50 years as humans and robots advanced into “the new ocean” of space. 

The National Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958 provided for research into 

the problems of flight, both within Earth’s atmosphere and in space.1 NASA began 

by absorbing the earlier National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA), 

established in 1915, including its 8,000 employees, an annual budget of $100 

million, three major research laboratories—Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 

Ames Aeronautical Laboratory, and Lewis Flight Propulsion Laboratory—and 

two smaller test facilities. It quickly incorporated other organizations, or parts 

of them, notably the space science group of the Naval Research Laboratory 

that formed the core of the new Goddard Space Flight Center (GSFC); the Jet 

Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) managed by the California Institute of Technology 

for the Army; and the Army Ballistic Missile Agency (ABMA) in Huntsville, 

Alabama, where Wernher von Braun’s team of engineers was developing large 

 1. The National Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958, as amended, with legislative history showing changes 

xiii
NASA’s First 50 Years

rockets, soon to form the core of the Marshall Space Flight Center (MSFC). 

Over the next 50 years, each of these NASA Centers—as well as the Kennedy 

Space Center (KSC), Dryden Flight Research Center (DFRC), Johnson Space 

Center (JSC), and Stennis Space Center (SSC)—would bring its own expertise 

to NASA’s goals, whether in aeronautics, rocket technology, launch facilities, 

space science, or human spaceflight.

Fifty years after the founding of NASA, from 28 to 29 October 2008, the 

NASA History Division convened a conference whose purpose was a scholarly analysis of NASA’s first 50 years. Over two days at NASA Headquarters, 

historians and policy analysts discussed NASA’s role in aeronautics, human 

spaceflight, exploration, space science, life science, and Earth science, as well 

as crosscutting themes ranging from space access to international relations 

in space and NASA’s interaction with the public. The speakers were asked to 

keep in mind the following questions: What are the lessons learned from the 

first 50 years? What is NASA’s role in American culture and in the history of 

exploration and discovery? What if there had never been a NASA? Based on 

the past, does NASA have a future? The results of those papers, elaborated 

and fully referenced, are found in this 50th anniversary volume. The reader 

will find here, instantiated in the complex institution that is NASA, echoes of 

perennial themes elaborated in an earlier volume, Critical Issues in the History 

of Spaceflight.

2

The conference culminated a year of celebrations, beginning with an 

October 2007 conference celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Space Age 

and including a lecture series, future forums, publications, a large presence at 

the Smithsonian Folklife Festival, and numerous activities at NASA’s 10 Centers 

and venues around the country.3 It took place as the Apollo 40thanniversaries 

 2. Steven J. Dick and Roger D. Launius, eds., 

xiv
Introduction

began, ironically still the most famous of NASA’s achievements, even in the 

era of the Space Shuttle, International Space Station (ISS), and spacecraft like 

the Mars Exploration Rovers (MERs) and the Hubble Space Telescope. And 

it took place as NASA found itself at a major crossroads, for the first time in 

three decades transitioning, under Administrator Michael Griffin, from the 

Space Shuttle to a new Ares launch vehicle and Orion crew vehicle capable of 

returning humans to the Moon and proceeding to Mars in a program known 

as Constellation. The Space Shuttle, NASA’s launch system since 1981, was 

scheduled to wind down in 2010, freeing up funds for the new Ares launch 

vehicle. But the latter, even if it moved forward at all deliberate speed, would 

not be ready until 2015, leaving the unsettling possibility that for at least five 

years the United States would be forced to use the Russian Soyuz launch 

vehicle and spacecraft as the sole access to the ISS in which the United States 

was the major partner. 

The presidential elections a week after the conference presaged an imminent presidential transition, from the Republican administration of George W. 

Bush to (as it turned out) the Democratic presidency of Barack Obama, with 

all the uncertainties that such transitions imply for government programs. The 

uncertainties for NASA were even greater, as Michael Griffin departed with the 

outgoing administration and as the world found itself in an unprecedented 

global economic downturn, with the benefits of national space programs 

questioned more than ever before. There was no doubt that 50 years of the 

Space Age had altered humanity in numerous ways ranging from applications 

satellites to philosophical world views.4 But NASA was still forced to justify its 

programs alongside all other federal agencies.

Throughout its 50 years, NASA has been fortunate to have a strong sense 

of history and a robust, independent, and objective history program to document its achievements and critically analyze its activities. Among its flagship 

publications are Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents in the History 

of the U.S. Civil Space Program, of which seven of eight projected volumes 

Institution, 2008), pp. 34–53. For a unique international perspective, written by representatives from 

each of the major space agencies, including NASA, see P. V. Manoranjan Rao, ed., 50 Years of Space: 

A Global Perspective (Hyderabad, India: Universities Press, 2007), published on the occasion of the 

International Astronautical Congress held in Hyderabad near the 50th anniversary of the Space Age.

 4. Steven J. Dick and Roger Launius, eds., Societal Impact of Spaceflight (Washington, DC: NASA SP2007-4801, 2007), available at http://history.nasa.gov/sp4801-part1.pdf and http://history.nasa.gov/

sp4801-part2.pdf.

xv
NASA’s First 50 Years

were completed at the time of the 50th anniversary.5 The reader can do no 

better than to turn to these volumes for an introduction to NASA history as 

seen through its primary documents. The list of NASA publications at the end 

of this volume is also a testimony to the tremendous amount of historical 

research that the NASA History Division has sponsored over the last 50 years, 

of which this is the latest volume.

Steven J. Dick

NASA Chief Historian

April 2009

 5. John M. Logsdon, ed., 

xvi
Chapter 1

NASA at 50

Michael D. Griffin

I want to thank NASA Chief Historian Steven Dick and his colleagues for organizing this conference, which I think is a very positive addition to our industry. 

It allows us to step back for a moment and view NASA and its contribution 

to society from a more strategic perspective. I believe that such a perspective, and the guidance it can provide in regard to our contribution to society, 

is our most pressing need as we embark on our next half century. It is too 

easy to become mired in the day-to-day tactics of budget defense or program 

execution, too easy to lose sight of the larger goal. A look back at history can 

provide the context to look forward at what we are doing and why. When I 

consider NASA and the nation’s space program in this way, I am drawn again 

and again to the overriding need for constancy of purpose in our enterprise, 

if we are to obtain anything useful from it.

Of course, our purpose must be the right purpose! Prior to the loss of 

Columbia, NASA had a steady purpose for several decades. But I believed then, 

and believe now, that our space program was guided by the wrong purpose. 

We were doing the wrong things. We were limiting our horizon for human 

space exploration to low-Earth orbit, with nothing but indefinite promises of 

future programs without timing, funding, or programmatic content.

In the aftermath of Columbia, the Columbia Accident Investigation Board, 

and especially Chairman Hal Gehman and Professor John Logsdon, who is here 

with us today, recognized and called attention to this lapse. They recognized 

the need for an overarching strategic purpose for what we do, a guiding vision 

for the nation’s civil space program. Responding to this need, President Bush 

put forth the Vision for Space Exploration, now the nation’s civil space policy.

1
NASA’s First 50 Years

The goals of that policy were supported, indeed expanded, in two subsequent NASA authorization acts, the first by a Republican Congress in 2005, and 

the second by a Democratic Congress just this month. This strong bipartisan—

actually nonpartisan—support for NASA and our nation’s space program is very 

satisfying. From a policy perspective, in terms of having a clear statement of 

national purpose, I think that NASA has not been better positioned in decades. 

We have rational, cogent, well-balanced priorities for aeronautics, scientific 

discovery, and expansion of the human range of action and exploration, taking appropriately into account the layout and geography of the solar system. 

The policy also respects the nation’s overall funding priorities, setting goals 

consistent with the amount of money that can be reasonably made available 

for civil space programs.

So we have a good policy. I’d like to see us maintain it. We at NASA cannot 

produce results acceptable to anyone—ourselves, the tax-paying public, our 

congressional and executive branch overseers, our international partners—if we 

churn our portfolio on a regular basis, determining anew after every congressional, or presidential, or senatorial election cycle what NASA’s purpose is to 

be. If NASA is to be successful, the Agency must enjoy the stability associated 

with planning on decadal timescales. I hope that we can achieve that goal and 

maintain it in the future.

Turning to another subject, I am often asked (and especially so as my tenure 

comes to its probable end) what my major goals and accomplishments have 

been. I must leave any assessment of accomplishments, major or minor, to others. I hold firmly to the belief, endemic among credible technical professionals, 

that one cannot self-assess. That is why independent peer review is such an 

important part of the work of engineers, mathematicians, and scientists. You 

who are historians will have to judge my work.

But I can state what my goals were. When I was offered this job, we at NASA 

simply did not have technical and managerial credibility with the White House, 

Congress, or the public. Now, in my opinion some of that was unfair. There is 

always an overreaction to traumatic events, and none is more traumatic than 

losing a Space Shuttle and seven lives in full public view. But without regard 

to the mixture of substance versus perception, it is simply a fact that, three 

and a half years ago, NASA lacked the full measure of technical and managerial creditability that the nation expects of us and that we expect of ourselves.

So to restore that was my first priority, because nothing good can happen 

without it. After that, as I have stated publicly many times, I wanted to complete the safe return of the Space Shuttle to flight. That was a policy decision 

made by the President and supported by Congress, and it was stalling. It fell 

2
NASA at 50

to me to oversee it. It was not in a good place when I joined the Agency, and 

we needed very rapidly to get it on track if it was to be done at all.

To fly the Shuttle safely, we needed to redevelop a management team, 

procedures, and methods for doing so. We then needed to do the same thing 

to retire it, to bring the program to an orderly and disciplined close. Anyone 

can stop flying the Shuttle; to do it in a disciplined and orderly manner is 

what NASA and the nation needed and still need. We are working hard on 

that task every day.

The purpose of returning the Space Shuttle to flight, as stated by the 

President and, again, supported by Congress, was to use it to finish the ISS. 

At this point the ISS represents a multidecade international commitment, as 

well as a commitment to our nation and ourselves. It is a commitment large 

enough in scale and scope that it was judged to be worth the risk of flying the 

Shuttle almost 20 more times to finish the job. Doing that job well, efficiently, 

and safely was my next highest priority after returning to flight.

If we are ever going to do anything in space beyond the ISS—and I began 

this speech by saying how important I thought that was—then it falls to us in 

this time to craft a credible human spaceflight architecture that can support 

operations in low-Earth orbit, as well as to take us back to the Moon and lay 

the groundwork for eventual voyages to Mars. To go to Mars, we will certainly 

need much more than is being developed today, but what we develop today 

should be designed with an eye toward Mars. In my view, we must create 

systems that enable a logical path to the establishment of a permanent base 

on the Moon, to a Mars mission, to voyages to the near-Earth asteroids, and 

to the servicing of large telescopes and other instruments at the Lagrange 

points, as well as other purposes we might not presently envision. We should 

work today with an eye toward becoming a permanently spacefaring nation, 

a permanently spacefaring society, to do things that build on what has been 

accomplished before.

In planning our next spaceflight architecture, I wanted to plan also for the 

incorporation of commercially supplied goods and services to the maximum 

extent possible. Again in my view, it is long past time to incorporate into 

our spaceflight activities the same policy framework that underpinned the 

development of aeronautics in the United States throughout most of the 20th 

century. There was extensive government sponsorship of aeronautics, and 

there was private development of aeronautics, and they fed each other quite 

synergistically. Looking back, it seems to me that few things were more central 

to the rise of the United States as a world power than the lead we forged in 

the development of aeronautics. It allowed us to project power and influence, 

3
NASA’s First 50 Years

commerce and culture, throughout the world in a fashion never seen before 

our time. The analogies to spaceflight are not, of course, exact. Spaceflight is 

not aeronautics. But I believe that there are analogies, and that we have not 

taken proper advantage of them as a matter of government policy. I wanted 

to do whatever I could to stimulate the commercial development of space as 

Administrator.

We must understand the proper relationship between governmental and 

commercial space endeavors. I see important roles for both. But with the history of space development coming about as it did, as a response to Cold War 

tensions, I think we had what I sometimes call an “excess of government.” But 

actually, that’s the wrong term. We certainly do not have an excess of government activity in space, but we do have an insufficiency of private enterprise.

I believe that a key role of government in the development of space is to 

define, occupy, and extend the frontier of human action and scientific discovery. That is an inherently governmental role; industry cannot make a profit 

doing it. It’s not a productive area for free enterprise, yet. And yet, societies 

that do not define, occupy, and extend the frontier of human action and scientific discovery will inevitably wither and die. So in my opinion it is a public 

responsibility, one in which we share the risk as a society.

Now government activity is often inefficient, while properly regulated capitalism is one of the best mechanisms we have found to allocate the resources 

of a society efficiently. So, I think an important role of commercial enterprise 

in the development of the space frontier is to help meet government policy 

goals efficiently. Government’s role should be to help bring about the development of space commerce by providing a stable market for service and stable 

requirements to be met by industry. If industry can meet those requirements, 

it will almost certainly do so more efficiently than can government. But industry cannot work in an environment where the market lacks stability over the 

development and sales life cycles of the products and the services they wish 

to furnish. It cannot be done. So we need a stable policy environment on 

the part of government in order to enable the kind of space commerce that I 

believe we would all like to see.

Similarly, international cooperation in spaceflight offers many advantages 

to the United States as well as to our partners. As a world power, there are 

things we must do that don’t make other people happy, and yet we must do 

them. Leadership in great enterprises is a hallmark of a great nation, but leaders need allies and partners. We cannot function in the world if every hand 

is turned against us, or even if others are indifferent to us. So it behooves us 

to look proactively for things we can do with others to bind us together in 

4
NASA at 50

common cause. And it is my observation that every society in the world, when 

it reaches the stage of technical maturity where it can begin to do something 

in space, does so. It is an arena which everyone seems to find uplifting, exciting, and appealing.

We live in a time, possibly the last time, when only the United States has 

the technical and financial wherewithal to provide the leadership of great 

activities in space. I wanted to capitalize on that fact and to take advantage 

of the hard-won partnerships that have been developed in the course of the 

Space Station program, where we were really learning how to do these largescale enterprises in a manner that worked for everybody. I wanted to take that 

partnership forward to the Moon and to add new members to it. I wanted to 

keep faith with our partners on the ISS today and return with them to the Moon, 

establish a research base there, and eventually go on to the near-Earth asteroids 

and to Mars. Bringing together that collaboration was a major priority for me.

I wanted to do all this while maintaining the scientific excellence of our 

space science program today. I’m often asked why I’ve put so much emphasis 

into human spaceflight in my tenure as Administrator. And the answer has 

always been easy—I love everything we do, but when I showed up at the 

Agency our science program wasn’t broken and our human spaceflight program 

was. I frankly didn’t have enough hours in the day to do all that needed to be 

done, and I think most of our management team here could say the same. So, 

I spend my time and that of our management team where it is most needed. 

Now, our science program will always have important issues, and we need to 

work hard to keep it the best in the world. But it wasn’t broken, and so I felt 

that I would do well if we could simply avoid creating collateral damage to 

our science program while trying to fix things that were damaged.

Finally, I wanted to restore the standing of NASA’s aeronautic research 

program.

If these were the goals, then what have been the main difficulties in 

reaching them? The biggest of these arises from what I call “democracy in 

action.” I think most of you know that I have spent a good deal of my career 

in the Department of Defense (DOD) space program, and there is a saying 

that I picked up from some of my military acquaintances. When frustrated by 

“the system,” they will point out that we are here to protect democracy, not to 

practice it. That analogy is not completely applicable to a civilian organization 

such as NASA, but it conveys an important thought in a clever manner.

Winston Churchill noted that democracy was the worst form of government, except for all the others. I will add that in a democratic society there is 

an inherent tension between the undemocratic autocracy of expertise and the 

5
NASA’s First 50 Years

plain fact that the universe doesn’t care about the niceties of the democratic 

process. Technical problems do not yield to majority opinion or produce results 

on schedules compatible with electoral cycles. Nature punishes technical mistakes, whether they are made democratically or not. It is important to be right.

It is very difficult to manage a large, visible government program efficiently, because far too many people claim the right to a voice in decisions in 

which they may admittedly have a stake, but for which they lack the expertise 

necessary to make a useful contribution. When industry is more efficient than 

government, it is not because it employs better people, but because decisions 

can be made; actions can be taken; results can be assessed; and corrections 

can be made, all without engaging anyone not needed for the task. There is 

personal authority, responsibility, and accountability in the system, all driven 

by the need to produce a profitable result in a competitive environment. When 

everyone has a voice, these things are diffused or lacking entirely.

These issues are compounded by any lack of clarity in regard to policy. 

What should the goals of the civil space program be? To expand the human 

range of action? To explore, to “go boldly where no one has gone before?” To 

do more science? To do more technology development? Or are the goals less 

noble, such as maintaining full employment at major centers? Or is the goal 

just “don’t make waves,” to avoid controversial things like retiring the Space 

Shuttle? Or is the goal even more ignoble—just see to it that whatever you are 

doing doesn’t fail, doesn’t make a mess?

Actually, all of these things, at one level or another, for one stakeholder 

or another, are Agency goals. None of them are entirely compatible, some are 

completely inconsistent with others, and in any case there is never enough 

money to accomplish them all. There is no single authority in government to 

prioritize them. The Administrator isn’t allowed to do it—he can recommend, 

but he cannot act alone. Each of the various stakeholders expects his goal to 

be the one on top. It’s a difficult environment in which to work.

It is always interesting to me that when a crisis looms—a war, the space 

race, a financial collapse—we nearly always decide to invest resources and 

authority in what we believe and hope will prove to be expert leadership. We 

judge the performance of these leaders on outcome, not process. President 

Lincoln replaced a lot of generals before he found his man, but he didn’t deploy 

White House staff to the field, and he didn’t give up on the idea that it took a 

general to run the army.

We somehow need to balance the tension between the autocracy of 

expertise and the need for transparent, democratic processes in government. 

It is very difficult. I think it is useful at times to remind ourselves that we live 

6
NASA at 50

in a representative democracy, not a direct democracy, not a plebiscite. In a 

representative democracy such as the framers of our Constitution established, 

the people do not decide issues directly. The people decide who will decide. 

Now, through their delegated authority, it is NASA people who decide issues 

concerning the execution of civil space programs. I think you obtain the best 

results, the best compromise in the tension of which I spoke, when the leaders of the enterprise possess both demonstrated character and clear expertise.

Expertise without moral character is without value, and good intentions 

are no substitute for knowing how things work. We need both in the leadership of NASA. If we look at NASA and don’t clearly see those traits at all 

levels, then we still have work to do. If there is not a general understanding 

that the people who are running the space agency know what they are doing, 

we get a lot of interference in the doing of it. We get more than enough of 

it even when the Agency’s leadership is generally thought to be competent 

and objective!

Concern over risk is a perennial theme at NASA and among our stakeholders and can be a major impediment to achieving the goals we set. How much 

risk should be taken in the name of exploration? My view is that it should be 

considerably more than we’re willing to accept today. It is interesting to note 

that when Captain Cook set sail on his first voyage to the South Seas, where all 

he did was discover Australia and New Zealand, he started out with 94 sailors. 

He was praised upon his return, three years later, for losing only 38 of them 

to the various hazards of the time: disease, accidents, and hostile action. That 

praise is easier to understand when one realizes that the first world-girdling 

voyage by Ferdinand Magellan started out with five ships and almost 300 sailors, yet only one ship and 18 sailors made it back to port. Magellan was not 

among them. By those standards, Cook did really well.

The current odds of not surviving a Mount Everest climb are just about 

1 in 60. This is comparable to, but not as good as, our best estimate for the 

loss-of-crew risk is for the Space Shuttle. And yet I would venture to guess 

that the average citizen believes that flying in space is more dangerous than 

climbing Mount Everest. I haven’t seen any public calls to limit the climbing 

of Mount Everest, and yet I see many people who are concerned about the 

risk of spaceflight. Why the difference?

Now in all candor, spaceflight is dangerous, and we work hard every day 

to make it safer. But a sense of perspective is necessary. I’ve often noted that 

there is a thousand years in time separating the first open ocean voyages by 

westerners, the Viking expeditions, from the pleasure cruises that depart Port 

Canaveral, a few miles from where our Space Shuttle crews lift off. When the 

7
NASA’s First 50 Years

Vikings first set sail from Scandinavia, I doubt that anybody envisioned pleasure cruises as a future possibility.

While I doubt that those Viking expeditions were anywhere close to being 

as safe as flying on the Space Shuttle, we nevertheless have a long way to go in 

mastering spaceflight. A very, very long way. It is a risky enterprise and likely 

to remain so for centuries to come. It is not something for which everyone has 

a taste, nor should they. We fly volunteers. But we cannot—we simply cannot—define, occupy, and extend the human frontier while at the same time 

claiming that we can do it safely—not without badly misusing the word “safe.”

Not terribly long ago I came across an aphorism concerning the settlement 

of the West: the pioneers were the ones with the arrows in the front.

So extending the frontier has never been a safe activity, and I think we 

are disingenuous if we claim that it will be. We should make it as safe as we 

can. We should try not to make the same mistake twice. I often say that our 

goal should at least be to make a new mistake. But when we are doing something which has not been done before, which we barely know how to do at 

all, which is just barely within the range of technical possibility, we should 

not be surprised when we sometimes fail. As tragic as it is, and as much as 

we want to prevent it, as much as we want to fix it so that the accident never 

happens again, we shouldn’t be surprised.

I cannot leave the subject of risk, failure, and accidents without noting 

that there never has been any such thing as a smart failure. Every failure that 

we encounter looks stupid in hindsight. It is. It reflects something we didn’t 

know, and would like to have known, and, by the time that the investigation 

is complete, feel that we ought to have known. So when we deal with failure 

by looking for the guilty parties, my usual suggestion is to start with a mirror. As Shakespeare put it, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in 

ourselves . . . .”

Speaking of failure reminds me that it comes in many flavors. There are 

failures bigger even than the loss of a Space Shuttle and lessons to be learned 

from those as well. I’m fond of the comment by Santayana that those who 

are ignorant of history are doomed to repeat it. Regarding our own history, I 

have often said that the Saturn-Apollo transportation system seems to me to 

be unique in the history of successful transportation systems, in that we spent 

80 percent of the budget of the Apollo program developing it, less than 20 

percent of the budget using it, and then threw it away.

That seems to me to have been irrational. And yet the decision to terminate 

Apollo and all that went with it was made during the Nixon administration 

with very little, if any, public debate. I certainly don’t recall much discussion; 

8
NASA at 50

if there was, it was lost in that surrounding the Vietnam War. But looking back, 

there is a lesson to be learned, and I think the lesson is that it is important to 

conserve the gains we make. To save what we’ve built, to adapt it, to reuse it, 

to take what works and shed what doesn’t. But we must try very hard not to 

lose what we’ve built, because it comes at very high cost. We must not again 

throw away capabilities crafted at great expense in terms of money, time, and 

human skill.

I will close by commenting on another of the questions I am often asked 

when I represent NASA to those outside the Agency, and that is the question 

of our impact on society. Looking back across 50 years, I can identify any 

number of specific, easily defined contributions stemming from our nation’s 

investment in space and NASA. But above these, I think, is a more important 

contribution. NASA is the entity which captures what Americans believe are 

the quintessential American qualities. Boldness and the will to use it to press 

beyond today’s limits. Leadership in great ventures. Those things are better and 

more visibly combined at NASA than in any other enterprise in our society. I 

think that if we can hold true to our desire to continue to make that kind of 

impact, we will have done well. 

9
THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY BLANK
Chapter 2

Inside NASA at 50

Howard E. McCurdy

Americans often present the image of Project Apollo and the other great 

accomplishments of the early years of spaceflight as prime examples of the 

achievements that a properly run government can produce. “If we can send a 

man to the Moon,” one journalist observed in a commonly heard refrain, “why 

can’t we clean up Chesapeake Bay?” When Al Gore challenged Americans “to 

commit to producing 100 percent of our electricity from renewable energy and 

truly carbon-free sources within 10 years,” he invoked the memory of Project 

Apollo. In a work of dramatic fiction, the actor portraying Gene Kranz in the 

movie Apollo 13 repudiates the pessimism of fellow flight controllers with the 

announcement that “this is gonna be our finest hour.”1

The exaltation of NASA’s early years has achieved an almost mythical 

quality. Such recollections mask the challenges NASA employees faced five 

decades ago. Those challenges were no less difficult than the ones confronting the Agency today.

NASA officials entered the Apollo age with an Agency ill-suited to the scale 

of the projects they were asked to complete. “NASA had considerable technical depth,” said one of the people brought in to help organize Project Apollo, 

	 1.	 Tom	Horton,	“On	Environment:	If	America	Could	Send	a	Man	to	the	Moon,	Why	Can’t	We	.	.	.	?”	Baltimore 

Sun	(22	July	1984);	Al	Gore,	“A	Generational	Challenge	to	Repower	America,”	17	July	2008,	available	

at	 http://blog.algore.com	 (accessed	 29	 November	 2008);	 Ed	 Harris	 as	 Gene	 Kranz,	 Ron	 Howard	

(producer),	Apollo 13	(Universal	Pictures,	1995).	

11
NASA’s First 50 Years

“but almost no program management experience.”2 Institutional difficulties 

were so severe on the Ranger project that NASA lost the first six spacecraft 

and Congress launched an investigation into “problems of management” at 

NASA Headquarters and JPL.3 NASA executives reorganized the Agency thrice, 

reformed their program management practices, and brought in outside talent 

to show incumbent employees how to do their work.4

Engineers assigned to the Moon race, NASA’s chief undertaking, worked hard 

to complete Project Apollo within a firm deadline and a fixed budget. In 1964, 

NASA leaders set the cost of the eight-year effort to land the first humans on the 

Moon at $19.5 billion. The figure was adjusted to $22.7 billion two years later, 

largely to account for the degree to which equipment manufactured to achieve 

President John F. Kennedy’s mandate might be used for additional activities. The 

actual cost through Apollo 11 was $21.3 billion.5 Part of the mythology of Project 

Apollo suggests that engineers compensated for the tight time schedule and high 

project risk by relaxing spending constraints. In fact, the project was both cost and 

schedule constrained and completed within the parameters established for both.

The eight-year effort did not begin well. Significant cost overruns and 

technical problems afflicted Project Gemini, the link between Project Mercury 

and the actual Moon landings. By 1963, Project Gemini was over budget and 

behind schedule. Officials at JSC (then the Manned Spacecraft Center) told 

NASA Associate Administrator Robert Seamans that the Titan II launch vehicle 

selected to power Project Gemini was unsafe for human flight. The paraglider 

landing system for the Gemini flight capsule did not work. Exacerbating these 

problems, Congress cut NASA’s requested appropriation for fiscal year 1963 by 

3 percent and President Kennedy rejected NASA’s suggestion that the government provide a supplemental appropriation as a means of working through 

project difficulties.6 If cost growth and the other difficulties had spilled over 

	 2.	 Quoted	from	Howard	E.	McCurdy,	Inside NASA: High Technology and Organizational Change in the U.S. 

Space Program	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1993),	p.	92.

	 3.	 R.	Cargill	Hall,	Lunar Impact: A History of Project Ranger	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4210,	1977),	p.	

252.

	 4.	 Arnold	S.	Levine,	Managing NASA in the Apollo Era	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4102,	1982).	See	also	

Robert	L.	Rosholt,	An Administrative History of NASA, 1958–1962	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4101,	

1966).

	 5.	 T.	 O.	 Paine	 letter	 to	 Clinton	Anderson,	 with	 attachments,	 21	 November	 1969,	 NASA	 Headquarters	

History	Office	historical	archives	(hereafter	referred	to	as	NASA	 History	Office).	See	also	 Howard	E.	

McCurdy,	“The	Cost	of	Space	Flight,”	Space Policy	10,	no.	4	(1994):	278–279.

	 6.	 Barton	C.	Hacker	and	James	M.	Grimwood,	On the Shoulders of Titans: A History of Project Gemini

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4203,	1977),	pp.	55–56,	105–116,	123–130,	173–175.	

12
Inside NASA at 50

into the Apollo phase, it would have undercut much of the political commitment maintaining the Moon program. Concern with Project Gemini motivated 

much of the top-level effort at NASA Headquarters to reorganize the way in 

which the civil space agency did its work.

Spending on civil spaceflight activities peaked in 1965. With four years 

left before the Moon landing, NASA executives had to grapple with the first 

effects of a declining budget. In 1966, NASA Administrator James E. Webb asked 

President Lyndon Johnson for $5.3 billion for fiscal year 1967 and $6 billion 

in new obligational authority for fiscal year 1968. Webb warned Johnson that 

“there has not been a single important new space project started since you 

became President.”7 NASA’s total appropriation, which had broken through 

the $5 billion level in 1964, fell below $4 billion by 1969. While funding for 

Apollo remained adequate, the Agency suffered budget cuts that affected many 

other flight programs, notably the hope for a vigorous post-Apollo agenda.

Technical difficulties distressed Project Apollo. The Apollo space capsule 

was clearly not ready for the human test flights NASA officials planned to conduct in late 1966.8

 The Saturn V rocket, later a symbol of technical invincibility, 

drew similar concerns. The first-stage F-1 engines vibrated, producing a form 

of oscillation like one might encounter while riding a giant pogo stick. The J-2 

engines for the Saturn V rocket presented “the inevitable gaggle of problems” 

and “difficulties in manufacturing.”9 Concern with the capability of contractors 

to produce flight-ready equipment for the trip to the Moon deepened after the 

Apollo 204 fire that killed three astronauts in January 1967.

In hindsight, the Apollo era may have been NASA’s finest hour, but to 

the people working on the civil space program at that time it was a period 

of successive challenges. Those challenges were in many ways analogous to 

the difficulties affecting the current effort to return to the Moon and explore 

beyond. Management difficulties, balky rockets, fixed program budgets, flat or 

declining total appropriations, cost overruns on individual programs, technical 

difficulties, dissatisfaction with contractors, and accidents and mission failures 

were as much a part of the Apollo legacy as the landings on the Moon.

	 7.	 Quoted	 in	 Robert	 Dallek,	“Johnson,	Project	Apollo,	 and	the	Politics	 of	Space	Program	Planning,”	 in	

Spaceflight and the Myth of Presidential Leadership,	ed.	Roger	D.	Launius	and	Howard	E.	McCurdy	

(Urbana,	IL:	University	of	Illinois	Press,	1997),	p.	82.	

	 8.	 Courtney	 G.	 Brooks,	 James	M.	 Grimwood,	 and	 Loyd	 S.	 Swenson,	 Chariots for Apollo: A History of 

Manned Lunar Spacecraft	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4205,	1979),	pp.	208–209.	

	 9.	 Roger	 E.	 Bilstein,	 Stages to Saturn: A Technological History of the Apollo/Saturn Launch Vehicles

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4206,	1996),	pp.	145,	149.

13
NASA’s First 50 Years

NASA employees and their contractors overcame these challenges during 

the Apollo era. What characterizes the early years is not the absence of difficulties, but the ability of people to surmount them. This belief that the people 

working on the civil space program could overcome those difficulties became 

part of NASA’s organizational creed and American mythology, expressed in 

phrases such as the repetitive versions of “If we can go to the Moon . . . .”

Deep-seated beliefs such as these come to express what observers characterize as a particular organization’s culture. Organization culture consists of 

the most widely recognized values, norms, beliefs, and practices that motivate 

employees within a specific institution. The culture often manifests itself in 

the form of assumptions that employees make about “what works here.” In 

that sense, beliefs about what worked for NASA during the 1960s became 

part of the Agency’s overall organizational culture. Large organizations like 

NASA—especially those with strong field centers—also possess subcultures. 

The subcultures may typify practices at particular installations, but the general culture consists of those values, norms, beliefs, and practices widely held 

throughout the entire organization.

In 1988, I surveyed NASA employees as part of a larger effort to identify 

the principal characteristics of NASA’s organizational culture. The NASA History 

Division replicated that survey in 2006. Not surprising, the results of the second 

survey mirrored the results of the first. NASA’s central beliefs and practices 

are well established and have not changed a great deal during its history, a 

conclusion supported by a number of NASA culture studies.10

A central element in NASA’s overall culture is the belief in Agency exceptionalism. The belief appears in many ways: confidence that NASA is or was 

different from other government agencies, the conviction that it possesses 

great technical capability, the idea that it has received a special mandate, and 

the less praiseworthy assumption that NASA is a “perfect place.”11

Beliefs that employees hold about their institution need not be true in 

order to be part of their culture. If a belief is pervasively held, it can influence 

behavior even if the belief misrepresents actual conditions. One frequently 

heard statement associated with the doctrine of NASA exceptionalism is the 

	 10.	 See	NASA,	“NASA	Culture	Survey	Results,”	NASA	Shared	Services	Center,	2007;	Diane	Vaughan,	The 

Challenger Launch Decision: Risky Technology, Culture, and Deviance at NASA	(Chicago,	IL:	University	

of	Chicago	Press,	1997);	McCurdy,	Inside NASA.

	 11.	 Garry	D.	Brewer,	“Perfect	Places:	NASA	as	an	Idealized	Institution,”	in	Space Policy Reconsidered,	ed.	

Radford	Byerly	(Boulder,	CO:	Westview	Press,	1989).

14
Inside NASA at 50

belief that NASA recruits exceptional people. When it begins, a new organization like NASA in the years immediately after its founding may attract a 

disproportionate share of zealots and talented people. Over time, however, 

the average large organization by necessity is likely to employ a mix of 

employees who as a whole reflect the general characteristics of the population from which they are drawn. While a few people will be exceptional, the 

average organization will consist of average people. Very few institutions can 

consistently beat this tendency over long periods of time. Yet NASA employees consistently express the belief that they do. The belief is not confirmed 

by an examination of the social and educational backgrounds of the whole 

class of professional employees. Still, it is pervasively believed and forms 

the basis for some of the frequently observed behaviors of people within 

the organization.12

The belief in NASA exceptionalism in some ways mirrors the doctrine of 

American exceptionalism. The latter refers to the conviction that the United States, 

because of its historical circumstances and distinctive institutions, developed 

in ways not typical of other nations, especially those in Europe. In both NASA 

and America, generally, the doctrine is associated with the influence of the 

frontier, the presence of which is thought to encourage traits like innovation 

and equality of opportunity. Like the doctrine of American exceptionalism, the 

belief in NASA exceptionalism is somewhat controversial, but also influential 

in explaining how the people involved think about themselves.13

Elements of this characteristic grew out of NASA’s predecessor organizations, most notably the NACA. One of the more curious manifestations of 

this legacy was the belief that the NACA’s research Centers were not exactly 

part of the government. The NACA employees, including those who became 

part of NASA in 1958, understood that they received their paychecks from 

the U.S. Treasury. Yet they expressed the conviction that they were different 

from the average government employee. They were not federal bureaucrats, 

many said; they worked for the N-A-C-A. Many viewed the remainder of 

	 12.	 See	McCurdy,	Inside NASA,	pp.	50–60,	183;	Peter	Drucker,	“Managing	the	Public	Service	Institution,”	

Public Interest	33	(fall	1973):	259;	Steven	J.	Dick,	“2006	NASA	Chief	Historian	Survey	on	NASA	Culture,”	

Office	of	the	Chief	Historian,	NASA	Headquarters,	2007.

	 13.	 See	Seymour	Martin	Lipset,	American Exceptionalism: A Double-Edged Sword	(New	York,	NY:	W.	W.	

Norton	&	Company,	1997);	Louis	Hartz,	The Liberal Tradition in America: An Interpretation of American 

Political Thought Since the Revolution (New	York,	NY:	Harcourt,	Brace,	1955);	Frederick	Jackson	Turner,	

“The	Significance	of	the	Frontier	in	American	History,”	in	Rereading Frederick Jackson Turner,	by	John	

M.	Farager	(New	York,	NY:	Henry	Holt,	1994),	pp.	31–60.

15
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 1: Strong	in-house	technical	capability	formed	the	basis	for	NASA’s	original	organization	culture.	

Here,	Jet	Propulsion	Laboratory	employees	close	the	metal	petals	of	the	Pathfinder	lander	dispatched	to	

Mars	in	1996.	The	Sojourner	small	rover	is	visible	on	one	of	the	three	petals.	NASA Image 96PC-1130

the federal bureaucracy with the same disdain that one might find among 

purely private citizens.14

The acceptance of NASA’s exceptional nature grew out of a deeply held 

respect for the technical capability of employees recruited to work in the NACA, 

other predecessor organizations like the ABMA and JPL, and the early NASA. 

Similar convictions can be found in federal organizations such as the National 

Institutes of Health (NIH), the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention 

(CDC), and the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), whose workers complete 

technical tasks within a framework that accords them more independence than 

the typical government employee.

The source of NASA’s early technical capability rested with the reputation 

of founding groups such as the Space Task Group from the Langley Research 

Center that directed Project Mercury and the 125-person German rocket team. 

Speaking of the ABMA and its German rocketeers, one leader of the Apollo 

	 14.	 See	James	R.	Hansen,	Engineer in Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 1917–

1958 (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4302,	1987).

16
Inside NASA at 50

program stated that “their mind set was largely, do it yourself and build it inhouse. To do major contracting . . . was foreign to their experience.”15 Comparing 

NASA’s experience with that of the U.S. Air Force, one observer explained that 

the Air Force relied upon private contractors “because it had neither the depth 

of competence found in Army laboratories nor the time to recruit engineers.”16

The ABMA and the NACA were different. Their engineering corps and “hands 

on” approach instilled a level of technical confidence that encouraged early 

NASA employees to believe that they could do their own work when necessary and exercise strong contractor oversight where required. The relationship 

between NASA officials and contract workers was much like that of a professor 

and a student, one of the members of the German rocket team explained. The 

relationship led to a tradition known as “contractor penetration” in which NASA 

officials stationed Agency representatives at contractor plants and supervised 

contractor work to a high degree.

A number of supporting practices amplified the overall faith in the Agency’s 

technical capability. Agency employees placed a great deal of emphasis on 

research and testing. Defending the extensive testing on the J-2 engine, an MSFC 

engineer explained that “you would never know for sure [how components] 

would work until you put them together in the engine.”17 Agency employees 

defended a culture in which engineers and scientists took risks and learned 

from the failures that inevitably occurred. Employees embraced the traditions 

associated with a research and development (R&D) organization in which 

missions achieved encouraged new challenges. The latter resulted in an innovation mentality favoring the creation of new missions over the repetition of 

old ones as well as experimentation with new technologies.

The latter point deserves special attention. Surveys and interviews generally 

confirm the emphasis that NASA employees place on doing new things. So 

does the Agency’s history. “If you want to make progress,” said one of NASA’s 

top engineers, “you’ve got to design things that have not been done before.” 

Yet significant pockets of incrementalism exist with NASA. Incrementalism 

relies on small, gradual improvements in existing technologies and the use of 

off-the-shelf components. It means tinkering with the old rather than inventing 

the new. Change occurs, but it builds upon an established base. The von Braun 

rocket team, observed one NASA leader, utilized an incremental approach to 

	 15.	 McCurdy,	Inside NASA,	p.	36.

	 16.	 Levine,	Managing NASA in the Apollo Era,	p.	70.

	 17.	 Quoted	from	Bilstein,	Stages to Saturn,	p.	150.	

17
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 2: Project	Apollo	joined	NASA’s	technical	competence	with	large-scale	systems	management,	an	

organizing	method	imported	from	the	U.S.	Air	Force.	Lieutenant	General	Samuel	Phillips	and	George	Mueller	

(second	and	third	from	the	right),	who	helped	install	the	method,	celebrate	the	launch	of	Apollo	11	with	

Wernher	von	Braun	(with	binoculars)	and	other	NASA	officials.	NASA Image 108-KSC-69P-641

the improvement of launch vehicles. “They were the world’s greatest incrementalists that I have ever seen.”18 The security provided by incremental change 

existing alongside the desire to undertake new challenges creates a level of 

tension that is never fully resolved.

These beliefs and practices—the elementary components of the original 

NASA culture—are confirmed by the words of Agency employees and their 

attitudes as recorded on various surveys. The beliefs were counterbalanced 

during the Apollo era by the introduction of management methods from outside 

the Agency. The development of large-scale systems management, an innovation imported from the U.S. Air Force, has been appropriately characterized 

by historian Stephen B. Johnson as the “secret of Apollo.”19

	 18.	 McCurdy,	Inside NASA,	pp.	76–77.

	 19.	 Stephen	B.	Johnson,	The Secret of Apollo: Systems Management in American and European Space 

Programs	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	2006).

18
Inside NASA at 50

NASA scientists and engineers schooled in the traditions of their own technical superiority did not readily accept the importation of Air Force management 

techniques. It would be wrong to say that the great mass of Agency employees willingly looked outside for help or accepted the management reforms 

when they were introduced. Midlevel officials often resisted the presence of 

the four dozen Air Force lead managers brought in to reform NASA and what 

NASA employees viewed as the intrusion of central control. The introduction 

of large-scale systems management, nonetheless, gave top NASA executives 

the tools they needed to impose cost, schedule, and configuration discipline 

over a number of activities that were less tightly organized during the early 

years. Faith in the exceptional nature of their work, belief in their technical 

capability, the tradition of in-house activity, and the strength of management 

systems imported into the Agency characterized NASA’s early organizational 

experience. Such features helped NASA employees attain the capabilities they 

needed to complete the Moon landings and the other great programs of the 

formative years. Their ability to do so was expedited by a series of special 

conditions that helped Agency employees accomplish the tasks they undertook, 

adroitly summarized by W. Henry Lambright in his writings on the Apollo 

years.20 NASA enjoyed an unusually high level of political support. The civil 

space program was a national priority and received attention from legislators 

and high-ranking executives, notably the President. When political support for 

the civil space program waned, especially after the Apollo fire, members of 

the congressional space committees and President Lyndon Johnson protected 

the space program. Under James E. Webb and a corps of top NASA executives, 

the Agency benefited from nearly eight years of stable administrative leadership under an Administrator with access to the highest political circles. The 

newly created Agency went through a “honeymoon” period during which its 

budget and workforce expanded rapidly. Agency employees benefited from a 

national goal that was simple to understand and perceived to be urgent when 

undertaken. When Richard Nixon became President in 1969, the technical and 

administrative momentum underlying the Moon program was too strong—and 

too close to completion—to be undone.

The cumulative force of these conditions produced a climate in which 

NASA employees enjoyed an unusually high degree of discretion in carrying 

	 20.	 W.	Henry	Lambright,	“Apollo:	Critical	Factors	in	Success	and	Implications	for	Climate	Change”	(a	paper	

delivered	at	the	Solutions	Summit	for	Climate	Change,	Nashville,	TN,	14	May	2008).	See	also	Lambright,	

Powering Apollo: James E. Webb of NASA	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1995).

19
NASA’s First 50 Years

out their activities. Politicians deferred to the technical judgment of NASA 

employees. The latter believed that they had received a firm presidential 

mandate and sufficient resources to accomplish it. (Knowledge of the actual 

budget battles might have shaken that faith.) The first NASA officials carried 

out their work during an era when the public and most government officials 

respected scientific and technical judgment. Together, these forces created an 

environment in which technical criteria superseded political ones and Agency 

officials had far greater control over the content of their work than they would 

have in the years to come.

Inevitably, these features changed. The characteristics typifying the early 

years of any new administrative agency undergo transformation as the agency 

matures. Historians and social scientists have identified the most common 

alterations, and NASA was not immune from them. As experience with recurring situations accumulates, so do the number of formal administrative procedures. Rules proliferate and bureaucracy expands, a tendency famously noted 

by C. Northcote Parkinson in the law that bears his name. Maturing government agencies tend to enter a period of declining flexibility and increasing 

conservativism, a phenomenon expertly explained by Anthony Down in his 

classic analysis on the life cycle of bureaus. Such transitions are precipitated 

by the lessening emphasis given to the agency’s mission and the commensurate decline in the resources provided to it. Declining attention and shrinking resources favor the position of leaders who know how to conserve what 

the agency already has. Other issues ascend to the top of the governmental 

political agenda. Older agencies remain in place, but their work becomes less 

important, and they tend to be less flexible and innovative than they were in 

the period immediately following their creation.21

The location of a maturing agency’s political base often shifts. A newly created 

agency can count on the political support of White House and Congressional 

leaders for a short period of time. As the agency matures, its early benefactors 

focus their attention on other activities or concerns. Over time, newly established 

government agencies that once benefited from strong presidential or legislative 

leadership come to rely more heavily upon constituency groups for support. 

The process, famously noted by sociologist Philip Selznick in his history of 

the Tennessee Valley Authority, frequently results in “co-optation,” a process 

in which the needs of the clientele become more important for solidifying 

	 21.	 C.	Northcote	Parkinson,	Parkinson’s Law, and Other Studies in Administration (New	York,	NY:	Ballantine	

Books,	1957);	Anthony	Downs,	Inside Bureaucracy	(Boston,	MA:	Little,	Brown	and	Co.,	1967).

20
Chapter 3

Imagining an Aerospace 

Agency in the Atomic Age

Robert R. MacGregor

Much has been written about the 184-pound satellite lofted into the heavens by 

the Soviet Union on 4 October 1957. The story is an insidiously seductive one; it 

is the romantic narrative of a small metal ball usurping the assumed technological authority of the United States. The frenzy of the media and the swift political 

backlash seem almost comical in light of the diminutive physical size of Sputnik.

The launch of Sputnik was one of the most disruptive singular events in 

the history of the United States.1 The temptation to label it a discontinuity 

is strong. The year following the Sputnik launch saw the formation of the 

Advanced Research Projects Agency (ARPA), the creation of the new post of 

Special Assistant for Science and Technology to the President and its associated 

President’s Scientific Advisory Committee (PSAC), the transformation of the 

NACA into NASA, and the National Defense Education Act. Walter A. McDougall 

in . . . The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age traces 

the roots of technocracy in America to this “spark”:

Western governments came to embrace the model of state-supported, 

perpetual technological revolution . . . . What had intervened to 

spark this saltation was Sputnik and the space technological 

revolution . . . . For in these years the fundamental relationship 

between the government and the new technology changed as 

	 1.	 For	a	good	overview	of	the	Western	reaction	to	Sputnik,	 see	 Rip	 Bulkeley,	The Sputniks Crisis and 

Early United States Space Policy: A Critique of the Historiography of Space	(London,	U.K.:	MacMillan	

Academic	and	Professional	Ltd.,	1991).

31
NASA’s First 50 Years

never before in history. No longer did state and society react to 

new tools and methods, adjusting, regulating, or encouraging their 

spontaneous development. Rather, states took upon themselves 

the primary responsibility for generating new technology.2

McDougall has since revised his original argument by noting that the space 

technological revolution was an “ephemeral episode in the larger history of the 

Cold War, rather than the Cold War having been an episode in the larger story of 

the march of technocracy.”3 This revisionism addresses the eventual fate of the 

space technological revolution. It is the purpose of the current essay to revise the 

story of the birth of that technological revolution. Specifically, it will be argued 

that the conception of the Sputnik launch as a discontinuity that ushered in a 

technocratic revolution in modern America does not fit the historical record. The 

environment in which the Sputnik crisis unfolded in the United States was already 

saturated with preconceived, technocratic notions of the relation of science to 

the state. The crystallization of the new agency that would become NASA was 

a process that simultaneously was instigated by a singular event and followed 

in the footsteps of institutional ancestors. The two are not mutually exclusive; 

contingency must be embedded in a framework of continuity. The precursor of 

the space technological revolution was the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC). 

“Technocracy” is a contentious term, with definitions running the gamut 

from a literal etymological interpretation as “the control of society or industry 

by technical experts”4 to the idolization of science for propaganda purposes 

by nonscientific bureaucrats.5 An attempt at a precise definition is necessarily 

doomed to failure, but for the purposes of this essay I will adopt McDougall’s 

definition of technocracy as “the institutionalization of technological change 

for state purposes, that is, the state-funded and -managed R&D explosion of 

our time.”6 McDougall’s definition captures the key features relevant to the 

	 2.	 Walter	A.	McDougall,	.	.	. The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age	(Baltimore,	MD:	

Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1985),	pp.	6–7.	

	 3.	 Walter	A.	McDougall,	“Was	Sputnik	Really	a	Saltation?”	in	Reconsidering Sputnik: Forty Years Since the 

Soviet Satellite,	ed.	Roger	D.	Launius,	John	M.	Logsdon,	and	Robert	W.	Smith	(Amsterdam,	Netherlands:	

Harwood	Academic	Publishers,	2000),	p.	xviii.

	 4.	 The Oxford English Dictionary	(New	York,	NY:	Oxford	University	Press,	1989).

	 5.	 A	famous	example	in	space	history	is	Nikita	Khrushchev’s	shrewd	tactical	use	of	spaceflight	for	internal	

and	external	political	maneuvering.	For	an	overview	of	Khrushchev’s	manipulation	of	the	space	program,	

see	Asif	Siddiqi,	Sputnik and the Soviet Space Challenge	(Gainesville,	FL:	University	Press	of	Florida,	

2003),	esp.	pp.	409–460.

	 6.	 McDougall, . . .The Heavens and the Earth,	p.	5.

32
Imagining an Aerospace Agency in the Atomic Age

current analysis: massive state funding and intentional control of technological 

development to serve state purposes. There exist a myriad of other possible 

definitions, which remain outside the scope of the present argument.7

The AEC and NASA are far and away the canonical American institutional 

examples of technocracy under this definition. The similarities on the surface 

are obvious. Both the AEC and NASA were characterized by geographically 

dispersed scientific research laboratories operating as scientific fiefdoms in a 

confederate framework.8 Both consolidated to a great extent an entire realm 

of technology in civilian federal agencies. Unlike other new technologies, such 

as the microcomputer or early aviation, both were handed over wholesale to 

civilian agencies created specifically to oversee them rather than entrusting 

progress to the military or private sector. In introducing the problem the framers of the Atomic Energy Act faced, AEC historians Richard G. Hewlett and Jack 

M. Holl noted: “How does one best go about introducing a new technology 

into society? A familiar problem for large manufacturers, the management of 

technological innovation was hardly a common function for Federal officials, 

except in the area of regulation . . . in the case of nuclear power, the entire 

technology was confined within the government.”9 This fundamental historical 

similarity, domination and encapsulation of an entire area of technology by a 

civilian government agency, is the basis for the current argument. 

	 7.	 David	Noble	in	America by Design: Science, Technology, and the Rise of Corporate Capitalism	(New	

York,	 NY:	Oxford	 University	Press,	1977)	 inverts	the	 hierarchy	 and	 sees	this	 explosion	 not	 as	 statecentric	manipulation,	but	as	a	“wholesale	public	subsidization	of	private	enterprise”	to	serve	the	ends	of	

technocratic	corporate	managers	working	as	government	contractors	(p.	322).	John	Kenneth	Galbraith	

in	The New Industrial State	(Boston,	MA:	Houghton	Mifflin,	1967)	envisions	technocracy	as	having	a	

decision-making	mind	of	its	own	within	a	given	institutional	constellation,	the	“Technostructure,”	which	

operates	autonomously	from	corporate	or	governmental	intentions,	often	to	the	detriment	of	the	public	

good.	Don	Price	argues	in	The Scientific Estate	(Cambridge,	MA:	Belknap	Press,	1965)	that	the	fusion	

of	political	and	economic	power	seen	in	the	nuclear	and	Space	Age	has	corrupted	market	principles	

by	creating	corporations	solely	dependent	on	government	subsidies,	resulting	in	a	diffusion	of	political	

sovereignty	that	threatens	the	American	constitutional	order.	Finally,	no	discussion	of	technocracy	in	

America	 would	 be	 complete	 without	 mentioning	 Frederick	Winslow	Taylor’s	 Principles of Scientific 

Management	(New	York,	NY:	Harper	&	Brothers,	1911),	which	called	for	applying	scientific	principles	to	

the	training	and	management	of	workers	to	replace	“rule	of	thumb”	factory	methods.

	 8.	 Peter	J.	Westwick,	The National Labs: Science in an American System,	1947–1974	(Cambridge,	MA:	

Harvard	 University	 Press,	 2003),	 perhaps	 borrowing	 from	 dialectical	materialism,	 stresses	 that	 the	

systemicity	of	the	labs	is	central	to	an	understanding	of	their	operation.	A	single	national	lab	cannot	

exist	 in	 isolation;	 classified	 journals	 and	 conferences	 and	 competition	 for	 personnel	 and	 research	

programs	were	central	issues	that	defined	the	individual	labs.	

	 9.	 Richard	G.	Hewlett	and	Jack	M.	Holl,	Atoms for Peace and War	(Berkeley,	CA:	University	of	California	

Press,	1989),	pp.	13–184.

33
NASA’s First 50 Years

This paper will examine the links between atomic energy and the processes in the executive and legislative branches that culminated in the signing 

into law of the National Aeronautics and Space Act on 29 July 1958. While a 

detailed comparative history of the roles, structures, and functions of NASA 

and the AEC would immensely contribute to the historical literature, the current analysis will focus more narrowly on the way in which the experience 

with atomic energy produced unspoken assumptions and shaped the very 

imagination of politicians of what the new NASA should and could become 

during the 10-month period from the launch of Sputnik to the passing of the 

National Aeronautics and Space Act. Specifically, it will be argued that NASA’s 

rise in the 1960s as an engine of American international prestige was rooted in 

atomic diplomacy and that certain debates in Congress about the new agency 

were largely approached from within a framework of atomic energy, thereby 

limiting the range of discourse and influencing the shape of the new agency.

While NASA grew by orders of magnitude in the 1960s, the features that 

specifically identified NASA as technocratic were frozen into the bureaucracy 

in this formative period. The sudden influx of money after Kennedy’s famous 

decision to set NASA’s sights on a Moon landing merely inflated NASA’s existing latent potential.

The Role of Prestige

A large debate in the historiography of NASA Centers is the question of prestige. Is NASA’s mission coincident with or even driven by American political 

imperialism? How did national prestige come to be measured by a cosmic 

yardstick? These questions are often posed in light of the two temporal sides 

of the Sputnik rupture. On the one hand, the Eisenhower administration was 

seemingly caught unawares of the worldwide impact the launch of Sputnik 

would have on public perceptions of American strength. On the other hand, 

John F. Kennedy would soon after catapult his career on the program to send 

humans to the Moon, a program that “transformed NASA from a scientific 

research agency into a goal-oriented bureaucracy.”10

In the fall of 1957, high-level officials extrapolated the Sputnik launch into 

an across-the-board American deficiency in scientific ability. The Democratic 

majority under Senator Lyndon B. Johnson jumped on the opportunity to place 

blame on the Republican Eisenhower administration and relaunched hearings 

	 10.	 Giles	Alston,	“Eisenhower:	Leadership	in	Space	Policy”	in	Reexamining the Eisenhower Presidency,	ed.	

Shirley	Ann	Warshaw	(Westport,	CT:	Greenwood,	1993),	p.	117.	

34
Imagining an Aerospace Agency in the Atomic Age

by the Preparedness Investigating Subcommittee of the Committee on Armed 

Services in the Senate in late November. General James H. Doolittle provided 

one of the early testimonies.11 In his testimony, Doolittle felt convinced “that 

the rate of Russian progress is much more rapid than ours; that, in some areas, 

she has already passed us. If the rate continues, she will pass us in all.”12

In a meeting of the Office of Defense Mobilization Science Advisory 

Committee (SAC) with President Eisenhower on 15 October, Edward H. Land 

explained to the President the reasons for Soviet success:13

The structure of Russian culture and thinking is such that they 

are learning to live the life of science and its application . . . . 

Is there a way to tell the country that we should set out on a 

scientific adventure in which all can participate? If this can 

be done, with our concept of freedom and the independent, 

unfettered man, we can move far ahead. We need a scientific 

community in the American tradition.14

Whether or not Land had accurately assessed the Soviet mentality toward 

science or the true implications of the Sputnik launch is of little importance. The 

notable point is the reaction produced in the very highest echelons of scientific 

and military advisory circles. Clearly, the hysteria and “fever” that swept the 

country in the wake of the Sputnik launch were not limited to an uninformed 

public. Indeed, the media and public were simultaneously concerned with the 

integration crisis at Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas. For those in 

the government primarily concerned with national security, Sputnik produced 

a larger effect than in the public at large.

	 11.	 Doolittle	was	 already	famous	for	 his	 bombing	raid	 on	Tokyo	 shortly	 after	the	 initiation	 of	 hostilities	

between	the	United	States	and	Japan	in	1942.	He	later	went	on	to	become	chairman	of	the	NACA	

board,	a	position	he	held	at	the	time	of	his	testimony.

	 12.	 Hearings	before	the	Preparedness	Investigating	Subcommittee	of	the	Committee	on	Armed	Services,	

85th	Cong.,	1st	and	2nd	sess.,	pt.	1,	p.	111.

	 13.	 At	the	meeting,	I.	I.	Rabi	noted,	“most	matters	of	policy	coming	before	President	have	a	very	strong	

scientific	component”	and	“he	didn’t	see	around	the	President	any	personality	who	would	help	keep	

the	President	aware	of	this	point	of	view.”	Eisenhower	concurred	and	“said	that	he	had	felt	the	need	for	

such	assistance	time	and	again.”	This	discussion	led	to	the	suggestion	by	James	Killian	for	the	creation	

of	a	scientific	advisory	panel	to	assist	the	proposed	adviser.	This	would	become	the	PSAC,	which	began	

meeting	in	November	with	Dr.	Killian	as	its	head.	See	“Detailed	(largely	verbatim)	notes	on	a	meeting	of	

the	ODM	Science	Advisory	Committee	with	the	President	on	October	15,	1957,”	folder	012401,	NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 14.	 Ibid.

35
NASA’s First 50 Years

The conception of Sputnik as a discontinuity is linked to the conception 

of scientific prestige as a benchmark for national strength. Since Eisenhower 

misjudged the impact Sputnik would have on the perception of the United States, 

so the argument goes, only after the media frenzy and political attacks of fall 

1957 did the administration recognize the importance of science to national 

prestige in the international sphere. Even in the face of Sputnik, Eisenhower 

seemingly remained steadfast in his dislike of federal bureaucracy and shied 

away from setting prestige as a goal of space research. On 7 November 1957, 

Eisenhower announced the creation of the post of Special Assistant to the 

President for Science and Technology in a televised address on national security. 

The address summarized American nuclear assets while noting deficiencies in 

science education in America. The speech concluded with a warning against 

runaway spending:

It misses the whole point to say that we must now increase our 

expenditures of all kinds on military hardware and defense—as, 

for example, to heed demands recently made that we restore 

all personnel cuts made in the armed forces. Certainly, we need 

to feel a high sense of urgency. But this does not mean that we 

should mount our charger and try to ride off in all directions 

at once. We must clearly identify the exact and critical needs 

that have to be met. We must then apply our resources at that 

point as fully as the need demands. This means selectivity in 

national expenditures of all kinds.15

By analyzing metaphor in his speeches and press conferences, Linda T. Krug 

notes Eisenhower’s “images created a vision of a nation of scientist-generals 

already hard at work planning how to unlock the secrets of the universe.”16

But the conclusion she draws that “Eisenhower was the only president who 

saw the space program as a viable entity in and of itself” is based on the 

assumption that Eisenhower never clothed hidden intentions in crowd-pleasing 

rhetoric.17 Such sweeping conclusions about Eisenhower’s personal views 

	 15.	 Dwight	 D.	 Eisenhower,	“Radio	 and	Television	Address	to	the	American	People	 on	Science	 in	 National	

Security,”	 7	 November	 1957,	 available	 at	 http://www.eisenhowermemorial.org/speeches/19571113%

20Radio%20and%20Television%20Address%20on%20Our%20Future%20Security.htm.

	 16.	 Linda	T.	Krug,	Presidential Perspectives on Space Exploration: Guiding Metaphors from Eisenhower to 

Bush	(New	York,	NY:	Praeger	Publishers,	1991),	p.	29.

	 17.	 Ibid.

36
Imagining an Aerospace Agency in the Atomic Age

cannot be drawn from televised statements. All presidents must maintain a 

carefully groomed public persona. While Eisenhower’s public proclamations 

often criticized big government, policy decisions and internal White House 

discourse did not match his rhetoric. 

The National Security Council engaged the question of prestige in relation 

to the planned American and Soviet satellite launches during the International 

Geophysical Year (IGY) of 1957–1958. A Technological Capabilities Panel (TCP) 

was formed in 1954 under James Killian to investigate the satellite question 

and other technical issues deemed vital to national security.18 The TCP issued 

its final report in February 1955, and the National Space Council (NSC), following the TCP’s recommendation, concluded in May of that year that the 

U.S. effort (Project Vanguard) should be given high priority as “considerable 

prestige and psychological benefits will accrue to the nation which first is 

successful in launching a satellite.”19 The importance of such benefits was 

paramount to U.S. foreign policy since “the inference of such a demonstration 

of advanced technology and its unmistakable relationship to inter-continental 

ballistic missile technology might have important repercussions on the political 

determination of free world countries to resist Communist threats, especially 

if the USSR were to be the first to establish a satellite.”20

The NSC concluded the U.S. scientific satellite effort should not hinder 

military missile developments and, therefore, should be vested in a separate, 

civilian-run program headed by the National Science Foundation (NSF). It is 

absolutely clear that the Eisenhower administration intended to use the satellite launch to reinforce American scientific prowess in the international arena.

The fact that prestige was an important element after that fateful 4 October 

and during the formative period of NASA is uncontroversial. In a PSAC meeting 

	 18.	 The	 TCP	 also	 drew	 the	 famous	 conclusion	 that	 establishing	 freedom	 of	 overflight	 in	 space,	 i.e.,	

sovereignty	claims	of	airspace	not	extending	beyond	the	atmosphere,	was	in	the	long-term	interests	

of	the	U.S.	This	was	motivated	by	the	expectation	that	the	U.S.	would	have	a	large	lead	over	the	Union	

of	Soviet	Socialist	Republics	(USSR)	in	electronic	satellite	reconnaissance	capability.	For	an	overview	of	

the	TCP	and	its	impact	on	the	freedom	of	space,	see	McDougall,	.	.	.	The Heavens and the Earth,	chap.	

5.	Dwayne	A.	Day	has	recently	uncovered	documents	tracing	the	origin	of	this	principle	to	a	Central	

Intelligence	Agency	(CIA)	 intelligence	 officer,	 Richard	 Bissell,	 and	 an	Air	 Force	 aide	working	for	the	

CIA.	Dwayne	A.	Day,	“The	Central	Intelligence	Agency	and	Freedom	of	Space”	(paper	presented	at	the	

“Remembering	the	Space	Age:	50th	Anniversary	Conference,”	NASA	History	Division	and	National	Air	

and	Space	Museum	Division	of	Space	History,	Washington,	DC,	22	October	2007).

	 19.	 “National	Security	Council	Report	5520:	Missile	and	Space	Programs.”	See	A Guide to Documents of 

the National Security Council,	1947–1977,	ed.	Paul	Kesaris	(Bethesda,	MD:	University	Publications	of	

America,	1980).

	 20.	 Ibid.

37
NASA’s First 50 Years

in March 1958, Hans Bethe commented, “It would be a great mistake for us 

to oppose popular enthusiasm even though misguided.”21 And in a recently 

declassified Office of Research and Intelligence Report issued just two weeks 

after Sputnik on 17 October 1957, it was concluded:

The technologically less advanced—the audience most impressed 

and dazzled by the sputnik [sic]—are often the audience most 

vulnerable to the attractions of the Soviet system . . . . It will 

generate myth, legend and enduring superstition of a kind 

peculiarly difficult to eradicate or modify, which the USSR 

can exploit to its advantage, among backward, ignorant, and 

apolitical audiences particularly difficult to reach.22

The report went even further in claiming the United States itself had fanned 

the flames of the fire in three ways: “first by fanfare of its own announcement 

of its satellite plans, second by creating the impression that we considered 

ourselves to have an invulnerable lead in this scientific and technological area, 

and third by the nature of the reaction within the U.S.”

The importance of science to national prestige in the Eisenhower administration existed long before Sputnik; it originated in the experience with 

atomic energy. Eisenhower had long been an advocate of using atomic energy 

to further U.S. foreign policy, a fact exemplified by his personal championing 

of the Atoms for Peace program.

In his 8 December 1953 address to the UN General Assembly, President 

Eisenhower called for the establishment of an “International Atomic Energy 

Agency” to serve as a stockpile of nuclear materials for peaceful uses around 

the world. The proposal was “enunciated by the President almost as a personal 

hope,” with few advisers and only one of the five Atomic Energy Commissioners, 

Lewis Strauss, aware of the proposal ahead of time.23 The original proposal 

was devoid of details but is significant in that Eisenhower displayed a personal 

	21.	 PSAC	Meeting,	 12	March	 1958.	The	 transcribed	 notes	 of	 the	 PSAC	 are	 spotty	 at	 best,	 and	 the	

argumentative	logic	is	nearly	incomprehensible.	They	are	reproduced	in	The Papers of the President’s 

Science Advisory Committee,	 1957–1961,	 microfilm	 (Bethesda,	 MD:	 University	 Publications	 of	

America,	1986).

	 22.	 Office	 of	 Research	 and	 Intelligence	 Report,	 “World	 Opinion	 and	 the	 Soviet	 Satellite:	 A	 Preliminary	

Evaluation,”	declassified	1993,	pp.	2–4,	folder	18106,	NASA	Historical	 Reference	Collection,	NASA	

History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 23.	 Hewlett	and	Holl, Atoms for Peace and War,	pp.	210–213.

38
Imagining an Aerospace Agency in the Atomic Age

desire to use science and scientific prestige as a tool of international diplomacy. 

The policy was consciously constructed around the issue of prestige, e.g., the 

amount of uranium to be contributed by the United States was set at a high 

enough figure that the Soviet Union would not be able to match the American 

contribution.24 While the implementation of the plan was slow in arriving, 

the middle of the decade saw tangible, albeit often ineffective, international 

cooperation in atomic technology with the United States as the international 

lynchpin and guarantor of atomic security. Science in the Eisenhower administration was part and parcel of foreign policy.

The tendency to employ science in the service of international prestige was expressed early on in the discussions concerning a new space 

agency. Coincidentally, Eisenhower asked James Killian (then president of 

the Massachusetts Institute of Technology [MIT]) to become his personal science adviser over breakfast on 24 October, the purpose of the meeting being 

Killian’s briefing of Eisenhower in preparation for the Atoms for Peace award 

being given to Neils Bohr later that day.25

In an ODM memorandum issued in January for Secretary of Health Arthur 

S. Fleming, the analogy to atomic energy was clearly enunciated: “In addition 

to the military importance of the scientific satellite one should not overlook 

the benefits of adequate emphasis on peaceful applications of rocketry just as 

the atoms-for-peace program has served to divert world attention from nuclear 

weapons.”26 And in a legislative leadership meeting on 4 February, President 

Eisenhower cautioned against pouring “unlimited funds into these costly 

projects where there was nothing of early value to the Nation’s security. He 

recalled the great effort he had made for the Atomic Peace Ship but Congress 

would not authorize it, even though in his opinion it would have been a very 

worthwhile project.”27

The relation of prestige to spaceflight has trickled down to the present 

day. Political pundits still routinely call the value of human spaceflight into 

question. NASA is frequently attacked as a wolf in sheep’s clothing; that is, 

NASA’s stated peaceful exploratory goals are often argued to be merely a 

	 24.	 John	Krige,	“Atoms	for	Peace,	Scientific	Internationalism,	and	Scientific	Intelligence,”	Osiris	21	(1996):	164.

	 25.	 James	R.	Killian,	Jr.,	Sputnik, Scientists, and Eisenhower (Cambridge,	MA:	MIT	Press,	1977),	p.	24.

	 26.	 Executive	Office	of	the	President	Office	of	Defense	Mobilization,	memorandum	to	Arthur	S.	Fleming,	

“Scientific	Satellites,”	23	January	1957,	folder	012401,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	

History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 27.	 Supplementary	Notes,	Legislative	Leadership	Meeting,	4	February	1958,	folder	18106,	NASA	Historical	

Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

39
NASA’s First 50 Years

façade covering deeper political and military motives. The origins of this 

dichotomy can be traced directly back to the emphasis placed on prestige 

during the conception of NASA in the Eisenhower administration, which 

was in turn based on the experience of atomic foreign policy. By the time 

a man-in-space investigatory panel was commissioned in 1959 by George 

Kistiakowsky, then head of the PSAC, it was clear that putting humans in 

space was solely a prestige issue:

In executive session of the panel, we talked about these 

things and I emphasized the need to spell out in our report 

what cannot be done in space without man. My opinion is 

that that area is relatively small and that, therefore, building 

bigger vehicles than Saturn B has to be thought of as mainly 

a political rather than a scientific enterprise.28

Indeed, it can be concluded that space represented a welcome new opportunity for Eisenhower’s continuing desire to demonstrate American technological 

prowess because of a decline in the perception of atomic energy as a positive 

international technology, a decline spurred on by rising fears of global nuclear 

annihilation. Certainly the destructive element of nuclear technology had been 

publicly decried immediately after the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings, 

but the shift in scale from local (bomber-delivered atomic bombs) to global 

(intercontinental ballistic missile [ICBM]-delivered hydrogen bombs) damned 

any hope for an unproblematic public perception of nuclear technology. The 

first hydrogen bomb tests by the United States in 1952 and the Soviet Union 

in 1953 were followed by the irradiation of the Japanese fishing boat Lucky 

Dragon 5 by the Castle Bravo test in March 1954, leading to a widespread 

public concern over the effects of nuclear radiation. 

An illustrative example of the qualitative transformation of atomic energy 

in the public imagination can be drawn from science fiction. Isaac Asimov’s 

Foundation trilogy, published between 1951 and 1953, portrayed humanity 

in the far future as a galactic empire in decline. The Foundation, created by a 

visionary scientist who foresaw the collapse of civilization using new historical-predictive methods, becomes the sole possessor of knowledge of atomic 

	 28.	 George	 Kistiakowsky,	 A Scientist at the White House: The Private Diary of President Eisenhower’s 

Special Assistant for Science and Technology	(Cambridge,	MA:	Harvard	University	Press,	1976),	p.	409.

40
Imagining an Aerospace Agency in the Atomic Age

technology and hence the last hope for humanity’s future.29 But by the end of 

the 1950s, postapocalyptic novels set in nuclear winter ruled the genre: Nevil 

Shute’s On the Beach (1957), Pat Frank’s Alas Babylon (1959), and Walter M. 

Miller, Jr.’s A Canticle for Leibowitz (1959). Space, then, was a natural avenue 

into which the Eisenhower administration could expand its policy of scientific prestige in the service of the state while avoiding the stigmas becoming 

associated with nuclear technology.

The National Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958

Of special importance to the current analysis are the sections of the National 

Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958 that were inspired by the Atomic Energy 

Acts of 1946 and 1954. Specifically, these are the relation of DOD to the new 

agency, the role of international cooperation, and the apportionment of intellectual property.

When President-elect Eisenhower was briefed on AEC activities in November 

1952, he took special exception to Gordon Dean’s acquiescence to the Air 

Force’s demand for atomic-powered plane research in the face of good evidence that such a program would not produce a viable aircraft. “Looking out 

the window he declared that this kind of reasoning was wrong. If a civilian 

agency like the Commission thought that a military requirement was untenable or wasteful in terms of existing technology, there was an obligation to 

oppose it.”30 This was a prescient moment, for it foreshadowed the problem of 

divvying up responsibility between competing civilian and military institutions 

during the formation of NASA.

Analogies to the Atomic Energy Commission were widespread throughout 

the legislative creation of the new space agency. During the congressional 

hearings, Eilene Galloway, a national defense analyst at the Library of Congress, 

was invited by representative McCormack (the chair of the House committee) 

to write a report on the issues facing Congress in the drafting of the National 

Aeronautics and Space Act.31 Her report was widely read and was reprinted 

in both the Senate and House proceedings and is notable for several reasons. 

First, Galloway drew the immediate conclusion that a comparison to the issues 

	 29.	 Special	thanks	to	Dan	Bouk	for	pointing	out	this	poignant	example	from	a	trilogy	I	have	read	four	times	

yet	somehow	overlooked:	Isaac	Asimov’s	Foundation	(New	York,	NY:	Gnome	Press,	1951),	Foundation 

and Empire	(New	York,	NY:	Gnome	Press,	1952),	and	Second Foundation	(Gnome	Press,	1953).

	 30.	 Hewlett	and	Holl,	Atoms for Peace and War,	p.	14.

	 31.	 Galloway	also	served	as	special	consultant	to	Lyndon	Johnson	during	the	Senate	hearings	and	has	

since	become	a	noted	aerospace	historian.

41
NASA’s First 50 Years

facing the drafters of the Atomic Energy Act of 1946 (informally known as the 

McMahon Act) would be fruitful. To Galloway, the similarities were obvious:

Atomic energy and outer space are alike in opening new frontiers 

which are indissolubly linked with the question of war and peace. 

They combine the possibility of peaceful uses for the benefit of 

man and of military uses which can destroy civilization. Both 

are national and international in their scope. They involve the 

relation of science and government, the issue of civilian or military 

control, and problems of organization for the executive branch 

and the Congress. If only their similarities are considered, the 

legislative task would appear to be the easy one of following 

the pattern of our present atomic energy legislation.32

According to Galloway, the dissimilarities between the two are centered on 

the problem of delineating military and civilian aspects of aerospace technology. 

While the boundaries are reasonably clear in the atomic case (bombs versus 

reactors), nearly every aspect of aerospace technology overlaps the two sides of 

the military-civilian divide. This is perhaps an oversimplification in that much 

effort had gone into the Atomic Energy Act of 1954 to allow the development 

of a civilian atomic energy industry, and the civilian-military divide in practice 

was quite problematic. Still, it remains true that, in the case of atomic energy, 

a relatively clear boundary between civilian and military applications could 

be established through strict regulation of nuclear materials. In the case of 

NASA, this was not true; yet still a formal divide was automatically assumed 

to be of paramount importance. In part this was due to concerns of needless 

duplication of effort and bureaucratic infighting over jurisdictional matters. 

However, previous experience with the AEC weighed heavily on lawmakers, 

particularly in the House of Representatives, who now saw science as intimately 

tied up with national security and felt a need for such a relationship to be 

codified in law. The administration favored a more informal relationship, as 

had been the case with the NACA. Both sides weighed heavily on precedent 

to reinforce their arguments.

The debate surrounding the obligations of the new space agency to DOD 

and vice versa has long been the center point of the history of the National 

	 32.	 Eilene	Galloway,	The Problems of Congress in Formulating Outer-space Legislation	(Washington,	DC:	

U.S.	Government	Printing	Office	[GPO],	March	1958).

42
Imagining an Aerospace Agency in the Atomic Age

Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958. This is for the reason that the delineation of the role of military and civilian agencies has obvious current political 

implications, but it remains true that much of the contemporary debate also 

surrounded the issue. The wording of §102(b) of the National Aeronautics and 

Space Act established the following criterion by which specific projects could 

be judged to be NASA- or Defense-centric:

The Congress declares that the general welfare and security 

of the United States require that adequate provision be made 

for aeronautical and space activities. The Congress further 

declares that such activities shall be the responsibility of, and 

shall be directed by, a civilian agency exercising control over 

aeronautical and space activities sponsored by the United 

States, except that activities peculiar or primarily associated 

with the development of weapons systems, military operations, 

or the defense of the United States . . . shall be the responsibility 

of, and shall be directed by, the Department of Defense . . . .33

The Act also established a National Aeronautics and Space Council headed 

by the President and including the Secretary of State, Secretary of Defense, 

NASA Administrator, and the Chairman of the AEC. The inclusion of the AEC 

Chairman here is quite curious. In addition, any disputes between departments 

and agencies over jurisdictional matters were to be settled by the President 

under advisement of the council.

The original Bureau of the Budget draft bill was quite different from the 

arrangement in the AEC, which embodied communication with DOD in its 

Military Liaison Committee. In his official commentary sent to the Bureau of 

the Budget on the original bill, Strauss suggested “the act provide for interagency liaison similar to that which has operated so satisfactorily in the case 

of the Military Liaison Committee in the atomic energy program.”34 The House 

bill included such a liaison committee and, in addition, another for the AEC. 

The administration had favored informal cooperation in the form of uniformed 

seats on the advisory committee in the same style as the NACA had tradition-

	 33.	 National	Aeronautics	and	Space	Act	of	1958,	Public	Law	(P.L.)	95-568,	available	at	http://history.nasa.

gov/spaceact.html.	Emphasis	and	ellipses	added.

	 34.	 Lewis	Strauss	to	Maurice	Stans,	Director	of	the	Bureau	of	the	Budget,	31	March	1958,	folder	012405,	

NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

43
NASA’s First 50 Years

ally pursued. The Senate kept the administration’s arrangement. In the final 

compromise bill, the military liaison committee was added, while the AEC 

liaison was dropped.

An internal Bureau of the Budget memo in May snidely remarked on the 

House bill that “among the trappings of the Atomic Energy Act inserted in this 

bill are sections establishing and prescribing the functions of a Military Liaison 

Committee and an Atomic Energy Liaison Committee. Both Committees are 

to be headed by chairmen appointed by the President . . . . The Department 

of Defense as well as NACA has opposed this creation of statutory liaison 

committees, and every effort should be made to secure their elimination in 

the Senate.”35 The inclusion of the liaison committees in the House bill suggests a strong tendency to adopt portions of the AEC paradigm wholesale. It 

is particularly remarkable in this case because the civilian-military boundary 

proposed for NASA was quite different from the model in the AEC. That is, 

NASA would by default carry on the bulk of aerospace research; but DOD, by 

sufficiently justifying its need directly to the President, could develop its own 

aerospace projects. This is in stark contrast to the complete monopolization 

of basic atomic research by the AEC, which necessitated a reliable and clear 

avenue of communication to and from the military.

The differences between NASA’s and the AEC’s relationships with the military 

deserve elaboration. From the beginning, the AEC was to encompass all levels 

of nuclear research, nuclear materials production, reactor design, and bomb 

construction. This centralization was a result of the realities of atomic energy. 

First, the Manhattan District was already in place during the establishment 

of the AEC, and maintaining its internal configuration was necessary for the 

uninterrupted production of atomic weapons. Second, and more important, 

atomic energy as a technology is unique for a material reason: the regulation 

of atomic technology is in large part the regulation of a single element and its 

derivatives. Indeed, the Atomic Energy Act categorically transferred “all right, 

title, and interest within or under the jurisdiction of the United States, in or to 

any fissionable material, now or hereafter produced” to the Commission. In 

effect, all atoms on U.S. territory with 92 or more protons were declared to 

be the property of the federal government. In addition, an entire new class of 

information was created. Termed “Restricted Data,” this wide umbrella automatically “classified at birth” any and “all data concerning the manufacture 

	 35.	 Letter	 from	Alan	 L.	 Dean	 to	Wiliam	 Finan,	 2	 June	 1958,	 folder	 12400,	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	

Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

44
Imagining an Aerospace Agency in the Atomic Age

or utilization of atomic weapons, the production of fissionable material, or 

the use of fissionable material in the production of power.”36 Regulation of 

fissionable material was also the assumed primary task of early atomic weapons nonproliferation efforts. Containment of atomic technology was seen as 

synonymous with ownership of nuclear materials.

From the inception of the AEC, the production and control of nuclear 

materials was the prime directive of the organization. Fissionable material 

simultaneously was obviously dangerous, was necessary for national defense, 

and could be relatively easily collected and controlled. The implication of this 

material reality was tremendous for the bureaucratization of atomic technology in a central governmental agency. In the case of aerospace technology, 

such a clear compartmentalization was not a natural outgrowth of the relevant 

technology. Still, the basic structure of the AEC was to provide a perceived 

“obvious model” for creating an aerospace agency.

§205 of the National Aeronautics and Space Act provided engagement in “a 

program of international cooperation . . . and in the peaceful application of the 

results thereof.” The Senate Special Committee had noted in a report entitled 

“Reasons for Confusion over Outer Space Legislation and how to Dispel It” that 

“the main reason why we must have a civilian agency in the outer space field 

is because of the necessity of negotiating with other nations and the United 

Nations from some non-military posture.”37

The Act specifically authorized the Administrator to grant NASA employees 

access to restricted AEC data. This violated long-standing AEC policy, which 

based access on AEC classified status. Strauss thus raised the concern that 

the act would allow the President to “disseminate Restricted Data to foreign 

governments . . . . We think that an extension of this existing authority to the 

proposed Agency would be undesirable and unworkable.”38 In his testimony 

before the Senate Special Committee, Strauss stressed his preference for limiting international agreements at the outset and noted that “the history of these 

new agencies, if the Atomic Energy Commission is a prototype, has been that, 

in the course of time, the basic law is amended by spelling out in greater detail 

	 36.	 Atomic	Energy	Act,	1946,	P.L.	585,	79th	Cong.,	available	at	http://www.osti.gov/atomicenergyact.pdf.

	 37.	 Senate	Special	Committee	on	Space	and	Astronautics	Report,	“Reasons	for	Confusion	over	Outer	Space	

Legislation	and	how	to	Dispel	It,”	11	May	1958,	folder	012389,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	

NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 38.	 Lewis	Strauss,	General	Manager	of	AEC,	to	Maurice	Stans,	Director,	Bureau	of	the	Budget,	31	March	

1958,	folder	012405,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC.

45
NASA’s First 50 Years

the extent to which cooperation with other nations may be carried on.”39 The 

strong ties to the AEC are evident.

The issue of intellectual property centered on the allocation of patents. The 

House bill patterned itself on the Atomic Energy Act, giving the government 

exclusive ownership of any intellectual property arrived at due to NASA-related 

work. The American Patent Law Association lobbied against such a provision, 

for the obvious reason that long-term profits from owning patents was a prime 

incentive for firms bidding on contracts.40 In a letter to William F. Finan, Hans 

Adler (both were in the Bureau of the Budget) wrote in reference to the patent 

provision in H.R. 12575 (the bill that became the National Aeronautics and 

Space Act): “this provision is also based on the Atomic Energy Act. However, 

we doubt that the Atomic Energy Act should serve as the proper precedent, 

since inventions in the atomic area have peculiar defense and secrecy aspects 

which make private ownership difficult.”41 Again, we have an example of the 

adoption of policies crafted for atomic energy without reasoned analysis of 

their relevance to an aerospace agency. The final language adopted assigned 

intellectual property to the government, with the Administrator having the 

right to waive this right if he so desired.

It cannot be overstated how formative the experience with atomic energy 

was on the psyche of those determining the shape of NASA. The belief that 

atomic energy would infuse all aspects of future technology was widely held 

in 1950s America, and rocketry was no exception. The realities of chemical 

reactive propulsion dictate a maximum theoretical efficiency (specific impulse) 

due to limited available chemical enthalpy, but the exit velocity of a thermal 

nuclear rocket is limited only by material failure at high temperatures. The 

AEC, for these reasons, launched just such a nuclear rocket research program 

(ROVER) in 1956. Stanislaus Ulam, testifying before the House Select Committee 

on Astronautics and Space Exploration, reaffirmed that “it is not a question 

of conjecture or optimism, but one might say it is mathematically certain that 

it will be the nuclearly powered vehicle which will hold the stage in the near 

	 39.	 Hearings	before	the	Special	Committee	on	Space	and	Astronautics,	United	States	Senate,	85th	Cong.,	

2nd	sess.,	p.	50.

	 40.	 Richard	Hirsch	and	Joseph	John	Trento,	The National Aeronautics and Space Administration	(New	York,	

NY:	Praeger	Publishers,	1973),	p.	26.

	 41.	 Hans	 Adler	 to	 William	 Finan,	 “Subject:	 HR	 12575,”	 4	 June	 1958,	 folder	 12400,	 NASA	 Historical	

Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

46
Imagining an Aerospace Agency in the Atomic Age

future.”42 With historical actors like Ulam making such statements, it becomes 

clear that the birth of NASA as an institution must be historically analyzed 

through the lens of the atomic experience. The concept of the stewardship of 

the state over technological affairs had become ingrained in the imagination 

in the atomic era and was adopted without serious protest during the formation of NASA. Indeed, a sharp contrast can be drawn to the violent reaction 

by private interests to the original Atomic Energy Act and the relatively benign 

reception of the National Aeronautics and Space Act. A profound transformation had occurred in the intervening years.

Conclusion

Under the AEC, technocracy had been introduced to America. Under NASA, it 

was wedded to the federal framework. There are fundamental differences to the 

two cases, as in the ability to control nuclear material and the need to enforce 

atomic secrecy through the curtailment of granting patents. But throughout the 

whole of the discussions in both the executive and legislative branches during 

1957–1958, it remains clear that the framers of the new aerospace agency were 

profoundly affected by their experience with atomic energy, specifically the 

AEC. When conceiving of a new agency, bureaucrats and legislators actively 

reached into the past and cherry-picked elements from their prior experience 

with atomic energy while passively making unconscious assumptions based on 

the technological realities of atomic energy. Often the decisions they arrived 

at were not appropriate for the aerospace case.

NASA represented a form of technocracy that divorced military interests 

as completely as possible. In the 1960s, NASA would become an agency 

mobilized for social change. Thomas Hughes argues in American Genesis that, 

during the Great Depression, the Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) was a push 

for regional social development by progressive politicians via electrification 

and the management of water resources.43 NASA followed in these footsteps. 

Perhaps not so coincidentally, one of the original commissioners of the TVA, 

David Lilienthal, would later become the first Chairman of the AEC.

But NASA was technocracy in an evolved form. It combined three trends 

that had not yet together existed in any American organization: 1) Big Science, 

	 42.	 Hearings	before	the	Select	Committee	on	Astronautics	and	Space	Exploration,	85th	Cong.,	2nd	sess.,	p.	

602.

	 43.	 Thomas	P.	Hughes,	American Genesis: A Century of Invention and Technological Enthusiasm 1870–1970

(New	York,	NY:	Viking	Penguin,	1989),	pp.	360–381.

47
NASA’s First 50 Years

i.e., the close cooperation of large numbers of scientists and engineers in a 

vertically integrated hierarchy organized for the production of massive projects; 2) a mandate that pushed science for social benefits and simultaneously 

minimized obligations to the military; and 3) science in the service of national 

prestige abroad.

The AEC took over the operation of the entire American atomic machine, 

from enrichment, to reactor design, to bomb testing in the South Pacific. NASA, 

instead, was given a mandate to push the boundaries forward in aerospace 

technology only insofar as they could be peacefully used. This was, then, a 

pivotal transformation in the history of American technocratic institutions. 

Under the presidencies of Kennedy and Johnson, NASA was a juicy target to 

be expanded, but this was merely opportunism. NASA’s form had already been 

cemented in 1958, a form that had atomic roots.

Acknowledgments: This article first appeared, in substantially the same form, 

in Remembering the Space Age, ed. Steven J. Dick (Washington, DC: NASA SP2008-4703, 2008), pp. 55–70.

48
Chapter 4

Leading in Space

50 Years of NASA Administrators

W. Henry Lambright

Introduction

The central task of the 10 men who served as NASA Administrator in the 50 

years since 1958 has been strategic leadership, by which is meant the setting 

of priority goals for the Agency for the periods in which they held office. How 

well the Administrator performed his task depended on his capacity to match 

the goals he set with the forces in his environment. James Webb, NASA’s 

Administrator in the 1960s, described leadership as “fusing at many levels a 

large number of forces, some countervailing, into a cohesive but essentially 

unstable whole and keeping it in motion in a desired direction.”1 He called 

this process the creation of a “dynamic equilibrium.” It entailed setting and 

implementing policy.

The various Administrators used rhetorical and coalitional skills to achieve 

their purposes, building internal and external support, while seeking to 

neutralize opponents.2 Their role was daunting. Sometimes an Administrator 

succeeded and at other times failed; but unless an Administrator prevailed 

to some degree, the forces in his environment determined NASA’s fate rather 

than the Administrator.

	 1.	 James	 E.	Webb,	 Space Age Management: The Large-Scale Approach	 (New	York,	 NY:	 McGraw	 Hill,	

1969),	pp.	135–136.

	 2.	 For	a	discussion	of	administrative	strategies,	see	Jameson	Doig	and	Erwin	Hargrove,	eds.,	Leadership 

and Innovation: A Biographical Perspective on Entrepreneurs in Government	 (Baltimore,	MD:	 Johns	

Hopkins	University	Press,	1990).

49
NASA’s First 50 Years

In every instance, real administrative influence depended on a match 

among the Administrator’s gifts, organizational capacity, and political times. 

Even when a particular leader was unable, for one reason or another, to make 

a significant personal mark on history, he could still be important as part of 

a “relay” leadership, initiating or steering particular programs he inherited 

forward. Given the brief tenure of most Administrators vis-à-vis the large-scale, 

long-term programs with which they dealt, that is itself important in NASA’s fate.

Creating the Administrator’s Role

In drafting the Space Act for NASA in 1958, the White House and Congress 

clearly wanted NASA to have a leader with significant authority. The leader 

was given prerogative over budget and personnel, subject to the President and 

Congress. It is notable that the Administrator is a single figure. Existing models 

in 1957 included the AEC and the NACA, which had plural heads. Moreover, 

the title “Administrator” represented a conscious choice by NASA’s creators over 

“Director,” the former being a title considered to carry more executive panache.3

The Space Act gave NASA a range of tasks in space and aeronautics, but 

those were relatively broad and vague, leaving it to the Administrator to use 

his or her discretion in their interpretation. Congress at the time of NASA’s 

creation organized itself into two authorizing and two appropriations committees dealing with space. This pattern simplified reporting assignments for 

the Administrator.

The mood of Congress, triggered by Sputnik and Cold War competition 

with the USSR, favored action; but it was up to the initial incumbents in the 

office to give substance to the words and mood of the time.

1. T. Keith Glennan, August 1958–January 1961

NASA’s first Administrator, T. Keith Glennan, was an engineer and university 

president with experience in industry. He came to NASA from the presidency 

of Case Institute of Technology in Cleveland, Ohio. He was 53 years in age at 

the time he took official charge of the new agency on 1 October 1958. Glennan 

served under a President who wanted to restrain NASA from engaging in any 

“race” with the Soviet Union. President Eisenhower intended “leadership” in 

space to be established through sound scientific and technological principles. 

	 3.	 Eilene	Galloway,	“Sputnik	and	the	Creation	of	NASA:	A	Personal	Perspective,”	in	NASA: 50 Years of 

Exploration and Discovery,	ed.	Rhonda	Carpenter	and	Ana	Lopez	(Washington,	DC:	Faircount	Media	

Group,	2008),	p.	48.

50
Leading in Space

Congress, led by Democrats, was much more “bullish” on space and wished 

to charge faster ahead. Glennan steered NASA between these two stances.4

His goal was to get NASA started quickly, but in a competent way, building 

on the NACA base of 8,000 scientists, engineers, and support personnel he 

inherited. He consolidated entities that were transferred from DOD, including 

the von Braun rocket-engineer team, which became the nucleus of MSFC in 

Huntsville, Alabama; the space-science group of NRL, which became GSFC 

in Greenbelt, Maryland; and JPL, run for NASA by the California Institute of 

Technology in Pasadena, California.

Glennan organized the basic divisions of NASA—manned spaceflight, space 

science, Earth-oriented applications, and aeronautics. He began the first human 

spaceflight program, Project Mercury. Finally, he determined that NASA would 

get most of its work done by industrial and academic contractors, keeping its 

government base relatively limited.

Glennan’s goals were clear, but limited, and he achieved much that he set 

out to do. However, NASA was still a relatively weak and much-criticized agency 

when he left office in 1961, and the Soviet Union was well ahead of the United 

States in space achievements. The Department of Defense remained a formidable bureaucratic rival for supremacy as the nation’s premier space agency.

2. James Webb, February 1961–October 1968

The new President, John Kennedy, appointed James Webb his Administrator. 

Webb, 54 in age at the time, was neither a scientist nor an engineer, but a 

professional manager and lawyer. He had extensive government experience, 

having worked for Congress as a young man and later as Truman’s Director of 

the United States Budget and Undersecretary of State. He also had considerable 

executive experience in industry. He considered himself a government manager, 

but what most observers saw was a remarkably savvy bureaucratic politician, 

one capable of dealing one-on-one with Presidents and senior legislators in 

ways that made him persuasive in advocating NASA’s cause. To help him in his 

inside role of managing a technical agency, he developed a “triad” concept that 

had a physicist as his Deputy Administrator and an engineer as his Associate 

Administrator and de facto general manager. Better than any Administrator in 

NASA’s history, Webb understood power in Washington, DC, and how it worked. 

He sought to enhance NASA’s bureaucratic power and his own as its leader. 

	 4.	 Roger	Launius,	“Leaders,	Visionaries,	and	Designers,”	in	NASA: 50 Years,	ed.	Carpenter	and	Lopez,	p.	

258.

51
NASA’s First 50 Years

Thanks to Kennedy’s Apollo decision of 1961, Webb succeeded in building 

NASA quickly and substantially in budget and personnel and transforming it 

into a special organization capable of taking America to the Moon. In doing so, 

he placed NASA clearly in charge of the space enterprise, neutralizing DOD, 

the White House science adviser, and internal rivals.5

Webb understood he had a two-year “honeymoon,” given the nation’s frustration with being behind in space and especially with having a Russian, Yuri 

Gagarin, be the first man in space. He used the President’s directive to win 

the race to the Moon to NASA’s advantage, taking his organization’s estimate 

of costs to achieve a lunar landing and doubling the figure while also extending the deadline in Kennedy’s speech from the original 1967 to “within the 

decade.” Kennedy made the decision to go to the Moon, but Webb shaped it 

with an eye to implementation. He also extracted from Vice President Johnson 

promises of help in maintaining support over the long haul.

As NASA’s budget doubled and doubled again and its personnel grew 

apace from 1961 to 1963, he made virtually all key decisions required about 

facilities and contractors to get to the Moon. He could justify these decisions 

on technical grounds but usually made them also with an aim at long-term 

coalition building. For example, the location of the new Manned Spacecraft 

Center was in the district of the lawmaker with the most control over NASA’s 

budget. Similarly, Webb’s managers wanted Gemini, an interim program between 

Mercury and Apollo, as a stepping stone for technical learning. Webb saw 

Gemini in “political rhetoric” or public relations terms, a way to keep NASA 

before the public eye in the mid-1960s. He knew the early honeymoon would 

not last, and it didn’t. But he maintained Apollo in the mid-1960s, as Kennedy, 

assassinated in late 1963, gave way to Lyndon Johnson.

It is notable that Webb’s goals were broader than Kennedy’s or Johnson’s. 

In 1962 he and Kennedy had a confrontation in the White House. Kennedy 

wanted to concentrate NASA’s resources virtually all behind the Moon race 

with the Soviets and indicated he cared little about space per se.6 Webb said 

the goal was more than leadership, but preeminence, by which he meant creating a surpassing capability not only in human spaceflight, but also in science, 

applications, aeronautics—and education. Building capability included human 

capability. For a time, Webb’s NASA had a substantial university program that 

	 5.	 W.	Henry	Lambright,	Powering Apollo: James E. Webb of NASA	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	

Press,	1995).

	 6.	 John	Logsdon,	“Ten	Presidents	and	NASA,”	in	NASA: 50 Years,	ed.	Carpenter	and	Lopez,	p.	229.

52
Leading in Space

spread grants geographically throughout the nation. He wanted NASA to have 

a national constituency, not just one in states with major NASA facilities and 

contracts. For Webb, Apollo was a means to raise the technical level of the 

country generally, not just an end in itself, although he certainly gave priority 

to this mission.

In the mid-1960s, under Johnson, the nation turned to the Great Society 

and Vietnam. For a while, Webb used a rhetorical strategy of showing how 

NASA was also a “Great Society” agency, stressing “spinoffs” and space-based 

economic development. But Vietnam intervened, and the NASA budget fell in 

the latter half of the decade. Webb desperately wanted to sell a post-Apollo 

program that would put to use the extraordinary capability NASA had built 

with the Apollo-Saturn system, but Johnson, beset with the war and pressing 

budget problems, put him off.

In 1967, when Johnson seemed ready to give Webb a go-ahead on an interim 

post-Apollo plan for keeping this capability going, disaster struck. The Apollo 

fire took the lives of three astronauts. Webb used most of his remaining political 

capital to persuade the President and Congress to let NASA investigate itself 

and have Webb make the necessary managerial and technical adjustments. He 

did so, protecting the Agency while drawing the media and political spotlight 

and criticism on himself.

Webb got NASA through the crisis and back into space and on target to 

the Moon, but he himself was weakened. Realizing his power was eroding 

and he could not sell the kind of post-Apollo program he wanted, he now did 

not try but instead put almost all his energy and much of NASA’s decreasing 

resources behind achieving the Apollo goal.

His last act was to leave early so as to leverage the choice of his successor. 

He wanted his deputy, Tom Paine, to take NASA, under a new President, the 

final leg of its journey to the Moon. He believed it critical, at a time when the 

country was tearing itself apart because of Vietnam, civil rights unrest, and 

the collapse of the Great Society, that the nation have a monument to success 

and to what it could do when it operated at its best.

3. Thomas Paine, Acting Administrator, October 1968–

March 1969; Administrator, March 1969–September 1970

Tom Paine, age 46, was an engineer and technical manager who came to NASA 

from a high executive position at General Electric. He was a solid, risk-taking 

manager who made the final decisions that got NASA to the Moon. He was 

also a visionary, a space enthusiast, who wanted to build on Apollo with a 

bold program of space exploration. His prime goal as Administrator was to 

53
NASA’s First 50 Years

sell a comprehensive post-Apollo space program that would enlarge NASA’s 

budget and allow it to go to Mars and build a Moon base, a large space station, 

and a space shuttle to go to and from the space station.

Unfortunately, Paine’s political skills were such that he misread the nation’s 

mood and the interest of President Nixon in a bold space program. A program 

that had at its mid-1960s height spent close to 4.4 percent of the federal budget fell to approximately 1 percent in the Nixon era.7

 Paine had little access 

to Nixon, who was one of the most inaccessible Presidents in history. Paine’s 

expansionary rhetoric was out of sync with what the President or his aides 

wanted to hear. Paine, to his credit, pushed forward with many of the existing 

programs he inherited and kept his Mars vision alive through his backing the 

unpiloted Viking program. However, he could not build a coalition for new 

large human spaceflight programs that would stop the retrenchment of the 

Agency. He reluctantly ended the Apollo Moon landings and Apollo-Saturn 

system. For NASA, political support began with the President, and Paine had 

no influence on Nixon. He resigned early in disappointment and frustration, 

with NASA’s post-Apollo future still undetermined.

4. James Fletcher, April 1971–May 1977

James Fletcher, age 51, came to NASA from the presidency of the University of 

Utah. A Ph.D. physicist who had achieved wealth in industry, Fletcher fit the 

mold of the Administrator Nixon wanted. He was conservative politically and 

economically. Not a space cadet like Paine, he was willing to compromise. He 

did not seek to promote goals that had no hope of acceptance by Nixon. He 

was not a combative bureaucrat like Webb. His primary interest was clear: stop 

the decline of NASA by obtaining a significant goal in human spaceflight that 

was large enough to maintain the Agency. The only goal with a chance to be 

adopted, given the national mood of the early 1970s, was the minimal goal of 

the Space Shuttle. Selling that goal became his primary aim.

	 7.	 Budget	estimates	vary.	NASA	Administrator	Michael	Griffin’s	peak	percentage	is	4.4	percent.	Logsdon,	

“Ten	Presidents	and	NASA,”	p.	231,	places	it	at	4	percent;	Roger	Launius	has	a	peak	figure	of	5.3	

percent	 of	 the	 federal	 budget.	The	 Griffin	 figure	 is	 in	 “Reality	 of	Tomorrow,”	 Address	 to	 American	

Astronautical	Society	 (5	March	2008),	 in	 Leadership in Space: Selected Speeches of Administrator 

Michael Griffin, May 2005–October 2008	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2008-564,	2008),	pp.	295ff.	The	

Launius	figure	is	in	an	unpublished	paper,	“Project	Apollo:	A	Retrospective	Analysis.”	All	numbers	reveal	

the	same	point,	that	NASA’s	budget	was	substantial	in	the	Apollo	era	and	fell	to	a	much	lower	priority	

subsequently.	

54
Leading in Space

Paine had believed the NASA Administrator should be a “swashbuckler,” a 

term he used. Fletcher was instead quiet, persistent, and—compared to Webb 

and Paine—dull to most observers of NASA. While an able inside manager, 

especially with the help of the legendary NASA veteran, George Low, as his 

deputy, Fletcher was not experienced in the ways of Washington, DC.

In selling the Space Shuttle, he acquiesced to the pressures of the Office 

of Management and Budget (OMB), a more powerful organization vis-à-vis 

NASA under Nixon than it had been under Kennedy or Johnson. This meant 

the Shuttle had to be justified in the language of OMB, in cost-benefit or economic terms. The Office of Management and Budget pushed Fletcher hard, 

ratcheting down the price of the Shuttle. The Columbia Accident Investigation 

Board would later state that the economic pressures of the early years led 

to technical compromises and overpromising that contributed to subsequent 

troubles affecting the Shuttle. But Fletcher may have had little choice but to bend. 

Without the Shuttle, NASA would likely have continued its downward spiral. 

Also, in building support for the Shuttle, he entered into alliance with DOD 

and adopted designs to suit DOD needs. The Shuttle was sold not as a NASA 

system but as a “national” system. In 1972, Fletcher finally got the President 

to say “yes.” The budgetary decline ended. NASA stabilized. Ironically, Nixon 

appears to have made his decision not on economic grounds, but primarily on 

a combination of electoral and geopolitical calculations. He wanted California 

votes and international prestige.

Roger Launius has written the primary published assessment of Fletcher.8

He points out that Fletcher’s Mormon background was important in several 

non-Shuttle decisions. For example, Fletcher believed in life beyond Earth, 

a factor in his making Viking a high priority not only for space science, but 

for NASA generally. He also backed other unpiloted space probes, such as 

Voyager to Saturn and Jupiter, and the Hubble Space Telescope. Moreover, 

Launius writes, the Mormon tradition of “stewardship” for Earth had impacts 

for Fletcher’s goals as Administrator. He gave emphasis in his rhetoric and 

coalition building to the Earth-applications activity of NASA and told Congress 

NASA was an “environmental agency” as well as a space agency.

Under Fletcher, NASA’s image broadened even though the Shuttle was the 

dominant program by far. Managerially, he decentralized operations, adopting 

a “lead Center” concept that gave JSC power over the Shuttle, a decision later 

	 8.	 Roger	Launius,	“A	Western	Mormon	in	Washington,	DC:	James	C.	Fletcher,	NASA,	and	the	Final	Frontier,”	

Pacific Historical Review	64,	no.	2	(May	1995):	214–217.

55
NASA’s First 50 Years

criticized after the Challenger Shuttle disaster. NASA did survive, thanks to 

Fletcher, reshaped to fit a far more austere environment than that of Apollo. 

His legacy was not complete when he left. He would return to NASA in the 

next decade.

5. Robert Frosch, June 1977–January 1981

Robert Frosch, age 49, was, like Fletcher, a Ph.D. physicist. He had risen to high 

positions in industry and government. Appointed by President Jimmy Carter, he 

found that his most important goal had to be sustaining the Shuttle development 

program he inherited. Shuttle cost overruns and schedule slippages became 

painfully obvious in the Carter years. Carter was not particularly interested in 

NASA, but he did have a military space priority. He wished to launch intelligence 

satellites to monitor weapons development, proliferation, and arms control agreements. The Department of Defense connection helped save the Shuttle from a 

Carter termination decision.9 Like Fletcher, Frosch promoted the Shuttle as the 

nation’s prime vehicle for scientific, military, and commercial access to space. 

Carter endorsed a “Shuttle-only” policy for major launches.

6. James Beggs, July 1981–December 1985

Aged 55, James Beggs was a U.S. Naval Academy graduate with a Harvard 

M.B.A. He had served in the Navy and held a middle-management position 

with NASA in the late 1960s. He was the second-ranking administrator at DOT 

in the 1970s. He was a chief executive officer (CEO) in industry before becoming President Reagan’s appointee as NASA’s leader in 1981.

Beggs was an astute, seasoned, and persistent Administrator. Quiet, but 

effective, he knew what his prime goals were when he came to NASA. They 

were to complete the development and testing of the Shuttle and move it 

to “operational” status. Then, he intended for NASA to take “the next logical 

step”—to develop a space station. The comprehensive package of programs 

that Paine had unsuccessfully tried to promote had been broken up by political reality. Successive Administrators were moving incrementally, one major 

piloted development program at a time. For Beggs, selling the space station 

would be his legacy. Like his predecessors, he believed that for starting big 

programs, coalition building in government began with the President.10

	 9.	 Logsdon,	“Ten	Presidents	and	NASA,”	p.	233.

	 10.	 Howard	McCurdy,	The Space Station Decision: Incremental Politics and Technical Choice	(Baltimore,	

MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1990).

56
Leading in Space

In the early 1980s, the Shuttle finished its tests and NASA declared it 

“operational,” rhetoric that legitimated the transition of NASA, an R&D agency, 

to a new development program. Beggs faced many forces that wanted to thwart 

the station’s initiation, including OMB, the White House science adviser, and 

the Secretary of Defense. Beggs proved to be an able bureaucratic politician. 

He had piqued Reagan’s interest in space by inviting him to initial Shuttle 

launches. He made an end-run around his opposition, getting to Reagan via an 

interagency committee and making a presentation that appealed to Reagan’s 

desire to use space to project national power, especially vis-à-vis the Soviets. 

In 1984, Reagan, in a State of the Union address, gave the go-ahead for the 

space station. Beggs began building a coalition for the station that was both 

domestic and international.

Sustaining various space science programs he inherited, providing essential 

additional funding to the Hubble Space Telescope, Beggs’s most important 

other legacy was arguably his support for NASA to move more seriously into 

the global environmental field. He backed a gradual, growing involvement in 

global environmental problems, building on Fletcher’s policies. NASA’s emerging 

role reached high visibility in the mid-1980s when NASA provided scientific 

leadership in determining the causes of ozone depletion in the Antarctic.11

What had been an “applications” program entailing weather and communication satellites in the 1960s was transformed by successive Administrators into 

what would eventually be called a “Mission to Planet Earth.”

In late 1985, however, Beggs took leave from NASA to fight a false charge 

of wrongdoing while in industry, prior to becoming Administrator. In January 

1986, NASA was devastated when the Challenger Shuttle exploded, killing the 

first teacher in space. NASA needed a strong Administrator at the helm and 

did not have one, and the Agency suffered accordingly.

Beggs’s legacy was mixed. He got the space station decision and helped 

build a coalition of support that included international partners. In doing so, 

he initiated not only a new program of flagship proportion for NASA but also 

a model very different from Apollo in carrying out large-scale technology. It 

stressed the international dimension. But he used a rhetoric in selling the 

space station that made the Shuttle seem to be far more routine than it turned 

out to be in fact.

	 11.	 W.	Henry	Lambright,	NASA and the Environment: The Case of Ozone Depletion	(Washington,	DC:	NASA,	

2005).

57
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 1:	T.	Keith	Glennan,	first	NASA	Administrator,	19	August	1958–20	January	1961,	served	under	

President	Dwight	D.	Eisenhower.	Figures	1	through	8	are	the	official	portraits	of	the	NASA	Administrators,	

which	hang	in	the	Administrator’s	suite	on	the	ninth	floor	of	NASA	Headquarters	in	Washington,	DC.	NASA

58
Leading in Space

Figure 2:	James	E.	Webb,	second	NASA	Administrator,	14	February	1961–7	October	1968,	served	under	

Presidents	John	F.	Kennedy	and	Lyndon	B.	Johnson.	NASA

59
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 3: Thomas	O.	Paine,	third	NASA	Administrator,	21	March	1969–15	September	1970,	served	

under	Presidents	Lyndon	B.	Johnson	and	Richard	M.	Nixon.	Paine	was	Acting	Administrator	beginning	8	

October	1968.	NASA

60
Leading in Space

Figure 4:	James	C.	Fletcher,	fourth	and	seventh	NASA	Administrator,	27	April	1971–1	May	1977,	served	

under	Presidents	Richard	M.	Nixon,	Gerald	R.	Ford,	and	Jimmy	Carter,	and	again	for	a	second	term,	12	

May	1986–8	April	1989,	under	Ronald	Reagan	and	George	H.	W.	Bush.	NASA

61
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 5:	Robert	A.	Frosch,	fifth	NASA	Administrator,	21	June	1977–20	January	1981,	served	under	

President	Jimmy	Carter.	NASA

62
Leading in Space

Figure 6: James	M.	Beggs,	sixth	NASA	Administrator,	10	July	1981–4	December	1985,	served	under	

President	Ronald	Reagan.	NASA

63
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 7: Richard	H.	Truly,	eighth	NASA	Administrator,	14	May	1989–31	March	1992,	served	under	

President	George	H.	W.	Bush.	NASA

64
Leading in Space

Figure 8: Daniel	S.	Goldin,	ninth	NASA	Administrator,	1	April	1992–17	November	2001,	served	under	

Presidents	George	H.	W.	Bush,	Bill	Clinton,	and	George	W.	Bush.	Goldin	was	NASA’s	longest-serving	

Administrator,	exceeding	the	combined	tenures	of	James	C.	Fletcher.	NASA

65
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 9:	Sean	O’Keefe,	10th	NASA	Administrator,	21	December	2001–11	February	2005,	served	under	

President	George	W.	Bush.	NASA

66
Leading in Space

Figure 10: Michael	Griffin,	11th	NASA	Administrator,	14	April	2005–20	January	2009,	served	under	

President	George	W.	Bush.	NASA

67
NASA’s First 50 Years

7. James Fletcher, May 1986–April 1989

President Reagan called Fletcher back to service in 1986. Fletcher’s goal was 

to heal a wounded Agency battered by Challenger’s avalanche of criticism 

and lead its recovery. He guided NASA’s return to flight, which took place in 

September 1988, and authorized many technical and organizational changes 

in NASA, including pulling power back to Headquarters for Shuttle management, a reversal of his earlier approach. He helped persuade Reagan to add 

a replacement for Challenger, maintaining the Shuttle fleet at four. He also 

adapted the space station, a project requiring modification in the face of technical and fiscal reality. Much of Fletcher’s decision-making involved choices 

about priorities in what would launch and when, owing to the Shuttle’s absence 

from service for 32 months. The “Shuttle only” policy he had pushed ended 

with Challenger. The Department of Defense and commercial flights would 

use expendable rockets. Fletcher still wanted as many NASA flights to go up 

on the Shuttle as possible. He believed deeply in the Shuttle and its promise.

Fletcher also wanted NASA to begin moving toward a mission beyond the 

space station and Earth orbit. He had Sally Ride, the first female astronaut, 

provide him with a menu of options for NASA’s future. It included various 

missions, three of which focused on exploration, including a piloted flight to 

Mars. Fletcher established a new Office of Exploration. He apparently tried 

to get Reagan interested in exploration; he got some verbal support but little 

else. However, he did preside over NASA’s return to flight and bolstered the 

morale of an agency profoundly in need of nurturing after Challenger. 

8. Richard Truly, May 1989–March 1992

The man who served as Fletcher’s Associate Administrator for returning the Shuttle 

to flight was Richard Truly. Truly was President George H. W. Bush’s choice of NASA 

Administrator. Aged 52, Truly was a naval aviator with an aeronautical engineering 

degree. He was a former NASA astronaut with considerable experience in space. 

His prime goals as NASA Administrator were to get a fifth Shuttle orbiter and to 

further develop the space station. The latter was behind schedule, growing in cost, 

and fast losing congressional support. Indeed, money was being spent, but little 

or no hardware was being built owing to continuing design changes. President 

Bush gave him an additional goal, involving the Moon and Mars, one with which 

he did not appear to the White House to be fully comfortable.12

	 12.	 Thor	Hogan,	Mars Wars: The Rise and Fall of the Space Exploration Initiative (Washington,	DC:	NASA	

SP-2007-4410,	2007).

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Leading in Space

Bush had restored the National Space Council (NSC), a White House interagency body created when NASA came into existence and abolished by Nixon. 

It was headed by Vice President Dan Quayle, and its role was to set space 

policy for his administration. While there had been some human spaceflight 

planning at NASA for a return to the Moon and a Mars program, the stronger 

impetus for this new Moon-Mars mission came from the NSC. In 1989, the 20th 

anniversary of the first Apollo landing, Bush proclaimed his Space Exploration 

Initiative (SEI), a return to the Moon, followed by piloted missions to Mars.

The announcement seemed to come out of the blue, and there had been 

minimal political spadework with Congress, which was controlled by the 

Democrats. Congress was underwhelmed by the decision, as were the media 

and general public. The mood of the nation was to deal with a substantial 

budget deficit, not start a big new space program. The Cold War was ending; 

the nation looked to new priorities, but not any involving space. When NASA 

came up with the estimated cost for the program, perhaps half a trillion dollars, 

Congress called it “dead on arrival.” Bush could not get the program funded.

Truly sought to start the SEI, raising the Office of Exploration to Associate 

Administrator level and appointing Mike Griffin its director. Griffin could plan, 

but not implement. Support further eroded in 1990 when the Hubble Space 

Telescope went up. It provided blurred images and caused NASA ridicule 

by late-night television comics. An independent panel headed by Norman 

Augustine called attention to NASA’s many infirmities and called for substantial raises for an agency seeking to do more than it could afford. These large 

raises did not come.

Truly proved incapable of building coalitions for the SEI, and his personal 

commitment to the President’s goal was doubted by Quayle and the NSC staff. 

He seemed overwhelmed, and his relations with the Vice President and NSC 

deteriorated. Bush asked for Truly’s resignation in early 1992.

9. Daniel Goldin, April 1992–November 2001

Daniel Goldin was the longest serving and most controversial Administrator in 

NASA’s history. He was 51 at the time of his appointment. He had begun his 

career at NASA shortly after college and then joined TRW, a large, Californiabased aerospace firm, where he had risen to vice president for space activities. Most of his work was in classified national security programs. He was an 

“outsider” to NASA and most space watchers when his name as Administrator 

was announced. An engineer and technical manager, he was closest to Paine 

in his sheer passion for space. But whereas Paine could not adjust his bold 

visions to a shrinking budget, Goldin almost found the constrained budget he 

69
NASA’s First 50 Years

encountered helpful. It enhanced his own power. Whereas Webb sought power 

to enlarge NASA and its role on the national stage, Goldin sought power to 

move the Agency in another direction. Webb, secure with bureaucracy, made 

NASA his ally. Goldin, distrustful of NASA managers, seemed at times at war 

with the agency he led. If Truly was uncomfortable with multiple goals, Goldin 

sought as many goals as he could establish. A self-described change agent, 

he made organizational chaos his handmaiden and revolution his byword. 

“Faster, better, cheaper” became his mantra. It fit the times, and his willingness 

to embrace this philosophy helped keep him NASA Administrator from Bush 

through two Clinton terms and briefly into the term of the second Bush.13

Goldin took the NASA job because he wanted to lead NASA back to Mars. 

He learned quickly that the SEI was not in the cards. Nevertheless, there was 

much else he wanted to do, and he lasted long enough to see both successes 

and failures in his attempts at innovation. He also held to his piloted Mars 

goal, and he sought to move NASA in that direction, but indirectly and, in 

some ways, covertly.

Mars was his love, but the space station was his necessary priority. It was 

NASA’s flagship, whether he liked it or not; and it was in deep trouble when 

he arrived. In 1993, it almost died in Congress, surviving by one vote in the 

House. Goldin was not especially politically astute at first, but he learned 

quickly that he needed the President as an ally. He brought Clinton aboard 

the space station by linking it with Clinton’s foreign policy need to help postCold War Russia turn to the United States. The space station became the ISS, 

with Russia the most significant of several international partners. Throughout 

the 1990s, Goldin struggled to make the U.S.-Russia partnership work and 

build a U.S.-Russian Space Station core. When he left in 2001, such a nucleus 

was in space and inhabited by U.S. and Russian astronauts. Getting the Space 

Station up was his major achievement.

His second major achievement concerned Mars. In 1993, the $1 billion 

Mars Observer, the first Martian flight since Viking in 1976, died on its way 

to the Red Planet. Goldin used the failure as an opportunity, remaking the 

Mars program into the symbol of his faster, better, cheaper robotic program. 

Similarly, in the mid-1990s, he used claims of fossil bacteria in a Mars meteorite to rekindle NASA’s search for life beyond Earth. This came at a time when 

new planets were being discovered around extrasolar stars. What was called 

	 13.	 W.	Henry	Lambright,	“Leading	Change	at	NASA:	The	Case	of	Dan	Goldin,”	Space Policy	23	(2007):	

33–43.

70
Leading in Space

“exobiology” in the 1970s became “astrobiology” under change-agent Goldin. 

“Origins” was initiated as an exciting new program, building on the meteorite 

and the discovery of new planets. Having gotten the Hubble Space Telescope 

repaired in late 1993, Goldin wanted to build even more powerful telescopes 

capable of finding Earth-like planets beyond the Sun. He also sought to develop 

a Shuttle successor called the X-33. Goldin did all this on a budget that was 

stagnant at best, declining in real buying power for much of his tenure. He 

made NASA and himself poster children for Vice President Gore’s “reinventing 

government” campaign, saying it was possible to get more for less.

For most of his time at NASA, Goldin was the best salesman the Agency 

had had since Webb. He was adept at rhetorical strategies, as exemplified by 

faster, better, cheaper. He gave a thousand speeches in his tenure and never 

had a presidentially appointed deputy. He often seemed a one-man show, one 

the media found fascinating. He was far better at building outside constituencies than inside support. Although some managers—Associate Administrator 

for Space Science Wesley Huntress especially—learned how to manipulate 

him to their advantage, many feared him, and he developed a reputation for 

shooting the messenger of bad news. He was forgiven by many for his inside 

harshness when the Pathfinder lander arrived successfully at Mars in 1997 

and made faster, better, cheaper appear an outstanding success. Observer had 

failed, but Pathfinder worked at a fraction of Observer’s price. An orbiter soon 

also performed marvelously at the Red Planet at this time, strengthening faster, 

better, cheaper’s claims. So Goldin pushed harder, and he hit the boundary of 

faster, better, cheaper when the Mars Polar Lander and Mars Climate Orbiter 

failed in succession in 1999. Now his enemies, of which he had accumulated 

many, attacked faster, better, cheaper and Goldin. At the same time, the X-33, 

the Shuttle successor, one on which NASA had spent $1 billion, was killed by 

Goldin himself. Evidence of overreach by Goldin was everywhere.

Goldin accepted blame and called for NASA’s adaptation to technical 

and fiscal reality. Before he left, he approved substantial funds for Spirit and 

Opportunity, two probes of Mars involving roving vehicles. These were funds 

that were geared to mission success, rather than held to an arbitrary cap. The 

great success of Spirit and Opportunity came after he departed.

Had Goldin left NASA immediately after Pathfinder in 1997, he might have 

escaped the rather mixed legacy he subsequently gained. But he stayed and 

saw his credibility and reputation fall. Like Webb after the Apollo fire, Goldin, 

after the 1999 failures, saw his administrative power wane. However, he did 

succeed in leaving NASA an agency with a far better image than it had when 

he came. Whatever his faults—perhaps in part because of his faults—Goldin 

71
NASA’s First 50 Years

made NASA interesting and even exciting again. He saved the Space Station. 

Through the robotic program and Mars rock, he put NASA on a trajectory to 

the Red Planet and restored interest in the search for extraterrestrial life. But 

he turned faster, better, cheaper from a means to an end. He also worsened a 

problem he inherited—an agency trying to do too much with too little.

10. Sean O’Keefe, December 2001–February 2005

It is not unusual for a President to select an Administrator who embodies 

characteristics he perceives missing in a NASA predecessor. Goldin, with his 

creative passion and vision, was seen as different from Truly. But Goldin was 

subsequently seen to be a bad manager by President George W. Bush, as witnessed by a $4.8 billion cost overrun on the Space Station the new President 

inherited in 2001. Bush wanted a “competent manager” and chose the Deputy 

Director of OMB, Sean O’Keefe.14

O’Keefe was 45 in age and had a career that made him one of the most 

government experienced Administrators in NASA history. He had worked on 

the Hill and been the comptroller of DOD and Secretary of the Navy. He had 

a master’s degree in public administration and had taught the subject at his 

alma mater, the Maxwell School of Syracuse University. O’Keefe had good 

inside-the-beltway political skills, possibly the best since Webb. He was not a 

stirring speaker and certainly not a space cadet.

In his first major address, he appalled many space enthusiasts when he 

said he wanted NASA to be “science-driven,” rather than “destination-driven.” 

His primary goal at the outset was to strengthen the Space Station program 

financially. What came to be his second goal was to address the Shuttle-successor 

problem, not through Goldin’s technologically revolutionary X-33, but through 

an interim system called the Orbital Space Plane. The Orbital Space Plane 

would complement the Shuttle and extend its life several years.

However, in February 2003, the Columbia Shuttle disintegrated, killing all 

aboard. Whatever goals O’Keefe had in 2002 were now on hold and subject to 

change. Columbia came to define his tenure at NASA. He got NASA through the 

disaster and the investigation that followed with relatively modest organizational 

damage. However, the report of the Columbia Accident Investigation Board 

forced him and everyone else to face a reality that the Shuttle was old, flawed, 

and high-risk. O’Keefe, because of Columbia, had a window of opportunity for 

	 14.	 W.	 Henry	 Lambright,	 “Leadership	 and	 Change	 at	 NASA:	 Sean	 O’Keefe	 as	 Administrator,”	 Public 

Administration Review	(March/April	2008):	230–240.

72
Leading in Space

major policy change. The Columbia Accident Investigation Board helped him 

think big by stating that NASA needed a significant goal—worthy of risking 

human life—beyond the Space Station.

O’Keefe’s inside-coalitional skills and close relations with Vice President 

Cheney in particular now came to the fore. He elevated and altered an existing body in the White House that was meeting to consider options for a postColumbia piloted space program. He transformed it into an interagency group 

with high-ranking members that met periodically and behind closed doors. The 

group came up with the return to the Moon by 2020 as a goal. Bush himself 

added Mars, perhaps with a nod to his father’s failed Moon-Mars program. 

O’Keefe then hammered out a budget agreement with his old colleagues at OMB 

that appeared plausible at the time: the Shuttle’s expenses would go down as 

expenditures for a successor went up. In 2010, the Shuttle would complete its 

work on the Space Station and be retired; in 2014, its successor would come on 

line. A master budgeter, O’Keefe kept projections of expenses for the new technological system vague. The Moon got emphasis, not Mars. The “sticker-shock” 

price that killed the SEI under the first Bush was not repeated under his son.

It was ironic. O’Keefe had come in eschewing destination-driven goals and 

now, once Bush announced his decision in January 2004, he was trying to sell 

a Moon-Mars-and-beyond goal! O’Keefe went about his task and reorganized 

NASA for implementation. But before he could start a major congressional, 

media, and public campaign, he found himself sharply on the defensive. In 

the wake of Columbia, he wanted to change the culture of NASA, and that 

required, in his judgment, changing the Agency’s mindset from “prove to me 

it’s unsafe” to “prove to me it’s safe.” Using that standard, he could not approve 

a final servicing mission to the immensely popular Hubble Space Telescope. 

When word of that decision leaked, O’Keefe was tarred as a bean counter 

who was trading off the Hubble Space Telescope to get money for Moon-Mars. 

That was not how O’Keefe saw it, but how his opposition framed the decision. 

O’Keefe considered a robotic approach to Hubble Space Telescope repair, but 

a National Academy of Sciences and National Research Council panel told 

him that method would not work in time to save the Hubble Space Telescope.

He soldiered on with respect to Moon-Mars, aided enormously by the 

Republican majority in Congress and support for funding the startup of the 

program by powerful lawmakers he and Cheney enlisted. There was thus a 

White House and Congress political coalition to begin the new program—what 

was lacking in 1989. The budget strategy, whatever its merit or demerit, conveyed the image of a pay-as-you-go philosophy instead of the SEI’s half-trillion 

price tag. O’Keefe became the progenitor, therefore, of a destination-driven 

73
NASA’s First 50 Years

program. He convinced few critics that he was right about the Hubble Space 

Telescope, one large reason being that Harold Gehman, chair of the Columbia 

Accident Investigation Board, did not give him the support he had to have 

from that quarter to help neutralize opposition.

A “competent manager” who was also an experienced bureaucratic politician, 

O’Keefe succeeded in getting a Moon-Mars program adopted, but he departed 

before the new mission’s implementation was fully under way.

11. Michael Griffin, April 2005–January 2009

Michael Griffin is the Administrator who most recently completed his tenure at 

the time of writing this profile.15 Hence, this assessment is somewhat premature, 

his legacy being dependent on what President Barack Obama decides to do 

about NASA. However, certain observations are possible for the Bush period. 

Griffin, aged 55, came to NASA with a long and deep experience in the space 

field, indeed a lifetime of interest and work. A man with a Ph.D. in aeronautical engineering and many other degrees, Griffin began his career with NASA 

via JPL. He served as Associate Administrator for Exploration under Truly and 

Goldin before the senior Bush’s Moon-Mars program was killed at the outset of 

Clinton’s administration. He was head of space research and development for 

APL of the Johns Hopkins University when he was appointed to head NASA. 

He was coauthor of a book, Space Vehicle Design. Like Paine and Goldin, he 

had a passion for space, but he displayed that passion more quietly than they. 

It is hard to imagine anyone who could have been better equipped technically or, probably, managerially to implement the Moon-Mars decision. Indeed, 

Griffin’s prime mandate as NASA Administrator was clear: carry out the Vision 

for Space Exploration, as it was then called. But many an implementer has to 

worry about politics. Policy decisions do not leave political and bureaucratic 

conflict at the adoption door. Typically, the struggle goes on. Griffin wished 

to move the President’s decision down the hardware path so solidly that when 

he left, his successor would seamlessly take the program the next step toward 

fruition. Like other Administrators, he had to continually sell the lead program 

and build a support system for it while fending off opponents of his goals.

O’Keefe got the Moon-Mars decision during the window of opportunity created briefly by Columbia and the Columbia Accident Investigation Board. Griffin 

faced a closing window for implementing this initiative. The Bush administration 

	 15.	 W.	 Henry	 Lambright,	 Launching a New Mission: Michael Griffin and NASA’s Return to the Moon

(Washington,	DC:	IBM,	2009).

74
Leading in Space

was weaker in 2005 than in 2004 because of an unpopular war, high deficits, and 

a declining economy. Hurricane Katrina also occurred at a most inopportune 

time for Griffin, just as he was trying to ramp up Moon-Mars funding in the fall 

of 2005. His political/budgetary situation grew subsequently worse.

When Griffin became NASA Administrator, he set three major goals: to 

return the Shuttle to flight, to finish the Space Station, and to implement the 

Moon-Mars decision. Griffin said at his confirmation hearings he would try 

to bring the Shuttle successor into service sooner than 2014. He also said he 

would revisit the Hubble Space Telescope decision. He took office in April 

2005. Griffin moved as quickly as he could on all fronts once in office. 

He succeeded in returning the Shuttle to flight and made good progress 

in finishing the ISS. He reversed O’Keefe’s Hubble Space Telescope decision. 

He came up with a design for the Shuttle successor and return-to-the-Moon 

system, called Orion-Ares. It was Shuttle-derived and looked much like Apollo. 

The capsule was Orion and the rocket, Ares I. There would be a large Ares V 

rocket for cargo shipments to the Moon, as well as a lunar lander. The whole 

system was called Constellation. First came Orion-Ares. Griffin called OrionAres “Apollo-on-steroids.” The tentative cost for a Moon return was $104 billion.

He hit a roadblock to his personal goal of accelerating implementation in 

narrowing the Shuttle/Orion-Ares gap in the fall of 2005. He discovered that the 

Shuttle budget projections he inherited were unrealistic. The Shuttle costs were 

not going to go down appreciably prior to 2010. Where would money come from 

to make up the difference? In announcing the design decision (Orion-Ares), he 

had said he would not take “one thin dime” from space science to pay for the 

return-to-the-Moon system. But when he found he needed additional money, 

OMB refused to revisit the budget projections set in 2004. It proposed that Griffin 

kill the Shuttle early to get the money, a non-option for Griffin.

The Administrator appealed the budget issue to the White House and Bush 

in late 2005. With the Iraq war raging and Katrina expenses growing, the time 

to ask for more money was not propitious. A meeting took place, and he came 

away with a modest raise and instructions to get the rest of the needed money 

from reprogramming funds. Griffin took the funds from Orion-Ares and space 

science to pay for the Shuttle costs. Many space scientists subsequently criticized Griffin and the Moon-Mars program. The result of budget constraints 

was that Griffin’s goal to narrow the gap between the Shuttle and Orion-Ares 

was set back. He regarded this gap as a serious problem not only for NASA 

but also for the nation, as it meant primary reliance on the Russians to get to 

the Space Station after 2010. Consequently, he was hard-pressed to keep the 

gap at the four-year period he inherited. 

75
NASA’s First 50 Years

In January 2007, the Democrats took control of Congress. Bipartisan support for Moon-Mars continued in general, but not so much support as to give 

Griffin the money he wanted. Also, White House and congressional fighting 

over the war in Iraq and other policy issues caused Congress to pass a continuing resolution, which froze NASA’s budget for fiscal year 2007 to what it 

had been in fiscal year 2006. That meant a de facto cut below the presidential 

request for this year. The result was slippage of Orion-Ares to March 2015. The 

following year, Congress gave NASA the full amount requested for fiscal year 

2008, $17.3 billion. However, the fiscal year 2009 appropriation to be voted 

on in fall 2008 was also subject to a continuing resolution, and that meant no 

raise until after the new President took office in January 2009, if then.

Thus, the Griffin era under Bush was largely one in which he fought to implement the Moon-Mars decision in a dreadful budget and political environment. 

Griffin’s great asset was his focus, his ability to keep his eye on Orion-Ares as 

a priority. He therefore made progress in Moon-Mars implementation in spite 

of the unfavorable situation he faced. But he did not make the progress he 

would have liked, owing to his inability to persuade the Bush administration 

and Congress of the seriousness of the gap and need to fund implementation to 

narrow it. He could not assuage the scientific community. He could not create 

or use a bureaucratic power that might have come with a strong and united 

constituency. Without that power, he could not get the resources he needed.

Griffin’s problems were not technical or managerial, but political. Political 

rhetoric and coalition building were not Griffin’s strengths, and he operated 

in a political environment that would be difficult for almost anyone. In the fiscal year 2005–2010 period, NASA was projected to have $3.9 billion less than 

was originally proposed in 2004, when the Moon-Mars program was adopted. 

Griffin made progress as an implementer, but he fell short of what he wanted, 

and what he believed was vital in the national interest. Then-President-elect 

Obama promised to provide $2 billion extra to NASA’s budget to possibly speed 

the deployment of Orion-Ares. That may or may not happen under President 

Obama. Also, the Shuttle’s service may also be extended, an extension Griffin 

did not favor. That the new President appreciated the Shuttle-Shuttle successor 

gap problem is a testament to Griffin’s clarity in sounding an alarm. Whether 

the new President or his NASA appointee as Administrator does anything about 

it would not be subject to Griffin’s control.

Conclusion

All the various NASA Administrators have been significant in one way or another 

in the history of the space agency. Each has brought a particular background, 

76
Leading in Space

training, and set of skills to the Administrator role. All have been important, 

particularly as “relay leaders.” Administrators invariably serve briefer terms 

than it takes to adopt and fully implement the programs they run. The ISS, for 

example, began under Beggs and was still unfinished when Griffin completed 

his tenure with President George W. Bush.16 They make their mark primarily 

as they affect the course of these large-scale, long-term programs. Some are 

initiators; most are implementers; some are saviors. It is also notable that a 

few stand out as especially influential. 

Webb, in particular, is larger than life. He shaped and carried out a program, Apollo, in such a way that it stands as an icon for effective government. 

He made the most of a rare opportunity on an historic stage and exemplifies 

what is possible when there is a strong match among man, organization, and 

time. Fletcher, Beggs, and O’Keefe got presidential decisions for flagship 

programs; and Frosch and Goldin got presidential decisions that saved two of 

these programs. Griffin is critical as a relay leader, implementing a program 

that may (if sustained by successors) at last get NASA out of Earth orbit and 

back to where it was in the 1960s. Glennan got the Agency and a range of 

new programs, including the beginning human spaceflight effort, under way. 

Paine completed Apollo, and Truly maintained the Shuttle and Space Station, 

but both illuminate what can happen when an Administrator is out of sync 

with the President.

It is not easy to be the NASA Administrator. He (and eventually she) is CEO 

of NASA but not of the United States government. NASA leaders need help to 

be successful. To get help, primarily on their terms, they have to blend political 

and administrative skills. Success in one provides success in the other. Failure 

in one leads to difficulty, if not failure, in the other. Typically, a leader has to 

link a mission that is purely discretionary—space exploration—with national 

interests that appeal to politicians, media, and the public. A book written years 

ago had a title that summed up prime motivations that have usually applied 

to one degree or another as space rationales, at least for human spaceflight: 

Pride and Power: The Rationale of the Space Program.

17

Space is a source of national pride and a visible demonstration of national 

power and competence by nonmilitary means. Such values matter to politi-

	 16.	 W.	Henry	Lambright,	“Leadership	and	Large-Scale	Technology:	The	Case	of	the	 International	Space	

Station,”	Space Policy	21	(2005):	195–203.

	 17.	 Vernon	Van	Dyke,	Pride and Power: The Rationale of the Space Program	(Urbana,	IL:	University	of	Illinois,	

1964).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

cians and the people they represent. Administrators have to couch their arguments for resources in terms politicians can understand and the public can 

appreciate. The different Administrators have varied in their political skills in 

using rhetorical strategies to attract broad public support and build coalitions 

among Washington, DC, power elites based on mutual interests and quid pro 

quos. Webb and Goldin were the best rhetorical Administrators. Webb understood how important it was for NASA to keep in the public eye and show 

success to Presidents. He also knew how to build coalitions with Congress 

through rewards and sanctions. Goldin’s rhetoric was attractive, especially to 

Vice President Gore, but his coalitions did not seem at times to include his 

own Agency. Webb, Fletcher, and O’Keefe had additional burdens of being 

disaster-recovery executives. Most have had to make Hobson’s choices—decisions with no real positive alternative.

NASA’s leaders have to be good managers, for failure in performance of 

the Agency usually has retribution in the political arena. Politics and administration go together, as they always have and always will.

Whatever their strengths and weaknesses—and all the NASA leaders had 

both—they, as a group, did their best and have kept the Agency sailing “this 

new ocean” of space, often under extremely adverse conditions. NASA and 

the nation have been fortunate to have had such an able and dedicated set 

of leaders.

78
Chapter 5

Space Access

NASA’s Role in Developing Core Launch-Vehicle 

Technologies

J. D. Hunley

Over the past 50 years, NASA has played a significant role in developing the 

nation’s core space launch-vehicle technologies, but it has not done so alone. 

In typical NASA fashion, the Agency has partnered with military services, private industries, and universities to gain access to space. Since many of the key 

launch-vehicle technologies first appeared in missiles, the Army, Navy, and Air 

Force oversaw their development. NASA then borrowed and adapted them 

for use in launch vehicles. Also, because NASA did not exist until 1 October 

1958, its predecessor, the NACA, began some developments that NASA then 

continued; this also happened when NASA absorbed the von Braun group 

and JPL from the Army and the Vanguard Project from the Navy. Finally, even 

after NASA’s own space launch-vehicle activities were well established, in the 

Cold War environment down to 1991 NASA and the military services continued 

to cooperate in the further development of key launch-vehicle technologies.1

Viking and Vanguard

One example in this complicated pattern of innovative cooperation was the 

Vanguard launch vehicle. Vanguard, which was more successful than many 

	 1.	 With	 permission	 from	 the	 publishers,	 this	 article	 is	 adapted	 from	 materials	 in	 J.	 D.	 Hunley,	 The 

Development of Propulsion Technology for U.S. Space-Launch Vehicles, 1926–1991	(College	Station,	

TX:	Texas	A&M	University	Press,	2007);	J.	D.	Hunley,	Preludes to U.S. Space-Launch Vehicle Technology: 

Goddard Rockets to Minuteman III	(Gainesville,	FL:	University	Press	of	Florida,	2008);	and	U.S. SpaceLaunch Vehicle Technology: Viking to Space Shuttle	(Gainesville,	FL:	University	Press	of	Florida,	2008).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

people think, had its technical beginnings in the Viking project. Milton W. 

Rosen at NRL provided the technical leadership for both projects and then 

become the director of launch vehicles and propulsion in NASA’s Office of 

Manned Space Flight Programs. To prepare for development of the Viking 

sounding rocket, he arranged to work for eight months from 1946 to 1947 

at JPL, which was then under contract with the Army. From 1949 to 1955 

Rosen’s NRL team—with contractors from the Glenn L. Martin Company and 

Reaction Motors plus advice from Albert C. Hall—launched 12 Viking rockets that pioneered the use of a gimballed engine for steering and prepared 

Martin engineers and Rosen for the Vanguard project. Also, Viking’s early 

use of aluminum as a structural material showed the way to other rockets 

that used this lightweight metal.2

The Vanguard project began in the fall of 1955 with a contract between 

the Office of Naval Research and the Martin Company for design, construction, 

and preflight testing of a vehicle to launch a U.S. satellite for the IGY (from 

1 July 1957 to 31 December 1958). On 30 November 1958, close to the end 

of the project, NASA took over responsibility for Vanguard. Meanwhile, on 6 

December 1957, the first launch (intended as a test) with a small satellite on 

board was a spectacular failure. But between 17 March 1958 and 18 September 

1959, Vanguard vehicles successfully orbited three satellites in nine attempts. 

This was not a high success rate, but to achieve it the Vanguard team had to 

overcome problems with all three stages of the vehicle, including two different 

solid-propellant third stages. It placed a satellite into orbit before the end of 

the IGY and did so despite a low DOD priority and instructions not to interfere 

with high-priority missile projects. With the Thor missile as a first stage, the 

Air Force used modified Vanguard second and third stages in the Thor-Able 

launch vehicle. A variant of the other third stage, designed by the Allegany 

Ballistics Laboratory (ABL), became a third stage for the Delta launch vehicle 

and a fourth stage for the Scout launch vehicle. A follow-on version of this 

third stage became the third stage for Minuteman I. The strap-down guidance 

	 2.	 Milton	W.	Rosen,	The Viking Rocket Story	(New	York,	NY:	Harper	&	Brothers,	1955),	pp.	18–23,	26,	28,	

58–62,	64,	66,	236–237;	comments	of	Rosen	on	a	draft	treatment	of	Viking,	8	May	2002,	and	in	a	

telephone	conversation	with	Hunley,	16	and	17	May	2002;	interview	with	Milton	William	Rosen	by	David	

DeVorkin,	Washington,	DC,	25	March	1983,	pp.	8–31,	44,	52–53,	copy	available	through	the	Space	

History	Division,	Smithsonian	National	Air	and	Space	Museum	(NASM);	The	Glenn	Martin	 Company,	

“Design	Summary,	RTV-N-12	Viking,	Rockets	1	to	7,”	January	1954,	pp.	36–37,	seen	in	NASM	Archives	

folder	OV-550500-05,	“Viking	Sounding	Rocket.”	At	the	time	Rosen	did	his	apprenticeship	at	JPL,	it	

was	probably	the	preeminent	rocket	propulsion	organization	in	the	United	States.	For	an	overview	of	its	

achievements,	see	Hunley,	Development of Propulsion Technology,	pp.	16–20.	

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Space Access

and control system for Vanguard later found extensive use in launch vehicles. 

And Vanguard improved the gimballing system used on Viking, a technology 

later employed extensively on missiles and launch vehicles.3

These were significant contributions. Taking over the program so late 

in the game, NASA did not participate significantly in making them, but the 

space agency inherited many of the NRL engineers involved in the program, 

and they contributed to other launch vehicles including Delta.

Delta

In January 1959, Rosen suggested to Abe Silverstein, NASA’s Director of Space 

Flight Programs, that the Air Force’s Thor-Able launch vehicle be modified 

to become the Delta launch vehicle (initially called Thor-Delta). Rosen proposed a more reliable electronics control system than the one on Vanguard, 

a stainless-steel combustion chamber (instead of the aluminum one used on 

the second stage of Vanguard) and use of the Bell Telephone Laboratories 

radio guidance system designed for the Titan ballistic missile, among other 

changes. Silverstein agreed to these suggestions, and the original Delta launch 

vehicle thus became an amalgam of NRL and Air Force technologies brought 

together by Rosen as a NASA engineer—an example of the intricate way in 

	 3.	 “Project	Vanguard,	a	Scientific	Earth	Satellite	Program	for	the	International	Geophysical	Year,”	a	report	

to	 the	 Committee	 on	Appropriations,	 U.S.	 House	 of	 Representatives,	 by	 Surveys	 and	 Investigations	

Staff	 [ca.	 15	 February	 1959],	 pp.	 61–62,	 65–66,	 found	 in	 NASM	Archives,	 folder	 OV	 106120-01,	

“Vanguard	II	Launch	Vehicle	4”;	Project	Vanguard	Staff,	“Project	Vanguard	Report	of	Progress,	Status,	

and	Plans,	1	June	1957,”	Naval	Research	Laboratory	Report	4969	(Washington,	DC:	Naval	Research	

Laboratory,	1957),	pp.	2-6	to	2-7,	2-25	to	2-32,	2-34,	2-37	to	2-38,	2-41	to	2-42,	2-45	to	2-50,	

folder	006601,	“Vanguard	Project:	Origins	and	Progress	Reports,”	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	

NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	Kurt	R.	Stehling,	Project Vanguard	(Garden	

City,	NY:	Doubleday,	1961),	pp.	24,	64–66,	82–83,	103,	106–122,	128–130,	132–135,	156–242,	

269–281,	301;	Constance	McLaughlin	Green	and	Milton	Lomask,	Vanguard: A History	(Washington,	

DC:	Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	1971),	pp.	57–90,	176–182,	196–198,	204,	210,	213–214,	219,	

254–255,	283,	285,	287;	John	P.	Hagen,	“The	Viking	and	the	Vanguard,”	in	The History of Rocket 

Technology: Essays on Research, Development, and Utility,	ed.	Eugene	M.	Emme	(Detroit,	MI:	Wayne	

State	 University	Press,	1964),	 pp.	127–128,	140;	 R.	 Cargill	 Hall,	“Origins	 and	 Development	 of	the	

Vanguard	and	Explorer	Satellite	Programs,”	Airpower Historian	11,	no.	1	(January	1964):	109,	111;	

Project	Vanguard	Staff,	“Project	Vanguard	Report	No.	9,	Progress	through	September	15,	1956,”	4	

October	 1956	 (Washington,	 DC:	 Naval	 Research	 Laboratory,	 1956),	 pp.	 5,	 7,	 folder	 006601,	 seen	

in	 “Vanguard	 Project	 Origins	 and	 Progress	 Reports,”	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	

History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	The	Martin	Company,	“The	Vanguard	Satellite	

Launching	Vehicle:	An	Engineering	Summary,”	Engineering	Report	No.	11022,	April	1960,	pp.	4,	49–55,	

63,	cataloged	as	a	book	in	the	NASA	History	Office;	Kurt	R.	Stehling,	“Aspects	of	Vanguard	Propulsion,”	

Astronautics	(January	1958):	45–46;	Milton	Rosen	letter	to	J.	D.	Hunley,	8	May	2002;	document	titled	

“Vanguard	Vehicle	Characteristics,”	n.d.	[after	16	December	1959],	seen	in	NASM	Archives	folder	OV106015-01,	“Vanguard	Project	History.”	

81
NASA’s First 50 Years

which NASA, the military services, and private contractors interacted in their 

contributions to launch-vehicle technology.4

Beginning with the Thor-Able, the Thor series of launch vehicles was 

essentially developed by the Air Force but sometimes used by NASA, while 

the Delta was primarily a NASA launch vehicle until the 1990s, sometimes 

used by the Air Force. Rosen contracted with the Douglas Aircraft Company 

to develop the Delta. NASA and Douglas used components that had already 

been proven in flight, reducing the need for developmental flights. Besides 

Rosen, many of the NASA personnel working on Delta were former Vanguard 

personnel, now working either at NASA Headquarters or at the new GSFC in 

nearby Maryland. Among those at GSFC, William R. Schindler headed a small 

group that provided direction and technical monitoring of Delta development.5

Throughout its history, NASA’s Delta increased its payload capacity through 

a series of models, uprating existing components or adopting new ones that 

had already proven themselves. The first Delta model could launch 100 pounds 

of payload to geosynchronous transfer orbit (GTO). Beginning in 1962, a series 

of Delta models including A, B, C, D, E, J, L, M, M-6, N, 900, 904, 2914, 3914, 

3910/Payload Assist Module (PAM), 3920/PAM, 6925 (Delta II), and 7925 (also 

a Delta II, introduced in 1990) successively increased their payload capabilities, 

with the Delta 3914 (introduced in 1975) able to lift 2,100 pounds to GTO and 

the 7925, 4,010 pounds.6

	 4.	 Milton	W.	Rosen,	“A	Brief	History	of	Delta	and	Its	Relation	to	Vanguard,”	enclosure	in	letter,	Rosen	to	

Constance	McLaughlin	Green,	15	March	1968,	folder	001835,	“Rosen,	Milton	W.	(Misc.	Bio)”	NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	Hunley,	

Development of Propulsion Technology,	pp.	31–32.

	 5.	 Rosen,	 “Brief	 History,”	 pp.	 1–3;	William	 R.	 Corliss,	 draft,	 “History	 of	 the	 Delta	 Launch	Vehicle,”	 with	

comments	by	L.	C.	Bruno,	4	September	1973,	folder	010246,	“Delta	Development	(1959–1972),”	NASA	

Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	 History	 Division,	 NASA	 Headquarters,	Washington,	 DC,	 pp.	 2-6,	

2-12	to	2-13,	3-1	through	3-4,	3-9;	V.	L.	Johnson,	“Delta,”	NASA	Program	Review,	“Launch	Vehicles	

and	Propulsion,”	23	June	1962,	pp.	51,	54–56,	67–68;	J.	D.	Hunley,	ed.,	The Birth of NASA: The Diary 

of T. Keith Glennan	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 SP-4105,	 1993),	 pp.	 336–337,	 357;	W.	M.	Arms,	 Thor: 

The Workhorse of Space—a Narrative History	(Huntington	Beach,	CA:	McDonnell	Douglas	Astronautics	

Company,	1972),	pp.	6-49	to	6-50;	Schindler’s	obituary	in	the	Washington Post	(29	January	1992);	Stuart	

H.	Loory,	“Quality	Control	.	.	.	and	Success,”	New York Herald Tribune	(21	April	1963):	4.

	 6.	 GSFC,	 “The	 Delta	 Expendable	 Launch	Vehicle,”	 NASA	 Facts,	 [1992?],	 folder	 010240,	 “Delta,”	 NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC,	p.	9;	David	

Ian	Wade,	“The	Delta	Family,”	Spaceflight	38	(November	1996):	373;	Jyri	Kork	and	William	R.	Schindler,	

“The	Thor-Delta	Launch	Vehicle:	Past	and	Future”	(paper	SD	32	presented	at	the	19th	Congress	of	the	

International	Astronautical	Federation,	New	York,	NY,	13–19	October	1968),	p.	4;	J.	F.	Meyers,	“Delta	II—A	

New	Era	Under	Way”	(paper	89-196	presented	at	the	40th	Congress	of	the	International	Astronautical	

Federation,	Málaga,	Spain,	7–12	October	1989),	p.	1.

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Space Access

During this period, NASA and its contractors enhanced the capabilities of 

the first and upper stages, increased the size and length of the tanks in the first 

two liquid-propellant stages, upgraded the third-stage motors and guidance 

systems, and added incrementally larger and more numerous solid strap-on 

motors to improve the boost from the launchpad. As suggested already, most 

of these changes were adapted from other vehicles, so they constituted NASA 

contributions to launch technologies only in the way they were adapted to the 

Delta configurations. But that was itself a significant contribution. For the Delta 

E, notably, the third-stage motor, the FW-4 (also employed as a fourth-stage 

motor on the Scout Standard Launch Vehicle), used a case made of fiberglass 

developed by the Owens-Corning Company that included a low-density silica 

material weighing 35 percent less than materials used by competitors. Built by 

the United Technology Corporation of United Aircraft, the FW-4 also had an 

innovative igniter made of aluminum, which itself burned up during combustion and contributed to propulsion.7

A more significant improvement came in the Delta 900 when a strappeddown inertial guidance system replaced the radio-inertial guidance system used 

previously. The inertial measurement unit for the new system derived from the 

abort gyro package for the Apollo Lunar Module. But the Delta Inertial Guidance 

System, as the new system was called, adopted a different digital computer from 

the one used on the Lunar Module, choosing instead a computer Teledyne had 

developed for the Centaur upper stage. Once introduced about 1970, it furnished 

navigation, guidance, and control for the first and second stages of the Delta.8

Another major upgrade for the Delta was the introduction of the RS-27 

as the stage one engine, derived from the Rocketdyne H-1 developed for 

the Saturn I. In 1971, McDonnell Douglas, contractor for the Thor first stage, 

	 7.	 Meyers,	 “Delta	 II,”	 pp.	 1–2;	 Kevin	 S.	 Forsyth,	 “Delta:	The	 Ultimate	Thor,”	 in	 Roger	 D.	 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.	117;	Kork	and	Schindler,	“Thor-Delta,”	pp.	3–4,	6–7;	GSFC,	

“Delta	Expandable	Launch	Vehicle,”	p.	9;	Chemical	Propulsion	 Information	Agency,	CPIA/M1 Rocket 

Motor Manual,	vol.	1	(Laurel,	MD:	CPIA,	1994),	unit	480,	FW-4.

8.	 E.	W.	 Bonnett,	 “A	 Cost	 History	 of	 the	Thor-Delta	 Launch	Vehicle	 Family”	 (paper	A74-08	 presented	

at	the	25th	Congress	of	the	 International	Astronautical	Federation,	Amsterdam,	30	September	to	5	

October	1974),	pp.	6,	8,	17,	20;	“The	NASA/Grumman	Lunar	Module,”	pamphlet	in	NASM	Archives,	

folder	OA-69200-01,	“Apollo	Lunar	Module”;	information	from	procurement	list	for	the	Lunar	Module,	

by	telephone	from	Joshua	Staff,	Cradle	of	Aviation	Museum,	Garden	City,	NY;	Pat	M.	Kurten,	“Apollo	

Experience	 Report—Guidance	 and	 Control	 Systems:	 Lunar	 Module	 Abort	 Guidance	 System,”	 TN	

D-7990	(Washington,	DC:	NASA,	1975),	p.	9;	Charles	R.	Gunn,	“The	Delta	and	Thor/Agena	Launch	

Vehicles	for	Scientific	Applications	Satellites,”	 GSFC	preprint	X-470-70-342,	1970,	 NASM	Archives,	

folder	OD-240014-02,	“Delta	Launch	Vehicle,	NASA	Report,”	p.	7.

83
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 1:	A	Delta	E	rocket	launching	from	KSC	on	5	December	1968	carrying	Highly	Eccentric	Orbit	Satellite	1	

for	the	European	Space	Research	Organization.	Notice	the	strap-on	motors	at	the	base	of	the	Delta.	NASA

84
Space Access

subcontracted with Rocketdyne for development, testing, and production of 

the RS-27 by modifying the H-1 for compatibility with the Thor airframe. The 

RS-27 provided about 207,000 pounds of thrust at sea level, 2,000 more than 

the most powerful H-1 and 37,000 more than the previous MB-3 Block II 

engine used on the Thor.9

To give but one more instance of the improvements to the Delta, in 1980 it 

featured a new third stage, the PAM with a Thiokol Star 48 motor. Developed 

starting in 1976 for use with the Space Shuttle, the PAM was derived from the 

propulsion unit for Minuteman stage 3, which Thiokol began producing in 

1970 using an Aerojet design. On the Shuttle, the PAM propelled satellites to 

higher orbits than the Shuttle’s roughly 160-mile range. The PAM used the same 

hydroxyl-terminated polybutadiene (HTPB)-ammonium perchlorate-aluminum 

propellant as Thiokol’s Antares IIIA rocket motor, itself a third-generation, 

third-stage propulsion unit for the Scout launch vehicle. These examples 

show the complicated ways in which different rocket programs influenced 

and borrowed from one another. Thiokol also used titanium for the PAM’s 

Star 48 motor case and the recently developed carbon-carbon composite for 

the nozzle’s exit cone.10

NASA planned to discontinue use of the Delta in the late 1980s in favor of 

reliance on the Space Shuttle, but with the Challenger disaster on 28 January 

1986, the Air Force awarded a contract to McDonnell Douglas for the first 

Delta IIs, with more contracts from both NASA and the Air Force to follow. In 

1989, NASA turned over to the Air Force responsibility for managing Delta. As 

more an Air Force than a NASA launch vehicle after that, it evolved through 

	 9.	 Paul	N.	Fuller	and	Henry	M.	Minami,	“History	of	the	Thor/Delta	Booster	Engines,”	History of Liquid Rocket 

Engine Development in the United States, 1955–1980,	ed.	Stephen	E.	Doyle,	American	Astronautical	

Society	History	Series,	 vol.	13	(San	Diego,	CA:	Univelt,	1992),	pp.	41,	46–47;	Chemical	Propulsion	

Information	Agency,	CPIA/M5 Liquid Propellant Engine Manual (Laurel,	MD:	CPIA,	1994),	unit	85,	LR79-

NA-11,	unit	173,	H-1	Booster	Engines,	and	unit	196,	RS2701A.

	 10.	 Thiokol	General	Corporation,	Aerospace Facts,	house	organ,	quarterly	(spring	1979):	21,	25,	NASM	

archives,	folder	 B-7-820030-02,	“Thiokol	General	Publications,	‘Aerospace	Facts’.”	On	the	Antares	

III,	 see	 CPIA/M1,	 unit	 577,	 Antares	 IIIA,	 and	 John	W.	 R.	Taylor,	 ed.,	 Jane’s All the World’s Aircraft, 

1977–1978	(London,	U.K.:	Jane’s	Yearbooks,	1978),	p.	837.	On	Minuteman	III,	see	Hunley,	Preludes,	

chap.	9,	 and	CPIA/M1,	 units	457	 (Aerojet’s	 version)	 and	547	 (for	Thiokol’s	 similar	 variant).	 On	the	

development	of	HTPB,	see	Hunley,	Preludes,	p.	324.	On	carbon-carbon,	see	S.	Luce,	“Introduction	to	

Composite	Technology,”	prepared	for	Cerritos	College	Composite	Technician	Course,	n.d.,	p.	6,	filed	as	

a	book	in	NASM	library;	Andrew	C.	Marshall,	Composite Basics,	3rd	ed.	(Walnut	Creek,	CA:	Marshall	

Consulting,	1993),	pp.	1–4;	Julius	Jortner,	“Analysis	of	Transient	Thermal	Responses	in	Carbon-Carbon	

Composite,”	 in	Thermochemical Behavior of High-Temperature Composites,	ed.	Julius	Jortner	(New	

York,	NY:	American	Society	of	Mechanical	Engineers,	1982),	p.	19.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Delta III and Delta IV configurations to become part of the Air Force’s Evolved 

Expendable Launch Vehicle (EELV) program.11

Scout

Even more than Delta, the Scout family was a NASA contribution to launchvehicle technology. From 1956 to 1957, an imaginative group of engineers, 

including later spacecraft designer Maxime A. Faget and promoter of spherical motors Joseph G. “Guy” Thibodaux, Jr., conceived of Scout at the Pilotless 

Aircraft Research Division on Wallops Island, Virginia, then part of the NACA 

and its Langley Aeronautical Laboratory. Their idea was to combine four solidpropellant motors to create an all-solid-propellant launch vehicle. By the time 

that NASA had absorbed the NACA, the Air Force had become interested in the 

concept and reached an agreement with the new space agency to develop the 

vehicle. Once that had occurred, the military air arm would consider modifying 

Scout for its own use, calling the result the Blue Scout.12

The original NASA Scout was developed from an Aerojet motor called 

the Jupiter Senior because that firm had produced it as part of the attempt 

	 11.	 Steven	J.	Isakowitz,	International Reference Guide to Space Launch Systems (Washington,	DC:	American	

Institute	of	Aeronautics	and	Astronautics	[AIAA],	1991),	p.	203;	“Delta	II	Becomes	New	Medium	Launch	

Vehicle,”	Astro News	29,	 no.	2	 (23	 January	1987),	microfilm	roll	K168.03-2849,	Air	 Force	 Historical	

Research	Agency	(AFHRA),	Maxwell	AFB,	AL;	Luis	Zea,	“Delta’s	Dawn:	The	Making	of	a	Rocket,”	Final 

Frontier	(February–March	1995):	46;	Frank	Colucci,	“Blue	Delta,”	Space	3	(May–June	1987):	42;	James	

M.	Knauf,	Linda	R.	Drake,	and	Peter	L.	Portanova,	“EELV:	Evolving	toward	Affordability,”	Aerospace America

(March	2002):	38,	40;	Joseph	C.	Anselmo,	“Air	Force	Readies	Pick	of	Two	EELV	Finalists,”	Aviation Week & 

Space Technology	(9	December	1996):	82–83;	GSFC,	“Delta	Expendable	Launch	Vehicle,”	p.	3.

	 12.	 James	R.	Hansen,	“Learning	through	Failure:	NASA’s	Scout	Rocket,”	National Forum	81,	no.	1	(winter	

2001):	 18–23;	 Abraham	 Leiss,	 “Scout	 Launch	 Vehicle	 Program	 Final	 Report—Phase	 VI,”	 NASA	

Contractor	 Report	165950,	 pt.	1,	May	1982,	 pp.	 xxxiii,	31–32,	53–54,	56,	65,	90,	131	 (available	

through	NASA	libraries	on	microfiche	X82-10346);	Matt	Bille,	Pat	Johnson,	Robyn	Kane,	and	Erika	R.	

Lishock,	“History	and	Development	of	U.S.	Small	Launch	Vehicles,”	in	To Reach the High Frontier: A 

History of U.S. Launch Vehicles, ed.	Roger	D.	Launius	and	Dennis	R.	Jenkins (Lexington,	KY:	University	

Press	 of	Kentucky,	2002),	 pp.	204–213;	 GSFC,	 NASA	 Facts,	“NASA’s	Scout	 Launch	Vehicle,”	April	

1992;	Jonathan	McDowell,	“The	Scout	Launch	Vehicle,”	Journal of the British Interplanetary Society	47	

(March	1994):	102–107	(henceforth,	JBIS);	James	R.	Hansen,	Spaceflight Revolution: NASA Langley 

Research Center from Sputnik to Apollo	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4308,	1995),	pp.	197–200,	209–

210,	214–217;	Joseph	Adams	Shortal,	A New Dimension: Wallops Island Flight Test Range, the First 

Fifteen Years	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	Reference	Publication	1028,	1978),	pp.	vii,	484–573,	702–709,	

712,	716–717,	720;	“History—Blue	Scout,”	in	the	archives	of	the	U.S.	Air	Force	Space	and	Missile	

Systems	Center	History	Office	(SMC/HO),	Los	Angeles	Air	Force	Base,	CA,	“Blue	Scout	Chronology,”	

entries	for	August	1958,	14	October	1958,	3	February	1959,	24	February	1959,	8	May	1959,	24–29	

May	1959,	9	September	1959,	2	December	1959,	7	December	1959,	9	March	1960,	30	June	1960,	

13	September	1960,	and	21	September	1960	(hereafter	cited	as	“Blue	Scout	Chronology”	and	“Blue	

Scout	History”)—1	January	1962	through	20	June	1962	contained	in	the	chronology;	Andrew	Wilson,	

“Scout—NASA’s	Small	Satellite	Launcher,”	Spaceflight	21,	no.	11	(November	1979):	449–452.

86
Space Access

to convert the Jupiter missile to a solid-propellant version for use at sea; a 

Thiokol motor was created by changing the binder for JPL’s Sergeant motor 

to a polybutadiene-acrylic acid substance with metallic additives; an ABL 

third stage was developed from the Hercules Powder Company third stage 

for Vanguard but enlarged for Scout; and the original ABL third stage for 

Vanguard was used as the fourth stage for Scout. The first four-stage NASA 

Scout flew from Wallops on 1 July 1960. With some of the same stages rearranged and some different motors, the Air Force launched the first of its Blue 

Scouts, known as the Blue Scout Junior, on 21 September 1960.13

Like the Delta, the Scout evolved through a great many configurations, at 

least one of them with five stages. Gradually, the distinction between Blue 

and NASA Scouts blurred with an agreement between NASA and DOD on 10 

January 1970 providing that NASA would contract for Scout launches from 

Vandenberg Air Force Base for both DOD and itself. More usually, NASA launched 

its Scouts from Wallops or Cape Canaveral, Florida. After 26 April 1967, under 

an agreement between NASA and Italy, some Scouts also launched from the 

San Marcos platform off the coast of Kenya, Africa. Located on the equator, 

San Marcos enabled Scouts to place satellites into orbits not achievable from 

the three U.S. launch sites.14

Guidance and control for the early NASA Scouts used a strapped-down 

inertial reference package from Minneapolis-Honeywell. It included miniature 

integrating rate gyros to detect deviations from the programmed path and an 

electronic signal conditioner to convert the outputs of the gyros to appropriate control signals. NASA selected the Chance Vought Corporation as airframe 

contractor. Under a variety of different names, this firm gradually acquired 

	 13.	 Shortal,	A New Dimension,	pp.	706–709,	720;	Hansen,	Spaceflight Revolution,	pp.	199–200,	209–210;	

Wilson,	“Scout,”	pp.	449–450;	U.S.	President,	Executive	Office,	National	Aeronautics	and	Space	Council,	

Report to Congress . . . January 1 to December 31, 1960	(Washington,	DC:	GPO,	1961),	p.	91	(subsequent	

citations	of	reports	in	this	series	omit	place	of	publication	and	publisher,	which	are	the	same	as	in	this	

citation);	Mark	Wade,	“Blue	Scout	Junior,”	pp.	1–2,	available	at	http://friendspartners.ru/partners/mwade/

Ivs/blurjunior.htm	(accessed	6	November	2002);	Gunter	Krebs,	“Blue	Scout	Junior	(SRM-91,	MER-6),”	p.	1,	

available	 at	 http://www.skyrocket.de/space/doc_lau/blue_scout_jr.htm	 (accessed	 20	 November	 2002);	

“Blue	Scout	Chronology,”	entries	for	21	September	1960;	8	November	1960;	17	August	1961;	4	December	

1961;	24	July	1962;	21	November	1962;	18	December	1962;	“Blue	Scout	History,”	narrative	included	in	

the	“Blue	Scout	Chronology”	package.

	 14.	 McDowell,	“Scout	Launch	Vehicle,”	pp.	101–103,	105–106;	U.S.	President,	Report to Congress . . . , 

1967,	p.	127;	GSFC,	“NASA’s	Scout	Launch	Vehicle”;	Leiss,	“Scout,”	pp.	2–3,	50,	53–54,	56–57,	63,	

447–448;	Wilson,	“Scout,”	pp.	449,	453–457,	459;	U.S.	President,	Report to Congress . . . , 1965,	p.	

149;	U.S.	President,	Aeronautics and Space Report . . . , 1972 Activities,	p.	89;	Aeronautics and Space 

Report . . . , 1974 Activities,	p.	128;	Aeronautics and Space Report . . . , 1979 Activities,	p.	90;	Bille	et	

al.,	“Small	Launch	Vehicles,”	pp.	208–209.

87
NASA’s First 50 Years

responsibility for systems management and motor procurement under the 

overall control of Langley Research Center (LaRC) until January 1991, when 

responsibility for Scout management shifted to GSFC.15

After NASA and Vought overcame some initial systems engineering and 

quality control problems, Scout went on to become a long-lasting and successful small launch vehicle. It continued to develop, with a long series of 

improvements increasing the payload capability of the vehicle from only 131 

pounds into a 300-mile circular orbit in 1964 to 454 pounds by 30 October 

1979, when the final G-1 configuration became operational. The final launch 

occurred on 5 August 1994.16

Meanwhile, on 16 February 1961, Scout became the first entirely solidpropellant launch vehicle, as well as the first rocket from Wallops, to achieve 

orbit. Among the upgrades from the initial Scout was the Antares IIA thirdstage motor that first flew on 29 March 1962. Developed by the ABL, this motor 

featured one of the early composite modified double-base propellants, a major 

innovation in solid-propellant technology. This launch marked the shift from 

Scout version X-1 to X-2, with the payload capability growing from the initial 

131 pounds to 168.17

Among other notable technological achievements in the Scout program was 

Thiokol’s Antares IIIA third-stage motor developed between 1977 and 1979. 

It was an early example of the use of hydroxyl-terminated polybutadiene—a 

major new propellant developed by a number of chemists at the Air Force 

Rocket Propulsion Laboratory, Thiokol, the Army’s Redstone Arsenal, Atlantic 

Research, Hercules, and the Navy, among others. First used on a Scout launch 

	 15.	 Leiss,	“Scout,”	pp.	26,	31–32,	84–88,	128–133;	Shortal,	A New Dimension,	pp.	710–711;	LTV	Astronautics

Division,	“The	Scout,”	February	1965,	pp.	3-10	to	3-15,	filed	under	“Standard	Launch	Vehicle	I,”	at	SMC/

HO;	Vought	Corporation,	“Scout	User’s	Manual,”	1	June	1977,	NASM	Archives,	folder	OS-050000-70,	

“Scout	Vehicle	Users	Manuals,	1977”;	Bille	et	al.,	“Small	Launch	Vehicles,”	p.	206;	A.	Wilson,	“Scout,”	p.	

457;	SMC/HO;	“Press	Release	Information,	Solar	Radiation	Scout	Program,”	attachment	to	letter,	Space	

Systems	 Division/SSVXO	 (Maj.	 Reed)	to	 DCEP	 (Maj.	 Hinds),	6	April	1962,	 in	“Hyper	 Environment	Test	

System	(TS	609A)”	folder,	SMC/HO;	“NASA	Awards	Scout	Contracts,”	Aviation Week	(2	March	1959):	22.	

None	of	these	sources	indicates	whether	the	guidance	and	control	computer	was	analog	or	digital,	or	even	

whether	Minneapolis-Honeywell	provided	it	or	procured	it	from	another	company.

	 16.	 McDowell,	 “Scout	 Launch	Vehicle,”	 pp.	 101–103,	 105–106;	 Leiss,	 “Scout,”	 pp.	 2,	 53–54,	 56–57,	

63,	129,	447–448;	Wilson,	“Scout,”	pp.	449,	453–457,	459;	Bille	et	al.,	“Small	Launch	Vehicles,”	pp.	

208–211;	Gunter	Krebs,	“Scout,”	pp.	2,	5,	available	at	http://www.skyrocket.de/space/doc_lau_fam/

scout.htm	(accessed	26	November	2002).

	 17.	 Leiss,	“Scout”	pp.	3–4,	53–54,	56,	65,	131,	437–438;	Wilson,	“Scout,”	pp.	449–452,	459;	McDowell,	

“Scout	 Launch	 Vehicle,”	 pp.	 100–102,	 105–106;	 Hansen,	 Spaceflight Revolution,	 pp.	 209–210;	

Shortal,	A New Dimension,	p.	720;	U.S.	President,	Report to Congress . . . , 1961,	p.	9;	CPIA/M1,	unit	

428,	X254A1;	GSFC,	“NASA’s	Scout	Launch	Vehicle.”	See	also	Hunley,	Viking to Space Shuttle,	p.	331.

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on 30 October 1979, the Antares IIIA also featured a composite case made 

of Kevlar 49 and epoxy that was lighter than fiberglass and yielded a mass 

fraction of 0.923. Because of the motor’s high chamber pressure and exhaust 

velocity, it also used a 4-D carbon-carbon nozzle-throat insert.18

Scout was notable not so much for the new technologies it introduced, 

however, as for the niche it filled in the launch-vehicle spectrum. Had it not 

been useful, it would not have lasted for nearly three and a half decades and 

placed into orbit many scientific and applications payloads including Transit 

navigational satellites and Explorer satellites.19

Centaur

Centaur was not originally a NASA project, but NASA contributed significantly 

to its ultimately successful development. Krafft Ehricke—a former member of 

Wernher von Braun’s group in Germany and then the United States who was 

working for the Convair Division of General Dynamics in 1957 at the time 

of Sputnik—and other engineers decided that liquid hydrogen and liquid 

oxygen were the propellants needed for a powerful upper stage for Convair’s 

Atlas space-launch vehicle. Ehricke presented the idea to DOD’s new ARPA 

on 7 February 1958. The Advanced Research Projects Agency was aware that 

Pratt & Whitney had designed both an engine burning liquid hydrogen and 

a centrifugal pump to feed the fuel to the engine for an Air Force aircraft 

project named Suntan. The following August, ARPA issued an order for an 

upper stage to be developed by Convair and liquid-hydrogen/liquid-oxygen 

engines to be developed by Pratt & Whitney. Then in October and November, 

as NASA was coming into being, the Air Force (at ARPA’s direction) issued 

development contracts to the two firms.20

	 18.	 Leiss,	 “Scout,”	 p.	 54;	CPIA/M1,	 unit	 577,	Antares	 IIIA;	 Brian	A.	Wilson,	 “The	 History	 of	 Composite	

Motor	Case	Design”	(AIAA	paper	93-1782,	presented	at	the	29th	Joint	Propulsion	Conference	and	

Exhibit,	28–30	June	1993,	Monterey,	CA),	slides	entitled	“The	70’s—Kevlar	is	King”	and	“Composite	

Motor	Cases	by	Thiokol”;	C.	A.	Zimmerman,	J.	Linsk,	and	G.	J.	Grunwald,	“Solid	Rocket	Technology	

for	the	Eighties”	(International	Astronautical	Federation	paper	81-353,	presented	at	the	International	

Astronautical	Federation	XXXII	Congress,	6–12	September	1981,	Rome,	Italy),	p.	9.

	 19.	 Hunley,	Development of Propulsion Technology,	pp.	70,	73;	Steven	J.	Isakowitz,	International Reference 

Guide to Space Launch Systems,	updated	by	Jeff	Samella	(Washington,	DC:	AIAA,	1995),	p.	329.	

	20.	 John	 L.	 Sloop,	 Liquid Hydrogen as a Propulsion Fuel, 1945–1959	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	

SP-4404,	1978),	pp.	113,	141–166,	178–179,	194–195,	200–201;	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.	17–20;	Joel	E.	Tucker,	“History	of	the	RL10	Upper-Stage	

Rocket	Engine,”	in	Liquid Rocket Engine Development,	ed.	Doyle,	vol.	13,	p.	125;	Space	Division,	

“Space	and	Missile	Systems	Organization:	A	Chronology,	1954–1979,”	p.	56	(hereafter	cited	as	

89
NASA’s First 50 Years

On 1 July 1959, the Centaur project transferred to NASA, but Lieutenant 

Colonel John D. Seaberg, who previously had overseen the Suntan project, 

remained as the Air Force’s Air Research and Development Command project 

manager. Milton Rosen became his counterpart in NASA, with Ehricke remaining as Convair’s project manager, a post he had held since November 1958. 

These people had to contend with liquid hydrogen’s extremely low density, 

cold boiling point, low surface tension, and wide-ranging flammability—qualities that went along with its major asset: provision of more thrust per pound 

than any other chemical propellant then in use (about 35 to 40 percent more 

than the kerosene used as Atlas’s fuel).21

In contending with liquid hydrogen’s peculiarities, Ehricke in particular 

was hindered by limitations on funding. The Advanced Research Projects 

Agency had insisted that General Dynamics restrict its spending on Centaur 

to $36 million. Another stipulation was that the project not interfere with 

Atlas development and that, where possible, it use off-the-shelf equipment 

as well as Atlas tooling and technology. Pratt & Whitney’s funding was $23 

million, for a total of $59 million to cover the first six launches, beginning in 

January 1961. This amount did not include the costs of a guidance/control 

system, Atlas boosters, and launch equipment. As of 1962, Ehricke believed 

that the limited funding had prevented his project engineers from doing 

necessary ground testing. Another limiting factor was a lower priority than 

DOD’s highest rating: DX. The absence of a DX priority prevented subcon-

“SAMSO	Chronology”),	copy	generously	provided	by	the	Space	and	Missile	Systems	Center	History	

Office;	David	N.	Spires,	Beyond Horizons: A Half Century of Air Force Space Leadership	(Peterson	

Air	 Force	 Base,	 CO:	 Air	 Force	 Space	 Command,	 1997),	 pp.	 57–58;	 Convair	 Division,	 General	

Dynamics,	“Atlas	Fact	Sheet,”	n.d.,	p.	3,	NASM	Archives,	folder	OA-401060-01,	“Atlas	Launch	

Vehicles	(SLV-3).”

	 21.	 Sloop,	Liquid Hydrogen,	pp.	13–14,	20–26,	37–38,	49–58,	200–201;	“Statement	of	Krafft	A.	Ehricke,	

Director,	Advanced	Studies,	General	Dynamics/Astronautics,”	in	Centaur Program,	Hearings	before	the	

Subcommittee	on	Space	Sciences	of	the	Committee	on	Science	and	Astronautics,	H.	Rep.,	87th	Cong.,	

2nd	sess.,	15	and	18	May	1962,	pp.	5,	63–66	(overall	document	hereafter	cited	as	Hearings,	Centaur 

Program);	oral	history	interview	(OHI),	Krafft	A.	Ehricke,	by	John	L.	Sloop,	26	April	1974,	p.	59,	folder	

010976,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	

DC;	 Dan	 Heald,	 “LH2

	Technology	 was	 Pioneered	 on	 Centaur	 30	Years	Ago,”	 in	History of Rocketry 

and Astronautics, Proceedings of the Twenty-Sixth History Symposium of the International Academy of 

Astronautics,	ed.	Philippe	Jung,	American	Astronautical	Society	History	Series,	vol.	21	(San	Diego,	CA:	

Univelt,	1997),	p.	207;	NASA	News	Release	62-66,	“First	Launch	of	Centaur	Launch	Vehicle	Scheduled,”	

3	April	1962,	NASM	Archives,	folder	OA-40107-01,	“Atlas	Centaur	Launch	Vehicle”;	General	Dynamics/

Astronautics,	“Centaur	Primer:	An	Introduction	to	Hydrogen-Powered	Space	Flight,”	June	1962,	folder	

10203,	 “Centaur	 General	 (1959–89),”	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	 History	 Division,	

NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

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Space Access

tractors from providing the same level of service to Centaur as they afforded 

to higher-priority efforts.22

Under these restrictions, Convair and Pratt & Whitney designed Centaur’s 

structure and engines. Ehricke’s engineers used the unusual steel balloon 

structure developed for Atlas, which employed pressure in the propellant 

tanks to avoid heavy structural support. The resultant light airframe was 

critical because liquid hydrogen’s low density forced use of a larger propellant tank than was needed for the denser liquid oxygen. Convair placed the 

liquid oxygen tank on the bottom of the stage. Then, to keep weight at a 

minimum, Ehricke’s engineers made the bottom of the liquid hydrogen tank 

concave so that it fit over the convex top of the oxygen tank, reducing length, 

hence weight. But the 4 feet of length and 1,000 pounds of weight that were 

saved led to problems from the smallness of the liquid hydrogen molecules 

and their extreme coldness. The oxygen tank’s –299°F temperature was so 

much “warmer” than the liquid hydrogen’s –423°F that without insulation, the 

hydrogen would turn to gas, expand, and exit the tank through a pressure 

relief valve needed to prevent explosion. To solve this problem, the engineers placed a bulkhead between the two tanks with a 0.2-inch cavity filled 

with fiberglass-covered Styrofoam. When technicians evacuated air from the 

pores in the Styrofoam, replaced it with gaseous nitrogen, and then filled 

the upper tank with liquid hydrogen, the nitrogen froze, creating a vacuum 

because the solid nitrogen occupied less space than when it was liquefied, 

a process called cryopumping.23

As a result of the low funding and consequent limited testing, it was 

only in mid-1961 that Convair discovered heat transfer through the bulkhead 

more than 50 times what was expected. Engineers learned that there were 

extremely small cracks in the bulkhead through which the hydrogen was 

escaping, eliminating the vacuum and causing the resultant “heat” from the 

liquid oxygen to gasify the liquid hydrogen in the tank. The gas that escaped 

from the pressure relief valve left insufficient liquid hydrogen for a second 

engine burn needed for propelling a satellite from a transfer orbit to a higher 

one. Besides insufficient testing, the requirement to use Atlas technology 

	 22.	 Hearings,	Centaur Program,	pp.	4–5,	105–106.

	 23.	 Joseph	Green	and	Fuller	C.	Jones,	“The	Bugs	That	Live	at	–423°,”	Analog: Science Fiction, Science 

Fact	80,	no.	5	(January	1968):	8–41;	Richard	Martin,	“A	Brief	History	of	the	Atlas	Rocket	Vehicle,”	pt.	

II,	Quest: The History of Spaceflight Quarterly	8,	no.	3	[2000	or	2001]:	43;	Heald,	“LH2

	Technology,”	pp.	

209–210;	G.	R.	Richards	and	Joel	W.	Powell,	“Centaur	Vehicle,”	JBIS	42	(March	1989):	99.

91
NASA’s First 50 Years

on Centaur had meant that quality control detected cracks down to about 

1/10,000 inch. In 1961 Ehricke’s engineers found that hydrogen could escape 

through even finer openings that would not have been a problem in Atlas’s 

liquid-oxygen tanks.24

By the time Ehricke’s engineers had uncovered this problem, NASA had 

assigned responsibility for Centaur to MSFC (on 1 July 1960). Hans Hueter, 

Director of MSFC’s Light and Medium Vehicles Office, managed Centaur for 

the Center, while Navy Commander W. Schubert served as Centaur project 

chief at NASA Headquarters. But it was John L. Sloop, Deputy Director of the 

Headquarters group managing NASA’s small and medium-sized launch vehicles, 

who visited General Dynamics/Astronautics (GD/A) from 11 to 14 December 

1961, to have a firsthand look at the problem. “GD/A,” he wrote, “has studied 

the problem and concluded that it is not practical to build bulkheads where 

. . . a vacuum could be maintained.” The firm planned to convert to “separate 

fuel and oxidizer tanks.” Sloop urged sticking with the integral tank, and the 

Centaur team found that adding nickel to welds increased the single-spot shear 

strength and fixed the problem.25

Centaur experienced many other problems in the course of its development. 

Some involved the engines, forcing Pratt & Whitney into numerous modifications and redesigns. As a result of all of these problems, the first Centaur launch 

did not occur until 8 May 1962, 15 months past the date originally planned. 

Even so, the upper stage exploded, splitting open the hydrogen tank. Before 

this date, both Sloop and Hueter had complained to GD/A about its matrix 

organization in which most of the engineers on the Centaur team there did 

not report directly to Ehricke or his project engineer. As a result, Ehricke was 

reassigned as not “enough of a[n] S.O.B. to manage a program like this,” and 

	 24.	 Hearings,	Centaur Program,	pp.	9,	51,	97;	Dawson	and	Bowles,	Centaur,	pp.	19–20,	34,	51,	74;	Irwin	

Stambler,	“Centaur,”	Space/Astronautics	(October	1963):	74;	John	L.	Sloop,	Memorandum	for	Director	

of	Space	Sciences,	18	December	1961,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	

NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	John	L.	Sloop	Papers,	box	22,	binder,	“Centaur	Management	

&	 Development,	 Jan.	 1961–Mar.	 62”;	W.	 Schubert,	 “Centaur,”	 in	 NASA,	 Office	 of	 Space	 Sciences,	

“Program	 Review,	 Launch	 Vehicles	 and	 Propulsion,”	 23	 June	 1962,	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	

Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC,	pp.	173–175.

	 25.	 Hearings,	Centaur Program,	pp.	7,	33,	47,	66;	MSFC,	bio,	Hans	Herbert	Hueter,	fiche	no.	1067,	Marshall	

History	 Office	Master	 Collection,	 copy	 in	 folder	 001055,	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	

History	 Division,	 NASA	 Headquarters,	Washington,	 DC;	 Schubert,	 “Centaur,”	 pp.	 121–180;	 Sloop,	 18	

December	1961	Memorandum,	pp.	1–2,	quotations;	John	L.	Sloop,	Memo	for	Director	of	Space	Sciences,	

20	December	1961,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC,	p.	3,	John	L.	Sloop	Papers,	box	22,	binder	“Centaur	Management	&	Development,	Jan.	

1961–Mar.	62”;	Sloop’s	bio,	Sloop,	Liquid Hydrogen,	p.	3;	Stambler,	“Centaur,”	pp.	73–75.

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Grant L. Hansen was placed in charge of a “projectized” organization with 

about 1,100 employees reporting directly to him.26

At the beginning of January 1962, in agreement with DOD, NASA converted 

existing Centaur contracts from Air Force to NASA agreements. Direct project 

management shifted from the Air Force to MSFC. By this time, funding had 

increased from the original $59 million to $269 million, now for 10 instead of 

the original 6 vehicles. Following the 8 May explosion, congressional hearings 

had called Centaur management “weak and ineffective.” The hearings had 

brought out a difference in design approach between MSFC, where Wernher 

von Braun’s team tended to be conservative, and GD/A, which was more willing to gamble on design improvements.27

Von Braun was uncomfortable with the “pressure-stabilized tanks” of 

Centaur and quietly sought to cancel the program in favor of a combination 

of his own Saturn launch vehicle with an Agena upper stage. Not willing to 

do this, on 8 October 1962, NASA Headquarters began to transfer management of the Centaur program to Lewis Research Center, which had a history 

of work with liquid hydrogen and to which Silverstein had returned as Center 

Director in 1961.28

Under Lewis management, Centaur continued to have growing pains but 

went on to become a highly successful heavy-lift upper stage with numerous 

upgrades. Of equal importance, the success of Centaur led to the use of liquid 

hydrogen as a fuel on the Saturn launch vehicle’s upper stages and in the Space 

Shuttle. NASA, especially the Lewis (now Glenn) Research Center, and its contractors had made this major advance in launch-vehicle technology possible.29

	 26.	 Tucker,	“RL10	Upper-Stage	Rocket	Engine,”	pp.	126–137,	139;	Richards	and	Powell,	“Centaur	Vehicle,”	

pp.	 100,	 102–103;	 Green	 and	 Jones,	 “Bugs	 That	 Live	 at	 –423°,”	 pp.	 21–22;	 Hearings,	 Centaur 

Program,	pp.	12–27,	115–116;	Schubert,	“Centaur,”	p.	131;	Isakowitz,	Space Launch Systems	(1995),	

p.	205;	correspondence	by	Deane	Davis,	General	Dynamics	(ret.),	in	JBIS	35,	no.	1	(January	1982):	17;	

Heald,	“LH2

	Technology,”	p.	206.	

	 27.	 Philip	Geddes,	“Centaur,	 How	 It	Was	Put	 Back	on	Track,”	Aerospace Management	(April	1964):	25,	

28–29;	Hearings,	Centaur Program,	pp.	2,	9,	37,	66,	104;	Hearings,	Centaur Program: Centaur Launch 

Vehicle Development Program,	Report	of	the	Committee	on	Science	and	Astronautics	(hereafter	cited	as	

Centaur	Report),	87th	Cong.,	2nd	sess.	H.	Rep.	1959,	2	July	1962,	pp.	11	(first	quotation),	12;	Sloop,	

Liquid Hydrogen,	p.	208.

	 28.	 Hearings,	 Centaur Program,	 p.	 59	 for	 quotation;	 Dawson	 and	 Bowles,	 Centaur,	 pp.	 54–55,	 60;	

Silverstein	biography	from	Virginia	P.	Dawson,	Engines and Innovation: Lewis Laboratory and American 

Propulsion Technology	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4306,	1991),	pp.	169–170,	177–178.	

	 29.	 See	Hunley,	Development of Propulsion Technology,	pp.	185–190;	Hunley,	U.S. Space Launch-Vehicle 

Technology,	pp.	107–121;	and	the	sources	they	cite.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Saturn

The Saturn launch vehicles were a major part of the Apollo program and 

a significant NASA contribution to core launch-vehicle technologies. Even 

they, however, did not originate with NASA. Wernher von Braun’s group at 

the ABMA began in April 1957 to respond to DOD projections foreseeing a 

need for a huge booster to launch weather and communications satellites. 

The von Braun team, which joined NASA as MSFC only in mid-1960, looked 

at the possibility of a launch vehicle with 1.5 million pounds of thrust in its 

first stage. When ARPA came into existence in early 1958, it urged the ABMA 

to develop the vehicle with existing and proven engines. Von Braun’s group 

then selected eight uprated Thor-Jupiter engines in a cluster to provide the 

1.5 million pounds of thrust, leading to an ARPA order on 15 August 1958 for 

what soon came to be called the Saturn launch vehicle.30

Under an 11 September 1958 contract, the Rocketdyne Division of North 

American Aviation supplied an H-1 engine that significantly exceeded the 

description “uprated Thor-Jupiter engine.” It was a product of research and 

development on an X-1 engine begun by an Experimental Engines Group at 

Rocketdyne in 1957. In other ways, the interim Saturn I and Saturn IB launch 

vehicles were based on technologies developed for the Redstone, Jupiter, Thor, 

Atlas, Centaur, and other vehicles and stages. For example, the Saturn I second 

stage (confusingly designated the S-IV) held six RL10 engines originally developed by Pratt & Whitney for Centaur. The Douglas Aircraft Company built the 

S-IV using information from Centaur contractors Convair and Pratt & Whitney, 

as well as its own experience.31

Development of Saturn I was problematic. Engineers encountered combustion instability in the H-1 engines, sloshing in the first stage’s propellant tanks, 

stripped gears in a turbopump on the H-1, an explosion of the S-IV stage during 

	 30.	 Roger	 E.	 Bilstein,	 Stages to Saturn: A Technological History of the Apollo/Saturn Launch Vehicles

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4206,	1980),	pp.	25–28;	MSFC,	Saturn	Systems	Office,	“Saturn	Illustrated	

Chronology	(April	1957–April	1962),”	1962,	pp.	1–5,	in	Bellcom	Collection,	box	13,	folder	3,	NASM	

Archives;	Charles	Murray	and	Catherine	Bly	Cox,	Apollo: The Race to the Moon	(New	York,	NY:	Simon	&	

Schuster,	1989),	p.	54.

	 31.	 Bilstein,	Stages to Saturn,	pp.	28–31,	188–189;	MSFC,	“Saturn	Illustrated	Chronology,”	pp.	2–4,	8–10,	

12–13,	17–20,	22;	“The	Experimental	Engines	Group,”	transcript	of	a	group	interview	with	Bill	(W.	F.)	

Ezell,	Cliff	(C.	A.)	Hauenstein,	Jim	(J.	O.)	Bates,	Stan	(G.	S.)	Bell,	and	Dick	(R.)	Schwarz,	[Rocketdyne]	

Threshold: An Engineering Journal of Power Technology,	no.	4	(spring	1989):	21–27;	Robert	S.	Kraemer,	

Rocketdyne: Powering Humans into Space	(Reston,	VA:	AIAA,	2006),	pp.	122–127;	Linda	Neuman	Ezell,	

NASA Historical Data Book,	vol.	2	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4012,	1988),	pp.	56–58;	B.	K.	Heusinger,	

“Saturn	 Propulsion	 Improvements,”	 Astronautics & Aeronautics	 (August	 1964):	 25;	 U.S.	 President,	

Report to Congress . . . , 1964,	p.	128.

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static testing, and other problems. Rocketdyne engineers fixed the combustion 

instability by rearranging the injector orifices and adding baffles to the injector 

face. Different kinds of baffles solved the sloshing problem. Rocketdyne and 

MSFC engineers redesigned the gearbox with wider teeth in the gears. And 

Douglas engineers apparently redesigned a shutoff valve to prevent another 

S-IV explosion. The 10 test flights of Saturn I between 27 October 1961 and 

30 July 1965 revealed problems (including the sloshing), but NASA counted 

all of the flights as successful, a testimony to the thoroughness and extensive 

ground testing of the MSFC engineers and their contractors.32

Guidance and control for the Saturn I (as well as the IB and V) issued 

from an instrument unit atop the launch vehicle’s uppermost stage. More than 

most other Saturn components, MSFC engineers designed this unit in-house. 

The core of the system consisted of a stabilized platform that continued an 

evolution from those on the V-2, the Redstone, Jupiter, and Pershing missiles. The instrument unit itself evolved through the Saturn IB and Saturn V. 

The system used gyroscopes and accelerometers that were less than half as 

heavy as those on the Jupiter. Their weight was the same as on the Pershing 

missile, but the materials changed from aluminum, beryllium, and Monel to 

beryllium alone, providing better thermal and structural stability. Designed 

and developed by the von Braun team at MSFC and its Army predecessor 

organizations, the Saturn inertial platform system was built by Bendix and 

tested on a high-speed sled track at Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico. 

IBM made the lightweight, high-speed digital computer for the instrument 

unit (IU). Engineers at MSFC built the first four IUs before NASA selected 

IBM as the prime contractor for the remaining units on the Saturn IB and 

those on the Saturn V.33 This system worked well on the six flights to the 

Moon and was a noteworthy achievement.

	 32.	 Bilstein,	 Stages to Saturn,	 pp.	 77–78,	 98–104,	 184–185,	 324–337,	 414–415;	 Summary,	 “Final	

Report	S-IV	All-Systems	Stage	Incident	January	24,	1964,	May	11,	1964,”	seen	in	George	E.	Mueller	

Collection,	Manuscript	Division,	Library	of	Congress,	box	91,	folder	14,	pp.	2–3;	Heusinger,	“Saturn	

Propulsion	Improvements,”	p.	25;	MSFC,	“Saturn	Illustrated	Chronology,”	pp.	46–47;	NASA/MSFC	et	al.,	

“Saturn	IB	News	Reference,”	December	1965	(changed	September	1968),	p.	12-2,	available	at	http://

www.apollosaturn.com/ascom/sibnews/contents.htm	(accessed	28	March	2008).

	 33.	 Bilstein,	Stages to Saturn,	pp.	241–252,	477;	NASA/MSFC	et	al.,	“Saturn	IB	News	Reference,”	pp.	1-4,	

7-1,	7-3	to	7-7,	B-2;	Douglas	Aircraft	Company,	“Saturn	IB	Payload	Planner’s	Guide,”	n.d.,	pp.	38–39,	

Bellcom	Collection,	box	14,	folder	6,	“Saturn	IB,”	NASM;	Walter	Haeussermann,	“Developments	in	the	

Field	of	Automatic	Guidance	and	Control	of	Rockets,”	Journal of Guidance and Control	4,	no.	3	(May–June	

1981):	232–235;	series	of	news	releases	and	progress	reports	on	microfilm	roll	32,270,	frames	127–

187,	201–236,	293–311,	404–406,	498–500,	506–507,	510–554,	581,	586,	and	roll	32,273,	frames	

215–216,	all	at	the	AFHRA,	Maxwell	Air	Force	Base,	Alabama;	MSFC,	Astrionics	Laboratory,	“Astrionics	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Saturn IB was a modified version of the Saturn I and a step toward the 

Saturn V, with the two Saturn I stages modified and redesignated S-IB and 

S-IVB. The S-IVB was the second stage of the Saturn IB and (with modifications) the third stage of Saturn V. S-IB contained uprated versions of the 

H-1 engine, while S-IVB employed a new and much larger liquid-hydrogen 

engine than the RL10. The thrust of the new J-2 exceeded that of all six RL10s 

on Saturn I. On 10 September 1960, Rocketdyne won a contract to develop 

the J-2. Its engineers had trouble with the injectors for the new engine until 

NASA facilitated Rocketdyne’s borrowing of technology from the RL10 in one 

of many examples of shared information between competing contractors in 

launch-vehicle development as well as of NASA’s direct involvement with its 

contractors’ development efforts.34

With three instead of just two stages, the 363-foot Saturn V was a substantially larger and more powerful launch vehicle than the 224-foot Saturn 

IB. The Saturn V’s five F-1 engines—built by Rocketdyne under a 9 January 

1959 contract with NASA—produced 7,760,000 pounds of thrust as compared with a total thrust of 1,600,000 pounds from the eight H-1s on the 

Saturn IB. Like the H-1, the F-1 burned RP-1 (kerosene) and liquid oxygen, 

so its basic technology was not new. But the huge increase in thrust on the 

F-1 necessitated a major advance in the art of engine design and development. In a hot-fire test of the F-1 at Edwards Air Force Base on 28 June 1962, 

combustion instability produced meltdown of the engine. A large team of 

engineers (including Jerry Thomson from MSFC and Paul Castenholz and 

System	Handbook,	Saturn	Launch	Vehicle,”	2	January	1964,	pp.	4-29,	4-33,	4-35,	Bellcom	Collection,	

box	13,	folders	8	and	9,	NASM;	NASA,	“Saturn	V	News	Reference,”	MSFC,	KSC,	and	contractors,	August	

1967	 (portions	 changed	 December	 1968),	 pp.	 7-1	 to	 7-5,	 available	 at	 http://history.msfc.nasa.gov/

saturn_apollo/saturnv_press_kit.html (accessed	28	March	2008),	and	unpaginated	Instrument	Unit	Fact	

Sheet	(accessed	21	March	2008);	S.	M.	Seltzer,	“Saturn	IB/V	Astrionics	System,”	n.d.,	p.	5-10,	Bellcom	

Collection,	box	13,	folder	10,	NASM.

	 34.	 NASA/MSFC	et	al.,	“Saturn	IB	News	Reference,”	pp.	1-3	to	2-5,	3-1,	3-22,	8-1,	12-2,	and	unpaginated	

H-1	 engine	 fact	 sheet;	 Ezell,	 NASA Historical Data Book,	 vol.	 2,	 p.	 56;	 MSFC,	 “Saturn	 Illustrated	

Chronology,”	pp.	46,	50,	58,	60;	Bilstein, Stages to Saturn,	pp.	83,	97,	138,	140–145;	“The	Apollo	

Spacecraft:	A	Chronology,”	vol.	1,	pp.	53–54,	folder	013782,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	

NASA	 History	 Division,	 NASA	 Headquarters,	Washington,	 DC;	 “Propulsion	 J-2”;	 Hunley,	 ed.,	 Birth 

of NASA,	 pp.	 149–150,	 including	 n.	 6;	 NASA/MLP	 (Tischler)	 to	 NASA/ML	 (Rosen),	“AGC	 Proposal,”	

8	 July	 1962,	 folder	 013782,	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	 History	 Division,	 NASA	

Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	Rocketdyne,	“Data	Sheet,	J-2	Rocket	Engine,”	3	June	1975,	folder	

013782,	 “Propulsion	 J-2”	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	 History	 Division,	 NASA	

Headquarters,	Washington,	 DC;	NASA/MLP	(Tischler)	to	NASA/ML	(Rosen),	“M-1	Engine	 Review	at	

AGC,	July	11–12,	1962,”	24	July	1962,	folder	013782,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	

History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

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Dan Klute from Rocketdyne) found that, as Thomson admitted, the instability 

started “for reasons we never quite understood.” Employing trial-and-error 

methods together with high-speed instrumentation and thorough analysis, 

the team tested 40 to 50 different designs before discovering a combination 

of baffles, enlarged fuel-injection orifices, and changed impingement angles 

that proved effective.35

Multiple other challenges faced NASA and contractor engineers working on 

the Saturn V. Eleven failures of the turbopump on the F-1 all required redesign 

or a change in manufacturing procedures. The S-II second stage, designed and 

built by the Space and Information Systems Division of North American Aviation 

(NAA), proved especially defiant of solution to its problems. Engineers at MSFC 

helped those at NAA to solve welding problems with a 2014 T6 aluminum alloy 

used for the huge propellant tanks. At NASA’s insistence, NAA changed managers. Retired Major General Robert E. Greer introduced management techniques 

he had learned at the Air Force’s Ballistic Missile Division. All of these issues 

delayed the first launch of the Saturn V from August until 9 November 1967. 

But then Apollo 4 (flight AS-501) was nearly flawless.36

	 35.	 Ray	A.	Williamson,	“The	Biggest	of	Them	All:	Reconsidering	the	Saturn	V,”	in	To Reach the High Frontier,	

ed.	 Launius	 and	 Jenkins,	 p.	 315;	 NASA,	 “Saturn	 V	 News	 Reference,”	 unpaginated	 Saturn	 V	 Fact	

Sheet,	unpaginated	F-1	Engine	Fact	Sheet,	and	pp.	1-1,	3-1	to	3-5;	Bilstein,	Stages to Saturn,	pp.	

58–60,	104–113,	115–116,	339–344,	414–416;	NASA/MSFC	et	al.,	“Saturn	 IB	News	 Reference,”	

unpaginated	 Saturn	 IB	 Fact	 Sheets;	 MSFC,	 “Saturn	 Illustrated	 Chronology	 (to	 April	 1962),”	 pp.	 4,	

13–14;	Ezell,	NASA Historical Data Book,	vol.	2,	p.	59;	William	J.	Brennan,	“Milestones	in	Cryogenic	

Liquid	Propellant	Rocket	Engines”	(AIAA	paper	67-978,	delivered	at	the	AIAA	4th	Annual	Meeting	and	

Technical	Display,	23–27	October	1967,	Anaheim,	CA),	pp.	8–9;	Vance	Jacqua	and	Allan	Ferrenberg,	

“The	Art	of	Injector	Design,”	[Rocketdyne]	Threshold,	no.	4	(spring	1989):	4,	6,	9;	“Experimental	Engines	

Group,”	Threshold,	no.	4	(spring	1989):	21;	Murray	and	Cox,	Apollo,	pp.	145,	147–151,	179–180.	

Initially,	the	F-1	produced	1,500,000	pounds	of	thrust,	but	later	versions	yielded	1,522,000	pounds	

per	engine.	For	more	details	on	achieving	combustion	stability	in	the	F-1,	see	Fred	E.	C.	Culick	and	

Vigor	Yang,	“Overview	of	Combustion	Instabilities	in	Liquid-Propellant	Rocket	Engines,”	in Liquid Rocket 

Engine Combustion Instability,	ed.	Vigor	Yang	and	William	E.	Anderson	(Washington,	DC:	AIAA,	1995),	

pp.	8–9	and	sources	cited;	Kraemer,	Rocketdyne,	p.	166.	

	 36.	 Bilstein,	Stages to Saturn,	pp.	116–119,	191–209,	211–233,	269;	George	E.	Mueller	to	J.	L.	Atwood,	

19	December	1965,	and	MA/S.	C.	Phillips	to	M/G	E.	Mueller,		“Command	and	Service	Modules	and	

S-II	Review,”	18	December	1965,	both	from	George	E.	Mueller	Collection,	Manuscripts	Division,	Library	

of	Congress,	box	84,	folder	3;	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),	 pp.	86–89,	

90;	Barton	Hacker	and	E.	M.	Emme,	notes	on	interview	with	Milton	W.	Rosen	at	NASA	Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC,	14	November	1969,	folder	001835,	“Rosen,	Milton	(Miscellaneous	Biography),”	NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	Mike	

Gray,	Angle of Attack: Harrison Storms and the Race to the Moon	(New	York,	NY:	Norton,	1992),	pp.	20,	

22–34,	65–72,	153–156,	159–161,	196–199,	202,	208–209,	253–255,	353–355;	Murray	and	Cox,	

Apollo,	pp.	166–171,	183,	231–236.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Resolving problems required teamwork to create and perfect the Saturn 

rockets that ultimately carried 18 astronauts to the vicinity of the Moon, 

whence 12 of them actually landed on Earth’s natural satellite. Both Germans 

and Americans at MSFC cooperated with other NASA Centers, universities, 

contractors, and the U.S. military to produce the Apollo launch vehicles. A 

key ingredient in the success of the Saturn launch vehicles was management 

systems. As he had done in Germany developing the V-2 missile and at the 

ABMA with the Redstone, Jupiter, and Pershing, von Braun served as an overall 

systems engineer. He displayed an uncanny ability to grasp technical details 

at meetings and explain them in terms that experts from multiple disciplines 

could understand. He used weekly notes from and to his managers that communicated difficulties and facilitated solutions across organizations at MSFC.37

For Saturn and the Apollo program in general, however, these techniques 

alone were not enough. Samuel Phillips, a general borrowed from the Air Force 

to direct the Apollo program, and George E. Mueller, who was Phillips’s boss as 

head of NASA’s Office of Manned Space Flight (OMSF), provided contributions 

of their own. Mueller assumed his post in NASA on 1 September 1963, when 

the Apollo program was well under way. Determining that the program was 

behind schedule, Mueller quickly changed the way Saturn was flight-tested 

from launches with only parts of the vehicle “live” to the all-up method used 

for the Air Force’s Minuteman missile in which the first Saturn IB and the 

Saturn V launches would use all live stages.38

All-up testing conflicted with the step-by-step procedures the von Braun group 

favored. When von Braun presented the idea to his staff on 4 November 1963, it created a “furor.” Recalling numerous failed launches in the V-2, Redstone, and Jupiter 

programs, structures expert William A. Mrazek said the idea was insane; other lab 

heads and project managers pronounced it a “dangerous idea” and “impossible.” 

	 37.	 Dunar	and	Waring,	Power to Explore,	Bilstein,	Stages to Saturn,	p.	263;	Stephen	B.	Johnson,	“Samuel	

Phillips	and	the	Taming	of	Apollo,”	Technology and Culture	42	(October	2001):	691;	OHI	with	Ernst	

Stuhlinger	by	J.	D.	Hunley,	Huntsville,	AL,	20	September	1994,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	

NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC,	pp.	48–49.

	 38.	 W.	Henry	Lambright,	Powering Apollo: James E. Webb of NASA	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	

Press,	1995),	pp.	116–118;	biographical	sketch	of	Mueller	in	Arnold	S.	Levine,	Managing NASA in the 

Apollo Era	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4102,	1982),	p.	308;	Murray	and	Cox,	Apollo,	pp.	152–154;	

Ezell,	NASA Historical Data Book,	vol.	2,	pp.	6,	625,	642;	Bilstein,	Stages to Saturn,	p.	349;	interview	

with	Mueller	by	Robert	Sherrod,	21	April	1971,	in	Before This Decade is Out . . . : Personal Reflections 

on the Apollo Program,	ed.	Glen	E.	Swanson	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4223,	1999),	p.	108;	Lt.	Gen.	

Otto	J.	Glasser,	 interview	by	Lt.	Col.	John	J.	Allen,	seen	 in	AFHRA,	K239.0512-1566,	5–6	January	

1984,	pp.	75–76;	AAD-2/Dr.	Mueller	to	A/Mr.	Webb	through	AA/Dr.	Seamans,	“Reorientation	of	Apollo	

Plans,	Oct.	26,	1963,”	Mueller	Collection,	box	91,	folder	9;	Johnson,	“Samuel	Phillips,”	pp.	694–695.

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Figure 2: Diagram	of	a	Saturn	V	launch	vehicle’s	components	and	characteristics.	NASA

Von Braun had his own doubts but had to agree with Mueller that launches of 

individual stages would prevent landing on the Moon on schedule (before 1970).39

Despite the doubts, all-up testing worked on Saturn as it had on Minutemen. 

Another practice at MSFC that did not accord well with the procedures 

Mueller and Phillips had learned in the Air Force (Mueller as a contractor) was 

an inclination to base technical decisions on their merits alone without much 

consideration of schedule or cost. The effects of decisions on time, budget, 

and configuration control had become critical in the Air Force, and Phillips 

arranged, soon after his arrival at NASA Headquarters in January 1964, to 

issue a NASA Apollo Configuration Management Manual (May 1964) that was 

adapted from an Air Force counterpart. In June, Phillips and a subordinate 

presented configuration management to an Apollo Executive Group of which 

von Braun was a member. Von Braun complained that costs of developing 

programs were “very much unknown, and configuration management does not 

	 39.	 Bilstein,	Stages to Saturn,	 pp.	349–351,	 first	 quotation	from	 p.	349;	 Dunar	 and	Waring,	Power to 

Explore,	pp.	94–95,	second	and	third	quotations.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

help,” arguing the need for flexibility. Phillips explained that the system did 

not preclude flexibility but simply ensured that managers defined an expected 

design “at each stage of the game” and then communicated with everyone else 

when it had to change. It took some time for Center Directors like von Braun 

to accept the new system, but it was firmly established about the end of 1966.40

Mueller and Phillips introduced other management procedures and a control 

room at NASA Headquarters with data links to Field Centers. Part of the system 

was a NASA version of the Navy’s Program Evaluation and Review Technique 

used in the Polaris program. Without their borrowings from such military procedures, it seems unlikely that the United States would have landed astronauts 

on the Moon before 1970. But contributions by von Braun and his MSFC team 

were also critical, as were those of other NASA Centers (including Lewis Research 

Center for liquid-hydrogen technology used on the Saturn upper stages) and 

NASA contractors, among others. Saturn was very much a team effort.41

Space Shuttle

The pattern of collaboration and partnership continued with the Space Shuttle, 

a radical departure from the expendable launch vehicles that had preceded it. 

Now discredited in many circles by the Challenger and Columbia disasters, as 

well as the high costs of Shuttle missions, the reusability of most parts of the 

Shuttles seemed a good idea in the 1970s. People hoped at the time that like 

airliners, Shuttles would be reused many times, saving on costs. A key feature 

of the orbiters was a Space Shuttle main engine (SSME) with a combustionchamber pressure well above that of previous liquid-hydrogen- and liquidoxygen-burning engines (including Saturn’s J-2), employing something called 

staged combustion, in which the hydrogen-rich turbine exhaust would flow 

	 40.	 Dunar	and	Waring,	Power to Explore,	p.	67;	Lambright,	Powering Apollo,	p.	118;	Johnson,	“Samuel	Phillips,”	

pp.	694–695,	697,	700–703,	quotations	from	this	source;	OHIs	of	Lieutenant	General	Samuel	Phillips	by	

Tom	Ray,	22	July	1970,	pp.	8,	12–13,	25	September	1970,	folder	001701,	NASA	Historical	Reference	

Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC,	p.	22;	Levine,	Managing NASA,	p.	

309.	For	a	somewhat	different	perspective	on	these	developments,	see	Yasuchi	Sato,	“Local	Engineering	and	

Systems	Engineering:	Cultural	Conflict	at	NASA’s	Marshall	Space	Flight	Center,	1960–1966,”	Technology 

and Culture	46,	no.	3	(July	2005):	561–583

	 41.	 Johnson,	 “Samuel	 Phillips,”	 pp.	 700–704;	 MSFC,	 Apollo Program Management	 3	 (December	 1967):	

4–29,	Mueller	Collection,	box	64,	folder	9;	Levine,	Managing NASA,	pp.	156–157;	Navy	briefing	in	Samuel	

C.	 Phillips	 Collection,	Manuscripts	 Division,	 Library	 of	 Congress,	 box	 47,	 folder	 12;	 Swanson,	Before 

This Decade is Out . . .	,	pp.	101–102,	108;	Samuel	C.	Phillips	to	Dr.	Mueller,	3	October	1964,	Mueller	

Collection,	 box	 43,	 folder	 4;	 OHI	 of	 General	 Samuel	 C.	 Phillips	 by	 Frederick	 I.	 Ordway,	 Cosmos	 Club,	

Washington,	DC,	29	January	1988,	including	extracts	from	Phillips’s	Wernher	von	Braun	Memorial	Lecture,	

NASM,	28	January	1988,	Washington,	DC,	pp.	1,	3–4,	7–8,	Phillips	Collection,	box	138,	folder	10.	

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into the combustion chamber to add to the thrust. In July 1971, Rocketdyne 

won the contract to design and build this complex engine.42

Timing for such an engine was difficult and delicate, as was the design of 

adequate turbopumps. Fires that burned up the evidence of what had caused 

them and other problems delayed the first flight of the Shuttle from March 

1978 to 12 April 1981. “In assessing the technical difficulties that have been 

causing delays in the development and flight certification of the SSME at full 

power, it is important to understand that the engine is the most advanced liquid 

rocket motor ever attempted,” stated an ad hoc committee of the Aeronautics 

and Space Engineering Board in 1981. “Chamber pressures of more than 3,000 

psi, pump pressures of 7,000–8,000 psi, and an operating life of 7.5 hours 

have not been approached in previous designs of large liquid rocket motors,” 

the Board added.43

Initial plans for the Shuttle had called for a fully reusable, two-stage vehicle, 

but budgetary realities in the early 1970s forced NASA and its contractors 

to compromise and create an only partially reusable Shuttle system with a 

stage-and-a-half concept in which solid rocket boosters (SRBs) attached to a 

nonreusable external tank would provide 71.4 percent of the Shuttle’s thrust 

at liftoff and during the early stage of ascent until they separated about 75 

seconds into the mission for later recovery and reuse. The SRBs would cost 

more per launch than reusable liquid boosters, but because of the Air Force’s 

development of the similar, if somewhat smaller, Titan solid rocket motors 

	 42.	 See	Dennis	R.	Jenkins,	Space Shuttle: The History of the National Space Transportation System, the First 

100 Missions,	3rd	ed.	(Cape	Canaveral,	FL:	D.	R.	Jenkins,	2001),	and	T.	A.	Heppenheimer,	Development 

of the Space Shuttle, 1972–1981,	History of the Space Shuttle,	vol.	2	(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	

Institution	Press,	2002),	for	(sometimes	conflicting)	details	of	Shuttle	development	and	construction.	

For	the	specifics	of	the	paragraph	in	the	narrative:	Heppenheimer,	Development of the Space Shuttle,	

p.	126;	Jenkins,	Space Shuttle,	pp.	224–225;	Robert	E.	Biggs,	“Space	Shuttle	Main	Engine:	The	First	

Ten	Years,”	in	Liquid Rocket Engine Development,	ed.	Doyle,	vol.	13,	pp.	75–76;	Al	Martinez,	“Rocket	

Engine	Propulsion	Power	Cycles,”	[Rocketdyne]	Threshold,	no.	7	(summer	1991):	17.	The	discrediting	

of	the	Space	Shuttle	is	at	least	implied	by	NASA’s	plans	to	replace	it	with	Shuttle-derived	hardware	in	

an	Apollo-like,	nonreusable	configuration	for	Ares	I	and	Ares	V,	to	be	discussed	at	the	end	of	this	chapter.

	 43.	 Heppenheimer,	Development of the Space Shuttle,	pp.	127–128,	133–134,	148–171;	R.	Wiswell	and	

M.	Huggins,	“Launch	Vehicle	&	Upper	Stage	Liquid	Propulsion	at	the	Astronautics	Laboratory	(AFSC)—A	

Historical	 Summary”	 (unpaginated	 paper,	 AIAA-1990-1839,	 presented	 at	 the	 AIAA/SAE/ASME/ASEE	

26th	Joint	Propulsion	Conference,	Orlando,	FL,	16–18	July	1990);	Biggs,	“Space	Shuttle	Main	Engine,”	

pp.	80–118;	Jenkins,	Space Shuttle,	pp.	225–227;	Aeronautics	and	Space	Engineering	Board,	Assembly	

of	Engineering,	National	Research	Council,	Report	of	Ad	Hoc	Committee	on	Liquid	Rocket	Propulsion	

Technologies,	Liquid Propulsion Technology: An Evaluation of NASA’s Program	(Washington,	DC:	National	

Academy	Press,	1981),	p.	16,	Mueller	Collection,	box	198,	folder	9	“NASA,	1981.”

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NASA’s First 50 Years

(SRMs), SRBs would be cheaper to develop at a time when NASA’s budget 

was most constrained.44

Marshall Space Flight Center awarded contracts to Lockheed Propulsion 

Company, United Technology Center, Thiokol, and Aerojet General to study 

configurations for the SRB motors. NASA followed these up with Requests for 

Proposals (RFPs) on 16 July 1973. All four companies responded with technical and cost proposals, but Aerojet ignored a requirement in the RFP and 

offered a welded case without segmentation, stating that such a case would 

be less costly, lighter, and safer, with barge transportation to launch sites from 

Aerojet’s production facility. If Aerojet could have won the contract, possibly 

the Challenger accident, caused by a problem with a joint in the segmented 

motor case, might have been avoided. But Thiokol won the contract on 20 

November 1973.45

Thiokol acquired some of the technology used to develop the SRBs from 

participation in the Air Force’s Large Segmented Solid Rocket Motor Program, 

part of which NASA paid for. This included a Lockseal gimballing nozzle, 

developed by Lockheed, that Thiokol scaled up and called Flexseal. But also 

included were experience and access to materials, designs, and fabrication 

methods that Thiokol could apply to the Shuttle SRBs. Thiokol’s participation 

in the Minuteman missile program was also, no doubt, helpful.46

As George Hardy, the project manager for the SRB at MSFC from 1974 to 

1982, said, the Center tried “to avoid inventing anything new” in the booster’s 

design. Thus the steel case was the same type (D6AC) used on Minuteman 

and the Titan IIIC, showing once again the interconnectedness of missile and 

launch-vehicle development. The PBAN propellant was the same type used 

	 44.	 Rockwell	International,	“Press	Information:	Space	Shuttle	Transportation	System,”	January	1984,	NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC,	p.	21;	

Dennis	R.	Jenkins,	“Broken	in	Midstride:	Space	Shuttle	as	a	Launch	Vehicle,”	in	To Reach the High 

Frontier,	ed.	Launius	and	Jenkins,	pp.	358–375;	Joan	Lisa	Bromberg,	NASA and the Space Industry

(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1999),	pp.	77–93;	T.	A.	Heppenheimer,	The Space 

Shuttle Decision: NASA’s Search for a Reusable Space Vehicle	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4221,	1999),	

pp.	245–290,	331–422;	Jenkins,	Space Shuttle,	pp.	139–152,	167–173;	John	F.	Guilmartin,	Jr.,	and	

John	Walker	Mauer,	A Space Shuttle Chronology, 1964–1973: Abstract Concepts to Letter Contracts,	

5	vols.	(Houston,	TX:	JSC-23309,	1988),	esp.	4:	V-5	to	V-18,	V-23	to	V-135,	V-193,	V-194,	V-237	to	

V-240,	and	5:	VI-45,	VI-46.	

	 45.	 Jenkins,	Space Shuttle,	pp.	184–186;	Heppenheimer,	Development of the Space Shuttle,	pp.	71–78;	

John	M.	Logsdon	et	al.,	Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents in the History of the U.S. Civil 

Space Program,	vol.	4,	Accessing Space	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4407,	1999),	Document	II-17,	pp.	

269,	271;	Bromberg,	NASA and the Space Industry,	p.	100.

	 46.	 This	paragraph	summarizes	a	longer	treatment	in	J.	D.	Hunley,	“Minuteman	and	the	Development	of	

Solid-Rocket	Launch	Technology,”	in	To Reach the High Frontier,	ed.	Launius	and	Jenkins,	pp.	271–278.

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Space Access

Figure 3: Two	sets	of	cross	sections	of	the	original	and	redesigned	field	joint	for	the	Space	Shuttle	

solid	rocket	boosters	showing	details	of	both.	Taken	from	NASA,	National Space Transportation System 

Reference,	vol.	1,	Systems and Facilities (Washington,	DC:	NASA,	1988),	pp.	33a,	33b.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

on the first stage of Minuteman and the Navy’s Poseidon missile, even though 

other propellants provided higher performance. Cost and human rating here 

were more critical than greater thrust per pound of propellants.47

One place where designers departed from MSFC advice “to avoid anything 

new” was in the tang-and-clevis joints connecting the segments of the SRBs. 

The Shuttle joints were superficially similar to those in the Titan IIIC but differed in important ways, including orientation. In the Titans, the single tang 

pointed upward and fit into the two-pronged clevis. With the clevis pointing 

down, encasing the tang, the Titan joint was protected from rain or dew dripping into it. The Shuttle’s joint faced the opposite direction. Additionally, the 

Titan’s joint used only one O-ring; the Shuttle had two. To keep the single O-ring 

from shrinking in cold weather and then possibly allowing a gas blow-by when 

the motor was firing, the Titan had heating strips, which the Shuttle lacked.48

It seems clear that this change in design, plus bad judgment in launching 

during cold weather on 28 January 1986, caused the Challenger accident. 

This is perhaps confirmed by the extensive redesign of the field joints following the accident. Instead of having the tang remain a cylindrical piece 

fitting down into the clevis, a redesign added a tang capture feature, creating 

in effect a slot in the tang with the capture feature enveloping one side of 

the clevis. This tang capture feature limited “the deflection between the tang 

and clevis O-ring sealing surfaces caused by motor pressure and structural 

loads.” A third (or capture-feature) O-ring added to the sealing capability of 

the new design, with an additional leak check port ensuring that the primary O-ring was in its proper place at ignition and beyond. Custom shims 

“between the outer surface of the tang and inner surface of the outer clevis 

leg” compressed the O-rings. The redesign ensured that the seals would not 

leak under twice the anticipated structural deflection. Also added to the 

	 47.	 Jenkins,	 Space Shuttle,	 p.	 186;	 Hunley,	“Minuteman	 and	the	 Development	 of	 Solid-Rocket	 Launch	

Technology,”	 pp.	 278–280;	 Rockwell	 International,	 “Press	 Information:	 Space	 Shuttle,”	 pp.	 21–46;	

CPIA/M1,	 Unit	 556,	 Space	 Shuttle	 Booster;	 Heppenheimer,	 Development of the Space Shuttle,	 pp.	

175–176.

	 48.	 Comments	of	Bernard	Ross	Felix,	22	August	2000,	on	a	draft	of	Hunley,	“Minuteman	and	Solid	Rocket	

Technology”;	see	also	Hunley,	“Minuteman,”	pp.	278–280;	Wilbur	C.	Andrepont	and	Rafael	M.	Felix,	

“The	 History	 of	 Large	 Solid	 Rocket	Motor	 Development	 in	 the	 United	 States”	 (paper	AIAA-94-3057	

presented	at	the	30th	AIAA/ASME/SAE/ASEE	Joint	Propulsion	Conference	and	Exhibit,	Indianapolis,	IN,	

27–29	June	1994),	pp.	7,	14;	Heppenheimer,	Development of the Space Shuttle,	pp.	177–178;	J.	D.	

Hunley,	“The	Evolution	of	Large	Solid	Propellant	Rocketry	in	the	United	States,”	Quest: The History of 

Spaceflight Quarterly	6,	no.	1	(1998):	31,	37;	NASA,	National Space Transportation System Reference,	

vol.	1,	Systems and Facilities	(Washington,	DC:	NASA,	1988),	pp.	33a,	33c.

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Space Access

field joint were external heaters to maintain a temperature of at least 75°F 

and moisture seals to help maintain the temperature and prevent water from 

seeping into the joint (see figure 3, p. 103).49

A third part of the Shuttle’s propulsion system consisted of the external 

tank, the major nonreusable portion of the launch vehicle. On 6 August 1973, 

NASA chose Martin Marietta to negotiate a contract for the design, development, and testing of the external tank. Larry Mulloy at MSFC, who worked 

on the tank, thought it posed no technological challenge despite the aerodynamic heating and heavy loads it faced on ascent. As it turned out, the weight 

limit MSFC established—75,000 pounds—did present a major challenge, and 

the external insulation later caused the loss of Space Shuttle Columbia on 1 

February 2003. There had been a “breach in the Thermal Protection System on 

the leading edge of the left wing” of the orbiter due to its being struck by “a 

piece of insulating foam” from the external tank. As the orbiter reentered the 

atmosphere, this breach produced aerodynamic superheating of the wing’s 

aluminum structure, melting it and causing the breakup of the vehicle as 

aerodynamic forces increased.50

Because it was mainly used as a spacecraft and landing vehicle, the orbiter 

itself will not be discussed in this account of the Shuttle as a launch vehicle. 

As the tragic losses of Challenger and Columbia showed, overall the Shuttle 

was clearly a flawed launch vehicle. One of the flaws apparently resulted from 

failure to use the tang-and-clevis joint from Titan III, although there may have 

been proprietary issues that prevented this. The Aerojet proposal would have 

eliminated joints altogether, but concerns besides nonresponsiveness to the 

RFP may have caused that option to be rejected. Other flaws clearly resulted 

	 49.	 Allan	 J.	McDonald	 with	 James	 R.	 Hansen,	 “Truth,	 Lies,	 and	 O-Rings:	The	 Untold	 Story	 Behind	 the	

Challenger	 Accident:	 An	 Excerpt	 from	 the	 forthcoming	 book,”	 Quest: The History of Spaceflight 

Quarterly	14,	no.	3	(2007):	6–11;	Logsdon	et	al.,	Exploring the Unknown,	 vol.	4,	Accessing Space,	

Document	 II-39,	 “Presidential	 Commission	 on	 the	 Space	 Shuttle	 Challenger	Accident,	‘Report	 at	 a	

Glance,’	 June	 6,	 1986,”	 pp.	 358–359,	 363,	 366–368,	 386;	 Stephen	 P.	Waring,	 “The	‘Challenger’	

Accident	and	Anachronism:	The	Rogers	Commission	and	NASA’s	Marshall	Space	Flight	Center”	(paper	

presented	at	the	National	Council	on	Public	History	Fifteenth	Annual	Conference,	22	April	1993),	pp.	9–15,	

18;	NASA,	National Space Transportation System Reference,	vol.	1,	pp.	27–33h,	quotations	from	p.	33a.

	 50.	 Jenkins,	Space Shuttle,	pp.	186–187;	Rockwell	International,	“Press	Information:	Space	Shuttle,”	p.	46;	

Heppenheimer,	Development of the Space Shuttle,	pp.	68–69;	Dunar	and	Waring,	Power to Explore,	

pp.	292–294,	301,	323;	Columbia	Accident	Investigation	Board,	Report,	vol.	1	(August	2003),	p.	9	(for	

quotations),	 available	 at	 http://anon.nasa-global.speedera.net/anon.nasa-global/CAIB/CAIB_lowres_

intro.pdf	(accessed	26	March	2008).	(For	the	general	 site	 of	the	Report,	 see	http://www.nasa.gov/

columbia/home/CAIB_Vol1.html,	 accessed	 same	 date;	 henceforth	 Columbia	 Accident	 Investigation	

Board,	Report).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

from limited funding and negotiations of NASA managers with the Air Force, 

OMB, and the White House. As the Columbia Accident Investigation Board 

stated, however, “Launching rockets is still a very dangerous business, and will 

continue to be so for the foreseeable future as we gain experience at it. It is 

unlikely that launching a space vehicle will ever be as routine an undertaking 

as commercial air travel.”51

Nevertheless, for all of its flaws, the Space Transportation System constituted a notable engineering achievement. It has achieved goals that would be 

more difficult for an expendable launch vehicle to accomplish. So far, these 

have ranged from rescue and relaunch of satellites in less than satisfactory 

orbits to the five repairs and upgrades to the Hubble Space Telescope. These 

are remarkable feats that make the Space Shuttle an important contribution to 

launch-vehicle technology, even as NASA engages in developing its successor.

Ares

From 2005 to 2006, NASA began developing two new launch vehicles intended 

to avoid the hazards of a reusable orbiter that could be damaged by dislodged 

insulation from an external tank. These vehicles, dubbed Ares I and Ares V, 

were expected to build upon Shuttle and other existing launch technology to 

support future missions not just to the ISS, but to the Moon, Mars, and elsewhere in the solar system. By mostly abandoning reusability, the new vehicles 

will provide greater safety. The Ares I first stage will consist of a five-segment, 

reusable SRB enlarged from a single Shuttle SRB. The second stage will use 

a J-2X engine derived from the J-2 used on Saturn and a J-2S version that 

Rocketdyne developed and tested in the early 1970s but never flew. Ares I is 

expected to be capable of launching up to six astronauts to the ISS or up to 

four astronauts to low-Earth orbit for rendezvous of its Orion service module 

with an Ares V Earth departure stage for travel to the Moon.52

Ares V, the heavy-lift vehicle, will consist of two five-and-a-half-segment, 

reusable SRBs derived from the Shuttle SRB, mounted on each side of a central 

	 51.	 Roger	D.	Launius,	“NASA	and	the	Decision	to	Build	the	Space	Shuttle,	1969–72,”	Historian	57	(autumn	

1994):	34;	Ray	A.	Williamson,	“Developing	the	Space	Shuttle,”	in	Exploring the Unknown,	ed.	Logsdon	

et	 al.,	 vol.	4,	 pp.	161–191,	 esp.	 p.	182;	 Columbia	Accident	 Investigation	 Board,	Report,	 pp.	1–19,	

quotation	from	p.	19.

	 52.	 NASA,	 “Overview:	 Ares	 I	 Crew	 Launch	 Vehicle,”	 available	 at	 http://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/

constellation/ares/aresI.html	and	associated	links	(accessed	1	July	2008).	See	also	Hunley,	Development 

of Propulsion Technology,	p.	296.	These	comments	were	written	in	2008.	As	of	5	September	2009,	the	

future	of	Ares	I	and	Ares	V	seems	to	be	in	some	doubt.

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Space Access

booster element, itself based in part on the Shuttle external tank with liquidoxygen and liquid-hydrogen tanks plus six RS-68B rocket engines, the latter 

modified from engines on the Air Force’s Delta IV. An upper stage, also called 

the Earth departure stage, will be powered by a J-2X. Once the Earth departure 

stage and its Lunar Surface Access Module separate from the central booster 

element, they will rendezvous with the Orion module for their journey to the 

Moon. Planners expect the launch vehicle will be able to lift nearly 414,000 

pounds to low-Earth orbit and almost 157,000 pounds to lunar orbit. Ares V 

will also be able to launch scientific and exploration payloads into space and 

could take future crews to Mars and beyond.53

As can be seen in part from the above description, the two new launch 

vehicles build upon not only Shuttle and Saturn technologies, but also those 

from the Air Force and contractors for all three. While it does not appear that 

the new vehicles will have all of the Space Shuttle’s flexibilities in Earth orbit, 

they will be able to access further reaches of space and return to Earth. The 

Ares vehicles would reportedly be safer than the Shuttle and an EELV-derived 

configuration, as well as less expensive than an EELV derivative.54

Conclusions

This narrative has not addressed all of NASA’s contributions to launch-vehicle 

technologies, but the major examples discussed here show a fairly consistent 

pattern. NASA has contributed in major ways to these technologies, but in 

doing so, it has worked with partners and built upon the work of the military 

services and industry in particular. Access to space has not come about through 

the innovations of a few geniuses alone—whether in NASA or elsewhere. It 

has resulted from an evolutionary process in which many organizations have 

cooperated in a variety of ways.

	 53.	 NASA,	 “Overview:	 Ares	V	 Cargo	 Launch	Vehicle,”	 available	 at	 http://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/

constellation/ares/aresV.html	and	associated	links	(accessed	1	July	2008).

	 54.	 See,	e.g.,	Jeff	Foust,	“Defending	Constellation,”	Space Review	(4	February	2008),	available	at	http://

www.thespacereview.com/article/1054/1 (accessed	28	March	2008).

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Chapter 6

NASA’s International 

Relations in Space

An Historical Overview

John Krige

“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” These “eternally 

famous words,” as James Hansen calls them in his biography of Neil Armstrong, 

expressed both a NASA and an American triumph.1 They also reached out to 

the millions watching the spectacle on television screens all over the world, 

allowing them to make it their own. Elevating the particular to the universal, 

Armstrong suggested that the awesome technological power embodied in the 

Moon landing, while indicative of American supremacy, was also a resource 

that would benefit all—a promise, not a threat. About 30 minutes into the mission, shortly after having been joined by Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin, Armstrong read 

the words on a plaque attached to one of the ladder legs of the Lunar Module. 

The Eagle—a name deliberately chosen by the astronauts as the symbol of 

America—had no territorial ambitions: as Armstrong said, “We came in peace 

for all mankind.”2 “For one priceless moment in the history of man,” Nixon 

told the astronauts as they explored the lunar surface, “all the people on this 

earth are truly one”—one, that was, under the benevolent American flag that 

had been erected with some difficulty a few minutes earlier.3

The spectacles of the Moon landing and the moonwalk are suffused with 

quintessentially American tropes: white, athletic males burst the grip of gravity 

	 1.	 James	R.	Hansen,	First Man: The Life of Neil A. Armstrong (New	York,	NY:	Simon	&	Schuster,	2005),	p.	

493.

	 2.	 Ibid.,	pp.	393,	503.

	 3.	 Ibid., p.	505.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

to conquer a new frontier.4 America’s technological superiority in the service of 

global expansion is affirmed. Feelings of national pride mingle with arrogance, 

“an arrogance,” as Aldrin put it, “inspired by knowing that so many people had 

worked on this landing, people possessing the greatest scientific talents in 

the world.”5 The vitality of a dynamic capitalist society imbued with Christian 

values—Aldrin took Communion soon after the Eagle landed on the Moon—is 

affirmed against the suffocating state socialism of godless communism.6

The coupling of national prowess with global leadership was deliberate. 

For Willis Shapley, Associate Deputy Administrator at NASA Headquarters, the 

mission would show the world that “the first lunar landing [is] an historic step 

forward for all mankind that has been accomplished by the United States of 

America.”7 All the same, we should not be overwhelmed by the political and 

ideological staging of Apollo 11 as an American-led achievement of transcendent meaning. For the mission also had genuine international components. 

As everybody knows, beginning with Apollo 11, NASA astronauts collected 

over 840 pounds of Moon rock and distributed hundreds of samples for public 

viewing and scientific research all over the world.8 Less well-known is the fact 

that the first video images of Armstrong’s and Aldrin’s steps on the Moon were 

picked up not in the United States, but by antennas at Honeysuckle Creek and 

the Parkes Observatory near Canberra in Australia, a tribute to the vast global 

data and tracking network that supports NASA’s missions.9 Even more pertinent 

for this article, one of the few scientific experiments conducted on the lunar 

surface during Armstrong and Aldrin’s 160-odd minutes of surface activity on 

the night of 20 July 1969 had a foreign Principal Investigator. 

	 4.	 For	survey	of	the	historical	literature,	see	Roger	D.	Launius,	“Interpreting	the	Moon	Landings:	Project	

Apollo	 and	the	 Historians,”	History and Technology 22,	no.	3	(September	2006):	225–255.	On	the	

gendering	of	the	Apollo	program,	see	Margaret	A.	Weitekamp,	The Right Stuff, the Wrong Sex: The 

Lovelace Women in the Space Program (Baltimore,	 MD:	 Johns	 Hopkins	 University	 Press,	 2004);	

Margaret	A.	Weitekamp,	“The	‘Astronautrix’	and	the	‘Magnificent	Male’:	Jerrie	Cobb’s	Quest	to	be	the	

First	Woman	in	America’s	Manned	Space	Program,”	in	Impossible to Hold: Women and Culture in the 

1960s,	ed.	Avital	H.	Bloch	and	Lauri	Umansky	(New	York,	NY:	New	York	University	Press),	pp.	9–28.

	 5.	 Edwin	E.	“Buzz”	Aldrin	(with	Wayne	Warga),	Return to Earth (New	York,	NY:	Random	House,	1973),	p.	231.	

This	feeling	was	bolstered	by	the	successful	management	of	a	last-minute	alarm	by	the	astronauts	and	

ground	control	at	Houston	as	Armstrong	and	Aldrin	were	just	6,000	feet	above	the	lunar	surface.	See	also	

David	Mindell,	Digital Apollo: Human and Machine in Spaceflight (Cambridge,	MA:	MIT	Press,	2008).	

	 6.	 On	the	Communion,	see	Aldrin,	Return to Earth,	pp.	232–233.

	 7.	 Quoted	by	Hansen,	First Man, p.	495.

	 8.	 Ibid.,	pp. 513–514.

	 9.	 Sunny	Tsiao, “Read You Loud and Clear!” The Story of NASA’s Spaceflight Tracking and Data Network 

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-4232),	chap.	5.

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

Figure 1: Astronaut	Edwin	E.	“Buzz”	Aldrin,	Jr.,	Lunar	Module	pilot	during	the	Apollo	11	extravehicular	

activity	(EVA)	on	the	lunar	surface.	In	the	right	background	is	the	Lunar	Module	Eagle.	On	Aldrin’s	right	

is	the	Solar	Wind	Composition	Experiment	already	deployed.	This	photograph	was	taken	by	Neil	A.	

Armstrong	with	a	70-millimeter	lunar	surface	camera.	NASA Image AS11-40-5873 

During their brief sojourn on the Moon the astronauts engaged in six scientific experiments, all chosen by a NASA scientific panel for their interest and 

excellence. Five of these were part of the Early Apollo Scientific Experiment 

Package. They included a passive seismometer to analyze lunar structure and 

detect moonquakes, as well as a device to measure precisely the distance between 

the Moon and Earth. The sixth was an independent Solar Wind Composition 

Experiment. To perform this experiment the astronauts had to unroll a banner of 

thin aluminum metal foil about 12 inches wide by 55 inches long and orient one 

side of it toward the Sun. The foil trapped the ions of rare gases emitted from 

the Sun. It was brought back to Earth in a Teflon bag, cleaned ultrasonically, and 

melted in an ultrahigh vacuum, releasing the gases that were then analyzed in a 

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NASA’s First 50 Years

mass spectrometer.10 The results provided insights into the dynamics of the solar 

wind, the origin of the solar system, and the history of planetary atmospheres. 

Johannes Geiss, a leading Swiss scientist, was responsible for this experiment. The payload was manufactured at Geiss’s University of Bern and was 

paid for by the Swiss National Science Foundation.11 What is more, apart from 

Armstrong’s contingency collection of lunar samples immediately on emerging 

from the Lunar Module, this was the first experiment deployed by the astronauts. 

Indeed, to ensure that the foil was exposed to the Sun for as long as possible, 

it was even deployed before Armstrong and Aldrin planted the American flag in 

the lunar surface and spoke to the President. Scientific need trumped political 

and ideological statement. NASA’s commitment to international cooperation 

could not be expressed by having the flags of many countries, or perhaps just 

the flag of the United Nations, left on the Moon. Congress decided that this 

was an American project and that the astronauts would plant the U.S. flag.12

Instead, NASA’s international agenda fused seamlessly with the “universalism” 

of science to create a niche for flying an experiment built by a university group 

in a small, neutral European country.

It is striking that even though the Solar Wind Experiment is routinely 

mentioned in writings on the Apollo 11 mission, the European source of the 

experiment is not.13 This is partly because of the iron grip that human space-

	10.	 “Experiment	Operations	During	Apollo	EVAs.	Experiment:	Solar	Wind	Composition,”	available	at	http://

ares.jsc.nasa.gov/humanexplore/exploration/exlibrary/docs/apollocat/part1/swc.htm	 (accessed	 31	

August	2008).

	 11.	 Thomas	 A.	 Sullivan,	 Catalog of Apollo Experiment Operations (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 Reference	

Publication	 1317,	 1994),	 pp.	 113–116.	 Geiss’s	 team	 also	 measured	 the	 amounts	 of	 rare	 gases	

trapped	in	lunar	rocks:	P.	Eberhart,	J.	Geiss,	et	al.,	“Trapped	Solar	Wind	Noble	Gases,	Exposure	Age	and	

K/Ar	Age	in	Apollo	11	Lunar	Fine	Material”	(Proceedings of the Apollo 11 Lunar Science Conference,	

vol.	2,	ed.	A.	A.	Levinson, Houston,	TX,	5–8	January	1970).	See	also	Chemical and Isotopic Analysis,	pp.	

1037–1070.

	 12.	 Hansen,	First Man, p.	395.

	13.	 This	is	true	of	scholarly	works	like	Hansen’s	First Man, chap.	29;	accounts	specifically	concerned	

with	lunar	science,	like	William	David	Compton’s	Where No Man Has Gone Before: A History of Apollo 

Lunar Exploration Missions (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4214,	1989);	autobiographical	accounts	like	

Aldrin’s	Return to Earth,	chap.	8;	and	semipopular	works	like	Leon	Wagener’s	One Giant Leap: Neil 

Armstrong’s Stellar American Journey (New	York,	NY:	Forge	Books,	2004),	chap.	14.	None	of	these	

sources	mentions	that	the	Swiss	experiment	was	deployed	before	the	American	flag	was	unfurled.	

One	has	to	burrow	deep	into	the	official	records	to	extract	these	data	(see	Experiment Operations 

During Apollo EVAs).	I	only	did	so	because	I	was	alerted	to	the	existence	of	Geiss’s	experiment	by	

Peter	Creola,	Swiss	and	European	statesman	and	space	enthusiast:	see	Peter	Creola,	interview	by	

John	Krige,	Bern,	Switzerland,	25	May	2007,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	

Division,	 NASA	 Headquarters,	Washington,	 DC.	 For	 Creola’s	 own	role	 in	 space,	 see	 anon.,	 Peter 

Creola: Advocate of Space (Noordwijk,	Netherlands:	ESA	SP-1265/E,	2002).

112
NASA’s International Relations in Space

flight has on the imagination, a mindset constructed by enthusiasts whose 

shrill voices and skillful marketing have capitalized on the frontier myth that 

is deeply ingrained in America’s sense of itself and its destiny, so playing down 

alternative, less glamorous visions of spaceflight using benign technologies.14

It is the challenges faced by the astronauts as they conquer new domains, 

not the scientific content of the Apollo missions, that resonate culturally, that 

entertain and inspire, that showcase American technological success and 

project American power abroad.

The European contribution to Apollo 11 is also ignored because so much 

space history in the United States—as everywhere—is nationalistic and celebratory, a symptom of the high value placed on technological achievement as a 

marker of national prowess. There is no doubt that NASA’s achievements are 

extraordinary and that they dwarf the efforts of other spacefaring nations. To 

date, these have only been able to match the American space program in select 

domains (the Soviets in some aspects of human spaceflight, the Europeans 

with their civilian launchers and dynamic science program, the French with 

the Satellite Pour l’Observation de la Terre [SPOT] series of Earth observation/reconnaissance satellites, and so on). But even if the United States is the 

undisputed leader in space science and technology, it should not be forgotten 

that “leadership” is relative and that the preeminence it expresses is assessed 

in relation to what others are doing. Those competitors and collaborators 

help define the terrain on which key social actors strive to maintain American 

leadership, not to say dominance, of space. The extraordinary national feats 

repeatedly celebrated by America-centric space history do not only serve 

domestic imperatives; they also help the United States situate itself vis-à-vis 

other space powers, and they lay the groundwork and create the capacity for 

it to try to shape what others do in line with American objectives and interests. The international dimension is thus not peripheral to NASA’s mission to 

maintain America’s leadership in space: it is intrinsic to it. 

International Collaboration in the 1958 Space Act

The National Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958 was signed into law by 

President Eisenhower on 29 July 1958.15 It distinguished between civilian 

	 14.	 I	 owe	 this	 point	 to	 Howard	 E.	 McCurdy,	 Space and the American Imagination	 (Washington,	 DC:	

Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	1997).

	 15.	 The	Act	is	available	at	http://www.hq.nasa.gov/office/pao/History/spaceact.html	(accessed	27	January	

2005).

113
NASA’s First 50 Years

and defense-oriented aspects of aeronautical and space activities and called 

for the establishment of a new agency to provide for the former in parallel 

to DOD and, although this was not specified in the Act, to the CIA and later 

to a highly secret covert agency, the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), 

established in September 1961.16 The primary mission of the resulting NASA 

that formally came into being on 1 October 1958 reflected the dynamics of 

superpower rivalry and the struggle for leadership with the Soviet Union 

that had propelled it into existence in the wake of the Sputnik shocks 

the year before. In particular, the Space Act called on the new agency to 

ensure “the role of the United States as a leader in aeronautical and space 

science and technology and in the application thereof to the conduct of 

peaceful activities within and outside the atmosphere” (Sec. 2 (c) 5). In the 

fiery political rhetoric of the day, this stress on leadership escalated into a 

demand for domination. In January 1958, Senate Majority Leader Lyndon 

Johnson claimed that “Control of space means control of the world, far more 

certainly, far more totally than any control that has ever or could ever be 

achieved by weapons, or troops of occupation. Whoever gains that ultimate 

position gains control, total control, over the earth, for purposes of tyranny 

or for the service of freedom.” John F. Kennedy picked up the refrain in his 

presidential campaign: “Control of space will be decided in the next decade. 

If the Soviets control space they can control earth, as in past centuries the 

nation that controlled the seas dominated the continents . . . . We cannot 

run second in this vital race.”17 NASA’s core mission was thus to preserve 

American leadership in the mastery of space science and technology, to 

dominate the new frontier that was outer space so as “to insure peace and 

freedom” as Kennedy put it.

Other countries, above all from the free world, were to be enrolled in 

this endeavor. To this end, the Space Act included among NASA’s missions 

“Cooperation by the United States with other nations and groups of nations . . .” 

(Sec. 2 (c) 7). This objective was developed in a short, separate section headed 

“International Cooperation.” Here it was specified that “The Administration, 

under the foreign policy guidance of the President, may engage in a program 

of international cooperation in work done pursuant to the Act, and in the 

	 16.	 Gerald	Haines,	“The	National	Reconnaissance	Office.	Its	Origins,	Creation	and	Early	Years,”	in	Eye in 

the Sky: The Story of the Corona Spy Satellites,	ed.	Dwayne	A.	Day,	John	M.	Logsdon,	and	Brian	Latell	

(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	1998),	pp.	143–156.

	 17.	 Both	quoted	by	McCurdy,	Spaceflight,	pp.	75–76.

114
NASA’s International Relations in Space

peaceful application of the results thereof, pursuant to agreements made by the 

President with the advice and consent of the Senate” (Sec. 205). International 

collaboration thus went hand in hand with foreign policy: NASA was to be an 

arm of American diplomacy.

Eisenhower stressed from the outset that this clause was not intended to 

engage presidential authority for all bilateral or multilateral programs undertaken by NASA. Its aim, rather, was to allow for the rare occasions when cooperation engaged such important questions of foreign policy that it had to be 

underpinned by international treaties. The Final Report of the Senate Special 

Committee on Space and Aeronautics, dated 11 March 1959, confirmed this 

interpretation.18 As a result, as Arnold Frutkin put it, the pace of the cooperative program “was to be faster and its procedures far simpler than would have 

otherwise been the case.” In particular, “NASA’s international program was 

thus immediately distinguished from that of the Atomic Energy Commission 

which, under its legislation, was required to obtain approval of its international 

efforts from Congress.”19 The Space Act thus gave NASA considerable latitude 

to engage in international collaboration as its officers saw fit and to handle 

the diplomatic dimensions of its policies and practices informally through 

interagency consultation, above all with the State Department. 

The Emphasis on “Peaceful Use”

A commitment to the “peaceful use” of outer space was essential to the successful exploitation of space for civilian scientific and applications programs 

on both a national and international collaborative level. As Eilene Galloway, 

who was involved in drafting the Space Act, has put it, the emphasis on peaceful use was intended to preserve space “as a dependable orderly place for 

beneficial pursuits.”20 It was driven by two main concerns.

First, there was the fear that space would become a military battlefield or 

provide platforms from which lethal weapons could be launched at targets on 

	 18.	 On	the	 IGY,	 see	 Rip	 Bulkeley,	 The Sputniks Crisis and Early United States Space Policy (Bloomington,	

IN:	Indiana	University	Press,	1991);	Fae	L.	Kosmo,	“The	Genesis	of	the	International	Geophysical	Year,”	

Physics Today (July	2007):	38–43;	and	Allan	Needell,	Science, Cold War and the American State: Lloyd V. 

Berkner and the Balance of Professional Ideals (Chur,	Switzerland:	Harwood	Academic	Publishers,	2000).

	 19.	 Arnold	W.	Frutkin,	International Cooperation in Space (Englewood	Cliffs,	NJ:	Prentice	Hall,	1965),	p.	31.

	 20.	 Eilene	 Galloway,	 “Organizing	 the	 United	 States	 Government	 for	 Outer	 Space,	 1957–1958,”	 in	

Reconsidering Sputnik: Forty Years Since the Soviet Satellite,	 ed.	 Roger	 Launius,	 John	M.	 Logsdon,	

and	Robert	W.	Smith	(Amsterdam,	Netherlands:	Harwood	Academic	Publishers,	2000),	pp.	309–325.	

See	 also	 “The	Woman	Who	 Helped	 Create	 NASA,”	 available	 at	 http://www.nasa.gov/topics/history/

galloway_space_act.html	(accessed	20	September	2008).	

115
NASA’s First 50 Years

Earth. Such bellicose scenarios were widespread in the late 1940s and 1950s.21

Indeed, Wernher von Braun, the most charismatic and persuasive booster of 

human spaceflight at the time, went so far as to propose the construction of a 

multipurpose crewed space station that would serve equally as a platform for 

further exploration, as a reconnaissance tool, and as a base for firing atomic 

weapons at hostile nations.22 The thought that the Soviets might also have 

such ambitions, and indeed might be ahead of the United States in developing 

space weapons, galvanized stakeholders in space affairs in the United States 

to advocate peaceful use as a way to “prevent war and ensure peace in this 

pristine environment,” as Galloway puts it.23 The call for peaceful use thus 

served both to project a positive image of the United States and to defuse the 

threat of Soviet space supremacy.

The second major reason was to protect the freedom for satellites to fly 

over foreign territory. It is well known that national security, and certainly not 

a space race with the Soviets, was the main driver of Eisenhower’s space policy. 

He was not against the use of space for science and for robotic exploration, 

but what he wanted above all was to exploit satellite technology to penetrate 

behind the wall of secrecy that surrounded the Soviet military buildup. The 

administration’s interest in launching a scientific satellite during the IGY was 

intended to clear the way for this technological development. The ideology 

of international scientific collaboration was instrumentalized to establish, by 

setting a precedent, the principle of the freedom of space, i.e., the right of any 

space power or organization to send a satellite over the territory of another 

country without being accused of violating national sovereignty.24

Spurred on by these concerns, the United States moved rapidly to set 

up an international regime forbidding the militarization of space. Lyndon 

	 21.	 McCurdy,	Spaceflight. Major	General	Bernard	Schriever,	who	played	a	major	role	in	developing	an	ICBM	

for	the	Air	Force,	speaking	to	space	enthusiasts	in	San	Diego,	CA,	in	February	1957,	remarked	that	

“several	decades	from	now	the	important	battles	may	not	be	sea	battles	or	air	battles,	but	space	battles,	

and	we	should	be	spending	a	certain	fraction	of	our	national	resources	to	insure	that	we	do	not	lag	

in	obtaining	space	supremacy.”	Quoted	by	Dwayne	A.	Day,	“Cover	Stories	and	Hidden	Agendas:	Early	

American	Space	and	National	Security	Policy,”	in	Reconsidering Sputnik,	ed.	Launius,	Logsdon,	and	

Smith,	pp.	161–195.	

	 22.	 Michael	J.	Neufeld,	“‘Space	Superiority’:	Wernher	von	Braun’s	Campaign	for	a	Nuclear-Armed	Space	

Station,	1946–1956,”	Space Policy 22	(February	2006):	52–62.

	 23.	 Galloway,	“Organizing,”	p.	322.

	 24.	 Walter	A.	McDougall,	.	.	.	The Heavens and the Earth: A Political Economy of the Space Age (New	

York,	NY:	Basic	Books,	1985).	See	also	the	collection	of	articles	in	Launius,	Logsdon,	and	Smith,	ed.	

Reconsidering Sputnik, notably	the	contribution	by	Dwayne	Day,	and	the	special	edition	of	Quest 14,	no.	

4	(2007).

116
NASA’s International Relations in Space

Johnson was invited by President Eisenhower to address the United Nations 

in November 1958, where he made a stirring plea against unilateral “penetration into space.” “Today outer space is free,” Johnson said. “It is unscarred 

by conflict. No nation holds a concession there. It must remain this way.” 

Johnson went on to stress the “orderly course of full cooperation,” which, 

he said, was the only way to avoid “adding a new dimension to warfare” 

and to “make the substantial contribution yet . . . toward perfecting peace.”25

In the face of considerable Soviet hostility and suspicion, the United States 

took the lead in establishing an ad hoc Committee on the Peaceful Uses 

of Outer Space (COPUOS) that became a regular committee of the United 

Nations General Assembly in December 1959.26 This body provided the 

politico-legal framework in which Washington, DC, sought both to permit 

the ongoing use of satellites for reconnaissance and to outlaw the use of 

antisatellite weapons. It faced an uphill struggle.27 The Soviets were stung 

by the intelligence-gathering capacity of the U-2 spy planes and by the 

increased potential of satellites to penetrate their closely guarded military 

secrets. In June 1962, they formally objected to the use of satellites for 

reconnaissance. They finally dropped their objections in September 1963. 

Paul Stares explains the timing of this change of attitude as due to three 

factors: the now-routine use by the Soviets of their Kosmos series of satellites for intelligence gathering, progress with test ban negotiations (in 

which satellite overflight was a crucial means to verify compliance), and 

the prospect of successfully banning nuclear and other weapons of mass 

destruction from space altogether.28 Indeed, all parties to the negotiations 

realized what many scientists had been saying all along: that space platforms 

were no better and considerably worse than Earth-based ballistic missiles for 

delivering nuclear weapons to terrestrial targets. Recognizing that “neither 

side could gain a military advantage by placing nuclear weapons in space 

[the two superpowers] signed a treaty not to do so” in 1967.29

	 25.	 Galloway,	“Organizing,”	p.	319.

	 26.	 Andrew	 G.	 Haley,	 Space Law and Government (New	York,	 NY:	 Appleton-Century-Crofts,	 1963),	 pp.	

313–328.

	 27.	 See,	for	example,	Homer	E.	Newell,	Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space Science (Washington,	

DC:	NASA	SP-4211,	1975),	chap.	18.

	 28.	 Paul	B.	Stares,	The Militarization of Space: U.S. Policy, 1945–1984 (Ithaca,	NY:	Cornell	University	Press,	

1985),	p.	71.

	 29.	 McCurdy,	Spaceflight, p.	68.

117
NASA’s First 50 Years

No clear definition of “peaceful use” was laid down by COPUOS, nor has 

one been established since. This is because of the immense importance of 

military space programs and, above all, the role that intelligence and reconnaissance satellites have played since the dawn of the Space Age. As one 

scholar notes, from the late 1950s, “the legal position of the United States 

with respect to the meaning of the phrase ‘peaceful uses’ became crystallized along lines quite dissimilar to the original rhetoric. The term ‘peaceful’ 

in relation to outer space activities was interpreted by the United States to 

mean ‘non-aggressive’ rather than ‘non-military.’” In international law, this 

entails that all military uses are permitted and lawful as long as they do not 

engage the threat or the use of force.30 No state has formally protested the 

United States’ interpretation of peaceful use (or at least had not by 1990). This 

interpretation has been essential to the preservation of both international 

stability and the national security of the space powers.31 It is now a central 

plank of the military’s expanding reliance on space for technological support 

in the global war on terror.

The treaty on the peaceful uses of outer space was drawn up simultaneously with the Antarctic Treaty and has a close resemblance to it.32 By 

coincidence, a key preparatory meeting, which spawned the Antarctic Treaty, 

took place in Washington, DC, just three days after the launch of Sputnik. It 

was convened by Paul C. Daniels of the Department of State and attended 

by representatives from Britain, Australia, and New Zealand, all of whom 

had a national stake in the region. The abiding fear among those present 

was that the Soviet Union would place missile bases in the frozen waste. 

Daniel’s idea was to exploit the IGY to override claims to national sovereignty and instrumentalize scientific cooperation to demilitarize the region. 

Article I of the ensuing treaty, signed on 1 December 1959, declared that 

	 30.	 Ivan	A.	Vlasic,	“The	Legal	Aspects	of	Peaceful	and	Non-Peaceful	Uses	of	Outer	Space,”	in	Peaceful and 

Non-Peaceful Uses of Space: Problems of Definition for the Prevention of an Arms Race,	ed.	Bhupendra	

Jasani	(New	York,	NY:	Taylor	and	Francis,	1991),	pp.	37–55.	This	is	the	definition	of	“non-aggressive”	

as	stipulated	in	Article	2(4)	of	the	United	Nations	Charter.

	 31.	 John	Lewis	Gaddis,	The Long Peace: Inquiries into the History of the Cold War (New	York,	NY:	Oxford	

University	Press,	1987),	chap.	7.

	 32.	 This	 paragraph	 owes	 much	 to	 Simone	 Turchetti,	 Simon	 Naylor,	 Katrina	 Dean,	 and	 Martin	 Siegert,	

“On	Thick	Ice:	Scientific	Internationalism	and	Antarctic	Affairs,	1957–1980,”	History and Technology 

24,	 no.	 4	 (December	 2008):	 351–376.	 See	 also	 Jacob	 D.	 Hamblin,	 “Masters	 of	 Landscapes	 and	

Seascapes.	Scientists	at	the	Strategic	Poles	During	the	International	Geophysical	Year,”	in	Extremes: 

Oceanography’s Adventures at the Poles,	ed.	Keith	R.	Benson	and	Helen	M.	Rozwadowski	(Sagamore	

Beach,	MA:	Science	History	Publications,	2007).

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

Antarctica was to be used for peaceful uses only; it explicitly prohibited any 

military activity in the area, including the testing of any kind of weapons.33

The Treaty respected “previously asserted rights of or claims to sovereignty 

in Antarctica” (Art. IV.1) but still insisted on the “freedom of scientific investigation in Antarctica and cooperation toward that end” (Art. II.1).34 Harlan 

Cleveland, Assistant Secretary of State for International Affairs, claimed that 

this was the best the United States could hope for and indeed better than 

making a claim to sovereign territory; such a claim was irrelevant, and indeed 

restricting, given the techno-scientific power of the United States. As he put 

it in 1965, “For the United States, as the nation with the greatest capability 

to mount and support scientific investigations in Antarctica, this Treaty was 

clearly better than limiting ourselves to one slice of a much-divided pie. As 

things stand, we are at liberty to investigate anywhere, build anywhere, fly 

anywhere, traverse anywhere in this vast still mysterious south land.”35 The 

same logic informed the Space Act’s insistence on restricting space to peaceful 

uses. Claims to national sovereignty were eclipsed by the demand that space 

be open to all for nonaggressive activities, from science to applications—like 

telecommunications and meteorology—to intelligence gathering. By avoiding 

any unambiguous definition of peaceful use, and by roundly rejecting early 

Soviet demands in COPUOS that reconnaissance satellites be banned from 

outer space, the United States preserved the possibilities for international 

collaboration in civilian space projects without impeding the exploitation 

of space for national defense.

The Scope of International Collaboration

The scope of NASA’s international collaboration is truly vast. In 1970, when 

many countries only had embryonic programs of their own, Arnold Frutkin 

reported that NASA had already collaborated with scientists in 70 different 

countries and established 225 interagency or executive agreements with 35 

countries.36 Addressing a congressional subcommittee in 1981, Ken Pedersen 

remarked that NASA had over 1,000 agreements with 100 countries and that 

its international programs had resulted in more than $2 billion of economic 

	 33.	 Vlasic,	“The	Legal	Aspects,”	p.	43.

	 34.	 The	Treaty	is	reproduced	in	Haley,	Space Law, appendix	I-A.

	 35.	 Turchetti	et	al.,	“On	Thick	Ice,”	359–360.

	 36.	 Arnold	Frutkin,	“International	Collaboration	in	Space,”	Science 169,	no.	3943	(24	July	1970):	333–339.

119
NASA’s First 50 Years

benefits for the country.37 In 2005, Roger Launius remarked that NASA had 

concluded over 2,000 cooperative agreements with other nations for a 

multitude of various international space activities.38 In sum, the number of 

international agreements entered into by NASA ran at an average of 20 per 

year during its first decade, exploded to a total 1,000 by the end of its second 

decade, and then doubled again over the next 20 to 25 years. Looking just 

at scientific collaboration with Europe, we find that it has increased rapidly 

in recent times. Launius reported that there had been 139 cooperative science agreements with European nations between 1962 and 1997. Twenty 

years earlier, John Logsdon counted just 33 projects between 1958 and 1983, 

suggesting an increase by a factor of four or five in the last decades of the 

20th century.39

Numbers alone cannot capture this vast enterprise. Table 1 surveys the 

range of international activities that NASA was engaged in for the first 26 

years of its existence. These include infrastructural components like tracking and data acquisition and launch provision. They cover collaboration in 

science using balloons, sounding rockets and satellites, and applications in 

areas like remote sensing, communications, and meteorology. In addition, 

NASA sponsored a huge education and training program through fellowships, research associateships, and the hosting of foreign visitors. There is 

no doubt that the Agency has played a fundamental role in encouraging and 

strengthening the exploration and exploitation of space throughout the world, 

or at least among friendly nations. NASA has helped many countries kickstart their space programs and has enriched them once they had found their 

own feet. More than that, it has helped give thousands of people in over 100 

nations some stake in space, some sense of contributing, albeit in perhaps 

a small way, to the challenges, opportunities, excitement, and dangers that 

the conquest of space inspires.

	 37.	 Kenneth	S.	Pedersen,	Statement to Subcommittee on Science, Technology and Space; Committee on 

Commerce, Science and Transportation;	United States Senate, 97th Congress,	31	March	1981,	Record	

No.	1669,	folder	Pedersen,	Kenneth	S.,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	

NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 38.	 Roger	D.	Launius,	“NASA	and	the	Attitude	of	the	U.S.	Toward	International	Space	Cooperation,”	in	Les 

relations franco-américains dans le domaine spatial (1957–1975): Quatrième recontre de l’IFHE, 8–9 

décembre 2005 (Paris,	France:	IFHE	Publications,	in	press),	pp.	45–63.

	 39.	 John	Logsdon,	“U.S.-European	Cooperation	in	Space	Science:	A	25-Year	Perspective,”	Science 223,	no.	

4631	(6	January	1984):	11–16.

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

Table 1. Cumulative Statistical Summary Through 1 January 198440

Type of Arrangement A B

COOPERATIVE	ARRANGEMENTS

Cooperative	Spacecraft	Projects 8 38

Experiments	on	NASA	Missions

Experiments	with	Foreign	Principal	Investigators 14 73

U.S.	Experiments	with	Foreign	Co-investigators	or	Team	Members 11 	56

U.S.	Experiments	on	Foreign	Spacecraft 3 14

Cooperative	Sounding	Rocket	Projects 22 1,774a

Joint	Development	Projects 5 9

Cooperative	Ground-Based	Projects

Remote	Sensing 53 163

Communication	Satellite 51b 19

Meteorological	Satellite 44c 11

Geodynamics 43 20

Space	Plasma 38 10

Atmospheric	Study 14 11

Support	of	Manned	Space	Flights 21 2

Solar	System	Exploration 8 10

Solar	Terrestrial	and	Astrophysics 25 11

Cooperative	Balloons	and	Airborne	Projects

Balloon	Flights 9 14

Airborne	Observations 12 17

International	Solar	Energy	Projects 24 9

Cooperative	Aeronautical	Projects 5 40

U.S./USSR	Coordinated	Space	Projects 1 9

U.S./China	Space	Projects 1 5

Scientific	and	Technical	Information	Exchanges 70 3

REIMBURSABLE	LAUNCHINGS

Launchings	of	non-U.S.	Spacecraft 15 95

Foreign	Launchings	of	NASA	Spacecraft	 1 4

TRACKING	AND	DATA	ACQUISITION

NASA	Overseas	Tracking	Stations/Facilities 20 48

	 40.	 Anon.,	26 Years of NASA International Programs (Washington,	DC:	NASA,	n.d.),	p.	3.	Thanks	to	Dick	

Barnes	for	providing	me	with	a	copy	of	this	booklet.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

NASA	Funded	Smithsonian	

Tracking	Facilities

Astrophysical	Observatory	(SAO)	Optical	and	Laser	 16 21

REIMBURSABLE	TRACKING	ARRANGEMENTS

Support	Provided	by	NASA 5 48

Support	Received	by	NASA 3 12

PERSONNEL	EXCHANGES

Resident	Research	Associateships 43 1,417

International	Fellowships 358

Technical	Training 5 985

Foreign	Visitors 131 85,177

A:	Number	of	Countries/International	Organizations

B:	Number	of	Projects/Investigations/Actions	Completed	or	in	Progress	as	of	1	January	1984

a

	Number	of	Actual	Launches

b	United	States	Agency	for	International	Development	Sponsored	International	Applications	Demonstration

c

	Automatic	Picture	Transmission	Stations

The Institutional Dimension

NASA’s collaborative effort was originally located institutionally in the Office 

of International Programs. The first Director, Henry E. Billingsley, was quickly 

replaced by Arnold W. Frutkin in September 1959. Frutkin joined NASA from 

the National Academy of Sciences. There, he had been the deputy director of 

the U.S. National Committee for the IGY and had also served as an adviser to 

the Academy’s delegate to the first and second meetings of the International 

Committee on Space Research (COSPAR). It was at the second COSPAR meeting 

in March 1959 that the United States representative, Richard Porter, announced 

that NASA would be willing to fly single experiments from foreign countries 

as part of larger payloads on American satellites, as well as to launch complete 

payloads prepared by other countries.41 This initiative played a major role in 

stimulating space research with satellites all over the world.

Frutkin’s career at NASA, which lasted 20 years, was crowned with many 

national and international awards. His many notable achievements included 

the meteorological and Earth resources satellite data reception networks; the 

advanced technology satellite regional broadcast experiments, including a highly 

successful educational program in India; the joint U.S.-Soviet Apollo-Soyuz 

mission; and the Spacelab agreement signed with the European Space Agency 

	 41.	 Newell,	Beyond the Atmosphere, chap.	9.	The	text	of	the	offer	is	reproduced	in	H.	Massey	and	M.	O.	

Robins,	History of British Space Science (Cambridge,	U.K.:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1986),	Annex	4.

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

(ESA). Frutkin also served regularly on United States delegations to the United 

Nations and other international bodies. In short, in the formative years of the 

space programs, both in the United States and abroad, Frutkin was, as his official 

biography put it, “personally responsible for an extraordinary successful series 

of major international space endeavors contributing equally to the nation’s 

foreign policy objectives and to the advancement of human knowledge” as 

well as to the “prestige the United States space program enjoys today around 

the world.”42 In 1978, NASA Administrator Robert Frosch appointed Frutkin 

Deputy Associate Administrator, then Associate Administrator for External 

Relations. There, he was responsible for the development of external policy 

with the public, the international community, universities, and local and state 

governments, as well as DOD and other federal agencies. The post was not 

to his liking, and Frutkin left government service shortly thereafter in June 

1979.43 Frutkin’s activities were taken over by Kenneth Pedersen, Director of the 

International Affairs Division of the Office of External Relations. Pedersen had 

been an assistant professor of political science at San Diego State University 

from 1968 to 1971, before taking on various policy analysis activities in the 

federal government. Prior to moving to NASA, he had worked for the Nuclear 

Regulatory Commission that had replaced the AEC in 1975. Pedersen was the 

director of the Office of Policy Evaluation that dealt with all aspects of nuclear 

regulation. He also worked closely with the International Atomic Energy Agency 

in Vienna, Austria.

Frutkin laid down the basic principles that guided NASA’s international 

collaborative projects for two decades in which the United States was the 

leading space power in the free world. Pedersen frequently remarked that 

he was dealing with a different geopolitical situation in which the United 

States’ historical rival for space superiority, the Soviet Union, was showing 

a greater willingness to open out to international partners and in which the 

space programs in other regions and countries, notably Western Europe and 

Japan, had matured significantly. The new, neoliberal philosophy of President 

Reagan also laid greater stress on rolling back the state’s engagement in 

the provision of space technology (notably launchers); private industry 

	 42.	 NASA	Release	No.	59-210,	3	September	1959;	NASA	Key	Personnel	Change,	1	June	1979,	Record	

No.	726,	folder	11.2.1,	Frutkin,	Arnold	W.,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	

NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 43.	 NASA	Key	Personnel	Change,	1	June	1979.

123
NASA’s First 50 Years

was encouraged to exploit the economic potential of space.44 Pedersen’s 

programmatic statements stressed the need for NASA to accept these new 

realities and to adjust its attitudes to collaboration to reflect the fact that its 

budgets were limited and that it was no longer “the only game in town.” In 

September 1985, Pedersen was named Deputy Associate Administrator for 

External Relations and was elevated to Associate Administrator three years 

later in November 1988.45

Richard Barnes replaced Ken Pedersen as Director of International Affairs 

in 1985.46 Barnes had been with NASA since 1961 after serving with the AEC’s 

Division of International Affairs and being affiliated with the Atomic Industrial 

Forum. Barnes was Frutkin’s right-hand man during the 1960s and 1970s, before 

moving on to become NASA’s European Representative. He was based at the 

American Embassy in Paris in the early 1980s, a period and a personality fondly 

remembered by many Europeans who had dealings with him.

During his term of office, Pedersen had taken a year’s sabbatical at Georgetown 

University. In August 1990, Margaret “Peggy” Finarelli took over his duties when 

he moved definitively into academia; she was elevated to Pedersen’s post of 

Associate Administrator for External Relations in January 1991. Finarelli joined 

NASA in 1981 after serving in various government agencies including the White 

House Office of Science and Technology Policy; she also served as a technical 

adviser at the Arms Control and Disarmament Agency. She was NASA’s chief 

negotiator for the international agreements with Canada, Europe, and Japan 

regarding cooperation in the Space Station Freedom program.47

In October 1991, NASA Administrator Richard Truly reorganized NASA’s 

external relations. He created a new Office of Policy Coordination and 

International Relations at Headquarters to enable NASA, as he put it, “to 

respond effectively to the growing international and interagency policy 

aspects of America’s civil space and aeronautics activities.”48 It had four divi-

	 44.	 For	one	example	of	this	policy	and	its	exaggerated	hopes,	see	John	Krige,	“The	Commercial	Challenge	

to	Arianespace.	The	TCI	Affair,”	Space Policy 15,	no.	2	(May	1999):	87–94.

	 45.	 Special	Announcement,	1	 February	1979;	 Release	88-160,	21	 November	1988,	 Record	 No.	1669,	

folder	 Pedersen,	 Kenneth	 S.,	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	 History	 Division,	 NASA	

Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 46.	 Release	 85-132,	 20	 September	 1985,	 Record	 No.	 000137,	 folder	 Barnes,	 Richard	 J.	 H.,	 NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 47.	 Release	90-7,	2	August	1990;	Release	91-3,	7	January	1991,	Record	No.	1669,	folder	Pedersen,	Kenneth	

S.,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 48.	 Special	Announcement,	3	October	1991,	Record	No.	640,	folder	Finarelli,	Margaret,	NASA	Historical	

Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

124
NASA’s International Relations in Space

sions. The International Relations Division was led by Peter G. Smith. Smith 

joined NASA in 1979 as China Desk Officer after a distinguished career in 

the State Department. His division was institutionally situated alongside the 

Policy Coordination Division, the Defense Affairs Division, and the Office 

of National Service. Finarelli was appointed Associate Administrator of the 

umbrella office. John D. Schumacher, who had joined NASA in 1989 from a 

New York law firm, was appointed her deputy. In 1995 NASA Administrator 

Daniel Goldin appointed Schumacher to the post of Associate Administrator 

for the Office of External Relations, citing his extensive managerial experience and talent to head an office that was dedicated to “international policy 

formulation, coordination and implementation.”49

Three points emerge from this brief survey of the organization of international 

relations inside NASA from the late 1950s to the early 1990s. First, only Frutkin 

was directly involved in space matters before he joined NASA, notably through 

his important role in the National Academy of Sciences and the IGY. Second, the 

officers appointed to these posts had gained extensive international experience 

though immersion in nuclear matters, either through the civil nuclear energy 

program (Barnes, Pedersen) or through arms control (Finarelli). Finally, we see 

a marked shift in profile, beginning with Pedersen, toward people with formal 

experience in policy formulation and legal affairs. This change is reflected in 

NASA Administrator Truly’s reorganization in the early 1990s, which elevated 

Finarelli and Schumacher to senior positions in a new office at Headquarters 

and which placed Smith at the head of the International Relations Division. It 

is confirmed with the subsequent promotion of Schumacher to head the Office 

of External Relations. As NASA and its international relations and obligations 

expanded, as the programs grew in size and in complexity, and as national 

security agendas promoted the use of antisatellite weapons in space (along 

with increasing fears of technology transfer), the rather autonomous approach 

that had marked Frutkin’s 20 years in office inevitably yielded to a more formal 

mechanism for managing the Agency’s relations with its domestic and international partners, from policy formulation to implementation.

Frutkin’s Guidelines for International Collaboration

There were two original stimuli for international collaboration; both of them 

were referred to in the episode described at the start of this article, and they 

	 49.	 News	release	95-102,	26	June	1995,	Record	No.	2955,	folder	Schumacher,	John	D.,	NASA	Historical	

Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

125
NASA’s First 50 Years

are illustrated in table 1. Firstly, there was the wish, inspired by major international initiatives like the IGY and the exploration of Antarctica, and coherent 

with an abiding thread in American foreign policy, to engage other countries 

(especially friendly and neutral countries) in an exciting new scientific and 

technological adventure where they could benefit from American leadership 

and largesse.50 Secondly, there was the practical need for a worldwide tracking and data-handling network to monitor and intervene in NASA’s multiple 

space missions from planetary probes to human exploration. Sunny Tsiao has 

recently covered the latter dimension in depth.51 Here I will concentrate on 

the scientific and technological aspects of international collaboration in scientific and applications satellites and in human spaceflight from the creation 

of NASA up to the late 1990s. 

In 1965, Arnold Frutkin published an important book spelling out the 

philosophy that he thought should underpin international cooperation in 

space.52 It insisted on the need for “A program founded on conservative values, 

though not necessarily conservative in scope and objectives . . . .”53 This view 

was deeply embedded in Frutkin’s thinking. It was probably inspired by the 

emphasis (in the congressional committee hearings that led to the creation of 

NASA) that international collaboration in space could transform the tense and 

confrontational international political climate of the day into one of peaceful coexistence. As Don Kash pointed out 40 years ago, this sentiment led 

Frutkin to stress the differences between the reality of NASA’s programs and 

the broad hopes expressed in Congress and by three Presidents that international space collaboration would create a new political reality.54 Insisting that 

space collaboration could not upset the political status quo, Frutkin advised 

the State Department in February 1959 that “Political commitments regarding 

	 50.	 Marcia	S.	Smith,	“America’s	International	Space	Activities,”	Society 21,	no.	2	(January/February	1984):	

18–25.

	 51.	 Tsiao,	“Read You Loud and Clear!”	For	a	review,	see	NASA News and Notes 25,	no.	3	(August	2008):	

1–5.	The	 system	 comprised	 four	 tracking	 programs:	 Minitrack,	 a	 north-south	 network	 through	 the	

Western	Hemisphere	for	scientific	satellites;	the	Deep	Space	Network;	the	manned	spaceflight	ground	

stations;	and	the	Baker-Nunn	tracking	stations	for	a	Smithsonian	astrophysics	program.	For	an	account	

of	 the	 last,	 see	 Teasel	 Muir-Harmony,	 “Tracking	 Diplomacy:	 The	 IGY	 and	 American	 Scientific	 and	

Technical	Exchange	with	East	Asia,	1955–1973,”	in	Making Science Global: Reconsidering the Social 

and Intellectual Implications of the International Polar and Geophysical Years (proceedings),	chap.	16.

	 52.	 Frutkin,	International Cooperation in Space.

	 53.	 Ibid., p.	32.

	 54.	 Don	E.	Kash,	The Politics of Space Cooperation (West	Lafayette,	IN:	Purdue	University	Press,	1967),	p.	

126.

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

U.S. performance or accomplishment in international space matters should be 

made with the very greatest caution and conservatism.”55

This is why one of Frutkin’s chief concerns in the early 1960s was to 

puncture the bubble of enthusiasm and misguided optimism surrounding the 

achievements of the IGY. This huge enterprise, which combined the efforts of 

as many 60,000 scientists and technicians from about 66 nations in a study of 

Earth and the upper atmosphere, was rapidly assuming the stature of a myth; 

its significance was amplified by exaggerated claims made for the possibilities 

of international scientific cooperation as an instrument to bring governments 

together. Frutkin deplored both tendencies. The IGY, he noted, was not a unified and integrated program of cooperation between governments. It was a 

collection of national programs independently working toward purely scientific 

objectives that were loosely coordinated by a nongovernmental mechanism. 

Yes, the IGY had built “scientific bridges across political chasms,” “but the 

bridges had no effect on the chasms; these remained and no traffic other than 

scientific passed between them.” As for scientists, his experience had taught 

him that they were “demonstrably subject to normal, human limitations and 

nationalist constraints,” just like everyone else. Notwithstanding their rhetoric, 

they had no privileged ability to overcome national rivalry. They cooperated 

across borders because in some disciplines, including those connected with 

space, worldwide collaboration was essential if knowledge was to progress. 

Science was also of “critical value for cooperation because of the critical dangers with which it is associated,” typically in the atom and in space, but also 

in a field like meteorology, where international collaboration was stimulated 

by the prospect of weather modification. In short, Frutkin was emphatic that 

in defining policy, one had to discard “sentiment and tenuous history” that 

misrepresented and exaggerated the possibilities for bringing about closer 

collaboration between peoples through international space cooperation.56

The one-sided emphasis on scientific cooperation as an innovative instrument to reduce global tensions masked the political competition that was 

intrinsic to the conquest of space. Essential space technologies, wrote Frutkin, 

“—rockets, radio, guidance, stabilization—were all common to both the military 

	 55.	 These	sentiments	are	expressed	in	a	NASA	and	National	Academy	of	Sciences	“Advisory	Paper	for	the	

Department	of	State	on	International	Cooperation	in	Space	Activities,”	dated	12	February	1959,	p.	12.	

It	was	sent	by	Hugh	Odishaw	to	Homer	Newell,	and	it	was	intended	to	guide	United	States	policy	in	

the	United	Nations.	An	annotated	footnote	suggests	that	Frutkin	actually	wrote	it.	I	am	grateful	to	John	

Logsdon	for	providing	me	with	a	copy	of	this	document.

	 56.	 Frutkin,	International Cooperation, p.	19	on	the	IGY,	p.	15	on	scientific	cooperation.

127
NASA’s First 50 Years

and to science.” Even the scientific results of space research, from a better 

understanding of the weather to a more precise knowledge of Earth’s shape 

and its magnetic field, straddled the civilian/military divide. Space achievements were also exploited for propaganda purposes in the context of the Cold 

War, being used to win the battle for people’s admiration and allegiance in the 

politically uncommitted parts of the world.57 In short, space exploration was 

necessarily politicized and suffused with national security concerns that were 

broadly conceived. Quoting NASA Administrator James Webb, Frutkin remarked 

that space, like Janus, looked in two directions: one emphasizing international 

cooperation and the other emphasizing international competition.58 Frutkin did 

not deny that any international project would have political implications and 

that these “should serve the political interests of the United States.” However, 

he was convinced that to avoid criticism, “political objectives are best served by 

solid accomplishment which may then be exploited politically after the fact.”59

In his book published in 1965, Frutkin identified a number of criteria for 

a successful international collaborative project. Twenty years later, they were 

presented more or less unchanged as the basic guidelines for NASA’s relationship with its partners.60 In this summary form, they read:

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

Designation by each participating government of a government agency 

for the negotiation and supervision of joint efforts.

Conduct of projects and activities having scientific validity and mutual 

interest.

Agreement upon specific projects rather than generalized programs.

Acceptance of financial responsibility by each participating agency for 

its own contributions to joint projects.

Provision for the widest and most practicable dissemination of the 

results of cooperative projects.

This list requires some elaboration.

The first requirement was that NASA have just one interlocutor to deal with 

in the partner country, an interlocutor that had official authority to engage the 

human, financial, and industrial resources in the collaborative project. Frutkin 

was aware that at the dawn of the Space Age, many individuals, pressure groups, 

	 57.	 Ibid., p.	5.

	 58.	 Ibid., p.	8.

	 59.	 NASA	and	National	Academy	of	Sciences	“Advisory	Paper,” p.	1,	emphasis	in	the	original.

	 60.	 In	 the	 introduction	 to	 26 Years of NASA International Programs,	 signed	 by	 the	 International	Affairs	

Division,	then	headed	by	Ken	Pedersen,	who	also	wrote	the	foreword	to	the	booklet.

128
NASA’s International Relations in Space

and government departments would be jockeying for control of the civilian 

space program, as they had in the United States. He wanted NASA to avoid 

becoming enrolled in these domestic conflicts or, indeed, unwittingly being 

used to promote the interests of one party over the other, hence his refusal to 

negotiate with anyone but a single official representative. This policy, coupled 

with NASA’s offer to fly foreign payloads in March 1959, not only stimulated the 

creation of space programs in foreign countries; it forced the national authorities to designate one body as responsible for international collaboration and, 

in some cases, led to the rapid establishment of a national or regional space 

agency. Whereas Frutkin originally left the door open for collaborating with 

“a central, civilian, and government sponsored, if not governmental authority,” 

by 1986 space agencies were so widespread internationally that NASA could 

simply designate them as its preferred partners.61

The second criterion was obviously meant to make scientific exploration, 

not political exploitation, the core of any collaborative space program. This 

was consistent with Frutkin’s determination to distinguish the technical from 

the political and make the former the driving force of the effort. At the same 

time, he was sensitive to the asymmetry in space capability between NASA and 

any potential partner in the 1960s, the Soviet Union excepted. He did not want 

the United States to use its advantage to dictate what others did, both so as to 

encourage local communities to formulate their own programs and to avoid 

later charges that the United States had “dominated” the space activities of its 

partners. Hence his demand that each country “poll its scientific community for 

relevant ideas” and, in consultation with NASA, “develop full-fledged proposals 

for cooperative experiments having a character of their own.”62

This concern also informed the criterion that all agreements should be on 

a project-by-project basis. An open-ended engagement to collaborate could 

lead to NASA’s committing itself to costly projects that were of no interest to 

United States investigators. By evaluating each proposal on a case-by-case 

basis, it could be assessed for its novelty and compatibility with the general 

thrust of the American space effort, so contributing to the knowledge base of 

both partners. Also for that reason, both would be willing to invest resources 

in their part of the project without seeking help from the other. This clause, 

summarized by the slogan “no exchange of funds,” was a cornerstone of 

	 61.	 Frutkin,	International Cooperation, p.	34.

	 62.	 Ibid.,	p.	35.

129
NASA’s First 50 Years

NASA policy and a touchstone for the willingness of its partners to take space 

collaboration seriously and invest their (often scarce) resources in a project.

The demand for full disclosure in the fifth and last criterion listed above 

flows from this. It was also meant to ensure that the joint program did not 

touch directly on matters of national security at home or in the foreign country. 

Frutkin, as we have seen, was well aware of the tight interconnection between 

the civil and the military in space matters. The requirement that the results 

of any joint effort be disseminated as widely as was practicable was at once 

a gesture to this commingling and an attempt to carve out a space for the 

civil alongside the military. The concept of peaceful use, as I stressed earlier, 

helped define the limits of the civil domain because it restricted the military 

to the aggressive. These definitions permitted the collaborative exploitation of 

scientific data on, say, the effect of electric densities in the ionosphere on the 

propagation of radio waves, a topic of considerable interest to scientists, but 

also to commercial and government bodies, including the military.63

When Frutkin first formulated his programmatic ideals, he focused almost 

entirely on space science. This was because most nations could not dream of 

engaging in major joint technological projects with the United States at the 

time. The exception was the Soviet Union. Indeed, in a famous speech to the 

United Nations on 20 September 1963, President Kennedy suggested that there 

was “room for new cooperation, for further joint efforts in the regulation and 

exploration of space,” adding that “I include among these possibilities a joint 

expedition to the Moon.” Kennedy died before he was able to explore these 

proposals further, but the obstacles posed by technological exchange to any 

joint lunar venture were obvious to astute observers. As one editorial noted, 

the United States was too far ahead in design and engineering to have any 

interest in developing hardware with the Soviet Union. Collaboration would 

also undermine national security and deaden the competitive drive between, 

and national support for, the rival programs. It also required levels of trust 

between the partners that simply did not exist.64 This is not to say that no col-

	 63.	 I	am	referring	here	to	the	so-called	topside	sounder	experiment,	undertaken	in	collaboration	with	the	

Canadian	Defence	Research	Telecommunications	Establishment,	who	placed	the	first	national	satellite	

built	 outside	 the	 superpowers,	 Alouette-I,	 in	 orbit	 in	 September	 1962	 using	 a	 Thor-Agena	 rocket	

provided	by	NASA.	For	a	detailed	analysis	of	this	kind	of	overlap,	see	David	DeVorkin, Science With a 

Vengeance: How the Military Created U.S. Space Sciences After World War II (New	York,	NY:	SpringerVerlag,	1993).

	 64.	 “A	Lunar	Proposal,”	Missiles and Rockets (14	October	1963):	52.	See	Frutkin,	International Collaboration,	

pp.	116–117.

130
NASA’s International Relations in Space

laboration took place between the United States and the Soviet Union in the 

1960s; it happened in meteorology, for example.65 However, as Frutkin stressed, 

in dealing with the Soviets, the cooperation was “arms length, in which each 

side carries out independently its portion of an arrangement without entering 

into the other’s planning, design, production, operations and analysis.”66 Put 

succinctly, the maintenance of “clean technological and managerial interfaces,” 

along with the demand that there be “no exchange of funds,” limited the threat 

to American technological leadership and national security inherent in the 

transfer of knowledge required by technological collaboration.

The criteria developed by Frutkin necessarily limited NASA’s partners to 

those that posed no serious security risk and who were willing to make a serious commitment to space. It is not surprising, therefore, that of 38 international 

cooperative spacecraft projects undertaken or agreed on between 1958 and 

1983, 33 were with Western Europe. Of a total of 73 experiments with foreign 

Principal Investigators, 52 were with this region. Canada, Japan, and the Soviet 

Union, along with several developing countries, made up the balance.67 This was 

quite unlike a program like Atoms for Peace, which proliferated research and 

some power reactors throughout the developed and developing world in the 

late 1950s and was driven by foreign policy and commercial concerns that had 

little regard for indigenous capability. This difference was deliberate: Frutkin 

was emphatic that space collaboration should never become a form of foreign 

aid, and he effectively restricted the scope of NASA’s activities to industrialized 

or rapidly industrializing countries with a strong science and engineering base.

This also explains the insistence that collaborative experiments should be of 

“mutual interest” (second criterion above). How could a foreign experiment that had 

“a character of its own” be of some value to NASA and to American investigators? 

For Frutkin, it had to dovetail with the broad interests of the American program, 

if only to justify the expenditure of United States dollars. Thus, each cooperative project had to be “a constructive element of the total space program of the 

United States space agency, approved by the appropriate program officials and 

justifying the expenditure of funds for the US portion of the joint undertaking.”68

	 65.	 Angel	 Long,	 “Making	 Atmospheric	 Sciences	 Global:	 U.S.-Soviet	 Satellite	 Networking	 and	 the	

Development	of	High	Technology”	(paper	presented	at	the	Georgia	Tech	School	of	HTS	Seminar	Series,	

3	November	2008).

	 66.	 Frutkin,	International Collaboration, pp.	101–102.

	 67.	 John	Logsdon,	“U.S.-European	Cooperation	in	Space	Science:	A	25-Year	Perspective,”	Science 223,	no.	

4631	(6	January	1984):	11–16.

	 68.	 Ibid.,	33.

131
NASA’s First 50 Years

Logsdon has put together some of the “constructive” contributions that 

international collaboration, notably with Western Europe, made between 1958 

and 1983, not only to the United States space effort as such, but also to the 

American economy and to the pursuit of American foreign policy. His findings are summarized in table 2. This table not only shows the concrete ways 

in which foreign experiments were to be of “mutual interest” scientifically; it 

also draws attention to the economic and political benefits of space collaboration, including channeling foreign resources down avenues that would not 

undermine American scientific and technological leadership; creating markets; 

projecting a positive image of the United States abroad; and promoting foreign 

policy agendas, including the postwar integration of Europe.

Table 2. Benefits of NASA’s international programs, adapted from Logsdon.69

SCIENTIFIC/TECHNICAL	BENEFITS

Attracts	brainpower	to	work	on	challenging	research	problems.	

Shapes	foreign	programs	to	be	compatible	with	the	U.S.	effort	by	encouraging	others	to	“do	it	our	way.”

Limits	

of	the	

foreign	funds	for	

United	States.

space	activities	that	are	competitive	or	less	compatible	with	the	space	interests	

Obtains	outstanding	experiments	from	non-U.S.	investigators.

Obtains	coordinated	or	simultaneous	observations	from	multiple	investigators.

Opens	doors	for	U.S.	scientists	to	participate	in	foreign	programs.

ECONOMIC	BENEFITS

Has	contributed	over	$2	billion	in	cost	savings	and	contributions	to	NASA’s	space	effort.

Improves	the	balance	of	trade	by	creating	new	markets	for	U.S.	aerospace	products.

POLITICAL	BENEFITS

Creates	a	positive	

and	official	elite.

image	of	the	United	States	in	the	struggle	for	the	minds	of	the	scientific,	technical,	

Encourages	European	unity	by	working	with	multinational	institutions.

Reinforces	the	image	of	U.S.	openness	in	contrast	to	the	secrecy	of	the	Soviet	space	program.

Uses	space	technology	as	a	tool	of	diplomacy	to	serve	broader	foreign	policy	objectives.

These putative benefits were not always welcomed by those actually 

engaged in the practicalities of international collaboration. American scientists 

and engineers, flush with the enormous success of their own program, feared 

that their partners were less capable than they and might not fulfill their 

	 69.	 Ibid.,	13.

132
NASA’s International Relations in Space

commitments. They balked at the additional layers of managerial complexity 

and the assumed added cost of international projects. As resources for NASA’s 

space science program shrunk in the 1970s, they sometimes resented the presence of foreign payloads on NASA satellites, suspecting that they had been 

chosen less because of merit than because they were free to the Agency. And 

they noted that by encouraging foreign powers to develop space capabilities, 

NASA was undermining the American leadership in high-technology industry: 

it was producing its own competitors.70 International collaboration was not 

uncontested at home, particularly as NASA’s partners gained in maturity and 

were competitors as much as collaborators.

The weight of the several factors (scientific and technical/economic/political) 

that were brought into play in the first two decades of international collaboration 

varied depending on circumstances. A scientific experiment built with a foreign 

Principal Investigator and paid for by a national research council—like Geiss’s 

Solar Wind Experiment on Apollo 11—raised few, if any, broader economic or 

political issues. Complex and expensive projects calling for major technological 

developments and managerial inputs were at the other end of the spectrum.

The 1975 Apollo-Soyuz Test Project (ASTP) is the best-known example of 

this. Often reduced to simply a “handshake in space,” it involved docking an 

American Apollo and a Soviet Soyuz spacecraft with each other in orbit 120 

miles above Earth. During the two days in which the hatch between Apollo 

and Soyuz was open, three American astronauts and two Soviet cosmonauts 

exchanged pleasantries and gifts and conducted a few scientific experiments 

together. This was above all a political statement, a concrete manifestation of 

the new climate of détente with the Soviet Union being pursued by President 

Nixon and his National Security Adviser and Secretary of State, Henry Kissinger.71

Political concerns also provided a trigger for two other major projects in 

the 1960s and 1970s. One was Helios, the $100 million venture to send two 

probes built in (West) Germany and weighing over 200 kilograms each to 

within 45 million kilometers of the Sun.72 Helios was the most ambitious joint 

	 70.	 For	these	objections,	see	Logsdon,	“U.S.-European	Cooperation,”	13.

	 71.	 For	a	summary	account,	see	Joan	Johnson-Freese,	Changing Patterns of International Collaboration in 

Space (Malabar,	FL:	Orbit	Books,	1990),	chap.	6;	Smith,	“America’s	International	Space	Activities,”	19.

	 72.	 NASA’s	participation	in	the	project	is	described	in	Frutkin,	“International	Cooperation.”	For	the	political	

dimension,	 see	 John	 Krige,	 “NASA	 as	 an	 Instrument	 of	 U.S.	 Foreign	 Policy,”	 in	 Societal Impact of 

Spaceflight,	 ed.	 Steven	 J.	 Dick	 and	 Roger	 D.	 Launius	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 SP-2007-4801),	 pp.	

207–218.	See	also	John	Logsdon,	“Astronautical	Research	 in	the	Transatlantic	Perspective,”	 in	Ein 

Jahrhundert in Flug, Luft- und Raumfahrtforschung in Deutschland, 1907–2007,	ed.	Helmuth	Trischler	

and	Kai-Uwe	Schrogl	(Frankfurt,	Germany:	Campus,	2007).	

133
NASA’s First 50 Years

project agreed to in the 1960s between NASA and a foreign partner. It was 

the result of an invitation for space collaboration made by President Lyndon 

Johnson to Chancellor Ludwig Erhard during a state banquet at the White 

House in December 1965. For Erhard, a major civil space project was one way 

of reducing German obligations to buy military equipment from the United 

States, as required by the offset agreements between the two countries. For 

Johnson, it was a gesture of support for America’s most faithful ally in Europe 

at a time when the Vietnam War was increasingly unpopular and the French 

were increasingly hostile to the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). Of 

course, once the official offer had been made, these political concerns receded 

into the background (and Erhard was soon punished in domestic elections for 

being too “pro-American”). Scientific and technical success, however, should 

not be decoupled from the political will that created the essential window of 

opportunity for scientists, engineers, and industry to embark on such an ambitious project so early in Germany’s postwar space history with NASA’s help.

The same can be said of the Satellite Instructional Television Experiment 

(SITE), another impressive international project that was agreed to with the 

Indian authorities in 1970. In this experiment, an advanced application satellite (ATS-6) was first placed into geosynchronous orbit to perform some 

experiments for various U.S. agencies before being shifted further east.73 From 

its new position, it could broadcast television programs to village receivers 

directly or via relay stations provided by the Indian authorities. For India, the 

satellite was a marvelous way of bringing educational television, produced 

locally and dealing with local needs like family planning, into otherwise inaccessible rural areas (programs were broadcast in eight languages directly to 

small receivers in over 2,000 villages), while giving an important popular boost 

to the indigenous space program. For the United States, it served a variety of 

political and economic needs. It sealed a bond with an ally deemed unreliable 

and promoted the modernization of India as an alternative model to China 

for developing countries. It was part of a broader strategy to channel Indian 

resources down the path of civilian technologies. And, by withdrawing the 

satellite from service after a year, NASA successfully encouraged the Indian 

government to buy additional models from United States businesses. The SITE, 

	 73.	 For	 the	 NASA	 perspective,	 see	 Frutkin,	 “International	 Cooperation.”	 For	 the	 broader	 foreign	 policy	

dimensions,	 see	 Ashok	Maharaj,	 “Regaining	 Indian	 Prestige:	The	 Chinese	 Nuclear	Test,	 NASA	 and	

the	Satellite	Instructional	Television	Experiment	(SITE)”	(paper	given	at	the	SHOT	Conference,	Lisbon,	

Portugal,	October	2008).

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while being of undoubted benefit to various constituencies in India, also served 

multiple geopolitical needs for the United States in the region.

In all of three of the cases just described, while political (and economic) 

motives were part of the broader context inspiring the collaborations in 

question, they were essentially left behind or bracketed during the scientific 

and technical definition of the projects and their implementation. Once the 

programs got under way, the fundamental maxims of clean interfaces and no 

exchanges of funds dominated development. Perhaps the Soviets learned a 

good deal about how the United States managed large-scale space programs 

through the ASTP. However, as far as hardware is concerned, Marcia Smith 

remarked in 1984 that “it [was] difficult to point to a single example of new 

space technology being used by the Soviets that might have come from their 

experience with ASTP (except for the remodeling of the Soviet mission-control 

center to resemble the one at NASA’s Johnson Space Center).”74 Indeed, the 

flow of technology facilitated by cooperation of this nature should not be 

exaggerated: one NASA Task Force insisted in 1987 that “the major paths for 

Soviet acquisition of US and Western technology are espionage, evasion of 

export controls, and access to open literature.”75

Similarly, there was no significant technology transfer in the Helios project. 

NASA provided two launch vehicles, some experiments, and the use of its deep 

space network. Germany designed, manufactured, and integrated the two space 

spacecraft, provided 7 of the 10 experiments, and operated and controlled the 

two satellites from a center on domestic soil. Once again, there was doubtless 

a transfer of managerial expertise in the joint working group that, as in all 

NASA cooperative projects, was involved in the technical implementation of 

Helios. However, it focused primarily on payload-spacecraft and spacecraftbooster interfaces, so it was not engaged in the industrial development of core 

hardware on either side of the Atlantic.76 Finally, in the SITE, the United States 

provided the space segment (for very little cost to NASA), while India provided 

the ground segment.77 I quoted Frutkin earlier as stressing that if there was 

political advantage to be gained from international cooperation, it should be 

exploited after the fact. This was possible in these cases because, by enforcing 

	 74.	 Smith,	“America’s	International	Space	Activities,”	19.

	 75.	 Hermann	Pollack,	“International	Relations	in	Space.	A	U.S.	View,”	Space Policy 4,	no.	1	(February	1988):	

28.

	 76.	 Frutkin,	“International	Cooperation	in	Space,”	336.

	 77.	 Ibid.,	333–334.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

his criteria for collaboration, NASA could draw a more or less sharp distinction 

between the technical and the political that mapped onto various phases of 

the joint ventures. The balance between the two shifted dramatically as one 

moved from initiation, through technical implementation, and on to operation. 

There was a notable exception to this: the major initiative, inspired by 

NASA Administrator Tom Paine, to engage Europe at the technological core 

of the post-Apollo program between 1969 and 1973.78 In a nutshell, with 

NASA’s budget shrinking dramatically after the “golden years” of the Apollo 

lunar missions, Paine hoped to get Europe to contribute as much 10 percent 

(or $1 billion) of an ambitious program that initially included a space station and a shuttle to service it. Foreign participation would also help win 

the support of a reluctant Congress and President for NASA’s plans. And it 

would undermine those who insisted that Europe needed independent access 

to space— Europeans were told that they were wasting valuable resources 

by developing their own expendable launcher to compete with a reusable 

shuttle that, it was claimed, would reduce the cost per kilogram into orbit by 

as much as a factor of 10. For several years, joint working groups invested 

hundreds of hours discussing a variety of projects. Some, like having European 

industry build parts of the orbiter wing, threw clean interfaces to the winds. 

Others, like the suggestion that Europe build a space tug to transfer payloads from the shuttle’s low-Earth orbit to a geosynchronous orbit, a project 

of interest to the Air Force, touched directly on matters of national security. 

The entire process was reconfigured soon after President Nixon authorized 

the development of the Space Shuttle in January 1972. Clean interfaces and 

no exchange of funds imposed their own logic on the discussion (and were 

reinforced by anxieties about European capabilities to fulfill commitments 

and by fears that NASA was becoming entangled in unwieldy and costly 

joint management schemes). The European “contribution” was reevaluated, 

and Germany decided to take the lead in building Spacelab, a shirtsleeve 

scientific laboratory that fitted into the Shuttle’s cargo bay and that satisfied 

all the standard criteria of international collaboration. So too did Canada’s 

construction of the Remote Manipulator System (RMS), a robotic arm that 

grabbed satellites in space or lifted them from the Shuttle’s payload bay prior 

to deployment. Once built, both Spacelab and the RMS were handed over 

entirely to NASA to operate. 

	 78.	 For	a	summary,	see	Logsdon,	“U.S.-European	Cooperation.”	

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

The debates around technological collaboration in the post-Apollo program threw into relief the limits to international cooperation in space. For the 

Europeans, it provided the opportunity to share cutting-edge technologies and 

access to desperately needed project management skills, though at the risk of 

not acquiring independent access to space. While many in the United States 

were happy to see Europeans abandon their plans for a powerful expendable 

launcher, they were concerned about the threat that intimate technological 

exchange posed to American preeminence and national security. For NASA, 

the question was whether the financial and domestic political benefits—as 

well as the enthusiasm of some sectors of U.S. industry to participate in joint 

ventures with leading British and European aerospace firms—were worth the 

risks. The decision-making process was complicated by NASA’s difficulty in 

fixing a technical content to the post-Apollo program that would win congressional and presidential support, by Europe’s hesitations, and by the multiplicity 

of stakeholders involved: NASA (of course), but also the State Department, 

DOD, and the aerospace industry, just to mention the most prominent in the 

United States. In the event, Germany’s decision to build Spacelab (and France’s 

to build the Ariane launcher) reaffirmed and consolidated the criteria of clean 

interfaces and no exchange of funds. In a single movement, all the anxieties 

that had accompanied technological transfer from the world’s leading space 

power in a sensitive sector were dispensed with—though not without considerable European resentment.

The willingness to share technology in the post-Apollo program (and also 

in support of the European Launcher Development Organization in the mid1960s) was part of a general sentiment in Washington, DC, that something had 

to be done to close the technological gap that had opened up between the 

two sides of the Atlantic at the time. Space technology was seen as a crucial 

sector for closing this gap.79 Technological sharing would undermine European 

criticisms of American dominance in high-tech areas while helping to build a 

European aerospace industry that could eventually serve as a reliable partner 

sharing costs in civil and military areas: Europe would assume some of the 

burden for its own defense. Japan also benefited from technological sharing 

in the domain of rocketry (and, like Europe, was offered a stake in the postApollo program, which it declined). The State Department (in the person of 

	 79.	 See	John	Krige,	“Technology,	Foreign	Policy	and	International	Cooperation	in	Space,”	in	Critical Issues 

in the History of Spaceflight,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	and	Roger	D.	Launius	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2006-

4702,	2006),	pp.	239–262.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

U. Alexis Johnson) allowed U.S. firms to transfer rocket technology to Japan 

in an intergovernmental agreement signed in 1969 and updated in 1976 and 

1979. As Japan was forbidden to develop technologies with military potential, 

the performance of the subsequent N-series of rockets was deliberately constrained and no state-of-the-art technologies were transferred to Tokyo. In 

addition, the Japanese authorities were not permitted to provide launches for 

third parties without the explicit approval of the United States government.80

There was a transfer of technology, but it was under a tight regime that enforced 

Japan’s restricted international status as a technological power and ensured 

that NASA’s monopoly on access to space in the non-Communist world was 

not yet seriously challenged.

The Changing Context in the 1980s

The context of international cooperation changed importantly in the 1980s. 

In essence, the technological gap between NASA and its traditional partners 

began to close in a variety of space sectors. At the same time, the Soviet Union 

began to open its closed and secretive program to international collaboration. 

The effective monopoly that NASA had enjoyed for two decades was over, 

and so was the willingness by foreign partners to accept Washington, DC’s 

constraints on collaboration that they needed to secure access to the most 

dynamic, technologically advanced, and open space program on the globe.

Launchers were at the cutting edge of this transformation. On Christmas 

Eve 1979, the ESA successfully tested its first Ariane rocket. After overcoming 

the normal teething troubles, Ariane soon proved to be a spectacular success. 

Helped on by the lower than expected launch rate of the U.S. Space Shuttle, 

Arianespace (the company that commercialized Ariane) had acquired about 50 

percent of the commercial market for satellites by the end 1985. A second major 

new player entered the field of rocketry in the late 1980s. Japan developed its 

H-series to replace the N-series built under American tutelage. H-I was tested 

in 1987. The H-2, scheduled for launch early in the 1990s, was able to reach 

geostationary orbit. It was, the Japanese argued, derived entirely from technology developed at home and so not subject to the restrictions that NASA had 

placed on the N-I, N-II, and H-I series, notably as regards providing launches 

for third parties. China’s Long March 3 placed a satellite in geostationary orbit 

in April 1984; the authorities immediately announced that they were keen to 

	 80.	 For	a	summary,	see	Kenneth	S.	Pedersen,	“The	Changing	Face	of	International	Space	Cooperation,”	

Space Policy 2,	no.	2	(May	1986):	120–139.

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

find clients abroad. Finally, the Soviet Union was showing a greater willingness 

to open its previously closed and secretive launcher system for commercial 

use and was even seeking a contract to launch a satellite for the International 

Maritime Satellite Organization (INMARSAT), something that had been simply 

inconceivable several years before. As Ken Pedersen stressed, “It was, after 

all, America’s launch hegemony that was the foundation of its traditional preeminence in cooperative enterprises.”81 That hegemony, along with the opportunities it gave the United States to dictate the terms of collaboration and to 

dominate the global exploitation of satellites, was now crumbling.

Launch technology was not the only area where American leadership was 

being challenged. Advanced communications satellites and remote sensing 

satellites with technologies more sophisticated than those available in the 

United States civil sector were being built in Europe, Japan, and Canada. The 

French had taken the lead in commercializing images from SPOT, an Earth 

remote sensing satellite that technologically outstripped the earlier NASA 

Landsat system, then bogged down in negotiations over privatization. Australia 

and a number of rapidly industrializing countries—Brazil, China, India—had 

constructed solid national space programs; and many third world countries, 

along with the Soviet Union (in a reversal of its historic policy), were clamoring for a greater say in international bodies like Intelsat, which governs the 

global satellite telecommunications system. In space science as well, America 

was becoming just one partner among others. In March 1986, an armada of 

spacecraft surveyed Halley’s Comet on its regular 75- to 76-year sweep though 

the inner solar system. Giotto was the first satellite sent by the ESA into deep 

space, and it came within about 600 kilometers of Halley’s nucleus. Other 

spacecraft were supplied by the Soviet Union (Vega I and Vega II) and by 

Japan (Suisei and Sagikake). The mission was conceived as a joint NASA/ESA 

venture, and although NASA cooperated by providing support through its Deep 

Space Tracking Network and a number of American scientists were involved 

in foreign experiments, the U.S. agency did not have a spacecraft of its own in 

the fleet. Summing up the situation, a special task force of the NASA Advisory 

Council reported in November 1987 “that there is in process an accelerating 

equalization of competence in launching capability, satellite manufacturing 

and management for communications, remote sensing and scientific activity, 

and in the prospective use of space for commercial purposes.”82 For Pedersen, 

	 81.	 Pedersen,	“The	Changing	Face,”	124.

	 82.	 Pollack,	“International	Relations,”	24.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

this meant that NASA had to learn to operate in a pluralistic world in which 

its historic dominance was diluted along with the flexibility and freedom of 

action it had long enjoyed. “For NASA today,” he wrote in 1986, “‘power’ is 

much more likely to mean the power to persuade than the power to prescribe.”83

The end of the Cold War forced yet another reassessment of NASA’s role. 

The rigidity that had marked 40 years of United States and Soviet rivalry, along 

with the framework for collaboration that it had defined, had now collapsed. 

The space program “lost an enemy.” The political and military rationales for 

collaboration with Western allies—and the subordination of economic considerations to geostrategic concerns during the Cold War—would come back 

to haunt the United States: the technological gap was no more, and previous 

allies were now economic competitors. Most dramatically, President Reagan, 

the father of both the International Space Station Freedom and of a defensive 

shield in space popularly known as “Star Wars,” suggested “recapitalizing” the 

former Soviet Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) republics through 

large-scale purchases of space hardware and systems. Subsequently, “the Bush 

administration, in a sharp reversal of prior practice, . . . announced that it will 

henceforth review license applications to export dual-use technology to the 

CIS countries with a ‘presumption of approval’.” 84 The hallowed principles of 

no exchange of funds and clean interfaces to restrict technology transfer were 

being overturned. Efforts were made to retain the infrastructure and institutional 

memory of the major Soviet space programs in Russia and later the Ukraine, 

though technology transfer was restricted through the Missile Technology 

Control Regime. As a report for the Office of Technology Assessment pointed 

out in 1995, Russian industrialists involved in the ISS would be obliged to 

abide by Western nonproliferation rules, e.g., by not selling sensitive booster 

technology to unreliable partners. 85 Scientists and engineers were given strong 

incentives to ally themselves with United States and Western-style reforms in 

an effort to stem “the flow of indigenous high-risk technologies and expertise 

from those locations [the CIS states] to outside destinations, principally Third 

World Nations.”86

	 83.	 Pedersen,	“The	Changing	Face,”	130.	See	also	Johnson-Freese,	Changing Patterns,	chap.	9,	and	Smith,	

“America’s	International	Space	Activities.”

	 84.	 Kenneth	S.	Pedersen,	“Thoughts	on	International	Space	Cooperation	and	Interests	in	the	Post-Cold	War	

World,”	Space Policy 8,	no.	3	(1992):	208.

	 85.	 U.S.	Congress,	Office	of	Technology	Assessment,	U.S.-Russian Cooperation in Space, OTA-ISS-618	

(Washington,	DC:	GPO,	April	1995),	p.	81.	I	thank	Angel	Long	for	bringing	this	report	to	my	attention.

	 86.	 Pedersen,	“Thoughts	on	International	Space	Cooperation,”	216.

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

This change in context had palpable effects on the evolution of the plans 

for the ISS. NASA had already shown a new flexibility in defining this huge 

technological venture with representatives of the ESA, Canada, and Japan even 

before the President authorized the scheme in 1984; in recognition of the 

technological maturity of its partners and the absolute necessity to have them 

share the cost, NASA’s “coordination in the early planning phases indicated 

a consideration of foreign partner interests and objectives unprecedented in 

space cooperation hitherto” (my emphases).87 With the inclusion of Russia in the 

venture beginning in 1993, there was an increased move to multilateralization 

and interdependence. NASA and American industry could benefit directly by 

collaborating closely with a partner that had extensive experience in human 

spaceflight. It was reported in 1995 that United States firms and their counterparts in Canada, Europe, and Japan had entered into Space Station-related 

contracts and other agreements worth over $200 million. NASA had procured 

about $650 million of material from Russian suppliers over four years.88 Russia 

became functionally integrated into the Station in 1998, providing critical path 

infrastructure elements on what became a U.S.-Russia core. America’s traditional 

partners in Europe, including Italy, as well as Canada and Japan also made 

critical path contributions to the overall scheme. And in 1997, an agreement 

was signed with Brazil for the “design, development, operation and use of 

flight equipment and payloads for the international space station program.”89

Ken Pedersen summarized the shift in NASA’s policies precipitated by the 

rapidly changing geopolitical context of the late 1980s, and that was expressed 

in the collaborative arrangements for the ISS at a conference in Florence, Italy, 

in 1993. Pedersen began by repeating the mantra that had shaped his approach 

to international collaboration when he first replaced Frutkin: clean interfaces 

to minimize technological leakage, no exchange of funds, independent management of projects, “which was really just a somewhat nice way of saying 

that NASA would continue to stay in charge,” and that there was “no idea of 

joint development of hardware. We would each do our own thing, with our 

	 87.	 Eligar	 Sadeh,	 “Technical,	 Organizational	 and	 Political	 Dynamics	 of	 the	 International	 Space	 Station	

Program,”	Space Policy 20	(2004):	173.	For	the	early	history	of	the	Station,	 see	John	M.	Logsdon,	

Together in Orbit: The Origins of International Participation in Space Station Freedom (Washington,	

DC:	Space	Policy	Institute,	George	Washington	University,	December	1991);	Howard	E.	McCurdy,	The 

Space Station Decision: Incremental Politics and Technological Choice (Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	

University	Press,	2007).	

	 88.	 U.S.–Russian Cooperation in Space,	p.	76.

	 89.	 Sadeh,	“Technical,	Organizational,”	184.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

own money, with our own technology and then bring it together.” This was 

no longer the way to do business. As Pedersen put it: 

If we build long term infrastructures in space with long periods 

of operation, no exchange of funds is simply not going to 

work. If we are to build truly global space stations, we have 

to get used to the fact that each of us is going to be on each 

other’s critical paths. We have to be prepared to share and 

jointly develop infrastructure in a way in which we must all 

depend on each other to get to the end of the road. We are 

going to have to find ways of joint decision making in which 

conclusions and decisions, as to both the development and 

operation of joint projects are made in forums in which there 

is genuine voting or genuine ways of expressing agreements 

and disagreements and reaching resolution without one actor 

necessarily imposing its will on another.90

Yet even as the physiognomy of collaboration in the Space Station was 

being redrawn to respond to these new principles, there were other factors at 

work that would undermine them, and limit their general applicability.

The 1990s and Beyond

In March 1983, President Reagan made his famous speech in which he labeled 

the Soviet Union an “evil empire” and suggested intercepting and destroying ballistic missiles from space before they reached American shores. “Star 

Wars,” as it became popularly known, was never fully implemented, but it 

signaled a new emphasis on national security in space matters that generated 

considerable friction between NASA and DOD. If relationships between the 

two agencies previously had been relatively smooth and trouble-free, by 1987 

they were “neither close nor working well.”91 The Department of Defense 

feared that NASA was “soft” on technology transfer and not attentive enough 

to national security considerations, even with its close allies. Already in 1984, 

	 90.	 Ken	Pedersen,	“International	 Cooperation:	Past,	Present	 and	 Future,”	 in	 The Implementation of the 

ESA Convention: Lessons from the Past,	ed.	European	Centre	for	Space	Law,	proceedings	of	the	ESA	

and	European	University	Institute	(EUI)	International	Colloquium,	Florence,	Italy,	25–26	October	1993	

(Dordrecht,	Netherlands:	Martinus	Nijhoff,	1994),	p.	215.	

	 91.	 Pollack,	“International	Relations,”	26.

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

NASA Administrator James Beggs had warned his senior staff involved in the 

Space Station program that they were to be careful to avoid “adverse technology transfer” in international programs, notably where the Soviet Union was 

involved, and expressed concern about “careless and unnecessary revelation 

of sensitive technology to our free world competitors—sometimes to the serious detriment of this nation’s vital commercial competitive position.”92 As if to 

confirm the point, DOD intervened in Space Station negotiations with Europe, 

Japan, and Canada in the mid-1980s, so undermining NASA’s authority as the 

lead American negotiator. In short, as national security concerns (including 

concerns about threats to American technological and economic leadership) 

came to the fore in the 1980s, the fears of technological leakage threw an 

increasingly long shadow over civil space cooperation. 

As Beggs’s letter made clear, heightened concerns about technological 

leakage were symptomatic of the economic strength of NASA’s partners, a 

strength that made them both valuable partners and formidable competitors. 

Economic concerns were now complemented by new military demands. As 

satellite technology became more sophisticated, the military began to appreciate the importance of space-based hardware as a “force multiplier,” i.e., its 

capacity to enhance traditional military operations. Satellites began to be 

used to improve the effectiveness of battlefield surveillance, tactical targeting, and communications.93 These advantages, and not the fantasies of “Star 

Wars,” were dramatically demonstrated in Operation Desert Storm, the United 

Nations-sanctioned, United States-led assault on Iraqi forces that had occupied 

Kuwait in 1991. NASA Administrator Dan Goldin’s 1993 Final Report to the 

President on the U.S. Space Program stressed this dimension of the conflict. 

“Control of space was essential to our ability to prosecute the war quickly, 

successfully, and with a minimum loss of American lives.” Communications, 

navigation, weather reporting, reconnaissance, surveillance, remote sensing, 

and early warning—all these were mentioned by Goldin as essential to United 

States victory.94 The defense space budget climbed in line with demand. NASA’s 

budget remained roughly unchanged in constant dollars between 1975 and 

1984 (hovering between $8 and $9 billion 1986 dollars). The defense space 

	 92.	 Quoted	in	Sadeh,	“Technical,	Organizational,”	174.

	 93.	 Stares,	Militarization, pp.	242–243.

	 94.	 Final Report to the President on the U.S. Space Program, January 1993, submitted	 by	 NASA	

Administrator	Dan	Goldin	to	President	H.	W.	Bush,	7	January	1993,	available	at	http://history.NASA.

gov/33082.pt1.pdf	(accessed	15	December	2008).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

budget came from behind to equal NASA’s around 1981. By 2000, they were 

approximately the same at $12.5 to $13 billion current dollars. It was recently 

reported that in fiscal year 2008, the Pentagon’s space program cost about $22 

billion, almost a third more than NASA’s.95

The attacks on American soil on 11 September 2001 accelerated demands 

for the protection of space as a key asset in America’s defensive arsenal. We 

can get a sense of the outlines of the policy shift by comparing the lessons 

drawn by the United States administration from the two wars in the Persian 

Gulf. In 1993, Goldin suggested that the first engagement with Saddam Hussein 

showed how important it was “to develop and maintain our ability to deny the 

use of space to our adversaries during a crisis in wartime” (my emphasis).96 Ten 

years later, Operation Desert Storm was followed by Operation Iraqi Freedom 

and the global war on terror. Even greater emphasis was placed on the need 

to secure space as an American military asset. In an unclassified summary of 

what was almost certainly a National Security Presidential Directive (NSPD) 

of 31 August 2006, it was stressed that “United States National Security [was] 

critically dependent upon space capabilities, and this dependence will grow.” 

The document emphasized that “Freedom of action in space is as important to 

the United States as air power and sea power” and, while stressing that space 

could be used by all nations for peaceful purposes, made a point of adding 

that “‘peaceful purposes’ allow U.S. defense and intelligence-related activities in pursuit of national interests.”97 This point was developed in one of the 

most controversial clauses of the unclassified document that was released in 

October 2006: 

The United States considers space capabilities—including the 

ground and space segments and supporting links—vital to its 

national interests. Consistent with this policy, the United States 

will preserve its rights, capabilities, and freedom of action in 

space; dissuade or deter others from either impeding those 

rights or developing capabilities intended to do so; take those 

	 95.	 Demian	McLean,	“Obama	Moves	to	Counter	China	with	Pentagon-NASA	Link,”	http://www.bloomberg.

com,	 2	 January	 2009,	 available	 at	 http://news.yahoo.com/s/bloomberg/20090102/pl_bloomberg/

aovrno0oj41g/print	(accessed	4	January	2009).

	 96.	 Final Report to the President on the U.S. Space Program, January 1993, pp.	22,	31.

	 97.	 The	declassified	statement,	which	is	presumably	derived	from	NSPD	49,	is	available	at	http://www.fas.

org/irp/offdocs/nspd/space.html	(accessed	29	September	2008).	The	quotations	are	respectively	from	

section	5,	first	paragraph,	and	section	1,	second	paragraph.

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

actions necessary to protect its space capabilities; respond to 

interference; and deny, if necessary, adversaries the use of space 

capabilities hostile to U.S. national interests [my emphasis].98

Many commentators have noted the continuity in United States space 

policy from the Reagan years to the present and have insisted that the new 

directive simply renders more explicit what was left vague and inconclusive 

in previous policy statements, including those by President Clinton (i.e., there 

is agreement across party lines on the broad direction of United States space 

policy for the 21st century). At the same time, it is worth noting the difference 

between my italicized phrase in Goldin’s report in 1993 and that in the August 

2006 policy statement. The NASA Administrator suggested the need for denial 

in times of wartime crisis. The new policy is far broader, and uses “national 

interest” to justify a range of initiatives—dissuasion, deterrence, and denial—

to preserve America’s “rights, capabilities, and freedom of action in space.” It 

is this all-encompassing demand that so worries America’s partners, all the 

more so as it is coupled with a recent history of preemptive, unilateral actions 

by an executive that has refused to be tied down by obstructive international 

agreements—as reaffirmed in the August 2006 directive: “The United States will 

oppose the development of new legal regimes or other restrictions that seek 

to prohibit or limit U.S. access to or use of space.” In short, there is a fundamental contradiction in the making between NASA’s dependence on foreign 

partners to pursue its international projects and the military’s dependence on 

space technologies to protect national interests (and to secure civil society’s 

dependence on space technology for the successful functioning of “ATMs, 

personal navigation, package tracking, radio services, and cell phone use”).99

 For the moment, it is not easy to get a clear picture of how far national 

security concerns are subverting civilian space collaboration by crippling technological exchange. In a recent assessment of trends, Alain Dupas and John 

Logsdon noted that President Bush had encouraged international collaboration, 

but only when it “would support U.S. space exploration goals.” They went on 

to suggest that it seemed that a “unilateral approach [was] emerging as the 

	 98.	 NSPD	49,	section	2,	item	5.

	 99.	 The	last	was	stressed	by	White	House	spokesman	Tony	Snow,	as	reported	in	Suzanne	Goldenberg’s	

article,	“Bush	Issues	Doctrine	for	US	Control	of	Space,”	Guardian (19	October	2006),	available	at	http://

www.guardian.co.uk/science/2006/oct/19/spaceexploration.usnews	(accessed	29	September	2008).

145
NASA’s First 50 Years

preferred U.S. path to shaping international participation.”100 In the 1960s, 

United States dominance was ensured by virtue of the weakness of its partners 

and its monopoly on access to space. Collaboration with its allies in the free 

world was driven as much by generosity as by the exigencies of the Cold War. 

In 2007, the United States once again seeks dominance, but now for political 

and military reasons; increasing alienation, rather than grateful admiration, is 

becoming the hallmark of its international relationships. The last word on this 

matter will be left to the ESA’s Director of Science, David Southwood, who 

in 2007 deplored the constraints on collaboration that resulted, in his view, 

from the more or less indiscriminate application of International Traffic in 

Arms Regulations (ITAR) to any and all space technology. As Southwood put 

it, “It’s not ‘this is military space or not military’—anything to do with space 

is a potential military technology, therefore arms, therefore falls under ITAR.” 

He went on to tell me that “It looks to me as if ITAR is working against the 

interests of the United States in that . . . . By trying to impose a hegemony, 

which they can’t impose, they’re only encouraging others to build up alternative 

routes to do it . . . . Those of us who want to cooperate with the United States 

are frustrated by the level of regulation and nonsense we’re put through, and 

indeed the problem we face of trying to explain to people that if we really are 

cooperating we have to have an understanding of what something does in the 

partner’s piece of equipment.”101 It remains to be seen if Southwood’s anger is 

widely shared and if new presidential policies will remove some of the current 

obstacles to international collaboration that he has identified.

Early in January 2009, it was announced that President-elect Barack Obama 

would “probably tear down longstanding barriers between the U.S.’s civilian and 

military space programs to speed up a mission to the moon amid the prospect 

of a new space race with China.” Pentagon funds could be used for the civilian 

program in a period of recession. NASA’s new Ares I rocket could be scrapped 

in favor of using an existing military booster. NASA-Pentagon cooperation is 

also being encouraged to strengthen United States antisatellite technology in 

the light of China’s recent investments in antisatellite warfare. Defense Secretary 

Gates, who has been kept on by Obama, has recently remarked that these and 

related Chinese initiatives “could threaten the United States’ primary means 

	100.	 Alain	 Dupas	 and	 John	 Logsdon,	 “Space	 Exploration	 Should	 be	 a	 Global	 Undertaking,”	 Aviation 

Week & Space Technology (5	July	2004):	70.

	101.	 David	 Southwood,	 interview	 by	 John	 Krige,	 ESA	 headquarters,	 Paris,	 France,	 16	 July	 2007,	 NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

to project its power and help its allies in the Pacific: bases, air and sea assets, 

and the networks that support them.”102

At the time of writing, these are merely proposals, and it is difficult to 

know how much store to lay by them. Yet they are entirely consistent with 

the general drift of United States space policy over the past 20 or 30 years, a 

drift that is seeing an increasing militarization of space and a radical rethinking of the relationship between the U.S. civilian and military space programs, 

alongside the historic determination to use space to project United States 

power abroad. This blurring of the civilian/military divide can eventually only 

change the face of NASA and the role and limits of international collaboration 

in the Agency’s mission.

Concluding Remarks

Looking back over NASA’s first 50 years, it could be argued that while the 

rationale for international collaboration has changed, there is an underlying 

continuity in NASA’s ambitions. Those ambitions are driven by a quintessentially American determination to lead in the conquest of space, a determination that has been given additional social and historical traction by defining 

space as a new frontier to be explored and controlled. These themes appear 

and reappear in presidential proclamations that characterize the conquest of 

space as simply the next logical step in that outward dynamic push that is the 

“manifest destiny” of the United States and intrinsic to American identity and 

American exceptionalism.103 Thus when the Shuttle Columbia touched down 

on 4 July 1982, signaling the start of a new era in space transport, President 

Reagan found it fit to say:

The quest of new frontiers for the betterment of our homes 

and our families is a crucial part of our national character . . . . 

The pioneer spirit still flourishes in America. In the future, 

as in the past, our freedom, independence and national 

	102.	 Robert	 M.	 Gates,	 “A	 Balanced	 Strategy:	 Reprogramming	 the	 Pentagon	 for	 a	 New	 Age,”	 Foreign 

Affairs	88,	no.	1	(January/February	2009):	28–41.

	103.	 Jacques	 Blamont	 talks	 provocatively	 of	 the	 “The	Wright	 brothers	 complex,”	 born	 with	 the	 flight	 of	

the	Kitty Hawk, the	conviction	that	Americans	have	been	chosen	by	God	to	be	the	motors	of	all	scientific	

and	 industrial	progress	 in	the	modern	world	and	that	 space	 is	their	privileged	domain	of	 conquest,	

hence	their	incredulity	at	the	Soviet	firsts	in	space	and	the	Soviet	nuclear	test	in	August	1949;	see	

Jacques	Blamont,	Venus devoillée	(Paris,	France:	Odile	Jacob,	1987),	p.	245.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

wellbeing will be tied to new achievements, new discoveries, 

and pushing back frontiers.104

Similarly, President George H. W. Bush remarked that “Space is vitally 

important to our nation’s future and . . . to the quality of life here on earth . . . 

It offers a technological frontier, creating jobs for tomorrow . . . . Space is the 

manifest destination of a new generation and a new century.”105 America does 

not choose to go into space and dominate it: it does so because that is its destiny.

Historians like Patricia Nelson Limerick have pointed out that the uncritical celebration of the frontier in remarks like these obscures the violence, 

failures, corruption, and the near obliteration of Native Americans that were 

part and parcel of the conquest of the West: hardly a congenial “mission model” 

for NASA. She emphasizes too that much of the mythology surrounding that 

conquest has been shown by historians to be downright wrong. No matter. 

The appeal to the frontier and to “manifest destiny” functions in such contexts 

not as an appeal to what we now know, but as a metaphor that “guides your 

decisions—it makes some alternatives seem logical and necessary, while it 

makes other alternatives nearly invisible.”106 The alternative rendered “invisible” here is a mode of international collaboration that dilutes United States 

sovereignty in the interests of “genuine” collaboration; instead all cooperation 

must necessarily be subordinate to the preservation of American leadership 

and the promotion of American interests. 

When NASA was first established and was reaching for the Moon, the metaphor of the frontier, and its tight coupling with American identity and America’s 

role in the world, energized and justified the vast expenditure required for the 

Apollo program. The associated assumptions of conquest and control did not 

particularly bother the United States’ partners in the free world: their space 

programs were too new and the need to work with NASA was too urgent for 

them to see the Agency as anything other than benevolent and generous. Fifty 

years later the metaphor lives on as the “logical and necessary” framework for 

thinking about how America should conduct itself in space; its partners, now 

mature, are finding that framework incompatible with “genuine” cooperation. 

	104.	 Cited	 by	 Patricia	 Nelson	 Limerick,	 “Imagined	 Frontiers:	 Westward	 Expansion	 and	 the	 Future	 of	

the	Space	Program,”	in	Space Policy Alternatives,	ed.	Radford	Byerly,	Jr.	(Boulder,	CO:	Westview	Press,	

1992),	p.	251.

	105.	 Quoted	in	Goldin’s	Final Report to the President, January 1993, p.	1.

	106.	 Limerick,	“Imagined	Frontiers,”	p.	250.

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NASA’s International Relations in Space

To ask NASA to change its behavior is, however, to ask far more than that 

new instruments be established to shape new patterns of collaborative action. 

It is to ask NASA and the people, Congress, and Presidents who support it 

(along with American industry, which is being encouraged to capitalize on the 

economic and military possibilities of space) to decouple space activity from 

a “manifest destiny” to global expansion and the domination of new frontiers. 

NASA Administrator Michael Griffin made the point explicitly in his keynote address opening the conference that celebrated NASA’s 50th anniversary. 

“Societies which do not define, occupy and extend the frontier of human 

action and scientific discovery will inevitably wither and die,” said Griffin. 

That said, NASA’s most important contribution over the past half decade, 

Griffin added, was not simply a series of spectacular space firsts and successful scientific and technological achievements. What mattered was that NASA 

was “the entity which captures what Americans believe are the quintessential 

American qualities. Boldness, and the will to use it to press beyond today’s 

limits. Leadership in great ventures”107—with international partners willing to 

dovetail their ambitions with NASA’s goals. To ask NASA to rethink its global 

role and to move toward “genuine” interdependency with its space partners 

as a matter of general policy is to ask the American stakeholders in space to 

redefine what it means to be American.

	107.	Michael	 D.	 Griffin,	 “NASA	 at	 50”	 (NASA’s	 50th	 anniversary	 conference,	 Washington,	 DC,	 28	

October	2008),	chap.	1	of	this	volume.

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Chapter 7

Fifty Years of NASA 

and the Public

What NASA? What Publics?

Linda Billings

The history of the relationship between NASA and the public involves the 

Agency’s approach to informing the public about its activities, public opinion 

and public understanding about the United States civil space program and 

efforts to foster public support for it, the evolution of “NASA” and “the public” 

over time, and the role of political appointees in NASA’s public affairs operations, among other things.

This history has unfolded in the context of an evolving cultural environment, shaped by the Cold War, the post-Cold War period, the state of 

journalism, government-citizen relations, government-journalism relations, 

and other factors. A half century of public opinion polling about the space 

program, as well as media coverage of the space program, is a part of this 

cultural history. 

The subject of “50 years of NASA and the public” stretches over a huge 

research space. The historical record of NASA’s relationship with the public 

is immense, including official records and other archival materials, scholarly 

research, popular literature, media content, and public opinion. In exploring 

this research space, one must consider how best to go about interpreting the 

historical record of the space program. What counts? What, or who, is credible? 

What motivates official statements? What is missing from the record?1

	 1.	 The	researcher	can	determine,	for	example,	who	has	donated	their	records	to	the	NASA	History	Office	

or	 other	 archives.	 But	 the	 researcher	 cannot	 determine	 what	 is	 missing	 from	 these	 archives.	The	

question	is:	how	do	we	know	what	we	do	not	or	cannot	know?

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NASA’s First 50 Years

The analysis approaches the subject of “NASA and the public” from several 

different perspectives. The history of NASA’s Public Affairs Office and operations 

is reviewed, drawing primarily on official and other archival records. NASA’s 

efforts to fulfill its statutory responsibility, articulated in the 1958 National 

Aeronautics and Space Act, to effect the “widest practicable dissemination” of 

information on NASA activities, are examined.

NASA’s relationship with various “publics” is also examined: how NASA 

has dealt with “the public” over its first 50 years and how “the public” has 

responded to NASA and its programs. That public response encompasses public 

opinion, public interest, public support, public protest, public ignorance, public 

apathy, and the permeation of popular culture with images and ideas about 

space exploration. These are all different aspects of NASA’s relationship with 

“the public.” NASA “in” public is scrutinized: its public image, its public face, 

and public perceptions of and interest in NASA. From a critical perspective, 

the space program will also be considered as a cultural spectacle.

This review of “NASA and the public” is a mix of scholarly analysis and 

personal history, or participant observation, in social scientific parlance. In 

exploring the first 25 years of NASA and “the public,” the author draws primarily on archival materials, focusing on the origins of the Agency and its public 

relations apparatus. For the second 25 years, 1983 to the present, the author 

draws on her own observations and experiences as a participant-observer2 along 

with primary and secondary sources. This review does not offer a panoramic, 

“god’s eye” view of this history, as feminist scholar Donna Haraway3 would 

call it. It does offer what feminist scholars call “lived experience,” informed 

by relevant theory and research. 

The History of NASA’s Public Affairs Office and Operations

Even before NASA was created, U.S. engagement in space exploration was 

shaped by official concerns about public image. U.S. activities in space were 

intended to be seen an assertion of scientific and technological expertise, 

political power, and global dominance. From its inception, NASA was part 

of larger national political effort aimed at “winning hearts and minds” in a 

bifurcated world of free and Communist nations. Early records of the NASA 

	 2.	 The	 author	 has	 worked	 in	 the	Washington,	 DC,	 aerospace	 community	 since	 1983	 as	 a	 journalist,	

consultant,	and	researcher.

	 3.	 Donna	J.	Haraway,	Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature	(New	York,	NY:	Routledge,	

1991).

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Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

Public Information Office (later renamed the Public Affairs Office) show that 

NASA’s intent was to establish with “the public” that the United States had a 

national space program, that NASA was in charge of it—not the Air Force or 

the Navy or any other military group—and that this program served the purpose of supporting national policy goals. The aim was to make it clear, to U.S. 

citizens and people around the world, that NASA’s space program was open 

while the Soviet space program was secret.

Early NASA information policy documents cited the Agency’s statutory 

responsibility to “provide for the widest practicable and appropriate dissemination of information concerning its activities and the results thereof.”4 

This policy, on paper and in practice, also aimed to control the flow of 

information to the public, including the mass media. At the same time, the 

media were invited in, by design, to help tell the story of U.S. leadership 

and conquest in space.

In a memorandum to NASA Administrator T. Keith Glennan dated 9 

September 1958, Walter T. Bonney, Assistant to the Executive Secretary of 

the NACA and also in charge of public relations, noted that NASA, unlike 

the NACA, was created to “be employed as an instrument of U.S. policy.”5

NASA’s objectives were to preserve space for peaceful purposes, promote 

international cooperation in space, and advance United States leadership 

in science and technology. To meet these objectives, NASA must master the 

art of communication—“to use effectively the techniques of information 

transmission,” said Bonney, who would soon become NASA’s first director of public information. “The United States must wage peace not only by 

what we do but by what we say,” he continued. “Our problem is not only to 

explore outer space for peaceful rather than military purposes but to insure 

that the world knows what we’re doing. We must use the truth to counter 

the Communist lie.”6 

	 4.	 National	Aeronautics	and	Space	Act	of	1958,	As	Amended,	P.L.	85-568,	Sec.	203(a)(3).

	 5.	 Walter	T.	 Bonney,	memorandum	to	Administrator,	“NASA	 Information	Program,”	9	September	1958,	

Office	 of	 Public	 Affairs	 Files,	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	 History	 Division,	 NASA	

Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 6.	 Ibid.	Bonney,	a	former	newspaper	reporter	and	editorial	executive,	had	served	as	the	NACA’s	public	

affairs	 chief	 since	 1951.	 His	 goals	 at	 the	 NACA	 were	 to	 establish	 the	 group	 as	 an	 equal	 partner	

with	 industry	 and	 generate	 “greater	 public	 recognition	 that	 the	 work	 of	 NACA	 represented	 one	 of	

the	 taxpayers’	 best	 investments	 .  .  .  .	The	 effort	 was	 to	 win	 and	 to	 keep	 the	 confidence	 of	 press	

representatives.”	See	Ginger	Rudeseal	Carter,	“Public	Relations	Enters	the	Space	Age:	Walter	S.	Bonney	

and	the	Early	Days	of	NASA	PR,”	Association	of	Educators	in	Journalism	and	Mass	Communication,	

Chicago,	IL,	1997.

153
NASA’s First 50 Years

Elaborating on NASA’s statutory responsibility to disseminate information, 

Bonney said, “NASA must tell the truth, modestly, clearly, and with enough vigor 

to be heard . . . . [A] positive information policy will provide at least partial 

control of ‘the situation.’”7 The Agency must not even “permit the appearances 

of engaging in . . . a competition with the Russians to see who can produce the 

most spectacular space stunts.” At the same time, he said, Congress and “the public” need to know “how much is being accomplished how rapidly by NASA . . . . 

Here, as in all aspects of its information program, NASA needs to maintain a 

nice sense of balance.” In a 22 January 1959 memo to Glennan, Bonney argued, 

“There is a need to exercise control over the public statements made by NASA 

staff.” He recommended adopting the policy he had established at the NACA: “No 

information regarding NACA activities should be imparted to the press without 

knowledge of, and approval by, Mr. Bonney.”8 Glennan complied.

Bonney wrote to Glennan later that year, “So far as the world is concerned, 

the nation which first succeeds in” putting a man into Earth orbit “will be credited with having demonstrated a measure of scientific superiority of enormous 

and incalculable value . . . . Around the world,” he wrote, “we are fighting 

for the minds of men.”9 At the same time, “The distinction between publicity 

and public information must be kept constantly in mind,” he noted. “Publicity 

to manipulate and ‘sell’ facts or images of a product, activity, viewpoint, or 

personality to create a favorable public impression has no place” in NASA. A 

few months later, Bonney reported to Glennan:

There is a need . . . for a sharpening of the public focus on the 

picture of NASA and its activities, thus to assure awareness and 

understanding that our leadership is hard-driving as well as 

intelligent, that our staff is talented as well as dedicated, that 

	 7.	 Bonney,	“NASA	Information	Program.”	Bonney	did	not	specify	in	this	memo	what	he	meant	by	“the	

situation.”

	 8.	 W.	 T.	 Bonney	 to	 T.	 K.	 Glennan,	 “Dissemination	 of	 Public	 Information,”	 22	 January	 1959,	 Office	 of	

Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC.	

	 9.	 Walter	T.	Bonney,	memorandum	for	the	Administrator,	“NASA	Public	Information	Program,”	20	August	

1959,	Office	of	Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	

Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.	This	“winning	hearts	and	minds”	approach	was	then,	and	still	is,	popular	

in	military	and	diplomatic	circles.	See,	for	example,	Pavani	Reddy,	“Rapporteur’s	Report:	Winning	Hearts	

and	Minds:	 Propaganda	 and	 Public	 Diplomacy	 in	 the	 Information	 Age”	 (presented	 at	 the	 Carnegie	

Endowment	for	 International	Peace,	Washington,	 DC,	27	 November	2001),	 available	 at	 http://www.

carnegieendowment.org/events/index.cfm?fa=eventDetail&id=428,	and	Edward	Bernays,	Propaganda 

(with	an	introduction	by	Mark	Crispin	Miller)	(New	York,	NY:	Ig	Publishing,	2005).

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Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

our planning is boldly imaginative as well as sensible, that 

our prosecution of the job is vigorous and massive as well as 

urgent . . . . NASA must show itself to be big enough, lusty 

enough, and courageous enough to accomplish what must be 

done in space . . . .10

Chris Clausen, JPL Public Affairs Officer, wrote to Bonney in 1959: 

There is a distinct payoff to Russia if it can maintain the fiction 

that Communism is superior to capitalism simply because Russia 

can fire larger and heavier payloads than can the U.S. . . . [We 

are] in this competition certainly not by its choice and generally 

on terms dictated . . . by the Russians . . . . What we have to do 

now . . . is stress [the] differences [between the Soviet and U.S. 

space programs] over and over until everyone understands them.11

The most important message for NASA to convey, Clausen wrote, is that 

the Agency’s space program is open while the Soviet program is secret:

It can be shown that our policy of honesty and candor in 

reporting our entire program . . . represents . . . one of the 

basic differences between our philosophy and the Russian 

doctrine. It is the difference between rubber stamp elections 

and free elections . . . it is the difference between a civilization 

that is sure and proud of its strength and a dictatorship whose 

insecurity must be protected by secrecy.12

Another important NASA message, Clausen continued, is that NASA’s space 

program is “a national space program.” Getting across this message should minimize “the amount of scrambling different services perform in order to grab public 

credit for NASA programs. All of this points up the dreadfully difficult task one 

	 10.	 Walter	T.	 Bonney,	memorandum	 to	 the	Administrator,	 “OPI	 Staffing,”	 24	 November	 1959.	 Office	 of	

Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC.

	 11.	 Chris	 Clausen	 to	 Walter	 T.	 Bonney,	 n.d.,	 Office	 of	 Public	 Affairs	 Files,	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	

Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.	A	note	from	Bonney	dated	3	

May	1973	and	attached	to	the	Clausen	memo	indicates	it	was	written	in	early	1959.

	 12.	 Ibid.

155
NASA’s First 50 Years

encounters when one tries to act in a democratic manner. A nice balance must 

be struck between the attitudes of dictatorial inflexibility and foolish anarchy.”13 

From the start, then, there was a tension between NASA’s democratic task 

of informing the public and its political objective of controlling image and 

message. Whether the Agency’s public affairs officials explicitly recognized 

this tension is not clear.

By 1960, the Agency had codified the functions and authority of the Office 

of Public Information in a NASA Management Instruction: disseminating public 

information, advising NASA officials on “public information matters,” reviewing 

public information “for content and policy adherence,” and preparing and distributing information for the media.At this point, the office already had a motion 

picture section and an art and exhibits section. NASA was well along the way to 

infusing popular culture with the spectacle of space exploration.

In January 1960, Bonney told Glennan that NASA public information efforts 

should “avoid selling” the space program.14 A few months later, Bonney’s 

deputy Joe Stein told the Administrator,“Never should the OPI staff, nor others 

connected with NASA, attempt to pressure or ‘sell’ NASA information, nor to 

play favorites among editors, reporters, writers, broadcasters or publications 

anywhere.” Stein continued, “OPI seeks, not to tell other members of the staff 

what they can and cannot say, but what is consistent with accuracy and policy, 

and the effects achieved thereby . . . .”15

In December 1960, Administrator Glennan asked Benjamin McKelway, 

editor of the Washington Evening Star and president of the Associated Press, 

and Russell Wiggins, editor of the Washington Post and Times Herald, for 

advice on persuading the media to avoid building up public expectations in 

advance of Mercury missions. Glennan told the editors that NASA’s goal was 

“no undue limit on reporting of events but rather better informed and more 

responsible interpretation.”16 Wiggins told Glennan that NASA was not the first 

	 13.	 Ibid.	It	is	worth	noting	that	in	this	memo,	Clausen	characterized	the	United	States	media	as	“an	ex	

officio	part	of	the	government”	with	a	“valid	right	to	poke	its	nose	into	government	affairs.”	The	Agency	

“recognizes	and	serves	this	right,”	he	asserted.

	 14.	 Walter	T.	Bonney	to	the	Administrator,	“NASA	Office	of	Public	Information,”	16	January	1960,	Office	of	

Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC.

	 15.	 Joe	Stein	to	the	Administrator,	“NASA	Information	Program,”	14	October	1960,	Office	of	Public	Affairs	Files,	

NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 16.	 Shelby	Thompson	to	the	Administrator,	“Conference	with	Messrs.	McKelway	and	Wiggins—12/8/60,”	

14	December	1960,	Office	of	Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	

Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

156
Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

organization “to find that in spite of its best efforts to make facts available, 

they are not always reflected in print as might be desired.” The editors did 

not share NASA’s view that “pre-launch use of [NASA] background information” could raise public expectations and lead to “a letdown if the experiment 

were postponed or fell short.” The editors suggested that NASA engage with 

the National Association of Science Writers and other leaders in science news 

about communicating guidelines to journalists on how to report on “the trial 

and error nature of the Mercury experimental launches.”17 

Bonney left NASA at the end of 1960. In November 1961, NASA’s second 

Administrator, James Webb, approved a reorganization under which the 

Agency’s Office of Public Information and Office of Technical Information and 

Educational Programs were merged into a new Public Affairs Office (PAO). 

Hiden T. Cox was the first Assistant Administrator of the new PAO, serving 

for six months.18 In a 1962 memo to Administrator Webb, NASA official Jay 

Holmes advised that while NASA enjoyed “extremely powerful public support” and “a favorable general public opinion . . . this does not pay off nearly 

so well as an aggressive, sophisticated lobby.”19 Holmes recommended that 

Webb and other top NASA officials book speaking engagements “in greater 

numbers than at present at industrial and technical meetings, around NASA 

installations, and in states like California and Florida, where space activity is heavy.”20 While NASA focused on industry relations, it did not appear 

to be as concerned about responding to public queries. A few illustrative 

examples follow.

	 17.	 In	a	subsequent	letter	to	National	Association	of	Science	Writers	President	Earl	Ubell,	Glennan	solicited	

help	in	improving	“public	understanding	of	the	truly	experimental	nature	of	our	work.”	He	also	told	Ubell	

that	NASA	would	be	lifting	its	embargo	on	the	use	of	prelaunch	information,	no	longer	prohibiting	media	

use	of	the	information	until	after	a	launch.	T.	Keith	Glennan	to	Earl	Ubell,	23	December	1960,	Office	of	

Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC.

	 18.	 Robert	L.	Rosholt,	An Administrative History of NASA, 1958–1963	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	Scientific	

and	Technical	Information	Division,	1966),	p.	222.

	 19.	 Jay	 Holmes	to	Webb,	“NASA’s	Public	Position,”	12	 June	1962,	 Office	 of	Public	Affairs	 Files,	 NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 20.	 Activity	calendars	maintained	by	the	Office	of	Public	Affairs	through	the	1960s	indicate	that	this	advice	

was	 heeded.	 For	 example,	 the	 1964	 PAO	 calendar	 of	 events,	 marking	 NASA	 speeches,	 briefings,	

exhibits,	and	conferences,	includes	appearances	at	museums	and	state	fairs	nationwide;	scientific	and	

technical	conferences;	libraries	and	universities;	Kiwanis	Clubs;	a	“women’s	study	club”	in	Woodsville,	

TX;	and	even	a	speech	by	NASA	Administrator	James	Webb	to	the	23rd	men’s	luncheon	of	the	Texas	

Rose	Festival	in	Tyler,	TX.	The	author	has	observed	that	this	practice	has	continued	over	the	past	25	

years	into	the	present.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

In 1962, college student Claudia Sperry of Albany, New York, wrote to 

NASA seeking information on the “policies, programs, and publics” of NASA’s 

“Public Relations program.” Sperry asked:

What is your definition of Public Relations? What prompted 

the creation of your Public Relations Department? Who do 

you consider to be your publics? What is your Public Relations 

Department doing to influence public opinion into thinking 

that our country needs to spend billions of dollars on space 

projects instead of concentrating solely on . . . problems we 

have here on Earth . . . ?21

NASA Assistant Administrator for Public Affairs Hiden T. Cox replied to Sperry:

We do not have a public relations office . . . . I do not believe 

a Public Relations Department is necessary in this field. I 

believe we would discharge our responsibilities adequately if 

we were able to provide the widest practicable dissemination 

of information concerning NASA’s activities . . . . The entire 

American people constitute [NASA’s] public . . . . We do, however, 

have an Office of Public Affairs, whose function is to help NASA 

officials cope with . . . enormous demands . . . for information 

about NASA activities and their results.22

“As to what prompted the creation of NASA’s public relations department,” 

Cox said, “as phrased, the question does not apply.” He concluded:

You seem to assume public relations activity is in progress to 

create a favorable image and acceptance of the national space 

program . . . . Even if we wanted to engage in public relations 

activities, it would be impossible to do so in view of the other 

demands on our time.23

	 21.	 Claudia	Sperry	to	Director	of	Public	Relations,	2	April	1962,	Office	of	Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	

Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 22.	 Hiden	T.	Cox	to	Claudia	Sperry,	9	May	1962,	Office	of	Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	

Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 23.	 Ibid.

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Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

In another example, a NASA public affairs officer took umbrage at questions 

about media access to information. In a 1965 letter to the Agency’s Manned 

Spacecraft Center public affairs officer Paul Haney, the president of the Greater 

Houston chapter of the Texas Civil Liberties Union asked for NASA to “reconsider the restrictive measures . . . imposed on the newspapers in regard to their 

coverage of the activities of the astronauts.”24 Haney replied, “Your letter came 

as complete surprise and shock to us . . . . I can only conclude that your letter 

was based on misinformation.”25 He provided tallies of NASA’s interactions with 

the public: numbers of visitors to the Manned Spacecraft Center, viewers of 

“film clips and TV presentations” about the Manned Spacecraft Center, press 

briefings and interviews conducted, and so on. In another letter to Read, Haney 

wrote that the constitutional freedom of the press “is precisely that—a freedom, 

not a subpoena.” NASA prefers to select its astronauts “by means other than a 

newspaper publicity contest,” he wrote. “[M]ay we know what your policy is 

to be with regard to freedom of speech, particularly that of an individual?”26

Haney’s response to Read provides an example of NASA PAO’s standard 

approach to assessing public interest: quantification. The PAO measures its 

(and NASA’s) performance by counting hits on NASA’s Web site and stories 

about NASA in print, broadcast, and online media. Elite media coverage of 

NASA news is always of particular interest. Audiences for various media may 

also be counted, though apparently with no attention paid to whether audiences actually receive the information that NASA disseminates and what audiences actually do with that information. For example, in a 1995 activity report, 

NASA PAO stated that “last year an estimated three million people examined 

	 24.	 Mrs.	Clark	P.	Read	to	Paul	Haney,	11	May	1965,	Office	of	Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	

Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 25.	 Paul	Haney	to	Mrs.	Clark	P.	Read,	12	May	1965,	Office	of	Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	

Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 26.	 Paul	Haney	to	Mrs.	Clark	P.	Read,	25	May	1965,	Office	of	Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	

Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.	Clearly,	Haney	and	Read	differed	

in	their	interpretation	of	NASA’s	statutory	responsibility	to	provide	for	the	widest	practicable	dissemination	

of	information	about	its	activities.	NASA	Assistant	Administrator	for	Legislative	Affairs	Robert	Allnut	took	a	

similar	approach	in	responding	to	a	query	from	United	States	Representative	Charles	Goodell	about	NASA	

spending	on	public	affairs.	“NASA	does	not	have	what	is	commonly	designated	as	a	‘Public	Relations’	

program,”	Allnut	told	Goodell.	 Referring	to	the	Agency’s	 statutory	mandate,	he	 said	NASA’s	task	 is	to	

disseminate	information	to	the	public,	noting	that	in	1967,	“530,000	people	toured	NASA	facilities	at	Cape	

Kennedy	. . .	500,000	people	toured	the	Manned	Spacecraft	Center	at	Houston,”	and	NASA	“distributed	

over	3	million	publications	. . .	loaned	over	70	thousand	motion	picture	prints,	scheduled	3,000	speakers,	

participated	 in	 1,000	 exhibits	 and	 conducted	 11,400	 spacemobile	 lecture	 demonstrations”	 (Robert	

F.	Allnut	to	the	Hon.	Charles	Goodell,	16	January	1968,	Office	of	Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	

Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

the Space Camp Exhibition when it tours state fairs.”27 Such estimates do not 

have a clear meaning. Does this number mean that a total of three million 

people attended the fairs that hosted the exhibit? Or does it mean that three 

million people walked by the exhibit? Or does it mean that three million people 

learned something useful from the exhibit? 

In mass communication research, audience studies and critical and cultural 

studies address what this quantified approach does not. How many readers, 

listeners, and viewers are paying attention to content? Who receives the messages that content providers are aiming to convey? What do people do with 

the information they acquire from the media? What does media content mean 

to all of its various audiences? What do people do with what they learn? How 

does media content influence public opinion? What do the PAO’s tallies say 

about what people know, or think they know, about NASA, and what they do 

with what they know? Answering these questions grows more complicated 

by the day, as the number and kind of media outlets, the volume and type of 

content they produce, and the technological means of interpersonal as well 

as mass communication continue to proliferate. Add to this mix the increasing 

sophistication of marketing campaigns in the public and the private sectors, 

including NASA and its aerospace contractors, and the task of understanding “NASA and the public” appears daunting. It is important to consider that 

NASA does not have a single, monolithic “public.” It has many different publics, 

and they are changing all the time.28 Another important factor to consider in 

examining NASA’s public relations is its longstanding and intensive focus on 

maintaining good relations with Congress and the White House, which colors 

its relations with other publics. 

Marketing the Space Program

In assessing public opinion about, interest in, and knowledge of the space 

program, NASA and the space community have typically taken an advertising 

and marketing approach to the task, performing or commissioning administrative research. NASA has repeatedly turned to the advertising and marketing 

	 27.	 Laurie	 Boeder	to	multiple	 addressees,	“Weekly	 Report	 of	the	 Office	 of	Public	Affairs,”	14	 February	

1995	and	9	November	1995,	Office	of	Public	Affairs	Files,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	

History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 28.	 In	recent	years,	NASA	has	given	some	recognition	to	the	need	for	serving	different	publics	in	different	

ways.	 The	 Agency’s	 approaches	 to	 dealing	 with	 different	 audiences	 can	 appear	 to	 be	 simplistic,	

however—for	 instance,	 compartmentalization	 of	 audiences	 to	 buttons	 on	 the	 NASA	Web	 site:	 “for	

public,”	“for	educators,”	“for	students,”	“for	media,”	“for	policymakers,”	“for	employees.”

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Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

sector for help in “branding” and “selling” the space program. The result has 

been a string of similar studies and similar findings—including the finding that 

public knowledge of NASA is a mile wide and an inch deep—and a series of 

attempts to cultivate favorable public opinion, along with the increased public 

support that is erroneously assumed to accompany that favorable opinion, by 

“pitching” NASA to the public.

In the early 2000s, NASA Administrator Sean O’Keefe commissioned 

Harmonic International—“a strategic positioning company”—to help the 

Agency with “brand equity and message concept development.” Harmonic 

reported to NASA in 2004 that “NASA enjoys a strong favorable attitude” and 

positive “brand equity,” though people who hold these views have “a very weak 

knowledge foundation” for them. Thus, NASA communications “must help 

explain NASA, building a knowledge base” and reinforcing “the foundation of 

NASA’s brand equity”—that is, advancing knowledge and understanding the 

universe.29 A “cultural analysis” of space exploration conducted as part of the 

larger Harmonic study expanded upon the advertising-and-marketing approach, 

exploring “NASA and the public” in a broad social context:

The general public . . . believe space exploration is not a fantasy, 

but an achievable possibility . . . a noble endeavor. They have 

a generally positive view of NASA, based primarily on the 

success of the manned space Mercury and Apollo programs. 

But they do not believe the government should spend billions 

of dollars to achieve it.30

In 2004, NASA created a new Office of Communications Planning and an 

Office of Strategic Communications Planning, headed by political appointees. 

The Office of Strategic Communications Planning was tasked with “developing 

a strategic communications approach for guiding the activities of the Offices 

of Communications Planning, Education, Legislative and Intergovernmental 

	 29.	 Harmonic	 International,	 “Brand	 equity	 and	 message	 concept	 development”	 (presentation	 to	 NASA	

Headquarters,	 Washington,	 DC,	 24	 May	 2007).	 The	 author	 attended	 and	 obtained	 a	 copy	 of	 this	

presentation.

	 30.	 Center	for	Cultural	Studies	and	Analysis,	“American	Perception	of	Space	Exploration:	A	Cultural	Analysis	

for	Harmonic	International	and	the	National	Aeronautics	and	Space	Administration,”	1	May	2004,	p.	

3.	Harmonic	International,	“Brand	equity	and	message	concept	development”	(presentation	to	NASA	

Headquarters,	 Washington,	 DC,	 24	 May	 2007).	 The	 author	 attended	 and	 obtained	 a	 copy	 of	 this	

presentation.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Affairs, and Public Affairs, including strategies and tactics that support NASA’s 

Mission.” The Office of Communications Planning was tasked with advising the 

Administrator “on new and innovative ways to engage and inform a broader 

cross-section of the . . . public”; identifying “audiences for . . . a wide variety 

of specialized and targeted resources, information, and messages”; “developing 

effective, data-driven strategic messages that can be employed Agency-wide 

and targeted to specific audiences . . . to provide for the widest practicable 

and appropriate dissemination of information concerning the Agency’s activities and results thereof and to increase public awareness and understanding 

of NASA and its mission”; and ensuring “message consistency and repetition 

across the Agency to increase the American public’s understanding of science, 

technology, and NASA’s mission.”31

In 2006, NASA adopted a new public information policy to demonstrate its 

commitment to open communications.32 In a 2007 briefing to Agency officials, 

NASA Strategic Communications Chief Robert Hopkins asserted that NASA 

“is committed to a culture of openness with the media and the public that 

values the free exchange of ideas, data and information” and that “scientific 

and technical information from or about Agency programs and projects will 

be accurate and unfiltered.”33 Nonetheless, NASA’s “open” communications 

under this policy are subject to a complex, multilevel system of review and 

concurrence. Thus, “openness” in this policy is a relative term.34 

Also in 2007, Hopkins distributed a “final NASA Message Construct” to 

Headquarters officials: “NASA explores for answers that power our future.”35 He 

advised officials to use the message, verbatim, in their communications, and he 

steered them to NASA’s “Strategic Communications Framework Implementation 

	 31.	 NASA	 Policy	 Directive	 (NPD)	 1000.0A,	 1	 August	 2008,	 “NASA	 Governance	 and	 Strategic	

Management	 Handbook,”	 available	 at	 http://nodis3.gsfc.nasa.gov/npg_img/N_PD_1000_000A_/N_

PD_1000_000A_.pdf.

	 32.	 NASA	Policy	on	the	Release	of	Information	to	News	and	Information	Media,	30	March	2006,	available	at	

http://www.nasa.gov/audience/formedia/features/communication_policy.html.	NASA	issued	this	2006	

policy	 on	releasing	 information	to	the	media	 in	response	to	 press	reports	that	 NASA	 public	 affairs	

officials	tried	to	 limit	Agency	 climate-change	 expert	 James	 Hansen’s	 public	 statements.	The	 policy	

states:	“release	of	public	information	concerning	NASA	activities	. . .	will	be	made	promptly,	factually,	

and	completely”	and	that	“in	keeping	with	the	desire	for	a	culture	of	openness,	NASA	employees	may,	

consistent	with	this	policy,	speak	to	the	press	and	the	public	about	their	work.”	

	 33.	 Robert	Hopkins,	“NASA	Media	Communications	Policy”	(presentation	to	the	NASA	Senior	Management	

Council,	11	July	2007).

	 34.	 The	 author’s	 observations	regarding	 openness	 pertain	to	 NASA	 communications	from	the	time	the	

Agency	announced	its	new	public	information	policy	in	2006	through	December	2008,	when	this	paper	

was	completed.

	 35.	 Robert	Hopkins,	Memorandum	to	Officials-in-Charge,	“NASA	messages,”	1	August	2007.

162
Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

Plan” and “Strategic Communications Implementation Handbook” for further 

guidance. A few weeks later, Hopkins advised officials that the intent of his 

“message construct” memo was not to deliver a “mandate” but “to provide some 

consistency on how we talk about NASA’s work with the public.” He said the 

core message was not intended to be “a slogan or tag line,” and he encouraged 

officials to use the themes of “inspiration, innovation, and discovery” in their 

communications, “depending on whether they work.”36

To sum up, during its first 25 years, NASA’s desire to control image, message, 

and the overall flow of information from the Agency to the public was in tension 

with its need to tend to its statutory obligation of disseminating information. 

This tension has persisted over the last 25 years. Early on, NASA public affairs 

officials exhibited a tendency to contain or withhold information that might not 

serve the purpose of boosting NASA’s public image and reinforcing its chosen 

message. They have continued to do so over the 25 years that the author has 

been watching.37 There is a tension between the goals and objectives of these 

political appointees and the civil servants who work with them on disseminating information. The role of appointees is to make the President look good, by 

making NASA, headed by a leader of the President’s choice, look good. Civil 

servants have the task of fulfilling the Agency’s statutory responsibility to disseminate information on all of its activities. They are also compelled to keep 

their appointee bosses happy—a tough order on some days.38

Over the last 25 years, the author has observed a continued institutional 

sensitivity at NASA about activities that might be construed as “promotional”—even though the Agency regularly engages in all sorts of activities 

that could easily be construed as promotional. For example, in 2008 NASA 

held a series of Future Forums in different cities around the country.39 NASA 

designed these events to inform the public about NASA’s plans for executing 

the President’s Vision for Space Exploration. NASA’s press releases, background information, and official statements about the forums could easily 

	 36.	 Robert	Hopkins,	Memorandum	to	Officials-in-Charge	of	Headquarters	Offices	Directors,	NASA	Centers,	

“Updated	Guidance	on	NASA	Messaging,”	11	September	2007.

	 37.	 It	is	worth	noting	that	NASA’s	core	message	has	not	changed	much	since	the	beginning	of	the	space	

program.	See	Linda	Billings,	“Ideology,	Advocacy,	and	Spaceflight—Evolution	of	a	Cultural	Narrative,”	

in	Societal Impacts of Spaceflight,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	and	Roger	D.	Launius	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	

SP-2007-4801,	2007),	pp.	483–500.

	 38.	 The	author	has	not	been	able	to	verify	precisely	when	NASA	adopted	the	practice	of	placing	political	

appointees	in	charge	of	public	affairs.	

	 39.	 The	author	reviewed	NASA	information	and	media	reports	about	these	forums	but	did	not	attend	any	of	

the	events.

163
NASA’s First 50 Years

be construed as promotional, a carefully orchestrated sales pitch with the 

tag line “NASA powers inspiration, innovation, and discovery.” According 

to the Agency, the aim of these forums was to “discuss the role of space 

exploration in advancing science, engineering, technology, education and the 

economy that benefits your community and the nation” and to provide “an 

exciting preview of NASA’s Constellation Program—America’s return to the 

Moon and beyond.” NASA used these forums to talk about its contributions 

to what the Agency calls “The Space Economy”—“the full range of activities 

that create and provide value to human beings in the course of exploring, 

understanding and utilizing space.”40

NASA and the Media

A core function of the press, historically and presently, is to mediate the flow 

of information from government to citizens, and NASA has always depended 

on the mass media to get the word out about its public performances. Reliance 

on official sources has long been a standard journalistic practice, and by engaging in this practice, the media reinforce and perpetuate official opinions and 

worldviews.41 This practice has served NASA well from the Agency’s inception 

to the present.

The history of Science Service, a news syndicate that operated from 1920 

through World War II, provides some insight into the longstanding cozy relationship between government and the press and the role of the media in science 

and technology boosterism. Newspaperman Edwin W. Scripps created Science 

Service, the first science news syndicate, in 1921 because he believed that science was the basis of democratic life and that scientists were “so blamed wise 

and so packed full of knowledge . . . that they cannot comprehend why God has 

made nearly all the rest of mankind so infernally stupid.”42 The Science Service 

syndicate was controlled by a board of trustees representing prestigious sci-

	 40.	 Remarks	 as	 delivered	 by	 the	 Honorable	 Shana	 Dale,	 NASA	 Deputy	Administrator	 (San	 Jose	 Future	

Forum,	 San	 Jose,	 CA,	 14	 May	 2008),	 available	 at	 http://www.nasa.gov/50th/future_forums/

sanJoseWithGallery.html.	 NASA	 executed	 another	 carefully	 orchestrated	 public	 performance	 by	

participating	in	the	Smithsonian	Institution’s	Folklife	Festival	in	2008.	NASA’s	Future	Forums	and	its	

presence	at	the	Folklife	Festival	are	promising	material	for	case	studies	in	“NASA	and	the	public.”

	 41.	 See,	for	example,	Pamela	J.	Shoemaker	and	Stephen	D.	Reese,	Mediating the Message: Theories of 

Influences on Mass Media Content,	2nd	ed.	(White	Plains,	NY:	Longman,	1996);	Wolfgang	Donsbach,	

“Psychology	of	News	Decisions:	Factors	Behind	Journalists’	Professional	Behavior,”	Journalism	5,	no.	2	

(2004):	131–157;	M.	Schudson,	The Sociology of News	(New	York,	NY:	W.	W.	Norton,	2003).	

	 42.	 Dorothy	Nelkin,	Selling Science: How the Press Covers Science and Technology,	rev.	ed.	(New	York,	NY:	

W.	H.	Freeman,	1995),	p.	81.

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Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

ence associations, including the American Association for the Advancement of 

Science and the National Academy of Sciences, “and its editorial policies were 

dominated by the values of the scientific community.” Scripps chose to operate 

the syndicate as “a press agent for the associations” rather than an independent 

news service. In line with the interests of Mr. Scripps, Science Service’s stories 

“cast science as a new frontier and scientists as pioneers and discoverers.”43

After World War II and throughout the Cold War, the U.S. media continued 

to serve the cause of science boosterism, and NASA rode this wave. At the same 

time, broadcast media began to supplant print media as the dominant source 

of news, highlighting the spectacular quality of space exploration. “More active 

or visual issues . . . became especially newsworthy.”44 Through the 1980s and 

1990s, consolidation of media ownership disturbed the traditional balance 

between the publishing (advertising and profit-seeking) and editorial (reporting 

and analysis) components of journalism. NASA has benefited from the related 

media trend toward producing more infotainment content and less news and 

analytic content in recent years. At the same time, NASA’s public affairs, public 

outreach, and public education initiatives have been trending toward at least 

the appearance of infotainment. Today, the media are as dependent as ever on 

official sources—perhaps increasingly so in an increasingly competitive media 

environment and more tightly controlled government public affairs operations. 

Concurrently, NASA’s Public Affairs Office has become increasingly proficient at 

peddling the spectacle of space exploration, showcasing rocket launches and 

astronauts. As political communication expert Shanto Iyengar has observed, 

the boundaries between news and political marketing “have virtually vanished. 

The use—even manipulation—of the mass media to promote political objectives 

is not only standard practice, but in fact is essential to survival.”45

The author has observed over the past 25 years that the view of the press as 

subservient to government is persistent at NASA. So is the one-way transmission 

or “bullet” conception, or model, of communication, whose goal is to deliver 

a specific message to a specific target. The rhetorical objective of communica-

	 43.	 Nelkin,	Selling Science,	pp.	81–82.

	 44.	 Shanto	Iyengar,	“Engineering	Consent:	The	Renaissance	of	Mass	Communication	Research	in	Politics,”	

in	The Yin and Yang of Social Cognition: Perspectives on the Social Psychology of Thought Systems—A 

Festschrift Honoring William J. McGuire	 (New	 Haven,	 CT:	Yale	 University,	 20–22	 April	 2001),	 p.	 3,	

available	at	http://pcl.stanford.edu/common/docs/research/iyengar/2001/mcguire.pdf.	The	Watergate	

incident	in	the	1970s	may	have	made	the	media	more	skeptical	about	official	sources,	but	those	effects	

were	not	necessarily	long-lasting.

	 45.	 Iyengar,	“Engineering	Consent:	The	Renaissance	of	Mass	Communication	Research	in	Politics,”	p.	1.

165
NASA’s First 50 Years

tion by this model is persuasion. This was the model employed in Cold War government propaganda campaigns. NASA’s Public Affairs Office has always been 

expert at knowing how to disseminate information to the media. The Agency is 

not so expert in understanding how journalism works, as a culture, a practice, 

a system of values. In addition, evidence is lacking of a matching expertise in 

understanding what people do with the information they receive from NASA. 

This disconnect may at least begin to explain the gap between NASA’s good 

public reputation and its consistently low ranking as a spending priority.

NASA’s Relationship with Its Various Publics

For all of its 50 years thus far, NASA has claimed a high level of public interest 

and a good reputation with “the public.” It is not clear how much of this good 

feeling among citizens is a product of NASA’s public affairs efforts and how 

much is due to other social factors—that is, the social and cultural context 

for the space program. Over the past 25 years, the author has observed that 

when NASA and other members of the space community talk about public 

interest and understanding and engagement, they are usually talking about 

their desire to expand public support. Public opinion research and studies of 

public understanding of science and technology have shown how and explored 

why public interest does not equate to public understanding and how and why 

neither interest nor understanding equates to public agreement or support.46

Numerous public opinion polls and surveys about NASA and space 

exploration have revealed this disconnect.47 Poll and survey results have 

shown consistently over the years that respondents tend to be interested in 

the space program and tend to value having one. In addition, results do not 

reveal wide endorsement of big-ticket human spaceflight programs such as 

the Apollo lunar-landing program and proposed human missions to Mars. 

And when asked to rank the space program as a government spending priority, respondents have consistently put NASA at the bottom of their lists. One 

factor that may contribute to this consistently low ranking is NASA’s lack 

of a meaningful rationale for the space program. For people in the space 

community, the space program means many things: jobs, money, progress, 

	 46.	 See,	 for	 example,	 Alan	 Irwin	 and	 Brian	 Wynne,	 eds.,	 Misunderstanding Science? The Public 

Reconstruction of Science and Technology	(New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1996);	National	

Science	 Board,	 Science and Engineering Indicators 2008	 (Arlington,	VA:	 NSB	 08-01,	 NSB	 08-01A,	

January	2008).

	 47.	 Roger	D.	Launius,	“Public	Opinion	Polls	and	Perceptions	of	U.S.	Spaceflight,”	Space Policy	19	(2003):	

163–175.

166
Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

political capital, and prestige. For 50 years, NASA and the space community 

have promoted the economic, political, and security benefits of space exploration. And for 50 years, people outside the space community have not been 

clear about the purpose of the space program. The rationales that NASA has 

offered over the years48 do not appear to be especially meaningful to the 

Agency’s “external” audiences.

Over NASA’s first 25 years, the Cold War was NASA’s driving rationale for 

space exploration. Over the last 25 years, NASA has been weak on rationale, 

despite continual attempts to articulate one. What drove the United States space 

program in its early years, journalist John Noble Wilford observed, was “the 

pursuit of national prestige and power by a new means and in a new frontier.” 

The lack of a durable rationale for space exploration “contributed eventually 

to a serious mid-life crisis for the American space effort,” he said, deeming 

the Apollo lunar landings

. . . a triumph that failed, not because the achievement was 

anything short of magnificent but because of misdirected 

expectations and a general misperception of its real meaning. 

The public was encouraged to view it only as the grand climax of 

the space program, a geopolitical horse race and extraterrestrial 

entertainment—not as a dramatic means to the greater end 

of developing a far-ranging spacefaring capability. This led 

to the space program’s post-Apollo slump . . . .We had been 

conditioned to think of the space program in terms of the Cold 

War . . . . The media no doubt perpetuated this attitude, for 

editors generally viewed every story in those days in terms of 

whether it meant we or the Russians were ahead. But NASA 

also played the game, because that was the surest route to 

the Treasury.49

Sylvia Fries Kraemer has also made note of this problematic lack of rationale. Citing “the relative poverty of . . . intellectual efforts to understand the 

	 48.	 Linda	 Billings,	 “Ideology,	Advocacy,	 and	 Spaceflight—Evolution	 of	 a	 Cultural	 Narrative,”	 in	 Societal 

Impacts of Spaceflight,	ed.	Steven	 J.	Dick	and	 Roger	D.	Launius	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-

4801,	2007),	pp.	483–500.

	 49. John	 Noble	 Wilford,	 “A	 Spacefaring	 People:	 Keynote	 Address,”	 in	 A Spacefaring People: 

Perspectives on Early Spaceflight,	ed.	Alex	Roland	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4405,	1985),	pp.	70,	72,	

available	at	http://history.nasa.gov/SP-4405.pdf.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

significance of space travel . . . and the relative uncertainty of . . . rationales 

for a space program as a major, national undertaking,” she has observed that 

a sound rationale must “reflect the genuine needs and aspirations of real and 

important constituencies. The burden of our space program is that it has had 

only a marginal audience, and marginal constituencies.”50

In examining the history of NASA’s “public” relations, the Agency’s expectation that the mass media will help to foster those relations and generate 

favorable public opinion deserves attention. It is useful to consider that media 

discourse does not create public opinion, nor does public opinion create media 

discourse. They interact with each other and with other social phenomena as 

well, in a process of social construction.51 Some interesting insights might be 

gleaned from mapping out the evolution of interactions among NASA’s public 

information efforts, media discourse, and public opinion.

NASA in Public

In regard to “NASA in public” during the Agency’s early years, the powerand-prestige rationale for space exploration “exercised major influence” in 

national political circles at that time,52 and astronauts and rockets quickly 

became the public image of the space program. From those early years into 

the present, NASA and the media have continually “contrived to present 

the astronauts as embodiments of the leading virtues of American culture.” 

The mythic astronaut was, and still is, depicted as “everyman,” “defender of 

the nation,” “virile, masculine,” and heroic.53 In 1959, NASA introduced its 

first group of astronauts to the press, and the Mercury 7 became the public 

face of NASA virtually immediately. The Agency soon cut a deal with LIFE

magazine to tell their stories. This deal was all about marketing on both 

sides. NASA Public Affairs Chief Walter Bonney approached Washington, 

DC, celebrity attorney Leo D’Orsey about helping the astronauts with publicity. D’Orsey agreed to represent them, for free, and peddled the rights 

	 50. Sylvia	 Doughty	 Fries,	 “Commentary,”	 in	 A Spacefaring People: Perspectives on Early Spaceflight,	

ed.	Alex	Roland	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	Scientific	and	Technical	Information	Branch,	NASA	SP-4405,	

1985),	pp.	75–76.

	 51.	 See,	for	example,	William	A.	Gamson	and	Andre	Modigliani,	“Media	Discourse	and	Public	Opinion	on	

Nuclear	Power:	A	Constructionist	Approach,”	American Journal of Sociology	95,	no.	1	(1989):	1–37.

	 52.	 Kim	McQuaid,	“Sputnik	Reconsidered:	Image	and	Reality	in	the	Early	Space	Age,”	Canadian Review of 

American Studies	37,	no.	3	(2007):	371–401.

	 53.	 Roger	D.	Launius,	“Heroes	in	a	Vacuum:	the	Apollo	Astronaut	as	Cultural	Icon”	(43rd	AIAA	Aerospace	

Sciences	Meeting	and	Exhibit,	Reno,	NV,	10–13	January	2005).

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Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

to their “personal” stories. LIFE won the bidding at $500,000.54 In a retrospective report, Time-LIFE commented on the Mercury contract: “In 1959, 

as the seven original astronauts prepared for their missions in space, LIFE 

Magazine went along, producing four years of intimate coverage of their 

training, their historic flights and their heroic achievements. The Mercury 

Astronauts allowed LIFE into their homes and shared with the magazine’s 

readers their thoughts before and after their journeys into space.”55 NASA 

signed another, more complicated, contract with Time-LIFE and another 

partner for reporting the life stories of the Gemini and Apollo astronauts. 

According to Gemini-Apollo astronaut Michael Collins, media interest in 

the personal stories of the astronauts was “morbid, unhealthy, persistent, 

prodding.”56 But even if unwanted, stardom came with the job. Consider this 

anecdote: Apollo astronaut Gene Cernan escorted two Soviet cosmonauts, 

on a United States visit after Apollo 11, to a party at the home of actor Kirk 

Douglas, where “every star in Tinsel Town wanted to glitter for the men from 

space.”57 Guests included Clint Eastwood, Goldie Hawn, Lee Marvin, Groucho 

Marx, Yul Brynner, Natalie Wood, and Frank Sinatra. The cosmonauts didn’t 

recognize any of them since they had not been exposed to American media 

content. Everybody recognized the spacemen. 

As this cultural spectacle was unfolding, not everyone in official Washington, 

DC, thought the astronauts should serve as the public face of NASA. In his 

NASA transition report to President-elect John F. Kennedy in 1961, adviser 

Jerome Wiesner wrote:

We should make an effort to diminish the significance of 

[the Mercury] program to its proper proportion before the 

public . . . . We should find effective means to make people 

appreciate the cultural, public service and military importance 

of space activities other than space travel.58

	 54.	 Jay	Barbree, “Live from Cape Canaveral”: Covering the Space Race from Sputnik to Today (New	York,	

NY:	HarperCollins,	2007);	Tom	Wolfe,	The Right Stuff	(New	York,	NY:	Farrar,	Straus	and	Giroux,	1979).

	 55.	 Seth	Goddard,	ed.,	“A	Giant	Leap	for	Mankind,”	LIFE	online,	available	at	http://www.life.com/Life/space/

giantleap/sec3/intro.html	(accessed	31	December	2008).

	 56.	 Michael	Collins,	Carrying the Fire: An Astronaut’s Journeys	(New	York,	NY:	Farrar,	Straus	and	Giroux,	

1974),	p.	54.

	 57.	 Eugene	Cernan	and	Don	Davis,	Last Man on the Moon	(New	York,	NY:	St.	Martin’s	Press,	1999),	p.	243.

	 58.	 Wiesner	Committee,	“Report	to	the	President-Elect	or	the	Ad	Hoc	Committee	on	Space,”	10	January	1961,	

NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

169
NASA’s First 50 Years

In 1969, President Nixon’s Space Task Group, assembled to consider 

options for a post-Apollo space program, reported that it had “found strong 

and wide-spread personal identification with the manned flight program 

and with the outstanding men who have participated as astronauts.” At the 

same time, “We have found questions about national priorities” and the cost 

of human spaceflight. The group recommended that “a decision to phase 

out manned space flight operations, although painful, is the only way to 

achieve significant reductions in NASA budgets over the long term.”59 What 

came next at NASA was the Space Shuttle Program, a transportation system 

with nowhere to go but Earth orbit. Then came the Space Station program, 

whose schedule and budget ballooned over time while its functions and 

purpose narrowed. 

In 1985, President Reagan appointed a National Commission on Space 

to develop a 25-year plan for United States space exploration. As part of its 

research, the Commission conducted a series of public forums around the 

country to ask citizens what they wanted in a space program.60 Among the 

1,800 people who participated were “former astronauts, folk singers, lawyers, 

members of Congress, philosophers, teachers, and students.” Most participants 

“had no direct link to the space program.” The Commission reported that it was 

“overwhelmed by the high caliber of comments obtained, and duly impressed 

by the commitments of the citizens in attendance to respond intellectually to 

the call for participation.”61 The result of this exercise is that, more than 20 

years later, NASA is still struggling over how to execute the sort of long-term 

plan for human exploration laid out in the Commission’s report.

When Daniel Goldin took charge as NASA Administrator in 1992, he held 

a series of town meetings nationwide to ask citizens for their views on the 

space program, “with the goal of developing a shared vision for the future of 

NASA.”62 More than 4,500 people attended these meetings, with half claiming 

some affiliation with the space program. The results of this exercise included 

the finding that meeting participants “were interested in all aspects of” NASA 

and believed that “NASA should do a much better job of communication with 

	 59.	 Space	Task	Group,	“The	Post-Apollo	Space	Program:	Directions	for	the	Future,”	September	1969,	NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 60.	 The	author	served	as	the	Commission’s	public	affairs	officer	for	these	forums.

	 61.	 National	Commission	on	Space,	Pioneering the Space Frontier	(New	York,	NY:	Bantam,	1986),	p.	174.

	 62.	 NASA,	Toward a Shared Vision: 1992 Town Meetings	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	NP-205,	1993),	p.	6.	The	

author	was	a	member	of	the	NASA	team	that	planned	and	executed	these	meetings,	attended	all	of	the	

meetings,	and	helped	to	write	this	meetings	report.

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Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

the public, both through the news media and via direct means.”63 NASA committed to improving the quality of its public information, upgrading NASA TV 

and radio programming. Some changes were made, in fact, though the new 

and improved NASA TV was short-lived due to budgetary limitations. While 

Goldin was committed to improving and expanding communication, with 

special attention paid to science communication, his successors Sean O’Keefe 

and Michael Griffin appeared to be more comfortable with the conventional 

control-and-persuasion approach established in NASA’s early years and maintained through the 1980s.64 In its relations with its publics throughout the 

Bush administration, NASA has continued to take the marketing approach to 

engagement with its publics, with persuasion the objective.

NASA and Public Opinion

From the beginning of the United States space program to the present, polling 

firms65 (commissioned by the aerospace industry, aerospace associations, the 

mass media, and NASA) have been attempting to gauge public opinion on 

the space program. As previously noted, in assessing public opinion about, 

interest in, and knowledge of the space program, NASA and the space community have typically taken an advertising and marketing approach to the 

task, soliciting what we call administrative research. NASA has repeatedly 

turned to the advertising and marketing sector for help in “branding” and 

“selling” the space program. The result has been a string of similar studies 

and similar findings—public knowledge of NASA is a mile wide and an 

inch deep—and a continuing series of attempts to cultivate favorable public 

opinion, and the increased public support that is erroneously assumed to 

accompany that favorable opinion, by “pitching” NASA to the public. NASA 

has paid considerable attention—arguably too much—to quantitative indicators of public interest provided by public opinion polls and surveys. But 

it appears that the Agency has paid little attention to the limits of poll data 

and the practice of polling itself. NASA and others in the space community 

	 63.	 NASA,	Toward a Shared Vision,	p.	12.

	 64.	 In	2004,	President	Bush’s	Commission	on	Implementation	of	United	States	Space	Exploration	Policy	

reported,	“A	new	model	is	needed	to	expand	the	role	of	space	exploration	in	our	culture	. . .	a	new	model	

for	 public	 engagement	 built	 on	 grass	roots	 support.”	 Building	 public	 support	 “requires	 sustainable,	

systematic,	effective	marketing	and	communication	programs	. . . .	Industry,	professional	organizations,	

and	the	media	[must]	engage	the	public	in	understanding	why	space	exploration	is	vital	to	our	scientific,	

economic,	and	security	interests”	(Report	of	the	President’s	Commission	on	Implementation	of	United	

States	Space	Exploration	Policy,	“A	Journey	to	Inspire,	Innovate,	and	Discover,”	June	2004,	p.	44).

	 65.	 Including	Gallup,	Harris,	Ipsos,	Roper,	Yankelovich,	and	Zogby.

171
NASA’s First 50 Years

continue to interpret high levels of public interest as indicators of public 

support, a correlation that poll results themselves show to be spurious. Roger 

Launius has examined the history of public opinion polling about the space 

program and pointed out that “consistently throughout the 1960s a majority 

of Americans did not believe” NASA’s Apollo program “was worth the cost.”66

He has also noted that while NASA has consistently earned favorable ratings 

in public opinion polls, respondents consistently rank the space program 

low as a national spending priority.

Practitioners like to say that public opinion polling allows “the people” to 

speak for themselves. Research has shown that this is not necessarily the case. 

Public opinion polling has been described as “a cultural practice that sustains 

and affirms deeply held founding mythologies about community, democracy, 

and vox populi.”67 Research has explored how cultural elites “use public opinion polls to manage and control public opinion.” It has been argued that polls 

“legitimate the authority of the state by appealing to the mythical sovereignty 

of the people without actually, or in practice, doing so.”68 Weaknesses of public 

opinion polling and public opinion research include a lack of reporting on 

survey nonresponse rates and insufficient research on the sources and effects 

of nonresponse.69 Survey researchers have also found bias in the other direction—people who are interested in the topic of a survey are more likely to 

respond to it, and this factor can bias survey results.70

While polling methods have improved in some respects over the years, 

polling is still subject to what practitioners call nonsampling error—that is, 

nonquantifiable sources of error or uncertainty ranging from “interviewing 

problems to flawed interpretive theories”; the context and timing of surveys; 

the gender, race, or class of interviewers and respondents; and the phrasing 

and order of questions and response options.If they are to be useful, poll data 

“must be interpreted both in terms of larger historical or social trends, and 

within the context of public debate and discussion.”71 To better understand the 

	 66.	 Launius,	“Public	Opinion	Polls	and	Perceptions	of	U.S.	Human	Space	Flight,”	163–175.

	 67.	 Lisbeth	Lipari,	“Polling	as	Ritual,”	Journal of Communication	(winter	1999):	83.

	 68.	 Lipari,	“Polling	as	Ritual,”	86.

	 69.	 Elizabeth	Martin,	“Unfinished	Business,”	Public Opinion Quarterly	68,	no.	3	(2004):	439–450.

	 70.	 Robert	M.	Groves,	Stanley	Presser,	and	Sarah	Dipko,	“The	Role	of	Topic	Interest	in	Survey	Participation	

Decisions,”	Public Opinion Quarterly	68,	no.	1	(2004):	16.	

	 71.	 J.	 Michael	 Hogan,	 “George	 Gallup	 and	 the	 Rhetoric	 of	 Scientific	 Democracy,”	 Communication 

Monographs	64,	no.	2	(1997):	168.	See	also	“A	Gold	Mine	and	a	Tool	for	Democracy:	George	Gallup,	

Elmo	Roper,	and	the	Business	of	Scientific	Polling,	1935–1955,”	Journal of the History of the Behavioral 

Sciences	42,	no.	2	(2006):	109–134.

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Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

limits of polling data and the practice of polling itself, it helps to look into the 

history of the business of public opinion research.

In 1935, George Gallup founded the Gallup Organization72 to do public 

opinion research. Gallup had come out of the advertising and marketing business, where he had been head of the marketing department at the New York 

advertising firm Young & Rubicam. Gallup created and employed a “rhetoric 

of scientific democracy” in attempting to construct legitimacy for what he 

called the new “science” of polling. Gallup succeeded in legitimizing polling, 

in part by deflecting questions about methods and accuracy with “a rhetoric 

of ‘scientific mystification.’”73 The Roper Center for Public Opinion Research, 

founded by Elmo Roper, a colleague of George Gallup, after World War II, has 

maintained an archive of polling data, collected by a variety of organizations, 

ranging from the 1930s to the present.74 Louis Harris & Associates—now known 

as Harris Interactive—was founded in New York City in 1956 by Louis Harris, 

who served as John F. Kennedy’s pollster during his 1960 campaign for the 

presidency.75 Harris Interactive bills itself as “one of the largest market research 

and consulting firms in the world and the global leader in conducting online 

research.”76 This longstanding marketing bias, which continues to characterize the public opinion business today, is an important factor to consider in 

interpreting poll data. Another important factor to consider is the considerable 

difference between political polling and other types of polling.

Early on, NASA enlisted scholars and analysts to help define the Agency’s 

image, message, purpose, and publics. But NASA apparently paid little attention 

to their findings. Apparently “NASA ignored its own early opinion research . . . . 

[F]indings which argued against widespread knowledge or interest in NASA 

programs were ignored.”77 During NASA’s first few years, social psychologist 

Donald Michael pointed out to NASA the importance of “understanding . . . 

the relation of events to attitudes and values” when considering public opinion about the space program. In the case of public response to the launch of 

Sputnik I, for example, “for many people everywhere, their own affairs, Little 

	 72.	 Originally	known	as	the	American	Institute	of	Public	Opinion,	the	Gallup	Organization	is	now	known	as	

Gallup,	Inc.

	 73.	 Hogan,	“George	Gallup	and	the	Rhetoric	of	Scientific	Democracy,”	161.

	 74.	 http://www.ropercenter.uconn.edu/about_roper.html.

	 75.	 In	1975,	political	science	professor	Gordon	S.	Black	founded	the	Gordon	S.	Black	Corporation	(GSBC)	

to	do	public	opinion	research.	In	1996,	GSBC	acquired	Louis	Harris	&	Associates	from	the	Gannett	

Corporation,	and	Louis	Harris	&	Associates	is	now	known	as	Harris	Interactive.

	 76.	 http://www.harrisinteractive.com/about/heritage.asp.

	 77.	 McQuaid,	“Sputnik	Reconsidered,”	392.	See	also	Launius,	“Public	Opinion	Polls,”	163–175.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Rock, and the World Series took precedence over the Soviet leap into space.”78

Michael urged the space community to consider “the socio-psychological 

context in which efforts to explore space will evolve,” pointing out that space 

exploration would proceed within a “vast matrix of already existing social 

and psychological values and beliefs, and behaviors which define our society 

today.”79 “There is,” he said:

No good reason to believe that there will be strong pressure 

from the public for effort and expenditures in this area, unless 

very special efforts are made to elicit it . . . . The matter is 

not close enough to most people’s way of life to fit in with 

the values and behavior they have learned are important for 

successfully coping with day-to-day reality.80

Today the range of issues people are thinking about may be different, but 

the situation is the same. While many people may view the space program as 

a salient issue, they typically do not put it at the top of their list of things they 

need to think about. NASA continues to struggle to make space exploration 

relevant to people’s lives. The Roper Center’s archive of polling data contains 

the results of numerous surveys about NASA, and typifying this body of work 

are New York Times/CBS News polls conducted in 1994, 1998, and 2004 that 

asked respondents about space exploration:

• 

• 

• 

Is the government spending “too much, too little, or about the right 

amount” on space exploration? In 1998, 32 percent of respondents 

answered “too much.” In 2004, 40 percent answered “too much.”

Should the United States send astronauts to Mars? In 1994, 55 percent 

favored and 40 percent opposed human missions to Mars. In 2004, 48 

percent favored and 47 percent opposed. 

Would it be worth it to build a permanent base on the Moon? In 2004, 

58 percent said “not worth it,” while 35 percent said “worth it.”81

In 2003, for the Houston Chronicle, Zogby International polled people on 

their views about NASA:

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

Quarterly	24	(1960):	573–582.

	 79.	 Donald	N.	Michael,	“Society	and	Space	Exploration,”	Astronautics	(February	1958):	20.

	 80.	 Michael,	“Society	and	Space	Exploration,”	88–89,	emphasis	in	original.

	 81.	 New York Times/CBS News poll,	12–15	January	1994.	

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Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

• 

• 

“How would you rate the job being done by the space agency, NASA 

(the National Aeronautics and Space Administration)?” Sixty nine percent 

of respondents gave NASA an “excellent” or “good” rating, while 23 

percent gave it a “fair” to “poor” rating.

“Do you feel that the amount of tax dollars the government now spends 

on the U.S. space program should be increased, kept at the present level, 

decreased, or ended all together?” Zogby reported that “a plurality of 

people (44%) feels that the amount of tax dollars the government now 

spends on the U.S. space program should be kept at the present level. 

One-third (32%) thinks this amount should be increased.”82

A poll conducted in 2004 by Ipsos Public Affairs for the Associated Press 

asked:

• 

• 

“The United States 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 expanding the space program this way or do you oppose 

it?” Among respondents, 48 percent favored a human mission to Mars, 

while 48 percent opposed it.

“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?” Among respondents 42 

percent said investing in space research would be “worthwhile” while 

55 percent said it would be “better to spend on domestic programs.”83 

A USA Today/Gallup poll conducted in 2006 found that 48 percent of 

respondents deemed NASA’s investment in the Space Shuttle “worth it,” while 

48 percent said the money would have been better spent elsewhere. At the 

same time, 57 percent of respondents said NASA was doing a good to excellent 

job, while 37 percent rated NASA “fair” to “poor.” In reporting these results, 

Gallup observed, “The fact that less than a majority endorses the spending 

on a space program is not a new phenomenon. During the 1960s, when the 

United States increased spending on sending astronauts to the moon, a higher 

percentage of Americans consistently said it was not worth spending the money 

	 82.	 Joseph	Zogby,	“America’s	Views	on	NASA	and	the	Space	Program,”	Zogby	International	for	the	Houston 

Chronicle,	3	July	2003.

	 83.	 “Americans	Assess	 NASA’s	 Price	Tag,”	Angus Reid Global Monitor	 (15	 January	 2004),	 available	 at	

http://www.angus-reid.com/polls/view/1474/americans_assess_nasas_price_tag.

175
NASA’s First 50 Years

to accomplish the feat.” At the same time, “ratings of NASA have generally been 

positive since Gallup first asked this question in 1990.”84

A Harris Interactive poll conducted in 2007 asked, “If spending had to be 

cut on federal programs, which two federal programs do you think the cuts 

should come from?” Fifty-one percent of respondents put the space program at 

the top of the “cut” list, followed by welfare at 28 percent.85 A poll conducted by 

Rasmussen Reports in 2007, for the University of California-Berkeley’s BioMars 

astrobiology research team, asked, “How important is it for the United States to 

have a manned [sic] space program?” Thirty percent of respondents said it was 

“very important,” 27 percent said it was “somewhat important,” 22 percent said 

it was “not very important,” and 13 percent said it was “not at all important.”86

In the 1980s and 1990s, NASA called on political scientist Jon Miller, an 

expert in public opinion research and public understanding of science, to study 

“the information needs of the public concerning space exploration.” In a 1994 

report to NASA, Miller broke up the bloc of “interested” respondents reported 

by pollsters for decades into more precisely defined groups. He distinguished 

between “informed” and “attentive” audiences and also reported on gender- and 

age-based differences of opinion. And “even among those citizens with a high 

level of interest in space exploration and who believe themselves to be well 

informed”—a small percentage of respondents in the surveys he drew on87—

“there are vast areas of ignorance and misunderstanding.”88 He also pointed 

out that people who are “attentive” to the space program may not necessarily 

support new initiatives or budget increases.

Over the past few years, Dittmar Associates has conducted market studies 

aimed at gauging public interest in and support for NASA. In a 2004 marketing study of space exploration, Dittmar found a widespread public perception 

that “the space program is disengaged from and uncaring about the public.”89

	 84.	 Joseph	 Carroll,	“Public	 Divided	 Over	Money	Spent	 on	Space	Shuttle	Program,	Americans	 Continue	

to	Rate	NASA	Positively”	(Princeton,	NJ:	Gallup	News	Service,	30	June	2006),	available	at	http://poll.

gallup.com/content/Default.aspx?ci=23545&VERSION.

	 85.	 Harris	 Interactive,	“Closing	the	 Budget	Deficit:	 U.S.	Adults	Strongly	 Resist	 Raising	Any	Taxes	Except	

‘Sin	Taxes’	or	Cutting	Major	Programs”	(The	Harris	Poll	#30,	10	April	2007),	available	at	http://www.

harrisinteractive.com/harris-poll/index.asp?PID=746.

	 86.	 “Support	for	Space	Missions	Drops	in	U.S.,”	Angus Reid Global Monitor,	19	June	2007,	available	at	

http://www.angus-reid.com/polls/view/16175/support_for_space_missions_drops_in_us.

	 87.	 Biennial	National	Science	Board	surveys.

	 88.	 Miller,	“The	 Information	Needs	of	the	Public	Concerning	Space	Exploration:	A	Special	 Report	to	the	

National	Aeronautics	and	Space	Administration,”	1	June	1994,	p.	viii.

	 89.	 Mary	 Lynne	 Dittmar,	 “Gen	 Y	 and	 Space	 Exploration:	 A	 Desire	 for	 Interaction,	 Participation,	 and	

Empowerment,”	Third	Space	Exploration	Conference	and	Exhibition,	Denver,	CO,	27	February	2008.

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Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

Participants in these studies expressed a “desire for a responsive NASA—one 

that goes out of its way to involve interested citizenry in real and meaningful ways beyond traditional ‘outreach and education.’” This desire “emerged 

repeatedly in response to questions asking about relevance of the space program to their daily lives.” Dittmar found strong interest in and endorsement 

of the space program among Caucasians, Asians, males, and people 45–65 

years old, and “little interest and less endorsement among women, Hispanics, 

and younger adults.” Among 18- to 25-year-olds, Dittmar found “very little 

excitement or interest about NASA or its activities”—including the Vision for 

Space Exploration—“with the exception of Mars rovers.” Participants in this 

age group expressed “confusion about and lack of interest in what NASA does” 

and a “strong sense that NASA wasn’t about them.” In a 2006 market study of 

“Gen Y” (ages 15–35) and space exploration, Dittmar found an “absence of a 

relationship with NASA, no participation, no interactivity.”

Space Exploration as Spectacle

Another way of examining the history of “NASA and the public” is to consider 

it as 50 years of spectacle. Author Tom Wolfe wrote of the Mercury astronauts’ 

press debut as a theatrical event, spotlighting not the astronauts’ piloting abilities but their relationships with “god, family, country.” Overnight, he said, the 

astronauts became “national heroes.”90 The story of the Mercury 7 provides 

insights into the role of the mass media in the social construction of reality—in 

this case, the spectacular hyperreality of the astronauts as superhuman, fearless yet god-fearing, patriotic family men.

In his famous essay, “Society of the Spectacle,” published in 1967 at the 

peak of United States space frenzy, French critic Guy Debord (1931–1994) 

argued that in contemporary industrialized, commercialized society, image 

had supplanted reality as our social reality. He observed:

In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, all 

of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles. 

Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a 

representation . . . . Spectacle is not a collection of images but 

a social relation among people, mediated by images . . . . The 

society which rests on modern industry is not accidentally or 

	 90.	 Wolfe,	The Right Stuff,	p.	94.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

superficially spectacular, it is fundamentally spectaclist . . . . 

The spectacle presents itself as something enormously positive, 

indisputable and inaccessible . . . . The attitude which it 

demands in principle is passive acceptance which in fact is 

already obtained by . . . its monopoly of appearance . . . . In the 

spectacle, which is the image of the ruling economy, the goal is 

nothing, development everything. “The language of the spectacle 

consists of signs of the ruling production . . . . As information 

or propaganda, as advertisement or . . . entertainment, the 

spectacle [is] the omnipresent affirmation of the choice already 

made in production and its corollary consumption . . . . The 

spectacle’s form and content are identically the total justification 

of the existing system’s conditions and goals.91

The spectacle “is the opposite of dialogue,” Debord concluded. In today’s 

ever-more-mediated cultural environment, the society of the spectacle continues 

to thrive, and thanks to increasing numbers and varieties of media outlets and 

mass communication technologies and techniques, the space program is as 

spectacular as it ever was, and arguably more so. Debord’s thinking offers an 

interesting way to think about the history of “NASA and the public,” in which 

goals are always changing while “development” always proceeds. One condition of “the existing system” today is the power and influence of the so-called 

military-industrial complex, whose primary goal is dominance in the global 

aerospace sector and in outer space itself.

Like Debord, culture critic Jean Baudrillard (1929–2007) argued that in contemporary consumerist, mediated, high-technology-dominated society, people 

live in a social reality of images, spectacles, and simulacra that is so disconnected from actual reality that “reality” is no longer meaningful.92 “Abstraction 

today is no longer that of the map,” according to Baudrillard. “Simulation is no 

longer that of a territory . . . . It is the generation by models of a real without 

origin or reality: a hyperreal . . . . It is the map that precedes the territory . . . 

it is the map that engenders the territory.”93

	 91.	 Guy	Debord,	Society of the Spectacle	(Detroit,	MI:	Black	and	Red,	1967),	unpaged,	available	at	http://

www.marxists.org/reference/archive/debord/society.htm.

	 92.	 “Jean	 Baudrillard,”	Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy,	 first	 published	22	April	2005;	 substantive	

revision	7	March	2007,	available	at	http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/baudrillard/.

	 93.	 Jean	Baudrillard,	“Simulacra	and	Simulations:	Disneyland,”	1983,	in	Social Theory: The Multicultural 

and Classic Readings,	ed.	Charles	Lemert	(Boulder,	CO:	Westview	Press,	1993),	pp.	524–529.	

178
Fifty Years of NASA and the Public

In the 21st century, people know NASA by its representations—its spacewalking heroes and their spaceships, the Hubble Space Telescope, and anthropomorphized rovers on Mars. What is missing in this pastiche of spectacles is 

the meaning of NASA for all of its publics.

Conclusion

Throughout its 50 years, NASA has concerned itself with public opinion and 

public support for the Agency as an entity, or some specific program of the 

Agency. What people seem to care about is space exploration, in the broadest 

possible sense. People care as much about the idea of space exploration, the 

idea of human and robotic presence in space, as they do about the mechanics, 

the reality, of these things. When asked to place a value on the idea of space 

exploration, people rate it highly. When asked to put a price tag on the reality 

of space exploration, a different picture results. 

President George W. Bush’s space commission94 recommended that the 

space community adopt “techniques employed by the film industry” to “inspire 

and educate people.” Citizens might ask: Is the goal informing and engaging citizens? Or selling the space program and enlisting new advocates? The 

“space infotainment” trend in the aerospace community is disturbing, as the 

emphasis seems to be more on entertaining—the spectacle, the simulation—

than on informing and empowering citizens. As NASA official Alan Ladwig 

has observed, “Basing decisions on thrill factors is fine for Hollywood studios, 

but it’s a dubious performance indicator for space science and exploration.” At 

NASA, “publicity shouldn’t be the float leading the parade,” Ladwig has said. 

“The legislative charter that created the agency was quite specific concerning 

priorities and goals . . . . The agency’s charter says nothing about excitement 

or entertainment.”95

NASA has always been good at framing stories about the space program 

to make a favorable public impression. A frame is a social construction used to 

organize stories and make meaning. Assumptions and beliefs, sponsorship (for 

example, official sources), and media practices (journalistic norms and conventions—for instance, the convention of balance) are among the factors determining what news frames will be and how they will work. In mass communication 

	 94.	 Report	of	the	President’s	Commission	on	Implementation	of	United	States	Space	Exploration	Policy:	“A	

Journey	to	Inspire,	Innovate,	and	Discover,”	June	2004.

	 95.	 Alan	Ladwig,	“The	Excitement	Myth:	Space	Exploration	Shouldn’t	Have	to	Entertain	to	be	Worthwhile,”	

Space Illustrated	(fall	2001):	16.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

research, frames have been explored as functional structures,96 structural forms 

of bias,97 ideological processes,98 structural and ideological forms of bias,99 and 

special-purpose constructions of social reality.100 The foregrounding and backgrounding of issues in a story frame contribute to public agenda setting, as they 

affect not only what issues audiences think about, but also how they think about 

the issues.101 It is not clear whether any in-depth understanding of what framing 

is and how framing works has undergirded these framing efforts. 

Medium theory could also help NASA in fostering relations with its 

various publics. Medium theory describes how media are not simply means 

for disseminating information but also “are themselves social contexts that 

foster certain forms of interaction and social identities.” The proliferation of 

mass media and other types of communication technologies has “altered the 

nature of social interaction in ways that can not be reduced to the content 

of the messages communicated through them.”102 NASA continues to focus 

on message content and delivery, depending on counting how many times 

and to how many people messages are sent. It might be more useful to study 

whether and how people actually receive those messages and what they do 

with them when they receive them. This qualitative sort of research is more 

difficult to do than the conventional quantitative assessment of Web hits, 

news clips, and air time. It offers, however, insights that quantitative assessments cannot. Cultivation theory posits that repeated exposure to certain 

media content or frames can cultivate “adoption of a particular point of view 

that is more in line with media presentation than with reality.”103 It might be 

	 96.	 Robert	M.	Entman,	“Framing	U.S.	Coverage	of	International	News:	Contrasts	in	Narratives	of	the	KAL	

and	Iran	Air	Incidents,”	Journal of Communication 41,	no.	4	(1991):	6–26;	Z.	Pan	and	Gerald	M.	Kosicki,	

“Framing	Analysis:	An	Approach	to	News	Discourse,”	Political Communication 10	(1993):	55–75.

	 97.	 Salma	 Ghanem,	 “Filling	 in	 the	 Tapestry:	 The	 Second	 Level	 of	 Agenda	 Setting,”	 in	 Communication 

and Democracy: Exploring the Intellectual Frontiers in Agenda-Setting Theory,	ed.	Maxwell	McCombs,	

Donald	L.	Shaw,	and	David	Weaver	(Mahway,	NJ:	Lawrence	Erlbaum	Associates,	1997),	pp.	3–14.

	 98.	 Kevin	M.	Carragee	and	Wim	Roefs,	“The	Neglect	of	Power	in	Recent	Framing	Research,”	Journal of 

Communication	54,	no.	2	(2004):	214–233.

	 99.	 Frank	D.	Durham,	“News	Frames	as	Social	Narratives:	TWA	Flight	800,”	Journal of Communication	48,	

no.	4	(1998):	100–117.

	100.	 Dietram	 A.	 Scheufele,	 “Framing	 as	 a	 Theory	 of	 Media	 Effects,”	 Journal of Communication	 49,	 no.	

1	(1999):	103–122.

	101.	McCombs,	Shaw,	and	Weaver,	eds.,	Communication and Democracy.

	102.	 Joshua	 Meyrowitz,	 “Shifting	 Worlds	 of	 Strangers:	 Medium	 Theory	 and	 Changes	 in	 ‘Them’	 versus	

‘Us’,”	Sociological Inquiry	67,	no.	1	(1997):	59–71.

	103.	 George	 Gerbner	 et	 al.,	“Growing	 Up	With	Television:	The	 Cultivation	 Perspective,”	 in	Media Effects: 

Advances in Theory and Research,	 ed.	 J.	 Bryant	 and	 D.	 Zillman	 (Hillsdale,	 NJ:	 Lawrence	 Erlbaum	

Associates,	1994),	pp.	17–41,	93.

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useful for NASA to consider what points of view, what attitudes, it has been 

cultivating, or attempting to cultivate, over time, and what perspectives and 

attitudes it has actually cultivated over its 50 years of existence.

NASA could benefit from engaging in some critical research on this 

topic of “NASA and the public.” In contrast with conventional administrative research, critical research “has to question existing conditions in terms 

of their historical preconditions and future possibilities.”104 In contrast to 

administrative research, critical research takes its social responsibility seriously. Critical researchers take care to define the relevance and validity of 

their research questions. “The sense of being critical is expressed in sharing 

responsibility for the future by identifying those critical (empirical) conditions which stimulate or fetter humans and democratic developments and 

recognizing their historical roots.”105

NASA exists in a social reality where special interests—political and economic and business interests—will continue to ensure, for better or worse, the 

continuation of the civilian space program. At the same time, most citizens 

arguably do not “get” space exploration in the same ways that special interests in the space community do. NASA and its advocates are framing space 

as a resource-rich environment to exploit for economic gain, as a moneymaking enterprise, as a guaranteed source of employment for scientists. It 

has not been established that this approach to space exploration best serves 

the public interest. To serve the public interest as well as special interests, 

NASA will need to talk with, listen to, and involve citizens in planning a 

future in space. It will need to look deeply into its history in contemplating 

its future. It is likely that United States citizens would not be happy if their 

government were to abandon the civilian space program. It is reasonable to 

assume that the space program has meaning for many citizens. By engaging with its citizenry, NASA could begin to find out what space exploration 

means to different people in different socioeconomic sectors and walks of 

life. Perhaps this perspective can provide a starting-off point for the next 50 

years of “NASA and the public.”

	104.	Slavko	Splichal,	“Why	be	critical?”	Communication, Culture, and Critique	1,	no.	1	(2008):	20–30.

	105.	Splichal,	“Why	be	critical?”	29.

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Chapter 8

NASA Aeronautics

A Half Century of Accomplishments 

Anthony M. Springer

NASA has actively promoted the widest practical dissemination of information 

concerning its research, a policy that has led to the application for commercial 

use of many of the technologies first derived from NASA research. Aeronautics 

research did not begin in 1958 with the Agency’s formation. Instead, it was a 

legacy of work transferred from the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics 

(NACA). The NACA supplied its rich traditions, cutting-edge facilities, and 

experienced personnel to NASA’s organizational and scientific core. 

In examining the accomplishments of the last half century, it is often uncertain 

who first developed a technology, or even who developed a given technology. 

In many cases there are no clear answers because different groups of people 

and organizations were involved at different points along the way. Often the 

research of one group served as a springboard to another, which then expanded 

or adapted the research, leading eventually to a solution to the original problem.

Many technologies described here were derived in this fluid, organic, yet 

still purposeful way. In many cases, even when NASA was not the first or 

the end developer of a technology, the Agency contributed significantly to a 

technology’s advancement and operational use. NASA-developed technology 

or its derivatives can be found on every aircraft in the current United States 

commercial and military aircraft fleets. This paper is a survey of accomplishments in aeronautics by NASA and, in a few cases, the NACA that were made 

over the last half century. It is by no means complete, but it is intended to give 

the reader a foundational understanding of the broad range and significance 

of these key technological accomplishments and what they contributed to 

the advancement of flight.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Introduction: The NACA and NASA

NASA’s aeronautics research has it roots in the NACA, which was formed in 

1915 by the Navy Appropriations Act of 1915.

. . . That it shall be the duty of the [National] Advisory Committee 

for Aeronautics to supervise and direct the scientific study of 

the problems of flight, with a view to their practical solution, 

and to determine the problems which should be experimentally 

attacked, and to discuss their solution and their application 

to practical questions.1

The NACA was created out of a need to improve United States aeronautic capabilities and technology in response to the great advances made by 

European countries and companies prior to and during World War I. During 

these first decades of the 20th century, the United States was severely lacking 

in the infrastructure and means to develop and produce its own advanced 

aircraft. The United States government created the NACA to lead this research 

effort. Forty-three years later, another worldwide event would lead to the 

formation of the NACA’s successor—NASA. This major event was the launch 

of the first artificial Earth satellite, Sputnik, by the Soviet Union (USSR) on 

4 October 1957. The tiny spacecraft proved to be the catalyst for the United 

States’ formation of a civilian agency to develop and operate a civilian United 

States space program.

At President Eisenhower’s request, the NACA was tapped to form the 

nucleus of the new agency: 

I recommend that aeronautical and space science activities 

sponsored by the United States be conducted under the direction 

of a civilian agency . . . . The responsibilities for administering 

the civilian space science and exploration program be lodged in 

a new National Aeronautics and Space Agency, into which the 

National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics would be absorbed 

. . . . The new agency would continue to perform the important 

aeronautical research functions presently carried on by the NACA.2

	 1.	 P.L.	271,	63rd	Cong.,	3rd	sess.,	passed	on	3	March	1915,	38	Stat.	930.

	 2.	 Statement	by	President	Eisenhower,	Hearings	before	the	Select	Committee	on	Astronautics	and	Space	

Exploration,	85th	cong.,	2nd	sess.	on	HR	11881,	15	April–2	May	1958.

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NASA Aeronautics

Additional assets were transferred to NASA over the next few years, including the transfer of DOD assets such as the Development Operations Division 

of the ABMA in 1960. The ABMA employed Dr. Wernher von Braun and his 

German “Rocket Team” along with the core of the Army rocket program that 

launched the first United States satellite, Explorer 1, after the initial failure of 

the Vanguard program.

NASA officially came into being with the passage of the National Aeronautics 

and Space Act of 1958. Signed by the President on 29 July 1958, it was “An 

Act to provide for research into problems of flight within and outside the 

earth’s atmosphere, and for other purposes.” The legislation stated that “The 

aeronautical and space activities of the United States shall be conducted so 

as to contribute materially to one or more of the following objectives: (1) 

The expansion of human knowledge of phenomena in the atmosphere and 

space; (2) The improvement of the usefulness, performance, speed, safety, 

and efficiency of aeronautical and space vehicles . . . the term ‘aeronautical 

and space activities’ means (A) research into, and the solution of, problems 

of flight within and outside the earth’s atmosphere, (B) the development, 

construction, testing, and operation for research purposes of aeronautical 

and space vehicles, and (C) such other activities as may be required for the 

exploration of space; . . . [and to] provide for the widest practicable and 

appropriate dissemination of information concerning its activities and the 

results thereof.”3 This language would have significant impact on NASA’s 

future activities in space—its primary realm of responsibility—and on aeronautics activities as well.

With the passage of this act, NASA began operations on 1 October 1958. But 

the absorption of the NACA’s work did not magically happen overnight. The 

NACA personnel and facilities had been involved in a number of far-reaching 

projects prior to their transfer to NASA. This work was not arbitrarily stopped 

but instead was transferred to NASA, where it grew into fruition. One of the 

best-known projects was the X-15 research program. 

Throughout its nearly 45-year existence, the NACA and its personnel 

made numerous significant advancements to the field of aeronautics. A small 

sample of these accomplishments included: the airfoil studies of the 1930s 

that resulted in the NACA airfoils (4 and 6 Digit Series); the NACA cowling to 

	 3.	 P.L.	85-568,	72	Stat.	426.	John	M.	Logsdon,	ed.,	Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents in the 

History of the U. S. Civil Space Program,	vol.	1,	Organizing for Exploration	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP4407,	1995),	pp.	334–335,	available	at	http://history.nasa.gov/series95.html.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

reduce drag; aircraft handling quality standards; icing research; NACA Report 

1135, the “Standard Compressible Flow Handbook”; the “slotted throat” transonic wind tunnel; engine research; compressibility research; and support of 

the X series of research aircraft from XS-1 in 1947, which broke the “sound 

barrier,” to name a few.4

Aerodynamics

The swept-wing concept was originated by the German aerodynamicist Adolph 

Busemann and presented at the fifth Volta Conference in 1935 in his paper 

“Aerodynamic Lift at Supersonic Speeds.” In 1947, Busemann would be brought 

to the United States under “Project Paperclip,” where he would work at the 

NACA’s Langley.5 Busemann’s highly mathematical paper introduced the idea 

of sweeping a wing back to reduce its drag rise beyond the critical Mach 

number. Many at the Volta conference, including Eastman Jacobs, Theodore 

von Kármán, and Hugh Dryden, didn’t realize the significance of the paper. 

The German Luftwaffe would later classify swept-wing material in 1936; its 

first production jet fighter, the ME262, used swept wings. Robert T. Jones at 

Langley independently began research into wing sweep of missiles in summer 1944. Jones pursued the mathematical theory based on previous work 

by Ludwig Prandtl and Max Munk. He completed his initial report in April 

1945, but Langley management refused to publish it until it was verified. As 

luck would have it, Jones’s theory would be experimentally validated that 

summer both in flight through the use of models and by wind tunnel tests. 

Results were widely distributed in 1946. Variable sweep was flight-tested on 

the X-5 aircraft in 1951.6

	 4.	 Pamela	E.	Mack,	ed.,	From Engineering Science to Big Science: The NACA and NASA Collier Trophy 

Research Project Winners	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4219,	1998);	Booz-Allen	Applied	Research	

Inc.,	 “A	 Historical	 Study	 of	 the	 Benefits	 Derived	 From	 Application	 of	Technical	 Advances	 to	 Civil	

Aviation,”	Joint	Department	of	Transportation	(DOT)-NASA	Civil	Aviation	R&D	Policy	Study,	Volume	I	

Summary	Report	and	Appendix	A	(detailed	Case	Studies)	(NASA	CR-1808),	and	Volume	II	Appendices	

B	 through	 I	 (NASA	 CR-1809),	 February	 1971;	 Ronald	 Miller	 and	 David	 Sawers,	 The Technical 

Development of Modern Aviation	(New	York,	NY:	Praeger	Publishers,	1970);	J.	G.	Paulisick,	“R&D	

Contributions	to	Aviation	Progress	(RADCAP)	Volume	1:	Summary	Report,”	August	1972,	Department	

of	the	Air	Force	(NASA-CR-129672);	John	D.	Anderson,	Jr.,	“The	Airplane:	A	History	of	Its	Technology”	

(Reston,	VA:	AIAA	2002).

	 5.	 John	D.	Anderson,	 Jr.,	“A	History	of	Aerodynamics	and	 Its	 Impact	on	Flying	Machines,”	Cambridge 

Aerospace Series	(Cambridge,	U.K.:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1997),	p.	400.

	 6.	 James	R.	Hansen,	Bird on the Wing: Aerodynamics and the Progress of the American Airplane	(College	

Station,	TX:	Texas	A&M	University	Press,	2004),	pp.	97–100.

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NASA Aeronautics

During the early 1950s, multiple factors converged to spur 

NACA scientist Richard Whitcomb 

into the creation of the “area rule” 

theory. In 1950, the NACA had 

developed the slotted throat wind 

tunnel to enable transonic wind 

tunnel testing, which had not 

been possible up to that time. In 

1951, Busemann, now at Langley, 

made a presentation on transonic 

flows in which he used for the first 

time a “pipe fitters” analogy for 

fluid dynamics. From this chain 

of events, Richard Whitcomb surmised that transonic disturbances 

and shock waves produced by 

aircraft were functions of the longitudinal variation of their crosssectional area. This theory resulted 

in the “Coke-bottle” or wasp-waist 

wing-body interface on aircraft.7

One of the most dramatic examples of the application of the area rule 

was to the F-102 Delta Dagger in 1953. Whitcomb later developed antishock, wing-mounted bodies on the Convair 990. Some also consider the 

747 fairing part of his area rule work.8 In 1954, Whitcomb received the 

Collier Trophy. In the decades following, it has been acknowledged that 

the basic theory behind the area rule was implied in 1947 in the doctoral 

thesis of Wallace Hayes.9

Swept wings offer benefits at high speeds, but they result in stability and 

control concerns at low speeds and at higher landing and takeoff speeds. Flight 

Figure 1: Richard	Whitcomb,	the	NACA	scientist	who	

developed	the	“area	rule”	theory.	NASA Image L-89119

	 7.	 Joseph	R.	Chambers,	Concept to Reality: Contributions of the NASA Langley Research Center to U.S. 

Civil Aircraft of the 1990s	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2003-4259,	2003),	pp.	45–56.

	 8.	 John	D.	Anderson,	 Jr.,	“A	History	of	Aerodynamics	and	 Its	 Impact	on	Flying	Machines,”	Cambridge 

Aerospace Series	(Cambridge,	U.K.:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1997),	pp.	413–416.

	 9.	 Pamela	E.	Mack,	ed.,	From Engineering Science to Big Science: The NACA and NASA Collier Trophy 

Research Project Winners	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4219,	1998),	pp.	135–148.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

testing of the Bell X-5 that began in June of 1951 was the first full-scale testing 

of an aircraft that could change its wing sweep in flight.10

The X-5 required an extremely intricate and heavy mechanism to move 

the wing fore and aft along the fuselage to keep the aircraft within acceptable 

limits of stability and control. The technology would lie dormant until about 

1957, when the concept of a multimission military aircraft came into being 

that required high-performance goals both at low speeds, which are best met 

with a straight wing, and at high speeds, which are best met with a swept 

wing. The breakthrough came during experimental testing in November 1958 

that resulted in a method to overcome the instability and uncontrollability of 

previous swept mechanisms. The idea was to move outboard the pivot points, 

keeping the center section constant, and only sweeping the outboard sections 

of the wings to keep the aircraft stable in both configurations. These solutions 

led to the development of the F-111 and later use of swing wings on the F-14, 

B-1, British Tornado, and U.S. SST concepts.11

During work on advanced subsonic aircraft, Whitcomb hypothesized that 

the increase in drag-divergence Mach number from blowing through a slot 

in the upper wing surface was caused by delayed shock-induced separation. 

He envisioned a solution to this problem that could be applied to swept-wing 

subsonic transport. 

Research on this concept started in 1964, leading to the first supercritical airfoil. NASA and the U.S. Navy used a T-2C Buckeye trainer with a 17 

percent chord thickness airfoil for the first flight test of the concept in 1969. 

The results of the flight test validated the wind tunnel test, but the test configuration had a number of drawbacks in aircraft performance and handling 

characteristics. A more definitive test was needed than using the simple balsa 

wing modification performed in the T-2C tests. NASA proposed replacing the 

wing of an F-8C aircraft with that of a new, specially designed supercritical 

wing. The first flight of the 86-flight program using the F8-C supercritical 

wing was on 9 March 1971, with the last on 23 May 1973. Results from these 

flight tests demonstrated the transonic cruise efficiency of the supercritical 

wing and a potential theoretical increase of cruise Mach number for transport aircraft from 0.82 up to 0.90. The results of these tests were reported 

to industry in a classified conference in 1972. As stated in the conference 

	 10.	 Jay	Miller,	The X-Planes: X-1 to X-45	(Surrey,	U.K.:	Midland	Publishing,	2001).

	 11.	 James	R.	Hansen,	Bird on the Wing: Aerodynamics and the Progress of the American Airplane	(College	

Station,	TX:	Texas	A&M	University	Press,	2004),	pp.	123–137.

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NASA Aeronautics

Figure 2: F-8	supercritical	airfoil.	NASA Image EC73-3468

summary: “The key F-8 supercritical wing results discussed in the earlier 

papers may be summarized as follows: I feel the overall performance goals 

of Richard T. Whitcomb, as demonstrated by delayed drag-rise Mach number 

and a relatively high lift coefficient for the onset of significant separation, 

have been achieved.”12 Supercritical wings are now used on most military 

and commercial aircraft.13

The concept of a winglet, or a surface at the end of a wing to increase performance, originated with the work of F. Nagel at McCook Field (now WrightPatterson Air Force Base) in 1924. Frederick W. Lanchester of England patented 

the endplate concept in 1897, but it was not a functional solution at the time.14

	 12.	 NASA	Flight	Research	Center,	Supercritical Wing Technology: A Progress Report on Flight Evaluation

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-301,	1972),	p.	122.

	 13.	 Joseph	R.	Chambers,	Concept to Reality: Contributions of the NASA Langley Research Center to U.S. 

Civil Aircraft of the 1990s	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2003-4259,	2003),	pp.	7–20.

	 14.	 James	R.	Hansen,	Bird on the Wing: Aerodynamics and the Progress of the American Airplane (College	

Station,	TX:	Texas	A&M	University	Press,	2004),	p.	199.	Nagel’s	work	is	in	Memo	Ref	130,	“Wings	with	

End	Plates.”	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

NACA scientist Richard Whitcomb, inspired both by an article in Science

magazine about how soaring birds used tip feathers for control and by past 

research by other scientists, started analyzing the flow around wingtips in 

the early 1970s. He later theorized that a winglet or endplate at the wingtips 

extending above and/or below the wing could reduce the trailing vortex and 

thus drag. Using the 8-foot wind tunnel at Langley, he and his team performed 

experimental testing from 1974 through 1976. The design approach for the 

winglet was published in 1976. Understanding the possible benefits of this 

technology, NASA and the United States Air Force performed flight tests on 

a modified KC-135 aircraft between 1979 and 1980. The KC-135 was a good 

stand-in for a commercial transport aircraft. Today, winglets are used on a 

number of commercial aircraft from business jets to the large Boeing 747.15

Weather Hazards Research and the Airspace System

For more than 50 years, NASA and its predecessor institution have performed 

research related to the safety of aircraft. It took many forms during the NACA 

and NASA eras, from better understanding and predicting the fundamental 

science involved in weather phenomena such as lightning and ice formation 

to mitigating hazards caused by wind shear and wet pavement. Each technology or knowledge base evolved from analytic models and studies through 

ground tests and actual flight testing to validate the models, thereby gaining 

the real-world data required to improve the safety of aircraft and their crews 

in the air and on the ground.

Beginning in the 1950s, traction problems associated with wet airport 

runways became even more worrisome with the introduction of jet aircraft and 

their high takeoff and landing speeds. The powerful aircraft were more difficult 

to control on wet runways as compared to their piston engine counterparts. 

In 1954, the NACA Langley Landing Loads Track facility went into operation to 

help find a solution to this problem. NASA and the Federal Aviation Administration 

(FAA) conducted joint studies on hydroplaning during the late 1950s and early 

1960s. NASA researchers studying the hydroplaning problems for aircraft and 

land vehicles now attempted to find a practical solution to the skidding problem. 

	 15.	 Joseph	R.	Chambers,	Concept to Reality: Contributions of the NASA Langley Research Center to U.S. 

Civil Aircraft of the 1990s	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2003-4259,	2003),	pp.	35–44;	Maurice	Allward,	

“Wingtip	Technology,”	The Putnam Aeronautical Review	1	(May	1989):	39–44;	Richard	T.	Whitcomb,	“A	

DESIGN	APPROACH	AND	SELECTED	WIND-TUNNEL	RESULTS	AT	HIGH	SUBSONIC	SPEEDS	FOR	WINGTIP	MOUNTED	WINGLETS”	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	TN	D-8260,	July	1976).

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NASA Aeronautics

Researchers proved that cutting thin grooves across concrete runways 

created channels that would drain excess water from runway surfaces and 

reduce the risk of hydroplaning. (The British first tested runway grooves in 

England in 1956.) In 1962 and 1964, NASA tested the groove concept on the 

Langley Landing Loads Track facility, now named the Landing Dynamics Facility. 

Promising results from the tests led to a government industry conference. 

In 1965, NASA initiated a study of commercial aircraft skidding incidents, 

which revealed the root causes of hydroplaning—viscous skidding and 

reverted-rubber skidding. Then NASA, in cooperation with the FAA, undertook 

a systematic study of grooving configurations and the process of grooving, 

including groove durability using a set of test patterns at a number of airfields 

throughout the United States. These studies resulted in a wealth of knowledge, 

both theoretical and practical, for airports, including standards for hydroplaning and slush drag equations.16

From this relatively simple solution, airports around the world today have 

safety-grooved surfaces, and all 50 of the United States have grooved portions 

of some of their main highways. The technology has been shown to restore 

wet friction performance to worn or smooth pavement surfaces and to extend 

their service lifetime by 5 to 10 years, resulting in significant maintenance 

cost savings. In 1966, a two-year study of grooved highways revealed that the 

grooves resulted in a 98 percent reduction of accidents. 

Friction testing using a variety of vehicles and groove patterns continued into the 1980s. In 1968, the runway at NASA Wallops Flight Facility was 

grooved, and evaluations were made of the effectiveness of grooved runway 

surfaces for safer wet pavement landings using highly instrumented vehicles 

and runways. In the mid-1980s, tests were performed on 12 different concrete 

and asphalt runways, grooved and nongrooved, including dry, wet, snow, slush, 

and ice-covered surface conditions. Over 200 test runs were made with two 

transport aircraft, and over 1,100 runs were made with different ground test 

vehicles. The results of these tests showed the best configurations of grooves 

for specific sets of conditions.17

Starting in the late 1970s and through the 1980s, NASA studied lightning 

strikes and their potential threat to aircraft structures, avionics, and control 

systems. The program began by focusing on identifying the characteristics of 

	 16.	 NASA	LaRC,	Pavement Grooving and Traction Studies	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-5073-1969).

	 17.	 Joseph	R.	Chambers,	Concept to Reality: Contributions of the NASA Langley Research Center to U.S. 

Civil Aircraft of the 1990s	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2003-4259,	2003),	pp.	199–208.

191
NASA’s First 50 Years

lightning and then expanded its scope to the acquisition of aircraft flight data 

during lightning strikes. 

NASA conducted research and flight tests to collect the first comprehensive 

data on intracloud lightning strikes and the effects of in-flight strikes. A special 

lightning-protected F-106B aircraft was used for the in-flight strike data. During 

the flight program of almost 1,500 storm penetrations, the aircraft was struck 

over 700 times, resulting in an extensive database on lightning effects on both 

metallic and composite structures, aircraft systems, and the characterization of 

lighting and when it is most likely to occur. This NASA-developed knowledge 

base is used to improve standards for protection against lightning for aircraft 

electrical and avionics systems.18

From the 1980s through the 1990s, NASA partnered with the FAA and the 

airline industry to approach the safety issue of wind shear, which is the violent 

downdraft of air that often forms with thunderstorms that can drive even the 

largest airliner into the ground if the downdraft occurs close to takeoff or landing. 

First, the research team identified the unique characteristics of this hazard—the signature headwind, downdraft, and tailwind—and how these three 

components might affect a particular aircraft. The tests led to a detailed understanding of microburst and wind shear hazards. The resulting technology base 

led to the manufacture of airborne remote sensing technology that looks ahead, 

providing the ability to predict wind shear situations before encountering them. 

This forward view allows pilots ample time to avoid, rather than react to, wind 

shear hazards; airborne wind shear detection was born. 

Finally, NASA aided in the creation of flight management systems, developing standard operational procedures for pilots to follow to minimize danger if 

trapped in a wind shear scenario.19

Over the decades, NASA has developed a number of air traffic management 

simulation tools. Beginning in 1991, NASA and the FAA developed the Center 

Terminal Radar Approach Control (TRACON) Automation System (CTAS).20

The CTAS is a suite of three software tools that generates new information for 

air traffic controllers. These tools are 1) Traffic Management Advisor (TMA), 

	 18.	 Ibid.,	pp.	173–184.

	 19.	 Ibid.,	pp.	185–198.

	 20.	 Heinz	Erzberger,	“Design	Principles	and	Algorithms	for	Automated	Air	Traffic	Management,”	Mission	

Systems	 Panel	 of	 the	Advisory	 Group	 for	Aerospace	 Research	 and	 Development	 (AGARD)	 and	 the	

Consultant	and	Exchange	Program	of	AGARD,	Madrid,	Spain,	6–7	November	1995,	published	in	LS200;	Dallas	G.	Denery	and	Heinz	Erzberger,	“The	Center-TRACON	Automation	System:	Simulation	and	

Field	Testing”	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	TM-110366,	August	1995).

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NASA Aeronautics

software created to forecast arriving air traffic to help controllers plan for safe 

arrivals during peak periods; 2) Descent Advisor (DA), software that generates 

clearances for en-route controllers handling arrival flows to metering gates; 

and 3) Final Approach Spacing Tool (FAST), software that provides terminal 

area controllers with heading and speed advisories for good spacing of aircraft 

on final approach courses. 

The TMA was designed and developed by NASA and the FAA to automate 

workload. “The TMA is a time-based strategic planning tool that provides Traffic 

Management Coordinators and En Route Air Traffic Controllers the ability to 

efficiently optimize the capacity of a demand-impacted airport. The TMA consists of trajectory prediction, constraint-based runway scheduling, traffic flow 

visualization and controller advisories.”21 The TMA was evaluated in 1996 at 

the Fort Worth Air Route Traffic Control Center (ARTCC). The resulting data 

showed a 1- to 2-minute delay reduction per aircraft during peak periods. En 

route controllers felt the tool reduced their workload and increased their job 

satisfaction. The TMA was left in place at the Fort Worth ARTCC after the tests 

and is in daily operation.

During the 2000s, two tools were developed to support air traffic management, including the Surface Management System (SMS) tool22 and the Future 

Air traffic management Concepts Evaluation Tool (FACET).23 “SMS is a decision 

support tool that provides information and advisories to help FAA controllers 

and traffic managers as well as National Airspace System users to collaboratively manage aircraft on the surface and in the terminal area of busy airports. 

SMS has three fundamental capabilities: 1) the ability to predict the movement 

of aircraft on the airport surface and in the surrounding terminal area; 2) the 

ability to use this prediction engine to plan surface operations; and 3) the 

ability to disseminate this information and provide appropriate advisories to 

	 21.	 Harry	N.	Swenson,	Ty	Hoang,	Shawn	Engelland,	Danny	Vincent,	Tommy	Sanders,	Beverly	Sanford,	and	

Karen	Heere,	“Design	and	Operation	Evaluation	of	the	Traffic	Management	Advisor	at	the	Fort	Worth	Air	

Route	Traffic	Control	Center,”	1st	U.S.A./Europe	Air	Traffic	Management	R&D	Seminar	(Saclay,	France,	

17–19	June	1997).

	 22.	 Stephen	Atkins,	Yoon	Jung,	Christopher	Brinton,	Laurel	Stell,	Ted	Carniol,	and	Steven	Rogowski,	“Surface	

Management	 System	 Field	Trial	 Results,”	AIAA	 4th	Aviation	Technology,	 Integration	 and	 Operations	

Forum	(Chicago,	IL:	AIAA	2004-6241,	20–22	September	2004).

	 23.	 Karl	Bilimoria	and	Banavar	Sridhar,	“FACET:	Future	ATM	Concepts	Evaluation	Tool,”	3rd	U.S.A./Europe	

Air	Traffic	Management	R&D	Seminar	(Napoli,	Italy,	13–16	June	2000);	Banavar	Sridhar,	Kapil	Sheth,	

Philip	 Smith,	 and	 William	 Leber,	 “Migration	 of	 FACET	 From	 Simulation	 Environment	 to	 Dispatcher	

Decision	Support	System,”	24th	Digital	Avionics	Systems	Conference,	30	October	2005.

193
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 3: FACET.	NASA

a variety of users.”24 In general, SMS software provides controllers with data 

to know when aircraft arrive on the ground or at the gate. NASA and the FAA 

field-tested the SMS concept at Memphis International Airport during late 2003 

and early 2004, which proved to be successful. 

To improve traffic flow across the United States, FACET maps thousands of 

aircraft trajectories. The tool was originally developed as a simulation and analysis tool “to provide a simulation environment for exploration, development and 

evaluation of advanced Air Traffic Management concepts.”25 As FACET evolved, its 

uses have increased to a state where FACET is being additionally developed as an 

air traffic management decision tool for dispatchers at airline operations centers.26

	 24.	 Atkins,	Jung,	Brinton,	Stell,	Carniol,	and	Rogowski,	“Surface	Management	System	Field	Trial	Results,”	

AIAA	4th	Aviation	Technology,	Integration	and	Operations	Forum	(Chicago,	IL:	AIAA	2004-6241,	20–22	

September,	2004).

	 25.	 Karl	Bilimoria	and	Banavar	Sridhar,	“FACET:	Future	ATM	Concepts	Evaluation	Tool,”	3rd	U.S.A./Europe	

Air	Traffic	Management	R&D	Seminar	(Napoli,	Italy,	13–16	June	2000).

	 26.	 Banavar	Sridhar,	Kapil	Sheth,	Philip	Smith,	and	William	Leber,	“Migration	of	FACET	From	Simulation	

Environment	to	Dispatcher	Decision	Support	System,”	24th	Digital	Avionics	Systems	Conference,	30	

October	2005.

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NASA Aeronautics

Aircraft Control

During the 1970s, a number of factors came together that led to the development 

of a dramatically improved aircraft cockpit that would use flat panel digital displays 

instead of dials and gauges. Two of these factors were flightworthy cathode-ray 

tube screens and the increased complexity of the aircraft. The resulting increased 

number of displays required to provide information were competing for both 

physical space and pilot attention. The new “glass” instruments gave the cockpit 

a distinctly different look and suggested the name “glass cockpit.” 

NASA, working with Boeing and Rockwell Collins, developed and tested 

electronic flight display concepts, culminating in a series of flights to demonstrate 

a full glass cockpit system using a NASA Boeing 737 aircraft. The demonstrations 

showed that a glass cockpit increased safety by reducing pilot workload while 

maintaining situational awareness. The glass cockpit was introduced commercially on the Boeing 767 in 1982. Today, glass cockpits are used on commercial, 

military, and general aviation aircraft, as well as on NASA’s Space Shuttle fleet.27

The F-8 digital fly-by-wire flight research project validated the principal 

concepts of an all-electric flight control system. As electronics evolved in the 

1960s, so did the concept of electronic controls. Neil Armstrong, then Deputy 

Associate Administrator of aeronautics at NASA, approved the program in 1970. 

The goal of the program was to have an electronic flight control system coupled 

with a digital computer to replace conventional mechanical flight controls. A 

modified F-8C Crusader served as the test bed for the fly-by-wire technologies. 

Phase I of the program used a computer from an Apollo spacecraft Command 

Module. The first flight of the 13-year project took place on 25 May 1972, with 

the last flight on 16 December 1985, for a total of 211 flights. 

The electronic fly-by-wire system replaced older hydraulic control systems, 

freeing designers to design aircraft that would have increased maneuverability 

but also would be inherently less stable. Increased control provided by the 

fly-by-wire system allowed designers to compensate for this instability.28 The 

F-8 digital fly-by-wire system became the forerunner of current fly-by-wire 

systems used in the Space Shuttles and on today’s military and civil aircraft to 

make them safer, more maneuverable, and more efficient. 

	 27.	 Joseph	R.	Chambers,	Concept to Reality: Contributions of the NASA Langley Research Center to U.S. 

Civil Aircraft of the 1990s	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2003-4259,	2003)	pp.	157–160.

	 28.	 James	E.	Tomayko,	Computers Take Flight: A History of NASA’s Pioneering Digital Fly-By-Wire Project 

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2000-4224,	2000);	James	E.	Tomayko	and	Christian	Gelzer,	“The	Story	of	

Self-Repairing	Flight	Control	Systems”	(Edwards,	CA:	NASA	Dryden	Historical	Study	No.	1,	October	2003).

195
NASA’s First 50 Years

Supersonic and Hypersonic Flight

High-speed flight has been a quest since the earliest days of flight. From the 

NACA’s early work on supersonic flight and on breaking the sound barrier, to 

later work on the vehicles and technologies required to achieve flight at many 

times the speed of sound, NASA has pushed the limits of flight to hypersonic 

levels, greater than five times the speed of sound,29 and is looking to make 

commercial supersonic flight viable.

Since World War II and the original XS-1 program, exploring high-speed 

or supersonic flight had been a goal of the NACA and NASA. During various 

programs, NASA has used high-speed aircraft—A-12s, YF-12s, and SR-71 aircraft—to study the phenomena of sonic booms and ways to reduce sonic boom 

overpressures, the sharp “thunderclap” sound heard on the ground when an 

aircraft exceeds the speed of sound. 

Two relatively recent programs aimed at the active reduction of the sonic 

boom were the Shaped Sonic Boom Demonstrator (SSBD) program, led by the 

Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, and its follow-on Shaped Sonic 

Boom Experiment (SSBE) and Quiet Spike program, led by NASA. Each of the 

concepts explored in these efforts shows promise, but, as of this publication, 

neither has been implemented on commercial or military aircraft. 

The goal of the SSBD and SSBE programs was to demonstrate in flight 

that incorporating specialized aircraft shaping techniques could substantially 

reduce sonic booms. The idea of shaping an aircraft to reduce the sonic boom 

was theorized decades ago but never flight-tested. The concept was successfully 

demonstrated in flight on 27 August 2003. Pressure measurements obtained 

on the ground and in the air confirmed that modifications made to an F-5E 

research aircraft not only changed the shape of the shock wave signature 

emanating from the aircraft, but also produced a “flat-top” signature whose 

shape persisted, as predicted.30

The Quiet Spike program’s goal was to reduce the noise associated with 

supersonic flight by using a telescoping spike to produce a series of weak 

	 29.	 T.	A.	 Heppenheimer,	 Facing the Heat Barrier: A History of Hypersonics	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 SP2007-4232,	2007).

	 30.	 John	 M.	 Morgenstern,	 Alan	 Arslan,	 Victor	 Lyman,	 and	 Joseph	 Vadyak,	 “F-5	 Shaped	 Sonic	 Boom	

Demonstrator’s	Persistence	of	Boom	Shaping	Reduction	through	Turbulence,”	43rd	AIAA	Aerospace	

Sciences	Meeting	 and	 Exhibit	 (Reno,	 NV:	AIAA-2005-0012,	 10–13	 January	 2005);	 Joe	 Pawlowski,	

Peter	Coen,	David	Graham,	and	Domenic	Maglieri,	“Origins	of	the	Shaped	Sonic	Boom	Demonstration	

Program,”	43rd	AIAA	Aerospace	Sciences	Meeting	and	Exhibit	(Reno,	NV:	AIAA-2005-0005,	10–13	

January	2005).

196
NASA Aeronautics

Figure 4: NASA	research	pilot	Bill	Dana	alongside	the	X-15	rocket-powered	aircraft	after	a	1966	test	

flight.	NASA Image EC67-1716

shocks as compared to a single stronger shock. An F-15B research aircraft 

was modified with a telescoping three-segment composite structure boom that 

could vary in length from 14 to 24 feet. Each segment was designed to produce 

a weak shock. The first flight of the vehicle was on 10 August 2006. Near-field 

data obtained from the flight experiments validated predictions enabling future 

studies.31 Eventually, data from these types of sonic boom studies could lead to 

aircraft designs that reduce the peak of sonic booms and minimize the “startle” 

effect they produce on the ground. 

The X-15 was an air-launched, rocket-powered, piloted hypersonic demonstrator for advanced technologies, many of which were to be used later for 

spaceflight. Three of the test vehicles were constructed, with the first flight—an 

unpowered glide flight—taking place in 1959. More flights that gradually built 

	 31.	 Robbie	Cowart	and Tom	Grindle,	“An	Overview	of	the	Gulfstream/NASA	Quiet	Spike	Flight	Test	Program,”	

46th	AIAA	Aerospace	Sciences	Meeting	and	Exhibit	(Reno,	NV:	AIAA	2008-123,	7–10	January	2008).

197
NASA’s First 50 Years

up to higher speeds and altitudes followed for the next 10 years. The gradual 

nature of expanding the flight envelope was caused in part by delays in the 

development of the XLR-99 rocket engine that would power the X-15. 

The last flight of the X-15’s 199-flight test program was in October 1968. 

During the program, the three test vehicles were modified to increase performance. One was lost, along with its pilot. The fastest flight would exceed 

Mach 6.70, while the highest would reach 354,200 feet or 67 miles. More than 

750 technical reports would be generated over the life of the program, with 

research results obtained in structures, control systems, life support, aerodynamics, aerodynamic heating, physiological responses, and the vehicle’s use 

as an experimental platform. 

The dream of hypersonic flight would then lie dormant for nearly 30 years. 

Programs would come and go, with some reaching the hardware testing stages 

(National Aero-Space Plane), but no flight demonstrations of hypersonic flight 

or a high-speed, air-breathing propulsion system would take place.32

The X-43A was a robotic, expendable, air-launched, 12-foot-by-5-foot test 

vehicle designed to flight-demonstrate the technology of airframe-integrated 

supersonic ramjet or scramjet propulsion at hypersonic speeds or speeds 

above Mach 5. A scramjet engine is an air-breathing engine through which 

the airflow remains supersonic. 

The first X-43A dropped from its under-wing position on a NASA B-52B carrier aircraft on 2 June 2001. Shortly after ignition of the Pegasus booster rocket, 

a failure occurred, and the booster and its mated X-43 had to be destroyed 

by the range safety officer. The investigation traced the mishap to a failure of 

the booster flight control system. This was due to incorrect modeling of the 

forces generated by a launch of the mated vehicle at 20,000 feet instead of the 

40,000-foot altitude at which a Pegasus is normally launched. 

The second version of the X-43A flew on 27 March 2004. The engine was 

able to develop more thrust than the drag on the vehicle, accelerating it to 

a record speed of March 6.83. This was the first time a scramjet engine had 

ever operated in flight. The third X-43A flight on 16 November 2004 reached 

	 32.	 Pamela	E.	Mack,	ed.,	From Engineering Science to Big Science: The NACA and NASA Collier Trophy 

Research Project Winners	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4219,	1998),	pp.	149–164;	Richard	P.	Hallion,	

ed.,	“Hypersonic	Revolution:	Case	Studies	in	the	History	of	Hypersonic	Technology,”	Air	Force	History	

and	Museums	Program,	1998,	three	volumes;	Dennis	R.	Jenkins,	X-15: Extending the Frontier of Flight

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-562,	2007);	Dennis	R.	Jenkins,	Hypersonics Before the Shuttle: A 

Concise History of the X-15 Research Airplane,	Monographs	in	Aerospace	History,	No.	18	(Washington,	

DC:	NASA	SP-2000-4518,	June	2000).

198
NASA Aeronautics

Mach 9.6, just shy of its planned Mach 10. The X-43A was able to cruise at 

this speed, meaning engine thrust matched drag and showed that the scramjet 

engine operated as predicted. 

Overall, the program accomplished several important goals, including 

obtaining the first free-flight data on scramjet engines and validating predictive tools used to design the engine and future engines.33

Unconventional Aircraft Configurations

One of the most successful of the vertical takeoff and landing (VTOL) and 

short takeoff and landing (STOL), VTOL/STOL, programs was that of the XV-15 

tilt rotor research aircraft, which combined standard aircraft cruise flight with 

VTOL and STOL capabilities. The research and experience gained from this 

program led directly to the military V-22 Osprey and its civilian offspring currently under development. 

The development of the XV-15 was initiated in 1973 under a joint Army and 

NASA “proof of concept” program, with two aircraft built by Bell Helicopter 

Textron (BHT) in 1977. Bell completed aircraft development, airworthiness 

testing, and the basic “proof of concept” testing by September 1979. The first 

NASA flight of the XV-15 tilt rotor occurred in October 1980.34 

The tilt rotor concept has many advantages over either a helicopter or an 

aircraft in certain situations. The ease with which the aircraft can be converted 

from one flight mode to another enhances its maneuverability and permits the 

aircraft to be configured to meet mission requirements. Airports can be small, 

needing only a relatively small area for takeoffs and landings, making tilt rotor 

aircraft ideal for intercity commuter travel. In the STOL mode, tilt rotor aircraft 

are ideal for long distance transport of heavy cargos into remote areas where 

only short runways are available. The XV-15 has been the primary influence 

for Bell’s V-22, the first production tilt rotor. Previous to the XV-15 research in 

the late 1960s, NASA assisted the British government with the testing of the 

P1127 Kestrel, the forerunner of the Harrier and Harrier II aircraft currently 

in use by the United States Marines and other military services.35

Another nontraditional configuration tested and flown was that of the lifting bodies. A number of lifting body concepts were flown from 1963 to 1975. 

	 33.	 Maurice	Allward,	“Wingtip	Technology,”	The Putnam Aeronautical Review	1	(May	1989):	39–44.

	 34.	 Richard	T.	Whitcomb,	“A	DESIGN	APPROACH	AND	SELECTED	WIND-TUNNEL	RESULTS	AT	HIGH	SUBSONIC	

SPEEDS	FOR	WING-TIP	MOUNTED	WINGLETS”	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	TN	D-8260,	July	1976).

	 35.	 NASA	LaRC,	“STOL	Technology”	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-320,	1972).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

The purpose of the lifting bodies was to demonstrate the ability of pilots to 

maneuver and safely land a wingless vehicle using the vehicle’s body shape 

to generate lift. The lifting body research vehicles were the M2-F1, M2-F2, 

M2-F3, HL-10, X-24A, and X-24B. Information generated through the lifting 

body research programs contributed to the database that led to development 

of the Space Shuttle. 

Dr. Alfred J. Eggers, Jr., of the NACA’s Ames conceived the original idea 

for the lifting body around 1957. Eggers found that, by slightly modifying a 

symmetrical nose cone shape, aerodynamic lift could be produced. This lift 

enabled the modified shape to “fly” back from space rather than plunge to 

Earth in a ballistic trajectory. 

In 1962, DFRC Director Paul Bikle approved a program to build a lightweight, unpowered lifting body as a prototype to flight-test the wingless 

concept. Construction was completed in 1963. The first flight tests were over 

Rogers Dry Lake in California at the end of a towrope attached to a hoppedup Pontiac convertible driven at speeds of up to 120 miles per hour (mph). 

These initial tests produced enough flight data about the M2-F1 to proceed 

with flights behind a NASA R4D tow plane at greater speeds. 

Success of the M2-F1 tests led to development of two heavyweight lifting 

bodies based on studies at NASA’s ARC and LaRC—the M2-F2 and the HL-10, 

both built by the Northrop Corporation. The “M” refers to “manned,” and “F” 

refers to the “flight” version. “HL” comes from “horizontal landing,” and “10” 

represents the 10th lifting body model to be investigated by LaRC. The United 

States Air Force, upon seeing results from the previous lifting body programs, 

started the joint NASA-Air Force lifting body program with the Martin X-24A, 

later modified into the X-24B high-speed lifting body program.36

Noise, Materials, and Tools

Aircraft engines are a main source for noise heard in the cabin and on the 

ground. During the last half century, NASA and its industry partners have 

explored various methods to reduce aircraft noise without degrading engine 

performance. 

During the 1980s, the United States Air Force started looking for ways 

to reduce aircraft infrared signature by mixing the engine exhaust with free 

stream air. NASA later observed that the same nozzles reduced noise emissions 

	 36.	 Jay	Miller,	The X-Planes: X-1 to X-45	(Surrey,	U.K.:	Midland	Publishing,	2001).

200
NASA Aeronautics

as well. As an outgrowth of testing derived from noise suppressor concepts 

for military and civilian aircraft engines, the chevron engine concept was born 

in the 1990s. The goal was to mix the jet exhaust, or the air that exits from 

the engine, with the free stream flow in a way to promote suppressing the 

exhaust noise of the engine. Theoretical, experimental, and then flight validation of chevron nozzles was done on a NASA Lear 25 in the late 1990s.37 This 

technology found its way onto a number of business jets. Nearly 10 years later, 

NASA used computer simulations to improve an asymmetrical scallop design 

of chevrons, which are now used on the nozzles of some jet engines to reduce 

the resultant exhaust noise. Ground and flight tests by NASA and its industry 

partners in 2006 under the Quiet Technology Demonstrator 2 program proved 

that the new chevron design reduces noise levels both in the passenger cabin 

and on the ground.38 Chevrons are implemented on many of today’s aircraft, 

including Bombardier and Embraer regional jets using CF34 engines and the 

A321 using CFM-56-5B. Many aircraft currently in development are looking 

into the concept.39

NASA did not invent the concept of composite materials but contributed 

significantly to their advancement and acceptance in aeronautical systems. 

Composites are high-strength, nonmetallic materials that replace heavier metals 

in aircraft components to reduce weight and improve durability. 

Early work on composites was an outgrowth of German research in the 

1930s on fiber-reinforced plastics and an outgrowth of the British laminated 

aircraft of World War II. It wasn’t until the 1960s that researchers at the Royal 

Aircraft Establishment were able to develop a commercially viable carbon 

fiber. NASA became involved in the early 1970s through the RECAST project 

and in 1972 through the Composite Flight Service program, which obtained 

real-world data on applying composites to commercial aircraft. 

In 1975, the Aircraft Energy Efficiency (ACEE) program began and eventually led to the ACEE Composite Primary Aircraft Structures Program that 

worked with industry on the design, build, test, and flight of larger composite 

segments on secondary structures.40 During the 10-year program, more than 

	 37.	 Michael	Abrams,	“Put	a	Nozzle	on	It:	Teeth-Like	Tabs	Are	Turning	Down	the	Volume	on	Jet	Cacophony,”	

Mechanical Engineering	128,	no.	11	(The	American	Society	of	Mechanical	Engineers,	November	2006).

	 38.	 William	 H.	 Herkes,	 Ronald	 F.	 Olsen,	 and	 Stefan	 Uellenberg,	 “The	 Quiet	 Technology	 Demonstrator	

Program:	 Flight	 Validation	 of	 Airplane	 Noise-Reduction	 Concepts,”	 12th	 AIAA/CEAS	 Aeroacoustics	

Conference	(Cambridge,	MA:	AIAA	2006-2720,	8–10	May	2006).

	 39.	 NASA	LaRC,	“STOL	Technology”	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-320,	1972),	pp.	371–412.

	 40.	 Jeffrey	L.	Ethell,	Fuel Economy in Aviation	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-462,	1983).

201
NASA’s First 50 Years

600 publications were derived from this research, and the major United States 

airframe manufacturers gained experience with composite structures. 

Another segment of the composite world to which NASA has contributed 

since the 1980s is that of textile composites (or woven, knitted, or braided 

composites). NASA has also supported general aviation with a process that 

allows airframe manufacturers to procure certified composite materials from 

vendors in the same manner in which they were able to procure metals. 

NASA has also supported composites research for rotorcraft through the 

Advanced Composite Airframe Program. In 1999, NASA and Sikorsky conducted 

a simulated helicopter crash test at the Impact Dynamics Research Facility.41

During most of the last 40 years, NASA, working with industry, has continued its research into composite materials and their applications. Composites 

have gradually replaced metallic materials on parts of an aircraft’s tail, wings, 

fuselage, engine cowlings, landing gear doors, and finally primary structures. 

The use of composite materials can reduce the overall weight of an aircraft 

and improve fuel efficiency.42

NASA has made significant contributions to the development of analytical or numeric tools for the analysis of the physical processes and phenomena associated with aeronautical vehicle design and operation. Two of the 

best-known tools used by government and industry are Computational Fluid 

Dynamics (CFD) and NASA Structural Analysis (NASTRAN). 

Since the 1970s, NASA has developed and partnered for the development 

of sophisticated computer codes that can accurately predict the complex ways 

that air flows over and through realistic aircraft and spacecraft designs and 

their components. Now considered a vital tool for the study of fluid dynamics, 

CFD greatly reduces the time required to design and test any type of aircraft 

or spacecraft. NASA has developed numerical methods, flow solvers, and grid 

generation software and worked to integrate these and other tools to increase 

computing performance.43

	 41.	 Joseph	R.	Chambers,	Concept to Reality: Contributions of the NASA Langley Research Center to U.S. 

Civil Aircraft of the 1990s	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2003-4259,	2003),	pp.	71–88;	Eric	Schatzberg,	

Wings of Wood, Wings of Metal: Culture and Technical Choice in American Airplane Materials 1914–

1945	(Princeton,	NJ:	Princeton	University	Press,	1999),	pp.	223–232;	Joseph	R.	Chambers,	Partners 

in Freedom: Contributions of the Langley Research Center to U.S. Military Aircraft of the 1990s

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2000-4519,	2000).

	 42.	 Ray	Whitford,	Evolution of the Airliner	(Marlborough,	U.K.:	Crowood	Press,	2007).

	 43.	 Chambers,	Concept to Reality,	pp.	57–64.

202
NASA Aeronautics

A NASA 1964 structural dynamics review revealed that multiple NASA 

Centers were each separately developing structural analysis software. After 

much discussion, it was decided that a single software package would be 

developed to bring together the individual NASA research and codes. A contract 

was awarded to Computer Sciences Corporation to develop the new software 

based on the research and codes NASA had developed. The new software, 

NASTRAN, was released to NASA in 1968. Over the subsequent years, this integrated software package would become the standard structural analysis code 

for the industry. The software was a finite element analysis utilizing numerical 

finite element methods that could perform static response, dynamic response, 

complex Eigen value, and elastic stability analysis. A commercial version was 

later developed and made available by the MacNeal-Schwedier Corporation 

(MSC), entitled MSC.Nastran.44

Conclusions

For more than 50 years, NASA has developed aeronautical technologies that 

have affected all aspects of aeronautics from general aviation to advanced military aircraft to spaceflight. NASA aeronautics remains true to the 1958 Space 

Act with the goal of the widest practicable and possible dissemination of its 

research. Innovations developed either solely by NASA or in partnership with 

industry or academia have benefited the public in their daily lives and in the 

defense of the United States. It can be safely said that NASA-developed technology or its derivatives can be found on every aircraft in the current United 

States commercial airliner and military aircraft fleets.45

It is a fitting tribute that the main thrust of a statement made more than 30 

years ago by former astronaut and research pilot Neil Armstrong, then Deputy 

Associate Administrator for Aeronautics in the Office of Advanced Research 

and Technology, remains relevant today. Only the numbers of NASA employees 

and budget dollars have changed: 

In 1958 the National Aeronautics and Space Administration was 

brought into being to explore certain broad areas of research 

	 44.	 Richard	 H.	MacNeal,	 ed.,	 “The	 NASTRAN	Theoretical	Manual”	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 SP-221(01),	

December	1972).

	 45.	 Anthony	M.	Springer,	“50	Years	of	NASA	Aeronautics	Achievements,”	46th	AIAA	Aerospace	Sciences	

Meeting	 and	 Exhibit	 (Reno,	 NV:	 AIAA	 2008-0859,	 7–10	 January	 2008).	 Joseph	 R.	 Chambers,	

Innovation in Flight: Research of the Langley Research Center on Revolutionary Advanced Concepts for 

Aeronautics	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2005-4539,	2005).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

and development, which included not only the exploration 

of space but also the continued responsibility in aeronautics 

which had been the primary function of its predecessor agency, 

the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics. It is seldom 

recognized by the general public that NASA has a vital and 

necessary role in the advancement of military and commercial 

aviation in the United States, and that the level of effort while a 

small fraction of the agency’s total program is very substantial. 

Roughly 2500 NASA employees supported by funding of about 

$160,000,000 per year are directly engaged in conducting the 

research described in “Aeronautics.” The frontiers of flight have 

not all been explored and the applications of NASA’s advanced 

research in aeronautics will continue to keep the United States 

in first place in commercial and military aviation in the years 

ahead until someday we will be able to travel as casually from 

New York to Australia at 6000 mph as millions do now from 

New York to Paris at nearly 600 mph.46 

Acknowledgments

The author would like to thank the following mission support staff of the NASA 

Aeronautics Research Mission Directorate for their support in this endeavor: 

Karen Rugg, Jim Schultz, Lillian Gipson, and Maria Werries. A general overview 

of NASA contributions can be found on the following lithographs:

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

“NASA Aeronautics Research Onboard: Decades of Contributions to 

Aviation” (GPO, Lithograph NL-2008-10-008-HQ).

“NASA Aeronautics Research Onboard: Decades of Contributions to 

General Aviation” (GPO, Lithograph NL-2008-10-009-HQ).

“NASA Aeronautics Research Onboard: Decades of Contributions to 

Military Aviation” (GPO, Lithograph NL-2008-10-010-HQ).

“NASA Aeronautics Research Onboard: Decades of Contributions to 

Rotorcraft Aviation” (GPO, Lithograph NL-2008-12-011-HQ).

“NASA Aeronautics Research Onboard: Decades of Contributions to Tilt 

Rotor Aviation” (GPO, Lithograph NL-2008-12-012-HQ).

	 46.	 David	A.	Anderton,	Aeronautics (America in Space: The First Decade)	(Washington,	DC:	GPO,	NASA	

EP-61,	1970).

204
Chapter 9

Evolution of Aeronautics 

Research at NASA

Robert G. Ferguson

While NASA is first associated with space travel, it has always had a mission to 

study aeronautics. In fact, it was a predecessor agency, the National Advisory 

Committee for Aeronautics (NACA), that formed the core of NASA when the 

space agency began in 1958. The NACA, established in 1915, built a formidable 

reputation in the science and engineering of aeronautics based largely on four 

decades of rigorous wind tunnel research. Though not the NACA’s sole methodology, wind tunnels were nevertheless dominant and, as such, helped guide 

the substance of the NACA’s investigations. Fifty years after the start of NASA, 

wind tunnels remain an important tool, but they are now joined by alternative 

methodologies. The goal of this paper is to examine this evolution and the 

local factors behind the shifts in NASA’s aeronautics research methodology. 

The first part of this paper provides a brief review of NASA’s aeronautics research stretching back to the NACA era. The paper underscores the 

manner in which wind tunnels were enmeshed within the technical and 

administrative culture of the laboratories, begging the question of how 

alternative methodologies could reasonably challenge such organizational 

momentum. The second part examines the rise of three alternative methodologies: flight test, CFD, and Center-TRACON Automated System research. 

This latter section argues that three factors account for the rise of alternative methodologies: institutional structure, macro-technological change, 

and shifting technological frontiers.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

One: Tunnel Vision Reprise

A proper history of NASA’s research methodologies really goes back to the 

early years of the NACA and the rise of the wind tunnel as the NACA’s central 

research tool. Wind tunnels, to be brief, are laboratory devices for measuring 

the flow of air, especially as air moves around solid shapes. Wind tunnels can 

be used to simulate the performance of aircraft, and parts of aircraft, in a highly 

controlled environment, thus reducing the need for risky and potentially costly 

flight testing. There are plenty of aeronautical investigations that do not need 

or make use of wind tunnels. It is but one experimental device available, and 

it finds its greatest utility in such areas as aerodynamics (e.g., lift and drag), 

aeroelasticity, thermodynamics, control, noise, propulsion, and icing. The NACA 

developed a close association with wind tunnels, being both an innovator in 

tunnel design and a strong proponent of their use. 

The NACA established itself as a lead scientific institution in its field with 

the construction of the Variable Density Tunnel (VDT) under Max Munk in 

1922.1 Munk was a student of the famous German aerodynamicist Ludwig 

Prandtl. The VDT was, in essence, a wind tunnel inside of a pressure vessel. 

With a high-pressure atmosphere, the VDT gave more accurate results than 

its contemporaries; high pressure helped counteract some of the inaccuracies that arose from the use of scale models. As with modern physics and the 

competition for high-energy particle accelerators, more capable wind tunnels 

bequeathed advantages to the NACA. Exploiting the VDT and its laboratory 

descendants, the NACA developed a reputation for engineering-oriented wind 

tunnel research. An excellent example of this style of work from the interwar 

years is the NACA 4 Digit Airfoil series. Researchers systematically varied four 

parameters of a wide number of airfoil types and recorded fundamental data 

for each one. The resulting airfoils, catalogued by four digits (the four variable 

parameters), served as a basic sourcebook for aircraft designers.2

	 1.	 The	history	of	the	NACA	and	its	early	wind	tunnel	research	is	well	covered	in	two	works:	Alex	Roland,	

Model Research: The National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, 1915–1958	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	

SP-4103,	 1985);	 and	 James	 R.	 Hansen,	 Engineer in Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical 

Laboratory, 1917–1958	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4305,	1987).	

	 2.	 John	D.	Anderson,	Jr.,	A History of Aerodynamics and Its Impact on Flying Machines (Cambridge,	U.K.:	

Cambridge	University	Press,	1998),	pp.	342–352.	

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Evolution of Aeronautics Research at NASA

Figure 1:	The	Variable	Density	Wind	Tunnel	(VDT).	From	left	to	right	are	Eastman	Jacobs,	Shorty	Defoe,	

Malvern	Powell,	and	Harold	Turner.	In	this	photo	taken	on	15	March	1929,	a	quartet	of	the	NACA	staff	

conduct	tests	on	airfoils	in	the	VDT.	(In	1985,	the	VDT	was	declared	a	National	Historic	Landmark.)	

Eastman	Jacobs	is	sitting	(far	left)	at	the	control	panel.	NASA Image L-3310

Figure 2:	NACA	4	Digit	Airfoils.	NASA Image EL-2003-00333

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 3:	The	Langley	8-Foot	High-Speed	Tunnel.	The	slotted	walls	of	the	test	section	permitted	accurate	

testing	at	transonic	speeds.	NASA Image EL-2003-00280

The NACA continued to work at the forefront of aerodynamics into the 1950s, 

one of its most impressive accomplishments being the development of the slotted wind tunnel. At the time, it was possible to get accurate tunnel results in the 

subsonic and supersonic speed ranges, but in the transonic range (between the 

two) shock waves choked the tunnels, corrupting the test data. At the NACA’s 

Langley laboratory, a group under the direction of John Stack solved this problem in the late 1940s by cutting slots in the tunnel’s throat. By 1950, their slotted 8-foot High-Speed Tunnel was ready for transonic testing. As with the VDT, 

advanced test equipment gave the NACA an advantage over its competitors.3

Wind tunnels were not the NACA’s only research methodology; other 

important approaches included structural, avionics, and flight testing. But 

none matched the importance and utility of wind tunnels. They were logical 

and flexible instruments, useful for theoretical explorations as well as highly 

applied studies. More crucially, tunnels allowed researchers to shift back and 

	 3.	 Anderson,	A History of Aerodynamics, p.	412;	Hansen,	Engineer in Charge,	chaps.	9,	11.

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forth from mathematical models to flight, thus increasing the reliability of models while also serving to predict aircraft performance. Wind tunnels were, and 

remain, a critical link between the theory and physical phenomena of flight. 

But there were also nontechnical reasons for the prominence of wind 

tunnels. Tunnels fit the American political context; they were general research 

tools that, for the most part, were too expensive for the private sector. Only 

with World War II did American manufacturers have sufficient resources to 

begin building their own wind tunnel laboratories, but even then they would 

never attain the breadth of capabilities offered by the NACA.4 Thus, wind tunnels did not appear to overstep the line between research for the public good 

and subsidized corporate research. Similarly, wind tunnels allowed the NACA 

to perform proprietary research for corporate patrons without the outward 

appearance of subsidy. For many decades, the tunnels were funded regardless of how they were employed. This arrangement worked not only to the 

benefit of private industry, but of the NACA as well, since the NACA was able 

to experiment with models provided by the private sector. This truly was an 

informal, but powerful, form of technology transfer operating in both directions. 

Contributing to the institutional importance of tunnels was the fact that laboratory administration usually broke down along tunnel lines and the hierarchical 

structure of the laboratories was determined by tunnel groupings. For example, an 

engineering recruit at the Langley or Ames Research Centers in the 1950s would 

typically find himself part of a branch attached to a particular tunnel or set of 

tunnels. The principal branches, though they changed over time, were normally 

associated with speed regimes, as were the tunnels. Researchers cut their teeth 

in the tunnels and, after earning the respect of their peers, moved up the laboratory hierarchy. It was a system that rewarded intellectual rigor and innovative 

thinking, but not necessarily managerial skills or fealty to Headquarters. It was 

not until the early 1970s that the former NACA laboratories began to routinely 

look outside the branch ladder for laboratory management.5

The wind tunnel was thus a bundled sociotechnical package with strong 

institutional momentum. It was a research community, a continuous research 

tradition with built-in mechanisms for the transfer of explicit and implicit 

information from one generation to the next and between government and 

private researchers. It encompassed a system for professional advancement. 

	 4.	 Robert	G.	Ferguson,	“Technology	and	Cooperation	in	American	Aircraft	Manufacture	During	World	War	

II”	(Ph.D.	diss.,	University	of	Minnesota,	1996).

	 5.	 Robert	G.	Ferguson,	NASA’s First A,	NASA	History	Series,	forthcoming.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

It formed the basis for a long-running funding mechanism that dated to the 

Progressive Era. And it was a very useful laboratory tool.

All of this begs a question: to what extent did the NACA’s emphasis on 

tunnels shape the direction and administration of research?6 With so much 

momentum behind a particular methodology, it is easy to see that determining 

which questions to study quickly becomes a question of what can a tunnel do, 

and following from that, how to acquire the next generation of wind tunnel. It 

comes as no surprise that one of the major battles between the NACA and the 

United States Air Force in the late 1940s and early 1950s was over future wind 

tunnels (the outcome of which was the Unitary Wind Tunnel system).7 Similarly, 

the emphasis on wind tunnels and aerodynamics meant less emphasis on 

other lines of inquiry. Not until the NACA created the Lewis Engine Laboratory 

in 1942, for example, did propulsion research begin to approach the priority accorded to traditional tunnel work (and this, perhaps, too late to answer 

postwar critics who decried the NACA for not having matched the Germans 

and British in turbine research). Likewise, in the 1950s, aircraft manufacturer 

Douglas argued that the NACA should do for structures and materials what 

the agency had done for propulsion: create a separate materials laboratory 

that was out of the shadow of the aerodynamics core.8

Two: What Changed?

Moving ahead to the NASA era, where there was once an agency dominated 

by wind tunnels, one finds instead an agency embracing a mix of research 

methodologies. Three explanations come to the fore. The first is institutional 

	 6.	 Historian	Alex	Roland,	in	his	history	of	the	NACA,	explicitly	noted	the	distorting	effects	of	the	agency’s	

attachment	 to	 wind	 tunnels,	 writing:	 “	 .	 .	 .	 research	 equipment	 shaped	 the	 NACA’s	 program	 fully	

as	much	 as	 did	 its	 organization	 and	 personnel.	The	 NACA	 achieved	 early	 success	 and	 acclaim	 by	

developing	revolutionary	wind	tunnels	for	aerodynamical	research.	Thereafter	the	tunnels	took	on	a	

life	of	their	own,	influencing	the	pace	and	direction	of	NACA	research;	concentrating	the	Committee’s	

attention	on	aerodynamics	when	fields	like	propulsion,	structures,	and	helicopters	had	equal	merit;	and	

becoming	in	time	a	sort	of	end	in	themselves”	(Roland,	Model Research,	vol.	1,	pp.	xiv–xv).

	 7.	 Roland,	Model Research,	vol.	1,	pp.	211–221.

	 8.	 Edwin	 Hartman	to	 Director,	 NACA,	18	 July	1951,	“Subject:	Visits	to	the	Santa	Monica	 plant	 of	the	

Douglas	 Aircraft	 Company,	 June	 19	 and	 July	 2,	 1951,”	 Edwin	 Hartman	 Memorandums,	 Langley	

Archives.	On	postwar	criticism,	see	Roland,	Model Research,	vol.	1,	p.	204.

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structure, that the Agency’s competing laboratories set the stage for methodological competition. The second is macro-technological change, which 

generally refers to external inputs that give rise to new methodologies. The 

third is a shifting technological frontier, which here refers to changes in the 

laboratories’ goals. 

Institutional Structure

One of the most important factors in the growth of alternative research methodologies was the establishment of multiple laboratories. At its most simplistic, 

this argument is about the creation of a competitive market for innovative 

research programs. The seeds for competition were planted in the NACA era 

with the establishment of multiple laboratories. The oldest was the Langley 

Laboratory near Hampton Roads, Virginia. Formally dedicated in 1920, Langley 

was the NACA’s only facility until 1940, and it remained the patriarch among 

the laboratories for quite some time. At its pre-NASA height in 1952, Langley 

employed 3,557 people and, from 1920 to 1958, had constructed some 30 wind 

tunnels (of which about half were still operational in the late 1950s), two towing tanks, and various specialized laboratories.9

 The second laboratory to open 

was Ames Aeronautical Laboratory next to the Navy’s Moffett Field in Sunnyvale, 

California. Ames was, at least in the beginning, a West Coast Langley, the two 

labs having similar test equipment and research functions, especially during 

World War II. Its facilities included 16 wind tunnels constructed from 1940 to 

1956.10 The third laboratory was the Lewis Engine Lab, opened in 1942 next 

to the Cleveland Municipal (now Cleveland Hopkins) airport. It was in close 

proximity to the Army Air Force’s Power Plants Laboratory in Dayton, Ohio, 

and relatively close to the nation’s aircraft engine industry. The Lewis Engine 

Lab was a direct descendant of Langley’s Aircraft Engine Research Laboratory, 

begun in 1934. With the founding of NASA, the Lewis Engine Lab devoted itself 

to the space effort, returning to air-breathing propulsion only in the 1970s.11

Finally, the NACA operated two test areas: Wallops Island, Virginia (also known 

as the Pilotless Aircraft Research Station), and the High-Speed Flight Station 

(HSFS) in Muroc, California.

	 9.	 Hansen,	Engineer in Charge,	appendix	D.

	 10.	 Elizabeth	 A.	 Muenger,	 Searching the Horizon: A History of Ames Research Center: 1940–1976

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4304,	1985),	appendix	C,	p.	233.

	 11.	 Virginia	P.	 Dawson,	 Engines and Innovation: Lewis Laboratory and American Propulsion Technology,	

NASA	History	Series	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4306,	1991).

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There are numerous examples of the different laboratories taking different 

tacks on the same research problem, but the growth of the HSFS as an organic 

research entity represents a special case. The NACA, of course, had flight-test 

capabilities prior to the HSFS. But there is a difference between a flight-test 

group that works in a kind of ancillary supporting role at a wind tunnel-centric 

laboratory and what evolved on the dry lakebeds of Muroc. The HSFS, later 

renamed the Flight Research Center (FRC) and eventually renamed the Dryden 

Flight Research Center, was blessed with a geographic isolation that, over time, 

nurtured independent research capabilities. This was more than a collection 

of test pilots and technicians. The FRC worked closely with its peers at the 

other laboratories, but FRC personnel were also solving problems and acting 

creatively on their own.12

The FRC’s capabilities truly flowered in the NASA era, perhaps owing 

some debt to the intellectual stimulus of the space program (and the freedom 

conferred to experiment broadly). The early example of this kind of initiative 

was the FRC’s lifting body experiments, begun at a grassroots level and on a 

shoestring budget. The goal was to create a flyable spacecraft, something that 

could ride atop a rocket into space and then glide back to Earth. Rather than 

an expensive and unpredictable ballistic reentry that left heroic astronaut-pilots 

at the mercy of a flight engineer’s trajectory and a flotilla of rescue ships, a 

lifting body could be flown directly to an airstrip. It was called a lifting body 

because it generated a small but useful amount of lift from its fuselage shape 

rather than from wings (which it lacked). And though this was a space vehicle, 

its distinctive challenges were atmospheric, namely, reentry heating and flight 

control. Lifting body research was a way to make aerodynamics and the art of 

aircraft design relevant in an age of ballistic space capsules. 

The FRC researchers were not working on this topic in isolation. In fact, the 

inspiration for lifting bodies came from Ames. In the 1950s, Ames’s H. Julian 

Allen had shown how blunt nose cones could survive the heat of atmospheric 

reentry, a finding that had an immediate impact on ballistic missile design. Allen 

and his peers took the idea further and sliced off a side of the cone, creating 

a shape that produced lift. Here was something that could survive reentry 

and fly. While this worked in the wind tunnel, it was not certain that this was 

a practical, controllable shape. At the FRC, aeronautical engineer Dale Reed 

began his own small-scale investigations in 1962 based on the Ames research. 

	 12.	 On	the	history	of	the	FRC,	see	Richard	P.	Hallion,	On the Frontier: Flight Research at Dryden, 1946–

1981	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4303,	1984).

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Evolution of Aeronautics Research at NASA

Figure 4:	Lifting	body	research	at	the	FRC.	The	M2-F1	lifting	body	is	seen	here	being	towed	behind	a	

C-47	at	the	FRC	(later	DFRC),	Edwards,	California.	The	wingless,	lifting	body	aircraft	design	was	initially	

conceived	as	a	means	of	landing	an	aircraft	horizontally	after	atmospheric	reentry.	The	absence	of	wings	

would	make	the	extreme	heat	of	reentry	less	damaging	to	the	vehicle.	NASA Image E-10962

From paper models to radio-controlled balsa models, Reed grew fascinated 

by the idea. Drawing together a core of supporters, Reed gained the backing 

of his director. In four months, Reed’s group hand-built a lifting body glider 

large enough to accommodate a single pilot. By March of 1963, their lifting 

body glider was in the air, carrying out tests.13

	 13.	 R.	Dale	Reed,	with	Darlene	Lister,	Wingless Flight: The Lifting Body Story	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP4220,	1997),	p.	11.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

The FRC’s Spartan effort attracted the attention of Headquarters, which 

agreed to an official program entailing two “heavyweight” vehicles, one using 

the FRC/Ames blunt body design and another based on a competing idea from 

Langley. The U.S. Air Force, meanwhile, decided to participate in the program 

as well, contributing a design based on work that it had done independently of 

NASA. The FRC airdropped all three aircraft, initially flying them to the ground 

as gliders and later fitting them out with rockets. Testing continued into the 

early 1970s, with all three aircraft reaching supersonic speeds (though still well 

short of the velocities they might experience returning to Earth from orbit). 

While NASA refused to fund follow-on projects, the tests were influential in 

contributing to the design of the Space Shuttle, a winged vehicle that glided 

to a controlled landing from space. Like the lifting bodies, the Space Shuttle 

had minimal lift and had one chance to land properly on a runway. The FRC 

showed how this could be done reliably.14

What the FRC, now DFRC, became was not simply a competing branch, 

but a research organization that naturally approached problems differently 

from the wind tunnel branches. They favored certain questions over others, 

such as aircraft control. And they championed relatively inexpensive ways of 

getting vehicles into the air, from remote control models, to remotely piloted 

vehicles, to gliders, bare-bones prototypes, and reconstructed aircraft. The 

argument behind DFRC’s methodology was that you got, apologies to Tom 

Wolfe, the “Real Stuff.” It offered an integrated platform (i.e., not just an airfoil) 

operating in free flight and performing maneuvers that were quite difficult in 

the confines of a tunnel. Additionally, getting a working, flying model into the 

air drew attention (and potentially funding) in ways that paper designs and 

small wind tunnel models might not. 

From a cynical standpoint, the proliferation of methodologies arising from 

NASA’s institutional structure appears no more than bureaucratic infighting. This 

is only partially true. At one level, there was a competition between ideas and 

methods, and not just among the NASA laboratories, but also with outside organizations, such as the U.S. Air Force. As in science, generally, the prestige of a winning 

idea was, for many at NASA, sufficient incentive. At another level, the competition 

was sometimes more narrowly about resource allocation and program control. 

Regardless of the nature of the competition, NASA’s decentralized structure has 

had a lasting impact, encouraging new methods and the reevaluation of traditional 

	 14.	 Ibid.,	chap.	5.

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Evolution of Aeronautics Research at NASA

Figure 5:	The	wingless	lifting	body	aircraft	sitting	on	Rogers	Dry	Lake	at	what	is	now	NASA’s	DFRC,	

Edwards,	California.	From	left	to	right:	the	U.S.	Air	Force	X-24A,	FRC	M2-F3,	and	Langley	HL-10.	The	

lifting	body	aircraft	studied	the	feasibility	of	maneuvering	and	landing	an	aerodynamic	craft	designed	for	

reentry	from	space.	These	lifting	bodies	were	air-launched	by	a	B-52	mother	ship;	they	then	flew	powered	

by	their	own	rocket	engines	before	making	an	unpowered	approach	and	landing.	They	helped	validate	the	

concept	that	a	space	shuttle	could	make	accurate	landings	without	power.	The	X-24A	flew	from	17	April	

1969	to	4	June	1971.	The	M2-F3	flew	from	2	June	1970	to	21	December	1971.	The	HL-10	flew	from	22	

December	1966	to	17	July	1970	and	logged	the	highest	and	fastest	records	in	the	lifting	body	program.	

NASA Image EC69-2358

ones. It almost goes without saying that NASA’s scientific and technological narrative would have been quite different had all of its research been conducted under 

one roof. To nurture new ideas requires a willingness to support duplicate lines 

of inquiry (often off-budget ideas), potentially cannibalizing successful teams and 

methods. Naturally, this would be contrary to a unitary organizational structure 

with a centralized research infrastructure and administration. 

Macro-Technological Change

Macro-technological change refers to external or broader technological innovations that serve as inputs to methodological changes at the laboratories. 

The prime and most powerful example of this is the rise of electronic computers, which set the stage for CFD (not to mention a revolution in avionics 

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NASA’s First 50 Years

and digital flight control).15 In turn, CFD was one of the most disruptive of 

the new research methodologies. This progression suggests a kind of logical 

unfolding of technological innovation (e.g., automobiles follow horse-drawn 

carriages). This is somewhat the case, but it is important to understand that 

the particular shape of CFD, the motivation and timing behind its emergence 

as well as its political support, could not have been scripted as part of a logical and predictable technical evolution.16

In 1958, electronic computers were already a part of NASA’s infrastructure. 

Aeronautics researchers employed them in conjunction with the tunnel branches, 

helping sift through test data as well as performing some of the less complex 

mathematical crunching. To use computers as virtual wind tunnels, however, 

was a different proposition. The mathematical formulas that describe the motion 

of fluids, the Navier-Stokes equations, are a set of nonlinear, second-order, 

partial differential equations. The complexity of these equations meant that 

they could not be programmed into computers. Some researchers, however, 

realized that simpler mathematical techniques, amenable to programming, 

could approximate more complex fluid flow equations; indeed, engineers had 

long made use of such shortcuts in design calculations.17

One of the chief advocates of this approach was Harvard Lomax of the 

Ames Theoretical Division. He wrote his first programs for use on an IBM 650, 

a 1950s-era computer, and proceeded to make use of newer IBM and Control 

Data Corporation equipment in the 1960s. Lomax’s group focused on converting the Navier-Stokes equations into algebraic approximations that computers 

could solve through a technique called finite difference. Lomax and his team 

also reduced the number of calculations that had to be performed by solving 

for select points in the flow stream.18

By the late 1960s, CFD development became another thread in the story of 

laboratory competition. The leadership at Ames decided to aggressively pursue 

the technology. The CFD technology offered Ames a way of differentiating itself 

from Langley (both laboratories relied heavily on wind tunnel research) while 

	 15.	 Interestingly,	the	FRC	put	itself	at	the	center	of	the	digital	flight	control	revolution	with	a	program	that	

followed	closely	on	the	heels	of	the	lifting	body	flights.	See	James	E.	Tomayko,	Computers Take Flight: 

A History of NASA’s Pioneering Digital Fly-By-Wire Project,	NASA	History	Series	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	

SP-2000-4224,	2000).

	 16.	 For	a	classical	treatment	of	technological	determinism,	see	Robert	L.	Heilbroner,	“Do	Machines	Make	

History,”	Technology and Culture	(8	July	1967):	335–345.

	 17.	 For	a	summary	of	the	Navier-Stokes	equations	and	their	place	in	aerodynamic	theory	and	practice,	see	

Anderson,	A History of Aerodynamics,	pp.	89–93.

	 18.	 Ferguson,	NASA’s First A,	chap.	4.

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Evolution of Aeronautics Research at NASA

diversifying the laboratory’s infrastructure and expertise. Lomax’s theoretical 

division became a CFD branch, and the Director of Ames at the time, Hans Mark, 

successfully lobbied to have a new supercomputer, the Illiac IV, transferred 

to Ames from the University of Illinois. The Illiac IV did, or attempted, what 

would later be called vector processing. By the time the supercomputer was 

operational at Ames, other computers, notably machines designed by Seymour 

Cray, were outperforming it. But the Illiac IV achieved some key objectives. It 

signaled Ames’s intention to try to capture CFD supercomputing (a political 

goal) and that it was willing to take a gamble on CFD replacing wind tunnels 

(both a political and technical goal). And within Ames, the Illiac IV and the 

1970s-era CFD work served as a training ground for Ames researchers cutting 

their teeth on the hardware and software obstacles associated with supercomputers (generally) and parallel processing (specifically).19 

Researchers at Langley also responded to the twin stimuli of digital computing and laboratory competition. Like Ames, Langley had its own computing 

facilities and also pursued CFD. It had a Star 100 computer in the 1970s, which 

was Control Data’s first attempt at a vector processing supercomputer. But 

Langley pursued CFD in a distinct manner, establishing computing branches 

as complements (rather than as antagonists) of the tunnels. The laboratory 

set out in two organizational directions. First, in 1972 Langley established 

the Institute for Computer Applications to Science and Engineering (ICASE). 

As the name implies, it was more broadly conceived as a general computational center, and unlike Ames, it did not focus on building hardware. Second, 

Langley established a number of CFD labs that tended to mirror the division 

of labor among the tunnels; they had CFD laboratories working on transonic, 

high-speed, low-speed, and aeroelasticity. In the broad scheme of Langley’s 

research, CFD was positioned as a partner to the tunnels, not a replacement. 

Meanwhile, at ICASE, Langley and visiting researchers created a new mathematical approach to CFD and successfully nurtured this methodology as an 

alternative to Lomax’s finite differences method. Two individuals, David Gotleib 

(a visiting researcher) and Youssuff Houssaini (one of the directors at ICASE), 

developed what were called “spectral methods for solving the Navier-Stokes 

partial differential equations.”20

Computational Fluid Dynamics did not end the era of wind tunnels. Indeed, 

accurate CFD modeling still requires both flight testing and wind tunnel 

	 19.	 Ibid.

	 20.	 Ibid.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

experimentation in order to validate the mathematical models that underlie 

CFD. In those tasks and conditions (e.g., particular speed ranges and aircraft 

configurations) where researchers have established reliable models, CFD has 

replaced some amount of wind tunnel experimentation. But the complexity 

of aerodynamic phenomena means that numerous qualities, especially those 

related to cutting-edge aircraft, cannot be reliably predicted with CFD, at 

least not yet. Until then, researchers will continue to shift between tunnels 

and computers, searching for new mathematical tricks and exploiting ever 

more capable computer hardware. Macro-technological change continues to 

pace CFD. Interestingly, Ames’s aggressive pursuit of CFD did not give the 

Center exclusive ownership of the technology. NASA did choose to centralize 

supercomputing at Ames (hardware that is accessible to all the laboratories); 

but persistently lower computing costs have helped democratize CFD, and 

aerodynamic modeling generally, in a way that remains impossible with highcost wind tunnels. 

Shifting Technological Frontier

The last factor behind changes in research methodology is arguably the least 

edifying: the technological frontier of aeronautics shifted. What is of interest 

here is how this played out in the laboratories and in top-level policy. Obviously, 

the establishment of a civilian space program represented the laboratories’ first 

major shift in technological frontier. That is a topic in and of itself, for many 

aeronautics researchers took the opportunity to move into space research. But 

looking more narrowly at aeronautics, the next significant shift occurred during the 1970s when the White House and Congress asked a post-Apollo NASA 

to better address aviation issues and to make the Agency more responsive to 

the problems confronting the nation. 

NASA’s leadership at Headquarters and the Centers replied with plans 

that dealt with airspace congestion, airport noise, pollution, and energy 

efficiency. Of course, the NACA and NASA had always responded to more 

narrowly defined calls for assistance: investigations of structural or control 

problems in specific aircraft, icing research, wind shear detection, etc.21 This 

call to action was more broadly based, and in many cases it involved more 

	 21.	 William	M.	Leary,	We Freeze to Please: A History of NASA’s Icing Research Tunnel and the Quest for 

Flight Safety (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 SP-2002-4226,	 2002);	 Lane	 E.	Wallace,	 Airborne Trailblazer: 

Two Decades with NASA Langley’s 737 Flying Laboratory	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4216,	1994),	pp.	

58–59.

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Evolution of Aeronautics Research at NASA

heterogeneous engineering, that is, integrating questions of social behavior 

alongside technical issues. In materials research, for example, NASA entered 

into studies about the application of composite materials for fuel efficiency, 

but the studies involved field-testing different parts with the airlines, partially 

to establish long-term cost estimates. This was not merely about proving the 

technical worth of composites that were already in use in military aircraft, but 

in building public acceptance.22

A good example of NASA’s shifting technological frontier is air traffic 

control (ATC) research. In the 1960s, the federal government began to take 

notice of rising airspace congestion. In 1968, the newly minted DOT created 

an ATC advisory committee. The committee’s findings, known as the Alexander 

Report, argued for increased automatic communication and control methods. 

NASA’s official response to traffic congestion came in two forms, both of which 

sought to respect the FAA’s purview by working on the vehicle side of ATC 

(rather than the controller side). The Terminal Configured Vehicle program at 

Langley sought to increase safety and productivity through advanced avionics and flight procedures.23 At Ames, researchers explored STOL aircraft as a 

means of adding airport capacity. There was, buried in the STOL project, a study 

inspired directly by the Alexander Report, an algorithm for guiding aircraft 

to land through time-based sequencing. Ames tested the “four-dimensional” 

guidance system, developed by Heinz Erzberger, as part of the STOL program.24

In Washington, DC, DOT was wrestling with the problem of modernizing 

the ATC system. The Advanced Airways System (AAS), initiated in the 1980s, was 

one of the most prominent of the FAA’s upgrades (along with the Microwave 

Landing System), and it envisioned a far-reaching system of computer monitoring and control. Ultimately, the AAS did not deliver on these more advanced 

automated capabilities, which became bogged down in software development 

and budget overruns. The upgrade was sharply curtailed in the 1990s, with 

ATC operations hardly more automated than they were two decades earlier.25

Erzberger, who had put his four-dimensional guidance system aside in 

the early 1980s, returned to the topic and chose to examine how it could 

be integrated into ATC operations on the ground. He put together a small 

	 22.	 Ferguson,	NASA’s First A,	chaps.	4,	7.

	 23.	 Lane	E.	Wallace,	Airborne Trailblazer.

	 24.	 A	more	complete	account	of	Erzberger’s	research	is	in	Ferguson,	NASA’s First A,	chaps.	4,	7.

	 25.	 Matthew	L.	Wald,	“Flight	to	Nowhere:	A	Special	Report;	Ambitious	Update	of	Air	Navigation	Becomes	a	

Fiasco,”	New York Times (29	January	1996).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

project called the CTAS; this was to be a laboratory that simulated ATC operations and tested software based on Erzberger’s original algorithm.26 The key 

ingredient at the CTAS was a live ATC radar feed from the FAA, something that 

was exceedingly difficult to procure (for bureaucratic, not technical, reasons). 

The feed allowed simulations to be run against real data and gave researchers 

access to controller behavior. If there were anomalous situations, researchers 

could contact the actual FAA controllers and ask them why they had made a 

particular decision. When NASA and the FAA field-tested the CTAS software at 

the Denver, Colorado, and Fort Worth, Texas, TRACONs in 1995 and 1996, the 

tests went sufficiently well that the National Air Traffic Controller Association 

and the Air Transportation Association asked that the tools be kept in place.27

It is important not to overplay the success of the CTAS software. These tools 

were, against the automation contemplated by the AAS, modest applications. 

But the key to their success was the CTAS process. This was a laboratory for 

heterogeneous research, and it taught scientists and engineers that to automate ATC, one had to find solutions that respected the interests and accrued 

knowledge of human controllers. One might consider the CTAS methodology 

as a kind of analog to clinical trials in medicine. Further, the point to take 

away about shifting technological frontiers is not that NASA made a decision 

to enter into ATC research in a large way (which in fact it did only in the 

last decade), but that this was part of a larger policy shift to see NASA apply 

itself aggressively to the sociotechnical problems besetting aviation. This kind 

of work necessarily involved new methods to accommodate heterogeneous 

environments. Interestingly, this is the only one of the three factors behind 

methodological change that derives from top-down research administration, 

and even here there are important caveats (noted below).

Concluding Observations

The three factors given here for methodological change are not exhaustive. One 

could argue, for example, that aerodynamics, or at least important segments 

of it, has reached a kind of maturity. Engineers are now able to predict much 

of the subsonic aerodynamic performance of conventional aircraft, rendering 

moot some wind tunnel testing. But this is a more recent shift (that owes much 

to the spread of CFD) and certainly does not account for changes that were 

	 26.	 TRACON	stands	for	Terminal	Radar	Approach	Control;	it	is	a	radar	facility	that	handles	incoming	and	

outgoing	traffic	around	large	airports	out	to	a	distance	of	30	to	50	miles.

	 27.	 Ferguson, NASA’s First A,	chap.	7.

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Evolution of Aeronautics Research at NASA

taking place through most of the last 50 years. Institutional structure, macrotechnological change, and shifting technological frontiers, if not exhaustive, 

are sufficiently comprehensive to help explain the major shifts. They are also 

useful in illuminating the murky relationship between research management 

and scientific and technological innovation. On this, a couple of observations 

are worth immediate note. 

What is remarkable in this history is the degree to which change was 

undirected. The decentralized, dispersed, and sometimes duplicative structure 

of the laboratories was not, by design, intended to encourage any kind of disruptive competition. The NACA established multiple facilities largely because 

they sought capacity growth, or in the case of the HSFS, because of military 

necessity. NASA inherited this arrangement. Ironically, the omnipresent goal of 

reducing waste and duplication in federal programs has been simultaneously 

at odds with the establishment of competing research tracks and integral to 

competition. There is, after all, no bureaucratic drive to differentiate when 

budgets are assured. And while researchers, such as Harvard Lomax, took on 

innovative projects because of genuine scientific curiosity, laboratory management understood the value of claiming new research niches. 

A second and related facet is the way in which variation grew in a bottomup fashion, even in cases where a shift in the Agency’s technological frontier 

was a matter of official policy. Erzberger’s four-dimensional guidance system 

was a grassroots response to the Alexander Report, not a laboratory response to 

Headquarters. Indeed, Erzberger’s work was buried within Ames’s STOL research 

and, strictly speaking, was a project more suited to DOT or Langley. Likewise, the 

laboratories had already contemplated much of the 1970s-era energy efficiency 

work when the White House and Congress began waving their arms. And it was 

consistent advocacy from the researchers, not necessarily consistent budgets 

from the top, that spelled long-term realization of these programs. Erzberger’s 

algorithms took over two decades to mature into usable software tools. This is 

not to say that the laboratories were unresponsive to policy changes (the creation 

of the civilian space program being the best example of laboratory realignment), 

but that policy changes have often tapped into research that was already off 

topic and/or anticipatory of future directions. It has been to NASA’s advantage 

that researchers have had the ability to try new avenues that are not officially 

prescribed and that researchers have stuck to their ideas in spite of uncertain 

and often discontinuous programmatic guidance.

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Chapter 10

The NACA, NASA, and the 

Supersonic-Hypersonic 

Frontier

Richard P. Hallion

Across the history of flight, adversity and seemingly insurmountable challenges 

have goaded and inspired aerospace scientists and engineers into producing 

some of aviation’s greatest scientific and technical accomplishments. The 

advent of the supersonic-hypersonic age1 and the work of the professional 

staffs of the NACA and its successor, NASA, certainly exemplify this. Over the 

first three decades of the NACA, the speed of American operational aircraft 

rose fourfold, to over 550 mph by August 1945, at the end of World War II. By 

that time, the anticipated speed of the most advanced American aircraft then 

under development, the Bell XS-1, was almost double this. Conceived in 1944 

and designed and built over 1945, it eventually reached nearly 1,000 mph in 

1948. (A derivative of this same design, the X-1A, having greater fuel capacity 

and thus longer engine-burn time, exceeded 1,600 mph in 1954.)

In 1958, the pioneer era of supersonic flight ended, coincident with the 

closing of the NACA era, the onset of the NASA era, and the beginning of the 

Space Age signaled by the launch of Sputnik. That year, the last flying X-1 

	 1.	 The	speed	of	sound	in	air	is	approximately	760	mph,	decreasing	to	approximately	660	mph	at	40,000	

feet.	 Because	 it	 varies,	 sonic	 velocity	 at	 any	 altitude	 is	referred	 to	 as	Mach	 1,	 honoring	 the	 19thcentury	Austrian	physicist	and	philosopher	Ernst	Mach.	Though	popularly	speaking,	any	flight	beyond	

Mach	1	is	supersonic,	aerodynamicists	classically	define	three	distinctive	arenas	of	flight,	reflecting	the	

progression	of	wind	tunnel	studies	from	1919	onward:	subsonic below	Mach	0.75,	transonic	between	

Mach	0.75	and	1.25,	and	supersonic from	Mach	1.25	to	Mach	5.	Beyond	Mach	5	is	the	hypersonic

realm,	with	classic	aerodynamics	receding	before	aerothermodynamics	and	magnetohydrodynamics.	

Mach	5	is	a	more	arbitrary	and	imprecise	demarcation	than	Mach	1,	whose	lower	velocity	is	signaled	

by	the	formation	of	standing	shock	waves,	indicating	sonic	flow	formation.	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

(the X-1E) retired, the Lockheed F-104 Starfighter (the first operational Mach 

2 military aircraft) entered service, and airlines began their first transoceanic 

intercontinental jet transport operations, with de Havilland’s Comet IV, Boeing’s 

707, and the Douglas DC-8. By this time, planners were conceptualizing operational aircraft at speeds over Mach 3, exemplified by a then-highly classified 

study effort that would spawn the Lockheed A-12/YF-12A/SR-71 Blackbird. The 

era of piloted hypersonic flight was dawning as the NACA, the U.S. Air Force, 

the U.S. Navy, North American, and Thiokol put finishing touches on the first 

of the X-15s, a rocket-powered, air-launched “Round Two” successor to the 

early “Round One” research airplanes (such as the X-1 and Douglas D-558-2) 

that had blazed the sonic frontier a decade earlier. Further away, but gestating, 

were programs for both winged and ballistic orbital vehicles, typified by the 

“Round Three” study effort leading to the abortive Boeing X-20A Dyna-Soar 

(an important predecessor to the Space Shuttle), and the Man-in-Space-Soonest 

(MISS) studies eventually spawning Project Mercury.

From Subsonic to Supersonic

The high-speed breakthrough—from subsonic through transonic and on to 

supersonic and hypersonic velocities—constituted a singular milestone in 

the evolution of flight, enabling the achievement of routine rapid global air 

transport and access to space. The need to understand and resolve some of 

the challenges of the high-speed regime began as early as World War I, in the 

era of the open-cockpit, wood-and-fabric, propeller-driven biplane. Although 

such aircraft typically flew at flight speeds no faster than 120 mph (approximately Mach 0.15), the tips of a rapidly rotating propeller could exceed Mach 

0.75. Since a propeller is really a rotating wing, the accelerated flow over the 

propeller at a tip speed of Mach 0.75 could exceed the speed of sound (Mach 

1), producing a standing shock wave and, behind the shock wave, turbulent, 

separated flows. These flows would seriously degrade the propeller’s efficiency. 

By analogy, if extended to the design of a wing, it was evident to wind tunnel 

researchers as early as 1919 that the wing would experience both a marked 

drop in lift and a marked increase in drag.2 While of largely academic interest at the time (except for propeller designers), such transonic phenomena 

boded ill for subsequent airplane design as propulsion advances and advances 

in streamline aerodynamics drove aircraft level-flight speeds above 350 mph.

	 2.	 F.	W.	 Caldwell	and	E.	N.	Fales,	“Wind	Tunnel	Studies	on	Aerodynamic	Phenomena	at	 High-Speeds,”	

NACA	Technical	Report	(TR)	83	(1920),	p.	77.

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The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

The practical difficulties of high-speed flight did not become a significant 

hindrance to safe aircraft operations until the mid-1930s. Nevertheless, the 

recognition that the compressibility effects of transonic flows at speeds of 

Mach 0.7 and above could not be ignored drove both efforts to derive new 

transonic aerodynamic theory and efforts to develop specialized research tools 

to analyze such phenomena as transonic drag rise. In the course of routine 

testing of airfoils suitable for propellers, Frank W. Caldwell and Elisha Fales 

had discovered the characteristic changes in lift and drag and shock wave formation, while testing small airfoils at speeds of up to 450 mph using a small, 

14-inch-diameter Army Air Service tunnel at McCook Field, Ohio. Building 

upon this serendipitous work, Drs. Lyman J. Briggs and Hugh L. Dryden of the 

Bureau of Standards and Colonel G. F. Hull of the Army Ordnance Department 

subsequently undertook more detailed investigations using an air jet produced 

by a turbine-driven, three-stage centrifugal compressor at the General Electric 

Company’s Lynn, Massachusetts, plant. Again, serendipity played a role: a thin 

coating of oil smeared on the airfoils to prevent them from rusting furnished 

evidence of airflow separation at transonic speeds, even more proof that as 

a wing approached the speed of sound, it would exhibit a loss of lift and an 

increase in drag.3 Briggs and Dryden continued their studies at the Army’s 

Edgewood Arsenal, testing airfoils drilled to record pressure distribution at 

various speeds from Mach 0.5 to Mach 1.08 (1,218 feet per second); this series 

of tests confirmed flow separation, lift loss, drag increase, and shock wave 

formation and indicated that thin airfoils showed markedly reduced transonic 

effects compared to thicker ones. From this came the first generalized appreciation that thin symmetrical airfoils showed the best potential for enabling 

flight at transonic velocities.4

By the early 1930s, the global aeronautical community was becoming 

aware that transonic flow phenomena and the power requirements necessary 

to overcome attendant high drag rise would seriously constrain aircraft design 

and performance. Increasingly, aerodynamicists worldwide began to see the 

speed of sound as a limitation to the expansion of flight, memorably captured 

	 3.	 L.	J.	Briggs,	G.	F.	Hull,	and	H.	L.	Dryden,	“Aerodynamic	Characteristics	of	Airfoils	at	High	Speeds,”	TR	

207	(1924),	p.	465;	H.	L.	Dryden,	“Supersonic	Travel	Within	the	Last	Two	Hundred	Years,” Scientific 

Monthly	78,	no.	5	(May	1954):	289–295.

	 4.	 Briggs	 and	 Dryden,	 “Pressure	 Distribution	 Over	Airfoils	 at	 High	 Speeds,”	TR	 255	 (1926),	 pp.	 581–

582;	 Briggs	 and	 Dryden,	“Aerodynamic	 Characteristics	 of	Twenty-Four	Airfoils	 at	 High	Speeds,”	TR	

319	(1929),	p.	346;	Briggs	and	Dryden,	“Aerodynamic	Characteristics	of	Circular-Arc	Airfoils	at	High	

Speeds,”	TR	365	(1931).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 1:	John	Stack,	the	NACA’s	foremost	and	most	influential	advocate	of	high-speed	aerodynamic	

research.	NASA Image L-48989

by British aerodynamicist W. F. Hilton’s judgment that Mach 1 loomed “like a 

barrier against higher speed,” the onset of the lurid if not, at the time, altogether 

inaccurate phrase “sound barrier.”5

Aerodynamicists in America and Europe used the word “compressibility” as 

convenient shorthand to encompass all the various problems and challenges 

associated with transonic flight. One of the most critical was securing accurate, 

precise, and consistent wind tunnel measurement at speeds just below and 

above the speed of sound. As flow speed increased within a tunnel and the 

accelerated flow past a model and its supporting mounts and balance reached 

Mach 1, shock waves would form on the model and its attachments and reflect 

across the tunnel, inhibiting accurate measurements. As flow speed increased 

and the shock waves assumed a more acute angle beyond the speed of sound, 

researchers could once again take accurate measurements. But this meant a 

	 5.	 Quoted	 in	 James	 R.	 Hansen,	 Engineer in Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 

1917–1958	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4305,	1987),	p.	253.

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The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

practically unknown region existed for aerodynamic researchers, and wind 

tunnels were unable to furnish reliable information between Mach 0.75 and 

Mach 1.25, precisely the region that aerodynamicists most needed to study.6

The NACA’s growing interest in transonic aerodynamics reflected not only 

the state of aviation technology and the deficiencies of test techniques, but also 

the increasingly pervasive influence within the NACA of a single dominant figure, 

John Stack. A driving, enthusiastic, insightful, and highly energetic Massachusetts 

Institute of Technology (MIT)-educated personality, he had joined the NACA 

in 1928 as a junior engineer in the Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory. 

Although he did not trigger the NACA’s interest in high-speed flight, he subsequently imprinted its high-speed (and international) aerodynamic research in a 

fashion unmatched by any other single researcher, foreign or American, including fellow agency personages such as Eastman Jacobs, Theodore Theodorsen, 

and even the legendary Theodore von Kármán at the California Institute of 

Technology (Caltech). Yet, for all his prominence, he never stinted in recognizing those who had assisted his work or contributed their own.7

In 1933, building upon an earlier and less-satisfactory 11-inch tunnel, Stack 

designed a small, 24-inch “blow-down” tunnel using air drawn from a pressure tank attached to Langley’s famed VDT and fitted with an optical Schlieren 

photographic apparatus to capture flow changes around airfoils at transonic 

speeds. Subsequent tunnel trials convinced him the best, most reliable means 

of transonic research (pending development of genuinely transonic tunnels) 

would be the construction of specialized instrumented “compressibility” research 

airplanes. That same year, he drew up one such configuration, anticipating a 

cantilever monoplane powered by a 2,300-horsepower engine, with a symmetrical airfoil having a thickness-chord ratio of 18 percent at the wing root, 

progressively thinning to a 9 percent section at the tip. According to his calculations, such a design could have a maximum speed of 525 mph, ensuring 

that it could acquire full-scale “real world” aerodynamic data at speeds where 

the accelerated airflow around its wings and fuselage would be in excess of 

Mach 1. In an era when the braced biplane still constituted the “normative” 

configuration for military and civil aircraft, and even for high-speed racing 

	 6.	 John	 V.	 Becker,	 The High-Speed Frontier: Case Studies of Four NACA Programs, 1920–1940

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-445,	1980),	pp.	62–63.

	 7.	 I	was	privileged	to	know	John	Stack;	a	copy	of	a	19	May	1971	interview	I	did	with	him	on	his	transonic	

research	is	in	the	archives	of	the	NASA	History	Division,	Washington,	DC.	Stack’s	personality	is	well	

captured	by	former	colleague	John	Becker	in	his	previously	cited	High-Speed Frontier,	pp.	13–14.

227
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 2: Stack’s	concept	of	a	compressibility	research	airplane,	from	the Journal of the Aeronautical 

Sciences, January	1934.	NASA

aircraft, Stack’s design (published in the inaugural issue of the Journal of the 

Aeronautical Sciences) constituted a remarkably bold and prescient concept.8

In the short term, however, as engineer John Becker recalled, Stack’s concept “had little impact on our outlook” as the NACA’s staff contemplated the 

“enormous challenges” of flight at speeds of over 500 mph. But if seemingly 

optimistic, such figures were, in fact, reasonable and attained in later years by 

specialized propeller-driven aircraft.9 

Compressibility assumed more than academic concern following the advent 

of the first monoplane fighters capable of exceeding 400 mph in high-speed 

dives. At that speed, depending upon the degree of streamlining and thickness of a wing, the accelerated airflow around an aircraft could exceed Mach 

1, with attendant shock formation and consequent disturbed flow conditions 

	 8.	 John	Stack,	“Effects	of	Compressibility	on	High-Speed	Flight,”	Journal of the Aeronautical Sciences	1,	

no.	1	(January	1934):	40–43.

	 9.	 Becker,	High-Speed Frontier, p.	24.	Aircraft	achieving	such	velocities	included	the	Republic	XP-47J,	

XP-72,	and,	in	the	late	1960s,	a	modified	Grumman	F8F-2	Bearcat.

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The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

that robbed a plane of lift, increased its drag, and, in most cases, severely constrained its controllability. In July 1937, a Messerschmitt engineering test pilot 

perished when his Bf 109 plunged into Lake Muritz during high-speed dive 

testing at Nazi Germany’s Rechlin test center. In November 1941, a Lockheed 

test pilot likewise died when his experimental YP-38 broke up during a highspeed dive pullout over Burbank, California. Various other compressibilityrelated accidents claimed examples and airmen flying other new aircraft, such 

as Britain’s Hawker Typhoon and America’s Republic P-47. 

In response, the NACA’s Langley and Ames laboratories acquired loaned 

examples of representative fighters, instrumenting them and undertaking 

comprehensive transonic dive trials. It was not something undertaken lightly. 

In 1940, the NACA had undertaken perilous dive tests to 575 mph (Mach 0.74) 

of a loaned Navy Brewster XF2A-2 Buffalo at Langley Memorial Aeronautical 

Laboratory, the trials leaving watching aerodynamicists “with the strong feeling that a diving airplane operating close to its structural limits was not an 

acceptable way to acquire high-speed research information.”10 Thanks to careful 

planning, the NACA never lost an airplane or an airman during its dive program, 

though it had some close calls. The dive tests emphasized the synergy between 

ground and flight research. Dive recovery flaps, to prevent the formation of 

shock-producing transonic flows, were wind tunnel tested and then verified 

through the NACA, military, and contractor flight tests. In the case of the P-38, 

such flaps transformed it into a safe and operationally effective fighter, flown 

by America’s leading Pacific War aces.11 Diving tests were undertaken by all the 

advanced aeronautical nations, particularly Great Britain and Germany. Indeed, 

in 1943, an instrumented British Spitfire achieved Mach 0.89 (± 0.01) in diving 

trials at the Royal Aeronautical Establishment, Farnborough, the fastest speed 

ever recorded by a propeller-driven, piston-powered aircraft.12

	 10.	 Becker,	High-Speed Frontier,	p.	88.

	 11.	 Edwin	P.	Hartman,	Adventures in Research: A History of the Ames Research Center	(Washington,	DC:	

NASA	SP-4302,	1970).

	 12.	 Squadron	 Leader	 A.	 F.	 Martindale,	 “Compressibility	 Research:	 Final	 Dive	 on	 Spitfire	 EN	 409,”	 Ref.	

CTP/K/1/73	(28	April	1944).	I	wish	to	acknowledge	with	grateful	appreciation	the	assistance	of	the	

late	Air	Commodore	Allen	H.	Wheeler,	Royal	Air	Force	(RAF),	who	made	this	report	available	to	me,	and	

who	also	put	me	in	contact	with	Sir	Morien	Morgan,	Professor	W.	A.	Mair,	and	Mr.	R.	P.	Probert,	all	of	

whom	furnished	further	information	on	the	Spitfire	trials.	See	also	W.	A.	Mair,	ed.,	“Research	on	High	

Speed	Aerodynamics	 at	the	 Royal	Aircraft	 Establishment	from	1942–1945,”	Aeronautical	 Research	

Council	Reports and Memoranda,	 no.	 2222	 (London,	 U.K.:	 Her	Majesty’s	 Stationery	 Office	 [HMSO],	

1950).	See	also	Charles	Burnet,	Three Centuries to Concorde (London,	U.K.:	Mechanical	Engineering	

Society,	1979),	pp.	29–52.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 3: A	technician	readies	the	recording	instrumentation	of	a	P-51D	Mustang	modified	for	wingflow	transonic	research.	The	test	model	(an	XS-1	shape	with	a	swept	horizontal	tail)	is	at	midspan,	with	

mechanical	linkages	connecting	it	to	the	instrumentation	installed	within	the	modified	gun	bay.	NASA 

Image L-46802

By 1941, as Theodore von Kármán, Director of the Guggenheim Aeronautical 

Laboratory at the California Institute of Technology (GALCIT), noted in a 

seminal paper, aeronautical engineers were “pounding hard on the closed 

door leading into the field of supersonic motion.”13 The advent of the gas 

turbine engine in Europe and, subsequently, its adaptation in America promised to revolutionize aircraft flight speeds and make practical the 550+ mph 

airplane. Under this “technology push” and wartime pressure, the need for 

reliable transonic information assumed even greater urgency. NACA researchers (and others as well) increasingly adopted stopgap solutions. These 

included instrumenting and radar-tracking falling bodies dropped from highflying bombers and firing small rocket-propelled models. In a creative and 

insightful attempt to take advantage of the flow conditions existing around 

	 13.	 Theodore	 von	 Kármán,	 “Compressibility	 Effects	 in	 Aerodynamics,”	 Journal of the Aeronautical 

Sciences	8,	no.	9	(July	1941):	337.	Von	Kármán	intended	his	paper	as	an	argument	to	use	the	tools	of	

mathematical	analysis	“as	a	guide	for	avoiding	a	premature	drop	of	aerodynamic	efficiency.”	

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The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

a diving fighter, engineers installed small free-standing models attached to 

balances and comprehensive instrumentation located in the gun bay of P-51 

fighters, diving the airplanes to subject the models to localized transonic 

and supersonic flow. 

Drawing upon experience with wing-flow models, wind tunnel researchers 

conceived the transonic tunnel “bump” as a means of replicating the same kind 

of accelerated flow past a model, though with less success than its airborne 

predecessor. Though useful, in all of these cases, the information obtained was 

limited; test duration was short; and, in the case of wing-flow dive trials, the 

tests involved considerable risk as the aircraft plunged deeper into the dense 

lower atmosphere where structural loadings and transonic effects would be 

at their most severe.14

From this combination of information need, creative make-do, and limited effectiveness sprang both the postwar X-series research airplanes and 

the transonic wind tunnel. The story of the NACA’s role in the formulation of 

the X series has been extensively told, and such aircraft certainly constituted 

the most visible evidence of the agency’s research investment in high-speed 

flight.15 But its interest was matched as well by significant growing interest 

in military services and private industry. In 1943, both Nazi Germany and 

Great Britain had launched national transonic research aircraft study efforts, 

the former with the Deutsche Forschungsanstalt für Segelflug’s DFS 346, a 

rocket-powered swept-wing vehicle subsequently completed and flown (with 

indifferent success) in the Soviet Union after the war and the latter with the 

afterburning turbojet-powered Miles M.52, which was subsequently canceled in 

1946, considerably setting back British progress in supersonic design technology. In early 1944, a team working at the direction of Theodore von Kármán 

at Caltech’s JPL undertook performance analysis of a representative transonic 

research aircraft configuration, a rocket-boosted ramjet-powered configuration 

remarkably similar in design concept to that of French pioneer Rene Leduc’s 

postwar ramjet test beds and experimental fighters. The study, by America’s 

most prestigious academic aeronautical research establishment, implicitly 

endorsed the transonic research aircraft concept and offered encouragement 

	 14.	 Robert	R.	Gilruth	to	author,	27	January	1972.	See	also	Becker,	High-Speed Frontier, pp.	84–85.	

	 15.	 For	example,	see	Kenneth	S.	Kleinknecht,	“The	Rocket	Research	Airplanes,”	in	The History of Rocket 

Technology: Essays on Research, Development, and Utility,	ed.	Eugene	M.	Emme	(Detroit,	MI:	Wayne	

State	 University	 Press,	 1964),	 pp.	 189–211,	 and	 James	 A.	 Martin,	 “The	 Record-Setting	 Research	

Airplanes,”	 Aerospace Engineering	 21,	 no.	 12	 (December	 1962):	 49–54;	 both	 are	 superb	 surveys	

despite	their	age.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 4: The	Air	Force-sponsored,	rocket-powered	Bell	XS-1	(X-1),	whose	fuselage	shape	copied	the	.50	

caliber	machine	gun	bullet.	This	is	the	second	X-1	(AAF	46-063),	eventually	modified	as	the	Mach	2+	Bell	

X-1E.	NASA Image E49-001

Figure 5:	The	Navy-sponsored,	turbojet-powered	Douglas	D-558-1	Skystreak.	This	is	the	third	D-558-1	

(USN	37972);	its	slender	lines	earned	it	the	nickname	“The	Flying	Test-tube.”	NASA Image E49-090

232
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

that the “sound barrier” might not, in fact, be such a dramatic obstruction to 

future progress as popular sentiment blithely assumed.16

In 1944, coincident with this launching of foreign programs and studies 

by America’s military services, a series of meetings between agency, military, 

and industry representatives resulted in the launching of what emerged as a 

joint Army Air Forces (AAF) (later, after September 1947, the U.S. Air Force), 

U.S. Navy, and NACA research airplane development effort, funded largely by 

the military, which ran the appropriate aircraft project development offices 

for each aircraft thus acquired; the effort was overseen technically by the 

NACA via a multilaboratory Research Airplane Projects Panel (RAPP). To the 

AAF, which desired even in 1944 to achieve supersonic speeds as quickly as 

possible—Chief of Staff General Henry H. “Hap” Arnold informed Caltech’s 

von Kármán that in the postwar world, supersonic speed would be a “requirement”—the rocket appeared the most efficient means of first achieving highMach flight.17 Desirous that any such aircraft be immediately applicable to 

tactical purposes, the Navy favored a turbojet. To the NACA, an agency that, 

having been founded as a “rider” to a naval appropriations bill, was always 

more inclined toward the Navy and its Bureau of Aeronautics than to the 

AAF (and later the Air Force), the jet engine appeared as the best propulsion 

system, as it would afford longer duration, even though at vastly lower Mach 

numbers. From this dichotomous (if complementary) approach sprang the first 

two experimental aircraft developed explicitly for transonic and supersonic 

research, the AAF/Air Force-sponsored, rocket-powered Bell XS-1 (later X-1) 

and the Navy-sponsored, turbojet-powered Douglas D-558. 

As well, NACA postwar high-speed aeronautical research—as that of virtually every aeronautical research establishment in the postwar world—was dramatically influenced by developments made by the Nazi German aeronautical 

	 16.	 Theodore	 von	 Kármán,	 F.	 J.	 Malina,	 M.	 Summerfield,	 and	 H.	 S.	 Tsien,	 “Comparative	 Study	 of	 Jet	

Propulsion	Systems	 as	Applied	to	Missiles	 and	Transonic	Aircraft,”	Memorandum	 JPL-2	 (Pasadena,	

CA:	Caltech	JPL,	28	March	1944),	fig.	36,	p.	76,	copy	in	Malina	Papers,	file	10.3,	box	10,	Manuscript	

Division,	 Library	 of	 Congress,	 Washington,	 DC;	 C.	 M.	 Fougère	 and	 R.	 Smelt,	 “Note	 on	 the	 Miles	

Supersonic	Aircraft	(preliminary	 version),”	Tech.	Note.	Aero.	1347	(Farnborough,	 U.K.:	 Royal	Aircraft	

Establishment,	December	1943),	 copy	 in	Wright	Field	Microfilm	 Collection,	D.52.1/Miles/14,	NASM	

Archives,	 Paul	 E.	 Garber	 Restoration	 Facility,	 Silver	 Hill,	 MD;	 Clark	 Millikan,	 “Notes	 of	 Visit	 to	 the	

Deutsche Forschungsanstalt für Segelflug”	 (Ainring,	 Germany:	 Naval	 Technical	 Mission	 to	 Europe	

[NavTechMisEu],	June	1945);	Clark	Millikan,	“Technical	Report	of	Visit	by	C.	B.	Millikan	to	British	M.A.P.	

Project	E24/43,	Miles	52	Transonic	Research	Airplane,”	draft	(NavTechMisEu,	June	1945),	last	two	in	

Clark	Millikan	Papers,	folder	6-2,	box	6,	Archives,	Caltech,	Pasadena,	CA.

	 17.	 General	H.	H.	Arnold	to	Theodore	von	Kármán,	7	November	1944,	copy	in	the	office	files	of	the	Air	Force	

SAB,	Headquarters	of	the	Air	Force,	Pentagon,	Washington,	DC.

233
NASA’s First 50 Years

research community in the crucial decade between 1935 and 1945. Virtually 

all high-speed aerodynamic configurations and shapes—wings, tail locations, 

bodies, control surfaces, and inlets, for example—were affected by the discoveries and consequent revelations of Allied technical intelligence teams that 

ventured to the bleak remains of the Third Reich and sifted through its rubble. 

The plethora of Nazi German technical developments (some of which, like 

the ballistic missile and rocket-powered fighter, were quite dramatic) and the 

grand scale of its aeronautical research effort—visible before the war to prewar 

NACA officials and staggeringly evident to Allied technical intelligence teams 

at its end, particularly in its widespread investment in wind tunnels—masked 

in some cases very poor technical choices (for example, the transonic semitailless configuration of the Me 163, which inspired the creation of the British 

D.H. 108 and American X-4) and a largely inefficient research and acquisition 

structure, one in which (fortunately for the Allies) energetic effort could not 

compensate for lack of clear-headed and pragmatic guidance and oversight.18

One major German technical development, however, profoundly influenced 

postwar global aviation: the high-speed swept wing. The swept wing had 

appeared before World War I, conceived as a means of permitting the design of 

safe, stable, and tailless flying wings. It imposed “self-damping” inherent stability upon the flying wing, and, as a result, many flying wing gliders and some 

powered aircraft appeared in the interwar years. In the 1930s, Adolf Busemann 

postulated a different use of the swept wing as a means of alleviating the 

deleterious effects of transonic flow as a wing approached and exceeded the 

speed of sound. Busemann enunciated the concept at the October 1935 Volta 

Congress on High Speeds in Aviation, held at Guidonia, Fascist Italy’s showcase 

aeronautical research establishment on the outskirts of Rome.19 (Surprisingly, 

it went almost unnoticed; its significance was missed entirely by the American 

delegation, which included no less than GALCIT’s Theodore von Kármán, the 

	 18.	 Commander	W.	E.	Sweeney	et	al.	to	Chief,	U.S.	Navy	Bureau	of	Aeronautics,	with	attached	“Resume	and	

Recommendations	on	High	Speed	Aircraft	Development”	(NavTechMisEu,	2	July	1945)	folder	6-2,	box	

6;	Diary	6	of	Clark	Millikan,	28	May–8	July	1945,	box	35;	both	in	Millikan	Papers,	Caltech.	

	 19.	 G.	 Arturo	 Crocco,	 “Le	 alte	 velocità	 in	 aviazione	 ed	 il	 Convegno	 Volta,”	 L’Aerotecnica	 15,	 nos.	

9–10	 (September–October	 1935),	 pp.	 851–915;	 A.	 Busemann,	 “Aerodynamische	 Auftrieb	 bei	

Überschallgeschwindigkeit,”	Luftfahrtforschung	12,	no.	6	(3	October	1935):	210–220;	Adolf	Busemann,	

“Compressible	Flow	in	the	Thirties,”	Annual Review of Fluid Mechanics	3	(1971):	6–11;	Carlo	Ferrari,	

“Recalling	the	Vth	Volta	Congress;	High	Speeds	in	Aviation,”	Annual Review of Fluid Mechanics	28	(1996):	

1–9;	Hans-Ulrich	Meier,	“Historischer	Rückblick	zur	Entwicklung	der	Hochgeschwindigkeitsaerodynamik,”	

in	Meier	et	al.,	Die Pfielflügelentwicklung in Deutschland bis 1945	(Bonn,	Germany:	Bernard	&	Graefe	

Verlag,	2006),	pp.	16–36.

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The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

Figure 6:	Shock	wave	pattern	formed	at	Mach	2.5	by	the	A4	V12/c,	a	swept-wing	variant	of	the	A-4	(V-2)	

missile,	1940.	Richard Lehnert, “Bericht über Dreikomponentenmessungen mit den Gleitermodellen A4 

V12/a und A4 V12/c,” Archiv Nr 66/34 (Peenemünde: Heeres-Versuchsstelle, 27 November 1940), Box 674, 

“C10/V-2/History” file, National Museum of the United States Air Force, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio

Bureau of Standards’ Hugh L. Dryden, and the NACA’s Eastman Jacobs).20 His 

fellow countryman Alexander Lippisch, a developer of self-stabilizing tailless 

swept-wing gliders, applied it subsequently to the Messerschmitt Me 163, though 

not (as has been mentioned) with any significant success. The Messerschmitt 

and Lippisch teams subsequently separated amid increasing acrimony and ill 

will; Lippisch turned increasingly toward the delta configuration, though with 

far “fatter” wing sections than desirable, and Messerschmitt to more conventional 

(but still quite radical for the time) swept configurations having tail surfaces. 

As a result, at the war’s end, Messerschmitt’s advanced design project office at 

Oberammergau had a wide range of experimental fighter projects under way, all 

exploiting the transonic swept wing. Other German manufacturers, notably the 

Focke-Wulf and Junkers concerns, had their own swept-wing fighter and bomber 

projects under way, and the swept wing had even flown (albeit unsuccessfully) 

	 20.	 Theodore	 von	Kármán,	with	 Lee	Edson,	 The Wind and Beyond: Theodore von Kármán—Pioneer in 

Aviation and Pathfinder in Space (Boston,	MA:	Little,	Brown	and	Co.,	1967),	pp.	216–217,	221–222;	

Eastman	N.	Jacobs,	“Memorandum	for	Engineer	in	Charge,	Subj.:	Trip	to	Europe,”	11	November	1935,	

p.	1,	in	Record	Group	255,	“Foreign	Aero	Officials	Germany	1936–37”	folder,	box	75,	U.S.	National	

Archives	and	Records	Administration,	Archives	II,	College	Park,	MD.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 7:	Robert	T.	Jones,	father	of	the	American	swept	wing.	NASA Image LMAL 48-705

on a modified variant of the V-2 missile, the A-4b. (This large swept-wing rocket, 

representative of an aircraft-type vehicle, successfully accelerated through the 

speed of sound but then, during reentry, broke up at approximately Mach 4). 

Among all German technical developments, even including the large rocket, the 

swept wing constituted the most distinctive element of Nazi-era aeronautics, at 

once hailed for its significance by virtually all Allied inspectors and, consequently, 

immediately “exported” to their own nations.21

	 21.	 L.	E.	Root,	“Information	on	Messerschmitt	Aircraft	Design,”	Items	No.	5	and	25,	File	No.	XXXII-37,	CIOS	

Target	Nos.	5/247	and	25/543,	Combined	Intelligence	Objectives	Subcommittee	G-2	Division	[CIOS	G2],	

SHAEF	(Rear),	August	1945,	pp.	3–4,	and	Lieutenant	Commander	M.	A.	Biot,	U.S.	Navy,	“Messerschmitt	

Advanced	Fighter	Designs,”	Item	No.	5,	File	No.	XXXII-41,	CIOS	G2,	July	1945,	pp.	4–8	and	figs.	1–4,	

both	in	Wright	Field	Microfilm	Collection,	D52.1/Messerschmitt/143–144,	NASM	Archives,	Garber	Facility;	

Ronald	 Smelt,	 “A	 Critical	 Review	 of	 German	 Research	 on	 High-Speed	 Airflow,”	 Journal of the Royal 

Aeronautical Society	50,	no.	432	(December	1946):	899–934;	U.S.	Army	Air	Forces,	“German	Aircraft,	

New	and	Projected	Types”	(1946),	A-1A/Germ/1945	file,	box	568,	Archives	of	the	National	Museum	of	the	

United	States	Air	Force,	Wright-Patterson	Air	Force	Base,	OH;	Theodore	von	Kármán,	“Where	We	Stand:	

First	Report	to	General	of	the	Army	H.	H.	Arnold	on	Long	Range	Research	Problems	of	the	AIR	FORCES	

with	a	Review	of	German	Plans	and	Developments,”	22	August	1945,	vol.	II-1,	copy	13,	including	Hsueshen	Tsien,	“Reports	on	the	Recent	Aeronautical	Developments	of	Several	Selected	Fields	in	Germany	and	

Switzerland,”	July	1945;	Hsue-shen	Tsien,	“High	Speed	Aerodynamics,”	December	1945;	F.	L.	Wattendorf,	

“Reports	on	Selected	Topics	of	German	and	Swiss	Aeronautical	Developments,”	June	1945,	copy	in	Henry	

H.	Arnold	Papers,	Microfilm	Reel	194,	Manuscript	Division,	Library	of	Congress.

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Figure 8:	Jones’s	initial	conception	of	the	swept	wing,	noting	his	briefing	to	AAF	Representative	Jean	

Roché	in	late	February	1945.	Robert T. Jones biographical file, NASA History Division, Washington, DC

237
NASA’s First 50 Years

In the case of the United States, the discovery by technical intelligence 

teams of the swept wing amid the rubble of Nazi Germany occurred roughly 

simultaneously with its independent invention in America by NACA researcher 

Robert T. Jones of the Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory. Assigned to 

assess the anticipated performance of a proposed glide bomb having large 

and sharply swept fins, Jones recognized that he could apply aerodynamic 

theory derived by Max Munk two decades previously to explain the flow 

field around an inclined airship hull. From this seemingly unlikely source, 

Jones derived, first, the sharply swept slender delta wing (thinner and more 

appropriate for high-speed flight than Lippisch’s thicker configurations) and 

the sharply swept transonic wing. Tested in early 1945 at Langley and at the 

Army’s Aberdeen experimental station, the Jones swept wing clearly pointed 

to the future direction of American aircraft design, though it remained as 

yet unproven.22 

In the spring and summer of 1945, the AAF and Navy sent two technical teams to Europe, the AAF Scientific Advisory Group (SAG) and the 

NavTechMisEu. Composed of academicians, aircraft designers, and military 

engineers, each swiftly uncovered overwhelming evidence of the Nazi German 

aircraft industry’s overwhelming interest in the swept wing. Through their 

studies and reports, the swept wing at once became both shorthand and 

symbol of both the “advanced state” of Nazi aeronautics and the mirror-image 

“backwardness” of the United States. To assess the swept wing’s low-speed 

behavior, the Navy and the NACA undertook productive low-speed flight 

tests on a propeller-driven Bell L-39 (a modified P-63 Kingcobra fighter) 

incorporating a 35-degree swept-wing configuration subsequently adopted 

for the famed F-86 jet fighter. 

The Sabre was one of two major AAF weapon acquisition programs—the 

other being the XB-47 jet bomber—converted from straight-wing to swept-wing 

designs. So attractive did the swept wing appear that the NACA briefly came 

under criticism by the AAF for not having suggested developing the Bell XS-1 

	 22.	 See	Robert	T.	Jones,	“Properties	of	Low-Aspect-Ratio	Pointed	Wings	at	Speeds	Below	and	Above	the	Speed	

of	Sound,”	NACA	TR	835	(11	May	1945),	and	his	“Wing	Planforms	for	High-Speed	Flight,”	NACA	Technical	

Note	1033	(1946,	but	issued	at	Langley	Memorial	Aeronautical	Laboratory	on	23	June	1945);	the	dates	

of	both	of	these	confirm	the	independence	of	his	work.	The	Munk	inspiration	came	from	Max	Munk’s	“The	

Aerodynamic	Forces	on	Airship	Hulls,”	NACA	Report	No.	184	(1923);	Robert	T.	Jones,	“Recollections	from	

an	Earlier	Period	in	American	Aeronautics,”	Annual Review of Fluid Mechanics	9 (1977):	1–11.	See	also	

Richard	P.	Hallion,	“Lippisch,	Gluhareff,	and	Jones:	The	Emergence	of	the	Delta	Planform	and	the	Origins	

of	the	Sweptwing	in	the	United	States,”	Aerospace Historian	26,	no.	1	(March	1979):	1–10.	

238
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

Figure 9:	The	North	American	Aviation	XP-86	Sabre,	the	first	jet-propelled	airplane	to	exceed	Mach	1	(in	

a	dive),	1948.	Air Force Flight Test Center History Office

Figure 10: The	Boeing	XB-47,	which	introduced	the	design	standard	of	wing-mounted	engine	pods	

combined	with	a	swept-wing	planform.	Air Force Flight Test Center History Office

239
NASA’s First 50 Years

from the outset as a swept-wing aircraft. (The agency, not unreasonably, replied 

that it had feared burdening the design with too many unknowns.) Accordingly, 

at AAF urging, the XS-1 program spawned a successor to the swept wing, the 

Bell XS-2 (later X-2), and the Navy, equally shocked by German swept-wing 

research, authorized the anticipated six-aircraft D-558 straight-wing program 

to be split into both a straight-wing variant (the D-558-1) and a swept-wing 

variant (the D-558-2) of three aircraft apiece. Unrelated to German research, 

the AAF already had a research program under way for a slender supersonic 

engine test bed, the Douglas XS-3 (later X-3). Two German design concepts 

greatly influenced both the Northrop XS-4 (later X-4) and Bell X-5. Despite 

intelligence reports that clearly enunciated potential difficulties at transonic 

speeds, Northrop (always interested in semitailless and tailless designs) received 

a contract to develop a research aircraft to explore the swept, self-stabilizing 

tailless design Lippisch had employed for the Messerschmitt Me 163 Komet. 

An abandoned Messerschmitt fighter project, the P 1101, inspired Bell Chief 

Engineer Robert J. Woods (one of the architects of the XS-1 program) to use 

its basic design configuration for a variable wing-sweep test bed. This became 

the Bell X-5, an impracticable if significant precursor to subsequent variable 

wing-sweep designs.

Together, these and others constituted what subsequent agency authorities 

termed a “Round One” of research airplanes: the Bell X-1, Bell X-2, Douglas 

X-3, Northrop X-4, Bell X-5, Consolidated Vultee (Convair) XF-92A, and Douglas 

D-558-1 and D-558-2. In all cases, the NACA worked with the military services 

(particularly the Air Force), which bore responsibility for acquiring the aircraft 

from industry and overseeing contractual execution. Additionally, they were 

tested at a new NACA research facility established on the shores of Rogers Dry 

Lake, the Muroc Flight Test Unit (later the NACA High-Speed Flight Research 

Station, then HSFS, and finally, in the NASA era, the FRC, now, since 1976, the 

DFRC) at Muroc (later Edwards) Air Force Base, California.23

Although used for many research purposes, including some unrelated to 

their original development, the “Round One” aircraft generally fell into two 

broad categories of research vehicles. Some were acquired to obtain basic 

high-speed aerodynamic information (for example, the X-1 and D-558-1). 

Others were developed to assess the performance, behavior, and handling 

	 23.	 For	the	history	of	DFRC	and	 its	predecessors,	 see	the	author’s	On the Frontier: Flight Research at 

Dryden, 1946–1981	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4303,	1984),	revised	in	the	late	1990s	by	Michael	H.	

Gorn	to	cover	later	years.

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The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

Figure 11: The	“Round	One”	Research	Aircraft,	1953.	From	the	lower	left	are	the	Bell	X-1A,	Douglas	

D-558-1,	Convair	XF-92A,	Bell	X-5,	Douglas	D-558-2,	and	Northrop	X-4.	At	the	center	is	the	Douglas	

X-3.	HSFS Image E-2889

qualities of a particular aerodynamic configuration, such as the D-558-2 and 

X-2 (transonic and supersonic swept wing), the X-4 (semitailless design), the 

X-5 (in-flight variable wing-sweeping), and the XF-92A (the transonic sharply 

swept delta wing). Despite its seeming “prototype fighter” designation, this 

latter aircraft was, in fact, a pure aerodynamic test bed originally conceived to 

support aerodynamic studies for a proposed rocket-ramjet-powered interceptor (the XP-92) that was never built. The Douglas X-3, intended for advanced 

Mach 2 turbojet propulsion testing, fell largely into the category of configuration explorers, as its performance (due to inadequate engines) never met its 

original performance goals, though it did furnish useful information on the 

behavior of slender aircraft having exceptionally high-fineness-ratio fuselages 

joined to thin, extremely low-aspect-ratio wings.

Flight experience with these aircraft generated a wide range of oftenmixed results. On 14 October 1947, flown by Air Force test pilot Charles 

“Chuck” Yeager, the first Bell XS-1 reached Mach 1.06, the first piloted supersonic flight, following air-launch from a modified Boeing B-29 Superfortress 

241
NASA’s First 50 Years

bomber. The flight was considered so risky that, afterward, the Air Force even 

considered awarding the pilot the Medal of Honor.24 The first supersonic 

flights of the first XS-1 (X-1) validated its thin-wing (8 percent thicknesschord ratio) design and adjustable (though not classically single-pivot) 

“all-moving” horizontal tail. Tests with the thicker-wing (10 percent thicknesschord ratio) second XS-1, and with the equally thick D-558-1, demonstrated 

that the seemingly small percentage nevertheless triggered early onset of 

a dramatic and energy-wasting drag rise in the transonic region.25 While 

the second X-1, thanks to its rocket engine, could still muscle its way into 

the supersonic region, the D-558-1 could not, only reaching Mach 1 on a 

single occasion in a brief dive. The X-1 likewise demonstrated the value of 

an adjustable horizontal stabilizer at transonic speeds. Though not, strictly 

speaking, an “all-moving” horizontal tail of the sort used by early aviation 

pioneers and stipulated by Miles for its abortive M.52 transonic research 

airplane, the adjustable horizontal tail greatly increased the transonic longitudinal (pitch, that is, nose-up or nose-down) control authority enjoyed by a 

pilot. It was a lesson taken to heart and applied first to the North American 

F-86E Sabre in time for Korean combat against the MiG-15 (which lacked 

such a benefit). Since the adjustable stabilizer greatly improved the Sabre 

pilot’s ability to turn tightly at transonic speeds, critical to “pulling lead” on 

a hard-maneuvering MiG so as to place the gunsight “pipper” so the Sabre’s 

six .50 caliber machine guns could hose the target, it may be concluded 

that this NACA-recommended and proven control concept played a major 

role in ensuring the destruction of at least many of the 800+ MiG-15s shot 

down by F-86s during the Korean conflict. The adjustable horizontal stabilizer was subsequently supplanted by the single-pivot “slab” all-moving 

tail incorporated on virtually all American and foreign fighters and other 

high-performance aircraft beginning with the North American YF-100 Super 

	 24.	 See	Lieutenant	General	B.	K.	Chidlaw,	U.S.	Air	Force,	to	General	M.	S.	Fairchild,	U.S.	Air	Force,	7	July	

1948;	Fairchild	to	Chidlaw,	7	July	1948;	and	Lawrence	Bell	to	Chidlaw,	11	June	1948,	all	in	the	papers	

of	Muir	S.	Fairchild,	“Air	Materiel	Command	48-49”	file,	box	3,	Manuscript	Division,	Library	of	Congress,	

Washington,	DC.	See	also	“Congressional	Medal	for	Yeager,”	Aviation Week (21	June	1948):	58.	Yeager	

justly	received	the	Mackay	Trophy	for	the	flight	and	shared	a	Collier	Trophy	with	Stack	and	Lawrence	

Bell.	 He	 later	received	 a	 special	 Congressional	Medal	 of	 Honor	for	the	 flight,	 akin	to	that	 awarded	

Lindbergh	for	his	pioneering	flight	across	the	North	Atlantic.

	 25.	 For	 the	 detailed	 story	 of	 these	 two	 programs,	 see	 the	 author’s	 Supersonic Flight: Breaking the 

Sound Barrier and Beyond—The Story of the Bell X-1 and Douglas D-558 (New	York,	NY:	Macmillan	

in	association	with	the	Smithsonian	 Institution,	1972),	reissued	 in	an	expanded	 version	 in	1997	by	

Brassey’s,	London,	U.K.

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The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

Sabre and the Soviet Mikoyan MiG-19, the first supersonic “on the level” jet 

fighters of the United States and the Soviet Union.26

Slightly over six years after the Yeager flight, on 20 November 1953, flying 

the second Douglas D-558-2 (modified to all-rocket propulsion and air-launched 

from a Boeing P2B-1S mother ship, a “navalized” B-29), NACA research pilot 

A. Scott Crossfield extended the piloted supersonic domain past Mach 2, 

attaining Mach 2.01. The swept-wing D-558-2 and Bell X-2 had no difficulty 

exceeding Mach 1 but had many quirks of their own. The D-558-2 exhibited 

pronounced aerodynamic “pitchup” during transonic turns, a combination of 

swept-wing aerodynamic behavior and the high-fin placement of its horizontal 

tail. The lesson, as incorporated on subsequent American jet fighters such as 

the North American F-100, Republic F-105, and Grumman F11F-1 (and many 

foreign designs as well, such as the MiG-19, Folland Gnat, and English Electric 

Lightning F.Mk. 1), was to place the horizontal tail low on the aft section of 

the fuselage, rather than high on the vertical fin.27

The X-1 spawned an advanced family of Mach 2+ aircraft (the X-1A, 

X-1B, and X-1D), which had greater fuel capacity and revised propulsion and 

cockpit design. These, together with the Bell X-2 and Douglas X-3, exhibited 

dangerous coupled motion instability at supersonic speeds—combined lateral 

(rolling) and directional (yawing) motions. This behavior, predicted at Langley 

Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory by William Phillips in 1948, well before being 

encountered in flight, reflected both their design (aircraft with relatively short 

wingspans and long fuselages, thus loaded primarily along the fuselage and not 

the wing) and deterioration in directional stability characteristic with increasing 

Mach number. These experiences—nearly fatal with the X-1A and X-3—were 

fatal with the North American YF-100A Super Sabre, a new fighter aircraft too 

hastily introduced into service, and with the Bell X-2 rocket-propelled research 

airplane. On 27 September 1956, the latter claimed Milburn Apt, arguably then 

the Air Force’s most experienced test pilot with coupled motion instability, 

	 26.	 Walter	C.	Williams,	“Instrumentation,	Airspeed	Calibration,	Tests,	Results,	and	Conclusions,”	in	U.S.	Air	

Force,	Air Force Supersonic Research Airplane XS-1, Report	No.	1	(9	January	1948),	copy	in	NASA	

Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	 History	 Division,	 NASA	 Headquarters,	Washington,	 DC;	W.	 C.	

Williams	and	A.	S.	Crossfield,	“Handling	Qualities	of	High-Speed	Airplanes,” Research	Memorandum	

(RM)	L52A08	(28	January	1952);	James	O.	Young,	Meeting the Challenge of Supersonic Flight	(Edwards	

Air	Force	Base,	CA:	Air	Force	Flight	Test	Center	[AFFTC],	1997).	I	also	benefited	from	a	5	December	

2008	conversation	with	Major	General	Fred	J.	Ascani,	U.S.	Air	Force	(ret.),	who	test-flew	all	variants	of	

the	F-86	and	also	the	X-1,	X-4,	X-5,	and	XF-92A.

	 27.	 NACA	Flight	Test	Progress	Reports	for	the	D-558-2	#2,	dated	15	August	1949	and	14	November	1949;	

I	also	benefited	from	an	interview	with	D-558-2	research	pilot	Robert	Champine,	11	November	1971.

243
NASA’s First 50 Years

who perished on the world’s first Mach 3 piloted flight when his X-2 tumbled 

out of control after attaining Mach 3.2. Inertial coupling was overcome only 

by increasing reliance upon stability augmentation technology, increasing the 

size of vertical and tail surfaces, and, eventually, the near-standardization upon 

twin vertical fins for high-speed aircraft, evident after 1970 with aircraft such 

as the F-14, F-15, F-18, MiG-29, and Su-27.28

Like the Messerschmitt Me 163 that had inspired it, the X-4 encountered 

serious longitudinal sine-wave-like “roller-coaster” motions at transonic speeds, 

which its pilots compared to driving over a washboard road. Fortunately, since 

its testing was conducted at higher altitudes under conditions of lower dynamic 

pressure (“low q” in engineering shorthand) and because it had large, rapidly 

opening aerodynamic speed brakes prudently incorporated in its design, it 

avoided the dangers Nazi pilots had routinely risked with the Me 163; it also 

avoided the even more calamitous flight experience of Britain’s three de 

Havilland D.H. 108 Swallows, another Komet-inspired design, one of which 

disintegrated in September 1946 at Mach 0.87 during an abrupt divergent pitch 

at low altitude (and hence “high q”), killing pilot Geoffrey de Havilland, son 

of the firm’s founder and one of Britain’s most distinguished and experienced 

test pilots. The experience with the X-4, coupled with this earlier evidence of 

technical insufficiency leading to in-flight hazard, prevented the semitailless 

swept-wing configuration from becoming the “mainstream” design element 

of the transonic era that its proponents had hoped, unlike the conventional 

tailed swept wing or the triangular delta wing.29

The X-5 variable-sweep and XF-92A delta test beds explored wing configurations that did become standard design practice, though neither was as widely 

adopted as the generic swept wing. Like virtually all of the X series, neither 

was trouble- or quirk-free. The variable-sweep X-5’s “single pivot” technical 

approach proved miscast—it necessitated the incorporation of a heavy “railroad 

	 28.	 Joseph	Weil,	Ordway	B.	Gates,	Jr.,	Richard	D.	Banner,	and	Albert	E.	Kuhl,	“Flight	Experience	of	Inertia	

Coupling	in	Rolling	Maneuvers,”	RM	H55WEIL	(1955);	HSFS,	“Flight	Experience	With	Two	High-Speed	

Airplanes	Having	Violent	Lateral-Longitudinal	Coupling	in	Aileron	Rolls,”	RM	H55A13	(1955);	Hubert	M.	

Drake	and	Wendell	H.	Stillwell,	“Behavior	of	the	Bell	X-1A	Research	Airplane	During	Exploratory	Flights	

at	Mach	Numbers	Near	2.0	and	at	Extreme	Altitudes,”	RM	H55G25	(1955);	Hubert	M.	Drake,	Thomas	

W.	Finch,	and	James	R.	Peele,	“Flight	Measurements	of	Directional	Stability	to	a	Mach	Number	of	1.48	

for	an	Airplane	Tested	with	Three	Different	Vertical	Tail	Configurations,”	RM	H55G26	(1955);	Walter	C.	

Williams	and	William	H.	Phillips,	“Some	Recent	Research	on	the	Handling	Qualities	of	Airplanes,”	RM	

H55L29a	(1956);	 Bell	X-2	#1	Accident	 Report,	copy	 in	History	Office	archives,	AFFTC,	Edwards	Air	

Force	Base,	CA.

	 29.	 See	Williams	and	Crossfield,	“Handling	Qualities	of	High-Speed	Airplanes.”

244
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

track” within the airplane over which the wing roots could move to adjust 

for changes in center of pressure as the wing closed to maximum sweepback 

(wing root forward) or extended to minimum sweep position (wing root aft). 

Nevertheless, the X-5 validated the benefits of variable sweep, demonstrating 

that an airplane could fly with an extensible “straight” wing furnishing good 

low-speed takeoff and landing performance, adjustable to moderate sweep for 

good transonic performance, and adjustable to sharp sweepback for supersonic 

flight. In a fashion, variable wing sweeping was analogous to development 

of the controllable-pitch propeller in the interwar years, which had enabled 

the extraction of maximum engine performance across the entire range of the 

aircraft’s performance envelope. Grumman prematurely attempted to develop 

a single-pivot variable sweep fighter, the XF10F-1 Jaguar, but without success, 

as it attempted to accomplish too much and had a poorly designed and unreliable power plant. In the mid-1950s, Langley Laboratory’s William Alford and 

Edward Polhamus conceptualized (as did Barnes Wallis independently in Great 

Britain) the “outboard” wing pivot. This made variable sweep a practicality, as 

subsequently incorporated on aircraft such as the General Dynamics F-111, the 

Grumman F-14, the Rockwell B-1, and foreign equivalents, though its inherent 

complexity and associated weight penalty ensured that it was never adopted 

as broadly as the “fixed” swept wing.30

The XF-92A, built as a flying delta test bed, validated the thin, low-aspectratio triangular wing.31 In contrast to popular myth, this aircraft and all the 

Convair delta aircraft that followed owed nothing to the delta wing research 

of Alexander Lippisch. Actually, Convair engineers conceptualized the delta 

for this design before becoming aware of Lippisch’s work, and, in any case, 

	 30.	 Edward	N.	Videan,	“Flight	Measurements	of	the	Dynamic	Lateral	and	Longitudinal	Stability	of	the	Bell	

X-5	Research	Airplane	at	58.7	Deg.	Sweepback,”	RM	H55H10	(1955);	for	its	origins,	see	Robert	Perry,	

“Variable	Sweep:	A	 Case	 History	 of	Multiple	 Re-Innovation,”	 RAND	Study	P-3459	 (October	1966).	 I	

recall	 with	 pleasure	many	 conversations	 with	 the	 late	 Robert	 Perry	 and	 acknowledge	 with	 grateful	

appreciation	his	contributions	to	my	professional	development	and	thinking	on	aircraft	evolution.	For	an	

excellent	technical	survey,	see	Robert	W.	Kress,	“Variable	Sweep	Wing	Design,”	in	Aircraft Prototype 

and Technology Demonstrator Symposium,	 ed.	 Norman	 C.	 Baullinger (Dayton,	 OH:	AIAA,	1983),	 pp.	

43–61.	For	subsequent	adaptation	of	variable	sweep	on	its	most	famous—or	infamous,	in	the	early	

years—subject,	the	“TFX”	(F-111),	see	U.S.	Cong.,	Senate	Committee	on	Government	Operations,	TFX 

Contract Investigation (Second Series), Pt.	3,	Hearings,	15,	16,	22,	24,	and	28	April	1970	(Washington,	

DC:	GPO,	1970),	pp.	537–538,	and	 U.S.	 Cong.,	Senate,	TFX	 Contract	 Investigation,	 Report	No.	91-

1496	(Washington,	DC:	GPO,	1970),	pp.	5–16,	90.	A	useful	international	historical	perspective	is	found	

in	“The	Annals	of	the	Polymorph,”	Part	3,	Air International	8,	no.	5	(May	1975):	249–257.

	 31.	 Earl	R.	Keener	and	Gareth	H.	Jordan,	“Wing	Pressure	Distributions	Over	the	Lift	Range	of	the	Convair	

XF-92A	Delta-Wing	Airplane	at	Subsonic	and	Transonic	Speeds,”	RM	H55G07	(1955).

245
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 12: Richard	T.	Whitcomb	with	an	area-ruled	swept-wing	research	model.	NASA Image L-89119

his technical approach was dramatically different from their own, with thicksection wings that NACA testing at Langley Laboratory proved completely 

unsuitable for the requirements of practical transonic and supersonic flight. 

Rather, the Convair delta was much more like Robert T. Jones’s initial concept 

of the very thin delta in 1944 (indeed, for years, he used his original wind 

tunnel model of the wing as a letter opener, a testament to its “dagger”-like 

qualities).32 However, in one important respect, the XF-92A contributed markedly to transonic design theory, for its drag rise was so high that, despite its 

refined aerodynamic configuration, it could only marginally attain supersonic 

speed, and then only in the course of a high-speed dive. Its “operational” successor, the prototype Convair YF-102 Delta Dagger interceptor, experienced 

an identical problem, as did a prototype naval fighter, the Grumman F9F-9 

	 32.	 I	 wish	 to	 acknowledge	 with	 grateful	 appreciation	 a	 conversation	 with	 Dr.	 Robert	 T.	 Jones	 at	 ARC,	

Sunnyvale,	CA,	on	14	July	1977;	at	that	time,	he	showed	me	his	original	“dagger”	tunnel	model	and	

graciously	donated	it	for	the	collections	of	NASM.

246
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

Tiger, disconcerting military planners who recognized that both planes had 

little prospect of achieving their planned supersonic dash speed. The XF-92A, 

YF-102, and F9F-9 Tiger exemplified the additive properties of transonic airframe drag rise, in which the summation of drags and their interactions was 

greater than the summation of the drag of individual components. It was a 

problem overcome only with development of a new concept of body shaping, 

the concept of “area ruling.”33

The area rule stemmed from the work of research engineer Richard T. 

Whitcomb, who drew upon a new NACA tool, the transonic slotted-throat wind 

tunnel. The product of Langley’s Ray Wright, John Stack, and a team of other 

researchers, the slotted-throat tunnel largely (though not completely) overcame 

the problem of tunnel choking that had so plagued prewar investigators and 

triggered development of the X series. Whitcomb exploited both his experience 

in the new tunnel and exposure to a seminal lecture to Langley Laboratory 

staff by Adolf Busemann (who had been brought to America under Project 

Paperclip, the exploitation program for incorporating Nazi scientists and engineers in American aeronautics and rocketry development) to derive a refined 

appreciation of transonic drag rise (transonic wave drag) and how it might be 

mitigated by proper shaping of the wing-fuselage juncture. Whitcomb realized 

that, for analytical purposes, an airplane could be reduced to a streamlined 

body of revolution, elongated as much as possible to mitigate abrupt discontinuities and, hence, equally abrupt drag rise. When protrusions occurred—for 

example, the wing projecting from the fuselage—the fuselage itself could be 

narrowed, so that the cross-sectional area development of the design remained 

at a minimum. Whitcomb called his concept “area ruling:” experimentally verified by further tunnel testing, by tests of large-scale rocket-propelled models 

fired from the Wallops Island Pilotless Aircraft Research Division, and by flight 

testing with redesigned F-102 and F9F-9 aircraft (the latter redesignated the 

F11F to signify its extensive reshaping), area ruling’s “wasp-waisting” became 

one of the key visible markers of transonic and supersonic aircraft design, most 

notably, perhaps, on the Republic F-105 Thunderchief nuclear strike fighter 

and on the Northrop N-156 prototype that spawned both the lightweight 

F-5 fighter and the ubiquitous T-38 supersonic trainer. It certainly saved the 

Air Force’s “1954 Interceptor” program: it reduced transonic wave drag by 

	 33.	 See	Lieutenant	General	L.	C.	Craigie,	U.S.	Air	Force,	to	General	Hoyt	S.	Vandenberg,	U.S.	Air	Force,	

regarding	“Engineering	Status	of	Fighter	Airplanes,”	18	March	1953,	“ESOFA”	file,	box	85,	papers	of	

Hoyt	S.	Vandenberg,	Manuscript	Division,	Library	of	Congress,	Washington,	DC.

247
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 13: The	Convair	YF-102	Delta	Dagger	interceptor,	as	originally	flown	without	area	ruling.	Convair

Figure 14:	The	YF-102A,	with	area	ruling,	longer	length	(hence	higher	fineness	ratio),	and	shock	bodies	

flanking	the	tail	cone.	AFFTC

248
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

approximately a third (comparing full-scale test results with the initial YF-102 

prototype against those of the area-ruled F-102A), turning the troubled F-102 

into a success, earning plaudits for the NACA and a richly deserved Collier 

Trophy for Whitcomb himself.34

The “Round One” research airplanes contributed significantly to fundamental 

understanding in four major areas and thus, as well, to future aircraft design 

practice. The price for this was nine aircraft destroyed, with five aircrew killed 

(four pilots and one on-board technician) and others injured. Ironically, only 

one (the X-2 #1, lost in 1956 from inertial coupling at nearly Mach 3.2) came 

close to “pushing the envelope” at high Mach. Seven were propulsion-related 

losses. Four rocket-propelled research aircraft (the X-1 #3, X-1A, X-1D, and 

X-2 #2) exploded on the ground or in the air from frozen leather seals contaminated with tricresylphosphate detonating under the jolt of pressurization. 

These catastrophes—the cause of which took far too long to identify—claimed 

two Boeing EB-50 Superfortress launch airplanes as well. The seventh was a 

D-558-1 #2 that crashed on takeoff due to turbine disintegration that severed 

its control lines. The X-5 #2 crashed when its pilot inadvertently entered an 

unrecoverable (and fatal) spin. 

For this price, the program returned vital knowledge and stimulus within 

the following:

• 

• 

• 

Aerodynamics, including validating and interpreting tunnel test data, 

aerodynamic heating, lift and drag studies, and inlet and duct studies.

Flight loads, including load distribution with increasing Mach number, 

the effect of wing sweep on gust loadings, gustiness at high altitudes, 

buffeting from transonic maneuvering, transonic and supersonic 

aeroelastic structural effects, and the effect of stability reduction upon 

flight loads.

Stability and control, including longitudinal (pitch) control over the 

transonic/supersonic range, the effectiveness of blunt trailing edge control 

	 34.	 Richard	T.	Whitcomb,	“A	Study	of	the	Zero-Lift	Drag-Rise	Characteristics	of	Wing-Body	Combinations	

Near	the	Speed	of	Sound,”	NACA	RM	L52H08	(1952);	Richard	T.	Whitcomb	and	Thomas	C.	Kelly,	“A	

Study	of	the	Flow	Over	a	45	Deg.	Sweptback	Wing-Fuselage	Combination	at	Transonic	Mach	Numbers,”	

RM	 L52D01	 (1952);	 Richard	T.	Whitcomb,	 “Some	 Considerations	 Regarding	 the	Application	 of	 the	

Supersonic	Area	Rule	to	the	Design	of	Airplane	Fuselages,”	RM	L56E23a	(1956);	Edwin	J.	Saltzman	

and	Theodore	G.	Ayers,	Selected Examples of NACA/NASA Supersonic Flight Research	(Edwards,	CA:	

SP-513,	DFRC,	1995),	p.	15,	fig.	7;	Lane	E.	Wallace,	“The	Whitcomb	Area	Rule:	NACA	Aerodynamics	

Research	and	Innovation,”	in	From Engineering Science to Big Science: The NACA and NASA Collier 

Trophy Research Project Winners,	ed.	Pamela	E.	Mack	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4219,	1998),	pp.	

135–148.

249
NASA’s First 50 Years

surfaces, the alleviation of aerodynamic pitch-up by wing devices, the 

effect of the inertial axis upon lateral stability, exhaust jet impingement 

and directional stability, inertial (roll-yaw-pitch) coupling, directional 

instability at increasing Mach numbers, and the use of reaction control 

thrusters in low dynamic pressure (“low q”) flight.

• 

• 

Operations, including high-speed flight-test exploration, speed loss in 

maneuvering flight, high-altitude problems, pressure suit research and use, 

airspeed measurement, and variable wing-sweep over the transonic range.

Aircraft design practices, including employing the thin, low-aspectratio swept-and-delta wing planform as a “normative” configuration for 

transonic and supersonic flight; using refined aerodynamic “fixes” and 

design approaches such as vortex generators on wing and tail surfaces 

and extended “saw-tooth” leading edges; incorporating adjustable 

horizontal stabilizers for transonic longitudinal control (and the allmoving tailplane subsequently); relocating the horizontal tail to the 

lower aft fuselage from its traditional position either at the top of the 

fuselage or, in the early jet era, at the midfin or top-of-the-vertical fin 

position; increasing vertical fin areas, adding ventral fins, and adopting 

twin vertical fins; employing variable wing-sweeping to impart good lowspeed, transonic, and supersonic aerodynamic performance; employing 

area ruling on new transonic designs; and stimulating development and 

application of improved flight control technology, particularly stability 

augmentation systems to overcome transonic and supersonic inertial 

coupling, reduced directional stability, and longitudinal trim changes 

resulting from fluctuating shock wave and center of lift positioning.

Beyond this, by painstakingly evaluating the nuances and quirks of many 

new aircraft configurations and then assessing them against existing design 

specification criteria, the NACA identified serious and growing divergences in 

new aircraft performance away from desired behavior criteria, particularly those 

dealing with roll (lateral) and yaw (directional) stability.35 Such documented 

research led to revised specification requirements, accelerated appreciation 

for the need for artificial stability augmentation, and resulted in the derivation of new quantitative criteria for evaluating aircraft performance from the 

	 35.	 For	example,	see	figures	7	and	8	in	the	previously	cited	Williams	and	Phillips,	“Recent	Research	on	

the	Handling	Qualities	of	Airplanes,”	RM	H55L29a,	and	an	earlier	Ames	investigation,	Charles	J.	Liddell,	

Jr.,	Brent	Y.	Creer,	and	Rudolph	Van	Dyke,	Jr.,	“A	Flight	Study	of	Requirements	for	Satisfactory	Lateral	

Oscillatory	Characteristics	of	Fighter	Aircraft,”	RM	A51E16	(1951).

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The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

“cockpit” standpoint, namely the now-universally employed “Cooper-Harper 

Rating.” Named for Ames Laboratory research pilot George Cooper and Cornell 

Aeronautical Laboratory research pilot John Harper, the Cooper-Harper scale 

grew out of Ames and Cornell research with early variable-stability research 

airplanes, the former with a modified Grumman F6F Hellcat and the latter with 

a modified Vought F4U Corsair and, subsequently, a Douglas B-26 Invader and 

Lockheed NT-33 Shooting Star. Translating pilot reaction to modifications to 

the aircraft’s flight control system (and hence performance) into quantifiable 

data proved so challenging that both Cooper and Harper began searching for a 

more precise means of ensuring that test pilots, worldwide, could “speak” the 

same language when evaluating the response and utility of new aircraft designs. 

Over nearly 20 years of fruitful collaboration, they derived, reviewed, and 

implemented a scale that NASA released in 1969; it was swiftly and universally 

adopted across the aerospace community.36 The Cooper-Harper rating scale, as 

much a fixture of test pilot training and practice as reliance upon computerbased data reduction, must be counted as one of the NACA and NASA’s most 

significant aeronautical accomplishments in the supersonic-hypersonic era.

As hinted at the beginning of this essay, by the time of the creation of 

NASA, the “pioneering days” of supersonic flight had passed, and the “macro” 

performance boundaries of future transonic and supersonic aircraft—to Mach 

0.82+ at over 40,000 feet for commercial air transports, and to Mach 2+ at over 

60,000 feet for the most advanced military aircraft—were well established. 

Generally speaking, a half century later, they remain unchanged. From this 

point on, emphasis would be upon refining explicit aircraft performance 

parameters and capabilities within these general boundaries, for example, 

delaying transonic shock formation by tailored supercritical airfoils; improving 

supersonic lift-to-drag and cruise efficiencies; refining aerodynamic-structuralpropulsion integration; enhancing control efficiencies as evidenced by the 

fly-by-wire revolution; exploring exploitation of advanced electronic stability 

and control architectures with relaxed-stability (or even inherently unstable) 

aircraft configurations made possible by the composite revolution to generate previously unattainable designs, such as optimized low observable (LO) 

	 36.	 George	E.	Cooper	and	Robert	P.	Harper,	Jr.,	“The	Use	of	Pilot	Rating	in	the	Evaluation	of	Aircraft	Handling	

Qualities,”	NASA	TN	D-5153	(1969).	For	an	excellent	discussion	on	the	background	of	Cooper-Harper,	

see	George	Cooper,	Bob	Harper,	and	Roy	Martin,	“SETP	Panel	on	Pilot	Rating	Scales,”	XLVIII Symposium 

Proceedings: 2004 Report to the Aerospace Profession (Lancaster,	CA:	Society	of	Experimental	Test	

Pilots,	2004),	pp.	319–337.	I	have	also	benefited	from	conversations	with	George	Cooper,	Bob	Harper,	

and	the	late	Waldemar	“Walt”	Breuhaus,	father	of	American	V-Stab	research	at	Cornell.

251
NASA’s First 50 Years

(e.g., “stealth” reduced radar cross-section [RCS]) aircraft, high-aspect-ratio 

“spanloaders,” and highly agile transonic and supersonic aircraft (exemplified by the X-29 and X-31); enhancing the thrust-to-weight and reliability of 

the gas turbine power plant itself; searching for cleaner, more efficient highperformance engines; and tailoring supersonic aircraft shapes to reduce sonic 

boom formation and impingement. This continuing refinement defined NASA’s 

aeronautics endeavors in the transonic and supersonic field in the post-1958 

period, replacing the “epic” search for solutions and basic knowledge that had 

characterized the work of the NACA in the “crisis” days of early transonic and 

supersonic exploration when the transonic slotted throat tunnel was a thing 

of the future and the transonic-supersonic research airplane the most reliable 

(if risky) means of securing “real world” data.

While continuing refinement of ground test, flight test, and predictive 

methodologies (such as the advent of computer-based CFD aerodynamic 

modeling and structural prediction via programs such as NASTRAN and the 

Flexible Airplane Analysis Computer System [FLEXSTAB]) greatly assisted this 

refinement process, the traditional intuitive insight found within NASA’s largely 

empirical research process proved consistently most valuable. Over the 43-year 

history of the NACA and the 50-year history of NASA that has followed, the 

Agency has maintained a developmental approach that is, at once, emulative, 

opportunistic, innovative, integrative, and, at key times, fortunate. NACA and 

NASA researchers have proven quick to seize ideas and concepts derived 

elsewhere (emulation); take advantage of circumstances and the ability to be a 

“fast second” (technological opportunism); and add insightful work, features, or 

capabilities (innovation), all while maintaining a generally broad “total system” 

focus and analytical approach (integration). They were fortunate to be able 

to do this in the 1930s, adapting and exploiting technology available to other 

nations, but not pursued by them because they generally lacked the readily 

available resources and wealth then available to the United States. The same 

situation occurred after World War II and even at the height of the Cold War 

that succeeded it. Where fortune failed, however—as with the failure to recognize the significance of the swept wing at the Volta Conference, the failure 

to pursue the gas turbine until confronted with evidence of foreign success, 

or the failure to anticipate both Sputnik and its likely impact—the price in 

delayed research and practical implementation, and certainly the price in the 

Agency’s reputation as a center of technical excellence, was high.

Generally speaking, however, the NACA’s and NASA’s work in the difficult years of the transonic and supersonic era was overwhelmingly excellent, 

as evidenced by the frequent requests by foreign governments and research 

252
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

establishments for reports and familiarization visits. Continuing a trend found 

in global aeronautics in the late 1930s, both foreign and American companies 

in the postwar years generally looked to the NACA as the recognized global 

authority (certainly in the West) on aircraft design and research. On the other 

hand, what many of these companies did with the products of NACA research 

was quite something else, with companies and even the military services often 

entranced with the technologically fanciful at the expense of the militarily and 

commercially justifiable.

For example, of 25 Air Force fighter development programs contemplated 

or actually executed between 1946 and 1972, only 3 could be considered 

unqualified successes; of the rest, 10 required extensive work to be made into 

satisfactory aircraft, and 12 others were either unrealistic or mission-limited 

disappointments. (The Navy experience over the same period is equally bleak, 

with 3 successes, 6 “made to work,” and 10 unrealistic or incapable of meeting 

desired requirements).37 Among these are Mach 3+ interceptors (too temperamental and complex to meet the “no notice” alert requirement), sled-launched 

rocket-boosted ramjets (utterly unrealistic), tail-sitting vertical short takeoff 

and landing (VSTOL) fighters (also unrealistic), and flashy high-performance 

speedsters of limited range, duration, and weapons carriage. Bombers went 

down an equivalent path with the Mach 2+ B-58 and the experimental Mach 3+ 

XB-70A: neither proved adequate for the threat environment each was likely to 

encounter, and neither outlasted older legacy systems—notably the venerable 

B-52—that proved more flexible and adaptable. High-speed knowledge and 

acumen, in short, did not guarantee industry and the military services the ability 

to develop satisfactory operational aircraft. The need for blending technology 

with appropriate doctrine and defined operational requirements was ignored 

	 37.	 The	three	successes	in	this	time	period	are	the	F-86,	F-4,	and	F-5.	The	10	troublesome	“made	to	

work”	are	the	F-84	(both	straight	and	swept	wing),	the	F-86D	(an	interceptor	derivation	so	different	

from	the	F-86	as	to	be	essentially	a	new	airplane	[and	which	was	known,	albeit	briefly,	as	the	YF-95,	a	

separate	designation	it	likely	should	have	retained]),	F-89,	F-94,	F-100,	F-101,	F-102,	F-105,	F-106,	

and	F-111A,	D,	E,	and	F.	The	unrealistic	or	mission-limited	include	the	XF-85,	XF-87,	XF-88,	XF-90,	

XF-91,	XP-92,	YF-93,	F-103,	F-104,	F-108,	F-109,	and	YF-12.	Of	the	Navy	aircraft	over	the	same	

time	period,	the	F8U	(F-8),	F4H	(F-4),	and	F-14	constitute	genuine	successes	(though	the	latter	was	

never	as	well	developed	afterward	as	it	should	have	been).	The	F9F	(F-9,	both	straight	and	swept	wing),	

F3D	(F-10),	F2H	(F-2),	F4D	(F-6),	FJ	(F-1),	and	AV-8	constitute	“made	to	work”	aircraft	that	required	

extensive	developmental	work	but	were	generally	(some,	like	the	F2H,	very)	useful.	The	FR-1,	F2R-1,	

XFY-1,	XFV-1,	XF2Y-1,	XF10F-1,	F5D-1,	XF8U-3,	F3H	(F-3),	F11F	(F-11),	and	F-111B	were	unrealistic	

or	operationally	deficient	aircraft.	Designations	in	parentheses	reflect	the	post-1962	McNamara-era	

rationalization	of	AF,	USN,	and	USMC	fighter	designations,	a	rationalization	that,	like	many	of	his	policies,	

likewise	proved	a	disappointment.

253
NASA’s First 50 Years

in favor of some other value (speed, rate of climb, or exotic propulsion), resulting in wasted effort. The same, of course, was evident in the civilian world, 

with the great effort expended on developing a Mach 2.7 supersonic transport. 

Under the aegis of the Supersonic Commercial Air Transport program, the NACA 

and NASA, building upon Langley Laboratory work with the outboard-pivot 

variable-sweep wing, Whitcomb’s own continued refinement of supersonic wing 

shaping, and Ames Laboratory development of slender delta and compression 

lift theory (manifested subsequently in the XB-70 development effort), greatly 

influenced both federal government and contractor expectations of what such 

a supersonic transport should be.38 But a host of factors—fuel economy, performance efficiency, likely utilization, environmental concerns, political circumstances, and antitechnological bias—worked to frustrate both their efforts 

and those of supersonic transport partisans outside the Agency, derailing the 

program and not even allowing it to proceed to prototype development. By 

the late 1970s, NASA was moving in a far different direction: following rising 

fuel prices—airline jet fuel costs tripled between 1973 and 1975, following the 

Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) quadrupling the price 

of fuel in 1973 and then tripling that price in following years—the Agency 

embarked on an ACEE program to improve fuel efficiency, one emphasizing 

economical and firmly transonic performance.39

From 1944 to 1945, Jones had enunciated and promulgated the American 

swept wing; in the late 1940s, Wright and Stack had generated the slotted throat 

transonic tunnel; in the early 1950s, Whitcomb evolved area ruling. All had 

materially enhanced the transonic behavior of high-performance aircraft. As well, 

all spoke to improving the various efficiencies of flight—increasing transonic 

lift-to-drag values, reducing drag in general, and increasing speed (hence the 

relative propulsive efficiency of the airplane) and range. By the late 1950s, the 

United States had emerged as the dominant global jet power: with global-ranging 

commercial transports, such as the Boeing 707 and Douglas DC-8, reshaping 

the nature of international air commerce and global-ranging transonic bombers, such as the B-47 and B-52, maintaining one of the three pillars of a nuclear 

triad—aircraft, land-based missiles, and missile submarines—the United States 

	 38.	 For	example,	see	Richard	T.	Whitcomb	and	John	R.	Sevier,	“A	Supersonic	Area	Rule	and	an	Application	

to	the	Design	of	a	Wing-Body	Combination	with	High	Lift-Drag	Ratios,”	TR	R-72	(1960).

	 39.	 See	Erik	M.	Conway,	High-Speed Dreams: NASA and the Technopolitics of Supersonic Transportation, 

1945–1999	 (Baltimore,	 MD:	 Johns	 Hopkins	 University	 Press,	 2005);	 Mel	 Horwitch,	 Clipped Wings: 

The American SST Conflict	(Cambridge,	MA:	MIT	Press,	1982);	and	Jeffrey	L.	Ethell,	Fuel Economy in 

Aviation	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-462,	1983).

254
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

came to characterize the “high end” of the spectrum of combat addressed by 

America’s Cold War military forces. A decade later, the fruition of this interest in 

the transonic had manifested itself in the design of new generations of jet transports to meet a broader range of needs, from business aviation through regional 

air transport, and on to mass global air movement, the latter exemplified by the 

Boeing 747, first of the so-called “jumbo” jets; the Boeing 747 carried at times 

over 400 passengers and would take global air mobility considerably beyond 

the era of the 140-passenger Boeing 707, though it experienced a protracted 

period of sluggish sales, delay, and rising costs, coincident with an air transport 

crisis inflamed, in part, by rising fuel costs.40

Again, the creativity of Richard Whitcomb would work to reshape the 

airplane to meet the challenge of more efficient and less costly flight. In 1941, 

von Kármán, looking for a method whereby the rigor of mathematical theory 

could assist “interpretation of experimental research and guidance in design,” 

concluded his essay by noting an international body of research strongly 

suggested “that careful theoretical and experimental research might be able 

to push the velocity of flying nearer to the velocity of sound than is possible 

now. The mere fact that the air passes over a wing with supersonic velocity 

does not necessarily involve the occurrence of a compressibility burble and 

energy loss by shock wave.”41 While, as John Becker noted bemusedly years 

later, the meanings of “these wise words were lost” for the next quarter century, nevertheless, finding a way to delay or minimize shock formation—to 

raise the critical Mach number of an airfoil, the speed where it forms a shock, 

with consequent drag rise, loss of lift, and formation of turbulent, separated 

flows—consumed much creative energy of the NACA’s and subsequently NASA’s 

transonic aerodynamicists.42

Out of these came three more distinctive Whitcomb contributions: the 

trailing-edge shock body, the supercritical wing (SCW), and the wingtip winglet. While the former did not become a mainstream design element—though 

it appeared on Convair’s unsuccessful (for reasons other than Whitcomb) 

990 jetliner—the latter, both the SCW and wingtip winglet, became (and will 

undoubtedly remain) standard design elements incorporated in military and civil 

	 40.	 See	Richard	P.	Hallion,	“Commercial	Aviation:	From	the	Benoist	Airboat	to	the	SST,	1914–1976,”	in	Two 

Hundred Years of Flight in America: A Bicentennial Survey,	ed.	Eugene	M.	Emme,	vol.	1	of	the	American	

Astronautical	Society	History	Series (San	Diego,	CA:	American	Astronautical	Society,	in	association	with	

the	NASM	and	the	Society	for	the	History	of	Technology,	1977),	pp.	169–171.

	 41.	 See	von	Kármán,	“Compressibility	Effects	in	Aerodynamics,”	337,	355.

	 42.	 See	Becker,	High-Speed Frontier,	p.	59.	

255
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 15: The	NASA	F-8	SCW	test	bed,	with	a	high-aspect-ratio	transport-optimized	wing	planform.	

NASA Image ECN 3468

aircraft alike. Following a four-year tunnel research program, NASA validated 

the SCW with two series of flight tests. North American Rockwell modified a 

straight-wing T-2C trainer to incorporate an SCW for initial low-speed testing, 

in analogous fashion to the Bell L-39’s earlier testing of a 35-degree swept 

wing in anticipation of its being incorporated on the prototype F-86 and B-47 

a quarter century before.43

Taking advantage of two easily convertible military aircraft, the high-wing 

Vought TF-8A Crusader and the variable-sweep General Dynamics F-111A 

	 43.	 Richard	T.	Whitcomb,	 “Special	 Bodies	Added	 on	 a	Wing	 to	 Reduce	 Shock	 Induced	 Boundary-Layer	

Separation	 at	 High	 Subsonic	 Speeds,”	 TN-4293	 (1958);	 John	 T.	 Kutney	 and	 Stanley	 P.	 Piszkin,	

“Reduction	of	Drag	Rise	of	the	Convair	990	Airplane,”	Journal of Aircraft	1,	no.	1	(January–February	

1964):	8–12;	Richard	T.	Whitcomb,	“Research	Associated	with	the	Langley	8-Foot	Tunnels	Branch,”	TM	

108686	(1970);	Flight	Research	Center,	“Supercritical	Wing	Technology:	A	Progress	Report	on	Flight	

Evaluations,”	SP	301	(1972);	Stuart	G.	Flechner,	Peter	F.	Jacobs,	and	Richard	T.	Whitcomb,	“A	High	

Subsonic	 Speed	Wind-Tunnel	 Investigation	 of	Winglets	 on	 a	 Representative	 Second-Generation	 Jet	

Transport	Wing,”	TN	D-8264	(1976);	Stuart	G.	Flechner	and	Peter	F.	Jacobs,	“Experimental	Results	of	

Winglets	on	First,	Second,	and	Third	Generation	Jet	Transports,”	NASA	CP-2036,	Pt.	1	(1978).

256
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

“Aardvark,” NASA undertook extensive transonic investigation of the SCW 

concept. Technicians first fitted the F-8 with a high-aspect-ratio airliner-style 

wing, subsequently modifying the F-111 with a lower-aspect-ratio wing (a kind 

likely to be incorporated on future transonic strike aircraft) after the TF-8A 

tests from early 1971 into mid-1973 confirmed the benefits of the SCW concept. The F-111A tests, under the aegis of the Transonic Aircraft Technology 

(TACT) program, a joint NASA-Air Force study effort, demonstrated that the 

SCW concept could be applied to a strike aircraft, markedly improving its 

transonic performance—the modified F-111 had twice the lift of a conventional “Aardvark” at transonic speeds—while not hindering its ability to dash 

to supersonic speeds above Mach 1.3 as well. Whitcomb’s winglets, conceived 

to reduce the drag attending the powerful wingtip vortices created by the 

wing as it generated lifting forces, underwent their own flight validation from 

1979 to 1981; since that time they have appeared on many transonic transport 

aircraft, reducing the energy required to fly close to the speed of sound. The 

sum of Whitcomb’s creativity—area rule, SCWs, and winglets—marks him as 

the most influential refiner of high-speed aerodynamic design over the last 

century of flight.44

Into the Hypersonic

As aircraft flew ever faster, a new challenge emerged: aerodynamic heating. It 

constituted more than merely an issue of finding new materials that could withstand the increased flight loads and temperatures imposed by air vehicles attaining high velocities within the atmosphere. While most attention had focused on 

the weakening of materials and their eventual melting, as NACA Director Hugh 

Dryden and Structures Research Chief John Duberg noted as early as 1955, “We 

now realize that long before a skin temperature is reached at which these effects 

occur, aerodynamic heating will give rise to serious structural problems.”45 One 

of the most critical was the combination of aerodynamic heating and thermodynamic effects, or “aerothermodynamics,” leading to expansion and distortion 

of structures and greatly complicating the challenge facing structural designers. 

Used to configuring structures to withstand the various loads associated with 

lift, drag, and dynamic pressure, they now had to address the deformation and 

	 44.	 See	On the Frontier for	details	on	these	flight-test	validations.

	 45.	 Dr.	Hugh	L.	Dryden	and	Dr.	John	E.	Duberg,	“Aeroelastic	Effects	of	Aerodynamic	Heating,”	Proceedings 

of the Fifth AGARD General Assembly: The Canadian AGARD Conference, 10–17 June 1955 (Paris,	

France:	Advisory	Group	for	Aeronautical	Research	and	Development,	1955),	p.	102.

257
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 16: Ames	research	scientist	H.	Julian	Allen.	NASA Image A-22664

stressing of a structure simply because of its expansion in an increasingly hot 

environment. Understanding and accommodating such heating was a particular 

challenge on the Lockheed Blackbird flight development program, and it is a 

remarkable tribute to Clarence “Kelly” Johnson, Ben Rich, and the rest of the 

Lockheed “Skunk Works” design team associated with this remarkable aircraft 

that they were able, at a time of very little knowledge, to conceive, produce, and 

place in service an aircraft facing as daunting and unknown a flight environment 

as the X-1 had in the 1940s. High-supersonic aerodynamic heating studies constituted one of the key research “targets” for NASA researchers when they had the 

opportunity to use two early Blackbirds for a decade of concentrated supersonic 

cruise research beginning in the late 1960s.46 Heating problems, challenging 

enough with the Blackbird, became acute with the hypersonic Mach 6+ North 

American X-15. On one flight, it experienced heating severe enough to shatter 

a cockpit panel. On another flight, in October 1967, heating nearly led to loss 

of the X-15 #2 when unexpected localized heating effects seriously damaged 

its structure, causing a dummy scramjet test article to separate from the craft; 

	 46.	 A	story	very	well	related	in	Peter	W.	Merlin’s	Mach 3+: NASA/USAF YF-12 Flight Research, 1969–1979,

Monographs	in	Aerospace	History,	No.	25	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2001-4525,	2002).	

258
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

they also damaged its fuel jettison system, forcing a “heavyweight” landing that 

might have had—but fortunately did not—disastrous results.47

If drag rise was the great challenge of transonic flight, and stability and 

control challenged supersonic flight, heating posed—and poses still—the great 

challenge to practical hypersonic flight. Although often considered of recent 

development, interest in hypersonic flight predated both the invention of the 

airplane and the beginning of the Space Age; hypersonic systems featured in the 

speculative ruminations of pioneers such as the Russian Konstantin Tsiolkovskiy, 

the German-Rumanian Hermann Oberth, and the American Robert Goddard.48

As a “first step” in 1924, rocket enthusiast Max Valier recommended adding 

rockets to conventional aircraft and then progressing from these to hypersonic “ether planes” capable of flying around the world.49 The Austrian Eugen 

Sänger and Irene Bredt first posited a quasi-realistic hypersonic design, their 

Silbervogel (“Silver Bird”) of 1938, developed as a dual-use space transporter 

and global strike aircraft, sled-launched off a monorail.50 The Silbervogel was 

an extraordinarily influential design study, much read and analyzed after the 

war. It constituted the first analysis of requirements for a hypersonic single 

stage to orbit (SSTO) vehicle, the first postulation of the flat-bottom “laundry 

iron” shape, and lifting reentry theory; and, via multiple translations, it inspired 

foreign emulation in the United States, Europe, and the USSR.

	 47.	 Joseph	Weil,	“Review	of	the	X-15	Program,”	TN	D-1278	(1962);	Wendell	H.	Stillwell,	X-15 Research 

Results with a Selected Bibliography	(Washington,	DC:	GPO	SP-60,	1965);	Albert	L.	Braslow,	“Analysis	

of	Boundary	Layer	Transition	on	X-15-2	Research	Airplane,”	TN	D-3487	(1966);	John	V.	Becker,	“The	

X-15	Program	in	Retrospect,”	3rd	Eugen	Sänger	Memorial	Lecture,	Bonn,	Federal	Republic	of	Germany,	

4–5	December	1968;	Milton	O.	Thompson	(with	J.	D.	Hunley),	Flight Research: Problems Encountered 

and What They Should Teach Us,	Monographs	in	Aerospace	History,	No.	22	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	

SP-2000-4522,	2000).

	 48.	 A.	A.	Blagonravov,	ed.,	Collected Works of K. E. Tsiolkovskiy, vol.	2:	Reactive Flying Machines,	NASA	

TT-F-237	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA,	 1965),	 pp.	 528–530;	 Hermann	 Oberth,	 Die Rakete zu den 

Planetenräumen (Munich,	Germany:	Verlag	von	R.	Oldenbourg,	1923),	pp.	36–39,	49–51,	57–58,	63–

64;	Robert	H.	Goddard,	“A	Method	of	Reaching	Extreme	Altitudes,”	in	The Papers of Robert H. Goddard, 

vol. 1: 1898–1924,	ed.	Esther	C.	Goddard	and	G.	Edward	Pendray	(New	York,	NY:	McGraw-Hill	Book	

Company,	1970),	pp.	337–406;	Frank	H.	Winter,	Prelude to the Space Age—The Rocket Societies: 

1924–1940 (Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	1983).

	 49.	 I.	Essers,	Max Valier: A Pioneer of Space Travel	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	TT-F-664,	1976),	pp.	81–97,	

130–135,	248.

	 50.	 Eugen	Sänger,	“Neuere	Ergebnisse	der	Raketenflugtechnik,”	Flug: Zeitschrift für das gesamte Gebiet der 

Luftfahrt	1	(December	1934):	11–16,	19–22;	Eugen	Sänger	and	Irene	Bredt,	A Rocket Drive for LongRange Bombers,	Translation	CGD-32	(Washington,	DC:	Technical	Information	Branch,	U.S.	Navy	Bureau	

of	Aeronautics,	1952);	Irene	Sänger-Bredt,	“The	Silver	Bird	Story:	A	Memoir,”	in	Essays of the History of 

Rocketry and Astronautics: Proceedings of the Third Through the Sixth History Symposia of the International 

Academy of Astronautics, vol.	1,	ed.	R.	Cargill	Hall	(Washington,	DC:	NASA,	1977),	pp.	195–228.

259
NASA’s First 50 Years

Hypersonics first assumed significance for the problem of ballistic missile warhead reentry; and warhead reentry research, begun by the military with programs 

such as the Lockheed X-17, naturally benefited the civil human space program of 

the 1960s and the development of the Mercury-Gemini-Apollo spacecraft families. Crucial to the progression of practical hypersonics was the derivation and 

exploitation of blunt body reentry theory. In the early 1950s, Ames researcher H. 

Julian Allen postulated that a blunt shaped reentry body would form a detached 

shock carrying off much of the heat of reentry. Blunt body theory made possible 

the ICBM warhead and inhabited spacecraft such as Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo. 

While Mercury was purely ballistic, Gemini had a modest hypersonic lift-to-drag 

ratio (L/D) of 0.25, and the Apollo Command Module had a hypersonic L/D of 

0.60. In April 1964 and May 1965, anticipating the challenge of Apollo’s return 

to Earth from lunar missions, NASA researchers flew Project Flight Investigation 

Reentry Environment (FIRE), an Atlas-lofted reentry vehicle that took calorimetric 

measurements of a spin-stabilized Apollo-like blunt body reentering the atmosphere 

at over 7 miles per second. In 1968, NASA flew Reentry-F, a slender conical reentry 

body that completed a Mach 20 reentry on 27 April 1968 furnishing heat transfer 

and hypersonic boundary layer transition data of value decades later. The greatest contribution of all these programs, whether by NASA or other agencies, was 

highlighting differences between predicted and actual performance, illustrating 

(as in the earlier transonic and supersonic era) the great need for more accurate 

test facilities, simulation techniques, and predictive tools.51

H. Julian Allen likewise studied the problems and potentialities of lifting 

hypersonic craft, postulating various Sänger-like boosted winged vehicles 

reentering via a “skipping” reentry profile; in December 1957 (just 10 weeks 

	 51.	 Edwin	 P.	 Hartman,	 Adventures in Research: A History of the Ames Research Center, 1940–1965

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4302,	1970),	pp.	215–218,	266–270,	294–298,	359–363,	451–452;	H.	

Julian	Allen,	“The	Aerodynamic	Heating	of	Atmospheric	Entry	Vehicles,”	in	Fundamental Phenomena 

in Hypersonic Flow: Proceedings of the International Symposium Sponsored by Cornell Aeronautical 

Laboratory,	ed.	J.	Gordon	Hall	(Ithaca,	NY:	Cornell	University	Press,	1966),	pp.	5–29,	esp.	pp.	6–10;	

E.	P.	Smith,	“Space	Shuttle	in	Perspective:	History	in	the	Making”	(AIAA	75-336,	11th	Annual	Meeting	

of	the	AIAA,	Washington,	DC,	24–26	February	1975);	D.	L.	Cauchon,	Project FIRE Flight 1 Radiative 

Heating Experiment (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	TM-X-1222,	April	 1966);	 Elden	 S.	 Cornette,	 Forebody 

Temperatures and Calorimeter Heating Rates Measured During Project FIRE II Reentry at 11.35 

Kilometers Per Second (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	TM-X-1305,	 November	 1966);	 P.	 Calvin	 Stainback,	

Charles	B.	Johnson,	Lillian	R.	Boney,	and	Kathleen	C.	Wicker,	A Comparison of Theoretical Predictions 

and Heat-Transfer Measurements for a Flight Experiment at Mach 20 (Reentry F)	(Washington,	DC:

NASA	TM-X-2560,	 July	 1972);	W.	A.	Wood,	 C.	 J.	 Riley,	 and	 F.	M.	 Cheatwood,	 Reentry-F Flowfield 

Solutions at 80,000 ft.	(Hampton,	VA:	NASA	TM-112856,	LaRC,	May	1997);	Philippe	H.	Adam	and	Hans	

G.	Hornung,	“Enthalpy	Effects	on	Hypervelocity	Boundary	Layer	Transition:	Experiments	and	Free	Flight	

Data”	(AIAA	97-0764,	AIAA	35th	Aerospace	Sciences	Meeting,	Reno,	NV,	6–9	January	1997).

260
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

after Sputnik) he optimistically concluded “the present situation is certainly 

analogous to that which the Wright brothers faced at the turn of the century. If 

we give the same painstaking and intelligent treatment to our problems as they 

gave to theirs a half century ago, our success seems assured.”52 This thinking, 

accompanied by various industry studies and military efforts, eventually spawned 

the abortive X-20 Dyna-Soar, “Round Three” in America’s postwar research 

aircraft family. But first was “Round Two,” the world’s first piloted hypersonic 

aircraft, the North American X-15. The X-15 sprang from the digestion of the 

Sänger-Bredt report and subsequent studies resulting from it that led, in June 

1952, to a decision by the NACA’s leadership to expand the agency’s research 

aircraft program to investigate hypersonic flight. The agency formed a study 

committee under Clinton Brown; and, at one point, team members proposed 

modifying the delayed X-2 with reaction controls and strap-on boosters so that 

it could serve as a high-supersonic/low-hypersonic research airplane, though, 

for a variety of reasons, the agency did not proceed further with this idea.53

In 1954 a team headed by John V. Becker of the NACA Langley Memorial 

Aeronautical Laboratory (now the NASA Langley Research Center) derived the 

basic X-15 configuration, stipulating a nickel-alloy Inconel structure, relatively 

conventional wing configuration, a rocketlike four-surface tail, and “off the 

shelf” rocket engines, in this case from the Hermes rocket (a V-2 program 

derivative). This influential study triggered development of the transatmospheric 

X-15, which first flew in 1959. Powered by a 57,000-pound thrust throttleable 

rocket engine, the X-15 extended piloted flight through Mach 3 and 4 and on 

to 5 and 6 and beyond, completing 199 flights by 12 pilots and reaching an 

altitude of 67 miles in 1963; it reached Mach 6.70 in 1967.54

X-15 researchers pursued aerodynamic and structural heating investigations 

through 1963, following these by using the X-15 to carry experiments into the upper 

	 52.	 H.	Julian	Allen,	“Hypersonic	Flight	and	the	Re-Entry	Problem,”	31st	Wright	Brothers	Lecture	(Sunnyvale,	

CA:	Ames	Aeronautical	 Laboratory,	 17	 December	 1957),	 p.	 28,	 copy	 in	“NACA-NASA”	 file,	 box	 10,	

papers	of	James	H.	Doolittle,	Manuscript	Division,	Library	of	Congress,	Washington,	DC.

	 53.	 For	example,	Hsue-shen	Tsien’s	Wasserfall-inspired	configuration,	detailed	in	“Instruction	and	Research	

at	the	Daniel	and	Florence	Guggenheim	Jet	Propulsion	Center,”	Journal of the American Rocket Society

1,	no.	1	(June	1950):	63;	C.	E.	Brown	et	al.,	A Study of the Problems Relating to High-Speed HighAltitude Flight (Hampton,	VA:	NACA	Langley	Laboratory,	25	June	1953),	copy	in	the	files	of	the	historical	

archives,	LaRC,	Hampton,	VA.

	 54.	 John	V.	Becker,	“The	X-15	Project,”	Astronautics and Aeronautics	2,	no.	5	(February	1964):	52–61;	A.	

Scott	Crossfield	with	Clay	Blair,	Jr.,	Always Another Dawn: The Story of a Rocket Test Pilot (Cleveland,	

OH:	World	Publishing	Company,	1960);	Milton	O.	Thompson,	At the Edge of Space: The X-15 Flight 

Program (Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	1992);	Wendell	H.	Stillwell,	X-15 Research 

Results	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-60,	1965).

261
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 17: North	American	X-15	Mach	6+	hypersonic	transatmospheric	research	aircraft.	NASA Image E-7411

atmosphere or to above Mach 5; many of these supported the Apollo effort. On 

3 October 1967, Major William J. “Pete” Knight took a modified X-15, the X-15A-2, 

to Mach 6.70 (4,520 mph), carrying a dummy supersonic-combustion (scramjet) 

engine shape. Unanticipated heating, caused by turbulent flows and inadequate 

dissipation, led to multiple structural failures and the melting of the dummy 

scramjet from the aircraft; it also damaged its fuel jettison system. Fortunately, 

Knight landed successfully. Shortly thereafter, Major Michael Adams, U.S. Air 

Force, was killed when the third X-15 broke up following a combination of 

instrumentation and control systems failures, aggravated by the pilot’s own 

unusually susceptible vertiginous tendencies. Loss of this aircraft forced NASA 

to abandon ambitious plans to modify one of the X-15s as a scramjet-powered 

slender delta, a decision that, in retrospect, was unfortunate. Overall, the X-15 

contributed greatly to the understanding of the requirements for practical hypersonic vehicles; the program generated 700 technical reports and demonstrated 

the value of undertaking repeated flight research missions as opposed to a few 

“technology demonstrations.”55

	 55.	 Joseph	 Weil,	 Review of the X-15 Program	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 TN	 D-1278,	 1962);	 Johnny	 G.	

Armstrong,	Flight Planning and Conduct of the X-15A-2 Envelope Expansion Program (Edwards	Air	Force	

Base,	CA:	AFFTC-TD-69-4,	1969);	Donald	R.	Bellman	et	al.,	Investigation of the Crash of the X-15-3 

Aircraft on November 15, 1967 (Edwards,	CA:	NASA	Flight	Research	Center,	January	1968);	Richard	P.	

Hallion,	“Flight	Testing	and	Flight	Research:	From	the	Age	of	the	Tower	Jumper	to	the	Age	of	the	Astronaut,”	

in Conference Proceedings No. 452: Flight Test Techniques,	by	the	Advisory	Group	for	Aerospace	Research	

and	Development	(Neuilly	sur	Seine,	France:	NATO	AGARD,	1988),	p.	24–27;	John	V.	Becker,	“The	X-15	

Program	 in	 Retrospect,”	Third	 Eugen	 Sänger	 Memorial	 Lecture,	 Deutsche Gesellschaft für Luft- und 

Raumfahrt	(DGLR),	 Bonn,	Germany,	4–5	December	1968;	Dennis	 R.	Jenkins,	Hypersonics Before the 

Shuttle: A Concise History of the X-15 Research Airplane (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2000-4518,	2000),	

pp.	67–81;	Milton	O.	Thompson	and	J.	D.	Hunley,	Flight Research: Problems Encountered and What They 

Should Teach Us (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2000-4522,	2000),	pp.	24–32,	41–46.

262
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

The NACA’s 1952 decision leading to the X-15 likewise triggered the agency’s 

first examination of hypersonic orbital vehicles.56 In 1953, engineers Hubert 

Drake and L. Robert Carman of the HSFS conceived a five-phase evolutionary 

proposal leading to an orbital air-launched hypersonic boost-glide winged 

vehicle, the first governmental concept for a “piggyback” multistage orbital 

concept.57 In 1956, NACA Ames researchers H. Julian Allen, Alfred Eggers, 

Clarence Syvertsen, and Stanford Neice presented a Mach 10 air-or-groundlaunched rocket-boosted hypersonic design, characterized by a “flat top” delta 

wing with anhedral tips furnishing both directional stability and compression 

lift.58 In contrast, the NACA Langley Laboratory pursued a more traditional delta 

planform while supporting the Air Force’s project for a Mach 15 Hypersonic 

Weapon and Research and Development System (HYWARDS), this work later 

influencing the subsequent Project Dyna-Soar (for dynamic soaring, a reference 

to its Sänger-Bredt-like skipping reentry profile) development effort, conceived 

in the immediate aftermath of Sputnik. In 1955, supersonic fighters, bombers, 

and transports accounted for fully 37 percent of the agency’s research effort, 

and space, ICBM, missile defense, and boost-glide aircraft accounted for just 

7 percent. In early 1958, in the wake of Sputnik, space, ICBM, missile defense, 

and hypersonic boost-gliders had risen to 32 percent of the agency’s work, 

and supersonic fighters, bombers, and transports had declined to 18 percent. 

For the NACA and NASA, the hypersonic era had clearly arrived.59

	 56.	 John	 V.	 Becker,	 “The	 Development	 of	 Winged	 Reentry	 Vehicles:	 An	 Essay	 from	 the	 NACA-NASA	

Perspective,	1952–1963,”	in	The Hypersonic Revolution: Case Studies in the History of Hypersonic 

Technology,	ed.	Richard	P.	Hallion,	vol.	1	(Washington,	DC:	USAF,	1998);	From Max Valier to Project 

PRIME (1924–1967) (Bolling	Air	Force	Base:	Air	Force	History	and	Museums	Program,	1998	ed.),	pp.	

379–448.

	 57.	 Hubert	M.	Drake	and	L.	 Robert	 Carman,	A Suggestion of Means for Flight Research at Hypersonic 

Velocities and High Altitudes	 (Edwards,	 CA:	 NACA	 High-Speed	 Flight	 Research	 Station,	 August	

1953),	copy	in	the	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC.

	 58.	 A.	J.	Eggers,	Jr.,	“Some	Considerations	of	Aircraft	Configurations	Suitable	for	Long-Range	Hypersonic	

Flight,”	in	Hypersonic Flow: Proceedings of the Eleventh Symposium of the Colston Research Society 

held in the University of Bristol, April 6–April 8th, 1959,	ed.	A.	R.	Collier	and	J.	Tinkler	(London,	U.K.:	

Butterworth	Scientific	Publications,	1960),	pp.	369–389;	Ames	Aeronautical	Laboratory,	Preliminary 

Investigation of a New Research Airplane for Exploring the Problems of Efficient Hypersonic Flight 

(Moffett	Field,	CA:	NACA	Ames	Aeronautical	Laboratory,	18	January	1957),	copy	examined	in	1979	in	

the	files	of	the	History	Office,	NASA	Lyndon	B.	Johnson	Space	Center,	Houston,	TX.

	 59.	 NACA,	“A	Review	of	NACA	Research	Programs,”	n.d.,	Table	I-A,	and	attached	letter,	Hugh	L.	Dryden	to	

James	H.	Doolittle,	21	February	1958,	“NACA-NASA”	file,	box	10,	Doolittle	Papers,	Library	of	Congress.	

See	 also	 James	 R.	 Hansen,	 Engineer in Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 

1917–1958	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4305,	1987),	pp.	367–378.

263
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 18: Schematic	drawing	of	the	X-20	Dyna-Soar;	note	the	sharply	swept	delta	planform,	“toed-in”	

vertical	fins,	tilted	bow	“ramp,”	flared	aft	body	for	hypersonic	trim,	cockpit	aerothermodynamic	reentry	

shield,	and	wire	brush	skid	landing	gear.	Air Force Scientific Advisory Board (SAB)

Dyna-Soar was “Round Three” of the postwar research aircraft effort and 

an important step toward developing practical approaches to exploiting the 

hypersonic frontier. Boeing received a development contract to produce this 

slender (and attractive) lofted boost-glider, to be launched atop a modified 

Titan III booster. At the time of its cancellation—again, an ill-considered decision—by Defense Secretary Robert S. McNamara in 1963, it was about two 

and a half years and an estimated $373 million away from its first flight; $410 

million had already been expended. Dyna-Soar served to focus attention on the 

requirements of an orbital hypersonic vehicle considerably more challenging 

than the X-15, forcing serious examination of control, structural, crew protection, 

and light operations issues. It forced investment in specialized test facilities to 

address problems associated with the emerging fields of aerothermodynamics 

and high-temperature materials and flight structures. Dyna-Soar’s wind tunnel 

program was three times that of the X-15, involving approximately 30 hypervelocity test facilities. By bringing needed emphasis to facilities development, 

264
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

it constituted an important milestone in the development of a hypersonic 

technology and design base, despite having never flown.60 

Hypersonics to this point had strictly involved rocket propulsion. But another 

form of propulsion, the ramjet, was making spectacular advances into the highsupersonic regime, evidenced by the Mach 4+ Lockheed X-7 test vehicle. In 

the mid-1950s, NACA ramjet researchers, like others in industry, academia, and 

the military, envisioned using supersonic combustion flows within the ramjet 

to enable it to propel vehicles into the hypersonic regime. In 1958, Richard J. 

Weber and John S. MacKay of the NACA Lewis Flight Propulsion Laboratory 

concluded: “A number of fundamental problems must be solved before the 

SCRJ [Supersonic Combustion Ram-Jet] can be considered feasible. The major 

unknown is whether or not supersonic flow can be maintained during a combustion process. Also, even if a uniform fuel-air mixture can be so burned, 

there still remains the difficult problem of producing the desired combustible 

mixtures by fuel injection without causing severe shock losses. Subject to 

these qualifications, it is concluded from the present preliminary analysis that 

the SCRJ . . . will provide superior performance at higher hypersonic flight 

speeds.”61 The scramjet became a powerful impetus for studies on advanced 

	 60.	 Clarence	 J.	 Geiger,	 “Strangled	 Infant:	 The	 Boeing	 X-20A	 Dyna	 Soar,”	 in	 Hypersonic Revolution,	 ed.	

Hallion,	 vol.	1,	pp.	185–377;	 Robert	 F.	 Futrell,	Ideas, Concepts, Doctrine: A History of Basic Thinking 

in the United States Air Force, 1907–1964,	vol.	2	(Maxwell	Air	Force	Base,	AL:	Air	University	Aerospace	

Studies	Institute,	1971),	pp.	786,	792–795;	Aero-Space	Division,	Summary of Technical Advances: X-20 

Program, Report	D2-23418 (Seattle,	WA:	The	Boeing	Company,	July	1964);	Air	Force	Scientific	Advisory	

Board,	“Some	Remarks	on	the	Aircraft	Panel	on	New	Technical	Developments	of	the	Next	Ten	Years,”	1	

October	1954,	pp.	2–3,	7–8,	in	files	of	the	SAB,	USAF	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	John	S.	Rinehart,	

“Some	Historical	Highlights	of	Hypervelocity	 Research,”	 in	Proceedings of the National Symposium on 

Hypervelocity Techniques, Denver, Colorado, October 20–21, 1960,	by	the	Institute	of	the	Aeronautical	

Sciences	(IAS)	and	University	of	Denver—Denver	Research	Institute	(New	York,	NY:	IAS,	1960),	pp.	4–10;	

Harold	O.	Ekern	and	Jerry	E.	Jenkins,	Major High Speed Wind Tunnels in the U.S. (Dayton,	OH:	USAF	

Wright	Air	Development	Division,	TM	60-8,	July	1960);	R.	N.	Cox,	“Experimental	Facilities	for	Hypersonic	

Research,”	in	Progress in Aeronautical Sciences,	ed.	Antonio	Ferri,	D.	Küchemann,	and	L.	H.	G.	Sterne,	

vol.	 3	 (New	York,	 NY:	 Pergamon	 Press,	 1962),	 pp.	 139–178;	 Ronald	 Smelt,	 “Test	 Facilities	 for	 UltraHigh	Speed	Aerodynamics,”	in	Proceedings of the Conference on High-Speed Aeronautics, Polytechnic 

Institute of Brooklyn, January 20–22, 1955,	ed.	Antonio	Ferri,	Nicholas	J.	Hoff,	and	Paul	A.	Libby	(Brooklyn,	

NY:	Polytechnic	Institute	of	Brooklyn,	1955),	pp.	311–333;	Julius	Lukasiewicz,	Experimental Methods of 

Hypersonics (New	York,	NY:	Marcel	Dekker,	Inc.,	1973),	quotes	from	pp.	246	and	250.

	 61.	 Richard	J.	Weber	and	John	S.	MacKay,	An Analysis of Ramjet Engines Using Supersonic Combustion

(Washington,	DC:	NACA	TN	4386,	September	1958),	p.	22;	R.	R.	Jamison,	“Hypersonic	Air	Breathing	

Engines,”	in	Hypersonic Flow: Proceedings of the Eleventh Symposium of the Colston Research Society 

held in the University of Bristol, April 6th–April 8th, 1959,	ed.	A.	R.	Collar	and	J.	Tinkler (London,	U.K.:	

Butterworth	Scientific	Publications,	1960), pp.	391–408;	S.	W.	Greenwood,	“Spaceplane	Propulsion,”	

The Aeroplane and Astronautics (25	May	1961):	597–599;	G.	L.	Dugger,	F.	S.	Billig,	and	W.	H.	Avery,	

Hypersonic Propulsion Studies at Applied Physics Laboratory, The Johns Hopkins University (Silver	

265
NASA’s First 50 Years

hypersonic air-breathing vehicles that could possibly fly into orbit themselves, 

an interest persisting to the present. From 1965 to 1966, the Aeronautics and 

Astronautics Coordinating Board of DOD and NASA reviewed a series of concepts for hypersonic logistical vehicles and lofted reentry vehicles of lifting 

body or winged configurations. Typical of these was a 750,000-pound gross 

liftoff weight two stage to orbit (TSTO). The first stage had turbofan-ramjet 

propulsion from subsonic through supersonic and on to Mach 6, then scramjet 

propulsion from Mach 6 to Mach 12. At that point, the second stage would 

separate, carrying a 40,000-pound payload into orbit.62

As the complexity and impracticality of these systems became ever more 

apparent, NASA researchers sought more achievable alternative approaches. 

One involved transforming the classic blunt body into a lifting vehicle. Thus 

was born the NASA lifting body program, an outgrowth of the work of notable 

pioneers such as H. Julian Allen, Clarence Syvertsen, Alfred Eggers, George 

Edwards, George Kenyon, and Eugene Love. NASA produced two notable 

“rival” lifting bodies, the Ames-sponsored cone-derivative M2 and the Langleysponsored “fat delta” HL-10, and the Air Force generated another, the SV-5 

(which spawned the X-24A and X-24B); but there were many other lifting 

body study efforts within the military services and industry besides these.63

Tests up to nearly Mach 2 and descents from 90,000 feet by these rocketpowered research aircraft influenced the decision to have the Space Shuttle 

complete an unpowered approach and landing, for they gave confidence 

Spring,	MD:	the	Johns	Hopkins	University	Applied	Physics	Laboratory,	Report	TG	405,	14	June	1961),	

esp.	pp.	1–3;	Antonio	Ferri,	“Supersonic	Combustion	Progress,”	Astronautics & Aeronautics	2,	no.	8	

(August	1964):	32–37;	“Scramjets/Hypersonic	Vehicles,”	 in	“Report	 of	the	 USAF	Scientific	Advisory	

Board	Aerospace	Vehicles	Panel,”	by	the	Air	Force	Scientific	Advisory	Board,	February	1966,	pp.	2–3,	

in	files	of	the	SAB,	United	States	Air	Force	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	Antonio	Ferri,	“Review	of	

Scramjet	Technology,”	AIAA Journal of Aircraft	5,	no.	1	(January	1968):	3–10;	Frank	D.	Stull,	Robert	A.	

Jones,	and	William	P.	Zima,	“Propulsion	Concepts	for	High	Speed	Aircraft”	(paper	751092,	Society	of	

Automotive	Engineers	[SAE]	National	Aerospace	Engineering	and	Manufacturing	Meeting,	Culver	City,	

Los	Angeles,	 CA,	17–20	November	1975);	Paul	 J.	Waltrup,	“Liquid	 Fueled	Supersonic	 Combustion	

Ramjets:	A	Research	Perspective	of	the	Past,	Present	and	Future”	(AIAA	86-0158,	AIAA	24th	Aerospace	

Sciences	Meeting,	Reno,	NV,	6–9	January	1986);	Edward	T.	Curran,	“Scramjet	Engines:	The	First	Forty	

Years,”	Journal of Propulsion and Power	17,	no.	6	(November–December	2001):	1138–1148.

	 62.	 NASA-DOD	 Aeronautics	 and	 Astronautics	 Coordinating	 Board,	 Report of the Ad Hoc Sub-panel on 

Reusable Launch Vehicle Technology (Washington,	DC:	NASA,	14	September	1966),	NASA	JSC	archives.

	 63.	 R.	Dale	Reed,	Wingless Flight: The Lifting Body Story	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4220,	1997);	Alfred	

C.	Draper,	Melvin	L.	Buck,	and	David	R.	Selegan,	“Aerospace	Technology	Demonstrators:	Research	and	

Operational	Options,”	in	Aircraft Prototype and Technology Demonstrator Symposium, March 23–24, 

1983,	ed.	Norman	C.	Baullinger	(Dayton,	OH:	AIAA	Dayton-Cincinnati	Section	in	association	with	the	

United	States	Air	Force	Museum,	1983),	pp.	89–102.	

266
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

Figure 19:	The	NASA-Air	Force	lifting	body	family	in	1969.	From	left	to	right	are	the	Martin	X-24A,	

Northrop	M2-F3,	and	Northrop	HL-10.	The	X-24	constituted	an	Air	Force	initiative	and	later	spawned	the	

X-24B,	which	had	a	much	higher	fineness	ratio.	The	M2-F3	and	HL-10	were	“rival”	concepts,	the	former	a	

modified	half-cone	derived	by	Ames,	the	latter	a	fattened	delta	derived	by	Langley.	NASA Image E-21093

that pilot-astronauts could routinely control low L/D during the descent to 

a pinpoint landing on a runway.64 

Tests with these complemented what might be considered a “Round Four” 

of tests of unpiloted vehicles and shapes at hypersonic speeds, including the 

aforementioned Reentry-F and Project FIRE, and various military and defense 

projects, particularly the Aerothermo-Structural Systems-Environmental Tests 

(ASSET) and Precision Recovery Including Maneuvering Entry (PRIME) projects. 

The McDonnell ASSET resembled the canceled Dyna-Soar, with similar “hot 

structure” radiative cooling. On 22 July 1964, one attained Mach 15.5 following launch by a modified Thor ballistic missile. The ASSET furnished insight 

on leeside heating not previously considered a serious design concern. The 

	 64.	 Milton	O.	Thompson	and	Curtis	Peebles,	Flying Without Wings: NASA Lifting Bodies and the Birth of the 

Space Shuttle	(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	1999),	pp.	57–62;	Johnny	G.	Armstrong,	

Flight	Planning	and	Conduct	of	the	X-24B	Research	Aircraft	Flight	Test	Program	(Edwards	Air	Force	Base,	

CA:	AFFTC-TR-76-11,	1977),	pp.	12–14,	89–97;	Richard	E.	Day,	“Energy	Management	of	Manned	BoostGlide	Vehicles:	A	Historical	Perspective”	(Edwards	Air	Force	Base,	CA:	NASA	TP-2004-212037,	DFRC,	

May	2004).

267
NASA’s First 50 Years

Martin SV-5D PRIME was an ablatively cooled lifting body. On 19 April 1967, 

after being lofted to 400,000 feet and Mach 27 by a modified Atlas booster, it 

demonstrated a 1,360-nautical-mile maneuvering entry over the Pacific Test 

Range. The PRIME shape was the first American shape evaluated over the entire 

subsonic, transonic, supersonic, and hypersonic range, from orbital velocities 

down to approach and landing, with the X-24A piloted research craft and the 

pilotless hypersonic SV-5D.65

The story of the Shuttle is well known, largely because of the tragic losses 

of Challenger in 1986 and Columbia in 2003. The Shuttle offered a vision of 

cheap, frequent access to space, reflecting an unprecedented (and, in retrospect, 

unjustified) optimism.66 Certainly flight-test professionals familiar with the previous history of rocket-powered supersonic and hypersonic vehicles considered 

the Shuttle a very high-risk system and human spaceflight itself as an inherently 

dangerous occupation. As Apollo astronaut Michael Collins wrote shortly after 

the Challenger accident, “If someone had suggested to me in 1963, when I first 

became an astronaut, that for the next 23 years none of us would get killed riding a rocket, I would have said that person was a hopeless optimist, and naive 

beyond words.”67 The Shuttle’s development risked significant unknowns and 

shortfalls, particularly its complex liquid-fuel rocket propulsion system and tilebased thermal protection system. Even before its first flight, veteran astronauts 

of the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo programs criticized its safety, comparing 

it unfavorably to their earlier spacecraft, regarding its margins as “very low.”68

	 65.	 Air	Force	Flight	Dynamics	Laboratory	(AFFDL),	ASSET Final Briefing, Report	65FD-850	(Dayton,	OH:	

AFFDL,	5	October	1965);	M.	H.	Shirk,	ASSET: Aerothermoelastic Vehicles (AEV) Results and Conclusions,

Report	65FD-1197	(Dayton,	OH:	AFFDL,	August	1965).	See	also	Richard	P.	Hallion,	“ASSET:	Pioneer	

of	Lifting	 Reentry,”	 in	Hypersonic Revolution,	ed.	 Hallion,	 vol.	1,	pp.	449–527;	 J.	L.	Vitelli	and	 R.	P.	

Hallion,	“Project	PRIME:	Hypersonic	Reentry	from	Space,”	in	Hypersonic Revolution, ed.	Hallion,	vol.	1,	

pp.	529–745.

	 66.	 See,	 for	 example,	 NASA,	 Space Shuttle	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 SP-407,	 1976),	 and	 Jerry	 Grey,	

Enterprise (New	York,	NY:	William	Morrow	and	Company,	Inc.,	1979),	pp.	164–237.	

	 67.	 Michael	Collins,	Liftoff: The Story of America’s Adventure in Space (New	York,	NY:	Grove	Press,	1988),	

p.	224.

	 68.	 “Former	Astronauts	Criticize	Funding	for	Space	Shuttle,”	Washington Post (15	July	1979).	See	also	

Eugene	S.	Love,	“Advanced	Technology	and	the	Space	Shuttle”	(10th	von	Kármán	Lecture,	9th	Annual	

Meeting	of	the	AIAA,	Washington,	DC,	8–10	January	1973);	John	M.	Logsdon,	“The	Space	Shuttle	

Decision:	Technology	and	Political	Choice,”	Journal of Contemporary Business	7,	no.	3	(1978):	13–30;	

Paul	A.	Cooper	and	Paul	F.	Holloway,	“The	Shuttle	Tile	Story,”	Astronautics & Aeronautics	19,	no.	1	

(January	1981):	24–34;	A.	Scott	Pace,	“Engineering	Design	and	Political	Choice:	The	Space	Shuttle,	

1969–1972”	(master’s	thesis,	Cambridge,	MA:	MIT,	1982),	pp.	2–3,	103–104,	116,	135–149;	Miles	

Whitnah	 and	 Ernest	 R.	 Hillje,	Space Shuttle Wind Tunnel Testing Summary	 (Washington,	 DC: NASA	

Reference	Publication	1125,	1984).

268
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

Figure 20: The	Space	Shuttle	Endeavour	landing	at	Edwards	Air	Force	Base,	1	October	1994.	NASA 

Image EC94-42789-1

When STS-1’s Columbia, crewed by John Young and Robert Crippen,

entered the atmosphere on 14 April 1981, it flew down a hypersonic corridor 

not visited by any American lifting spacecraft since the PRIME lifting body 14 

years previously. Fortunately, it survived: particularly since researchers quickly 

determined that significant differences existed between its actual in-flight performance and ground prediction. These included the timing and magnitude of 

boundary-layer transition from laminar to turbulent flows, higher roll rates and 

sideslip excursions during energy management roll reversals, lower motion 

damping, higher heating loads and rates for the thermal protection system, 

hot reentry airflow impingement upon the protruding Orbital Maneuvering 

System pods, and higher-than-predicted wing leading edge heating due to 

unexpectedly strong wing shock interactions.69

The Shuttle inspired global emulation, most notably with the Soviet Buran, 

French Hermes, and Japanese Hope, and helped generate a climate conducive 

	 69.	 Kenneth	W.	Iliff	and	Mary	F.	Shafer,	“A	Comparison	of	Hypersonic	Flight	and	Prediction	Results”	(AIAA	

93-0311,	AIAA	31st	Aerospace	Sciences	Meeting,	Reno,	NV,	11–14	January	1993),	pp.	8–13.

269
NASA’s First 50 Years

to hypersonic studies of a variety of inhabited and uninhabited systems.70 In 

America, post-Shuttle interest ultimately spawned the most ambitious and 

complex attempt to develop a hypersonic orbital aircraft since the Shuttle: the 

National Aero-Space Plane Program (NASP), the X-30. Though primarily an Air 

Force development effort, the NASP involved significant NASA participation from 

its inception through cancellation. Begun in the mid-1980s and “baselined” in 

1991, the SSTO X-30 replicated and/or encountered many of the same problems 

encountered three decades previously with a similar large air-breathing SSTO 

program, the Air Force’s discredited Aerospaceplane of the early 1960s.71 At the 

time of its demise in the early 1990s, its development team had achieved some 

impressive technical successes involving materials, fuels, and propulsion; but even 

so, the X-30 remained controversial, having grown in size and complexity, and 

with an unresolved velocity deficit of approximately 3,000 feet per second that 

would have prevented it from actually reaching orbit as a single-stage vehicle.72

Following a pattern traditional for the hypersonic field, the aftermath of the 

NASP was one of contraction, frustration, and delayed expectation. Ironically, 

even as American hypersonics slowed, mastery of the field and foreign interest continued to grow. For NASA, faced with the challenges of maintaining the 

Shuttle, completing the ISS, and meeting many other ambitious exploration goals, 

hypersonics was just one of many areas of research interest. Other agencies and 

organizations, faced with many competing interests, had the same challenge. 

Accordingly, while many possible hypersonic programs and starts beckoned—

	 70.	 United	 States	 General	Accounting	 Office	 (GAO),	Investment in Foreign Aerospace Vehicle Research 

and Technological Development Efforts (Washington,	 DC:	 GAO/T-NSIAD-89-43,	 August	 1989),	

pp.	 5–11;	 United	 States	 GAO,	 Aerospace Plane Technology: Research and Development Efforts in 

Europe (Washington,	DC:	GAO/NSIAD-91-194,	July	1991),	pp.	33–61;	United	States	GAO,	Aerospace 

Plane Technology: Research and Development Efforts in Japan and Australia (Washington,	DC:	GAO/

NSIAD-92-5,	October	1991),	pp.	31–35.

	 71.	 United	States	GAO,	National Aero-Space Plane: A Technology Development and Demonstration Program 

to Build the X-30 (Washington,	DC:	GAO/NSIAD-88-122,	April	1988);	Robert	B.	Barthelemy,	“The	National	

Aero	 Space	 Plane	 Program:	 A	 Revolutionary	 Concept,” Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory 

Technical Digest	11,	nos.	2	and	3	(1990):	312–318;	United	States	GAO,	National Aero-Space Plane: Key 

Issues Facing the Program (Washington,	DC:	GAO/T-NSIAD-92-26,	March	1992),	pp.	4–15.

	 72.	 Alan	W.	Wilhite	et	al.,	“Concepts	Leading	to	the	National	Aero-Space	Plane	Program”	(AIAA	90-0294,	

28th	Aerospace	Sciences	Meeting,	Reno,	NV,	8–11	January	1990);	Joseph	F.	Shea	et	al.,	Report of the 

Defense Science Board Task Force on National Aero-Space Plane (NASP) Program (Washington,	DC:	

Defense	Science	Board,	Director	of	Defense	Research	and	Engineering,	November	1992);	United	States	

GAO,	National Aero-Space Plane: Restructuring Future Research and Development Efforts (Washington,	

DC:	GAO/NSIAD-93-71,	December	1992),	p.	4;	R.	L.	Chase	and	M.	H.	Tang,	“A	History	of	the	NASP	

Program	from	the	Formation	of	the	Joint	Program	Office	to	the	Termination	of	the	HySTP	Scramjet	

Performance	Demonstration	Program”	(AIAA	95-6031,	AIAA	6th	International	Aerospace	Planes	and	

Hypersonics	Technologies	Conference,	Chattanooga,	TN,	30	April	1995).

270
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

Figure 21: Final	general	design	configuration	of	the	X-30	National	Aero-Space	Plane.	Air Force SAB

some, such as the Affordable Rapid Response Missile Demonstrator (ARRMD), 

X-33, X-34, X-38, and Hyper-X (subsequently designated the X-43), showing real 

promise—only a handful went ahead, with just one actually flying, the X-43.73 

NASA’s scramjet-powered X-43 achieved the first demonstration of in-flight 

hypersonic scramjet ignition and operation with an airplanelike configuration. 

Its flight-test success followed an innovative in-flight hypersonic combustion experiment by a team of Australian researchers from the University of 

Queensland’s Centre for Hypersonics. On 30 July 2002, a team of researchers 

from the University of Queensland’s Centre for Hypersonics launched HyShot over 

Australia’s Woomera test range; it was a small combustor test article lofted by a 

two-stage booster into the upper atmosphere. HyShot demonstrated 5 seconds 

of hypersonic combustion at Mach 7.6 as it plunged toward Earth.74 The stage 

was now set for a comprehensive demonstration of a true scramjet, the X-43.

The X-43 joined a sophisticated scramjet engine module developed by 

the General Applied Sciences Laboratory (GASL) to a surfboardlike 100-inchlong, 60-inch-span slender lifting body, lofted to hypersonic velocity by an 

Orbital Sciences solid-fuel winged Pegasus booster air-launched from a 

Boeing NB-52B Stratofortress (incidentally, the same launch aircraft that had 

	 73.	 C.	R.	McClinton,	J.	L.	Hunt,	R.	H.	Ricketts,	Paul	Reukauf,	and	C.	L.	Peddie,	“Airbreathing	Hypersonic	

Technology	Vision	Vehicles	and	Development	Dreams”	(AIAA	99-4978,	AIAA	9th	International	Space	

Planes	and	Hypersonic	Systems	and	Technologies	Conference,	Norfolk,	VA,	1–5	November	1999).

	 74.	 A.	Paull,	H.	Alesi,	and	S.	Anderson,	“HyShot	Flight	Program	and	How	It	Was	Developed”	(AIAA	02-4939,	

AIAA/Association	Aéronautique	et	Astronautique	de	France	[AAAF]	11th	International	Space	Planes	and	

Hypersonics	Systems	and	Technologies	Conference,	Orleans,	France,	29	September–4	October	2002).

271
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 22: The	Boeing	NB-52B	Stratofortress	“008”	at	DFRC	and	the	first	X-43A	Hyper-X	scramjet	test	

bed	on	a	“captive	carry”	test	flight	over	the	Pacific	Ocean,	April	2001.	NASA Image EC01-0126-07

dropped the X-15, M2-F2/3, HL-10, and X-24A/B lifting bodies). Developers 

began the Hyper-X program in 1995, drawing upon a Boeing study effort 

for a Mach 10 global reconnaissance cruiser and space access vehicle for 

its overall configuration. In October 1996 they completed its preliminary 

design, and Orbital Sciences subsequently received a development contract 

for the modified Pegasus booster (the HXLV) in February 1997. The Hyper-X 

vehicle fabrication contract (the HXRV) went to Microcraft, Inc., of Tullahoma, 

Tennessee, partnered with the GASL for the engine, Boeing, and Accurate 

Automation Corporation. The engine underwent comprehensive ignition and 

combustion stabilization hypersonic testing in Langley Research Center’s 8-foot 

High-Speed Tunnel. Microcraft delivered three X-43A flight-test vehicles to 

DFRC for launch over the Naval Air Warfare Center’s Weapons Division Sea 

Range. The first flight attempt in June 2001 failed after the Pegasus booster 

shed a control fin just after launch, forcing its destruction by the Range Safety 

272
The NACA, NASA, and the Supersonic-Hypersonic Frontier

Officer. Thereafter NASA undertook a painstaking review before clearing the 

program for a second flight attempt. This reached Mach 6.8 on 27 March 2004. 

Although the Agency briefly considered terminating the program following 

this demonstration, pressure from hypersonic partisans led to a third flight 

attempt, this reaching Mach 9.7 (around 6,500 mph) at 110,000 feet on 16 

November 2004. The third vehicle faced a thermodynamic environment more 

than 1,000°F harsher than that faced by the second, experiencing airframe 

temperatures of 3,600°F.75 Though a planned follow-on, the hydrocarbonfueled X-43C, had been canceled, NASA research on hypersonics continued 

with the support of the Air Force’s X-51, a hydrocarbon scramjet test bed to 

be air-launched in 2010 at DFRC. NASA’s research on the hypersonic frontier 

continues, possibly pointing toward a future where hypersonic technology 

will benefit both the military and civil needs of the nation. 

As the 19th century opened, the “normative paradigm” of mass transportation was the horse-drawn wagon; at the outset of the 20th, it was the 

train; and at the beginning of the 21st, it was the airplane, a progression of 

6, to 60, and then to 600 mph. Despite critics who decry supersonics and 

hypersonics for commercial transportation, both show surprising resilience. 

While it remains doubtful that a competitive supersonic airliner can be built 

and introduced into service, certainly a definable market exists for supersonic business jets, and NASA research on both configurations and ways 

of tailoring their shape to reduce boom impingement may well speed their 

introduction into service. The hypersonic global transport, boosting out of 

the atmosphere and returning through it halfway around the world, affords 

a vision of a “greener” and less environmentally damaging mobility system 

	 75.	 Thomas	 J.	 Bogar,	 Edward	 A.	 Eiswirth,	 Lana	 M.	 Couch,	 James	 L.	 Hunt,	 and	 Charles	 R.	 McClinton,	

“Conceptual	Design	of	a	Mach	10,	Global	Reach	Reconnaissance	Aircraft”	(AIAA	96-2894,	ASME,	SAE,	

and	ASEE	32nd	Joint	Propulsion	Conference,	Lake	Buena	Vista,	FL,	1–3	July	1996);	C.	R.	McClinton,	

Vincent	L.	Rausch,	Joel	Sitz,	and	Paul	Reukauf,	“Hyper-X	Program	Status”	(AIAA	01-1910,	AIAA/NALNASDA-ISAS	10th	International	Space	Planes	and	Hypersonic	Systems	and	Technologies	Conference,	

Kyoto,	 Japan,	 24–27	April	 2001);	 C.	 R.	McClinton,	V.	 L.	 Rausch,	 J.	 Sitz,	 and	 P.	 Reukauf,	 “Hyper-X	

Program	Status”	(AIAA	01-0828,	39th	Aerospace	Sciences	Meeting,	Reno,	NV,	8–11	November	2001);	

David	E.	Reubush,	Luat	T.	Nguyen,	and	V.	L.	Rausch,	“Review	of	X-43A	Return	to	Flight	Activities	and	

Current	 Status”	 (AIAA	 03-7085,	 12th	 AIAA	 International	 Space	 Planes	 and	 Hypersonics	 Systems	

and	Technologies	Conference,	Norfolk,	VA,	15–19	December	2003);	NASA,	“NASA	Hyper-X	Program	

Demonstrates	Scramjet	Technologies,”	NASA	Facts,	FS-2004-10-98-LaRC	(20	October	2004);	“NASA’s	

X-43A	 Scramjet	 Breaks	 Speed	 Record,”	 available	 at	 http://www.nasa.gov/centers/dryden/home/X43A_Speed_Record.html (Washington,	DC:	NASA,	16	November	2004),	accessed	28	December	2004;	

Jay	Levine,	“Exploring	the	Hypersonic	Realm,”	X-Press	46,	no.	10	(26	November	2004):	1,	8.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 23: The	third	X-43A	accelerates	to	Mach	9.7	prior	to	release	from	its	Pegasus	booster,	16	

November	2004,	following	air-launch	over	the	Pacific	Ocean	from	its	Boeing	NB-52B	mother	ship.	NASA 

Image EC04-0325-37

than is the conventional subsonic jetliner today.76 And so, might not humanity extend the “6, to 60, and then to 600” pace and enter the next century 

at 6,000 mph, the speed of a hypersonic commercial vehicle? If so, it will 

constitute the logical outgrowth of NASA’s pioneering the supersonic and 

hypersonic frontier well over a century before. 

	 76.	 See,	for	example,	Jesse	Ausubel,	Cesare	Marchetti,	and	Perrin	S.	Meyer,	“Toward	Green	Mobility:	The	

Evolution	of	Transport,”	European Review	6,	no.	2	(1998):	37–156.	

274
Chapter 11

Fifty Years of Human Spaceflight

Why Is There Still a Controversy?

John M. Logsdon

From the beginning of the U.S. program of human spaceflight until today, 

there has been controversy with respect to the value of human presence in 

space compared to its costs and risks. For example, the first science adviser to 

President Dwight D. Eisenhower, James R. Killian, Jr., said in 1960 that “Many 

thoughtful citizens are convinced that the really exciting discoveries in space 

can be realized better by instruments than by man.”1 Yet less than six months 

later, President John F. Kennedy committed the United States to send Americans 

to the Moon “before this decade is out.” The two men clearly applied different judgments on the value of human spaceflight to their words and actions.

It has been 48 years since the first U.S. spaceflight, the 15-minute suborbital mission of Alan Shepard on 5 May 1961. Since then, 12 Americans have 

walked on the Moon, and there have been (as of 30 September 2009) 127 

launches of the Space Shuttle, several long-duration stays of U.S. astronauts 

aboard the Russian Mir space station, and continuous occupancy of the ISS 

for over 10 years. As of 30 September 2009, 320 U.S. citizens had gone into 

orbit or beyond—278 men and 42 women. Many U.S. astronauts have made 

several trips into space; two have gone seven times each. An additional 176 

non-U.S. citizens have also flown in space.2 It is worth asking: “With all this 

	 1.	 John	M.	Logsdon,	The Decision to Go to the Moon: Project Apollo and the National Interest	(Cambridge,	

MA:	MIT	Press,	1970),	p.	20.

	 2.	 These	statistics	are	taken	from	CBS	space	reporter	Bill	Harwood’s	Web	site,	“CBS	Space	Place,”	avail-	

able	at	http://www.cbsnews.com/network/news/space/spacestats.html#GENERALDEMO	(accessed	

3	September	2009).

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U.S. experience, why is there still controversy in this country regarding the 

wisdom of continuing a government program of human spaceflight?”

Some Preliminary Observations

As suggested by the quotation from James Killian above, many, if not most, leaders of the scientific community from 1957 to today have questioned the value 

of humans as opposed to robotic spacecraft in terms of scientific payoff from 

space missions. Others have pointed out that a human presence is not required 

to provide the multiple tangible benefits from space such as relaying communications, observing meteorological conditions, remote sensing of Earth’s surface, or 

providing navigation and timing services. Over the same period of time, the U.S. 

Presidents and other leaders involved in the decisions to carry out a program of 

human spaceflight have never used scientific output as a primary justification. So 

a first thing to observe is that the protagonists in the debate regarding humans 

versus robots have historically talked past one another. To scientists, a space 

program is first of all about advancing scientific knowledge, and their dismissal 

of the value of human presence is couched in terms of that objective. To national 

leaders, the value of human involvement is measured in terms of national power 

and pride; for example, Project Apollo was about getting Americans to the Moon 

and back to Earth, thereby demonstrating the technological and organizational 

power of the United States. It was not about what research astronauts did while 

on the lunar surface or what we learned about the Moon by going there. 

When the debate on whether to approve the Space Shuttle was in full swing 

in the second half of 1971, there were multiple justifications offered for going 

ahead with the program. Two apparently were decisive for President Richard 

Nixon. One was very parochial: starting the Shuttle in 1972 would produce 

jobs in states key to Nixon’s reelection. The other was the argument that not 

approving the Shuttle Program as a follow-on human flight program to Apollo 

would send a message that “our best years are behind us, that we are turning 

inward, reducing our defense commitments, and voluntarily starting to give 

up our super-power status, and our desire to maintain world superiority.”3

The U.S. Space Station program was publicly justified both as another demonstration of U.S. leadership and as a demonstration of the research value of 

humans in orbit, and thus as a means of providing an instrumental and tangible 

	 3.	 Caspar	Weinberger,	Deputy	Director,	OMB,	to	President	Richard	Nixon,	12	August	1971,	reprinted	in	

Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents in the History of the U.S. Civil Space Program,	ed.	John	M.	

Logsdon,	vol.	1, Organizing for Exploration (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4407,	1995),	p.	547.

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Fifty Years of Human Spaceflight

answer to the question of the value of human presence in space. Unfortunately, 

the checkered history of the program has meant that there still, a full quarter of 

a century after President Ronald Reagan approved development of a U.S. space 

station, has been little opportunity to demonstrate the Station’s instrumental 

value as a venue for research; and it is not clear that the U.S. utilization program 

planned for the ISS will remedy that shortfall. So the jury is still out with respect 

to whether the results of human-tended research in orbit can produce results 

that justify the costs and risks of carrying it out, separate from the somewhat 

questionable value of the Space Station as a tool of U.S. leadership.

It is worth noting that many people, and many governments, are attracted 

by the opportunity to go into space. China is the newest entry in the human 

spaceflight club, and India is moving toward becoming the fourth country 

to acquire membership.4 The primary motivation behind these recent efforts 

seems to be similar to that which motivated the Soviet Union and the United 

States almost five decades ago—the quest for pride and power. Recently, several 

space agencies have carried out a recruitment campaign for new governmentsponsored astronauts. The United States got “only” 3,535 applications for perhaps 15–20 slots. The ESA received 8,413 applications from 17 countries for 

what were supposed to be 4 positions; ESA ended up selecting 6 candidates 

due to the overwhelming response. The Japanese Space Agency received 963 

applications for 3 opportunities. And Canada received 5,352 applications for 2 

slots!5 Countries such as Malaysia and South Korea have paid substantial sums 

to Russia for the launch of their government-sponsored astronauts. Russia 

continues to launch fare-paying private citizens to the ISS, and there are many 

forecasts of a robust market for commercial flights to orbit.6

So What Is the Problem?

There are several reasons why the controversy regarding human spaceflight 

lingers after almost a half century of experience. First of all, human spaceflight 

is undeniably expensive both in absolute terms and compared to robotic space 

missions. Thus it is entirely legitimate to continually question whether its benefits 

	 4.	 Of	 course,	 people	 from	many	 other	 countries	 have	 gone	 into	 space	 on	 United	 States	 and	 Russian	

spacecraft,	but	only	three	countries	currently	have	the	ability	to	send	people	into	orbit.

	 5.	 These	 numbers	 come	 from	 http://brianshiro.blogspot.com/2008/09/nasas-2009-astronaut-classselection.html	(accessed	16	January	2009).

	 6.	 This	paper	will	not	discuss	the	wisdom	of	privately	funded	human	spaceflight.	If	there	is	both	a	demand	

for	such	an	experience	and	a	socially	acceptable	means	of	meeting	that	demand,	there	appears	to	be	

no	fundamental	issue	with	commercial	spaceflight.

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and risks justify the expenditure of public funds for its support. Calculating the 

exact amount of the NASA budget devoted to human spaceflight is a somewhat 

arcane effort and will not be attempted here. Suffice it to say that operating 

the Space Shuttle and ISS, along with developing the next-generation systems 

for human spaceflight, is a multi-billion-dollar annual enterprise. Nor will this 

paper attempt to specify a comparative cost-benefit ratio for human and robotic 

missions. This is an almost impossible task, given that many of the benefits of 

human (and to some degree, robotic) missions are intangible and thus very 

difficult to specify in measurable terms, while it is more feasible—but still difficult—to measure the scientific output of space missions.

In addition to costs, the risks associated with human spaceflight are among 

the highest of any human undertaking. There have been 1,092 individual trips 

to space, and 18 people have died during spaceflight.7 This is a 1.6 percent 

fatality rate; of every 100 people who have flown into space, nearly 2 did not 

return alive. There are important ethical questions with respect to government 

sponsorship of such a risky (peacetime) activity, even given the fact that the 

astronauts themselves voluntarily accept the risk.

Finally, there are multiple objectives that motivate governments to sponsor 

human spaceflight. Those skeptical of this activity give priority to different 

motivations than do its supporters. The result is that advocates and critics use 

different measures of value, and this is a situation in which it is very difficult 

to reach a consensus on the question of the absolute value of humans in space.

An excellent example of this point is the long-standing skepticism of the 

first U.S. space scientist, the late James Van Allen, about the value of human 

spaceflight. In a 2004 essay titled “Is Human Spaceflight Obsolete?” James 

Van Allen asked, “Does human spaceflight continue to serve a compelling 

cultural purpose and/or the national interest?” or “Does human spaceflight 

simply have a life of his own, without a realistic objective that is remotely 

commensurate with its costs?” His response places tangible science and 

application benefits as the highest priority and trivializes intangible benefits: 

“Almost all the space program’s advances in scientific knowledge have been 

accomplished by hundreds of robotic spacecraft.” Also, “In our daily lives, we 

enjoy the pervasive benefits of long-lived robotic spacecraft.” With respect 

to human spaceflight, a “dispassionate comparison” would, he argues, show 

that “the only surviving motivation for continuing human spaceflight is the 

	 7.	 This	includes	the	seven	astronauts	aboard	Challenger	on	26	January	1986;	this	was	technically	not	a	

spaceflight	since	the	vehicle	did	not	achieve	orbit.

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Fifty Years of Human Spaceflight

ideology of adventure.”8 (The use of the rather pejorative phrase “ideology 

of adventure” suggests that Van Allen’s analysis might not be quite as “dispassionate” as he suggests.)

It is worth noting that Van Allen’s views are not shared by all space scientists. For example, Steve Squyres, the Cornell professor who is the Principal 

Investigator for MERs Spirit and Opportunity, observes in his book Roving 

Mars that “The unfortunate truth is that most things our rovers can do in a 

perfect sol (day’s work), a human explorer on the scene could do in less than a 

minute,” and “The rovers are our surrogates, our robotic precursors to a world, 

as humans, we’re still not quite ready to visit.” What Squyres really wants, he 

says, is “boot prints in our wheel tracks.”9

What Are the “Primary Objectives” of Human Spaceflight?

In a thoughtful white paper published in late 2008, the Space, Policy, and 

Society Working Group at MIT discussed “The Future of Human Spaceflight.” 

The white paper divides the reasons for undertaking human spaceflight into 

“primary” and “secondary” objectives. Primary objectives are “those that can 

only be accomplished through the physical presence of human beings, those 

whose benefits exceed the opportunity costs, and those worthy of significant 

risk to, and possibly the loss of, human life.” The paper identifies as primary 

objectives “exploration, national pride, and international prestige and leadership.” Secondary objectives “have benefits that accrue from human presence in 

space but do not by themselves justify the cost or the risk.” The paper identifies 

as secondary objectives “science, economic development and jobs, technology 

development, education, and inspiration.” It adds, “None of this is to say that 

secondary objectives are unimportant; all have contributing roles to play in 

justifying government expenditures on space exploration.”10

If this formulation is accepted, the reasons for the continuing controversy 

over human spaceflight become clearer. Those advocating the value of humans 

in space place their priority on the “primary” set of objectives; those critical of 

human spaceflight evaluate it in terms of the “secondary” objectives. With these 

	 8.	 James	Van	Allen,	“Is	Human	Spaceflight	Obsolete?”	Issues in Science and Technology	(summer	2004),	

available	at	http://www.issues.org/20.4/p_van_allen.html (accessed	3	September	2009).

	 9.	 Stephen	Squyres,	Roving Mars: Spirit, Opportunity, and the Exploration of the Red Planet	(New	York,	NY:	

Hyperion,	2005),	pp.	234,	378.

	 10.	 Space,	Policy,	and	Society	Working	Group,	MIT,	“The	Future	of	Human	Spaceflight,”	December	2008.	

The	 paper	 is	 available	 at	 http://web.mit.edu/mitsps/MITFutureofHumanSpaceflight.pdf (accessed	18	

January	2009).	The	quoted	passages	are	on	p.	6	of	the	paper.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

differences in evaluation, it is not surprising that no closure has been reached in 

the controversy over the value to the nation of a program of human spaceflight.

Viewing human spaceflight as a particularly effective means of enhancing 

United States national pride and international prestige and leadership has been 

the underpinning rationale for almost 50 years of support for the activity by 

the top levels of government. Consider the following:

To the layman, manned space flight and exploration will 

represent the true conquest of space. No unmanned experiment 

can substitute for manned exploration in its psychological 

effect on the peoples of the world.

—“U.S. Policy on Outer Space,” 26 January 196011 

Dramatic achievements in space . . . symbolize the technological 

power and organizing capacity of a nation.

This nation needs to make a positive decision to pursue space 

projects aimed at enhancing national prestige. Our attainments 

are a major element in the international competition between 

the Soviet system and our own . . . . [P]rojects such as lunar 

and planetary exploration are, in this sense, part of the battle 

along the fluid front of the cold war.

It is man, not machines, that captures the imagination of 

the world.

—Memorandum to Vice President Lyndon Johnson 

from NASA Administrator James Webb and Secretary of 

Defense Robert McNamara, 8 May 196112

We go into space because whatever mankind must undertake, 

free men must fully share.

—Address by President John F. Kennedy 

to a joint session of Congress, 25 May 196113

	 11.	 Logsdon,	Exploring the Unknown,	vol.	1,	p.	363.

	 12.	 Ibid.,	pp.	444,	446.

	 13.	 Ibid.,	p.	453.

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Recent Apollo flights have been very successful from all points 

of view. Most important is the fact that they give the American 

people a much needed lift in spirit (and the people of the world 

an equally needed look at American superiority).

—Memorandum to President Richard Nixon from Caspar 

Weinberger, Deputy Director, OMB, 12 August 1971

I agree with Cap.

—President Richard Nixon, handwritten 

note on Weinberger memorandum14

Man has learned to fly in space, and man will continue to 

fly in space. This is a fact. And, given this fact, the United 

States cannot forgo its responsibility—to itself and to the free 

world—to have a part in manned space flight . . . . For the 

U.S. not to be in space, while others do have men in space, 

is unthinkable, and a position which America cannot accept.

—Memorandum to the White House from NASA 

Administrator James Fletcher, 22 November 197115

Some people say you can do it all in space with robots. In fact, 

you must have man. He—and she—are the essential ingredient. 

The presence of man is the key to leadership in space.

—NASA Administrator James Beggs, Briefing 

to President Ronald Reagan, 1 December 198316

A fundamental objective guiding United States space activities 

has been, and continues to be, space leadership . . . . The overall 

goals of United States Space activities are . . . to expand human 

presence and activity beyond Earth orbit into the solar system. 

—Presidential Directive on National 

Space Policy, 11 February 198817

	 14.	 Ibid.,	p.	547.

	 15.	 Ibid.,	p. 556.

	 16.	 Ibid.,	p.	597.

	 17.	 Ibid.,	p.	602.	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Human Spaceflight and Soft Power

These samplings from the historical record suggest the continuity in support 

at the top level for human spaceflight based on its contributions to national 

pride, national prestige, and international leadership. In turn, these elements 

are attributes of what has come to be called “soft power,” defined as the ability 

of the United States to “obtain the outcomes it wants in world politics because 

other countries want to follow it, admiring its values, emulating its example, 

aspiring to its level of prosperity and openness.”18

Contemporary space leaders clearly see the value of human spaceflight 

in terms of its contribution to U.S. soft power and thus to U.S. national security. This point was articulately made by former NASA Administrator Michael 

Griffin in a 2006 speech. He suggested that “The most enlightened, yet least 

discussed, aspect of national security involves being the kind of nation and, 

doing the kinds of things, that inspire others to want to cooperate as allies 

and partners rather than to be adversaries. And in my opinion, this is NASA’s 

greatest contribution to our nation’s future in the world.” He added: 

Today, and yet not for much longer, America’s ability to lead 

a robust program of human and robotic exploration sets us 

above and apart from all others. It offers the perfect venue 

for leadership in an alliance of great nations, and provides 

the perfect opportunity to bind others to us as partners in 

the pursuit of common dreams. And if we are a nation joined 

with others in pursuit of such goals, all will be less likely to 

pursue conflict in other arenas. No enterprise of national scale 

offers a more visibly attractive and interesting collaboration 

than does space exploration. This great enterprise threatens 

no one while enriching everyone. It is about the lure of the 

frontier; leaders occupy and extend the frontiers of their times.19

How might one make an independent assessment of this and the previously cited statements? Is there any way to actually measure the contribution of 

human spaceflight to U.S. soft power? Or must we depend for this connection 

on subjective judgments by those with the responsibility for allocating public 

	 18.	 On	 soft	 power,	 see	 Joseph	 S.	 Nye,	 Jr.,	 The Paradox of American Power: Why the World’s Only 

Superpower Can’t Go It Alone	(Oxford,	U.K.:	Oxford	University	Press,	2002),	pp.	4–9.	

	 19.	 Michael	Griffin	(speech	to	National	Space	Symposium,	6	April	2006).

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Fifty Years of Human Spaceflight

resources to space in the context of competing priorities? It is beyond the scope 

of this brief paper to address these questions in any depth, but they are crucial 

to assessing whether human spaceflight is an undertaking that continues to 

make significant contributions to the pride and power of the United States.

The record of human spaceflight in the United States since the end of the 

Apollo program may not provide the best basis for assessing its contributions 

to national power. That record has also raised the question of whether any program of human spaceflight can be effective in this regard, even if it consists of 

repetitive flights of the same spacecraft carrying out a series of missions that to 

the layman look very similar. Or is it the case that only spaceflight that results in 

new experiences can make such a contribution? Unfortunately, neither the Space 

Shuttle nor ISS program has lived up to its promised performance, and thus it is 

a fair question to ask whether human spaceflight as carried out by NASA over 

the past quarter of a century has been a significant contributor to U.S. soft power. 

Even so, it may well be that past, and to some degree current, space achievements involving direct human presence do remain a potent source of national 

pride, and that such pride is the underpinning reason why the U.S. public continues to support human spaceflight. Certainly, space images—an astronaut on 

the Moon, a Space Shuttle launch—rank only below the American flag and the 

bald eagle as patriotic symbols, and such patriotism is a foundation of U.S. soft 

(and hard) power. Most Americans probably cannot name a current astronaut 

but still have a very engaged reaction once they meet someone who has experienced spaceflight. Young individuals, in particular, remain fascinated by the 

possibility that they could one day travel to space, and that possibility appears 

to motivate them toward excellence in their education. The self-image of the 

United States as a successful nation is threatened when we fail in our space 

efforts, and catastrophes such as Challenger and Columbia seem to tap deep 

emotions. If human spaceflight has the potential to contribute to U.S. soft power, 

but repetitive flights to and long-duration activity in low-Earth orbit do not tap 

that potential, what does? The obvious answer is human travel beyond Earth orbit.

Exploration as a Compelling Rationale

Many believe that the only sustainable rationale for a government-funded program 

of human spaceflight is to take the lead in exploring the solar system beyond lowEarth orbit.20 The MIT white paper provides an insightful definition of exploration:

	 20.	 John	M.	Logsdon,	“A	Sustainable	Rationale	for	Human	Spaceflight,”	Issues in Science and Technology

(winter	2003),	available	at	http://www.issues.org/20.2/p_logsdon.html (accessed	3	September	2009).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Exploration is a human activity, undertaken by certain cultures 

at certain times for particular reasons. It has components of 

national interest, scientific research, and technical innovation, 

but is defined by none of them. We define exploration as an 

expansion of the realm of human experience, bringing people 

into new places, situations, and environments, expanding and 

redefining what it means to be human. What is the role of 

Earth in human life? Is human life fundamentally tied to the 

earth, or could it survive without the planet?

Human presence, and its attendant risk, turns a spaceflight 

into a story that is compelling to large numbers of people. 

Exploration also has a moral dimension because it is in effect 

a cultural conversation on the nature and meaning of human 

life. Exploration by this definition can only be accomplished 

by direct human presence and may be deemed worthy of the 

risk of human life.21

In the wake of the 2003 Columbia accident that took the lives of seven 

astronauts and the report of the Columbia Accident Investigation Board that 

criticized the absence of a compelling mission for human spaceflight as “a 

failure of national leadership,”22 the United States, in January 2004, adopted 

a new policy to guide its human spaceflight activities. The policy directed 

NASA to “implement a sustained and affordable human and robotic program to 

explore the solar system and beyond” and to “extend human presence across 

the solar system, starting with a human return to the Moon by the year 2020, 

in preparation for human exploration of Mars and other destinations.”23 This 

policy seems totally consistent with the definition of exploration provided in 

the MIT white paper. The issue is whether such a policy and its implementation, 

focusing on human exploration beyond Earth orbit, can provide an adequate 

and sustainable justification for a continuing program of government-sponsored 

spaceflight that will make contributions that will outweigh the costs and risks 

involved to the “primary objectives” of national pride and prestige, and also 

to some of the several “secondary objectives.”

	 21.	 MIT,	“The	Future	of	Human	Spaceflight,”	p.	8.

	 22.	 Columbia	Accident	Investigation	Board,	Report,	vol.	1	(Washington,	DC:	GPO,	August	2003),	pp.	209,	211.

	 23.	 The	White	House,	“A	Renewed	Spirit	of	Discovery:	The	President’s	Vision	for	Space	Exploration,”	January	

2004.

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Fifty Years of Human Spaceflight

In the absence of any agreed-upon metrics to provide an answer to this 

question, it seems unavoidable that the answer will come from the subjective 

judgments of national leaders. The past two U.S. Congresses, by strong bipartisan majorities, have made a continued program of human exploration beyond 

Earth orbit the law of the land. This paper is being completed just as Barack 

Obama takes the oath of office as the 44th President of the United States. It 

will be up to President Obama to decide whether to continue along the lines 

of the current space exploration policy, or whether to return the focus of U.S. 

space activities, including human spaceflight, to Earth and its near vicinity. As 

he makes this decision, one hopes that his vision of the future incorporates 

having the United States remain a spacefaring nation. In this context, it is once 

again useful to quote the words of former NASA Administrator Michael Griffin:

Imagine if you will a world of some future time—whether it 

be 2020, or 2040, or whenever—when some other nations or 

alliances are capable of reaching and exploring the Moon or 

voyaging to Mars, and the United States cannot and does not. 

Is it even conceivable that in such a world America would still 

be regarded as a leader among nations, never mind the leader?

And if not, what might be the consequences of such a shift 

in thought upon the global balance of economic and strategic 

power? Are we willing to accept those consequences? In the 

end, these are the considerations at stake when we decide, as 

Americans, upon the goals we set for, and the resources we 

allocate to, our civil space program. 

Humans will go to the Moon and Mars; the only questions 

are which humans, what values they will hold, what languages 

they will speak.24

	 24.	 Michael	Griffin	(speech	to	the	National	Space	Symposium,	6	April	2006).

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Chapter 12

From the Secret of Apollo 

to the Lessons of Failure

The Uses and Abuses of Systems Engineering 

and Project Management at NASA

Stephen B. Johnson

In his books, To Engineer Is Human1 and Success through Failure,

2

 Henry 

Petroski has documented an interesting and important relationship between 

an engineering discipline and the reliability of the technical products that it 

produces. He found that over the course of several generations of engineers in 

a given discipline, such as civil engineers specializing in bridge building, that 

the reliability (or conversely, the failure rate) of their products swings back and 

forth from highly conservative, highly reliable designs to more innovative, less 

reliable designs. Ultimately the less reliable designs lead to outright failure, such 

as the famous Tacoma Narrows Bridge failure of 1940. This prompts engineers 

to determine the causes of the failure and implement more conservative designs 

on their next projects. Eventually, after many successes, some designers reduce 

“excessive” design margins to save money, to improve performance, or simply 

to try new ideas. Eventually someone goes too far and creates a design with 

inadequate margins, leading once again to failure. Petroski’s examples came 

from civil engineering, but he found this same pattern in other engineering 

disciplines, including aerospace. He noted that the tragic losses of the Space 

Shuttles Challenger in 1986 and Columbia in 2003 follow the same pattern.3

	 1.	 Henry	Petroski,	 To Engineer Is Human: The Role of Failure in Successful Design	 (New	York,	 NY:	St.	

Martin’s	Press,	1982).

	 2.	 Henry	Petroski,	Success through Failure: The Paradox of Design	(Princeton,	NJ:	Princeton	University	

Press,	2006).

	 3.	 Ibid.,	pp.	163–167.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Petroski’s analysis is relevant to NASA because he emphasizes multigenerational knowledge transfer and learning in engineering design and how changes 

in the perception of risk affect failure rates. NASA has a strong tradition of 

research and system development, and it also operated these systems, creating organizations focused on launch and mission operations. Understanding 

NASA’s ability to create and operate complex systems requires an understanding of both its large-scale engineering development and its operation of these 

systems. While academic researchers of “high reliability organizations” have 

studied operations of complex, high-risk systems such as aircraft carriers and 

nuclear power plants, there is a relative dearth of research on the dependability of engineering design.4

 Such research is needed, given the emerging 

understanding that one of NASA’s fundamental issues is its culture.

In the 1960s, NASA’s Apollo program was a shining example of what 

humans could accomplish when they set their minds to achieving a difficult 

goal. As many noted at the time, it was an incredible feat of organization as 

well as technology. NASA’s ability to direct hundreds of thousands of factory 

workers, engineers, scientists, and managers to achieve multiple lunar landings 

drew accolades in the United States and abroad.

Yet 31 years after the last astronaut left the lunar surface, the loss of NASA’s 

second Space Shuttle, Columbia, and its seven astronauts left the Agency devastated and distraught. The Challenger disaster in January 1986 was a shock, 

shattering NASA’s aura of invincibility. The loss of Columbia in February 2003 

implied more fundamental problems. No longer could the blame for an accident 

be placed on a few overconfident engineers or managers. Something inherent to NASA as an institution was flawed, something the Columbia Accident 

Investigation Board identified as NASA’s “culture.”

“Culture” is a famously holistic and ambiguous term, even for social scientists who use it in their daily work. According to Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate 

Dictionary, culture is “an integrated pattern of human knowledge, belief, and 

behavior that depends upon man’s capacity for learning and transmitting 

knowledge to succeeding generations,” or “the customary beliefs, social forms, 

	 4.	 See,	 for	 example,	 T.	 R.	 LaPorte,	 “High	 Reliability	 Organizations:	 Unlikely,	 Demanding,	 and	 at	 Risk,”	

Journal of Crisis and Contingency Management	4,	no.	2	(June	1996):	55–59;	K.	 H.	 Roberts,	“New	

Challenges	 to	 Organizational	 Research:	 High	 Reliability	 Organizations,”	 Industrial Crisis Quarterly	 3	

(1989):	111–125;	and	K.	E.	Weick,	“Organizational	Culture	as	a	source	of	high	reliability,”	California 

Management Review	29	(1987):	112–127.	Much	of	this	research	 is	a	response	to	Charles	Perrow,	

Normal Accidents: Living with High-Risk Technologies	(New	York,	NY:	Basic	Books,	1984),	which	argued	

that	accidents	are	almost	inevitable	or	“normal”	in	complex	systems.

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From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

and material traits of a racial, religious, or social group.”5

 While accurate, this 

diagnosis was problematic for NASA. Which beliefs, social forms, or material 

traits did NASA need to change? The Columbia Accident Investigation Board 

did not elaborate.

From a historical perspective, was the NASA culture that produced the 

amazing feats of the 1960s the same culture that also created the disasters 

of 1986 and 2003? If not, then what changed? Furthermore, can we pinpoint 

the specific beliefs, social forms, or material traits within NASA’s people and 

organization that cause failure? As NASA celebrates its 50th anniversary in 2008 

and embarks on a new journey back to the Moon, can it recreate the magic of 

Apollo, or will its cultural baggage set the stage for a tragedy in deep space? 

The fate of America’s civilian space agency, and perhaps of humanity’s future 

in space, depends critically on whether NASA understands and can improve 

its culture sufficiently to make long-term endeavors in deep space viable.

NASA’s Original Technical Culture

Between October 1958, when NASA began operations, and July 1960, NASA 

acquired a number of research and development organizations. From the NACA, 

NASA inherited three research Centers: Langley, Lewis, and Ames. From NRL, 

NASA acquired the Vanguard division, which formed the base of GSFC. The Army 

transferred Caltech’s JPL to NASA control as well as the ABMA, which became 

MSFC. NASA also acquired some projects from the U.S. Air Force, including the 

F-1 engine used for the Saturn launch vehicle. NASA Headquarters attempted 

to weld these disparate organizations into a coherent agency.6

Despite their differences, these organizations shared some common characteristics, which political scientist Howard McCurdy has identified as NASA’s 

“original technical culture.” A strong “in-house” technical competence was shared 

among all of NASA’s original organizations and personnel. They had decades 

of experience of hands-on technical work and were at least as competent as 

the contractors that NASA managed as it grew in the 1960s. A crucial part of 

NASA’s technical competence was its insistence on rigorous testing, which 

grew more elaborate along with NASA’s machines. NASA also prided itself on 

its exceptional personnel. Its original staff members and those it hired in the 

expansion years of the early 1960s were among the best and brightest that 

	 5.	 Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary	(Springfield,	MA:	Merriam-Webster,	Inc.,	1991).

	 6.	 Howard	 E.	 McCurdy,	 Inside NASA: High Technology and Organizational Change in the U.S. Space 

Program	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1993),	chap.	1.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

the United States (and its allies!) had to offer. Spaceflight had a glamour and 

excitement in the 1960s that attracted exceptionally bright and talented staff.7

A key organization for Apollo, and unique in its heritage and capabilities, 

was MSFC’s “Rocket Team” under Wernher von Braun. Von Braun himself was 

one of the founders of rocket technology, as the leader of the V-2 project in 

Nazi Germany. He was by all accounts a charismatic visionary, an extraordinary 

manager, a technical leader, and a cultured, charming man. His team of German 

engineers had been together for decades, working on the same technology 

throughout that time. They all knew their tasks and how they related to the 

tasks of their team members. Von Braun, in 1963, described his management 

style as that of a gardener nurturing and cultivating a capability grown over 

years, a rather accurate description of the evolution of his team.8

Von Braun used simple but effective methods that capitalized on this 

experienced, “organic” group. He used a policy of “automatic responsibility,” 

whereby division leaders, and even low-level engineers, were required to take 

responsibility to resolve problems they uncovered, even outside of their own 

local organizations. If the problem was outside of their area, they were required 

to alert the relevant organizations of the issue, at which point they were then 

“automatically responsible” to resolve them. For difficult technical issues, he 

chaired meetings where the key parties openly debated their views and disagreements. Von Braun would summarize and explain the issues, and then he 

would make a decision as to how the organization would proceed. By the late 

1960s, von Braun also implemented a system of “Monday Notes,” whereby all 

of the division leads would submit a single page of their major issues to von 

Braun, who would then comment on the full set of notes and circulate them 

to the entire team. These relatively informal but rigorous techniques worked 

well due to von Braun’s tact and competence and the intimate knowledge that 

each team member had with other team members.9

With the exception of MSFC’s unique group, by and large, NASA’s extremely 

experienced and competent engineers and scientists were not particularly 

	 7.	 McCurdy,	Inside NASA,	chap.	2.

	 8.	 Michael	 J.	 Neufeld,	 Von Braun: Dreamer of Space, Engineer of War	 (New	York,	 NY:	Vintage	 Books,	

2007);	Wernher	von	Braun,	“Management	of	Manned	Space	Programs,”	in	Science, Technology, and 

Management,	ed.	Fremont	E.	Kast	and	James	E.	Rosenzweig	(New	York,	NY:	McGraw-Hill,	1963).

	 9.	 Phillip	K.	Tompkins,	Organizational Communication Imperatives: Lessons of the Space Program	(Los	

Angeles,	CA:	Roxbury,	1993),	pp.	62–70;	Yasushi	Sato,	“Local	Engineering	and	Systems	Engineering:	

Cultural	Conflict	at	NASA’s	Marshall	Space	Flight	Center,	1960–1966,”	Technology and Culture	46,	no.	

3	(July	2005):	570–575.

290
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

good at managing large, complex projects. The NACA’s engineers trained on 

high-technology programs, but these were typically in association with contractors and often with DOD, which managed the truly large-scale programs 

and manufacturing capabilities. Engineers and scientists from JPL and NRL 

had similar backgrounds, and they were frequently researchers more than 

designers or project managers. NASA primarily organized itself by informal 

committees, ultimately reaching the point where, on the Mercury project, it 

created a committee to organize the other committees.10 To remedy this chaotic 

situation, NASA hired George Mueller in 1963 from TRW’s Space Technology 

Laboratories to head the Office of Manned Space Flight. Mueller quickly realized that he needed to reorganize NASA Headquarters to convert its hands-on 

engineers into executive managers and that he needed help from outside of 

NASA to manage the massive Apollo program.11

Mueller’s most important recruit was Minuteman ICBM Program Manager 

Samuel Phillips. Phillips had made a name for himself as a manager by bringing this large and complex project to deployment on time and under budget, 

a rarity for large aerospace projects. The Air Force agreed to assign Phillips 

to NASA, but only if he became Apollo Program Manager. In January 1964, 

Phillips submitted a request to his former boss, Air Force Systems Command 

Chief Bernard Schriever, for further Air Force personnel to be assigned to 

Apollo to help manage the massive program. Schriever agreed and transferred 

over 150 senior, middle, and junior officers to NASA.12

Mueller, Phillips, and their military cohorts brought to NASA a management 

system developed during the previous 15 years of ballistic missile development. 

This included several key elements; the most prominent were concurrency, 

change control and configuration management, environmental testing, systems 

engineering, phased planning, and project management.

• Concurrency was a method to speed up development by designing, 

developing, manufacturing, and testing a missile’s various pieces and 

support systems in parallel. This required more detailed planning than 

serial design and development, since changes in one component often 

impacted related components, causing simultaneous changes. 

	 10.	 Stephen	B.	Johnson,	The Secret of Apollo: Systems Management in American and European Space 

Programs	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	2002),	pp.	116–120.

	 11.	 W.	Henry	Lambright,	Powering Apollo: James E. Webb of NASA	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	

Press,	1995):	114–118;	Johnson,	The Secret of Apollo,	pp.	130–135.

	 12.	 Johnson,	Secret of Apollo,	pp.	135–137.

291
NASA’s First 50 Years

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

To handle this problem, engineers developed change control so that 

changes in one component had to be approved by a central systems 

engineer who coordinated the impacts of those changes on other 

components. 

Configuration management was the use of change control by managers to 

ensure that cost and schedule estimates were submitted along with each 

technical change, so as to predict its cost and schedule ramifications. This 

gained managers some cost and schedule prediction capability through 

the ability to veto changes that were too expensive or delayed schedules.

Environmental testing improved system reliability by testing a prototype 

design in a simulated environment in which system components had 

to operate, such as the projected temperature ranges, vibration levels, 

and vacuum environment.

Phased planning provided top-level managers with checkpoints in 

the project’s development cycle, at which managers could cancel a 

project if it was projected to have insurmountable technical, cost, or 

schedule risks. 

Systems engineering encompassed all of these facets, including systems 

analysis to trade off potential design solutions.

Project management organized a project on the basis of its technical 

products, as opposed to the disciplines from which the individuals that 

staffed the project were drawn. Each portion of a project organization 

was organized around its individual product, such as a structure, a 

guidance system, or a rocket engine.

These techniques evolved as responses to technical or managerial failings within the Air Force during the 1950s. For example, project management 

was implemented in response to management issues in early 1950s missile 

projects, where personnel being yanked from one group to another by line 

management in charge of many projects left critical projects without needed 

staff. Change control and environmental testing were responses to ballistic 

missile test failures caused by mismatched components when design changes 

had not been communicated between different groups, or components failed 

due to unexpected environmental factors. Configuration management and 

phased planning were responses to cost and schedule overruns on a variety 

of large scale military development programs.13

	 13.	 Ibid.,	chaps.	2	and	3;	Thomas	P.	Hughes,	Rescuing Prometheus	(New	York,	NY:	Pantheon,	1998),	pp.	

106–139.

292
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

Recognizing Apollo’s size and complexity, NASA brought top-level management of the entire program to NASA Headquarters. At Administrator James 

Webb’s insistence, Headquarters hired General Electric and Bellcomm (an 

offshoot of American Telephone and Telegraph specifically established for 

the purpose) to provide Apollo program support to Headquarters.14 By the 

late 1960s, Headquarters was controlling cost and schedules through Phillips’s 

system of configuration management. To make it work, Phillips needed NASA’s 

unruly designers to define Apollo’s actual design. Once defined, this “technical 

baseline” could be “frozen.” This baseline configuration would not be changed 

unless a change request was made with proper technical, cost, and schedule 

justification. While Phillips faced a number of objections from MSFC and JSC 

management who were not eager to be controlled by Phillips’s system, through 

persistence and persuasion by the end of 1966, he was well on his way to full 

implementation of this system, collectively called “systems management,” over 

Apollo’s technical committees.15

Failures of the 1960s: Strengthening Systems Management

In the early planetary programs of the late 1950s and early 1960s, a similar evolution from simple committee structures and processes to more sophisticated and 

bureaucratic methods occurred. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory began in World 

War II as an Army-funded organization to develop ballistic missiles. During the 

development of the Corporal missile, JPL ran into the same difficulties with missile failures and cost and schedule overruns as the Air Force had in its ballistic 

missile programs, and it developed the same kinds of solutions. It implemented 

these solutions, enumerated in the previous section, in the follow-on Sergeant 

program, resulting in much higher reliability in Sergeant than Corporal.16

After the launch of Sputnik in October 1957 and the subsequent failure of 

Vanguard’s first launch attempt two months later, JPL Director William Pickering 

gained Army approval to build the satellite for the Army’s first attempt to 

place a spacecraft in orbit, Explorer 1. Its success in January 1958 and JPL’s 

subsequent transfer to NASA the next year put JPL on the path to lead NASA’s 

planetary exploration. In the race against the Soviet Union into space, JPL 

placed a higher priority on speed than on reliability, and not surprisingly, its 

	 14.	 Johnson,	Secret of Apollo,	pp.	124–125.

	 15.	 Ibid.,	pp.	139–141;	Stephen	B.	Johnson,	“Samuel	Phillips	and	the	Taming	of	Apollo,”	Technology and 

Culture	42,	no.	4	(October	2001):	683–709.

	 16.	 Johnson,	Secret of Apollo,	pp.	80–99.

293
NASA’s First 50 Years

early satellites had a high rate of failure, roughly 50 percent in the late 1950s 

and early 1960s. However, on the Ranger program, which was to take close-up 

pictures of the lunar surface just prior to crashing into it, a series of six consecutive failures proved more than was politically acceptable. These failures 

led to congressional investigations of the implementation on Ranger and all 

of JPL’s later spacecraft of the methods evolved from Corporal and deployed 

on Sergeant. Having already deployed and improved these methods on the 

Mariner project to send a spacecraft to Venus in 1962, Mariner Project Manager 

Jack James spearheaded JPL’s early efforts to deploy them on other JPL projects 

and NASA robotic spacecraft programs. These systems engineering methods 

dramatically improved the reliability of JPL’s spacecraft from then on.17

In the meantime, Apollo continued rapidly forward in its determination to 

land an American astronaut on the Moon before the Soviets. By 1966, Samuel 

Phillips’s implementation of systems management techniques was well under 

way but hardly complete. When three astronauts died on the launchpad on 27 

January 1967 during a prelaunch test, the resulting investigation put Apollo 

and its management methods under the microscope. The accident investigation, run by NASA, concluded that the Agency had severely underestimated 

the danger of a pure oxygen atmosphere at sea level pressure. The Apollo 

204 fire had been caused by a spark in the Apollo Command Module, which 

ignited the pressurized, pure oxygen atmosphere. Earlier warnings about the 

potential danger from General Electric safety personnel had been forwarded 

to NASA, whose safety groups concluded that the risk was acceptable.18

Phillips’s methods survived the scrutiny unscathed and even strengthened. 

He had been actively implementing configuration management over NASA’s 

committee structures since his arrival at NASA, and he had uncovered problems 

with North American Aviation, the prime contractor for the Apollo Command 

Module and Saturn second stage. By its silence about Phillips’s methods, the 

investigative team and Congress sanctioned Phillips’s techniques. In an interesting brief sentence, Congress noted cultural issues played a role: “The committee can only conclude that NASA’s long history of testing and launching space 

vehicles with pure oxygen environments at 15.7 psi and lower pressures led 

	 17.	 Ibid.,	pp.	92–114.

	 18.	 Johnson,	Secret of Apollo,	pp.	145–147;	Mike	Gray,	Angle of Attack: Harrison Storms and the Race to 

the Moon	(New	York,	NY:	Penguin,	1992),	pp.	232–235;	Alexander	Brown,	“Accidents,	Engineering,	and	

History	at	NASA,	1967–2003,”	in	Critical Issues in the History of Spaceflight,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	and	

Roger	D.	Launius	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2006-4702,	2006),	pp.	379–383.

294
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

to overconfidence and complacency.” Success bred complacency and created 

the conditions for future failure.19

In the fire’s aftermath, NASA made many technical design improvements 

to Apollo and implemented a new safety system, while Phillips implemented 

more project reviews and strengthened configuration control.20 Apollo went 

on to a series of spectacular successes. These included the first piloted lunar 

landing of Apollo 11, the near-disaster and heroic recovery of Apollo 13, and 

several valuable science missions up to Apollo 17. After the successful Apollo 

11 landing in July 1969, a congressional hearing and staff study gave NASA the 

opportunity to showcase its management system, which was widely believed 

to be one of the primary reasons for Apollo’s success. With Apollo, NASA had 

earned a reputation as an organization capable of incredible technical feats. 

NASA was an extraordinarily competent and confident institution. However, 

NASA’s competence would soon begin to erode, and its confidence would be 

ultimately misplaced.21

Weakening Systems Management: 

To Challenger, Hubble, and Mars Observer

From its inception in 1958 through the early 1960s, NASA’s workforce grew 

dramatically, up to 36,000 in 1967, and the contractor force working for NASA 

grew even faster, peaking at roughly 300,000 in 1966. After that time, NASA’s 

workforce slowly declined, and the contractor workforce dramatically shrank, 

down to 100,000 by 1972. NASA was generally able to reduce its force through 

regular attrition, though from 1972 to 1975, NASA had to lay off workers. NASA’s 

workforce decline was over by the early 1980s, with roughly 22,000 personnel 

in 1982. From 1967 through the 1980s, NASA’s hiring remained anemic, and the 

average age of NASA’s technical personnel peaked in 1982 at 44.5 years old.22

	 19.	 Johnson,	Secret of Apollo,	pp.	143–150;	Nancy	G.	Leveson,	“Technical	and	Managerial	Factors	in	the	

NASA	Challenger	and	Columbia	Losses:	Looking	Forward	to	the	Future,”	in	Controversies in Science & 

Technology: From Climate to Chromosomes,	ed.	Daniel	Lee	Kleinman,	Karen	A.	Cloud-Hansen,	Christina	

Matta,	and	Jo	Handelsman	(New	Rochelle,	NY:	Mary	Ann	Liebert,	2008),	p.	257.	Quotation	from	Senate	

Committee	 on	Astronautical	 and	 Space	 Sciences,	 Apollo 204 Accident,	 90th	 Cong.,	 2nd	 sess.,	 30	

January	1968,	with	additional	views,	pp.	9–10.

	 20.	 Johnson,	Secret of Apollo,	pp.	143–150.	Phillips’s	centralization	went	too	far	by	1968,	slowing	the	

program’s	progress,	and	Phillips	relaxed	some	of	his	new	overzealous	rules	that	brought	the	smallest	

modifications	to	the	attention	of	executive	management.

	 21.	 House	 Committee	 on	 Science	 and	 Astronautics, Apollo Program Management,	 Staff	 Study	 for	 the	

Subcommittee	on	NASA	Oversight,	91st	Cong.,	1st	sess.,	July	1969.

	 22.	 McCurdy,	Inside NASA,	pp.	101–106.

295
NASA’s First 50 Years

In the meantime, in January 1972, President Richard Nixon approved 

NASA’s next major human spaceflight program, the Space Shuttle. The Shuttle 

Program was sold on the basis that it would provide low-cost access to space. 

NASA intended it to become the sole transport system for all U.S. payloads 

and astronauts. To enable this, NASA needed the support of the Air Force. The 

Air Force needed the Shuttle to have a much larger payload bay able to deploy 

reconnaissance satellites, and a larger cross-range capability, which required 

larger wings to maneuver in the atmosphere. However, funding was limited 

in the 1970s, and Nixon approved a $5.5 billion development program, which 

was far less than what NASA needed to develop a fully reusable system. This 

limitation forced design changes on the Shuttle Program, making the Shuttle 

only partly reusable, using a throwaway external tank and SRBs that could 

be refurbished between flights. In combination, these conflicting goals and 

insufficient development funds put strains on the Shuttle Program that would 

contribute to its later failures.23

The Shuttle’s development proceeded during the 1970s, and it was organized 

with the “lead Center” concept, whereby JSC led the program, instead of NASA 

Headquarters as on Apollo. Because JSC was at the same institutional level as 

MSFC and KSC, it had less clout for the Shuttle than NASA Headquarters had 

had for Apollo. Despite a number of technical problems, including the complicated SSME and the novel tiles of the orbiter’s thermal protection system, the 

Shuttle’s development proceeded, though with some delays and cost increases. 

The first flight of the Space Shuttle in April 1981 was perhaps the riskiest mission NASA ever attempted. This was the first, and to date the only, time a new 

launch vehicle’s first test flight had astronauts on board. While successful, it 

showed NASA’s extreme self-confidence at the time. Despite the loss of over 

one-third of its civil servants and two-thirds of its contract personnel, those 

that remained were very experienced and were able to pull it off. This further 

confirmed NASA’s confidence in its own abilities.24

However, subtle shifts in NASA’s engineering and management practices, as 

well as changes in the attitudes of its personnel, were weakening the Agency’s 

abilities. NASA’s goals remained ambitious, yet the sudden drop in funding 

in the early 1970s and its continued tightness through the early 1980s made 

	 23.	 T.	 A.	 Heppenheimer,	 The Space Shuttle Decision: NASA’s Search for a Reusable Space Vehicle

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4221,	1999),	chap.	9.

	 24.	 T.	A.	Heppenheimer,	Development of the Space Shuttle 1972–1981: History of the Space Shuttle,	vol.	2	

(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	2002).

296
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

the achievement of these ambitions problematic. At the same time, the federal 

government levied more regulations on the Agency to ensure external oversight 

and compliance with other goals such as workplace and environmental safety 

and workforce diversity. These new regulations drove an ever-larger burden 

of paperwork and a corresponding increase in administrative personnel as 

compared to technical workers. This made NASA a less desirable place to work 

as compared to its glory days in the 1960s; NASA had more paperwork and 

less hands-on engineering. The increasing regulations decreased the Agency’s 

decision-making flexibility, with more weight given to cost and schedule factors, along with other regulations. Promotions were harder to come by, and 

with fewer jobs available, many highly qualified personnel took less demanding positions simply to remain employed. With fewer projects, and those few 

projects now under greater levels of scrutiny, the management of these projects 

became more averse to risk, while being required to pay closer attention to 

schedules and budgets. As a result of all these factors, morale suffered.25

Within the Shuttle Program, these factors combined to create conditions that made catastrophic decisions almost inevitable. In particular, MSFC, 

which was the institution in charge of the SSMEs, SRBs, and the external tank, 

underwent a number of changes after Apollo that weakened its abilities. The 

first was the loss of von Braun himself, who left MSFC in 1970. Von Braun’s 

deputy, Eberhard Rees, was MSFC Director until 1973. Rocco Petrone took 

over until 1974, followed by William Lucas, who was Director from 1974 until 

the aftermath of the Challenger accident in 1986. While Rees understood von 

Braun’s management system, neither Petrone nor Lucas caught its nuances. 

As the German team retired or were forced out (as many of them believed 

occurred under Petrone’s regime), the informal bonds of von Braun’s “organic” 

team broke down, while a formal system of systems engineering had not really 

taken hold at MSFC.26

Up to and through the 1960s, von Braun’s team neither needed nor wanted 

systems engineering, which is in essence a formal method to ensure proper 

communications among different engineers and their disciplines in building a 

product. The German team did not need formal coordination methods, as they 

knew what to do and when to do it. Von Braun insulated systems engineering 

and Phillips’s centralizing methods from MSFC’s core engineering laboratories 

	 25.	 McCurdy,	Inside NASA,	pp.	90–124.

	 26.	 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),	pp.	152–169.

297
NASA’s First 50 Years

and committees by placing systems engineering in the Industrial Operations 

Directorate (IOD), created in 1962. The Directorate was ultimately headed by 

Air Force Colonel Edmund O’Connor, whom Samuel Phillips recommended 

to von Braun to lead the new organization in September 1964. The relationship between Phillips and O’Connor ensured close communication between 

Headquarters and MSFC, while IOD minimized the impact of Phillips’s Air 

Force-based processes on MSFC’s less formal methods, which were the standard techniques in R&D Operations, where the various MSFC laboratories were 

institutionally housed. Though MSFC began to adopt systems engineering in 

the 1960s, not all parts of the organization fully accepted it.27

Finally, personalities mattered. William Lucas, MSFC’s Director from 1974 

to 1986, was an extremely intelligent, but difficult, person to work with. Lucas 

demanded precision from his MSFC managers and engineers, but, unlike von 

Braun, he did not appreciate hearing of bad news. Whereas von Braun sought 

out problems and rewarded those that brought problems into the open, Lucas 

often grew angry when he learned of problems, with a “shoot the messenger” 

attitude. Engineers at MSFC worked very hard to avoid mistakes, so as not to 

face Lucas’s wrath. However, this also inhibited open discussions, since few 

were willing to talk about their work until they had done everything possible 

to prepare for a technical grilling. Lucas also modified the “Monday Notes” 

system, which became a method of upward communication only, without von 

Braun’s commentary and feedback. Lucas used systems engineering reviews 

and configuration management to control MSFC’s portions of the Shuttle 

Program, but the underlying attitude of fear and the resulting lack of communication subverted one of the primary goals of systems engineering, which is 

to enhance communication and ensure proper cross-checks and balances in 

the engineering design and decision process.28

While none of these issues alone caused the Challenger accident of 28 

January 1986, they all contributed to the continuation of problems with the 

Shuttle’s SRBs and to the fatal decision to launch the Shuttle despite record 

cold temperatures and a recommendation from the contractor, Thiokol, that the 

flight should be delayed. Problems with the SRBs had manifested themselves 

	 27.	 Johnson,	Secret of Apollo,	pp.	150–152;	Sato,	“Local	Engineering	and	Systems	Engineering,”	pp.	564–

578;	Tompkins,	Organizational Communication Imperatives,	pp.	76,	88–90.	Even	as	late	as	the	early	

1990s,	some	pockets	of	resistance	to	systems	engineering	remained,	as	propulsion	experts	claimed	

that	systems	engineering	is	“what	all	good	engineers	do.”	Author’s	recollection	of	meetings	at	MSFC	

from	that	time	period.

	 28.	 Tompkins,	Organizational Communication Imperatives,	chap.	10.

298
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

starting in November 1981 with the flight of Space Transportation System 

(STS)-2, when the first incident of O-ring erosion (partial burning and charring of the rings) was detected after the flight. Efforts to understand and fix 

the problem found a number of issues, including problems with the putty that 

insulated the rings from the SRB flames in flight, rotation of the joint, and some 

stiffness in the rings in lower temperatures. Further O-ring erosion incidents 

occurred, but from that time until 1986, engineers and managers ultimately 

decided that the Shuttle could continue to fly, sometimes citing the fact that 

the system had a redundant O-ring. Even though tests had shown by 1978 

that the second O-ring was ineffective as a backup, not until 1982 was the 

SRB joint design considered nonredundant, and even after that time, decisionmakers continued to treat the design as if its redundancy was effective. Over 

time, O-ring erosion became classified as typical and acceptable behavior.29

On the night of 27 January 1986, with record cold predicted for the next 

day’s launch, a Flight Readiness Review (FRR) teleconference was held to 

decide whether the Shuttle would fly the next morning. For the first time 

ever, Thiokol engineers, concerned that the low temperature would stiffen the 

O-rings sufficiently to cause them to fail in flight (allowing the hot gases to 

blow through the rings), recommended that the launch be delayed. Inquiring 

further to understand the recommendation’s basis, NASA engineers and managers aggressively questioned Thiokol and concluded that Thiokol’s argument, 

constructed quickly earlier in the day, was technically flawed. This was based 

largely on the existence of various kinds of problems associated with the 

SRBs described above and the inability of Thiokol engineers to differentiate 

temperature effects from other causes. Caucusing privately with the phone 

on “mute,” Thiokol managers and engineers agreed with NASA’s point that 

they could not prove that the SRBs would fail. Thiokol managers decided to 

reverse their recommendation, and the flight went forward the next morning.30

During the course of the discussions that evening, the essential point of an 

FRR had been unconsciously subverted. The FRR was intended to prove that 

the Shuttle could fly. Sufficient doubt about this should have been sufficient 

	 29.	 Diane	Vaughan,	The Challenger Launch Decision: Risky Technology, Culture, and Deviance at NASA

(Chicago,	IL:	University	of	Chicago	Press,	1996),	chap.	4;	Leveson,	“Technical	and	Managerial	Factors,”	

pp.	247–251.	Vaughan	claims	that	NASA	treated	O-ring	erosion	as	“normal,”	while	Leveson	disagrees,	

stating	that	NASA	considered	it	“acceptable,”	though	not	normal.	I	treat	this	issue	in	the	last	section,	

essentially	claiming	that	this	behavior	was	no	longer	considered	“anomalous”	by	some	members	of	the	

community.

	 30.	 Vaughan,	Challenger Launch Decision,	chap.	8.

299
NASA’s First 50 Years

to stop the launch. Unfortunately, NASA’s intense questioning raised doubts 

at Thiokol about their own arguments and gave the impression that NASA 

disagreed with them. Given that NASA ultimately had technical and funding 

authority over Thiokol, the contractor decided it could not press the point 

against its customer when it could not prove its case. Other NASA personnel 

who had doubts did not speak up. Thiokol should not have had to prove the 

case, and NASA management fatally accepted the changed position.31

In the aftermath of the Challenger accident, the Rogers Commission concluded that NASA’s decision-making processes had been fundamentally flawed, 

largely due to communication problems between engineering and management 

personnel and their differing perspectives. The commission noted that the safety 

program on the Shuttle was significantly weakened in comparison to Apollo, 

and it was effectively “silent” regarding the problems leading to Challenger. 

This was due in part to safety functions being part of the program, with little 

independence from the Program Manager, who had to account for cost and 

schedule concerns. The commission included indictments of faulty information flows and the fact that executive management did not receive information 

about O-ring problems over several years prior to the accident or information 

about the controversial decision the night before the tragedy.32

Marshall Space Flight Center was also involved with another major NASA 

embarrassment, the flawed optics of the Hubble Space Telescope, which was 

discovered shortly after the telescope’s launch on 27 April 1990. The resulting investigation could not determine with absolute certainty the cause of the 

spherical aberration problem, but it hypothesized how a flawed measurement 

of the lens’s position for grinding led to a 1.3-millimeter error and to the mirror’s ultimately being ground too flat at and near its edges. More troubling 

than the error itself was the fact that optical tests that would have found the 

problem had been deleted due to a variety of budget issues in the 1980s. As 

with the Shuttle, NASA had sold the Hubble Space Telescope to Congress and 

the Gerald Ford administration on the basis of a cost estimate that was far 

too optimistic for the level of technical complexity the project entailed. NASA 

	 31.	 Vaughan,	Challenger Launch Decision,	chap.	9;	Larry	B.	Rainey,	Kevin	B.	Kreitman,	Bradley	A.	Warner,	

and	Stephen	B.	Johnson,	“Critical	Thinking,”	in	Methods for Conducting Military Operational Analysis,	

ed.	Andrew	B.	Loerch	and	Larry	B.	Rainey	(Military	Operations	Research	Society,	2007),	chap.	18,	pp.	

607–611;	Stephen	B.	Johnson,	“Revisiting	the	Challenger,”	Quest: History of Spaceflight Quarterly	7,	

no.	2	(1999):	18–25.

	 32.	 Alexander	Brown,	“Accidents,	Engineering,	and	History	at	NASA,”	pp.	383–388;	Leveson,	“Technical	

and	Managerial	Factors,”	pp.	251–254.

300
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

judged the technical risks of not performing these tests (which were typical 

on the reconnaissance satellites on which the Hubble Space Telescope optics 

design was based) to be acceptable.33

NASA’s deep space projects were not spared the string of disasters. On 

21 August 1993, JPL lost communications with its Mars Observer probe as it 

neared the Red Planet. While the cause of the accident could not be definitively determined, the resulting investigation concluded that the most likely 

cause was a propellant system rupture that occurred during a monomethyl 

hydrazine propellant tank repressurization in preparation for the Mars orbit 

insertion burn. The investigation board speculated that a valve leak allowed 

nitrogen tetroxide to leak into the propellant system tubing, such that when the 

repressurization occurred, the monomethyl hydrazine reacted with the nitrogen 

tetroxide to rupture the tubing, causing the spacecraft to spin up, which then 

triggered spacecraft fault protection software to stop the command sequence 

prior to turning on the radio transmitter back to Earth. Despite cost overruns 

and schedule slips that increased the cost of Mars Observer from $250 to 

$800 million, NASA could not ensure a successful mission. Contributing to the 

fiasco was the growth of the spacecraft’s complexity because it was the first 

mission returning to Mars since the mid-1970s Viking missions; it also used 

a fixed-price contract. These two factors complicated the system and focused 

the project’s attention on cost to the detriment of reliability.34

NASA drew three separate and inconsistent lessons from these failures. 

Challenger drew attention to technical and communication problems with 

regard to safety in the human flight program, and the human flight program 

took immediate action to fix the technical problems, oust managers that had 

been directly implicated in the flawed decisions, and improve safety by creating 

an independent safety organization at NASA Headquarters. The Hubble Space 

Telescope embarrassment placed emphasis on the need to ensure proper testing for large-scale robotic projects, but in the long term, the Shuttle missions 

to fix the optics and later to replace and improve its instruments made the 

Hubble Space Telescope and the Shuttle a heroic and successful combination 

in the eyes of the public. The embarrassments of 1990 were largely forgotten. 

	 33.	 Robert	W.	Smith,	The Space Telescope: A Study of NASA, Science, Technology, and Politics	(Cambridge,	

U.K.:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1993),	pp.	399–425.

	 34.	 Howard	E.	McCurdy,	Faster, Better, Cheaper: Low-Cost Innovation in the U.S. Space Program	(Baltimore,	

MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	2001),	pp.	18–19;	“Mars	Observer	Investigation	Report	Released,”	

NASA	Press	Release	94-01-05,	5	January	1994;	Mars	Observer	Mission	Failure	Investigation	Board,	

MARS OBSERVER Mission Failure Investigation Board Report,	31	December	1993.

301
NASA’s First 50 Years

The loss of Mars Observer contributed to an entirely different dynamic, as 

pressures on NASA’s budget led to a new initiative to make robotic science 

satellites much smaller and cheaper, so that the loss of any one of them would 

not be a major problem.

Alternatives to Systems Management

In the 1980s and 1990s, systems management, as it had been practiced from 

the mid-1960s, came under increasing criticism. To many, NASA’s increasingly 

bureaucratic system appeared unproductive and wasteful. By the early 1990s, 

systems management had apparently been unable to prevent major disasters 

and tragedies, despite its perceived high costs and bureaucratic cross-checks. 

External events were drawing attention to the relative failings of American 

management in general and to potential new approaches. NASA management, 

in part because of federal government directives, began to consider alternatives 

to improve productivity, lower costs, and provide better service to its customers.

By the early 1980s, American competitiveness in certain key industries, most 

prominently automobiles and commercial electronics, was declining rapidly 

in the face of foreign, and in particular Japanese, competitors. American management experts began to look to Japan and other nations to search for the 

secrets of these dramatic and unexpected foreign successes. Japanese culture, 

with its emphasis on cooperation instead of competition, seemed to uniquely 

adopt and adapt American statistical quality control methods from World War 

II; the Japanese created a new and powerful tool: Total Quality Management 

(TQM). These methods were publicized by journalists, corporate executives, 

and management experts and became national topics of conversation by 1981.35

Experimentation with TQM methods soon began in American corporations 

and in certain branches of the U.S. government including NASA, which became 

one of the early adopters of the new management technique. By 1990, TQM 

activities at NASA were being coordinated by the Safety Mission Quality Office 

at Headquarters. A report in that year boasted of a number of ongoing TQM 

initiatives. In 1989, Lewis Research Center won the U.S. government’s Quality 

Improvement Award and was teaching TQM seminars to other government 

	 35.	 William	 M.	 Tsutsui,	 Manufacturing Ideology: Scientific Management in Twentieth-Century Japan

(Princeton,	NJ:	Princeton	University	Press,	1998);	Christopher	Byron,	“How	Japan	Does	It,”	Time	(30	

March	 1981):	 54–60;	William	 Ouchi,	 Theory Z: How American Business Can Meet the Japanese 

Challenge	(Reading,	MA:	Addison-Wesley,	1981);	Ezra	F.	Vogel,	Japan as Number One: Lessons for 

America	(Cambridge,	MA:	Harvard	University	Press,	1979).

302
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

organizations; MSFC executives met with TQM founder Edward Deming; and 

SSC established a steering committee to implement a TQM program at every 

Center. This same report also categorized dozens of traditional activities to 

improve technologies and processes as TQM-related improvements, though it 

appears unlikely that TQM inspired or controlled many of them. Dan Goldin, 

who became NASA’s Administrator in 1992, was a strong believer in TQM and 

made it an Agency priority.36

While many NASA organizations took TQM seriously and a number of 

NASA managers gave it executive-level support, NASA’s rank and file remained 

largely skeptical. Total Quality Management’s emphasis on work processes 

and on serving its customers seemed only marginally applicable to NASA. 

Many of NASA’s jobs were one-of-a-kind research tasks, or development 

tasks that changed over the course of a project, though similar to tasks on 

other projects. Defining NASA’s customer was even more problematic. Was 

the customer Congress, the President, the American people, or merely other 

NASA engineers that used NASA test results or analyses? Finally, how did one 

define the productivity and quality of NASA’s products? While quality could 

be related to NASA’s traditional quality assurance functions, productivity was 

not something easily quantified in NASA’s nonprofit, high-creativity environment. In the end, TQM did not take hold; and by the mid- to late 1990s, TQM 

faded from the NASA scene.37

The Jet Propulsion Laboratory was relatively late in using TQM methods, 

beginning its TQM initiatives in 1991 under its new Director, Ed Stone, to help 

change JPL’s culture to cut through its increasingly cumbersome bureaucracy. 

By 1993, Stone and his aide, Richard Laeser, recognizing that their initiative was 

	 36.	 NASA	Safety	and	Mission	Quality	Office,	NASA	Quality	and	Productivity	Improvement	Program,	NASA 

Total Quality Management 1989 Accomplishments Report,	 June	 1990,	 pp.	 6–8;	 Peter	 J.	Westwick,	

“Reengineering	Engineers:	Management	Philosophies	at	the	Jet	Propulsion	Laboratory	in	the	1990s,”	

Technology and Culture	48,	no.	1	(2007):	74.	

	 37.	 Historical	research	on	the	TQM	management	fad	at	NASA	has,	with	a	few	exceptions,	yet	to	be	written.	

For	its	impact	on	JPL,	see	Peter	J.	Westwick,	“Reengineering	Engineers:	Management	Philosophies	

at	the	Jet	Propulsion	Laboratory	in	the	1990s,”	Technology and Culture	48,	no.	1	(2007):	67–91.	A	

number	of	the	observations	made	here	are	from	the	author’s	experience.	From	1990	to	1991,	the	

author	learned	TQM	at	Martin	Marietta	Corporation	Astronautics,	which	at	that	time	was	implementing	

the	TQM	Quality	Function	Deployment	technique	of	generating	and	assessing	requirements	on	research	

programs.	The	 author	then	taught	these	 same	methods	to	 some	technology	 R&D	 groups	 at	MSFC.	

The	problems	encountered	there	were	typical	of	many	other	attempts	to	deploy	TQM,	as	the	author	

learned	from	many	student	papers	on	the	application	of	TQM	to	NASA,	the	Air	Force,	and	industry	while	

teaching	courses	on	space	systems	management	in	the	University	of	North	Dakota’s	Space	Studies	

Department.	These	observations	need	to	be	further	fleshed	out	by	research	on	this	subject,	but	I	have	

no	doubt	about	their	general	validity	when	properly	qualified	by	local	experiences.

303
NASA’s First 50 Years

encountering continued resistance among JPL’s regular engineering workforce, 

decided that the key to furthering cultural change was to focus on the lab’s 

processes. Laeser and Stone promoted Mike Hammer’s “reengineering” method, 

which aimed to redefine an organization’s processes, starting by charting out 

the organization’s current processes and then redesigning them to eliminate 

inefficiencies. Stone assigned high priority to the process teams, moving key 

managers to head them.38

The reengineering initiative did not go smoothly. It made certain processes 

more efficient, such as Voyager mission operations and business processes 

defined by the International Standards Organization. However, it also proliferated the number of processes, distributed responsibilities in an alarming 

manner, and intensified rank-and-file resistance to management initiatives, as 

process ownership increased responsibilities.39

The Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s efforts at reengineering occurred in parallel 

with its efforts to respond to Dan Goldin’s “faster, better, cheaper” initiatives. 

Prior to becoming NASA Administrator in March 1992 during the George H. 

W. Bush administration, Goldin had been an executive at TRW Corporation 

and was a strong proponent of small satellite technology, including the Space 

Defense Initiative (SDI) project, Brilliant Pebbles. Upon becoming the head of 

NASA, his encounters with the current and projected NASA budgets and massive cost overruns on the Space Station program, and the likelihood of limited 

future funding from Congress, led him to the realization that NASA would do 

little science unless these missions could significantly reduce costs. In a May 

1992 speech at JPL, Goldin discussed the need to reduce spacecraft and mission costs. He elaborated on this theme over the next few months, arguing 

that NASA needed to build more, but smaller and less expensive, spacecraft, 

while taking more risks, since the loss of a smaller craft would not be a major 

disaster to the science program.40

Goldin was building on an idea that had been growing in the military 

and at NASA, that smaller, cheaper spacecraft were appropriate for many 

robotic missions. The SDI program was studying the launch of hundreds of 

small spacecraft to intercept and destroy ICBMs. To support this effort, it was 

miniaturizing a number of technologies to make small, intelligent spacecraft 

feasible. The $80 million Clementine project was a key demonstrator of the 

	 38.	 Westwick,	“Reengineering	Engineers,”	pp.	73–83.

	 39.	 Ibid.,	pp.	80–84.

	 40.	 McCurdy,	Faster, Better, Cheaper,	pp.	48–55.

304
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

small satellite philosophy; it started in early 1992 to test ballistic missile defense 

sensor technologies by performing observations of the Moon from lunar orbit. 

Built and operated by NRL, its mission to gather data about the lunar surface 

succeeded in 1994 and provided a concrete example of the “faster, better, 

cheaper” concept in action. NASA’s Earth science community recognized the 

potential of small spacecraft as well. The Small Explorer program, started 

in 1988, successfully launched its first spacecraft, the Solar, Anomalous, and 

Magnetospheric Particle Explorer, in July 1992.41

Another inspiration for potential reformers was Lockheed’s Skunk Works. 

This division of Lockheed, based in Burbank, California, had created a host 

of revolutionary aircraft, including the World War II P-38 Lightning fighter, 

the P-80 and F-104 jet fighters, the U-2 and SR-71 spy planes, and the F-117 

stealth fighter. However, its later fame was based on more than its innovative flying machines; its fame was based on its methods for developing them. 

Run by Kelly Johnson from World War II until January 1975, and after that 

by Ben Rich, the Skunk Works had evolved a method of using small teams 

for its highly secret, high-technology aircraft. Johnson developed a set of 14 

rules that defined the constraints and rules to run his Skunk Works projects. 

These included minimal reporting but critical documentation of “important 

work,” minimizing access by outsiders to the project, delegating authority but 

retaining a strong project manager, steady funding, and daily interaction with 

the customer to build trust. Seemingly the opposite of systems management, 

“faster, better, cheaper” advocates pointed to the Skunk Works approach as a 

legitimate alternative to systems management.42

Ironically, the abortive and potentially massive SEI was also a spur to the 

development of the “faster, better, cheaper” concept. When the George H. W. 

Bush administration announced SEI in July 1989, NASA responded with a 

90-day study to achieve a human mission to Mars. Its massive costs convinced 

NSC, which Bush had created in April 1989, that NASA was far too conservative. Many Council members perceived ex-astronaut and NASA Administrator 

Richard Truly as a member of NASA’s old guard that needed to be replaced. 

In early 1992, they succeeded in their goal and replaced him with Dan Goldin, 

who they learned was supportive of smaller innovative projects, as NASA’s 

	 41.	 Ibid.,	pp.	46–47,	53–55;	Stephanie	A.	Roy,	“The	Origin	of	the	Smaller,	Faster,	Cheaper	Approach	in	

NASA’s	Solar	System	Exploration	Program,”	Space Policy	14	(August	1998):	153–171.

	 42.	 Ben	R.	Rich	and	Leo	Janos,	Skunk Works	(Boston,	MA:	Back	Bay	Books,	1994);	McCurdy,	Faster, Better, 

Cheaper,	pp.	90–93.

305
NASA’s First 50 Years

Administrator. At the same time, the Senate Appropriations Committee directed 

NASA to develop a plan to “stimulate and develop small planetary or other 

space science projects.” This became the Discovery program, started later that 

year. By 1993, the Discovery program had two projects in place: Near Earth 

Asteroid Rendezvous (NEAR) and Mars Pathfinder.43

Goldin continued to support and push the “faster, better, cheaper” cause. In 

1994, NASA established the New Millennium program to use small spacecraft 

to flight-test new technologies to enable science missions. Its first mission was 

Deep Space 1, launched in 1998, which tested ion engines and autonomous 

navigation technologies. The Small Satellite Technology Initiative also started in 

the mid-1990s, with the Lewis and the Clark Earth observation satellites. Lewis 

launched in August 1997, while Clark was canceled due to cost overruns the 

next year. Finally, the Mars Surveyor program, which consisted of three Mars 

probes, also used the “faster, better, cheaper” philosophy. Its first launched 

satellite was the Mars Global Surveyor, which reached Mars in September 1997. 

All in all, through the 1990s, NASA launched 16 projects related to the “faster, 

better, cheaper” philosophy in five major programs (Small Explorer, Discovery, 

New Millennium, Small Satellite Technology, and Mars Surveyor). In addition, 

other projects, including the proposed Pluto flyby probe, drew Goldin’s attention. Under Goldin’s watchful eye and direction, it underwent years of studies 

aimed at reducing costs even further, before it was finally approved as the 

New Horizons spacecraft and launched in 2006.44

Up through 1998, the “faster, better, cheaper” programs had an excellent 

rate of success, given their lower costs and the higher risks that they assumed. 

Of the 16 “faster, better, cheaper” projects identified by Howard McCurdy in 

his book Faster, Better, Cheaper, by the end of 1998, 11 had launched, and of 

these it appeared that only 2 of them had failed: NEAR failed because its orbit 

insertion burn around asteroid Eros failed in December 1998, and Lewis also 

failed. Clark was canceled before it ever flew, and thus it failed as a project as 

well. NEAR’s mission ultimately succeeded as it successfully orbited Eros in 

2000. Four more “faster, better, cheaper” spacecraft, Mars Polar Lander, Deep 

Space 2, Stardust, and Wide-Field Infrared Explorer were slated for launches 

in 1999. Goldin’s initiative and prodding to implement “faster, better, cheaper” 

looked like a stunning success, in particular the very popular Mars Pathfinder 

	 43.	 Thor	Hogan,	Mars Wars: The Rise and Fall of the Space Exploration Initiative	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	

SP-2007-4410,	2007);	McCurdy,	Faster, Better, Cheaper,	pp.	44–47,	55–56.

	 44.	 McCurdy,	Faster, Better, Cheaper,	pp.	6–7,	56–58.

306
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

project with its little rover, Sojourner. Unfortunately, the events of 1999 would 

change that impression dramatically for the worse.45

In the meantime, in the human flight program, NASA responded to the 

Challenger accident with several changes. The first was fixing the flawed 

O-ring design, followed by a variety of other improvements in the safety and 

reliability of the Shuttle’s components and systems. The Rogers Commission 

also had criticized the communication between NASA’s engineers and managers and between NASA organizations. To help remedy this, the management 

of the Shuttle Program was shifted from JSC to NASA Headquarters. Finally, 

the Rogers Commission indicted NASA’s “silent safety program.” NASA’s primary response was to create an independent safety organization at NASA 

Headquarters. However, this seemingly appropriate move was rendered less 

effective because it never acquired the authority needed to fully discharge its 

duties. The reporting requirements from the NASA Field Centers remained 

unclear, and the lines of safety authority and the responsibilities of the safety 

groups were confused. In addition, within NASA’s system, each project purchased safety support, which gave them some latitude and control over the 

safety function and compromised safety independence in the process.46

By the early 1990s, cost-cutting pressures began to affect the Shuttle 

Program. In the decade from fiscal years 1993 to 2002, NASA’s budget declined 

in real terms by 13 percent. In a period in which space station (soon, the ISS) 

expenses were taking a larger share of NASA’s budget, the budget squeeze 

hit not only the science programs (where “faster, better, cheaper” was being 

implemented in large measure due to the funding problems), but the Shuttle 

Program as well. From 1991, NASA reduced Shuttle operating costs 21 percent by reducing the contractor workforce from 28,394 to 22,387 and the civil 

service personnel from 4,031 to 2,959. By 1997, contractors and civil servants 

were down to 17,281 and 2,195 respectively.47

These cost reductions were accompanied by organizational changes that 

some observers believed compromised safety. To reduce costs, Administrator 

Goldin wanted to take NASA out of repetitive operations such as Shuttle 

operations, and in 1994, he directed NASA to investigate how to do so. The 

1995 Kraft Report claimed that the Shuttle had become a “mature and reli-

	 45.	 Ibid.,	pp.	6–7.

	 46.	 Leveson,	“Technical	and	Managerial	Factors,”	pp.	251–252;	Columbia	Accident	 Investigation	Board,	

Report,	vol.	1	(Washington,	DC:	NASA,	August	2003),	pp.	99–101.

	 47.	 Ibid.,	pp.	102–107.

307
NASA’s First 50 Years

able system,” that it should “consolidate operations under a single business 

entity” and should “restructure and reduce the overall Safety, Reliability, and 

Quality Assurance elements” without compromising safety. These recommendations were accepted and led to the creation of the Space Flight Operations 

Contract, in which Lockheed Martin and Rockwell created a joint venture 

called United Space Alliance, to which NASA awarded a sole-source contract 

for Shuttle operations in 1995. The new managerial arrangement led to a new 

relationship between NASA and Shuttle safety, known as “insight” instead of 

“oversight.” This meant that instead of directly monitoring and managing the 

work of NASA and contractor safety personnel, United Space Alliance ran the 

safety program and provided management with certain contractually agreed 

information. In 1998, Congress directed NASA to plan for eventual privatization of the entire Shuttle Program. Among other things, this would have made 

astronauts private employees. Another managerial move was to shift Shuttle 

Program management from NASA Headquarters back to JSC, which returned 

the Program to the pre-Challenger organizational structure, reversing changes 

made in response to the Rogers Commission recommendations. Some considered this a safety issue, as the move to Headquarters had been made to 

improve program communications.48

Both in robotic and human flight programs, NASA’s emphasis in the 1990s 

had shifted away from concerns for safety and reliability to pressures to reduce 

costs. Despite the inherent riskiness of spaceflight, complacency had set in, 

and it was only a matter of time before it would be shattered.

The End of “Faster, Better, Cheaper,” Columbia,

and the Columbia Accident Investigation Board

For NASA’s robotic spacecraft programs, and in particular its Mars science 

program, 1999 marked the end of an era . . . the “faster, better, cheaper” era. 

In March, the Wide-Field Infrared Explorer failed shortly after launch when 

the frozen hydrogen used to cryogenically cool its detectors vented into space 

after the spacecraft’s protective cover was prematurely ejected. It was the fifth 

spacecraft in the Small Explorer program. In the meantime, three Mars spacecraft 

were on their way to the Red Planet: Mars Climate Orbiter, Mars Polar Lander, 

and Deep Space 2. Mars Climate Orbiter was intended to perform observations 

of the Martian atmosphere from orbit. Mars Polar Lander and Deep Space 2 

	 48.	 Ibid.,	pp.	107–110;	Leveson,	“Technical	and	Managerial	Factors,”	pp.	256–257.

308
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

had been launched together, aiming to land near the poles, with Deep Space 

2 containing two subsurface probes to search for water ice.

Hopes were high as Mars Climate Orbiter approached Mars in September 

1999. In the week prior to Mars orbit insertion, mission navigators noticed that 

the spacecraft’s trajectory seemed closer to Mars than expected. As it made its 

closest approach, mission controllers awaited the signal from the spacecraft 

indicating it had achieved orbit. That signal never came, and attention quickly 

focused on the odd trajectory. The trajectory problem turned out to hinge on a 

unit conversion problem. The files delivered from contractor Lockheed Martin 

had their propulsion maneuvers defined in English units, instead of the specified metric units. The difference was 4.45, the conversion factor of newtons to 

pounds. The difference in units led to an error conversion factor of 4.45 in the 

estimated effect of trajectory corrections, and as a result the spacecraft went 

too close to Mars and burned up in the atmosphere. The operations teams that 

might have otherwise noticed the error were smaller than on many previous 

missions, due to the reduced budgets of “faster, better, cheaper.”49

In December, more bad news, or more accurately, no news at all, came 

from Mars. Both Mars Polar Lander and Deep Space 2’s two probes seemed to 

be working properly as they entered their entry, descent, and landing phases. 

None were heard from again. Deep Space 2’s failures were never definitively 

determined, but possibilities ranged from soil being significantly harder than 

planned when the probes hit the surface, to handling problems at KSC prior 

to launch that inadvertently sent an electrical pulse that mimicked separation 

and turned on their batteries, draining them of power.50

The investigation of the Mars Polar Lander failure provided a more definitive cause. To detect touchdown, the spacecraft used Hall Effect sensors that 

detected movement of the spacecraft legs. Leg deployment produced transient 

signals in these sensors. During deployment, it is almost certain that these 

transient signals were processed by the software as the real touchdown, turning 

off the engines while the spacecraft was well above the surface; the spacecraft 

crashed to the surface and was destroyed. During development, the transient 

signal problem was known, but the software requirement had been written in 

such a way that, when ultimately coded, it did not properly meet the intent of 

	 49.	 McCurdy,	Faster, Better, Cheaper,	pp.	6–7;	David	M.	Harland	and	Ralph	D.	Lorenz,	Space Systems 

Failures: Disasters and Rescues of Satellites, Rockets, and Space Probes	(Chichester,	U.K.:	SpringerPraxis,	2005),	pp.	339–341.

	 50.	 Harland	and	Lorenz,	Space Systems Failures,	p.	239.

309
NASA’s First 50 Years

the requirement. Testing of the descent and landing did not catch the problem 

because one of the landing legs was wired incorrectly during this test. After 

the wiring had been fixed, the test was not rerun due to tight schedules and 

budgets of the “faster, better, cheaper”-style project.51

The failure of all three Mars missions in 1999 drew unwanted attention 

from both NASA executive management and the press. Mars missions always 

drew significant interest, and the failure of all three provided strong evidence 

of programmatic problems. The various failure investigations implicated 

reductions in testing and in systematic safeguards and cross-checks. In other 

words, “faster, better, cheaper” had cut more than the fat and into the meat 

of systems management, leading to failures. Management at JPL reassessed 

its project management and systems engineering methods, and it found them 

wanting. Culture change and reengineering distracted management from its 

core activities and diluted responsibilities. In 2001, Charles Elachi took over 

for Ed Stone as Director of JPL, and he quickly reinvigorated JPL’s historical 

systems engineering methods and traditions. The lab increased funding for 

individual projects and reinstituted rigorous design reviews. “Faster, better, 

cheaper” was out, and systems management was back.52

Two years later, on 1 February 2003, a crowd of guests was waiting at KSC 

for the Space Shuttle Columbia to return from its mission to perform a variety 

of microgravity experiments in low-Earth orbit. Like JPL’s mission controllers 

in 1999, they waited in vain. Columbia had broken up over east Texas and was 

destroyed, along with its crew of seven. The resulting investigation concluded 

that hot plasma had entered a hole in the leading edge of the Shuttle’s left wing, 

which burned through the structure. The wing fell away, and the Shuttle lost 

control, tumbled, and broke apart. The hole in the leading edge was created 

during ascent 17 days before, when insulation foam from the external tank 

fell off and hit the leading edge at high speed.53

Further investigation into the causes of the accident uncovered a trail of 

events both prior to the fated flight and during the flight itself. Much like the 

problems leading to the Challenger accident 17 years before, foam debris falling 

off the external tank during ascent was a problem that had been going on from 

the inception of the Shuttle Program. Also like Challenger, this behavior had 

been reclassified over time from a major safety concern to a minor maintenance 

	 51.	 Ibid.,	pp.	330–331.

	 52.	 Westwick,	“Reengineering	Engineers,”	pp.	84–87.

	 53.	 Columbia	Accident	Investigation	Board,	Report,	vol.	1,	chaps.	2	and	3.

310
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

issue. Foam strikes during ascent had caused minor damage to the Shuttle’s 

thermal protection system on many flights, leading to repairs between flights. 

Some of the foam pieces, particularly those from the “bipod ramp,” were quite 

large and caused significantly more damage. The real risks of external tank 

debris hitting the orbiter were misunderstood and underestimated, while the 

costs to fix the problem were considered too high.54

Decision-making during Columbia’s flight was also flawed, very much 

like the decision-making the night prior to Challenger’s final flight. During 

ascent, cameras photographed the foam strike hitting the left wing’s leading edge. Shuttle engineers began to assess the potential damage, and even 

reporters began asking questions about it. Ultimately, the engineers could 

not determine the actual damage but were worried enough to inquire into 

the possibility of using a military reconnaissance satellite to photograph the 

suspect area. Because this request did not go through proper channels, NASA 

management stopped it. Poor organizational structure inhibited engineering 

information from making its way to management. Management believed that, 

even if there was a problem, nothing could be done about it in flight, so it did 

not make much sense to make extraordinary efforts to determine the amount 

of damage. Changes in personnel made estimates of the foam strike damage 

problematic, because the model used to do the estimate was not valid for 

large pieces such as the one that hit Columbia, and the new personnel were 

unaware of this limitation.55

The Columbia Accident Investigation Board noted the many similarities 

between the organizational and communication problems leading to the 

Challenger and Columbia accidents. While finding several managers at fault, 

the Columbia Accident Investigation Board ultimately found the causes of the 

accident to be much more insidious than the Rogers Commission had. Some 

of the major organizational issues the Columbia Accident Investigation Board 

emphasized included the following:

• 

• 

• 

Conflicting goals of cost, schedule, and safety, in which safety lost out.

Overemphasis on bureaucratic procedures, to the detriment of engineering 

insight and expertise.

An organization and structure that blocked effective communication 

of technical problems.

	 54.	 Ibid.,	pp.	121–131.

	 55.	 Ibid.,	pp.	140–172.

311
NASA’s First 50 Years

• Changes to the safety organization that eroded NASA’s safety expertise 

by transferring safety tasks and responsibilities to contractors.

• A lack of resources, independence, authority, and personnel in NASA’s 

safety organization to supply alternate perspectives to developing 

problems.

Whereas the Rogers Commission cited violations of NASA’s procedures, the 

Columbia Accident Investigation Board concluded that since these issues were 

common to both the Challenger and Columbia accidents, the problems leading 

to the accidents were inherent to NASA itself, part of its “organizational culture.” 

NASA’s traditional methods of fixing the technical problems and tightening its 

procedures was not going to work, since the technical problems were caused 

by violations of those very organizations, processes, and procedures.56

After Columbia, NASA quickly went to work to fix the difficult problems 

with the external tank foam insulation and scrubbed various problematic 

aspects of the Shuttle’s design and operations. It took a number of organizational measures following the Columbia Accident Investigation Board 

recommendations. It shifted control of the Shuttle Program from JSC back 

to NASA Headquarters (following the precedents of Apollo and the postChallenger organization). It established the Safety, Reliability and Quality 

Assurance organization at Headquarters. Flight Readiness Review procedures were modified to allow engineers to participate, and they required 

astronaut managers to participate and sign off on the launch decision. The 

Agency established the NASA Engineering and Safety Center at LaRC (and 

later a second NASA Safety Center at Glenn Research Center), which was 

tasked to independently review recurring anomalies and act as a resource 

for connecting engineering to safety issues. Another Columbia Accident 

Investigation Board recommendation was the creation of an Independent 

Technical Authority (ITA), which NASA began to implement in November 

2004. The ITA funded “Technical Warrant Holders” as technical experts to 

assess engineering and safety designs and decisions. Ultimately, the ITA 

was transformed, in February 2006, into a process known as “Process-Based 

Mission Assurance” (PBMA), which emphasized the development of “technical 

excellence” as the basis of building safety into NASA’s systems. As it evolved, 

the ITA/PBMA was intended to provide a separate line of communication 

for technical personnel to air problems. This reinvigorated a matrix manage-

	 56.	 Ibid.,	chaps.	7	and	8,	esp.	pp.	199–202.

312
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

ment system in which personnel reported both to project managers (who 

controlled the funding and schedules for projects) and functional managers 

(who controlled the technical content and personnel). Under the new system, 

the functional managers were tasked with ensuring technical quality and 

acting as counterbalances to the project managers. The Columbia Accident 

Investigation Board was far less specific in its recommendations on how 

NASA should change its culture, and NASA itself had great difficulty trying 

to determine how to interpret that mandate.57

NASA concluded that it needed help with culture change, and in December 

2003 it sent out an RFP to perform cultural analysis to pinpoint cultural problems that affected safety and then take measures to fix them. Over 40 bidders 

responded, and in March, NASA hired Behavioral Science Technology (BST), 

who then instituted cultural surveys across the Agency; and in a February 2005 

report, BST stated that significant progress was being made in cultural change, 

as measured by its surveys. One new initiative was to train managers to be 

more open to engineering opinions.58

Major changes in NASA personnel and programs quickly began to shift 

attention away from the Columbia Accident Investigation Board recommendations. Columbia’s demise made it clear that the replacement of NASA’s 

Shuttle fleet could no longer be postponed, and this led to a broader assessment of what NASA’s goals should be. The result of these discussions was 

the speech by President George W. Bush in January 2004, announcing the 

Vision for Space Exploration to complete the Space Station by 2010, retire 

the Shuttle, conduct the first human mission with a new Crew Exploration 

Vehicle by 2014, and return to the Moon by 2020. The next month, NASA 

	 57.	 Diane	Vaughan,	“System	Effects:	On	Slippery	Slopes,	Negative	Patterns,	and	Learning	from	Mistake,”	

in	 Organization at the Limit: NASA and the Columbia Disaster,	 ed.	 William	 Starbuck	 and	 Moshe	

Farjoun	 (Oxford,	 U.K.:	 Blackwell,	 2005);	 author’s	 conversation	 with	 Michael	 Griffin,	 26	 April	 2007;	

“NASA	Announces	 New	 Safety	 Center,”	 NASA	 Press	 Release,	 11	 October	 2006,	 available	 at	 http://

www.spaceref.com/news/viewpr.html?pid=21031	(accessed	31	January	2009);	“Final	Report	of	the	

Return	to	Flight	Task	Group,”	July	2005,	pp.	95–110,	available	at	http://www.scribd.com/doc/995714/

NASA-125343main-RTFTF-final-081705	 (accessed	 31	 January	 2009);	 “Technical	 Excellence/

Technical	 Authority,”	 16	 March	 2006,	 available	 at	 http://pbma.nasa.gov/index.php?fuseaction=ita.

main&cid=501	(accessed	31	January	2009).

	 58.	 “NASA	Enlists	Behavioral	Science	Technology,	Inc.	to	lead	agency-wide	culture	change,”	EDP Weekly’s 

IT Monitor	 (26	 April	 2004),	 available	 at	 http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m0GZQ/is_17_45/ai_

n6264746;	http://www.FindArticles.com	(accessed	31	January	2009);	John	Schwartz,	“Some	at	NASA	

Say	Its	Culture	is	Changing,	but	Others	Say	Problems	Still	Run	Deep,”	New York Times	(4	April	2005),	

available	at	http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9D03EEDB1E3FF937A35757C0A9639C

8B63&sec=&spon=&pagewanted=all	(accessed	31	January	2009).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

released its initial interpretation of the Vision. A presidential commission gave 

its assessment in June.59 NASA established the Exploration Systems Mission 

Directorate to implement the exciting new program, and NASA’s attention 

quickly shifted to its implementation. Michael Griffin took over from Sean 

O’Keefe in April 2005. Griffin, who was without question the most technically 

educated Administrator NASA had had to date, had his own strong opinions 

about how to address NASA’s problems, and BST’s cultural surveys were 

not among them. In June 2005, he terminated the BST contract. He believed 

that one of the most important things that NASA needed was an organizational structure that provided alternate communication lines for engineering 

and safety concerns, which was provided by the ITA/PBMA organizational 

structure and processes. By early 2009, the culture issue, while not forgotten, did not have the priority it had had in the immediate aftermath of the 

Columbia tragedy.60

The Social Nature of Failure

Even though much of NASA’s attention had shifted from the difficult and 

uncertain problems of its culture to a new and exciting program of exploration, the culture problem had not gone away. Dealing with the issue 

remained problematic due to the inherent slipperiness of the concept. The 

Columbia Accident Investigation Board Report described “organizational 

culture” as “the basic values, norms, beliefs, and practices that characterize 

the functioning of a particular institution.” Explaining further, “organizational culture defines the assumptions that employees make as they carry 

out their work; it defines ‘the way we do things here.’”61 Something in these 

basic values, norms, beliefs, and practices led to catastrophic system failure. 

NASA’s problem was, and is, to determine the connection between culture 

	 59.	 President	Bush	Announces	New	Vision	for	Space	Exploration	Program,	“Remarks	by	the	President	on	

U.S.	Space	Policy,”	Press	Release,	14	January	2004,	available	at	http://history.nasa.gov/Bush%20SEP.

htm	(accessed	31	 January	2009);	NASA,	The Vision for Space Exploration	(Washington,	DC:	NASA,	

February	2004);	A Journey to Inspire, Innovate, and Discover: Report of the President’s Commission on 

Implementation of United States Exploration Policy (Washington,	DC:	GPO,	June	2004);	Frank	Sietzen,	

Jr.,	and	K.	L.	Cowing,	New Moon Rising: The Making of America’s New Space Vision and the Remaking 

of NASA	(New	York,	NY:	Apogee,	2004);	“NASA	pulls	plug	on	culture	change	contract,”	Industrial Safety 

& Hygiene News	(1	August	2005),	available	at	http://www.highbeam.com/doc/1G1-135467272.html

(accessed	31	January	2009).

	 60.	 “Michael	Griffin	Takes	the	Helm	as	NASA	Administrator,”	NASA	Press	Release,	14	April	2005,	available	

at	 http://www.nasa.gov/about/highlights/griffin_admin.html (accessed	 31	 January	 2009);	 author	

conversation	with	Griffin,	27	April	2007.

	 61.	 Columbia	Accident	Investigation	Board,	Report,	vol.	1,	p.	101.

314
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

Failure Event Chain

Root Causes

Individual Mistakes

Individual Misunderstanding

Miscommunication

Component Wearout

Environmental Complexity

Proximate Causes

O-ring joint failure

Floating metal shorts pins

Operator bad command

Software memory overwrite

Structural load failure

System Effect

Catastrophic explosion

Satellite loses power

Loss of redundant string

Launch scrub

Loss of data

Contributing Factors

Overambitious schedule

Power asymmetry

Weak safety organization

Inexperienced personnel

Overconfidence

Causes

are

Social!!

Effects

are

Technical

Figure 1: Failure	chain	of	events.	Courtesy of Stephen B. Johnson

and failure and then to make improvements to culture so as to reduce 

failure rates and criticality.

To make this connection, we need to understand the nature of failures. 

In engineering terms, failure is defined as “the unacceptable performance of 

intended function or the performance of an unintended function.”62 That is, 

when the system can no longer do what it was designed for, or does things 

that it was not intended to do, it has failed. Failure is generally the outcome 

of a chain of events, which are made more likely by various contributing factors. Failure investigations start by assessing the final failure effects, which 

can include complete system loss, like the Space Shuttle Columbia’s burning 

up in the atmosphere, or can be more benign, such as the scrub of a Shuttle 

	 62.	 This	definition,	which	is	in	development	on	the	Constellation	program,	draws	from	a	variety	of	engineering	

sources	and	has	a	few	improvements	to	those	earlier	definitions.	See	Stephen	B.	Johnson,	“Introduction	to	

System	Health	Engineering	and	Management	in	Aerospace,”	Proceedings of the First International Forum 

on Integrated System Health Engineering and Management	(Napa,	CA,	November	2005).

315
NASA’s First 50 Years

launch. The proximate causes of these failures are generally the technical 

items that malfunctioned and led to the failure effects, such as the O-ring 

failure of the Challenger accident or the foam that fell off the external tank 

and hit Columbia’s wing during ascent. But proximate causes have their 

genesis in root causes, such as human-induced errors in the application of 

the foam to the external tank in the Columbia case, the decision to launch 

Challenger on a morning when the temperature was lower than rated environmental limits, or human error in creating the Shuttle’s original flawed SRB 

segment joint design. Finally, there are contributing factors, such as pressures 

to launch the Shuttle on an accelerated schedule, pressures to lower costs, 

or use of a teleconference instead of a face-to-face meeting contributing to 

miscommunication.

Frequently the failure effects and the proximate causes are technical, but 

the root causes and contributing factors are social or psychological. Successes 

and failures clearly have technical causes, but a system’s dependability strongly 

depends on the human processes used to develop it, the decisions of the 

funders, managers, and engineers who collectively determine the level of 

risk. Fallible humans make individual cognitive or physical mistakes, or they 

make social errors through lack of communication or miscommunication. 

Although the statistics have not been studied fully, my sense from 

experience in the field and from discussions with experienced engineers is 

that 80 to 95 percent of failures are ultimately caused by individual human 

errors or social miscommunication between individuals and groups. Most 

of these are quite simple, which makes them appear all the more ridiculous after the fact when the investigation gets to the root cause and finds, 

for example, the Mars Climate Orbiter’s English-to-metric-unit conversion 

problem, a nut or bolt left inside the propulsion system (a Centaur failure 

in 1991), a reversed sign or wiring (for example, the Total Ozone Mapping 

Spectrometer—Earth Probe), or a single digit left off a command sequence 

(Phobos 1). Contrary to popular belief, it is the very banality of the causes 

that makes them so hard to find. We constantly carry out simple daily tasks 

and communications. Thousands of such tasks and communications happen 

every day on a project, and any one of them can be the cause of tomorrow’s 

dramatic failure.63

	 63.	 Harland	and	Lorenz,	Space Systems Failures.	This	book	catalogs	many	types	of	failures,	though	it	in	

general	discusses	the	proximate	as	opposed	to	root	causes.

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From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

Failure, then, is caused by a fault, which is defined as “a physical or logical cause, which explains a failure.”64 Faults can be proximate causes or root 

causes, where the root cause is the first event in the explanatory chain of events. 

The vast majority of root causes, if pursued far enough, are due to individual 

or group mistakes by humans. This should be no surprise. Technologies are 

merely the final products of human knowledge applied to creating useful 

artifacts, and an artifact merely embodies and incarnates knowledge from 

its creators. Hence if an artifact has a fault, this is ultimately due to a flaw in 

the knowledge of its creators or in a mismatch between the knowledge of its 

creators and that of its users.65

Making a system dependable is akin to the problem of reducing the number of needles in haystacks. Most problems are very simple in their causes 

(the needles), and it is best to prevent them to begin with, as finding them 

amid all the complexities of the design and how it operates in all possible 

conditions (the haystack) is very difficult. In essence, dependability is gained 

by minimizing the number of initial mistakes (fewer needles) and testing the 

system to find the inevitable mistakes that occur (finding and removing the 

remaining needles). Skunk Works or “faster, better, cheaper” approaches can 

succeed because small, experienced teams make fewer mistakes because there 

are simply fewer people, and with experience they make fewer mistakes as 

individuals, and also because having fewer people reduces the number of 

interactions between people where miscommunication may occur. In addition, experienced personnel have the intuition to sense where the remaining 

mistakes are likely to be found, so they can target their relatively smaller 

documentation and testing to find them. However, over the long run, small 

teams cannot provide repeatable results. That is because humans are unable 

to maintain focus for long periods. Eventually we become lax and forget a 

	 64.	 This	definition	is	drawn	from	ongoing	work	on	failure	terminology	in	NASA’s	Constellation	program.	It	

uses	many	prior	engineering	sources	(from	both	from	academia	and	industry)	and	also	draws	from	

insights	in	the	philosophy	of	science	that	emphasizes	that	much	of	science	is	really	about	“explanation.”	

From	 this	 point	 of	 view,	 a	 failure	 is	 a	 phenomenon	 that	 requires	 explanation,	 and	 a	 fault	 is	 the	

explanation.	B.	C.	van	Fraasen,	The Scientific Image	(Oxford,	U.K.:	Oxford	University	Press,	1980),	pp.	

132–134;	Ronald	N.	Giere,	Explaining Science: A Cognitive Approach	(Chicago,	IL:	University	of	Chicago	

Press,	1990),	pp.	104–105.	Giere	hypothesizes	that	scientific	explanation	is	characterized	by	the	use	

of	models.	This	accords	well	with	many	explanations	of	failure,	by	reference	to	specific	hypothesized	

failure	modes,	often	backed	up	by	analysis,	simulation,	and	testing.

	 65.	 The	remaining	5	to	15	percent	of	faults	are	caused	by	a	lack	of	knowledge	about	the	environment	in	

which	the	system	operates.	An	example	of	this	would	be	the	lack	of	understanding	of	the	near-Earth	

space	environment	and	high	radiation	levels	in	the	Van	Allen	Radiation	belts	in	the	early	Space	Age,	or	

how	the	zero-g	environment	for	satellites	caused	particles	to	float	and	short	out	electronic	components.

317
NASA’s First 50 Years

key detail or skip a critical process because “we know” that we have done the 

right things and don’t need to doublecheck.

By contrast, systems management and systems engineering reduce failure rates by providing formal cross-checks that catch and fix most potential 

mission-ending faults. Systems management and systems engineering cannot 

guarantee absolute success, but history shows that they do significantly reduce 

project failure rates.66 This should be no surprise, because this is one of the 

major reasons why they were created to begin with. Systems management is 

needed when a project gets so large that the simple communication of small 

teams breaks down. This certainly is the case for huge projects such as Apollo 

or the Space Shuttle, but also for larger robotic systems and for teams that are 

distributed or have contracting or other barriers to communication.

The recognition that individual and social (cognitive, communicative, and 

organizational) factors are critical to system dependability has been slowly 

growing. The Columbia Accident Investigation Board’s Report, with sections on 

organizational culture that largely drew from, and were partly written by, sociologist Diane Vaughan (who had written the authoritative book, The Challenger 

Launch Decision), was a major milestone in documenting and broadcasting 

this fact to NASA, but, as noted above, it fell short of providing a framework 

for or specific solutions to the problem. Dozens of failure investigations have 

concluded that individual (operator or design error) or social (communication) 

factors are implicated in failure. The demise of “faster, better, cheaper” and 

the renewed emphasis on systems management in NASA’s robotic programs 

is also an indicator that management and engineering “philosophies” matter. However, an academic and theoretical framework has been lacking, and 

those that have been developed are currently little known. It is unlikely that 

approaches driven primarily by the social sciences are going to have much 

impact on NASA’s engineers. What NASA engineers and managers are more 

likely to understand and implement are ideas couched in engineering terms 

that draw from social science research, instead of the other way around.

One recent approach to the problem has been developed by Nancy 

Leveson at MIT. Leveson, a safety engineer and researcher, developed modeling 

techniques that could begin to address the safety implications of the culture 

	 66.	 On	early	missile,	launcher,	and	satellite	projects	without	these	methods,	failure	rates	of	50	percent	were	

typical.	After	implementation	of	systems	management,	failure	rates	decreased	to	around	5	percent.	Not	

all	of	this	was	due	to	systems	management,	as	other	learning	and	design	improvements	were	occurring.	

Nonetheless,	systems	management	deserves	some	of	the	credit.	See	Johnson,	Secret of Apollo.

318
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

issue. To move forward, she looked backward, resurrecting the decades-old 

methods of systems dynamics developed at MIT in the late 1950s and 1960s 

by Jay Forrester.67

Forrester, who was one of the leaders of the Whirlwind and Semi-Automatic 

Ground Equipment (SAGE) real-time computer projects for air defense in 

the 1950s, became restless with this work and joined MIT’s Sloan School of 

Management in 1956 to apply computer simulation methods to develop new 

management methods. His 1961 book, Industrial Management, showcased 

his simulations of corporate decision-making, which he and his students modeled as a feedback information system with time-critical information flows for 

making management decisions. Forrester broadened his approach in 1969, 

developing models of cities on a similar simulated basis, and published Urban 

Dynamics, which again showcased his interactive simulations that contained 

multiple interacting feedback loops that indicated to Forrester that decisionmakers were unable to make proper decisions without computer-based modeling assistance. Finally, Forrester won funding from the Club of Rome, a small 

international group of prominent businessman, scientists, and politicians, to 

apply his methods on a worldwide scale. His models grouped the world into 

five major subsystems: natural resources, population, pollution, capital, and 

agriculture. The results of these models led to the controversial but widely 

circulated Limits to Growth, published in 1972, which argued that human civilization would, sometime around 2050, have a catastrophic collapse. Forrester’s 

work was a forerunner of many comprehensive global environmental models 

and drew from his background in control systems and cybernetics as well as 

the newly developed techniques and technologies of computing.68

Leveson believed that NASA’s culture and safety problem was ripe for a 

similar approach, and she began to model NASA’s safety organization and 

decision-making. Her results, like those of Forrester’s in the 1950s and 1960s, 

showed a periodic roller coaster behavior of concern for safety with a cycle 

	 67.	 Leveson,	“Technical	and	Managerial	Factors,”	pp.	239–245;	Nancy	G.	Leveson,	System Safety: Back to 

the Future,	unpublished	book	draft,	available	at	http://www.sunnyday.mit.edu/book2.html.

	 68.	 Paul	N.	Edwards,	“The	World	in	a	Machine:	Origins	and	Impacts	of	Early	Computerized	Global	System	

Models,”	in	Systems, Experts, and Computers: The Systems Approach in Management and Engineering, 

World War II and After,	ed.	Agatha	C.	and	Thomas	P.	Hughes	(Cambridge,	MA:	MIT	Press,	2000),	pp.	

221–253;	Kent	C.	Redmond	and	Thomas	M.	Smith,	From Whirlwind to MITRE: The R&D Story of the 

SAGE Air Defense Computer	(Cambridge,	MA:	MIT	Press,	2000);	Jay	Forrester,	Industrial Dynamics

(Cambridge,	MA:	MIT	Press,	1961);	Jay	Forrester,	Urban Dynamics	(Cambridge,	MA:	MIT	Press,	1969);	

Donella	 H.	Meadows	 et	 al.,	 The Limits to Growth: A Report for the Club of Rome’s Project on the 

Predicament of Mankind	(New	York,	NY:	Universe	Books,	1972).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Failure 

Containment 

Data 

Provisioning 

State 

Determination 

Failed 

State 

Fault 

Isolation 

Fault 

Diagnosis 

Failure 

Response 

Failure 

Recovery 

Failure 

Prevention 

Failure 

Prognosis 

System 

Optimization 

Fault 

Containment 

Internal 

Behavior 

FDIR 

Diagnostics 

Prognostics 

Monitoring 

Maintainability 

Failure 

Detection 

Anomalous 

State 

Normal 

State 

Anomaly 

Detection 

Figure 2: System	health	management	functional	flow.	Courtesy of Stephen B. Johnson

time of roughly 15 to 20 years (NASA’s actual human flight accidents showed 

a 17-year cycle). That is, after spikes of great safety concern immediately following major accidents, NASA quickly reverts to its regular behavior with 

relatively low, and decreasing, concern for safety. Leveson and her students 

continue to use these models to hypothesize the impact of potential changes 

to NASA’s organizational dynamics on its safety outcomes.69

Another approach, developed primarily by this author with many others 

contributing since the late 1980s, also uses control theory insights, along with 

others from systems engineering and from the history, sociology, and philosophy of science and technology. In this approach, the general concern is for 

system dependability, which is defined as “the ability of a system to function 

	 69.	 Leveson,	“Technical	and	Managerial	Factors,”	pp.	239–245.

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From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

in a manner meeting human expectations.” Another term for this budding 

discipline is “system health management.” In this view, as with Leveson’s, 

complex systems such as those required for human and robotic spaceflight 

are complex mixtures of humans and machines, and from the standpoint of 

dependable systems, the functions needed to make systems dependable can 

be allocated to people, software, or hardware. In an operational system, the 

functions needed to monitor, predict, detect, isolate, respond, and recover from 

internal failures are arranged into control loops, and those loops are potentially 

analyzable in terms of time and criticality to create a system architecture that 

can successfully respond to impending or existing failures. The design of such 

a system requires new processes that are only partially understood as of yet.70

Creating dependable systems requires a proper mix of prevention of failure 

and the mitigation of internal failures. Humans are ultimately responsible for 

all dependability functions, but some functions can be placed in hardware 

or software. Even if placed in hardware or software, these functions are still 

designed based on human knowledge and intentionality. It is assumed that 

human designers, operators, and analysts are all fallible, with a certain probability of making mistakes, depending on various “contributing factors” of 

their social environment. These errors are just as likely to occur in design as 

in operations.

Certain well-known design principles, such as “clean interfaces,” are reconceptualized as principles based on the minimization of communication errors 

between people, so that reducing the complexity of the functions between 

system components reduces the needed communications between individuals 

within differing organizations and their different “cultures.” The principle of 

analytical independence, often seen as crucial for safety purposes, is seen as 

impossible to achieve in any one person, since complete independence also 

means no knowledge of the application and hence no ability to constructively 

say anything about it. Instead of trying to find that mythical single organization or person that can be independent, multiple knowledge overlaps based 

on differing principles and approaches are needed to achieve plausible results 

while cross-checking for errors.71

	 70.	 Johnson,	 “Introduction	 to	 Integrated	 System	 Health	 Engineering	 and	 Management.”	 The	 first	

publication	of	this	“closed-loop	operational	architecture”	appeared	in	Jeffrey	Albert,	Dian	Alyea,	Larry	

Cooper,	Stephen	Johnson,	and	Don	Uhrich,	“Vehicle	Health	Management	(VHM)	Architecture	Process	

Development,”	Proceedings of SAE Aerospace Atlantic Conference	(May	1995,	Dayton,	OH).

	 71.	 Ibid.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

A reorientation of NASA’s thinking is needed, from seeing technical problems as purely technical to understanding that they are primarily flaws in 

individual knowledge, performance, and social communication. If pursued, 

these insights may lead to significant improvements in NASA’s organizational 

culture. Diagnosing the culture problem need not be mysterious. One needs 

only to pursue all failure investigations back to their individual and social roots 

to identify the individual and organizational flaws that must be addressed. 

Deciding exactly how to address those problems is more problematic; but by 

the nature of the problem, it will involve education and training for individuals 

and changes to institutional structures and processes to improve organizational 

communication. Technical improvements can also assist, by finding ways to 

pinpoint which processes correlate with certain kinds of errors and then providing automated means of cross-checking for those error types.

Conclusion

System dependability and system safety, and their inverses, system failure and 

system hazards, are ultimately functions of individual and social understandings, communications, choices, and actions. Technical systems fail because 

they embed human failings, mistakes, and misunderstandings. It is unlikely 

that significant improvements to dependability and safety can be made until 

engineers and managers learn that ultimately they themselves are the causes 

of failure and that several individual and social actions must also be taken, 

along with technical improvements, to improve these qualities.

As Henry Petroski elegantly narrated in his studies of failure, there is an 

alternating pattern of conservatism and innovation in design over the course 

of engineering generations, which is rooted in the long-term trends of cultural 

factors. Failures result more frequently at the end of “innovation periods” as 

cost cutting and design originality push past reasonable limits. The fact of 

having pushed too far is generally revealed by the failures themselves. The 

resulting investigations, if pressed far enough, uncover the individual and 

social causes of the failures.

NASA has displayed this same dynamic. In JPL’s deep space programs, just 

getting into space was a highly innovative effort that entailed much learning 

and many failures. In this brief but exciting period from the late 1950s to the 

early 1960s, JPL’s managers, engineers, and contractors discovered many things 

about the space environment and about how to change its own institutional 

structures and organizations to operate spacecraft in that environment. A long 

stable period, with growing conservatism and creeping bureaucracy, ensued 

from the mid-1960s to the mid-1980s. The encroaching bureaucracy, limited 

322
From the Secret of Apollo to the Lessons of Failure

funding, and recognition of alternate methods both within (mainly from the 

Strategic Defense Initiative) and without (the TQM fad) the space industry 

bred a growing discontent; and by the late 1980s and early 1990s, JPL was 

pressed into, and also decided to adopt, new TQM, “faster, better, cheaper,” 

and Skunk Works methods. A short period of institutional change ensued, with 

a number of successful lower-cost projects at JPL and elsewhere. However, 

the failures of 1999, with their associated bad publicity, showed the limits of 

“faster, better, cheaper,” and the pendulum swung back to conservative design 

with systems engineering.

The human flight program showed a similar dynamic, but on a shorter 

timescale. In the early human flight programs of Mercury and Gemini, NASA 

successfully navigated the treacherous hazards of space, though sometimes by 

a hair’s breadth (such as Gemini 8, in which Neil Armstrong played a critical 

role in averting disaster). It accomplished this despite, and perhaps because of, 

the fact that nearly everything it did was new. However, success bred overconfidence, which was shattered by the Apollo 204 accident of 1967. The resulting investigation uncovered many other design problems besides the one(s) 

that killed the crew. Many Apollo veterans acknowledged that the enforced 

pause after the accident probably saved the program by rooting out and fixing 

many other impending technical and organizational problems. The Skylab and 

early Shuttle programs also succeeded despite the major new technologies, 

probably for similar reasons to those of the Mercury and Gemini projects, as 

engineers paid close attention to every detail for these new systems. But once 

again, latent problems compounded by reduced attention to safety led to the 

Challenger disaster of 1986. A round of safety improvements, augmented by a 

few more organizational changes, produced solid results for the next 17 years. 

However, cost cutting and safety reductions took their toll by the late 1990s, 

and these in turn contributed to the 2003 Columbia tragedy.

After the Columbia Accident Investigation Board Report, the resulting 

investigation went beyond the usual culprits of engineering and management 

structures, flawed decisions, and technical problems to indict NASA’s organizational culture as inherently flawed. While the diagnosis was true, it was vague, 

and NASA’s managers and engineers found it mostly “non-actionable.” NASA 

made some specific and beneficial organizational and process changes, but 

the broader issue of culture, for which NASA hired BST, for the most part did 

not get addressed because NASA could not determine exactly what it meant, 

and BST likely did not understand the uniqueness of NASA’s culture and how 

to develop precise and convincing actions. The NASA culture problem remains 

largely unresolved.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

The culture problem at NASA has not gone away, but cultural change at 

NASA is no longer a major priority. However, the relationship of culture to 

dependability and safety has not gone unnoticed, and efforts to make the 

connection between the two are under way. While NASA’s initial efforts at 

cultural change were stymied by a lack of understanding of the relationship 

of individual and social factors to failure, significant progress has been made 

in understanding these relationships. This bodes well for the future of NASA’s 

programs, but only if the Agency both learns from its past and makes use of 

these growing insights from its own history.

324
Chapter 13

The “Von Braun Paradigm” and 

NASA’s Long-Term Planning for 

Human Spaceflight

Michael J. Neufeld

In 1994, political scientist and space historian Dwayne A. Day coined the 

term “von Braun paradigm” to describe what he saw as an entrenched—and 

counterproductive—NASA long-term strategy for human spaceflight.1 Roughly 

speaking, he boiled that strategy down to: space shuttle → space station → Moon 

→ Mars. Day was responding to the ignominious failure of President George H. 

W. Bush’s Space Exploration Initiative (SEI) from 1989 to 1990, which he, like 

many others, blamed on the space agency’s penchant for gigantomania in its 

human exploration program. In response to the presidential announcement on 

the steps of NASM on the 20th anniversary of Apollo 11, NASA’s 90-day study 

group advocated building, on the foundation of the Shuttle and then-projected 

space station, a lunar base and an ambitious spacefaring infrastructure that 

within 20 or 30 years would lead to a permanent human foothold on Mars. 

The cost turned out to be politically suicidal: several hundred billion dollars. 

The 90-day study reprised the Space Task Group report of 1969, which was 

an almost equally ignominious political failure. From that earlier proposal 

for a grand (or grandiose) post-Apollo space program, NASA salvaged only a 

scaled-back version of its first goal: a winged, reusable Space Shuttle.2

	 1.	 ©	Smithsonian	Institution.	Portions	of	this	paper	have	been	excerpted	from	Michael	J.	Neufeld,	“Von	

Braun	and	the	Lunar-Orbit	Rendezvous	Decision:	Finding	a	Way	to	Go	to	the	Moon,”	Acta Astronautica

63	(2008):	540–550,	also	©	Smithsonian	Institution.	

	 2.	 Dwayne	A.	Day,	“The	Von	Braun	Paradigm,”	Space Times (November–December	1994):	12–15;	Day	

expanded	 that	 opinion	 piece	 in	 the	 AAS	 newsletter	 as	 “Paradigm	 Lost,”	 Space Policy 11	 (1995):	

153–159.	On	SEI,	see	Thor	Hogan,	Mars Wars: The Rise and Fall of the Space Exploration Initiative

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-4410,	2007).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Day traced this strategy back to the German-American rocket engineer 

Wernher von Braun, of course, specifically the series of articles the space 

visionary wrote or cowrote in Collier’s magazine between 1952 and 1954. 

These laid out his grand vision, which Day argued “had its greatest influence 

on how the U.S. space community envisions space. Von Braun convinced those 

who worked in the field that space was worthy of a concentrated, integrated 

human exploration effort.”3 In fact, his vision was controversial from the start, 

drawing vigorous objections from many rocket engineers, but it was undeniably 

influential over the long run, especially on spaceflight true believers inside 

the movement and in the general public.4

Since Day coined that term, it has gained a certain currency in space history and policy. Particularly my esteemed NASM colleague, and former NASA 

Chief Historian, Roger Launius, has both popularized and expanded the use 

of the “von Braun paradigm” as an analytical term for describing a pattern 

in American space development. In his book Space Stations, Roger increases 

the list of von Braun’s essential stages to six, including preliminary ones of 

robotic satellites and nonreusable piloted vehicles. But in the most recent 

formulation, in his important book with Howard McCurdy, Robots in Space, 

the two posit five stages as the core of von Braun’s thought: 1) “Development 

of multi-stage rockets capable of placing satellites, animals and humans in 

space; 2) “a large, winged, reusable spacecraft . . . to make space access routine”; 3) “a large, permanently occupied space station” for observing Earth 

and launching “deep space expeditions”; 4) “human flights around the Moon, 

leading to the first landings” and eventually to “permanent lunar bases”; and 

5) assembling “spaceships in Earth orbit for the purpose of sending humans to 

Mars and eventually colonizing that planet.” Launius and McCurdy also posit 

the existence of an anti-von Braun, “Rosen/Eisenhower/Van Allen Alternative,” 

for a more measured, and more robotic, space program.5

The primary aim of this paper will be to examine von Braun’s history 

of space advocacy carefully, to see how much his ideas actually correspond 

with the later construct of a von Braun paradigm. My secondary objective is 

	 3.	 Day,	“The	Von	Braun	Paradigm,”	p.	12.	See	also	“Paradigm	Lost,”	p.	154.

	 4.	 On	the	controversy,	see	esp.	Howard	McCurdy,	Space and the American Imagination (Washington,	DC:	

Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	1997),	chap.	2.

	 5.	 Roger	D.	Launius,	Space Stations: Base Camps to the Stars	(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Institution	

Press,	2002),	pp.	26–27;	Launius	and	Howard	E.	McCurdy,	Robots in Space: Technology, Evolution, and 

Interplanetary Travel	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	2008),	pp.	64–65	(quotes)	and	

chap.	3	(generally).	

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The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

to look briefly at the history of later NASA human spaceflight planning to try 

to discern von Braun’s influence or at least that of his so-called paradigm. My 

conclusions are 1) that von Braun was not a systematic and consistent space 

planner, but rather was often driven by enthusiasm and by a Moon obsession 

that meant he was as interested in going straight to the lunar surface as using 

the “logical” steps he laid out in Collier’s; 2) that although von Braun himself 

may have been inconsistent, his public advocacy in the 1950s did tend to 

consolidate a paradigm among space advocates focusing on the four main 

elements of shuttle, station, Moon, and Mars; 3) that while there was always 

opposition to his plans, the “Rosen/Eisenhower/Van Allen Alternative” is an 

artificial construct that conflates different ideas from different times; 4) that 

von Braun’s direct influence, still important in the 1960s, diminishes drastically 

from the 1980s on; but 5) that the classic four-element von Braun paradigm 

does seem to have been a shaping factor in NASA’s planning, from the 1969 

Space Task Group to the 2004 Vision for Space Exploration. However, its influence was weakest in the latter case, and its persistence may in part by due to 

other factors, notably the loss of Venus as a feasible destination and the lack 

of interest (until the 1990s) in asteroids, which tended to foreclose other possible options for human deep space exploration besides the Moon or Mars. 

Did von Braun Have a Paradigm?

Von Braun’s career in space advocacy began when he was literally and figuratively in the wilderness in the late 1940s. Relatively underemployed at Fort 

Bliss, outside El Paso, Texas, when budget cuts forced the U.S. Army to reduce 

its guided missile projects, including the ones he and his group of about 

120 German and Austrian engineers were working on, von Braun sought an 

outlet for his boundless creative energies. He decided that he needed to sell 

the American people on spaceflight, so he set out to prove the feasibility of 

a human expedition to Mars, based on conservative projections of late-1940s 

technology. Showing how much he was ahead of almost everyone, he felt that 

it was too easy to demonstrate a human Moon landing. But to make his Mars 

study palatable to the general public, he concluded in 1947 that he had to 

package it inside a science fiction novel.6

	 6.	 See	Michael	J.	Neufeld,	Von Braun: Dreamer of Space, Engineer of War	(New	York,	NY:	Alfred	A.	Knopf,	

2007),	chaps.	9–10,	for	elaboration;	key	sections	on	the	novel	are	excerpted	in	Michael	J.	Neufeld,	

“‘Space	Superiority’:	Wernher	von	Braun’s	Campaign	for	a	Nuclear-Armed	Space	Station,	1946–1956,”	

Space Policy 22	(2006):	pp.	52–62.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

By then, von Braun had been making informal plans and back-of-theenvelope calculations for at least 15 years. Arthur Rudolph, later (in)famous 

as the only member of von Braun’s group forced to leave the United States for 

involvement with concentration camp labor, tells a story of staying up nights 

at the Kummersdorf officer club in about 1935, calculating trajectories and 

payloads for a Mars expedition. But von Braun’s central obsession was the 

Moon, specifically leading an expedition to it himself—a dream that seized 

him as teenager during the German spaceflight fad of the late 1920s. Several 

anecdotes attest to his continuing fascination with a lunar landing throughout 

the Nazi period; one or two even speak of a specific proposal, but we have 

no details as to whether he was speaking of a direct launch from Earth or an 

assembly in Earth orbit near his space station, another major obsession. He 

may have contemplated both. Brief comments he made to the press and the 

public in El Paso, Texas, in winter 1946–47, however, described the station as 

a “refueling” stop on the way to the Moon.7

His plans for a large, rotating, wheel-type space station appear to have 

developed in parallel to his Moon and Mars ideas. A major influence were the 

writings of his hero, the German-Rumanian spaceflight theoretician Hermann 

Oberth, but the wheel format seems likely to have come from the 1929 book 

by the Slovenian-Austrian Hermann Noordung (pseudonym for Potoçnik), 

although von Braun never acknowledged the influence. From Oberth, von 

Braun definitely drew his ideas of the station as a superweapon for observing and dominating Earth. Following the revelation of the atomic bomb and 

his arrival in the United States, he reconceived it as a battle station controlling co-orbiting nuclear missiles; he became convinced that he had the key 

to defeating the Soviet Union and winning the Cold War. His ill-fated science 

fiction novel, originally titled Mars Project: A Technical Tale, has a fascinating 

	 7.	 Arthur	Rudolph	OHI	by	Michael	J.	Neufeld,	4	August	1989,	NASM	Archives;	Daniel	Lang,	“A	Romantic	

Urge,”	in	From Hiroshima to the Moon	(New	York,	NY:	Simon	&	Schuster,	1959),	pp.	191–192,	originally	

published	in	New Yorker	21	(April	1951):	75;	Peter	Wegener,	The Peenemünde Wind Tunnels (New	

Haven,	 CT:	 Yale	 University	 Press,	 1996),	 pp.	 41–42;	 Hans	 Kehrl,	 Krisenmanager im Dritten Reich

(Düsseldorf:	Droste,	1973),	p.	336;	Jak.	van	den	Driesch	to	Wernher	von	Braun,	6	January	1969,	in	

U.S.	Space	and	Rocket	Center	(USSRC),	von	Braun	Papers,	file	423-4;	Wernher	von	Braun,	“Survey	of	

Development	of	Liquid	Rockets	in	Germany	and	Their	Future	Prospects,”	in	Report on Certain Phases 

of War Research,	by	Fritz	Zwicky	(Pasadena,	CA:	Aerojet,	1945),	pp.	66–72;	“German	Scientists	Plan	

Re-fueling	Station	in	Sky	on	Route	to	Moon,”	El Paso Times (4	December	1946),	copy	in	NASA	KSC	

archives,	 Debus	 collection;	Wernher	 von	 Braun	 (Rotary	 Club	 speech,	16	 January	1947),	 in	 USSRC,	

Huntsville,	AL,	Wernher	von	Braun	Papers,	file	101-3.	For	more	on	the	history	of	von	Braun’s	Moon	

plans,	see	Neufeld,	“Von	Braun	and	the	Lunar-Orbit	Rendezvous	Decision.”

328
The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

and disturbing opening, “A.D. 1980.” It is set after the USSR is destroyed by 

nuclear strikes from his space station, “Lunetta,” a name he treasured from a 

science fiction story he wrote as a teenage boy. In his early 1950s writings, he 

discussed using preemptive atomic attacks to protect the station—making the 

speculation that he was later a model for Dr. Strangelove seem not unjustified!8

In order for his station to be useful as a reconnaissance and bombing 

platform against the Soviets, it had to be in a polar or near-polar orbit, which 

he set at a 2-hour period at 1,075 miles (later shown to be infeasible when 

the radiation belts were discovered). This orbit was in the wrong plane for 

his Mars expedition, which needed to depart in the ecliptic plane of the solar 

system so as to minimize the energy needed to reach the Red Planet. Thus, in 

the novel, his gigantic fleet of 10 spaceships, each with a mass of 8.2 million 

pounds and carrying seven men (and only men) apiece, was not assembled 

next to the station. Temporary living quarters for the work crews were set up 

inside the Mars ships instead. He thus believed a station was not essential to 

launching a human Mars expedition, but he took it for granted that it would 

come first as mankind’s initial foothold beyond Earth.9

To orbit 82 million pounds of hardware and propellants (mostly the latter) 

required a huge logistics operation he developed at length. In the novel, he 

alludes to an earlier class of “Jupiter” multistage boosters, but for Mars, the 

“United States of Earth” develops the “Sirius” class, a huge three-stage rocket 

much squatter and heavier than the later Saturn V. The first and second stages 

are recovered at sea and reused. The third is the winged rocket freighter that 

delivers materials and people into orbit. The assumption that humans would 

fly in craft with wings was not original to him, of course, as space advocates 

like the Austrians Max Valier and Eugen Sänger had already argued that the 

transition was most natural from an atmospheric rocket plane to what we 

	 8.	 Neufeld,	“‘Space	Superiority’”;	Wernher	von	Braun,	“Survey	.	.	.	,”	in	Report on Certain Phases of War 

Research in Germany,	by	Fritz	Zwicky	(Pasadena,	CA:	Aerojet,	1945),	pp.	66–72;	Wernher	von	Braun,	

“Questions	and	Answers	on	A-9,	A-10	and	A-11,”	July	1946,	in	National	Archives,	College	Park,	MD,	

RG156,	E.1039A,	file	“Ch.	II	New	Material—Revision	Material,”	box	79;	“Giant	Doughnut	is	Proposed	

as	Space	Station,”	Popular Science	(October	1951):	120–121;	Wernher	von	Braun,	“Crossing	the	Last	

Frontier,”	Collier’s (22	March	1952):	24–28,	72–73,	and	the	accompanying	magazine	editorial	on	p.	23,	

“What	Are	We	Waiting	For?”;	Wernher	von	Braun	“Space	Superiority,”	Ordnance	(March–April	1953):	

770–775.

	 9.	 The	original	“Mars	Project”	typescripts	are	in	USSRC,	Wernher	von	Braun	Papers,	file	204-7	(German),	

205-1	(English);	the	failed	novel	was	recently	published	as	Project Mars: A Technical Tale	(Burlington,	ON:	

Apogee	Books	Science	Fiction,	2006);	what	originally	appeared	in	print	was	his	revised	mathematical	

appendix,	Wernher	von	Braun,	Das Marsprojekt	(Frankfurt,	Germany:	Umschau,	1952),	and	The Mars 

Project	(Urbana,	IL:	University	of	Illinois	Press,	1953).	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

would now call a space shuttle. To von Braun, wings were needed above all 

for reentry, as no one had yet conceived of an ablative heat shield for a ballistic return. He pictured a glide halfway around Earth and put active cooling 

in the wings and nose to prevent them from melting. Of course, landing on 

a runway also made believable the airlinelike operations needed to fire two 

giant boosters per day and accomplish 950 launches in eight months! Complete 

reusability and the essential economies it provided were critical to all of von 

Braun’s early spaceflight conceptions, even more critical than a station. It 

was the only way he could justify the economic feasibility of his monumental 

space infrastructure.10

As is well known, von Braun’s often woodenly written novel was rejected 

by something like 18 publishers, but his revised mathematical appendix did 

appear in German in 1952 and in English in 1953 as The Mars Project. By that 

time, he had made his great breakthrough in the Collier’s magazine series, 

together with several other authors, notably his friend Willy Ley. The first issue, 

on 22 March 1952, and the first book that came out of the series, Across the 

Space Frontier, introduced the public to aesthetically improved versions of his 

booster and station as redrawn by artists Chesley Bonestell, Fred Freeman, and 

Rolf Klep. The magazine endorsed von Braun’s militant Cold War argument for 

using the space station to establish “space superiority” over the Soviet Union. 

In two more issues in October 1952, and in the spinoff book, Conquest of the 

Moon, von Braun presented his conception of the first lunar expedition, which 

involved three ships and 50 men and took six months to assemble in the space 

station’s polar orbit. He reveled in imagining huge space voyages, but he was 

far from committed to it as the only strategy, as he earlier and later discussed 

small, direct expeditions to the Moon.11

The popularity of the space issues caused Collier’s and its series editor, 

Cornelius Ryan, to put off the projected Mars number and ask von Braun 

and some of the other collaborators to generate articles on the training and 

preparation of “space men” (the word “astronaut” was not then used for that 

	 10.	 Wernher	von	Braun,	Project Mars,	pp.	23,	113–120,	215–31;	Wernher	von	Braun,	The Mars Project,	

pp.	9–36.

	 11.	 Neufeld,	 Von Braun,	 pp.	 246–247,	 251–269;	 Neufeld,	 “‘Space	 Superiority’”;	 Wernher	 von	 Braun,	

“Crossing	the	Last	Frontier,”	Collier’s (22	March	1952):	24–28;	Wernher	von	Braun,	“Man	on	the	Moon:	

The	Journey,”	Collier’s (18	October	1952):	24–28,	51–58,	60,	72–73;	Wernher	von	Braun	(with	Fred	

L.	Whipple),	“Man	 on	the	Moon:	The	 Exploration,”	Collier’s	 (25	 October	1952):	38–40,	42,	44–48;	

Cornelius	Ryan,	ed.,	Across the Space Frontier (New	York,	NY:	Viking,	1952)	and	Conquest of the Moon

(New	York,	NY:	Viking,	1953).	On	von	Braun’s	other	Moon	plans,	see	Neufeld,	“Von	Braun	and	the	LunarOrbit	Rendezvous	Decision,”	and	footnote	6	in	this	chapter.	

330
The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

Figure 1: Von	Braun	in	1955	against	the	backdrop	of	a	famous	Chesley	Bonestell	painting	from	the	first	

Collier’s	space	issue	of	1952.	He	is	holding	a	model	of	the	Disney	version	of	his	winged	space	shuttle.	

U.S. Army photo courtesy of NASM

purpose). In the spring of 1953, Ryan also asked von Braun to speculate on 

space exploration before humans went up. Von Braun produced an article on a 

biological satellite he called the “baby space station,” in which several monkeys 

would spend two months in weightlessness before being euthanized prior to 

satellite burnup. Even the three-stage expendable booster he proposed for this 

mission was 150 feet high and 30 feet in diameter at the base.12 Prior to this 

time, he had taken little interest in the preliminary stages of space exploration 

and thought not at all about robotic spaceflight. His Mars expedition is the first 

mission of any kind to the Red Planet. He had little faith that spacecraft would 

work without humans on board to fix them, and he was simply uninterested 

in any other form of exploration. For him, as for other space advocates of his 

generation, sending humans was the point. 

	 12.	 Wernher	von	Braun	(with	Cornelius	Ryan),	“Baby	Space	Station,”	Collier’s (27	June	1953):	33–35,	38,	

40;	Neufeld,	Von Braun,	pp.	272–273.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Yet, at almost the same time, von Braun conceived in the classified world 

an absolute “minimum” satellite booster and craft, dubbed “Orbiter” in late 

1954, using his new Redstone ballistic missile as the first stage. The satellite 

in its initial version would have been only a 5-pound inert ball or balloon.13

Writing von Braun’s biography, I was struck by the apparent contradiction in 

his character: on the one hand he reveled in gigantism when he conceived of 

the space future, and on the other he was a very conservative rocket engineer. 

He and his Army group were not on the cutting edge of missile propulsion or 

structures in the 1950s because of that engineering conservatism. He had two 

sides: a vivid imagination that led him into romanticism and a deep-seated 

pragmatism that shaded into naked opportunism; but he did not see it as a 

contradiction, as he expected that small, practical steps in the near term would 

lead quickly to the glorious future he imagined. 

The Collier’s series ended in April 1954 with the much-delayed Mars issue. 

By then von Braun was already moving beyond his original Mars Project conceptions. He had come under attack from his colleagues in the American Rocket 

Society for gigantomania, and his associate Ernst Stuhlinger was studying ion 

propulsion for interplanetary voyages. But his busy schedule meant that he 

did not want to rethink his 10-ship expedition in 1954. When von Braun, Ley, 

and Bonestell’s book version, The Conquest of Mars, was finally published two 

years later, however, he cut the expedition back to two ships, in response to 

criticism, but stuck with chemical propulsion.14

In the interim, the Walt Disney Company had become interested in spaceflight for its new television series and hired von Braun and Ley to be its consultants and on-screen spokesmen, along with an ex-German space medicine 

expert. Disney presented to a television audience of millions between 1955 

and 1957 yet another version of von Braun’s vision: giant booster with winged 

spacecraft, orbiting wheel station, Moon exploration (a preliminary circumlunar 

voyage in this case), and a Mars expedition (using Stuhlinger’s solar-powered, 

ion-engine ships). It is fair to say that Disney helped solidify a “von Braun 

paradigm” of four main elements (shuttle, station, Moon, Mars) in the minds 

	 13.	 Michael	J.	Neufeld,	“Orbiter,	Overflight	and	the	First	Satellite:	New	Light	on	the	Vanguard	Decision,”	in	

Reconsidering Sputnik: Forty Years Since the Soviet Satellite,	ed.	Roger	D.	Launius,	John	M.	Logsdon,	

and	Robert	W.	Smith	(Amsterdam,	Netherlands:	Harwood	Academic	Publishers,	2000),	pp.	231–257.

	 14.	 Wernher	von	Braun	(with	Cornelius	Ryan),	“Can	We	Get	to	Mars?,”	Collier’s (30	April	1954):	22–29;	

Willy	Ley,	Wernher	von	Braun,	and	Chesley	Bonestell,	The Exploration of Mars	(New	York,	NY:	Viking,	

1956);	Neufeld,	Von Braun,	pp.	270–272,	275–277,	286;	Tom	D.	Crouch,	Rocketeers and Gentlemen 

Engineers	(Reston,	VA:	AIAA,	2006),	pp.	134–137.	

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The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

of the public, which was now more likely to believe that spaceflight would 

soon become a reality.15

One interesting lacuna no one ever talks about is the virtual absence of 

Venus in the Collier’s-Disney popularizations of von Braun et al. Here was a 

planet almost exactly the same size as Earth and actually slightly closer and 

more accessible than Mars, and one also the frequent subject of science fiction, 

both written and filmed. Science fiction movies (mostly bad) about landing 

on Venus continued to be made into the 1960s. One popular speculation was 

that there must be a steamy swamp world under the impenetrable blanket of 

clouds, as the planet was closer to the Sun. It was not until Mariner 2’s flyby 

in December 1962 that we knew for certain that the beautiful evening and 

morning star was actually a hellish world with temperatures hot enough to 

melt lead. The causes of this neglect by von Braun and his compatriots are not 

far to seek: the Western cultural obsession with Mars that had flourished since 

telescopes improved our view in the late 19th century, showing an apparently 

Earth-like planet with probable life, as opposed to the blank white mystery of 

Venus. Von Braun’s Mars Project novel featured an updated version of Percival 

Lowell’s Red Planet with canals designed by an older, superior civilization to 

move water from the polar caps to its cities. It is unclear how much he still 

believed in a Lowellian Mars in the 1950s, but he clearly had become deeply 

fascinated by the idea in his youth and never completely lost it thereafter.16

Shortly before the first broadcast of the last Disney program in December 

1957, the program about Mars, the Soviets launched two Sputniks. Von Braun 

immediately proposed a crash project that bore no resemblance to the winged 

vehicle he had recently depicted as the necessary first step in human space 

travel. To launch a man (I use the term advisedly) as soon as possible, he argued 

for using a Redstone to lob a fairly primitive capsule on a brief suborbital 

flight. Called “Man Very High” and then “Project Adam” (for “first man”), this 

idea was famously dismissed by NACA Director Hugh Dryden in the spring of 

1958 as having “about the same technical value as the circus stunt of shoot-

	 15.	 Neufeld,	Von Braun,	pp.	284–290,	and	for	the	impact	of	Collier’s	and	Disney	on	the	public,	see	esp.	

McCurdy’s	seminal	Space and the American Imagination.	

	 16.	 Robert	Markley,	Dying Planet: Mars in Science and the Imagination	(Durham,	NC/London,	U.K.:	Duke	

University	Press,	2005),	esp.	pp.	2–3,	21–22;	Wernher	von	Braun,	Project Mars;	Neufeld,	Von Braun,	

pp.	28–29;	Launius	and	McCurdy,	Robots,	pp.	66,	271n11.	I	have	found	a	single	reference	to	Venus	

in	the	Collier’s	series, in	a	Wernher	von	Braun	answer	to	a	question	in	a	“Space	Quiz”	of	miscellaneous	

information	put	together	by	the	editors,	Collier’s	(22	March	1952):	38.	He	states	that	a	space	station	

would	have	to	be	built	around	Venus	before	humans	could	land	there.

333
NASA’s First 50 Years

ing the young lady from the gun.” But the idea quickly reappeared, albeit as 

part of a technically more sophisticated NASA program, Mercury, for putting 

a man into orbit.17

Soon thereafter, von Braun outlined a direct trip to the Moon in a popular 

magazine. His fame magnified by his central role in launching the first American 

satellite, he was finally able to realize his frustrated ambitions as a science 

fiction writer. In the fall of 1958 and spring of 1959, the Sunday newspaper 

supplement This Week published his novella, First Men to the Moon, in four parts, 

detailing a two-man expedition to that body using a huge rocket and a direct 

launch from Earth. Turning around as it approached the Moon, his spacecraft 

ignited a landing stage to alight on the lunar surface without going into orbit; 

that stage provided the launch platform for the two astronauts in their winged 

reentry vehicle to propel themselves back to Earth. It seems likely that this 

concept went back to some of his original German ideas, as one anecdote of 

the Nazi period indicates he was thinking of a two-man expedition. The story 

was skillfully illustrated by one of his Collier’s collaborators, Fred Freeman. 

Padded with popular science material on spaceflight, it appeared as a short 

book in 1960. That same year, the magazine published a modified excerpt 

from his failed Mars novel, depicting the encounter between his adventurers 

and the inhabitants of the Red Planet.18

At almost exactly the same time as First Men to the Moon was first published, from 1958 to 1959, von Braun and his Army associates developed 

their first detailed lunar exploration plans. The context was the red-hot space 

race, interservice rivalry with the U.S. Air Force, and a search for missions 

for their new Saturn launch vehicle, then going into development. It would 

combine eight engines in the first stage for an unprecedented 1.5 million 

pounds (6.67 million newtons) of thrust. Lacking the authority to develop 

the gigantic launcher needed for direct ascent, which NASA would soon call 

Nova, and needing to justify Saturn, von Braun and his advanced missions 

people, Ernst Stuhlinger and H. H. Koelle, favored assembling and fueling the lunar landing vehicle in orbit around the home planet using many 

launches. This was the conservative approach that von Braun advocated to 

NASA at the end of 1958 when trying to sell Saturn, and it came up again 

	 17.	 Dryden	quoted	in	Neufeld,	Von Braun,	p.	329.

	 18.	 “First	Men”	corr.	in	USSRC,	Wernher	von	Braun	Papers,	file	200-31;	Wernher	von	Braun,	First Men 

to the Moon	(New	York,	NY:	Holt,	Rinehart	and	Winston,	1960);	Klaus	H.	Scheufelen,	Mythos Raketen: 

Chancen für den Frieden. Erinnerungen (Esslingen,	Germany:	Bechtle,	2004),	pp.	82–83.

334
The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

in Project Horizon, an Army lunar base study carried out in 1959. These 

studies helped shape NASA’s long-range plan of that year, which rated an 

accelerated human circumlunar voyage as a goal at least as important as an 

Earth-orbital station. It was the first step on the road to a rush trip to the 

lunar surface to beat the Soviets. Von Braun, as a lifelong Moon obsessive, 

was thrilled at the possibility, and even more so after Kennedy made it real 

in 1961. He was quite willing to postpone the shuttle and station until later. 

He was, as we have seen, a romantic not rigidly committed to the plans laid 

out in Collier’s and Disney.19

With the completion of his group’s transfer to NASA in July 1960, von 

Braun’s days as a visionary were essentially over. He spent the next decade 

as the Director of MSFC and as chief salesman for the Agency’s programs, 

primarily Apollo-Saturn. While he made suggestions for, and critiqued, many 

NASA-funded studies of space stations and lunar and planetary exploration, 

the ideas were no longer really his. His influence stemmed largely from 

the impact of Collier’s and Disney on a generation of rocket engineers and 

space enthusiasts. I will explore further the impact of his ideas on NASA 

planning below.

Thus I agree with Day and Launius; there was indeed a von Braun paradigm that was a product of his popular activities in those two media outlets 

in the 1950s, and I agree with Day that it consisted of only four fundamental 

elements. The addition of one or two preliminary stages does not correspond 

to von Braun’s very limited public discussion of the early phases of spaceflight in public (consisting essentially of one solicited article on the “baby 

space station”), nor to his disinterest in robotic probes and his obsession 

with monumental human exploration. I might add that he was not rigid 

either in describing the relationship between the stages, especially in the 

case of the space station, which did not always have to serve as a base for 

launching lunar and planetary expeditions and did not necessarily have to 

come before going to the Moon. 

In short, one must distinguish between von Braun and the von Braun 

paradigm, as there were several von Brauns. One was the pragmatic and 

	 19.	 Courtney	G.	Brooks,	James	M.	Grimwood,	and	Loyd	S.	Swenson,	Jr.,	Chariots for Apollo: A History of 

Manned Lunar Spacecraft (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4205,	1979),	pp.	4–6;	Frederick	I.	Ordway	III,	

Mitchell	R.	Sharpe,	and	Ronald	C.	Wakeford,	“Project	Horizon:	An	Early	Study	of	a	Lunar	Outpost,”	Acta 

Astronautica 17	(1988):	1105–1121;	NASA,	“The	Long	Range	Plan	of	the	National	Aeronautics	and	

Space	Administration”	in	Exploring the Unknown,	ed.	John	M.	Logsdon,	vol.	1,	Organizing for Exploration 

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4407,	1995),	pp.	377–378	(introduction),	403–407	(document).

335
NASA’s First 50 Years

conservative engineering manager who had a burning desire to accomplish 

something right now (especially if he could put his name on it) and proposed 

short-term, “quick fix” programs like Orbiter and Adam. Another was the 

Moon obsessive fascinated by traveling there, if possible personally, with the 

result that he privately worked out what it would take to make a direct trip as 

early as the 1930s. It led him, I think, into a Faustian bargain with the Nazis.

What of Launius and McCurdy’s “Rosen/Eisenhower/Van Allen Alternative”?20

As indicated earlier, I do not believe it is a useful analytical device. It conflates criticism of von Braun, the von Braun paradigm, and large-scale human 

spaceflight made at different times for different reasons. I will take the three 

named protagonists in turn.

Milton Rosen served as chief engineer for NRL’s Viking and Vanguard programs and made himself famous in October 1952 for debating von Braun at 

the Hayden Planetarium in New York. At issue was von Braun’s March Collier’s 

proposals for a giant booster and nuclear-armed battle station. Rosen expressed 

a widespread feeling among engineers in the American Rocket Society, who 

thought that the German’s grandiose plans were infeasible and would prove 

a massive distraction from urgent guided-missile work; indeed, von Braun’s 

plans were a threat to national security. Rosen and his American Rocket Society 

compatriots were in part misled by von Braun’s, and the magazine’s, disinterest 

in describing the preliminary stages of spaceflight and by von Braun’s willingness to paint a grand picture to sell the public on space, even as he acted in 

his day job as a rocket engineer every bit as conservative as they were. After 

Sputnik, Rosen would become as caught up in the space race as anyone else. 

He advocated building the gigantic Nova launch vehicle for a “direct ascent” 

mission to land on the Moon, even after von Braun and other NASA engineers 

had already switched to Earth-orbit or lunar-orbit rendezvous as the way to go 

during Apollo. So he will hardly serve as the leading name in a united front 

of anti-human-spaceflight advocates.21

President Dwight Eisenhower’s secret motives in establishing the first 

scientific satellite project as a stalking horse for a reconnaissance satellite are 

now well known, as is his public, post-Sputnik attempt to contain the growth 

rate of space spending. Motivated by traditional fiscal conservatism, he was 

worried that human spaceflight programs would grow so large as to add mas-

	 20.	 Launius	and	McCurdy,	Robots,	pp.	64–70.

	 21.	 Rosen	 OHI	 by	 Michael	 J.	 Neufeld,	 24	 July	 1998,	 NASM	 Archives;	 “Journey	 into	 Space,”	 Time (8	

December	1952):	62–64,	67–70,	73;	Crouch,	Rocketeers,	pp.	134–137.

336
The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

sively to a national debt already ballooned by the Cold War and nuclear arms 

race. He was often exasperated by the now German-American’s penchant 

for loud public speaking on behalf of such programs. Eisenhower’s vision 

for NASA, as Launius, McCurdy, and others have detailed, was of an Agency 

with a billion-dollar-a-year budget focusing mostly on robotic spacecraft for 

applications and exploration. It was a vision quickly overthrown by Kennedy 

and Johnson, who quintupled NASA’s budget.22

James Van Allen was an Iowa physicist forever linked to von Braun by 

the iconic picture of the three holding up a replica of Explorer I on the night 

the first United States satellite was launched (the third was the Director of 

JPL, William Pickering). Several months later, he became even more famous 

as the discoverer of the radiation belts because of his Explorer experiment. 

His opposition to expensive human spaceflight programs grew up as a result 

of Apollo and the perceived lack of meaningful science return for the money 

expended, as opposed to the output of robotic exploration of Earth’s cosmic 

environment and deep space. He became the most vocal spokesman, mostly 

from the 1970s on, for the skepticism about human spaceflight in the scientific 

community, an attitude still common there today. Van Allen’s vision of NASA’s 

ideal program thus bears resemblance to Eisenhower’s, but his motivation 

was rather different.23

In sum, there has been opposition to von Braun’s ideas, the von Braun 

paradigm, and large-scale human spaceflight from the beginning until now, but 

it is more differentiated and complex than is easily encapsulated in a single 

“alternative.” It bears some resemblance to the more complex reality of von 

Braun and his paradigm, which I have outlined above, and deserves further 

study. But I will turn my attention back to the last part of my examination of 

the paradigm thesis, that of its apparent influence on later planning. 

	 22.	 Walter	A.	McDougall,	.	.	.	The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age (New	York,	NY:	

Basic	Books,	1985);	David	Callahan	and	Fred	I.	Greenstein,	“The	Reluctant	Racer:	Eisenhower	and	U.S.	

Space	Policy,”	in	Spaceflight and the Myth of Presidential Leadership,	ed.	Roger	D.	Launius	and	Howard	

E.	McCurdy	(Urbana/Chicago,	IL:	University	of	Illinois	Press,	1997),	chap.	1.	

	23.	 Abigail	 Foerstner,	 James Van Allen: The First Eight Billion Miles (Iowa	 City,	 IA:	 Iowa	 University	

Press,	2007),	pp.	250–257.	On	p.	66	of	Robots,	Launius	and	McCurdy	speak	of	Eisenhower	adopting	

the	“Rosen-Van	Allen	point	of	view.”	I	doubt	there	is	any	evidence	that	he	paid	attention	to	Rosen’s	

ideas	as	reported	in	Time	back	in	1952,	and	Van	Allen	had	not	started	campaigning	yet	at	the	time	

of	Eisenhower’s	decision-making	on	space,	from	1955	to	1960.	The	only	Van	Allen	references	they	

give	in	the	endnotes	on	p.	271	date	to	the	1980s.	Eisenhower’s	scientific	advisers,	notably	George	

Kistiakowsky	 and	 James	 Killian,	 were	 likely	 the	 sources	 of	 his	 arguments	 for	 the	 superiority	 of	

scientific	satellites.

337
NASA’s First 50 Years

The Von Braun Paradigm and Long-Term NASA Planning

My analysis of this topic will be briefer, primarily because I have not done the 

depth of research equivalent to my work on von Braun. The topic is large and 

sprawling, covering as it does nearly a half century of NASA plans; I will leave 

detailed examination to others. My primary purpose is to try to test the other 

part of Day’s original thesis, as extended and amplified by Launius and McCurdy, 

namely, that the von Braun paradigm has exercised a profound influence on 

NASA’s vision for human spaceflight after Apollo, pushing the Agency to build 

large, expensive programs focusing on the four main objectives: shuttle, station, Moon, and Mars. There have been three milestone events, the Space Task 

Group (STG) of 1969, the SEI of 1989, and the Vision for Space Exploration of 

2004, the first two of which motivated Day’s thesis. There have also been less 

visible proposals and studies, notably two not long before the SEI: the 1986 

National Commission on Space and the 1987 Ride Report, neither of which fit 

neatly the paradigm thesis. 

The first of these three major events, the STG, can be interpreted as an 

attempt to return to the script of the von Braun paradigm after the Moon 

landing, and it was the only one on which von Braun exercised any direct 

influence. Shortly after President Richard Nixon’s inauguration, which came 

only weeks after the spectacular circumlunar voyage of Apollo 8, he asked 

Vice President Spiro Agnew to produce a proposal for a post-Apollo NASA 

program. The STG’s direction and content were largely driven by Administrator 

Thomas Paine, who had a strong ally in the Vice President, a former Maryland 

governor with zero space expertise. Paine, an engineer who fondly remembered the Collier’s-Disney series and was a fan of von Braun, was determined 

to exploit the Apollo success to get the maximum program he could out of 

the political system, which he pictured in classic paradigm fashion as a large 

human spaceflight program culminating in a Mars landing. When the Associate 

Administrator for Manned Spaceflight, George Mueller, produced an “integrated 

program plan” that spring for a shuttle, station, and cislunar nuclear shuttle 

to support continuing Moon exploration, Paine asked von Braun’s Center to 

add a Mars expedition using those elements.24

The MSFC Director gave a famous viewgraph presentation to the STG and 

to a Senate committee in early August 1969, just two weeks after Apollo 11. It 

	 24.	 Paine	OHI	by	Logsdon,	12	August	and	3	September	1970,	file	4185,	NASA	History	Division;	David	S.	

F.	Portree,	Humans to Mars: Fifty Years of Mission Planning, 1950–2000	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP2001-4521,	2001),	pp.	47–48;	Heppenheimer,	Space Shuttle Decision,	pp.	159–174.

338
The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

Figure 2: President	Richard	Nixon	announces	NASA	Acting	Administrator	Thomas	Paine’s	nomination	as	

Administrator	on	5	March	1969.	Vice	President	Spiro	Agnew	is	on	the	right.	Agnew	and	Paine	would	push	

an	ambitious	shuttle-station-Moon-Mars	strategy	for	the	post-Apollo	space	program	that	Nixon	refused	to	

support.	NASA Image 69-H-225

339
NASA’s First 50 Years

audaciously gave an exact date in November 1981 for the departure of such an 

expedition from Earth orbit. He did so, I believe, in spite of harboring doubts 

about Paine’s risky strategy. Before the Administrator’s request, he had not 

pushed a human Mars program, knowing that public opinion was unlikely 

to support it. A year later, no doubt influenced by hindsight, he told political 

scientist John Logsdon: “I have never in the last two or three years strongly 

promoted a manned Mars project . . . . People . . . have tried to cast me in the 

image . . . of the Mars or bust guy in this agency, which I am definitely not.” A 

little earlier in the interview, he said: “I, for one, have always felt that it would 

be a good idea to read the signs of the times and respond to what the country 

really wants, rather than trying to cram a bill of goodies down somebody’s 

throat for which the time is not ripe or ready.”25

Like many in NASA’s human spaceflight establishment, he thought a space 

station more salable and was committed to it as necessary infrastructure. A 

winged shuttle, an idea strongly pushed by Mueller in the late 1960s, von 

Braun and his counterparts conceived largely as a station adjunct, a logistics 

vehicle needed to transfer crew and cargo (the station components themselves 

would be launched on a Saturn V or other heavy-lift vehicle). With the almost 

instantaneous failure of Paine and von Braun’s Mars initiative in the summer of 

1969, followed by the slow death of the fall STG report, which laid out shuttlestation-Moon-Mars proposals differing only in timetable, it was the station 

and shuttle agenda NASA returned to. But the station’s purpose was unclear 

to the politicians and gained no traction with the public. In the end, only the 

Space Shuttle, oversold as a vehicle that would revolutionize the economics of 

spaceflight, was politically feasible in the brutal post-Apollo budgetary environment. As the other elements of a big human program faded into a vague 

and distant future, the Shuttle became for a decade an end in itself—not so 

much a space policy as an excuse not to have one.26

None of what transpired in the STG and its aftermath obviously conflicts 

with the von Braun paradigm thesis. The NASA human spaceflight establish-

	 25.	 Wernher	von	Braun	OHI	by	Logsdon,	25	August	1970,	file	2629,	NASA	History	Division.

	 26.	 Joan	Hoff,	“The	Presidency,	Congress,	and	the	Deceleration	of	the	U.S.	Space	Program	in	the	1970s,”	

in	Spaceflight,	 ed.	 Launius	 and	McCurdy,	 pp.	98–100,	103–104;	STG	report,	September	1969,	 in	

Exploring the Unknown,	ed.	Logsdon,	vol.	1,	Organizing for Exploration,	pp.	522–543.	The	STG	report	

covers	actually	a	much	larger	spectrum	of	space	policy,	including	space	science	and	military	space	

projects,	so	the	centrality	of	the	von	Braun	paradigm	is	not	so	easily	visible	there.	Yet	the	emphasis	

placed	on	a	big	human	program	leading	to	Mars	is	clear	in	the	emphasis	Paine	put	on	it	that	summer	

of	1969.

340
The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

ment seems to have accepted the centrality of the four basic elements (the 

scientific and robotic spacecraft communities were another matter). If I have 

any second thoughts about the thesis as it applies to this episode, it is that 

the solar system itself seemed to foreclose other options for near-term human 

exploration, at least within the framework of discussion before 1975. With 

the 1962 confirmation that Venus was uninhabitable, there was apparently no 

place else to go after the Moon. There had been discussion of human flybys 

of Venus in the 1960s, but only because certain Mars trajectories required a 

gravity-assist from the second planet in one direction or the other. As robotic 

missions to the planets succeeded, the scientific return of human planetary 

flybys seemed scarcely credible for the expense anyway. Human spaceflight 

advocates were still fixated on the colonization of planetary surfaces, based 

on the analogy of the voyages of world exploration, and in the United States, 

especially, of the western frontier. But it would be hard to attribute that 

exploration and colonization focus primarily to von Braun or the paradigm, 

as it was embedded in the assumptions of the space travel movement since 

its origins. Similarly, the winged Space Shuttle had a long prehistory in space 

advocacy based on the analogy of aeronautics. So if the von Braun paradigm 

has any analytical meaning, it has to be in the centrality of the four elements, 

probably in the usual order, but not necessarily rigidly linked to each other.27

In the 1970s and 1980s, however, other options for human exploration 

of the inner solar system appeared. Gerard O’Neill popularized the idea of 

huge space colonies at the libration points of the Earth-Moon system, based 

on mining of the Moon and building solar-powered satellites for Earth. Robert 

Farquhar demonstrated, with the robotic spacecraft ISEE-3, the feasibility of 

libration-point halo orbits and the possibilities of exotic trajectories when he 

used lunar swingbys to send it to a comet. The growing concern in the 1980s 

and after about the threat of asteroid and comet impacts focused attention on 

those possible targets for human missions. 

This changing context had a visible impact on the 1986 National Commission 

on Space, led by ex-Administrator Paine, which attempted to produce a new 

space policy for the Reagan administration. In its ill-timed report, which 

appeared just after the Shuttle Challenger accident, Paine’s group once again 

painted a vision of a massive human spaceflight program. Paine even inserted 

a visual salute to von Braun as the frontispiece: a reproduction of the classic 

	 27.	 Portree,	Humans,	pp.	20,	26,	32,	37;	McCurdy,	Space and the American Imagination,	chap.	6; Launius	

and	McCurdy,	Robots,	pp.	55–61.

341
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 3:	On	20	July	1989,	at	NASM,	President	George	H.	W.	Bush	announces	the	SEI,	a	new	attempt	

to	implement	the	von	Braun	paradigm.	Among	those	present	were	the	Apollo	11	crew,	Vice	President	Dan	

Quayle,	and	NASA	Administrator	Richard	Truly. NASA Image 89-H-380

Bonestell painting of the shuttle, station, and space telescope from Collier’s, 

paired with a modern version of the same trio painted by Robert McCall. But 

as O’Neill was a member of the National Commission on Space, the report also 

broke somewhat with the paradigm in discussing space colonies and librationpoint missions. That only added to its flavor of impractical utopianism, and it 

was quickly dismissed in Washington. NASA instead commissioned astronaut 

Sally Ride to produce a report. Her group also strayed somewhat from the 

paradigm in 1987 by proposing a robotic “Mission to Planet Earth” as one focus 

and discussing an option of going straight to human Mars missions without 

necessarily going back to the Moon, although a lunar base was also an option.28

So why did the classic von Braun paradigm apparently reappear only two 

years later in George H. W. Bush’s SEI and the 90-day study NASA produced 

in response to it? Part of the reason was that in the meantime, NASA had sold 

	 28.	 United	States	National	Commission	on	Space,	Pioneering the Space Frontier: The Report of the National 

Commission on Space	 (New	York,	 NY:	 Bantam	 Books,	 1986);	 Portree,	Humans,	 pp.	 67–75;	 Hogan,	

Mars Wars,	pp.	27–32.	

342
The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

the Space Station to President Reagan from 1983 to 1984 at the apogee of early 

Shuttle optimism. The Station decision might be interpreted as another return 

to the traditional script, as one of its missions would be to support later lunar 

and planetary exploration. When President Bush cast about for an ambitious 

new space policy in 1989, NASA engineers and managers from the human 

spaceflight side were the primary influences on the staff of the new NSC, which 

was headed by his Vice President, Dan Quayle. Bush’s SEI speech singled out 

the Station, Moon bases, and Mars outposts explicitly, linking them together as 

stepping-stones, letting Agency engineers and space planners off the hook for 

even bothering to think about another strategy. It should be added that if a big 

human program was viewed as foundational, the lack of other targets—or at 

least the ability to imagine other targets—remained fundamental. By the end 

of the 1980s, the fad for O’Neill’s space colonies had faded as their utopian 

character became clear; they would have to follow extensive lunar colonization 

anyway. The asteroid and comet impact issue had not yet risen to the level 

of public interest it would in the 1990s, when it resulted in two Hollywood 

movies. So an entrenched mindset at NASA that might be described as the von 

Braun paradigm appears central to SEI and its rapid failure, reinforced again 

by the apparent lack of any other place to go with humans.29

In contrast to the Space Task Group, however, von Braun (who had died 

in 1977) was essentially invisible in this episode. Bush did not mention him, 

nor did anyone in the Agency invoke his name much.

30 Since it is difficult to 

prove a negative—why von Braun’s name was absent—I can do little but offer 

speculative explanations. Primarily, I think, he already was a figure from the 

distant past by 1989, as his last substantive ideas were formulated three decades 

earlier. The growing controversy about his Nazi past in the late 1980s might 

also have made his name somewhat “politically incorrect,” at least outside his 

hometown of 20 years, Huntsville, Alabama, where even now denial is the 

order of the day. Following the October 1984 revelation that Arthur Rudolph 

had voluntarily left the United States and renounced his citizenship to avoid a 

	 29.	 Hogan,	Mars Wars, chaps.	3–5;	Portree,	Humans to Mars,	 chap.	9;	 copy	 of	 Bush	 speech,	20	 July	

1989,	 file	 9008,	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	 History	 Division,	 NASA	 Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC.

	 30.	 The	 study	 NASA	 did	 in	response	 to	 the	 Bush	 speech	 does	mention	 von	 Braun’s	 name	 once	 as	 a	

precursor	in	planning,	attributing	to	him	the	1969	plan;	see	“Report	of	the	90-Day	Study	.	.	.	,”	November	

1989,	page	2-1,	in	NASA	History	Division,	file	17922,	and	the	viewgraph	summary	by	Mark	Craig,	18	

January	1990,	in	file	9007.	Similarly,	von	Braun	gets	a	single	mention	under	“Mission	Scenarios”	in	an	

earlier	NASA	briefing	for	NSC	and	OMB	staff:	Franklin	Martin,	“Exploration	Background	Briefing	.	.	.	,”	

25	August	1989,	file	17923.

343
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 4: President	George	W.	Bush	speaks	at	NASA	Headquarters	on	14	January	2004	on	the	Vision	

for	Space	Exploration.	It	would	depart	from	the	classic	von	Braun	paradigm,	notably	in	ending	the	Space	

Shuttle	Program	and	marginalizing	the	Space	Station.	White House Official Photo P-37074-33

denaturalization hearing over his involvement with concentration camp labor, 

newspapers around the world ran major stories. Subsequently, investigative 

journalists dug up a lot of dirt on the Third Reich records of von Braun and 

his key associates. Always a problematic hero, he posthumously became a 

touchy problem for NASA.31

The failure of the SEI put NASA long-term human spaceflight planning 

once again on the back burner. Faced with the unpopularity of more ambitious objectives, Agency leaders circled the wagons around Space Station 

	 31.	 The	most	important	pre-1989	publications	on	the	Nazi	issue	were	Linda	Hunt,	“U.S.	Coverup	of	Nazi	

Scientists,”	 Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists	 (April	 1985):	 16–24,	 and	 Tom	 Bower,	 The Paperclip 

Conspiracy: The Battle for the Spoils and Secrets of Nazi Germany (London,	 U.K.:	Michael	 Joseph,	

1987).	Hunt	appeared	on	CNN	pursuing	von	Braun	team	members	in	their	Huntsville	driveways,	and	

Bower	had	a	major	special	on	the	PBS-TV	program	Frontline in	early	1988.	On	von	Braun’s	record	

in	particular,	 see	Michael	 J.	Neufeld,	“Wernher	 von	 Braun,	the	SS,	and	 Concentration	 Camp	Labor:	

Questions	of	Moral,	Political,	and	Criminal	Responsibility,”	German Studies Review	25	(2002):	57–78.	

Monique	Laney	is	studying	the	history	of	the	Germans	in	the	city	and	its	connection	to	the	memory	

of	the	Nazi	rocket	program;	see	“‘Operation	Paperclip’	in	Huntsville,	Alabama,”	in	Remembering the 

Space Age,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2008-4703,	2008).	

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The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

Freedom, as it was then called, to protect NASA’s budget and human spaceflight 

establishment. New planning began only at the end of the 1990s, late in the 

term of Administrator Daniel Goldin. In the meantime, Red Planet enthusiasts 

like Robert Zubrin and his Mars Society had popularized an alternative they 

called “Mars Direct”—rejecting the Moon as a way station and emphasizing 

the exploitation of in situ resources to avoid the massive infrastructure of the 

von Braun approach. Zubrin explicitly criticized the German-American.32 Inside 

NASA, the Decadal Planning Team, as Goldin dubbed it, did consider whether 

to skip the Moon and whether the now-ISS was a worthwhile investment. But 

it was not until the crisis provoked by the Shuttle Columbia disaster in early 

2003 that a new space policy could emerge under President George W. Bush.33

While it is too early to analyze this process in detail as the first historical work 

is only now being done, what emerged as the Vision for Space Exploration 

in 2004 was in some ways the anti-SEI. Big budget increases and any global 

money numbers that might be politically toxic were to be avoided; the Shuttle 

and Station were de facto rejected. The Columbia Accident Investigation Board 

had already recommended phase-out of the Shuttle as dangerous; the gigantic 

cost overruns and lengthy delays of the ISS had left a bad taste in everyone’s 

mouth. One way of financing a new human space program on the cheap was 

to try to get out of those two obligations as soon as possible. However, the 

international dimensions and sunk cost of the ISS made it impossible for the 

United States to get out of the Shuttle quickly or abandon the Station entirely, 

and sending humans to Mars was simply impractical based on existing technology—targets closer to home were needed to test the new spacecraft and 

habitation modules. Under the new Administrator, Mike Griffin, the Explorations 

Systems Architecture Study in 2005 brought the Moon back to the fore as the 

next critical objective; Mars quickly began fading into the background.34

Do all these developments mean that the von Braun paradigm is dead or 

has little influence any longer? How one answers that question depends a great 

	 32.	 For	a	later	version,	see	Robert	Zubrin,	The Case for Mars: The Plan to Settle the Red Planet and Why 

We Must	(New	York,	NY:	Touchstone,	1997),	pp.	47,	66.

	 33.	 I	am	indebted	to	Glen	Asner	and	Stephen	Garber,	former	and	current	historians	at	NASA,	respectively,	for	

lending	me	drafts	of	chapters	from	their	forthcoming	history	of	the	Decadal	Planning	Team	and	Vision	

for	Space	Exploration.	What	I	know	of	this	history	depends	heavily	on	them.	For	Bush’s	space	policy	

statement,	see	NSPD	31,	14	January	2004,	file	12886,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	

History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC,	virtually	the	only	primary	document	available	in	

these	files	as	of	October	2008.	

	 34.	 Exploration Systems Architecture Study: Final Report	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	TM-2005-214062,	2005),	

chap.	1,	electronic	copy	courtesy	of	Glen	Asner	and	Stephen	Garber.	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

deal on how one defines the term, which is slippery when one gets past the 

fundamentals of a massive human spaceflight infrastructure and shuttle → station 

→ Moon → Mars. If we have already built the Space Shuttle and International 

Space Station, does it matter if we dump them as long as we follow the allegedly logical order of the four steps? Von Braun would never have expected the 

first two to be abandoned, seeing them as necessary infrastructure for human 

spaceflight, but then he did not link the steps rigidly either—at least in the case 

of the Station, which might or might not serve as an orbital base for construction 

of interplanetary ships. What one can say is that the paradigm has weakened 

as an entrenched mindset in the NASA human spaceflight establishment; the 

disillusionment with the reusable space plane is the most visible sign of that. 

But not all aspects of the paradigm are dead. Even though I am a Moon buff, 

having grown up in the 1960s, and think there is much interesting science 

to be done there, its lingering influence is certainly one possible explanation 

for NASA’s commitment to building a big lunar base, which will likely not be 

built because it would become another giant money sink like the ISS. And 

why the determined resistance to discussing the proposals of Bob Farquhar 

and others for asteroid missions instead, especially in view of our long-term 

need to build a planetary defense? But here I have strayed from the role of 

historian into that of commentator, as these events are too recent to provide 

the historical perspective and research needed to judge them.

 In conclusion, I would agree that Dwayne Day’s thesis of a von Braun 

paradigm consisting of four main elements remains a plausible interpretative 

device for analyzing a half century of U.S. human spaceflight planning, especially up to 1989. However, a distinction must be made between von Braun 

and the paradigm, although he was the one who created it in Collier’s and 

Disney. As we have seen, it by no means represented all the dimensions of his 

enthusiasms, thoughts, and actions. 

As for the paradigm he launched, it appears to have flourished in NASA 

because it offered an alluring vision of the future for human spaceflight enthusiasts and a program of action for engineers and planners that was “logical” 

yet malleable in its details. Its continuing influence was perhaps aided by the 

discovery of Venus’s inaccessibility, which did nothing to disturb a Western 

and American cultural obsession with Mars as a possible abode of life. The Red 

Planet also appeared to be the only habitable, Earth-like objective anywhere 

in the neighborhood, even as robotic scientific discoveries showed it to be less 

appealing than hoped. The availability of the Moon relatively close by, and the 

focus on colonizing planetary surfaces, also tended to reinforce the paradigm 

while marginalizing other possible destinations like the libration points and 

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The “Von Braun Paradigm” and NASA’s 

Long-Term Planning for Human Spaceflight

the asteroids, not to mention the possibility of rejecting human spaceflight 

altogether to concentrate on robotic exploration. There are certainly other 

factors—social, cultural, and professional—that shaped the thinking of NASA 

engineers and space planners. It could well pay space historians and policy 

analysts to further test this thesis, as such investigations can cast new light 

on the fundamental assumptions behind the human spaceflight enterprise in 

the United States.

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THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY BLANK
Chapter 14

Life Sciences and Human 

Spaceflight

Maura Phillips Mackowski

Life sciences activities, as carried out by NASA for 50 years, can be roughly 

divided into two categories: operational biology, meaning mission-related 

(astronaut health and safety, habitat, environmental life support, psychology, 

and spacesuits) and fundamental/basic biology. The latter category, in turn, 

offers three possibilities for study: species to be used for life-support systems 

or for consumption; “model” species (well-understood life-forms with at least 

one physiological system that could stand in for humans); and evolutionary 

biology, including astro- or exobiology, embryology, and genetics. Evolutionary 

scientists ask where life came from, how living beings might have changed 

over time, where life exists now, and how it might evolve later or somewhere 

else besides Earth’s surface.

The Space Act of 1958 dictated no role for evolutionary research per 

se, but it outlined an implicit role for operational components of biology, 

medicine, and those life sciences with broader applications to all humankind. Its Declaration of Policy and Purpose, Section 102 (c), called for “The 

development and operation of vehicles capable of carrying instruments, 

equipment, supplies and living organisms through space” and “The establishment of long-range studies of the potential benefits to be gained from, the 

opportunities for, and the problems involved in the utilization of aeronautical and space activities for peaceful and scientific purposes.” Section 203 

authorized the Administrator, in pursuance of these activities, to “arrange 

for participation by the scientific community in planning scientific measurements and observations to be made through use of aeronautical and space 

vehicles, and conduct or arrange for the conduct of such measurements and 

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NASA’s First 50 Years

observations; and provide for the widest practicable and appropriate dissemination of information concerning its activities and the results thereof.” 

In doing so, he or she was allowed “to acquire . . . construct, improve, repair, 

operate, and maintain laboratories, research and testing sites and facilities, 

aeronautical and space vehicles, quarters and related accommodations . . . 

and such other real and personal property . . . as the Administration deems 

necessary within and outside the continental United States.” NASA’s leader 

could also “establish within the Administration such offices and procedures 

as may be appropriate to provide for the greatest possible coordination of 

its activities under this Act with related scientific and other activities being 

carried on by other public and private agencies and organizations.”1 Signed 

when a grand total of four U.S. vehicles had exited the atmosphere, the Space 

Act may have presciently used the term “living organisms” in the sense of 

preventing forward contamination by space probes so that future missions 

did not register false positives in a search for extraplanetary life.2

“Vehicles” was the word that garnered the most attention, as space dreamers and visionaries of the early 20th century pictured orbiting or lunar high 

grounds manned by the military, not biomedical research labs staffed by scientists in lab coats.3

 Associate Administrator Homer Newell, writing in 1980, 

acknowledged the uneven appreciation at that time by NASA—and the science 

community at large—for biology in the space program: “One could sense an 

ambivalence in the life sciences community concerning the space program, a 

fascination with its novelty and challenge mixed with skepticism on the part 

of most that space had much to offer for their disciplines . . . .”4 That lack of 

integrated support—by researchers, politicians, nonscientists within the Agency, 

the military, the medical community, and the public—would dog NASA life 

science research throughout its first half century, resulting in a patchwork of 

successes and failures across all its endeavors.

	 1.	 “National	Aeronautics	and	Space	Act	of	1958	(Unamended),”	P.L.	85-568,	72	Stat.,	426.	Signed	by	the	

President	on	29	July	1958,	RG	255,	NARA,	Washington,	DC.

	 2.	 See	Steven	J.	Dick	and	James	E.	Strick,	The Living Universe: NASA and the Development of Astrobiology

(New	Brunswick,	NJ:	Rutgers	University	Press,	2005),	pp.	23–24,	29–30.	Vanguard	1	and	Explorers	1,	

3,	and	4	all	achieved	orbit	in	early	1958,	the	year	after	“living	organism”	Laika,	a	Soviet	dog,	had	flown	

aboard	Sputnik	2.	

	 3.	 See,	for	example,	Michael	J.	Neufeld,	Von Braun: Dreamer of Space, Engineer of War	(New	York,	NY:	

Knopf,	2007),	pp.	243,	254–255,	257,	266–267,	271,	280.

	 4.	 Homer	E.	Newell,	Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space Science (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP4211,	1980),	p.	274.

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The 1960s

In the 1960s, NASA put the first American into space and the only men, ever, 

onto the Moon. By the end of the decade, one or more U.S. astronauts had 

flown 44 times, on 22 missions, accumulating more than 2,000 hours in space. 

Four men had walked on the Moon and returned safely to Earth. Operational 

medicine was thus the most publicly visible aspect of NASA’s space life sciences effort. 

Given President John Kennedy’s overriding Cold War goal of reaching the 

Moon, NASA recognized that it would need specialized medical talent and 

equipment to screen and maintain the health of its astronauts. Pressure to avoid 

costly duplication of unique personnel and one-of-a-kind equipment led NASA 

initially to draw on the decade of work already done by the military, primarily 

the U.S. Air Force at its School of Aviation Medicine at Brooks Air Force Base in 

San Antonio, Texas, and its Aerospace Medical Laboratory at Wright-Patterson 

Air Force Base. Along with a contract facility in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the 

Lovelace Clinic, they had done pioneering research in the post-World War II 

years that persuaded flight surgeons that piloted spaceflight was survivable.5

One of the first life sciences activities NASA did after its creation was to employ 

these aviation medicine specialists to screen a select pool of military jet test 

pilots to find its first astronauts. Then, from 1961 to 1963, the Mercury years, 

NASA used flight surgeons, nurses, and medical technicians detailed from the 

military for clinical work such as postflight exams, in-flight health monitoring, 

and astronaut-candidate screening.6 This cooperation continued through the 

Gemini years, 1965 to 1966, strengthened by the inauguration of the military’s 

Manned Orbital Laboratory (MOL) program, which DOD expected would put 

a number of soldier-astronauts into low-Earth orbit.7

	 5.	 Loyd	S.	Swenson	et	al.,	This New Ocean: A History of Project Mercury	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4201,	

1966),	 pp.	 131,	 161–163;	 Jake	W.	 Spidle,	 Jr.,	 The Lovelace Medical Center: Pioneer in American 

Heath Care	(Albuquerque,	NM:	University	of	New	Mexico	Press,	1987),	pp.	111,	133;	Maura	Phillips	

Mackowski,	 Testing the Limits: Aviation Medicine and the Origins of Manned Space Flight	 (College	

Station,	TX:	Texas	A&M	University	Press,	2006),	pp.	3–4.

	 6.	 Green	Peyton,	Fifty Years of Aerospace Medicine, 1918–1968	(Brooks	Air	Force	Base,	San	Antonio,	TX:	

U.S.	Air	Force	School	of	Aerospace	Medicine,	1968),	pp.	205–210,	215–217,	223–228.

	 7.	 Peyton,	Fifty Years of Aerospace Medicine,	pp.	240–243,	250–251.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

The duration of Apollo missions (6 to 11 days), combined with two to three 

times the amount of interior space per astronaut that the Mercury or Gemini 

crews enjoyed (Command and Lunar Modules combined), allowed NASA to 

test medical, training, management, and human factors problems in spaceflight. Apollo crews reported candidly on eating, sleeping, and going to the 

bathroom in space; suit flexibility, cumbersomeness, and temperature control; 

cabin noise, heat, odor, vibration, and interior design; water potability; and 

menu appeal. Debriefings also covered the adequacy of training and medical 

advice, the ability to reach switches or handholds under heavy g-loads, and 

the abrasiveness of physiological monitors. Frankly discussing their fear and 

discomfort while slamming forward and back during various flight sequences 

or while awaiting pickup aboard a capsule taking on seawater, along with 

describing the ineffectiveness of pharmaceuticals and countermeasures recommended for nausea and the smell of their capsule ablating during a fiery 

reentry, also helped flight surgeons and spacecraft designers plan realistically 

for upcoming Shuttle missions and contingencies.8

A rising tide lifts all boats, so the broader field of biomedical research 

also benefited by the missions of the 1960s. The Agency’s top management 

did not seek, let alone demand, in-flight fundamental life sciences research 

in those tiny early capsules; but Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo astronauts did 

carry out occasional life sciences experiments. Each mission carried dosimeters 

to measure the amount of radiation astronauts received in orbit. The Gemini 

program flew bread mold and human blood samples to examine the effects 

of space radiation. Apollos 16 and 17 took along pocket mice, microbial 

samples, and a European experiment, Biostack, which contained numerous 

biosamples, all to study radiation. After Apollo 10, all crewmembers, except 

for one, observed light flashes when their eyes were closed, so Apollo 16 and 

17 crewmembers wore experimental headgear outfitted with radiation particle 

detectors during some sleep sessions to look for the cause. It proved to be a 

type of radiation called HZE particles (for their high atomic number [Z] and 

energy level [E]). The mouse and Biostack experiments revealed that these 

particles had passed through the retinas of the astronauts. Adequate controls 

	 8.	 See	the	very	candid,	lengthy,	and	declassified	“Technical	Crew	Debriefings”	for	Apollos	7,	8,	9,	and	10,	

stamped	“Confidential.”	These	were	prepared	for	the	Mission	Operations	Branch,	Flight	Crew	Support	

Division,	at	what	was	then	the	Manned	Spacecraft	Center	in	Houston,	TX.	They	were	published	between	

17	 October	 1968	 and	 2	 June	 1969,	 providing	 rapid	 feedback	 from	 the	 lunar	 shakedown	 mission	

astronauts.	

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Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight

were not always incorporated into each experiment, and exact repetition 

was nearly impossible, though, so in-flight studies in this period sometimes 

produced confounded science and were not considered conclusive.9

Early satellites increased interest in life off Earth. NASA opened a Life 

Sciences Office in 1960 and put biologists to work at Ames. As it grew, Ames 

built facilities and took on postdoctoral researchers.10 Gemini capsules had 

detectors outside that looked for microbial life in orbit.11 As for satellite studies 

dedicated to fundamental biology of any sort, though, Homer Newell recalled 

two schools of thought in the 1960s as to the value of such research: either 

proceed with a program in hopes of gaining insight into designing and operating the carrier and/or system, that is, the satellite itself and/or the rocket, or 

wait for ground research in biology to catch up and produce more scientifically 

sound and “definitive” experiments.12

An example of how this strategy might (and did) go wrong was the 

1962 Biosatellite program, managed by Ames Research Center. Biosatellite I 

launched in 1966, intended to carry out a three-day science agenda that was 

specimen-dependent. That meant the actual insects, eggs, larvae, etc., had to 

be retrieved. However, the reentry engines failed to ignite, so while engineers

might be able to claim having learned from that experience, life scientists got 

zero data. NASA decided to maintain the program at three flights but to skip 

a step. Ames would refly the Biosatellite I payload. Leapfrogging over the 

Biosatellite II agenda of orbiting a rat colony for three weeks, it would then go 

directly to Biosatellite III’s substantially more challenging payload: a monkey. 

	 9.	 Barton	C.	Hacker	and	James	M.	Grimwood,	On the Shoulders of Titans: A History of Project Gemini

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4203,	1977),	pp.	229–230,	541,	546–547,	551–552,	558,	563–564,	

568–569;	 Swenson	 et	 al.,	 This New Ocean,	 pp.	 385,	 467,	 497;	W.	 Royce	 Hawkins	 and	 John	 F.	

Zieglschmid,	 “Clinical	 Aspects	 of	 Crew	 Health,”	 p.	 80;	 Horst	 Bücker,	 “Biostack:	 A	 Study	 of	 the	

Biological	 Effects	 of	 HZE	 Galactic	 Cosmic	 Radiation,”	 pp.	 344,	 348;	W.	 Zachary	 Osborne	 et	 al.,	

“Apollo	Light	Flash	Investigations,”	pp.	355–356,	360–365;	Webb	Haymaker	et	al.,	“The	Apollo	17	

Pocket	Mouse	Experiment	(Biocore),”	pp.	382–383,	391–396,	403;	and	J.	Vernon	Bailey,	“Radiation	

Protection	and	Instrumentation,”	p.	112,	all	in	Biomedical Results of Apollo,	ed.	Richard	S.	Johnston	

et	al.	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-368,	1975).	HZE	particles	were	not	available	for	research	on	Earth	

until	after	Apollo	16.

	 10.	 Dick	and	Strick,	The Living Universe,	pp.	37–39.

	 11.	 Hacker	and	Grimwood,	On the Shoulders of Titans,	pp.	569–570.	Finding	none,	scientists	decided	that	

any	that	might	have	existed	had	been	killed	by	radiation.

	12.	 Newell,	 Beyond the Atmosphere,	 p.	 277.	 For	 a	 detailed	 critique	 of	 Ames	 Research	 Center’s	

early	 efforts	 to	 become	 lead	 Center	 for	 fundamental	 biology	research	 at	 NASA,	 see	 Elizabeth	A.	

Muenger,	Searching the Horizon: A History of Ames Research Center, 1940–1976	(Washington,	DC:	

NASA	SP-4304,	1985),	chap.	5.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Biosatellite II did not entirely succeed, though, having to end the 1967 flight 

in less than two days because of recovery area weather.13

So, with two-thirds of the program ostensibly “complete” but meeting 

neither its biological nor engineering goals, and with development costs 

markedly higher for a primate mission, there was intense pressure to produce 

something. Thus NASA stuck to the original plan for Biosatellite III. Bonnie, 

a male pigtailed macaque, blasted off 28 June 1969 for what was to be 30 

days in orbit. However, NASA terminated Bonnie’s mission after eight days, 

as his health rapidly deteriorated. The monkey died hours after recovery. 

Bonnie had lost 25 percent of his weight through dehydration, but a necropsy 

determined the actual cause of death to be “over-instrumentation,” that is, too 

much crammed into one “platform.” Thirty-three channels of data came from 

sensors implanted in his brain; chest leads monitored his heart; sensors in his 

abdomen monitored Bonnie’s temperature; devices in the veins and arteries 

of his legs measured his blood pressure; catheters collected his urine; and 

other implants monitored muscle and eye activity. Preflight, Bonnie—and four 

ground control monkeys—also underwent testicular biopsies, incisor extractions, tail amputations and anal suturing so that, strapped to seats the entire 

mission, their bodily waste could be collected. Two of those four monkeys 

died not long afterwards. In essence, the pressure to produce “science” cost 

NASA not only three payloads—and three very expensive monkeys—but the 

technology learning experience Homer Newell wrote about.14

NASA went ahead in 1970 with the long-planned Orbiting Frog Otolith 

project. A University of Milan experiment, sponsored by the Office of Advanced 

Research and Technology, the project put two bullfrogs into orbit for six days, 

alongside another experiment atop a Scout 1B rocket. An on-board centrifuge 

alternated their gravity environment from weightlessness to 0.6 g. The frogs 

wore implanted sensors and had been “demotorized”; they were intentionally 

not recovered, but usable data were telemetered to the ground.15

However, the Agency canceled further development of its own biosatellites. This would have left U.S. researchers with only the three Skylab missions 

(1973 to 1974) and the one Apollo-Soyuz Test Project flight (1975) until the 

	 13.	 “U.S.	Biosatellite	Program:	Biosatellite	I	and	II,”	in	Life Into Space: Space Life Sciences Experiments, 

NASA Ames Research Center, 1965–1990,	 ed.	Ken	Souza	 et	 al.	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 RP-1372,	

1995),	available	at	http://lis.arc.nasa.gov/lis/index.html.

	 14.	 Colin	Burgess	and	Chris	Dubbs,	Animals in Space (Chichester,	U.K.:	Praxis,	2007),	pp.	280–282;	“U.S.	

Biosatellite	Program:	Biosatellite	III.”

	 15.	 “Orbiting	Frog	Otolith	Program,”	in	Life Into Space,	available	at	http://lis.arc.nasa.gov/lis/index.html.

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Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight

Shuttle was launched 12 years later, had not the Soviets unexpectedly stepped 

in. They invited visiting NASA life scientists to fly four experiments alongside 

investigators from five European nations, and they offered to share rat tissue 

samples, all as part of their 1975 Bion 3 mission (Cosmos 782).16 Years later, 

Oleg Gazenko, Director of the Institute for Medical and Biological Problems 

(IMBP), revealed that one reason for the invitation was that the Soviets wished 

to fly monkeys, which they would do with Bion 6 (Cosmos 1514) in 1983. NASA 

had primate experience that the IMBP hoped to tap. However, including CIA, 

Air Force, and Army launches, the American record between 1948 and 1961 

for hominids was five to four against survival. NASA did have one feather in 

its cap, successfully putting the first primate, a chimpanzee no less, into orbit. 

The feisty Enos rode a Mercury capsule through two orbits on 29 November 

1961 and returned cranky but unscathed, paving the way for John Glenn the 

following February.17

The 1970s

With just four crewed missions by middecade, totaling 180 days, the 1970s 

can be seen as a low point for U.S. crewed spaceflight. In contrast, the Soviet 

Union launched 25 crewed Soyuz missions, and cosmonauts from the USSR 

and Warsaw Pact allies visited five different Salyut space stations for a total 

of over 600 days. However, during this time NASA began recruiting scientists, 

male and female, no longer just military jet test pilots (who at the time were 

overwhelmingly white), for anticipated Space Shuttle missions. By thus broadening its astronaut pool, NASA, in contrast with the essentially males-only 

philosophy of its space rival, increased knowledge in a few pockets of science, 

mainly operational medicine, including gender differences in anthropometry 

and physiological reactions to microgravity. NASA also sent the two Viking 

landers to Mars in 1976 to search for signs of life there. Although the analyti-

	 16.	 “Mission	Information,”	Biosatellite	III,	Life	Sciences	Data	Archive,	available	at	http://lsda.jsc.nasa.gov;	

Burgess	and	Dubbs,	Animals in Space,	pp.	282–286.

	 17.	 Burgess	 and	 Dubbs,	 Animals in Space,	 pp.	 266–268,	 293–294,	 228–234,	 375–377,	 387;	 Oleg	

Gazenko,	 interview	by	 Cathleen	S.	Lewis,	 IMBP,	28	November	1989,	transcript,	p.	10,	Smithsonian	

Archive,	Washington,	DC.	Two	French	monkeys	had	made	successful	ballistic	flights	in	1967.

355
NASA’s First 50 Years

cal equipment on board the landers did not find conclusive evidence of even 

microbial life there, the mission overall was very successful in garnering public 

awareness of, and support for, NASA and its accomplishments.

The operational medicine subspecialty known as human factors provided 

NASA engineers with data needed for human-machine integration, for example, 

designing Shuttle instrumentation that everyone could reach and passageways 

that everyone could fit through. Suit designers needed to craft garments that 

fit all sizes and body types among the astronaut corps and allowed wearers to 

do every imaginable task in relative comfort. The most difficult item proved 

to be the glove, due to flexibility needs precluding the use of much thermal 

insulation or padding. 

Just prior to World War II, what was then the AAF had begun accumulating 

anthropometrical (body size) data on military air crew personnel, including 

females flying for the Nursing Division and the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots 

(WASPs) and black Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) cadets.18 Military 

and FAA labs, universities, contractors, and the Japanese space agency all did 

numerous studies of body size, reach, and so forth during the 1970s and into 

the early 1980s as the aviation community began to integrate women into jobs 

previously reserved for men. At NASA, an ad hoc group in Houston, Texas, and 

Florida composed of astronaut William Thornton, M.D., John T. Jackson, and 

Gene Coleman, Ph.D., had decided early on that it would be useful to have a 

similar database for astronauts, and from 1977 to 1979 they gathered statistics 

on astronauts and applicants alike. NASA (including planetary mission habitat 

designers in the early 1990s) would use all of these to develop its own human 

factors standards.19

Medical researchers found women to be 15 to 61 percent more susceptible 

to orthostatic intolerance, that is, passing out when standing after landing, 

and learned that physical conditioning and pressure suits were less effective 

countermeasures for females. An early 1990s study would show height to be 

the predictor in men. The taller the astronaut, the more likely he would be 

to pass out. Counterintuitively, short women had lower tolerance than tall 

men, in this case due to a lower blood volume that caused the heart to refill 

between beats more slowly, thus making it more difficult to maintain sufficient 

blood pressure. Another observation was that blood pooled in the pelvic area 

	 18.	 Mae	 Mills	 Link	 and	 Hubert	 A.	 Coleman,	Medical Support of the Army Air Forces in World War II 

(Washington,	DC:	U.S.	Air	Force,	1955),	pp.	238–245.

	 19.	 Man-Systems Integration Standards,	vol.	2,	rev.	B	(Houston,	TX:	NASA	STD-3000,	JSC,	1995),	appendix	A.

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Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight

among women at as much as six times the rate it did with men, whose blood 

tended to pool in the legs. Thus pressure suits for females would need to 

squeeze the pelvic area more and the legs less. Gravity deconditioning after 

long flights was 50 percent greater among females; however, they recovered 

more quickly than males.20

The three Skylab missions, from 1973 to 1974, carried radiation dosimeters, as the station would be passing regularly through various high-radiation 

zones. There was also concern over nuclear testing under way back on Earth. 

Skylab astronauts reported HZE flashes, and the blood of the Skylab 2 and 3 

crews was tested for chromosomal abnormalities caused by radiation.21 Each 

crewmember was examined several years later to look for evidence of longterm bone demineralization.22

NASA investigators flew experiments on board three Soviet Bion/Cosmos 

missions from 1975 to 1979. Participation was very limited, with NASA contributing only some carrot samples and minor pieces of flight hardware and the 

passive dosimeters, but they were able to make use of Soviet-supplied tissue 

samples from rats, fruit flies, and other organisms. Beginning with Bion 4/

Cosmos 936 in 1977, animals (usually rats and quail eggs) were rotated during 

flight to simulate artificial gravity.23

Astrobiology studies at NASA still called for the process of sterilizing 

planetary probes to avoid contaminating the eventual landing site with Earth 

microbes that would mislead later investigators. As for life-forms coming to

Earth, at least from the Moon, NASA dropped the astronaut quarantine requirement after Apollo 12. NASA had canceled a planned exobiology mission to 

Mars, Voyager, in 1971 but recycled some equipment for the two Viking Mars 

landers that set down there in 1976. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory funded 

and coordinated research related to the search for extraterrestrial life in the 

1960s and 1970s. Researchers ventured to far-flung deserts, including Antarctica, 

	 20.	 Victor	 A.	 Convertino,	 “Gender	 Differences	 in	 Autonomic	 Functions	 Associated	With	 Blood	 Pressure	

Regulation,”	American Journal of Regulatory Integrative Comparative Physiology	275	(1998):	R1909-

20;	Mary	M.	Connors,	Living Aloft: Human Requirements for Extended Spaceflight	(Washington,	DC:	

NASA	SP-483,	1985),	pp.	29–30.

	 21.	 Experiment	Information:	“Radiological	Protection	and	Medical	Dosimetry	for	the	Skylab	Crew	(SKYRAD),”	

“Cytogenetic	Studies	 of	 Blood	 (M111),”	 and	“Visual	 Light	 Flash	Phenomena	 (M106),”	 Life	Sciences	

Data	Archive	(LSDA),	NASA	JSC,	data	baselined	15	July	2004,	available	at	http://lsda.jsc.nasa.gov/

(accessed	22	July	2008).

	 22.	 Frederick	E.	Tilton	et	al.,	“Long-term	Follow-up	of	Skylab	Bone	Demineralization,”	Aviation, Space, and 

Environmental Medicine	51,	no.	11	(November	1980):	1209–1213.

	 23.	 “The	Cosmos	Biosatellite	Program,”	in	Life Into Space,	vol.	1,	available	at http://lis.arc.nasa.gov.

357
NASA’s First 50 Years

for Mars analog locations where they could test life-detection devices for the 

Viking mission.24 Ames approved Project Cyclops in 1971, putting researchers 

at Ohio State University to work with their “Big Ear” radio telescope in 1973, 

searching for signals from intelligent life.25

The 1980s and Beyond

Here the tale of NASA’s life sciences research becomes much less straightforward, as the U.S. civilian space program branched out to include an operational 

Shuttle Program, Space Station, planetary habitat design, and plans for helping private industry make money literally in space. Politics and economics, of 

course, had their roles to play as well.

The Space Shuttle

The focal point of NASA’s life sciences research became the ironically named 

Space Shuttle in the 1980s.26 An orbiter could carry a much bigger payload than 

the space capsules of the 1960s and 1970s; in fact, it could be outfitted to carry 

an entire habitable laboratory in its cargo bay.27 Its size would also allow the 

United States, for the first time, to bring along researchers from allied nations, 

supported on the ground by their universities and research labs. However, 

Shuttle orbiters were confined to just a portion of low-Earth orbit and to missions typically lasting one to two weeks. Plans for extended-duration missions 

of several weeks and launches from Vandenberg Air Force Base that would 

have put an orbiter into a polar orbit did not come to fruition. The Shuttle fleet 

never reached its planned size of five orbiters. Still, the flights of Columbia, 

Challenger, Discovery, Atlantis, and Endeavour (the Challenger replacement) 

	 24.	 Dick	and	Strick,	The Living Universe,	pp.	59–61,	82–89.

	 25.	 John	Kraus,	Big Ear	(Powell,	OH:	Cygnus-Quasar	Books,	1976),	pp.	197,	203.

	 26.	 Dictionaries	define	a	shuttle	as	a	vehicle	that	regularly	goes	back	and	forth	between	two	places.	Since	

there	was	no	station	to	serve	as	the	second	“place,”	NASA	redefined	the	destination	as	simply	low-Earth	

orbit.	Also,	the	Shuttle	never	achieved	a	“regular”	schedule,	and,	as	Challenger	proved,	it	should	not	

have	been	sold	on	that	basis.	The	program’s	formal	name	was	the	more	accurate	Space	Transportation	

System.

	 27.	 Asif	A.	Siddiqi,	Challenge to Apollo: The Soviet Union and the Space Race, 1945–1974	(Washington,	

DC:	NASA	SP-2000-4408,	2000),	p.	836.	Because	the	Soviets	already	had	stations	in	orbit,	their	lookalike	shuttle,	Buran,	apparently	was	not	meant	to	be	an	orbiting	lab.

358
Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight

added considerably to the scope of the Agency’s space life sciences capability, 

especially the dozen-plus Spacelab missions.

Most of the medical research was operational, in particular to reduce 

or prevent negative effects of microgravity. Vestibular studies by the United 

States and ESA focused on space adaptation syndrome and the accompanying 

nausea. NASA researchers, primarily at JSC, designed a suite of experiments, 

known as the Extended Duration Orbiter Medical Project, that would measure 

the extent of debilitation that could be expected postflight. The goal was to 

ensure that returning astronauts would be fit enough to make an emergency 

egress, but the data were also useful in thinking about future astronauts arriving on Mars after months of weightlessness.28 Would they be able to get out 

of their spacecraft, stand, walk, and do any work in even one-third gravity? 

A key area of interest was bone and muscle loss. Demineralization had been 

studied as early as Gemini IV, and Gemini astronauts did show significant 

bone loss in comparison to bedrest patients.29 However, Apollo and Skylab 

crews showed mixed results, giving flight surgeons the idea that it was of no 

real concern, particularly in an operational sense.30 It became a matter of real 

concern when astronauts and cosmonauts on longer missions started coming 

back with significant loss to the weight-bearing bones in their legs, pelvis, and 

spine. Consequently, animal experiments on Cosmos/Bion and early Shuttle 

flights began looking at bone loss and bone repair.31 Flight surgeons at both 

space agencies had been attempting to prevent or combat the cardiovascular 

deconditioning and tissue loss since the Apollo program days by prescribing a 

daily regime of exercise. Twenty years later, they were beginning to question 

whether that helped at all. Spaceflight seemed to be a speeded-up version of 

the bone loss experienced by the aging and bedridden, and flight surgeons 

eventually prescribed the medications used on Earth to treat osteoporosis, 

rather than creating a medication that was later “spun off” for Earth use.

	 28.	 Charles	F.	Sawin,	“Introduction	to	the	Extended	Duration	Orbiter	Medical	Project,”	in	Extended Duration 

Orbiter Medical Project, Final Report 1989–1995,	ed.	Charles	F.	Sawin	et	al.	(Houston,	TX:	NASA	SP1999-534,	JSC,	1999),	p.	xxiii.

	 29.	 Hacker	and	Grimwood,	On the Shoulders of Titans,	pp.	538,	542,	548.	Gemini	bone	demineralization	

studies	were	carried	out	only	on	missions	IV,	V,	and	VII.

	 30.	 Paul	C.	Rambaut	et	al.,	“Skeletal	Response,”	in	Biomedical Results of Apollo,	pp.	303–321;	Malcolm	C.	

Smith,	Jr.,	et	al.,	“Bone	Mineral	Measurement	Experiment	M078,”	in	Biomedical Results from Skylab,	

ed.	Richard	S.	Johnston	and	Lawrence	F.	Dietlein	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-377,	1977),	pp.	183–190.

	 31.	 Kenneth	A.	Souza	and	Evgeniy	A.	Ilyin,	“Major	Results	from	Biological	Experiments	in	Space,”	in	Space 

Biology and Medicine,	vol.	3,	Humans in Spaceflight,	bk.	1,	ed.	C.	S.	Leach	Huntoon	et	al.	(Reston,	VA:	

AIAA	and	Moscow:	Nauka	Press,	1996),	pp.	37–39.

359
NASA’s First 50 Years

Another area of operational medicine had an easier time making it through 

the budget and priority tussles over five decades: radiation protection. Radiation 

shielding was built into all vehicles because computer components required 

protection as much as human beings did. Since the military was putting up 

many of the satellite payloads, they sponsored a great number of radiation 

hardening studies. The Department of Energy had been charged with studying 

human safety at nuclear power reactors and in medical applications such as x 

rays. Several components of the NIH studied radiation for its risk and curative 

powers. Weather satellites operated by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric 

Administration (NOAA) monitored space for solar radiation bursts, allowing 

commercial and government satellites time to move into “safe” mode. NASA 

was able to piggyback on the work of these organizations, all of them federally 

funded, so the need to ask Congress for money was reduced, and everyone 

felt they had gotten more bang for their bucks. 

Each Shuttle mission carried dosimeters on both the crew and the vehicle, 

and JSC developed an analog human head that was carried along on 11 Shuttle 

flights between 1989 and 1993.32 Engineers at LaRC and JPL had worked since 

the Apollo days to create mathematical models to predict the type and intensity 

of radiation at various points and times. Complicating things, however, were 

the discoveries after 1958 of previously unknown types of radiation particles 

and unrecognized byproducts they created. The radiation belts themselves 

became better understood, and the inclination of the Shuttle’s orbit proved to 

make a difference in the amount of radiation occupants would be exposed to.33

NASA developed the Longitudinal Study of Astronaut Health in 1992, partly 

to track astronauts for the development of cataracts, cancer, and infertility, all 

potential outcomes of radiation exposure.34

Lack of gravity allowed for greater purification of certain biochemical 

mixtures in space. NASA, industry, and Congress envisioned orbiting factories 

mass-producing unique medications with no impurities. McDonnell Douglas 

and the Ortho Pharmaceuticals division of Johnson & Johnson teamed to 

	 32.	 A.	Konradi	 et	 al.,	“DSO	469A:	 Low	 Earth	 Orbit	 Radiation	 Dose	 Distribution	 in	 a	Phantom	 Head,”	 in	

Results of Life Sciences DSOs Conducted Aboard the Space Shuttle 1988–1990	 (Washington,	 DC:	

NASA,	1991),	pp.	59–64;	“Experiment	Information”	and	“Experiment	Description	for:	Inflight	Radiation	

Dose	Distribution	(DSO	469),”	LSDA,	baselined	15	July	2004,	updated	30	July	2008,	available	at	http://

lsda.jsc.nasa.gov/scripts/experiment/exper.cfm?exp_index=200	(accessed	1	August	2008).

	 33.	 Life	Support	Branch,	Life	Sciences	Division,	OSSA,	“Space	Radiation	Health	Program	Plan”	(Washington,	

DC:	NASA	TM-108036,	November	1991),	pp.	1–5,	8,	13–14,	25–26.

	 34.	 David	E.	Longnecker	et	al.,	Review of NASA’s Longitudinal Study of Astronaut Health	(Washington,	DC:	

National	Academies	Press,	2004),	pp.	1–3.

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Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight

study erythropoietin purification in space for the treatment of anemia aboard 

STS flights.35 Each of the seven flights of Electrophoresis Operations in Space 

advanced them toward that goal. Electrophoresis Operations in Space also 

brought about the first of what some expected would be a considerable number 

of “industrial astronauts,” Charles D. Walker, who operated his Continuous Flow 

Electrophoresis System (CFES) on STS-41D, -51D, and -61B. The Challenger

accident and the coincidental discovery of a way to make better erythropoietin 

on Earth combined to dissuade the McDonnell Douglas team from more space 

electrophoresis research.36

The Shuttle era also saw the introduction and evolution of protein crystal 

experimentation and an attempt at commercial biomaterials processing in orbit. 

Proteins associated with various diseases (such as diabetes and cancer) were 

allowed to form crystals for examination by electron microscopy. An intact 

crystalline structure was almost unattainable on Earth due to gravity and the 

fragility of these tiny forms. A better understanding of the three-dimensional 

shape of such proteins would, in theory, allow pharmaceutical manufacturers 

to tailor-make a cure that would exactly suit the disease. Protein crystallization likewise combined both basic science and technology development, but 

without the pressures of a rapid commercial application needed to fund it. In 

recent decades European, Japanese, Canadian, Australian, Brazilian, and U.S. 

scientists at universities, military labs, and pharmaceutical manufacturers have 

flown samples inside increasingly sophisticated chambers holding sometimes 

over 1,000 specimens. In 1986, NASA established a Commercial Space Center, 

the Center for Macromolecular Crystallography at the University of AlabamaBirmingham, which worked with MSFC to do protein crystal studies.37 That 

	 35.	 “Feasibility	of	Commercial	Space	Manufacturing:	Production	of	Pharmaceuticals,”	Document	III-23	in	

Exploring the Unknown,	ed.	John	M.	Logsdon,	vol.	3,	Using Space	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4407,	

1998),	pp.	534–539.

	 36.	 “Biographical	 Data	 [Charles	 D.	 Walker,	 MDC	 Payload	 Specialist],”	 Astronaut	 Biographies—Payload	

Specialists,	Astronaut	Office,	Flight	Crew	Operations,	JSC,	February	1999,	available	at	http://www11.

jsc.nasa.gov/Bios/PS/walker.html;	 Charles	 D.	Walker,	 interview	 by	 Jennifer	 Ross-Nazal,	Washington,	

DC,	19	December	2004,	transcript,	pp.	15–17;	Report	from	the	Payload	Specialist	Liaison	Office,	19	

February	1986,	folder	“Space	Operations	Directorate	Weekly	Activity	Reports	Oct.	1985–Feb.	1986,”	

box	 7,	 Charlesworth	 files,	 Center	 Series,	 NASA-JSC	 History	 Collection,	 University	 of	 Houston–Clear	

Lake.	Per	Walker,	the	Riker	Pharmaceutical	division	of	3M	and	Japanese	and	French	pharmaceutical	

firms	later	joined	the	collaboration.

	 37.	 Since	 renamed	The	 Center	 for	 Biophysical	 Sciences	 and	 Engineering;	 for	 a	 good	 overview	 of	 this	

program,	 see	 “Commercial	 Protein	 Crystal	 Growth-High	 Density	 (CPCG-H),”	 fact	 sheet	 number	 FS2001-11-186-MSFC,	released	November	2001,	last	updated	12	April	2008,	available	at	http://www.

nasa.gov/centers/marshall/news/background/facts/cpcg.html (accessed	31	December	2008).

361
NASA’s First 50 Years

much is encouraging; however, the success rate is still far from 100 percent, 

and no commercial products have resulted after years of research and millions 

of dollars spent.

Shuttle missions also reminded NASA constituents in the scientific community, Congress, and in the population at large that it was paying attention 

to their needs and to the Agency’s relationships on Earth. The STS-90 Spacelab 

mission, Neurolab, and STS-95, the John Glenn reflight, were touted as having 

been conceived as medical studies for the general population. Neurolab was a 

direct response to the 1989 House Joint Resolution 174, declaring the 1990s as 

“The Decade of the Brain.” Its experiments looked at vertigo, eye-hand coordination, prenatal development of neurosensory systems, circadian rhythms, 

and neural control of the body’s other functions.38 Ex-Mercury astronaut/Ohio 

Senator Glenn’s participation at age 77 was more of a thank-you from the 

Agency for four decades of participation in, and support of, the space program, 

but the Agency did put together an agenda of pre-, post-, and in-flight tests 

and targeted public relations efforts on their applicability to medical issues 

facing the elderly. 

Stunting the Shuttle’s potential, however, was the extent to which it became 

a tool of domestic and international politics, even in relation to the life sciences. NASA, industry, Congress, and the executive branch wrangled over 

space commercialization; the Shuttle was considered for front-line service in 

the Cold War; and its seats were seemingly going to the highest political bidder. 

Especially after the Challenger accident and the subsequent investigation that 

revealed the extent to which internal and external pressures squelched safety 

concerns, NASA no longer sat atop the world’s highest pedestal.39

Privatization became a watchword under Ronald Reagan and subsequent 

Presidents, and NASA made the orbiters the sole platform for it, expecting 

Space Station Freedom to be operational within a decade. The atmosphere was 

bullish enough on space bioprocessing throughout the 1980s that proposals 

of industry-sponsored free flyers, orbiting platforms that might be serviced by 

	 38.	 See	Jay	C.	Buckey	and	Jerry	L.	Homick,	ed.,	The Neurolab Spacelab Mission: Neuroscience Research 

in Space	(Houston,	TX:	NASA-JSC	SP-2003-535,	2003).

	 39.	 U.S.	Presidential	Commission	on	the	Space	Shuttle	Challenger	Accident,	Report to the President by 

the Presidential Commission on the Space Shuttle Challenger Accident (Washington,	DC:	Presidential	

Commission	on	the	Space	Shuttle	Challenger	Accident,	1986)	offers	five	volumes	of	data,	analysis,	and	

recommendations.	Two	subsequent	books	with	useful	insights	include	Diane	Vaughan,	The Challenger 

Launch Decision: Risky Technology, Culture, and Deviance at NASA	(Chicago,	IL:	University	of	Chicago	

Press,	1996)	and	Howard	E.	McCurdy,	Inside NASA: High Technology and Organizational Change in the 

U.S. Space Program	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1993).

362
Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight

visiting Shuttles, found support in Congress and the space community.40 The 

program that came closest to reality was the Industrial Space Facility (ISF), 

brainchild of Maxime Faget, designer of the Mercury capsule, in partnership 

with former astronaut Joe Allen, Westinghouse, and a half dozen people from 

private industry. The tale of the ISF is worthy of a book in its own right, and 

there is no common agreement about the reasons for its demise. The main 

suspects, though, are top NASA Administrators guarding their own fledgling 

Space Station program and some in Congress unwilling to spend on a speculative endeavor without a firm customer base. 

Crew safety nearly lost its top priority status in the name of national security. 

Just months after moving into the White House, an official on Reagan’s National 

Security Council asked other members to give renewed thought to using NASA 

to fight the Cold War.41 The unspecified author of a later-declassified secret 

document posed questions about the Shuttle and its astronauts. “If the conflict 

is protracted,” the writer asked, “do we run the risk of losing all our space 

launch assets through attrition?” The assets in question were the orbiters and 

Expendable Launch Vehicles (ELVs). This is clear in the next question: “Will 

the nation accept a conscientious decision to expose the Shuttle flight crews 

to anti-satellite attact [sic]?”42

With a seven-person vehicle, NASA began in 1983 to fly guests and astronauts from some 20 nations, carrying out studies relevant to their national 

interests: nutrition, agriculture, medical imaging, physiology, and pharma-

	 40.	 In	 1990	 the	 Advisory	 Committee	 on	 the	 Future	 of	 the	 U.S.	 Space	 Program,	 colloquially	 called	 the	

Augustine	Committee,	heard	from	numerous	space	commercialization	promoters,	including	Max	Faget.	

See	also	“Johnson	Space	Center	Group	2	Fact	Finding	Session,”	folder	5,	“Advisory	Committee	on	

the	 Future	 of	 the	 U.S.	 Space	 Program,	 Journal,	 recording	 initiation	 and	 activities	 of	White	 House,”	

box	14,	the	papers	of	Thomas	O.	Paine,	Manuscript	Division,	Library	of	Congress,	Washington,	DC.	

Former	astronaut	and	New	Mexico	Senator	Harrison	Schmitt	testified	as	an	enthusiastic	supporter	of	

commercial	Helium-3	(He3)	mining	on	the	Moon.	See	also	“The	Future	of	NASA,”	folder	1,	“Advisory	

Committee	on	the	Future	of	the	U.S.	Space	Program:	Presentations	Made	to	Committee,”	box	18,	Paine	

Papers.	The	National	Commission	on	Space	(The	Paine	Commission),	a	similar	study	under	Reagan,	

had	heard	similar	arguments	five	years	before.	

	 41.	 The	MOL	had	been	canceled	in	1969.	

	 42.	 “Presidential	Directive—Space	Transportation	Policy,”	item	“Space	Policy	Review,	Terms	of	Reference,”	

Section	I,	“Future	Launch	Vehicle	Needs,”	and	Section	II,	“Shuttle	Organizational	Responsibilities	and	

Capabilities,”	pp.	1–4,	attached	to	Allen	 J.	Lenz,	Staff	Director,	National	Security	Council,	to	Martin	

Anderson,	Edwin	Harper,	Verne	Orr,	Richard	Darman,	George	A.	Keyworth	II,	James	Beggs,	Hans	Mark,	

and	William	Schneider,	Washington,	DC,	17	July	1981,	file	“National	Security	Directive	144”	(accessed	

online	 15	 March	 2007);	 “NSDD—National	 Security	 Decision	 Directives,	 Reagan	 Administration,”

Intelligence Resource Program,	Federation	of	American	Scientists,	available	at	http://www.fas.org/irp/

offdocs/nsdd/index.html,	last	updated	25	February	2003	(accessed	22	March	2007);	the	document	

was	declassified	in	1996.

363
NASA’s First 50 Years

ceuticals manufacturing. Making space accessible to “ordinary” people was 

touted as an Agency goal until the Challenger tragedy in January 1986. The 

death of teacher Christa McAuliffe made very explicit the difference between 

a research vehicle and an operational one and halted plans for a journalist, 

artist, or any other nonscientist or nonengineer in space. In addition to an 

extreme risk exposure for the “ordinary” person, every Congressman, teacher, 

writer, or member of royalty in a payload specialist suit meant a seat lost to a 

bona fide researcher.

Shuttle-Mir was a highly controversial program of the late 1990s, criticized 

in the press and on Capitol Hill for endangering NASA astronauts and giving 

away U.S. technology in exchange for a glimpse at the Russians’ aging station.43

The Shuttle flew several missions to Mir, bringing seven NASA astronauts for 

stays lasting several months after lengthy training at Star City, near Moscow. 

Likewise, four cosmonauts were part of Shuttle crews during missions to Mir. 

Astronauts were able to try out Russian Orlon EVA suits slated for use on the 

ISS, but overall the program did not produce a lot of or particularly novel space 

life sciences data. It foreshadowed later difficulties in constructing the ISS with 

the Russians, giving the two space agencies joint operational, management, and 

emergency experience. As of early 2009, the entire orbiter fleet was expected 

to retire by September 2010, leaving NASA and the international community 

only the Russians and their three-person Soyuz capsules to shuttle supplies 

and personnel to and from the ISS.44

Ground-Based Research

It was not until the Soyuz 9 mission in June 1970 that the Soviets noticed problems 

with cosmonaut deconditioning. Their attitude had been casual to the effects of 

longer flights on the cardiovascular system until Andrian Nikolayev and Vitaly 

	 43.	 A	number	of	books	have	been	written	on	the	Shuttle-Mir	program,	mostly	critical;	notable	are	Bryan	

Burrough,	Dragonfly: NASA and the Crisis Aboard	Mir	 (New	York,	 NY:	 HarperCollins,	 1998);	 James	

Oberg,	Star-Crossed Orbits: Inside the U.S.-Russian Space Alliance	(New	York,	NY:	McGraw-Hill,	2002);	

and	Jerry	M.	Linenger,	Off the Planet: Surviving Five Perilous Months Aboard the Space Station Mir 

(New	York,	 NY:	McGraw-Hill,	2000).	 Less	 strident	was	 an	 account	by	 astronaut	Mike	 Foale’s	father	

about	his	Mir	experience,	which	included	a	collision	with	a	Progress	supply	ship.	(Linenger	survived	a	

fire	aboard	Mir.)	See	Colin	Foale,	Waystation to the Stars: The Story of Mir, Michael, and Me	(London,	

U.K.:	Headline	Book	Publishing,	1999).	NASA’s	official	version	was	Clay	Morgan’s	Shuttle-Mir: The U.S. 

and Russia Share History’s Highest Stage	(Houston,	TX:	NASA-JSC	SP	2001-4225,	2001).	Clay	Morgan	

was	the	husband	of	Barbara	Morgan,	Christa	McAuliffe’s	backup.	Twelve	years	later,	Barbara	Morgan	

was	selected	as	a	mission	specialist.	She	eventually	flew	one	mission	in	the	summer	of	2007.

	 44.	 Space	Station	Consolidated	Launch	Manifest	as	of	4	December	2008,	available	at	http://www.nasa.

gov/mission_pages/station/structure/iss_manifest.html.	

364
Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight

Sevastyanov returned feeling dizzy, weak, and ill after 18 days in space. Suddenly 

there was a lot of concern about lengthy space stays, and even opposition among 

Soviet scientists, designers, and cosmonauts to proceeding, except very slowly.45

Done primarily in response to the polio pandemics of the mid-20th century, early bedrest studies in the United States had already alerted NASA to the 

possibility of cardiovascular and muscle deconditioning after long flights. The 

Agency had begun sponsoring university studies of the issue in the mid-1960s, 

and it included exercise countermeasures in early mission planning. In the early 

1970s, Ames Research Center began a multidecadal series of prolonged bedrest 

studies using volunteers recruited from surrounding communities, attempting to 

duplicate the physiological changes expected for Shuttle and Station astronauts, 

and to experiment with various techniques, such as recumbent exercise bikes, 

that might prevent or counteract physical decline.46 Later, Ames Research Center 

pharmacologist Dr. Emily Morey-Holton began “hindlimb unloading” studies 

using rats to simulate zero-g. This became the standard protocol for an animal 

model of bone loss in microgravity. By taking the weight off the animal’s back 

legs while it moved about, she could simulate what happened to human bones 

in microgravity. (Typically weight-bearing bones in astronauts lost mass, while 

wrists and hands gained.)47 Johnson Space Center had conducted its own bedrest studies but began another program, or “campaign,” in 2004 with the Flight 

Analogs Project. Carried out jointly with the University of Texas Medical Branch 

in Galveston, Texas, it included studies of artificial gravity as a countermeasure.48

On very rare occasions an astronaut candidate would make it through the 

entire screening process only to be ruled out for psychiatric reasons.49 On orbit, 

	 45.	 Abram	 Genin,	 interview	 by	 Cathleen	 S.	 Lewis,	 IMBP,	 29	 November	 1989,	 transcript,	 pp.	 8–11,	

Smithsonian	Archives,	Washington,	DC.

	 46.	 The	literature	on	NASA	bedrest	studies	is	enormous	and	influenced	research	overseas	as	well.	The	

journal	of	the	Aerospace	Medical	Association,	Aviation, Space, and Environmental Medicine, is	a	good	

source	of	published	results.

	 47.	 Emily	 Morey-Holton,	 Ruth	 K.	 Globus,	 Alexander	 Kaplansky,	 and	 Galina	 Durnova,	 “The	 Hindlimb	

Unloading	Rat	Model:	Literature	Overview,	Technique	Update	and	Comparison	with	Space	Flight	Data,”	

in	Experimentation with Animal Models in Space,	ed.	G.	Sonnenfeld	(Amsterdam,	Netherlands:	Elsevier,	

2005),	pp.	7–40.	This	article	confirmed	its	usefulness,	with	various	modifications,	in	a	survey	of	1,064	

scientific	journal	articles	written	over	a	27-year	period.

	 48.	 “Past	and	Present	Campaigns,”	Human	Adaptation	and	Countermeasures	Division,	JSC,	last	updated	

26	February	2008,	available	at	http://hacd.jsc.nasa.gov/projects/flight_analogs_pastpresent.cfm.	

	 49.	 “Class	 of	 1989	 Astronaut	 Candidate	 Recommendations,”	 presentation	 to	 William	 Lenoir,	 folder	

“Astronaut	Selections,”	box	31,	Richard	H.	Truly	U.S.	Space	Program	Collection,	Regis	University,	Denver,	

CO.	Former	JSC	flight	surgeon	Patricia	Santy	argued	for	more	rigorous	psychological	screening	in	her	

book	Choosing the Right Stuff: The Psychological Selection of Astronauts and Cosmonauts	(Westport,	

CT:	Praeger	Scientific,	1994).

365
NASA’s First 50 Years

ISS crews began keeping journals and taking self-evaluation surveys for NASAfunded studies of crewmember and crew-ground interactions and the effects 

of isolation.50 Much more psychological research happened on the ground, 

however, and it had been under way for decades. Harkening back to the U.S. 

Air Force School of Aviation Medicine closed-cabin space simulations in the 

1950s, JSC and its contractors carried out many such studies in the 1970s and 

1980s, preparing for Shuttle and planetary missions.51 Story Musgrave, Charles 

Sawin, Dennis Morrison, and R. S. Clark stood in for a Spacelab crew in 1975 

and 1976 simulations, while others played the part of Principal Investigators 

on the ground.52 Ames Research Center conducted flight crew research with 

the FAA, universities, or airlines, in the air and in simulators, to better understand communications, leadership style, environmental health, and other 

human factors issues in the close confines of the cockpit. An example was 

the Fatigue Countermeasures Program in the 1980s and 1990s.53 Members of 

JSC’s lunar and Mars habitat study group made parabolic flights in the KC-135 

and “lived” as a group in a mock lunar base, studying air circulation, group 

dynamics, mobility, noise, vibration, and the overall ability to live and work in 

tight quarters.54 NASA also supported research on psychological adaptation to 

extreme environments, such as the Antarctic, with its severe weather, isolation, 

and issues with organizational leadership and integration of foreign personnel.55 The National Science Foundation’s Office of Polar Programs, which is 

responsible for the U.S. Antarctic Program, cosponsored the Antarctic Space 

	 50.	 “Experiment	List,”	Station	Science,	Current	Missions,	available	at	http://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/

station/science/experiments/List.html (accessed	28	February	2008).

	 51.	 Mackowski,	Testing the Limits,	pp.	176–177.

	 52.	 “Spacelab	Mission	Simulation,	Life	Sciences	Payload	Test	I,	General	Summary,”	JSC	09928,	August	

1975;	 “Life	 Sciences	 Spacelab	 Mission	 Simulation	 II,	 SMS	 Crew	 Debriefing	 Transcripts,”	 DE-SMSII-050;	 and	“Engineering	 and	 Operations	 Report,”	 DE-SMS-II-055,	 JSC,	April	 and	September	1976,	

folder	50.2,	“Spacelab	Mission	Simulation	Test	(SMS-1)	Oct.	1974,”	and	folder	50.3,	“Spacelab	Mission	

Simulation	Test	II	(SMS-2)	1976,”	shelf	2,	cabinet	2,	Chambers	files,	NASA	Headquarters.	

	 53.	 Publications	from	these	studies	can	be	found	on	the	NASA	Technical	Reports	Server.	Aviation, Space, 

and Environmental Medicine	 published	 a	 series	 of	 articles	 in	 the	 late	 1990s	 headed	 “Flight	 Crew	

Fatigue.”

	 54.	 Martha	E.	Evert	to	Nathan	R.	Moore	and	David	Gutierrez,	8	July	1991,	folder	“Action	Item	91-12.	July	2,	

1991,”	and	“Initial	Lunar	Habitat	Simulation	Questions”	and	“Initial	Lunar	Habitat	Simulation	1st	Crew	

Shift	Results,”	both	in	folder	“Initial	Lunar	Habitat—Simulation	Schedule	and	Questions.	June	1991,”	

all	in	box	8,	Center	Series-Habitability	Studies,	JSC	History	Collection,	UH-CL.

	 55.	 A	useful	comparison	with	the	Antarctic	and	ISS	mission	support	is	Lawrence	A.	Palinkas,	“Psychosocial	

Issues	in	Long-Term	Space	Flight:	Overview,”	Gravitational and Space Biology Bulletin	14,	no.	2	(June	

2001):	25–33.	A	helpful	 introduction	to	the	history	of	behavioral	 studies	at	the	South	Pole	 is	Peter	

Suedfeld,	“Polar	Psychology:	An	 Overview,”	 Environment and Behavior	23,	 no.	6	 (November	1991):	

653–665.

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Analog Program. The JSC and Antarctic analog studies both began in 1991 as 

part of President George H. W. Bush’s SEI, and they were to aid in designing layout and environmental systems for Mars habitats, as well as to study 

behavior and performance.56

To maximize participation by the university community, lure top-rated 

medical researchers away from the better-bankrolled federal science programs, piggyback on existing research, and expand industrial participation, NASA set up many consortiums in the 1990s. One was the Center for 

Macromolecular Crystallography at the University of Alabama-Birmingham. 

National Specialized Centers of Research and Training (NSCORTs) were dedicated to life sciences, and the overall project lasted from 1990 to 2002. Purdue 

University had a Center for Research on Controlled Ecological Life Support 

Systems from 1990 to 1995, and Kansas State University opened its Center for 

Gravitational Studies in Cellular and Developmental Biology the same year. 

Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory and Colorado State University formed 

an NSCORT in Space Radiation Health in 1992, the same year that Scripps 

Institution of Oceanography and the University of California-San Diego teamed 

on an exobiology NSCORT. North Carolina State University and Wake Forest 

University began a collaborative NSCORT in Plant Gravitational Biology and 

Genomics in 1996. Planning for what eventually became the National Space 

Biomedical Research Institute (NSBRI) began in 1992, under JSC’s Director 

of Space and Life Sciences Carolyn Huntoon.57 The NSBRI idea also aligned 

with new Administrator Daniel Goldin’s idea of the space agency as being an 

R&D, rather than operational, organization.58 In March 1997, a consortium led 

by Baylor College of Medicine won the contract to create essentially a virtual 

institute, but one with a physical base and presence in Houston, Texas.59 By 

2005, it had expanded to include 12 institutions, an Industry Forum, and col-

	 56.	 “The	Next	Frontier,”	National Science Foundation Annual Report 1991,	NSF	92-1	(Washington,	DC:	NSF,	

5	October	1992),	updated	31	October	1995,	available	at	http://www.nsf.gov/pubs/stis1992/nsf921/

nsf921.txt.

	 57.	 Archived	 records	 of	 these	 NSCORTS	 are	 available	 at	 http://www-cyanosite.bio.purdue.edu/nscort/

NSCORT.html;	Carolyn	Huntoon,	interview	by	Rebecca	Wright,	5	June	2002,	Barrington,	RI,	transcript,	

pp.	29,	32–34,	“Administrators,”	JSC	Oral	History	Project,	available	at	http://www.jsc.nasa.gov/history/

oral_histories/oral_histories.htm.

	 58.	 W.	Henry	Lambright,	“Transforming	Government:	Dan	Goldin	and	the	Remaking	of	NASA”	(Arlington,	VA:	

The	PricewaterhouseCoopers	Endowment	for	The	Business	of	Government,	March	2001),	p.	21.

	 59.	 Michael	 Braukus,	 “NASA	 Names	 a	 New	 National	 Biomedical	 Research	 Institute,”	 PR	 97-43,	 NASA	

Headquarters,	14	March	1997.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

laboration with the Department of Energy’s Brookhaven National Laboratory, 

where NASA had helped build the new Space Radiation Lab two years earlier.60

Space Stations

Crewed, Earth-orbiting space stations had existed in the mind of engineer Wernher 

von Braun since the 1940s but were a long time coming in real life. Plans were 

on the drawing board during the 1950s at LaRC and contractor firms.61 In the 

1960s, Boeing and Douglas Aircraft teamed on LaRC’s Manned Orbiting Research 

Lab idea, and the McDonnell Douglas Corporation tried to persuade NASA and 

the Air Force that one of their Gemini capsules, supersized, could serve as a 

shuttle to a station that was a cluster of their “Big Gs.”62 The U.S. and USSR briefly 

considered a joint space laboratory in 1971, fabricated from anticipated spare 

Skylab and ASTP hardware and extra Salyut science modules.63 In 1973, Skylab

became NASA’s first space station; as a demonstration project under lead Center 

MSFC, it was occupied for 171 days by three crews of three.64 By that time, three 

cosmonauts of space archrival the Soviet Union had lived aboard their station, 

Salyut 1, for three days. Tragically, they died on reentry when their Soyuz craft 

depressurized. None of them was wearing a pressure suit.

After Skylab, NASA did grant General Electric a study contract for a humantended orbiting vivarium (animal habitat) called the Biomedical Experiments 

Scientific Satellite (BESS), and both JSC and MSFC let study contracts on stopgap 

	60.	 “Annual	 Scientific	 and	 Technical	 Report,	 October	 1,	 2004–September	 30,	 2005,	 Cooperative	

Agreement	NC	9-58	with	the	National	Aeronautics	and	Space	Administration”	(Houston,	TX:	NSBRI,	

30	 September	 2005);	 “Brookhaven	 National	 Laboratory’s	 Marcelo	 Vazquez	 Selected	 as	 Space	

Radiation	Liaison	for	the	National	Space	Biomedical	Research	Institute,”	News Releases,	NSBRI,	14	

July	2004,	 available	 at	http://www.nsbri.org/NewsPublicOut/	(accessed	19	August	2008);	“NASA	

Space	 Radiobiology	 Research	Takes	Off	 at	 New	 Brookhaven	 Facility,”	Discover Brookhaven	1,	no.	

3	 (fall	2003),	 available	 at	 http://www.bnl.gov/discover/Fall_03/NSRL_1.asp	 (accessed	17	August	

2008);	 “Space	 Radiobiology,”	 Brookhaven	 National	 Laboratory,	 last	 modified	 1	 February	 2008,	

available	at	http://www.bnl.gov/medical/NASA/LTSF.asp (accessed	17	August	2008).

	 61.	 For	more	details,	see	James	R.	Hansen,	Spaceflight Revolution: NASA Langley Research Center from 

Sputnik to Apollo	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4308,	1995).

	 62.	 McDonnell	Douglas	Astronautics	Company,	“Background	and	Viewpoints	on	Space	Station”	(November	

1981);	McDonnell	Douglas	Corporation, “Big	G”	(internal	publication,	December	1967),	pp.	2,	4–5,	7,	

26,	32.

	 63.	 McDonnell	Douglas	Astronautics	Company,	Eastern	Division,	“U.S./USSR	Cooperative	Space	Laboratory	

(Skylab/Salyut)”	(internal	publication,	23	June	1972);	McDonnell	Douglas	Astronautics	Company-West,	

“International	Skylab	Space	Station	Technical	Considerations”	(April	1973).

	 64.	 Hansen,	Spaceflight Revolution,	chap.	9.

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Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight

biology stations and platforms for materials processing.65 Space Station Freedom

famously got under way at President Reagan’s 1984 State of the Union address, but 

it took until 1998 and the demise of the USSR for NASA to put its first (and markedly downsized) “permanent” Station component into low-Earth orbit. Russia, Japan, 

and ESA furnished follow-on nodes and labs; Canada contributed the robotic “hand” 

Dextre, and the Italians, logistics modules. As of 2009, the ISS is still unfinished. 

Cost overruns and errant accounting methods, waxing and waning support 

(both political and public), economic ups and downs, and even just having six 

NASA Administrators and four Presidents since Reagan announced Space Station 

Freedom all contributed to the delay.66 “Big science” was cast as a villain in the 

partisan budget battles of the 1990s, and the price of keeping the Space Station 

from cancellation in Congress in 1993 was the death of the Superconducting 

Supercollider project in Texas, just as the lesser-known Lifesat had been deleted 

in 1991. The latter was intended to gather radiation and immunological data on 

living biospecimens. It came under suspicion when questioning during congressional subcommittee hearings revealed that the figure NASA had requested for 

the program was a tiny fraction of what would actually be needed to develop, 

deploy, and operate the four-satellite series. The Senate denied funding on the 

grounds that NASA was cannibalizing its hoped-for Station.67 NASA repeatedly 

“scrubbed” the Space Station Freedom design, reconfiguring and downsizing 

it, and ultimately giving the Station’s diverse constituents, mainly scientists, a 

much-diminished return on investment.68

Then, in 2004, less than four years after Station assembly began, George W. 

Bush’s Vision for Space Exploration radically changed the present and future 

of ISS life sciences research in three key ways.

	 65.	 General	 Electric	Space	 Division,	“Biomedical	 Experiments	Scientific	Satellite,	Second	Program	 Review”	

(8	 December	 1975)	 and	 “Biomedical	 Experiments	 Scientific	 Satellite	 Preliminary	 Design	 Study,”	 vol.	

2,	“System	Design”	(n.d.);	W.	E.	Berry,	J.	W.	Tremor,	and	T.	C.	Aepli,	“Biomedical	Experiments	Scientific	

Satellite	(BESS)”	(contributed	by	the	Aerospace	Division	of	the	American	Society	of	Mechanical	Engineers	

for	presentation	at	the	Intersociety	Conference	on	Environmental	Systems,	San	Diego,	CA,	12–15	July	

1976);	McDonnell	Douglas	Astronautics	Company,	“Background	and	Viewpoints	on	Space	Station.”

	 66.	 An	interesting	example	is	in	an	audit	report	by	NASA’s	Inspector	General,	Barters on the International 

Space Station Program,	IG-02-024,	6	September	2002,	available	via	FOIA	request	to	NASA	Headquarters.	

The	Inspector	General	found	that	the	Agency	undervalued	and	improperly	recorded	some	of	the	$1.5	

billion	worth	of	Station	components	provided	by	international	partners,	making	NASA	likely	to	not	deliver	

agreed-upon	services,	including	flight	time	for	foreign	astronauts	to	experiment	aboard	ISS	labs.	One	

Center	accountant	“did	not	know	NASA	was	required	to	provide	services	to	the	partner	in	exchange”	

and	recorded	an	Italian	module	as	a	“donation.”	

	 67.	 William	Gilbreath,	“LifeSat,	a	New	Satellite	for	Biological	Space	Research,”	ASGSB Newsletter	3,	no.	1	

(March	1987):	11;	Congressional Record,	27	September	1991,	p.	S13917.

	 68.	 “Scrubbed”	is	used	here	in	the	sense	of	a	redesign	in	search	of	cost	and	labor	savings,	not	“canceled.”

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NASA’s First 50 Years

1) Emphasis—The Station had been sold (and strongly affirmed in the 1990 

Report of the Advisory Committee on the Future of the U.S. Space Program) 

as, first and foremost, a life sciences lab.69 Instead it became “an operational 

medicine stopover” on the road back to where the space agency had been in 

1969—the Moon—then on to Mars, maybe. Agreeing to implement the Vision 

for Space Exploration would mean that NASA could only carry out research 

aboard the ISS that supported Bush’s specific goal.70 Evolutionary biology did 

not, and some fundamental biological research was questionable. Operational 

medicine and radiation biology looked to be the sole survivors.

2) Money—Funds to support lab functions were redirected to development 

of the follow-on Orion crew vehicle. The replacement of Administrator Sean 

O’Keefe with Mike Griffin speeded up this process.71 Congress, in its fiscal year 

2005 budget deliberations, directed NASA to designate the ISS as the nation’s 

newest National Laboratory.72

3) Science Capability—The “centerpiece” of the ISS was to have been a 

centrifuge to study artificial gravity as a preventive for bone loss and muscle 

wasting in microgravity and in the one-sixth or one-third gravity of the Moon 

and Mars. An orbiting centrifuge would have produced better science with 

true controls, as one specimen remained in microgravity while an identical 

biospecimen, in the identical noise, vibration, and radiation environment, spun 

nearby in 1 g, much like the Frog Otolith experiment of 1970. As it trimmed 

costs, NASA downgraded the centrifuge from human-rated to animal- and 

plant-rated. Much later it assigned the device, the animal holding racks, the 

Life Sciences Glovebox, and the module they would all fit inside to Japan as 

a way to pay for their Kibo lab launches.73 Post-Vision for Space Exploration, 

	 69.	 U.S.	Advisory	Committee	on	the	Future	of	the	U.S.	Space	Program,	Report of the Advisory Committee 

on the Future of the U.S. Space Program	(Washington,	DC:	GPO,	1990),	pp.	7,	47.

	 70.	 Marcia	S.	Smith	and	Daniel	Morgan,	The National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s FY2006 

Budget Request: Description, Analysis, and Issues for Congress,	 RL32988,	 17	 November	 2005,	

Congressional	Research	Service,	Library	of	Congress,	pp.	CRS-18,	CRS-27.	

	 71.	 Smith	 and	Morgan,	 The National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s FY2006 Budget Request,

summary	and	pp.	CRS-21,	CRS-23,	CRS-27,	CRS-29,	CRS-48.

	 72.	 See	“Overview:	International	Space	Station,”	National	Lab,	last	updated	24	December	2008,	available	

at	http://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/station/science/nlab/.	

	 73.	 “Article	 6:	 Respective	 Responsibilities,	 Section	 6.3	 Additional	 Responsibilities,”	 Memorandum	 of	

Understanding	between	the	National	Aeronautics	and	Space	Administration	of	the	United	States	of	America	

and	the	Government	of	Japan	Concerning	Cooperation	on	the	Civil	International	Space	Station,	signed	24	

February	1998,	NASA-Japan	Agreement,	Space	Station	Assembly,	ISS,	last	updated	23	November	2007,	

available	at	http://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/station/structure/elements/nasa_japan.html.

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Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight

NASA canceled it for being “nonessential.”74 Congress ordered NASA to reassess that decision, realizing taxpayers were not going to get what they paid 

for. NASA did not reinstate the centrifuge.

In the course of its 50 years, life science at NASA has made a number of 

contributions in areas not entirely expected. It has been an agent of social 

change, as thousands of K–12 students and teachers worldwide have taken 

part in missions via televised lessons from space, through ham radio programs, 

and by designing and flying experiments via Shuttle, balloon, and sounding 

rockets. NASA demanded that contractors and academic affiliates provide 

equal access to programs and contracts and actively recruit underrepresented 

peoples. Groups like People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) criticized military and NASA life sciences researchers—often justifiably—for using 

animal test subjects.75 In response, NASA redesigned and refined its animal 

safeguards and made agreeing to these a prerequisite for foreign participation. University researchers tried to develop closed-loop environmental systems that would clean air and water in space and provide edible plants. The 

researchers also created new methods of recycling water on Earth and new 

food crop varieties that took less space to grow and would provide greater 

nutrition.76 Telemedicine of the Mercury program grew into a means for medical care providers to help patients worldwide, and portable defibrillators for 

the space program have wound up in airports and other public venues for 

timely response to cardiac emergencies. Ames in 1995 became lead Center for 

astrobiology and opened the virtual Astrobiology Institute in 1999.77 By that 

time, astrobiology was becoming a recognized field of university study. NASA 

trained and funded numerous college students, postdoctoral academics, and 

	 74.	 Marcia	S.	Smith	and	Daniel	Morgan,	The National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s FY2006 

Budget Request: Description, Analysis, and Issues for Congress, RL32988,	 24	 January	 2006,	

Congressional	Research	Service,	Library	of	Congress,	pp.	CRS-29,	CRS-34.	

	 75.	 N.	G.	Khruschov	to	V.	E.	Sokolov	and	Mr.	N.	Saenko,	and	E.	A.	Ilyin,	D.	O.	Meshkov,	and	V.	I.	Korolkov	

to	The	Chancery	of	the	Russian	Federation	President,	Moscow,	15	April	1996,	folder	13.2.1.19.13,	

“Protocol	#24,	IMBP	Biomedical	Ethics	Committee	Reports,”	shelf	4,	cabinet	1,	Chambers	files,	NASA	

Headquarters.	Animal	rights	 protestors	 carried	their	 arguments	to	 Red	 Square	 with	 letters	to	 Boris	

Yeltsin,	protesting	planned	Bion	11	primate	experiments	on	the	grounds	of	cruelty.

	 76.	 “CELSS:	Supplying	Humans	in	Space,”	NASA Life Sciences Report 1987	(Washington,	DC:	NASA-OSSA	

Life	Sciences	Division,	1987)	outlines	some	of	this	work;	Utah	State	University,	ARC,	and	KSC	led	the	

Closed	Environmental	Life	Support	Systems	(CELSS)	research.	See	also	B.	C.	Wolverton	and	John	D.	

Wolverton,	Growing Clean Water: Nature’s Solution to Water Pollution	(Picayune,	MS:	WES,	Inc.,	2001).	

Bill	Wolverton	designed	experimental	plant-based	wastewater	treatment	facilities	under	NASA	contract,	

used	at	SSC	in	Mississippi	since	1974.

	 77.	 A	virtual	institute	required	little	capital	outlay	because	its	members	remained	physically	at	their	home	

institutions	and	communicated	primarily	via	the	Internet,	telephone,	and	video	link.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

professors, some of whom pondered the likelihood of life in unexpected places, 

fostering Antarctic and ocean-floor research. Observatories sought and found 

over 100 planets where life might exist in the Milky Way alone. More landers 

followed the Vikings of 1976 and, in the early years of the second millennium, 

were still hoping to find signs of life, or even water so that human life could 

be possible, on the Red Planet.

In spite of its many incredible successes, its failures and frustrations 

have several times been the cause of calls for the Agency’s dismantling or 

demise. This schizophrenic atmosphere makes space life sciences an especially patchy element of NASA history to cover. Searching for the elusive life 

sciences “spinoff” has lured some authors to look for touted benefits that 

didn’t really happen, an example being the impressive crystals that have 

come back from orbit but produced a cure for nothing after millions of dollars being spent.78 In the life sciences, “spinoffs” have more often been a 

new application for, or repackaging of, existing technology (and someone 

else’s at that). The stop-start nature of NASA programs greatly delayed or 

aborted ideas with real potential, such as the ISF free flyer, the many Crew 

Return Vehicle designs since the 1960s, and the canceled ISS centrifuge. 

Records of those efforts, especially electronic files, essentially go away, as 

if they had never existed. International politics always had an outsized seat 

at the table, and consequently diplomacy goals were not always weighed 

against the cost of knowingly giving away flight time and payload space for 

patently little or no scientific return. Transparency has also been an issue. 

University scientists “publish or perish,” but there is/was no consistent rule 

that everyone, even Agency researchers, do so.79 Shuttle press kits don’t 

confirm that a manifested experiment actually flew or that it even worked. 

Space Shuttle Mission Reports did contain that information, but they exist for 

only a fraction of the missions. Astronaut debriefs in the Apollo days were 

“right between the eyes,” while Shuttle crew debriefs read suspiciously like 

a canned document prepared ahead of time, with one astronaut, likely the 

commander, speaking for everyone else. Overconcern with public image—

“what would the neighbors think”—such as the near panic at Headquarters, 

	 78.	 The	 2009	 Nobel	 Prize	 in	 Chemistry	 was	 awarded	 for	ribosome	research	 done,	 in	 part,	 as	 Shuttle	

protein	crystallization	experiments.

	 79.	 One	 such	 charge	 was	 made	 concerning	 the	 Bevelac	 particle	 accelerator,	 which	 closed	 in	 1993.	

According	to	an	article	in	Nature,	“most	of	the	facility’s	unique	heavy-ion	data	had	never	been	published	

in	any	form.”	See	Stephen	M.	Maurer	et	al.,	“Science’s	Neglected	Legacy,”	Nature	405	(11	May	2000):	

117–120.

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Life Sciences and Human Spaceflight

which canceled participation in Bion 12 after a Russian monkey died, drove 

other decisions about using animals for research.80 Semantics often redefined success as having learned something in the process of failing, even 

when the failure might have been prevented in the first place. In summary, 

NASA’s life sciences personnel and programs have done well considering 

the many naysayers, doubters, critics, and outright enemies they have faced 

both internally and externally. Describing their last 50 years, though, makes 

the Agency seem like a home for the sanity challenged. Maybe it has been, 

but maybe the next half century will see it evolve into something more sane 

or reach some breaking point that will produce positive change. 

Most of the research for this paper was done under contract NNH05CC40C 

with the NASA History Division for a study of the Agency’s life sciences research 

from 1980 to 2005.

	 80.	 The	archival	files	of	Bion	Program	Manager	Lawrence	Chambers	contain	a	great	deal	of	information	on	

the	monkey	controversy,	including	a	shelf	of	folders	on	Bion	11	and	the	canceled	Bion	12	program.	

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Chapter 15

Voyages to Mars

Laurence Bergreen

NASA has been undertaking voyages to Mars since the Mariner missions of 

the 1960s, frequently updating and revolutionizing our knowledge of the Red 

Planet. I had occasion in my nonfiction book, Voyage to Mars, published in 

2000, to witness and to evoke for a general audience some of the varied and 

unexpected inspiration for the constantly evolving Mars program.1 I should 

emphasize how unusual this project was for me, as a biographer and historian, 

to undertake. During the eventful years (1997 to 2000) that I worked on the 

book, I was fortunate to receive almost unlimited access to a cross section 

of NASA’s managers and scientists; I also had access to the Agency’s everincreasing stores of data about the universe in general and Mars in particular. 

Dr. Claire Parkinson of NASA’s GSFC in Greenbelt, Maryland, and Dr. James 

Garvin, currently Chief Scientist at GSFC, acted as guides and reference points 

during my extended sojourns among the planetary science community. As they 

studied Mars, I studied them, their colleagues, and their professional quests. 

Mainstream newspaper coverage of the era (with John Noble Wilford’s 

perceptive dispatches in the pages and on the Web site of the New York Times

serving as one prominent exception) seemed to focus on two themes: NASA’s 

failures in execution and NASA’s seemingly unbounded spending. As I came 

to realize, “failure” in space does not equate to failure in business or politics; 

it is the flip side of exploration, the yardstick to measure success. “Success” 

	 1.	 Laurence	Bergreen,	Voyage to Mars: NASA’s Search for Life Beyond Earth	(New	York,	NY:	Riverhead	

Books	[Penguin	Putnam],	2000).	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 1:	Topographic	contour	map	of	Mars	from	the	MOLA.	NASA/JPL–Caltech/GSFC and the MOLA 

Science Team

carries its own burden, because it can mean the end of a program (as with 

NASA’s exploration of the Moon), just as “failure” sometimes implies the need 

for further investigation. And NASA’s budget, as is well known, amounts to just 

0.4 percent of the U.S. discretionary budget, yet it is much more visible than 

other, more mundane or politically expedient components of federal spending. 

The more time I spent with NASA’s scientists, the more I came to appreciate 

how limited the Agency’s resources actually are and how skillfully the managers 

and scientists leverage the resources of other institutions. I also came to appreciate how a significant component of the mainstream popular press promoted 

unrealistic expectations for NASA’s Mars program, which by its nature contained 

a significant element of risk. I vividly recall one distinguished planetary scientist 

expressing frustration with being asked by science reporters what, exactly, a 

science team planned to discover about Mars. “If we knew what we were going 

to discover,” she said, “they wouldn’t be discoveries.” Another scientist found 

376
Voyages to Mars

that the press had been so selective in its reporting of NASA’s varied findings 

concerning global warming, or climate change, that it became increasingly difficult to give interviews because they might be edited in a way to distort the 

evidence. If one were to ask members of the public if NASA has points of view 

about various scientific matters, many respondents would be tempted to answer 

in the affirmative, but another scientist had occasion to tell me that NASA science 

does not proceed from fixed beliefs; rather, NASA’s experiments “test hypotheses.” 

That was my experience while observing dozens of science meetings devoted 

to the topographic mapping of Mars, among other subjects, as carried out by 

the Mars Orbiter Laser Altimeter (MOLA), aboard Mars Global Surveyor. In the 

interest of accuracy, there was often sharp debate among the participants, until 

those present “came to clarity,” in their words, forming a consensus based on 

the best available data. These hard-won moments of clarity were all subject to 

further review, new data, and more testing.

During the course of scores of extended interviews that I conducted over 

a three-year period, beginning in 1997 with NASA-funded scientists, it became 

apparent that many drew analogies from those distant eras to NASA’s current 

search for precise scientific understanding of the geologic history of Mars and 

indirect signs, if any, of life, ancient or otherwise, on the Red Planet. This last 

item was often referred to as the “Holy Grail” of Mars discovery because of its 

implications for science, philosophy, and cosmology. 

Mars has long exerted a singular allure for scientists and all manner of 

observers since time immemorial. Few, if any, other planets exert the same 

level of visceral fascination. For many of the scientists—my particular area 

of study—working on missions beginning in the late 1990s and continuing 

up to the present, interest in Mars began early in life, seeded in large part 

by science fiction and other imaginative literature that lent the Red Planet a 

mystique appealing especially to younger minds. In particular, the writings 

of Ray Bradbury cropped up frequently in my conversations with scientists 

whom I asked about their initial inspirations, especially his best-known work, 

the beguiling rhapsody known as The Martian Chronicles.

2

In the years after the Second World War, Bradbury, then a young writer 

living in Southern California, began publishing stories about Mars. In 1950, 

they were collected and issued as The Martian Chronicles, which eventually 

became a cult favorite. Carl Sagan, among others, cited it as the most captivat-

	 2.	 Ray	Bradbury,	The Martian Chronicles	(New	York,	NY:	Bantam,	1979	[originally	published	in	1950]).	See	

also	Carl	Sagan,	Mars and the Mind of Man	(New	York,	NY:	Harper	and	Row,	1973).

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ing work of fiction about the Red Planet. Bradbury skillfully blended colorful, 

poetic descriptions. “They had a house of crystal pillars on the Planet Mars by 

the edge of an empty sea,” he writes of a Martian family, “and every morning 

you could see Mrs. K eating the golden fruits that grew from the crystal walls, 

or cleaning the house with handfuls of magnetic dust” with visionary scientific 

predictions. For instance, his denizens of Mars have talking laptop computers, as envisioned by Bradbury decades before they became a reality: “You 

could see Mr. K himself in his room, reading from a metal book with raised 

hieroglyphics over which he brushed his hand, as one might play a harp. And 

from the book, as his fingers stroked, a voice sang, a soft ancient voice, which 

told tales of when the sea was red steam on the shore and ancient men had 

carried clouds of insects and electric spiders into battle.” 

Bradbury’s intuitive prescience has its limits. He tends to speed up the 

exploration and colonization of Mars to what now seems like an unrealistic 

degree. In his book, the third human expedition to Mars was supposed occur 

in April 2000. In fact, NASA’s Mars exploration developed in ways that no one 

could have imagined, with a number of initiatives and setbacks that no writer or 

reporter could have predicted. For example, the success of Viking missions in 

the late 1970s generated the expectation of even more ambitious Mars exploration, but it never materialized, at least not in the immediate aftermath of Viking. 

Other inspirations concerning the Red Planet are more elusive, yet no 

less significant. None of the scientists, engineers, or NASA managers whom I 

interviewed at the time mentioned Wernher von Braun’s blueprint for travel to 

the Red Planet, The Mars Project, yet it has had a lasting effect on the Agency’s 

thinking about Mars. The work was published in this country in 1953, three 

years after Bradbury’s work, but written some years earlier, during von Braun’s 

transition from German rocket scientist during World War II to the linchpin 

of NASA’s peacetime rocketry program. The Mars Project is also a classic of 

its kind, but it was not intended as a visionary or fanciful work; instead von 

Braun offered a how-to manual of Mars exploration, a practical plan for getting 

from Earth to Mars and back again.3 He did his best to minimize the complexities and risks and expense of such a mammoth undertaking, claiming at one 

point, “the logistic requirements for a large elaborate expedition to Mars are 

no greater than those for a minor military operation extending over a limited 

theater of war.” Others of the era tended to portray travel through space to 

	 3.	 Wernher	von	Braun, The Mars Project (Urbana,	IL:	University	of	Illinois	Press,	1991	[originally	published	

in	1953]).

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Voyages to Mars

Mars as a poignantly lonely undertaking, but von Braun took exception. He 

outlined a large flotilla or fleet of spacecraft, orbiting Mars before sending 

smaller craft to set down on the surface of the Red Planet in orderly fashion. 

He prescribed the use of three-stage rocket “ferries” to transport people and 

items to and from the fleet. To the extent that NASA eventually developed 

embryonic plans for reaching Mars, von Braun provided much of the practical and strategic approach, while Bradbury and other science fiction writers 

provided the less predictable, and more individualistic, inspiration to those 

men and women who would actually devote their careers to carrying it out. 

Yet even that was not sufficient for a complete Mars program. For all his 

gifts, von Braun did not make plans for the scientific study of Mars, nor did 

he—or anyone else at the time—fully appreciate the difficulties confronting 

humans in deep space, especially harmful radiation. 

Although the romance of finding some sort of life on Mars—intelligent, 

primitive, or otherwise—informed the mystique of exploration, NASA’s first 

attempt to explore the Red Planet robotically with the Mariner 4 flyby mission 

in 1965 nearly brought the project to a jarring conclusion. On 14 July, this 

spacecraft’s black-and-white camera sent back stark, low-resolution images 

of the surface of Mars that appeared to depict landscape features devoid of 

life-favorable environments. Where Bradbury had suggested seductive mental 

constructs and some scientists had hoped to find at least some signs of primitive vegetation, or ideally even liquid water or some other liquid, those early 

Mariner images showed unrelieved desert. There were no rivers, no forests, 

and no water-related channels, as some had thought once flowed across the 

surface of Mars. The Red Planet revealed itself as the Dead Planet, that is, desiccated, and from certain perspectives, it did indeed present an environment 

that was inhospitable to life. There were no oceans, obvious vegetation, or 

signs of life (intelligent or otherwise). But Mariner 4’s smudged images, 22 in 

all, recorded only a tiny part of Mars’s story; they covered merely 1 percent 

of the planet’s surface, and, it would emerge, they concealed as much as they 

revealed. Furthermore, the images were unable to resolve human-scale features 

considered necessary to understanding the history of water and environments. 

By this time, Mars communities were flourishing. In 1996, Robert Zubrin, 

a former engineer at Lockheed Martin, published The Case for Mars: The Plan 

to Settle the Red Planet and Why We Must. An organization known as the Mars 

Society took root and lent its support and commentary to NASA’s robotic 

exploration of the Red Planet. Zubrin’s book is in its way a thorough updating 

of von Braun’s The Mars Project, a rigorous effort to adapt Mars exploration 

to current political, scientific, and cultural realities. Zubrin makes reference 

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to the ways in which various influential politicians might best advocate Mars 

exploration, emphasizing practical benefits, the kind that elected leaders could 

sell to their constituencies. Zubrin also considered problems that had occurred 

to few others, for instance, the precise length of the Martian day, which is 

about 40 minutes longer than an Earth day. There were serious implications 

in this disparity for computer clocks and geographical coordinates—all of 

which could make managing communications with, and navigation of, Mars 

extremely complex and prone to accidents. “The practical answer is simple,” 

Zubrin proposed, “just divide up the Martian day into 24 Martian hours, each 

composed of 60 Martian minutes, each of which is composed of sixty Martian 

seconds. The conversion factor between Martian days, hours, minutes, and 

seconds and their terrestrial equivalents would this be 1.0275 across the 

board . . . . Such a clock solves all the practical problems associated with daily 

timekeeping on Mars.”4

This solution, as critical as it was, did not address the issues raised by 

maintaining a healthy environment for people spending days, weeks, months, 

or longer on Mars. Despite his considerable care and thought, Zubrin occasionally overlooked the limits of our understanding of Mars and underplayed the 

hostility of the Martian environment for humans. It may be true that, as Zubrin 

states, “among extraterrestrial bodies in our solar system, Mars is singular in 

that it possesses all the raw materials required to not only support life, but a 

new branch of human civilization,” but obtaining, refining, storing, and deploying those materials requires new levels of understanding and technological 

sophistication. It is not clear that a “new branch of human civilization” is a 

widely endorsed or understood goal at present. 

So much for the theorists and visionaries. The reality of Mars exploration 

proceeded in unpredictable fits and starts. In September 1993, NASA lost its 

Mars Observer mission, which had cost nearly a billion dollars, including the 

launch vehicle. The ill-fated orbiter had carried no less than a dozen experiments designed to map Mars and had the potential to greatly enhance or even 

revolutionize our knowledge of the Red Planet. 

This discouraging event gave rise to public outcry and ridicule, including 

a satirical monologue delivered on television by the popular comedian David 

Letterman. To reinvigorate robotic exploration, Dan Goldin, on becoming NASA’s 

Administrator in 1992, instituted a so-called “faster, better, cheaper” approach, 

	 4.	 Robert	Zubrin,	The Case for Mars: The Plan to Settle the Red Planet and Why We Must	(New	York,	NY:	

Touchstone	[Simon	&	Schuster],	1996),	p.	163.

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Voyages to Mars

which, for planetary exploration, meant that individual missions would make 

the journey from idea to launch in less time and at much less cost. The goal 

was to keep the cost of each mission to under 200 million dollars, less than 

one-fifth what Mars Observer had cost to execute, and thus to have more of 

them. “Faster, better, cheaper” went along with Goldin’s style of management, 

aimed to shake up NASA, which, he liked to say, had become “too male, stale, 

and pale.” This approach widened NASA’s doors to capable scientists, engineers, 

and managers from a wider pool, to the Agency’s credit. At the height of the 

“faster, better, cheaper” era, Goldin explained to me its reason for being: “There 

were so many experiments on spacecraft that if you lost it, you lost the whole 

system. Those spacecraft cost too much. They took too long to build. Instead 

of using next-generation technology, which is what NASA is supposed to do, 

to drive the technical base of the country, it went back in time and used old, 

proven technology, which made the spacecraft bigger and more expensive. It 

was very inefficient.”

Goldin functioned as an agent provocateur. He had come out the intelligence 

arena, and he was accustomed to a certain amount of confidentiality, even 

as NASA entered an era of transparency at the end of the Cold War. Russian 

rocket scientists and engineers were now working for NASA, an unthinkable 

development only a few years earlier. Goldin seemed to some to run the 

space agency as a Skunk Works in plain sight. It was said that he would pit 

rival teams against one another to accomplish tasks, an effective, if unsettling, 

management technique. Few doubted his brilliance, his forceful personality, 

and his commitment to achievement in space, but he achieved his ends not 

without a certain amount of stress and perhaps bruised egos. Nevertheless, 

he remained in the job throughout the decade and publicly declared himself 

as a proponent of the Agency’s Mars program. 

Over time, “faster, better, cheaper” gave rise to one closely spaced robotic 

Mars mission after another: Mars Global Surveyor (a success), Mars Pathfinder 

(a success), Mars Polar Lander (a failure), and Mars Climate Orbiter (another 

failure, and painful one at that). Each of these failures, while less costly than 

Mars Observer, took its toll on morale at NASA and tarnished the early gleam 

of the “faster, better, cheaper” approach. The Agency had not anticipated 

the extent to which the American public would fasten on to the failures 

and overlook the successful missions, which completed their goals without 

making headlines or causing crises. The idea that NASA was exploring Mars 

and the rest of the solar system on the cheap came to annoy Congress and 

the public, yet it was Congress that, year by year, at the urging of the public, 

imposed steadily increasing budget cuts that led to the institution of “faster, 

381
NASA’s First 50 Years

better, cheaper” missions in the first place. For instance, NASA’s budget came 

to $13.8 billion in 1998, declining to $13.7 billion the next year and $13.6 

billion the following year, despite a robust, expanding economy, increased 

tax revenues, and a federal budget surplus. (NASA’s budget for 2009 has 

increased to $17.6 billion, an apparent gain diminished somewhat by inflation.) By way of comparison, DOD was receiving funding that was 20 times 

greater, and the Department of Housing and Urban Development received 

twice the amount received by NASA. Private industry and advocacy urged 

NASA to contract missions out to the corporate sector, but Goldin remained 

unpersuaded, having come from the private sector. He was deeply skeptical 

that private enterprise would be willing to risk the capital, the time, and the 

resources on a scale necessary for space exploration to succeed. Ultimately, 

the operative word of his approach became “cheaper.” Even the successes 

seemed compromised by their cutting of costs, which meant lost opportunities to gather data. As one Mars scientist, James Garvin, was given to lament, 

the Viking missions of the 1970s had better television cameras than the 

missions of the 1990s. 

Yet the 1990s had its successes, as well. In 1997, a relatively small NASA 

robotic spacecraft named Mars Pathfinder landed on the surface of Mars and 

revived interest in the Red Planet, both scientific and popular. For a time, the 

press suspended accounts of failures and cost overruns to report on data gathered by Pathfinder and posted on the Internet in something close to real time. 

Pathfinder’s miniature remote weather stations recorded temperatures ranging 

from 60°F at noon to -100°F at night. Its tiny rover, named Sojourner, captivated 

the public imagination. Mars Pathfinder and its rover perceived smudges across 

the Martian sky caused by the shadows of the Red Planet’s two small moons, 

Phobos (“fear”) and Deimos (“terror”). Later, Mars Global Surveyor captured 

high-resolution images of these objects. As a result, Mars became more than a 

scientific construct; it became a place, an address, and a destination.

On 11 December 1998, I was on hand at Cape Canaveral, Florida, to observe 

the liftoff of Mars Climate Orbiter, a low-budget spacecraft perched atop the 

usually reliable Delta II launch vehicle. The sight and sensation of so much 

power harnessed toward a single objective was awe-inspiring and admirable, 

but also deceptive. Mars Climate Orbiter was scheduled to arrive at the Red 

Planet 10 months later, after a journey of 416 million miles. “A bullet has been 

fired at the planet Mars,” I noted at launch time. Expectations ran high and 

overlooked the likelihood of failure. Mars Climate Orbiter came out of the era’s 

“faster, better, cheaper” approach for robotic spacecraft, which emphasized, 

382
Voyages to Mars

for very good reasons, getting more spacecraft into space as soon as possible 

to lower costs and to distribute risk. 

The fate of Mars Climate Orbiter became a test case for “faster, better, 

cheaper” and, to a certain extent, for the entire Mars Surveyor program of its 

era, and even for the Goldin-inspired approach to space exploration. It should 

be noted that Mars Climate Orbiter was an orbiter, and orbiters were prone to 

failure. Orbital insertion around Mars (or any other planet) requires extreme 

precision and planning because the spacecraft is too far from Earth to respond 

to navigation signals in real time. If the spacecraft’s navigational computers were 

programmed correctly with appropriate data, and if the rocketry functioned 

precisely as calculated, and if nothing unexpected occurred in the vicinity of 

Mars, all would go as planned. 

Those familiar with the risks inherent in the exploration of Mars occasionally invoked the fanciful “Great Galactic Ghoul,” the demon of misfortune that 

destroyed vulnerable missions such as the Mars Climate Orbiter mission, and, 

on this occasion, the Great Galactic Ghoul ate Mars Climate Orbiter. 

The cause of the failure was soon discovered and, when revealed, proved 

embarrassing to NASA. One group designing the mission habitually calculated 

thrust in pounds, the traditional British unit, while another relied on the metric unit known as the newton. A newton is not a pound, and a pound is not 

a newton, especially in space. (One pound of thrust accelerates 1 pound of 

mass 1 foot per second, squared; a newton accelerates 1 kilogram of mass 1 

meter per second.) The discrepancy was not insignificant: a pound of thrust is 

nearly four times greater than a newton. The resulting error sent Mars Climate 

Orbiter into orbit around Mars at an altitude of 37 miles rather than about 70 

miles, as planned. How tiny that distance seemed coming after a mission that 

had operated flawlessly for hundreds of millions of miles, yet it was sufficient 

to send the fragile spacecraft low enough to burn or break up in the thin 

Martian atmosphere. Although easily rectified, the error had a sobering, not 

to say unnerving, effect on NASA because it could have been easily avoided. It 

slowly began to dawn on engineers that too many failures, too much urgency, 

and excessive frugality posed significant hazards. 

Despite these problems, the Viking missions of the 1970s, Mars Pathfinder 

(1997), and Mars Global Surveyor (1997 to 2007), all of them flying laboratories 

with multiple objectives and research strategies, have sustained the promise 

of exploring our planetary neighbor with ample rewards in a sequence of 

discovery paralleling the explorers of the Renaissance. As a result, a vibrant 

new world, rich in water and in water history, as well as potential habitats for 

life, has continuously unfolded, as Mars slowly yields its secrets. 

383
NASA’s First 50 Years

Throughout this period, the impulse to indulge in occasionally perverse 

fantasy regarding the Red Planet flourished, abetted by the masses of data that 

NASA and allied organizations, universities, and companies made available. 

One example of stubborn insistence on belief unsupported by data was the 

“Face on Mars,” first observed, so the theory ran, by Viking’s cameras back in 

the 1970s. In the way that clouds can resemble familiar objects, a mesa-like 

landform on Mars in the Cydonia region came to be seen as a monument to a 

human face, offering tantalizing evidence of an ancient civilization and clues to 

the destiny of our own. In his book The Mars Mystery: The Secret Connection

Between Earth and the Red Planet (1998), Graham Hancock advanced the 

theory that “Cydonia is indeed some sort of signal—not a radio broadcast 

intended for an entire universe, but a specific directional beacon transmitting 

a message that was intended exclusively for mankind.”5 Hancock’s book was 

published by a mainstream publisher despite a widely known article by Carl 

Sagan in 1985 explaining that the Face was an optical illusion. It seemed as 

if Ray Bradbury’s vision had returned, minus the whimsy and spiked with an 

urge to distort and mislead. In time, some of the intensity surrounding the Face 

had dissipated, in part because newer, high-resolution images demonstrated 

that it is, in fact, just what NASA and Carl Sagan had been stating all along: 

a mesa-like landform; but the controversy persists as example of irrationality 

despite the ample evidence to the contrary. 

Researching my book, I noticed the frustration of NASA scientists who felt 

obligated to address these unrealistic and distracting theories. Some refused; 

others pointed out obvious scientific realities; and still others revealed a sense 

of ironic whimsy, decorating their desks and blackboards with replicas of 

Martian gremlins and other imaginative creatures. No effort has been made 

to suppress the spurious theories. During the years I worked on my book, I 

was struck again and again by the transparency of NASA’s science. Although 

NASA scientists, managers, and engineers occasionally disagreed with my 

conclusions or assumptions, they were generally glad to have the opportunity 

to explain their position; at no time did my research suffer from censorship 

or secrecy—quite the opposite. 

In this relatively transparent and tumultuous era, NASA contributed to 

the revolution in Mars science with the 1996 announcement of the discovery 

of possible ancient microbial life on Mars. Today, the controversy about the 

	 5.	 Graham	Hancock,	The Mars Mystery: The Secret Connection Between Earth and the Red Planet	(New	

York,	NY:	Crown,	1998).

384
Voyages to Mars

evidence persists, but at the time, a Martian meteorite recovered in 1984—

known as ALH84001—suggested that primitive, microbial life once existed 

on Mars and might still be there today, concealed beneath its parched, toxic 

surface, hidden deep beneath subsurface rocks. When Science magazine 

posted an early version of the article, titled “Search for Past Life on Mars: 

Possible Relic Biogenic Activity in Martian Meteorite ALH84001,” on its 

Web site in July 1996, it received a million hits, one gauge of interest.6 If 

accurate, the article offered the first scientific evidence of life on Mars, not 

a theory, whim, or conspiracy. The implications, both scientific and philosophical, were immense, and even scientists, in fact especially scientists, 

were apt to become emotional on the subject. It might be expected that Carl 

Sagan endorsed the article and its implications, but an earlier comment of 

his—“Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence”—was as far as 

he went. The remark implied that the article’s findings did not quite meet 

the test. Nevertheless, the possibility that some form of life, no matter how 

simple, had once existed gave NASA’s Mars program a new impetus, focus, 

and newly enhanced area of research: astrobiology. 

The implications of life in some form on Mars held out the promise of a 

new paradigm concerning life throughout the universe. If it was established that 

life, even in the form of simple microbial activity, existed on Earth and Mars, 

it became plausible that life, in one form or another, primitive or advanced, 

was widely distributed throughout the solar system and the universe. If true, 

astrobiologists were in a position to pose questions as to how and where life 

first arose. Had it spread from Mars to Earth via meteors, or vice versa, or 

from a common source? 

At the same time, many scientists remained deeply skeptical, even hostile, 

to the finding of life on Mars, arguing that the meteorite was contaminated 

with terrestrial life, that it offered nothing more, and possibly even less, than 

evidence of life on Earth. What had seemed to rank as one of the seminal 

scientific discoveries of the era gradually lost support and credibility in the 

scientific community, and NASA, after endorsing the article at the highest 

levels, gradually moved on. Even if the ALH84001 contained Martian nanofossils, which came to appear somewhat unlikely, the discovery (if that is what it 

	 6.	 David	S.	McKay,	Everett	K.	Gibson,	Jr.,	Kathie	L.	Thomas-Keprta,	Hojatollah	Vali,	Christopher	S.	Romanek,	

Simon	J.	Clemett,	Xavier	D.	F.	Chillier,	Claude	R.	Maechling,	and	Richard	N.	Zare,	“Search	for	Past	Life	

on	Mars:	 Possible	 Relic	 Biogenic	Activity	 in	Martian	Meteorite	ALH84001,”	 Science	 273,	 no.	 5277	

(August	1996):	924–930.

385
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 2:	A	traverse	map	of	Victoria	Crater	illustrating	the	path	taken	by	the	MER	Opportunity	rover.

USGS/University of Arizona/NASA/JPL

was) required confirmation, which could best be found on Mars, rather than in 

meteorites presumed to have originated on the Red Planet, and that evidence 

(while entirely plausible and consistent with what is known about Mars) has 

yet to be found and confirmed. As a result, the Holy Grail of NASA’s Mars 

program remains a tantalizing possibility. 

Despite this flurry of Mars-related activity in the recent past, NASA has 

continued its painstaking robotic exploration of Mars, with emphasis on a pair 

of MERs, as they have come to be known, Spirit and Opportunity.

Recently, the rover Opportunity, enjoying an extended mission lasting 

nearly five years longer than originally planned, or budgeted, has been exploring Victoria Crater, and that, in turn, brought my experience with NASA’s Mars 

robotic exploration program full circle. To help underscore analogies between 

the exploration of planets and the Age of Discovery and our own era, Steven 

Squyres, the Principal Investigator of the scientific payload on the MER mission, 

asked me to contribute place-names for those features around Victoria Crater 

after those discovered by Ferdinand Magellan during his first-ever circumnavigation (1518 to 1521). Magellan served as the protagonist of my book, Over 

the Edge of the World: Magellan’s Terrifying Circumnavigation of the Globe

386
Voyages to Mars

(2003).7

 And the subject of this historical account had been suggested by my 

earlier book about the Agency’s Mars program, where scientists often cited 

Magellan as a source of inspiration. James Garvin characterized Magellan’s 

voyage as an example of “intelligent exploration,” that is, knowing where you 

are going, and why; and Magellan’s voyage was certainly more sophisticated 

and ambitious than any recorded prior journey of its type. But by contemporary 

standards, it was woefully simplistic and wishful. 

Although Magellan was convinced that he was divinely chosen to succeed, 

most people of his time believed he was attempting the impossible; in those 

days, it was believed that ships would never make it as far south as the equator, let alone more exotic destinations, that boiling seas would scald sailors to 

death, or magnetic islands pull the very nails from the planks of their ships, 

sending them to the bottom of the sea. The size and shape of the world was 

misunderstood; even the most advanced minds in Europe did not realize that 

the Pacific Ocean was the largest body water on the planet. Had Magellan 

known its true extent, he—or his cautious backers—would not have undertaken the voyage. In addition, the art of navigation was still in its infancy. It 

was still impossible for mariners to determine longitude, and even the length 

of a degree of latitude was subject to debate. There were maps, but, as might 

be expected, the further from home, the more inaccurate they became, until by 

the time Magellan reached South America, they contained more geographical 

fantasy than fact. Eventually Magellan became so exasperated with his useless 

maps that he threw them overboard, declaring they were not to be trusted. 

Given these multiple hazards and difficulties, why did Magellan go? And 

why did his backers risk their capital and prestige on his expedition? The answer 

can be summed up in two words: greed and glory. If Magellan accomplished 

his goal, Spain hoped to seize control of the spice trade and, by extension, the 

emerging global economy. Magellan himself hoped to claim lands and titles 

and unimaginable wealth to pass on to his heirs. We tend to forget that the 

first Age of Discovery was often driven by some very disagreeable goals. The 

idea of scientific exploration did not become prominent until the 18th century 

with the voyages of Captain Cook and, still later, Charles Darwin. 

One of the momentous events of the Age of Discovery occurred on 6 

September 1522, when tiny Victoria, the sole survivor of Ferdinand Magellan’s 

first-ever circumnavigation of the globe, returned to her home port of Sanlúcar 

	 7.	 Laurence	Bergreen,	Over the Edge of the World: Magellan’s Terrifying Circumnavigation of the Globe

(New	York,	NY:	William	Morrow,	2003).	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

de Barrameda, Spain. By any conventional reckoning, the expedition was a 

disaster; four of the fleet’s five ships were lost, and out of the 260 men who 

had set out from Spain three years earlier, only 18 made it all the way around 

the world. Magellan himself, the Captain General, was not among them, having 

been killed in battle with tribal warriors in the Philippines, where he paused 

en route to the Spice Islands in Indonesia. Magellan, an abrasive Portuguese 

nobleman sailing for Spain, sacrificed his life in the course of disproving 

centuries of accumulated superstition and outright ignorance concerning the 

nature of our world, and today we prize this tragic expedition for its many 

contributions to our knowledge of the world: geography, peoples, cultures, 

and climates, to name a few. 

To memorialize Magellan’s exploits, I selected names used by Magellan 

that seemed appropriate to the locations explored by Opportunity and submitted them to Steve Squyres, who assigned them to various Martian features. 

In October 2008, when I asked how the mapping of this particular region of 

Mars with names inspired by Magellan was proceeding, he wrote back, “About 

a year ago, we”—meaning the rover and, by extension, its handlers back on 

Earth—“entered Victoria Crater at the place we named Duck Bay (Bahia de los 

Patos) and we spent nearly a year inside the crater, working our way slowly 

and methodically through all of the stratigraphy presented in the wall there. 

Several weeks ago we exited the crater. We are now driving counterclockwise 

around the crater for some final imaging before we head off toward our next 

exploration goal. A week or so ago we drove out onto the northern end of 

the promontory we have named Cape Victory, imaging northward toward the 

south-facing wall of Cape Pillar. We are now on the promontory we have named 

Cape Agulhas, imaging the south-facing wall of Cape Victory. Cape Agulhas 

will be our last stop at Victoria before we turn southward.”8

If Magellan explored Earth to a greater extent than anyone before him, it is 

safe to assume that he never imagined that he was also going to explore Mars, 

or any other planet, by analogy. The annals of NASA’s robotic exploration of 

Mars demonstrate that sometimes history can be made by looking backward, 

with informed reference to the distant past, as well as forward.9

	 8.	 Steven Squyres, Roving Mars: Spirit, Opportunity, and the Exploration of the Red Planet (New York, NY:

Hyperion, 2005).

	 9.	 For another, more recent popular view of NASA’s exploration of Mars, lavishly illustrated, see Andrew

Chaikin, A Passion for Mars: Intrepid Explorers of the Red Planet (New York, NY: Harry N. Abrams, 2008).

388
Chapter 16

The Space Age and Disciplinary 

Change in Astronomy

David DeVorkin

How has the Space Age changed the astronomical profession? Historians such 

as Robert Smith, Robert Seidel, Michael Dennis, and of course Paul Forman 

have all discussed what can happen when physical scientists of all stripes shift 

to new and very big technologies, altering their methods of inquiry, defining 

their competitiveness in terms of these machines and systems, and, moreover, 

relying on sources of funding whose motivations lie outside the realm of science. Smith, in particular, shows poignantly from his case study of the Hubble 

Space Telescope that

Space astronomy placed new demands on astronomers, not only 

in terms of the reliability of their instruments and their methods 

of work, but also in how that work was to be directed and 

controlled. Thus it changed what it means to be an astronomer.1

Indeed, a full assessment of the impact of the Space Age, and of NASA 

(in particular) for the American component of the discipline, on the practice 

	 1.	 Robert	W.	Smith,	“The	 Biggest	Kind	of	 Big	Science:	Astronomers	and	the	Space	Telescope,”	 in	Big 

Science: The Growth of Large-Scale Research,	 ed.	 P.	 Galison	 and	 B.	 Hevly	 (Stanford,	 CA:	 Stanford	

University	 Press,	 1992),	 p.	 194;	 Paul	 Forman,	 “Behind	 Quantum	 Electronics:	 National	 Security	 as	

Basis	 for	 Physical	 Research	 in	 the	 United	 States,	 1940–1960,”	 Historical Studies in the Physical 

and Biological Sciences	18,	pt.	1	(1987):	149–229;	R.	W.	Seidel,	“Accelerating	Science:	The	Postwar	

Transformation	of	the	Lawrence	Radiation	Laboratory,”	Historical Studies in the Physical Sciences	13	

(1983):	375–400.	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

of astronomy requires, as Smith implies, looking not only at the relationship 

of the instruments of observation to their builders and users, or even to the 

problems attempted and discoveries made, but at the relationship of these 

practitioners to those who paid the bills and, to a large part, controlled what 

would fly and what would not fly. These include the individuals, institutions, 

and governments that supported astronomy for reasons ranging from national 

identity and security, to economic and intellectual competitiveness, to meritbased peer review, and even to idealist forms of inclusiveness and curiosity. 

There are many ways to explore how astronomy as a discipline changed in 

the latter half of the 20th century and how what it means to be an astronomer 

changed as well. Complementing the views of historians like Smith, at least 

one prominent late 20th-century astronomer, Leo Goldberg, observed that 

“astronomy has always been inseparable from developments in experimental 

and theoretical physics.” In his experience, “discoveries in physics have been 

applied to astronomy by physicists, some of whom, like Prof. [V. L.] Ginzburg, 

Bengt Edlén, Bruno Rossi and Hans Bethe, have retained their identity as 

physicists, while others, for example S. Chandrasekhar, E. E. Salpeter, M. Ryle 

and R. Giacconi have chosen to become affiliated with astronomy.”2 Indeed, 

assessing disciplinary change requires that one consider all relevant views on 

how a discipline is described or defined. Do those who affiliate through problem choice alone have an impact any different from those who also affiliate 

through professional association? Here we will look at only two characteristics that describe disciplinary change. We will consider first the influence of 

straight growth in size on the discipline, and then we will consider how that 

growth was stimulated by the nature of the projects that were attempted by 

astronomers, both indigenous and migrants from physics. 

We will start by looking at what astronomers were like and how astronomers 

behaved before the Space Age, examining aspects of how their institutions were 

structured and how they changed. We will look at growth, at specialization, 

at problem choice, and finally, through two brief case studies, at how some 

astronomers responded to the opportunities of the Space Age and what that 

response did in turn to change their institutions and profession. This discussion 

	 2.	 Leo	 Goldberg,	 “Quantum	 Mechanics	 at	 the	 Harvard	 Observatory	 in	 the	 1930s,”	 in	 Problems in 

Theoretical Physics and Astrophysics: A Collection of Essays dedicated to V. L. Ginzburg on his 70th 

Birthday,	 ed.	 L.	V.	 Keldysh	 and	V.	 la.	 Fainberg	 (Izdatel’stvo,	 Russia:	 Nauka,	 1989),	 pp.	 21–22.	 Karl	

Hufbauer	also	makes	this	point	in	part	1	of	his	Exploring the Sun: Solar Science Since Galileo	(Baltimore,	

MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1991).	

390
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

is both stimulated and informed by one of the most persistent questions asked 

by historians of post-World War II science: if “the desire of scientists to retain 

as much authority as possible over the direction and management of research” 

has in fact been met or has been lost.3 We offer no definitive answers here, 

though the suggestion will be made that no matter where authority resided, 

if it was retained or lost, the fundamental nature of the discipline and its 

members profoundly changed. This essay is a contribution to appreciating 

the nature of that change. 

Astronomy’s First Contact with the 

Promise of Space Research 

In late 1945, learning of what captured German V2 missiles could do, some 

astronomers were initially very excited about the possibility of sending instruments on rockets and seeing the universe from space. Leo Goldberg, then 

at Michigan, told Harvard’s Donald Menzel, in September 1945, that he’d be 

willing to shave his head and live in a cell for the next 10 or 15 years for an 

opportunity to view the Sun’s spectrum from space.4

Through the spring and summer of 1946, U.S. Army Ordnance initiated the 

first flights of reconstructed missiles at White Sands with warhead payloads 

filled with cosmic-ray counters, solar spectrographs, and other devices prepared by military laboratories at the Applied Physics Laboratory (APL) and the 

Naval Research Laboratory (NRL), but the results were very disappointing to 

astronomers like Lyman Spitzer and Leo Goldberg, who had formed an Office 

of Naval Research (ONR)-supported “Astrophysical Consulting Bureau” to assist 

the physicists at APL and NRL in the analysis of their hoped-for ultraviolet solar 

spectra. Spitzer and others worried that making these devices work would 

require technologies they were not familiar with, as well as investments in time 

and energy far beyond reason. Goldberg could not imagine spending $5,000 

on an instrument that would be destroyed each time it was used.5 After their 

first brush with doing science on a rocket, astronomers like Spitzer, Goldberg, 

and Yerkes Observatory astronomer Jesse Greenstein all shied away, preferring 

the traditional mode of using reliable instruments that could be incrementally 

	 3.	 As	posed	by	Robert	W.	Smith,	The Space Telescope: A Study of NASA, Science, Technology, and Politics 

(Cambridge,	U.K.:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1989),	p.	187.

	 4.	 Goldberg	to	Menzel,	28	September	1945,	Menzel	Papers,	Harvard	University	Archives	(HUA),	quoted	

in	David	DeVorkin,	Science with a Vengeance: How the Military Created the US Space Sciences after 

World War II	(New	York,	NY:	Springer-Verlag,	1992	[reprinted	in	1993,	paperback	study	edition]),	p.	207.

	 5.	 Ibid.,	p.	209.	

391
NASA’s First 50 Years

improved. In contrast, NRL staff, especially experimental physicists like Ernst 

Krause and Richard Tousey, were interested in instrument development and 

the creation of a capability. Krause’s recollections of his excitement in 1946 

remained indelible in his mind 30 years later:

Now, this is a good way to do some experimentation. We’re 

going to get away from this business of having a complicated, 

costly set of apparatus in a physics laboratory in a basement 

in some university, and because it is complicated and costly, 

it lasts for 50 years and generation after generation grinds out 

theses on that same equipment because it’s expensive and new 

equipment is more expensive. We’ve got a set-up here which 

by its very definition is going to get destroyed each time. How 

good can you have it?6 

Those who did dedicate themselves to doing science from rockets were not 

astronomers, and they did not engage in astronomical practice or ask questions astronomers would ask. Most of these workers were based in military 

laboratories or in physics departments and spent much of the decade of the 

1950s primarily refining their instruments and techniques, asking questions 

that would help to improve the rocketry itself, knowledge of the medium 

through which rockets traveled, and knowledge of the solar influences upon 

global radio communications networks. To some extent, a few looked for a 

discipline to associate with. Herbert Friedman, who explored high-energy solar 

phenomena using his modified x-ray-sensitive proportional (Geiger) counters, 

recalls having one of his early papers refused by the editors of the Astrophysical 

Journal, and so he directed most of his effort to physicists and geophysicists. 

There was no question, looking at his publishing history, that Friedman was 

looking for a receptive audience. After 1958, he had no trouble finding one. 

Friedman and Tousey at NRL, as well as J. J. Hopfield at the Johns Hopkins 

University (working with APL staff) and William Rense at the University of 

Colorado, were typical of those few physicists who applied their craft to 

astronomy without prior interest or activity in the field. They stood apart 

from mainstream astronomy, based on campuses and at a few highly prominent observatories. As John Lankford and others have shown, astronomy as a 

	 6.	 Ibid.,	1993,	p.	214.

392
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

Figure 1: Herbert	Friedman’s	efforts	to	get	the	results	of	his	team’s	efforts	out	to	various	audiences	are	

portrayed	here.	At	first	his	attention	was	focused	on	physicists	and	instrumentalists,	but	in	the	peak	IGY	of	

1957,	he	clearly	was	trying	to	reach	a	much	wider	audience.	His	first	astrophysical	paper	was	published	in	

1956.	Table 17.7 in DeVorkin 1993, p. 333

discipline was still very much defined by a small circle of observatory directors 

who enjoyed considerable independence and autonomy of action.7 Problems 

were defined by a set of centrally shared goals in stellar astronomy identified 

through vast empirical photometric and spectroscopic surveys in the first half 

of the century. Cosmology was limited to the largest observatories, and, indeed, 

problem choice was most commonly defined by available instrumentation and 

institutional history. National facilities did not yet exist, and access to the largest and most powerful telescopes was through elite channels: membership on 

a faculty or staff at an institution possessing that equipment. 

This highly centralized and selective system, employing purely optical 

techniques and largely photographic recording, enjoyed acknowledged world 

leadership in observational astronomy. As a result, astronomers reacted cautiously to the prospect of federal funding first from the military in the 1940s 

and then from NSF in the 1950s, displaying considerable conservatism, and 

even resistance, to the rapid growth potential made possible by federal funding after World War II.8

 American observatory directors had been extremely 

	 7.	 John	Lankford	and	Ricky	L.	Slavings,	American Astronomy: Community, Careers, and Power, 1859–

1940 (Chicago,	IL:	University	of	Chicago	Press,	1997).

	 8.	 David	DeVorkin,	“Who	Speaks	for	Astronomy?	How	astronomers	responded	to	government	funding	after	

World	War	II,”	Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences	31,	pt.	1	(2000):	55–92.	

393
NASA’s First 50 Years

successful with traditional philanthropic support, as well as with local support 

from state governments, and wanted to keep it that way. In 1947, the leaders of the community, such as Washburn Observatory Director Joel Stebbins, 

speaking on the occasion of the American Astronomical Society’s 50th year, 

envisioned that the profession would not grow by more than 10 members per 

year, the pace already established by the growth of the present infrastructure. 

In that year, about one-half of the some 625 members were at observatories; 

one-quarter were at colleges and scientific institutions; and the remainder had 

no formal connection to astronomy.9

Stebbins’s predictions held reasonably accurate for another decade. In 

1948, astronomers advised ONR (and NSF after 1951) on astronomers’ needs 

(averaging all major construction costs and operating costs known in astronomy, from 1923 to 1948) and determined that the discipline could utilize 

not more than $400,000 per year in individual research contracts and grants. 

But at the same time, NRL alone was spending millions of dollars on upper 

atmosphere research.10 Such expenditures seemed staggering to mainstream 

optical astronomers. 

In another decade, on the eve of Sputnik, even after significant developments in electronics and digital computing and, most of all, a slow but accelerating warming to federal funding as rank-and-file fears of loss of autonomy 

under both ONR and NSF funding faded largely through experience in their 

peer-reviewed research grant programs, events surrounding the IGY, and the 

emergence of an egalitarian national observatory movement fostered by NSF, 

no astronomical institution overtly embraced scientific rocketry. Instrument 

stabilization, rocket reliability, and payload retrieval had improved to the 

point where astrophysically useful spectroscopic data on solar phenomena in 

ultraviolet and x-ray regions were being obtained by three groups, one in a 

university physics department and two at military laboratories. And although 

the leaders of these groups became known and respected in astronomical 

circles, no astronomers, and no known departments of astronomy, were willing 

to consider the investment required to use rockets for science.11 Then, virtually 

	 9.	 Joel	 Stebbins,	 “The	 American	 Astronomical	 Society,	 1897–1917,”	 Popular Astronomy 55	 (October	

1947):	412,	reprinted	in	David	DeVorkin,	ed.,	The American Astronomical Society’s First Century	(New	

York,	NY:	AIP	Press,	1999),	pp.	53–57,	on	p.	53.

	 10.	 DeVorkin,	“Who	Speaks?”,	pp.	70–72.	

	 11.	 Ibid.,	and	DeVorkin,	Science with a Vengeance,	pp.	213–215;	chaps.	17	and	18.

394
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

overnight, popular and political reaction to Sputnik led to a series of appeals 

that changed astronomers’ attitudes toward space research.

Early Appeals 

The IGY itself certainly played a strong role in heightening interest in upper 

atmosphere research, solar research, and plans for satellite-based research. At 

the 10th meeting of the Upper Atmosphere Rocket Research Panel in January 

1956, convened by James Van Allen, Panel Chair, and his colleagues, most of 

them “seasoned veterans of physical research at high altitudes, using rockets 

as vehicles,” the hope was that they could, by virtue of their collective experience, “record the heart-beat of this field of research” and predict for a wider 

audience what could be done with orbiting vehicles.12 Based upon this foundation, others were able to react quickly when, in the wake of Sputnik, demands 

came in for assessments of what would be possible, given the present state of 

launch vehicle development. 

The first to report was W. W. Kellogg of the RAND Corporation, who in 

November 1957 brought to conclusion a report he had been developing for 

some time, at the request of the IGY Working Group on Internal Instrumentation 

of the Earth Satellite Program. Thanks to Sputnik, Kellogg’s analysis, entitled 

“Basic Objectives of a Continuing Program of Scientific Research in Outer 

Space,” was the first topic for the National Academy IGY committee agenda, 

but his conclusions reflected pre-Sputnik values. He plotted out a scientific 

program assuming that development would be gradual and not revolutionary; 

each stage of the program would help to design the next stage, and manned 

spaceflight would occur eventually, but not immediately: 

1. Immediate: continue IGY type sounding rocket and balloon programs: 

capability 10–30 lbs;

2. Within the year: “Lightweight satellite experiments” (50 to 75 lbs.); 

3. Within 5 years: “Advanced Satellite Experiments.” (100–500 lbs) 2 and 

3 axis stabilization.13

	 12.	 James	 A.	Van	 Allen,	 “Preface,”	 in	 Scientific Uses of Earth Satellites,	 ed.	Van	 Allen	 (Ann	 Arbor,	 MI:	

University	of	Michigan	Press,	1956),	pp.	v–vi.

	 13.	 W.	W.	 Kellogg,	 “Basic	 Objectives	 of	 a	 Continuing	 Program	 of	 Scientific	 Research	 in	 Outer	 Space,”	 9	

December	1957,	Dow	Papers,	box	8.4,	University	of	Michigan	Archives,	Bentley	Historical	Library.	Kellogg’s	

analysis,	and	those	of	subsequent	panels	examined	here,	are	addressed	in	John	E.	Naugle	and	John	M.	

Logsdon,	“Space	Science:	Origins,	Evolution,	and	Organization,”	in	Exploring the Unknown,	ed.	John	M.	

Logsdon,	vol.	5,	Space and Earth Science	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2001-4407,	2001),	pp.	1–15,	and	

somewhat	more	fully	in	David	DeVorkin,	“Solar	Physics	from	Space,”	in	Exploring the Unknown,	ed.	John	

M.	Logsdon,	vol.	6, Space and Earth Science	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2004-4407,	2004),	pp.	1–36.

395
NASA’s First 50 Years

In February and March of 1958, fueled by Sputnik fever, the NACA convened a study by a Special Committee on Space Technology to consider space 

research objectives. This body called for a more rapid payload growth:

1. Immediate: launching 30 lbs class once per month into earth orbit.

2. By sometime in 1959: 300 lbs class supplements class 1, one every 2 

months including stabilization and capability of UV imaging.

3. By sometime in 1961: 3000 lbs, supplements 2 and 3: once every 4 to 

5 months.14

Then, in June 1958, the new Space Science Board (SSB) of the National 

Academy of Sciences, created in part to complement elements of existing IGY 

technical panels, called at first for “an orderly extension and continuation of 

the rocket and satellite work of the USNC/IGY.”15 But at its first meeting, it 

listened to Herb York, of the newly created DOD ARPA, predict that

1. By 1960: 3000 pounds into orbit, with the possibility of lunar and 

planetary exploration 

2. By 1962, double that

3. By the mid 60s, 30 times that

4. By late 1960s, 50 tons “by multiplexing of rockets”16

By implication, in the heat of competition with the Soviets, York challenged scientists to plan accordingly. Faced with this opportunity, in a state of 

rush, by night letter on 3 July, Lloyd V. Berkner, Chairman of the SSB, sent out 

an appeal to scientists to suggest ways to exploit these vehicles for research 

in, or from, space. He asked for “possible experiments” that could be flown 

within two years, weighing as much as 100 pounds, but compatible with other 

“smaller non-conflicting experiments.” These packages would have to be ready 

for environmental testing earlier than mid-1959. He wanted answers within 

the week to include a short description, “its scientific value,” the instruments 

involved, weights, all costs required to build “four hardware units,” manpower 

requirements, and time needed. He concluded, “Regret need to ask for such 

information on so short notice but cannot avoid.”17

	 14.	 “Minutes	of	Meeting,	Working	Group	on	Space	Research	Objectives,”	30	April	1958,	Lyman	Spitzer	

Papers,	NACA	file,	Princeton	University	Library	Manuscripts	Division.	

	 15.	 “Minutes	 of	the	 First	Meeting	 of	the	 Space	 Science	 Board,	 27	 June	 1958,”	 p.	 2,	 SSB	 files,	 NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.	

	 16.	 Ibid.,	p.	6.	

	 17.	 L.	V.	Berkner	to	United	States	National	Committee	(USNC)/IGY/European	Southern	Observatory	(ESO),	

“Space	Science	Board	Requests	for	Support:	Proposals	1958,”	3	July	1958,	folder	1.3,	SSB	Papers,	

National	Academy	of	Sciences	Archives	(SSB/National	Academy	of	Sciences).

396
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

The General Response 1: Immediate

There was widespread, but not totally positive, response to Berkner’s breathless appeal. Many senior astronomers were just then packing their bags for the 

triennial General Assembly of the International Astronomical Union meeting 

that August in Moscow, and, as one astronomer responded, Berkner’s telegram 

“caught us pretty flat footed.”18 Kitt Peak National Observatory Director Aden 

Meinel, one of the most creative instrument builders in the discipline, felt his 

staff was too committed to building their new observatory to propose active 

work, though they were soon to take steps in this direction. Meinel knew that 

other groups were proposing “simple early experiments in optical astronomy” 

and concluded that “it would appear to me that several years of laboratory 

work lie ahead for any more sophisticated experiments before they approach 

the stage of reliability to warrant vehicle flights.”19 Others were unwilling to 

consider employing new methods of data retrieval, saying they would propose 

when physical recovery would be possible.20 At least one prominent radiation 

biologist recognized the importance of assessing “the very serious environmental hazards to be overcome if man is to survive during extended flights” 

but felt that Berkner’s appeal was premature for his expertise: “Perhaps I am 

being a pessimist about the value of radiation space experiments so far as the 

biologist is concerned, but without the physical evidence to go on (and I am 

not aware of any detailed data available) such experiments are in my opinion 

a waste of time and good money.”21 One respondent felt strongly that nothing new should be considered until the packages that were prepared for the 

failed Vanguards were flown.22

Berkner sent his appeal very broadly, and about 200 scientists and institutions responded one way or another, most with advice and counsel, some with 

specific suggestions for problems to attack, and more than half with concrete 

	 18.	 D.	W.	R.	McKinley	(National	Research	Council	of	Canada	Radio	and	Electrical	Engineering	Division)	to	

Berkner,	4	July	1958,	responding	for	Peter	Millman,	then	in	Paris	bound	for	Moscow,	folder	1.3,	SSB/

National	Academy	of	Sciences.	

	 19.	 A.	B.	Meinel	to	Berkner,	7	July	1958,	folder	1.3,	SSB/National	Academy	of	Sciences.	Meinel	would	soon	

create	a	division	at	Kitt	Peak	National	Observatory	for	space-based	research	led	by	his	own	proposal	

for	a	50-inch	telescope	in	space.	See	Frank	K.	Edmondson,	AURA and its U.S. National Observatories

(Cambridge,	U.K.:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1997),	pp.	80–81,	109–111.

	 20.	 Bertram	Stiller	to	Berkner,	10	July	1958.	Stiller	worked	with	M.	M.	Shapiro	at	NRL.	J.	J.	Lod	to	Berkner,	

10	July	1959,	folder	1.3,	SSB/National	Academy	of	Sciences.

	 21.	 C.	P.	Swanson	to	Berkner,	8	July	1958,	folder	1.3,	“Johns	Hopkins	biologist—radiation	biology,”	SSB/

National	Academy	of	Sciences.

	 22.	 Hans	Ziegler,	Assistant	Director	of	Research,	U.S.	Army	Signal	Research	and	Development	Laboratory,	

to	Berkner,	10	July	1958,	folder	1.3,	SSB/National	Academy	of	Sciences.	

397
NASA’s First 50 Years

proposals. Some 70 proposals came in from physical scientists; there were 30 

responses for some 60 projects from life scientists; and there were 10 separate 

suggestions for some 17 distinct engineering studies. Of these, about 30 were 

clearly astronomical, proposed by a wide array of institutions and individuals. 

Berkner and his staff spent the summer sorting through the responses, 

and Berkner responded to some inquiries personally. To Donald Menzel, 

Director of the Harvard College Observatory, he rejoiced that the “response 

was voluminous.” This was, of course, his primary goal because the SSB wanted 

to encourage as many people as possible to get involved: “One of the great 

problems in getting our country into the space science field more actively is 

to find laboratories and groups where suitable hardware can be developed 

to carry on the more sophisticated experiments,” Berkner observed, hoping 

that many universities and civilian laboratories would respond “so that the 

scientific aspects of the space program are not forced into a single government 

bureau for lack of competent facilities and men outside the government.” But, 

on the other hand, there were clearly too many proposals to handle in the 

first few years; so the SSB was taking steps to group together similar interests, 

specifically, “there appear to be a number of proposals to get a telescope into 

space, and it would appear most sound to bring these proposals together so 

that the best of each of them could be actually projected into space and they 

could cover the whole of the spectrum.”23

Indeed, the SSB encouraged many disparate groups to work together 

to submit revised joint institutional proposals, in all fields. They asked Yale 

University to join forces with the National Radio Astronomy Observatory, 

and they asked other institutions to develop ultralong- and shortwave radio 

observations from satellites, “In the belief that a broad-based participation 

of the scientific community is necessary for a successful program of space 

research.” They asked the Geophysical Research Directorate of the Air Force 

Cambridge Research Center (AFCRC) to join with NRL and the University of 

Colorado to coordinate extreme ultraviolet and x-ray solar monitoring programs.24 There were at least 11 proposals to perform various observations to 

study relativistic effects through performing precision orbit measurements 

	 23.	 Berkner	to	Menzel,	2	September	1958,	folder	1.3,	SSB/National	Academy	of	Sciences.

	 24.	 Lieutenant	Commander	L.	M.	Cormier,	Secretary	to	the	SSB	Committee	on	Optical	and	Radio	Astronomy,	

to	D.	S.	Heeschen,	17	December	1958;	Cormier	to	Lilley,	17	December	1958;	draft,	Cormier	to	James	

Gallagher	GRD,	n.d.,	folder	1.3,	SSB/National	Academy	of	Sciences.	

398
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

and distinguishing the effects of geodetic and atmospheric drag, and these 

people were encouraged to collaborate. 

At the end of the summer, two committees continued to deliberate over 

priorities. Leo Goldberg at Michigan, an SSB member and a proposer of several 

projects, was asked to chair an ad hoc Committee for Astronomy and Radio 

Astronomy, and it fell to Goldberg to coordinate the major astronomy proposals. Informing J. Allen Hynek at the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, 

among other astronomers, of this decision in early September, Berkner naturally 

hoped they would indeed work together. There would be plenty of room to 

work, no doubt: “you, Menzel and Goldberg will have an interesting time in the 

study of the telescope project. You will, of course, have the whole spectrum 

range before you involving certainly more than 16 octaves.”25 Berkner may not 

have appreciated that, among optical astronomers, the playing field was barely 

one or two new octaves, but there was still plenty of room. The problem was 

not so much between astronomers vying for some version of a satellite telescope; it lay at higher levels in the formation of the nation’s emerging space 

program. In sum, five distinct proposals came back quickly from astronomers 

Leo Goldberg, Lawrence Aller, Fred Whipple, Lyman Spitzer, and Arthur Code, 

and one from a collection of NRL physicists, Talbot Chubb, Herbert Friedman, 

and James Kupperian, for variations of what Berkner viewed as the “telescope 

project”—ultraviolet studies of the Sun, the stars, and the spaces between the 

stars. It would be NASA’s job to manage this response, and much of this fell 

eventually to Nancy Grace Roman.26

The Emergence of NASA and the Creation of the Orbiting 

Astronomical Observatory (OAO) Mission Concept 

Berkner’s initial reaction to the responses he generated by his 3 July 1958 telegram was to promote cooperative proposals between competing institutions 

that would somehow be vetted by the SSB. The extent to which this actually 

happened remains to be determined, but, for the purpose of the present study, 

it suffices to say that the SSB’s goals as a deliberative and coordinating agency 

became moot by the end of the year, when the SSB submitted its findings to 

	 25.	 L.	 Berkner	to	J.	A.	Hynek,	2	September	1958,	Smithsonian	Astrophysical	Observatory,	Smithsonian	

Institution	Archives	(SAO/SIA).	

	 26.	 Nancy	Grace	Roman,	“Exploring	the	Universe:	Space-Based	Astronomy	and	Astrophysics,”	in	Exploring 

the Unknown,	ed.	John	M.	Logsdon,	vol.	5,	Exploring the Cosmos	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2001-

4407,	2001),	pp.	501–543.

399
NASA’s First 50 Years

NASA. In March 1959, Hugh Odishaw retroactively acknowledged this fact 

when he finally got around to thanking all the initial respondents, saying that 

the SSB was now an advisory body and did not have “executive responsibility 

for the support of the U.S. program in science and space.” The funding for 

these activities now resided with the agencies that did: NASA, NSF, and ARPA.27

By the time of Berkner’s notice, of course, NASA had already opted to 

control executive responsibilities for the nation’s civilian space program, a 

detail left ambiguous by the National Space Act.28 Administrator T. Keith 

Glennan appointed the NACA engineer Abe Silverstein to direct the Office of 

Space Flight Programs, and Silverstein appointed Homer E. Newell, a charter member of NRL’s space science program, as Assistant Director for Space 

Sciences. Newell in turn formed a Space Science Working Group and various 

subunits to establish an overall plan. The details of this effort, in the case of 

optical astronomy at least, have been touched upon elsewhere but still require 

considerable elaboration.29 The result was the formation of a small set of large 

programs that would lead to a series of space missions throughout the 1960s 

and into the early 1970s, in fact the largest NASA would mount in the strictly 

speaking pure (that is, unmanned) space sciences. These missions served 

groups at both academic and NASA facilities, and in every case, they required 

infrastructures at each university, as well as within NASA, that grew in size to 

levels unknown in astronomy but quite familiar to those in physics and in the 

space sciences at national laboratories such as NRL. 

Since the focus of this paper is disciplinary change, I will leave out the 

rather extensive deliberations over the structure of what became the OAO and 

Orbiting Solar Observatory (OSO) programs and the debates that occurred 

over the general mission concept between NASA, the SSB, and ultimately the 

PSAC. Suffice it to say, the framework that emerged within NASA promoted the 

creation of teams of unprecedented size within the astronomical community. 

Here are two of the institutional responses that led to the first successful OAO. 

Both stimulated institutional growth; in the first, it was moderated by a strong 

agenda with clear goals, whereas in the second, it was unbridled, reflecting 

an opportunistic agenda with initially mixed goals. 

	 27.	 H.	Odishaw	to	mailing	list	of	names	who	responded	to	original	Berkner	night	letter,	30	March	1959,	

SSB/National	Academy	of	Sciences.

	 28.	 Naugle	and	Logsdon,	“Space	Science,”	pp.	8–9.

	 29.	 Ibid.;	David	H.	DeVorkin,	“SAO	During	the	Whipple	Years:	The	Origins	of	Project	Celescope,”	in	The 

New Astronomy: Opening the Electromagnetic Window and Expanding our View of Planet Earth,	ed.	W.	

Orchiston	(New	York,	NY:	Springer,	2005),	pp.	229–250.

400
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

The Wisconsin Experiment Package (WEP)

In their historical assessment of WEP, a battery of seven small telescopes feeding ultraviolet nebular and stellar photometers and spectrometers devised by 

A. D. Code and his associates at the Space Astronomy Laboratory (SAL) of the 

University of Wisconsin, Marché and Walsh identify the scale of the enterprise 

required to manage its development for the second OAO.30 Arthur Code created 

the laboratory as a unit of the Astronomy Department when he returned to 

the University of Wisconsin as director of the Washburn Observatory. He could 

have stayed in a tenured position at Caltech, with direct access to Palomar, 

but, as he recalls,

The thing that changed was Sputnik and the possibility of 

making observations from above the earth’s atmosphere. 

And lots of people were using ground-based telescopes, and 

nobody seemed to be interested in doing space astronomy.31

Code was less interested in the directorship and more in the freedom it 

would provide him to pursue space research: 

I would not have accepted it on just that basis. I wasn’t looking 

for being a director of an observatory. But at the same time, 

there was this letter that Lloyd Berkner circulated in academic 

circles, that if you had a 100-pound satellite, what would you 

do with it? I thought about that and responded to that letter.32

His SAL was housed in rented space, outgrowing the department itself, 

and from there, over the next decade, his staff of astronomers and technicians 

produced a successful series of developmental sounding rocket payloads, and 

eventually the highly successful WEP.

As Marché and Walsh demonstrate,33 Code followed clear lines of personal 

research interest and established technical expertise to accomplish his goals. 

	 30.	 Jordan	D.	Marché	and	Adam	J.	Walsh,	“The	Wisconsin	Experiment	Package	(WEP)	Aboard	the	Orbiting	

Astronomical	 Observatory	 (OAO-2),”	 Journal of Astronomical History and Heritage	 9,	 no.	 2	 (2006):	

185–199.

	 31.	 A.	D.	Code	oral	history,	30	September	1982,	p.	24,	Space	Astronomy	Oral	History	Project	(SAOHP)/

NASM	Archives.

	 32.	 Ibid.

	 33.	 Marché	and	Walsh,	“The	Wisconsin	Experiment	Package.”	

401
NASA’s First 50 Years

He was a creative and adept instrumentalist who was intimately familiar with 

photoelectric and spectrophotometric techniques, and he had performed 

observational research at Caltech on the spectral energy distributions of stars, 

exactly what he was proposing for WEP. He also enjoyed a healthy and dedicated 

instrument-based expertise in the University of Wisconsin department, honed 

from two former generations of directors, Joel Stebbins and Albert Whitford, 

who were pioneers in photoelectric techniques and associated instrumentation. One can easily rationalize how WEP and SAL were organic extensions of 

the University of Wisconsin program. This is not to say the path was easy and 

without frustration, because there was at least one vehicle failure. 

The battery of seven telescopes comprising WEP, however, did not emerge 

full-blown from Code’s mind or reflect his initial ambitions. As he recalls, based 

upon the initial SSB appeal, he and his staff developed a single 100-pound 

telescope, within the limit set by Berkner. It was a 10-inch, off-axis reflecting 

telescope feeding a single photomultiplier. But when NASA had secured SSB’s 

responses and deliberations by early 1959 and decided to combine as many 

instruments as possible on a single stabilized platform, Code and his colleagues 

were faced with developing a 2,000-pound payload. “Well, that looked like 

a pretty big spacecraft,” he recalled, “especially after you throw away all the 

satellite [housekeeping] part[s] that we had in our proposal. So what we did 

basically was cluster a whole bunch of these and fill up a lot of this space.”34

The Response from Harvard-Smithsonian

The deliberations of the Space Science Working Group led to multiple institutions preparing for the same space platform. By the spring of 1959, Code’s 

WEP would share a single platform with a similar proposal emerging from SAO. 

By the time Berkner sent out his appeal, Fred Whipple was already deeply 

involved preparing for satellite astronomy. As the director of SAO, housed at 

Harvard since 1955 and already growing into a very large enterprise through 

space-related service programs such as a worldwide optical tracking network 

to determine high-precision artificial satellite orbital behavior for a wide range 

of pure and applied goals, Whipple and his staff by then had already taken a 

visible and leading role in the IGY satellite program. This so-called Baker-Nunn 

tracking network and its popular counterpart, Project Moonwatch, were highvisibility efforts that caught public attention, and its fascination, symbolizing, 

	 34.	 Code	Oral	History,	SAOHP/NASM,	p.	35.

402
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

as they did, a new worldwide infrastructure required by the Space Age and a 

means of engaging public involvement, approval, and support.35 Whipple had 

been a pioneer member of the V-2 Panel since the 1940s, and he was the only 

astronomer on von Braun’s “Hoover Panel,” which promoted the Army’s bid 

for an IGY payload, Project Orbiter.36 He also had been intimately involved, as 

Deborah Warner has shown us, in plans for utilizing meteors and artificial satellites for geodesy, combined with his ongoing studies of the upper atmosphere 

and his hyperballistic studies—all technical prerequisites for a reliable ICBM 

system.37 He had been deeply involved on the V-2 Panel and its successors 

with Van Allen, Friedman, Tousey, and the other rocket scientists, and he lent 

scientific legitimacy and access to a wide range of interconnected military and 

civilian advisory panels in postwar Washington, DC, but never once seriously 

proposed an instrument for a flight on a rocket.

Whipple had, of course, all along been thinking deeply about satellites 

and space stations, his “dear dream,” as Harvard’s McGeorge Bundy said of 

him in 1955.38 In 1955 and 1956, he and SAO staff had been considering a 

geodetic satellite, either a highly reflective polyhedron or a rotating visible 

beacon.39 On 4 February 1958, however, Whipple, along with Harvard College 

Observatory Director Donald Menzel, called together a large group of Harvard 

and Smithsonian astronomers to ponder SAO’s involvement with rockets and 

satellites. The main purpose of the meeting was to get ideas for space vehicles, 

to set up committees, and to report ideas. “We are looking forward to a real 

space platform” was the sense of the meeting, as described in notes kept by 

the youngest member of the group, a graduate student, Robert Davis, who 

would soon be tapped to manage what came to be known as the Celescope 

program. Whipple’s burgeoning SAO staff had expertise in geodesy, as well 

as in meteoritics, cosmic rays, the outer atmosphere, and meteorology. But 

the Harvard astronomers were also interested in the Sun and stars as well as 

	 35.	 Patrick	McCray,	Keep Watching the Skies! The Story of Operation Moonwatch and the Dawn of the Space 

Age	(Princeton,	NJ:	Princeton	University	Press,	2008);	Teasel	Muir-Harmony,	“Tracking	Diplomacy:	The	

IGY	and	American	Scientific	and	Technical	Exchange	with	East	Asia,	1955–1973,”	in	Globalizing Polar 

Science: The Legacies of the International Polar and Geophysical Years,	ed.	James	Fleming,	Roger	D.	

Launius,	and	David	DeVorkin	(New	York,	NY:	Palgrave–MacMillan,	2010).	

	 36.	 Michael	J.	Neufeld,	Von Braun: Dreamer of Space, Engineer of War	(New	York,	NY:	Vintage,	2007).	

	 37.	 Deborah	Jean	Warner,	“From	Tallahassee	to	Timbuktu:	Cold	War	Efforts	to	Measure	Intercontinental	

Distances,”	Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences	30,	pt.	2	(2000):	393–415.

	 38.	 McGeorge	Bundy	to	“Dear	Nate,”	26	January	1955,	HUA,	UA	III	5.55.26,	folder	“HCO,”	box	12.

	 39.	 Charles	A.	Whitney	and	George	Vis,	“A	Flashing	Satellite	for	Geodetic	Studies,”	SAO Special Report	19,	

pt.	3	(1958):	9–20.

403
NASA’s First 50 Years

galactic structure, and Harvard itself had a long tradition in mapping the sky 

by traditional photographic techniques.40

Whipped up by Whipple, the group felt that their combined staffs had 

“a certain degree of proficiency” and, moreover, “an operational advantage 

as of the present moment.” They sensed that their only competitors were at 

NRL, Michigan, the Geophysics Research Directorate at Air Force Cambridge 

Research Laboratory, and of course “Dr. Van Allen,” Whipple’s compatriots 

on the Rocket Sonde Research Panel. The group’s first impressions, recorded 

by Davis, were that “We want to aim as high as possible.” Indeed, this was 

Whipple’s strategy. In April, well aware of the fact that a National Space Act 

was circulating in Congress, Whipple testified that the role this new agency 

might take in the nation’s space program was as a coordinator of expanded 

university-based scientific centers, not as a controlling agent.41

Although Davis’s notes from February were enthusiastic and ambitious, by 

June he and Whipple had made a conservative proposal to the ABMA to launch 

a small reflecting telescope to obtain ultraviolet brightnesses for stars that would 

extend knowledge of the energy distributions in stars and would help to calibrate bolometric data acquired from ground-based telescopes. Their idea, very 

similar to Code’s initial design for a single telescope, was to develop something 

quickly for a first glimpse of the ultraviolet sky. Unlike Code, for Whipple, the 

satellite telescope itself was only part of a much larger system he had in mind. 

Whipple’s efforts to track satellites and analyze their data for a wide range 

of Space Age interests required a virtual army: teams of amateurs and volunteers 

in military and technical organizations performing visual reconnaissance of 

satellite orbits and the development of large and sophisticated optical tracking 

stations across the globe. Managed by a considerable staff of computers and 

administrators in Cambridge, Massachusetts, SAO possessed sufficient expertise in orbit analysis and computational expertise to perform a wide range of 

tracking, data reduction, and geodetic analysis. In the spring of 1958, Whipple 

and the Smithsonian had proposals in to the ABMA to manage optical tracking for the Explorers. Whipple’s plan for a Harvard-Smithsonian-based space 

operation, where liaison with NASA was a relatively minor component, could 

be gleaned from a timeline for Project Celescope, as it was called by 1960. 

The Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory was to be the center not only for 

the definition and design of the payload, as well as its fabrication, but after 

	 40.	 DeVorkin,	“SAO	During	the	Whipple	Years,”	pp.	234–237.

	 41.	 Ibid.,	p.	237.

404
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

Figure 2: Celescope	flowchart	as	envisioned	by	Whipple’s	staff	in	May	1960.	The	project	was	seen	as	

the	nucleus	of	a	general	capability	to	design,	build,	test,	and	fly	packages	on	satellites,	with	sounding	

rocket	flights	as	developmental	steps	but	also	as	part	of	data	generation,	reduction,	and	analysis.	The	

SAO	sounding	rocket	flights	were	not	supported	by	NASA	and	so	never	happened.	Smithsonian Institution 

Astrophysical Observatory, Quarterly Progress Report No. 3 Project Celescope, 29 April 1960, SIA RG 522, 

folder “Progress 1960,” box 10

launch for its operation, the collection of data, and subsequent analysis and 

publication as a contribution to astrophysics. 

By late 1958, it was clear to Whipple that his full plan would not be approved. 

NASA would manage the infrastructure and would invite scientists to propose 

payload instruments, referred to by NASA in the same terms Berkner had 

used: “experiments,” a term rarely, if ever, used by astronomers.42 And at first 

	 42.	 Astronomers	prior	to	this	period	rarely,	if	ever,	referred	to	an	operational	instrument	on	a	telescope	

as	an	experiment,	unless	it	was	a	speculative	technical	venture	to	try	out	some	new	technique.	As	

the	venerable	astronomer	Joel	Stebbins	succinctly	put	it	in	a	banquet	speech	in	1950,	recounting	his	

pioneering	work	with	photoelectric	cells	since	1910:	“The	electrical	photometry	of	stars	involves	the	

technique	of	experimental	physics	at	the	end	of	a	telescope,”	Joel	Stebbins	George	Darwin	Lecture,	

Royal	Astronomical	Society	(RAS),	13	October	1950,	Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society

110	 (1950):	 416.	 But,	 of	 course,	 that’s	 exactly	 what	 NASA	 program	managers	 and	Administrators	

wished	that	astronomers	would	be	doing.	Instead	of	a	telescope,	NASA	would	provide	berths	and	invite	

astronomers	to	get	aboard.	

405
NASA’s First 50 Years

NASA had in mind a universal platform that would accommodate both solar 

and stellar experiments. These large, multifunctional platforms, attributed by 

Homer Newell and others to a style of large-scale experimental management in 

shared infrastructure and housekeeping functions, a design philosophy familiar 

to NACA leaders like Abe Silverstein, envisioned an economy of scale that, in 

some respects, paralleled the SSB’s urging that like-minded experimenters band 

together to propose single unified programs. But unlike the SSB, engineers 

like Silverstein, now at NASA, did not think as critically in terms of function 

or compatibility. When astronomers hotly objected to the lumping together of 

solar and stellar experiments, each requiring very different infrastructure and 

capability from their standpoint, NASA refused to budge until the matter was 

taken to the White House via members of the PSAC.43 In the end, a compromise was reached separating the solar and stellar programs, but in each, the 

missions remained multifunctional, which Silverstein and his subordinates, like 

Homer E. Newell, ardently believed would be more efficient and cost effective.44

The goal of SAO’s Celescope grew just as SAL’s WEP, from a simple, quickand-dirty peek with a single telescope to a battery of instruments. Ultimately, 

SAO’s Celescope became four separate telescopes, physically bundled and 

working in parallel, each tuned to a different ultraviolet band for wide-field 

photometry. The goal was to produce a catalog of ultraviolet stellar characteristics for every bright star in the sky: not hundreds, but thousands of stars. 

In order to do this, Whipple and his staff decided to take a technological risk: 

utilize area detectors based upon television technology to image star fields, 

rather than conventional means of photometric measurement, star by star, with 

photoelectric sensors. 

A full discussion of this decision lies outside the boundaries of the present 

paper. Here we limit attention to the significance of this decision insofar as it 

came from a desire to offer up a competitive proposal to NASA. “By the time 

NASA existed, we’d pretty much settled on television,” Robert Davis recalls, but 

the team did not appreciate at first how large the technological challenge would 

be until Davis started talking with Westinghouse and realized that commercial 

broadcast devices would not suffice; and when asked the question another 

way, it was clear that, although using enhanced image-intensified television 

	 43.	 Martin	Schwarzschild	oral	history,	20	April	1983,	pp.	16–19;	19	July	1979,	pp.	232–233,	Sources	for	

History	of	Modern	Astronomy,	American	Institute	of	Physics	(SHMA/AIP).

	 44.	 Homer	E.	Newell,	Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space Science	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP4211,	1980),	p.	207.	

406
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

systems for low light level image detection by remote control was far from 

a casual decision for Whipple and Davis, making that decision required, as 

Davis recalls, a “‘think big’ philosophy. Don’t do anything small and primitive. 

Go for something big and spectacular.”45

Whipple certainly encouraged such thinking, but so did NASA. And indeed 

there were practical aspects of the decision. At the time, one could collect far 

more photometric data on stellar brightnesses with an area detector in a given 

amount of time than with a point source device. But choosing this technology 

also required contracting for expertise on a scale far larger than was required 

for photoelectric systems. As Marché and Walsh point out, the University of 

Wisconsin group was proud that they possessed an internal capability to 

design and test their space telescope systems and that what contracting for 

construction they needed was local.46 In contrast, SAO had to search far and 

wide for highly specialized and somewhat independently minded contractors 

who could manage the design and construction of electronic detectors considered at the time by leading authorities to be beyond the state of the art for 

prolonged reliable operation on a satellite in 1959; chancy at best, and, even 

by 1961, it was considered by its own leading practitioners as a “business for 

serious professionals who have chosen a difficult field.”47

At this point in our story, it should be clear that two of the four scientific 

institutions engaged in the OAO program made very different choices and 

developed very different programs in order to achieve what were, in effect, 

different goals.48 The University of Wisconsin created a distinct laboratory 

within a traditional campus-based observatory to pursue traditional problems 

in stellar astronomy. At first, SAO pushed to establish an overall capability in 

space research that would assume a large part of the infrastructure that would 

be required. It also entered problem areas in which it did not possess prior 

	 45.	 R.	D.	Davis	oral	history,	15	October	2005,	p.	84,	author’s	working	files,	Department	of	Space	History/

NASM.	

	 46.	 Marché	and	Walsh,	“The	Wisconsin	Experiment	Package,”	pp.	188,	191.

	 47.	 Ray	 V.	 Hembree,	 “Summary	 of	 British	 Image	 Tube	 Symposium,”	 in	 Proceedings from the Image 

Intensifier Symposium	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2,	1961),	p.	3;	J.	D.	McGee,	“Image	Detection	by	

Television	Signal	Generation”	in	Astronomical Techniques,	ed.	G.	Kuiper	and	B.	Middlehurst	(Chicago,	

IL:	 University	 of	 Chicago	Press,	1962),	pp.	302–329;	McGee	to	 Baum,	14	March	1962,	quoted	 in	

Samantha	Thompson,	“The	Best	is	the	Enemy	of	the	Good:	The	story	of	James	Dwyer	McGee	and	the	

forgotten	 technology	 that	 helped	 shape	 modern	 astronomy”	 (unpublished	 master’s	 thesis,	 Imperial	

College,	2007).	

	 48.	 The	payloads	from	GSFC	and	Princeton,	along	with	the	full	history	of	the	OAO	program,	await	adequate	

attention	by	historians.	See	Robert	S.	Rudney,	“A	Preliminary	History	of	the	OAO	Program	(1966–1968)”	

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	History	Division,	HHN-115,	September	1971).

407
NASA’s First 50 Years

expressed interest or expertise. The two institutions were also distinct in achieving stated scientific goals: The University of Wisconsin eventually enjoyed a 

full measure of successful data flow, whereas the ultimate SAO ultraviolet star 

catalog that was issued in the 1970s was compromised by calibration problems 

in the detector systems that could not be fully rectified.49 The two institutions 

shared in institutional growth, of course, but of the two, SAO grew far more 

rapidly to extreme levels. I will now examine the SAO growth as an extreme 

case of disciplinary change.

Institutional Growth at SAO

Whipple had restarted SAO at Harvard, hiring 7 people with $50,000 support from the Smithsonian in 1955. When he turned over the directorship in 

1973, “there were 307 people on the staff, and a basic Congressional budget 

of three million a year” and another $10 million in competitive grants.50 One 

can sense the growth from annual reports he prepared for the Smithsonian 

Secretary and for the American Astronomical Society. In 1956, Whipple identified three separate units within SAO: solar astrophysics, meteoritic studies, 

and the “Satellite Program” for the IGY. The first was a legacy program from 

Washington, DC, which had no staffing that year; the second was led by John 

Rinehart and included hyperballistic studies of reentry ablation effects; and the 

third was led by Hynek and Armand Spitz. In 1957, these three units retained 

their identities, but their subunits, essentially identifiable problem areas with 

specific funding from the Smithsonian, the Air Force, the National Academy 

of Sciences, and NSF, grew from 6 to 15. Theodore Sterne had been hired to 

head “solar astrophysics.” By the end of 1958, the three units had become four 

divisions, adding the upper atmosphere explicitly, and within that section was 

a program identified as “uv and x-ray space telescope” and another as “stellar 

scintillation,” among 17 distinct problem areas funded as well by the ABMA and 

the Aero Medical Command at Holloman Air Force Base, in collaboration with 

Winzen Laboratories and the MIT Instrumentation Laboratory under Charles 

Stark Draper. By the early 1960s, the Upper Atmosphere division had become 

“Space Studies” and by 1964, there were six primary divisions, now described in 

	 49.	 Davis	oral	history,	pp.	85–87;	Gene	Avrett	oral	history,	14	October	2005,	working	files,	Department	of	

Space	History/NASM.	

	 50.	 Fred	Whipple	oral	history,	29	April	1977,	SHMA/AIP,	p.	132.	On	the	establishment	of	SAO	at	Harvard,	

see	Ron	Doel,	“Redefining	a	Mission:	The	Smithsonian	Astrophysical	Observatory	on	the	Move,”	Journal 

for the History of Astronomy	21	(1990):	137–153,	and	David	DeVorkin,	“Defending	a	Dream—Charles	

Greeley	Abbot’s	Years	at	the	Smithsonian,”	Journal for the History of Astronomy	21	(1990):	121–136.

408
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

terms of scientific problem areas, not space activity areas. Satellite Tracking, as 

a major division from the start, no longer appeared explicitly that year, among 

divisions called Planetary Sciences, Meteoritic Science, Cometary Science, Solar 

Observations, Stellar Observations, and Stellar Theory. Within the latter two 

were distinct problem areas identified as “Project Celescope” and associated 

groups devoted to developing the ultraviolet television systems, techniques 

for machine reduction of data, and the production of the SAO star catalog. On 

the theoretical side, a multifaceted team of astrophysicists was identified as 

devoted to model stellar atmospheres in support of Celescope. Overall staff 

growth increased by over 50 positions per year until 1960 and by over 100 

each from 1963 to 1964 and 1964 to 1965, reaching a full staff complement in 

1965 (scientific and support, both in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and at stations 

around the world) of over 500 positions. Celescope-related programs alone 

had over 100 positions in 1961.51

As I have shown in another study, Whipple achieved this explosive growth 

employing what he called a “brinksmanship principle” where he secured 

large government contracts for Space Age services and scientific programs, 

and then he appealed to private donors to support bricks and mortar so that 

he could expand to honor those contracts. To one donor, he might claim 

he had the best manpower to solve a specific problem that required a huge 

investment in a computer or a laboratory, whereas to another he would say 

that to solve that problem he had to staff that laboratory with more physicists. 

He could attract good workers by offering secure employment with federal 

civil service status. So he would finance administration and support through 

federal grants and contracts, and he would hire scientists and obtain their 

support directly from the Smithsonian’s congressional appropriation. And 

in parallel, he campaigned with private benefactors, pleading for a place to 

house all these people.52

Whereas Code at the University of Wisconsin already had a staff and 

students capable of taking advantage of the data that would be forthcoming 

from their instruments, Whipple’s SAO initially had no staff expertise in 

stellar spectrophotometry or in the stellar atmospheres theory that would 

	 51.	 Fred	Whipple,	“Reports	to	the	Secretary	1956–1964,”	“Observatory	Reports,	BAAS	1956–1964,”	and	

“Yearly	Reports	compiled	by	SI	Office	of	Human	Resources,”	examined	by	Louise	Thorn,	S2006,	Office	

of	Human	Resources/SIA.

	 52.	 Fred	Whipple	oral	history,	June	1976,	RU	9520	SIA,	pp.	32–35;	DeVorkin,	“SAO	During	the	Whipple	

Years.”

409
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 3:	Growth	of	Harvard	College	Observatory	and	SAO	from	1956	to	1966.	In	1955,	SAO	was	a	suite	

of	offices	within	the	Harvard	College	Observatory.	By	the	1960s,	it	had	far	outstripped	its	host	in	funding,	

manpower,	external	contracts,	and	grants.	“Harvard College Observatory 1965–1972,” folder 104.5, Jesse 

Greenstein Papers, Caltech Archives, n.d., circa 1966

form the basis for a full analysis of their data. Naturally, he anticipated this 

deficit and began to hire staff to rectify it using the dual lines of federal 

funding available to him and the patronage Harvard had long enjoyed. In 

the early 1960s, SAO staff grew rapidly, so much so that Whipple’s administrative staff created a weekly newsletter just to keep track of all the new 

faces. Some of them, like Eugene Avrett and Charles Whitney, knew that they 

had been hired for their expertise and that, sooner or later, they would be 

called upon for one of Whipple’s needs.53 In this way, Whipple established 

the largest astronomical empire on the planet by the mid-1960s, one that 

dwarfed even its host, the Harvard College Observatory. Most of Whipple’s 

hires were not astronomers, but experimental physicists, engineering specialists, optical and electronics experts, machinists, data processors, and 

applied mathematicians. 

	 53.	 Avrett	oral	history;	Charles	Whitney	oral	history,	13	October	2005,	working	files,	Department	of	Space	

History/NASM,	pp.	40–46.

410
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

Of course, by 1966, Harvard College Observatory was also experiencing 

significant growth. In 1966, Leo Goldberg, who had moved to Harvard in 1960 

from Michigan and was developing a very active program of solar research contributing instruments to the OSO satellite series, had replaced Donald Menzel 

as Chairman of the Harvard College Observatory. Unlike Menzel, Goldberg 

worried about SAO’s apparently unbridled growth. More problematic, SAO staff 

members were eager to teach undergraduate and graduate courses and were 

mentoring a disproportionate number of Harvard Ph.D. theses. Goldberg felt 

that Whipple was building something that, though astronomical in name, would 

not be perceived to be astronomical in nature by influential astronomers and by 

the Harvard Corporation. Ironically, Whipple’s federal and contract hires, even 

though they rarely if ever got Harvard appointments, were far more enthusiastic 

about teaching than were Harvard’s own tenured professors. By the late 1960s, 

with massive NASA and NSF cutbacks already straining resources, Goldberg and 

others like Bart Bok, now in Arizona, started wondering: where were all these 

new Ph.D. graduates going to get positions, and would Harvard’s graduates be 

competitive if it were known that they were not trained by tenured Harvard 

faculty? Harvard was not the only burgeoning Ph.D. mill: the University of Texas, 

the University of California–Los Angeles (UCLA), and the University of Michigan 

had all increased Ph.D. production due in no small part to major NASA graduate fellowships and traineeships.54 In a 1971 report, according to Bok, Harvard 

ranked only sixth among graduate departments in astronomy.55 By the mid-1970s, 

he was far from alone in worrying about the oversupply of Ph.D.’s due not only 

to overproduction at elite institutions like Harvard and the University of Texas, 

but due to the rapidly increasing number of Ph.D.-granting institutions.

Plotting Out the General Response: The First 15 Years

It must be appreciated that at both the University of Wisconsin and at Harvard, 

the influence of NASA funding on the growth of the discipline, and at like institutions, was far broader than the creation of the infrastructure needed to design, 

	 54.	 B.	T.	Lynds,	“Employment	Problems	in	Astronomy:	Report	of	the	Astronomy	Manpower	Committee	on	

Science	and	Public	Policy”	(Washington,	DC:	ED	112	724	HE	006	653,	National	Academy	of	Sciences,	

March	1975).	See	also	anon.,	“Measuring	the	Impact	of	NASA	on	the	Nation’s	Economy”	(Washington,	

DC:	NASA	TM-109753,	1990);	 Bart	 Bok	oral	history,	15	May	1978,	SHMA/AIP,	pp.	145–150;	Alex	

Dalgarno	oral	history,	6	December	2007,	working	files,	Division	of	Space	History/NASM,	pp.	56–59;	

Leo	 Goldberg	 oral	 history,	 10	 October	 1983,	 NASM/AIP;	 and	 Goldberg	 oral	 history,	 17	May	 1978,	

SHMA/AIP,	pp.	124–126.

	 55.	 Bart	Bok	oral	history,	p.	99.

411
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 4: Ph.D.	production	in	astronomy.	Growth	of	number	of	institutions	awarding	Ph.D.’s	in	astronomy	

in	the	United	States.	Figure 4 in Lynds 1975

build, test, and then operate these instrument payloads. Well into the mid-1960s, 

the rapidly expanding horizons enjoyed by many of the larger departments of 

astronomy, driven largely by NASA funding, did not seem to raise any flags. 

In fiscal year 1968, federal support was still on the rise, but inflation made it 

effectively less than the year before. To make matters worse, at the end of 1969, 

Senator Mike Mansfield introduced an amendment to the Military Authorization 

Act that, if passed, would severely limit DOD funding “to carry out any research 

project or study unless such project or study has a direct and apparent relationship to a specific military function.” The potential impact on funding for civilian 

programs like NSF or NASA would be huge; overall for science, over $300 million per year had been supported by the military services, and a sizable fraction 

would have to be moved to the civilian sector. And to be sure, the new Nixon 

administration after 1968 did not help; the continued effective drop in funding 

for science overall portended a disaster brewing.56

	 56.	 National	Science	Board	(NSB),	“A	History	of	Highlights	1950–2000,”	available	at	http://www.nsf.gov/

nsb/documents/2000/nsb00215/nsb50/1970/mansfield.html	(accessed	1	February	2009).

412
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

Joe Tatarewicz has well described how NASA relations with the scientific 

community were at a low ebb in the late 1960s. Nixon had directed Agnew to 

lead a study to determine a course for NASA in the post-Apollo era. This interagency Space Task Group deliberated, seeking politically neutral territory in an 

atmosphere charged with fears of overspending as the war in Vietnam expanded. 

Still and all, the focus once again became manned space adventures, specifically 

manned planetary exploration with the next stop Mars, possibly as soon as 1981. 

NASA’s response to this report was understandably giddy, pushing for very large 

space programs: the Space Shuttle, a space station, lunar bases, a nuclear Shuttle, 

a Grand Tour of the planets, and more than one manned mission to Mars. As 

Tatarewicz relates, the scientific community howled, and at least a few leaders 

in NASA’s space sciences areas listened, appealing quietly to appease the sciences by paying more attention to improving the infrastructure of ground-based 

planetary astronomy.57 Places like the University of Texas were delighted to get 

their 107-inch telescopes and continued support for graduate training.

One only has to look briefly at the growth in membership of the American 

Astronomical Society during the latter half of the 20th century to sense how the 

reaction to Sputnik and the emergence of NASA as a major funder of astronomy 

changed the discipline overall. As a consequence of this growth, meetings of 

the American Astronomical Society became larger and more complex. The use 

of parallel sessions was resisted throughout the 1950s, and only by late 1956 

were simultaneous sessions allowed. These were on demand for some years 

until, by the mid-1960s, they became standard; not only double, but triple 

simultaneous sessions soon followed. These parallel sessions changed the 

flavor of the meetings and naturally stimulated subdisciplinary concentrations 

that inevitably grew apart from one another.58

By the end of the 1960s, another stratification was taking place in the 

discipline, the creation and growth of specialist divisions. Knowing that solar 

astronomers and physicists, as well as high-energy astronomers and physicists, 

were advocating for identity in the rapidly growing society, the American 

Astronomical Society responded quickly by establishing formal division structures in August 1968. The Division of Planetary Sciences formed soon after, 

in December 1968, followed by Solar Physics, High Energy Astrophysics, and 

	 57.	 Joseph	N.	Tatarewicz,	Space Technology and Planetary Astronomy	(Bloomington,	IN:	Indiana	University	

Press,	1990),	pp.	103–104.	See	also	J.	Tatarewicz,	“Federal	Funding	and	Planetary	Astronomy,	1950–

1975:	A	Case	Study,”	Social Studies of Science	16,	no.	1	(1986):	79–103.	

	 58.	 DeVorkin,	“The	American	Astronomical	Society.”

413
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 5:	Growth	of	the	American	Astronomical	Society.	One	can	see	a	rapidly	increasing	population	

due	not	only	to	vastly	increased	federal	funding,	but	also	to	changes	in	the	society’s	own	definitions	for	

membership.	The	society	had	been	making	quiet	moves	to	increase	affiliations	with	radio	engineering	

groups	in	the	late	1950s	and,	by	1960,	agreed	to	add	member	categories	of	“junior”	and	“associate”	to	

accommodate	a	rapidly	increasing	population	of	undergraduate	students	enrolled	as	astronomy	majors	

and	the	rapidly	increasing	numbers	of	nonastronomers	interested	in	the	discipline.	DeVorkin and Routly, 

“The Modern Society, Changes in Demographics,” in The	American	Astronomical	Society’s	First	Century, 

ed. DeVorkin (AIP: American Astronomical Society, 1999), p. 128

Dynamical Astronomy. In each case, the “demands of the burgeoning Space 

Age for trained personnel” fueled growth.59

Stimulated by suggestions from Henry J. Smith in 1965, the leading solar 

program manager at NASA Headquarters, solar astronomers began talking 

about the need for disciplinary identity and focused activities. By 1969, a Solar 

Physics Division was formed within the American Astronomical Society, but 

not without expressed concerns that it would separate solar astronomers from 

the rest of the discipline. Smith, in fact, had initially suggested wholly separate annual meetings of solar physicists funded on NASA grants. In response, 

the president of the American Astronomical Society, the solar astronomer Leo 

Goldberg, suggested that this meeting take place with the American Astronomical 

Society by recognizing the group as a division of the society.60

	 59.	 R.	L.	Duncombe,	“The	Founding	of	the	Division	on	Dynamical	Astronomy—A	Few	Recollections,”	in	The 

American Astronomical Society,	pp.	269–276.

	 60.	 John	H.	Thomas,	“The	Solar	Physics	Division,”	in	The American Astronomical Society,	pp.	238–251.

414
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

Planetary astronomers did much the same thing, starting a bit after the 

solar astronomers but converging on a decision earlier. And again their newly 

recognized identity was stimulated largely, but not solely, by NASA-related 

programming. As Joe Tatarewicz has related, in the early 1960s, NASA program 

managers actively searched many disciplines looking for expertise to satisfy 

its needs in determining the suitability of the Moon as a base of operations, 

the atmospheric contents of the terrestrial planets, and other questions relating to the nature of bodies in the solar system.61 Both NASA and NSF funding 

created explosive growth, drawing in talent from many and diverse disciplines, 

leading to the creation of new specialist journals like Icarus and Planetary 

and Space Science and creating broader linkages between astronomers and 

the geophysical communities. The Planetary Sciences Division of the Kitt Peak 

National Observatory, combined with Gerard Kuiper’s Tucson-based Lunar and 

Planetary Laboratory, created the largest concentration of such activities in the 

United States and led to a series of annual conferences, stimulating the need 

for professional identity.62 Calls for a separate society were debated within 

this informal group in the late 1960s, but reticence by Kuiper, along with the 

advice of Carl Sagan and others, caused Tobias Owen to ask the American 

Astronomical Society to consider forming a branch that would “be concerned 

primarily with Solar System problems.”63

Among all of these divisions, the High Energy Astrophysics Division was 

dominated (but not exclusively) by specialists from areas outside mainstream 

optical astronomy and those areas most active in space research. The leaders in 

the field in the 1960s were all physicists, as Richard Hirsh has shown, trained 

in physics and identified with physics.64 But those who actually formed the 

High Energy Astrophysics Division included mainstream astronomers who 

were interested in the astronomical phenomena that indicated “high energy 

per photon” processes at play. As Virginia Trimble has observed, the first 

three divisions arose “almost entirely out of dissatisfaction” with mainstream 

astronomy and its reward system. But the high-energy astrophysicists also 

found themselves feeling disaffected “within the space astronomy community” 

	 61.	 Tatarewicz,	Space Technology.	

	 62.	 Cruikshank	and	Chamberlain,	“The	Beginnings	of	the	Division	for	Planetary	Sciences	of	the	AAS,”	in	

The American Astronomical Society,	pp.	252–268.

	 63.	 Ibid.,	p.	256.

	 64.	 Ibid.,	p.	259.	A	thorough	and	convincing	early	study	is	Richard	Hirsh,	Glimpsing an Invisible Universe: 

The Emergence of X-Ray Astronomy	(Cambridge,	U.K.:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1983),	pp.	62–65.

415
NASA’s First 50 Years

itself, which seemed to be less interested in their work than were mainstream 

astronomers.65

The fourth division to form consisted of mathematical orbit specialists or 

celestial mechanicians who, in consequence of the need for their expertise 

by both national security interests and space travel ventures, also grew in 

number and splintered in the 1960s. The person who in fact first suggested 

a division for celestial mechanics was Samuel Herrick of the UCLA School of 

Engineering, where he headed the astrodynamics program. Credited by some 

with actually inventing the term,66 Herrick’s brand of astrodynamics was specifically directed to orbit calculations for artificial satellites and probes. The 

petition, prepared by J. Derral Mulholland, who was at that time a research 

scientist in astronautics at JPL, was signed by only 15 people but was given 

full consideration by the American Astronomical Society, which advised that 

the petitioners consider defining their boundaries more carefully.67 After prolonged deliberation over whether the Dynamical Astronomy Division would 

be concentrated on applied problems or would include mainstream issues 

like astrometry and galactic structure and dynamics, the petitioners decided to 

change the name of the division to Dynamical Astronomy to favor the broader 

agenda and a blend of pure and applied science. Nevertheless, among the 

some 45 names on the revised petition, 19 came from NASA-related Centers 

and 5 from the U.S. Naval Observatory.68

By the end of the 1960s, the discipline of astronomy in the United States 

had experienced profound change. Beyond growth in sheer numbers and the 

formation of strong subdisciplinary identities, and, most significantly, beyond 

the rapid expansion of the technologies and specialties required to design 

and build devices that could take advantage of the new accessibility of the 

many octaves of information available in nonoptical regimes, there was also 

a significant change in organizational and political action among astronomers. National planning became essential, first stimulated in the early 1960s 

by fears that funding priorities for astronomy were not being determined by 

	 65.	 Virginia	Trimble,	“The	Origins	of	the	Divisions	of	the	American	Astronomical	Society	and	the	History	of	

the	High-Energy	Astrophysics	Division,”	in	The American Astronomical Society,	p.	228.	

	 66.	 Samuel	Herrick,	Astrodynamics: Orbit Correction, Perturbation Theory, Integration,	vol.	2,	available	at	

http://www.amazon.com/Astrodynamics-Correction-Perturbation-Theory-Integration/dp/0442033710

(accessed	19	January	2009).

	 67.	 R.	L.	Duncombe,	“The	Founding	of	the	Division	on	Dynamical	Astronomy—A	Few	Recollections,”	in	The 

American Astronomical Society,	pp.	269–276.	

	 68.	 Ibid.,	p.	273,	table	1.

416
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

astronomers themselves, but by military interests; second, by the end of the 

decade, that NASA’s manned spaceflight priorities would channel funds into 

astronomical programs that were, again, not of high priority; and third, most 

definitely, there was increased pressure within the subcommunities and subdisciplines of the astronomical sciences that found they were now in direct 

competition with each other for support. Astronomers as a community found 

themselves debating their priorities under the aegis of the National Academy 

of Sciences. The first of the “Decadal Surveys,” as they were called, chaired by 

Lick Observatory’s Albert Whitford in the mid-1960s, provided mainly a list 

of desired projects and programs, but they did not include space research or 

NASA astronomy missions. In February 1963, Whitford told the astronomical 

community that the first Decadal Survey panel “will direct its [attention to] 

ground-based facilities in optical and radio astronomy and to related auxiliary instruments and data-handling equipment.” Even though it claimed that 

it would plan to examine the “relative roles of ground-based astronomy and 

space astronomy and the relationship between independent research observatories and university-connected observatories,” these latter issues were claimed 

to not involve planning or the setting of priorities, when in fact both were 

deeply embedded in the value systems of differing groups, characteristic of 

American science, mainly the “haves” (the institutions on the West and East 

Coasts with the largest observatories or the greatest endowments) and the 

“have-nots” (those institutions mainly in the middle of the country that are 

state and campus based).69

The second survey, chaired by Jesse Greenstein from Caltech, did include 

space missions like the Large Space Telescope but, more significantly, also set 

clear priorities, listing the Large Space Telescope as the top priority among 

space projects but ninth overall behind radio facilities, such as the Very Large 

Array, and the support of a national infrastructure for ground-based optical 

astronomy.70 In addition to these surveys fostered by astronomers, NASA and 

	 69.	 A.	 E.	 Whitford	 to	 members	 of	 the	 American	 Astronomical	 Society,	 15	 February	 1963;	 American	

Astronomical	Society	Records,	AIP.	The	“East-West	Split	 in	American	Astronomy”	has	been	touched	

upon	by	various	historians	and	astronomers.	See,	for	instance:	D.	H.	DeVorkin,	“Where	to	Put	it?	The	

East-West	 Split	 over	 the	 site	 for	 the	 200-inch	 telescope,”	 American	 Astronomical	 Society,	 192nd	

American	Astronomical	Society	meeting,	no.	20.03;	Bulletin of the American Astronomical Society	30	

(1998):	847.

	 70.	 W.	Patrick	McCray,	Giant Telescopes: Astronomical Ambition and the Promise of Technology	(Cambridge,	

MA:	Harvard	University	Press,	2004),	pp.	80–81;	DeVorkin,	“Who	Speaks”;	Smith,	Space Telescope,	pp.	

131–134;	Michael	A.	G.	Michaud,	Reaching for the High Frontier: The American Pro-Space Movement 

1972–84	(Westport,	CT:	Praeger	Publishers,	Greenwood	Publishing	Group,	Inc.,	1986),	chap.	10.	

417
NASA’s First 50 Years

NSF maintained advisory bodies that included astronomers. The planetary 

community engaged in similar advisory functions. Overall, by 1970, the field 

experienced significant pressures between competing interests and found it 

harder and harder to plan in the face of uncertain budgets in an increasingly 

unstable political climate. 

Beyond Complexity—Limits to Growth and Retrenchment 

in a Changing Political Climate

Relentless growth of the astronomical community continued throughout the 

1960s, even though overall federal funding for astronomy, space astronomy in 

particular, peaked in 1968 and went through serious decline through 1972.71

NASA funding, very large compared to all others, flowed for training and missions, but it was deemed inadequate by astronomers for full data analysis, for 

maintaining the infrastructure, or for increasing the number of real jobs. It 

was also erratic; many of the fears astronomers expressed in the 1940s and 

early 1950s when faced with dependencies on federal funding started to come 

home to roost. 

Some astronomers started pointing fingers in various directions. The 

astronomer turned educator, historian, and ultimately university administrator Richard Berendzen was one of the first to sound the alarm. In a paper 

given at the New York City annual meetings of the National Science Teachers 

Association in April 1972, Berendzen concluded that “a major cause of the very 

limited employment opportunities in astronomy has been the migration into 

this field by scientists from other disciplines, especially physics, where the job 

opportunities are worse.”72 Even though the discipline definitely benefited from 

this inflow, sustained graduate training was producing a serious oversupply 

of new Ph.D.’s that was leading, by the early 1980s, to suggestions for rather 

draconian measures, like requiring that foreign students leave the United 

States after graduation.73 On the heels of Berendzen’s observations, American 

Astronomical Society President Bart Bok agreed, warning that employment 

problems in physics would spill over to astronomy: “Many such physicists will 

	 71.	 B.	T.	Lynds,	“Employment	Problems	in	Astronomy:	Report	of	the	Astronomy	Manpower	Committee	on	

Science	and	Public	Policy”	(Washington,	DC:	ED	112	724	HE	006	653,	National	Academy	of	Sciences,	

March	1975),	table	XI,	p.	22.

	 72.	 Richard	 Berendzen,	 “Manpower	 and	 Employment	 in	American	Astronomy”	 (paper	 presented	 at	 the	

National	Science	Teachers	Association	Annual	Meeting,	New	York	City,	New	York,	April	1972,	sess.	B-8,	

ERIC	#ED064101).	

	 73.	 I.	Peterson,	“Homeward	Bound	for	Graduate	Students?”	Science News	121,	no.	22	(29	May	1982):	359.

418
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

be seeking employment in astronomy, even though their doctoral research 

may have been in an unrelated area.” Bok, however, called for serious curtailment in graduate enrollment, as well as significant increases in federal funding 

from NSF for ground-based astronomy. Overall, however, he pointed fingers 

at NASA: “Because government funding for space research and astronomy has 

failed to keep pace with the rising number of astronomers . . . ,” it is clear that 

jobs need to be created elsewhere.74

Both Bok and Berendzen knew that there was a forum to face challenges 

like this: the National Academy Committee on Science and Public Policy had, 

by then, created an Astronomy Manpower Committee at Leo Goldberg’s urging. By 1970, frustrated with what Whipple was building at SAO, Goldberg 

had quit his position as chair and observatory director at Harvard College 

Observatory in protest, a move that led to the creation of a combined Harvard 

and Smithsonian “Center for Astrophysics” under a single director, George B. 

Field, in 1972. Goldberg was now director at Kitt Peak National Observatory, 

and his concerns for what was happening at Harvard extended to the astronomical community overall. 

The committee met at Woods Hole in June of 1974 to review preliminary 

statistics and get briefings on forecasts for federal funding. They called for 

more detailed studies, extending a 1973 AIP survey, and then met again in 

September after collecting information from 45 scientists representing some 70 

observatories and universities. Their primary conclusion, simply put, was that

The ratio of astronomers under forty years of age to those over 

50 years is nearly 6 to 1 and if all of the younger cohort seek 

permanent employment in the traditional modes, only one in 

6 will be successful. The possibility of an unemployment rate 

of near 600 percent is indeed staggering!75

Clearly what was happening at Harvard-Smithsonian was not unique; it 

was just an extreme example of what was happening nationally. One of the 

primary concerns was that NASA had concentrated on missions and training, 

but not enough attention was paid to data analysis or maintaining the growing 

	 74.	 Bart	J.	Bok	and	Donald	W.	Goldsmith,	“Present	Employment	Trends	in	Astronomy,”	Mercury 2	(July/

August	1973):	2–3;	Bok’s	remarks	on	“The	State	of	Astronomy,”	reported	in	R.	Weyman	“Now	is	the	

Time	for	all	Good	Men,”	Mercury 2,	no.	2	(March/April	1973):	2–3,	19.

	 75.	 Lynds,	“Employment	Problems,”	p.	43.

419
NASA’s First 50 Years

infrastructure. Somehow, a better balance had to be attained, partly through 

curtailing Ph.D. production and partly through opening up new employment 

opportunities for Ph.D.’s in nontraditional areas, like industry and education.76

Stating the obvious, the committee recognized that government support was 

very critical to increasing astronomical facilities and the pace of research. 

Government support had been critical to increasing the means to offer graduate 

training and had contributed to the increase in Ph.D. production. What government funding had not provided or had even maintained, however, and this was 

especially evident for NASA funding priorities, had been continuing support for 

the analysis of data from space missions, in effect, for the science. NASA had 

supported a host of missions, to be sure, that had returned spectacular results 

and opened vast new fields for investigation, but, the committee concluded: 

It is imperative to achieve the optimum balance between the 

support of major space missions on the one hand, and the 

support of the specialists who obtain, analyze and interpret the 

wealth of new astronomical data produced by such programs 

on the other. The young space scientists who must be counted 

on to design the experiments to be flown in the shuttle are 

actually being forced out of the field because they cannot 

find employment.77

Despite the 1975 survey and Bart Bok’s continuing campaign to reduce 

the size of the Ph.D. population as well as find new sources of employment 

for astronomers in education and industry, the discipline continued to grow as 

before. Fortunately, other events minimized the damage. When Ford replaced 

Nixon in 1975, followed by Carter, new policies ushered in an era of recovering 

levels of funding for science. The precipitous decline in the early 1970s that 

had caused so much concern and calls for triage was slowly reversed enough 

that prospects for new big starts like the Space Telescope became possible, 

bubbling up slowly to the point where, as Robert Smith has shown, sympathetic 

members of the executive branch were receptive to the prospect of a “Large” 

Space Telescope as a “fine example of the kind of science program that was 

worthy of support.”78 But once again the choice was for one huge mission, to 

	 76.	 Ibid.,	p.	35.	

	 77.	 Ibid.,	p.	48.

	 78.	 Robert	W.	Smith,	The Space Telescope,	p.	387.

420
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

be replenished by human visits, instead of a series of stepwise, ever improving 

smaller missions, tailored to special interests and needs. 

So, in sum, what had changed? Within the warming political climate just 

noted, NASA did respond to the 1975 Lynds Committee call for data analysis 

and infrastructure support. Between 1975 and 1976, the NASA request for 

data analysis for physics and astronomy grew from $6.5 million to $13.8 million, out of which $10.8 million was actually programmed, representing a 

doubling in two years. Just less than half of this was for Skylab, but even in 

1977 the request was considerably above previous levels.79 Similarly, requests 

to support research and technology funding for physics and astronomy grew 

from $13.8 million in 1974 to $25 million in 1975, even though once again 

substantial portions were for specific NASA missions like Spacelab, the Large 

Space Telescope, and the Solar Maximum Mission.80 Overall, however, physics 

and astronomy experienced a serious dip in 1974 programmed funding, from 

$126.2 million in 1973 to $94 million in 1974; but physics and astronomy had 

a larger increase in the following years, to $136.3 million in 1975 and up to 

$224.2 million in 1978.81

The report of the Lynds Committee also stimulated NASA scientists and 

science managers to think more about the critical importance of data analysis 

not only for knowledge production but for the health of the field. The old 

question of who was in charge of space science, scientists or politicians, led 

to the creation of the semi-independent Space Telescope Science Institute, 

championed by Noel Hinners, in particular, once he was convinced of its 

need in the mid- to late 1970s by astronomers including John Bahcall, C. R. 

O’Dell, A. D. Code, and the Science Working Group.82 Hinners, then Associate 

Administrator for Space Science, and with him other science managers like 

Charles Pellerin, believed that “NASA had,” in the words of Peter Boyce, then 

Executive Director of the American Astronomical Society, “a responsibility to 

support the field if they were to be able to have groups available to propose 

in the future. This was a big change and very important in funding the field.”83

	 79.	 Linda	N.	Ezell,	NASA Historical Data Book,	vol.	3	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4012,	1988),	table	3-4,	p.	

133,	and	table	3-19,	p.	140.

	 80.	 Ibid.,	table	3-18,	p.	139.	Partly	offsetting	these	rises	were	substantial	drops	in	mission	funding	for	OAO	

and	OSO,	tables	3-7	and	3-8,	p.	135.

	 81.	 Ibid.,	table	3-5,	p.	134.	

	 82.	 Smith,	Space Telescope,	pp.	197–201.

	 83.	 Peter	Boyce	to	author,	6	February	2009,	working	files,	Department	of	Space	History,	NASM.

421
NASA’s First 50 Years

Although this response was heartening, it was not the solution. Certainly 

the scale of the profession had changed drastically, and with this change came 

increased pressures to gain support through innovation and novelty. These 

pressures were also accompanied by deeper changes in the complexion of the 

astronomical community regarding changes in the source of innovation. At the 

midpoint of the 20th century, American astronomy was almost exclusively optical, and the means of recording data was still almost completely photographic. 

When mainstream astronomy thought of expansion of capability, it was along 

these two traditional lines. Large investments in fewer and fewer instruments, 

those requiring elite involvement, and in turn increasing a “stratification pyramid” in the discipline, concentrated the largest and most powerful telescopes 

into the fewest hands, typically the elite observatory directors.84

Through the 1950s, the trend continued but began to be countered by the 

national observatory movement made possible by federal funding and by the 

maturation and adoption of electronic means of recording data. The national 

observatory system fostered by NSF, for both radio and optical centers making 

world-class instrumentation available to all astronomers by peer review, resulted 

in profound cultural shifts in astronomers’ behavior, including increased attention to collective planning beyond their particular institutions and, as a result, 

an expanded vision of new possibilities and scales of operation made possible 

by the wealth of a great nation. Both counteracting trends rapidly expanded in 

the Space Age of the 1960s and beyond, with NASA’s engineering enthusiasms 

fueling novelty and innovation, drawing in expertise from wider and wider 

circles beyond astronomy and adopting the national observatory model in its 

“Great Observatories” third-generation satellite programs. Larger new technology programs continued to trump smaller ones, of course, because the larger 

ones garnered wider political support and, to be sure, broader appeal within 

the scientific community as well. But now, many of those proposing these 

new programs were not mainstream astronomers. By the end of the century, 

physicists dominated training, technique, and the professional culture of the 

astronomical community. The Lynds Committee showed that between 1970 and 

1973 the number of Ph.D. physicists with stated specialization in astronomy 

jumped from 623 to 1,313, and the number of general workers who trained in 

physics but were doing astronomy went from 1,074 to 1,906. Among physicists, 

	 84.	 Michael	John	Halliwell,	“Prestige	Allocation	in	Astronomical	Research:	A	study	of	Dysfunctional	Aspects,”	

Pacific Sociological Review	25,	no.	2	(April	1982):	233–249.	See	also	Hirsh,	Emergence.	

422
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

astronomy ranked ninth as a physics specialty in 1970 and third in 1973.85

Further analysis showed that the flow of physicists into astronomy was not 

primarily a flow of new Ph.D.’s in physics, but it was due to a “flow of more 

mature Ph.D. physicists in the field.” Subfields of physics that provided the 

most manpower flowing into astronomy came from elementary particle physics, 

nuclear physics, atomic and molecular physics, and theoretical physics—with 

no reverse flow. And they were flowing not to optical astronomy, but to the 

new astronomies—the high-energy regimes understood best by x-ray and 

gamma-ray physicists. And they were attracted to the biggest projects, like the 

Large Space Telescope and the other Great Observatories. To be sure, plenty of 

excellent science came with it, but with it came a very different culture open 

to structural as well as technical innovation, including a broadened field for 

awarding large institutional and mission contracts and rapid public access 

to data produced by these extremely expensive federally funded missions.86

When Peter Boyce surveyed the membership of the American Astronomical 

Society in 1997, looking back upon his years as American Astronomical Society 

Executive Officer, he observed that “Fuelled by increasing support from NASA 

for the astronomical research community, astronomy in the United States grew 

even more rapidly in the 1980s than ever before.” Boyce also singled out the 

fact that NASA also fostered many changes in the profession—in the structure 

and nature of the American Astronomical Society itself—in the way it serves 

and mediates the profession and in the way it presents itself to the world of 

Washington, DC, patronage. In 1979, with some 3,500 members, with national 

meetings attracting upward of 600 people, and with a yearly budget of $2 

million, the responsibilities of managing the American Astronomical Society 

required a full-time professional office staff “assuring compliance with increasingly complex governmental regulations” and “developing effective relations 

with Congress and Governmental agencies.” Thus the executive office moved 

from the sylvan landscape of Princeton’s meadows and fields to Dupont Circle, 

Washington, DC, and is unlikely ever to return.87

Both SAO and the Harvard College Observatory experienced profound 

change, though it cannot be said that in its hybrid form since 1955 it ever 

	 85.	 Lynds,	“Employment	Problems,”	p.	4.

	 86.	 The	author	is	indebted	to	Peter	Boyce	and	others	for	helpful	discussions	leading	to	these	conclusions.	

They	are	suggestive	of	further	work	to	be	done.

	 87.	 Peter	Boyce,	“Moving	the	AAS	Executive	Office	to	Washington,”	in	The American Astronomical Society’s 

First Century,	p.	153.	

423
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 6:	SAO	funding	showing	multiple	federal	sources	that	moderated	sudden	drops	in	NASA	funding.	

SAO Financial History, “Report by the Director to the SAO Visiting Committee,” April 1975–April 1977, p. 8; 

Exhibit 3, “Report by the Director to the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory Visiting Committee,” in “For 

the Record” by M. Malec, 6 October 1977, p. 8, RU 468, box 22, “Congressional Investigation of SAO”

represented a traditional form of astronomical institution. The crisis in management and oversight that led to Goldberg’s departure and Whipple’s retirement 

in the early 1970s and the combination of the two bodies under a single title, 

the Center for Astrophysics (CfA), and a single director were not caused by 

NASA funding; though one can argue that the availability of the opportunities 

NASA or a NASA-like agency (in another world, it could certainly have been 

military support) afforded facilitated growth and, hence, the problem. 

But look closer. During the 1970s, the CfA, like all institutions, suffered 

from initial cutbacks and unstable science policies. However, with its multiplicity of federal funding sources, SAO was less affected than most. Looking 

at its broad combination of funding, unique among American astronomical 

institutions, one can see that as direct federal funding through competitive 

grants and contracts fell, the losses were partially offset by a steady increase in 

congressional appropriations through the Smithsonian itself. The Smithsonian 

424
The Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy

Astrophysical Observatory did substantially trim its staffing in programs that 

were no longer critical in the post-Whipple era, mainly through attrition due 

to the waning of satellite tracking and Moonwatch programs. Celescope 

expenditures and manpower requirements also peaked at its launch in 1968, 

leaving mainly the astrophysical groups intact. Some of the technical staff were 

picked up by the growth of ground-based activities in Arizona or by a rapidly 

expanding non-optical, high-energy astrophysics division led by the migration 

of Riccardo Giacconi’s x-ray group to SAO in the mid-1970s.88

Like the CfA, the American Astronomical Society has outgrown many 

perceived traditional boundaries. At his 1947 banquet address, on the occasion of the society’s 50th year, Joel Stebbins remarked with satisfaction how 

visitors from other disciplines like mathematics and physics often remarked 

that society meetings were “like that of a club while that of larger societies . . . 

much like a market.” Stebbins added poignantly that “We should hate to lose 

the intimate contacts which we get in the small Society.”89 Some 30 years hence, 

the fears Stebbins expressed definitely came true, with parallel sessions, town 

meetings highlighting national programs and priorities, job centers, balkanized 

and competing specialties, and vastly expanded news media attention. Even 

so, the loss of intimacy, which could as well be regarded as the weakening of 

the traditional observatory system led by directors like Stebbins, was not on 

the minds of the leaders of the discipline in following years. Responding to 

a critical editorial on astronomy funding in the Christian Science Monitor’s 

“Research Notebook” in April 1982, the CfA director succeeding Goldberg and 

Whipple, George Field, who was then chair of the third Decadal Survey in the 

early 1980s, pointed to the fact that governmental funding agencies had indeed 

listened to the recommendations of astronomers. Almost all of the examples 

he gave of new facilities for astronomy that had been envisioned and placed 

at high priority were NASA missions ranging from the Apollo Telescope Mount, 

to Solar Max, to the IUE, with the exception of the SAO-Arizona Multiple 

Mirror Telescope, a radical departure for ground-based optical astronomy, and 

a millimeter-wave radio telescope. Field cautioned that astronomers needed to 

remain wary about “prospective budgets for U.S. science,” adding that “Serious 

	 88.	 SAO	 financial	 history	 in	 “Report	 by	 the	 Director	 to	 the	 SAO	Visiting	 Committee,”	 April	 1975–April	

1977,	 pp.	 8–9;	 Exhibit	 3,	 “Report	 by	 the	 Director	 to	 the	 Smithsonian	 Astrophysical	 Observatory	

Visiting	Committee,”	in	M.	Malec,	“For	the	Record,”	6	October	1977,	RU	468,	box	22;	“Congressional	

Investigation	of	SAO,”	SIA.

	 89.	 Joel	 Stebbins,	 “The	 American	 Astronomical	 Society,	 1897–1917,”	 Popular Astronomy	 55	 (October	

1947):	412,	reprinted	in	The American Astronomical Society’s First Century, pp.	53–57.	

425
NASA’s First 50 Years

cuts have been made, and further cuts can be anticipated in the future.” But 

overall he was adamant that they had exhibited fiscal restraint in their priority 

listings and were hardly “tilting at windmills . . . .”90 Field and his contemporaries 

well appreciated the fact that with careful planning and constant vigilance, the 

bargain they and their cohorts had made with federal patronage did lead to a 

vastly increased opportunity for exploring the universe. What autonomy they 

retained, moreover, was directly related to how well they could remain united 

as astronomers on the national level.

Acknowledgments

Over the past few years a number of summer students and research assistants 

contributed to this effort. Chief among them, in chronological order, are Louise 

Thorn, Teasel Muir-Harmony, Caroline Tung, Samantha Thompson, Chris 

Hearsey, Fernanda Luppani, and Joan Mathys. Patrick McCray’s collaboration 

in an NSF-sponsored grant project was the launch point of this research, which 

was funded by the NASA History Division and the Smithsonian Institution. I am 

particularly indebted to the archivists at the Smithsonian Institution Archives, 

mainly Ellen Alers; to the NASA archives and Jane Odom; to the Caltech 

Archives; and to the Archives Division at NASM and at the American Institute 

of Physics’s Center for History of Physics for access to oral histories. Readers 

providing helpful commentary included Peter Boyce, B. T. Lynds, Robert Smith, 

Michael Dennis, and Marc Rothenberg. 

	 90.	 George	B.	Field,	“Letter	to	the	Natural	Science	Editor	on	Astronomy,”	Christian Science Monitor	(2	June	

1982):	10.

426
Chapter 17

Planetary Exploration in the 

Inner Solar System

Joseph N. Tatarewicz

Introduction

Exploring the inner solar system animated the visions of the pioneers of rocketry 

and spaceflight. Very soon after Sputnik, as the Soviet Union launched probes to 

the Moon, Venus, and Mars, NASA organized itself for a broad program of space 

exploration. The state of propulsion, communications, and on-board computer 

technology made the small, rocky planets of the inner solar system an obvious, if 

challenging, choice, with exploration of the gas giant outer planets deferred until 

considerably longer into the future. The first 50 years of planetary exploration saw 

a spirited contest between the United States and the Soviet Union, sending a wide 

variety of flyby probes, orbiters, and landers to the so-called terrestrial planets, 

Mercury, Venus, Earth, and Mars, as well as human explorers and an automated 

sample return mission to the Moon. Reconnaissance missions visited each of these 

bodies in the first two decades, before any missions were launched to the outer 

planets, while more focused and ambitious successor missions returned repeatedly 

over the next three decades. While Mercury is still at the reconnaissance stage, with 

the first return since the early 1970s now en route, the other planets and satellites have been subject to extensive exploration by probes, orbiters, and landers.1

	 1.	 The	author	is	grateful	to	the	NASA	History	Division	for	generous	and	patient	support	over	many	years.	

Themes	 	and	 interpretations	 in	this	 chapter	are	drawn	 in	part	from	 Joseph	N.	Tatarewicz,	Exploring 

the Solar System: The Planetary Sciences Since Galileo,	manuscript	in	preparation.	For	the	latter,	the	

author	is	especially	grateful	to	Roger	Launius	and	Robert	J.	Brugger.	Due	to	the	vast	scope	of	this	essay,	

references	below	are	to	representative	literature	and	reviews.

427
NASA’s First 50 Years

Scientific understanding of the state, history, and origins of these bodies was 

transformed by in situ observations, but not before an intensive NASA program 

of remedial planetary astronomy, institution building, and social engineering 

bolstered the fund of basic knowledge available from Earth-based study and 

created a community of planetary scientists. Synergistic interplay between 

planetary astronomy, laboratory studies, and probe-based study overturned 

expectations about Venus and Mars, provided the first real information on tiny 

Mercury, and settled major controversies about the state and history of the Moon. 

Comparative studies of impact cratering helped establish a basic chronology 

for the evolution of the planetary system and prepared scientists to understand the data returned from probes to the outer planets. Laboratory analysis 

of returned lunar samples and remote chemical analysis of Martian samples 

even allowed identification of lunar and Martian meteorites recovered from 

Antarctica. Planetary science itself, as an integrative interdisciplinary approach, 

cut its teeth in the inner solar system and developed into an established and 

productive enterprise that transformed our understanding of the solar system.2

The Inner Solar System and the Terrestrial Planets 

Viewed from Afar

For the first two millennia of our preoccupation with the cosmos, Earth was 

our spherical home, at rest in the center of the universe and surrounded by 

	 2.	 The	NASA	efforts	to	develop	planetary	astronomy	and	socially	engineer	a	planetary	science	community	

are	recounted	in	Joseph	N.	Tatarewicz,	Space Technology and Planetary Astronomy	(Bloomington,	IN:	

Indiana	 University	 Press,	 1990).	The	 broader	 context	 and	 alternate	 interpretations	 can	 be	 found	 in	

Ronald	E.	Doel,	Solar System Astronomy in America: Communities, Patronage, and Interdisciplinary 

Science, 1920–1960	(New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1995).	The	increasing	and	changing	

knowledge	of	the	solar	system	in	response	to	spacecraft	visits	and	Earth-based	study	can	be	seen	easily	

in	successive	editions	of	J.	Kelly	Beatty	et	al.,	ed.,	The New Solar System	(New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	

University	 Press,	 1981,	 1982,	 1990,	 1999).	 Anticipating	 the	 impact	 of	 spacecraft	 exploration	 on	

planetary	science	and	the	need	for	a	contemporary	summary	of	current	knowledge,	astronomer	Gerard	

P.	Kuiper,	with	Barbara	M.	Middlehurst,	edited	four	volumes	of	The Solar System	(Chicago,	IL:	University	

of	Chicago	Press,	1958–1963).	Individual	volumes	appeared:	The Sun;	The Moon, Meteorites, and 

Comets;	 The Planets;	 and	 The Earth as a Planet.	A	 fifth,	 unpublished	 volume	 exists	 in	manuscript	

fragments	in	Kuiper’s	papers	at	the	University	of	Arizona–Tucson’s	university	archives.	The	University	

of	Arizona,	where	Kuiper	established	his	Lunar	and	Planetary	Laboratory	in	the	early	1960s,	continued	

the	publishing	tradition	with	a	series	of	volumes	from	the	University	of	Arizona	Press,	Space	Science	

Series.	Many	NASA	solar	system	exploration	programs	have	been	the	subjects	of	individual	volumes	

in	the	NASA	History	Series.	An	extensive	listing	of	the	latter,	many	available	for	download	in	full,	may	

be	found	at	http://history.nasa.gov/series95.html.	The	three	volumes	of	Stephen	G.	Brush,	A History of 

Modern Planetary Physics	(New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1996),	cover	the	19th	and	20th	

centuries	comprehensively.	Ronald	A.	Schorn	covers	Earth-based	studies	in	Planetary Astronomy: From 

Ancient Times to the Third Millennium	(College	Station,	TX:	Texas	A&M	University	Press,	1998).

428
Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

planets (including the Sun and Moon) and stars that were, by definition, completely inaccessible and entirely “other.” There was simply no prospect at all 

of exploring or knowing them. They were even made of an exotic, separate, 

“fifth element,” totally unlike earth, water, air, and fire here below. During 

the so-called Copernican and Scientific Revolutions, the move from a cozy, 

tightly constructed, Earth-centered universe to one in which the Sun (a star) 

is surrounded by a collection of planets (all worlds in their own right) was 

positively transforming. The Sun stopped being just a planet and became a star; 

Earth stopped being the unique home of humanity and became just another 

planet; the Moon ceased being a planet and became one planetary satellite 

among many; and the other planets became worlds in themselves—accessible, 

understandable, and familiar—rather than totally alien. The planets—Earth 

included—now formed a generic group, capable of comparative study using 

common techniques, the results of which would be applicable to all of the 

others, to some degree.3

It is no accident that the ancient and venerable Aristotelian and scholastic assertion that a man could never journey to pierce the heavenly spheres, 

because there would be neither space nor place to receive him, gave way almost 

immediately to Johann Kepler’s Dream, in which he journeyed to the Moon 

to find it Earth-like and gazed back upon Earth; the assertion also gave way 

to Galileo’s telescopic observations that taught him that the sunrise over the 

lunar mountains viewed from Earth was the same as the sunrise over Bohemia 

viewed from the Moon.4

There followed three and a half centuries of telescopic observations. Telescopes 

got bigger and ever more capable. The Moon swelled to reveal a breathtaking 

topography of plains, basins, mountains, and craters. Jupiter showed complex 

and dynamic equatorial bands and an enigmatic feature creatively named the 

Great Red Spot. Saturn revealed fixating striated rings. Newly discovered planets, 

Uranus and Neptune, showed pale blue-green discs. Other moons—visible as 

only tiny specks of light—multiplied around most of the planets. The puzzling 

	 3.	 In	 the	 Aristotelian-Ptolemaic	 system,	 the	 “planets,”	 or	 “wandering	 stars,”	 were	 generally	 arranged	

as	follows:	Moon,	Sun,	Mercury,	Venus,	Mars,	Jupiter,	and	Saturn,	although	there	were	ancient	and	

medieval	variations	concerning	the	relative	order	of	the	Sun,	Mercury,	and	Venus.	See	Edward	Grant,	

Planets, Stars, and Orbs: The Medieval Cosmos, 1200–1687 (Cambridge,	U.K.:	Cambridge	University	

Press,	1996),	pp.	310–312.	Once	Copernicus	put	the	Sun	at	the	center,	the	modern	order	for	the	(now)	

five	planets	was	followed.

	 4.	 Galileo	Galilei,	Sidereus Nuncius; or, the Sidereal Messenger,	translated	with	introduction,	conclusion,	

and	notes	by	Albert	Van	Helden	(Chicago,	IL:	University	of	Chicago	Press,	1989).

429
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 1:	The	solar	system.	While	produced	with	the	benefit	of	information	from	spacecraft	exploration,	

this	modern	schematic	is	nonetheless	typical	of	depictions	of	the	solar	system	over	the	past	two	centuries.	

The	solar	system	features	eight	planets,	seen	in	this	artist’s	diagram.	Although	there	is	some	debate	

within	the	science	community	as	to	whether	Pluto	should	be	classified	as	a	planet	or	a	dwarf	planet,	the	

International	Astronomical	Union	has	decided	on	the	term	“Plutoid”	as	a	name	for	dwarf	planets	like	Pluto.	

This	representation	of	the	solar	system	is	intentionally	fanciful,	as	the	planets	are	depicted	far	closer	

together	than	they	really	are.	Similarly,	the	relative	sizes	of	the	bodies	are	inaccurate.	Drawn	to	scale,	the	

Sun	would	be	a	mere	speck,	and	the	planets—even	the	majestic	Jupiter—would	be	far	too	small	to	be	

seen.	NASA/JPL

space between Mars and Jupiter filled up with a panoply of so-called “minor 

planets.” (Much later, planetary scientists at a professional conference would 

adopt [tongue-in-cheek] a more politically correct nomenclature: “dimensionally 

challenged objects” for these so-called “asteroids”.)5

Astronomers adopted this extended band of minor planets and debris as 

a demarcation between an “inner” and an “outer” solar system. Combining 

bootstrapped gravitational analyses of orbits with telescopic measurements of 

diameters, they realized that the inner planets were small, dense, and rocky, 

just like Earth, and therefore called “terrestrial.” The outer planets were exotic 

	 5.	 Telescopic	study	of	the	planets	is	treated	in	Michael	Hoskin,	ed.,	The Cambridge Concise History of 

Astronomy	(Cambridge,	U.K.:	Cambridge	University	Press,	2008)	and	the	much	more	extensive	multiple	

volumes	of	Hoskin,	ed.,	The Cambridge General History of Astronomy, particularly	 vol.	2, Planetary 

Astronomy from the Renaissance to the Rise of Astrophysics	(in	two	parts,	1995	and	2003).

430
Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

gas giants, their misleading visible surfaces merely cloud decks, deep within 

which might be small, metallic cores; therefore, they were called “Jovian” 

after Jupiter, the exemplar of their class. Comets, loosely bound collections 

of sand and perhaps ice, commuted from the exurbs. But, except for a bunch 

of well-defined planets and moons; an asteroidal band of debris; and the few, 

tiny commuters, there was nothing but empty space, solar radiation, and the 

invisible glue of gravity in between. This is the canonical Copernican-Keplerian 

Solar System, successor to the Aristotelian-Ptolemaic-Scholastic Cosmos, which 

would stand until spacecraft made their journeys.6

Ironically, the gas giants of the outer solar system revealed more telescopic 

detail and dynamism than the more familiar bodies of the inner solar system. 

While the Moon was a field day for mappers and catalogers on Earth, its consistently gray, unchanging, and airless surface was disappointing. Earth-based 

spectroscopy found its surface to resemble Earth-like volcanic basalts, and while 

the morphology of the craters suggested an impact origin, there were some 

features suggestive of ancient volcanic calderas. Nonetheless, it was an obvious first destination for exploration, and some held hope for active volcanism 

among the craters. Just after Sputnik, the U.S. Army’s classified Project Horizon 

proposed establishing a fully staffed base for nuclear missiles on it, the better 

to defend the United States from Soviet attack from the ultimate high ground.7

Mercury, tiny and always in solar glare, barely showed a disc, and the few 

features a handful of astronomers thought they saw were mostly discounted 

by their colleagues. In any case, it was too hot (any atmosphere it might have 

had was long since burned off) and so close to the Sun that even getting 

there was problematic. Not until 1974 would the first probe arrive, a triumph 

of innovative spacecraft engineering and navigation.

Venus, visibly larger, more easily observed, and showing a full suite of 

phases, was shrouded in dense, white clouds. Optimistic thermodynamic 

calculations and the assumption that the clouds were water vapor led some 

astronomers to conclude a balmy surface beneath, with oceans, continents, and 

probably a carboniferous swamp. Even the first radio observations of the late 

1950s, which produced puzzling results, did not dissuade the majority opinion 

	 6.	 Steven	J.	Dick,	Plurality of Worlds: The Origins of the Extraterrestrial Life Debate From Democritus to 

Kant	(New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1982).

	 7.	 Ralph	Baldwin,	The Face of the Moon	(Chicago,	IL:	University	of	Chicago	Press,	1949);	Dwayne	A.	Day,	

“Take	off	and	nuke	the	site	from	orbit	(it’s	the	only	way	to	be	sure	.	.	.	),”	Space Review	(4	June	2007),	

available	at	http://www.thespacereview.com/article/882/1	(accessed	4	April	2009).

431
NASA’s First 50 Years

that Venus was at least capable of sustaining life and that it might well harbor 

indigenous beings. A young Carl Sagan, already then cocky and annoying most 

of his fellows, concluded in his Ph.D. dissertation that Venus was the victim of 

a runaway greenhouse effect and an inferno. The first successful U.S. planetary 

probe, Mariner 2 in 1961, added to the weight of ground-based evidence; and 

later probes measuring the atmosphere in situ finally confirmed that Venus 

was inhospitable in the extreme.

Unique among the inner and outer planets was Mars—a positive obsession. 

While only the Moon showed more telescopic detail, Mars showed every plausible indication of domesticity. It was near to the size of Earth and closer than 

any other planet; its year was just under twice that of Earth; its atmosphere was 

detectable; its white polar caps expanded and shrank with the seasons; dust 

blew across the surface; and a wide variety of surface features and greenish 

colors came and went. Venus and Mars were always the preferred destinations 

of the rocketry pioneers and the science fiction writers. But Mars was first 

among equals until the first Mariner spacecraft visited Venus, and it was the 

only hope thereafter. Not dissuaded by Sagan’s gloomy analysis, the U.S. Air 

Force included both Venus and Mars in its “Strategic Interplanetary Systems” 

proposal, whereby it asserted the mission to protect peaceful U.S. exploratory 

bases on both planets from Soviet incursion.8

So, on the eve of the Space Age, this was the state of the solar system. While 

planetary astronomy on Earth included much more than just visual observation, 

the best telescopic images of the planets serve as a reminder of just how little 

was evident, and contemporary charts of the solar system, consisting mostly of 

lines and little circles drawn against vast blank space, remind us of just how 

empty and tidy it was thought to be.9

First Plans for Voyages

Very soon after Sputnik, as the Soviet Union launched probes to the Moon 

and prepared to journey to Venus and Mars, NASA organized itself for a broad 

program of space exploration. At a time when successfully getting Earth orbital 

	 8.	 Dwayne	A.	Day,	“Take	off	and	nuke	the	site	from	orbit	(it’s	the	only	way	to	be	sure	.	.	.	).”	The	Army	

efforts	were	instigated	by	Wernher	von	Braun,	then	at	the	ABMA,	and	all	but	ceased	once	von	Braun	

and	his	team	were	transferred	to	NASA;	the	Air	Force	interest	in	the	Moon	and	nearer	planets	continued	

through	the	1960s,	with	a	dedicated	basic	research	institute	for	lunar	and	planetary	study	at	the	Air	

Force	Cambridge	Research	Laboratory	under	John	W.	Salisbury.

	 9.	 A	good	example	is	Henry	Norris	Russell,	The Solar System and Its Origin	(New	York,	NY:	Macmillan,	

1935).

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Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

satellites only a few hundred miles into orbit and functioning was itself a challenge, missions to even the Moon and nearer planets were the highest challenge 

and evoked the most skepticism. In 1959, as Caltech’s JPL negotiated transfer 

of its contract to NASA from the U.S. Army, JPL settled on seeking the lunar 

and planetary mission for its own. The state of propulsion, communications, 

and on-board computer technology made the small, rocky planets of the inner 

solar system an obvious, if challenging, choice, with exploration of the gas 

giant outer planets deferred until considerably longer into the future. In JPL’s 

eyes, the Moon might serve as an interim test bed for such exploration, but it 

did not seem intrinsically interesting in its own right. The paradigm that eventually followed was evident in these early studies. It called for 1) one or more 

swift flyby probes for reconnaissance, 2) one or more orbiters for mapping 

and characterizing the environment, 3) one or more automated soft landers, 

and 4) human exploration.10

But, we should not take this tidy exploration paradigm too far—choices 

of which bodies when, which instruments to fly, and which questions to ask 

were a hoary suboptimization of scientific and engineering agendas, political 

directives, budgetary feast or famine, and responses to discoveries as well 

as failures. And, while JPL became most identified with this exploration, 

other NASA Centers were involved as well. Goddard Space Flight Center, 

for example, took near-Earth orbit as its purview, and its instruments and 

expertise found application around other bodies as well. Ames Research 

Center, with its special expertise in hypervelocity aerodynamics, worked on 

entry probes and also adapted its successful interplanetary Pioneer series 

to outer solar system exploration. Johnson Space Center and Marshall Space 

Flight Center, of course, were most deeply involved in Apollo, including 

lunar science, but contributed to various planetary missions as well. If we 

recall that Earth is itself a planet, it is interesting to note that the exploration paradigm was followed in this case, more or less, in reverse. Centuries 

of human exploration of our own planet had amassed great detail, but with 

varying coverage and a synoptic view assembled only with great difficulty. 

Sounding rockets and later satellites moved ever farther from Earth, providing the kinds of observations and global perspective that formed the starting 

point for studying other planets.11

	 10.	 Clayton	R.	Koppes,	JPL and the American Space Program	(New	Haven,	CT:	Yale	University	Press,	1982).

	 11.	 Noel	W.	Hinners,	“The	Golden	Age	of	Solar	System	Exploration,”	in	The New Solar System,	ed.	J.	Kelly	

Beatty	and	Andrew	Chaikin	(New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1990),	pp.	3–14.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Overview

The cleanest example of the astronomy-flyby-orbiter-lander-humans paradigm 

was the Apollo program. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s initial plan to test its 

probes, orbiters, and landers at the Moon was quickly overtaken by President 

Kennedy’s 1961 directive and NASA’s subsequent transformation. Ranger impact 

probes, Surveyor Landers, and Lunar Orbiters preceded the Apollo missions 

and gathered advance data for development and operation of the Apollo system, and they secondarily performed a scientific reconnaissance to prepare 

for astronaut surface operations. Before all this, JPL and NASA had formed a 

relationship with astronomer Gerard P. Kuiper and his Lunar and Planetary 

Laboratory in Tucson, Arizona, to provide remedial astronomical reconnaissance 

and analysis. It was Kuiper and his sometime colleague and ofttimes nemesis, 

Harold Urey, who provided the early scientific justification and guidance for 

Apollo: that the Moon was a “Rosetta Stone” for the solar system, a reliquary 

that had frozen in time the conditions and chemistry of its formation. That 

proved only partially correct, but the detailed study of the surface and interior 

of the Moon from all platforms, however skewed and compromised by the 

mandates of engineering and astronaut safety, was a continuing bonanza.12

Not only did Apollo succeed in characterizing the Moon (and Earth’s) 

formation and conditions, but the stratigraphic analysis of cratering brought 

to a high art by the U.S. Geological Survey and its Astrogeology Division in 

Flagstaff, Arizona, gave the first detailed chronology of the chaotic conditions 

that accompanied the accretion, melting, and surface molding of the Moon and 

Earth out of planetesimals. The Astrogeology Division, led by geologists Eugene 

Shoemaker, Harold Masursky, and others, trained the Apollo astronauts to be 

field geologists, and the division even sent one of their own, Harrison “Jack” 

Schmitt, to be the first (and last) scientist-astronaut to the Moon on Apollo 17. 

So unlikely a location as Houston, Texas, became the repository of the returned 

lunar samples, the later identified lunar and Martian meteorites recovered from 

Antarctica, and other extraterrestrial materials that happened to pass close 

enough to Earth to be collected. From shortly after Apollo 11 until today, lunar 

and planetary scientists hovered around Houston, Texas, the lunar receiving 

laboratory and curatorial facility, and the Lunar and Planetary Institute. The 

	 12.	 Dale	 P.	 Cruikshank,	 “Gerard	 Peter	 Kuiper	 (December	 7,	 1905–December	 24,	 1973),”	 Biographical 

Memoirs of the National Academy of Sciences	62	(1993):	259–295;	James	R.	Arnold,	Jacob	Bigeleisen,	

and	 Clyde	A.	 Hutchison,	 Jr.,	“Harold	 Clayton	 Urey	(April	29,	1893–January	5,	1981),” Biographical 

Memoirs of the National Academy of Sciences 68	(1995):	363–411.

434
Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

astronauts themselves, much to their annoyance, were initially quarantined along 

with their samples for a time—something for which they held Carl Sagan and 

another portion of his Ph.D. dissertation personally responsible.13

Apollo was the full paradigm, calibrated with ground truth from six sampled 

landing sites. For entirely separate reasons, outbound planetary spacecraft did 

not return equivalently detailed imagery and sophisticated other observations 

of Mercury, Venus, and Mars until after Apollo—when planetary geologists 

were primed and ready to apply the Apollo knowledge and technique. Similarly, 

observations of the icy satellites of the outer planets began arriving only in 

1979, when the full complement of technique and knowledge gained in the 

inner solar system could be applied to them. From the standpoint of internal 

structure, surface morphology, and other characteristics, the satellites of the 

outer solar system are closer kin to the planets of the inner solar system, while 

the gas giant outer planets are vastly different from the inner planets. The only 

two known planetary satellites of the inner solar system (besides the Moon), 

Mars’s tiny Phobos and Deimos, were eventually recognized as closer kin to 

most of the asteroids than other planetary satellites, inner or outer. The Moon, 

Earth’s satellite, is unique in the inner solar system but resembles the larger 

asteroids—differentiated, evolved bodies with a complex, stable surface and 

little or no ice.

The tidy distinction between inner and outer solar system still stands 

for the major planets (Pluto’s recent reappraisal being an example, leaving 

only gas giants in that region), but 50 years of spacecraft exploration has 

reshuffled the earlier characterizations of the other bodies. When the other 

bodies were all but points of light in telescopes with masses of various 

reliabilities and conditions inferred from the general environment, their 

definitions and names were driven by location and gravity. The accumulated 

knowledge of this first half century of exploration has revealed a very different solar system, a diversity of individual bodies that now seem, at times, to 

defy earlier classifications and call for new groupings. There are two major 

stories from this phase of exploration and study. First, the major terrestrial 

planets have been confirmed to be more similar to one another than different, even if each has revealed its own stunning surprises. Formed from 

roughly equivalent materials, Mercury lost almost all its atmosphere in the 

	 13.	 Don	E.	Wilhelms,	To a Rocky Moon: a Geologist’s History of Lunar Exploration	(Tucson,	AZ:	University	

of	Arizona	Press,	1993);	Elbert	A.	King,	Moon Trip: A Personal Account of the Apollo Program and Its 

Science	(Houston,	TX:	University	of	Houston,	1989).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

intense heat of its location, while Earth, Venus, and Mars took vastly different 

evolutionary paths. Similarly, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune reflect 

the frigid conditions of their locations in the original solar nebula, retaining most of their atmospheres. Second, and perhaps even more important, 

what had been that vast, empty space between the planets is now known to 

be filled—with electromagnetic fields and particles and bodies of all sizes 

dynamically interacting and extending throughout the solar system. While 

the admittedly fascinating details of each of the inner planets are captivating, 

we are only beginning to appreciate the significance of all the other smaller 

bodies and other phenomena in between.14

The many missions sent to the inner solar system, with their long planning 

cycles and episodic bursts of information, make for a confusing and interlocking chronology. Because each of the planets and the Moon revealed such 

individuality, it is best to discuss them by body rather than by year. Because it 

was exploration of the Moon that unfolded rapidly in the early decades, that 

will come first. Missions to Mars and Venus alternated at almost every celestial 

mechanics opportunity, with Mars garnering more attention. Mercury did not 

receive its first visitor until 1974. The “asteroid belt” between Mars and Jupiter 

was not crossed by spacecraft until about that same time, and individual asteroids did not receive attention until much later.

The Moon

The early plans for robotic exploration of the Moon drove the designs of what 

became the Ranger impactors, Lunar Orbiters, and Surveyor Landers. The 1961 

presidential decision to land humans on the Moon before the end of the decade 

changed the emphasis of these missions more toward engineering support 

than pure science, but many of the scientific and engineering observations 

and studies desired were common. After a difficult start, from 1961 to 1964, 

during which engineers and managers had to learn the severe requirements 

of getting spacecraft to survive and operate to lunar distances, Rangers 7 

though 9 succeeded, from 1964 to 1965, in returning the first high-resolution 

glimpses of the cratered surface of the Moon, over a variety of terrain, and 

	 14.	 Optical	 and	 spectroscopic	 studies	 of	 the	 smaller	 bodies	 were	 extremely	 difficult,	 if	 not	 impossible,	

even	 for	 the	 nearest	members,	 but	 the	 nearer	 bodies	 were	 within	reach	 of	 various	 powerful	radar	

instruments:	Andrew	J.	Butrica,	To See the Unseen: A History of American Planetary Radar Astronomy, 

1946–1991	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4218,	1996).

436
Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

they returned some hints of the mechanical properties of the surface through 

their own destruction and the ensuing artificial craters.15

From 1966 to 1968, the Surveyor series sent seven automated landers, of 

which five were fully successful, to a large variety of sites. In addition to providing early (the Soviets had landed Luna 9 four months before Surveyor 1) in situ 

images of the terrain, the Surveyors assessed the mechanical characteristics of 

the regolith (soil) just by landing, as well as through digging and manipulating 

rocks with a pantograph arm and scoop. This settled a scientific controversy 

over the depth and particle size of the lunar dust. Simple magnets, as well as 

an alpha scattering instrument on some of the Surveyors’ scoops, allowed the 

earliest and simplest analysis of the composition of the lunar material, already 

known from Earth-based spectroscopy to be similar to volcanic basalts. Apollo 

12, in 1972, was able to land close enough to Surveyor 3 that the astronauts 

could remove a portion of its camera system for return to Earth and subsequent 

analysis to characterize the meteorite environment over time.16

At the same time (from 1966 to 1967) five Lunar Orbiters, carrying an 

innovative imaging system that used high-resolution film processed on board 

and then scanned for transmission (as opposed to low-resolution television) 

covered nearly all of the lunar surface with 60-meter resolution and selected 

areas at 2-meter resolution. The first three orbiters were dedicated to selecting 

Apollo landing sites, and so they concentrated on equatorial near side regions. 

The final two orbiters provided scientists with synoptic information on the entire 

lunar surface as well as detailed information on areas of interest. While the 

Apollo Command and Service Modules did continue this orbital study somewhat, 

expanding it to other wavelengths and using other techniques to characterize 

the mineralogy, the Lunar Orbiter data stood as the only comprehensive lunar 

coverage until 1994, when the Clementine orbiter performed extensive studies in a joint Ballistic Missile Defense Organization-NASA effort. In addition 

to using more robust imaging sensors, Clementine also added unprecedented 

altimetric data through an infrared laser device. Heights of lunar features had 

to be inferred from shadow analysis in Lunar Orbiter images. In 2008, nearly 

forgotten Lunar Orbiter tapes recorded at ground stations were resurrected 

and modern data recovery and processing techniques applied to extract even 

more information. The Soviet Luna and Zond series sent a variety of flyby, 

	 15.	 R.	Cargill	Hall,	Lunar Impact: A History of Project Ranger	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4210,	1977).

	 16.	 Donald	A.	Beattie,	Taking Science to the Moon: Lunar Experiments and the Apollo Program	(Baltimore,	

MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	2001).

437
NASA’s First 50 Years

orbiter, lander, rover, and even sample return missions from 1959 to 1976, of 

which 20 were successful.17

The Apollo program provided the most extensive collection of lunar 

samples, from six diverse sites, the last three of which included lunar rovers 

and allowed a wider range of coverage, as well as some orbital studies on two 

additional missions. The landings, from 1969 to 1972, were initially in safe, 

bland terrain near the equator with short stays, but they grew increasingly 

ambitious. In addition to returning more lunar samples, of greater diversity and 

from a wider range (22 kilograms on the first landing, reaching 111 kilograms 

on the last), the Apollo missions also conducted other experiments and left 

automated instruments that returned data for years. The orbiting Command and 

Service Modules were outfitted with remote sensing instruments of increasing 

sophistication as well. The samples, dated with precision in Earth laboratories, 

showed ages between 3.2 and 4.6 billion years old—representing the early 

formation of the Moon and the later melting and resolidifying of the smooth 

maria after relatively recent large impacts. This complements the analysis of the 

oldest Earth rocks and recovered meteorites. Chemical composition of the lunar 

samples was not that expected of a body that would have formed directly out 

of the solar nebula but more resembled Earth’s crust, itself depleted of metals 

that are presumed to have sunk to the core. This and other data helped move 

to the fore the “giant impactor” hypothesis that the Moon had formed after 

Earth had begun to differentiate, when a glancing blow from a passing Marssized body removed mostly crustal material. Laboratory analysis of returned 

samples, combined with synoptic orbital remote sensing capable of mineral 

analysis, and with similar analysis of Earth and meteorites, demonstrated the 

power of these mutually reinforcing approaches. In addition, conventional 

stratigraphy was extended to use statistical studies of superposed cratering, 

providing knowledge of the more recent history of the lunar surface, after 

the presumed magma ocean that had once covered its entire body solidified 

and began to suffer impacts.18

While the Moon did not turn out to be precisely the “Rosetta Stone” of the 

solar system (a primordial object retaining evidence from the earliest accretion 

	 17.	 Bruce	K.	Byers,	Destination Moon: A History of the Lunar Orbiter Program	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	TM	

X-3478,	1977).

	 18.	 Wilhelms,	To a Rocky Moon;	Beattie,	Taking Science to the Moon;	William	David	Compton,	Where No 

Man Has Gone Before: A History of Apollo Lunar Exploration Missions	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4212,	

1989).

438
Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

of the terrestrial planets), as Harold Urey had suggested, it did nonetheless 

provide crucial evidence of the conditions and events relatively soon thereafter. 

These would be applied to the other terrestrial planets and even to the icy 

satellites of the Jovian planets.

Mars

The subject of an intense and systematic campaign of observation and study, 

the Moon revealed information steadily through the early space program, 

and the information gained fueled studies long thereafter. Mars, however, 

was not so easily accessible, generally only every two years, and even then, 

the long mission times and difficulty of returning information meant that 

understanding this planet would be an episodic enterprise. Initially, fleeting 

glimpses of small portions of the planet meant that Mars would appear differently each time a mission succeeded, which in the early period was only 

about one-third of the time for both the United States and the Soviets. The 

accumulated lore of Mars, its polar caps, seasonal changes, and even the 

spurious detection of chlorophyll in certain Earth-based observations, not 

long before spaceflight, made it a special place. When, at last, Mariner 4 in 

1965 and then Mariners 6 and 7 in 1969 finally flew by and returned images 

of a lunar-looking cratered surface, lacking anything resembling the “canals” 

that had been glimpsed in Earth-based telescopic study, many scientists were 

crushed. Still, even in the “dead Mars” period, the tiny percentage of the surface that had been seen buoyed hopes for a more systematic reconnaissance. 

Mariner 9 entered orbit in 1971 (as did a Soviet orbiter) and found quite a 

different place. It was not the Mars of Edgar Rice Burroughs, to be sure, but 

once the planetwide dust storm cleared, scientists found two new and stunning types of features: volcanic calderas and huge valleys and canyons. The 

volcanic features suggested that, at least geologically, Mars was not so dead 

as the Moon; the canyons suggested that water might have once flowed in 

abundance. Mariner 9 mapped more than 80 percent of the planet during its 

yearlong mission, documenting an active, if thin, atmosphere and providing 

the first images of the two Martian satellites. It is safe to say that Mariner 9 

reinvigorated the study of Mars, providing the justification and the will to 

continue with the Viking missions five years later.19

	 19.	 Edward	Clinton	Ezell	and	Linda	Neuman	Ezell,	On Mars: Exploration of the Red Planet, 1958–1978

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4212,	1984).

439
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figures 2 to 5: These	four	images	indicate	the	progression	in	visual	knowledge	from	a	typical,	best	

Earth-based	telescopic	view	of	Mars	(19th	century	through	the	late	20th),	to	an	Earth	orbital-based	

Hubble	Space	Telescope	image,	to	a	synthesis	of	Mars	orbital	mapping,	and,	finally,	to	a	lander	on	the	

surface	(Pathfinder).	To	be	complete,	this	sequence	would	also	include	a	photomicrograph	of	exposed	

Mars	rock	obtained	from	the	microscopic	imagers	on	the	MERs.

Figure 2:	Earth	Telescope	View	of	Mars	(0°N,	43°W).	This	1988	image	from	the	Lowell	Observatory	

was	obtained	at	the	start	of	spring	in	the	Southern	Hemisphere,	so	the	southern	polar	cap	is	prominent.	

Valles	Marineris	is	the	narrow	feature	protruding	to	the	left	of	the	dark	region	in	the	center	of	the	image.	

Because	of	the	obscuring	effects	of	Earth’s	atmosphere,	even	the	best	ground-based	telescopes	usually	

can	resolve	features	no	smaller	than	about	300	kilometers	across	when	Earth	and	Mars	are	closest	to	one	

another.	Courtesy of Leonard Martin

440
Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

Figure 3:	Space	Telescope	View	of	Mars	(0°N,	270°W)	This	image	was	obtained	by	the	Hubble	Space	

Telescope	in	1995	as	part	of	an	observing	program	to	monitor	seasonal	changes	in	the	atmosphere	

and	surface	of	Mars.	The	prominent	dark	feature	in	the	center	of	the	image	is	called	Syrtis	Major.	The	

differences	in	color,	which	are	exaggerated	in	this	computer-enhanced	image,	are	thought	to	be	caused	by	

differences	in	the	deposits	of	dust	and	sand	covering	different	regions.	Features	as	small	as	50	kilometers	

are	seen	in	this	image.	The	white	region	at	the	top	of	the	image	is	the	north	polar	cap.	On	the	right,	white	

clouds	cover	the	Elysium	volcanoes.	Hubble Space Telescope Image STScI-PR95-17

441
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 4:	Viking	Orbiter	Mosaic	(5°S,	80°W).	This	mosaic	shows	a	global	view	of	Mars	as	seen	by	

NASA’s	Viking	spacecraft	in	the	late	1970s.	The	linear	structure	stretching	east-west	across	the	center	

of	the	image	is	Valles	Marineris,	a	very	large	trough	system.	The	two	brown,	circular	objects	on	the	left	

side	of	the	image	are	Pavonis	Mons	and	Ascraeus	Mons,	two	of	the	large	shield	volcanoes	in	the	Tharsis	

region.	Most	of	the	volcanic	and	tectonic	activity	on	Mars	in	the	last	3	billion	years	has	been	concentrated	

in	the	Tharsis	region.	Image processing by the U.S. Geological Survey

442
Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

Figure 5: Mars	Pathfinder:	Twin	Peaks	(19°N,	34°W).	This	image	shows	the	view	to	the	west	of	the	

Pathfinder	landing	site.	At	the	bottom,	portions	of	the	spacecraft’s	solar	panels	and	airbags	are	visible.	

Pathfinder	landed	in	the	outflow	region	of	the	Ares	Vallis,	an	outflow	channel	similar	to	Maja	Valles.	Many	

rocks	are	visible	in	this	image	and	may	have	been	transported	to	this	region	by	massive	floods	early	in	

the	history	of	Mars.	A	pair	of	hills	known	as	“Twin	Peaks,”	located	about	1	kilometer	from	the	Pathfinder	

lander,	can	be	seen	on	the	horizon.	This	slide	is	actually	a	mosaic	of	many	individual	images,	and	there	

are	some	misalignments	visible	in	the	mosaic.	Mars Pathfinder Image 81957

443
NASA’s First 50 Years

The twin Viking orbiter landers had their origins in an ambitious and ill-fated 

program during the Apollo era called Voyager (not the outer planet mission by 

the same name). Although they had Mariner and Surveyor inheritance, these 

were extremely sophisticated spacecraft, so heavily laden with instruments 

that they each required the largest launch vehicle in the fleet, the Titan III, 

which itself was sufficient to send an interplanetary Voyager spacecraft to all 

the outer planets. The twin pairs arrived in orbit around Mars in the summer 

of 1976, the U.S. bicentennial, waiting for the orbiters to return imagery of 

potential landing sites at high enough resolution to select the most appropriate. Each lander was targeted to a site of somewhat different characteristics. 

Viking I landed 20 July 1976, and Viking II landed on 3 September 1976. Viking 

I was set down near the equator, and Viking II was set well into the Northern 

Hemisphere. They operated for six and four years on the surface, respectively, 

while their orbiters had similar longevity. Their data would feed Mars science 

for nearly two decades before another attempt at a Mars landing.

In light of the numerous other investigations carried and the voluminous 

high-quality data returned by the orbiters and landers, which marked the high 

point of an extended, systematic, and multifaceted study of another planet from 

orbit and surface, it is perhaps surprising that the results were so disappointing. 

The search for life on Mars had been designated as the primary goal, and perhaps 

it had been oversold. Given the public and scientific obsession with Mars through 

the ages, however, it was perhaps inevitable that anything less than confirmation 

would be perceived as failure. Four separate technologies analyzed soil samples. 

The so-called Labeled Release Experiment showed a positive result, but the others were enigmatic or disputable. The Gas Chromatograph-Mass Spectrometer, 

an instrument considered agnostic with respect to life and extremely reliable, 

identified no organic molecules down to parts per billion. The controversy 

continues to this day, although the majority opinion is that Viking detected an 

exotic chemical reaction, not metabolism of Martian organisms.20

In the 1990s, a series of new missions heralded a return to Mars, but with very 

mixed results. This time orbiters and landers were sent separately, though they 

were coordinated. To the present, more than 15 such missions, most with more 

limited goals and innovative technologies, have been attempted. The majority 

	 20.	 Ezell,	On Mars. For	an	alternative	 interpretation	of	the	biology	results,	 see	Norman	H.	Horowitz,	To 

Utopia and Back: The Search for Life in the Solar System	(New	York,	NY:	W.	H.	Freeman,	1986);	Steven	

J.	Dick,	The Biological Universe: The Twentieth Century Extraterrestrial Life Debate and the Limits of 

Science	(New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1996).

444
Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

of these missions have succeeded, but those that have failed have done so in a 

troublesome or traditionally mysterious way. Those missions that have succeeded 

have increased steadily, and almost inconspicuously, the store of data of all kinds, 

showing Mars to be a dynamic and fascinating place at present, and with a likely 

past that bolsters the prospects for life at some time or another. More than ever, 

the consensus is that the right ingredients and conditions for life are, or have 

been, there. This most recent suite of orbiters, landers, and even rovers has 

captured the public imagination, even with the search for life having been kept 

rather quiet. Mars seems now capable of being appreciated on its own. In the 

most recent comprehensive planning, the Vision for Space Exploration that grew 

out of the Shuttle Columbia accident and led to the Constellation program, Mars 

was selected as the ultimate destination, as it has been so many times before.21

Venus

Only slightly easier to get to than Mars from the standpoint of celestial mechanics 

and, like Mars, similar enough to Earth in its mass, size, and space environment, 

cloud-shrouded Venus was just as inviting and even more mysterious. As United 

States and Soviet spacecraft set out to explore in 1961, it was still plausible, if 

not likely, that a fairly benign environment might be found beneath the clouds. 

The Soviet attempts did not fare well until 1965, when Venera 3 became the 

first spacecraft to impact another planet, followed by Venera 4 in 1967, which 

relayed the first data from a suite of instruments within Venus’s atmosphere. 

The U.S. Mariner 2 (Mariner 1 did not survive launch) relayed the first data 

from the vicinity of Venus in late 1962. It seemed to confirm the more sober 

interpretation of previous Earth-based radiometry measurements, suggesting 

hot surface temperatures, high pressure, and a carbon dioxide atmosphere. 

Mariner 5, in 1967, refined these measurements, and without the ability to 

probe beneath the clouds it concentrated on the interaction of the planet’s 

atmosphere with the interplanetary environment. The combined United States 

and Soviet results of 1967 provided confidence in the overall interpretation 

that Venus was very inhospitable beneath the clouds. While the United States 

did not return until 1973 (and then only as part of a combined Venus-Mercury 

mission using the first gravity-assist trajectory), the Soviets made Venus a 

primary target of their program. For the 10 years after 1967, the Soviets made 

	 21.	 Steve	Squyres,	Roving Mars: Spirit, Opportunity, and the Exploration of the Red Planet	(New	York,	NY:	

Hyperion,	2006);	Tatarewicz,	“The	‘Vision	for	Space	Exploration’	of	President	George	W.	Bush,	Space	

Science,	and	U.S.	Space	Policy,”	Futures	(in	press).

445
NASA’s First 50 Years

eight attempts, several of which survived to increasingly greater depths in the 

atmosphere, until Venera 7, late in 1970, landed on the surface and survived 

for 23 minutes, and Venera 8 in mid-1972 survived for 50 minutes. In October 

1975, twin orbiter probes Veneras 9 and 10 obtained the first images from the 

surface and made the first radar observations from orbit.22

In 1978, two orbiter-lander combinations, Veneras 11 and 12, were joined by 

the first comprehensive United States attempt, the Pioneer Venus orbiter and a 

separate suite of multiple probes targeted to various locations. The Soviets sent 

their last orbiter-lander combinations at the 1981 opportunity and their final 

orbiters at the 1983 opportunity. In 1990, the United States’ Magellan orbiter 

began providing detailed radar mapping of the entire planet. Aside from the 

2005 ESA Venus Express mission, which engaged in a variety of observations, 

Venus has since only been visited by spacecraft en route to other destinations 

and performing observations while getting a gravity-assist.

Initially, with the inability to see beneath the clouds, Venus provided a 

unique opportunity to observe somewhat exotic interactions with the interplanetary medium, magnetic fields, and solar wind. Through the 1970s and 

1980s, as scientists began to understand the exotic atmospheric and surface 

conditions, Venus provided a counterpart to Mars and Earth. On Mars, with 

a thin atmosphere, rugged surface, blowing sand, and polar caps of water 

ice and carbon dioxide, mechanical and chemical interactions and transports 

could be observed that were analogous to those on Earth. Venus was more 

extreme. The high pressures and temperatures and the atmospheric chemistry of a runaway greenhouse effect showed another evolutionary path from 

that followed by Earth or Mars, otherwise, from their locations and presumed 

conditions of formation not too different. The geology of Venus also displayed 

extremes not seen anywhere else. On planets and satellites without appreciable 

atmospheres like the Moon and Mercury, the surfaces retained crisp impact 

craters and a clear record of bombardment, with some local melting and flow 

from the impacts. On Mars, this record was more subtle, due to erosion from 

familiar processes like wind and, in the past, water. On Venus, however, the 

intense pressure and heat made the surface plastic, so craters and other relief 

slumped and, slowly, almost flowed. While the rocks glimpsed by landers 

before they failed were recognizable, the entire environment was far different 

in the extreme from anywhere else.

	 22.	 David	Harry	Grinspoon,	Venus Revealed: A New Look Below the Clouds of Our Mysterious Twin Planet 

(New	York,	NY:	Basic	Books,	1998).

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Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

Mercury

Mercury was visited by Mariner 10 three times from 1974 to 1975, after a 

gravity-assist from Venus. Because of the interlocking orbital mechanics, the 

extremely slow rotation of the planet, and illumination of the Sun, Mariner 10 

obtained images of less than half the surface. The crisp, cratered topography, 

apparently unmodified since the earlier bombardment, seemed at odds with 

the surprising discovery of reasonably strong magnetic fields. Since magnetic 

fields are thought to require a molten core, which would also drive various 

tectonic processes, and Mercury should also be subject to intense tidal pumping effects and the heat of the near-solar region, the apparently stable surface 

was an enigma. However, for the next 30 years, proponents of further study 

of Mercury could not win approval for another mission. The MErcury Surface, 

Space ENvironment, GEochemistry, and Ranging (MESSENGER) probe was 

launched in 2004, and a complex set of Earth-Venus-Mercury gravity-assists 

has allowed it to return flyby images of Mercury from perspectives missed by 

Mariner 10. It is expected to achieve Mercury orbit in 2011, making Mercury 

the least-visited and least-studied of the inner planets.23

Asteroids, Comets, and Other Visitors

The so-called asteroid belt was traditionally the demarcation between the inner 

and outer solar system. From the first discovery of a body between Mars and 

Jupiter in 1801 through the ever-increasing population of this region with 

seemingly innumerable bodies of all sizes, the primary question has been, 

was this material the remains of a disrupted planet or the material from which 

a putative planet never coalesced? Studies of the orbits of the known bodies 

in the 19th century suggested the region had orbital structure, consisting of 

families of bodies. Spectroscopic studies in the 20th century revealed classes 

of bodies. But only with increasingly sophisticated theories of planetary 

formation and differentiation, in which the heavier, metallic materials sink 

to the core while the lighter, rocky materials rise to form the crust, did the 

significance of these spectral signatures become clear. The knowledge and 

theories that issued from spacecraft missions to the inner planets, combined 

with basic ground-based and theoretical studies, suggested a diversity of 

bodies in this zone long before any spacecraft—until very recently bound 

for somewhere else—made close observations. “Asteroids” now seems far 

	 23.	 Robert	 G.	Strom	 and	Anne	 L.	Sprague,	Exploring Mercury: The Iron Planet	 (New	York,	 NY:	Springer,	

2003).	

447
NASA’s First 50 Years

too broad a category, since it includes the larger, spherical, differentiated 

bodies such as Ceres, as well as presumed broken fragments from the crusts 

of these kinds of bodies, exposed fragments of metallic cores, and a whole 

variety of materials in between. Jupiter perturbs these objects gravitationally, 

sometimes sending them deeper into the inner solar system, just as it does 

other objects from the outer solar system, including cometary nuclei. None of 

these objects shows any telescopic detail, so their morphology was a mystery 

until spacecraft visits and encounters. As a result of ground-based optical 

and radar study, theoretical analysis, the knowledge gained from planetary 

exploration proper, and a few visits beginning late in the last century, the 

proper terminology for all these objects is now in flux.24

Mariner 9’s 1971 images of the two satellites of Mars showed them to 

be irregular and small, probably captured asteroids. In 1991, the Galileo 

spacecraft on its way to Jupiter was the first to acquire images of asteroids 

Gaspra, Ida, and the latter’s own satellite, Dactyl. Only in 1997 did the first 

dedicated mission to an asteroid, the Near Earth Asteroid RendezvousShoemaker spacecraft, visit Mathilde and then rendezvous with and land on 

the surface of Eros in 2001. In 2007, almost exactly 50 years after Sputnik, 

NASA launched the Dawn mission, headed toward Ceres, Vesta, and possibly 

Pallas—three of the four asteroids first discovered in the first decade of the 

19th century. Earth-crossing bodies of all sizes, cometary nuclei, meteoritic 

materials, and a wide variety of other such tiny bodies, not to mention the 

vast variety of particles and fields, have joined the (now renamed) minor 

planets and asteroids as subjects of serious study and inclusion into the 

definition of the solar system—inner and outer.25

Perhaps nothing symbolizes this reappraisal better than the controversy over 

the status of Pluto. Discovered by Clyde Tombaugh at the Lowell Observatory 

in 1930 and quickly judged to be the “Planet X” thought to be perturbing 

the orbit of Neptune, its planetary status was challenged shortly thereafter. 

A complex interplay of ground-based, planetary spacecraft, and Earth orbital 

	 24.	 Curtis	Peebles,	Asteroids: A History	(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	2001).

	 25.	 David	W.	Hughes	and	Brian	G.	Marsden,	“Planet,	asteroid,	minor	planet:	A	case	study	in	astronomical	

nomenclature,”	 Journal of Astronomical History and Heritage	 10,	 no.	 1	 (2007):	 21–30;	 National	

Academy	 of	 Sciences,	 SSB,	New Frontiers in the Solar System: An Integrated Exploration Strategy,	

chap.	1,	“Primitive	Bodies:	Building	Blocks	of	the	Solar	System”	(Washington,	DC:	National	Academies	

Press,	2003).	The	extensive	series	of	studies	and	reviews	of	solar	system	exploration,	which	provide	

a	 rich	 chronicle	 of	 scientific	 results	 and	 changing	 scientific	 agendas,	 is	 available	 at	 http://www.

nationalacademies.org/ssb/.

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Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

Figure 6:	The	wealth	of	detail,	inclusion	of	many	planetary	satellites,	and	addition	of	numerous	smaller	

bodies	in	this	montage	suggests	the	degree	to	which	solar	system	objects,	not	just	the	major	planets,	

have	become	appreciated	as	worlds	in	themselves.	The	information	presented	in	the	“Browse	the	Solar	

System”	Web	pages	was	originally	published	as	a	poster,	“Atlas	of	the	Solar	System—Topographic	

Series—Mapping	the	Solar	System,”	I-2447,	1995.	The	poster	was	prepared	on	behalf	of	the	Solar	

System	Exploration	Division,	Office	of	Space	Science,	by	the	U.S.	Geological	Survey	Astrogeology	

Research	Program	“to	commemorate	completion	of	the	first	reconnaissance	mapping	of	the	solar	system.”

449
NASA’s First 50 Years

astronomical observations fueled observational and theoretical reappraisals that culminated in a 2006 International Astronomical Union resolution 

attempting to enact a new and more precise definition for “planet,” which 

Pluto promptly failed. It has been reappraised as a minor planet, a Kuiper Belt 

object, a trans-Neptunian object, a dwarf planet, and also as the first of a new 

class, Plutoids. The New Horizons probe, launched in 2006, has taken its first 

image of its target and is expected to arrive in 2015, though Pluto’s status at 

that time cannot be predicted.26

Conclusion

In the past 50 years of spaceflight, what started as planetary exploration 

has truly become solar system exploration. The larger planetary bodies have 

become for us truly worlds in themselves, with kinship to our home planet 

and yet a staggering diversity. With contributions from many of the nations of 

our home planet, what began as a national effort amid international competition has become, in just 50 years, an enterprise of vast extent, incorporating a 

diversity of individuals in a common bond—much like the solar system itself. 

The distinction between the inner terrestrial planets and the outer gas 

giants has stood, although the latter are now subdivided between gas and ice 

giants. Mercury, in the most extreme environment, has shown familiar planetary 

processes; and with the recent, first return glimpses since the initial flybys 

of the early 1970s, Mercury is garnering new respect and attention. While 

early expectations about Venus and Mars were largely overturned, they have 

remained the closest analogs to Earth and have contributed significantly to 

an evolutionary perspective that considers all three together. Earth, of course, 

has been studied most extensively and in a full planetary perspective. These 

four large, evolved, and differentiated bodies dominated early interest, and 

extensive study has answered first-order questions and bequeathed an extensive agenda for sophisticated and detailed further study.27

While these major bodies now appear conceptually bound to a degree 

exceeding expectations of the explorer and scientist visionaries before spacecraft voyages, the surprising result of this first half century of exploration is 

	 26.	 Neil	deGrasse	Tyson,	The Pluto Files: The Rise and Fall of America’s Favorite Planet	(New	York,	NY:	W.	

W.	Norton,	2009).	For	the	Lowell	Observatory	search	and	earlier	controversies,	see	William	Graves	Hoyt,	

Planets X and Pluto	(Tucson,	AZ:	University	of	Arizona	Press,	1980).

	 27.	 National	Academy	 of	 Sciences,	 SSB,	New Frontiers in the Solar System: An Integrated Exploration 

Strategy,	chap	1.

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Planetary Exploration in the Inner Solar System

new respect and appreciation for a panoply of smaller bodies, from atoms and 

molecules up to near-planetary-sized, fully differentiated and evolved members, 

not to mention charged particles and magnetic fields. Discoveries and developing 

understanding in this area have challenged early and comfortable definitions, 

and they have also contributed a satisfying, integrative understanding across 

space and time. As Carl Sagan often said, we are a privileged generation to 

have witnessed the first steps in the exploration of the solar system.28

	 28.	 Carl	Sagan,	Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space	(New	York,	NY:	Random	House,	1994),	

preface.

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Chapter 18

NASA’s Voyages to the Outer 

Solar System

Michael Meltzer

NASA has become the world leader in space exploration, journeying further and 

learning more about our surrounding universe than any other group of scientists 

and engineers on our planet. Beginning in the 1970s with Pioneer, NASA has 

conducted many voyages to our outer solar system, where planets very unlike 

our own reside. Employing flybys (Pioneer and Voyager) and orbiters and probes 

(Galileo and Cassini-Huygens), NASA missions have analyzed these strange bodies 

and their systems of moons, particles, and fields. These trips generated a variety 

of benefits, including engineering advances, scientific discoveries, political influence, defense advantages, and less concrete benefits related to ethical questions 

and national vitality. This paper examines some of the benefits that emerged from 

two notable journeys beyond the asteroid belt—Galileo and Cassini-Huygens.

Outer Solar System Exploration 

In the late 17th century, it became quite the thing for young aristocrats from 

northern Europe to visit Paris, Venice, Florence, and especially Rome. The more 

adventurous pushed on further, perhaps to Turkey. Such journeys became rites of 

passage for those aspiring to positions of influence and national leadership, and 

they were the culmination of years of classical education. In those days, travel was 

arduous, costly, and more than a little risky. Travelers who participated in such 

trips were expected to return home with knowledge and understanding from 

their exposure to momentous sights as well as souvenirs from the exotic places. 

These would allow the folks back home to experience their adventures vicariously.1

	 1.	 Jean	Sorabella,	“The	Grand	Tour,”	Heilbrunn	Timeline	of	Art	History	(New	York,	NY:	The	Metropolitan	

Museum	of	Art,	October	2003),	available	at	http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/grtr/hd_grtr.htm.

453
NASA’s First 50 Years

Such journeys gave concrete form to ideas regarding other places and 

the different ways that people lived, helping to foster new, more worldly 

views and ideals. These voyages represented travel for the sake of curiosity 

and learning. They helped those fortunate enough to partake to understand 

better the realities of the world. The cross-border friendships and alliances 

made on these wanderings helped the travelers when they assumed positions 

of influence. These life-changing, rite-of-passage explorations flourished for 

centuries, until the advent of mass railroad transit in the 1840s made such 

trips no longer the exclusive domain of men of means, and thus not nearly 

so special or important. 

Ambitious voyages of discovery are still conducted, albeit with greatly 

extended boundaries of travel. Some of these journeys explore other celestial 

bodies. Soon after NASA was established in 1958, its explorations into space 

gave its engineers and scientists positions of prominence in the world. They 

became pioneers in a new age of exploration. One area of particular interest 

for many space scientists was the outer solar system. NASA has conducted a 

multifaceted exploration of this region, where planets and satellites markedly 

different from our own reside. The Agency began its investigations in the 

1970s with the Pioneer and Voyager flyby spacecraft, followed by the orbiters 

and probes of Galileo and Cassini-Huygens, the milestone missions that are 

the main subjects of this paper. 

NASA’s Early Voyages to the Outer Solar System 

During the mid-1960s, NASA moved from conceptual studies of journeys to 

the outer planets of our solar system to actual mission planning activities. 

President Lyndon B. Johnson strongly supported ambitious space exploration, 

viewing “the quest to capture outer space from the evil hands of the Soviets”2

as a 20th-century equivalent to the Roman Empire’s road system or the British 

Empire’s mighty navy in the 19th century. 

NASA took a key step toward outer planet exploration in January 1968, 

when it kicked off planning activities for two missions using Pioneer-series 

spacecraft that would eventually fly by Jupiter and points beyond. These 

missions functioned in some sense as scouts for future, more intensive outer 

	 2.	 Joan	Hoff,	“The	Presidency,	Congress,	and	the	Deceleration	of	the	U.S.	Space	Program	in	the	1970s,”	

in	Spaceflight and the Myth of Presidential Leadership,	ed.	Roger	D.	Launius	and	Howard	McCurdy	

(Urbana	and	Chicago,	IL:	University	of	Illinois	Press,	1977),	p.	93;	Michael	Meltzer,	Mission to Jupiter: A 

History of the Galileo Project	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-4231,	2007),	p.	16.

454
NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

planet efforts such as Galileo and Cassini-Huygens, which would orbit the 

target planets many times and send probes down to study some of the bodies in greater detail.3

Pioneer 10, the first outer solar system endeavor, launched in March 1972 

and flew within 120,000 miles of Jupiter in December 1973, studying the 

planet’s satellites as well as its magnetic fields, atmosphere, hydrogen abundance, radiation belts, aurorae, and radio waves. In December 1974, Pioneer 

11 passed much closer—only 21,000 miles—by Jupiter, and then it went on 

to Saturn. One of the most important sets of observations for future voyages 

that was made by the Pioneer missions determined that Jovian radiation levels 

were not as severe as had been feared, presenting less danger to spacecraft 

operating systems and scientific experiments than was previously thought.4 

These findings helped in developing an appropriate design for the Galileo 

orbiter and atmospheric probe that would eventually visit Jupiter.5 Pioneer 

findings at Jupiter and Saturn also helped set the scientific agendas for Galileo 

and Cassini-Huygens. For example, Pioneer discovered that Saturn’s magnetic 

axis almost exactly lines up with its rotational axis, dramatically different 

from both Earth’s and Jupiter’s, “where magnetic and geographic poles lie far 

apart,”6 and the reasons for this difference are currently being researched by 

the Cassini orbiter team.7

Following the Pioneer launches were those of two Mariner-class vessels, 

Voyagers 1 and 2, both lifting off in 1977 and flying by Jupiter in 1979. The 

mission team designed Voyager 1’s trajectory so that when the craft reached 

Saturn the following year, it flew by the planet’s largest moon, Titan, an 

unusual satellite that possessed a thick, opaque atmosphere. Voyager 2 flew 

	 3.	 Meltzer, Mission to Jupiter,	p.	21.

	 4.	 “Pioneer	10,”	National Space Science Data Center National Catalog,	Spacecraft	ID:	72-012A,	available	

at	 http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/nmc/spacecraftDisplay.do?id=1972-012A	 (accessed	 24	 January	 2008);	

	“Pioneer	11,”	National Space Science Data Center National Catalog,	Spacecraft	ID:	73-019A,	available	

at	 http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/nmc/spacecraftDisplay.do?id=1973-019A	 (accessed	 29	 January	 1998);	

Meltzer,	Mission to Jupiter,	pp.	28–29.

	 5.	 Craig	B.	Waff,	“Jupiter	Orbiter	Probe:	The	Marketing	of	a	NASA	Planetary	Spacecraft	Mission,”	(paper	

presented	 at	American	Astronomical	 Society	meeting,	 session	“National	 Observatories:	 Origins	 and	

Functions	(The	American	Setting),”	Washington,	DC:	American	Astronomical	Society,	14	January	1990),	

pp.	3–4.

	 6.	 Henry	C.	Dethloff	and	Ronald	A.	Schorn,	Voyager’s	Grand	Tour	(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Books,	

2003),	p.	179.

	 7.	 	Andy	Ingersoll,	interview	by	author,	Rome,	Italy,	12	June	2008.

455
NASA’s First 50 Years

by Saturn during the next year and then went on to Uranus and Neptune, 

reaching them in 1986 and 1989, respectively.8

As with Pioneer, the Voyager mission “opened up a whole new set of 

[research] questions”9 for future outer solar system voyages. For instance, 

when Voyager flew by Saturn’s moon Titan, “it saw an orange ball.”10 In other 

words, it saw an atmosphere opaque to visible light that hid characteristics of 

the moon’s surface. So mission planners included among Cassini-Huygens’s 

instruments a sophisticated radar whose long wavelengths would be able 

to pass through Titan’s atmosphere and image its surface. And like Voyager, 

Cassini-Huygens will teach the next mission to Saturn some of the questions 

it needs to ask and some of the instruments that will be needed on its journey.

The Galileo Mission to Jupiter

The two Voyager spacecraft carried out flyby visits to all of the outer planets 

known to ancient astronomers. The Galileo mission began a different phase 

in the study of the outer solar system: a deeper, more thorough exploration 

featuring extended orbital visits; repeated, close flybys of satellites; and use 

of atmospheric probes, resulting in in-depth analyses of planetary system 

characteristics. Galileo was not a planetary mission in the traditional sense 

of the term, which typically referred to efforts focusing on specific targets. 

Galileo’s objectives were much broader, encompassing a holistic analysis of 

the entire Jovian system of satellites, primary planet, magnetic field, and particle distributions.11

The Cassini-Huygens Mission to Saturn

In a March 2007 talk to the TED Corporation, Carolyn Porco, Cassini-Huygens 

Imaging Science Team leader, asserted that the mission to Saturn, as well as 

other robotic space journeys such as Galileo, were “part of a bigger human 

journey: a voyage . . . to get a sense of our cosmic place, to understand something of our origins and how we living on Earth came to be.” Cassini-Huygens 

	 8.	 Craig	B.	Waff,	former	NASA	contract	historian,	telephone	conversation	with	author,	22	May	2000;	Craig	

B.	Waff,	“The	Struggle	for	the	 Outer	Planets,”	Astronomy	17,	 no.	9	 (1989):	49–51;	 Jet	Propulsion	

Laboratory,	“Planetary	Voyage,”	Voyager—Celebrating 25 Years of Discovery,	available	at	http://www.

jpl.nasa.gov/multimedia/voyager_record/	(accessed	24	January	2008);	National	Space	Science	Data	

Center,	“Voyager	Project	 Information,”	available	at	http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/planetary/voyager.html,	

updated	11	March	2008	(accessed	3	September	2009);	Dethloff	and	Schorn,	Voyager’s Grand Tour.	

	 9.	 	Trina	Ray,	interview	by	author,	JPL,	22	October	2008.

	 10.	 	Ibid.

	 11.	 	Meltzer,	Mission to Jupiter,	p.	3.

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NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

has made a noble attempt to do this. Built on the shoulders of the Pioneer, 

Voyager, and Galileo endeavors, Cassini-Huygens has to date traveled well over 

2 billion miles, carrying 18 sophisticated scientific experiments and a probe 

that it sent through the atmosphere and to the surface of Titan, a Saturnian 

moon larger than the planet Mercury. Moreover, Cassini-Huygens took, as did 

Galileo, important steps in answering a question central to our weltanschauung, 

our perception of the universe: are we, the human race and all that is alive 

on our planet, alone in the cosmos? Or are we joined by other forms of life 

on other worlds?12

Scientific Achievements of the Galileo and CassiniHuygens Expeditions

The scientific discoveries that emerged from the Galileo and Cassini-Huygens 

missions helped to rewrite textbooks on the outer planets. These expeditions 

were products of a new template for mission organization that involved increased 

international cooperation and shared investments in space exploration.13 A few 

examples from the long list of notable discoveries made on these missions 

included finding the following:

• 

• 

• 

• 

a probable warm-water, salty ocean under the ice of Jupiter’s Europa;

incredible volcanism on Jupiter’s Io;

an Earth-like landscape on Saturn’s Titan; and

water jets on Saturn’s Enceladus.

Europa, a Jovian moon, was one of those discovered by the Renaissance 

scientist Galileo. The spacecraft named Galileo sent back various types of data 

from Europa that, over time, strengthened the case for a salty, warm-water ocean 

under the moon’s icy surface (see figure 1). Imaging data revealed ice floes on 

the surface that appeared to have moved and rotated, like they would if they 

were floating on soft ice or water. Images also showed that Europa has relatively 

few craters, suggesting a young surface, possibly renewed by upwellings of 

ice or water from below. Mass spectrometer data showed the presence of salt 

deposits on the moon’s most recently disrupted areas. A brine ocean under 

these areas was a likely source for such salts. Gravity measurements indicated 

that the moon’s surface layers had a low density similar to that of either liquid 

	 12.	 Carolyn	Porco,	“Fly	Me	to	the	Moons	of	Saturn”	(speech	to	the	TED	Conference,	Monterey,	CA,	7	March	

2007),	available	at	http://www.ted.com/talks/view/id/178.

	 13.	 Michael	Meltzer,	Meeting the Lord of Rings: A History of the Cassini-Huygens Mission to Saturn (Washington,	

DC:	NASA,	under	development).

457
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 1: An	ocean	under	the	icy	surface	of	the	Jovian	moon	Europa?	NASA Image PIA01130

or frozen water. But the strongest evidence came from magnetometer readings 

showing that the direction of Europa’s magnetic field depended on the local 

direction of Jupiter’s field, which indicated that the Europan field was likely 

induced by the larger field from the mother planet. Such an occurrence could 

best be explained by the presence of electrically conductive material, most 

likely salt water, just under the moon’s surface.14 What makes the existence of 

a salty ocean especially interesting is that the three main factors exobiologists 

seek when searching for extraterrestrial life would be present on Europa: liquid 

water, organic chemicals, and energy. 

Another moon of Jupiter discovered by the scientist Galileo was Io (see 

figure 2). It generates such wonders as “gigantic lava flows and lava lakes, and 

towering, collapsing mountains. Io makes Dante’s Inferno seem like another 

	 14.	 Michael	Meltzer,	Mission to Jupiter: A History of the Galileo Project	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-

4231,	2007),	pp.	259–264.

458
NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

Figure 2: Io	mountains	at	sunset	(February	2000).	Mongibello	Mons	is	the	jagged	ridge	at	the	left	of	the	

image,	rising	a	mere	23,000	feet	above	the	plains	of	Io,	far	lower	than	the	satellite’s	tallest	peaks.	NASA/

JPL/University of Arizona/Arizona State University Image PIA03886

day in paradise.”15 Earth has not seen volcanism like this for 15 million years. 

Io thus provides “the next best thing to traveling back in time to Earth’s earlier 

years. It gives us an opportunity to watch, in action, phenomena long dead 

in the rest of the solar system.”16 The scale of these occurrences is enormous, 

especially considering the relatively small size of the moon Io. For instance, a 

lava lake near the moon’s Pele volcano is estimated to be 100 times larger than 

those found in Hawaii.17 And the heat generated by Io’s Loki, an even larger 

volcano than Pele, exceeds that from all of Earth’s active volcanoes combined. 

Although Io is tiny compared to Earth, it thrusts parts of itself up far 

higher. On Thanksgiving night, 1999, the Galileo spacecraft was incredibly 

lucky to observe a fountain of sparkling molten rock shooting more than a 

mile above the satellite’s surface. Such fountains on Earth rarely exceed a 

	 15.	 Jane	Platt,	“Jupiter’s	Moon	Io:	A	Flashback	to	Earth’s	Volcanic	Past,”	JPL	news	release	no.	99-097,	19	

November	1999.

	 16.	 Ibid.

	 17.	 Ibid.;	Ron	Cowen,	“Close	Encounter:	Galileo	Eyes	Io,”	Science News	(11	December	1999):	382.

459
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 3:	“Riverbeds—this	was	for	me	so	striking	.	.	.	a	network	of	channels.	I’d	never	seen	this	before	

on	a	planet	or	moon,”	said	former	Cassini-Huygens	Project	Scientist	Dennis	Matson	(interview	by	author,	

Rome,	Italy,	9	June	2008).	NASA Image PIA10956

few hundred yards.18 And Io’s mountains soar up to 52,000 feet, over 4 miles 

higher than Mount Everest.19

When Cassini-Huygens peered through the mists of Saturn satellite Titan’s 

atmosphere, it found more surprises: riverbeds, alluvial plains, lakes, and 

coastlines strangely like those on Earth (see figures 3 and 4), except with the 

water replaced by hydrocarbons. Former Cassini-Huygens Project Scientist 

Dennis Matson had never seen such features before on another moon or a 

planet other than Earth,20 while Huygens probe Project Scientist Jean-Pierre 

Lebreton found sections of Titan’s coasts reminiscent of the Cote D’Azur along 

the French Riviera.21

	 18.	 JPL,	“Galileo	Sees	Dazzling	Lava	Fountain	on	Io,”	JPL	Media	Relations	news	release,	17	December	

1999.

	 19.	 Meltzer,	Mission to Jupiter,	p.	242.

	 20.	 Dennis	Matson,	interview	by	author,	Rome,	Italy,	9	June	2008.

	 21.	 Jean-Pierre	Lebreton,	interview	by	author,	Rome,	Italy,	9	June	2008.

460
NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

Figure 4:	Titan	coastlines	reminiscent	of	those	on	Earth.	NASA Image PIA09211

Some of Titan’s lakes had the round shapes of those on Earth formed from 

collapsed calderas (see figure 5), such as Crater Lake in Oregon. The largest 

liquid hydrocarbon body observed on Titan was the size of the Caspian Sea, 

the biggest enclosed body of water on Earth; the next largest Titan body of 

liquid was about the size of Lake Superior. But Titan is six times smaller than 

Earth. In terms of percentage of the surface covered, the largest hydrocarbon 

body on Titan is equivalent to Earth’s Bay of Bengal.22

Since the Voyager flybys of the early 1980s, planetary scientists knew there 

was something unusual about Saturn’s ice-covered satellite Enceladus, a body 

only 300 miles across whose width is smaller than that of Arizona.23 Then 

the Cassini orbiter conducted a series of close flybys starting in 2005, spying 

places where the satellite surface had recently cracked and contorted, and 

	 22.	 NASA/JPL/Space	Science	 Institute,	“Exploring	the	Wetlands	of	Titan,”	available	at	http://ciclops.org/

view/2631/Exploring_the_Wetlands_of_Titan?js=1, 15 March 2007	(accessed	17	January	2009).

	 23.	 Joanne	Baker,	“Tiger,	Tiger	Burning	Bright,”	Science 311	(10	March	2006).

461
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 5: Circular	lakes	on	Titan	resembling	those	on	Earth	formed	from	collapsed	calderas.	NASA Image 

PIA09112

462
NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

Figure 6: Water	vapor	and	ice	jets	erupting	from	giant	fissures	in	Enceladus’s	southern	polar	region.	NASA 

Image PIA08386

463
NASA’s First 50 Years

water vapor and ice crystals were spewing out (see figure 6). How could such 

a small body, so far from the Sun, generate enough energy for such geologic 

activity? Neither of the usual sources of planetary heat—decay of radioactive 

elements in deep rock or deformations caused by orbital interactions with 

Saturn and other moons—appeared to be great enough, according to Caltech 

planetary physicist David Stevenson, who added, “Enceladus is somehow 

special.”24 While no one is saying there is life on Enceladus, some basic conditions of life seem to be present inside the moon: liquid water, sources of 

energy, and organic materials.

Erosion of the Boundary Between Robotic and Human Missions

Different factions of NASA have debated, since the first years of the Agency, 

the relative merits of human versus robotic exploration. Sending people into 

space and then to the Moon gave the United States enormous cachet in terms 

of political and social prestige and showed the USSR how technically capable 

we were. As Galileo Project Manager John Casani said, “Having heroes is an 

important part of any enterprise like this.”25 But human exploration requires 

a considerable part of the spacecraft filled with life-support equipment, cutting down on the amount of scientific instrumentation in the craft and thus 

severely limiting the observations and experiments able to be performed. Many 

in the planetary science community have thus favored more robotic and fewer 

human missions.

But with the advent of technology that allows humans sitting on Earth to 

see, hear, and nearly feel what the spacecraft does, as well as finely controlling 

its movements, the line between robotic and human exploration is becoming 

somewhat blurred. One aspect of the Galileo and the Cassini-Huygens missions 

was that, in a way, we were up there. The crews sat in a control room on Earth 

rather than in the space vessel, but they still saw and measured, and to some 

extent experienced, what the vessel did. During the Cassini-Huygens mission, 

thousands of people around the world shared, in near-real time through their 

Internet connections, the highs and lows of the space voyage. The connections 

between us and our spacecraft are now such that, in the words of Galileo 

Project Scientist Torrence Johnson, “We are all standing on the bridge of the 

	 24.	 Richard	A.	Kerr,	“Cassini	Catches	Mysterious	Hot	Spot	on	Icy-Cold	Enceladus,”	Science	309	(5	August	

2005):	859–860.

	 25.	 John	Casani,	telephone	interview	by	author,	29	May	2001.

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NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

Figure 7: This	figure	identifies	the	spacecraft’s	cameras	and	magnetospheric	imagers	as	its	eyes,	the	

cosmic	dust	analyzer	as	its	hands,	the	ship’s	computer	as	its	brain,	the	main	engine	and	thrusters	as	its	

“walking”	and	“dancing”	legs,	the	radioisotope	thermoelectric	generator	(RTG)	electrical	output	as	its	food,	

the	Huygens	probe	as	the	baby	it	will	birth,	and	so	on.	But	envisioning	the	craft	in	this	way	is	more	than	

simply	entertaining.	It’s	a	recognition	that	the	Cassini	space	vehicle	really	has	become	our	eyes	and	hands	

at	Saturn,	the	means	by	which	we	humans	now	visit	distant	locations	that	our	corporeal	bodies	cannot	easily	

reach.	The	line	between	human	and	robotic	space	exploration	has	indeed	become	blurred.	NASA/JPL

465
NASA’s First 50 Years

Starship Enterprise.”26 Our space vessels have become our hands, ears, and 

eyes examining distant worlds (see figure 7). 

Galileo and Cassini-Huygens Engineering Achievements

The scientific success of NASA’s outer solar system missions was only possible 

because of the resounding technical success that mission engineers achieved in 

the development of their spacecraft. In designing the Galileo space vehicle for 

comprehensive exploration of Jupiter’s atmosphere, physical environment, and 

satellites, NASA engineers and technicians learned how to better equip robotic 

vessels for journeys to the outer planets lasting several years, so that the vessels 

would be more reliable and perform at a higher level. Key developments in 

this regard included more durable technologies with greatly extended lifetimes 

and the ability to operate independently of mission control. Deep space vessels 

have become models of resilience and tough construction, able to withstand 

the impacts of vacuum, far higher and lower temperatures than those found on 

Earth, intense radiation belts, and interplanetary storms of tiny particles.

As successful as the Galileo craft was, it experienced many problems with 

some of its mechanical systems, notably the moving parts in its antenna and 

tape recorder. Among the most impressive engineering achievements of the 

mission were those that occurred after liftoff, when operational problems 

had to be solved from millions of miles away. The failure of Galileo’s main 

antenna to open, for instance, required NASA staff to develop a way of using 

the spacecraft’s small backup antenna, which had a very modest transmitting 

capability. NASA personnel had to develop new software to compress data 

and thus enhance transmission rates; the on-board tape recorder needed to 

assume a more important data-storage role than originally planned; and the 

Deep Space Network of antennas on Earth required improvements that would 

augment the amount of useful data it could discern from the faint signal the 

spacecraft was able to send. Even with the Galileo orbiter’s extremely impaired 

transmission capability, mission engineers still found ways to work around the 

problems so that the scientists could meet most of their goals.27

Years of long space missions have taught NASA engineers the myriad ways 

in which complex subsystems can fail. NASA built the Cassini-Huygens vehicle 

	 26.	 Torrence	V.	Johnson,	telephone	interview	by	author,	12	January	2006.

	 27.	 Michael	R.	Johnson,	“The	Galileo	High	Gain	Antenna	Deployment	Anomaly”	(NASA	TR	N94-33319	in	

the	proceedings	of	the	28th	Aerospace	Mechanisms	Symposium,	Lewis	Research	Center,	May	1994),	

pp.	360,	364;	Meltzer,	Mission to Jupiter,	chap.	7.

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NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

with far fewer moving parts than Galileo, greatly reducing the mechanical 

problems and component failures that plagued the mission to Jupiter. NASA’s 

expeditions have enabled an evolution from the mechanical to the nonmechanical that included replacing the following:28

• 

• 

• 

• 

traditional toggle switches with solid state devices;

dish antennas that used to open like umbrellas with fixed-in-place 

antennas;

reel-to-reel data storage tape recorders with solid-state digital devices 

capable of recording and playing back simultaneously; and

spinning gyros, which maintained a vessel’s orientation, with “hemispherical 

resonator gyros” made of radiation-resistant pieces of machined quartz,29

whose lifetimes can exceed 10 million hours.

Advances in space vessel autonomy have enabled the craft to operate longer 

and perform more complex tasks while out of touch with Earth. By the time 

Cassini-Huygens reached Saturn, for instance, the vessel had traveled so far 

from Earth that radio communication between it and mission control, limited 

by the speed of light, had grown quite slow. The spacecraft had to perform its 

sensitive Saturn orbit insertion maneuver by itself, guided only by its sensors, 

computers, and memory. Developing such independent space vessels that can 

“operate for decades, continue to send back data without failing, and be smart 

enough to take care of themselves out of communication with the Earth”30 was 

a major step forward for expeditions far from the mother planet. 

Societal Benefits Gained from Outer Solar System Tours 

Societal benefits gained from trips to the outer planets included a variety of 

new technologies for U.S. industries as well as improved defense capabilities 

for fulfilling important military goals. Some of the novel technologies developed for the Cassini-Huygens outer solar system mission that have already 

been spun off to U.S. industries include the following:31

	 28.	 “Scientific	Benefits	of	the	Cassini	Mission,”	Insert	A	in	“Integrated	JPL	General	Comments—Cassini	

Draft	 Environmental	 Impact	 Statement	 (10/1	 9193	 SAIL	 Draft),”	 in	 Richard	 J.	 Spehalski	 memos,	

November	1993,	JPL	Cassini	Technical	Library	(CASTL).

	 29.	 Don	Barteld,	“Exclusive	Northrop	Grumman	Resonating	Gyro	Achieves	10	Million	Operating	Hours	in	

Space,”	Northrop	Grumman	Electronic	Systems	news	release,	19	May	2008,	available	at	http://www.

irconnect.com/noc/press/pages/news_releases.html?d=142997	(accessed	7	January	2009).	

	 30.	 Torrence	Johnson,	telephone	interview	by	author,	31	July	2001.

	 31.	 “Scientific	Benefits	of	the	Cassini	Mission,”	Insert	A	in	“Integrated	JPL	General	Comments—Cassini	

Draft	 Environmental	 Impact	 Statement	 (10/1	 9193	 SAIL	 Draft),”	 in	 Richard	 J.	 Spehalski	 memos,	

November	1993,	JPL	CASTL.

467
NASA’s First 50 Years

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

Computerized resource trading system to resolve conflicting cost, data 

rate, and electrical power needs for the spacecraft’s science instruments 

and other subsystems. This tool has been utilized by an environmental 

agency for market-based regulation of air pollution.

Integrated circuit advances such as new application-specific integrated 

circuit (ASIC) parts that reduce mass and replace one hundred or more 

traditional chips. 

Solid-state power switch for eliminating transient current surges and 

extending part lifetimes and efficiencies.

Solid-state data recorder with no moving parts (mentioned above) that 

has seen use in a variety of fields, from aerospace to the entertainment 

industry, and has found applications in consumer electronics.

Inertial reference unit “hemispherical resonator gyros” (also mentioned 

above) with greater reliability and less vulnerability to mechanical 

failure because they contain no moving parts.

Other societal benefits emerging from NASA’s expeditions to the outer planets include better knowledge of how to design and build spacecraft with augmented defense capabilities. Of major importance for defense as well as scientific 

applications is space vessel autonomy—having the ability to conduct operations 

independently for long periods of time, even if radio contact with Earth is broken. 

Autonomy could be critical if, for instance, ground control facilities are damaged 

or shielded from the craft during a war. Durability of the craft also has high value. 

Of particular use is radiation hardening, enabling a vessel to survive high-energy 

particle hits, intense gamma rays, and so on. Radiation hardening helps protect 

defense-oriented spacecraft in a military situation, as well as science-oriented 

space vessels in an environment such as Jupiter’s radiation belts. 

Political Influence

Successful U.S. missions to far away targets have conferred upon us an influential 

voice in the international political arena. Galileo Project Manager John Casani 

expressed it this way—our noteworthy civilian space exploration advances 

send a strong message to other nations, particularly potentially hostile ones, of 

what the U.S. could do if we turned our peaceful mission capabilities to militaristic purposes. This gives us considerable international political authority.32

Having such technological capabilities in space is vital in the following areas: 

	 32.	 John	Casani,	telephone	interview	with	author,	29	May	2001.

468
NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

• 

• 

Helping to ensure that control of space is not used by other nations 

to threaten us.

Preparing us to use our access to space to defend ourselves if necessary.

The 17th-century voyages to far-off places discussed earlier in this paper 

enabled well-heeled travelers to create friendships, alliances, and business 

relationships across various national borders that could be used to their 

advantage at a later time, in both the political and business arenas. And so 

it is with NASA’s outer solar system expeditions. The Galileo project and, to 

an even greater extent, the Cassini-Huygens mission were especially good 

examples of this, for their development led to a range of international alliances 

that grew from multinational partnerships and working relations. Sometimes, 

it was beneficial to the mission that international partners were on different 

sides of the world. This was often the case on Galileo. According to Torrence 

Johnson, Galileo “was one of the first missions in which the analysis of data 

more or less continued around the clock, around the globe. We’d wake up 

in the morning and hear that our colleagues in Berlin had processed some 

images overnight and brought new data to the table—and we could look at it 

immediately, while they had a chance to sleep.”33

The cross-border relationships on Cassini-Huygens were much more complex, and they have strongly bound together colleagues working on both sides 

of the Atlantic who have depended on each other in a variety of different ways. 

NASA furnished the mission’s launch vehicle and had the main responsibility 

for developing the Cassini orbiter, while ESA oversaw development of the 

Huygens probe. But many sections of various science instruments and engineering systems on the orbiter were developed in Europe, while the United 

States furnished some systems for the probe. As examples, the complex orbiter 

antenna system was designed and constructed by an Italian company, and 

two of the major Huygens probe science instruments were built in the United 

States. In addition, key Huygens probe subsystems, such as its batteries, were 

provided by the United States, and some of the Huygens probe’s parachute 

testing was performed in a U.S. wind tunnel. These intimate connections and 

dependencies between the United States and many European nations are 

viewed by participating governments as important mechanisms for maintaining friendly, cooperative international relations. 

	 33.	 Torrence	Johnson,	foreword	to	Mission to Jupiter,	by	Michael	Meltzer.

469
NASA’s First 50 Years

Maintaining the Vitality of a Nation

James Michener once said when addressing the U.S. Senate Subcommittee on 

Science, Technology, and Space that “it is extremely difficult to keep a human 

life or the life of a nation moving forward with enough energy and commitment 

to lift it into the next cycle of experience . . . . There are moments in history 

when challenges occur of such a compelling nature that to miss them is to 

miss the whole meaning of an epoch. Space is such a challenge.”34

Voyages of discovery, such as Galileo and Cassini-Huygens, constituted 

strong responses to the challenge offered by space. Both of these missions 

altered the way we view our surroundings and breathed new vitality into our 

quest to understand ourselves and our universe.35 NASA’s outer planet tours 

have been a source of pride and inspiration for millions of Americans and have 

demonstrated our country’s position of preeminence in space. NASA’s planetary 

exploration efforts have also served as magnets attracting talented students 

into research-oriented, technological careers, thus renewing our nation’s vigor 

and ability to push the envelope of scientific endeavor. 

Ethical Benefits Emerging from Space Exploration

Questions that a 17th-century traveler visiting other lands might have asked 

include the following: how do people in those lands live, and what relationship shall I seek with them? NASA’s robotic travelers to other heavenly bodies 

seek answers to questions such as these: do other beings live on those bodies? 

And if so, then how shall spacefaring nations treat them? 

Missions such as Galileo and Cassini-Huygens confronted fundamental 

ethical issues regarding these questions, including the following: 

• 

• 

What procedures should we include on expeditions to bodies that 

might harbor life?

Shall we protect any possible lifeforms at all cost, and if so, for how long? 

By confronting such issues, our society comes face to face with its core 

ethics, including the value we place on life and on different types of life. Outer 

solar system voyages elicit some unique ethical issues, but they also resemble 

issues that people of conscience and humanity have wrestled with for the last 

several millennia. Human beings have always longed to understand our place 

	 34.	 James	A.	Michener,	“Space	Exploration:	Military	and	Non-Military	Advantages”	(speech	delivered	before	

the	U.S.	Senate	Subcommittee	on	Science,	Technology,	and	Space,	Washington,	DC,	1	February	1979),	

published	in	Vital Speeches of the Day	(Southold,	NY:	City	News	Publishing	Co.,	15	July	1979).

	 35.	 Meltzer,	Mission to Jupiter,	p.	xxii.

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NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

in the cosmos. This inquiry has been reexamined and reformulated through 

the centuries as our understanding of space science progressed and our technology for observing celestial bodies and making measurements improved. 

A basic question we ask when we send a vessel deep into space to bodies 

never before explored is, are we on Earth the lone forms of life in the universe? 

This is not a new question. In 300 BC, for instance, the Greek philosopher 

Epicurus wrote to Herodotus regarding the infinite number of worlds that existed, 

arguing that he saw no reason why these bodies “could not contain germs of 

plants and animals and all the rest of what can be seen on Earth.”36 Epicurus 

was expressing his human curiosity to understand whether forms of life exist 

beyond the confines of our planet. The Roman philosopher Lucretius conveyed 

similar musings when he said, “Confess you must that other worlds exist in 

other regions of the sky, and different tribes of men, kinds of wild beasts.”37

The debate on how to conduct interplanetary exploration tends to polarize into three different camps: preserving extraterrestrial environments in 

unchanged states; stewarding other bodies in a way that will maximize the 

benefits to all parties concerned; and exploiting these bodies, treating them 

as resources that can greatly aid our species. 

The preservation ethic suggests that human action in nature should be 

minimized, and this translates to the imperative to leave an extraterrestrial body 

unaltered—“to neither enhance its environment for the indigenous biology, if 

any, nor to introduce life from Earth.”38 The perceived need to preserve a body’s 

biosphere indefinitely, beyond the period of biologic exploration, arises from 

a belief in the inherent worth of any life present, no matter how humble. This 

is a view that was eloquently expressed by Albert Schweitzer.

The great theologian and physician Albert Schweitzer wrote about topics 

very relevant to space exploration in his Reverence for Life ethic, which held 

that “It is good to maintain and to encourage life; it is bad to destroy life or 

to obstruct it.”39 Schweitzer’s German term for this ethic was “Ehrfurcht vor 

dem Leben,” which is also translated as “to be in awe of the mystery of life.” 

	 36.	 Paul	Clancy,	Andre	Brack,	and	Gerda	Horneck,	Looking for Life, Searching the Solar System	(New	York,	

NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	2005),	pp.	180–181.	

	 37.	 Ibid.,	p.	181.	

	 38.	 Richard	O.	Randolph,	Margaret	S.	Race,	and	Christopher	P.	McKay,	“Reconsidering	the	Theological	and	

Ethical	Implications	of	Extraterrestrial	Life,”	Center for Theology and Natural Sciences (CTNS) Bulletin 

17,	no.	3	(Berkeley,	CA:	summer	1997):	1–8.

	 39.	 Albert	 Schweitzer,	 “The	 Ethics	 of	 Reverence	 for	 Life,”	 in	 The Philosophy of Civilization,	 trans.	 C.	

T.	 Campion	 (Buffalo,	 NY:	 Prometheus,	 1987),	 chap.	 26,	 available	 at	 http://www1.chapman.edu/

schweitzer/sch.reading1.html.

471
NASA’s First 50 Years

Schweitzer strongly defended his belief that we should respect all “wills to 

live” as we do our own, and he thought that we are truly ethical only when we 

help all life that we are able to and shrink from harming anything that lives.40

What is relevant to the search for life on other planets is that Schweitzer 

refuted sentiency (consciousness) as the discriminator for protecting life, favoring instead conativity—having only the minimal characteristics of life. These 

bare essentials were, in Schweitzer’s mind, sufficient for the organism to be 

a thing of value and thus nurtured.41 According to Schweitzer’s ethic, if our 

space vessels find even the crudest one-celled organisms struggling to survive 

on another heavenly body, we need to protect them as best we can.

Schweitzer was hardly the first to articulate the value of all forms of life. 

The Bible stated this belief as well. The first chapter of Genesis affirmed grass, 

herbs, trees bearing fruit, ocean life, and every living creature that crept across 

Earth as “kee-tov”42 (good), and even “tov m’od”43 (very good). A biblical view 

of space exploration ethics might thus recognize the inherent value of any 

living creature we find on another world. 

The conservationist Aldo Leopold took a step beyond simply identifying all 

lifeforms as good things to be preserved. He recognized that no living creature 

exists unconnected to other such creatures. In his essay “The Land Ethic,” he 

presented reasons, both ethical and aesthetic, for why an organism had value: “A 

thing is right when it tends to preserve the integrity, stability, and beauty of the 

biotic community. It is wrong when it tends otherwise.”44 In this statement, he 

envisioned the connected life skeins and interdependence necessary to maintain 

a bionetwork’s health. In other words, he argued that an organism’s importance 

to the web of community that surrounded it was a reason to protect it.

A key question that arises when preservation of a solar system body is 

discussed is, what exactly has intrinsic worth on the body? Is it only biological life, or should all the natural attributes of the body be preserved, 

including its rocks and its dirt? I. Almar, in a paper presented at the 34th 

COSPAR Scientific Assembly, expressed the concern that damage caused by 

	 40.	 A.	Schweitzer,	Out of My Life and Thought	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1998).

	 41.	 Lucy	Goodwin	(reviewer),	“J.	Baird	Callicott,	‘Moral	Considerability	and	Extraterrestrial	Life,’”	Reviews 

of Ethics and Animals Literature I	(fall	1997),	available	at	http://core.ecu.edu/phil/mccartyr/Animals/

Real97/goodwin.htm	(accessed	3	September	2009).		

	 42.	 J.	H.	Hertz,	ed.,	The Pentateuch and Haftorahs	(London,	U.K.:	Soncino	Press,	1972),	pp.	3–4.	

	 43.	 Ibid.,	p.	5.	

	 44.	 Aldo	Leopold,	“The	Land	Ethic,”	 in	A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There,	by	Aldo	

Leopold	(Oxford,	U.K.:	Oxford	University	Press,	1949),	pp.	201–226,	available	at	http://www.luminary.

us/leopold/land_ethic.html.

472
NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

any human intervention on a lifeless world would be irreversible. One possible reason for protecting the lifeless space environment was its scientific 

aspect—areas and objects could exist of the highest scientific priority on 

different celestial bodies. As an example of this, much can be learned about 

volcanism and the impacts of tidal forces by studying the Jovian moon Io, 

which is almost certainly lifeless.45

A logical extension of the preservation ethic is to reduce the risk of contaminating an extraterrestrial body by visiting it solely with robot spacecraft. 

Sending human explorers to Jupiter’s moon Europa would be, for some observers, more exciting. But in the view of much of the space science community, 

robot missions are the way to accomplish the maximum amount of scientific 

inquiry, since valuable fuel and shipboard power do not have to be expended 

transporting and operating the equipment to keep a human crew alive and 

healthy. And very important to preserving extraterrestrial ecosystems is that 

robot craft can be thoroughly sterilized, while humans cannot. Such a difference could be critical in protecting a sensitive planetary ecosystem. 

The concept of stewardship is articulated by the mission of the nonprofit 

Association of Forest Service Employees for Environmental Ethics: “to forge a 

socially responsible value system for the Forest Service based on a land ethic 

which ensures ecologically and economically sustainable [author’s italics] 

resource management.”46 The key is resource management rather than preservation of the forest in a pristine, unaltered state. Applied to extraterrestrial 

bodies, stewardship “would imply that the broad scientific and economic 

benefits from having a second planetary-scale biosphere [in addition to Earth] 

would justify planetary alteration.”47

An interesting combination of the preservationist and stewardship approaches 

arises from the belief that only biotic life has intrinsic value, not a body’s geology. 

Thus, the stewardship perspective, which desires that we humans use nature 

wisely for our own benefit, would consider terraforming a celestial body to be 

ethical, even obligatory, if it promoted the growth of indigenous life on that 

	 45.	 I.	Almar,	“Protection	of	the	Lifeless	Environment	in	the	Solar	System”	(presented	at	the	34th	COSPAR	

Scientific	Assembly,	Second	World	Space	Congress,	10–19	October	2002,	Houston,	TX,	2002);	Meltzer,	

Mission to Jupiter.	

	 46.	 Lawrence	M.	Hinman,	“Environmental	Ethics,”	University	of	San	Diego	Ethics	Update—Environmental	

Ethics	Resources,	17	August	2006,	available	at	http://ethics.sandiego.edu/Applied/Environment/index.

asp	(accessed	13	October	2006).	

	 47.	 Richard	O.	Randolph,	Margaret	S.	Race,	and	Christopher	P.	McKay,	“Reconsidering	the	Theological	and	

Ethical	Implications	of	Extraterrestrial	Life,”	Center for Theology and Natural Sciences (CTNS) Bulletin 

17,	no.	3	(Berkeley,	CA,	summer	1997):	1–8.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

body, even as-yet-undiscovered life, and even if such terraforming destroyed 

the beauty of the body’s mountains, valleys, or other geological features. 

Exploring and colonizing other bodies might offer a huge social benefit: 

providing a long-term, unifying project on which humans, cooperating around 

the globe, could focus. Such an effort might prove to be one important step 

toward world peace. Constructing active biospheres on other bodies could 

also become critical for our own survival, serving as refuges for terrestrial life 

in the event of nuclear war or some other global catastrophe.48 Some voices in 

the space science community, in fact, called for colonization of other worlds 

in very strong terms. Michael J. Rycroft of the International Space University 

has argued that “the overarching goal of space exploration for the twenty-first 

century should be to send humans to Mars, with the primary objective of having 

them remain there,”49 so that our human species might have a second home 

in the event that a disaster on Earth rendered it uninhabitable. 

Rycroft believed that many factors could cause such a catastrophe, including 

overpopulation; global terrorism; nuclear or biological war or accidents; occurrence 

of a supervirus; natural disaster (e.g., from an asteroid collision, flood, volcano, 

and so on); depletion of vital resources such as oil or natural gas reserves; climate 

change, global warming, and sea level rise; and stratospheric ozone depletion. 

Rycroft held that the colonization of a habitable world was thus an imperative

human endeavor of this century and an insurance policy, and he emphasized his 

point by quoting M. Rees’s opinion that “the odds are no better than 50–50 that 

our present civilization on Earth will survive to the end of the present century.”50

But can colonization of a world containing indigenous life be performed 

while at the same time following the strictures of planetary protection? It could 

be argued that if planetary protection measures seriously delayed colonizing 

another world, they would be unethical to perform, since they would endanger 

the safety and future of our own species. Compulsory colonization as soon 

as it is feasible, on the other hand, will likely contaminate a body with Earth 

organisms and may well extinguish any indigenous lifeforms. The human race 

has arguably done a terrible job of protecting its own planet’s environment, so 

can we even imagine that we will appropriately protect other bodies we visit?51

	 48.	 Clancy	et	al.,	Looking for Life, pp.	187–189;	Christopher	P.	McKay,	Owen	B.	Toon,	and	James	F.	Kasting,	

“Making	Mars	Habitable,”	Nature	352	(8	August	1991):	489–496.	

	 49.	 Michael	J.	Rycroft,	“Space	Exploration	Goals	for	the	21st	Century,”	Space Policy	22	(2006):	158–161.

	 50.	 M.	Rees,	Our Final Century	(London,	U.K.:	William	Heinemann,	2003),	p.	228,	as	reported	in	Rycroft,	p.	159.

	 51.	 Clancy	et	al.,	Looking for Life, p.	188.

474
NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

Deciding which course should be followed—colonization as soon as it 

is feasible, or waiting until a thorough search for life has been performed—

depends on the intrinsic value we decide to give to extraterrestrial lifeforms, 

even nonsentient forms, and to biotic communities of those organisms. Arguing 

for the planetary protection approach, however, is not always easy. How does 

one make a convincing case for protecting the possible existence of some 

nonsentient microbes when their ecological niche may be required by the 

human race for its own survival? 

The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization 

(UNESCO) has compared the ethics of outer space exploration with those of 

terrestrial environmental ethics, believing that respect for Earth’s environment 

also applies to respect of other celestial bodies. Then when is it all right to 

exploit extraterrestrial bodies by mining and farming them? Should undeveloped lands of great natural beauty or high scientific interest instead be 

carefully preserved, even if we are sure they don’t harbor life? Our country’s 

history has demonstrated the devastating speed at which natural resources can 

be exploited and destroyed; but throughout U.S. history, we have also taken 

pride in, and placed high value on, the extraordinary beauty of our country.52 I. 

Almar argued for intelligence and restraint in our utilization of extraterrestrial 

bodies when he identified the need “not to prevent any commercial utilization 

of Solar System resources, but to make space exploration and exploitation of 

resources a controlled and well-planned endeavor.”53 I. Almar also included 

bodies without life in his idea of responsible exploitation, recommending a 

large-scale discussion on the ethical values of the lifeless environment.

One rather arrogant view that emerged during discussions of planetary 

exploitation was that “the destiny of humanity is to occupy space, a destiny written in our genes.”54 This is a position reminiscent of the political philosophy of 

manifest destiny, held by many U.S. statesmen and business leaders in the 19th 

century, that our country deserved to conquer the heart of North America from 

the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean and use its resources.55 The United States 

	 52.	 Adam	 Rome,	 “Conservation,	 Preservation,	 and	 Environmental	 Activism:	 A	 Survey	 of	 the	 Historical	

Literature,”	 National	 Park	 Service	 History,	 available	 at	 http://www.cr.nps.gov/history/hisnps/

NPSThinking/nps-oah.htm,	last	modified	16	January	2003	(accessed	13	October	2006).	

	 53.	 I.	Almar,	“Protection	of	the	Lifeless	Environment	in	the	Solar	System”	(presented	at	the	34th	COSPAR	

Scientific	Assembly,	Second	World	Space	Congress,	held	10–19	October	2002,	Houston,	TX,	2002).	

	 54.	 Ibid.,	p.	185.	

	 55.	 Hermon	 Dunlap	 Smith	 Center	 for	 the	 History	 of	 Cartography,	 glossary	 in	 “Historic	 Maps	 in	 K–12	

Classrooms,”	 Newberry	 Library	 Web	 site,	 2003,	 available	 at	 http://www3.newberry.org/k12maps/

glossary/	(accessed	4	October	2006).	

475
NASA’s First 50 Years

would do this no matter the price paid by indigenous people or the environment. As Democratic leader and editor John L. O’Sullivan insisted in 1845, “our 

manifest destiny [is] to over spread and to possess the whole of the continent 

which Providence has given us for the development of the great experiment of 

liberty . . . .”56 In the not too distant future, we will have to decide if we have 

this same right as we explore other bodies of our solar system. What impact will 

we have on other worlds if we operate according to a manifest destiny ethic?

While the concept of manifest destiny was once, and still may be, popular 

among many U.S. citizens, we were never unanimous in our support, either 

in the past or in the present. Some statesmen have recognized, and warned 

against, our country’s tendency to run roughshod over delicate nature. In 1837, 

for instance, William E. Channing wrote to Henry Clay that “We are a restless 

people, prone to encroachment, impatient of the ordinary laws of progress 

. . . forgetting that, throughout nature, noble growths are slow . . . . It is full 

time that we should lay on ourselves serious, resolute restraint.”57 This belief 

in restraint and care in our expansion through the universe is expressed in 

many forms today, and it is part of the ongoing debate on how to explore 

space. One particularly elegant opinion regarding the wisdom of restraint is 

expressed in the book Looking for Life, Searching the Solar System: “The Earth 

can be seen as a spaceship driven by humanity acting as a crew, and it is the 

destiny of a crew to stay onboard the ship . . . .”58

Exploration for the Improvement of the World

Dave Scott, commander of Apollo 15, believed that “there’s a fundamental 

truth to our nature—Man must explore,”59 and it is this urge that has propelled 

adventurers toward both new lands and new worlds. John Young, a veteran of 

Gemini, Apollo, and Space Shuttle flights, realized how important this urge is 

	 56.	 John	Louis	O’Sullivan,	from	an	editorial	supporting	the	annexation	of	Texas	in	the	July-August	1845	

edition	 of	the	United States Magazine and Democratic Review,	 as	reported	 in	Michael	T.	 Lubragge,	

“Manifest	Destiny:	The	Philosophy	That	Created	A	Nation,”	in	From Revolution to Reconstruction, 2003,	

from	the	site	“A	Hypertext	on	American	History	from	the	Colonial	Period	until	Modern	Times,	Department	

of	Humanities	Computing,	University	of	Groningen,	The	Netherlands,”	available	at	http://www.let.rug.nl/

usa/E/manifest/manif1.htm	(accessed	4	October	2006).	

	 57.	 John	M.	 Blum,	William	S.	McFeely,	 Edmund	S.	Morgan,	Arthur	M.	Schlesinger,	 Jr.,	 and	Kenneth	M.	

Stampp,	The National Experience: A History of the United States,	6th	ed.	(New	York,	NY:	Harcourt	Brace	

Jovanovich,	1985),	p.	276.

	 58.	 Clancy	et	al.,	Looking for Life, pp.	185–186.	

	 59.	 NASA,	 “Man	 Must	 Explore,”	 available	 at	 http://www.history.nasa.gov/alsj/UL15MustExplore.html

(accessed	18	January	2009).

476
NASA’s Voyages to the Outer Solar System

to our nation when he noted that “the things we learn out there will be making life better for a lot of people who won’t be able to go.”60 

Journeys to the outer solar system are of necessity robotic journeys, but the 

technologies now available enable us to hitchhike on those faraway voyages, 

experience the new worlds encountered by the spacecraft, and reap various 

rewards: a sense of wonder at what lies beyond our planet; the vitality that 

comes from glimpsing what is possible and achievable; and the intellectual, 

social, political, and ethical benefits that can help us maintain an influential 

place in the world. 

	 60.	 “Great	Quotes,”	WordPress.com,	available	at	http://todayinspacehistory.wordpress.com/great-quotes/

(accessed	18	January	2009).

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Chapter 19

Deep Space Navigation, 

Planetary Science, and 

Astronomy

A Synergetic Relationship

Andrew J. Butrica

The many technological and scientific accomplishments of NASA’s half century of solar system exploration succeeded in no small part because of the 

efforts and expertise of deep space navigators. Their crucial contribution to 

the Agency’s successes (and failures) is the ongoing determination of a space 

probe’s position. Spacecraft navigation assures the collection of vital scientific 

data, which Earth-bound scientists in turn interpret within a paradigmatic 

framework indigenous to their discipline. In short, behind the scientific successes of NASA’s missions of solar system exploration is deep space navigation.

Far less apparent, but no less far-reaching, have been the contributions of 

deep space navigation to astronomy, a scientific discipline on which navigation is especially dependent, and the planetary sciences. This paper partially 

addresses this lacuna by summarizing deep space navigation’s general evolution 

over the past five decades and by pointing out some examples of navigation’s 

role in advancing both astronomy and the planetary sciences. First, however, 

we need to understand what deep space navigation is.

Navigators and Navigation

All solar system missions include an approach to at least one celestial body. The 

simplest missions consist of a flyby or a hard impact, while more complicated 

missions require placing a probe in orbit, trimming an orbit to enable television or radar imaging, or descending through an atmosphere to execute a soft 

landing. Navigation entails determining the position and motion of a spacecraft 

at any given time from data furnished by the Deep Space Network and comparing them with the position and motion predicted by preflight computations. 

479
NASA’s First 50 Years

Navigators compute probe flightpaths using a repetitive orbit determination 

process. Trajectory-correcting maneuvers performed during the mission require 

special, highly accurate measurements of the craft’s velocity and position as 

well as highly precise orbit determinations, not to mention the calculation of 

the velocity and directional changes required to adjust the probe’s flightpath. 

Navigators perform these vital calculations by means of a complex collection 

of computer software called the Orbit Determination Program that operated 

exclusively on large mainframe computers well into the 1980s. The institutional 

home of NASA’s deep space navigators is the Systems Division of JPL.

Through their efforts, the navigators at JPL enabled NASA’s successful 

exploration of the solar system beginning with the Moon-bound Pioneers, 

Rangers, Surveyors, and Lunar Orbiters of the 1960s; subsequently, they enabled 

the Mariner and other missions to Mars, Venus, and Mercury, as well as the 

Pioneer, Voyager, Galileo, and Cassini voyages to the outer planets and the 

latest exploration of asteroids and comets.

Doppler Era

For the purposes of this contribution, I divide the history of deep space navigation into three broad, overlapping eras. The first is that of the initial decade of 

solar system exploration, when navigators relied solely on Doppler data. The 

era witnessed the first use of a parking orbit, the first Hohmann transfer orbit, 

the first trajectory correction maneuver, and the first hard landing on another 

celestial body—all accomplished by the Ranger program—as well as the first 

soft landing (the Surveyors) and the first planetary flyby (Mariner 2). These 

were all firsts of necessity, as these were NASA’s initial forays into deep space.

One of the great navigational milestones of this era laid the foundation 

for the ongoing quest for greater and greater navigational accuracy that has 

marked the history of navigation. That quest had its formal beginnings in 

July 1965 with the establishment of the Inherent Accuracy Project, renamed 

and greatly expanded as the JPL Navigation Program in December 1968.1 The 

experiments and studies initiated under the aegis of this ongoing project 

attempted to understand and correct for the many sources of inaccuracies that 

held navigators back from deriving the full benefit of the accuracy intrinsic 

	 1.	 William	R.	Corliss,	A History of the Deep Space Network	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	CR-151915,	1	May	

1976),	pp.	124–125;	Thomas	W.	Hamilton,	“Introduction,”	 in	Space Programs Summary No. 37-38, 

Volume III, for the period January 1, 1966, to February 28, 1966	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL,	31	March	1966),	

p.	8	(hereafter	SPS	37-38).	

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Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy

in upgrading the Deep Space Network tracking stations from the L-band to 

the higher frequencies of the S-band. They formulated better models of the 

effects of the stratosphere and ionosphere over each tracking station, strove to 

improve timekeeping and frequency standard precision, and computed highly 

accurate tracking station locations using the Orbit Determination Program and 

the Doppler data collected during NASA missions.2 In the process of improving Deep Space Network tracking station locations, navigators contributed to 

Earth geodesy in a variety of ways worthy of study on their own.

Navigators established a synergistic relationship with those studying planetary atmospheres on NASA missions beginning with the flight of Mariner 4. 

After NASA selected all the science teams and instruments for that mission, 

a proposal came forth to perform an occultation experiment—the first of its 

kind—in which researchers studied the properties of the Martian atmosphere 

by examining the changes experienced by radio waves passing through it. Later 

missions included occultation investigations of planetary atmospheres, ionospheres, rings, and magnetic fields. They were a feature of Mariner and Viking 

flights to Mercury, Venus, and Mars, as well as the Pioneer 10 and Pioneer 11 

(Jupiter and Saturn), Voyager (Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Triton), 

Ulysses (Jupiter), Magellan (Venus), Galileo (Jupiter, Callisto, Io, Ganymede, 

and Europa), and Cassini (Saturn and Titan) missions.3

The ideas for the occultation experiment arose independently at Stanford 

University and JPL, with Stanford researchers coming up with the first proposal 

in 1962 and JPL contributing later in the spring of 1964.4 The Stanford proposal 

grew out of the research at the Center for Radar Astronomy on bistatic radar 

and its uses for exploring the Moon and planets.5 The idea for the occultation 

	 2.	 Jordan	Ellis,	“Large	Scale	State	Estimation	Algorithms	for	DSN	Tracking	Station	Location	Determination,”	

Journal of the Astronautical Sciences	28	(January–March	1980):	15–30.

	 3.	 Mariner-Mars 1964 Final Project Report	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 SP-139,	 1967),	 p.	 6;	 Douglas	

J.	Mudgway,	Uplink-Downlink: A History of the Deep Space Network, 1957–1997	(Washington,	DC:	

NASA	SP-2001-4227,	2001),	pp.	514–516;	Sami	W.	Asmar	and	Nicholas	A.	Renzetti,	The Deep Space 

Network as an Instrument for Radio Science Research,	rev.	1	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL	Publication	80-93,	15	

April	1993),	p.	13.

	 4.	 Arvydas	J.	Kliore,	Dan	L.	Cain,	Gerald	S.	Levy,	Von	R.	Eshleman,	Frank	D.	Drake,	and	Gunnar	Fjeldbo,	

“The	Mariner	4	 Occultation	 Experiment,”	Astronautics & Aeronautics	3	 (July	1965):	73;	Asmar	 and	

Renzetti,	 The Deep Space Network,	 p.	 13;	 Mudgway,	 Uplink-Downlink,	 p.	 515;	 Von	 R.	 Eshleman,	

interview	by	author,	Stanford	University,	9	May	1994,	transcript	and	tape,	pp.	23–25,	NASA	Historical	

Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 5.	 Asmar	 and	 Renzetti,	 The Deep Space Network,	 p.	 13;	 Gunnar	 Fjeldbo	 and	Von	 R.	 Eshleman,	“The	

Bistatic	Radar-Occultation	Method	for	the	Study	of	Planetary	Atmospheres,”	Journal of Geophysical 

Research	70,	no.	13	(July	1,	1965):	3217–3225;	Gunnar	Fjeldbo,	Von	R.	Eshleman,	Owen	K.	Garriott,	

and	F.	L.	Smith	III,	“The	Two-Frequency,	Bistatic	Radar-Occultation	Method	for	the	Study	of	Planetary	

481
NASA’s First 50 Years

experiment at JPL had rather different roots, not in radar but in deep space 

navigation. There, navigator Dan L. Cain proposed conducting the occultation 

experiment on Mariner 4. As a result, Cain and Arvydas “Art” Kliore, another 

JPL navigator, joined Stanford on the occultation science team. They and other 

navigators also were part of subsequent occultation experiments performed 

by Stanford on NASA missions.6

Opening up the Mariner 4 mission had larger repercussions for both science 

and navigation. Navigators now participated on NASA mission science teams 

and contributed to new discoveries. For example, during the Lunar Orbiter 

flights, JPL navigators William L. “Bill” Sjogren and Paul M. Muller discovered 

mass concentrations (“mascons”), regions of the Moon’s crust exhibiting large 

gravitational anomalies, while analyzing navigational data from the mission. 

Later, while examining Viking Orbiter 2 navigation data, Bill Sjogren announced 

the discovery of mascons at several locations on Mars.7

By instigating the institution of rules for outside access to navigation data,8

the Mariner 4 occultation experiment also opened the Deep Space Network to 

radio astronomers beginning in 1967, following coincidentally the discovery 

earlier that year by S. Jocelyn Bell, a Cambridge University graduate student 

working under Sir Anthony Hewish, of a scintillating radio source dubbed 

Ionospheres,”	 Journal of Geophysical Research	 70,	 no.	 15	 (1	August	 1965):	 3701–3710;	Andrew	

J.	Butrica,	To See the Unseen: A History of Planetary Radar Astronomy	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP4218,	1996),	pp.	57,	155.	Fjeldbo’s	dissertation	was	“Bistatic-Radar	Methods	for	Studying	Planetary	

Ionospheres	and	Surfaces”	(Ph.D.	diss.,	Stanford	University,	1964),	later	published	as	Fjeldbo,	BistaticRadar Methods for Studying Planetary Ionospheres and Surfaces	(Stanford,	CA:	Radioscience	Laboratory,	

Stanford	Electronics	Laboratory,	SR	2,	1964).

	 6.	 Eshleman	 interview,	 pp.	 25,	 28;	 Kliore,	 Cain,	 Levy,	 Eshleman,	 Drake,	 and	 Fjeldbo,	 “The	Mariner	 4	

Occultation	Experiment,”	p.	73;	NASA,	“Mariner	IV	Pre-Encounter	Press	Conference,”	pp.	30–31,	folder	

5193,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	

DC;	Asmar	and	Renzetti,	The Deep Space Network,	p.	13;	Thomas	W.	Hamilton,	interview	by	José	Alonso,	

n.d.,	JPL,	tape	and	transcript,	p.	6,	JPL	Archives,	JPL,	Pasadena,	CA;	Arvydas	J.	Kliore,	interview	by	

José	Alonso,	13	July	1992,	JPL,	tape	and	transcript,	JPL	Archives,	Jet	Propulsion	Laboratory,	Pasadena,	

CA;	Oran	W.	Nicks,	A Review of the Mariner IV Results	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-130,	1967),	p.	32.

	 7.	 Paul	M.	Muller	and	William	L.	Sjogren,	“Mascons:	Lunar	Mass	Concentrations,”	Science	161,	no.	3842	

(16	August	1968):	680–684;	 Roger	 J.	Phillips,	 James	 E.	 Conel,	 Elsa	A.	Abbott,	William	 L.	Sjogren,	

and	 John	 B.	Morton,	“Mascons:	Progress	Toward	a	 Unique	Solution	for	Mass	Distribution,”	Journal 

of Geophysical Research	 77	 (10	 December	 1972):	 7106–7114;	 William	 L.	 Sjogren	 and	 Wilber	 R.	

Wollenhaupt,	“Gravity:	Mare	Humorum,”	Moon	8,	no.	1-2	(1973):	25–32;	William	L.	Sjogren,	“Mars	

Gravity:	High-Resolution	Results	from	Viking	Orbiter	2,”	Science	203,	no.	4384	(March	9,	1979):	1006–

1010;	Paul	D.	Lowman,	Jr.,	Exploring Space, Exploring Earth: New Understanding of the Earth from 

Space Research	(New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	2002),	p.	72.

	 8.	 See	 Homer	 E.	 Newell	 to	William	 H.	 Pickering,	 8	 November	 1964,	 and	 attachment,	 “Policy	 on	 the	

Utilization	for	Scientific	Purposes	of	Tracking	Data	from	the	Deep	Space	Network,”	13	August	1964,	

Historian’s	Files,	record	no.	07	00024	BF,	JPL	Archives.

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Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy

Little Green Men 1 (LGM 1), but known today as a pulsar. The announcement 

spurred a worldwide hunt for more of these pulsating radio sources, and radio 

astronomers now could take advantage of the Deep Space Network in that hunt.9

VLBI and ∆DOR

The second era of deep space navigation began around 1970 as NASA was 

planning its first voyages to the outer planets. The accuracy of navigation 

improved with the gradual shift to X-band frequencies. Navigators added range 

to their repertoire of data types and experimented with several new varieties 

of data, such as Differenced Range Versus Integrated Doppler (DRVID). The 

purpose of DRVID was to correct for the effects of charged particles in the 

ionosphere via computational methods rather than by making measurements 

using satellites in geostationary orbit, as had been the case. The results of the 

DRVID experiments on the Mariner Mars 1969 mission were promising, despite 

many difficulties, and both Mariner 9 and Pioneer Venus used DRVID, while 

Viking used a variant called “pseudo-DRVID.”10 More importantly in the long 

run, however, navigators added Very Long Baseline Interferometry (VLBI) and 

optical navigation to their repertoire of techniques.

Very Long Baseline Interferometry is a technique borrowed from radio 

astronomy, specifically a variety of VLBI equipment and software developed by 

the National Radio Astronomy Observatory (NRAO) as well as by the Caltech 

radio astronomy community with funding from NSF.11 The VLBI technique 

	 9.	 Nicholas	A.	Renzetti,	Gerald	S.	Levy,	Thomas	B.	H.	Kuiper,	Pamela	R.	Wolken,	and	R.	C.	Chandlee,	The 

Deep Space Network: An Instrument for Radio Astronomy Research,	rev.	1	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL	82-68,	

1	September	1988),	p.	2-1;	Anthony	Hewish,	S.	Jocelyn	Bell,	John	D.	Pilkington,	P.	F.	Scott,	and	R.	A.	

Collins,	“Observation	of	a	Rapidly	Pulsating	Radio	Source,”	Nature	217	(February	1968):	709–713;	Sir	

Bernard	Lovell,	Astronomer by Chance	(New	York,	NY:	Basic	Books,	1990),	pp.	294–295;	Benjamin	K.	

Malphrus,	The History of Radio Astronomy and the National Radio Astronomy Observatory: Evolution 

Toward Big Science	(Malabar,	FL:	Krieger,	1996),	pp.	137–138.

	 10.	 Nicolas	A.	Renzetti,	James	F.	Jordan,	Allen	L.	Berman,	Joseph	A.	Wackley,	and	Thomas	P.	Yunck,	The 

Deep Space Network: An Instrument for Radio Navigation of Deep Space Probes	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL	

TR	 82-102,	 15	 December	 1982);	 G.	 A.	 Madrid,	 “Charged	 Particles,”	 in	 Tracking System Analytic 

Calibration Activities for the Mariner Mars 1971 Mission,	ed.	G.	A.	Madrid,	C.	C.	Chao,	H.	F.	Fliegel,	R.	K.	

Leavitt,	N.	A.	Mottinger,	F.	B.	Winn,	R.	N.	Wimberly,	K.	B.	Yip,	and	J.	W.	Zielenbach	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL	TR	

32-1587,	1	March	1974),	pp.	43–60;	P.	S.	Callahan,	“A	Preliminary	Analysis	of	Viking	S-X	Doppler	Data	

and	Comparison	to	Results	of	Mariner	6,	7,	and	9	DRVID	Measurements	of	the	Solar	Wind	Turbulence,”	

in	The Deep Space Network Progress Report 42-39, March and April 1977	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL,	15	

June	1977),	pp	23–29.

	 11.	 Kurt	M.	Liewer,	“DSN	Very	Long	Baseline	Interferometry	System	Mark	IV-88,”	in	The Telecommunications 

and Data Acquisition Progress Report 42-93, January–March 1988,	ed.	E.	C.	Posner	(Pasadena,	CA:	

JPL,	15	May	1988),	 pp.	239–246;	 J.	W.	 Layland	 and	 L.	 L.	 Rauch,	 The Evolution of Technology in 

the Deep Space Network: A History of the Advanced Systems Program,	TDA	Progress	Report	42-130	

483
NASA’s First 50 Years

Angular Tracking Using Station-Differenced Observables 

Figure 1:	Satellite	tracking	using	differenced	observations	from	stations	located	across	a	long	baseline	

(VLBI).	Lincoln J. Wood, “The Evolution of Deep Space Navigation: 1962–1989,” paper 08-051, read at the 

31st Annual AAS Guidance and Control Conference, Breckenridge, Colorado, 1–6 February 2008

uses two widely separated antennas (for example, one in California and the 

other in Australia) receiving radio signals from the same distant source, the 

spacecraft’s transponder. By studying the differences between the two signals, 

navigators can calculate spacecraft positions far more accurately than with 

traditional Doppler and range techniques.12

From the standpoint of deep space navigation, a far more preferable 

approach is to take readings from a spacecraft, then from a distant extragalactic 

radio source (a quasar), at two separated antennas. Navigators then analyze 

the differences in readings obtained at the two antennas, which provides an 

(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL,	15	August	1997),	p.	18;	Martin	A.	Slade,	Robert	A.	Preston,	Alan	W.	Harris,	Lyle	J.	

Skjerve,	and	Donovan	J.	Spitzmesser,	“ALSEP-Quasar	Differential	VLBI,”	Earth, Moon, and Planets	17,	

no.	2	(October	1977):	133–147.

	 12.	 Lincoln	J.	Wood,	“The	Evolution	of	Deep	Space	Navigation:	1962–1989”	(AAS	paper	08-051,	read	

at	the	31st	Annual	AAS	Guidance	and	Control	Conference,	1–6	February	2008,	 Breckenridge,	CO),	

published	in	Michael	E.	Drews	and	Robert	D.	Culp,	eds.,	Advances in the Astronautical Sciences,	vol.	

131	(San	Diego,	CA:	Univelt,	2008),	pp.	299–301.

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Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy

even more accurate navigational result. The generic term for this version of 

VLBI is delta-VLBI.13

The first test of VLBI for navigation actually took place between Earth and 

the Moon. Between 1969 and 1972, astronauts left the Apollo Lunar Surface 

Experiments Package (ALSEP), a laser reflector array, on the lunar surface. 

Carried out by Martin A. “Marty” Slade and others at JPL, along with Charles C. 

Counselman III and Irwin I Shapiro at MIT, the experiment involved having four 

antennas make simultaneous observations (two at each end of an intercontinental baseline) of a quasar and a number of ALSEP transmitters and obtaining the 

differential interferometric phase between the two sources. The researchers also 

hoped that these highly precise observations would help to test gravitational 

theories and to measure the Earth-Moon tidal friction interaction.14 Thus VLBI 

became an instrument of both deep space navigation and Earth geodesy.

The first mission to benefit from this important navigational tool was 

Voyager.15 In order to have a map of quasars useful for navigation, JPL began to 

participate in the Quasar Patrol, an informal group of scientists and engineers 

from MIT (Irwin Shapiro) and its Haystack Observatory (Alan Rogers), GSFC 

(R. J. Coates), and the University of Maryland (Thomas A. Clark) that made 

VLBI observations of quasars during the early 1970s.16

	 13.	 Wood,	“The	Evolution	of	Deep	Space	Navigation:	1962–1989,”	p.	301;	Liewer,	“DSN	Very	Long	Baseline	

Interferometry	System	Mark	IV-88,”	pp.	239–240.

	 14.	 Martin	A.	Slade,	Robert	A.	Preston,	Alan	W.	Harris,	Lyle	J.	Skjerve,	and	Donovan	J.	Spitzmesser,	“ALSEPQuasar	Differential	VLBI,”	Earth, Moon, and Planets	17,	no.	2	(October	1977):	133–147;	Robert	W.	King,	

Charles	C.	Counselman	III,	Irwin	I.	Shapiro,	and	Hans	F.	Hinteregger,	“Study	of	Lunar	Librations	using	

Differential	Very-Long-Baseline	 Observations	 of	ALSEPs,”	 Recent Advances in Engineering Science

8	(1977):	431–438;	Martin	A.	Slade,	interview	by	author,	JPL,	24	May	1996,	transcript	and	tape,	pp.	

5–6,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	

DC;	 Irwin	 I.	 Shapiro,	 interview	 by	 author,	 Harvard-Smithsonian	 Center	 for	Astrophysics,	 Cambridge,	

MA,	1	October	1993,	tape	and	transcript,	pp.	4–6,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	

Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 15.	 Layland	and	Rauch,	p.	27;	D.	Lee	Brunn,	Robert	A.	Preston,	Sien	C.	Wu,	Herbert	L.	Siegel,	David	S.	

Brown,	Carl	S.	Christensen,	and	David	E.	Hilt,	“∆	VLBI	Spacecraft	Tracking	System	Demonstration:	Part	

1:	Design	and	Planning,”	in	The Deep Space Network Progress Report 42-45, March and April 1978

(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL,	15	June	1978),	pp.	111–132;	Christensen,	B.	Moultrie,	Philip	S.	Callahan,	F.	F.	

Donivan,	and	S.	C.	Wu,	“Differential	Very	Long	Baseline	Interferometry	(Delta	VLBI)	Spacecraft	Tracking	

System	Demonstration:	Part	2:	Data	Acquisition	and	Processing,”	in	The Telecommunications and Data 

Acquisition Progress Report 42-60, September and October 1980,	ed.	N.	A.	Renzetti	(Pasadena,	CA:	

JPL,	15	December	1980),	pp.	60–67.

	 16.	 Karl	W.	Linnes,	“Radio	Science	Support,”	in	The Deep Space Network Progress Report for November 

and December 1972,	vol.	13	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL	TR	32-1526,	15	February	1973),	pp.	37–40;	O.	J.	

Sovers,	C.	D.	Edwards,	C.	S.	Jacobs,	G.	E.	Lanyi,	K.	M.	Liewer,	and	R.	N.	Treuhaft,	“Astrometric	Results	of	

1978–1985	Deep	Space	Network	Radio	Interferometry:	The	JPL	1987-1	Extragalactic	Source	Catalog,”	

Astronomical Journal	95	(June	1988):	1647–1658.

485
NASA’s First 50 Years

Very Long Baseline Interferometry 

Figure 2:	Very	Long	Baseline	Interferometry	using	quasars	as	a	reference	frame	for	deep	space	

navigation.	Lincoln J. Wood, “The Evolution of Deep Space Navigation: 1962–1989,” paper 08-051, read at 

the 31st Annual AAS Guidance and Control Conference, Breckenridge, Colorado, 1–6 February 2008

The VLBI technique, known as ΔDOR, also became an important, though 

not primary, tool for improving navigational accuracy beginning with the 

Voyager flights.17 Its use soon came to an end, however, when navigators on 

the Galileo mission showed mathematically that high-precision, two-way ranging and Doppler were “somewhat better” than ΔDOR alone and noted that 

two-way ranging was simpler to schedule and process.18 NASA Headquarters 

subsequently withdrew ΔDOR funding.19 But the space agency reinstated ΔDOR 

in response to the conclusions and recommendations of the Mars Climate 

	 17.	 Jordan	Ellis,	“Deep	Space	Navigation	with	Noncoherent	Tracking	Data,”	in	The Telecommunications and 

Data Acquisition Progress Report 42-74, for April–June 1983,	ed.	E.	C.	Posner	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL,	15	

August	1983),	pp.	1–12.

	 18.	 Vincent	M.	Pollmeier	and	S.	W.	Thurman,	“Application	of	High-Precision	Two-Way	Ranging	to	Galileo	

Earth-1	Encounter	Navigation,”	in	The Telecommunications and Data Acquisition Progress Report 42-

110, April–June 1992,	ed.	Renzetti	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL,	15	August	1992),	pp.	21–32.

	 19.	 Laureano	A.	“Al”	Cangahuala,	interview	by	author,	JPL,	20	April	2007,	transcript,	pp.	24–25,	NASA	

Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	Lincoln	

J.	Wood,	 interview	 by	 author,	 JPL,	13	 November	2008,	tape,	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	

486
Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy

Navigation Measurements -- Optical Data 

Figure 3: Optical	navigation	images	a	target	body	along	with	a	known	nearby	star	in	order	to	determine	

a	spacecraft’s	position	relative	to	the	target.	Lincoln J. Wood, “The Evolution of Deep Space Navigation: 

1962–1989,” paper 08-051, read at the 31st Annual AAS Guidance and Control Conference, Breckenridge, 

Colorado, 1–6 February 2008

Observer mishap board. The board concluded that the mission navigation team 

had been unable to observe the deleterious changes to the probe’s flightpath 

because those effects were perpendicular to the line of sight. Standard Doppler 

measurements provided only a line-of-sight evaluation of the craft’s trajectory. 

The mishap board recommended therefore that “several other navigation methods should be compared to the prime navigation method to help uncover any 

mismodeled small forces” on future missions, namely the Mars Polar Lander.20

The board’s language—“other navigation methods”—was understood to be 

a call for the reinstatement of ΔDOR,21 and consequently the Mars Observer of 

NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	Shyam	Bhaskaran,	interview	by	author,	

JPL,	14	 November	2008,	tape,	 NASA	 Historical	 Reference	 Collection,	 NASA	 History	 Division,	 NASA	

Headquarters,	Washington,	DC.

	 20.	 Mars	 Climate	 Observer	 Mishap	 Investigation	 Board,	 Phase I Report	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA,	 10	

November	1999),	p.	18.

	 21.	 Bhaskaran	interview.

487
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 4: Mariner	9	marked	a	number	of	milestones	in	the	history	of	deep	space	navigation.	Gathered	

here	are	members	of	the	navigation	team	during	Mars	orbit	insertion	(13	November	1971).	William M. 

Owen, Jr., Thomas C. Duxbury, Charles H. Acton, Jr., Stephen P. Synnott, Joseph E. Riedel, and Shyam 

Bhaskaran, “A Brief History of Optical Navigation at JPL,” paper AAS 08-053, read at the 31st Annual AAS 

Guidance and Control Conference, Breckenridge, Colorado, 1–6 February 2008

2001 became only the second spacecraft to use ΔDOR routinely for navigation, 

though only as a supplement to range and Doppler data.22

Optical Navigation

The other powerful navigational tool that emerged during this second era 

was optical navigation. Optical navigation requires an on-board camera that 

one can point toward selected targets and image them against a background 

of stars. The first attempts at optical navigation used the camera reserved for 

	 22.	 Peter	M.	Kroger,	James	S.	Border,	and	Sumita	Nandi,	“The	Mars	Observer	Differential	One-Way	Range	

Demonstration,”	in	The Telecommunications and Data Acquisition Progress Report 42-117, January–

March 1994,	ed.	Joseph	H.	Yuen	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL,	15	May	1994),	pp.	1–15.

488
Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy

science experiments, and data processing took place on the ground.23 Optical 

navigation is most useful when the motion of the target body is not understood 

with sufficient precision, as in the case of the moons of Jupiter or other outer 

planet bodies or asteroids and comets. Navigators use it in conjunction with 

such standard data types as Doppler, range, and ΔDOR during the approach, 

rendezvous, and orbit phases of a mission.

The first experimental optical navigation attempt took place during the 

Mariner 6 and 7 (Mariner Mars 1969) flights using the “Far Encounter Planet 

Sensor” (the on-board science camera).24 Navigators followed that success 

with a second demonstration on Mariner 9, which took off for Mars on 30 

May 1971, again using the science camera.25 One of the major benefits of the 

experiment was the creation of two sets of programs that became standard and 

continued in use in modified form. The Optical Navigation Image Processing 

System (ONIPS) displayed images and located their center, while the Optical 

Navigation Program (ONP) set made predictions, generated residuals and 

partials, and filtered data.26 For their development of the optical navigation 

method, JPL navigators Thomas C. “Tom” Duxbury and Charles H. “Chuck” 

Acton, Jr., received NASA’s Exceptional Scientific Achievement Medal as well 

as the Institute of Navigation’s Samuel M. Burka prize for their paper,27 along 

with a modest financial award of $175 each.28

	 23.	 James	Frank	Jordan,	interview	by	author,	JPL,	19	April	2007,	transcript	and	tape,	pp.	20–21,	33–34,	

36,	38–39,	41–42,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC.

	 24.	 Jordan	 interview,	 pp.	 31,	 64;	 Thomas	 C.	 Duxbury,	 “Navigation	 Data	 from	 Mariner	 Mars	 1969	 TV	

Pictures,”	Navigation	17,	no.	3	(1970):	219–225;	Thomas	C.	Duxbury	and	William	G.	Breckenridge,	

“Mariner	Mars	1969	Optical	Approach	Navigation”	(AIAA	paper	70-70,	AIAA	8th	Aerospace	Sciences	

Meeting,	New	York,	NY,	1970);	William	M.	Owen,	Jr.,	Thomas	C.	Duxbury,	Charles	H.	Acton,	Jr.,	Stephen	

P.	Synnott,	Joseph	E.	Riedel,	and	Shyam	Bhaskaran,	“A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL”	(paper	

AAS	08-053,	read	at	the	31st	Annual	AAS	Guidance	and	Control	Conference,	Breckenridge,	CO,	1–6	

February	2008,	copy	provided	by	Lincoln	Wood	and	Shyam	Bhaskaran),	pp.	2,	3	(hereafter	“A	Brief	

History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL”).

	 25.	 George	H.	Born,	Thomas	C.	Duxbury,	William	G.	Breckenridge,	Charles	H.	Acton,	Srinivas	N.	Mohan,	

Navin	Jerath,	and	Hiroshi	Ohtakay,	Mariner Mars 1971 Optical Navigation Demonstration	(Pasadena,	

CA:	JPL	TM	33-683,	15	April	1974);	William	G.	Breckenridge	and	Charles	H.	Acton,	Jr.,	“A	Detailed	

Analysis	of	Mariner	Nine	TV	Navigation	Data”	(paper	72-866,	AIAA	Guidance	and	Control	Conference,	

Stanford,	 CA,	 1972);	 Acton,	 “Processing	 Onboard	 Optical	 Data	 for	 Planetary	 Approach	 Navigation,”	

Journal of Spacecraft and Rockets	9,	no.	10	(1972):	746–750.

	 26.	 J.	F.	Jordan	and	A.	J.	Fuchs,	“Autonomy	in	Space	Navigation,”	Astronautics and Aeronautics	17	(May	

1979):	46–49;	“A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	3.

	 27.	 Thomas	 C.	 Duxbury	 and	 Charles	 H.	 Acton,	 “On-Board	 Optical	 Navigation	 Data	 from	 Mariner	 71,”	

Navigation	19,	no.	4	(1972):	295–307.

	 28.	 “A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	4.

489
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 5:	Thomas	C.	Duxbury	(left)	and	Charles	H.	Acton,	Jr.,	at	the	Institute	of	Navigation’s	1974	

meeting	in	San	Diego,	California,	receiving	the	Samuel	M.	Burka	prize	for	their	pioneering	paper	on	optical	

navigation.	William M. Owen, Jr., Thomas C. Duxbury, Charles H. Acton, Jr., Stephen P. Synnott, Joseph E. 

Riedel, and Shyam Bhaskaran, “A Brief History of Optical Navigation at JPL,” paper AAS 08-053, read at 

the 31st Annual AAS Guidance and Control Conference, Breckenridge, Colorado, 1–6 February 2008

In 1976, the Viking mission also used optical navigation, targeting again 

the planet’s moons, Phobos and Deimos, to guide the spacecraft not only on 

approach to Mars, but also in orbit.29 However, the most dramatic and certainly the most scientifically rewarding application of optical navigation was 

the Voyager mission to the outer planets starting in 1977. Voyager marked the 

“coming of age” of optical navigation.30

Equipped to operate in both the S-band and the X-band, the Voyager 

spacecraft also were the first to utilize the X-band as the primary telemetry 

link. Optical data enhanced navigational accuracy at Jupiter; ground-based 

Doppler and range alone were sufficiently accurate to fulfill scientific objectives. 

	 29.	 Navin	Jerath,	Interplanetary Approach Optical Navigation with Applications	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL	TR	78-

40,	1	June	1978);	“A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	pp.	4,	5.

	 30.	 “A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	5.

490
Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy

For the Saturn encounters, however, radio waves alone lacked the accuracy 

needed to accomplish scientific goals, so optical data for the first time were 

the primary method for meeting mission objectives.31 Later, for the encounters 

with Uranus (1986), Neptune (1989), and their moons, optical navigation was 

a prime requisite for accomplishing the mission’s scientific goals, even with 

the assistance of a concerted effort to expand astronomer knowledge of the 

ephemerides of those planets and their moons.32

The use of optical navigation involved navigators in updating the astronomers’ star catalog. The Mariner and Viking missions, for example, had relied on 

the best whole-sky star catalog available, namely, the one that SAO compiled 

and published in 1966.33 However, most of the material in that catalog came 

from the Yale Zone Catalogs of the 1930s, meaning that the star positions 

used on the Mariner and Viking missions already were 30 years out of date.34

Beginning with Voyager, JPL contracted with Lick Observatory for the 

creation of ad hoc star catalogs. Navigators from JPL provided the coordinates, 

and Lick staff pointed their 20-inch dual astrograph (one lens corrected for 

yellow light, one for blue) and exposed glass photographic plates. Navigators 

from JPL traveled to Santa Cruz, California, to use Lick’s survey machine to 

select the stars to be measured, a rather tedious process. The observatory 

reduced the data and sent JPL a catalog on magnetic tape. Navigators used 

Lick’s services for all the Voyager encounters, as well as for Galileo’s flybys of 

asteroids Gaspra and Ida.35

The release of ESA’s Hipparcos and Tycho catalogs36 in 1997 changed the 

world of stellar astrometry overnight and benefited the accuracy of optical 

	 31.	 Wood,	 “The	 Evolution	 of	 Deep	 Space	 Navigation:	 1962–1989,”	 pp.	 302–303;	 Jordan,	 “Navigation	

Systems,”	 Journal of the British Interplanetary Society,	 vol.	 38	 (1	 October	 1985):	 444–449;	 J.	 K.	

Campbell,	 Stephen	 P.	 Synnott,	 and	 G.	 J.	 Bierman,	 “Voyager	 Orbit	 Determination	 at	 Jupiter,”	 IEEE 

Transactions on Automatic Control,	vol.	AC-28	(March	1983):	256–268.

	 32.	 Robert	A.	Jacobson	and	E.	Myles	Standish,	“Satellite	Ephemerides	for	the	Voyager	Uranus	Encounter”	

(AIAA	 paper	 84-2024,	AIAA/AAS	Astrodynamics	 Conference,	 Seattle,	WA,	August	 1984);	 Jacobson,	

“Satellite	Ephemerides	for	the	Voyager	Neptune	Encounter,”	in	Advances in the Astronautical Sciences: 

Astrodynamics 1987,	 vol.	 65,	 part	 1,	 ed.	 John	 K.	 Soldner,	Arun	 K.	Mlsra,	 Robert	 E.	 Lindberg,	 and	

Walton	Williamson	(San	Diego,	CA:	Univelt,	1988),	pp.	657–680;	Wood,	“The	Evolution	of	Deep	Space	

Navigation:	1962–1989,”	p.	303.

	 33.	 Smithsonian	Astrophysical	Observatory,	Star Catalog: Positions and Proper Motions of 258,997 Stars 

for the Epoch and Equinox of 1950.0	(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Institution,	1966).

	 34.	 “A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	17.

	 35.	 “A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	17.

	 36.	 European	 Space	 Agency,	 The Hipparcos and Tycho Catalogues: Astrometric and Photometric Star 

Catalogues Derived from the ESA Hipparcos Space Astrometry Mission,	 17	 volumes	 (Noordwijk,	

Netherlands:	ESA	Publications	Division,	1997).

491
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 6: Arthur	J.	“Joe”	Donegan,	Edwin	S.	Travers,	Linda	A.	Morabito,	and	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	

members	of	the	Voyager	optical	navigation	team,	gathered	at	the	Modcomp	IV	minicomputer	(1979).	

Courtesy of Frank Jordan

navigation. The catalog gave the positions and motions of stars to an unprecedented accuracy. Norbert Zacharias and his colleagues at the U.S. Naval 

Observatory also created a new Astrograph Catalog based on images of the 

whole sky made with charge-coupled device (CCD) cameras. Version two of 

the observatory’s CCD Astrograph Catalog (UCAC) catalog,37 which covers 86 

	 37.	 Norbert	Zacharias,	Sean	E.	Urban,	Marion	I.	Zacharias,	Gary	L.	Wycoff,	David	M.	Hall,	David	G.	Monet,	

and	 Theodore	 J.	 Rafferty,	 “The	 Second	 U.S.	 Naval	 Observatory	 CCD	 Astrograph	 Catalog	 (UCAC2),”	

Astronomical Journal	127,	no.	5	(2004):	3043–3059.

492
Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy

percent of the sky (omitting the north polar regions), was used by the Deep 

Impact asteroid mission and currently is in use by Cassini.38

The optical navigation team on Voyager also continued the tradition of 

contributing to the advancement of solar system science. Well known is the 

discovery of volcanic activity on Jupiter’s moon Io by Linda A. Morabito (Kelly), 

a member of the Voyager optical navigation team, in March 1979. Hers was 

the first-ever sighting of active volcanism outside of Earth.39 Less known to 

the public, however, are the discoveries made by another navigator, Stephen 

P. Synnott, during the same mission. Synnott discovered two new satellites of 

Jupiter in the Voyager 1 images that scientists later dubbed Thebe and Metis, 

respectively. He, too, made these discoveries while using the optical navigation 

software. Synnott later found more “rocks” at Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune, 

including 10 small satellites alone at Uranus.40

Current Era

The current navigation era is one of missions to the outer planets, Mars, asteroids, 

and comets on spacecraft operating in the X-band with initial incursions into the 

Ka-band. Navigators continue to use ΔDOR and optical navigation, which have 

become customary data types for supplementing Doppler and range. With the 

Magellan radar-mapping mission to Venus, launched in May 1989, deep space 

navigation began to use the Global Positioning System (GPS), mainly to improve 

	 38.	 “A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	17.

	 39.	 Linda	A.	Morabito,	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	P.	N.	Kupferman,	and	Stewart	A.	Collins,	“Discovery	of	Currently	

Active	Extraterrestrial	Volcanism,”	Science	204,	no.	4396	(June	1979):	972;	The	Planetary	Society,	

“Space	Topics:	Voyager:	The	Stories	Behind	the	Mission:	Linda	Morabito	Kelly,	As	Told	to	A.	J.	S.	Rayl	in	

2002	on	the	Occasion	of	Voyager’s	25th	Anniversary,”	available	at http://www.planetary.org/explore/

topics/space_missions/voyager/stories_kelly.html (accessed	 10	 October	 2008).	 The	 asteroid	 3106	

Morabito	was	found	by	Edward	L.	G.	Bowell	on	9	March	1981	and	named	after	the	navigator.	The	

discovery	tale	 is	told	 succinctly	 by	 Eric	 Burgess	 in	By Jupiter: Odysseys to a Giant	 (New	York,	 NY:	

Columbia	University	Press,	1982),	p.	89;	and	Richard	O.	Fimmel,	William	Swindell,	and	Eric	Burgess,	

Pioneer Odyssey	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-349,	1977),	p.	74.

	 40.	 Stephen	P.	Synnott,	“1979J2:	Discovery	of	a	Previously	Unknown	Jovian	Satellite,”	Science	210,	no.	

4471	(14	November	1980):	786–788;	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	“1979J3:	Discovery	of	a	Previously	Unknown	

Satellite	of	Jupiter,”	Science	212,	no.	4501	(19	June	1981):	1392;	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	“Evidence	for	

the	Existence	of	Additional	Small	Satellites	of	Saturn,”	Icarus	67	(August	1986):	189–204;	Stephen	P.	

Synnott,	C.	F.	Peters,	B.	A.	Smith,	and	Morabito,	“Orbits	of	the	Small	Satellites	of	Saturn,”	Science	212,	

no.	4491	(10	April	1981):	191–192;	William	M.	Owen,	Jr.,	and	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	“Orbits	of	the	Ten	

Small	Satellites	of	Uranus,”	Astronomical Journal	93	(May	1987):	1268–1271;	William	M.	Owen,	Jr.,	

R.	M.	Vaughan,	and	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	“Orbits	of	the	Six	New	Satellites	of	Neptune,”	Astronomical 

Journal	101	(April	1991):	1511–1515.

493
NASA’s First 50 Years

Deep Space Network tracking (and navigation) accuracy.41 Both optical navigation and ΔDOR helped to navigate Magellan, which operated in the S-band and 

X-band.42 That mission also saw navigation software migrate from mainframes 

to minicomputers and, in the early 1990s, to high-performance workstations.43

The Galileo mission additionally marked some transitions in navigation history. It encountered two asteroids on its way to Jupiter, and asteroid research 

would be an integral part of the current era of space navigation. Also, Galileo 

optical navigation did not rely on a traditional on-board television camera, but 

on a CCD.44

A number of significant Agency-wide changes also impacted deep space 

navigation, such as the advent of the “faster, better, cheaper” management philosophy.45 As a result of some of these changes, navigators found themselves 

on multimission teams, which meant that individual navigators concurrently 

worked on multiple projects, including Earth-orbiting satellites, the Space 

	 41.	 Lincoln	J.	Wood,	“The	Evolution	of	Deep	Space	Navigation:	1989–1999”	(AAS	paper	08-311,	read	at	

the	AAS	F.	Landis	Markley	Astronautics	Symposium,	Cambridge,	MD,	30	June	2008),	p.	3,	available	at	

http://trs-new.jpl.nasa.gov/dspace/bitstream/2014/40880/1/08-2094.pdf (accessed	15	October	2008).	

Prior	to	Magellan,	the	first	navigational	use	of	GPS	by	the	Deep	Space	Network	was	on	the	Topography	

Experiment	(TOPEX)/Poseidon	project	for	precise	orbit	determination.	Layland	and	Rauch,	p.	19.

	 42.	 Jon	 D.	 Giorgini,	 Eric	 J.	 Graat,	 Tung-Han	 You,	 Mark	 S.	 Ryne,	 S.	 K.	 Wong,	 and	 John	 B.	 McNamee,	

“Magellan	Navigation	Using	X-Band	Differenced	Doppler	During	Venus	Mapping	Phase,”	in	Proceedings 

of the AIAA/AAS Astrodynamics Conference, Hilton Head, SC, August 1992	 (Washington,	 DC:	AIAA,	

1992),	pp.	351–360;	E.	J.	Graat,	M.	S.	Ryne,	James	S.	Border,	and	D.	B.	Engelhardt,	“Contribution	

of	Doppler	and	Interferometric	Tracking	During	the	Magellan	Approach	to	Venus,”	in	Advances in the 

Astronautical Sciences: Astrodynamics 1991,	vol.	76,	part	II,	ed.	Bernard	Kaufman,	Kyle	T.	Alfriend,	and	

Robert	R.	Dasenbrock	(San	Diego,	CA:	Univelt,	1992),	pp.	919–939;	Jordan	interview,	p.	52;	Wood,	

“The	Evolution	 of	 Deep	Space	 Navigation:	1989–1999,”	p.	2;	Wood,	“The	Evolution	 of	 Deep	Space	

Navigation:	1962–1989,”	pp.	286,	294,	295.

	 43.	 Wood,	“The	Evolution	of	Deep	Space	Navigation:	1989–1999,”	p.	8.

	44.	 R.	 M.	 Vaughan,	 Joseph	 E.	 Riedel,	 Robert	 P.	 Davis,	 William	 M.	 Owen,	 Jr.,	 and	 Stephen	 P.	

Synnott,	 “Optical	 Navigation	 for	 the	 Galileo	 Gaspra	 Encounter,”	 AIAA	 paper	 92-4522	 in	 1992 

AIAA/AAS Astrodynamics Conference, Hilton Head Island, SC, August 10–12, 1992, Technical 

Papers	(Washington,	DC:	AIAA,	1992),	pp.	361–369;	Pieter	H.	Kallemeyn,	Robert	J.	Haw,	Vincent	

M.	Pollmeier,	Francis	T.	Nicholson,	and	D.	W.	Murrow,	“Galileo	Orbit	Determination	for	the	Venus	

and	Earth-1	Flybys,”	in	Advances in the Astronautical Sciences: Astrodynamics 1991,	vol.	76,	part	

II,	ed.	Bernard	Kaufman,	Kyle	T.	Alfriend,	and	Robert	R.	Dasenbrock	(San	Diego,	CA:	Univelt,	1992),	

pp.	1013–1026;	Shyam	 Bhaskaran,	 Joseph	E.	 Riedel,	and	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	“Demonstration	

of	 Autonomous	 Orbit	 Determination	 Around	 Small	 Bodies”	 (paper	 AAS	 95-387,	 AAS/AIAA	

Astrodynamics	Specialist	Conference,	Halifax,	NS,	1995);	“A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	

JPL,”	pp.	8,	10.

	45.	 On	 “faster,	 better,	 cheaper,”	 see	 Howard	 E.	 McCurdy,	 Faster, Better, Cheaper: Low-Cost 

Innovation in the U.S. Space Program	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	2001).	Andrew	

J.	Butrica,	Single Stage to Orbit: Politics, Space Technology, and the Quest for Reusable Rocketry

(Baltimore,	 MD:	 Johns	 Hopkins	 University	 Press,	 2003),	 pp.	 134–140,	 puts	 this	 management	

approach	in	historical	context.

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Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy

Figure 7: The	first	optical	navigation	image	of	Comet	Tempel	taken	by	the	Deep	Impact	spacecraft	(25	

April	2005).	NASA Image PIA0788

Shuttle, and launches by foreign governments. Navigation on the Cassini mission, 

launched in 1997, typified the current era in that a Multimission Navigation 

Team performed the navigation and the spacecraft operated in both the new 

experimental Ka-band and the X-band.46

	 46.	 See,	 for	 example,	 Duane	 C.	 Roth,	 Mark	 D.	 Guman,	 Rodica	 Ionasescu,	 and	 Anthony	 H.	 Taylor,	

“Cassini	Orbit	Determination	from	Launch	to	the	First	Venus	Flyby”	(AIAA	paper	98-4563,	AIAA/AAS	

Astrodynamics	Specialist	Conference,	 Boston,	MA,	10–12	August	1998),	available	at	 JPL,	“Beacon	

eSpace,”	http://hdl.handle.net/2014/19073	(accessed	14	October	2008);	Mark	D.	Guman,	Duane	C.	

Roth,	Rodica	Ionasescu,	T.	D.	Goodson,	Anthony	H.	Taylor,	and	J.	B.	Jones,	“Cassini	Orbit	Determination	

from	First	Venus	Flyby	to	Earth	Flyby”	(AAS	paper	00-168,	read	at	AAS/AIAA	Space	Flight	Mechanics	

Meeting,	Clearwater,	FL,	23–26	January	2000),	available	at	JPL,	“Beacon	eSpace,”	http://hdl.handle.

net/2014/13709	(accessed	14	October	2008);	and	Sami	Asmar,	Randy	Herrera,	John	Armstrong,	Elias	

Barbinis,	Don	Fleischman,	Mark	Gatti,	Gene	Goltz,	and	Luciano	 Iess,	“First	Deep	Space	Operational	

Experience	with	Simultaneous	X-	and	Ka-bands	Coherent	Tracking”	(paper	read	at	SpaceOps	2002	

Conference,	Houston,	TX,	9–12	October	2002),	available	at	JPL,	“Beacon	eSpace,”	http://hdl.handle.

net/2014/10518	(accessed	14	October	2008).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Perhaps the most dramatic of the policy changes that affected navigation 

during this era was the engagement of a private company, KinetX, for navigation services on the MESSENGER probe to Mercury and the New Horizons 

spacecraft to Pluto and the Kuiper Belt. The KinetX Space Navigation and 

Flight Dynamics Team consists largely of retired JPL navigators led by James P. 

McDanell, the former head of JPL’s Navigation and Flight Mechanics Section.47

The era of JPL’s total domination of deep space navigation seemed to be on 

the verge of an eclipse.

The current era also saw a spate of Mars missions after a two-decade hiatus 

following the Viking mission. The return to Mars, at times ending in failure, 

benefited from increasingly more accurate range and Doppler measurements 

and eventually from the restoration of ΔDOR. Meanwhile, a series of missions 

aimed at exploring asteroids and comets provided opportunities to polish optical navigation dramatically and to pioneer autonomous navigation.

Cassini marked the maturation of the optical navigation paradigm. It used 

the traditional technique of imaging satellites against a star background using 

its two CCD cameras. Optical navigation proceeded more or less along the 

same lines as on Voyager.48 That paradigm began to shift with the launch of 

the NEAR-Shoemaker spacecraft in February 1996.

Operating in the X-band, NEAR-Shoemaker’s first encounter was with 

the main belt asteroid 253 Mathilde on 27 June 1997. Hindering navigation 

by traditional Doppler and range was the probe’s passage through a solar 

conjunction (15 February to 23 February 1997) and the need to have the 

Deep Space Network track it at zero declination (22 April 1997) on approach. 

Range and Doppler also were unusable for about a month around conjunction because of solar corona effects. Assisting these Earth-bound navigational 

	 47.	 William	L.	Sjogren,	interview	by	author,	JPL,	4	November	2008,	tape,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	

NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	DC;	Wood	interview;	Jordan	interview,	p.	61;	

KinetX,	“Team	Experience,”	available	at	http://www.kinetx.com/snafd_experience.shtml;	KinetX,	“SNAFD	

Programs,”	available	at	http://www.kinetx.com/snafd_programs.shtml;	and	KinetX,	“SNAFD,”	available	at	

http://www.kinetx.com/snafd_space_nav.shtml	(all	accessed	8	October	2008).

	 48.	 Duane	Roth,	Vijay	Alwar,	John	Bordi,	Troy	Goodson,	Yungsun	Hahn,	Rodica	Ionasescu,	Jeremy	Jones,	

William	Owen,	Joan	Pojman,	Ian	Roundhill,	Shawna	Santos,	Nathan	Strange,	Sean	Wagner,	and	Mau	

Wong,	“Cassini	Tour	Navigation	Strategy”	(AAS	paper	03-546,	read	at	the	2003	AAS/AIAA	Astrodynamics	

Specialist	Conference,	Big	Sky,	MT,	3–7	August	2004),	available	at	JPL,	“Beacon	eSpace,”	http://hdl.

handle.net/2014/7042;	Stephen	D.	Gillam,	William	M.	Owen,	Jr.,	A.	T.	Vaughan,	T.	C.	Wang,	Vijay	Alwar,	

J.	D.	Costello,	R.	Jacobson,	D.	Bluhm,	and	Joan	L.	Pojman,	“Optical	Navigation	for	the	Cassini/Huygens	

Mission”	(paper	AAS	07-252,	AAS/AIAA	Astrodynamics	Specialists	Conference,	Mackinac	Island,	MI,	

19–23	August	2007),	published	in	Advances in the Astronautical Sciences	129,	part	1	(2008):	3–20;	

Jordan	interview,	p.	52;	“A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	12.

496
Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy

efforts were numerous observations of Mathilde made at observatories around 

the world during the asteroid’s 1995 and 1996 oppositions. The availability of 

the Hipparcos and Tycho star catalogs also helped to make those observations 

particularly accurate.49

For orbital operations at Eros in 2000 and 2001, the NEAR-Shoemaker 

mission relied on optical navigation. This was the first use of landmark-based 

(versus star-based) optical navigation at small bodies. Locating the target against 

a background of stars would not have worked well, because the high surface 

brightness of Eros would have required overexposing the camera in order to 

see the stars. Also, the asteroid’s irregular shape would have complicated the 

task of finding its center, a requisite for optical navigation. The chosen solution was to use identifiable surface features (“landmarks”) and rely on the 

telemetered spacecraft attitude for camera orientation.50

Subsequently, the Stardust mission used optical navigation in 2004 for its 

approach to comet Wild 2, and in 2005, the Deep Impact mission used the 

technique for its approach to comet Tempel 1. Although not an explorer of 

comets or asteroids, the Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter marked a milestone in 

optical navigation in 2001. Instead of taking advantage of whatever science 

camera already was on the spacecraft, the Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter carried its own “navcam,” the Mars Optical Navigation Camera, designed and 

built specifically for optical navigation. The probe acquired images of Phobos 

and Deimos against star backgrounds, with Mars outside of the field of view 

	 49.	 Daniel	 J.	Scheeres,	David	W.	Dunham,	 Robert	W.	Farquhar,	Clifford	E.	Helfrich,	 James	V.	McAdams,	

William	M.	Owen,	Jr.,	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	B.	G.	Williams,	P.	J.	Wolff,	and	Donald	K.	Yeomans,	“Mission	

Design	 and	 Navigation	 of	 NEAR’s	 Encounter	 with	 Asteroid	 253	 Mathilde,”	 in	 Advances in the 

Astronautical Sciences: Spaceflight Mechanics 1998,	 vol.	 99,	 part	 II,	 ed.	 Jay	W.	Middour,	 Lester	 L.	

Sacket,	 Louis	A.	 D’Amario,	 and	 Dennis	V.	 Byrnes	 (San	 Diego,	 CA:	 Univelt,	 1998),	 pp.	 1157–1173;	

Donald	K.	Yeomans,	J.	P.	Barriot,	David	W.	Dunham,	Robert	W.	Farquhar,	Jon	D.	Giorgini,	C.	E.	Helfrich,	

A.	S.	Konopliv,	James	V.	McAdams,	J.	K.	Miller,	William	M.	Owen,	Jr.,	Daniel	J.	Scheeres,	Stephen	P.	

Synnott,	and	B.	G.	Williams,	“Estimating	the	Mass	of	Asteroid	253	Mathilde	from	Tracking	Data	During	

the	NEAR	Flyby,”	Science	278,	no.	5346	(19	December	1997):	2106–2109;	Wood,	“The	Evolution	of	

Deep	Space	Navigation:	1989–1999,”	pp.	15,	16.

	 50.	 William	M.	 Owen,	 Jr.,	T.	 C.	Wang,	A.	 Harch,	M.	 Bell,	 and	 C.	Peterson,	“NEAR	 Optical	 Navigation	 at	

Eros”	(paper	read	at	2001	AAS/AIAA	Astrodynamics	Specialist	Conference,	Quebec	City,	QC,	30	July–2	

August	 2001),	 available	 at	 JPL,	 “Beacon	 eSpace,”	 http://hdl.handle.net/2014/12992;	 William	 M.	

Owen,	Jr.,	Thomas	C.	Duxbury,	Charles	H.	Acton,	Jr.,	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	Joseph	E.	Riedel,	and	Shyam	

Bhaskaran,	“A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL”	(paper	AAS	08-053,	read	at	the	31st	Annual	

AAS	Guidance	and	Control	Conference,	Breckenridge,	CO,	1–6	February	2008),	p.	11.

497
NASA’s First 50 Years

between 10 February and 7 March 2006. Navigators at JPL processed the images 

on the ground in the usual fashion.51

Dawn, launched in September 2007, also will use landmark-based optical 

navigation for its orbital operations around main belt asteroid 4 Vesta and the 

dwarf planet Ceres. However, the image processing will use a new mapping 

technique, known as stereophotoclinometry, to model the terrain surrounding 

the landmarks. The technique creates maps from images taken under varying 

lighting and viewing angles and promises to be far more accurate than manual 

image processing.52

The replacement of ground-based processing of optical navigation images 

with spacecraft-based navigation is the objective of autonomous navigation. 

Autonomous navigation is a software system that transfers certain navigational computations to the spacecraft, so that it can calculate its own orbit 

and maneuvers from the optical navigation data to achieve mission goals. To 

date, only three missions have used autonomous navigation: Deep Space 1, 

Stardust, and Deep Impact.

The initial impetus for developing autonomous navigation came from a 

broader drive to develop autonomous spacecraft as a cost-saving measure during the 1970s and led to a modest research and development effort at JPL. As 

navigator Frank Jordan mused about that first step: “We had R&D in autonomous 

navigation ahead of its time. Evidently a hundred years ahead of its time.”53

The opportunity to demonstrate autonomous navigation finally arrived with 

the establishment of NASA’s New Millennium Program and the experimental 

Deep Space 1 mission, the purpose of which was to demonstrate a panoply of 

experimental technologies, including autonomous navigation. Development of 

the prototype “AutoNav” system began in 1995 as a research endeavor under-

	 51.	 Tung-Han	You,	Allen	Halsell,	Dolan	Highsmith,	Jah	Moriba,	Stuart	Demcak,	Earl	Higa,	Stacia	Long,	and	

Shyam	Bhaskaran,	“Mars	Reconnaissance	Orbiter	Navigation”	(read	at	the	AIAA/AAS	Astrodynamics	

Specialist	Conference,	Providence,	RI,	16–19	August	2004),	available	at	JPL,	“Beacon	eSpace,”	http://

hdl.handle.net/2014/40425	(accessed	3	October	2008);	Jordan	interview,	p.	67;	“A	Brief	History	of	

Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	15.

	 52.	 Robert	 W.	 Gaskell,	 Oliver	 S.	 Barnouin-Jha,	 and	 Daniel	 J.	 Scheeres,	 “Modeling	 Eros	 with	

Stereophotoclinometry”	 (paper	read	 at	 38th	 Lunar	 and	 Planetary	 Science	 Conference,	 League	 City,	

TX,	 12–16	 March	 2007),	 abstract	 1333,	 available	 at	 http://www.lpi.usra.edu/meetings/lpsc2007/

pdf/1333.pdf	 (accessed	 17	 October	 2008);	 Robert	 W.	 Gaskell,	 “Landmark	 Navigation	 and	 Target	

Characterization	in	a	Simulated	Itokawa	Encounter”	(paper	read	at	AAS/AIAA	Astrodynamics	Specialists	

Conference,	Lake	Tahoe,	CA,	7–11	August	2005),	available	at	JPL,	“Beacon	eSpace,”	http://hdl.handle.

net/2014/37465;	“A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	17.

	 53.	 Jordan	interview,	p.	61.	See	also	JPL	Research	and	Technology	Objectives	and	Plans	(RTOP),	“Autonomous	

Navigation	for	Unmanned	Spacecraft,”	15	May	1978,	copy	provided	to	author	by	Frank	Jordan.

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Deep Space Navigation, Planetary Science, and Astronomy

written with JPL internal funds; it then evolved into the system accepted for 

inclusion on Deep Space 1, which launched in October 1998.54

During the probe’s cruise phase, AutoNav obtained weekly images of several “beacon asteroids,” brighter main belt asteroids whose ephemerides were 

well known thanks in part to an intensive ground-based observing campaign 

at JPL’s Table Mountain Observatory.55 Three hours before its closest approach 

to asteroid 9969 Braille, the Deep Space 1 AutoNav system was supposed to 

calculate and execute a maneuver to control the aiming point to an accuracy of 

3 kilometers and provide information for timing the science images. However, 

a failure in the flight version of AutoNav prevented it from doing the maneuver 

calculation (the ground version worked fine, and its results were used), and 

inadequacies in the experimental camera made it impossible for AutoNav to 

detect the asteroid. Deep Space 1, on an extended mission, next flew by comet 

19P/Borrelly. The problems experienced during the Braille encounter were 

resolved, and AutoNav performed flawlessly.56

Subsequently, the Stardust mission, launched in February 1999, flew with 

an autonomous navigation system. During a “dress rehearsal” of the system 

on 2 November 2002, it successfully tracked asteroid 5535 Annefrank, and 

on 2 January 2004, it successfully tracked comet 81P/Wild 2. Initiated 20 or 

30 minutes prior to encounter, the autonomous navigation system controlled 

the camera mirror as well as the spacecraft’s attitude. The system tracked the 

	 54.	 Shyam	Bhaskaran,	Joseph	E.	Riedel,	Shailen	D.	Desai,	Philip	J.	Dumont,	George	W.	Null,	William	M.	

Owen,	Jr.,	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	and	R.	A.	Werner,	“Orbit	Determination	Performance	Evaluation	of	the	

Deep	Space	1	Autonomous	Navigation	System”	(paper	AAS	98-193,	AAS/AIAA	Space	Flight	Mechanics	

Meeting,	 Monterey,	 CA,	 9–11	 February	 1998),	 available	 at	 http://trs-new.jpl.nasa.gov/dspace/

bitstream/2014/22668/1/97-1182.pdf	 (accessed	 14	 October	 2008);	 Shyam	 Bhaskaran,	 Joseph	 E.	

Riedel,	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	and	T.	Wang,	“The	Deep	Space	1	Autonomous	Navigation	System:	A	Post-Flight	

Analysis”	(paper	AIAA	2000-3935,	AIAA/AAS	Astrodynamics	Specialist	Conference,	Denver,	CO,	14–17	

August	2000),	available	at	http://trs-new.jpl.nasa.gov/dspace/bitstream/2014/15617/1/00-1323.pdf

(accessed	14	October	2008);	Jordan	interview,	p.	62;	Bhaskaran	interview.

	 55.	 William	M.	 Owen,	 Jr.,	 Synnott	 and	 George	W.	 Null,	 “High-Accuracy	Asteroid	Astrometry	 from	Table	

Mountain	Observatory,”	in	Modern Astrometry and Astrodynamics,	ed.	Rudolf	Dvorak,	H.	F.	Haupt,	and	

K.	Wodnar	 (Vienna,	 Austria:	Verlag	 der	 Österreichischen	 Akademie	 der	Wissenschaften,	 1998),	 pp.	

89–102;	Marc	D.	Rayman,	Philip	L.	Varghese,	David	H.	Lehman,	and	Leslie	L.	Livesay,	“Results	from	

the	Deep	Space	1	Technology	Validation	Mission,”	Acta Astronautica	47	(2000):	475–487,	esp.	p.	478;	

and	“A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	14.

	 56.	 Shyam	 Bhaskaran,	 Joseph	 E.	 Riedel,	 Brian	 Kennedy,	 and	 T.	 C.	 Wang,	 “Navigation	 of	 the	 Deep	

Space	 1	 Spacecraft	 at	 Borrelly”	 (paper	 AIAA	 2002-4815,	 AAS/AIAA	 Astrodynamics	 Specialist	

Conference,	 Monterey,	 CA,	 5–8	 August	 2002),	 available	 at	 http://trs-new.jpl.nasa.gov/dspace/

bitstream/2014/8839/1/02-1389.pdf (accessed	 14	 October	 2008);	 Bhaskaran	 interview;	 “A	 Brief	

History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	14.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

target only during the time around closest approach; calculation of the final 

maneuver took place on the ground.57

The most demanding use of autonomous navigation to date has been the 

Deep Impact mission. Launched in January 2005, its mission was to send an 

Impactor spacecraft into the nucleus of comet 9P/Tempel 1 while the main 

Flyby spacecraft, the Hubble Space Telescope, and various ground observatories 

watched the event on 4 July 2005. During the two months prior to encounter, 

navigators used traditional ground-based optical navigation. Two hours before 

impact, the autonomous navigation system on both vehicles started up. On 

the Impactor, the system commanded pictures, performed orbit determination, 

and computed and executed three targeting maneuvers in the last 90 minutes. 

The same software ran in parallel on the Flyby spacecraft, but it operated in 

a different mode, concentrating on determining the time of closest approach 

to the comet, so that the Flyby’s cameras could take pictures of the nucleus 

before, during, and after impact. The spectacular images that Deep Impact 

acquired attested to the success of the autonomous navigation.58

Celestial Mechanics

At the heart of all navigation success is the accuracy achieved in knowing the 

location and motion of the target body. Over the centuries, astronomers have 

created tables to describe such motions. These ephemerides, as they are known, 

have served to improve navigation over the deep seas and oceans of our own 

planet. Creating those tables was—and remains—the job of national almanac 

	 57.	 Shyam	Bhaskaran,	Joseph	E.	Riedel,	and	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	“Autonomous	Nucleus	Tracking	for	Comet/

Asteroid	Encounters:	The	STARDUST	Example”	(paper	AAS	97-628,	AAS/AIAA	Astrodynamics	Specialist	

Conference,	 Sun	 Valley,	 ID,	 4–7	 August	 1997),	 available	 at	 http://trs-new.jpl.nasa.gov/dspace/

bitstream/2014/22498/1/97-0995.pdf	 (accessed	 14	 October	 2008);	 Shyam	 Bhaskaran,	 Nickolaos	

Mastrodemos,	Joseph	E.	Riedel,	and	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	“Optical	Navigation	for	the	STARDUST	Wild	

2	Encounter,”	 in	Proceedings of the 18th International Symposium on Space Flight Dynamics, Held 

October 11–15, 2004, Munich, Germany,	 ed.	 Oliver	 Montenbruck	 and	 Bruce	 Battrick	 (Noordwijk,	

Netherlands:	ESA	SP-548,	2004),	p.	455;	Shyam	interview;	“A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	

JPL,”	p.	14.

	 58.	 William	M.	Owen,	Jr.,	Nickolaos	Mastrodemos,	Brian	P.	Rush,	Tseng-Chang	M.	Wang,	Stephen	D.	Gillam,	

and	Shyam	Bhaskaran,	“Optical	Navigation	for	Deep	Impact,”	in	Spaceflight Mechanics 2006—Part II,	

ed.	Srinivas	Rao	Vadali,	L.	Alberto	Cangahuala,	Paul	W.	Schumaker,	Jr.,	and	Jose	J.	Guzman	(San	Diego,	

CA:	Univelt,	2006),	pp.	1231–1250;	Mark	Ryne,	David	Jefferson,	Diane	Craig,	Earl	Higa,	George	Lewis,	

and	Prem	Menon,	“Ground-Based	Orbit	Determination	for	Deep	Impact,”	in	Spaceflight Mechanics,	ed.	

Vadali	et	al.,	pp.	1179–1202;	Nicholas	Mastrodemos,	Daniel	G.	Kubitschek,	Robert	A.	Werner,	Brian	

M.	Kennedy,	Stephen	P.	Synnott,	George	W.	Null,	Joseph	E.	Riedel,	Shyam	Bhaskaran,	and	Andrew	T.	

Vaughan,	“Autonomous	Navigation	for	Deep	Impact,”	in	Spaceflight Mechanics,	ed.	Vadali	et	al.,	pp.	

1251–1270;	“A	Brief	History	of	Optical	Navigation	at	JPL,”	p.	15;	Bhaskaran	interview.

500
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offices, such as the one that the U.S. Naval Observatory established in the 19th 

century.59 The core of the astronomy that went into those ephemerides was a 

set of physical constants, such as the astronomical unit (the average distance 

between Earth and the Sun).

With the advent of deep space exploration, JPL navigators needed extremely 

precise ephemerides of the Moon, planets, and other solar system bodies in 

order to compute the trajectories of NASA spacecraft with the necessary degree 

of accuracy. Initially, they digitized the ephemerides tables published by the U.S. 

Naval Observatory, which were in the form of books, not computer-compatible 

cards or tape.60 The almanac office’s tables, however, quickly proved to lack 

the precision that deep space navigation needed. Instead, they had to rely 

on the calculations of physical constants made by their orbit determination 

program following each mission as well as the highly precise measurements 

furnished by radar astronomers. The need for more precise values for physical 

constants also drove JPL to establish its own set of constants in cooperation 

with engineers and scientists from other NASA Centers involved in Earth satellite and human spaceflight navigation. As a result, those values became the 

ad hoc values applied across the board in the NASA space program, entirely 

without the approval of NASA Headquarters.61

At the same time, astronomers were attempting to improve their own system of constants. In 1964, the International Astronomical Union adopted what 

came to be called the so-called 1968 system of constants, meaning they went 

into effect in 1968, which incorporated the radar-derived value for the astronomical unit.62 The growing influence of values computed by navigators was 

visible in the 1974 International Astronomical Union system of constants and 

peaked during the organization’s 1979 meeting, when it approved, effective 1 

January 1984, the JPL Development Ephemeris 200 as the source of values for 

constants as well as the basis for the theories and tables used by participating 

	 59.	 See,	for	example,	Steven	J.	Dick,	“Foundations	of	the	American	Nautical	Almanac	Office,”	Sky and 

Ocean Joined: The U.S. Naval Observatory, 1830–2000	(New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	

2002),	chap.	3,	pp.	118–139.

	 60.	 R.	 Henry	 Hudson,	 Subtabulated Lunar and Planetary Ephemerides	 (Pasadena,	 CA:	 JPL	TR	 34-239,	

2	 November	 1960),	 pp.	 1–2;	 Douglas	 B.	 Holdridge,	 Space Trajectories Program for the IBM 7090 

Computer	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL	TR	32-223,	1	September	1962),	p.	2;	and	P.	R.	Peabody,	James	F.	Scott,	

and	Everett	G.	Orozco,	Users’ Description of JPL Ephemeris Tapes	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL	TR	32-580,	2	

March	1964),	pp.	9,	10.

	 61.	 Victor	C.	Clarke,	Jr.,	Constants and Related Data for Use in Trajectory Calculations as Adopted by the Ad 

Hoc NASA Standard Constants Committee	(Pasadena,	CA:	JPL	TR	32-604,	6	March	1964),	pp.	1,	2,	10.

	 62.	 Butrica,	To See the Unseen,	pp.	46–49.

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countries’ almanac offices.63 In effect, navigators at JPL were now in charge of 

the ephemerides within the United States as well as overseas. The solutions 

of the practical world of deep space navigation had become the theory and 

practice of astronomy.

Conclusion

Clearly, in order for NASA’s missions of exploration to achieve their scientific 

goals, they need accurate navigation, and navigational accuracy in turn depends 

critically on astronomy. Navigation has borrowed techniques from radio 

astronomy, and radar astronomy has lent its precise measurements. Dynamic 

astronomy furnished the initial ephemerides and constants for navigation, and 

throughout the sustained period of exploration of the outer planets, asteroids, 

and comets, ground-based astronomers assisted in refining the ephemerides of 

those bodies, and their revised star catalogs were crucial in the development 

of optical navigation.

Meanwhile, the additional accuracy of deep space navigation techniques 

facilitated the contributions of navigation to astronomy by, for instance, refining physical constants and ephemerides. That accuracy also contributed to the 

planetary sciences with the discovery of mascons and the study of planetary 

atmospheres with radio waves, to cite two examples. Optical navigation, in 

particular, led to the discovery of more than a few new moons around the 

outer planets as well as the first sighting of volcanism on another celestial 

body. In turn, optical navigation relies on astronomers’ star catalogs, ephemerides, and observations. Navigation, astronomy, and the planetary sciences thus are intertwined in a relationship that is both mutually beneficial 

and mutually necessary.

	 63.	 Dick,	pp.	532–533,	537–542.

502
Chapter 20

NASA’s Earth Science Program

The Space Agency’s Mission to Our Home Planet

Edward S. Goldstein

Let us remember as we chase our dreams into the stars that our 

first responsibility is to our Earth, to our children, to ourselves. 

Yes, let us dream, and let us pursue those dreams, but let us 

also preserve the fragile world we inhabit.

—President George H. W. Bush, 19891

A Storm and Its Aftermath

A good point to start understanding NASA’s Earth science program and its place 

in an outward-focused space agency is to examine the events surrounding 

Hurricane Katrina, as well as two different ways in which the storm affected NASA.

Hurricanes are often considered episodic acts of God, which only briefly 

command the public’s attention. Katrina was a dramatic exception to this rule. 

Four years after the storm’s 29 August 2005 landfall on the southeast Louisiana 

coast at Category 3 strength on the Saffir-Simpson hurricane scale,2 people 

are still passionately talking about Katrina’s economic, political, scientific, and 

social implications. NASA is not immune from those discussions.

The first NASA-Katrina connection involves the heroic mythology of the 

space agency’s human space exploration program. During the early morning 

	 1.	 J.	A.	Angelo	and	I.	W.	Ginsberg,	eds.,	Earth Observations and Global Change Decision Making, 1989: A 

National Partnership,	vol.	1	(Malabar,	FL:	Krieger	Publishing,	1990),	p.	i.

	 2.	 Chris	Mooney,	Storm World: Hurricanes, Politics, and the Battle Over Global Warming (Orlando,	 FL:	

Harcourt	Publishing	Co.,	2007),	p.	2.	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

hours of 29 August, when the storm hammered greater New Orleans, Louisiana, 

a ride-out volunteer crew, known as the “Marshworks Team,” hunkered down 

at the Michoud Assembly Facility in east New Orleans, where external tanks 

are assembled for Space Shuttle flights. In their work to protect the facility and 

its space hardware from the storm’s fury, the Marshworks Team performed 

with incredible bravery. Two employees, Joe Barrett and Dan Doell, fought 

through the night at Michoud’s pump house to keep flooding from occurring. 

And when they were forced to abandon their post as the hurricane’s winds grew 

in intensity, Barrett and Doell made a “gut call” on where to place the pump 

settings in order to keep the waters at bay. As NASA Michoud Chief Operating 

Officer Patrick Scheuermann later wrote, “In hindsight, they made exactly the 

right call, because any other setting would have either run the pumps dry or 

they would have not kept up with the incoming flood. This single action . . . 

may possibly have saved the Space Shuttle Program. If not for this team there 

would have been at least eight feet of standing water in the factory.”3

From the standpoint of this history, the role of NASA’s Earth observing 

satellites in monitoring Katrina’s formation, path, and devastation represents 

the second major relationship between Katrina and the space program. Viewers 

of the NASA Web site, http://www.nasa.gov, could see near-real-time details 

of Katrina’s cloud-top heights and cloud-tracked wind velocities imaged by 

the Multi-angle Imaging SpectroRadiometer (MISR) on the Terra satellite; 

information about Katrina’s precipitation, energy, and winds obtained by 

the Tropical Rainfall Measuring Mission (TRMM), the Advanced Microwave 

Scanning Radiometer-EOS (AMSR-E) instrument on the Aqua satellite, and 

the Quick Scatterometer (QuikSCAT) satellite; and images of New Orleans 

flooding documented by the Landsat 7 Earth resources monitoring satellite 

and Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectroradiometer (MODIS) instrument on 

the Terra satellite.4

What we learned about Katrina from these satellites showcased the results 

of a multidecade, multi-billion-dollar commitment NASA undertook in 1991 

to develop a comprehensive Earth Observing System (EOS) of satellites and 

instruments to better understand the dynamics of our changing planet. The 

system is aligned with the space agency’s strategic goal 3A: “Study Earth from 

	 3.	 Patrick	Scheuermann,	“Not	on	My	Watch:	The	Saga	of	the	Michoud	Marshworks	Heroes,”	in	NASA: 50 

Years of Exploration and Discovery (Tampa,	FL:	Faircount	Media	Group,	2008),	p.	302.

	 4.	 NASA	 Web	 site,	 “Hurricane	 Season	 2005:	 Katrina,”	 available	 at	 http://www.nasa.gov/vision/earth/

lookingatearth/h2005_katrina_prt.htm	(accessed	18	December	2008).

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NASA’s Earth Science Program

space to advance scientific understanding and meet societal needs,”5 and EOS 

is part of a larger Earth science program at NASA. This program, with the aid 

of a comprehensive Earth Observing System Data and Information System 

(EOSDIS), has supported the work of a generation of Earth science researchers, and it has led to significant improvements in the comprehensiveness of 

computer climate models. It has helped to revolutionize the way we understand 

our dynamic, ever-changing planet. Today, there is a constellation of 15 Earth 

observing satellites in orbit, 6 satellites under development,6 and 2 satellites 

recommended by the Decadal Survey for Earth Science and Applications of 

the National Research Council under formulation. 

In its comprehensiveness, NASA’s multisatellite Earth science program 

represents a departure from NASA’s early history of pioneering new satellite 

technologies for Earth observations, with weather satellites being the classic 

example, and turning them over to an operational agency such as NOAA. In 

the case of EOS, NASA not only developed new technologies, but also operated them in space for several years and invested heavily in scientific research 

related to the observations of its satellite missions. Also, the information produced by the suite of EOS satellite instruments is integrated, so rather than 

just measuring a few distinct variables such as temperature, precipitation, 

vegetation, transport of air pollution, ocean wind speed, and sea ice, we are 

viewing them in an integrated fashion, allowing scientists to understand the 

relationship between these variables. 

While many observers view the space program as being primarily about 

human spaceflight—a perception that is understandable when one looks at 

NASA’s budget, the statements of its senior leaders, and media coverage—and 

secondarily about planetary exploration and astrophysics (for example, the 

Hubble Space Telescope), with Earth science relegated to a lesser role, the 

relevance to society of NASA’s Earth science efforts after Katrina prompted 

new discussion. People in the scientific and public policy community asserted 

that Katrina represented an example of how tropical storms can intensify as 

	 5.	 NASA,	2006 NASA Strategic Plan	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	NP-2006-02-423-HQ,	2006),	p.	8.	

	 6.	 The	NASA	satellites	under	development	will	help	measure	ocean	topography	(Ocean	Surface	Topography	

Mission,	2008);	global	aerosol	and	cloud	properties,	along	with	total	solar	irradiance	(Glory,	2009);	sea	

surface	salinity	(Aquarius,	2009);	global	land	cover	change	(Landsat	Data	Continuity	Mission,	2011);	

and	global	rainfall	from	tropical	to	mid-latitudes	(Global	Precipitation	Measurement,	2012).	The	two	

missions	recommended	 by	 the	 decadal	 survey	 for	 Earth	 Science	 and	Applications	 from	 Space	 will	

observe	ice	cover	(ICESat-II)	and	soil	moisture	(Soil	Moisture	Active	and	Passive).	The	OCO	mission	

failed	on	launch	in	February	2009.	Congress	has	directed	NASA	to	begin	work	on	a	replacement	OCO	

satellite	mission.	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

a result of ocean temperature warming related to increasing greenhouse gas 

emissions,7

 thus underscoring the scientific relevance of NASA’s EOS in helping expand knowledge about climatic change. 

In commenting on the larger issue of climate change and NASA’s contributions to its study, the Washington Post editorially contended, on 31 July 2006, 

that NASA more than NOAA was “uniquely qualified to launch and maintain 

weather satellites” and stated that “[President George W.] Bush needs to get his 

head out of the stars. Even though scientists agree that Earth is warming, they 

still need to investigate how, and how fast, the phenomenon is proceeding—a 

much more pressing task than landing on the Red Planet. The White House 

has to either pay responsibly for its exploration programs or cancel them.”8

Also, the Boston Globe argued on 15 June 2006: 

Trips to the moon or Mars, which the president also favors, fit 

the better-known part of NASA’s mission to explore space. But 

at a time when climate change, in particular, is threatening 

the well-being of the planet, NASA should be increasing, not 

decreasing, funding for projects like the canceled satellite 

mission to measure global soil moisture. A climate observatory 

in deep space [Triana], which would monitor this planet’s 

solar radiation, ozone, clouds, and water vapor, has also been 

dropped . . . . But whether the cuts in earth science are punitive 

or simply a case of misguided priorities, they are a mistake 

that Congress should rectify. The potential long-term benefits 

of moon and Mars flights should not be allowed to squeeze 

out the worthwhile work NASA is doing in its deep-space 

probes, its attempt to repair the Hubble Space Telescope, and 

its earth-science research.9

	 7.	 The	 scientific	 debate	 about	 hurricanes	 largely	 concerns	 the	 contention	 that	 hurricanes	 become	

more	intense	when	they	pass	over	bodies	of	water	that	are	warmer	as	a	result	of	greenhouse	gas	

emissions.	According	to	NASA,	“Research	shows	a	link	between	the	intensity	of	hurricanes	in	the	

region	and	oceanic	heat	content.	In	late	August	2005,	when	Katrina	passed	over	the	Loop	Current	

and	large	warm	eddies	called	the	core	ocean	ring,	it	evolved	over	the	Gulf	of	Mexico	from	a	Category	

3	to	Category	5	hurricane	in	only	nine	hours.	The	warm	waters	of	the	Loop	Current	appeared	to	have	

rapidly	fueled	the	storm	while	the	warm	core	rings	seemed	to	have	sustained	the	storm’s	intensity”	

(NASA,	Fiscal Year 2005 Performance and Accountability Report	[Washington,	DC:	NASA	NP-2005-

11-417-HQ,	2005],	p.	16).	

	 8.	 “Meanwhile,	Back	on	Earth,”	Washington Post	(31	July	2006):	A14.

	 9.	 “Earth	to	NASA:	Help!” Boston Globe	(15	June	2006):	A20.

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NASA’s Earth Science Program

Even voices not associated with liberal newspaper editorial pages chimed 

in on the subject. In one of his last public statements, retired “Mercury 7” 

astronaut Wally Schirra objected to the decision by NASA’s leadership in 2006 

to delete the goal of “understanding and protecting our home planet” from its 

mission statement. In the New York Times, he wrote: “My theme when I ran 

an environmental company after leaving the space program was, and still is: 

‘I left Earth three times, and found no other place to go. Please take care of 

Spaceship Earth.’”10

For my 2007 doctoral dissertation at the George Washington University, 

“NASA’s Earth Science Program: The Bureaucratic Struggles of the Space 

Agency’s Mission to Planet Earth,” I documented how Earth science at NASA, 

currently representing one-tenth of the Agency’s budget and two-thirds of the 

U.S. government’s climate change research effort, developed over time into a 

comprehensive program that continues to make important contributions to 

scientific understanding of climate change and other Earth processes, underwent 

several major structural changes as it was buffeted by technical and political 

challenges, and became a maelstrom of contention as NASA’s priorities were 

under debate during the George W. Bush administration. This paper revisits 

many of the issues I wrote about and anticipates how Earth science at NASA 

may fare in the Agency’s second half century. 

The Four Stages of NASA’s Earth Science Program

To provide some perspective, NASA’s Earth science efforts grew from initial 

attempts to launch weather and Earth resources monitoring satellites into an 

activity that received more focused attention beginning in about 1972. From 

that point on, NASA’s Earth science program largely unfolded in four distinct 

stages related to planning and public policy agenda access, decision-making, 

and policy implementation:

Stage One: Program Planning (1972 to 1986). During this stage, NASA 

became interested in the subject of Earth science as a potential Agency mission focus, as a means to broaden the Agency’s portfolio and to address specific issues of concern to NASA from an institutional standpoint as well as to 

society. As techniques for Earth remote sensing from space matured, NASA 

policy entrepreneurs plotted to move beyond a sporadic satellite mission or 

two focused on Earth. 

	 10.	 Walter	Schirra,	“An	Astronaut’s	View,”	New York Times	(1	August	2006):	A18.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Stage Two: Agenda Access and Program Adoption (1987 to 1990). In this 

stage, the Reagan and George H. W. Bush White Houses, under the auspices 

of an interagency Committee on Earth Sciences (CES), became receptive to 

a proposed course of action involving coordinated interagency scientific 

research of climate and other change occurring on Earth. Under the rubric of 

this interagency effort, NASA proposed to pursue a Mission to Planet Earth 

(MTPE) that would provide an EOS of coordinated satellite and instrument 

measurements of Earth’s atmosphere, land, and oceans, to be obtained over a 

period of 15 years. Contributing to government leaders’ willingness to support 

this new “mission” for NASA was the desire to give the Agency new purpose 

and focus following the morale-bursting Space Shuttle Challenger disaster. 

In 1989, the George H. W. Bush administration formally proposed NASA’s 

pursuit of EOS, along with a more ambitious plan for human exploration of 

the Moon and Mars, the so-called “Space Exploration Initiative.” Congress 

would only approve EOS, with the initial funding promise of $17 billion over 

a 10-year period, while rejecting the projected $400 billion SEI. 

Stage Three: Program Restructuring (1990 to 1996). The adoption of the 

EOS program was rapidly followed by an early implementation stage in which 

NASA found its initial approach of launching large Earth observing platforms 

wanting, as it began to face the fiscal realities of the 1990s. During this stage, 

the design of EOS was changed several times to reduce its cost and complexity, with medium-sized satellites replacing large platforms.11 After the 1994 

congressional elections, members of the new Republican majority—especially 

conservative House Republicans skeptical about the global warming issue—

questioned the purposes and costs of mounting a large-scale Earth science 

program. In response to this challenge, NASA fought congressional attempts 

to slash EOS funding and focused some of its efforts on obtaining practical 

applications that would expand the constituency for the program beyond 

scientists and those interested in the subject of global warming. 

Anticipating slim future budgets, NASA also decided during this stage to 

drop plans to produce replacements for the three main EOS satellites, Terra, 

Aqua, and Aura. Instead, NASA would transfer technology to the National Polarorbiting Operational Environmental Satellite System (NPOESS) being jointly 

planned by NOAA and DOD so that NPOESS sensors could make climate-quality 

measurements and extend the data record begun by EOS. 

	 11.	 For	example,	Aqua	and	Aura,	two	of	the	three	main	EOS	satellites	currently	orbiting	Earth,	are	smaller	

versions	of	the	large	platform	originally	designated	EOS	PM-1.	

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NASA’s Earth Science Program

Stage Four: Program Implementation (1997 to 2008). In the fourth stage, 

NASA launched and operated the flagship EOS satellites and instruments, 

obtaining an impressive scientific return. However, NASA struggled to maintain 

long-term momentum for Earth science as its science budget was squeezed 

to pay for the Vision for Space Exploration, President George W. Bush’s 

plan to orient the Agency’s future work toward the exploration of the Moon, 

Mars, and beyond. A potential guiding star for the program is the National 

Research Council’s Decadal Survey for Earth Science and Applications from 

Space, released in 2007, which has provided recommendations for a coherent program of Earth science missions at the Agency through 2020, based on 

an annual budget of $2 billion, representing an annual $500 increase over 

current NASA Earth science funding. In his first months in office, President 

Barack Obama targeted $325 million in American Recovery and Reinvestment 

Act stimulus funding to accelerate the development of NASA’s Earth science 

climate research missions. President Obama also stated in April 2009 remarks 

to the annual meeting of the National Academy of Sciences that strengthening 

Earth observations from space would be a priority of his Council of Advisers 

on Science and Technology. 

Stage One: Program Planning (1972 to 1986)

New Approaches to Studying Our Home Planet

Following initial, but sporadic, launches of weather and Earth resources monitoring satellites from 1960 to 1972, Earth science actually began to draw the 

attention of NASA leadership for reasons largely to do with NASA’s top mission 

priority, human spaceflight. NASA’s concern that ozone-depleting emissions 

from the proposed Space Shuttle’s engine exhaust might pose a barrier to 

congressional approval for the program led the Agency to organize a research 

effort to address this question. The people conducting this research, including physical chemist Shelby G. Tilford and climate modeler James E. Hansen, 

prompted NASA to conduct other Earth science research activities. 

In the late 1970s, an Upper Atmosphere Research Office was set up in the 

Agency’s Office of Space Science and Applications (OSSA) to manage satellite 

development and research activities. NASA’s ozone research program eventually 

consisted of Nimbus 7 (1978), which studied the upper atmosphere, and the 

Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite (1991), a satellite dedicated to ozone layer 

509
NASA’s First 50 Years

depletion. In 1985, NASA’s work with other agencies in 

confirming ground-based observations of an ozone hole 

forming over Antarctica dramatized the significance of 

environmental change and underscored the relevance 

of NASA satellite technology to understanding the risk. 

This and other findings contributed to the 1988 Montreal 

Protocols, an international agreement requiring signatory nations to develop nondestructive alternatives to 

chlorofluorocarbons. 

Program Manager Shelby Tilford said the input of science to this agreement marked an important turning point: 

Figure 1: Shelby	Tilford.	

Courtesy of Shelby Tilford

For all practical purposes, to . . . decide that man-made activities 

were having an impact, and to do something about it on an 

international basis was really . . . the first time that science 

ever made an impact, one way or another, with respect to 

international regulation of anything.12

From NASA’s internal standpoint, added Tilford, the ozone work also affected 

the Agency’s ambitions to conduct Earth science on a more sustained basis:

When I came to NASA in 1976 essentially there was no real 

research program in Earth science. There were a number of 

instrument demonstration programs or instrument development 

programs. But most of them were related to the technology 

and handing it off to someone else to interpret . . . . In general 

NASA flew the instruments and someone else for the most 

part did the analysis. For the ozone issue for the first time 

NASA really got a charter to do something in Earth science 

from a science point of view . . . . After we had some success 

with that and consolidating a lot of scientists from a lot of 

universities, a lot of research centers, other agencies, we 

all became a fairly cohesive unit with respect to the upper 

atmosphere. But nothing much was happening otherwise. A 

few ocean instrument development programs were being done 

	 12.	 Shelby	Tilford,	interview	by	author,	2	June	2006.

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NASA’s Earth Science Program

. . . . But a number of us thought perhaps its time for us to put 

together a program for Earth science similar to what we did 

with the ozone issue.13

From that point on, Tilford, aided by atmospheric scientist Francis Bretherton, 

the head of the NASA Advisory Committee’s Earth Systems Science Committee, 

took the lead inside NASA and within the scientific and public policy community in championing the idea of NASA taking a more aggressive role in 

conducting Earth science.

James Hansen and the Goddard Institute for Space Studies

Today, James Hansen is well known due to his strong statements about the need 

for global society to reduce greenhouse emissions and because of the clumsy 

attempts of NASA Public Affairs personnel to control his public interviews from 

2005 to 2006.14 Yet his actual scientific output and the origins of his work on 

climate also deserve attention. Hansen, current director of NASA’s Goddard 

Institute of Space Studies (GISS) in New York City, New York, explained how 

GISS’s pioneering work in climate modeling with high-capacity general processing computers began with the ozone question: 

The way the greenhouse effect came up was in the 1970s there 

was a realization, or a hypothesis that humans might affect the 

ozone layer . . . . I was interested in that problem because . . . 

if you change the ozone you could change the climate . . . . I 

decided to propose that we would take a [computer] weather 

model and convert it into a climate model and use it for that 

problem, to see what is the effect of ozone changes and what 

is the effect of other [changes] . . . and NASA got identified as 

the agency to address that stratospheric problem . . . . So that 

gave us an opportunity to propose to NASA that we would 

make this climate model . . . . I started this little group and 

got some support for it. By the time a few years later when I 

	 13.	 Ibid.

	 14.	 See,	for	example,	Mark	Bowen,	Censoring Science: Inside the Political Attack Against James Hansen 

and the Truth of Global Warming (New	York,	NY:	Dutton/Penguin,	2007).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

had the opportunity to be the director here in 

1981, I decided to make our focus on global 

change.15

The work of Hansen’s GISS team in developing 

general atmospheric circulation models tangibly led 

to improved climate modeling. Author Spencer Weart 

wrote that “by simplifying some features while adding 

depth to others, the Hansen team managed to get a quite 

realistic-looking simulation that ran an order of magnitude faster than rival general circulation models. That 

permitted the group to experiment with multiple runs, 

varying one factor or another to see what changed.”16 By the late 1970s, noted 

journalist Bill McKibben, Hansen wrote a paper for Science magazine based on

Figure 2: Ghassem	Asrar.	

Courtesy of Ghassem Asrar

this first climate model, of the planet’s climate that allows its 

user to, say, add a layer of carbon dioxide to the atmosphere 

and see what happens. What happens . . . is that the temperature 

goes up, a lot: He predicted that “the continuing increase in 

fossil fuel use would lead to about 4.5-degree Fahrenheit 

global warming by the end of the twenty-first century.” The 

incoming Reagan administration . . . did not want to hear that 

and so they cut his funding to the bone, forcing him to lay off 

most of his NASA staff.17

A Systematic Approach to Understanding Climate Change

Along with climate modelers, other prominent scientists began thinking that 

studying Earth processes on a systematic basis might hold the key to understanding climate change phenomena. This was a change broadly occurring in 

the scientific disciplines related to Earth such as atmospheric physics, geology, 

and oceanography. As Ghassem Asrar, who led NASA’s Earth Science program 

from 1998 to 2005, observed,

	 15.	 James	Hansen,	interview	by	author,	19	August	2005.

	 16.	 Spencer	Weart,	The Discovery of Global Warming (Cambridge,	MA:	Harvard	University	Press,	2003),	pp.	

110–111.

	 17.	 Bill	McKibben,	“Too	Hot	to	Handle,”	Boston Globe (5	February	2006),	available	at	http://boston.com/

news/science/articles/2006/02/05/too_hot_to_handle?mode=PF	(accessed	10	February	2006).

512
NASA’s Earth Science Program

What began as a series of space-technology demonstrations led 

the broader scientific community to think in new ways about 

Earth science. Just as satellites view the Earth without regard 

to national boundaries, they see the Earth without regard to 

traditional boundaries of scientific disciplines. From space, the 

interactions among continents, oceans, atmosphere, ice caps, 

and life itself are most striking. The transitions from circulation 

ocean to sea ice to ice caps across seasons and years; the global 

respiration of terrestrial and marine vegetation; the transport 

of Saharan dust across the Atlantic; the regional differentiation 

as global average temperatures rise; the human influences 

on global change and their consequences—these emerge as 

questions of interest that no one Earth science discipline can 

adequately address. In the 1980s the science community, under 

NASA sponsorship, developed the interdisciplinary concept 

of Earth System Science as the framework within which to 

pursue research on questions of global change and regional 

changes in their global context.18

Beyond the germination of new concepts, tangible technological developments were occurring that enabled greater leaps in Earth observations. With 

the TIROS-1 weather satellite, NASA had pioneered the use of passive remote 

sensing, or the use of instruments to receive either reflected or radiated energy 

from the object being observed. By the 1980s, NASA was beginning to develop 

active remote sensing sensors that “actually transmit energy from the instrument 

to the object and then observes the characteristics of the ‘echo’ coming back.”19

These instruments, placed on orbiting satellites, would form the core of EOS.

Earth Science Becomes a NASA Strategic Priority

While the work of committed government scientists was a moving force behind 

the rise of Earth science at NASA, also essential was leadership from the top. Prior 

to this period, the strong insistence of NASA’s second Administrator, James Webb, 

that NASA be much more than just a human space exploration agency provided 

the foundation for NASA’s later commitment to Earth science and applications. In 

	 18.	 Linda	 Glover,	 ed.,	 The National Geographic Encyclopedia of Space	 (Washington,	 DC:	 The	 National	

Geographic	Society,	2004),	p.	296.	

	 19.	 Ibid.,	p.	265.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

a recorded meeting with President Kennedy in the White House Cabinet Room 

on 21 November 1962, Webb told the President, “If I go out and say that this 

[Project Apollo] is the number one priority and that everything else must give 

way to it, I’m going to lose an important element of support for your program 

and for your administration.”20 Webb’s Associate Administrator, Robert Seamans, 

added, “When you say something has a top priority, in my view it doesn’t mean 

that you completely emasculate everything else if you run into budget problems on the Apollo and the Gemini. Because you could very rapidly completely 

eliminate your meteorological program, your communications program . . . .”21

A decade later, President Nixon had canceled the final three planned Apollo 

lunar landings, and the Agency was striving to demonstrate its relevance to 

a public that had become increasingly blasé about human space missions. 

Historian Roger Launius noted in a profile of James C. Fletcher’s two stints as 

NASA Administrator (1971 to 1977 and 1986 to 1989) that Fletcher’s decision 

to engage the Agency in ozone research also represented a calculated decision 

to present NASA to policy-makers as a multimission agency that could help 

provide knowledge to solve social problems. Launius wrote that Fletcher, the 

son of pioneering Mormons, drew on the “peculiarly Mormon stewardship 

principle, conservation ethic, and zionic/utopian ideal” to “emphasize space 

exploration as a means of helping to preserve the Earth and to make it something better than what it already was.”22 Fletcher told a Senate Committee on 

Aeronautical and Space Sciences the following in 1973:

As you know, NASA is called the space agency, but in a broader 

sense, we could be called an environmental agency. It is not 

just that space is our environment, but it is rather that, as you 

have seen, virtually everything we do, manned or unmanned, 

science or applications, 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.23

	 20.	 Transcript	of	presidential	meeting	in	the	Cabinet	Room	of	the	White	House,	“Supplemental	appropriations	

for	the	National	Aeronautics	and	Space	Administration	(NASA),”	21	November	1962,	p.	18.	

	 21.	 Ibid.,	p.	19.

	 22.	 Roger	Launius,	“A	Western	Mormon	in	Washington,	DC:	James	C.	Fletcher,	NASA,	and	the	Final	Frontier,”	

Pacific Historical Review 64	(May	1995):	220.

	 23.	 James	 Fletcher,	 Spaceship Earth: A Look Ahead to a Better Life,	 NASA	 Congressional	 Testimony	

(Washington,	DC:	GPO,	1973),	p.	28.	

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NASA’s Earth Science Program

Robert Frosch, the research scientist who was President Carter’s NASA 

Administrator from 1977 to 1981, brought a scientist’s intuition into how Earth 

science should be viewed at the Agency. Frosch recalled observing a change 

of thinking in internal NASA deliberations about potential future missions: 

The bigger battles in fact tended to be over the balance between 

Earth looking applications, which were just sort of arbitrarily 

defined as applications, and space [science]. It was sort of a 

three way science thing—earth looking applications, space 

science, which tended to come into two major divisions, solar 

system and deep space, astrophysics roughly speaking, with 

the moon as an interesting subset of the solar system. And, in 

fact, one of the things that was going on was the beginnings 

of the generalization of the Earth to, “Well the Earth is another 

planet, and we can learn things about the Earth by looking at 

the other planets, and about the other planets by looking at 

the Earth and so on,” which is yet another area of connecting 

disciplines and interests.24

NASA’s next Administrator, James Beggs (1981 to 1985), took concrete 

action to elevate the role of Earth science at the Agency. In addition to seeking 

President Reagan’s approval for a permanently crewed space station, Beggs 

encouraged Burton “Burt” Edelson, NASA’s Associate Administrator for Space 

Science and Applications, to pursue a larger role for Earth science. Historian 

Henry Lambright wrote that Edelson decided

to fasten on global monitoring by satellites as an idea whose 

time had come, one that would do OSSA and NASA the most 

good. Edelson, an engineer, envisioned the launch of large 

platforms in space carrying a range of new sensors. Such a 

program had the scale and growth potential to help keep 

NASA going if Space Station ran up against delays in approval. 

Beggs agreed.25

	 24.	 Robert	Frosch,	interview	by	author,	12	January	2006.

	 25.	 Henry	 Lambright,	 “Administrative	 Entrepreneurship	 and	 Space	Technology:	The	 Ups	 and	 Downs	 of	

‘Mission	to	Planet	Earth,’”	Public Administration 54,	no.	2	(March/April	1994):	99.

515
NASA’s First 50 Years

Ideas for a new satellite initiative to collect data on the oceans, atmosphere, 

ice sheets, and land took form at a 1982 NASA workshop, chaired by Harvard 

University atmospheric physicist Richard Goody, entitled “Global Change: 

Impacts on Habitability.” Work began in earnest on the project that year, under 

the direction of Shelby Tilford and a group of scientists who were tasked to 

come up with new ideas for space activities in advance of the United Nations 

Conference on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space in Vienna, Austria. 

In Vienna, wrote Lambright, Beggs announced that NASA would launch 

a new program of Earth observations called “Project Habitat,” and he called 

for “an international cooperative project to use space technology to address 

natural and manmade changes affecting habitability of Earth.”26 Contrary to 

NASA’s expectations, the international audience did not greet “Project Habitat” 

with open arms. “The developing countries didn’t want any part of it because 

they thought this was another concept of the rich countries to take over their 

resources and limit what they were able to do,” recalled Tilford.27 “It was a 

humiliating experience for all of us,” added Beggs.28 

The domestic response to the proposal also was hostile. “This was a preemptive strategy,” wrote Lambright, “and NASA did not have the power in 

1982 to be preemptive. Many scientists, other federal agencies and even some 

governments were angry that they had not been informed. Some members 

of the Reagan White House thought Habitat was too much like something 

President Jimmy Carter and his environmentalists would propose. The idea of 

a comprehensive Earth-monitoring system might have been technically ripe 

for development, but it was not politically ready for adoption.”29 Hans Mark, 

Beggs’s Deputy Administrator, who played a behind-the-scenes role in supporting the initiative, said in retrospect, “Basically the administration killed it. 

They took the view that the private sector ought to be doing it.”30

Proposing a Mission to Planet Earth

Beggs was undaunted by the negative reaction to Project Habitat. He allowed 

Edelson’s group to quietly develop research ideas and build up support within 

the scientific community for an Earth monitoring system, should the opportunity 

	 26.	 Ibid.

	 27.	 Shelby	Tilford,	interview	by	author,	2	June	2006.

	 28.	 James	Beggs,	interview	by	author,	24	August	2004.

	 29.	 Lambright,	“Administrative	Entrepreneurship”:	99.

	 30.	 Hans	Mark,	interview	by	author,	19	January	2006.

516
NASA’s Earth Science Program

arise to restart the project. Shelby Tilford described this period as one in which 

the NASA planners adopted a new strategy: 

We thought we can’t do this again [“Project Habitat”] because 

it simply would not work because of the international politics. 

We thought the first thing we would do is come back home 

and try to get a group of scientists from all the different 

disciplines who had an interest and who needed to play a part. 

If we could get them together and do an integrated look at 

what do we know, what don’t we know in various areas, and 

what do we need to know, and sort of lay out an integrated 

approach to what measurements were required and how long 

they should be required, then we might be able to involve 

the international community up front rather presenting them 

with something as a kind of fait accompli. So we set out to put 

together this group headed by Francis Bretherton (Director, 

National Atmospheric Research Center, Boulder, Colorado, 

1974–1981), and we struggled a long time for a name as it 

might play a significant role. And that’s when the Mission to 

Planet Earth concept came out.31

While Bretherton’s group quietly conducted its work, NASA used a low-key 

announcement to publicly resurrect the idea of conducting a broader Earth science program. In a 25 January 1985 editorial in Science, Burt Edelson expressed 

NASA’s intention to use satellites to focus on natural and humanmade changes 

on a planetary scale in cooperation with other domestic and international 

organizations. “In some ways we know more about our neighboring planets 

than we do about the Earth,” he wrote.32 Edelson called for an interdisciplinary 

research program involving “many organizations and countries.” 

This time, the proposal was received more positively. The name Mission 

to Planet Earth resonated with the public, evoking the idea of a NASA focused 

on issues important to ordinary people. The proposed expansion of NASA’s 

Earth science efforts also complemented a larger ongoing effort in the scientific 

community to focus more comprehensively on global climate processes. The 

National Academy of Sciences was then organizing physicists, chemists, and 

	 31.	 Shelby	Tilford,	interview	by	author,	2	June	2006.

	 32.	 Burt	Edelson,	“Mission	to	Planet	Earth,”	Science	227,	no.	4685	(25	January	1985):	367.

517
NASA’s First 50 Years

biologists to contribute to an International Geosphere-Biosphere Program, 

known generally as Global Change. Many of these scientists recognized that their 

research could benefit from satellite data, and they welcomed Edelson’s ideas.

The Bretherton Report and Earth Systems Science 

A groundbreaking report authored by NASA Advisory Council member Francis 

Bretherton, officially known as Earth Systems Science: A Program For Global 

Change (1986), is deemed crucial by observers to the development of the interdisciplinary concept of Earth systems science. It partly owed its existence to 

the struggles of NASA’s planetary science and astronomy groups to justify their 

programs in the early days of the Reagan administration. In 1981, David Stockman, 

President Reagan’s budget director, sought to make deep cuts in NASA’s planetary program, arguing that we’d already visited the planets. NASA responded 

to this challenge by developing an in-house solar system science report that 

provided a justification for continued planetary exploration. Edelson and Tilford 

then decided to do the same for Earth sciences. They charged the Bretherton 

Committee to 1) review the science of Earth as an integrated system of interacting components, 2) recommend an implementation strategy for global Earth 

studies, and 3) define NASA’s role in such a program of Earth system science.33, 34

The Bretherton Report’s impact was wide ranging. It would lead to 

new ways of thinking and acting throughout the scientific community 

regarding the study of Earth as a complex system and help establish the 

framework for the multibillion interagency U.S. Global Change Research 

Program (USGCRP). 

Bretherton said he initially was worried that scientists from different 

disciplines wouldn’t talk to each other and work cooperatively to formulate 

a coherent Earth science program. But he said all the participants at the first 

meeting of the larger NASA Advisory Council realized

that if we, the Earth-looking community didn’t get our act 

together quick, in five years there would be no Earth-looking 

program because the astronomers and the planetary exploration 

people were all highly organized. They had a case that they 

	 33.	 NASA	Earth	System	Science	Committee,	NASA	Advisory	Committee,	Earth Systems Science Overview: 

A Program for Global Change	(Washington,	DC:	NASA,	1986),	p.	i.	

	 34.	 While	the	NASA	Earth	System	Science	Committee	conducted	its	work,	planning	proceeded	at	NASA	on	

a	series	of	Earth-orbiting	platforms,	first	known	as	System	Z	and	later	as	EOS.

518
NASA’s Earth Science Program

could make. They had got their community all lined up. And 

they were speaking outwardly at least with one voice. And 

they were all prepared with good documents that made their 

case. We had nothing.35

Once the Committee got rolling, Bretherton felt he had an ace up his sleeve, 

the simple fact that the “really important problem was the human footprint on 

this planet,” and that the needed observations could best, but not totally, “be 

done from space.”36 The Committee defined the key human footprint issues 

as being humanity’s influence on the climate and the impact of deforestation 

on plant and animal diversity. The Committee concluded: 

All these human-induced changes are difficult to assess and 

measure accurately, but it is already evident that they are playing 

a role in shaping present and future global conditions. Now 

is the time to document these processes on a global scale and 

to identify the causal relationships among them while there 

is still time to respond effectively.37

The Bretherton Report also stated that the anticipated achievements of 

Earth system science include the following:

• 

• 

• 

• 

Global Measurements: Establishment of the worldwide observations 

necessary to understand the physical, chemical, and biological processes 

responsible for Earth evolution on all timescales.

Documentation of Global Change: Recording of those changes that will 

occur in the Earth system over the coming decades.

Predictions: Use of quantitative models of the Earth system to anticipate 

future global trends.

Information Base: Assembly of the information essential for effective 

decision-making to respond to the consequences of global change.38

To achieve these goals, the Bretherton Committee recommended that NASA’s 

EOS rely on “polar-orbiting platforms now planned as part of the U.S. Space 

	 35.	 Francis	Bretherton,	interview	by	author,	6	July	2006.

	 36.	 Ibid.

	 37.	 NASA	Earth	System	Science	Committee,	NASA	Advisory	Committee,	Earth Systems Science Overview,	

p.	12.	

	 38.	 Ibid.,	p.	6.

519
NASA’s First 50 Years

Station Complex.”39 This recommendation, consistent with NASA planning, showed, 

said Berrien Moore, a member of the Earth System Science Committee, that 

We were kind of willing to walk into the future holding our 

hands with the manned program, as we got a free co-orbiting 

platform out of it, which happened to go into polar orbit. So I 

think we found ourselves uncomfortably joined at the hip. But 

at least initially it gave the Earth scientists a way to compete 

with the astrophysicists . . . . In some ways we used the manned 

program to jump start this big program.40

But Dixon Butler, who helped develop EOS’s science plan, observed that 

NASA officials soon recognized the impracticality of tying EOS to polar orbiting platforms and making them serviceable by the Space Shuttle:

We initially wanted to be serviceable too but robotic servicing 

in polar orbit was nuts. And, by the way, EOS had figured 

out that we could not do servicing missions from the shuttle 

launched from the west coast, before Challenger and Slick Six 

[planned shuttle launch site at Vandenberg AFB, California] 

being mothballed. We just didn’t get a chance to announce 

it. So in the history it may look like it was a consequence of 

the Challenger accident, but we had already come to that 

conclusion because by the time you carried EVA equipment in 

the shuttle to polar orbit you would have had 400 kilograms 

with which to service a 5,000 pound kilogram spacecraft. No 

way. That just wasn’t happening . . . .41

By the end of the decade, the whole idea of using an Earth observing 

platform alongside the Space Station was abandoned. The salvation for the 

Earth science program, now based on the concept of co-orbiting satellites, said 

Berrien Moore, was its overall “scientific credibility.”42

	 39.	 Ibid.,	p.	5.

	 40.	 Berrien	Moore,	interview	by	author,	2	April	2006.

	 41.	 Dixon	Butler,	interview	by	author,	9	June	2006.

	 42.	 Berrien	Moore,	interview	by	author,	2	April	2006.

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NASA’s Earth Science Program

Stage Two: Agenda Access and 

Program Adoption (1987 to 1990)

Crisis—The Challenger Disaster and Its Aftermath 

In the second stage of NASA’s Earth science program, the loss of the Space 

Shuttle Challenger and its seven-member crew on 28 January 1986 forced 

the space agency to address criticism about its lack of coherent priorities. 

James Fletcher, brought back as Administrator to lead NASA’s organizational 

recovery, tasked astronaut Sally Ride, America’s first woman in space, with 

developing a report on NASA’s future goals. The Ride Report listed Mission 

to Planet Earth, “a program that would use the perspective afforded from 

space to study and characterize our home planet on a global scale,”43 first 

among four recommended “leadership initiatives” for the future.44 The Ride 

Report concluded: 

Mission to Planet Earth is not the sort of major program the 

public normally associates with an agency famous for Apollo, 

Viking, and Voyager. But this initiative is a great one, not 

because it offers tremendous excitement and adventure, but 

because of its fundamental importance to humanity’s future 

on this planet. This initiative directly addresses the problems 

that will be facing humanity in the coming decades and its 

continuous scientific return will produce results which are 

of major significance to all the residents of the planet. The 

benefits are clear to a public that is increasingly concerned 

about global environmental problems like ozone depletion, 

buildup of greenhouse gases, and acidification of lakes and 

forests. And as the environment and its preservation become 

more pressing issues, the initiative retains its importance for 

many generations to come. For this reason it should enjoy 

sustained public and Congressional support and interest. The 

U.S. is the only country currently capable of leading a Mission 

	 43.	 NASA,	Leadership and America’s Future in Space	(Washington,	DC,	1987),	p.	21.

	 44.	 The	other	recommended	initiatives	in	the	Ride	Report	were	programs	to	expand	solar	system	exploration,	

building	permanent	lunar	scientific	outposts,	and	to	send	astronauts	to	Mars	within	two	decades.		

521
NASA’s First 50 Years

to Planet Earth, but the program is designed around, and 

requires, international cooperation.45

The Ride Report was never formally adopted as Reagan administration 

policy, but it did bolster the case for elevating the role of Earth science at NASA. 

While the Ride Report’s stated motivation for MTPE was solely for the 

purpose of demonstrating value to society, panel member James Garvin said 

that “behind closed doors” there was a different motivation at work related 

to NASA’s dominant space exploration culture. He noted that those members of the panel enamored with human solar system exploration viewed 

MTPE as providing a testing bed for developing systematic studies of other 

planets. Garvin said, “The discussion was: We want to go out. We can’t go 

out without understanding within . . . . So a lot of us realized that the key 

to exploring Mars, and even the Moon, ultimately Venus and beyond was 

really right here at home.”46 

Interagency Linkage and the U.S. Global Change 

Research Program

Concurrent with the post-Challenger review of NASA’s goals, the Reagan administration recognized that more attention needed to be paid to the looming issue 

of global warming and considered funding and coordinating an expanded 

research program on the subject. The research coordination function, which was 

carried on in the George H. W. Bush and subsequent administrations, helped to 

link NASA’s proposed EOS to a larger governmental initiative, the USGCRP. As 

such, interagency coordination became an important bureaucratic strategy to 

bolster the prospects for EOS, as Shelby Tilford aide Peter Backlund observed: 

If you can nationalize your program, then it’s more than just 

an agency priority. I think that many of the most successful 

NASA programs have had that attribute. Even going back to 

human spaceflight, clearly Apollo was a national presidential 

program. The [space] station was a presidential program. So 

everybody in program development at NASA wanted to get 

their programs designated as a national priority. I think where 

Shelby [Tilford] was particularly insightful in that regard was 

	 45.	 Ibid.,	pp.	51–52.

	 46.	 James	Garvin,	interview	by	author,	19	October	2004.

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NASA’s Earth Science Program

not just succeeding in making it a national presidential-level 

priority, but in making it also an interagency priority.47

In March 1987, presidential Science Adviser William Graham established 

an interagency CES, later renamed Committee on Earth and Environmental 

Sciences (CEES), to coordinate the administration’s climate research programs. 

On the committee, NASA’s Shelby Tilford, NOAA’s Mike Hall, and NSF’s Robert 

Corell developed a unique strategy to lobby OMB to consider their global 

change research budgets together, outside of OMB’s normal give and take with 

individual agencies. Office of Management and Budget official Jack Fellows 

supported this strategy and later wrote that a confluence of unique circumstances aided the USGCRP’s development: 

In 1988 our nation had (1) a very hot summer, (2) a research 

community ready to engage in research on global change (e.g., 

the Bretherton Report, technologies to make global satellite 

observations, etc.), (3) a policy community beginning to awaken 

to the issues of global warming, and (4) a group of dedicated 

and creative researchers that happened to be in key Federal 

positions in Washington.48

Indeed, 1988 was an eventful year in which various indicators (for example, 

rising global temperature readings, warming ocean temperatures, major hurricanes, droughts, and the Yellowstone National Park wildfires) lent credence 

to the idea that Earth’s changing climate could be defined as a public policy 

problem demanding the attention of political leaders. In June, at the invitation 

of Senator Tim Wirth (D-CO), NASA’s James Hansen testified before a congressional committee about the link between greenhouse gases and global warming. 

Spencer Weart writes that Hansen said 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.” He and like-minded 

scientists testified that global warming could bring more frequent storms and 

floods as well as life-threatening heat waves. Talking with reporters afterward, 

Hansen said it was time to “stop waffling, and say that the evidence is pretty 

	 47.	 Peter	Backlund,	interview	by	author,	2	February	2006.

	 48.	 “Fellows	Receives	the	Flinn	Award	(1997),”	American	Geophysical	Union,	available	at	http://www.agu.

org/inside/awards/bios/fellows_jack.html	(accessed	on	28	May	2006).

523
NASA’s First 50 Years

strong that the greenhouse effect is here.”49 That December, TIME designated 

endangered Earth as the “Planet of the Year.” For leaders on both sides of the 

political fence, it seemed to make sense to invest in an increased NASA Earth 

science effort, in the context of the USGCRP, to help inform decision-making 

on the developing issue of global climate change.

A Kickoff for Mission to Planet Earth

As momentum built for the USGCRP, NASA proposed implementing the 

centerpiece of its MTPE, a $30 billion EOS over a 15-year development and 

demonstration period.50 The program’s other components would be small 

environmental probes and the EOS data system.51 The EOS plan also called 

for NASA to coordinate its efforts with remote sensing activities conducted by 

Japan, Europe, the Soviet Union, and Canada. 

Shortly after his inauguration, President George H. W. Bush, in January 

of 1989, reported to Congress his intent to make EOS the primary program 

of the USGCRP. That summer, on the 20th anniversary of the first Moon landing, Bush also proposed a new Space Exploration Initiative (SEI) aimed at 

sending astronauts back to the Moon and on to Mars. The SEI was essentially 

pronounced dead on arrival by Congress, largely because of NASA’s massive 

internal $400 billion budget estimate. Fifteen years later, Bush’s son George W. 

	 49.	 Spencer	Weart,	The Discovery of Global Warming (Cambridge,	MA:	Harvard	University	Press,	2003),	pp.	

154–155.	

	50.	 The	 plan	 called	 for	 NASA	 to	 begin	 shortly	 after	 project	 initiation	 to	 launch	 a	 series	 of	 satellites	

that	 would	 collect	 data	 on	 ozone	 depletion,	 tropical	 rainfall,	 and	 ocean	 wind	 patterns.	The	 plan	

called	for	 a	1998	 launch	 of	the	 first	 EOS	 platform,	which	would	 orbit	 in	tandem	with	the	Space	

Station	 at	 a	 height	 of	 437	 miles,	 with	 sensors	 simultaneously	 monitoring	 surface	 temperatures,	

winds,	 clouds,	rain,	 lightning,	 and	radiation.	The	 second	 EOS	 platform	 would	 launch	 in	 2001.	 It	

was	hoped	the	data	gathered	from	these	platforms	and	other	 satellites	would	allow	 scientists	to	

obtain	a	precise	understanding	of	how	radiation,	rainfall,	ocean	currents,	and	clouds	interact	and	

how	humanmade	pollutants	alter	and	accelerate	climate	change.	Each	platform	was	expected	to	

be	replaced	three	times	over	its	15-year	life.	The	ESA	and	Japanese	National	Space	Development	

Agency	also	had	committed,	at	the	time,	to	launching	three	observation	platforms	within	10	years,	

two	by	the	Europeans	and	one	by	Japan.

	51.	 NASA	 was	 tasked,	 beginning	 in	 1991,	 with	 developing	 a	 data	 management	 system	 using	 the	

world’s	fastest	computers	that	would	allow	the	information	from	EOS	to	be	integrated	into	models	

predicting	 future	 climate	 change.	 As	 envisioned,	 this	 would	 be	 the	 largest	 and	 most	 complex	

unclassified	 computer	 data	 system	 in	 the	 world.	 This	 was	 a	 stern	 challenge,	 as	 the	 computing	

infrastructure	and	software	needed	for	the	project	was	not	available	when	MTPE	began.	In	addition,	

what	became	known	as	the	EOSDIS,	or	Earth	Observing	System	Data	and	Information	System,	was	

designed	prior	to	the	World	Wide	Web	coming	 into	widespread	use.	As	EOSDIS	finally	came	 into	

being,	its	designers	scrambled	to	link	the	data	management	system	into	this	new	capability.

524
NASA’s Earth Science Program

Bush essentially embraced the goals of the SEI with his January 2004 “Vision 

for Space Exploration” proposal.

In 1990, without significant controversy, Congress did approve EOS for a 

new start as part of NASA’s fiscal year 1991 budget, although some members 

were reported to have sticker shock about the project’s $17 billion price tag 

over 10 years. The projected costs of EOS also drew the attention of OMB 

Director Richard Darman, who quipped, “I didn’t know we needed a $30 billion [the program’s long term budget estimate] thermometer.”52

Stage Three: Program 

Restructuring (1990 to 1996)

Budgetary Politics Takes Hold

By the summer of 1990, budget cutting was the order of the day in Washington, 

DC, with the agreement between the Bush administration and Congress to 

raise taxes and limit discretionary spending. “All of a sudden, ‘normal’ budget politics geared to incremental increases were replaced by a new politics of constraint on overall, government-wide expenditures,” wrote Henry 

Lambright. “The change in the environment of NASA and its allies occurred 

just at the point when EOS needed increased funds for development.”53 This 

budgetary politics required the Agency’s Earth science planners to undergo 

several painful exercises aimed at simplifying and reducing the scope and 

duration of the ultimate EOS and to rely on medium-sized satellites flying in 

close formation rather than on large platforms. Indeed, shortly after the EOS 

program was enacted, its planned 10-year budget was slashed from $18 billion to $7.25 billion. These changes eliminated the promise that the program 

would provide the twin benefits of comprehensiveness and simultaneity of 

measurements. These latter measurements were prized by scientists who were 

seeking to narrow down the cause and effect of global warming mechanisms.

NASA’s revised approach to EOS during this period was in sync with new 

NASA Administrator Dan Goldin’s “faster, better, cheaper” strategy for NASA 

	 52.	 Jerome	Cramer,	“A	Mission	Close	to	Home,”	TIME,	available	at	http://www.time.com/time/magazine/

article/0,9171,973799,00.html (accessed	on	4	August	2006).

	 53.	 Henry	 Lambright,	 “Administrative	 Entrepreneurship	 and	 Space	Technology:	The	 Ups	 and	 Downs	 of	

‘Mission	to	Planet	Earth,’”	Public Administration 54,	no.	2	(March/April	1994):	101.	

525
NASA’s First 50 Years

missions. Under “faster, better, cheaper,” NASA sought to tap developments 

in microelectronics and other technological fields to redesign its unpiloted 

spaceflight and to reform its big-program-oriented culture. Goldin, unlike former astronaut Richard Truly, whom he was hired to replace as Administrator 

in April 1992, saw future Agency budget cutbacks as inevitable and decided to 

lead the retrenchment process rather than have change forced on NASA from 

the President or Congress. In addressing his approach to the redesign of EOS, 

Goldin said the following: 

The program needed further restructuring [when I arrived] 

because it was still much too unwieldy . . . . It didn’t have an 

ability to exert more time responsive science, and allow the 

flexibility to the Earth science community to really be able 

to in a rapid fashion get the data that they needed . . . . The 

dilemma with that was if you just launched those spacecraft on 

five year sensors, and given how long it would take to develop 

those platforms over a fifteen year period, you wouldn’t have 

time to get data back and restructure the payloads for each 

series of spacecraft. So what we set out to do was see how we 

could decouple the payloads so . . . instead of having multiple 

payloads on a spacecraft—and we kept just a few of them—

what we wanted to do if we have single or double payload 

spacecraft because there were twenty-four measurements that 

had to be made, and we would fly them in formation . . . . 

That’s where faster, better, cheaper came from.

We went to fly them in formation, in orbit, because one 

of the big arguments of the original EOS program when 

they had two spacecraft, I mean Battlestar Galacticas, an AM 

crossing spacecraft and a PM crossing spacecraft, each with 

twenty-four instruments, the argument was you had to put all 

the Earth science instruments on one spacecraft because of 

the necessity for simultaneity of measurements. That is, if I 

wanted to measure twenty-four different phenomena, I wanted 

to be sure all the instruments were on the same spacecraft 

because of the time coherence that I would need to make those 

measurements. And that was a completely false assumption. 

And it was felt that if I had independent spacecraft flying in 

orbit—co-orbital—because of the distance separation and 

the variability in their orbital velocity you could never get the 

526
NASA’s Earth Science Program

simultaneity of measurements, you couldn’t do co-registration 

when you’d want to overlay one image over another. And that 

is one of the reasons why they (wanted to) build those big 

platforms. But the dilemma in building those big platforms 

was that if I put twenty-four instruments on one platform, I 

might not ever be able to get that thing ready to launch, it was 

so big, so complex . . . complexity goes up as the number of 

elements squared because of all the interconnectivity. 

So the thing that we tried to do when I got to NASA, 

and by the way in cooperation with Ed Frieman,54 was to 

take the next step and start sending up single and double 

instrument platforms and put them into co-orbital formation 

and prove that we could get simultaneity of measurements. 

And by the time that I had left we had twenty-four spacecraft 

in development, and I think that they are all up there. The 

co-orbital functions works, and if you could put a spacecraft 

together in three years you can have quite a bit of data and 

you could get the information back and every five years, 

every seven years when you replenish, you could bring in 

new technology. So instead of being retrograded technology, 

because of the necessity of replicating things all the time and 

technology changes, I could now go very pro-technology, and 

I could keep adapting my system as technology moves along. 

So that was the concept and my recollection is that we got 

that number down to about $8 billion for the first series of 

spacecraft and every one of them worked. So it really gave 

me great pleasure to see that happen.55

	54.	 Edward	 Frieman,	 a	 physicist	 at	 the	 Scripps	 Institution	 of	 Oceanography,	 led	 an	 outside	 panel	

(Engineering	Review	Board)	appointed	by	the	National	Research	Council	that	reviewed	NASA’s	plans	

for	downsizing	EOS.	The	Engineering	Review	Board’s	marching	orders	were	to	examine	options	for	

restructuring	EOS	and	to	determine	if	its	key	values—simultaneity	and	comprehensiveness—could	

be	 gained	 sooner	 through	 simpler	 and	 cheaper	 technology.	The	 Frieman	 Board	 determined	 that	

NASA	 could	 get	 enough	 simultaneity	 from	 a	 group	 of	 satellites	 flying	 in	 formation.	The	 Frieman	

Board’s	 influential	 report	 called	 for	 the	 twin	 EOS	 platforms	 to	 be	 replaced	 by	 a	 fleet	 of	 smaller	

satellites	and	recommended	that	NASA	rely	on	expertise	in	operating	small	satellite	systems	held	in	

DOD	and	the	Department	of	Energy.	

	 55.	 Dan	Goldin,	interview	by	author,	18	February	2006.

527
NASA’s First 50 Years

Earth Observing System Science Measurements

Earth Science Category EOS 24 Measurements

Atmosphere Cloud	properties

Radiative	energy	fluxes

Precipitation

Tropospheric	chemistry

Stratospheric	chemistry

Aerosol	properties

Atmospheric	temperature

Atmospheric	humidity

Lightning

Solar	Radiation Total	

Solar	

solar	irradiance

spectral	irradiance

Land Land	cover	and	land	

Vegetation	dynamics

Fire	occurrence

Volcanic	effects

Surface	wetness

use	change

Ocean Surface	temperature

Phytoplankton	and	dissolved	

Surface	wind	fields

Ocean	surface	topography

organic	matter

Cryosphere Land	ice

Sea	ice

Snow	cover

Shelby Tilford left NASA in October 1993, unconvinced 

that Goldin’s “faster, better, cheaper” approach was necessarily “better.” He was replaced by UCLA space scientist 

Charles Kennel, whom Goldin ordered to reinvigorate the 

program under the Administrator’s preferred approach. 

Goldin also sought to transition Earth observing technologies developed by NASA to NOAA, in accord with 

his philosophy that “NASA was formed as a development 

organization, research and development organization, to 

always push back boundaries of the unknown, not to be an 

operational agency, not to do things that are comfortable, 

but to always go to the edge, and to take risk.”56 While the 

Figure 3: Space	scientist	

Charles	Kennel	of	UCLA.	

Courtesy of Charles Kennel 

	 56.	 Dan	Goldin,	The MacNeil/Lehrer News Hour,	New	York,	NY,	and	Washington,	DC,	Public	Broadcasting	

Service,	29	November	1996.

528
NASA’s Earth Science Program

Tilford era was characterized by coalition building, agenda setting, and planning, 

the Kennel era would be more devoted to the building of spacecraft and the 

refinement of EOS’s research aims, with scientists outside the Agency helping 

him juggle the EOS launching schedule in order to avoid further budget cuts.

Kennel says the challenge he inherited was reducing the high projected 

costs of EOS and making the ensuing program sound on a scientific basis: 

When I came to NASA in 1994 there was a serious job ahead 

of us at NASA. And that was the initial conception of the EOS 

as three launches every five years of massive . . . experimental 

satellites launched by the Shuttle. There was a run-out cost 

close to $20 billion dollars. That initial conception was clearly 

not viable . . . primarily financially. However, there was a 

secondary aspect to it. The critics of that system said with some 

justice, that as planned it was the largest and most expensive 

scientific experiment ever put on the books at that time and 

that the Principal Investigators and so forth for the instruments 

were being locked in. There was going to be a fifteen year free 

ride for those people however competent they were and there 

was going to be little or no opportunity for a change of goals 

and the addition of younger and newer people. That was the 

criticism. I didn’t think it would actually unfold that way but 

it was quite clear to me and it was quite clear to Goldin that 

politically that level of commitment couldn’t be sustained . . . .

What happened during my three years was that we 

restructured and reshaped it [EOS] and got to many more 

spacecraft with smaller payloads and more focused payloads . . . . 

The question I had at the end of that whole process was: At 

what stage do you know when you’ve cut enough? At what point 

have you cut so much out of the system that you’ve reduced 

the technical reliability? And the other question was: How do 

I know where we’ve hit a stable budget that the congressional 

and administration budget process can tolerate this project? 

My job was to stabilize the system and stabilize the budget 

and keep as much of the science as possible.57

	 57.	 Charles	Kennel,	interview	by	author,	22	July	2004.

529
NASA’s First 50 Years

The Republican takeover of both houses of Congress following the 1994 

elections also had important implications during this third stage of the Earth 

science program. Because of the program’s association with global warming, an 

unpopular issue in conservative circles, NASA was forced to fight back several 

partisan attempts by the new Republican majority in the House of Representatives 

to impose EOS budget cuts larger than NASA was willing to accept. Members 

of the new Republican majority in the Senate, however, were more supportive 

of EOS because of its perceived relevance and its impact on local economies. 

One strategy utilized by NASA during this period was to stress Earth science 

applications, or the “down to Earth” elements of EOS, such as assisting with 

agricultural forecasting, transportation planning, and disaster relief. 

Stage Four: Program 

Implementation (1997 to 2008)

Progress in Space, Turmoil on the Ground 

In the fourth stage of NASA’s Earth science program, program managers focused 

on implementing the existing program and planning for future missions. In 

1999, NASA launched Terra,58 the first of the main EOS satellites, and continued to obtain useful scientific results from its entire fleet of Earth observing 

satellites. On 14 July 2004, with the launch of the Aura satellite designed to 

provide global scale information about Earth’s atmospheric composition, NASA 

fulfilled its commitment to develop and launch the first phase of EOS. Still, 

scientists continued to complain that the program was not sufficiently focused 

on its main goal of understanding Earth as a system, due to NASA’s drift away 

from its original EOS plans. 

The period between 2004 and 2008 was dominated by concerns about the 

program’s long-term prospects. President George W. Bush’s 2004 proposal to 

renew NASA with a new program to send humans and robots to the Moon, 

Mars, and beyond has squeezed the EOS budget to the point that missions in 

	 58.	 Carrying	five	instruments	that	operate	simultaneously	on	a	single	platform,	Terra	is	examining	such	

things	as	the	impact	of	clouds	and	sulfate	particles	on	atmospheric	cooling;	the	way	climatic	processes	

are	affected	by	changes	in	land	use	and	by	volcanoes	and	fire;	and	the	impact	on	the	atmosphere	from	

changes	on	land	and	at	sea,	such	as	ice	cover	and	phytoplankton	growth.	Terra	instruments	also	are	

designed	to	provide	scientists	with	data	on	methane	and	carbon	dioxide	growth	rates	in	the	atmosphere	

and	on	the	impact	of	solar	irradiance	on	Earth’s	surface	temperatures.

530
NASA’s Earth Science Program

Figure 4:	Nearly	two	decades	after	the	initiation	of	NASA’s	MPTE,	the	space	agency	has	successfully	launched	

and	operated	a	flotilla	of	EOS	satellites,	including	the	flagship	Terra,	Aqua,	and	Aura	missions.	NASA

development were delayed and efforts to follow up on the existing EOS satellites and instruments were dropped. 

The George W. Bush NASA plan also spurred a lively debate about whether 

NASA’s Earth science program should be administratively transferred to NOAA. 

In the face of this uncertainty, the National Research Council of the National 

Academies undertook, at the request of NASA, NOAA, and the U.S. Geological 

Survey, the first-ever decadal survey aimed at recommending a priority-ranked 

list of Earth science missions for NASA. The decadal survey recommended that 

NASA launch 15 missions from 2010 to 2020 to address the following themes: 

Earth science applications and societal benefits; land use change, ecosystem 

dynamics, and biodiversity; weather science and applications; climate viability 

and change; water resources and the global hydrological cycle; human health 

and security; and solid-Earth hazards, natural resources, and dynamics.

NASA’s Earth Science Program Under the George W. Bush 

Administration

In 2001, the incoming George W. Bush administration quickly postponed, 

and later canceled, the Deep Space Climate Observatory. This satellite was 

531
NASA’s First 50 Years

intended to tally Earth’s energy budget—how much energy comes in from the 

Sun, how much immediately reflects, and how much is absorbed to be reradiated at longer infrared wavelengths—an important element of understanding 

climate change. The satellite was actually a scientifically improved version 

of Triana, the satellite proposed by former Vice President Al Gore, derisively 

labeled “Goresat” by its critics, to constantly observe Earth from a high orbit.59

The Bush administration’s action was consistent with an attitude expressed 

in the NASA Transition Policy Book prepared by the incoming Bush-Cheney 

team, which asserted, “Heavily politicized missions imposed on NASA by the 

Clinton Administration over the last eight years (global warming and Russian 

space station participation are prime examples) have poisoned the policy well 

with several key Members of Congress, particularly in the House.”60 

More broadly, the Transition Policy Book observed that due to the budget 

constraints that NASA faced throughout the 1990s (an estimated budget reduction of $40 billion in the 1993 to 2001 time period from what the Agency had 

expected entering this timeframe), and with the Agency itself understanding 

“that there is little room for growing their budget in a dramatic way,”61 “a return 

to the era of large-, multi-billion dollar spacecraft is not desirable or likely to 

be feasible.”62 To provide prudent reserves to address expected cost growth, 

the Transition Policy Book pointed out that “in Earth Science, the solution has 

been to defer development of the next generation of spacecraft.”63 The bottom 

line, the report stated, is that “NASA has too much on its plate for the total 

budgets it receives.”64 This refrain would be repeated almost word for word 

by NASA Administrator Michael Griffin five years later when he announced 

that, under a constrained budget, progress on NASA’s science programs would 

have to be delayed more than previously anticipated.

Bush’s first budget proposed cutting NASA’s Earth science funding 

by $200 million and leaving future spending flat for five years. The Bush 

administration did request funding for five new satellites to mark the second 

phase of NASA’s EOS effort. The new missions were proposed to monitor 

global precipitation (in tropical and temperate zones), ocean topography 

	 59.	 Following	Barack	Obama’s	victory	in	the	2008	presidential	election,	a	sign	was	observed	at	GSFC	that	

stated,	“Free	Triana.”

	 60.	 “NASA	2001	Transition	Policy	Book”	(Washington,	DC:	unpublished,	4	January	2001),	p.	31.	

	 61.	 Ibid.,	p.	23.

	 62.	 Ibid.,	p.	21.

	 63.	 Ibid.,	p.	27.

	 64.	 Ibid.

532
NASA’s Earth Science Program

(measuring phenomena such as El Niño and La Niña), ocean surface winds 

(useful in hurricane monitoring), atmospheric ozone and aerosols, and the 

energy input to Earth’s atmosphere from the Sun. 

In June 2001, saying he wanted to create “an effective and science-based 

response to the issue of global warming,” President Bush announced several 

new programs to study greenhouse gases and climate change and vowed to 

fully finance climate change science over the next five years. Bush proposed 

a new U.S. Climate Change Research Initiative (USCCRI) to take up the work 

previously done by the USGCRP, with an emphasis on short-term uncertainties 

in climate change. In July 2003, the Bush administration hosted an international 

summit on global climate change led by NOAA Administrator Vice Admiral 

Conrad C. Lautenbacher. More than 40 nations and 20 international organizations agreed at the State Department to form an ad hoc international Group 

on Earth Observations, with the goal of forming a Global System of Systems 

producing a comprehensive, coordinated, and sustained system of Earth observations. This agreement did not come with any promises of more funding for 

NASA, yet it did underscore the continuing relevance of the EOS program.

The Columbia Accident and Its Aftermath:

A New Mission for NASA

The loss of the Space Shuttle Columbia and its crew of seven on 1 February 

2003, like that of the Challenger, prompted a major reassessment of NASA’s 

priorities. Encouraged by NASA’s 10th Administrator, Sean O’Keefe (2001–05), 

the Bush White House undertook an internal review of space program goals. 

The review culminated in President Bush’s 14 January 2004 announcement 

at NASA Headquarters tasking NASA to undertake a long-term human and 

robotic program to renew the exploration of the Moon and eventually to land 

astronauts on Mars. 

Initially, O’Keefe promised that NASA’s science and aeronautics programs 

would not suffer in order to fund Bush’s “Vision for Space Exploration.” NASA 

briefing charts provided to the White House prior to the Vision’s announcement, 

however, suggested that funding would come from “reallocating resources and 

internal restructuring,” with the biggest hits coming to the “Space Science and 

Earth Science components of the existing NASA program.”65

	 65.	 NASA,	“Briefing	for	the	President:	Future	U.S.	Space	Exploration—Alternative	Visions,	Key	Elements,	

and	Issues	for	Decision” (Washington,	DC:	unpublished	document,	19	December	2003),	p.	11.

533
NASA’s First 50 Years

Indeed, the next administration budget request (for fiscal year 2005) 

proposed taking $1.2 billion out of the NASA Earth science budget over a 

five-year period. Later in 2004, NASA Associate Administrator for Science Al 

Diaz reportedly ordered his managers to find at least $400 million in cuts to 

space and Earth science efforts to address the rising costs NASA was facing 

in getting the Space Shuttle ready to fly again. 

Prior to the Moon-Mars program’s announcement, Bush administration 

officials discussed transferring NASA’s EOS program to NOAA, or perhaps 

some of NOAA’s satellite programs to NASA. While no decisions were made 

on these complex issues, Bush’s Commission on Implementation of United 

States Space Exploration Policy, chaired by former Air Force Secretary Edward 

“Pete” Aldridge, Jr., suggested the possibility of moving NASA’s Earth science 

activities to another agency. 

Ghassem Asrar, NASA’s Earth Science Program Director, addressed the 

Aldridge Commission to defend the place of EOS within the space agency. In 

making his presentation, Asrar said:

My main objective was to present what the Earth science 

program is all about and what are its unique contributions 

to the study of Earth and Earth Systems Science and answer 

the questions about the role of the private sector, commercial 

remote sensing, the role of NASA and other agencies. [We tried] 

to convince them that what we did was really unique and 

didn’t infringe on any commercial sector or business, because 

we never built anything that was finer than 10 meters. With 

all the high resolution stuff that the private sector is building 

we are the users; we are not competing with them. And as 

a matter of fact we use those observations for our scientific 

research. We buy that data; we are the user of those data sets. 

And we also tried to convince them if it weren’t for NASA, 

NOAA would not be there today. The fact is that if you look at 

today’s weather satellites, they are [using] 1970s technologies. 

There was a hiatus, there was a period when NASA and NOAA 

parted their ways and NASA focused on climate and NOAA 

focused on weather . . . .

NOAA by charter is an operational agency. They cannot 

introduce new capabilities into their mainstream of operational 

activities unless the risks of those new technologies are well 

understood, demonstrated, retired . . . . The models that we 

534
NASA’s Earth Science Program

Figure 5: The	National	Research	Council’s	Decadal	Survey	for	Earth	Science	and	Applications	recommended	

that	NASA	launch	15	missions	from	2010	to	2020	to	address	the	following	themes:	Earth	science	applications	and	societal	benefits,	land	use	change,	ecosystem	dynamics	and	biodiversity,	weather	science	and	

applications,	climate	viability	and	change,	water	resources	and	the	global	hydrological	cycle,	human	health	

and	security,	solid-Earth	hazards,	and	natural	resources	and	dynamics.	In	the	National	Research	Council	

plan,	the	missions	would	be	sequenced	by	time	in	three	tiers.	NASA

have developed to use these data sets improve the weather 

prediction models. So all these capabilities that NASA has 

developed over the last 10–15 years are becoming part of the 

next generation operational weather satellites. I told them 

[Aldridge Commission] that unless . . . NASA had developed 

these, NOAA would not be in a position to do that. We would 

still be flying the old technology . . . .66

The Aldridge Commission also recommended that the NASA Headquarters 

organization be realigned to support the Moon-Mars program and that the 

	 66.	 Ghassem	Asrar,	interview	by	author,	19	July	2005.

535
NASA’s First 50 Years

Agency’s science enterprises be consolidated. In response, O’Keefe merged the 

Earth Science Enterprise and Space Science Enterprise into a single Science 

Mission Directorate, a move seen as a downgrading of the importance of Earth 

Science. O’Keefe argued, however, that the move made sense because NASA 

could apply what the EOS program was learning about Earth’s climate to the 

scientific investigation of Mars and other planets, the motivation that had 

previously inspired members of the Sally Ride Task Force in 1987. 

A Decadal Survey for Earth Science and Applications from Space

In a move to ensure that NASA’s Earth science program will have a future 

as well as a present, the National Research Council undertook to conduct 

an Earth Science and Applications from Space decadal survey, an effort like 

those conducted in the astronomy and planetary science fields, to provide 

authoritative recommendations from the science community on program priorities. The decadal survey, requested and supported by NASA, NOAA, and 

the U.S. Geological Survey, urged the U.S. government to spend $2 billion a 

year ($500 above NASA’s current Earth science budget) to fund a series of 15 

NASA Earth science missions between 2010 and 2020, with two other missions 

proposed for NOAA.67

	67.	 The	 recommended	 NASA	 missions	 from	 2010	 to	 2013	 and	 their	 mission	 descriptions	 are	

as	follows:	 Climate	Absolute	 Radiance	 and	 Refractivity	 Observatory	 (CLARREO):	Solar	 and	 Earth	

radiation;	spectrally	resolved	forcing	and	response	of	the	climate	system;	Soil	Moisture	Active	and	

Passive	(SMAP):	Soil	moisture	and	freeze-thaw	for	weather	and	water	cycle	processes;	Ice,	Cloud,	

and	 land	 Elevation	 Satellite	 (ICESat)-II:	 Ice	 sheet	 height	 changes	 for	 climate	 change	 diagnoses;	

and	 Deformation,	 Ecosystem	 Structure,	 and	 Dynamics	 of	 Ice	 (DESDynI):	 Surface	 and	 ice	 sheet	

deformation	 for	 understanding	 natural	 hazards	 and	 climate;	 vegetation	 structure	 for	 ecosystem	

health.	The	recommended	NASA	missions	from	2013	to	2016	and	their	mission	descriptions	are	

as	follows:	Hyperspectral	Infrared	Imager	(HyspIRI):	Land	surface	composition	for	agriculture	and	

mineral	characterization;	vegetation	types	for	ecosystem	health;	Active	Sensing	of	CO2	Emissions	

over	 Nights,	 Days,	 and	 Seasons	 (ASCENDS):	 Day/night,	 all-latitude,	 all-season	 carbon	 dioxide	

column	 integrals	 for	 climate	 emissions;	 Surface	Water	 Ocean	Topography	 (SWOT):	 Ocean,	 lake,	

and	river	water	levels	for	ocean	and	inland	water	dynamics;	Geostationary	Coastal	and	Air	Pollution	

Events	 (GEO-CAPE):	Atmospheric	 gas	 columns	 for	 air	 quality	 forecasts;	 ocean	 color	 for	 coastal	

ecosystem	health	and	climate	emissions;	and	Advanced	Composition	Explorer	(ACE):	Aerosol	and	

cloud	 profiles	 for	 climate	 and	 water	 cycles;	 ocean	 color	 for	 open	 ocean	 biogeochemistry.	 The	

recommended	NASA	missions	from	2016	to	2020	and	their	mission	descriptions	are	as	follows:	

Lidar	Surface	Topography	(LIST):	Land	surface	topography	for	landslide	hazards	and	water	runoff;	

Precipitation	 and	 All-weather	 Temperature	 and	 Humidity	 (PATH):	 High-frequency,	 all-weather	

temperature	and	humidity	soundings	for	weather	forecasting	and	sea	surface	temperature;	Gravity	

Recovery	and	Climate	Experiment	(GRACE)-II:	High-temporal-resolution	gravity	fields	for	tracking	

large-scale	 water	 movement;	 Snow	 and	 Cold	 Land	 Processes	 (SCLP):	 Snow	 accumulation	 for	

freshwater	availability;	Global	Atmospheric	Composition	Mission	(GACM):	Ozone	and	related	gases	

for	intercontinental	air	quality	and	stratospheric	ozone	layer	prediction;	and	3D-Winds:	Tropospheric	

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NASA’s Earth Science Program

While calling for NASA to reenergize the major commitment to Earth science 

undertaken in the 1990s, the report’s authors warned that due to attrition and 

funding issues, by 2010 the number of operating Earth observing instruments 

on NASA satellites is likely to drop by 40 percent, leaving gaps in data used 

to forecast severe weather events such as hurricanes, tornadoes, and tsunamis, and also leaving gaps in data used to understand the dynamics of global 

climate change. Decadal Survey Cochairman Richard Anthes, president of the 

American Meteorological Society, argued that the reductions in NASA resources 

devoted to Earth science had led to a decline in our country’s capabilities to 

monitor environmental change. While NASA welcomed the decadal survey as 

a useful tool for guiding the development of future missions, Administrator 

Michael Griffin at the Goddard Space Symposium in 2007 criticized the survey’s 

proposed budget increases as being unrealistic. 

The larger issue of what NASA’s future priorities should be was featured 

more prominently than some people expected during the 2008 presidential 

campaign. The tight race for Florida’s 25 electoral votes contributed to Barack 

Obama’s backing off of an earlier campaign statement that he would transfer 

funding from NASA to educational needs and asserting down the campaign 

stretch that he would fully fund NASA’s programs. The Obama campaign also 

detailed its views on the importance of monitoring Earth from space in a Web 

forum sponsored by several scientific organizations: 

Barack Obama has proposed bold initiatives to put America 

on the path to stop global climate change. His administration 

will set standards based on rigorous scientific inquiry that, in 

turn, cannot take place without a capable space program. The 

task of researching and understanding the forces that affect our 

home planet will require a constellation of climate monitoring 

space platforms. As president, Obama will ensure that NASA 

has the funding necessary to play its part in the fight against 

global climate change.

As president, I will establish a robust and balanced civilian 

space program. Under my administration, NASA not only will 

inspire the world with both human and robotic space exploration, 

winds	for	weather	forecasting	and	pollution	transport	(“Satellite	Observations	to	Benefit	Science	

and	Society:	Recommended	Missions	for	the	Next	Decade,”	National Research Council [Washington,	

DC:	National	Academies	Press,	2008],	p.	9).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

but also will again lead in confronting the challenges we 

face here on Earth, including global climate change, energy 

independence, and aeronautics research.68

Looking Back, Looking Forward

Has NASA’s Earth science program been successful? And what are its likely prospects for the future? One way to judge the successes of EOS and related activities 

is in terms of its original criteria for mission accomplishment. Specifically, when 

EOS was first initiated, NASA described the program’s objectives as follows:

The Earth Observing System (EOS) will be a science and 

observation program that will provide long-term (fifteen 

year) data sets for Earth system science in order to gain 

an understanding of the interactions between Earth’s land, 

atmosphere, oceans, and life. Areas of study will include the 

global hydrological cycle, global biogeochemical cycle, and global 

climate processes with a focus on greenhouse gases and the role 

of clouds. EOS will provide for the interdisciplinary evaluation 

of EOS data. This includes the funding of interdisciplinary 

science team grants, Principal Investigator research grants, and 

post-graduate fellowships. To process the data from EOS, the 

program will include development of a comprehensive Earth 

Observing System Data and Information System (EOSDIS), 

designed to maximize the Earth science research community’s 

access to, and processing of, the necessary measurements 

through an open data policy.69

By these and other broad objectives associated with the program, EOS has 

been successful on a number of fronts, including the following: 

• 

• 

• 

Pioneering new Earth monitoring technologies.

Successfully launching and operating a current constellation of 15 

EOS satellites.

Providing to the scientific community 24 key climate measurements. 

	 68.	 “ScienceDebate2008.com	 presents	 Presidential	 answers	 to	 the	 top	 14	 science	 questions	 facing	

America,”	Science	Debate	2008	Web	site,	available	at	http:/www.sciencedebate2008.com/www/index.

php?id+42	(accessed	on	23	October	2008).

	 69.	 NASA,	Earth Observing System (EOS)	(Washington,	DC:	Author,	1992).

538
NASA’s Earth Science Program

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

Figure 6: NASA	has	five	new	Earth	science	missions	already	under	way	or	under	development.	They	will	

help	measure	ocean	topography	(Ocean	Surface	Topography	Mission),	global	aerosol	and	cloud	properties	

(Glory),	sea	surface	salinity	(Aquarius),	global	land	cover	change	(Landsat	Data	Continuity	Mission),	and	

global	rainfall	from	tropical	to	mid-latitudes	(Global	Precipitation	Measurement	Mission).	The	planned	

OCO	mission	to	measure	atmospheric	carbon	dioxide	had	a	launch	failure	in	February	2009	but	may	be	

reflown.	NASA

Utilizing Earth measurements to improve climate models and to enhance 

monitoring and understanding of severe climate events such as hurricanes 

and tsunamis. 

Applying Earth observations to applications benefiting a number of 

user communities.

Developing productive new partnerships with other nations’ space and 

science agencies on Earth science research.

Helping to build up the Earth science research community through 

research grants and fellowships for graduate students.

Yet any evaluation of the record of NASA’s Earth science program must 

honestly address failures to meet expectations, including the following: 

The inability to deliver on the EOS program’s promise of providing 15 

years of continuous and comprehensive data on Earth processes.

The abandonment of specific science goals due to budget priorities.

539
NASA’s First 50 Years

• 

• 

Cost growth and delays in mission developments that constrained 

NASA’s ability to increase technology investments.70

A lack of effective strategic planning to develop a coherent and achievable 

followup plan for the initial EOS.

These failures can be largely explained by NASA’s inability to reconcile its 

intentions at various points in its history to be a leading multimission agency 

with the reality that, when push comes to shove, NASA has always tended 

to anchor its hopes on its human spaceflight mission and make budgetary 

decisions accordingly. 

As we turn to the future, however, the new Decadal Survey for Earth 

Science and Applications and the advent of an Obama administration that is 

determined to do more about climate change, which by implication will require 

more knowledge about climate change processes, have led to increased hopes 

that Earth science may well have a stronger future at NASA. 

NASA does have plans for the long term that might lead to a renaissance 

for Earth science. Current NASA Earth science director Dr. Michael Frelich said 

his primary objective “is to expand the leading role of NASA measurements 

and NASA-supported analyses in advancing Earth system science—improving 

our quantitative understanding of the Earth as an integrated system.71” He 

said that such measurements and analysis will address the need to develop 

“long, multi-decadal, global, consistently processed measurements of particular processes . . . especially of the oceans because the ocean is the giant 

flywheel of the [Earth] system . . . about half the heat that’s put in near the 

equator and goes off toward the poles is carried by the atmosphere and half 

is carried in the ocean.”72

NASA’s long-term strategic plan imagines a scenario for beyond 2016 that 

includes a technological leap in Earth observations to detect changes in the 

Earth system as they happen. The Agency envisions using constellations of smart 

satellites placed in various orbits to augment airborne sensors and surfacebased sensors to form an integrated, interactive “sensorweb” observing system. 

As we anticipate such a future, perhaps the greatest testimony to the lasting relevance of NASA’s Earth science program comes from those select few 

	 70.	 Greg	Williams,	“The	Difficult	Journey	of	a	Great	Idea:	An	Inside,	Informal	History	of	Earth	System	Science	

at	NASA”	(Washington,	DC:	unpublished	manuscript,	2005),	p.	16.

	 71.	 Edward	Goldstein	and	Tabatha	Thompson,	“Earth	Science:	NASA’s	Mission	to	Our	Home	Planet,”	 in	

NASA: 50 Years of Exploration and Discovery	(Tampa,	FL:	Faircount	Media	Group,	2008),	p.	181.

	 72.	 Ibid.

540
NASA’s Earth Science Program

humans who have seen our fragile Earth from space. Among them, astronaut 

Piers Sellers said the following in 2004:

Our technical ability to view the Earth from space is coincident 

with our ability to change our planetary environment. So at 

the very time that we are able to see our planetary home in its 

entirety, we are powerfully motivated to do so—to understand 

how the Earth system works, to help us assess the kind and 

degree of changes, both manmade and natural, that are ongoing, 

and ultimately to help us predict the future consequences of 

these changes . . . . The public and their representatives in 

government need better information on which to base all 

kinds of decisions involving the planetary environment; 

from targeting famine relief in Africa during droughts, to 

the continuing discussion on global climate change. Satellite 

observations provide the sole means to observe the whole 

planet almost every day using the same instrument.73

	 73.	 Piers	Sellers,	“Presentation	on	Earth	Observations	from	Space	at	the	Smithsonian’s	National	Air	and	

Space	Museum”	(Washington,	DC,	September	2004).

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Chapter 21

Earth Observations from Space

Achievements, Challenges, and Realities

James R. Fleming

Space technology affords new opportunities for scientific 

observation and experiment, which will add to our knowledge 

and understanding of the earth.

—President’s Science Advisory Committee, 1958

For the past 50 years, Earth observations from space have provided absolutely 

unique perspectives and have given a tremendous boost to the interdisciplinary geophysical sciences and to public awareness of the planet’s beauty 

and fragility. Ironically, however, our ability to continue such unprecedented 

observations and provide critical information about Earth processes may be 

severely challenged over the course of the next several years. The Space Age 

officially began on 4 October 1957, with the dramatic and historic launch of 

Sputnik I by the Soviet Union; the United States joined the club less than four 

months later with its launch of Explorer 1 on 31 January 1958. These and 

subsequent accomplishments represent the fulfillment of an ancient quest for 

altitude and for a panoptic perspective; but Earth observations have much 

deeper historical roots.

Ancient History

When asked recently when humans got interested in and began to get serious 

about climate change, I responded immediately, “in the Pleistocene.” In other 

words, the emergence of Homo sapiens sapiens was contemporaneous with the 

cycles of ice ages and interglacials. Our distant ancestors, with cranial capacity equal to ours, were acute observers of their environment and would have 

543
NASA’s First 50 Years

certainly engaged in serious deliberations in response to rapid climate change 

events, for example, the Younger Dryas event some 12,000 years ago, which 

cooled large areas of the globe from 5 to 15°C and may have contributed to 

the Neolithic revolution. In this and similar ways, Earth observations have a 

history as old as our species.

Seeing conditions were great in the past, with no light pollution and only 

occasional smoke from biomass burning. All that was needed to view the 

sky was a wide horizon, a hillside, or a mountaintop, with perhaps a stick 

or gnomon to make consistent measurements over time. Ancient observers 

viewed the changing conditions below their feet and identified patterns in 

the sky, for example, the Great Bear (Ursa Major), the Eagle (Aquila), and the 

Dragon (Draco). Our ancestors soon discovered that if they just ascended a 

little, by climbing a hill, a pyramid, or even a mountain, they could see farther 

and have a bigger horizon, gaining both added perspective on the world 

and perhaps added authority. The monumental structures at Stonehenge, 

England, provided such a perspective on the heavens, as does the ancient 

solar observatory at Chankillo, Peru, the oldest in the New World. In the 

modern era, Piazzi Smyth installed a high-altitude telescope in 1856 on the 

Teide Volcano, Tenerife, while the first permanent mountain observatory was 

Lick Observatory in California, which saw first light in 1888.

The Quest for Altitude

Concerning Earth observations at altitude, in 1648, Blaise Pascal convinced 

his brother-in-law, Florin Perier, to transport a barometer to the top of the 

Puy de Dôme (1,465 meters). The level of the mercury decreased during 

ascent of the mountain and returned to its original level at the base, indicating that the air had weight. In 1749, Dr. Alexander Wilson, a Scottish 

physician, tied detachable thermometers to a string of kites and initiated the 

tradition of sounding the vertical structure of the free air. The key attached 

to Benjamin Franklin’s kite string represented a specialized static electricity sensor. In the 1830s, James Espy used kites flown by the Franklin Kite 

Club of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to determine the height of the cloud 

base. He related this height to the surface temperature and dew point, 

and he was able to estimate the temperature lapse rate. Kites equipped 

with meteorographs were in widespread use as atmospheric probes in the 

late 1890s. They were typically flown from ships and mountain stations 

and could routinely reach altitudes of 2.5 kilometers, with record-setting 

flights of over 7 kilometers. Theorists such as Vilhelm Bjerknes credited 

the kite soundings of Abbot Lawrence Rotch at the Blue Hill Observatory 

544
Earth Observations from Space

with providing the observational data necessary for the development of 

Bjerknes’s cyclone model.1

Early surface-based coordinated observing programs were aimed at 

extending international observations. The International Polar Year from 1882 

to 1883 involved 11 nations in a coordinated effort to study atmospheric 

changes and “electrical weather” as evidenced by magnetic disturbances and 

the polar lights. The International Cloud Year from 1896 to 1897 measured 

the altitude and motion of clouds with the goal of producing a global view of 

atmospheric circulation. Such efforts had many predecessors, but all suffered 

from coordination problems and lack of aereal coverage; most were confined 

to surface observations.2

About 1809, Thomas Foster in England began the practice of releasing 

small free balloons (called pilot balloons) and tracking them to obtain information about the winds aloft. A small light was attached to the balloon at 

night to make it visible. Balloons could be tracked with an optical theodolite 

to about 5 kilometers in good weather conditions, but their flightpaths were 

often obscured by clouds.

Writers also fantasized about flights of discovery beyond Earth, as in Francis 

Godwin’s 1638 celestial chariot ride to the Moon powered by geese and gunpowder. In 1783, the French physician Jean François Pilâtre de Rozier and the 

Marquis François-Laurent d’Arlandes ascended in a hot air balloon designed by 

the Montgolfier brothers; later that same year, the scientist Jacques-AlexandreCésar Charles (1746–1823) and an assistant, Nicholas Louis Robert, carried a 

barometer aloft in a balloon filled with inflammable air (hydrogen). French 

balloonist Jean-Pierre Blanchard and American John Jeffries flew across the 

English Channel in 1785, producing temperature and pressure measurements 

that extended above 2.5 kilometers.3

In the 19th and early 20th centuries, aeronauts reached unprecedented 

heights in balloons: In 1804, the French scientists Joseph Louis Gay-Lussac 

and Jean-Baptiste Biot made balloon ascents of over 7 kilometers to study 

	 1.	 James	Rodger	Fleming,	“Meteorology,”	in	A History of Modern Science and Mathematics,	vol.	3,	ed.	

Brian	S.	Biagre	(New	York,	NY:	Scribner’s,	2002),	pp.	184–217.	

	 2.	 James	Rodger	Fleming	and	Cara	Seitchek,	“Advancing	Polar	Research	and	Communicating	Its	Wonders,”	

in	Smithsonian at the Poles: Contributions to International Polar Year Science,	ed.	Igor	Krupnik,	Michael	

Lang,	and	Scott	Miller	(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Institution,	2009).

	 3.	 Francis	Godwin,	The Man in the Moone; or, A Discourse on a Voyage Thither	(London,	U.K.:	John	Norton,	

1638);	Charles	Coulston	Gillispie,	The Montgolfier Brothers and the Invention of Aviation, 1783–1784 

(Princeton,	NJ:	Princeton	University	Press,	1983).

545
NASA’s First 50 Years

the composition of the air and the effect of altitude on terrestrial magnetism. 

James Glaisher reached 11 kilometers in 1865, a feat that almost killed him 

and subjected his copilot, Henry Coxwel, to severe frostbite. Clearly, human 

endurance limits had been reached. In 1931, Auguste Piccard and an assistant 

ascended to over 15 kilometers in a balloon with a pressurized cabin. They 

spent their time aloft studying cosmic rays. Malcolm Ross and Victor Prather 

exceeded 34 kilometers in 1961 in a balloon called “Lee Lewis Memorial.”

Self-Recording and Transmitting Instruments

Increasingly, self-recording instruments were sent aloft using kite and balloon 

sondes. By the 1890s, balloon-borne meteorographs were reaching altitudes as 

high as 20 kilometers, and a coherent picture of the structure of the atmosphere 

was beginning to emerge. In 1902, Léon Teisserenc de Bort noted explicitly the 

existence of an isothermal zone beginning at about 10 kilometers with a warmer 

layer above that. Almost simultaneously, Richard Assmann in Germany, using 

different equipment and techniques, announced similar results. In 1908, de Bort 

coined the terms “troposphere” and “stratosphere” to denote the lower and upper 

layers of the atmosphere, with the isothermal zone between coming to be called 

the “tropopause.” Additional results showed that the tropopause was higher in 

the summer, higher in the tropics, and higher above anticyclonic circulations.

By the mid-1920s, experimental radio transmitters had been fitted to free 

balloons, and by 1936, radiosondes were in widespread use by meteorologists 

interested in vertical profiles of temperature, pressure, and humidity. Radiosondes 

were renamed “rawindondes” when advances in tracking allowed the recovery 

of information about upper-level winds. More recently, radiosondes have been 

fitted with miniaturized instruments, computers, and telemetry, and they are 

tracked using GPS. 

During World War I, meteorographs were attached to airplanes that flew 

over and around a military theater of operations. Networks of aircraft sounding 

stations emerged in the 1920s and 1930s in support of the growing needs of 

commercial aviation. Still, the data collected by airplanes were less than ideal: 

the soundings were horizontally oriented, limited in altitude, and collected only 

when the weather was good enough for safe flying! Moreover, the data could 

not be analyzed until the airplane landed. Still, airplanes were extremely useful 

for specialized missions and research. In 1943, Colonel Joseph P. Duckworth 

and Lieutenant Ralph O’Hair completed the first intentional flight into the 

eye of a hurricane. The following year, Colonel Floyd B. Wood, Major Harry 

Wexler, and Lieutenant Frank Reckord flew into a hurricane in a Douglas A-20 

to gather scientific data.

546
Earth Observations from Space

To give an indication of the excitement being generated by newly available 

technologies, consider the letters received by Willis R. Gregg, Chief of the U.S. 

Weather Bureau, who, in 1938, had asked his colleagues to speculate on what 

the meteorological profession might look like in 50 years. W. C. Devereaux 

published a summary of the responses. Some emphasized the growing importance of upper air measurements using radiosondes and broadcasts that would 

allow “records to be flashed to all parts of the world.” Charles Franklin Brooks 

foresaw remote sensing of the atmosphere using ultra-high-frequency radio 

transmissions. J. Cecil Alter suggested that “sky-sweeping robots of electric eyes 

will explore the upper atmosphere for air mass demarcations, depths, direction 

and velocity movement, moisture content, and other factors. Zig-zag tracings 

or photographic replicas, automatically registered, will be made of the shape 

of the course of the refracted ray from the electric eye, as it passes through 

different air masses.” William Jackson Humphreys wrote of “robot reporters—

instruments that not only keep a continuous record of the weather elements, 

but which, at the touch of a button, or automatically at regular intervals, also 

tell all about the weather there at the time.”4 These predictions were largely 

realized through the development of weather radar and other forms of remote 

sensing. Also in 1939, George W. Mindling foretold, in doggerel, of the “coming perpetual visiontone show” of perfect surveillance and perfect prediction 

using television and infrared sensors, a technology instituted in the Television 

Infrared Observation Satellite (TIROS) meteorological satellite program in 1960. 

In the coming perpetual visiontone show 

We shall see the full action of storms as they go. 

We shall watch them develop on far away seas, 

And we’ll plot out their courses with much greater ease. 

Then a new day will come in electrical lore 

When the pictures will register very much more . . . 

Then a day there will be when predictions won’t fail, 

Though describing the weather in every detail, 

Just what minute ’twill rain, even when it will hail.

	 4.	 W.	C.	Devereaux,	“A	Meteorological	Service	of	the	Future,”	Bulletin of the American Meteorological 

Society	29	(May	1939):	212–221.	See	also	Robert	C.	Landis,	“Future	of	International	Cooperation	in	

Meteorological	and	Related	Services,”	available	at	http://ams.confex.com/ams/pdfpapers/139163.pdf

(accessed	8	September	2009).

547
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 1: Weather	systems	over	North	America	as	they	would	appear	from	a	satellite	4,000	miles	above	

Amarillo,	Texas,	on	21	June.	The	painting	was	commissioned	in	1954	by	Dr.	Harry	Wexler,	Director	of	

Meteorological	Research	at	the	U.S.	Weather	Bureau.	Surface	features	are	drawn	taking	into	account	

Earth’s	normal	colors,	reflectivity	of	sunlight,	and	scattering	and	depleting	effects	of	light	passing	through	

the	atmosphere,	with	calculated	brightness	of	various	cloud	types.	Weather	features	include	a	family	of	

three	cyclonic	storms	extending	southwest	from	Hudson	Bay	to	Texas;	a	similar	system	over	the	Bay	of	

Alaska;	a	small	hurricane	developing	near	Puerto	Rico;	a	line	squall	in	the	eastern	United	States;	scattered	

cumulus	clouds	over	heated	land	areas;	lenticular	clouds	usually	found	where	the	jet	stream	crosses	

mountains,	as	over	the	northern	Canadian	Rockies;	and	low	stratus	and	fog	off	the	California	coast,	over	

the	Great	Lakes,	and	in	the	Newfoundland	area.	Harry Wexler Papers, Library of Congress; the original 

painting hangs in the conference room of the National Environmental Satellite, Data, and Information 

Service, Silver Spring, Maryland

Mindling’s verses, reproduced here, are preceded by seven stanzas praising 

the radiosonde, and they are followed by two stanzas anticipating that weather 

forecasting might someday attain the accuracy of astronomical predictions.5

	 5.	 George	W.	Mindling,	“The	Raymete	and	the	Future,”	29	March	1939,	available	at	http://www.history.

noaa.gov	(accessed	31	December	2008).

548
Earth Observations from Space

Precursors to the Space Age

Immediately following World War II, the United States began to launch rockets 

into near space. In 1947, a V-2 photographed clouds from an altitude of 160 

kilometers; three years later, a two-stage Bumper V-2, launched from Cape 

Canaveral, Florida, reached an altitude of 400 kilometers carrying temperature 

and cosmic-ray sensors. In 1954, a photograph of a previously undetected tropical 

storm in the Gulf of Mexico was taken by an Aerobee sounding rocket launched 

over Texas.6 Anticipation of the capabilities of a future Earth satellite ran high. 

In a 1954 symposium on space travel at New York’s Hayden Planetarium, Harry 

Wexler, Chief of Scientific Services at the U.S. Weather Bureau, lectured on the 

possibilities of observing Earth’s weather from a satellite vehicle.7

Wexler used the image in figure 1 in his public lectures to make a strong 

claim for the utility of the meteorological satellite, not only as a “storm patrol,” 

but also as a potentially revolutionary new tool with global capabilities:

Since the satellite will be the first vehicle contrived by man 

which will be entirely out of the influence of weather it may at 

first glance appear rather startling that this same vehicle will 

introduce a revolutionary chapter in meteorological science—not 

only by improving global weather observing and forecasting, 

but by providing a better understanding of the atmosphere and 

its ways. There are many things that meteorologists do now 

know about the atmosphere, but one thing they are sure of is 

this—that the atmosphere is indivisible—that meteorological 

events occurring far away will ultimately affect local weather. 

This global aspect of meteorology lends itself admirably to an 

observation platform of truly global capability—the Earth satellite.8

	 6.	 L.	F.	Hubert	and	Otto	Berg,	“A	Rocket	Portrait	of	a	Tropical	Storm,”	Monthly Weather Review	83	(June	

1955):	121.

	 7.	 James	Rodger	Fleming,	“A	1954	Color	Painting	of	Weather	Systems	as	Viewed	from	a	Future	Satellite,”	

Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society 88	(October	2007):	1525–1527;	Harry	Wexler	Papers,	

Library	of	Congress.	

	 8.	 Harry	Wexler,	“Observing	the	Weather	from	a	Satellite	Vehicle,”	Journal of the British Interplanetary 

Society	13	(1954):	269–276;	Wexler,	“The	Satellite	and	Meteorology,”	Journal of Astronautics	4	(spring	

1957):	1–6;	“Meteorological	Satellites,”	Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents in the History of 

the U.S. Civil Space Program,	ed.	John	M.	Logsdon,	vol.	3,	Using Space	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP4407,	1998),	 p.	156	 passim,	 available	 at	 http://history.nasa.gov/SP-4407/vol3/cover.pdf	 (accessed	

31	 December	2008).	See	 also	New Dictionary of Scientific Biography,	 vol.	25	 (Detroit,	MI:	 Charles	

Scribner’s	Sons/Thomson	Gale,	2008),	pp.	273–276.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

The Blue and Brown Marble

Thus, as of the middle of the 20th century, we could say that Earth observations are very old; historically, they were made mainly by the unaided eye, but 

also by photography and other sensors; and there was a growing anticipation 

of what might be possible in the near future. We could also say that although 

rockets had recently ventured into near space, the Space Age was just about 

to begin. Adventurers had been flying since 1784, and commercial flight had 

recently made it possible for most everyone to fly in an airplane and look down 

at Earth and its clouds, but space travel has been for the privileged few—and 

oh, what a difference space travel has made! As Richard Somerville pointed out: 

Astronauts, who are technical people—pilots and engineers who 

say things like “10-4” and “affirmative” when they mean “yes”—

waxed absolutely poetic when they were in space. The word you 

heard from all of them was beautiful. Alan Shepard, the first of 

the American astronauts, said, “What a beautiful view!” The Soviet 

cosmonauts said the same thing: “Our planet is uncommonly 

beautiful and looks wonderful from cosmic heights.” There probably 

aren’t any astronauts who haven’t said words to that effect.9

The impressions of astronauts were reinforced by images of the “Blue 

Marble” from satellites and popularizations. For example, on 10 November 

1967, the Applications Technology Satellite ATS-3 took the first color pictures 

of Earth from geosynchronous orbit using Verner Suomi’s spin-scan camera. Parked above the equator just east of Brazil, the satellite image clearly 

showed Earth suspended in the blackness of space with three tawny continents, two blue oceans, and numerous white swirling cloud forms clearly 

visible. This extremely powerful image was “motivating for a lot of people,” 

according to Stewart Brand, creator of the Whole Earth Catalog, “because it 

gave the sense that Earth is an island, surrounded by a lot of inhospitable 

space. And it’s so graphic, this little blue, white, green, and brown jewel-like 

icon amongst a quite featureless black vacuum.”10 This is the “ooh” factor of 

Earth observations from space.

	 9.	 Richard	 C.	 J.	 Somerville,	 The Forgiving Air: Understanding Environmental Change (Berkeley,	 CA:	

University	of	California	Press,	1996),	p.	153.	

	 10.	 “First	photo	of	the	whole	Earth,”	available	at	http://sciencetrack.blogspot.com/2007/07/first-photo-ofwhole-earth.html	(accessed	31	December	2008).

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Figure 2: (Left)	Ocean	gyre	of	junk	in	the	Western	Pacific	Garbage	Patch	east	of	Japan	and	west	of	

Hawaii.	The	swirling	mass	of	trash	is	currently	twice	as	large	as	Texas.	And	there	are	two	of	them!	

(Right)	Southeast	Asian	pollution	cloud	as	captured	by	MODIS	on	the	Terra	satellite	in	2006.	Rivers	of	

grayish	haze	follow	the	course	of	the	Ganges	River	and	its	tributaries	and	flow	out	over	the	Bay	of	Bengal.	

“An Island of Garbage Twice the Size of Texas,” Buffalo	Readings (30 October 2007), available at http://

visibleearth.nasa.gov/view_rec.php?id=20461 (accessed 31 December 2008)

But it is also clear from space that there is a “Brown Marble” and that 

Earth has some major environmental problems. Figure 2 presents two visual 

examples of this “yuck” factor.

Earth Observations from Space

The balance of this chapter revisits some of the major Earth science accomplishments of the Space Age, as documented in the National Research Council 

2007 publication Earth Observations from Space: The First 50 Years of Scientific 

Achievements, and then points to the ongoing challenges.11 In 1958, the PSAC 

pointed out that a satellite in orbit could be used for three scientific purposes: 

1) it can sample the strange new environment through which it moves; 2) it 

can look down and see Earth as it has never been seen before; and 3) it can 

look out into the universe and record information that can never reach Earth’s 

surface because of the intervening atmosphere.12

The very first launches made important new discoveries. The Soviet Sputniks 

“observed” two things: the orbital drag of Earth’s exosphere and the absence 

	 11.	 National	Research	Council,	Earth Observations from Space: The First 50 Years of Scientific Achievements

(Washington,	DC:	National	Academies	Press,	2007).	Erik	Conway,	Atmospheric Science at NASA: A 

History	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	2008),	is	a	reliable	source	for	further	details	on	

programs	and	sensors.	

	 12.	 President’s	Science	Advisory	Committee,	Introduction to Outer Space	(Washington,	DC:	GPO,	1958).

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of micrometeorite punctures on their pressurized capsules. On 1 May 1958, 

University of Iowa scientist James Van Allen announced that Geiger-Müller 

counters aboard JPL’s Explorer 1 and Explorer 3 satellites had been swamped 

by high radiation levels at certain points in their orbits, indicating that powerful 

radiation belts, later known as the Van Allen Belts, surround Earth. These first 

launches revealed a new feature of the planet: the magnetosphere.13 Vanguard 

1, the fourth artificial satellite ever launched and the oldest piece of space 

junk still in orbit, provided important geodetic information about the shape 

of Earth, specifically its “pear-shaped” north-south asymmetry.

NASA launched the world’s first weather satellite, TIROS 1, on 1 April 1960, 

with Harry Wexler in charge of the meteorology program. The TIROS satellites took television and (on later flights) infrared photos of weather patterns 

from space, serving as a “storm patrol” for early warnings, an aid to weather 

analysis and forecasting, and a research tool for atmospheric scientists. The 

TIROS satellites were also used in support of the Mercury launches. In a posthumous article published in 1965, Wexler wrote, “the TIROS satellites disclosed 

the existence of storms in areas where few or no observations previously 

existed, revealed unsuspected structures of storms even in areas of extensive 

observational coverage, depicted snow fields over land, ice floes over water, 

and temperature patterns on land and ocean as well as temperatures of tops 

of cloud layers.” It also opened up the possibility of global weather coverage 

and the measuring of Earth’s heat budget.14

Satellites serve to supplement and extend ground-based and radiosonde 

“Truth Sites” with orbital “Truth Trajectories” that provide panoptic and synoptic views. There have always been major gaps in observing networks over 

the oceans and sparsely inhabited areas. Such networks are labor intensive, 

expensive to maintain and supply, and difficult to standardize and calibrate. 

But in one day, the orbits of a Sun-synchronous satellite can cover the globe 

and a single instrument can view the entire Earth. An example of this is the 

first complete view of the world’s weather, laboriously reconstructed from 

450 different images taken by TIROS 9 in 1965. Another example is the dense 

	 13.	 New Dictionary of Scientific Biography,	 vol.	25	 (Detroit,	MI:	 Charles	Scribner’s	Sons/Thomson	 Gale,	

2008),	pp.	118–126.

	 14.	 Harry	Wexler,	“Future	Forecast	and	Weather	Control,”	in	From Atoms to Infinity: Readings in Modern 

Science,	ed.	Clifford	D.	Simak	(New	York,	NY:	Harper	&	Row,	1965),	pp.	96–103;	National	Research	

Council,	Earth Observations from Space,	figures	2.4	and	2.5.

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satellite coverage of remote areas such as Antarctica, compared with the sparse 

data available during the IGY from 1957 to 1958.15

As an example of proof of concept, in 1953 Verner Suomi used radiometers 

to measure the heat budget of a Wisconsin cornfield for his doctoral thesis. 

This could have led him further into micrometeorology, but instead, Suomi 

began to think about the future possibility of measuring the heat budget of 

the entire planet using satellites. He developed the spin-scan camera and used 

it successfully on a number of satellites, including ATS-1 and ATS-3, to view 

an entire hemisphere; take full Earth disk, high-quality cloud-cover pictures 

from equatorial geostationary orbit; and provide data for the Earth Radiation 

Budget Experiment.16 Additional satellite-based discoveries, proofs of concept, 

transformational science, and environmental monitoring services are provided 

below, proceeding in order from studies of the solid Earth to higher altitudes.

Solid Earth

Recently, the precise figure of a rather “lumpy” Earth was reconstructed using 

departures of the geoid as low as 106 meters below the ellipsoid and as high 

as 85 meters above it, as measured by the Gravity Recovery and Climate 

Experiment (GRACE) mission using precise orbital tracking and radar altimetry. The same satellite revealed much smaller scale structures from gravity 

anomalies, allowing for the construction of maps of seafloor topography 

and Earth deformations that reveal earthquake stress patterns. Such images 

provide real-time monitoring of fault movements and volcanic deformations 

prior to eruptions, and they form the basis of early warning systems. Land 

subsidence from ground water extraction can be monitored from space, and 

sunken rivers (for example, under the sands of the Sahara) can be revealed 

by ground-penetrating radar.17

	 15.	 The	concepts	of	truth	sites	and	truth	trajectories	are	illustrated	in	National	Research	Council,	Earth 

Observations from Space,	figures	3.1,	3.2,	and	7.1.	The	TIROS	9	image	of	world	weather	systems	is	

reproduced	in	figure	3.3.

	 16.	 A	discussion	of	Suomi’s	1971	heat	budget	experiment	 is	found	 in	James	Rodger	Fleming,	Climate 

Change and Anthropogenic Greenhouse Warming: A Selection of Key Articles, 1824–1995, with 

Interpretive Essays (Arlington,	 VA:	 National	 Science	 Foundation,	 National	 Science	 Digital	 Library,	

2008),	 available	 at	 http://wiki.nsdl.org/index.php/PALE:ClassicArticles/GlobalWarming	 (accessed	

31	 December	2008).	See	 also	New Dictionary of Scientific Biography,	 vol.	24	 (Detroit,	MI:	 Charles	

Scribner’s	Sons/Thomson	Gale,	2008),	pp.	553–558.

	 17.	 National	Research	Council,	Earth Observations from Space,	figures	6.4,	11.1,	11.2,	11.3,	11.6,	and	

11.7.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Oceans

Thermal differences and turbulent eddies in the ocean are clearly revealed by 

satellite remote sensing. Maps of the Gulf Stream, for example, which date to 

the time of Benjamin Franklin, were reconstructed by measurements made from 

ships, a practice that continued into the 1960s. However, in the mid-1970s, the 

synoptic view provided by satellite thermal infrared imagery showed that the 

Gulf Stream was a single filament, albeit following a tortuous and time-changing 

path. Satellite measurements also have replaced widely scattered truth sites and 

limited measurements along ship trajectories with continuous monitoring. This 

has revealed the new phenomena of internal tides, leading scientists to conclude 

that the deep oceans are much more dynamic and well mixed than previously 

imagined. This is important in many related fields, such as global carbon cycling.

Some of the more iconic images of the Pacific Ocean show sea surface 

temperatures, heights, and biological productivity during El Niño and La Niña 

conditions, as revealed by the U.S.-French TOPEX/Poseidon satellite and by 

the Sea-viewing Wide Field-of-view Sensor (SeaWiFS). During the 1997 El Niño, 

for example, warm surface waters in the eastern Pacific Ocean were 14 to 

32 centimeters higher than normal, and they were abnormally low in chlorophyll because the supply of nutrients was greatly reduced due to suppressed 

upwelling. The following year, under La Niña conditions, the same waters were 

cold; sea levels were low; and chlorophyll concentrations were higher than 

average due to enhanced upwelling and an extensive phytoplankton bloom 

at the equator. This was the first, but certainly not the last, El Niño Southern 

Oscillation (ENSO) to be closely monitored from space. Biological oceanographers are now able to look in great detail at formerly inaccessible regions. 

The Amazon River plume stretching thousands of kilometers into the Atlantic 

Ocean is an example of a new discovery resulting from the first ocean color 

observations from space.18

Land Surface

In 1972, NASA launched the Landsat program (previously called Earth 

Resources Technology Satellite) to study the features of Earth’s landscapes 

and monitor its natural resources. Landsat data demonstrated early success 

in monitoring Earth’s croplands, forests, and other natural resources. It has 

	 18.	 National	Research	Council,	Earth Observations from Space,	figures	8.1,	8.2,	8.4,	and	12.1.	Only	two	of	

the	cards	in	the	NASA	50th	anniversary	card	deck	refer	directly	to	Earth	observations;	in	this	case,	it	is	

the	Jack	of	Hearts.

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Earth Observations from Space

since become the workhorse for mapping land-use and land-cover change 

across the world and now provides the longest continuous record of Earth’s 

changing land cover. Landsat 7, launched in 1999, has functioned beyond 

its expected five-year lifespan, but an instrument malfunction in 2003 has 

compromised some of the data it collects. Notable Earth land surface studies 

(there have been many) include quantification of deforestation in the Amazon; 

photographs of urban sprawl that reveal different patterns and dynamics in 

different nations; and the World Fire Atlas, presenting both real-time data 

and seasonal and annual patterns. The sheer beauty of landform photography from space is also worthy of note, as in the delicate fractal geometry of 

Iceland’s fjords.19

Cryosphere

Satellite observations have revolutionized cryosphere research. The example of 

Antarctic traverses then and now was mentioned earlier. Access to remote, frozen 

regions has always involved often-great risks and logistical difficulties. The synoptic 

view from satellites increases the data coverage by multiple orders of magnitude, 

and access is no longer restricted by seasons. The discovery of variability in the 

flow velocity of ice sheets is an example of how the dynamics of a major system 

went undetected until reliable and repeated satellite observations were available. 

The rapid and dramatic collapse of the Larsen B Ice Shelf in 2002 was documented 

by satellite imagery and became a popular example of the sensitivity of ice sheets 

in a changing climate. NASA animations were in the news as well, showing dramatic loss of Arctic sea ice since satellite coverage began in 1979.20

Atmosphere

Satellites have contributed so much to observing and visualizing atmospheric 

processes that only a few examples can be given here. The most widely recognized are the polar stratospheric ozone measurements from the Total Ozone 

Mapping Spectrometer (TOMS), updated by the Microwave Limb Sounder on 

the Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite (UARS). Chlorine monoxide concentra-

	 19.	 National	Research	Council,	Earth Observations from Space,	figures	10.3,	10.4,	10.5,	and	10.7;	“RST	

Section	 17,”	 available	 at	 http://www.fas.org/irp/imint/docs/rst/Sect17/Sect17_4.html (accessed	 31	

December	2008).

	 20.	 National	 Research	 Council,	 Earth Observations from Space,	 figures	 7.2	 and	 7.3;	 “Arctic	 Sea	 Ice	

Continues	 to	 Decline,”	 available	 at	 http://www.nasa.gov/centers/goddard/news/topstory/2005/

arcticice_decline_prt.htm (accessed	31	December	2008).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

tions are correlated with low ozone concentrations, confirming ground-based 

measurements and the proposed mechanisms for ozone depletion.21

Closer to the ground, massive and intense African dust storms can be imaged 

and monitored by MODIS aboard NASA’s Terra satellite. Dust storms in Asia 

and elsewhere often generate public health and safety warnings. Hurricanes 

were first photographed and routinely followed by TIROS. Before that, tropical 

storms would sometimes get “lost” between encounters with ships, airplanes, 

or island observers. Notable storms, such as Hurricane Katrina in 2005 and 

many others, have been photographed from space in visual and infrared 

wavelengths and probed by radar. The TRMM uses infrared and microwave 

images to depict the horizontal distribution of rain intensity inside a storm. 

This makes isolated, and otherwise hidden, hot towers visible and may indicate 

storm intensification.22

Satellite measurements in both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres can 

be linked to computer models of numerical weather prediction to improve data 

initialization and overall forecasting skill. Figure 3 shows the overall improvement and convergence of skill in the Northern and Southern Hemispheres 

since 1980, with the critical three-day forecast skill improving from 85 to 95 

percent in the Northern Hemisphere and from 70 to 95 percent in the Southern 

Hemisphere, where land observations are scarce.

Tracking pollution from space is also possible. For example, data from 

NASA’s TOMS satellite instrument were used to monitor smoke, smog, and 

tropospheric ozone from fires in Indonesia and Africa in 1997 while the satellite moved across the Indian Ocean. The Terra Measurement of Pollution in the 

Troposphere (MOPITT) satellite observed the seasonally changing global distribution of carbon monoxide (CO) pollution. Northern Hemisphere pollution 

sources are predominantly urban and industrial, while high CO in the tropics and 

Southern Hemisphere often results from biomass burning.23 The 2009 failure of 

the Orbiting Carbon Observatory (OCO) was a serious, but hopefully temporary, 

setback for precise monitoring of carbon dioxide emissions and concentrations. 

Such a satellite will allow this critical trace gas to be studied both in its global 

background concentration and in its temporal and spatial variations.24

	 21.	 National	Research	Council,	Earth Observations from Space,	figure	5.3;	NASA	50th	anniversary	card	

deck,	Five	of	Clubs.

	 22.	 National	Research	Council,	Earth Observations from Space,	figures	3.5,	4.10,	and	6.1.

	 23.	 National	Research	Council,	Earth Observations from Space,	figures	3.8,	5.8,	and	5.9.	

	 24.	 “Project	 Vulcan,”	 available	 at	 http://www.purdue.edu/eas/carbon/vulcan/index.php (accessed	 31	

December	2008).

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Figure 3:	Anomaly	correlation	of	500-hectopascal	height	forecasts	by	the	European	Centre	for	

Medium	Range	Forecasting	showing	overall	improvement	since	1980	for	day	3,	5,	and	7	forecasts	and	

convergence	of	skill	for	forecasting	in	the	Northern	and	Southern	Hemispheres.	Courtesy of the Royal 

Meteorological Society

Space

When the IGY got under way in 1957, Earth had one Moon. Now, our increasingly electronic and space-based infrastructure has given rise to the new 

field of “space weather,” defined as “conditions in the Sun and in the solar 

wind, magnetosphere, ionosphere and thermosphere that can influence 

the performance and reliability of space-borne and ground-based technological systems and can endanger human life or health.”25 These ionized 

and electronically active realms eventually merge with the extended solar 

atmosphere, raising the question of where the atmosphere ends and where 

“space” begins.

The 2007 National Research Council-EOS report focused mainly on the 

scientific accomplishments of Earth observations from space and reached the 

following conclusions:

	 25.	 Solar	 and	 Heliospheric	 Observatory	 (SOHO),	 available	 at	 http://sohowww.nascom.nasa.gov/

spaceweather/	(accessed	31	December	2008).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Conclusion 1: The daily synoptic global view of Earth, uniquely 

available from satellite observations, has revolutionized Earth 

studies and ushered in a new era of multidisciplinary Earth 

sciences, with an emphasis on dynamics at all accessible spatial 

and temporal scales, even in remote areas. This new capability 

plays a critically important role in helping society manage 

planetary scale resources and environmental challenges.

Conclusion 2: To assess global change quantitatively, synoptic 

data sets with long time series are required. The value of the 

data increases significantly with seamless and inter-calibrated 

time series, which highlight the benefits of follow-on missions. 

Further, as these time series lengthen, historical data sets often 

increase in scientific and societal value.

Conclusion 3: The scientific advances resulting from Earth 

observations from space illustrate the successful synergy 

between science and technology. The scientific and commercial 

value of satellite observations from space and their potential 

to benefit society often increase dramatically as instruments 

become more accurate.

Conclusion 4: Satellite observations often reveal known 

phenomena and processes to be more complex than previously 

understood. This brings to the fore the indisputable benefits of 

multiple synergistic observations, including orbital, suborbital, 

and in situ measurements, linked with the best models available.

Conclusion 5: The full benefits of satellite observations 

of Earth are realized only when the essential infrastructure, 

such as models, computing facilities, ground networks, and 

trained personnel, is in place.

Conclusion 6: Providing full and open access to global data to 

an international audience more fully capitalizes on the investment 

in satellite technology and creates a more interdisciplinary and 

integrated Earth science community. International data sharing 

and collaborations on satellite missions lessen the burden on 

individual nations to maintain Earth observational capacities.

Conclusion 7: Over the past 50 years, space observations 

of the Earth have accelerated the cross-disciplinary integration 

of analysis, interpretation, and, ultimately, our understanding 

of the dynamic processes that govern the planet. Given this 

momentum, the next decades will bring more remarkable 

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Earth Observations from Space

discoveries and the capability to predict Earth processes, critical 

to protect human lives and property. However, the nation’s 

commitment to Earth satellite missions must be renewed to 

realize the potential of this fertile area of science.26

Challenges 

Several important challenges confront us at this juncture: 1) the challenges of 

discovery vs. monitoring, 2) the challenges of international cooperation and 

data sharing, and 3) the looming “Satellite Gap.” Charles David Keeling faced 

the first challenge directly when he measured rising levels of carbon dioxide 

in Earth’s atmosphere, between 1958 and 1960, and then had to scramble 

to find support to continue his monitoring program to generate the Keeling 

curve, which has become an environmental icon. To assess global change 

quantitatively, synoptic data sets with long time series are required. The value 

of the data increases significantly with seamless and intercalibrated time series, 

which highlight the benefits of follow-on missions. This need for continuity 

and intercalibration is exacerbated in the expensive world of satellite launches. 

Two examples come to mind: global sea level rise, which is more of a monitoring issue than a new discovery, and polar ice trends that are quite different in 

the Arctic and the Antarctic. For example, deviations in monthly sea ice extent 

for the Northern and Southern Hemispheres from November 1978 through 

December 2004 were derived from satellite passive-microwave observations. 

The Arctic sea-ice decreases are significant, with a loss of about 38,200 ± 2,000 

square kilometers per year, and they have led to much concern about Arctic 

and global warming. Antarctic sea ice has been increasing, although at a much 

lower rate of 13,600 ± 2,900 square kilometers per year. Notably, both trends 

are statistically significant.27

Providing full and open access to global data to an international audience 

more fully capitalizes on the investment in satellite technology and creates a 

more interdisciplinary and integrated Earth science community. The Global 

Weather Experiment (GWE) of 1984 employed five geostationary satellites from 

the United States, the USSR, Japan, and ESA to make global observations of 

cloud-tracked winds.28 At the time it was the largest coordinated experiment 

ever undertaken, but today, more data arrive every instant than during the entire 

	 26.	 National	Research	Council,	“Conclusions,”	Earth Observations from Space,	pp.	99–106.

	 27.	 National	Research	Council,	Earth Observations from Space,	figure	7.4.

	 28.	 Ibid.,	figure	2.7.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

GWE. International data sharing and collaborations on satellite missions lessen 

the burden on individual nations to maintain Earth observational capacities 

and also allow for better weather prediction and disaster warning systems for 

all nations. However, space is not used only for scientific discovery, monitoring, and services. On a clear night, we may look at the ancient constellations 

Ursa Major, Aquila, and Draco and recall that Russia, the United States, and 

China are not the only three spacefaring nations up there looking down at us 

and that not all satellites are scientific or commercial. Space is a busy place 

both militarily and politically.

A final important challenge is what I call “The Satellite Gap.” According 

to the current NASA Strategic Management Handbook, the mission statement

“summarizes the accomplishments of the organization in fulfilling its vision, 

its main purpose for existing, and the basic social or political needs that are 

to be met. The mission statement addresses the unique products and services 

that the organization delivers to its customers.”29 In the National Aeronautics 

and Space Act, which established the Agency in 1958, the first objective was 

listed as “the expansion of human knowledge of the Earth and of phenomena 

in the atmosphere and space.” Traditionally, it has always been the case that 

NASA’s mission statement highlighted the “advancement and communication of 

scientific knowledge and understanding of the Earth.” In 2002, it was even more 

explicit: “To understand and protect our home planet . . . .” In early February 

2006, this statement was suddenly and summarily deleted, which, combined 

with the cancellation or delay of a number of Earth science missions, raised 

eyebrows and led to talk of a pending satellite gap. NASA’s current mission 

statement calls on the Agency “to pioneer the future in space exploration, 

scientific discovery and aeronautics research.” It is the first time since NASA’s 

founding in 1958 that the mission statement does not explicitly include mention of Earth.30 Perhaps this omission can be remedied.

The National Research Council’s 2007 Decadal Survey warned that a 

number of measurements providing critical information about Earth processes would cease to be made over the next few years. By 2010, it says, the 

number of Earth-observing missions will drop dramatically, and the number 

	 29.	 NASA Strategic Management Handbook,	 available	 at	 http://www.hq.nasa.gov/office/codez/strahand/

planning.htm	(accessed	31	December	2008).

	 30.	 Andrew	Revkin,	“NASA’s	Goals	Delete	Mention	of	Home	Planet,”	New York Times	(22	July	2006):	A1,	

A10;	 “About	 NASA,”	 available	 at	 http://www.nasa.gov/about/highlights/what_does_nasa_do.html 

(accessed	31	December	2008).

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of operating sensors and instruments on NASA spacecraft will decrease by 40 

percent, putting our extraordinary foundation of global observations at great 

risk. It strongly advised that “the U.S. government, working in concert with 

the private sector, academe, the public, and its international partners, should 

renew its investment in Earth-observing systems and restore its leadership in 

Earth science and applications.”31

Conclusion

Over the past 50 years, it has been very good viewing from space. As unique 

observing platforms, satellites have fundamentally transformed the practice 

of Earth science. We have fulfilled an ancient quest for altitude and provided 

scientists and the general public with a panoptic viewpoint. The launches of 

Sputnik and Explorer were “Galilean moments,” with many other such moments 

following. Historians argue that ever since 1543, Earth has been systematically 

and progressively demoted from its ancient status as the center of the universe, 

yet many would also agree that the Space Age launched a new “Copernican 

type revolution” in returning our values to an Earth-centric focus, both through 

Blue Marble inspiration and Brown Marble pollution studies.32

Observing Earth from space over the past 50 years has fundamentally 

transformed the way people view our home planet. The daily synoptic global 

view of Earth, uniquely available from satellite observations, has revolutionized 

Earth studies and ushered in a new dynamic era of multidisciplinary Earth 

sciences, with an emphasis on dynamics at all accessible spatial and temporal 

scales, even in remote areas. This new capability plays a critically important 

role in helping society manage planetary-scale resources and understand 

environmental challenges.

Satellites have contributed in unique ways to scientific understanding of 

the solid Earth, the oceans, the land, the cryosphere, the atmosphere, and the 

near-space environment. They have enhanced our ability to predict variations 

in the Earth system and promise new opportunities to improve Earth science 

research—and there still is a tremendous amount of knowledge to be gained 

and discoveries to be made. Satellites and their instrumentation exist in synergy 

with deep space probes to other planets. They constitute a wonderful context 

	 31.	 National	Research	Council,	Earth Science and Applications from Space: National Imperatives for the 

Next Decade and Beyond	(Washington,	DC:	National	Academies	Press,	2007).

	 32.	 National	Research	Council,	Earth Observations from Space,	figure	S.1.

561
Chapter 22

Earth Science and 

Planetary Science

A Symbiotic Relationship?

Erik Conway1

As NASA celebrates its first 50 years, JPL has two robots on Mars, carrying out 

what can best be described as late-19th-century field geology with 21st-century 

instruments. NASA has a flotilla of spacecraft studying Earth “as a planet,” to 

borrow one nearly ubiquitous catchphrase. It has Earth scientists of nearly 

every discipline at its Centers—glaciologists at GSFC, atmospheric scientists 

at LaRC, and oceanographers at JPL. It dispenses tens of millions of dollars in 

grants and contracts to university-based scientists.1

All of this activity raises the important question, what has been the impact 

on the practice of Earth science? In his 1980 memoir, former Agency Chief 

Scientist Homer Newell argued that space science had been an “integrative 

force.” It had broken the geosciences “loose from a preoccupation with a 

single planet.”2 But it has also provided a planetary perspective, enabling local 

and regional phenomena to be placed within a still larger context. “Planetary 

methods,” initially dismissed by American Earth scientists, gradually became 

a routine part of their endeavor.

In the History of Atmospheric Science at NASA, I go into great detail about 

the intersection of planetary and Earth science. In particular, I examine the way 

that the striking discovery, in the late 1950s and 1960s, that Mars and Venus 

	 1.	 Jet	Propulsion	Laboratory,	California	Institute	of	Technology,	Pasadena,	CA.	©	2008.	California	Institute	

of	Technology.	Government	sponsorship	acknowledged.

	 2.	 Homer	Newell,	Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space Science	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4211,	

1980),	p.	328.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

were climatically far different than expected forced scientists to reconsider the 

way Earth’s climate has evolved over the last 4.5 billion years.3 Here I focus on 

how the practice of science changed as a result of planetary science.

After I recently reread Ron Doel’s Solar System Astronomy in America, it 

occurred to me there was an obvious way to approach the subject of scientific 

practice.4 Doel uses a number of cases of individual research activity to build his 

argument for the fundamentally interdisciplinary nature of planetary astronomy 

in the 1940s and 1950s. I’m going to take a similar approach. First, I will explore 

the career of a single JPL infrared spectroscopist who made important contributions both to the question of whether there is water on Mars and to the science 

of stratospheric ozone depletion on Earth. Broadening the view, I will then look 

at the intersection of planetary modeling and an old Earth science question, 

whether volcanic eruptions cause short-term cooling. Finally, I will examine 

the role of planetary exploration in forming the new discipline of Earth system 

science, NASA’s rather ambitious attempt to remake the geosciences.

Spectroscopy in Earth and Planetary Sciences

Spectroscopy is not new to the Space Age. It is a product of the 19th century, 

based on the discovery that all objects radiate electromagnetic energy. In fact, 

atoms and molecules radiate at very specific, and characteristic, wavelengths. 

This means that the radiated energy can be used to determine what an unknown 

object, or light source, is composed of. Historian David DeVorkin has written 

about the astronomers’ quest to measure the spectral signature of hydrogen 

in the Sun, for example.5 Calculations based on the Sun’s gravity and size had 

already suggested it was mostly hydrogen, but confirmation required measuring a set of spectral lines known as “Lyman Alpha,” which happen to be 

in the ultraviolet portion of the spectrum. They are blocked by Earth’s ozone 

layer. Lyman Alpha was finally measured 11 December 1952, using an Aerobee 

sounding rocket.

The race for Lyman Alpha was one use of spectroscopy in astronomy. 

Another historical use was for study of the composition of planetary atmospheres using ground-based telescopes. Carbon dioxide, which has spectral 

	 3.	 Erik	M.	Conway,	Atmospheric Science at NASA: A History	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	

Press,	2008).

	 4.	 Ronald	E.	Doel,	Solar System Astronomy in America (New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1996).

	 5.	 David	H.	DeVorkin,	Science with a Vengeance: How the Military Created the US Space Sciences After 

World War II	(New	York,	NY:	Springer-Verlag,	1992),	pp.	221–230.

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Earth Science and Planetary Science

characteristics in the thermal infrared, was detected in the Venus atmosphere 

by astronomers during the opposition of 1932.6 It was also detected in the 

Martian atmosphere in 1947 by Gerard Kuiper at the McDonald Observatory.7

Water vapor, radiatively active throughout the infrared spectrum, was detected in 

the Martian atmosphere in 1963 using the 100-inch reflector on Mount Wilson.8

Earth’s atmosphere contains both carbon dioxide and lots of water vapor, 

so a professional hazard of astrophysicists in the 1950s was obscuration of the 

weak planetary spectral lines by the strong absorption of these same gases 

in Earth’s atmosphere. The water vapor and carbon dioxide also happen to 

absorb interesting spectral features, like Lyman Alpha, so a great deal simply 

couldn’t be measured from the ground. There were some means of correcting 

for these distortions. Kuiper, for example, had removed the effects of terrestrial carbon dioxide from his Mars spectra by first determining the spectrum 

of Earth’s atmosphere via reflected moonlight. But in turn, these corrections 

raised new questions about the adequacy of the corrections.

Crofton B. Farmer, born in Wales, U.K., in 1931, was originally interested in 

measuring the solar spectrum. He completed a Ph.D. in physics at King’s College, 

London, on measuring the solar spectrum from visible wavelengths out to the 

far infrared at 300 microns. Atmospheric water vapor absorbs throughout that 

entire wavelength region, and his approach had been to haul a spectrometer 

up to 18,000 feet to get above most of it. He did his Ph.D. work during several expeditions to Mount Chacaltaya in the Bolivian Andes, finishing in 1966.

Water on Mars?

At about the same time, he started consulting at JPL on the establishment of 

an infrared spectroscopy lab. He recalled many years later, “the goals at that 

lab were to look at the infrared spectrum of simulated planetary atmospheres. 

We would look at all sorts of gases and mixtures of gases for Mars and Venus 

and Jupiter and Saturn and so on.”9 This fundamental spectroscopic work was 

necessary to understand what spectrometers sent off to other planets would 

actually be seeing. Mixtures of gases produce more complicated spectra than 

pure gases do. Gases also produce slightly different spectra depending on 

	 6.	 Mikhail	Ya.	Marov	and	David	H.	Grinspoon,	The Planet Venus	(New	Haven,	CT:	Yale	University	Press,	

1998),	p.	28.

	 7.	 William	Sheehan,	The Planet Mars: A History of Observation and Discovery	(Tuscon,	AZ:	University	of	

Arizona	Press,	1996),	p.	150.

	 8.	 Ibid.,	p.	160.

	 9.	 Crofton	B.	Farmer,	OHI	by	Erik	Conway,	20	May	2004,	JPL	Archives.

565
NASA’s First 50 Years

temperature and pressure. So measurements had to be made of many different 

combinations at many different pressures and temperatures. After consulting 

for a year, Farmer realized that JPL was probably the only place that could 

support the technical development necessary to build the very high spectral 

resolution instruments he wanted to pursue, and he moved his family to 

Pasadena, California, permanently.

His first real planetary effort was aimed toward the water on Mars question. 

Photographs sent back in 1965 by Mariner 4 showed an unexpected, cratered, 

Moon-like surface. But they also seemed to show features that looked like 

runoff features, suggesting Mars once had liquid water. Water vapor, of course, 

absorbs in the infrared, so Farmer got involved in an effort to distinguish water 

vapor lines in spectra of the Mars atmosphere. These had first been detected 

in 1963, but the detection had been weak; it was questioned for several years. 

Three different groups sought to confirm the detection in the winter conjunction of 1968 to 1969, including Farmer’s, and with Ronald Schorn and Stephen 

Little, Farmer was able to publish a paper in 1969 sketching out the latitudinal 

distribution of water vapor.10

In turn, this work got Farmer the opportunity to build an instrument for 

the two Viking orbiters planned for 1976. This was the Mars Atmospheric Water 

Detector (MAWD), a grating spectrometer.11 These both operated successfully, 

as it turned out, and Farmer got one and a half Mars years of data. The data 

allowed him to examine the seasonal distribution of water vapor with both 

latitude and altitude. Latitudinal distribution varied widely throughout the year, 

revealing exchange between the two hemispheres as well as making clear that 

there was a reservoir of water—almost certainly water ice, not liquid—in communication with the atmosphere. The polar ice caps were the obvious source. 

These had been thought to be carbon dioxide, as the surface temperature was 

often below the condensation point for that gas. But MAWD clearly showed 

the atmosphere above the north polar ice to saturate with water vapor quickly 

in late spring.12 So the permanent, or “residual,” ice cap was water.

	 10.	 Ronald	A.	Schorn,	C.	B.	Farmer,	and	Stephen	J.	Little,	“High	Dispersion	Spectroscopic	Studies	of	Mars	

III,”	Icarus 11	(1969):	283–288.

	 11.	 While	 operating	 in	the	1.4-micron	water	 vapor	 band,	MAWD	 used	reflectance	from	the	 surface.	See	

Crofton	B.	Farmer	and	Daniel	D.	LaPorte,	“The	Detection	and	Mapping	of	Water	Vapor	 in	the	Martian	

Atmosphere,”	Icarus	16	(1972):	34–46.	On	the	Viking	project,	see	Edward	Clinton	Ezell	and	Linda	Neuman	

Ezell,	On Mars: Exploration of the Red Planet, 1958–1978	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4212,	1984).

	 12.	 C.	B.	Farmer	and	P.	E.	Doms,	“Global	Seasonal	Variation	of	Water	Vapor	on	Mars	and	the	Implications	

for	Permafrost,”	Journal of Geophysical Research	84,	no.	B10	(10	June	1979):	2881–2888.

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Earth Science and Planetary Science

Working with several others, Farmer also ran laboratory experiments 

designed to establish how water ice bound in dirt (“regolith,” geologists call 

it) might interact with the thin Martian atmosphere. This combination of the 

remote sensing data and the laboratory experiments allowed Farmer to argue 

in a 1979 article that, in addition to the water ice in the residual polar caps, 

water ice was also likely to be found within a meter of the surface nearly 

everywhere poleward of about 45 degrees latitude. 

Stratospheric Chemistry on Earth

There had been a long delay between delivering MAWD and the arrival at Mars, 

and in the interim, Farmer got involved in two more initiatives. He proposed 

an instrument for the Voyager spacecraft and was not selected. And, more 

importantly, he proposed a balloon instrument to measure oxides of nitrogen 

in Earth’s stratosphere. These had been fingered as possible ozone destroyers 

in 1970. Internal combustion engines release the chemicals; and at the time, 

there appeared to be a future for supersonic, stratospheric airliners.13 No one 

knew what the “natural” level of nitrogen oxides were at the time, so it wasn’t 

possible to determine whether fleets of stratospheric aircraft would significantly 

increase their amounts or not.

Oxides of nitrogen happen to have absorption lines in the infrared, so 

Farmer knew that at least in theory, he could measure them. He built a series 

of Fourier transform spectrometers to be hoisted up into the stratosphere on 

balloons, where they would produce spectra via solar occultation. He flew 

one of these aboard a prototype Concorde six times in 1973. He also started 

hiring more spectroscopists to help analyze all the data, building a research 

team in the infrared that’s still active at JPL. 

In 1974, Farmer also got one of his spectrometers flown aboard NASA Ames 

Research Center’s U-2 stratospheric research aircraft, where he was able to make 

the first measurements of hydrogen chloride absorption lines in Earth’s atmosphere.14 This was a challenging experience, involving more than a little risk. To 

ensure the spectra were absolutely clean, the U-2 pilot shut down the plane’s 

engine during the solar occultation, risking a very long glide back to Earth if 

the engine refused to relight. But it did. The risk had been considered worth it, 

	 13.	 Erik	M.	Conway,	High Speed Dreams: The Technopolitics of Supersonic Transportation	(Baltimore,	MD:	

Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	2005),	chap.	6.

	 14.	 C.	B.	Farmer,	O.	F.	Raper,	and	R.	H.	Norton,	“Spectroscopic	Detection	and	Vertical	Distribution	of	HCl	in	

the	Troposphere	and	Stratosphere,”	Geophysical Research Letters	3,	no.	1	(1976):	13–16.

567
NASA’s First 50 Years

though, because that same year saw F. Sherwood Rowland and Mario Molina 

proposing that chlorofluorocarbons could destroy the ozone layer. They argued 

this would happen because ultraviolet radiation in the stratosphere would break 

up the large chlorofluorocarbon molecules into fluorine and chlorine compounds, 

and the chlorine compounds would then deplete the stratospheric ozone layer. 

Farmer’s interferometer could measure both hydrogen chloride lines and 

hydrogen fluoride lines, enabling him to confirm that the principal source of 

chlorine and fluorine in the stratosphere was chlorofluorocarbons that were 

released at the surface and were broken down by ultraviolet radiation when 

they reached the stratosphere. Hydrogen fluoride has no natural sources that 

reach the stratosphere, so with the Mark III’s interferometer ability to measure 

both hydrogen fluoride and hydrogen chloride simultaneously, Farmer’s team 

could also produce a ratio that would permit partitioning of the human and 

natural stratospheric chlorine inventories.15

So Farmer’s group had demonstrated the ability to measure not only the 

nitrogen oxides they had set out to get, but also several other key ozone-related 

trace molecules. This put them in a position to contribute observations relevant 

to what became the “ozone war” of the late 1970s.16

The final form of Farmer’s balloon instrument series was only ever known 

as the Mark IV spectrometer. It was built after a disastrous flight of the Mark 

III out of Palestine, Texas, in 1982. NASA Upper Atmosphere Research Program 

Manager Robert T. Watson had established a set of “Balloon Intercomparison 

Campaigns” designed to boost the credibility of a whole host of stratospheric 

chemistry instruments.17 Remote sensing techniques, while familiar to astrophysicists, were not widely accepted by Earth scientists, and given the politically controversial nature of ozone science, disagreements over measurement 

technique often appeared in the political realm.18 Several very large stratospheric 

	 15.	 C.	B.	Farmer,	O.	F.	Raper,	and	R.	H.	Norton,	“Spectroscopic	Detection	and	Vertical	Distribution	of	HCl	

in	 the	Troposphere	 and	 Stratosphere,”	Geophysical Research Letters	 3,	 no.	 1	 (January	 1976):	 13–

16;	C.	 B.	Farmer	and	O.	F.	 Raper,	“The	HF:HCl	 Ratio	 in	the	14–38	km	 Region	of	the	Stratosphere,”	

Geophysical Research Letters	4,	no.	11	(November	1977):	527–529;	C.	B.	Farmer	et	al.,	“Simultaneous	

Spectroscopic	Measurements	of	Stratospheric	Species:	O3,	CH4,	CO,	CO2,	N2O,	H2O,	HCl,	and	HF	at	

Northern	and	Southern	Mid-Latitudes,”	Journal of Geophysical Research	85,	no.	C3	(20	March	1980):	

1621–1632.

	 16.	 Lydia	Dotto	and	Harold	Schiff,	The Ozone War (Garden	City,	NY:	Doubleday,	1978).

	 17.	 C.	B.	Farmer	et	al.,	“Balloon	Intercomparison	Campaigns—Results	of	Remote-Sensing	Measurements	

of	HCl,”	Journal of Atmospheric Chemistry	10,	no.	2	(February	1990):	237–272.

	 18.	 NASA	had	also	embarked	on	an	effort	to	improve	the	scientific	standing	of	its	Earth	science	efforts	more	

generally.	See	Conway,	Atmospheric Science at NASA: A History,	chaps.	5	and	6.

568
Earth Science and Planetary Science

balloons were used to hoist the instrumented gondolas. The first attempt for 

Farmer’s gondola failed when the balloon burst, but the instrument survived 

the fall. On the second attempt, it reached the stratosphere safely and got data, 

but the gondola was cut down at too high an altitude, and the parachute didn’t 

open.19 The gondola free-fell to the ground, and the instrument and gondola 

were crushed. The accident got Farmer $2 million to build the new, and much 

improved, Mark IV. 

Farmer’s Mark I through III interferometers used the solar occultation 

observational method, which has the advantage of a high signal-to-noise ratio 

so that the very high spectral resolution needed to detect and measure trace 

gases could be achieved. But the technique can only produce vertical profiles 

for altitudes up to the observing platform (about 40 kilometers for balloons) 

together with the total column above that. To overcome this limitation, the 

next step was to move to spaceborne observations. So after demonstrating the 

Mark III, Farmer also received funds to build a Shuttle-based version, which 

became known as the Atmospheric Trace Molecules Spectroscopy (ATMOS) 

experiment. Shelby Tilford, who was head of NASA’s Earth science and observations programs, thought this would be a revolutionary instrument, and he 

supported it through many significant developmental problems.20

From 30 April to 6 May 1985, ATMOS flew as part of the Spacelab 3 payload 

on Space Shuttle Challenger. This first flight was troubled; a manufacturing 

error caused the instrument to lose pressure fairly rapidly, and its internal 

laser calibration system failed after only a few days. However, frantic rearrangement of the Shuttle schedule enabled it to collect about 500 spectra from 

Earth’s atmosphere during the first 19 sunrise and sunset occultations from 

the Shuttle. This bounty included 30 different molecular constituents of the 

atmosphere, including a number of “first detections” of trace species predicted 

by ozone depletion theory but never actually seen.21 Adrian Tuck, a meteorologist at the NOAA Aeronomy Laboratory in Colorado, later reflected that these 

results provided a big boost in credibility for ozone chemistry overall.22 It had 

	 19.	 C.	B.	Farmer,	OHI	by	Erik	Conway,	20	May	2004;	Joe	Waters,	OHI	by	Erik	Conway,	31	October	2005,	

both	in	JPL	Archives.

	 20.	 Larry	Simmons,	OHI	by	Erik	Conway,	31	January	2005,	JPL	Archives.

	 21.	 See,	for	example,	C.	B.	Farmer	and	O.	F.	Raper,	High Resolution Infrared Spectroscopy from Space: 

A Preliminary Report on the Results of the Atmospheric Trace Molecule Spectroscopy Experiment on 

Spacelab 3	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	CP-2429,	May	1986);	R.	Zander	et	al.,	“Infrared	Spectroscopic	

Measurements	of	Halogenated	Source	Gases	in	the	Stratosphere	with	the	ATMOS	Instrument,”	Journal 

of Geophysical Research	92,	no.	D8	(20	August	1987):	9836–9850.

	 22.	 Adrian	Tuck,	OHI	by	Erik	Conway,	3	November	2003,	NASA	History	Division.

569
NASA’s First 50 Years

been difficult to accept chemical models that depended on the existence of 

molecules never seen outside a laboratory.

That same year happened to be the year that the British Antarctic Survey 

announced the existence of the ozone “hole” over Antarctica.23 In fact, the 

announcement occurred within a few weeks of the ATMOS flight. The spectrometer had flown at the wrong time of year to investigate the “hole,” and due 

to the grounding of the Shuttles after the Challenger accident, ATMOS didn’t 

fly again until 1992. So ATMOS was of no further assistance in understanding 

the phenomenon.

Instead, Farmer, his brand new Mark IV, and JPL colleague Geoffrey Toon 

were shipped to Antarctica in August 1986 to spend the winter. This first Antarctic 

expedition was known as the National Ozone Experiment (NOZE), and the 

expedition was led by Susan Solomon of the NOAA Aeronomy Laboratory. The 

large stratospheric balloons that Mark IV had been designed for couldn’t be 

flown from McMurdo Station, so the instrument operated in a modified shipping 

container for the season. It also had to be modified to look upward instead 

of downward, but this was not a big technical challenge. Toon recalled later 

that his biggest trouble was in keeping the Mark IV operating without being 

able to see the resulting data. The spectra it recorded could only be processed 

back at JPL, on JPL’s mainframe computer. So he couldn’t know whether it was 

producing good results during their months of Antarctic seclusion.

But it did produce good results, and the next year a larger Mark IV team 

went back to Antarctica for the Airborne Antarctic Ozone Experiment (AAOE), 

which was flown out of Punta Arenas, Chile. This was carried out from August 

to September 1987. The Mark IV flew aboard the NASA DC-8, again using an 

upward-scanning mode as the primary region of ozone depletion was at around 

22 kilometers, far above the DC-8’s cruising altitude. A NASA ER-2 carried in 

situ instruments at that altitude, providing corroboration for some (though 

not all) of the Mark IV’s data.24

There were many other investigators from other NASA Centers, NOAA, the 

British Antarctic Survey, and universities involved in this effort. So my purpose 

in following Farmer and his team is not to claim pride of place for Farmer or 

	 23.	 J.	C.	Farman,	 B.	G.	Gardiner,	and	J.	D.	Shanklin,	“Large	Losses	of	Total	Ozone	 in	Antarctica	reveal	

seasonal	ClOx/NOx	interaction,”	Nature	315	(16	May	1985):	207–210.

	 24.	 A.	F.	Tuck,	R.	T.	Watson,	E.	P.	Condon,	J.	J.	Margitan,	and	O.	B.	Toon,	“The	Planning	and	Execution	of	

ER-2	and	DC-8	Aircraft	Flights	Over	Antarctica,	August	and	September	1987,”	Journal of Geophysical 

Research	94,	no.	D9	(30	August	1989):	11181–11222.

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Earth Science and Planetary Science

JPL, as it were, but only to illuminate the intersection of planetary and Earth 

sciences through specific example. Much more complete discussions of the 

complex AAOE can be found elsewhere.25

These expeditions led to the determination that chlorofluorocarbon breakdown products, combined with catalyzing reactions on the surfaces of aerosols 

and polar stratospheric clouds, result in the formation of the ozone hole each 

Antarctic spring.26 Similar, though far less intense, reactions also occur in the 

Arctic spring. NASA’s support for these expeditions provided the observational 

data that allowed atmospheric scientists to unambiguously identify the chemical 

and physical processes responsible for the Antarctic ozone hole, which in turn 

led to the Montreal Protocol and the international agreement to phase out the 

use of those industrial chemicals responsible for this threat to the ozone layer.27

While I’ve focused on Farmer’s infrared spectroscopy team in this paper, 

global monitoring of ozone and the active ozone destroyer chlorine monoxide is provided by a microwave instrument, the Microwave Limb Sounder. Joe 

Waters developed this instrument beginning in the mid-1970s, after coming to 

JPL from David Staelin’s microwave laboratory at MIT. While there, Waters had 

used a radio telescope to investigate upper atmosphere water vapor, another 

case of astrophysics meeting Earth science. Farmer’s infrared spectrometers 

were not able to measure chlorine monoxide, a chemical active in the microwave portion of the spectrum, yet chlorine monoxide is the trace species that 

is directly responsible for ozone destruction. So different techniques had to 

be deployed to fully understand the phenomenon. In September 1991, Space 

Shuttle Atlantis deployed the Microwave Limb Sounder aboard UARS. By 

simultaneous measures of stratospheric temperature and ozone, the Microwave 

Limb Sounder was able to provide key context for chlorine monoxide, too.28

The Microwave Limb Sounder and its successor on the Aura satellite constitute 

the basis of long-term monitoring capacity of stratospheric ozone conditions.

	 25.	 Conway,	Atmospheric Science at NASA: A History,	chap.	6;	Edward	A.	Parson,	Protecting the Ozone 

Layer: Science and Strategy (New	York,	NY:	Oxford	 University	Press,	2003);	 Richard	Elliot	 Benedick,	

Ozone Diplomacy: New Directions in Safeguarding the Planet (Cambridge,	 MA:	 Harvard	 University	

Press,	1991);	Maureen	Christie,	The Ozone Layer: A Philosophy of Science Perspective (New	York,	NY:	

Cambridge	University	Press,	2000).

	 26.	 Susan	 Solomon,	 “Stratospheric	 Ozone	 Depletion:	 A	 Review	 of	 Concepts	 and	 History,”	 Reviews of 

Geophysics (August	1999):	275–316.

	 27.	 Parson,	Protecting the Ozone Layer,	pp.	3–4,	62–109.

	 28.	 J.	W.	Waters	et	al.,	“Stratospheric	ClO	and	Ozone	from	the	Microwave	Limb	Sounder	on	the	UpperAtmosphere	Research	Satellite,”	Nature 362	(15	April	1993):	597–602;	Waters,	OHI	by	Conway,	31	

October	2005,	JPL	Archives.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Chlorofluorocarbons were almost completely banned by 1990 and 1992 

revisions to the Montreal Protocol of 1987. They represent the first class of 

chemicals to be essentially eliminated by international fiat due to environmental destructiveness. And as I have pointed out elsewhere, NASA’s role in 

proving the case scientifically has made it a lightning rod for environmental 

controversy.29

To link recursively back to planetary science, in 2002, William Boynton 

of the Lunar and Planetary Laboratory at the University of Arizona finally 

tested Farmer’s hypothesis about the probable location of Mars’s water ice. 

His gamma-ray spectrometer aboard Mars Odyssey could detect hydrogen 

emission of gamma rays and neutrons liberated by cosmic-ray bombardment. 

From a year’s worth of data, Boynton produced a map of near-subsurface 

hydrogen on Mars that was very similar to Farmer’s hypothesized ice belt 

of 20 years earlier.30 There is subsurface hydrogen, and thus probably water 

ice, nearly everywhere poleward of 50 degrees. It was reconfirmed by the 

2008 Mars Phoenix lander, which touched down at about 68 degrees north 

latitude, near the edge of the permanent northern ice cap, and identified 

water ice chemically.31

Models, Volcanoes, and Climate Change

Earlier in this chapter, we examined the career of a spectroscopist and used 

him to posit the applicability of spectroscopy to Earth and planetary science 

questions. But remote sensing is only one part of what I see as a transformation in Earth science methodology triggered by NASA’s planetary explorations. 

A second major part is in the deployment of modeling. There are many kinds 

of models in modern science, and modeling didn’t originate in NASA. Kristine 

Harper has just published a history of the development of “numerical weather 

prediction” in the 1950s, which is simply the use of atmospheric models to 

forecast the weather. NASA was formed just as numerical atmosphere models 

were a “hot new thing” in science, and their role in Earth and planetary science 

is what I’m interested in illuminating.

	 29.	 Conway,	Atmospheric Science at NASA: A History,	pp.	1–10;	Erik	M.	Conway,	“Satellites	and	Security:	

Space	in	Service	to	Humanity”	in	The Societal Impact of Spaceflight,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	and	Roger	D.	

Launius	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-4801,	2007),	pp.	282–283.

	 30.	 W.	V.	Boynton	et	al.,	“Distribution	of	Hydrogen	in	the	Near-Surface	of	Mars:	Evidence	for	Subsurface	Ice	

Deposits,”	Science Express	(30	May	2002),	doi:10.1126/science.1073722.

	 31.	 “NASA	 Spacecraft	 Confirms	 Martian	 Water,	 Mission	 Extended,”	 31	 July	 2008,	 available	 at	 http://

phoenix.lpl.arizona.edu/07_31_pr.php (accessed	9	September	2009).

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Earth Science and Planetary Science

One of the most famous early atmosphere models was the Mintz/Arakawa 

model. Its creator was Yale Mintz of UCLA, who shared it widely. Mintz, according to modeler Conway Leovy of the University of Washington, “painted this 

immense canvas of applying numerical models to every atmosphere in the 

solar system” in lectures he gave during the early 1960s.32 Atmospheres are 

physical entities bound to behave in accordance with known physical laws, 

primarily fluid mechanics and radiative transfer. These are difficult to compute, 

and because they are nonlinear, they often can only be approximated numerically. But Mintz and his followers believed they could be used as useful tools 

to help understand the behavior of atmospheres universally.

The Mintz/Arakawa model became the basis of at least two modeling 

centers at Ames and GISS. Ames had been founded as an aeronautical center 

in 1939, and during the 1950s, it had built a computing infrastructure to foster 

the development of CFD for use in aircraft design.33 While the goal of numerical atmosphere modeling is different from that of CFD, in principle they are 

very similar. Both derive from the equations of fluid motion, and both require 

powerful computers. So Ames’s adoption of planetary atmosphere modeling 

was an obvious extension of existing expertise and resources.

Founded in 1960, GISS was to be NASA’s theoretical studies center. 

Computational models are theories expressed as equations and embedded 

in computer code, and as such are fundamental to GISS. They serve modern 

scientists as machine-assisted “gedankenexperiments.”34 The idea to form GISS 

came from astrophysicist Robert Jastrow, but the basic concept undergirding 

GISS was the same as Yale Mintz’s: if you could model one atmosphere numerically, you could model them all. During the 1960s, GISS built a new weather 

forecast model around the Mintz-Arakawa model’s dynamics and used it to 

help refine the need for weather satellites. In the 1970s, Jule Charney of MIT 

used it to help understand regional climate processes.

One of the key challenges in modeling is validation. How does one determine that a numerical simulation has validity, a connection to the real Earth 

(or Mars or Jupiter?) This had been an important issue to Charney, who had to 

build a set of forecast reconstructions against which to test his initial weather 

	 32.	 Conway	Leovy,	OHI	by	Erik	Conway,	22	February	2006,	JPL	Archives.

	 33.	 See	Glenn	Bugos,	Atmosphere of Freedom: Sixty Years at the NASA Ames Research Center (Washington,	

DC:	NASA	SP-4134,	2000)	for	an	overview	of	Ames;	CFD	is	not	yet	the	subject	of	its	own	history.

	 34.	 N.	Oreskes,	K.	Shrader-Frechette,	and	K.	Belitz,	“Verification,	Validation,	and	Confirmation	of	Numerical	

Models	 in	 the	 Earth	 Sciences,”	 Science	 263,	 no.	 5147	 (4	 February	 1994):	 641–646;	 Conway,	

Atmospheric Science at NASA: A History,	pp.	318–319.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

forecast models in the 1950s. Observational data gleaned from the atmospheres 

of other planets was a bit harder to come by than forecast analyses of Earthly 

weather. While the National Weather Service collects and archives the daily 

weather data in the United States, there was no such data for other planets. 

Instead, planetary atmosphere modelers used various aspects of Earth’s atmosphere to examine model physics.

The effort to validate climate model physics in the 1970s caused the NASA 

Ames and GISS researchers to reopen an argument from the 19th century about 

whether large volcanic eruptions produce climate changes on Earth. In 1815, 

the titanic explosion of Tambora in Indonesia had seemed to produce a “year 

without a summer,” leading to crop failure and famine. But scientists of the 

19th and early 20th centuries could not even agree on whether a measurable 

planetary cooling had resulted; the very large eruption of Krakatau in 1883 

did not clarify the issue. Scientists lacked both adequate measurements and, 

as Matthias Dörries has recently argued, an explanatory framework.35

Exploration of Mars and Venus during the 1960s and early 1970s by 

American and Soviet spacecraft revived the stalled argument over volcanic 

climate change. The Mariner 9 mission to Mars in 1971 enabled scientists 

to watch a planetary-scale climate change occur before their very eyes. A 

dust cloud that started in the Southern Hemisphere spread across the entire 

planet as the spacecraft approached; it, and its science teams on Earth, waited 

for weeks for the dust to settle. An infrared interferometer aboard Mariner 

9 revealed that the dust cloud created a strong temperature inversion that 

helped sustain it. The dust reflected sunlight back into space, causing the 

surface to cool very rapidly. But it also absorbed some of the sunlight, heating itself and the atmospheric layer around it. One of Pollack’s colleagues at 

Ames, O. Brian Toon, commented in 1975 that it was “the only global climate 

change whose cause is known that man has ever scientifically observed.”36

While the dust storm was not volcanic in nature, on the apparently waterless 

Mars the dust was probably chemically similar to volcanic dust on Earth. So 

the data could be used to help model the effects of volcanic dust in Earth’s 

atmosphere, at least as a first approximation.

	 35.	 Matthias	 Dörries,	“In	the	public	 eye:	Volcanology	 and	 climate	 changes	 studies	 in	the	20th	 century,”	

Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences	37,	no.	1	(2006):	87–124.

	 36.	 Quoted	in	Spencer	Weart,	The Discovery of Global Warming	(Cambridge,	MA:	Harvard	University	Press,	

2003),	p.	88.

574
Earth Science and Planetary Science

Venus-bound spacecraft encountered a very different set of phenomena. 

Astronomers had long known that the planet was permanently veiled in 

clouds; radiotelescope data suggested that the surface was extraordinarily hot 

by 1960, which was confirmed by Mariner 2 in 1962 and then repeatedly by 

Soviet landers. Carl Sagan had argued, in 1960, that the high surface temperature was probably the result of a super-greenhouse effect from huge amounts 

of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere; this, too, seemed confirmed by the 

mid-1960s. But the composition of the cloud sheet remained unknown until 

1972, when examination of the clouds’ index of refraction by ground-based 

observation suggested they were sulfuric acid. James Pollack, using the Ames’s 

airborne infrared observatory, confirmed the finding via infrared spectra in 

1974.37 There was an obvious mechanism to explain this cloud composition: 

volcanoes (on Earth, at least) release sulfate, which is transformed chemically 

into sulfuric acid in the atmosphere. Sulfate is highly reflective in the visible 

spectrum, while also having some infrared opacity. Which would dominate 

in the atmosphere(s)?

In 1976, Pollack and his research group published an article laying out 

an argument that these sulfate aerosols were probably the dominant cause of 

volcano-induced climate change on Earth. Using their Mars and Venus observations, laboratory studies of the radiative characteristics of dust and sulfate 

aerosols, and data collected from volcanic eruptions on Earth and atmospheric 

atomic bomb tests in the early 1960s, they argued that volcanic dust fell out 

of the stratosphere over a few weeks’ time, and the dust would not produce 

a long-term cooling. But the sulfates could remain for a few years, producing 

an average cooling of up to 1°C globally.38

At the same time, James Hansen and Andrew Lacis at GISS were starting to 

build their own climate models. They were interested in anthropogenic climate 

change induced by greenhouse gases and aerosols, which, they thought, were 

	 37.	 Ronald	 Schorn,	 Planetary Astronomy: From Ancient Times to the Third Millennium	 (College	 Station,	

TX:	Texas	A&M	University	Press,	1999),	p.	259;	James	Pollack	et	al.,	“Aircraft	observations	of	Venus’	

near-infrared	reflection	spectrum:	implications	for	cloud	composition,”	Icarus	23	(1974):	8–26;	James	

Pollack	et	al.,	“A	determination	of	the	composition	of	the	Venus	clouds	from	aircraft	observations	in	the	

near	infrared,”	Journal of the Atmospheric Sciences	32	(1975):	376–390.

	 38.	 James	B.	Pollack,	Owen	B.	Toon,	Carl	Sagan,	Audrey	Summers,	Betty	Baldwin,	and	Warren	Van	Camp,	

“Volcanic	Explosions	and	Climatic	Change:	A	Theoretical	Assessment,”	Journal of Geophysical Research

81,	no.	6	(20	February	1976):	1071–1083;	O.	Brian	Toon,	interview	by	Erik	Conway,	13	February	2004,	

JPL	Archives.	The	group	detailed	their	sulfate	aerosols	work	in	R.	C.	Whitten,	O.	B.	Toon,	and	R.	P.	Turco,	

“The	Stratospheric	Sulfate	Aerosol	Layer:	Processes,	Models,	Observations,	and	Simulations,”	Pure and 

Applied Geophysics	118	(1980):	86–127.

575
NASA’s First 50 Years

likely to be of the same magnitude as volcanic emissions. They explored the 

Mount Agung eruption of 1963 with an early one-dimensional model to help 

illuminate that question.39

Interest in examining volcanic eruptions on Earth for model validation and 

Earth understanding purposes was not confined to the two modeling centers. 

NASA’s LaRC had researchers interested in measuring atmospheric aerosols 

via both laser remote sensing and visible and infrared remote sensing from 

aircraft and from space. M. P. McCormick, James Russell, David Winker, and 

others developed instruments for ground, airborne, and spaceborne measurements of aerosols. With Pollack, they also promoted a joint NASA/NOAA 

program called Research on Volcanic Eruptions (RAVE), which was approved 

and just put in place when Mount Soufriere erupted in 1979, followed almost 

immediately by Mount Saint Helens in 1980. As a result, these two explosions 

were extraordinarily well documented scientifically. But these also turned 

out to be very low in sulfate, and (as Pollack’s group had surmised earlier) 

the volcanic dust and ash fell out of the atmosphere fairly quickly. Without 

much sulfate, there also wasn’t a measurable cooling, so the eruptions didn’t 

resolve the question of temperature response.40 Nor did El Chichón in 1983, 

which actually produced a very substantial increase in stratospheric sulfate 

	 39.	 James	E.	Hansen,	“Mount	Agung	eruption	provides	test	of	a	global	climatic	perturbation,”	Science	199	

(1978):	1065–1068.

	 40.	 “Researchers	 Track	 Volcanic	 Plume,”	 Langley Researcher	 (30	 May	 1980):	 4–5;	 M.	 P.	 McCormick,	

interview	by	Erik	Conway,	7	April	2004,	JPL	Archives;	W.	I.	Rose,	Jr.,	and	M.	F.	Hoffman,	“The	18	May	

1980	Eruption	of	Mount	St.	Helens:	The	Nature	of	the	Eruption,	with	an	Atmospheric	Perspective,”	in	

Atmospheric Effects and Potential Climatic Impact of the 1980 Eruptions of Mount St. Helens,	 ed.	

Adarsh	Deepak	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	CP-2240),	pp.	1–14;	Owen	B.	Toon,	“Volcanoes	and	Climate,”	

in	Atmospheric Effects and Potential Climatic Impact of the 1980 Eruptions of Mount St. Helens,	ed.	

Adarsh	Deepak	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	CP-2240),	pp.	15–36;	E.	C.	Y.	Inn,	J.	F.	Vedder,	E.	P.	Condon,	

and	D.	O’Hara,	“Precursor	Gases	of	Aerosols	in	the	Mount	St.	Helens	Eruption	Plumes	at	Stratospheric	

Altitudes,”	 in	Atmospheric Effects and Potential Climatic Impact of the 1980 Eruptions of Mount St. 

Helens,	ed.	Adarsh	Deepak	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	CP-2240),	pp.	47–54;	M.	P.	McCormick,	“GroundBased	 and	 Airborne	 Measurements	 of	 Mount	 St.	 Helens	 Stratospheric	 Effluents,”	 in	 Atmospheric 

Effects and Potential Climatic Impact of the 1980 Eruptions of Mount St. Helens,	ed.	Adarsh	Deepak	

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	CP-2240),	pp.	125–130;	R.	P.	Turco,	O.	B.	Toon,	R.	C.	Whitten,	R.	G.	Keese,	and	

P.	Hamill,	“Simulation	Studies	of	the	Physical	and	Chemical	Processes	Occurring	in	the	Stratospheric	

Clouds	of	the	Mount	St.	Helens	Eruptions	of	May	and	June	1980,”	in	Atmospheric Effects and Potential 

Climatic Impact of the 1980 Eruptions of Mount St. Helens,	ed.	Adarsh	Deepak	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	

CP-2240),	pp.	161–190.

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Earth Science and Planetary Science

aerosols, but after which whatever cooling might have happened was masked 

by a strong El Niño.41

The eruption of Mount Pinatubo in 1991 finally provided the scientific community with an adequate test of the new models and measurement capabilities. 

Pinatubo’s eruption caused the largest aerosol injection into the stratosphere 

of the 20th century, and the eruption was estimated to be the third largest 

perturbation of the industrial era (behind Tambora in 1815 and Krakatau in 

1883). Of the estimated 30 teragrams of mass shot into the stratosphere, the 

old TOMS instrument’s data suggested about two-thirds was sulfur dioxide. 

This transformed into radiatively active sulfate as it aged. 

Satellite instruments (SAGE II and TOMS) showed the plume moving 

around the world in 22 days, spreading relatively quickly southward to 10 

degrees south latitude, then more slowly dispersing to higher latitudes. The 

Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite measured the rapid warming of the 

stratosphere that followed, and the heating effect also lofted the aerosols, 

moving them higher in the stratosphere. But despite the large increase in 

sulfate, there was no measurable increase in active chlorine immediately 

after the eruption. Instead, as the plume spread to the poles, the aerosols 

appeared to increase the surface area available for the wintertime production of chlorine dioxide (the inactive precursor species involved in ozone 

depletion), leading to significantly larger ozone loss than in prior years. The 

Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite’s scientists were able to characterize 

the stratosphere’s chemical response to the volcano and its recovery. Two 

and a half years later, the aerosol loading had diminished to about one-sixth 

of the original amount.42

Almost immediately after the eruption, NASA Headquarters called an interagency meeting in Washington, DC, to discuss preliminary information gathered 

about the eruption; after this, using data gleaned from some of his colleagues, 

Hansen used his three-dimensional climate model, known as the Model II, to 

make a forecast of the volcano’s climate impact. It predicted an immediate 

	 41.	 M.	P.	McCormick,	G.	S.	Kent,	G.	K.	Yue,	and	D.	M.	Cunnold,	“Stratospheric	Aerosol	Effects	from	Soufriere	

Volcano	as	Measured	by	the	SAGE	Satellite	System,”	Science	(4	June	1982):	1115–1118;	Michael	

R.	Rampino	and	Stephen	Self,	“The	Atmospheric	Effects	of	El	Chichon,”	Scientific American	(January	

1984):	 48–57;	 David	 J.	 Hofmann,	 “Perturbations	 to	 the	 Global	 Atmosphere	 Associated	 with	 the	 El	

Chichon	Volcanic	Eruption	of	1982,”	Reviews of Geophysics	25,	no.	4	(May	1987):	743–759.	See	also	

Matthias	Dörries,	“In	the	Public	Eye:	Volcanology	and	Climate	Change	Studies	 in	the	20th	Century,”

Historical Studies in the Biological and Physical Sciences	37,	no.	1	(2006):	117.

	 42.	 M.	P.	McCormick,	Larry	W.	Thomason,	and	Charles	R.	Trepte,	“Atmospheric	Effects	of	the	Mt.	Pinatubo	

Eruption,”	Nature	373	(2	February	1995):	399–404.

577
NASA’s First 50 Years

low-latitude cooling, becoming essentially global by mid-1992 and peaking 

at about –0.5°C (globally averaged, of course) late in 1992. In the resulting 

1992 paper, he argued the volcano provided an “acid test for global climate 

models.” The expected cooling was about three times the standard deviation 

of global mean temperature; this should, he thought, be measurable despite 

the apparent onset of an El Niño (which tends to warm the troposphere).43

The surviving Earth Radiation Budget Experiment, aboard the Earth 

Radiation Budget Satellite (ERBS), showed that the eruption increased Earth’s 

albedo, as expected, by a significant amount. Sulfate aerosols injected into 

the stratosphere were the culprit; as both Ames and GISS groups expected, in 

addition to their reflective characteristics, they also warmed the stratosphere. 

Reduced insolation caused cooling of the troposphere, which, despite an El 

Niño that year, resulted in the year’s being measurably cooler than the 26-year 

mean. In fact, weather satellite data showed almost exactly the amount of cooling predicted by GISS Model II, and in a spatial and temporal pattern that was 

highly consistent with the model’s, too. (Hansen was quick to point out in a 

2006 interview that the forecast hadn’t been perfect). A 1999 reviewer called 

the consistency between the prediction and the independent analyses “highly 

significant and very striking”: they had led, he argued, to increased confidence in the models’ representation of climate processes.44 Mount Pinatubo 

confirmed that the relevant model physics were reasonable facsimiles of the 

real atmosphere, and it ended the argument over whether volcanic explosions 

cause climatic effects: some do, some don’t, depending (as often happens in 

Earth sciences) on the details. 

The volcano/climate nexus is just one thread of the larger story of planetary 

climate evolution. It drew so much attention from scientists because eruptions 

occur on human timescales; unlike greenhouse gas-induced warming, which 

no one in the 1970s expected to become measurable in less than decades, an 

entire cycle of eruption, cooling, and recovery could happen over a couple of 

years. Eruptions could be subjected to familiar investigation techniques, while 

greenhouse-gas warming was far more difficult to test with traditional techniques on reasonable timescales. I have argued elsewhere that global warming 

	 43.	 James	 Hansen,	 Andrew	 Lacis,	 Reto	 Reudy,	 and	 Makiko	 Sato,	 “Potential	 Climate	 Impact	 of	 Mount	

Pinatubo	Aerosol,”	Geophysical Research Letters	19,	no.	2	(24	January	1992):	215–218.

	 44.	 D.	 J.	 Carson,	 “Climate	 Modeling:	 Achievements	 and	 Prospects,”	 Quarterly Journal of the Royal 

Meteorological Society	125,	part	A	(January	1999):	10;	M.	P.	McCormick,	Larry	W.	Thomason,	and	

Charles	R.	Trepte,	“Atmospheric	effects	of	the	Mt.	Pinatubo	Eruption,”	Nature	373	(2	February	1995):	

399–404;	James	Hansen,	interview	by	Erik	Conway,	16	January	2006,	JPL	Archives.

578
Earth Science and Planetary Science

has forced scientists to address timescale problems through new approaches 

to measurement and calibration, as well as confronting the institutional bias 

of American science in favor of short-term results (“publish or perish!”)45 But 

volcanoes were accessible, time-limited phenomena, and so they could be used 

to examine the parts of model physics that concerned short-lived phenomena. 

Toward an Interplanetary Perspective

By the early 1980s, the leaders of NASA’s scientific community—scientists that 

worked at its research centers as well as university scientists that collaborated 

in its efforts—believed that the new techniques that they had pioneered justified a change in the very disciplinary structure of American science. One 

result of their efforts was Earth system science, a new discipline focused on 

the dynamics of planetary-scale processes.

The realization that scientists needed to look again at integrated planetaryscale processes to understand the evolution of planets came, again, from the 

early Mariner missions. It was clear from the Mariners that Mars had once been 

warm enough to have liquid water on its surface (if not for long), yet some early 

one-dimensional model calculations by Carl Sagan showed that both Earth and 

Mars should have started their planetary careers as frozen balls of ice. That was 

because astronomers believed the Sun had been 30 to 40 percent dimmer when 

it first formed than it is now. But the geological evidence available on Earth during the 1970s did not support an “iceball Earth,” and Sagan called this problem 

at the intersection of astronomy and Earth science the Faint Early Sun Paradox.46

Thinking about the Faint Early Sun Paradox helped lead James Lovelock 

to his controversial proposal that biological activity regulated Earth’s climate 

(familiarly known as the Gaia hypothesis).47 Lovelock had started arguing 

back in the 1960s that the place to look for life on other planets was in their 

atmospheres. All organisms produce waste products; those waste products, like 

ammonia and methane, would be found most easily in the planet’s atmosphere. 

	 45.	 Conway,	Atmospheric Science in NASA: A History,	pp.	8–10,	318.	For	another	view	of	trying	to	sustain	

long-term	research,	see	Charles	D.	Keeling,	“Rewards	and	Penalties	of	Monitoring	the	Earth,”	Annual 

Review of Energy and Environment	23	(1998):	25–82.

	 46.	 Carl	Sagan	and	George	Mullen,	“Earth	and	Mars:	Evolution	of	Atmospheres	and	Surface	Temperatures,”	

Science	177	(7	July	1972):	52–56.

	 47.	 Conway,	Atmospheric Science in NASA: A History,	pp.	114–116;	Lynn	Margulis	and	 J.	E.	Lovelock,	

“Biological	Regulation	of	the	Earth’s	Atmosphere,”	Icarus 21	(1974):	471–489;	J.	E.	Lovelock,	Gaia: A 

New Look at Life On Earth	(New	York,	NY:	Oxford	University	Press,	1974),	pp.	13–32.

579
NASA’s First 50 Years

These waste products are chemically reactive, so a living planet, in Lovelock’s 

view, would have an atmosphere in a state of chemical disequilibrium.48

When Lovelock was thinking about the subject, Earth’s atmosphere 

consisted of 21 percent oxygen, by volume, and 78 percent nitrogen, with 

the remaining 1 percent made up by various trace gases. Carbon dioxide, 

for example, was 0.03 percent of the atmosphere’s volume. Yet in terms of 

chemical equilibrium, this was highly improbable. Over Earth’s billions of 

years of existence, oxygen, a highly reactive gas, should have been extracted 

by chemical weathering of surface material and be, as it was on Venus and 

Mars, undetectable. Similarly, the most chemically stable form of nitrogen 

was in the form of nitrate ions in the oceans, not as a noble gas in the atmosphere. Hence in a chemically stable version of Earth, the atmosphere would 

be mostly carbon dioxide, as were the atmospheres of Mars and Venus, and 

contain neither nitrogen nor oxygen.49

Lovelock was not the first to recognize the unstable nature of Earth’s 

atmosphere. Rather, he was building on a minority view in geochemistry.50

In the majority view, Earth’s unlikely atmosphere was explained as a product 

of planetary outgassing, with the oxygen provided by the photodissociation of water vapor in the upper atmosphere. The resulting hydrogen, as 

it had on Venus, would then escape into space, leaving oxygen free in the 

atmosphere. Yet this view did not comport with evidence available by the 

late 1960s regarding the dissociation rate of water in the upper atmosphere, 

or with the rates of consumption of oxygen in the weathering processes. It 

also did not square with the interplanetary view. Lacking both a magnetic 

field and an ozone layer, Venus experienced much larger high-energy fluxes 

at the top of its atmosphere than Earth did, which would lead to a higher 

dissociation rate and more rapid hydrogen escape and oxygen production. 

And, of course, whatever water Venus had was gone. But there was no 

measurable residual oxygen. Hence the majority view no longer explained 

the available evidence.

Lovelock argued that life itself maintained the relative abundances of these 

gases. Photosynthetic plants consumed carbon dioxide and released oxygen, 

while animal life consumed oxygen and released carbon dioxide. The trace 

amounts of methane in the atmosphere, about a billion tons, were already well 

	 48.	 Lovelock,	Gaia,	pp.	6–7.

	 49.	 Ibid.,	pp.	35–36.

	 50.	 Ibid.,	p.	35.

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Earth Science and Planetary Science

known to be a mostly biological byproduct.51 The presence of these gases was, 

for Lovelock, the ultimate proof of life, and in a 1965 article for Nature, he set 

out his argument that the atmosphere was the place to search for Martian life.52

But in the process of thinking about how to find life, he began to reconceive 

Earth as a single, self-regulating organism. After a 1969 presentation in Boston, 

he began working with Lynn Margulis, then Sagan’s wife, to refine and flesh 

out the idea. They eventually published two important articles in 1973 and 

1974 in which they described their hypothesis. They used the metaphor of a 

planetary engineer, whose employer had assigned him a planet and directed 

him to maintain a specific set of temperature and acidity specifications for 

several billion years. Then they reviewed the tools available to the engineer 

for temperature control: control of the planet’s radiation balance, its surface 

emissivity, the composition of its atmosphere, and the distribution of dust and 

aerosols. As seemed to be the case with Mars, small changes in planetary albedo 

could effect sizeable changes in temperature. The engineer could change this 

by, for example, darkening the polar regions. Similarly, organisms could impact 

albedo by changing their colors, by changing the color of the sediments they 

trapped and fixed, and even by altering the color of snow and ice. 

Organisms also altered the chemical composition of Earth’s atmosphere, 

impacting its radiative qualities. Nearly all organisms either consumed or 

produced carbon dioxide. Ammonia, the gas Sagan and George Mullen had 

proposed as maintaining Earth’s warmth under the faint early Sun, was also 

a “very active product of microbial metabolism.”53 It was a waste product of 

many organisms, and it also was consumed by nearly all bacteria and fungi. 

Hence while the amount of it in the current atmosphere was vanishingly small, 

this was because virtually all of the billion or so tons produced each year by 

biologic processes were also being consumed. 

To Margulis and Lovelock, microbial consumption explained the near disappearance of ammonia from the early atmosphere; ammonia-fixing microbes 

would have thrived on the young Earth, and as they drew down the atmospheric 

reservoir of ammonia, these microbes would have been increasingly pressured 

into environments where they would be in contact with ammonia-producing 

	 51.	 Ibid.,	p.	72.

	 52.	 J.	E.	Lovelock,	“A	Physical	Basis	for	Life	Detection	Experiments,”	Nature	207	(1965):	568–570.	See	

also	D.	R.	Hitchcock	and	J.	E.	Lovelock,	“Life	Detection	by	Atmospheric	Analysis,”	Icarus	7,	no.	2	(1967):	

149–159.

	 53.	 Lynn	Margulis	and	J.	E.	Lovelock,	“Biological	Regulation	of	the	Earth’s	Atmosphere,”	Icarus 21	(1974):	

481.

581
NASA’s First 50 Years

microbes. This would have had a large radiative impact on Earth’s atmosphere, 

as under the early faint Sun, removal of ammonia at too high a rate would have 

sent Earth into an “iceball” mode from which it could not recover. Indeed, their 

reading of Earth’s chemical history suggested a crisis for its thermal equilibrium in the late Precambrian, but the geologic record did not seem to contain 

evidence of one.54 They took this as evidence of active control of the climate 

by biologic actors, postulating that selection pressures on local populations 

produced a response to the cooling Earth that eventually counteracted it. The 

need for an active control agent led the two to conceive of Earth as a single 

organism they named Gaia, for the Earth goddess of the ancient Greeks (also 

known as Ge, from which derived the names for geology and geography).55

In their seminal 1974 Icarus article, Margulis and Lovelock commented 

“ . . . probably a planet is either lifeless or it teems with life. We suspect that 

on a planetary scale sparse life is an unstable state implying recent birth or 

imminent death.”56 The combination of living processes and evolutionary 

ones was so powerful, in their view, that organisms could remake a planetary 

environment to facilitate their own spread. Hence over the eons of deep time, 

life would take over a planet, make it more suitable, and eventually be found 

everywhere. In this view of life, there were no marginal environments. Life 

would be found in any local environment of an inhabited planet—or nowhere. 

This did not bode well for NASA dreams of finding life on Mars, or anywhere 

else in the solar system. If life existed at all off Gaia, it would be readily apparent from its impact on the composition of planetary atmospheres. Telescopes 

and telescope-aided infrared spectroscopy were all one needed.

But stripping away the mysticism inherent in the Gaia label, the two were 

presenting a view of Earth that could be grasped by systems engineers, a profession that specialized in (nonliving) feedback control systems. In his 1979 

popular exegesis of the Gaia hypothesis, Lovelock even devoted a chapter to 

cybernetic theory, the mathematical basis for feedback systems. For Earth scientists, Margulis and Lovelock were presenting a view of the world that required 

	 54.	 Recent	evidence	suggests	that	the	climate	crisis	that	J.	E.	Lovelock	thought	should	have	happened	

actually	did,	and	Earth	became	an	“iceball”	for	between	35	and	100	million	years	in	the	late	pre-Cambrian.	

Its	recovery	seems	to	have	been	a	product	of	volcanic	outgassing	over	eons,	raising	the	greenhouse	

effect	 sufficiently	 to	 break	 the	 “iceball”	 climate.	 See	 Robert	 E.	 Kopp	 et	 al.,	 “The	 Paleoproterozoic	

snowball	Earth:	A	climate	disaster	triggered	by	the	evolution	of	oxygenic	photosynthesis,”	Proceedings 

of the National Academy of Sciences	102,	no.	32	(9	August	2005):	11131–11136.

	 55.	 Lovelock,	Gaia,	p.	10;	Margulis	and	Lovelock,	“Biological	Regulation	of	the	Earth’s	Atmosphere,”	p.	471.

	 56.	 Margulis	and	Lovelock,	“Biological	Regulation	of	the	Earth’s	Atmosphere,”	pp.	478–479.

582
Earth Science and Planetary Science

examination of complex, interlocking feedback loops. Some of these feedback 

loops, such as the hydrologic cycle that was of great interest to meteorologists, were primarily physical. At least in the 1970s, evapotranspiration was 

perceived as only a minor participant in the water cycle. Other obvious cycles, 

such as the carbon cycle, were both physical and biological. Understanding 

them required the very interdisciplinary research that the American scientific 

community did not consider “serious science” and was not set up to foster.57

Shelby Tilford, at NASA Headquarters, set out to change that. In 1982, he 

organized a committee to formulate a discipline around the idea of studying 

Earth as a dynamic system. Tilford thought this was “simply the next logical 

step. We’d been trying to do things piecemeal, some atmospheric satellites, 

some ocean satellites, some of the solar observation satellites. But no one had 

sat down to figure out how all this fits together,” he said in 2004.58 Wesley T. 

Huntress, who moved from JPL to NASA Headquarters to become Tilford’s 

deputy, reflected later that NASA “was the right place to do it because we were 

the ones who were going to be studying the planet from a global perspective, 

looking at it at large scales and trying to understand how to put the smaller 

scales together.”59

The committee chairman Tilford chose was Francis Bretherton, who had 

just stepped down as the director of the National Center for Atmospheric 

Research in Boulder, Colorado. It took him several years to wrangle an agreement out of his group. At its root, this was the product of classic disciplinary 

disputes over standards of evidence, measurement methodologies, and even 

timescales. The atmosphere changes far faster than does solid Earth, so an 

observing system suitable for atmospheric measurement was not necessarily 

suitable for solid Earth sensing. This made it very difficult to produce agreement within the committee. As a result, the committee’s report, “Earth System 

Science: A Program for Global Change,” was not released until 1986.

Earth system science was immediately controversial. In addition to the 

disciplinary challenges it suggested, it looked to many Earth scientists as a 

NASA grab for their money. NASA was using the idea of a new science to help 

promote an EOS program costing $30 billion, which, if approved, would be by 

	 57.	 Lovelock,	Gaia,	pp.	48–63;	Margulis	and	Lovelock,	“Biological	Regulation	of	the	Earth’s	Atmosphere,”	p.	

487.

	 58.	 Shelby	Tilford,	OHI	by	Erik	Conway,	11	February	2004,	JPL	Archives.

	 59.	 Wesley	T.	Huntress,	OHI	by	Erik	Conway,	17	March	2008,	JPL	Archives.

583
NASA’s First 50 Years

far the most expensive science program in American history.60 Many scientists 

believed it would vacuum up all the nation’s Earth science funds for the next 

couple of decades, depriving more traditionally trained and motivated investigators of research funds.61 So it didn’t have smooth sailing.62 The Earth Observing 

System took until 1990 to gain approval, ultimately as NASA’s contribution 

to the U.S. Global Change Research Program. But as an organizing theme in 

Earth and planetary science, Earth system science has grown steadily.63 There 

is now an undergraduate textbook for Earth system science, and a number of 

universities have formed interdisciplinary centers of Earth system science.64

Conclusion

NASA’s role in the geosciences has altered both the disciplinary structure of 

American science as well as the methodologies employed by scientists. One 

major change has been the addition of remote sensing to a scientist’s “toolkit.” 

This, too, was not without controversy. Remote sensing depends on the interpretation of spectra, a complex, computer-assisted process that seems arcane 

to those who are not physicists. Remote sensing was far less controversial 

among astronomers (who had nothing else) than among Earth scientists, and 

part of Robert Watson’s motivation in holding the Balloon Intercomparison 

Campaign flights was to help make remote sensing of the atmosphere more 

credible among proponents of more traditional methodologies. His larger idea 

had been side-by-side comparison of the results of many kinds of instruments, 

improving credibility throughout the atmospheric measurements community.65

Just as there was controversy surrounding remote sensing, there was, and 

still is, controversy surrounding the use of modeling. Some of this controversy 

is manufactured by the public relations effort to deny the existence of anthropogenic climate change. Some of it is legitimate—models are routinely used 

	 60.	 M.	Mitchell	Waldrop,	“Washington	 Embraces	 Global	 Earth	 Sciences,”	 Science	 (5	 September	 1986):	

1040–1042.

	 61.	 This	was	not	a	“real”	possibility,	because	at	the	time	NASA	was	funded	by	a	different	congressional	

appropriations	subcommittee	than	the	other	science	agencies	of	the	government.	So	while	EOS’s	funds	

jeopardized	other	NASA-funded	efforts,	such	as	space	astronomy,	it	did	not	threaten	the	funds	of	other	

agencies	that	supported	geosciences.

	 62.	 Conway,	Atmospheric Science at NASA: A History,	chap.	8.

	 63.	 John	 Lawton,	 “Earth	 System	 Science,”	 Science	 292,	 no.	 5524	 (15	 June	 2001),	 doi:10.1126/

science.292.5524.1965;	Conway,	Atmospheric Science at NASA: A History.

	 64.	 Michael	C.	Jacobson,	Earth System Science: From Biogeochemical Cycles to Global Change,	2nd	ed.	

(New	York,	NY:	Academic	Press,	2000).

	 65.	 Robert	T.	Watson,	OHI	by	Erik	Conway,	14	April	2004,	JPL	Archives.

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Earth Science and Planetary Science

and misused in public policy.66 Indeed, the use of scientific models for policy 

purposes is a subject in need of examination by science historians. Yet modeling 

has become an essential part of many sciences, even those in which NASA has 

no role, such as genetics. Models serve as digital thought experiments, allowing Earth and planetary scientists to pose questions about complex processes 

and assess means of testing hypotheses through observation and experiment.67

In his 1980 memoir, former Agency Chief Scientist Homer Newell argued 

that space science had been an “integrative force.” It had broken the geosciences “loose from a preoccupation with a single planet.”68 The interdisciplinary 

research that Doel found in planetary astronomy of the 1940s and 1950s has 

resulted in a gradual merging of once very different fields of study. Discipline 

boundary erasures are starting to occur, revealed perhaps most clearly by the 

increasing number of university departments named with variations of “Earth 

and planetary sciences.” Early solar system exploration produced a substantial 

change in the scientific worldview. It has also produced change in the structure 

of American science.

	 66.	 Orrin	H.	Pilkey	and	Linda	Pilkey-Jarvis,	Useless Arithmetic: Why Environmental Scientists Can’t Predict 

the Future (New	York,	 NY:	 Columbia	 University	 Press,	 2006);	 Erik	 M.	 Conway,	 “Review	 of	 Useless 

Arithmetic,”	Quarterly Review of Biology	(December	2007),	doi:10.1086/527637.

	 67.	 Conway,	 Atmospheric Science at NASA: A History,	 pp.	 196,	 319;	 N.	 Oreskes	 et	 al.,	 “Verification,	

Validation,	and	Confirmation	of	Numerical	Models	in	the	Earth	Sciences”:	641–646.

	 68.	 Homer	Newell,	Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space Science,	p.	328.

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Chapter 23

Exploration, Discovery, 

and Culture

NASA’s Role in History

Steven J. Dick

Introduction: Space Exploration in Context

Like the facets of a jewel, the overall importance of NASA and the Space Age 

over the last 50 years may be considered from many viewpoints, ranging from 

the geopolitical and technological to the educational and scientific. But no 

facet is more central than exploration, a concept that encompasses most of the 

other possibilities and arguably constitutes one of the main engines of human 

culture, spanning millennia. In its simplest and purest form, the Space Age 

may be seen as the latest episode in a long tradition of human exploration. 

Surveying the vast panoply of history, historians have often found “symmetry 

in the narrative arc of the Great Ages of Discovery” or traced that tradition back 

even to the Paleolithic Era in an attempt to find a “global historical context” 

for the Space Age.1

	 1.	 Stephen	J.	Pyne,	“The	Third	Great	Age	of	Discovery,”	in	Space: Discovery and Exploration,	ed.	Martin	

Collins	and	Sylvia	Fries	(New	York,	NY:	Beaux	Arts	Editions,	1993);	Stephen	J.	Pyne,	“Seeking	Newer	

Worlds:	An	Historical	Context	for	Space	Exploration,”	in	Critical Issues in the History of Spaceflight,	ed.	

Steven	J.	Dick	and	Roger	Launius	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2006-4702,	2006),	pp.	7–35,	available	

at	 http://history.nasa.gov/SP-2006-4702/frontmatter.pdf;	 J.	 R.	 McNeill,	 “Gigantic	 Follies?	 Human	

Exploration	and	the	Space	Age	in	Long-term	Historical	Perspective,”	in	Remembering the Space Age,	

ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2008-4703,	2008),	pp.	3–16.	An	interesting	exemplar	

of	the	continuous	exploration	theme	is	Richard	S.	Lewis,	From Vinland to Mars:	A Thousand Years of 

Exploration	(New	York,	NY:	New	York	Times	Book	Company,	1976).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

The Paleolithic Era aside, prior to the Space Age, historians often distinguished two modern Ages of Exploration, the Age of Discovery in the 15th 

and 16th centuries associated with Prince Henry the Navigator, Columbus, 

Magellan, and other European explorers, and the Second Age in the 18th and 

19th centuries characterized by further geographic exploration such as the 

voyages of Captain Cook, underpinned and driven by the scientific revolution.2

Some now distinguish a Third Age, beginning with the IGY and Sputnik, primarily associated with space exploration, but also with the Antarctic and the 

oceans.3 If one accepts this framework, it makes sense to compare one age of 

exploration with another, constantly keeping in mind the differences as well as 

the similarities and with full realization of the unlikelihood of any predictive 

ability. Here we choose to compare the Age of Space with the European Age 

of Discovery, in the hope of revealing symmetries and differences and casting 

in a new light some of the chief characteristics of the last 50 years in space.

 The overarching theme and structure of our argument for the primacy of 

exploration as a key to understanding the Space Age is inspired by the distinguished Harvard maritime historian J. H. Parry, who 30 years ago published 

his classic volume The Age of Reconnaissance: Discovery, Exploration and 

Settlement, 1450 to 1650.

4

 NASA’s first 50 years may also be characterized as 

“The Age of Reconnaissance,” or to put it more broadly, as the first stages of 

“The Age of Discovery.” There have been discovery and exploration, but not 

yet settlement—unsurprisingly, since we are only 50 years into the Age of 

Reconnaissance for space. Parry tackled his theme by discussing the conditions for discovery, then the story of the discoveries themselves, and finally 

the “fruits of discovery.” A parallel tripartite structure provides a framework 

for examining the importance of NASA and the Space Age: what were the 

conditions for the Space Age, the story of its voyages, and their impact? Much 

of the meaning of NASA and the Space Age may be found in the context of 

those three questions.

By drawing such comparisons we are engaging in the time-worn method of 

analogy, and we need to ask whether analogy is a valid framework for analysis, a proper method of reasoning? In making use of analogy, I am following 

	 2.	 William	H.	Goetzmann,	New Lands, New Men: America and the Second Great Age of Discovery (New	

York,	NY:	Penguin,	1986).	

	 3.	 Pyne,	“Seeking	Newer	Worlds,”	pp.	7–35.	

	 4.	 J.	H.	Parry,	The Age of Reconnaissance: Discovery, Exploration and Settlement, 1450 to 1650	(Berkeley,	

CA:	University	of	California	Press,	1981;	1st	ed.,	London,	U.K.:	Weidenfeld	and	Nicolson,	1963).

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a methodology pioneered almost 50 years ago in another classic book, The 

Railroad and the Space Program, whose subtitle is An Exploration of Historical 

Analogy. This volume, edited by MIT Professor Bruce Mazlish and populated 

with well-known scholars, addressed the problem of analogy in considerable 

detail. Mazlish himself spoke of “attempting to set up a new branch of comparative history: the study of comparative or analogous social inventions and 

their impact on society.” The authors went on to give what is, almost 50 years 

later, perhaps still the best treatment of the general use of historical analogy. 

Although originally suspicious of parallels with the past, present, and future, 

the contributors to this volume found it a useful tool; historian Thomas P. 

Hughes saw “the possibility of moving up onto a level of abstraction where 

the terrain of the past is suggestive of the topography of the present and its 

future projection.”5 The authors cautioned that as much empirical detail should 

be used as possible and that analogies drawn from vague generalities should 

be avoided. Confident in the use of historical analogy as suggestive but not 

predictive of the future, Mazlish and his coauthors went on to elaborate their 

analogy with the railroad and the space program with such a degree of success that their work is still discussed today. 

The utility of analogy is suggested by its frequent use: throughout the 

Space Age, and indeed the history of science in general, scientists have been 

drawn to this mode of reasoning.6 The Antarctic dry valleys have been studied 

as analogs to conditions for life on Mars, the subglacial Antarctic Lake Vostok 

as an analog to the ocean of Jupiter’s satellite Europa, and extremophiles on 

Earth as analogs to possible alien life. More similar in kind to the railroad 

and the space program analogy, NASA Administrator Michael Griffin has 

invoked the “highway to space” to emphasize the sustaining effort required 

	 5.	 Bruce	Mazlish,	“Historical	Analogy:	The	Railroad	and	the	Space	Program	and	Their	Impact	on	Society,”	

in	 The Railroad and the Space Program: An Exploration of Historical Analogy,	 ed.	 Bruce	 Mazlish	

(Cambridge,	MA:	MIT	Press,	1965),	p.	12;	Thomas	Parke	Hughes,	“The	Technological	Frontier:	The	

Railroad,”	in	The Railroad and the Space Program,	p.	53,	note	1.	The	circumstances	of	this	volume	

are	 discussed	 by	 Jonathan	 Coopersmith,	 “Great	 (Unfulfilled)	 Expectations:	 To	 Boldly	 Go	Where	 No	

Social	Scientist	or	Historian	Has	Gone	Before,”	 in	Remembering the Space Age,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2008-4703,	2008),	pp.	135–154.

	 6.	 For	example,	in	his	book	At Home in the Universe	(New	York,	NY:	Springer-Verlag,	1996),	pp.	13–16,	

pioneering	physicist	John	A.	Wheeler	speaks	of	analogy	as	a	stimulus	to	creativity.	For	another	use	of	

analogy	in	the	history	of	physics,	see	Daniel	Kennefick,	Traveling at the Speed of Thought: Einstein and 

the Quest for Gravitational Waves (Princeton,	NJ:	Princeton University	Press,	2007).	The	“method	of	

analogy”	is	an	important	subject	in	the	philosophy	of	science,	for	example,	R.	Harré,	The Philosophies of 

Science: An Introductory Survey	(London,	U.K.:	Oxford	University	Press,	1972),	pp.	172–176,	and	Mary	

B.	Hesse,	Models and Analogies in Science	(Notre	Dame,	IN:	University	of	Notre	Dame	Press,	1966).

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in space exploration. “Space exploration by its very nature requires the 

planning and implementation of missions and projects over decades, not 

years,” he wrote. “Decades of commitment were required to build up our 

network of transcontinental railroads and highways, as well as our systems 

for maritime and aeronautical commerce. It will be no quicker or easier to 

build our highways to space, and the commitment to do it must be clear and 

sustaining.”7 Speaking of the new systems being built for the current space 

exploration vision, Griffin wrote that “NASA will build the ‘interstate highway’ 

that will allow us to return to the moon, and to go to Mars.” Similarly, he has 

compared polar exploration to lunar exploration, arguing that the Apollo 

program was like the singular forays of Scott or Byrd, while the current 

plans to establish a base on the Moon are more like the permanent presence 

that several countries have had in the Antarctic since the 1950s, requiring 

international collaboration.8

Analogies are never perfect, but they can be useful and illuminating as 

guides for thought. They can also be overstated and misleading, as in the case 

of the “frontier analogy” so prominent in American space exploration. There 

is no doubt that exploration is part of the American character and that federally funded exploration has been a significant part of American history.9 But 

the very idea of the American frontier and its meaning have been questioned, 

especially as popularized at the end of the 19th century by historian Frederick 

Jackson Turner. Turner saw many of the distinctive characteristics of American 

society, including inventiveness, inquisitiveness, and individualism, as deriving from the existence of a frontier, and he therefore saw the closing of the 

Western frontier about 1890 as cause for worry.10 It was natural for Americans 

	 7.	 Michael	 Griffin,	“Leadership	 in	 Space,”	 lecture	 to	 California	 Space	Authority,	 2	 December	 2005,	 in	

Leadership in Space: Selected Speeches of NASA Administrator Michael Griffin, May 2005–July 2008

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2008-564,	2008),	pp.	1–8,	esp.	p.	4.

	 8.	 Michael	 Griffin,	 “NASA	 and	 the	 Business	 of	 Space,”	 American	 Astronautical	 Society	 52nd	 Annual	

Conference,	15	November	2005,	in	Leadership in Space,	pp.	175–186,	esp.	p.	181,	where	the	point	

of	the	discussion	was	the	role	the	commercial	market	could	play	in	the	infrastructure	that	comes	along	

with	the	highway.	On	the	Antarctic,	see	NASA Update,	NASA	TV,	12	September	2008.

	 9.	 William	H.	Goetzmann,	Exploration and Empire	(New	York,	NY:	Knopf,	1966).	Any	highlights	of	19thcentury	American	exploration	would	include	the	Lewis	and	Clark	expedition	from	1803	to	1806,	the	U.S.	

Exploring	Expedition	headed	by	Charles	Wilkes	from	1838	to	1842,	and	the	exploration	of	the	American	

West	by	the	likes	of	John	Wesley	Powell.	The	Lewis	and	Clark	literature	is	voluminous,	but	on	the	Wilkes	

expedition,	see	Nathaniel	Philbrick, Sea of Glory: America’s Voyage of Discovery: The U.S. Exploring 

Expedition, 1838–1842	(New	York,	NY:	Viking,	2003).

	 10.	 Frederick	Jackson	Turner,	“The	Significance	of	the	Frontier	in	American	History,”	in	Rereading Frederick 

Jackson Turner: The Significance of the Frontier in American History and Other Essays,	ed.	John	M.	

Faragher	(New	Haven,	CT:	Yale	University	Press,	1994).

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Exploration, Discovery, and Culture

to find a new frontier in space as an analog to their Western frontier and to 

argue that conquering the new frontier would perpetuate those characteristics 

described by Turner. The problem is that many historians do not agree with 

Jackson’s “frontier thesis” as the sole, or even the primary, source of these 

characteristics in the United States. And by extension, they are skeptical of 

the benefits of the new frontier. Historians notwithstanding, space as a new 

frontier has always been a driver of the U.S. space program and remains very 

much in NASA’s lexicon. Nevertheless, it is an analogy that needs to be used 

with qualification and caution.11

If we accept analogical reasoning as a useful tool applied with caution, 

are exploration and discovery the right analogies? Certainly exploration 

was not the only, or even the chief, motivation for the space program. But, 

abstract and even metaphysical as it may seem, it was surely one of the 

motivations, and a major one at that—the philosophical apex of a pyramid 

that, of necessity, included more practical motivations. The concepts of 

“discovery” and “exploration” are frequently found throughout space literature, most recently in the Vision for Space Exploration, billed as “a new 

spirit of discovery,” enunciated by President George W. Bush in January 

2004. The same concepts are emphasized in the Aldridge Commission’s 

Report on the Implementation of United States Space Exploration Policy, 

titled A Journey to Inspire, Innovate, and Discover, and yet again in NASA’s 

subsequent new strategic objectives released in a report titled “The New 

Age of Exploration.”12 One can easily trace the concept back to the dawn 

	 11.	 See	 Howard	 McCurdy,	 Space and the American Imagination	 (Washington,	 DC,	 and	 London,	 U.K.:	

Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	1997),	pp.	144–145	and	references	therein.	Roger	Launius	discusses	

the	controversy	over	the	space	frontier	analogy	in	Dick	and	Launius,	Critical Issues,	pp.	44–45,	as	do	

Howard	McCurdy	and	Asif	Siddiqi	on	pages	84–85	and	437–438,	respectively,	of	the	same	volume.	The	

noted	historian	of	the	American	West,	Patricia	Nelson	Limerick,	has	argued	especially	vigorously	that	

the	American	frontier,	with	its	history	of	exploitation	and	conquest,	should	not	be	used	as	an	analogy	

for	space	exploration;	see	Limerick,	“Imagined	Frontiers:	Westward	Expansion	and	the	Future	of	the	

Space	Program,”	in	Space Policy Alternatives,	ed.	Radford	Byerly	(Boulder,	CO:	Westview	Press,	1992),	

pp.	249–261,	and	“Space	Exploration	and	the	Frontier,”	in	What Is the Value of Space Exploration?

18–19	July	1994,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	

Washington,	DC.

	12.	 The	White	 House,	“A	 New	Spirit	 of	 Discovery:	The	President’s	Vision	for	 U.	S.	Space	 Exploration”	

(January	 2004),	 available	 at	 http://www.ostp.gov/pdf/renewedspiritofdiscovery.pdf;	 E.	 C.	 “Pete”	

Aldridge,	Jr.,	et	al.,	A Journey to Inspire, Innovate, and Discover: Report of the President’s Commission 

on the Implementation of the United States Space Exploration Policy,	transmitted	from	E.	C.	“Pete”	

Aldridge	to	President	 George	W.	 Bush	 (Washington,	 DC:	 GPO,	 June	2004);	 NASA,	 The New Age 

of Exploration: NASA’s Direction for 2005 and Beyond	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	NP-2005-01-397-

HQ,	February	2005),	available	at	http://www1.nasa.gov/pdf/107490main_FY06_Direction.pdf.	The	

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of the Space Age, an omnipresent, if insufficient, driver of the new age that 

anchored it in history.

As space science practitioners and supporters like to emphasize, exploration and discovery apply not only to human spaceflight, but also (they 

would say especially) to space science. That, indeed, is the broad definition 

encompassed in NASA’s documentary history series over the last two decades, 

Exploring the Unknown.

13 Moreover, “The New Age of Exploration” speaks 

of a human and robotic partnership for exploration—robotic reconnaissance, 

followed by human voyages that satisfy that desire to explore in person and 

up close. In 2005, A National Research Council study also concluded that “the 

expansion of the frontiers of human spaceflight and the robotic study of the 

broader universe can be complementary approaches to a larger goal.” This 

is easy to say and difficult to implement. To achieve that balanced partnership with the limited resources at hand, in the midst of turbulent events and 

ever-changing economic and political conditions on Earth, has been one of 

NASA’s great challenges over the last 50 years.14

Exploration parallels have, of course, been drawn before. Wernher von 

Braun was fond of comparing his proposed voyages to Mars to the voyages 

of Magellan. When Laurence Bergreen researched his book Voyage to Mars: 

NASA’s Search for Life Beyond Earth, about the Pathfinder, the Mars Global 

Surveyor, and the unsuccessful 1999 voyages to Mars, he found references to 

the Age of Discovery and Magellan rampant within NASA. “After the tenth or 

maybe the twentieth time the name Ferdinand Magellan was mentioned to 

renewed	emphasis	on	exploration	at	NASA	raises	the	question	of	the	relation	between	exploration,	

discovery,	and	science—and	not	just	for	academic	reasons.	One	formulation	holds	that	exploration	

and	science	are	one	and	the	same	and	that	when	it	comes	to	spaceflight,	exploration	equals	science.	

A	National	Research	Council	study,	Science in NASA’s Vision for Space Exploration (2005), asserted	

that	“Exploration	is	a	key	step	in	the	search	for	fundamental	and	systematic	understanding	of	the	

universe	around	us.	Exploration	done	properly	is	a	form	of	science.”	Yet,	while	it	is	clear	that	there	is	

a	synergy	between	exploration	and	science,	they	are	not	one	and	the	same.	After	all,	Magellan	was	

an	explorer,	not	a	scientist	or	a	natural	philosopher.	And	many	scientists	undertake	routine	science	

that	can	hardly	be	called	exploration;	though	even	routine	science	can	 lead	to	discovery,	often	 it	

does	not.	Exploration	can	also	lead	to	discovery,	but	not	necessarily.	In	either	case,	exploration	and	

science	are	not	the	same.

	 13.	 John	M.	Logsdon,	ed.,	Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents in the History of the U.S. Civil 

Space Program,	7	vols.	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4407,	1995	to	2008),	available	at	http://history.

nasa.gov/series95.html.	Volume	8,	the	final	volume,	is	in	preparation.

	 14.	 National	Research	Council,	Science in NASA’s Vision for Space Exploration (Washington,	DC:	National	

Academies	 Press,	 2005),	 available	 at	 http://books.nap.edu/openbook.php?record_id=11225&

page=R1.

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Exploration, Discovery, and Culture

me,” he recalled, “a dim light bulb eventually illuminated in my mind.”15 The 

experience led him to write his gripping account, Over the Edge of the World: 

Magellan’s Terrifying Circumnavigation of the World. Moreover, references 

to exploration in the American context are even more common and reached 

their height in 2003 with the bicentennial of the Lewis and Clark expedition. 

Such analogies were used to sell the space program and, more recently, the 

Vision for Space Exploration.16

Finally, the imagery of the oceans of Earth and the ocean of space has 

often been employed in space rhetoric, evoking past exploration. It is one 

thing when the President of the United States proclaims, as he did a few 

months after setting the course for the Moon in 1961, that “We set sail on this 

new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to 

be won, and they must be won and used for the progress of all people. For 

space science, like nuclear science and all technology, has no conscience of 

its own. Whether it will become a force for good or ill depends on man, and 

only if the United States occupies a position of preeminence can we help 

decide whether this new ocean will be a sea of peace or a new, terrifying 

theater of war.” And it is significant when historians and journalists build on 

the analogy, as in the official history of project Mercury, entitled This New 

Ocean, or William Burrows’s classic history of the Space Age with the same 

title.17 But it is even more significant when NASA workers see themselves 

in the tradition of the Age of Discovery, for that idea, once individually and 

institutionally internalized, becomes a part of NASA culture and a powerful 

force in itself.18

With analogy as our guide, exploration as our theme, and Parry’s work as 

our framework, let us examine NASA and the Space Age with all the caution 

and boldness due such a complex and all-encompassing theme.

	 15.	 Laurence	Bergreen,	“Over	the	Edge	of	the	World,”	in	Risk and Exploration: Earth, Sea and the Stars,	ed.	Steven	

J.	Dick	and	Keith	Cowing	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2005-4701),	p.	131.	The	book	referred	to	is	Laurence	

Bergreen,	Voyage to Mars: NASA’s Search for Life Beyond Earth	(New	York,	NY:	Riverhead	Books,	2000).

	 16.	 Historians	Glen	Asner	and	Stephen	Garber	have	pointed	this	out	in	their	history	of	events	leading	up	to	

the	Vision	for	Space	Exploration	(forthcoming).

	 17.	 Loyd	S.	Swenson,	Jr.,	James	M.	Grimwood,	and	Charles	C.	Alexander,	This New Ocean: A History of 

Project Mercury	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4201,	1966,	repr.	1998);	William	E.	Burrows,	This New 

Ocean: The Story of the First Space Age	(New	York,	NY:	The	Modern	Library,	1998).	John	F.	Kennedy’s	

words	were	spoken	at	Rice	University	Stadium	in	Houston,	TX,	12	September	1962.	

	 18.	 On	NASA	culture,	see	Howard	McCurdy,	Inside NASA: High Technology and Organizational Change in 

the U.S. Space Program	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1993),	as	well	as	Dick	and	

Launius,	Critical Issues,	section	V,	“NASA	Cultures,”	pp.	345–428.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

The Conditions for the Space Age

Analysis of a sampling of the many major factors in common between the Age 

of Discovery and the Age of Space will suffice to demonstrate the utility of 

making comparisons: motivations, infrastructure, voyagers, funding, and risk 

were clearly important considerations in both eras. It is no surprise that similar narrative arcs should generate similar general categories. But the interest 

lies in the details, the analogies and the dis-analogies, all placed in the proper 

context of their time, and allowing us to see the Space Age in the light of long 

historical perspective.

Motivations

As a necessary condition of existence, both ages had their motivations, but they 

were very different. In the 15th century, exploring nations were in search of 

empire, and their motivations were twofold: economic gain, through trading or 

land acquisition, and religious conversion. As Parry put it in his classic study, 

“Among the many and complex motives which impelled Europeans, and especially the peoples of the Iberian peninsula, to venture oversea in the fifteenth 

and sixteenth centuries, two were obvious, universal, and admitted: acquisitiveness [wanting to acquire land for empire] and religious zeal. Many of the great 

explorers and conquerors proclaimed these two purposes in unequivocal terms.”19

The motivation for the Space Age was neither of these. In the wake 

of Sputnik, under the Eisenhower administration, the newly formed PSAC, 

chaired by James R. Killian, identified four factors that gave “importance, 

urgency and inevitability” to entering space. The first of these was exploration. 

Foreshadowing the theme of Star Trek 10 years later, the report spoke of “the 

compelling urge of man to explore and to discover, the thrust of curiosity that 

leads men to try to go where no one has gone before.” With an explicit nod 

to past exploration, the authors of the report noted that “Most of the surface 

of the earth has now been explored and men now turn to the exploration of 

outer space as their next objective.”20

	 19.	 Parry,	Age of Reconnaissance,	p.	19.

	 20.	 President’s	Science	Advisory	Committee,	“Introduction	to	Outer	Space,”	26	March	1958,	in	Exploring 

the Unknown,	ed.	Logsdon,	vol.	1,	Organizing for Exploration,	pp.	332–333.

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Exploration, Discovery, and Culture

The second rationale posed in 1958 for entering space was national defense. 

“We wish to be sure that space is not used to endanger our security. If space is 

to be used for military purposes, we must be prepared to use space to defend 

ourselves.” Third was national prestige. “To be strong and bold in space technology will enhance the prestige of the United States among the peoples of 

the world and create added confidence in our scientific, technological, industrial, and military strength.” Science was the fourth factor, for space “affords 

new opportunities for scientific observation and experiment which will add 

to our knowledge and understanding of the earth, the solar system, and the 

universe.21 In the Soviet Union, the only other space power at the time, the 

motivations were much the same.

Among these motivations for spaceflight, national prestige was paramount 

for the first decades of the Space Age, as historical analyses, such as Walter 

McDougall’s . . . The Heavens and the Earth, have shown.22 The motivations 

are much the same today, although economic competitiveness and survival 

of the species are now at least part of the discussion.23 Since the end of the 

Cold War in the early 1990s, and arguably since the end of the Apollo era, we 

have entered a period that will determine whether international cooperation, 

exploration, and commercial gain can provide the same impetus to space 

that international competition once did. The ISS is a prime example of the 

cooperation, albeit sometimes difficult, of 16 countries over the last decade. 

Still, the utility and cost of the ISS have often been called into question, and 

analysts such as Woody Kay have asked with more than just rhetoric, “Can 

Democracies Fly in Space?” Without the impetus of outside competition, 

under always-difficult economic conditions, and in the midst of so many 

other priorities in a democratic society, this remains an important question 

of public policy.24

	 21.	 Ibid.,	p.	333.

	 22.	 Walter	McDougall,	. . . The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age	(New	York,	NY:	

Basic	Books,	1985).

	 23.	 Roger	 Launius,	 “Compelling	 Rationales	 for	 Spaceflight?	 History	 and	 the	 Search	 for	 Relevance,”	 in	

Critical Issues,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	37–70.

	 24.	 On	international	cooperation,	see	John	Krige,	“Technology,	Foreign	Policy,	and	International	Cooperation	

in	Space,”	in	Critical Issues,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	239–268,	and	John	Logsdon,	“The	Development	

of	 International	 Cooperation	 in	 Space,”	 in	 Exploring the Unknown,	 ed.	 Logsdon,	 vol.	 2,	 External 

Relationships,	 pp.	 1–15	 and	 associated	 documents.	A	 full	 history	 of	 NASA’s	 international	relations	

is	being	written	by	John	Krige	and	his	colleagues.	Woody	Kay,	Can Democracies Fly in Space? The 

Challenge of Revitalizing the U.S. Space Program	(Westport,	CT:	Praeger	Publishers,	1995).	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Infrastructure

Both ages of discovery required a certain infrastructure, none more important 

than the means of conveyance—ships for the Age of Discovery and rockets 

for the Age of Space. Beginning with Prince Henry the Navigator in the 15th 

century, the vessel of choice for ocean exploration was the small, maneuverable, and relatively fast caravel with its “lateen” triangular sail, in contrast to 

the galley or other vessels with fixed sails or oarsmen (see figure 1).25 Caravels 

were used for everyday trade routes in Western Europe, and typically new 

types of vessels were not constructed for the early long, transoceanic voyages. But caravels were small, crowded, and uncomfortable, and as the Age of 

Reconnaissance continued, mixed types of ship designs were developed, and 

fleets sailed with a balanced mix of ships when possible: “one or two caravels, 

which they employed for dispatch-carrying, inshore reconnaissance, and other 

odd jobs which later admirals would entrust to frigates. Such ships and such 

fleets first became available, through a strenuous process of experiment and 

change, to Europeans in the late fifteenth century. This was the development 

which made the Reconnaissance physically possible.” Caravels could also 

carry cannons, and some historians argue that “Caravels and cannon were the 

technological developments that made European expansion overseas possible, 

not astrolabes and improved maps.”26

By contrast, because nothing had ever entered the ocean of space, designers had to invent motive power and spaceships through a combination of old 

and new technologies and sometimes from scratch (see figure 2). It is true that 

both the Soviet Union and the United States adapted older military missiles 

as the motive power to enter space, but both also independently designed 

new rockets.27 Unlike ships, the motive power was no longer natural wind 

	 25.	 Peter	Russell,	“The	Caravels	of	Christ,”	chap.	9	in	Prince Henry the Navigator: A Life (New	Haven,	CT,	

and	London,	U.K.:	Yale	University	Press,	2001),	pp.	225–238.

	 26.	 Parry,	 “Ships	 and	 Shipbuilders,”	 chap.	 3	 in	 Age of Reconnaissance,	 and	 on	 caravels,	 pp.	 65–66;	

Ronald	H.	Fritze,	New Worlds: The Great Voyages of Discovery 1400–1600	(Phoenix	Mill,	U.K.:	Sutton	

Publishing,	2002),	pp.	70–73.

	 27.	 The	best	overall	history	of	rocketry	in	the	United	States	is	J.	D.	Hunley,	Preludes to U.S. Space-Launch 

Vehicle Technology: Goddard Rockets to Minuteman III	 (Gainesville,	 FL:	 University	 Press	 of	 Florida,	

2008),	and	J.	D.	Hunley,	U.S. Space-Launch Vehicle Technology: Viking to Space Shuttle	(Gainesville,	

FL:	University	Press	of	Florida,	2008),	and	their	one-volume	companion	The Development of Propulsion 

Technology for U.S. Space-Launch Vehicles, 1926–1991	(College	Station,	TX:	Texas	A&M	Press,	2007).	

See	 also	 Roger	 Launius	 and	Dennis	 R.	 Jenkins,	 eds.,	To Reach the High Frontier: A History of U.S. 

Launch Vehicles	(Lexington,	KY:	University	Press	of	Kentucky,	2002),	and	histories	of	particular	rockets	

such	as	Bilstein’s	history	of	Saturn	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).

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power. The core of the new rockets was their engines, and the history of 

engine development is fraught with uncertainty and contingency. At every 

stage, from the V-2s and their successors, to the Apollo first-stage F-1 engines 

with their famous early “combustion instability” problems, and to the SSMEs, 

it was never assured that access to space would be possible, and it is still not 

cost-effective.28 Another of the perennial debates of the Space Age was whether 

reusable or expendable launch vehicles were best; history records that despite 

its utility and magnificent engineering, even the reusable Space Shuttle was 

never cost-effective.29 With the projected return to expendable rockets after 

2010, human winged spaceflight may prove to have been only an ephemeral 

30-year phenomenon, at least for the 20th and 21st centuries.

Human spaceflight also required the design of capsules and later the reusable Shuttle to carry humans on their epic early piloted programs. Spacecraft 

design pioneers like Max Faget (who played a role in the design of every 

American piloted spacecraft), as well as a variety of unsung heroes, were no 

less essential to the Space Age than were rocket engineers, and both were as 

indispensable as the shipbuilders of 500 years before.30 The design of robotic 

	 28.	 On	the	F-1	engines,	see	Roger	E.	Bilstein,	Stages to Saturn: A Technological History of the Apollo/Saturn 

Launch Vehicles	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4206,	1980).	Charles	Murray	and	Catherine	Bly	Cox,	Apollo: 

The Race to the Moon	(New	York,	NY:	Simon	&	Schuster,	1989),	chap.	10,	tell	the	story	based	on	interviews	

with	participants.	For	developments	placed	in	their	institutional	context,	see	Andrew	J.	Dunar	and	Stephen	

P.	Waring,	“Crafting	Rockets	and	Rovers:	Apollo	Engineering	Achievements,”	chap.	3	in	Power to Explore: 

A History of the Marshall Space Flight Center, 1960–1990	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4313,	1999).	On	

the	SSMEs,	see	Robert	E.	Biggs,	ed.,	Space Shuttle Main Engines: The First Twenty Years and Beyond,	vol.	

29	(San	Diego,	CA:	American	Astronautical	Society,	2008).	On	the	transition	from	aircraft	to	spacecraft	

engines,	 see	Virginia	 P.	 Dawson,	 Engines and Innovation: Lewis Laboratory and American Propulsion 

Technology	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4306,	1991),	especially	chaps.	8	and	following.

	 29.	 See	Andrew	J.	Butrica,	“Reusable	Launch	Vehicles	or	Expendable	Launch	Vehicles?	A	Perennial	Debate,”	

in	 Critical Issues,	 ed.	 Dick	 and	 Launius,	 pp.	 301–341,	 and	 John	 Logsdon,	 “‘A	 Failure	 of	 National	

Leadership’:	Why	No	Replacement	for	the	Space	Shuttle?,”	in	Critical Issues,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	

269–300.

	 30.	 For	an	excellent	overview	of	the	types	of	questions	that	can	be	asked	about	spaceflight	infrastructure	

and	design,	including	spacecraft,	see	Philip	Scranton,	“NASA	and	the	Aerospace	Industry:	Critical	Issues	

and	Research	Prospects,”	in	Critical Issues,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	169–198.	On	robotic	spacecraft	

design,	see	Michael	Gruntman,	Blazing the Trail: The Early History of Spacecraft and Rocketry	(Reston,	

VA:	AIAA,	2004).	While	no	general	history	of	spacecraft	design	exists,	histories	of	individual	programs	

generally	cover	design.	See	Swenson	et	al.,	This New Ocean,	esp.	chaps.	6–8	on	Project	Mercury;	

Courtney	Brooks,	James	Grimwood,	and	Loyd	S.	Swenson,	Jr.,	Chariots for Apollo: A History of Manned 

Lunar Spacecraft	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4205,	1979),	available	at	http://www.hq.nasa.gov/office/

pao/History/SP-4205/cover.html;	Tom	Heppenheimer,	Development of the Space Shuttle, 1972–1981

(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	 Institution	Press,	1984);	and	Edward	C.	Ezell	and	Linda	N.	Ezell,	On 

Mars: Exploration of the Red Planet, 1958–1978 (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4212,	1984)	for	Viking	

spacecraft	design,	as	exemplars.	On	the	debate	over	expendable	 vs.	reusable	 launch	 vehicles,	 see	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

spacecraft and the perennial debate over human versus robotic spacecraft, on 

the other hand, find no parallel with the Age of Discovery.31 Robotic spacecraft 

design, with its communications, thermal, and electronic subsystems, is especially part of the histories of JPL, GSFC, and their aerospace partners. Indeed, 

an entire industry sprang up on the foundations of the aviation industry to 

cater to both the human and the robotic rocket and spacecraft needs of the 

Age of Space.32

The engineering challenges inherent in the design of rockets and spacecraft 

were legion.33 Design decisions were sometimes brilliant, often modified, and 

occasionally second-guessed after accidents and failures, whether human or 

robotic, and the agonizing but detailed accident reports of those failures make 

for compelling reading about the importance and far-reaching consequences of 

engineering decisions.34 As far as we know, no such ex post facto analysis was 

undertaken in the Age of Discovery, where the whims of nature at sea were 

John	M.	Logsdon,	“A	Failure	of	National	Leadership:	Why	No	Replacement	for	the	Space	Shuttle,”	and	

Andrew	J.	Butrica,	“Reusable	Launch	Vehicles	or	Expendable	Launch	Vehicles?	A	Perennial	Debate,”	in	

Critical Issues,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	263–344.

	 31.	 On	the	human	and	robotic	debate	in	spaceflight,	see	Howard	E.	McCurdy,	“Observations	on	the	Robotic	

Versus	 Human	 Issue	 in	 Spaceflight,”	 Slava	 Gerovitch,	“Human-Machine	 Issues	 in	 the	 Soviet	 Space	

Program,”	and	David	A.	Mindell,	“Human	and	Machine	in	the	History	of	Spaceflight,”	all	in	Critical Issues,	

ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	73–164.	See	also	 Roger	D.	Launius	and	Howard	E.	McCurdy,	Robots in 

Space: Technology, Evolution, and Interplanetary Travel	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	

2008).

	 32.	 Roger	Bilstein,	The American Aerospace Industry: From Workshop to Global Enterprise	(New	York,	NY:	

Twayne,	1996);	Joan	Lisa	Bromberg,	NASA and the Aerospace Industry	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	

University	Press,	1999).

	 33.	 On	engineering	at	NASA,	see	Sylvia	D.	Fries,	NASA Engineers and the Age of Apollo	(Washington,	DC:	

NASA	SP-4104,	1992).	See	also	Stephen	Johnson,	The Secret of Apollo	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	

University	Press,	2002).	For	a	specific	example	of	engineering,	see	David	Mindell,	Digital Apollo: Human 

and Machine in Spaceflight (Cambridge,	MA:	MIT	Press,	2008).

	 34.	 Alexander	Brown,	“Accidents,	Engineering,	and	History	at	NASA,	1967–2003,”	in	Critical Issues,	ed.	Dick	

and	Launius,	pp.	377–402;	Diane	Vaughan,	The Challenger Launch Decision: Risky Technology, Culture, 

and Deviance at NASA	(Chicago,	IL:	University	of	Chicago	Press,	1996).	Among	the	seminal	original	

accident	reports	are	Apollo	204	Review	Board,	Report of Apollo 204 Review Board to the Administrator, 

National Aeronautics and Space Administration	(Washington,	DC:	GPO,	1967),	available	at	http://history.

nasa.gov/Apollo204/as204report.html;	William	P.	Rogers,	Chair,	Report of the Presidential Commission 

on the Space Shuttle Challenger Accident	(Washington,	DC,	June	1986),	available	at	http://history.nasa.

gov/rogersrep/genindex.htm;	 and	 Columbia	 Accident	 Investigation	 Board,	 Report	 (Washington,	 DC:	

GPO,	 August	 2003),	 available	 at	 http://history.nasa.gov/columbia/CAIB_reportindex.html.	 The	 Mars	

Climate	Orbiter	failure	 investigation	found	that	the	root	cause	of	failure	was	the	failure	to	translate	

English	units	into	metric	units	in	a	segment	of	ground-based,	navigation-related	mission	software;	see	

The Mars Climate Orbiter Mishap Investigation Board Phase I Report	(10	November	1999),	available	at	

ftp://ftp.hq.nasa.gov/pub/pao/reports/1999/MCO_report.pdf.	The	Mars	Polar	 Lander	 accident	report	

and	others	are	available	at	http://sunnyday.mit.edu/accidents/.

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most often at fault (though one might question some of Magellan’s decisions, 

including the final one leading to his death). 

Ships and rockets alike required specialized points of departure, where 

they could prepare for the journey (see figure 3). Unlike the ancient ports 

from which the ships of the 15th and 16th centuries departed, spaceports 

were built from scratch or on sites of military missile launches. Their locations 

were determined not so much by water (though an uninhabited overflight 

path was a factor), but by the latitudes at which Earth’s rotation could impart 

additional motive power, among other considerations. Those spaceports, with 

now-legendary names like Cape Canaveral, Vandenberg, Kourou, Pletetsk, and 

Baikonur, were the equivalents of Palos, Lisbon, and Sanlúcar de Barrameda. 

Except for the ever-popular KSC, the launch sites so essential to spaceflight 

are often unappreciated by the public, as is other necessary infrastructure 

such as ground tracking stations, navigation, and mission control. Scientists, 

engineers, and historians, however, are fully aware that the Space Age could 

not exist without them.35

Both the Age of Discovery and the Age of Space had their navigators, 

their users and producers of maps that increased in accuracy as a result of 

the voyages of discovery. The Age of Discovery had its world cosmographic 

maps and its portolan maps, the latter to actually help in navigating. The Age 

of Space, too, had its general cosmography, as backdrop, and its practical 

star maps for celestial navigation, though its methods of navigation—gravitational assists from planetary flybys, for example—were strikingly novel. 

As in the 16th century, Space Age voyages of discovery produce ever more 

accurate maps of their routes and their destinations, and the astrogeology 

branch of the U.S. Geological Survey, funded largely by NASA, carries out 

	 35.	 On	spaceports,	see	John	T.	Sheahan	and	Francis	T.	Hoban,	“Spaceports,”	in	Defining Aerospace Policy: 

Essays in Honor of Francis T. Hoban,	ed.	Kenneth	Button,	Julianne	Lammersen-Baum,	and	Roger	Stough

(Burlington,	VT:	Ashgate,	2004),	and	for	one	of	the	most	important	spaceports,	see	Ken	Lipartito	and	

Orville	Butler,	A History of the Kennedy Space Center	(Gainesville,	FL:	University	Press	of	Florida,	2007),	

and	Charles	D.	Benson	and	William	B.	Faherty,	Gateway to the Moon, Building the Kennedy Space 

Center Launch Complex	(Gainesville,	FL:	University	Press	of	Florida,	2001)	and	Moon Launch! A History 

of the Saturn-Apollo Launch Operations	(Gainesville,	FL:	University	Press	of	Florida,	2001).	On	tracking	

stations,	see	Sunny	Tsiao, “Read You Loud and Clear!” The Story of NASA’s Spaceflight Tracking and 

Data Network	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-4233,	2008);	Douglas	Mudgway,	Uplink-Downlink: A 

History of the NASA Deep Space Network, 1957–1997	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2001-4227,	2001);	

and	Douglas	Mudgway,	Big Dish: Building America’s Deep Space Connection to the Planets	(Gainesville,	

FL:	University	Press	of	Florida,	2005).	On	the	evolution	of	mission	control,	see	Gene	Kranz,	Failure Is 

Not an Option: Mission Control from Mercury to Apollo 13 and Beyond	(New	York,	NY:	Berkley	Books,	

2000);	and	Chris	Kraft,	Flight: My Life in Mission Control	(New	York,	NY:	Plume,	2002).

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the same role for mapping new worlds as 16th-century cartographers did 

for the New World (see figure 4).36

Voyagers

Voyagers, whether human or robotic, are also essential to the exploration 

enterprise. Both ages had their heroes, leaders of the voyages of discovery. 

Columbus and Magellan were men of daring and adventure who personally 

argued for government funding of their voyages. Cosmonauts, astronauts, and 

taikonauts were also daring, but unlike explorers from the Age of Discovery, 

it was not they who argued for government funding for the space program; it 

was scientists and managers like Wernher von Braun and a sequence of NASA 

Administrators, now enmeshed in a growing technocratic complex.

At another level, crews in the Age of Discovery, as in the case of Magellan’s 

circumnavigation, were often hard to come by. There is no parallel to this 

situation among myriad astronaut applicants, who outnumbered successful 

candidates by more than 1,000 to one. While many ship captains were men 

of some learning, their crews varied greatly, from people off the streets to 

religious seekers, profiteers, and pirates. By contrast, the nearly 500 astronauts, 

cosmonauts, and taikonauts who have ventured into Earth orbit or beyond 

over the last 50 years were the products of refined technical training, as were 

the eight X-15 pilots who flew high enough to be qualified as astronauts, 

and even the two pilots who flew on SpaceShipOne in 2004. Beginning with 

the Mercury 7, they all had what writer Tom Wolfe immortalized as “the right 

stuff” (see figure 5).37

In the United States in 1962, JSC in Houston, Texas, became the home of 

the astronauts, where they underwent (and still undergo) rigorous training. 

	 36.	 The	history	of	deep	space	navigation	is	being	written	under	contract	to	NASA	by	Andrew	Butrica.	On	the	

astrogeology	research	program,	see	http://astrogeology.usgs.gov/,	and	on	its	history,	see	David	Levy,	

Shoemaker by Levy: The Man Who Made an Impact	(Princeton,	NJ:	Princeton	University	Press,	2000),	

and	Gerald	G.	Schaber,	The U.S. Geological Survey, Branch of Astrogeology—A Chronology of Activities 

from Conception through the End of Project Apollo (1960–1973),	available	at	http://pubs.usgs.gov/

of/2005/1190/.

	 37.	 Tom	Wolfe,	The Right Stuff	(New	York,	NY:	Farrar,	Strauss	and	Giroux,	1979;	illustrated	edition,	New	

York,	NY:	Black	Dog	&	Leventhal,	2004).	In	both	the	Soviet	and	American	cases,	the	first	astronauts	and	

cosmonauts	had	military	backgrounds.	When	in	April	1959	NASA	selected	its	first	astronauts,	all	seven	

had	aviation	experience	in	the	military.	As	Asif	Siddiqi	has	shown	in	Challenge to Apollo: The Soviet 

Union and the Space Race, 1945–1974	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2000-4408,	2000),	although	the	

Soviets	 considered	 individuals	from	 aviation,	the	Soviet	 navy,	rocketry,	 and	 car-racing	backgrounds,	

their	Air	Force	physicians	insisted	that	the	initial	pool	be	limited	to	qualified	Air	Force	pilots.	By	the	end	

of	1959,	they	had	chosen	20	cosmonauts,	formally	approved	on	7	March	1960.

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Exploration, Discovery, and Culture

The Soviet/Russian counterpart is the legendary Cosmonaut Training Center in 

Star City, near Moscow, where training began in 1965. At these two locations, 

the vast majority of space explorers have prepared for their journeys prior 

to launch from their countries’ respective spaceports into the “new ocean.”38

Institutions and Funding

The space programs of the world required massive efforts in institution building, 

management, and funding. The Age of Discovery explorers were funded in part 

by nation states such as Spain and Portugal, often without the intermediary of 

an organizing institution. By the time of the Age of Space, the infrastructure 

had grown so complicated and expensive that national governments had to 

form new agencies dedicated to the task.39 Paramount among these was NASA, 

and its story of “organizing for exploration” is well known.40 Along with the 

	 38.	 Numerous	 firsthand	 accounts	 have	 been	 written	 by	 the	 astronauts	 themselves,	 ranging	 from	 the	

Mercury	astronauts’	collective	book	We Seven	(New	York,	NY:	Simon	&	Schuster,	1962)	recalling	Charles	

Lindbergh’s	book	We (New	York,	NY:	G.	P.	Putnam	&	Sons,	1927);	Scott	Carpenter	and	Kris	Stoever’s For 

Spacious Skies: The Uncommon Journey of a Mercury Astronaut	(New	York,	NY:	New	American	Library,	

2004);	Wally	Schirra’s	Schirra’s Space (Annapolis,	MD:	U.S.	Naval	Institute	Press,	1995); John	Glenn’s	

John Glenn: A Memoir	(New	York,	NY:	Bantam	Books,	1999);	Deke	Slayton	and	Michael	Cassut’s	Deke!

An Autobiography	(New	York,	NY:	Forge	Books,	1995);	and	Gordon	Cooper’s	wild	Leap of Faith: An 

Astronaut’s Journey into the Unknown	(New	York,	NY:	HarperCollins,	2000),	complete	with	space	aliens;	

to	Apollo	astronauts	Jim	Lovell	and	Jeffrey	Kluger’s	Apollo 13: Lost Moon:	The Perilous Voyage of Apollo 

13	(Boston,	MA,	and	New	York,	NY:	Houghton	Mifflin	Co.,	1994)	and	Gene	Cernan’s	The Last Man on the 

Moon	(New	York,	NY:	St.	Martin’s	Press,	1999)	and	Space	Shuttle	astronauts	Mike	Mullane’s	irreverent	

Riding Rockets: The Outrageous Tales of a Space Shuttle Astronaut	(New	York,	NY:	Scribner,	2006)	and	

Tom	Jones’s	Sky Walking: An Astronaut’s Memoir	(New	York,	NY:	HarperCollins,	2006).	A	unique	dual	

autobiography	is	David	Scott	and	Alexei	Leonov’s	Two Sides of the Moon: Our Story of the Cold War 

Space Race	(New	York,	NY:	St.	Martin’s	Press,	2004).	A	few	astronauts	have	been	the	subject	of	fullscale	biographies,	including	Neal	Thompson’s	Light This Candle: The Life & Times of Alan Shepard—

America’s First Spaceman	(New	York,	NY:	Crown	Publishers,	2004);	Ray	Boomhower’s	Gus Grissom: 

The Lost Astronaut	(Indianapolis,	IN:	Indiana	Historical	Society,	2004);	and	James	Hansen’s	definitive	

First Man: The Life of Neil A. Armstrong	(New	York,	NY:	Simon	&	Schuster,	2005).	Others	have	been	

the	subjects	of	biographies	by	relatives,	as	in	Nancy	Conrad’s	Rocketman: Astronaut Pete Conrad’s 

Incredible Ride to the Moon and Beyond	(New	York,	NY:	NAL	Trade,	2006).

	 39.	 The	best	single	 volume	covering	the	history	of	the	world’s	space	agencies	 is	P.	V.	Manoranjan	Rao,	

ed.,	50 Years of Space: A Global Perspective	(Hyderabad,	India:	Universities	Press,	2007).	This	volume,	

produced	for	the	50th	anniversary	of	the	Space	Age,	is	composed	of	histories	of	each	agency	written	

by	a	high-level	representative	from	each	agency.

	 40.	 NASA’s	founding	documents	and	relevant	materials	for	 its	first	35	 years	are	found	 in	Exploring the 

Unknown,	vol.	1,	Organizing for Exploration (1995),	available	at	http://history.nasa.gov/series95.html.	

For	NASA	in	the	broader	context	of	history,	see	Robert	R.	MacGregor,	“Imagining	an	Aerospace	Agency	

in	the	Atomic	Age,”	in	Remembering the Space Age,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP2008-4703,	2008),	and	Walter	McDougall,	. . . The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the 

Space Age	(Baltimore,	MD:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	1985).	The	story	from	the	point	of	view	

of	NASA’s	first	Administrator	is	in	J.	D.	Hunley,	ed.,	The Birth of NASA: The Diary of T. Keith Glennan

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technical aspects, the development of management techniques appropriate 

to a high-technology, high-reliability organization has been essential to its 

success, and Apollo management techniques have been especially studied.41 

No less crucial has been funding. Over the last 50 years, aside from the 

anomalous Apollo era, NASA’s budget has remained relatively stable at below 

1 percent of the federal budget (see figure 6). Still, NASA leads the world in 

its space budget as a percentage of government spending.42 As with other 

government agencies, and especially because NASA’s reach exceeds its grasp, 

the search for more funding is a never-ending enterprise. Yet, in the case of 

the United States, polls show most of the public is content with this level (see 

figure 7).43 Whether in the next 50 years harsh economic realities drive the 

budget percentage down, or whether international competitive pressures from 

Europe, China, and India drive it up, the budget must remain, for now, one of 

the great unanswered questions of the future Space Age. 

Risk

Finally, it is important to emphasize that both the Age of Discovery and the Age 

of Space had, and will continue to have, their risks and their tragedies. Out of 

five ships and 260 men who departed Spain with Magellan on 20 September 

1519, only one ship and 18 bedraggled men returned in 1522—and Magellan 

(Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 SP-4105,	 1993),	 available	 at	 http://history.nasa.gov/SP-4105/sp4105.htm.	

See	also	John	M.	Logsdon,	moderator,	Legislative Origins of the National Aeronautics and Space Act of 

1958: Proceedings of an Oral History Workshop,	Monographs	in	Aerospace	History,	No.	8	(Washington,	

DC:	 NASA	 History	 Division,	 1998),	 available	 at	 http://www.hq.nasa.gov/office/pao/History/40thann/

legorgns.pdf;	 David	 S.	 Portree,	 NASA’s Origins and the Dawn of the Space Age,	 Monographs	 in	

Aerospace	 History,	 No.	 10	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 History	 Division,	 September	 1998),	 available	 at	

http://www.hq.nasa.gov/office/pao/History/monograph10/;	 and	 Robert	 L.	 Rosholt,	 An Administrative 

History of NASA, 1958–1963	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4101,	1966).	The	National	Aeronautics	and	

Space	Act	of	1958,	as	amended,	with	legislative	history	showing	changes	over	time,	is	available	at	

http://history.nasa.gov/spaceact-legishistory.pdf.

	 41.	 See,	for	example,	Johnson,	Secret of Apollo.

	 42.	 For	the	world	context,	see	Organization	for	Economic	Cooperation	and	Development	(OECD),	The Space 

Economy at a Glance 2007	 (Paris,	 France:	 OECD,	 2007);	 also	Understanding the Space Economy: 

Competition, Cooperation and Commerce	(Oxford,	U.K.:	Oxford	Analytica,	June	2008).	It	is	important	

to	note	that	during	the	earlier	decades	of	the	space	program,	the	U.S.	federal	budget	was	almost	all	

discretionary,	whereas	now	most	of	it	goes	to	entitlements	and	interest	on	the	debt.	So	a	more	proper	

comparison	is	with	today’s	discretionary	budget,	totaling	some	$900	billion,	of	which	NASA’s	budget	of	

$17	billion	is	about	2	percent.

	 43.	 On	public	opinion,	see	William	Sims	Bainbridge,	“The	Impact	of	Space	Exploration	on	Public	Opinions,	

Attitudes	and	Beliefs,”	in	Historical Studies in the Societal Impact of Spaceflight,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	(NASA	

History	Series,	forthcoming);	Deborah	D.	Stine, U.S. Civilian Space Policy and Priorities: Reflections 50 

Years after Sputnik	(Washington,	DC:	Congressional	Research	Service,	3	December	2007),	prepared	for	

members	and	committees	of	Congress,	available	at	http://fas.org/sgp/crs/space/RL34263.pdf.

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was not one of them. In a sense, there is a huge difference between the two 

ages in this regard; while both ages recognized risk, little was done to manage 

risk in the Age of Discovery. By contrast, in the Age of Space, risk is managed 

to the extent that agencies such as NASA, and by association the entire nation, 

are sometimes accused of being risk averse. One of the greatest policy challenges is to find the proper balance between risk and exploration, and this, 

too, should be informed by history. 

One of the greatest lessons of history, emphasized by studies from the 

Augustine Report of 1990 to the Columbia Accident Investigation Board 

Report of 2003, is that risk will always be associated with exploration. The 

Augustine Report conjoined both themes of risk and exploration and the Age 

of Discovery when it opined that “In a very real sense, the space program is 

analogous to the exploration and settlement of the new world. In this view, 

risk and sacrifice are seen to be constant features of the American experience. 

There is a national heritage of risk taking handed down from early explorers, 

immigrants, settlers, and adventurers. It is this element of our National character that is the wellspring of the U. S. space program.”44 At times during the 

last 50 years, that element of willingness to take risk in the space program 

has hung by a thread in the aftermath of searing accidents in both human 

and robotic spaceflight. The easy course after losing both the Mars Climate 

Orbiter and the Mars Polar Lander in 1999, and after losing the second Space 

Shuttle in 2003, would have been to cancel the programs. But despite deep 

personal losses to families, careers, and the American sense of exceptionalism, 

the programs moved ahead. Just as the original Age of Discovery faded, and 

the preeminence of their nation states along with it, there is no guarantee the 

Space Age will not suffer the same fate, despite its literally infinite possibilities.

In summary, both symmetries and asymmetries exist in the general narrative 

arc of the Age of Space and the Age of Discovery, whether in terms of motivation, infrastructure, funding, people, risk, or many other factors not mentioned 

here. The particular conditions were very different, and both ages can only be 

understood in the context of their times. Nevertheless, both ages indisputably 

produced great voyages of discovery, and it is to those voyages we now turn.

	 44.	 Norm	Augustine,	Chair,	Report of the Advisory Committee on the Future of the U.S. Space Program

(Washington,	DC,	December	1990);	 Columbia	Accident	 Investigation	 Board,	Report.	That	risk	 is	the	

constant	companion	of	exploration,	and	that	the	public	needs	to	understand	this,	is	one	of	the	main	

conclusions	of	the	essays	in	Steven	J.	Dick	and	Keith	Cowing,	ed.	Risk and Exploration: Earth, Sea and 

the Stars	(NASA	SP-2005-4701,	2005),	available	via	the	NASA	History	Division	or	at	http://history.nasa.

gov/SP-4701/frontmatter.pdf.

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The Story of the Space Age

Even with its multifaceted and fascinating policy, infrastructure, and engineering aspects, the Age of Space is best characterized not by its conditions, 

but by its results. Space exploration has generated many narratives, but its 

central narrative is simple, straightforward, and profound: a continuous story 

of voyages further and further from the home planet. The Age of Discovery 

began in the 15th century with Portuguese sailors hugging the west coastline 

of Africa, then sailing outward to increasingly distant islands—Madeira in 

the 1420s, the Azores in the 1430s and 1440s, and the Cape Verde islands in 

the 1450s (and a long unsuccessful attempt at the Canary Islands controlled 

by Castile).45 At the end of the century, the Portuguese denied Columbus the 

funding he requested, and it was the Spanish who funded the first plunge 

across the ocean in a remarkable story we all learn in school.46 By about 1650, 

in Parry’s estimation, the Age of Reconnaissance was over, as Africa, Asia, and 

the Americas had become routine destinations.

Unlike the Age of Discovery, which ran its course in about two centuries, 

the Age of Space is a process that has only begun and that potentially has no 

end, but that is nonetheless fundamentally a story of exploration and discovery now played out on an unimaginably vaster scale. Not by accident have 

spacecraft been named Mariner, Voyager, Viking, Ulysses, Challenger, Endeavor, 

and Magellan, hearkening back to that long exploring tradition. The 50-year 

narrative trajectory of spacecraft, ranging from Earth’s atmosphere and Earth 

orbit to the solar system and the universe at large, is full of remarkable discoveries that will echo down the ages and that will someday also be part of 

the standard school curriculum.

The Realm of Earth

The journey begins with atmospheric flight, which takes place within a thin 

skin surrounding Earth to an altitude of a few tens of miles (see figure 8). Like 

	 45.	 Russell,	“Lord	of	the	Isles,”	chap.	4	in	Prince Henry the Navigator;	Parry,	Age of Reconnaissance;	Fritze,	

New Worlds.

	 46.	 Among	the	many	histories	of	this	event,	see	most	recently	Hugh	Thomas,	Rivers of Gold: The Rise of 

the Spanish Empire, from Columbus to Magellan	(New	York,	NY:	Random	House,	2003).

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15th-century coastal navigation in relation to oceanic navigation, aeronautics 

was a preparation, but in this case, for leaving Earth. Aside from its own intrinsic practical value, flight has been essential to spaceflight in numerous ways, 

ranging from supersonics to hypersonics and the Space Shuttle.47 It is therefore 

no surprise that NASA’s technical history has close connections to the history 

of flight (see the aeronautics section of this volume); indeed, the institution 

was built on the foundations of the NACA, dating back to 1915.48 The X-15 

research of the 1960s is legendary, but aeronautics continues to be important 

for spaceflight in ways not usually appreciated by the public (see figure 9).

Voyages to Earth orbit have a special meaning of their own. Climbing Earth’s 

gravitational well put one “half way to anywhere in the solar system,” as science 

fiction writer Robert Heinlein once put it, a necessary step toward more distant 

explorations. But even from Earth orbit, humans and robots saw the planet 

anew and viewed it in unprecedented fashion, whether for reconnaissance, for 

environmental remote sensing, or as “high ground” for providing a means of 

navigation and communication. Each of these programs has its own history of 

technical problems and achievements, though some of the history is better known 

than others, and some is classified.49 Reconnaissance for reasons of national 

security was one of the earliest drivers of the space program, featuring satellites 

from CORONA to the KH series, among others.50 Communications satellites also 

enjoyed early successes with the likes of Telstar, followed by Intelsat and a variety 

of domestic satellite systems.51 And after early successes with weather satellites 

such as TIROS 1, Earth science observation and research from space began to 

	 47.	 See	Erik	M.	Conway,	High-Speed Dreams: NASA and the Technopolitics of Supersonic Transportation, 

1945–1999	 (Baltimore,	 MD:	 Johns	 Hopkins	 University	 Press,	 2005),	 and	 T.	 A.	 Heppenheimer,	

“Hypersonics	and	the	Space	Shuttle,”	in	Facing the Heat Barrier: A History of Hypersonics (Washington,	

DC:	NASA	SP-2007-4232,	2007).

	 48.	 The	 classic	 volumes	 of	 NACA	 history	 are	 Alex	 Roland,	 Model Research: The National Advisory 

Committee for Aeronautics, 1915–1958	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4103,	1985),	two	volumes,	and	

James	R.	Hansen,	Engineer in Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 1917–1958

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4305,	1987).	On	the	relation	of	the	NACA	to	the	founding	of	NASA,	see	

McDougall,	“The	Birth	of	NASA,”	chap.	7	in	.	.	.	The Heavens and the Earth,	pp.	157–176.

	 49.	 For	an	overview,	see	David	J.	Whalen,	“For	All	Mankind:	Societal	Impact	of	Application	Satellites,”	in	

Societal Impact of Spaceflight,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	and	Roger	Launius	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-

4801,	2007),	pp.	288–312.

	 50.	 For	an	entrée	into	this	field,	see	Stephen	B.	Johnson,	“The	History	and	Historiography	of	National	Security	

Space,”	in	Critical Issues,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	481–548,	and	Glenn	Hastedt,	“Reconnaissance	Satellites,	

Intelligence	and	National	Security,”	in	Societal Impact of Spaceflight,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	369–383.

	 51.	 Joseph	N.	Pelton,	“The	History	of	Satellite	Communications,”	in	Exploring the Unknown,	vol.	3,	Using 

Space,	pp.	1–154;	Andrew	J.	Butrica,	ed.,	Beyond the Ionosphere: Fifty Years of Satellite Communication

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4217,	1997),	available	at	http://history.nasa.gov/SP-4217/sp4217.htm.

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find global coherence in NASA’s flagship Earth Observing System, a system of 

satellites that monitors Earth at many wavelengths (see figures 10 and 11).52

For the human spaceflight program, Earth orbit is where humans first learned 

that the human body could function under the harsh conditions of space, including the new experience of weightlessness, as long as they could carry the necessities of life with them in their hermetically sealed spacecraft. It is also where 

they learned to “fly in space,” with Vostok, Voskhod, and Soyuz on the Soviet/

Russian side and Mercury and Gemini on the U.S. side—the indispensable prelude to Apollo (see figures 12 and 13).53 Earth orbit also provided a microgravity 

environment for experiments, both on the Space Shuttle and on space stations 

(see figures 14 and 15). Taken together, and perhaps most importantly, all these 

endeavors provided a new perspective on the home planet. Although still “hugging the coastline” in terms of the analogous maritime history, these endeavors 

were nonetheless voyages of discovery, yielding data on huge issues of great 

practical import, such as global climate change, land use, and meteorology, and 

providing the essential infrastructure for global navigation and communication. 

Important as low-Earth orbit and geosynchronous orbit are for utilitarian 

applications and way station status, it is the voyages beyond Earth that captured 

the public imagination. It is not surprising that we turned first to the nearest 

celestial body, our own Moon—a nearby “island” less than two light-seconds 

away (where light travels at 186,000 miles per second), still gravitationally in 

the realm of Earth. The Luna, Ranger, Surveyor, and Lunar Orbiter spacecraft 

served as the prelude to the piloted Moon landings and gave us the first iconic 

images of the Space Age (see figures 16 and 17).54 Above all are the epic piloted 

	 52.	 For	original	documents	and	accompanying	essays	related	to	Earth	 science	research	from	 space	to	

1997,	see	Pamela	E.	Mack	and	Ray	A.	Williamson,	“Observing	the	Earth	from	Space,”	in	Exploring the 

Unknown,	vol.	3,	Using Space,	pp.	155–384,	and	John	H.	McElroy	and	Ray	A.	Williamson,	“The	Evolution	

of	Earth	Science	Research	from	Space:	NASA’s	Earth	Observing	System,”	in	Exploring the Unknown,	

vol.	6,	Space and Earth Science,	pp.	441–690.	A	succinct	and	up-to-date	overview	is	Andrew	J.	Tatem,	

Scott	J.	Goetz,	and	Simon	I.	Hay,	“Fifty	Years	of	Earth-observation	Satellites,”	American Scientist	96	

(September–October	2008):	390–398,	and	a	beautiful	volume	on	environmental	remote	sensing	from	

space	 of	 Earth’s	 land,	 oceans,	 atmosphere,	 and	 the	 effects	 of	 humans	 is	 Claire	 Parkinson,	 Kim	 C.	

Partington,	and	Robin	G.	Williams,	ed.,	Our Changing Planet: The View from Space	(Cambridge,	U.K.:	

Cambridge	University	Press,	2007).	On	the	development	of	one	particular	system,	see	Pamela	Mack,	

Viewing the Earth: The Social Construction of the Landsat System	(Cambridge,	MA:	MIT	Press,	1990).		

	 53.	 On	project	Mercury,	see	Swenson	et	al.,	This New Ocean,	and	on	project	Gemini,	Barton	C.	Hacker	and	

James	M.	Grimwood,	On the Shoulders of Titans: A History of Project Gemini	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	

SP-4203,	1977).

	 54.	 Cargill	Hall,	Lunar Impact: A History of Project Ranger	(Washington,	DC:	GPO,	1977),	available	at	http://

history.nasa.gov/SP-4210/pages/Cover.htm;	Bruce	K.	Byers,	Destination Moon: A History of the Lunar 

Orbiter Program	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	TM	3487,	1977),	available	at	http://www.hq.nasa.gov/office/

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Exploration, Discovery, and Culture

voyages of the United States that resulted in 12 humans walking on the Moon, a 

feat that many think 500 years from now will be viewed in the same way as we 

now look back on the Age of Discovery. The stories of Neil Armstrong and Buzz 

Aldrin touching down on the Moon in July 1969, followed by 10 others by 1972; 

the harrowing experiences of the ill-fated Apollo 13; the astronauts roving over 

the surface of another world; are seared in memory and will remain monuments 

to ingenuity, the force of geopolitics, and exploration (see figures 18 and 19).55

The achievements of Apollo culminated in 1972, and since then only our 

robotic surrogates have left the vicinity of Earth. A single voyage, or set of voyages, does not make an age, and the jury is still out on whether our descendants 

20 generations from now will view Apollo as a unique set of bold achievements 

or the beginnings of an era of human space exploration. Historian Arthur M. 

Schlesinger, Jr., special assistant to President Kennedy, ventured one opinion 

when he wrote in support of the new Vision for Space Exploration in January 

2004, “It has been almost a third of a century since human beings took a step 

on the Moon—rather as if no intrepid mariner had bothered after 1492 to follow up on Christopher Columbus. Yet 500 years from now (if humans have 

not blown up the planet), the 20th century will be remembered, if at all, as 

the century in which man began the exploration of space.” On the other hand, 

there are some, historians among them, who think the Apollo program was 

time and money misspent and that analogies to Columbus are misplaced. In 

reviewing Andrew Chaikin’s book A Man on the Moon: The Voyages of the Apollo 

Astronauts in the New York Times Review of Books, historian of technology 

Alex Roland called Chaikin’s retelling of the Apollo story “the great American 

legend of the late 20th century,” replete with heroic astronauts and epic tales. 

Eschewing Apollo’s role in exploration, and pointing to the lack of science on 

the missions, he downplayed the significance of the voyages of Apollo.56 More 

perspective is needed; in part, the course of the next 50 years will determine 

pao/History/TM-3487/top.htm;	 NASA	 Office	 of	 Space	 Science	 and	 Applications,	 Surveyor Program 

Results	 (Washington,	 DC:	 NASA	 SP-184,	 1969),	 available	 at	 http://ntrs.nasa.gov/archive/nasa/casi.

ntrs.nasa.gov/19690027073_1969027073.pdf.

	 55.	 Andrew	 Chaikin,	A Man on the Moon: The Voyages of the Apollo Astronauts	 (New	York,	 NY:	Viking	

Penguin,	1994).		

	 56.	 Arthur	M.	Schlesinger,	Jr.,	“State	of	the	‘Vision	Thing,’”	Los Angeles Times	(21	January	2004):	B13,	

available	at	http://www.commondreams.org/views04/0121-06.htm;	Alex	 Roland,	“How	We	Won	the	

Moon,” New York Times,	sec.	7	(17	July	1994):	1.	The	importance	of	the	Apollo	missions	is	one	of	the	

themes	 in	Dick	and	Launius,	eds.,	Societal Impact of Spaceflight	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-

4801,	2007),	esp.	Andrew	Chaikin,	“Live	from	the	Moon:	The	Societal	Impact	of	Apollo,”	pp.	53–66.			

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whether Apollo was a beginning or an ending. In any event, it was only a tiny 

first step into the immensity of space.

The Realm of the Planets

Even as we began lunar exploration, scientists and engineers were looking beyond 

to the realm of the planets (now light-hours away rather than light-seconds for 

the Moon) and the preserve of robotic, rather than piloted, spacecraft.57 In the 

1960s, the Mariner spacecraft took us to the nearest planets, first to Venus in 

1962, revealing an extremely hot planet with a runaway greenhouse effect and 

a dense and weird atmosphere dominated by carbon dioxide and sulfuric acid 

rain. By 1965, it was on to Mars, where Mariner IV imagery revealed a cratered 

surface, a shocking discovery at the time, indicating a dead planet, like the 

Moon, rather than the canalled Mars of Percival Lowell. But by 1972, Mariner 9 

revealed ancient riverbeds and a much more active geological history, reviving 

interest in Mars as an abode of life (see figures 20 and 21). The exploration of 

Mars has been continued by the likes of Viking, Mars Global Surveyor, Mars 

Odyssey, ESA’s Mars Express, the MERs, and Pathfinder and Phoenix. After 

four years, the MERs Spirit and Opportunity still roamed the surface of the Red 

Planet during NASA’s 50th anniversary (see figures 22 through 25).58 Mariner 

10 reached the inner planet Mercury only in 1974, a planet not to be visited 

again until 2008, when the MESSENGER spacecraft produced stunning imagery 

and scientific data from the planet closest to our Sun. Meanwhile, the exploration of the other inner planet, Venus, was continued by the Soviet Venera 

spacecraft, Pioneer Venus, and the ingenious radar mapper aboard Magellan, 

which pierced the thick clouds (see figures 26 and 27).

In what Carl Sagan and others have called the Golden Age of Exploration, in 

the 1970s and 1980s, the Pioneer and Voyager spacecraft took us to Jupiter, Saturn, 

	 57.	 For	general	histories	of	robotic	exploration,	see	Ronald	A.	Schorn,	Planetary Astronomy From Ancient 

Times to the Third Millennium	(College	Station,	TX:	Texas	A&M	University	Press,	1998);	William	Burrows,	

Exploring Space: Voyages in the Solar System and Beyond	(New	York,	NY:	Random	House,	1990);	Robert	

S.	Kraemer,	Beyond the Moon: A Golden Age of Planetary Exploration, 1971–1978	(Washington,	DC:	

Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	2000);	and	Bruce	Murray,	Journey into Space: The First Three Decades 

of Space Exploration	(New	York,	NY:	W.	W.	Norton,	1989).

	 58.	 On	planetary	probes,	see	Asif	Siddiqi,	Deep Space Chronicle: A Chronology of Deep Space and Planetary 

Probes,	Monographs	in	Aerospace	History,	No.	24	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2002-4524,	2002).	On	

the	individual	programs,	see	for	example,	Edward	C.	Ezell	and	Linda	N.	Ezell,	On Mars: Exploration of 

the Red Planet, 1958–1978 (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-4212,	1984).	On	the	MERs,	see	Steve	Squyres,	

Roving Mars: Spirit, Opportunity, and the Exploration of the Red Planet	(New	York,	NY:	Hyperion,	2005).	

On	the	voyages	of	the	1990s,	including	Mars	Global	Surveyor,	see	Laurence	Bergreen,	Voyage to Mars.

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and, in the case of Voyager 2, all the way to Uranus and Neptune at the edge of 

the solar system (see figures 28 to 31).59 Galileo revisited Jupiter and its retinue 

of moons in the 1990s, and Cassini is now exploring Saturn, with its Huygens 

companion having landed on the huge Saturnian moon Titan.60 New Horizons is 

on the way to Pluto, classified in 2006 by the International Astronomical Union 

as a dwarf planet, much to the chagrin of some planetary scientists. Other spacecraft have visited comets (Giotto, Deep Impact) and orbited and even landed on 

an asteroid (NEAR Shoemaker) (see figures 32 and 33).61 Moreover, the Voyager 

spacecraft (renamed the Voyager Interstellar Mission), with their engraved greetings from Earth, are traveling beyond the solar system on their way to the stars.62

In the process of exploring our solar system, fundamental discoveries were 

made. We learned the geological and atmospheric histories of new worlds. We 

found planetary rings to be more common than once thought, though still not 

surpassing those of Saturn. And we discovered an entire retinue of new and unique 

worlds—the planetary satellites (see figures 34 to 37). Whereas when the Space 

Age began, about 30 natural satellites were known, now more than 145 are known 

and named, many of them imaged up close by spacecraft. The new worlds do not 

end there. Since 1995, we have discovered hundreds of new planets beyond the 

solar system, and the Kepler spacecraft, launched in 2009, will doubtless carry 

that number into the thousands; some, perhaps, are worlds like our Earth.

Finally, spacecraft such as Ulysses and SOHO have observed the nearest 

star, our life-giving Sun, returning spectacular images of solar activity and inaugurating the new field of heliophysics (see figure 38). The Sun is our entrée 

into another, more far-reaching realm, the realm of the stars.

	 59.	 Stephen	J.	Pyne,	“A	Third	Great	Age	of	Discovery,”	in	Carl	Sagan	and	Stephen	J.	Pyne,	The Scientific 

and Historical Rationales for Solar System Exploration	(Washington,	DC:	Space	Policy	Institute	[SPI],	SPI	

88-1,	George	Washington	University,	1988),	pp.	13–77;	Henry	C.	Dethloff	and	Ronald	A.	Schorn,	To the 

Outer Planets and Beyond: Voyager’s Grand Tour	(Washington,	DC:	Smithsonian	Institution	Press,	2003).

	 60.	 Michael	Meltzer,	Mission to Jupiter: A History of the Galileo Project (Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-

4231,	2003),	 available	 at	 http://history.nasa.gov/sp4231.pdf.	Michael	Meltzer	 is	 also	working	 on	 a	

book-length	Cassini	history.

	 61.	 The	Web	 site	 for	 SOHO	 is	 available	 at	 http://sohowww.nascom.nasa.gov;	 the	Web	 site	 for	 Ulysses	

is	available	at	http://ulysses.jpl.nasa.gov/;	Howard	McCurdy,	Low-Cost Innovation in Spaceflight: The 

Near Earth Asteroid Rendezvous (NEAR) Shoemaker Mission,	Monographs	in	Aerospace	History,	No.	36	

(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2005-4536,	2005).

	 62.	 NASA,	“Voyager	Interstellar	Mission,”	available	at	http://voyager.jpl.nasa.gov/;	Carl	Sagan,	Frank	Drake,	

Ann	Druyan,	Timothy	Feerris,	Jon	Lomerg,	and	Linda	Salzman	Sagan,	Murmurs of Earth: The Voyager 

Interstellar Record	(New	York,	NY:	Random	House,	1978).	Science	magazine	cover	story	and	special	

section,	 Brooks	 Hanson,	 “Voyager	 1	 Passes	 the	 Termination	 Shock,”	 Science	 309	 (23	 September	

2005):	2015–2029.

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Figures 1 to 4:	Infrastructure	for	the	Age	of	Discovery	and	the	

Age	of	Space.

Figure 1: (Right)	The	already-existing	caravel	was	often	the	

vessel	of	choice	in	the	Age	of	Discovery,	while	rockets	had	to	be	

built	de novo	or	based	on	military	rockets.	(Above)	Symbolizing	

the	Age	of	Discovery	and	the	Age	of	Space,	replicas	of	

Christopher	Columbus’s	sailing	ships	Santa Maria,	Niña,	and	Pinta

sail	by	the	Space	Shuttle	Endeavour	at	KSC’s	Launch	Complex	

39B	awaiting	liftoff	on	its	maiden	voyage	in	1992.	The	Niña	and	

Pinta	were	caravels,	whereas	the	Santa Maria	was	a	merchant	

ship	known	as	a	carrack.	Next	to	the	launchpad	are	the	sound	

suppression	water	system	tower	and	the	liquid	hydrogen	(LH2

)	

storage	tank,	all	part	of	the	complex	infrastructure	of	the	Space	

Age.	NASA JSC Image S92-39077

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Figure 2: The	Apollo	11	Saturn	V	space	vehicle	lifts	off	with	astronauts	Neil	A.	Armstrong,	Michael	Collins,	

and	Edwin	E.	“Buzz”	Aldrin,	Jr.,	at	9:32	a.m.	EDT,	16	July	1969,	from	KSC’s	Launch	Complex	39A.	The	

Saturn	V-Apollo	system	was	the	only	system	capable	of	a	Moon	voyage.	NASA Image 69PC-0447

611
NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 3:	Spaceports	were	also	essential	infrastructure	for	the	Age	of	Space.	This	aerial	view	of	Missile	

Row,	Cape	Canaveral	Air	Force	Station,	was	taken	in	November	1964.	The	view	is	looking	north,	with	the	

VAB	under	construction	in	the	upper	left-hand	corner.	NASA Image 64PC-0082

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Exploration, Discovery, and Culture

Figure 4:	Just	as	the	Age	of	Discovery	charted	new	territory	and	produced	more	accurate	maps,	the	

Space	Age	has	charted	entirely	new	worlds.	Released	on	27	May	1999,	this	topographic	map	of	Mars,	

produced	with	data	from	the	Mars	Global	Surveyor	laser	altimeter,	clearly	shows	the	Tharsis	volcanoes	

in	the	west	(including	Olympus	Mons),	Valles	Marineris	to	the	east	of	Tharsis,	and	Hellas	Basin	in	the	

southern	hemisphere.	North	is	at	top.	NASA/JPL-Caltech/GSFC

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Figure 5:	As	with	the	Age	of	Discovery,	voyagers	were	essential	for	the	Age	of	Space.	Project	Mercury	

astronaut	selection	was	announced	on	9	April	1959,	only	six	months	after	NASA	was	formally	established	

on	1	October	1958.	All	were	military	test	pilots.	This	iconic	image,	taken	at	LaRC,	shows	the	pilots.	In	

the	front	row,	from	left	to	right,	are	Walter	H.	Schirra,	Jr.,	Donald	K.	Slayton,	John	H.	Glenn,	Jr.,	and	

Scott	Carpenter;	in	the	back	row	are	Alan	B.	Shepard,	Jr.,	Virgil	I.	“Gus”	Grissom,	and	L.	Gordon	Cooper.	

Despite	the	iconic	status	of	the	image,	its	precise	date	is	unknown,	but	it	was	taken	by	Ralph	Morse	for	

LIFE	magazine	prior	to	Alan	Shepard’s	suborbital	flight	in	May	1961.	NASA Image 84PC-0022

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0.0 

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1966 1967 1968 1969 1970 1971 1972 1973 1974 

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1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 

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1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 

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NASA Budget as a Percentage of Federal Budget 

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1970 1975 1980 1985 1990 1995 2000 2005 

Percent who Say Funding is...

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Figures 6 and 7:	Funding	as	a	condition	for	the	Space	Age.	(Upper)	NASA’s	budget	over	its	first	50	years	

as	a	percentage	of	federal	discretionary	spending.	Except	for	the	Apollo	bump	at	the	far	left,	the	budget	

has	been	relatively	stable	below	1	percent.	(Lower)	Attitudes	toward	space	program	funding,	1973	to	

2004.	Public	opinion	polls	show	most	of	the	public	is	content	with	the	level	of	NASA	funding.	Courtesy of 

William Simms Bainbridge

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Figures 8 to 19: The realm	of	Earth.

Figure 8: The	thin	skin	of	Earth’s	atmosphere	is	clearly	visible	in	this	image	taken	from	the	Space	Shuttle	

Discovery	during	the	STS-96	mission.	All	of	aeronautics	in	the	20th	century	developed	within	this	thin	

layer	surrounding	Earth.	NASA Image STS096-705-066

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Figure 9: Dryden	pilot	Neil	Armstrong	is	seen	here	next	to	the	X-15	after	a	research	flight.	The	X-15	

was	a	rocket-powered	aircraft	50	feet	long	with	a	wingspan	of	22	feet,	flown	over	a	period	of	nearly	10	

years,	from	June	1959	to	October	1968.	On	22	August	1963,	Joe	Walker	flew	the	X-15	to	354,200	

feet	(67	miles	or	107	kilometers)	to	set	the	world	altitude	record	for	winged	vehicles.	Research	from	the	

X-15	project	was	vital	to	the	design	and	construction	of	the	Space	Shuttle	and	also	contributed	to	the	

development	of	the	Mercury,	Gemini,	and	Apollo	piloted	spaceflight	programs.	The	X-15s	made	a	total	of	

199	flights.	NASA Image E60-6286

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Figure 10:	Images	from	Earth	orbit	have	dramatically	improved	since	TIROS	1	took	this	first	TV	picture	

from	space	on	1	April	1960.	In	1962,	TIROS	satellites	began	continuous	coverage	and	enabled	accurate	

worldwide	weather	forecasts.	NASA

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Figure 11: This	spectacular	“Blue	Marble”	image,	taken	by	the	MODIS	sensor	on	the	Terra	satellite	in	

February	2008,	is	the	most	detailed	true-color	image	of	the	entire	Earth	to	date.	It	was	taken	from	about	700	

kilometers	above	Earth.	Using	a	collection	of	satellite-based	observations,	scientists	and	visualizers	stitched	

together	months	of	observations	of	the	land	surface,	oceans,	sea	ice,	and	clouds	into	a	seamless,	true-color	

mosaic	of	every	square	kilometer	(.386	square	mile)	of	our	planet.	NASA GSFC image by Reto Stöckli (land 

surface, shallow water, and clouds). Enhancements by Robert Simmon (ocean color, compositing, threedimensional globes, and animation). Data and technical support by MODIS Land Group, MODIS Science Data 

Support Team. Many similar Earth images are available at http://visibleearth.nasa.gov/

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Figures 12 and 13: Americans	first	learned	to	fly	in	space	in	the	Mercury	and	Gemini	spacecraft.	(Upper)	

Astronaut	John	Glenn,	Jr.,	enters	Friendship 7	prior	to	launch	on	20	February	1962.	(Lower)	NASA	

successfully	completed	its	first	rendezvous	mission	with	two	spacecraft—Gemini	VII	and	Gemini	VI—in	

December	1965.	This	photograph,	taken	by	Gemini	VII	crewmembers	Frank	Lovell	and	Frank	Borman,	

shows	Gemini	VI	in	orbit	160	miles	(257	kilometers)	above	Earth.	Although	the	principal	objectives	of	

both	missions	differed,	they	were	both	carried	out	so	that	NASA	could	master	the	technical	challenges	of	

getting	into	and	working	in	space.	NASA Images 87PC-0069 (upper) and S65-63221 (lower)

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Figure 14:	The	Space	Shuttle	and	International	Space	Station	inaugurated	advanced	human	activity	in	

Earth	orbit	in	the	wake	of	Russian	success	with	their	space	stations.	A	new	era	in	human	spaceflight	

began	on	12	April	1981	with	the	launch	of	the	first	Space	Shuttle,	mission	STS-1.	This	timed	exposure	of	

the	Shuttle	at	Launch	Pad	A,	Complex	39,	turns	the	space	vehicle	and	support	facilities	into	an	evening	

fantasy	of	light.	The	structures	to	the	left	of	the	Shuttle	are	the	fixed	and	the	rotating	service	structures.	

NASA Image 81PC-0136

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Figure 15:	Backdropped	by	Earth’s	horizon	and	the	blackness	of	space,	the	Space	Station	is	seen	from	

Space	Shuttle	Discovery	as	the	two	spacecraft	separated	during	the	STS-119	mission	in	March	2009.	

During	this,	the	28th	Shuttle	mission	to	the	Space	Station,	the	fourth	set	of	solar	arrays	was	deployed.	

NASA

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Figure 16: Charles	Conrad,	Jr.,	Apollo	12	commander,	examines	the	robotic	Surveyor	III	spacecraft	during	

the	second	extravehicular	activity.	The	Lunar	Module	Intrepid	is	in	the	right-hand	background.	This	picture	

was	taken	by	astronaut	Alan	L.	Bean,	Lunar	Module	pilot.	The	Intrepid	landed	on	the	Moon’s	Ocean	of	

Storms	only	600	feet	from	Surveyor	III.	The	television	camera	and	several	other	components	were	taken	

from	Surveyor	III	and	brought	back	to	Earth	for	scientific	analysis.	Surveyor	III	soft-landed	on	the	Moon	

on	19	April	1967.	From	1966	to	1968,	five	Surveyor	spacecraft	successfully	landed	on	the	Moon	and	two	

crash-landed.	NASA Image AS12-48-7136

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Figure 17: The first view of Earth taken by a spacecraft from the vicinity of the Moon. The photo was

transmitted to Earth by the United States Lunar Orbiter I and received at the NASA tracking station at

Robledo De Chavela near Madrid, Spain. This crescent of Earth was photographed 23 August 1966 at 16:35

GMT, when the spacecraft was on its 16th orbit and just about to pass behind the Moon. In 1966 and 1967,

five Lunar Orbiters returned imagery of 99 percent of the Moon, with a resolution of 60 meters or better.

Lunar Orbiter images have recently been reprocessed at a much higher resolution. NASA Image 67-H-218

Figure 18: Astronaut Edwin E. “Buzz” Aldrin, Jr., Lunar Module pilot, is photographed during the Apollo

11 EVA on the lunar surface Sea of Tranquillity. In the right-hand background is the Lunar Module Eagle.

On Aldrin’s right is the deployed Solar Wind Composition experiment. This photograph was taken by Neil

A. Armstrong with a 70-millimeter lunar surface camera. NASA Image AS11-40-5873

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Figure 19:	Apollo	15	Lunar	Module	pilot	James	B.	Irwin	loads	the	rover	with	tools	and	equipment	in	

preparation	for	the	first	lunar	EVA	at	the	Hadley-Apennine	landing	site.	A	portion	of	the	Lunar	Module	

Falcon	is	on	the	left.	The	undeployed	Laser	Ranging	Retro-Reflector	lies	near	the	Lunar	Module.	Hadley	

Delta	and	the	Apennine	Front	are	in	the	background	to	the	left.	Saint	George	crater	is	approximately	5	

kilometers	(about	3	statute	miles)	in	the	distance	behind	Irwin’s	head.	NASA Image AS15-86-11602

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Figures 20 to 38:	The	realm	of	the	planets.	Mars,	an	object	of	fascination	because	of	its	possibilities	for	

life,	was	the	first	planet	from	which	images	were	returned	by	spacecraft.

Figure 20:	(Upper	left)	This	Mariner	IV	image,	taken	on	15	July	1965	from	a	range	of	13,400	kilometers,	

was	the	second	picture	showing	unambiguous	craters	on	the	surface	of	Mars,	taken	as	an	indication	of	a	

dead	planet.	National Space Science Data Center (NSSDC)

Figure 21:	(Upper	right)	The	Mariner	9	mission	showed	evidence	of	past	water	flow	and	resulted	in	a	

global	mapping	of	the	surface	of	Mars,	including	the	first	detailed	views	of	the	Martian	volcanoes,	Valles	

Marineris,	the	polar	caps,	and	the	satellites	Phobos	and	Deimos.	NASA

Figure 22:	(Lower	left)	In	this	Viking	2	lander	image	taken	on	25	September	1977,	dark	boulders	are	

prominent	against	the	reddish	soil.	The	landing	site,	Utopia	Planitia,	is	a	region	of	fractured	plains.	NASA 

Image 22A158

Figure 23:	(Lower	right)	This	image,	acquired	by	the	Mars	Global	Surveyor	Mars	Orbiter	Camera	(MOC)	in	

May	2000,	shows	numerous	examples	of	Martian	gullies.	These	features	are	located	on	the	south-facing	

wall	of	a	trough	in	the	Gorgonum	Chaos	region,	an	area	found	to	have	many	examples	of	gullies	proposed	

to	have	formed	by	seepage	and	runoff	of	liquid	water	in	recent	Martian	times.	NSSDC

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Figure 24:	The	realm	of	the	planets	(cont.).	Mars	Exploration	Rover	view	from	the	Spirit	spacecraft	at	the	

top	of	Husband	Hill,	23	August	2005.	NASA/JPL/Caltech/Cornell

Figure 25:	This	color	image	was	acquired	by	NASA’s	Phoenix	Mars	Lander’s	Surface	Stereo	Imager	on	

the	20th	day	of	the	mission,	13	June	2008.	White	material,	possibly	ice,	is	located	at	the	upper	portion	of	

the	trench.	The	Phoenix	Mission	is	led	by	the	University	of	Arizona–Tucson,	on	behalf	of	NASA.	NASA/JPL/

Caltech/University of Arizona/Texas A&M University

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figures 26 and 27:	The	realm	of	the	planets	(cont.).	The	inner	planets	

Mercury	and	Venus.

Figure 26: Mariner	10	first	revealed	the	cratered	surface	of	Mercury	in	

1974,	as	shown	in	this	mosaic	of	Mercury	taken	by	the	spacecraft	during	its	

approach	on	29	March.	It	was	three	decades	later	before	the	MESSENGER	

spacecraft	returned	even	more	detailed	images.	NSSDC

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Figure 27:	Following	the	Soviet	Venera	Lander	photos	from	the	surface	on	22	October	1975,	ultraviolet	

views	of	cloud-enshrouded	Venus	were	imaged	by	Pioneer	Venus	Orbiter	on	5	February	1979.	The	

Magellan	spacecraft	later	penetrated	the	clouds	using	radar,	producing	spectacular	images	of	the	

Venusian	surface	from	orbit.	NSSDC

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Figures 28 to 31:	The realm	of	the	planets	(cont.).	Exploration	of	the	outer	solar	system	began	first	with	

the	Pioneer	spacecraft,	followed	by	Voyager	1.

Figure 28:	(Upper	left)	Jupiter’s	Great	Red	Spot	and	its	surroundings	were	imaged	by	Voyager	1	from	a	

distance	of	5.7	million	kilometers,	just	over	a	week	before	its	5	March	1979	closest	approach.	Note	the	

complex	wave	motion	in	the	clouds	to	the	left	of	the	Great	Red	Spot,	which	is	roughly	12,000	kilometers	

from	top	to	bottom	(Voyager	1,	P-21151).	NSSDC

Figure 29:	(Upper	right)	Voyager	1	image	of	Saturn	from	5.3	million	kilometers,	taken	6	November	1980,	

four	days	after	its	closest	approach.	This	perspective	allows	a	view	of	Saturn	looking	back	toward	the	

Sun.	The	shadow	of	Saturn	can	be	seen	on	the	rings,	and	Saturn	can	be	seen	through	the	rings	as	well	

(Voyager	1,	P-23254).	NSSDC

Figure 30: (Lower	left)	Moving	ever	further	away	from	Earth,	these	two	images	of	Uranus	were	taken	

on	17	January	1986	by	Voyager	2	at	a	distance	of	9.1	million	kilometers.	The	picture	on	the	left	is	a	

composite	using	images	from	the	blue,	green,	and	orange	filters	processed	to	approximate	Uranus	as	the	

human	eye	would	see	it.	The	image	on	the	right	was	produced	using	ultraviolet,	violet,	and	orange	filters	

to	exaggerate	the	contrast	(Voyager	2,	P-29478).	NSSDC

Figure 31: (Lower	right)	Voyager	2	image	of	Neptune,	taken	in	August	1989	from	6.1	million	kilometers,	

showing	the	Great	Dark	Spot	and	associated	bright	clouds	and	a	bright	“Scooter”	cloud	to	the	lower	left.	

All	the	features	are	moving	to	the	east	at	different	speeds	with	the	strong	global	winds.	The	Great	Dark	

Spot	is	about	6,000	kilometers	from	top	to	bottom	(Voyager	2,	P-34632).	NSSDC

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Figures 32 and 33: The	realm	of	the	planets	(cont.).

Figure 32:	Comet	Tempel	1	from	the	Deep	Impact	spacecraft.	Arrows	“a”	and	“b”	point	to	large,	smooth	

regions.	The	impact	site	is	indicated	by	the	third	large	arrow.	Small	grouped	arrows	highlight	a	scarp	that	

is	bright	due	to	illumination	angle.	They	show	a	smooth	area	to	be	elevated	above	the	extremely	rough	

terrain.	The	white	scale	bar	in	the	lower	right	represents	1	kilometer	across	the	surface	of	the	comet	

nucleus.	NASA/UM M. F. A’Hearn et al., Science 310, no. 258 (2005)

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Figure 33: NEAR	Shoemaker	took	these	images	of	the	asteroid	Eros	on	16	October	2000,	while	orbiting	

54	kilometers	(34	miles)	above	the	asteroid.	NASA/Johns Hopkins University/Applied Physics Laboratory 

Images 0147090361-0147090659 (upper), 0147067621-0147067625 (middle), and 0147089675-

0147089679 (lower)

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Figures 34 to 37:	The	realm	of	the	planets	(cont.).	Rings	and	satellites.

Figure 34:	Panoramic	view	of	Saturn’s	rings	created	by	combining	a	total	of	165	images	taken	by	

the	Cassini	wide-angle	camera	over	nearly	3	hours	on	15	September	2006.	The	mosaic	images	were	

acquired	as	the	spacecraft	drifted	in	the	darkness	of	Saturn’s	shadow	for	about	12	hours,	allowing	a	

multitude	of	unique	observations	of	the	microscopic	particles	that	compose	Saturn’s	faint	rings.	NASA/

JPL/Space Science Institute

Figure 35: Voyager	2	captured	a	continuous	distribution	of	small	particles	throughout	the	Uranus	ring	

system.	Voyager	took	this	image	while	in	the	shadow	of	Uranus,	at	a	distance	of	236,000	kilometers	

(142,000	miles)	and	a	resolution	of	about	33	kilometers	(20	miles).	NASA/JPL

Figure 36: Jupiter	and	its	four	planet-size	moons,	known	as	the	Galilean	satellites,	were	photographed	

in	early	March	1979	by	Voyager	1	and	assembled	into	this	collage.	They	are	not	to	scale	but	are	in	their	

relative	positions.	Reddish	Io	(upper	left)	is	nearest	Jupiter,	then	Europa	(center),	then	Ganymede	and	

Callisto	(lower	right).	Not	visible	is	Jupiter’s	faint	ring	of	particles,	seen	for	the	first	time	by	Voyager.	NASA/

JPL/Caltech Image 1-149 P-21631 C

Figure 37:	False	color	enhances	the	visibility	of	features	in	this	composite	of	three	images	of	the	Minos	

Linea	region	on	Jupiter’s	moon	Europa	taken	on	28	June	1996	by	the	solid	state	imaging	camera	on	

NASA’s	Galileo	spacecraft.	The	linear	features	are	believed	to	be	cracks	in	the	ice,	beneath	which	is	an	

ocean,	possibly	with	life.	NASA

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Figure 38: A joint project of ESA and NASA, SOHO took this sequence of images with its Extreme

Ultraviolet Imaging Telescope, one of the observatory’s 12 instruments. Easily visible on the lower left

side is an “eruptive prominence” or blob of 60,000°F (33,315°C) gas measuring more than 80,000 miles

(128,747 kilometers) long. When the observatory took the image on 11 February 1996, the blob was

traveling at more than 15,000 mph (24,140 kph). SOHO observed these events during the minimum phase

of the Sun’s 11-year activity cycle. NASA Image 091

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Figures 39 to 41: Realm	of	the	stars.

Figure 39:	Star	birth. This	infrared	image	from	NASA’s	Spitzer	Space	Telescope	shows	the	Orion	Nebula,	

our	closest	massive	star-making	factory,	1,450	light-years	from	Earth.	The	nebula	itself	is	located	on	

the	lower	half	of	the	image,	surrounded	by	a	ring	of	dust.	It	formed	in	a	cold	cloud	of	gas	and	dust	and	

contains	about	1,000	young	stars.	These	stars	illuminate	the	cloud,	creating	the	beautiful	nebulosity,	or	

swirls	of	material,	seen	here	in	infrared.	Stellar	disks	made	of	gas	and	dust	whirl	around	young	suns.	Each	

disk	has	the	potential	to	form	planets	and	its	own	solar	system.	Released	14	August	2006.	NASA/JPLCaltech/T. Megeath (University of Toledo)

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Figure 40:	Stellar	explosion.	The	Crab	Nebula	is	an	expanding	remnant	of	a	star’s	supernova	explosion,	

recorded	by	Japanese	and	Chinese	astronomers	nearly	1,000	years	ago	in	1054.	This	composite	image	

uses	data	from	three	of	NASA’s	Great	Observatories.	The	Chandra	X-ray	image	is	shown	in	light	blue;	the	

Hubble	Space	Telescope	optical	images	are	in	green	and	dark	blue;	and	the	Spitzer	Space	Telescope’s	

infrared	image	is	in	red.	The	neutron	star,	which	has	the	mass	equivalent	to	the	Sun	crammed	into	a	

rapidly	spinning	ball	of	neutrons	12	miles	across,	is	the	bright	white	dot	in	the	center	of	the	image.	NASA, 

ESA, Chandra X-ray Observatory, JPL-Caltech, J. Hester and A. Loll (Arizona State University), R. Gehrz 

(University of Minnesota), and Space Telescope Science Institute (STScI)

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Figure 41:	Star	death.	The	so-called	Cat’s	Eye	Nebula	is	one	of	the	most	complex	such	nebulae	seen	

in	space.	A	planetary	nebula	forms	when	Sun-like	stars	gently	eject	their	outer	gaseous	layers	that	

form	bright	nebulae	with	amazing	and	confounding	shapes.	This	image,	taken	with	the	Hubble	Space	

Telescope’s	Advanced	Camera	for	Surveys	(ACS),	reveals	the	full	beauty	of	a	bull’s	eye	pattern	of	11	or	

even	more	concentric	rings,	or	shells,	around	the	Cat’s	Eye.	Each	“ring”	is	actually	the	edge	of	a	spherical	

bubble.	These	concentric	shells	make	a	layered,	onionskin	structure	around	the	dying	star.	NASA, ESA, 

Hubble European Space Agency Information Centre (HEIC), and the Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA), as 

well as R. Corradi (Isaac Newton Group of Telescopes, Spain) and Z. Tsvetanov (NASA)

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Figure 42:	Realm	of	the	galaxies.	When	this	image	was	released	on	15	January	1996,	it	was	the	“deepestever”	view	of	the	universe,	called	the	Hubble	Deep	Field	because	it	was	made	with	NASA’s	Hubble	Space	

Telescope.	Almost	every	image	on	this	photograph,	which	covers	a	speck	of	sky	only	1/30	the	diameter	

of	the	full	Moon,	is	a	galaxy.	Besides	the	classical	spiral-	and	elliptical-shaped	galaxies,	a	variety	of	other	

galaxy	shapes	and	colors	provide	important	clues	to	understanding	the	evolution	of	the	universe.	Some	of	

the	galaxies	may	have	formed	less	than	one	billion	years	after	the	Big	Bang.	The	image	was	assembled	from	

many	separate	exposures	with	the	Wide	Field	Planetary	Camera	2,	for	10	consecutive	days	from	18	to	28	

December	1995.	Other	Hubble	Deep	Field	images	have	been	released	since	this	time.	Robert Williams and 

the Hubble Deep Field Team (STScI) and NASA Image STScI-PRC96-01a

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Figures 43 and 44: Realm	of	the	galaxies	(cont.).

Figure 43:	Cosmic	background	radiation	data	from	the	Cosmic	Background	Explorer	(COBE)	during	

its	first	two	years	of	operation.	The	cosmic	microwave	background	fluctuations	are	extremely	faint	(red	

is	hotter),	only	1	part	in	100,000	in	the	2.73	K	average	temperature	of	the	radiation	field.	The	cosmic	

microwave	background	radiation	is	a	remnant	of	the	Big	Bang,	and	the	fluctuations	are	the	imprint	of	

density	contrast	in	the	early	universe.	The	density	ripples	are	believed	to	have	given	rise	to	the	structures	

that	populate	the	universe	today:	clusters	of	galaxies	and	vast	regions	devoid	of	galaxies.	NASA/DMR/

COBE Science Team

Figure 44:	Where	COBE	measured	temperature	variations	to	1	part	in	100,000,	15	years	later,	the	

Wilkinson	Microwave	Anisotropy	Probe	(WMAP)	spacecraft	measured	those	variations	to	less	than	1	part	

in	1,000,000.	This	image	shows	a	temperature	range	of	±	200	micro-K.	NASA/WMAP Science Team

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figures 45 to 48: The	opening	of	the	electromagnetic	spectrum.	Space	telescopes	have	opened	the	

electromagnetic	spectrum	for	space	observations,	ranging	from	the	visible	and	infrared	wavelengths	to	the	

ultraviolet,	x-ray,	and	gamma-ray	regime.

Figure 45:	(Upper	left)	The	Eagle	Nebula	is	a	Hubble	Space	Telescope	image	in	the	visible	portion	of	the	

spectrum,	showing	“pillars	of	creation”	in	a	star-forming	region.	These	eerie,	dark,	pillar-like	structures	

are	columns	of	cool	interstellar	hydrogen	gas	and	dust	that	are	also	incubators	for	new	stars.	The	image	

was	taken	on	1	April	1995.	Jeff Hester and Paul Scowen (Arizona State University) and NASA Image STScIPRC95-44a

Figure 46:	(Upper	right)	Comparison	of	images	of	the	galaxy	M	51,	taken	in	visible	light	by	the	Kitt	

Peak	National	Observatory	2.1-meter	telescope	on	the	left,	and	in	the	infrared	by	NASA’s	Spitzer	Space	

Telescope	on	the	right.	M	51	is	37	million	light-years	away.	NASA/JPL-Caltech/R. Kennicutt (University of 

Arizona)

Figure 47: (Lower	left)	The	Chandra	X-ray	Observatory	images	in	this	collage	were	made	over	a	span	of	

several	months	(ordered	left	to	right,	except	for	the	close-up).	They	provide	a	stunning	view	of	the	activity	

in	the	inner	region	around	the	Crab	Nebula	pulsar,	a	rapidly	rotating	neutron	star	seen	as	a	bright	white	

dot	near	the	center	of	the	images.	Compare	to	the	image	in	figure	40.	NASA/CXC/ASU/J. Hester et al.

Figure 48: (Lower	right)	This	view	from	NASA’s	Fermi	Gamma-ray	Space	Telescope	is	the	deepest	and	

best-resolved	portrait	of	the	gamma-ray	sky	to	date.	The	image	shows	how	the	sky	appears	at	energies	

more	than	150	million	times	greater	than	that	of	visible	light.	Among	the	bright	pulsars	and	active	galaxies	

labeled	here	is	a	faint	path	traced	by	the	Sun.	NASA/DOE/Fermi LAT Collaboration

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Figure 49:	Cosmic	evolution	is	depicted	in	this	image	from	the	exobiology	program	at	NASA	Ames	

Research	Center,	1986.	(Upper	left)	The	formation	of	stars,	the	production	of	heavy	elements,	and	the	

formation	of	planetary	systems,	including	our	own.	(Left)	Prebiotic	molecules,	RNA,	and	DNA	are	formed	

within	the	first	billion	years	on	primitive	Earth.	(Center)	The	origin	and	evolution	of	life	leads	to	increasing	

complexity,	culminating	with	intelligence,	technology,	and	astronomers	(upper	right)	contemplating	the	

universe.	The	image	was	created	by	David	DesMarais,	Thomas	Scattergood,	and	Linda	Jahnke	at	NASA	

Ames	Research	Center	in	1986	and	reissued	in	1997.	NASA

Figure 50: A	representation	of	the	evolution	of	the	universe	over	13.7	billion	years.	The	far	left	depicts	the	

earliest	moment	we	can	now	probe,	when	a	period	of	“inflation”	produced	a	burst	of	exponential	growth	in	

the	universe.	(Size	is	depicted	by	the	vertical	extent	of	the	grid	in	this	graphic.)	For	the	next	several	billion	

years,	the	expansion	of	the	universe	gradually	slowed	down	as	the	matter	in	the	universe	pulled	on	itself	

via	gravity.	More	recently,	the	expansion	has	begun	to	speed	up	again	as	the	repulsive	effects	of	dark	

energy	have	come	to	dominate	the	expansion	of	the	universe.	The	afterglow	light	seen	by	WMAP	was	

emitted	about	380,000	years	after	inflation	and	has	traversed	the	universe	largely	unimpeded	since	then.	

The	conditions	of	earlier	times	are	imprinted	on	this	light;	it	also	forms	a	backlight	for	later	developments	

of	the	universe.	NASA/WMAP Science Team

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 51:	Content	of	the	universe. Data	from WMAP	reveal	that	the	content	of	the	universe	includes	

only	4.6	percent	atoms,	the	building	blocks	of	stars	and	planets.	Dark	matter	comprises	23	percent	of	

the	universe.	This	matter,	different	from	atoms,	does	not	emit	or	absorb	light.	It	has	only	been	detected	

indirectly	by	its	gravity.	“Dark	energy,”	which	acts	as	a	sort	of	antigravity,	composes	72	percent	of	the	

universe.	This	energy,	distinct	from	dark	matter,	is	responsible	for	the	present-day	acceleration	of	the	

universal	expansion.	Data	from	WMAP	are	accurate	to	two	digits,	so	the	total	of	these	numbers	is	not	100	

percent.	This	reflects	the	current	limits	of	WMAP’s	ability	to	define	dark	matter	and	dark	energy. NASA/

WMAP Science Team

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Figures 52 and 53:	Societal	impact	of	spaceflight:	seeing	Earth	from	space.

Figure 52: This	view	of	the	rising	Earth	greeted	the	Apollo	8	astronauts	as	they	came	from	behind	the	

Moon	after	the	lunar	orbit	insertion	burn	in	December	1968.	The	photo	is	displayed	here	in	its	original	

orientation,	though	it	is	more	commonly	viewed	with	the	lunar	surface	at	the	bottom	of	the	photo.	Earth	

is	about	five	degrees	left	of	the	horizon	in	the	photo.	The	surface	features	on	the	left	are	near	the	eastern	

limb	of	the	Moon	as	viewed	from	Earth.	The	lunar	horizon	is	approximately	780	kilometers	from	the	

spacecraft.	NASA Image 68-HC-870

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Figure 53:	The	classic	“Blue	Marble”	view	of	Earth	was	captured	by	the	Apollo	17	crew	traveling	toward	

the	Moon	on	7	December	1972.	The	photograph	extends	from	the	Mediterranean	Sea	area	to	the	

Antarctica	south	polar	ice	cap.	Heavy	cloud	covers	the	Southern	Hemisphere.	Almost	the	entire	coastline	

of	Africa	is	clearly	visible.	The	Arabian	Peninsula	can	be	seen	at	the	northeastern	edge	of	Africa.	The	large	

island	off	the	coast	of	Africa	is	the	Malagasy	Republic.	The	Asian	mainland	is	on	the	horizon	toward	the	

northeast.	NASA/JSC Image AS17-148-22727

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The Realm of the Stars and Galaxies

Beyond the realm of the planets, we pass from the regime of light-minutes 

and light-hours to the realm of the stars—light-years to tens of thousands 

of light-years distant in our own Milky Way Galaxy, and then to the realm 

of the galaxies millions or billions of light-years distant. Space telescopes in 

Earth orbit, or its vicinity, have taken us only vicariously on voyages beyond 

the solar system. Those sensors that have pointed upward rather than downward—after a prelude of pioneering observatories, such as the OAOs and the 

Infrared Astronomical Satellite (IRAS); the “Great Observatories” including the 

Hubble Space Telescope, Spitzer, Compton, and Chandra; as well as the Fermi 

Gamma Ray Telescope—have probed the depths of the universe and produced 

stunning images and pioneering data of star birth such as the Orion Nebula, 

stellar explosions like the Crab Nebula, and star death, visible in a stunning 

array of planetary nebulae (see figures 39 to 41). Their images and data gave a 

sense of reality to the various phases of cosmic evolution, proving that robotic 

spacecraft results can also capture the public imagination.63

In the realm of the galaxies, the Hubble Space Telescope played a key role 

in discovering “dark energy” and the apparent acceleration of the expansion rate 

of the universe. It narrowed the age of the universe to 13 to 14 billion years, an 

accuracy of about 10 percent. The Hubble Deep Fields provided snapshots of the 

early universe within a few hundred million years of the Big Bang. Two spacecraft, 

COBE and WMAP, studied the details of the background radiation remaining 

from the Big Bang, pinpointed the age of the universe to 13.7 billion years (plus 

or minus 100 million years), and detected the seeds from which galaxies grew, a 

result that yielded NASA’s only Nobel Prize winner.64 As we once mapped Earth 

in the wake of the Age of Discovery, we are now mapping the heavens, both in 

space and time and in the entire range of the spectrum (see figures 42 to 44).

	 63.	 On	these	programs,	see	especially	Robert	Smith	et	al.,	The Space Telescope: A Study of NASA, Science, 

Technology, and Politics	(Cambridge,	U.K.,	and	New	York,	NY:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1989,	2nd	

edition	with	new	introduction,	1993);	Robert	Zimmerman, The Universe in a Mirror: The Saga of the 

Hubble Space Telescope and the Visionaries Who Built It	 (Princeton,	 NJ:	Princeton	 University	Press,	

2008);	David	DeVorkin	and	Robert	Smith,	Hubble: Imaging Space and Time	(Washington,	DC:	National	

Geographic,	 2008);	Wallace	 Tucker	 and	 Karen	 Tucker,	 Revealing the Universe: The Making of the 

Chandra X-Ray Observatory	(Cambridge,	MA:	Harvard	University	Press,	2001);	and	George	Rieke,	The 

Last of the Great Observatories: Spitzer and the Era of Faster, Better, Cheaper at NASA	(Tucson,	AZ:	

University	of	Arizona	Press,	2006).

	 64.	 John	Mather,	The Very First Light: The True Inside Story of the Scientific Journey Back to the Dawn of 

the Universe	(New	York,	NY:	Basic	Books,	1998);	George	Smoot	and	Keay	Davidson,	Wrinkles in Time

(New	York,	NY:	William	Morrow	and	Company,	1993).

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Three main themes emerge from this master narrative of Space Age voyaging. First, science has benefited tremendously from the journey into space. 

The Earth Observing System and its predecessors have brought unprecedented 

knowledge of our home planet. The lunar probes and the Apollo program 

(though often maligned for its scientific return) have returned data not only 

important for its science, but also crucial to human settlements that will 

undoubtedly come in the future.65 In the realms of the planets, stars, and 

galaxies, we have added infinite detail to a story previously grasped only 

through ground-based telescopes, which, fantastic as they have become with 

adaptive optics and other stunning innovations, must still peer through the 

Earth’s atmosphere, as through a glass darkly. By making the universe a real 

place filled with a bestiary of fantastic but scientifically comprehensible 

objects, space exploration has provided almost infinite space for free reign 

of the human imagination.

Secondly, although prior to the Space Age we learned much from 350 

years of ground-based telescopic observations, in carrying out their missions, 

space telescopes during the last 50 years have opened the electromagnetic 

spectrum for astronomy in a way that could, by definition, not have been 

done from Earth, revealing the relatively calm sights of the infrared to the 

extreme violence of the x- and gamma-ray universe. The discoveries of 

Spitzer and its predecessors (especially IRAS) in the infrared; of International 

Ultraviolet Explorer (IUE), Far Ultraviolet Spectroscopic Explorer (FUSE), 

and Galaxy Evolution Explorer (GALEX) in the ultraviolet; of Chandra and 

its predecessors (the High-Energy Astronomical Observatory [HEAO] series, 

X-ray Multi-Mirror Mission [XMM]-Newton, Rossi, and Röntgen Satellite

[ROSAT]) in the x ray; and of Compton, Swift, and Fermi in the gamma ray, 

reveal a universe totally unknown when the Space Age began. Along with 

ground-based optical, infrared, and radio wavelength observations, the next 

	 65.	 Aside	 from	 its	 geopolitical	 goals,	 and	 despite	 the	 clear	 backseat	 status	 of	 science,	 a	 considerable	

amount	of	science	was,	in	fact,	returned	from	the	Moon.	As	Donald	Beattie	has	described	in	his	book	

Taking Science to the Moon: Lunar Experiments and the Apollo Program (Baltimore,	MD,	and	London,	

U.K.:	Johns	Hopkins	University	Press,	2001),	almost	5,000	pounds	of	experimental	equipment	was	

landed	on	the	Moon,	 including	ALSEP	on	each	of	the	 last	five	Apollo	missions.	Eight	hundred	forty	

pounds	 of	 lunar	material	was	returned	 and	 analyzed.	 On	foot	 or	 in	the	 lunar	rover,	65	miles	were	

traversed	 in	 support	 of	 field	 geology	 and	 geophysical	 studies.	 And	 during	 the	 last	 three	 missions,	

detailed	data	were	collected	from	the	orbiting	Command	and	Service	Modules.	The	overall	result	is	

a	much	better	understanding	of	the	nature	and	origin	of	the	Moon	and	its	relation	to	Earth.	The	top	

10	science	discoveries	from	the	Apollo	missions,	as	ranked	by	the	office	of	the	curator	for	planetary	

materials	at	NASA’s	JSC,	are	available	at	http://www.lpi.usra.edu/expmoon/science/lunar10.html.

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Exploration, Discovery, and Culture

50 years will see new discoveries with a range of new spacecraft spanning 

the entire electromagnetic spectrum (see figures 45 to 48).

Thirdly, along with stunning advances in ground-based astronomy, the 

Space Age has, for the first time, revealed our place in cosmic evolution in general through its spacecraft and more particularly through NASA’s Origins and 

Astrobiology programs and similar programs in other space agencies around 

the world. Though cosmic evolution is an idea that dates back at least a century, it has been taken seriously only in the last 50 years—not coincidentally, 

the same length of time as the Space Age.66 To a large extent, space science 

since that time has filled in the epic of cosmic evolution in increasing detail, 

revealing for the first time in detail our real place in the universe. And it has 

revealed that the visible universe represents less than 5 percent of the content 

of the universe, the remainder constituted by dark matter and dark energy. 

That 95 percent of the universe remains to be explored (see figures 49 to 51).

The Impact of the Space Age

It was recognized early in the Space Age that access to outer space would affect 

society. NASA’s founding document, the National Aeronautics and Space Act of 

1958, specifically charged the new agency with eight objectives, including “the 

establishment of long-range studies of the potential benefits to be gained from, 

the opportunities for, and the problems involved in the utilization of aeronautical 

and space activities for peaceful and scientific purposes.”67 Despite a few early 

studies,68 the mandate to study the societal impact of spaceflight went largely 

	 66.	 On	scientific	aspects	of	cosmic	evolution,	see	Eric	Chaisson,	Cosmic Evolution: The Rise of Complexity 

in Nature	 (Cambridge,	MA:	 Harvard	 University	 Press,	 2001).	 In	 1958,	 Harlow	 Shapley,	 the	 Harvard	

College	Observatory	director,	wrote	his	popular	book	Of Stars and Men	(Boston,	MA:	Beacon	Press,	

1958),	beginning	the	modern	career	of	the	idea	of	cosmic	evolution.	For	the	further	history	of	the	idea,	

see	Steven	J.	Dick,	“Cosmic	Evolution:	History,	Culture	and	Human	Destiny,”	in	Cosmos and Culture: 

Cultural Evolution in a Cosmic Context,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	and	Mark	Lupisella	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	

SP-2009-4802,	2009).		

	 67.	 The	 National	Aeronautics	 and	Space	Act	 and	 its	 complete	 legislative	history	 are	 available	 at	http://

www.hq.nasa.gov/office/pao/History/spaceact-legishistory.pdf.	The	passage	quoted	here	is	on	page	6.	

Although	the	Space	Act	has	been	often	amended,	this	provision	has	never	changed.

	 68.	 In	addition	to	The Railroad and the Space Program,	there	have	been	sporadic	studies	of	the	societal	

impact	of	 spaceflight.	On	the	occasion	of	the	60th	anniversary	of	the	 British	 Interplanetary	Society,	

NASA	was	heavily	involved	in	a	special	issue	of	its	journal	devoted	to	the	impact	of	space	on	culture:	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

unfulfilled as NASA concentrated on the many opportunities and technical 

problems of spaceflight itself. Only recently has NASA made a serious attempt 

to examine, with historical objectivity, the broad impact of the Space Age.69

Once again, because of the symmetry of the narrative arc, studies of the 

impact of the Age of Discovery offer a framework for analysis. The impacts of 

the Age of Discovery were complex and bidirectional, encompassing sometimes 

disastrous effects on the New World and not always positive effects on the Old 

World. This suggests that not all impacts of spaceflight may be good, though 

we must at the outset take into account that the often insidious effects of culture contact are unlikely to be a factor in space exploration in the near term. 

Moreover, the eminent historian J. H. Elliott has delineated three components 

in the impact of the New World on the Old: intellectual (challenging European 

assumptions about geography, theology, history, and the nature of man), economic (as an extension of European business and a source of produce), and 

political (affecting the balance of power).70 These broad categories also apply 

to the Space Age, some in the short term and others in the long term. 

Intellectual Impact

Perhaps the most profound, and as yet largely unrealized, effect of the Space 

Age is the intellectual impact. As the story of the Space Age demonstrates, the 

science returned from spaceborne instruments over the last 50 years has been 

truly transformational, most immediately for scientists, but also for our general 

British	Interplanetary	Society,	“The	Impact	of	Space	on	Culture,”	Journal of the British Interplanetary 

Society	46,	no.	11	(1993).	 In	1994,	the	Mission	from	Planet	Earth	program	 in	the	Office	of	Space	

Science	at	NASA	sponsored	a	symposium	entitled	“What	Is	the	Value	of	Space	Exploration?”	18–19	July	

1994,	NASA	Historical	Reference	Collection,	NASA	History	Division,	NASA	Headquarters,	Washington,	

DC.	More	recently,	in	2005,	the	International	Academy	of	Astronautics	(IAA),	which	has	a	commission	

devoted	to	 space	and	 society,	 sponsored	the	first	 international	conference	on	 space	and	 society	 in	

Budapest,	 Hungary	 (IAA,	 2005).	 The	 meeting	 agenda	 is	 available	 at	 http://www.iaaweb.org/iaa/

Publications/budapest2005fp.pdf.	The	IAA	and	ESA	jointly	sponsored	a	study	published	as	The Impact 

of Space Activities upon Society,	in	which	well-known	players	on	the	world	scene	briefly	discussed	their	

ideas	of	societal	impact,	ranging	from	the	practical	to	the	inspirational	(ESA	BR-237,	2005).

	 69.	 Dick	and	Launius,	eds.,	Societal Impact of Spaceflight	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2007-4801,	2007).	

The	NASA	History	Division	also	has	commissioned	a	series	of	specific	studies	on	the	societal	impact	of	

spaceflight,	Historical	Studies	in	the	Societal	Impact	of	Spaceflight,	to	appear	in	the	NASA	History	series.	

Cosmos and Culture: Cultural Evolution in a Cosmic Context	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2009-4802,	

2009)	has	also	appeared	in	NASA’s	Societal	Impact	series.

	 70.	 For	the	impact	of	the	European	discovery	of	America	on	Europe,	see	J.	H.	Elliott,	The Old World and the 

New, 1492–1650	(Cambridge,	U.K.:	Cambridge	University	Press,	1970).	For	the	longer-term	impact	on	

the	Americas,	see	J.	H.	Elliott,	Empires of the Atlantic World: Britain and Spain in America, 1492–1830

(New	Haven,	CT:	Yale	University	Press,	2006).

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worldview. Although not everyone has yet absorbed the impact, that worldview 

has been altered or completely transformed by the images of “Earthrise” and 

the “Blue Marble” from space, with consequences that have affected, or will 

eventually affect, philosophy, theology, and the view of our place in nature (see 

figures 52 and 53). In Rocket Dreams: How the Space Age Shaped Our Vision of 

a World Beyond, Marina Benjamin argues that “The impact of seeing the Earth 

from space focused our energies on the home planet in unprecedented ways, 

dramatically affecting our relationship to the natural world and our appreciation of the greater community of mankind, and prompting a revolution in our 

understanding of the Earth as a living system.”71 She finds it no coincidence 

that the first Earth Day on 20 April 1970 occurred in the midst of the Apollo 

program, or that one of the astronauts developed a new school of spiritualism.72

More broadly, the same master narrative of cosmic evolution that over the 

last 50 years has shown us our true place in the universe has also spread to 

many areas of society, from history and education to religion and theology

(see figures 51 and 52). Some historians have begun a movement toward “Big 

History,” in which the usual political, social, and economic factors of human 

history are fully integrated and analyzed in the context of the billions of years 

of cosmic evolution it took to arrive at Homo sapiens.

73 Some educators have 

integrated cosmic evolution into the standard school curriculum with the same 

goal of perspective.74 And some theologians have even called cosmic evolution 

“Genesis for the Third Millennium.”75 Cosmic evolution is the ultimate master 

	 71.	 Marina	Benjamin,	Rocket Dreams: How the Space Age Shaped Our Vision of a World Beyond	(New	

York,	NY:	Free	Press,	2003).	For	the	full	story	of	the	first	Earth	images	from	space,	see	Robert	Poole,	

Earthrise: How Man First Saw the Earth	(New	Haven,	CT,	and	London,	U.K.:	Yale	University	Press,	2008).

	 72.	 On	NASA	and	the	environmental	movement,	see	William	H.	Lambright,	“NASA	and	the	Environment:	

Science	in	a	Political	Context,”	in	Societal Impact,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	313–330;	also	William	H.	

Lambright,	NASA and the Environment: The Case of Ozone Depletion	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2005-

4538,	2005).

	 73.	 David	Christian,	“Maps	of	Time”:	An	Introduction	to	“Big	History”	(Berkeley,	CA:	University	of	California	

Press,	2004);	Fred	Spier, The Structure of Big History: From the Big Bang Until Today	(Amsterdam,	

Netherlands:	Amsterdam	University	Press,	1996);	and	most	recently,	Cynthia	Stokes	Brown,	Big History: 

From the Big Bang to the Present	(New	York,	NY:	New	Press,	2007).		

	 74.	 One	 curriculum,	 developed	 by	 the	 SETI	 Institute,	 the	 California	Academy	 of	 Sciences,	 NASA	Ames	

Research	 Center,	 and	 San	 Francisco	 State	 University,	 is	 available	 on	 CD-ROM.	 This	 and	 other	

educational	 curricula	 are	 described	 and	 available	 at	 http://www.seti.org/epo/litu-curriculum/. The	

Wright	Center	program	on	cosmic	evolution,	directed	by	Eric	Chaisson,	is	available	at	http://www.tufts.

edu/as/wright_center/cosmic_evolution/docs/splash.html.

	 75.	 Arthur	Peacocke,	“The	Challenge	and	Stimulus	of	the	Epic	of	Evolution	to	Theology,”	in	Many Worlds: 

The New Universe, Extraterrestrial Life and the Theological Implications,	ed.	Steven	J.	Dick	(Philadelphia,	

PA,	and	London,	U.K.:	Templeton	Foundation	Press,	2000),	pp.	89–117.	Theological	aspects	of	cosmic	

evolution	are	also	discussed	in	Ursula	Goodenough,	The Sacred Depths of Nature	(Oxford,	U.K.,	and	

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NASA’s First 50 Years

narrative within which the future of humanity will be played out. The discovery of our place in the universe made possible by studies of cosmic evolution and the search for extraterrestrial life, and the embodiment of these and 

other themes in literature and the arts, is surely an important effect of space 

exploration not yet fully realized. Exploration shapes world views and changes 

cultures in unexpected ways, and so does lack of exploration. The full extent 

of the intellectual impact of the Space Age remains to be seen.

Economic Impact

The economic impact of spaceflight has been considerable, but it has only 

begun to be felt. That impact ranges from a far-reaching aerospace industry 

at one end of the spectrum to the famous (and sometimes literally legendary) 

“spinoffs” at the other end; it is a part of national and international political 

economy; and it has sometimes measurable, but often elusive, effects on daily 

life and commerce. Recent rigorous historical studies suggest the scope of the 

impact of the Space Age, while emphasizing the complexity and richness of 

this topic.76

Economic impact is also closely related to applications satellites. We 

now take for granted photographs of weather and Earth resources data from 

space, as well as navigation and worldwide communications made possible 

by satellite. Along with human and robotic missions, the late 20th century 

will be remembered collectively as the time when humans not only saw Earth 

as a fragile planet against the backdrop of space, but also utilized near-Earth 

space to study the planet’s resources, to provide essential information about 

weather, and to provide means for navigation that both were life-saving and 

had enormous economic implications. Worldwide satellite communications 

brought the world closer together, a factor difficult to estimate from a costNew	York,	NY:	Oxford	University	Press,	1998)	and	Michael	Dowd,	Thank God for Evolution: How the 

Marriage of Science and Religion Will Transform Your Life and Our World (New	York,	NY:	Viking,	2007).	

On	the	more	general	societal	impact	of	cosmic	evolution,	see	Dick	and	Lupisella,	eds.,	Cosmos and 

Culture: Cultural Evolution in a Cosmic Context	(Washington,	DC:	NASA	SP-2009-4802,	2009).	The	

modern	 career	 of	 the	 concept	 of	 cosmic	 evolution	 began	 with	 Harlow	 Shapley,	Of Stars and Men: 

The Human Response to an Expanding Universe	(Boston,	MA:	Beacon	Press,	1958);	Shapley’s	role	in	

spreading	that	idea	into	broader	society	is	discussed	in	JoAnn	Palmeri,	“Bringing	Cosmos	to	Culture:	

Harlow	Shapley	and	the	Uses	of	Cosmic	Evolution,”	in Cosmos and Culture,	ed.	Dick	and	Lupisella.		

	 76.	 On	the	economic	impact	of	spaceflight,	see	the	“Commercial	and	Economic	Impact”	section	of	Dick	and	

Launius,	eds.,	Societal Impact,	pp.	212–266.	Measuring	economic	impact	is	never	easy,	but	see	Henry	

R.	Hertzfeld,	“Space	as	an	Investment	in	Economic	Growth,”	in	Exploring the Unknown,	ed.	Logsdon,	vol.	

3,	Using Space,	pp.	385–402	and	the	following	documents.

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benefit analysis. Names like Landsat, Geostationary Operational Environmental 

Satellites (GOES), Intelsat, and GPS may not be household words (though the 

latter is now becoming one), but they affect humanity in significant ways not 

always appreciated.77

Applications satellites are, in turn, inseparable from environmental issues 

and national security. Imaging Earth from space and global space surveillance have played an arguably central role in the increasingly heated debate 

over global climate change and altered the manner in which national security 

issues are understood and interpreted. Despite political and economic hurdles, 

monitoring our home planet is likely to be an important and sustained space 

activity over the next 50 years, with concomitant impact on society.78

The greatest economic potential will come after space travel becomes 

cheaper, opening up new resources on the Moon and in the solar system. There 

has been no lack of specific proposals for exploiting such resources, especially 

with regard to the Moon. Senator Harrison Schmitt, the only scientist to fly in 

the Apollo program (Apollo 17), has argued that the Moon is a resource for 

the clean generation of fusion energy and for the mining and processing of 

materials; he also has argued that the Moon is a logical outpost from which 

more cost-effective exploration of the solar system can take place. For decades, 

some visionaries have proposed schemes for harnessing solar power, mining 

asteroids, and exploiting other resources of the solar system. In the far future, 

some have even proposed large-scale astroengineering projects, such as the 

Dyson spheres that astronomers have searched for as evidence of advanced 

extraterrestrial civilizations. While such proposals have been criticized as being 

impractical, pie-in-the-sky, and in the long-term future, history shows that it is 

likely only a matter of time before some of them become realities.79

The economic impact of the Space Age has been real and significant in 

certain segments of society over the last 50 years, but it is only a taste of things 

to come. In a democratic free-market society, once outer space becomes eco-

	 77.	 Henry	Hertzfeld	and	Ray	A.	Williamson,	“The	Social	and	Economic	Impact	of	Earth	Observing	Satellites,”	

in Societal Impact of Spaceflight,	 pp.	 237–266,	 and	 section	 IV	 of	 the	 same	 volume,	 “Applications	

Satellites,	the	Environment,	and	National	Security.”

	 78.	 Dick	and	Launius,	Societal Impact of Spaceflight,	section	IV.	For	just	how	politically	sensitive	the	study	

of	global	climate	change	became	within	NASA	in	the	early	21st	century,	see	Mark	Bowen,	Censoring 

Science: Inside the Political Attack on Dr. James Hansen and the Truth of Global Warming	(New	York,	NY:	

Dutton,	2008).

	 79.	 Harrison	Schmitt,	Return to the Moon: Exploration, Enterprise, and Energy in the Human Settlement of 

Space	(New	York,	NY:	Praxis	Publishing,	2006);	Dennis	Wingo,	Moonrush: Improving Life on Earth with 

the Moon’s Resources	(Burlington,	ON:	Apogee	Books,	2004).

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nomically viable in the marketplace, commercial ventures will find a way into 

that market. Space tourism is likely to be one of the earliest such ventures.

Geopolitical Impact

The third area of societal impact of spaceflight is geopolitical, and as our 

discussion of motivations indicated, there is no denying that this aspect has 

played a central role over the last 50 years. The Moon race between the United 

States and the Soviet Union was totally driven by geopolitical considerations. 

Satellite reconnaissance has been an important part, at times even a driver, 

of national space activities, certainly in the United States, where the space 

budgets of DOD and NRO far exceed those of NASA. The weaponization and 

militarization of space are huge issues with immense consequences for the 

future of both Earth and activities in outer space.80 Space has become both 

an instrument of foreign policy and a strategic asset, and the interactions of 

Russia, China, India, Europe, and the United States in the space arena are likely 

to be a dominant theme for the next 50 years.81

Social Impact

To the intellectual, economic, and political, we may add a fourth domain, that 

of social impact. Space activities have affected science, math, and engineering education; embodied questions of status, civil rights, and gender among 

other social issues; and led to the creation of “space states” such as California, 

Florida, and Texas. Others have demonstrated the complex relation of such 

space goals to social, racial, and political themes. One such study, De Witt 

Kilgore’s Astrofuturism: Science, Race, and Visions of Utopia in Space, examines 

the work of Wernher von Braun, Willy Ley, Robert Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, 

Gentry Lee, Gerard O’Neill, and Ben Bova, among others, in what he calls the 

tradition of American astrofuturism.82 Such studies remind us that, like it or 

not, the idea of space exploration has been woven into the fabric of society 

over the last 50 years, even as exploration has raised our cosmic conscious-

	 80.	 For	an	overview	of	national	security	space	and	an	entrée	into	its	literature,	see	Stephen	Johnson,	“The	

History	and	Historiography	of	National	Security	Space,”	 in	Critical Issues,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	

481–548.	For	some	of	the	policy	issues,	see	Glenn	Hastedt,	“Reconnaissance	Satellites,	Intelligence	

and	National	Security,”	in	Societal Impact,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	369–383.	NASA	has	a	long	history	

of	interaction	with	DOD;	see	Peter	Hays,	“NASA	and	the	Department	of	Defense:	Enduring	Themes	in	

Three	Key	Areas,”	in	Critical Issues,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	199–238.

	 81.	 Joan	Johnson-Freese,	Space as a Strategic Asset	(New	York,	NY:	Columbia	University	Press,	2007).

	 82.	 De	Witt	Douglas	Kilgore,	Astrofuturism: Science, Race, and Visions of Utopia in Space	(Philadelphia,	PA:	

University	of	Pennsylvania	Press,	2003).		

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ness. The historical analysis of that transformation, in ways large and small, 

should help justify space exploration as an integral part of society rather than 

a burden on it as sometimes perceived by the public.

Important as they are, the social effects thus far pale in significance 

compared to what space may represent for the future of humanity. While 

some argue that robotic spacecraft are cheaper and less risky than human 

spaceflight, it is most likely that humans will follow robotic reconnaissance 

as night follows day—perhaps not immediately, but in the long-term future 

of humanity. Humans will not be content with a space odyssey carried out 

by robotic surrogates any more than the other great voyages of human history. Robots extend the human senses but will not replace the human mind 

in the foreseeable future, even with advances in artificial intelligence. HAL in 

Arthur C. Clarke’s famous novel and movie was not as smart as he thought, 

and he will not be for a long time. As President Bush said in announcing his 

new initiative in January 2004, humans will spread through the solar system, 

fulfilling the vision of what British philosopher Olaf Stapledon 55 years ago 

called “interplanetary man.”83 Eventually humans will spread into the cosmos 

at large. Space enthusiasts tend to argue that is the nature of humans, with 

their inbuilt curiosity and penchant for exploration; one might say that it is the 

very definition of what it is to be human. Not all historians and social scientists 

agree, however, that the utopian ideal of spreading humanity to outer space is 

a valid reason for going or that utopia is what we will build when we get there. 

There are also more practical reasons for going into space: the survival of 

the species may depend on the human space program. Specifically, it would 

seem prudent to remove some of our species from the planet in case of natural 

or human-induced catastrophe, whether an asteroid impact or nuclear war. In 

that context, space exploration would seem a small price to pay for survival 

of the species, as opposed to having to start over from 3.8 billion years of 

evolution after, for example, a Near-Earth Object impact.

This theme treads dangerously close to “manifest destiny,” the belief that 

spreading a culture, or a species, is part of its destiny, to be attained by any 

means. Although the concept has been a red flag for historians, who like to 

recall that Manifest Destiny led to slaughter as Americans spread westward 

and pushed out Native Americans, the analogy is not a good one. Though Star 

	 83.	 Steven	 J.	 Dick,	“Interstellar	 Humanity,”	 Futures: The Journal of Forecasting Planning and Policy	32	

(2000):	 555–567;	 Olaf	 Stapledon,	 “Interplanetary	Man?,”	 in	 An Olaf Stapledon Reader,	 ed.	 Robert	

Crossley	(Syracuse,	NY:	Syracuse	University	Press,	1997),	pp.	218–241.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

Wars makes good entertainment, it is unlikely to become reality as humans 

spread throughout the solar system. Nor should we a priori shrink from the 

idea of destiny, though no destiny will be achieved without proper funding. 

Indeed, one feature unlikely to be paralleled with the Age of Discovery, 

or the Second Age of Discovery in the 18th and 19th centuries, is contact with 

other cultures. Ship crews often included naturalists to study exotic new flora 

and fauna, and the ultimate experience in the Age of Discovery was contact 

with exotic human cultures. In the Age of Space, the search for microbial life 

has been a main driver of space exploration, in particular with regard to Mars, 

but also now extended to more exotic environments like the Jovian moon 

Europa. This activity has generated its share of ethical conundrums.84 And with 

the search for life on new worlds, planetary protection protocols—sometimes 

controversial—have been put in place, both for our own planet and for others.85

Contact with intelligent extraterrestrials beyond the solar system will remain 

a more remote possibility, and when and if it happens, it is more likely to be 

radio rather than physical contact. Difficult as they are, such impacts have 

been studied in some detail at NASA and elsewhere.86

As NASA’s Societal Impact of Spaceflight study shows, unpacking the nature 

and extent of societal impact is no simple task. “Society” is not monolithic, 

and “impact” can be an elusive concept. Determining the impact of anything 

is problematic, especially in the short term, and especially in the hands of 

academics. If we succeed in the near future in going back to the Moon on a 

permanent basis, perhaps Columbus may be a good analogy for the Apollo 

program, and the Age of Discovery a good analogy for the Age of Space; if not, 

it will have been an abortive attempt more akin to Leif Erickson and the Vikings. 

	 84.	 Steven	J.	Dick	and	James	E.	Strick,	The Living Universe: NASA and the Development of Astrobiology

(New	 Brunswick,	 NJ,	 and	 London,	 U.K.:	 Rutgers	 University	Press,	2004);	 Constance	M.	 Bertka,	 ed.,	

Exploring the Origin, Extent, and Future of Life: Philosophical, Ethical, and Theological Perspectives

(Cambridge,	U.K.:	Cambridge	University	Press,	2009).

	 85.	 Michael	Meltzer,	When Biospheres Collide: A History of NASA’s Planetary Protection Programs	(NASA	

History	Series,	in	press).

	 86.	 Just	 prior	 to	 launching	 its	 SETI	 observations	 in	 1993,	 NASA	 conducted	 a	 series	 of	 three	 Cultural	

Aspects	of	SETI	(CASETI)	workshops,	later	published	as	J.	Billingham,	R.	Heyns,	D.	Milne,	et	al.,	Social 

Implications of the Detection of an Extraterrestrial Civilization	(Mountain	View,	CA:	SETI	Press,	1999).	

See	also	Allen	Tough,	ed.,	When SETI Succeeds: The Impact of High-Information Contact	(Bellevue,	WA:	

Foundation	for	the	Future,	2000),	and	Steven	J.	Dick,	“Consequences	of	Success	in	SETI:	Lessons	from	

the	History	of	Science,”	in	Progress in the Search for Extraterrestrial Life,	ed.	Seth	Shostak	(proceedings	

of	Santa	Cruz,	CA,	meeting	on	SETI,	August	1993;	San	Francisco,	CA:	ASP	Conference	series,	1995),	

pp.	521–532.

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Despite the difficulty, analysis of the societal impact of spaceflight is not 

just an academic exercise. NASA’s plans for the next 50 years—multidecade 

programs to explore the planets, build and operate large space telescopes and 

space stations, or take humans to the Moon and Mars—require that the public 

have a vested interest. Whether or not those ambitious space visions of the 

United States and other countries are fulfilled, the question of societal impact 

over the past 50 years remains urgent, and it may in fact help fulfill current 

visions or, at least, raise the level of debate.

In the end, it is difficult to determine how much society has really been 

affected by spaceflight during its first 50 years because society is composed 

of individuals, and each individual has been affected in different ways, even 

when witnessing a transformational event such as the first Moon landing. “The 

horror of the Twentieth Century,” Norman Mailer declared in his account of the 

first Moon landing, Of a Fire on the Moon, “was the size of each new event, and 

the paucity of its reverberation.”87 The “paucity of reverberation” may reflect a 

lack of appreciation in the minds of the average citizen about the role space 

has played, rather than the absolute role itself, which in fact has arguably been 

very significant. Whether a boon or a burden to society, the impact of space 

activities is likely to increase over the next 50 years.

Conclusions—Ad Astra?

I do not wish to imply that exploration is the only interpretive framework 

for the Age of Space. There are real-life, more immediately compelling, and 

strategic considerations that impel the United States and other countries into 

space. But in my view, far from being the metaphysical, esoteric, or empty 

conceit of its critics, exploration is an unchanging, long-term, stimulating, 

and useful framework for understanding why any country with a claim to 

greatness must go into space. Moreover, while the analogies discussed here 

are only suggestive, placing space exploration within the deep history of 

exploration gives a context to space history that it otherwise might not have, 

integrating space history into the broader history of humanity and going 

	 87.	 Norman	Mailer,	Of a Fire on the Moon	(New	York,	NY:	Little,	Brown	and	Co.,	1969),	p.	29.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

some way toward eliminating the isolation of space history from other historical subdisciplines. 

I do wish to claim that by conquering the third dimension of space—as 

maritime explorers did in two geographical dimensions during the Age of 

Discovery, as the 18th- and 19th-century explorers did on both land and sea 

with improved transportation methods, and as aviation has in the thin skin of 

our atmosphere during a century of flight—in the long run, the space program 

has the potential to have an impact that far exceeds any of these advances. 

Despite historians’ qualms about the negative effects of these developments, 

especially the conquest mode of the Age of Discovery, the Space Age opens a 

vast new future to humanity, most likely not utopian, but one already imagined 

in science fiction and, for the first time in history, contemplated in science 

fact. In contemplating that future, it is well to remember that history need not 

repeat itself, either in its positive or negative aspects.

The experience of the railroad with which we opened this essay illuminates the Space Age from a different angle and scale. The railroad was, 

the authors of The Railroad and the Space Program concluded, an engine 

of social revolution that had its greatest impact only 50 years after the 

start of the railways in America. As a transportation system, the railway 

had to be competitive with canals and turnpikes, and 20 years after the 

start of railways in America, more miles of canals were being built than 

railroads. It was not clear how they could be economically feasible. And 

though many technological, economic, and managerial hurdles needed to 

be overcome, railroads are still with us. In the course of the 19th century, 

they represented human conquest of natural obstacles, with consequences 

for the human view of nature and our place in it. Secondary consequences 

often turned out to have greater societal impact than the supposed primary 

purposes for which they were built. The space program has had, and still 

has, its technological challenges, and the economic benefits may be even 

longer term than those of the railroad. But by conquering the third dimension of space, it has the potential to have an exceedingly large impact on 

the human story, as we expand into the solar system and find our place in 

the scheme of cosmic evolution.

For its part, the United States has much at stake in the debate over the 

importance of space exploration. Pulitzer Prize-winning historian William 

Goetzmann saw the history of the United States as inextricably linked with 

exploration. “America has indeed been ‘exploration’s nation,’” he wrote, “a 

culture of endless possibilities that, in the spirit of both science and its 

component, exploration, continually looks forward in the direction of the 

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new.”88 The direction of the new is now outer space, and the space exploration debate should accordingly be seen in that context. At the same time, we 

need to be fully aware that pro-space ideology is often driven by the problematic idea of “progress,” an idea with a long history in which Americans 

are deeply invested. As one scholar concluded, “Given the deep commitment 

of Americans to ideas about progress, such ideological concerns are as likely 

to affect policy as any rational assessment of scientific or economic need.”89

Thus historians and the social sciences need to join the discussion about the 

human future in space. 

The analogy of the 15th-century Chinese treasure fleet, commanded by 

Zheng He, has often been used as a lesson to be learned for those who would 

withdraw from the Space Age to seek shorter term goals on Earth. It is a matter 

of historical fact that, from 1405 to 1433, China sent seven massive expeditions 

into the Indian Ocean and perhaps beyond; the first expedition alone may 

have included 62 “junks” three or four times larger than Columbus’s flagship, 

225 support vessels, and 27,000 men. It is also well known that following a 

maritime tradition stretching back to the 11th century, these ships plied the 

seas of southeast Asia, and then they sailed to India, the Persian Gulf, the Red 

Sea, and down the east coast of Africa. And the sudden end of this distant 

voyaging is indisputable: with changing internal political conditions and the 

external threat of the Mongols, the fleet was withdrawn in 1433 and its records 

burned. The subsequent inward turn, it is argued, set China back centuries.90

The interpretation begins with the effect of this inward turn. There is no 

doubt that, although Chinese state revenues were probably 100 times Portugal’s, 

after the 1430s the Ming emperors had other priorities, leaving the Portuguese 

	 88.	 William	Goetzmann,	New Lands, New Men: America and the Second Great Age of Discovery	(New	York,	

NY:	Penguin	Books,	1987).

	 89.	 Taylor	 E.	 Dark	 III,	 “Reclaiming	 the	 Future:	 Space	 Advocacy	 and	 the	 Idea	 of	 Progress,”	 in	 Societal 

Impact of Spaceflight,	ed.	Dick	and	Launius,	pp.	555–571.	See	also	Linda	Billings,	“Overview:	Ideology,	

Advocacy,	and	Spaceflight—Evolution	of	a	Cultural	Narrative,”	in	the	same	volume,	pp.	483–499.	On	

the	importance	of	the	idea	of	progress	in	Western	civilization,	see	Robert	Nisbet,	History of the Idea of 

Progress	(New	York,	NY:	Basic	Books,	1980),	and	J.	B.	Bury,	The Idea of Progress: An Inquiry into Its 

Origin and Growth (New	York,	NY:	Dover	Publications,	1932).		

	 90.	 Louise	Levanthes,	When China Ruled the Seas: The Treasure Fleet of the Dragon Throne, 1405–1433

(Oxford,	U.K.:	Oxford	University	Press,	1994);	Edward	L.	Dreyer,	Zheng He: China and the Oceans in 

the Early Ming Dynasty, 1405–1433	(New	York,	NY:	Pearson	Longman,	2007).	The	voyages	of	Zheng	

He	have	received	increasing	attention	during	the	600th	anniversary	of	the	voyages	and	because	of	the	

controversial	thesis	in	Gavin	Menzies,	1421: The Year China Discovered America	(New	York,	NY:	William	

Morrow,	2002).	Menzies’s	thesis	that	the	Chinese	discovered	America	seven	decades	before	Columbus	

is	plausible	but	unproven.	For	the	role	of	the	voyages	in	the	history	of	exploration,	see	Felipe	FernandezArmesto,	Pathfinders: A Global History of Exploration	(New	York,	NY:	W.	W.	Norton,	2006),	pp.	109–117.

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NASA’s First 50 Years

and other European countries to lead the way in exploration. As Librarian of 

Congress and historian Daniel Boorstin noted, “When Europeans were sailing 

out with enthusiasm and high hopes, landbound China was sealing her borders. 

Within her physical and intellectual Great Wall, she avoided encounter with 

the unexpected . . . . Fully equipped with the technology, the intelligence, and 

the national resources to become discoverers, the Chinese doomed themselves 

to be discovered.” Historians J. R. McNeill and William McNeill came to the 

same conclusions, and historians in general (even Chinese historians) tend 

to agree that the Chinese chose poorly in the mid-15th century. By the 1470s, 

the McNeills wrote, even the skills needed to build great ships were lost; some 

would draw a parallel to the Saturn V rockets, the last three of which found 

their rest in museum settings rather than in exploration. Boorstin called the 

withdrawal of the Chinese into their own borders, symbolized by the Great 

Wall of China that took its current form at that time, “catastrophic . . . with 

consequences we still see today.”91

The lesson of 15th-century China is perhaps not quite so simple, because 

history is driven by complex factors. Nevertheless, China’s maritime withdrawal 

is certainly one element in its well-documented demise, and it is an undisputed 

fact that the Chinese are now building a massive reproduction of one of the 

treasure ships in the ancient Ming shipyard at Nanjing, and they are using it 

to shape perceptions of China’s rise to global prominence after 600 years.92 It 

is also an undisputed fact that the Chinese now have a human space program 

and that they have ambitions to land on the Moon. The question goes to the 

geopolitical impact mentioned earlier: whether or not the United States decides 

to return humans to the Moon, the Chinese or another nation will ultimately 

do so, with real consequences for the global balance of power. History shows 

that the United States will likely wait until the Chinese act before committing 

resources to the same end. The ISS notwithstanding, the past 50 years demonstrate that, for the United States, competition trumps cooperation as a national 

modus operandi for space. The result would again be a Moon race, perhaps 

this time the key to the rest of the universe. If so, it will be yet another case 

of not learning the lessons of history. 

	 91.	 Daniel	Boorstin,	The Discoverers	(New	York,	NY:	Random	House,	1983),	esp.	pp.	186–201;	J.	R.	McNeill	

and	William	H.	McNeill,	The Human Web: A Bird’s-Eye View of World History	(New	York,	NY,	and	London,	

U.K.:	W.	W.	Norton	and	Co.,	2003),	p.	166.		

	 92.	 Mara	Hvistendahl,	“Rebuilding	a	Treasure	Ship,”	Archaeology (March/April	2008):	40–45.

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Exploration, Discovery, and Culture

Skeptics of the benefits of exploration might well point to the fate of 

Portugal and Spain, the leaders of the Age of Discovery who eventually lost their 

leadership. As one historian has pointed out, “the rewards of national strength 

and wealth proved elusive. Portugal never achieved true great power status. 

Its population was too small, its commitments too many and its new-found 

overseas wealth flowed too quickly into foreign hands.”93 Portugal came under 

the rule of Philip II of Spain in 1581. Spain itself came to dominate Western 

Europe during the late 16th and early 17th centuries, but the treasures from 

the New World also proved ephemeral. In a scenario tempting to compare to 

the present case for the United States, Spain also overcommitted itself and, 

by the mid-17th century, weakened by the Thirty Years’ War, lost its status as 

a world power.

But the ultimate lesson is not that exploration lacks geopolitical impact. 

As Norman Augustine, Chair of the Augustine Committee, argued in his report, 

“Rising Above the Gathering Storm,” in the Report of the Advisory Committee 

on the Future of the U.S. Space Program, leadership among nations is not a 

birthright; it must be earned and reearned.94 The report showed how already, 

in 1990, American leadership in science and technology had begun to erode, 

and it argued that the federal government must urgently address this situation. 

Surely exploration is an important part of that picture and an important part 

of national leadership. Each of the ages of exploration in the past was the 

product of specific decisions of certain cultures: the Europeans (and briefly 

the Chinese) for the first age, the Europeans and Americans for the second 

age, and the Soviet Union—soon joined by the United States, then Europe, and 

other countries—for the third age. As historian Stephen J. Pyne has argued, 

“Exploration is a specific invention of specific civilizations conducted at specific 

historical times. It is not . . . a universal property of all human societies. Not 

	 93.	 Fritze,	New Worlds,	p.	240.

	 94.	 “Americans,	with	only	5%	of	the	world’s	population	but	with	nearly	30%	of	the	world’s	wealth,	tend	

to	believe	that	scientific	and	technological	leadership	and	the	high	standard	of	living	it	underpins	is	

somehow	the	natural	state	of	affairs.	But	such	good	fortune	is	not	a	birthright.	If	we	wish	our	children	

and	grandchildren	to	enjoy	the	standard	of	living	most	Americans	have	come	to	expect,	there	is	only	

one	answer:	We	must	get	out	and	compete”	(Norman	Augustine,	“Rising	Above	the	Gathering	Storm,	

Energizing	and	Employing	America	for	a	Brighter	Economic	Future,”	statement	before	U.S.	House	of	

Representatives	Committee	on	Science,	20	October	2005).	The	report	was	published	by	the	National	

Academy	 of	 Sciences	 in	 2007	 and	 is	 available	 at	 http://history.nasa.gov/augustine/racfup1.htm.	

The	 report’s	 Executive	 Summary	 is	 at	 http://history.nasa.gov/augustine/racfup2.htm,	 and	 its	 main	

recommendations	are	summarized	at	http://history.nasa.gov/augustine/racfup6.htm.		

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NASA’s First 50 Years

all cultures have explored or even traveled widely. Some have been content 

to exist in xenophobic isolation.”95

In the end, what does history offer in this great debate? It was the archDarwinian T. H. Huxley who said that the great end in life is not knowledge, 

but action. The importance of our knowledge of history is that it empowers 

us to act wisely, if cautiously. Not without reason does there exist a National 

Archives in the United States with the words “What is Past is Prologue” 

scrolled along the top of its impressive façade, a building whose function 

is duplicated in all civilized countries of the world. Not without reason did 

the Columbia Accident Investigation Board devote an entire chapter to history in its official report and conclude that “history is not just a backdrop or 

a scene-setter, history is cause.”96 Not without reason does the Smithsonian 

Institution strive to display thoughtful commentary in its exhibits, despite 

criticism from its wide variety of audiences, each with its own interpretations 

of history. And not without reason does every high school, college, and university teach history. As Hermann Wouk said in the context of his novel War 

and Remembrance, “the beginning of the end of War lies in Remembrance.”97

For the United States, the beginning and end of the exploration of space lie in 

remembrance, remembrance of what happens to cultures that have turned too 

much inward. It would be ironic if, having led the world in space exploration 

during its first 50 years, the United States squandered that lead during the 

next 50. Put in a more ecumenical sense, it may be better to cooperate than 

compete, and it would be an extraordinary lost opportunity if the United 

States did not lead the international cooperation of space, as it has in the 

ISS, whose most important product may be a model of cooperation, difficult 

though it has been at times. 

Unfortunately one of the great lessons of history is that we do not learn the 

lessons of history. As a recent author put it in while contemplating Herodotus’s 

ancient message about intercultural understanding, “it goes unheeded, as it 

always has and as it always will, because history teaches us that we do not 

learn from history, that we fight the same wars against the same enemies for 

the same reasons in different eras, as though time really stood still and history 

	 95.	 Stephen	J.	Pyne,	“The	Third	Great	Age	of	Discovery,”	in	Space: Discovery and Exploration,	ed.	Martin	J.	

Collins	and	Sylvia	K.	Kraemer	(Southport,	CT:	Hugh	Lauter	Levin	Associates,	1994).		

	 96.	 Columbia	Accident	Investigation	Board,	Report,	vol.	1,	p.	195.

	 97.	 Herman	Wouk,	preface	to	War and Remembrance,	1st	ed.	(New	York,	NY:	Little,	Brown	and	Co.,	1978).

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itself as moving narrative was nothing but artful illusion.”98 Even in an optimistic 

frame of mind, in a world in which we might apply lessons learned if only we 

paid attention, the problem is determining exactly what those lessons are. To 

give only one recent example, confusion in the political world between any 

attempt at “negotiation” and Chamberlainian “appeasement” does not inspire 

confidence in lessons learned, especially where ideologies are at stake. Realizing 

the difficulties and ambiguities of the task, in closing, I nevertheless offer six 

macrolessons that should be learned from the first 50 years of the Space Age:

1. Absent an Asimovian “psychohistory” that would allow us to foresee 

the statistical probabilities of the future, history is not predictive, and 

it cannot guarantee that exploration (human or robotic) will result in 

a more creative society.99 Numerous factors regulate society, which, 

after all, is composed of individuals more unpredictable than the gas 

molecules of statistical mechanics. But history, nevertheless, suggests 

that robust exploration, undertaken by a nation that continually looks 

forward to the new, enhances its chances of survival as a vibrant society.

2. It is always tempting to sacrifice long-term goals for perceived shortterm needs. And it is almost always a bad idea, unless survival is at stake 

and there is no long term. This is one lesson that the U.S. Congress 

could particularly take to heart.100

3. Long-term goals need to be better understood in the political process. 

If this were true, we might not throw away a $25 billion investment on 

launch technology, as the United States did with Apollo, with consequences we are still suffering more than three decades later. As space 

policy analyst John Logsdon has memorably put it, NASA at 50 is still 

suffering from NASA at 12.

4. There is never enough funding to do everything. Painful priorities must 

be set. This seems to be common sense. But NASA has often not set 

priorities, tried to do too much, and failed to achieve major goals as 

a consequence. 

	 98.	 Justin	Marozzi,	The Way of Herodotus: Travels with the Man Who Invented History	(Cambridge,	MA:	Da	

Capo	Press,	2008),	p.	95.	The	entire	book	is	a	meditation	on	the	lessons	of	current	history	through	the	

eyes	of	Herodotus;	see	esp.	pp.	72–77.	

	 99.	 In	his	famous	fictional	Foundation	series	beginning	in	the	1950s,	Isaac	Asimov	postulated	“psychohistory,”	

a	discipline	that	used	statistics	to	assess	probabilities	of	future	events.	While	it	seems	far-fetched	in	

some	ways,	the	2008	Nobel	Laureate	in	Economics,	Paul	Krugman,	confessed	to	being	influenced	by	

it	in	his	work	on	economics.	See,	for	example	http://www.technovelgy.com/ct/Science-Fiction-News.

asp?NewsNum=1925 (accessed	3	December	2008).

	100.	Kay,	Democracies.

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5. Human spaceflight will not, and should not, go away. Robotic spaceflight 

will not, and should not, go away. It is always a question of balancing 

resources, but in the end, each needs the other, and they should exist 

in a synergistic relationship. The Hubble Space Telescope servicing 

missions are the role model here. If in the long term, humans become 

intelligent robots, the problem of this false dichotomy will disappear.101

6. Risk and exploration have always gone hand-in-hand, and they will forever 

go hand in hand. Safety is a priority, but it is the number-two priority. 

The number-one priority is to go, to get off the launchpad. Otherwise 

no explorer would ever have left the ports of Palos, Lisbon, and Sanlúcar 

de Barrameda. And no rocket would ever have left its launchpad. NASA 

understands this; the astronauts understand it; but the public does not. 

Thousands are killed each year on highways, but no one calls for an end 

to automobiles. A forward-looking nation must take risks.

As we stand at NASA’s 50th anniversary and on the verge of a presidential transition—always a perilous time for government agencies—we and our 

leaders need to remember that (rhetoric notwithstanding) exploration is not 

a destiny, but a choice. It is a choice that any society must make in the midst 

of many other priorities. History hints, at least, that those societies that make 

the wrong choice will suffer the consequences. At the 100th anniversary of 

NASA in 2058, our descendants will be looking back at the choices we made 

as the leading agency for exploration in the world, as well as the choices made 

by the other nations of the world. The choice to explore or not to explore, in 

the midst of a world perpetually swamped by more pressing problems, is the 

ultimate challenge to NASA, the nation, and nation states constituting planet 

Earth. That choice is the proper context embodying the meaning and the 

essence of the Space Age. The universe awaits the nation, or consortium of 

nations, willing to take the risks and meet the challenge.

	101.	 This	is	not	as	far-fetched	as	it	may	seem;	see	Launius	and	McCurdy,	Robots in Space.

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About the Authors

Laurence Bergreen is an award-winning biographer, historian, and chronicler 

of exploration. His books have been translated into 18 languages worldwide. In 

October 2007, Alfred A. Knopf published Marco Polo: From Venice to Xanadu, a 

groundbreaking biography of the iconic traveler. Warner Brothers is developing 

a feature film based on this book starring Matt Damon and written by William 

Monahan, who won an Oscar for The Departed. His previous work, Over the 

Edge of the World: Magellan’s Terrifying Circumnavigation of the Globe, was 

published to international acclaim by William Morrow/HarperCollins in October 

2003. A New York Times “Notable Book” for 2003, it is also in development 

as a motion picture and is now in its 20th printing. In addition, Bergreen is 

the author of Voyage to Mars: NASA’s Search for Life Beyond Earth, a narrative of NASA’s exploration of Mars, published in November 2000 by Penguin 

Putnam. Dramatic rights were acquired by TNT. In 1997, Bantam Doubleday 

Dell published Louis Armstrong: An Extravagant Life, a comprehensive biography drawing on unpublished manuscripts and exclusive interviews with 

Armstrong’s colleagues and friends. It appeared on many “Best Books of 1997” 

lists, including those of the San Francisco Chronicle, the Philadelphia Inquirer, 

and Publishers Weekly, and it has been published in Germany, Finland, and 

Great Britain. In 1994, Simon & Schuster published his Capone: The Man and 

the Era. A Book-of-the-Month Club selection, it has been published in numerous foreign languages, was optioned by Miramax, and was a New York Times

“Notable Book.” His biography, As Thousands Cheer: The Life of Irving Berlin, 

appeared in 1990. This book won the Ralph J. Gleason Music Book Award 

and the ASCAP-Deems Taylor award, and it received front-page reviews in 

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major American and British newspapers and appeared on bestseller lists; it 

was also a New York Times “Notable Book” for 1990. His previous biography, 

James Agee: A Life, was also critically acclaimed and was a New York Times 

“Notable Book” for 1984. His first book was Look Now, Pay Later: The Rise of 

Network Broadcasting, published by Doubleday in 1980. He has written for 

many national publications including Esquire, Newsweek, TV Guide, Details, 

Prologue, the Chicago Tribune, and Military History Quarterly. He has taught at 

the New School for Social Research and served as an assistant to the president 

of the Museum of Television and Radio in New York City, New York. In 1995, 

he served as a judge for the National Book Awards and, in 1991, as a judge 

for the PEN/Albrand Nonfiction Award. A frequent lecturer at major universities and symposiums, he also serves as a Featured Historian for the History 

Channel. Mr. Bergreen graduated from Harvard University in 1972. He is a 

member of PEN American Center, the Explorers Club, the Authors Guild, and 

the board of the New York Society Library. He lives in New York, New York.

Linda Billings is a communication researcher and policy analyst based in 

Washington, DC. She currently serves as coordinator of communications for 

NASA’s Astrobiology Program in the Science Mission Directorate, under an 

Intergovernmental Personnel Agreement with the SETI Institute of Mountain 

View, California. In this position, Dr. Billings is responsible for managing communications, education, and outreach activities for the astrobiology program. 

From September 2002 through December 2006, Dr. Billings conducted science 

and risk communication research for NASA’s Planetary Protection Office. From 

September 1999 through August 2002, she was the director of communications 

for SPACEHAB Inc., a builder of space habitats. Dr. Billings has three decades of 

experience in Washington, DC, as a researcher, analyst, and journalist. She was 

the founding editor of Space Business News (1983–85) and the first senior editor 

for space at Air & Space/Smithsonian magazine (1986–88). She was a contributing 

author for First Contact: The Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (New York, 

NY: New American Library, 1990). Her freelance articles have been published 

in outlets such as the Chicago Tribune, Washington Post Magazine, and Space 

News. Dr. Billings was a member of the staff for the National Commission on 

Space (1985 to 1986). Dr. Billings’s expertise is in mass communication, science 

communication, risk communication, rhetorical analysis, journalism studies, and 

social studies of science. Her research has focused on the role that journalists play 

in constructing the cultural authority of scientists and the rhetorical strategies that 

scientists and journalists employ in communicating about science. She earned 

her B.A. in social sciences from the State University of New York at Binghamton, 

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About the Authors

her M.A. in international transactions from George Mason University, and her 

Ph.D. in mass communication from Indiana University’s School of Journalism. 

Dr. Billings served as an officer of Women in Aerospace for 15 years and was 

president of Women in Aerospace in 2003. 

Andrew Butrica earned a Ph.D. in 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, France, before embarking on a career as a research historian. Among 

other books, he has written To See the Unseen, 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, 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 Public History. More recently, 

he 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; he currently is writing a history of 

NASA’s deep space navigation.

Erik Conway is the historian at JPL. His duties include research and writing, 

conducting oral histories, and contributing to the Lab’s historical collections. 

Before JPL, he worked as a contract historian at LaRC. Conway enjoys studying the historical interaction between national politics, scientific research, and 

technological change. For his current research in robotic Mars exploration, he 

analyzes the effects of changing policies on project management and planetary science. His History of Atmospheric Science at NASA was published by 

Johns Hopkins University Press in 2008. He also is a coauthor on two articles 

on the history of climate science published this year: Naomi Oreskes, Erik M. 

Conway, and Matthew Shindell, “From Chicken Little to Dr. Pangloss: William 

Nierenberg, Global Warming, and the Social Deconstruction of Scientific 

Knowledge,” Historical Studies in the Natural Sciences 38, no. 1 (February 

2008): 113–156; Oreskes and Conway, “Challenging Knowledge: How Climate 

Science Became a Victim of the Cold War,” in Agnotology: The Making and 

Unmaking of Ignorance, ed. Robert N. Proctor and Londa Schiebinger (Palo 

Alto, CA: Stanford University Press, 2008), pp. 55–89.

David H. DeVorkin is the senior curator for the history of astronomy and 

the space sciences at NASM. DeVorkin’s major research interests are in the 

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origins and development of modern astrophysics during the 20th century and 

the origins and development of the space sciences from the V-2 to the present. 

He is the author, editor, or compiler of 9 books and over 100 scholarly and 

popular articles, most recently, with Robert Smith and Elizabeth Kessler, The 

Hubble Space Telescope: New Views of the Universe (Washington, DC: National 

Geographic Books, 2004). Earlier works include Beyond Earth: Mapping the 

Universe (Washington, DC: National Geographic Books, 2002); Henry Norris 

Russell: Dean of American Astronomers (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University 

Press, 2000); The American Astronomical Society’s First Century (Melville, 

NY: American Institute of Physics, 1999); Science with a Vengeance: How 

the Military Created the U.S. Space Sciences After World War II (New York, 

NY: Springer-Verlag, 1992); and Race to the Stratosphere: Manned Scientific 

Ballooning in America (New York, NY: Springer-Verlag, 1989). DeVorkin holds 

a Ph.D. in the history of astronomy from the University of Leicester (1978) and 

an M.Phil. in astronomy from Yale University (1970). DeVorkin has curated 

“Stars” (1983–97); “V-2: The World’s First Ballistic Missile System” (1990–); and 

most recently, “Explore the Universe” (2001–).

Steven J. Dick served as the Chief Historian for NASA and Director of the 

NASA History Division from 2003 to 2009. He obtained his B.S. in astrophysics 

(1971) and M.A. and Ph.D. (1977) in history and 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 coming to NASA Headquarters in 2003. 

Among his books are Plurality of Worlds: The Origins of the Extraterrestrial 

Life Debate from Democritus to Kant (Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge University 

Press, 1982) (translated into French), The Biological Universe: The Twentieth 

Century Extraterrestrial Life Debate and the Limits of Science (Cambridge, U.K.: 

Cambridge University Press, 1996), and Life on Other Worlds: The 20th-Century 

Extraterrestrial Life Debate (Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge University Press, 

1998), the latter translated into Chinese, Italian, Czech, Greek, and Polish. His 

most recent books are (with James Strick) The Living Universe: NASA and the 

Development of Astrobiology (Piscataway, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2004) 

and a comprehensive history of the U.S. Naval Observatory, Sky and Ocean 

Joined: The U.S. Naval Observatory, 1830–2000 (Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge 

University Press, 2003). The latter received the Pendleton Prize of the Society for 

History in the Federal Government. He also is the editor of Many Worlds: The 

New Universe, Extraterrestrial Life, and the Theological Implications (Radnor, 

PA: Templeton Foundation Press, 2000) and (with Keith Cowing) Risk and 

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About the Authors

Exploration: Earth, Sea and the Stars (Washington, DC: NASA SP-2005-4701, 

2005). His latest works are edited volumes (with Roger Launius) on Critical 

Issues in the History of Spaceflight (Washington, DC: NASA SP-2006-4702, 

2006) and Societal Impact of Spaceflight (Washington, DC: NASA SP-2007-4801, 

2007). Dr. Dick 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 of 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 is a corresponding member of 

the International Academy of Astronautics. Minor planet 6544 Stevendick is 

named in his honor.

Robert Ferguson is a Washington, DC-based historian of technology. On behalf 

of the NASA History Division, he is completing a manuscript on the history 

of NASA’s aeronautics research. Dr. Ferguson is a graduate of the University 

of Minnesota Program in the History of Science and Technology. He taught at 

the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology and was awarded the 

university-wide medal for distinguished teaching. He was the 2003 Ramsey 

Fellow in Naval Aviation History at NASM. His other principal area of research 

is World War II American aircraft manufacturing.

James R. Fleming is a professor of science, technology, and society at Colby 

College. He earned a Ph.D. in history from Princeton University, with earlier 

degrees in astronomy (B.S., Pennsylvania State University) and atmospheric 

science (M.S., Colorado State University). He worked in climate modeling 

and airborne observations, held a fellowship with the Joseph Henry Papers 

at the Smithsonian Institution, and served as the historian of the American 

Meteorological Society. Since coming to Colby College, Professor Fleming has 

held National Endowment for the Humanities, National Science Foundation, 

Smithsonian (Lindbergh), and American Association for the Advancement of 

Science (Revelle) fellowships, and he was appointed a visiting scholar at MIT 

(1992), Harvard (1999), NASM (2005), and the Woodrow Wilson International 

Center for Scholars (2006). He was elected a fellow of the American Association 

for the Advancement of Science “for pioneering studies on the history of meteorology and climate change and for the advancement of historical work within 

meteorological societies” and is the founder and first president of the International 

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Commission on History of Meteorology. Professor Fleming recently served on 

the National Research Council’s Committee on Scientific Accomplishments of 

Earth Observations from Space and as chair of the American Association for the 

Advancement of Science section on history and philosophy of science. He has 

written or edited more than a dozen books, including Meteorology in America, 

1800–1870 (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), Historical 

Perspectives on Climate Change (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 1998), 

and The Callendar Effect: the Life and Work of Guy Stewart Callendar (Boston, 

MA: American Meteorological Society, 2007).

Edward Goldstein served as the lead writer at NASA Headquarters. For over 

six years, he has written speeches, testimony, and other communications for 

NASA’s senior leaders. He also was project manager for the commemorative 

publication NASA: 50 Years of Exploration and Discovery and for organizing the 

NASA speaker panels at the 2008 Smithsonian Folklife Festival. Dr. Goldstein 

received his Ph.D. in public administration from the George Washington 

University in January 2007 for the dissertation, “NASA’s Earth Science Program: 

The Bureaucratic Struggles of the Space Agency’s Mission to Planet Earth.” 

From 2007, he has served as an adjunct faculty member teaching about the 

environment, politics, and public policy at American University, the Catholic 

University of America, and Georgetown University. In the administration of 

President George H. W. Bush, Dr. Goldstein was the deputy associate director 

for energy, environmental, and natural resources policy in the White House 

Office of Domestic and Economic Policy.

Michael D. Griffin served as the NASA Administrator from 2005 until 20 

January 2009. Prior to being nominated as NASA Administrator, he served 

as the Space Department Head at the Johns Hopkins University’s Applied 

Physics Laboratory in Laurel, Maryland. He was previously president and 

chief operating officer of In-Q-Tel, Inc., and also served in several positions 

within Orbital Sciences Corporation, Dulles, Virginia, including as the CEO 

of Orbital’s Magellan Systems division and general manager of the Space 

Systems Group. Earlier in his career, Griffin served as Chief Engineer and as 

Associate Administrator for exploration at NASA, and as deputy for technology at the Strategic Defense Initiative Organization. He has been an adjunct 

professor at the University of Maryland, the Johns Hopkins University, and 

the George Washington University, where he taught courses in spacecraft 

design, applied mathematics, guidance and navigation, compressible flow, 

CFD, spacecraft attitude control, astrodynamics, and introductory aerospace 

668
About the Authors

engineering. He is the lead author of more than two dozen technical papers, 

as well as the textbook Space Vehicle Design.

A registered professional engineer in Maryland and California, Dr. Griffin 

is a member of the National Academy of Engineering and the International 

Academy of Astronautics, an honorary fellow of AIAA, a fellow of the American 

Astronautical Society, and a senior member of the Institute of Electrical and 

Electronic Engineers. He is a recipient of the NASA Exceptional Achievement 

Medal, the AIAA Space Systems Medal, and the DOD Distinguished Public 

Service Medal, the highest award given to a nongovernment employee. Griffin 

received a bachelor’s degree in physics from the Johns Hopkins University, a 

master’s degree in aerospace science from the Catholic University of America, 

a Ph.D. in aerospace engineering from the University of Maryland, a master’s 

degree in electrical engineering from the University of Southern California, a 

master’s degree in applied physics from the Johns Hopkins University, a master’s 

degree in business administration from Loyola College, and a master’s degree 

in civil engineering from the George Washington University. He is a certified 

flight instructor with instrument and multiengine ratings.

Richard P. Hallion is the 2007–08 Alfred Verville Fellow, Department of 

Aeronautics, NASM, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. He was formerly 

Senior Adviser for Air and Space Issues, Directorate for Security, Counterintelligence 

and Special Programs Oversight, Office of the Secretary of the Air Force, the 

Pentagon, Washington, DC, before retiring in November 2006. Dr. Hallion has 

broad experience in science and technology policy, research, development, 

and management analysis, and he has served as a consultant to various professional organizations. He has flown as a mission observer (not pilot) in a wide 

range of high-performance military and civilian fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft. 

Dr. Hallion is the author and editor of numerous books, articles, and essays 

on aerospace technology and military operations, and he consults, teaches, 

and lectures widely.

J. D. Hunley, a former NASA Headquarters and Air Force historian, retired in 

2001 as the first chief historian at DRFC. From 2001 to 2002, he was the Ramsey 

Fellow at NASM. He has written or edited a large number of books and articles 

about various aspects of aerospace history. Most recently, he has published 

three books about the history of rocketry: The Development of Propulsion 

Technology for U.S. Space-Launch Vehicles, 1926–1991 (College Station, TX: 

Texas A&M University Press, 2007); Preludes to U.S. Space-Launch Vehicle 

Technology: Goddard Rockets to Minuteman III (Gainesville, FL: University Press 

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NASA’s First 50 Years

of Florida, 2008); and U.S. Space-Launch Vehicle Technology: Viking to Space 

Shuttle (Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, 2008). The last two volumes 

received the AIAA 2010 Gardner-Lasser Aerospace History Literature Award.

Stephen Johnson is an associate research professor with the Institute for 

Science and Space Studies at the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs, 

and he also is a health management systems engineer for the Advanced 

Sensors and System Health Management Branch of MSFC. He was a faculty 

member at the University of North Dakota Department of Space Studies from 

1997 to 2005, teaching military space, space history, and management and 

economics of space endeavors. He is the author of The United States Air Force 

and the Culture of Innovation, 1945–1965 and The Secret of Apollo: Systems 

Management in American and European Space Programs, both published in 

2002. He also was the editor of Quest: The History of Spaceflight Quarterly

from 1998 to 2005, and he is currently the general editor for a two-volume 

encyclopedia of space history to be published in 2009 by ABC-CLIO, Space 

Exploration and Humanity: A Historical Encyclopedia. He currently works 

on the Ares I Crew Launch Vehicle project of the Constellation program. His 

current research involves dependable space system design and operations, 

space industry management and economics, the history of space science and 

technology, and the history of cognitive psychology and artificial intelligence. 

He received his bachelor’s degree in physics from Whitman College in 1981 

and his doctorate in the history of science and technology from the University 

of Minnesota in 1997, where he was also the associate director of the Babbage 

Institute for the History of Computing. Prior to 1997, he worked for Northrop 

and Martin Marietta, and he was co-owner of his own small business, managing computer simulation laboratories, designing space probes, and developing 

engineering processes.

John Krige is the Kranzberg Professor in the School of History, Technology, 

and Society at the Georgia Institute of Technology in Atlanta, Georgia. His main 

area of research concerns the place of science and technology in U.S. foreign 

policy in Western Europe after World War II. He is currently the Principal 

Investigator on a NASA-funded project to write the history of NASA’s international relations in space. 

W. Henry “Harry” Lambright is a professor of public administration and political science at the Maxwell School of Syracuse University. He is the author or 

editor of seven books and over 275 articles, papers, and reports. His books 

670
About the Authors

include a biography, Powering Apollo: James E. Webb of NASA (Baltimore, MD: 

Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), and Space Policy in the 21st Century

(Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003). A longstanding student 

of leadership and change in government, he has received support from IBM for 

monographs on other NASA Administrators: Transforming NASA: Dan Goldin 

and the Remaking of NASA (Washington, DC: IBM, 2001), Executive Response 

to Changing Fortune: Sean O’Keefe as NASA Administrator (Washington, DC: 

IBM, 2005), and Launching a New Mission: Michael Griffin and NASA’s Return 

to the Moon (Washington, DC: IBM, 2009). IBM is supporting research on NASA 

Administrator Michael Griffin and his effort to implement the Moon-Mars decision of 2004. Dr. Lambright is also currently researching a book under NASA 

sponsorship on Mars exploration.

Dr. Lambright has served as a guest scholar at the Brookings Institution, 

the director of the Science and Technology Policy Center at the Syracuse 

Research Corporation, and the director of the Center for Environmental Policy 

and Administration at the Maxwell School of Syracuse University. He also has 

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. Dr. 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 Office of University Affairs, and 

also 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, he is frequently cited in the media. He teaches 

courses in science, technology, public policy, and energy and environmental 

policy. He holds a bachelor’s degree from the Johns Hopkins University, and 

he holds master’s and Ph.D. degrees from Columbia University.

John M. Logsdon was, until mid-2008, the director of the Space Policy Institute 

at the George Washington University’s Elliott School of International Affairs, 

where he is also Professor Emeritus of Political Science and International Affairs. 

In September 2008, Dr. Logsdon became the Lindbergh Chair in Aerospace 

History for 2008–09 at NASM. He holds a B.S. in physics from Xavier University 

(1960) and a Ph.D. in political science from New York University (1970). Dr. 

Logsdon’s research interests focus on the policy and historical aspects of U.S. 

and international space activities. Dr. Logsdon is the author of The Decision 

to Go to the Moon: Project Apollo and the National Interest (Chicago, IL: 

University of Chicago Press, 1976) and is general editor of the eight-volume 

series Exploring the Unknown: Selected Documents in the History of the U.S. 

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Civil Space Program (Washington, DC: NASA SP-4407 series). He has written 

numerous articles and reports on space policy and history. He is frequently 

consulted by electronic and print media for his views on space issues.

Dr. Logsdon is a member of the NASA Advisory Council and of the Commercial 

Space Transportation Advisory Committee of the Department of Transportation. 

In 2003, he served as a member of the Columbia Accident Investigation Board. 

He is a recipient of the NASA Distinguished Public Service and Public Service 

Medals, the 2005 John F. Kennedy Award from the American Astronautical 

Society, and the 2006 Barry Goldwater Space Educator Award of the AIAA. He 

is a Fellow of the AIAA and the American Association for the Advancement of 

Science. He is a member of the International Academy of Astronautics.

Maura Mackowski is currently working on a history of NASA life sciences 

research from 1980 to 2005, under contract to the NASA Headquarters History 

Division. She is the author of Testing the Limits: Aviation Medicine and the 

Origins of Manned Space Flight (College Station, TX: Texas A&M University 

Press, 2006), which won an Honorable Mention for the 2006 Eugene Emme 

Astronautical Literature Award from the American Astronautical Society. Before 

earning her Ph.D. in modern U.S. history at Arizona State University, she was 

a freelance writer covering science, technology, medicine, and high-tech business for publications in the United States and Europe. She currently resides 

in Gilbert, Arizona.

Robert R. MacGregor is currently a graduate student in the history of science 

program at Princeton University. Before coming to Princeton, he studied at 

Rice University in Houston, Texas, where he received a B.S. in chemical physics and a B.A. in history. Robert also has studied at Moscow State University 

in Russia where he studied Russian language, history, and culture. His current 

work focuses on the processes in the U.S. government that led to the formation of NASA between the launch of Sputnik in October 1957 and the signing 

into law of the National Air and Space Act in July 1958. In the future, he plans 

to delve into the history of the Soviet space program and the early amateur 

rocket societies in Germany, the United States, and the Soviet Union.

Howard McCurdy is a professor in the School of Public Affairs at American 

University in Washington, DC, and chair of its Department of Public Administration 

and Policy. Author or coauthor of seven books on the U.S. space program, 

he is known for Space and the American Imagination (Washington, DC: 

Smithsonian Institution, 1999), winner of the Eugene M. Emme Astronautical 

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About the Authors

Literature Award, and Inside NASA: High Technology and Organizational 

Change in the U.S. Space Program (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University 

Press, 1994), a study of NASA’s organizational culture that received the Henry 

Adams Prize for that year’s best history on the federal government. He recently 

authored Faster, Better, Cheaper: Low-Cost Innovation in the U.S. Space Program

(Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), a critical analysis of 

cost-cutting initiatives in the U.S. space program, and he just finished Robots 

in Space: Technology, Evolution, and Interplanetary Travel (Baltimore, MD: 

Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008), coauthored with Roger Launius, which 

examines the continuing controversy between advocates of human and robotic 

spaceflight. Dr. McCurdy is often consulted by the media on space policy issues 

and has appeared on national news outlets such as the Jim Lehrer News Hour, 

National Public Radio, and NBC Nightly News. He received his bachelor’s and 

master’s degrees from the University of Washington and his doctorate from 

Cornell University.

Michael Meltzer is an environmental scientist who has been writing about 

science and technology for 30 years. His books and articles have investigated 

topics that include NASA expeditions to Jupiter and Saturn, planetary environmental protection, solar house design, industrial pollution prevention, and the 

history of U.S. commercial fishing. He also has published two science fiction 

stories with environmental themes. Michael worked for 15 years at Lawrence 

Livermore National Laboratory, where he helped start a pollution prevention 

program. He lives in Oakland, California, with his wife, Naisa, and seven-yearold daughter, Jordana.

Michael J. Neufeld is the chair of the Space History Division of NASM in 

Washington, DC. Born in Canada, he received history degrees from the University 

of Calgary and the University of British Columbia before getting a Ph.D. in 

modern European history from the Johns Hopkins University in 1984. Before 

Dr. Neufeld came to NASM in 1988 as the A. Verville Fellow, he taught at various universities in upstate New York. From 1989 to 1990, he held Smithsonian 

and National Science Foundation fellowships at NASM. In 1990, he was hired 

as a museum curator in the Aeronautics Division, where he remained until 

early 1999. After transferring to the Space History Division, he took over the 

collection of German World War II missiles, and from 2003 to 2007, he ran the 

collection of Mercury and Gemini spacecraft and components. In fall 2001, he 

was a senior lecturer at the Johns Hopkins University. He was named chair of 

Space History in January 2007.

673
NASA’s First 50 Years

In addition to authoring numerous scholarly articles, Dr. Neufeld has 

written three books: The Skilled Metalworkers of Nuremberg: Craft and Class 

in the Industrial Revolution (Piscataway, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1989); 

The Rocket and the Reich: Peenemünde and the Coming of the Ballistic Missile 

Era (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), which won two book 

prizes; and Von Braun: Dreamer of Space, Engineer of War (New York, NY: 

Alfred A. Knopf, 2007). He has also edited Yves Béon’s memoir, Planet Dora 

(1997), and he is the coeditor of The Bombing of Auschwitz: Should the Allies 

Have Attempted It? (New York, NY: St. Martin’s Press, 2000).

Anthony M. Springer is the lead for communications and education in 

aeronautics research at NASA Headquarters. At NASA, he is responsible for 

all communications and education activities related to aeronautics for the 

Agency. Previously he served as the alliance development manager for the 

Office of Aerospace Technology, where he was responsible for the development and coordination of strategic alliances between NASA and its stakeholders including industry, academia, other agencies, and the public. He has also 

served as the director for all NASA Centennial of Flight activities and on the 

National Centennial of Flight Commission History and Education Panel. He 

has been the NASA resident manager for the X-34 project at Orbital Sciences 

Corporation in Dulles, Virginia, where he was responsible for the day-to-day 

activities and contractor interfaces with the contractor designing and fabricating the X-34 for NASA. Mr. Springer has also held positions as a project and 

test engineer at MSFC in Huntsville, Alabama. At MSFC, he conducted wind 

tunnel tests and developed the preliminary aerodynamics for numerous future 

launch vehicle concepts. During that time, Mr. Springer did research on the 

application of rapid prototyping methods to high-speed wind tunnel testing 

and other topics related to advanced applications for NASA’s wind tunnels. In 

addition, Mr. Springer served as the lab lead engineer on the Bantam Launch 

Vehicle program, a test engineer for solid rocket motor airflow testing, and a 

diver in MSFC’s Neutral Buoyancy Simulator, among other tasks. His started 

his career with NASA as a cooperative education student at MSFC in the late 

1980s. Mr. Springer has published many technical and historical publications 

and received numerous NASA awards over his career. He is a graduate of the 

University of Illinois with a B.S. in aeronautical and astronautical engineering, 

and he holds an A.A. from Kankakee Community College. He is a fellow of 

the AIAA, and he is married and lives outside Washington, DC, with his wife, 

Emily, and son, Oliver. 

674
About the Authors

Joseph N. Tatarewicz is an associate professor in the Department of History 

and the director of the Human Context of Science and Technology Certificate 

program at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. He holds M.A. 

degrees in philosophy (Catholic University of America, 1976) and history and 

philosophy of science (Indiana University, 1980), as well as a Ph.D. in history 

and philosophy of science (Indiana University, 1984). He is the author of Space 

Technology and Planetary Astronomy (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University 

Press, 1990), a contributor to The Space Telescope: A Study of NASA, Science, 

Technology, and Politics (New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 1989 

and 1993), and has authored numerous articles and reviews for professional 

journals and publications in the history of science and technology. His booklength, NASA-sponsored scholarly history, Exploring the Solar System: the 

Planetary Sciences Since Galileo, was awarded the AIAA History Manuscript 

Award and will be published by Johns Hopkins University Press. He began 

his career in space history as a NASA History Office intern (1980), followed 

by predoctoral and postdoctoral Guggenheim fellowships at the Smithsonian 

Institution’s NASM, where he later served in curatorial and administrative 

positions. He has served as the associate director and curator of the Center for 

the History of Electrical Engineering and as a consulting historian for various 

government agencies.

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Acronyms and Abbreviations

AAAF	 Association	Aéronautique	et	Astronautique	de	France

AAF		 Army	Air	Forces

AAOE	 Airborne	Antarctic	Ozone	Experiment	

AAS	 Advanced	Airways	System	

ABL	 Allegany	Ballistics	Laboratory

ABMA		 Army	Ballistic	Missile	Agency

ACE	 Advanced	Composition	Explorer

ACEE		 Aircraft	Energy	Efficiency

ACS	 Advanced	Camera	for	Surveys	

AEC	 Atomic	Energy	Commission	

AFCRC	 Air	Force	Cambridge	Research	Center

AFFDL	 Air	Force	Flight	Dynamics	Laboratory

AFFTC	 Air	Force	Flight	Test	Center

AFHRA	 Air	Force	Historical	Research	Agency	

AGARD	 Advisory	Group	for	Aerospace	Research	and	Development

AIAA		 American	Institute	of	Aeronautics	and	Astronautics

ALSEP	 Apollo	Lunar	Surface	Experiments	Package

AMSR-E	 Advanced	Microwave	Scanning	Radiometer-EOS

APL		 Applied	Physics	Laboratory

ARC	 Ames	Research	Center	

ARPA	 Advanced	Research	Projects	Agency

ARRMD	 Affordable	Rapid	Response	Missile	Demonstrator	

ARTCC	 Air	Route	Traffic	Control	Center

ASCENDS	 Active	Sensing	of	CO2	Emissions	over	Nights,	Days,	and	Seasons

677
NASA’s First 50 Years

ASIC	 application-specific	integrated	circuit

ASSET	 Aerothermo-Structural	Systems-Environmental	Tests	

ASTP	 Apollo-Soyuz	Test	Project

ATC	 air	traffic	control

ATMOS	 Atmospheric	Trace	Molecules	Spectroscopy

ATS	 Applications	Technology	Satellite	

BESS	 Biomedical	Experiments	Scientific	Satellite

BHT	 Bell	Helicopter	Textron

BST	 Behavioral	Science	Technology

Caltech	 California	Institute	of	Technology

CASETI	 Cultural	Aspects	of	SETI

CASTL	 Cassini	Technical	Library

CCD	 charge-coupled	device

CDC	 Center	for	Disease	Control	and	Prevention

CEES	 Committee	on	Earth	and	Environmental	Sciences

CELSS	 Closed	Environmental	Life	Support	Systems

CEO	 chief	executive	officer

CES		 Committee	on	Earth	Sciences

CfA	 Center	for	Astrophysics

CFD	 Computational	Fluid	Dynamics

CFES	 Continuous	Flow	Electrophoresis	System	

CIA	 Central	Intelligence	Agency

CIS	 Commonwealth	of	Independent	States

CLARREO	 Climate	Absolute	Radiance	and	Refractivity	Observatory	

CO	 carbon	monoxide

COBE	 Cosmic	Background	Explorer

COPUOS	 Committee	on	the	Peaceful	Uses	of	Outer	Space

COSPAR	 Committee	on	Space	Research

CSSC	 Communications	Support	Services	Center

CTAS	 Center	TRACON	Automation	System

ΔDOR	 delta-Differenced	One-Way	Range	

DA	 Descent	Advisor

DESDynI	 Deformation,	Ecosystem	Structure,	and	Dynamics	of	Ice

678
Acronyms and Abbreviations

DFRC	 Dryden	Flight	Research	Center

DOD	 Department	of	Defense

DOT	 Department	of	Transportation

DOR	 Differenced	One-Way	Range

DRVID	 Differenced	Range	Versus	Integrated	Doppler

EELV	 Evolved	Expendable	Launch	Vehicle

ELVs	 Expendable	Launch	Vehicles

ENSO		 El	Niño	Southern	Oscillation

EOS	 Earth	Observing	System

EOSDIS	 Earth	Observing	System	Data	and	Information	System

ERBS	 Earth	Radiation	Budget	Satellite

ESA	 European	Space	Agency

ESO	 European	Southern	Observatory

EUI	 European	University	Institute

EVA	 extravehicular	activity

FAA	 Federal	Aviation	Administration

FACET	 Future	Air	traffic	management	Concepts	Evaluation	Tool

FAST	 Final	Approach	Spacing	Tool

FIRE	 Flight	Investigation	Reentry	Environment

FLEXSTAB	 Flexible	Airplane	Analysis	Computer	System

FRC	 Flight	Research	Center

FRR	 Flight	Readiness	Review

FUSE	 Far	Ultraviolet	Spectroscopic	Explorer

GACM	 Global	Atmospheric	Composition	Mission

GALCIT	 Guggenheim	Aeronautical	Laboratory	at	the	California	

Institute	of	Technology

GALEX	 Galaxy	Evolution	Explorer

GAO	 General	Accounting	Office

GASL	 General	Applied	Sciences	Laboratory

GD/A	 General	Dynamics/Astronautics

GEO-CAPE	 Geostationary	Coastal	and	Air	Pollution	Events	

GISS	 Goddard	Institute	of	Space	Studies

GOES	 Geostationary	Operational	Environmental	Satellites

679
NASA’s First 50 Years

GPO	 Government	Printing	Office

GPS	 Global	Positioning	System

GRACE	 Gravity	Recovery	and	Climate	Experiment

GSBC	 Gordon	S.	Black	Corporation

GSFC	 Goddard	Space	Flight	Center

GTO	 geosynchronous	transfer	orbit

GWE	 Global	Weather	Experiment

HEAO	 High-Energy	Astronomical	Observatory

HEIC	 Hubble	European	Space	Agency	Information	Centre

HMSO	 Her	Majesty’s	Stationery	Office

HROs	 high-reliability	organizations

HSFS	 High-Speed	Flight	Station	

HTPB	 hydroxyl-terminated	polybutadiene

HUA		 Harvard	University	Archives

HyspIRI	 Hyperspectral	Infrared	Imager

HYWARDS	 Hypersonic	Weapon	and	Research	and	Development	

System

IAA	 International	Academy	of	Astronautics

IAS	 Institute	of	the	Aeronautical	Sciences	

ICASE	 Institute	for	Computer	Applications	to	Science	and	

Engineering

ICBM	 intercontinental	ballistic	missile

ICESat	 Ice,	Cloud,	and	land	Elevation	Satellite	

IGY	 International	Geophysical	Year

IMBP	 Institute	for	Medical	and	Biological	Problems

INMARSAT	 International	Maritime	Satellite	Organization

IOD	 Industrial	Operations	Directorate

IRAS	 Infrared	Astronomical	Satellite	

ISF	 Industrial	Space	Facility

ISS	 International	Space	Station

ITA	 Independent	Technical	Authority	

ITAR	 International	Traffic	in	Arms	Regulations

IU	 instrument	unit

IUE	 International	Ultraviolet	Explorer

680
Acronyms and Abbreviations

JPL	 Jet	Propulsion	Laboratory

JSC	 Johnson	Space	Center

KSC	 Kennedy	Space	Center

LaRC	 Langley	Research	Center

L/D	 lift-to-drag	ratio

LGM	1	 Little	Green	Men	1

LIST	 Lidar	Surface	Topography

LO	 low	observable

MAWD	 Mars	Atmospheric	Water	Detector

MERs	 Mars	Exploration	Rovers

MESSENGER	 MErcury	Surface,	Space	ENvironment,	GEochemistry,	

and	Ranging

MISR	 Multi-angle	Imaging	SpectroRadiometer

MISS	 Man-in-Space-Soonest

MIT	 Massachusetts	Institute	of	Technology

MOC	 Mars	Orbiter	Camera

MODIS	 Moderate	Resolution	Imaging	Spectroradiometer

MOL	 Manned	Orbital	Laboratory

MOLA	 Mars	Orbiter	Laser	Altimeter

MOPITT	 Measurement	of	Pollution	in	the	Troposphere

MPH	 miles	per	hour

MSC	 MacNeal-Schwedier	Corporation

MSFC	 Marshall	Space	Flight	Center

MTPE	 Mission	to	Planet	Earth

NAA	 North	American	Aviation

NACA	 National	Advisory	Committee	for	Aeronautics

NASA	 National	Aeronautics	and	Space	Administration

NASM	 National	Air	and	Space	Museum

NASP	 National	Aero-Space	Plane	Program

NASTRAN	 NASA	Structural	Analysis

681
NASA’s First 50 Years

NATO	 North	Atlantic	Treaty	Organization

NavTechMisEu	 Naval	Technical	Mission	to	Europe

NEAR	 Near	Earth	Asteroid	Rendezvous

NIH	 National	Institutes	of	Health

NOAA	 National	Oceanic	and	Atmospheric	Administration

NOZE	 National	Ozone	Experiment

NPD	 NASA	Policy	Directive	

NPOESS	 National	Polar-orbiting	Operational	Environmental	

Satellite	System

NRAO	 National	Radio	Astronomy	Observatory

NRL	 Naval	Research	Laboratory

NRO	 National	Reconnaissance	Office

NSB	 National	Science	Board

NSBRI	 National	Space	Biomedical	Research	Institute

NSC	 National	Space	Council

NSCORTs	 National	Specialized	Centers	of	Research	and	Training

NSF	 National	Science	Foundation

NSPD	 National	Security	Presidential	Directive

NSSDC	 National	Space	Science	Data	Center

OAO	 Orbiting	Astronomical	Observatory

OCO	 Orbiting	Carbon	Observatory

OECD	 Organization	for	Economic	Cooperation	and	Development

OHI	 oral	history	interview

OMB	 Office	of	Management	and	Budget

OMSF	 Office	of	Manned	Space	Flight

ONIPS	 Optical	Navigation	Image	Processing	System

ONP	 Optical	Navigation	Program

ONR	 Office	of	Naval	Research

OPEC	 Organization	of	Petroleum	Exporting	Countries

OSO	 Orbiting	Solar	Observatory

OSSA	 Office	of	Space	Science	and	Applications

PAM	 Payload	Assist	Module

PAO	 Public	Affairs	Office

PATH	 Precipitation	and	All-weather	Temperature	and	Humidity	

PBMA	 Process-Based	Mission	Assurance

682
Acronyms and Abbreviations

PETA	 People	for	the	Ethical	Treatment	of	Animals

P.L.	 Public	Law	

PRIME	 Precision	Recovery	Including	Maneuvering	Entry	

PSAC	 President’s	Scientific	Advisory	Committee

QuikSCAT	 Quick	Scatterometer	

R&D	 research	and	development

RAF	 Royal	Air	Force

RAPP	 Research	Airplane	Projects	Panel

RAS	 Royal	Astronomical	Society

RAVE	 Research	on	Volcanic	Eruptions

RCS	 radar	cross-section

RFPs	 Requests	for	Proposals

RM	 Research	Memorandum

RMS	 Remote	Manipulator	System

ROSAT	 Röntgen	Satellite

ROTC	 Reserve	Officer	Training	Corps

RTG	 radioisotope	thermoelectric	generator

RTOP	 Research	and	Technology	Objectives	and	Plans

SAB	 Scientific	Advisory	Board	

SAC	 Science	Advisory	Committee

SAE	 Society	of	Automotive	Engineers

SAG		 Scientific	Advisory	Group

SAGE		 Semi-Automatic	Ground	Equipment

SAL	 Space	Astronomy	Laboratory

SAO	 Smithsonian	Astrophysical	Observatory

SAOHP	 Space	Astronomy	Oral	History	Project

SAO/SIA	 Smithsonian	Astrophysical	Observatory,	Smithsonian	

Institution	Archives

SCLP	 Snow	and	Cold	Land	Processes

SCRJ	 Supersonic	Combustion	Ram-Jet	

SCW	 supercritical	wing

SDI	 Space	Defense	Initiative

SeaWiFS	 Sea-viewing	Wide	Field-of-view	Sensor

683
NASA’s First 50 Years

SEI	 Space	Exploration	Initiative

SETI	 Search	for	Extraterrestrial	Intelligence

SHMA/AIP	 Sources	for	History	of	Modern	Astronomy,	American	

Institute	of	Physics

SITE	 Satellite	Instructional	Television	Experiment

SMAP	 Soil	Moisture	Active	and	Passive

SMC/HO	 Space	and	Missile	Systems	Center	History	Office

SMS	 Surface	Management	System	

SOHO	 Solar	and	Heliospheric	Observatory

SPI	 Space	Policy	Institute

SPOT	 Satellite	Pour	l’Observation	de	la	Terre	

SRBs	 solid	rocket	boosters

SRMs	 solid	rocket	motors

SSB	 Space	Science	Board

SSBE	 Shaped	Sonic	Boom	Experiment

SSC	 Stennis	Space	Center

SSME	 Space	Shuttle	main	engine

SSTO		 single	stage	to	orbit

STG	 Space	Task	Group

STOL	 short	takeoff	and	landing

STS	 Space	Transportation	System

STScI	 Space	Telescope	Science	Institute

SWOT	 Surface	Water	Ocean	Topography

TACT	 Transonic	Aircraft	Technology	

TCP	 Technological	Capabilities	Panel	

TIROS	 Television	Infrared	Observation	Satellite	

TMA	 Traffic	Management	Advisor	

TOMS	 Total	Ozone	Mapping	Spectrometer

TOPEX	 Topography	Experiment	

TQM	 Total	Quality	Management	

TR	 Technical	Report	

TRACON	 Terminal	Radar	Approach	Control	

TRMM	 Tropical	Rainfall	Measuring	Mission	

TSTO	 two	stage	to	orbit	

TVA	 Tennessee	Valley	Authority

684
Acronyms and Abbreviations

UARS	 Upper	Atmosphere	Research	Satellite

UCAC	 U.S.	Naval	Observatory	CCD	Astrograph	Catalog

UNESCO	 United	Nations	Educational,	Scientific	and	Cultural	

Organization

USCCRI	 U.S.	Climate	Change	Research	Initiative

USGCRP	 U.S.	Global	Change	Research	Program

USNC	 United	States	National	Committee

USSR	 Union	of	Soviet	Socialist	Republics

USSRC	 U.S.	Space	and	Rocket	Center

VAB	 Vehicle	Assembly	Building	

VDT	 Variable	Density	Tunnel

VLBI	 Very	Long	Baseline	Interferometry

VSTOL	 vertical	short	takeoff	and	landing

VTOL	 vertical	takeoff	and	landing

WASPs	 Women’s	Airforce	Service	Pilots

WEP	 Wisconsin	Experiment	Package

WMAP	 Wilkinson	Microwave	Anisotropy	Probe

XMM	 X-ray	Multi-Mirror	Mission

685
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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.

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Policy. NASA SP-4008, 1968.

Ertel, Ivan D., and Mary Louise Morse. The Apollo Spacecraft: A Chronology, 

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Brooks, Courtney G., and Ivan D. Ertel. The Apollo Spacecraft: A Chronology, 

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Spacecraft: A Chronology, Volume IV, January 21, 1966–July 13, 1974. 

NASA SP-4009, 1978.

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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, 

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Ezell, Linda Neuman. NASA Historical Data Book, Volume II: Programs and 

Projects, 1958–1968. NASA SP-4012, 1988.

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Gawdiak, Ihor, with Helen Fedor. NASA Historical Data Book, Volume IV: NASA 

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Policy. NASA SP-4015, 1972.

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Policy. NASA SP-4016, 1972.

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1972: Chronology of Science, Technology, and 

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Policy. NASA SP-4022, 1986.

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Noordung, Hermann. The Problem of Space Travel: The Rocket Motor. Edited by 

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Laufer, Alexander, Todd Post, and Edward Hoffman. Shared Voyage: Learning 

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PROJECT HISTORIES, NASA SP-4200:

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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.

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.

Naugle, John E. First Among Equals: The Selection of NASA Space Science 

Experiments. NASA SP-4215, 1991.

690
The NASA History Series

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.

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.

Dawson, Virginia P., and Mark D. Bowles. Taming Liquid Hydrogen: The Centaur 

Upper Stage Rocket, 1958–2002. NASA SP-2004-4230.

Meltzer, Michael. Mission to Jupiter: A History of the Galileo Project. NASA 

SP-2007-4231.

Heppenheimer, T. A. Facing the Heat Barrier: A History of Hypersonics. NASA 

SP-2007-4232.

Tsiao, Sunny. “Read You Loud and Clear!” The Story of NASA’s Spaceflight 

Tracking and Data Network. NASA SP-2007-4233.

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.

691
NASA’s First 50 Years

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.

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.

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.

692
The NASA History Series

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.

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.

693
NASA’s First 50 Years

Hogan, Thor. Mars Wars: The Rise and Fall of the Space Exploration Initiative. 

NASA SP-2007-4410, 2007.

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.

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.

694
The NASA History Series

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.

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.

695
NASA’s First 50 Years

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.

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.

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.

696
The NASA History Series

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.

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.

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.

697
THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY BLANK
Index

A

A-12 aircraft, 196

A-12 Blackbird, 224, 258

A321 aircraft, 201

Accurate Automation Corporation, 272

Acronyms and Abbreviations, 677–85

Across the Space Frontier (von Braun, Bonestell, 

Freeman, and Klep), 330

Active remote sensing devices, 513

Active Sensing of CO2 Emissions over Nights, 

Days, and Seasons (ASCENDS), 536–37n67

Acton, Charles H. “Chuck,” 489, 490

Adam, Project, 333

Adams, Michael, 262

Adler, Hans, 46

Advanced Airways System (AAS), 219, 220

Advanced Camera for Surveys (ACS), 637

Advanced Composite Airframe Program, 202

Advanced Composition Explorer (ACE), 

536–37n67

Advanced Microwave Scanning RadiometerEOS (AMSR-E) instrument, 504

Advanced Research and Technology, Office of, 

354

Advanced Research Projects Agency (ARPA)

Centaur project, 89

formation of, 31

satellite-based research development, 

396

Saturn launch vehicle development, 94

SSBD program, 196

Advisory Committee on the Future of the U.S. 

Space Program, 363n40, 370

Aero Medical Command, Holloman Air Force 

Base, 408

Aerodynamic heating, 257–59, 261–62, 273

Aerodynamics

area rule theory, 187, 246, 247–49, 254, 

257

Computational Fluid Dynamics (CFD), 

202, 215–18, 220, 252, 573

inertial coupling, 243–44, 249, 250

nose cone shape and, 200

pitchup, 243

research methodologies, alternative, 

210–21

institutional structure and, 210–15, 

221

macro-technological change, 

215–18, 221

shifting technological frontier, 

218–20, 221

Round Three research aircraft lessons, 

249

supercritical wing, 188–89, 255–57

699
NASA’s First 50 Years

swept-wing concept, 186, 187–88, 

234–41, 244–45, 250, 254

wind tunnels and emphasis on, 206, 210, 

210n6

winglets, 189–90, 255, 257

Aerojet

Jupiter Senior motor, 86–87

solid rocket booster development, 102, 

105

Aeronautics. See also Wind tunnels

air traffic management tools, 192–94

budget for, 204

composite materials, 201–2

development of, 3–4, 604–5, 616

flight control systems, 195

government sponsorship of, 3

international collaborative activities, 121

as mission of NASA, 205

NASA Structural Analysis (NASTRAN), 

202, 203

preeminence of U.S., 114

research program for, 5

supersonic and hypersonic flight, 196–99

technology advancement, 183, 203–4

unconventional aircraft configurations, 

199–200

weather hazards research, 190–92

Aeronautics division, NASA, 51

Aerospace Medical Laboratory, WrightPatterson Air Force Base, 351

Aerospaceplane, 270

Aerothermodynamics, 257–59, 261–62, 273

Aerothermo-Structural Systems-Environmental 

Tests (ASSET) project, 267–68

Affordable Rapid Response Missile 

Demonstrator (ARRMD), 271

Age of Discovery

conquest mode of, 656

destinations and voyages, 604

events associated with, 588

exotic human cultures, contact with, 654

funding for, 601

impact of New World on Old, 648

infrastructure for, 596, 598–99, 610

maps and navigation, 599, 645

risks, danger, and safety issues, 602–3

Space Age and analogies to, 386–88, 

588–93

Space Age, comparison to, 588

symmetry in narrative arc, 587–88

understanding and benefits gained from 

voyages, 453–54

voyagers, 600

Age of Reconnaissance, 588, 604

Age of Reconnaissance (Parry), 588

Agena upper stage, 93

Ages of Exploration, 588

Agnew, Spiro, 338, 339, 413

Agung, Mount, 576

Air Force Cambridge Research Center (AFCRC), 

Geophysical Research Directorate, 398, 404

Air Force Rocket Propulsion Laboratory, 88

Air Force, U.S.

Aerospace Medical Laboratory, 351

Aerospaceplane, 270

Air Research and Development 

Command, 90

aircraft noise research, 200–1

astronauts, selection of, 351

atomic-powered research airplane, 41

battle between NACA and Air Force over 

wind tunnels, 210

Centaur project, 89–90, 93

contractors, use of, 17

decisions, basis for, 99

Delta launch vehicle management, 85–86

Evolved Expendable Launch Vehicle 

(EELV) program, 86, 107

fighter development program, 253, 

253n37

Hypersonic Weapon and Research and 

Development System (HYWARDS), 263

Large Segmented Solid Rocket Motor 

Program, 102

large-scale systems management, 18–19

lifting bodies research, 200, 214

missile development by, 79

primate missions, 355

School of Aviation Medicine, 351, 365

Scout launch vehicle development, 86

700
Index

Strategic Interplanetary Systems proposal, 432

Suntan project, 89–90

SV-5 lifting bodies, 266, 268

technical capabilities of, 17

Thor missile development, 82

Thor-Able launch vehicle development, 

82

transition from AAF, 233

X-15 aircraft, 224

Air traffic management research and tools, 

192–94, 219–20

Air Transportation Association, 220

Airborne Antarctic Ozone Experiment (AAOE), 

570–71

Aircraft

commercial aircraft, 254, 273–74

performance rating, 250–51

weather data collection by, 546

Aircraft design. See also Wings

aircraft noise research, 200–1

area rule theory, 187, 246, 247–49, 254, 

257

composite materials, 201–2, 219

dive recovery flaps, 229

fins, 243, 244, 250, 264

flight control systems, 195

glass cockpits, 195

for hypersonic flight, 259–62

propeller design, 224, 225

shock waves and, 187, 196, 235

structural research and, 218

for supersonic flight, 197–99, 244–49, 

250, 255–57

tail design, 242, 243, 250

for transonic flight, 225–26, 227–29, 250

unconventional aircraft configurations, 

199–200

Aircraft Energy Efficiency (ACEE) program, 

201–2, 254

Aircraft Engine Research Laboratory, 211

Airfoils, 185, 206, 207, 225

Airport noise, 218

Airspace congestion, 218. See also Air traffic 

management research and tools

Alas Babylon (Frank), 41

Aldridge, Edward “Pete,” Jr., 534

Aldridge Commission (Commission on 

Implementation of United States Space 

Exploration Policy), 171n64, 534–36, 591

Aldrin, Edwin E. “Buzz,” Jr.

Apollo 11 mission, 611, 624

Communion after Moon landing, 110

Moon landing and moonwalk, 109–10, 

607, 624

scientific experiments conducted on 

lunar surface, 111, 112

Alexander Report, 219, 221

Alford, William, 245

Allegany Ballistics Laboratory (ABL), 80, 87, 88

Allen, H. Julian, 212, 258, 260–61, 263, 266

Allen, John, 363

Aller, Lawrence, 399

Allnut, Robert, 159n26

Almar, I., 472–73, 475

Alter, J. Cecil, 547

Aluminum, 80, 83

Amazon River, 554

American Association for the Advancement of 

Science, 165

American Astronomical Society

changes in, 423, 425

growth in membership in, 394, 413, 414, 

423

SAO report, 408

specialist divisions, 413–14, 415, 416

American Institute of Public Opinion, 173n72

American Meteorological Society, 537

American Recovery and Reinvestment Act 

stimulus funds, 509

American Rocket Society, 332, 336

Ames Research Center (ARC)/Ames 

Aeronautical Laboratory

Astrobiology Institute, 371, 371n77

bedrest studies, 365

Biosatellite program, 353–54

CFD research, 216–17, 218

computers at, 217, 218

Cyclops, Project, 358

exobiology program, 641

701
NASA’s First 50 Years

life science activities, 353

lifting bodies research, 200, 212

modeling research, 573, 574, 578

NACA/NASA facility, xiii, 289

planetary exploration and flybys, 433

psychological research, 365

research facilities at, 211

STOL aircraft research, 219, 221

transonic flight research, 229

Ammonia, 581–82

Analytic independence, 321

Animal test subjects, 353, 354, 355, 371, 

372–73

Annefrank asteroid, 499

Antarctica

Age of Discovery and, 588

Airborne Antarctic Ozone Experiment 

(AAOE), 570–71

Antarctic Treaty, 118–19

cryosphere research, 555

exploration of, 126

as Mars analog, 589

missile bases on, 118

National Ozone Experiment (NOZE), 570

ozone hole over, 510, 570–71

psychological research, 366–67

satellite coverage of, 553

sea ice monitoring, 559

Antarctica Space Analog Program, 366–67

Antares IIA rocket motor, 88

Antares IIIA rocket motor, 85, 88–89

Anthes, Richard, 537

Anthropometrical data collection, 355, 356

Antisatellite technology, 117, 125, 146–47

Anti-von Braun faction, 326, 327, 336–37

Apollo, Project

achievements of, 607–8, 646

astronauts, media interest in, 169

budget for, 8, 12, 602, 615

challenges faced during, 11–14

Columbus analogies, 607

confidence and complacency, 294–95, 

323

conservation of gains from, 9

duration of missions, 352

end of program, 8–9, 54, 514

engines for, 597

as example of properly run government, 

11

expansion of NASA under, 52

as finest hour, 11

40th anniversaries of, xiv–xv

goal of, 276

investigation following accident, 53, 

294–95

justification of, 434

landing sites, 437, 438

launch technology, 661

launch vehicles for, 98

life science activities during missions, 

352–53, 359

Lunar Modules, 83, 623, 624, 625

lunar samples and information about 

surface of Moon, 434–35, 438–39

management of

automatic responsibility, 290

configuration management, 

99–100, 292, 293, 294–95

large-scale systems management, 

18, 26

Monday Notes, 290, 298

Saturn launch vehicle and, 98–100

systems management, 291–93, 

294–95, 295n20, 318

von Braun management style, 290

under Webb, 77

management of and priority of, 52–53

polar exploration analogy, 590

priority of, 514, 522

public opinion of, 172

pure oxygen environment, 294–95

schedule for, 12–13

science benefits from, 646n65

significance of, 606

spacecraft

design of, 260

difficulties with, 13

success of, 8, 100, 161, 288, 295, 323, 

434

X-15 aircraft and, 617

702
Index

Apollo 8 mission, 338, 643

Apollo 11 mission

European contribution to, 111–13

landing of, 109–10, 295

launch of, 18, 611

Moon rock collection and distribution, 

110

moonwalk during, 109–10, 624

planting of American flag on lunar surface, 109, 112, 112n13

scientific experiments conducted on 

lunar surface, 110–13

success of, 295

Apollo 12 mission, 357, 623

Apollo 13, 11

Apollo 13 mission, 295, 607

Apollo 15 mission, 625

Apollo 16 mission, 352

Apollo 17 mission, 295, 352, 644

Apollo 204 accident, 13, 22, 53, 294–95, 323

Apollo Configuration Management Manual

(Phillips), 99

Apollo Lunar Surface Experiments Package 

(ALSEP), 485

Apollo Telescope Mount, 425

Apollo-Soyuz Test Project (ASTP), 122, 133, 

135, 354, 368

Applications Technology Satellites

ATS-1 satellite, 553

ATS-3 satellite, 550, 553

Applied Physics Laboratory (APL), 28, 74, 

391–92

Apt, Milburn, 243–44

Aqua satellite, 504, 508, 508n11, 531

Aquarius satellite, 505n6, 539

Arctic sea-ice, 559

Area rule theory, 187, 246, 247–49, 254, 257

Ares launch vehicles

Ares I, 106, 146

Ares V, 75, 106–7

Earth departure stage, 107

funding for, xv

Lunar Surface Access Module, 107

missions of, 106

purpose of, 106

time schedule for, xv

transitioning to, xv

Ariane launcher, 137, 138

Arianespace, 138

Aristotelian-Ptolemaic-Scholastic Cosmos, 429, 

429n3, 431

Arizona Multiple Mirror Telescope, 425

Arlandes, François-Laurent, Marquis d’, 545

Armstrong, Neil

aeronautics research, 203–4

Apollo 11 mission, 611, 624

fly-by-wire system approval, 195

Gemini 8 mission, 323

Moon landing and moonwalk, 109–10, 607

scientific experiments conducted on 

lunar surface, 112

X-15 research flight, 617

Army, U.S.

Edgewood Arsenal, 225

JPL facility, xiii

missile development by, 79

Moon mission plans, 334–35

primate missions, 355

Redstone Arsenal, 88

Army Air Forces, U.S. (AAF), 233, 238, 356

Army Ballistic Missile Agency (ABMA)

asset transfer to NASA, 185

Development Operations Division, 185

missile development at, xiii–xiv

NASA facility, xiii, 289

Saturn launch vehicle development, 94

technical capabilities of, 16–17

telescope for ultraviolet brightness of 

stars, 404, 408

von Braun at, 98

Army Ordnance, U.S., 391

Arnold, Henry H. “Hap,” 233

Artificial intelligence, 653

Asimov, Isaac, 40–41, 661n99

Asrar, Ghassem, 512–13, 534–35

Assmann, Richard, 546

Association of Forest Service Employees for 

Environmental Ethics, 473

Asteroids

belt between Mars and Jupiter, 436, 447

703
NASA’s First 50 Years

broad category of bodies included in, 

447–48

exploration of

Deep Impact mission, 493

Galileo mission, 448, 494

international collaborative activities, 

5

Mariner program, 448

navigation methods, 493, 498, 499

resistance to, 346

spaceflight architecture to support, 

3

images of, 448

impact concerns, 341, 343

interest in, 327, 346–47

names for, 430

Astrobiology, 71, 349, 357–58, 371, 371n77

Astrobiology Institute, 371, 371n77

Astrobiology program, NASA, 647

Astrodynamics, 416

Astroengineering projects, 651

Astrofuturism, 652–53

Astrofuturism (Kilgore), 652

Astrogeology Division, U.S. Geological Survey, 

434, 449

Astrograph Catalog, 492–93

Astronauts

exercise regime for, 359, 365

female astronauts, 355, 356–57

industrial astronauts, 361

male astronauts, 355, 356–57

media interest in, 168–69, 177

military jet pilots as, 351, 600n37, 614

number of, 275

physiological reactions to spaceflight and 

landing, 355, 356–57, 359, 364–65, 

370–71

as private employees, 308

psychological research, 365–67

quarantine requirement, 357, 435

radiation exposure monitoring, 352, 357, 

360

recruitment campaign for, 277

scientists as, 355

screening and selection of, 351, 600

suits for, 356, 357

training and preparation of, 330–31, 

600–1

Astronomical unit, 500

Astronomy

astronomical unit, 500

autonomy and authority over direction 

and management of research, 391, 

393

budget and funding for

federal funding, 393–94, 414, 415, 

419–20, 425–26

funding priorities, 416–18, 419–21, 

425–26

NASA funding, 411–13, 418, 421, 

423

spending estimates, 394

changes in discipline, 389–91, 413–18, 

423–26

deep space navigation contributions to, 

479

electromagnetic spectrum, 640, 646–47

employment opportunities, 418–20

ephemerides, 500–2

experiments, 405–7, 405n42

growth in profession, 394, 413, 418

innovation, source of, 422

instruments for, 389, 390, 391–92, 402, 

422 (See also Telescopes)

national facilities for, 393, 422

navigation and, 479, 502

navigation data, access to, 482–83

Ph.D. graduates in, 411, 412, 418–20

physicists’ activity in field of, 390, 

392–93, 418–19, 422–23

research projects

appeal for possible experiments, 

397–98

data analysis, 418, 421

ground-based research, 417–18

infrastructure for, 400, 418

rocket-based research, 391–92, 

394–95

satellite-based research, 402

selection of projects, 398–99

704
Index

specialist divisions, 413–18

spectroscopy in, 564–72

telescope project, 398, 399

Astronomy Manpower Committee, 419

Astrophysical Consulting Bureau, 391

Astrophysicists, 415–16

Atlantic Research, 88

Atlantis Shuttle, 358–59, 571

Atlas launch vehicles

Centaur project and, 90

PRIME project, 268

propellant for, 89

Saturn launch vehicle development and, 

94

upper stage development, 89

Atmospheric studies

Earth system science, 579–84

international collaborative activities, 121

satellites, discoveries made from, 

555–57

self-recording and transmitting instruments to report, 546–48

spectroscopy research, 564–66

stratospheric chemistry, 567–72

terms for layers in atmosphere, 546

Atmospheric Trace Molecules Spectroscopy 

(ATMOS), 569–70

Atomic diplomacy, 34

Atomic Energy Acts, 33, 41–42, 47

Atomic Energy Commission (AEC)

atomic-powered research airplane for Air 

Force, 41

chairman of, 47

DOD, relationship with, 42–45

International Atomic Energy Agency and, 

38

international collaborative activities, 115

leadership of, 50

liaison committees, 43–44

NASA, relationship with, 43–44

NASA and, 41–47

nuclear material, control of, 44–45

nuclear rocket research program, 46–47

as precursor of space technology revolution, 32

replacement of, 123

research laboratories, 33

ROVER program, 46–47

as technocracy, 33–34, 48

Atomic Peace Ship, 39

Atoms for Peace program, 38, 39, 131

Augustine, Norman, 69, 659

Augustine Committee and Report, 69, 363n40, 

603, 659

Aura satellite, 508, 508n11, 530, 531, 571

Australia, 139, 271

Automatic responsibility, 290

Autonomous navigation, 498–500

Avrett, Eugene, 410

B

B-1 bomber, 188, 245

B-26 Invader, 251

B-29 Superfortress bomber, 241–42

B-47 bomber, 188, 254, 256

B-52 bomber

B-52B aircraft, 198

mothership launching of aircraft, 215, 

271–72, 274

NB-52B Stratofortress, 271–72, 274

success of, 253, 254

B-58 bomber, 253

Bahcall, John, 421

Baker-Nunn tracking network, 126n51, 402–3

Ballistic Missile Defense Organization, 437

Ballistic missile development, management of, 

291–92

Balloon projects

Balloon Intercomparison Campaigns, 

568–69, 584

exploration with, 545–46

international collaborative activities, 121

pilot balloons, 545

Barnes, Richard, 124, 125

Barometer, 544

Barrett, Joe, 504

Baudrillard, Jean, 178

Baylor College of Medicine, 367–68

Bean, Alan L., 623

705
NASA’s First 50 Years

Becker, John V., 255, 261

Beggs, James

Earth science program and, 515–17

goals of, 56

human spaceflight, importance of, 281

leadership of NASA under, 56–57, 63, 77

legacy of, 57

technology transfer, concerns about, 143

wrongdoing charges against, 57

Behavioral Science Technology (BST), 313, 314, 

323

Bell, S. Jocelyn, 482–83

Bell Helicopter Textron (BHT), 199

Bell L-39 aircraft, 188, 238

Bell Telephone Laboratories, 81

Bell X-5 aircraft, 186, 188, 240, 241, 244–45, 

249

Bell XS-1 (X-1) research aircraft, 186, 223, 232, 

233, 238, 240, 241–42, 243

Bell XS-2 (X-2) aircraft, 240, 241, 243–44, 249

Bellcomm, 293

Bendix, 95

Benjamin, Marina, 649

Berendzen, Richard, 418, 419

Bergreen, Laurence, 375–88, 592–93, 663–64

Berkner, Lloyd V., 396–400, 402

Bethe, Hans, 38, 390

Bevelac particle accelerator, 372

Big Bang, 639, 641, 645

Big Ear radio telescope, 358

Big Gs space station, 368

Big History movement, 649

Bikle, Paul, 200

Billings, Linda, 151–81, 664–65

Billingsley, Henry E., 122

Biology, fundamental/basic

definition of, 349

research activities, 353–54, 370

study topics for, 349

Biology and medicine, operational

astronauts, female compared to male, 

356–57

bedrest studies, 365

definition of, 349

ground-based research, 364–68

medical studies for general population, 

362

medication manufacturing, 360–61, 

361n36

physiological reactions to spaceflight and 

landing, 355, 356–57, 359, 364–65, 

370–71

protein crystal experimentation, 361–62

psychological research, 365–67

public visibility of NASA’s efforts, 351

research activities, 352, 370

researchers for, 367–68

telemedicine activities, 371

Biomedical Experiments Scientific Satellite 

(BESS), 368–69

Bion/Cosmos missions

Bion 3 (Cosmos 782) mission, 355

Bion 4 (Cosmos 936) mission, 357

Bion 6 (Cosmos 1514) mission, 355

Bion 12 mission, 373

life science activities, 355, 357, 359, 373

Bioprocessing in space, 341, 362–63, 363n40, 

651

Biosatellite program, 353–54

Biostack, 352

Biot, Jean-Baptiste, 545–46

Bissell, Richard, 37n18

Bjerknes, Vilhelm, 544–45

Black, Gordon S., 173n75

Blanchard, Jean-Pierre, 545

Blue Hill Observatory, 544–45

Blue Marble image, 550, 561, 619, 644

Blue Scout launch vehicle, 86

Blue Scout Junior, 87

Blunt body reentry theory, 260

Boeing

flight control systems, 195

space station development, 368

Boeing 707 aircraft, 224, 254, 255

Boeing 737 aircraft, 195

Boeing 747 aircraft, 187, 190, 255

Boeing 767 aircraft, 195

Boeing B-29 Superfortress bomber, 241–42, 

243

Boeing B-47 bomber, 188, 254, 256

706
Index

XB-47 bomber, 238, 239

Boeing B-52 bomber. See B-52 bomber

Boeing EB-50 Superfortress bomber, 249

Boeing Hyper-X project, 272

Boeing NB-52B Stratofortress, 271–72, 274

Boeing P2B-1S bomber, 243

Boeing X-20 Dyna-Soar, 224, 261, 263–65

Bohr, Neils, 39

Bok, Bart, 411, 418–19, 420

Bombardier aircraft, 201

Bonestell, Chesley, 330, 331, 332, 342

Bonney, Walter T., 153–55, 153n6, 156, 157, 

168

Bonnie primate mission, 354

Boorstin, Daniel, 658

Boost-glide aircraft, 263–65

Borman, Frank, 620

Borrelly comet, 499

Bova, Ben, 652

Boyce, Peter, 421, 423

Boynton, William, 572

Bradbury, Ray, 377–78, 384

Braille asteroid, 499

Brain, Decade of the, 362

Brand, Stewart, 550

Brazil, 139

Bredt, Irene, 259

Bretherton, Francis, 511, 517, 518–20, 583

Bretherton Report (Earth Systems Science), 

518–20

Brewster XF2A-2 Buffalo, 229

Briggs, Lyman J., 225

Brilliant Pebbles project, 304–5

Brinksmanship principle, 409

Brookhaven National Laboratory, 368

Brooks, Charles Franklin, 547

Brooks Air Force Base, School of Aviation 

Medicine, 351, 365

Brown, Clinton, 261

Brown Marble image, 550, 561

Budgets, NASA

aeronautics research, 204

for Apollo program, 8, 12, 602, 615

challenges facing NASA and, 69

decline of, 22, 53, 54, 71, 72, 296–97, 532

DOD budget compared to, 143–44, 382, 

652

Earth science program, 506, 507, 508, 

509, 532–34, 536–37

economic pressures and technical compromises, 55, 105–6, 296, 307–8, 323

for EOS, 508, 524, 525–30, 527n54, 583

expansion of, 52

for Gemini program, 12–13

under Griffin, 75–76

Housing and Urban Development budget 

compared to, 382

for human spaceflight, 170, 277–78, 

336–37, 337n23

for ISS, 278, 345, 370–71

location of NASA facilities and budget 

decisions, 52

Mars exploration funding, 75–76, 381–82

Moon landing, support for, 34

under O’Keefe, 73

pay-as-you-go philosophy, 73–74

percentage of federal budget, 54, 54n7, 

376, 602, 602n42, 615

planetary exploration programs, 518

political support for NASA and, 19–20

priority of projects and, 661

public opinion of, 174, 175–76, 375–76, 

602, 615

for science programs, 307

for SEI, 69, 73, 305, 325, 508, 524

for Space Age, 602, 602n42, 615

for Space Shuttle, 75, 278, 296, 307, 340

Space Station Freedom, 344–45, 369

support for NASA and spending priority of 

NASA, 166

Vision for Space Exploration, 509

Bumper V-2 rocket, 549

Bundy, McGeorge, 403

Buran, 269, 358n27

Burroughs, Edgar Rice, 439

Burrows, William, 593

Busemann, Adolph, 186, 187, 234, 247

Bush, George H. W.

CIS countries, technology export to, 140

EOS, approval of, 508

707
NASA’s First 50 Years

frontiers, conquest and control of, 148

global warming issue, 522

leadership of NASA under, 61, 64, 65, 68, 

69, 70, 74

SEI and, 69, 305, 325, 342–43, 524–25

space policy of, 68–69, 343

Bush, George W. See also Vision for Space 

Exploration

Earth science program and, 507

Earth science program under, 531–33

leadership of NASA under, 65, 66, 67, 70, 

72, 74–75, 76, 77

NASA goals, 73

public relations under, 171, 171n64, 179

space policy of, 1, 145–46, 313–14, 344, 

345, 369–70, 530–31, 591

transition from administration of, xv

Butler, Dixon, 520

Butrica, Andrew J., 479–502, 665

C

C-47 aircraft, 213

Cain, Dan L., 482

Caldwell, Frank W., 225

California, 652

California Institute of Technology (Caltech). See 

also Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL)

aerodynamic research, 227

Code at, 401, 402

Guggenheim Aeronautical Laboratory 

(GALCIT), 230

JPL management, xiii, 51, 289

Very Long Baseline Interferometry (VLBI), 

483

Callisto, 481, 633

Canada

astronauts, recruitment campaign for, 

277

Defence Research Telecommunications 

Establishment, 130n63

international collaborative activities, 131

Remote Manipulator System (RMS), 136

remote sensing projects, 524

satellite technology development, 139

Space Station Freedom agreement, 124

Space Station Freedom development, 

141, 369

Space Station Freedom negotiations, 143

topside sounder experiment, 130n63

Canticle for Leibowitz, A (Miller), 41

Cape Canaveral, 87, 382, 549, 599, 612

Caravels, 596, 610

Carbon dioxide, 559, 564–65, 575, 580–81

Carbon monoxide, 556

Carman, L. Robert, 263

Carpenter, Scott, 614

Carrack, 610

Carter, Jimmy

Earth science initiatives, 515, 516

leadership of NASA under, 56, 61, 62

science funding under, 420

support for NASA, 56

Casani, John, 464, 468

Case for Mars (Zubrin), 379–80

Cassini-Huygens mission

engineering achievements, 466–67

ethical benefits of, 470–76

findings from earlier probes to design 

and plan, 455, 456

international collaborative activities, 469

navigation methods, 493, 495, 496

occultation experiments, 481

outer planet exploration with, 453, 454, 

456–57, 609, 633

scientific achievements of, 457, 460–64

societal benefits from, 467–68

technology for human and robotic exploration, 464–66

vitality of U.S. and, 470

Castenholz, Paul, 96

Cat’s Eye Nebula, 637

CDC (Centers for Disease Control and 

Prevention), 16

Celescope, Project, 403, 404–8, 409, 425

Centaur project

computer for guidance systems, 83

development of, 89–93

failure of, 316

funding for, 90–91, 93

708
Index

launch of, 92

management of, 92–93

priority of, 90–91

problems associated with, 91–92

Saturn launch vehicle development and, 

94

success of, 93

Center for Astrophysics (CfA), 419, 424–25

Center for Biophysical Sciences and 

Engineering, 361n37

Center for Gravitational Studies in Cellular and 

Developmental Biology, 367

Center for Macromolecular Crystallography, 

361, 361n37, 367

Center for Radar Astronomy, 481

Center for Research on Controlled Ecological 

Life Support Systems, 367

Center Terminal Radar Approach Control 

(TRACON) Automation System (CTAS), 

192–93, 220

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention 

(CDC), 16

Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 37n18, 114, 

355

Ceres, 448, 498

Cernan, Gene, 169

CF34 engines, 201

CFM-56-5B engines, 201

Chaikin, Andrew, 607

Challenger Launch Decision (Vaughan), 318

Challenger Shuttle

ATMOS experiment, 569–70

EOS and, 520

flaws of Shuttles, 100, 105, 287, 288

Flight Readiness Review, 299–300

leadership of NASA during accident, 57

life science activities during missions, 

358–59

loss of

cause of accident, 104, 288, 300, 

311, 312, 316, 323

launch decision and, 298–300, 316

lesson from, 301

response to, 307–8

risk and safety issues and, 268, 

278n7

Rogers Commission report on, 300, 

307, 308, 311, 312

self-image of U.S. and, 283

SRBs and, 298–300

management of Shuttle program

changes after accident, 22, 68

criticism of, 55–56, 521

safety concerns and, 362

replacement Shuttle for, 68, 358–59

return to flight following accident, 68

SRBs and, 104, 298–300, 316

Chance Vought Corporation, 87–88

Chandra X-ray Observatory, 636, 640, 645, 646

Chandrasekhar, S., 390

Chankillo, Peru, 544

Channing, William E., 476

Charge-coupled device (CCD) Astrography 

catalog, 492–93

Charge-coupled device (CCD) camera, 494, 496

Charles, Jacques Alexandre César, 545

Charney, Jule, 573–74

Chemistry Noble Prize, 372n78

Cheney, Richard “Dick,” 73

Chevron nozzles, 200–1

Chichón, El, 576

China

human spaceflight program, 277

interactions of U.S. with, 652

launch vehicles and technology development, 138

maritime withdrawal of, 657–58

race between U.S. and, 146–47, 658

space exploration activities, 139, 602, 

658

U.S./China space projects, 121

Chlorine monoxide, 555–56, 571

Chlorofluorocarbons, 510, 568, 571, 572

Chubb, Talbot, 399

Churchill, Winston, 5

CIA (Central Intelligence Agency), 37n18, 114, 

355

Clark, R. S., 365

Clark, Thomas A., 485

709
NASA’s First 50 Years

Clark Earth observation satellite, 306

Clarke, Arthur C., 652, 653

Clausen, Chris, 155–56, 156n13

Clay, Henry, 476

Clean interfaces, 135, 136, 137, 140, 141–42, 

320–21

Clementine project, 304–5, 437

Cleveland, Harlan, 119

Climate Absolute Radiance and Refractivity 

Observatory (CLARREO), 536–37n67

Climate change

ancient history and, 543–44

Congressional skepticism about, 508, 

530

Earth science program, importance of, 

506–7

EOS and information about, 505–6

global warming issue, 522–24, 533

NPOESS sensors and, 508

ozone research, 57, 509–11, 555–56, 

567–72

as public policy problem, 523

research under Bush (George W.), 533

sea ice monitoring, 559

systematic approach to understanding, 

512–13

U.S. Climate Change Research Institute 

(USCCRI), 533

U.S. Global Change Research Program 

(USGCRP), 518, 522–24, 533, 584

volcanoes and, 574–79

Climate modeling, 511–12, 572–74, 577–78, 

584–85

Clinton, Bill

leadership of NASA under, 65, 70, 74

space policy of, 145

space station, support for, 70

Coates, R. J., 485

Code, Arthur D., 399, 401–2, 404, 409, 421

Cold War

goals and tasks of NASA and, 50, 140, 

167, 363

propaganda campaigns, 166

space exploration and, 32

technocracy and, 32

Coleman, Gene, 356

Collier Trophy, 187, 249

Collier’s magazine, 326, 327, 330–31, 332, 

333n16, 335, 336, 342, 346

Collins, Michael, 169, 268, 611

Colorado State University, 367

Columbia Accident Investigation Board

culture of NASA, 26, 288, 311–12, 314, 

318, 323

economic pressures and technical compromises, 55

history included in report by, 660

purpose and vision of NASA, 1, 72–73, 

284

recommendations of, 312, 313, 345

risk associated with exploration, 106, 603

Columbia Shuttle

decision-making during flight of, 311

first flight of, 147, 269

flaws of Shuttles, 100, 105, 287, 288

life science activities during missions, 

358–59

loss of, 268

cause of accident, 105, 288, 

310–12, 314–16, 323

changes after accident, 72–73, 

312–14, 318, 323, 533

credibility of NASA and, 2

investigation following accident, 1, 

26, 55, 72–73, 106, 284, 288, 

311–12, 313

self-image of U.S. and, 283

space policy change after, 345

Columbus, Christopher, 588, 600, 604, 607, 654

Comet IV aircraft, 224

Comets

characteristics of, 431

exploration of, 493, 497, 499–500

impact concerns, 341, 343

Commercial aircraft, 254, 273–74

Commercial Space Center, 361

Commercial space enterprise, 3–4, 651–52

Commission on Implementation of United 

States Space Exploration Policy (Aldridge 

Commission), 171n64, 534–36, 591

710
Index

Committee for Astronomy and Radio Astronomy, 

399

Committee on Armed Services, Preparedness 

Investigating Subcommittee, 35

Committee on Earth and Environmental 

Sciences (CEES), 523

Committee on Earth Sciences (CES), 508, 523

Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space 

(COPUOS), 117–18, 119

Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS), 

140

Communication

failure and, 300, 315, 316

open communications policy, 162

organization culture and, 321–22

public opinion and communication strategies, 161–63, 170–71

systems engineering and, 297–98

systems management and, 318

team approach to project development, 

317

technical problems, line of communication to report, 312–13

Communication satellites, 57, 139, 605, 

650–51

Communications Planning, Office of, 161–62

Composite Flight Service program, 201

Composite materials, 201–2, 219

Composite Primary Aircraft Structures Program, 

201–2

Compton observatory, 645, 646

Computational Fluid Dynamics (CFD), 202, 

215–18, 220, 252, 573

Computer Sciences Corporation, 203

Computers

development of and research methodology changes, 215–16

EOSDIS, 524n51

Illiac IV computer, 217

NASA’s use of, 216

Star 100 computer, 217

vector processing computers, 217

Configuration management, 99–100, 292, 293, 

294–95, 298

Congress

Apollo program, investigation of, 294–95

authorization and appropriations committees, 50

budget decisions and location of NASA 

facilities, 52

climate change, skepticism about, 508, 

530

credibility of NASA, 2

EOS and climate change, 508

goals, short- and long-term, 661

human spaceflight, support for, 285

international collaborative activities, 

approval of, 115

international collaborative activities, 

benefits of, 126

leadership in space, establishment of, 

50–51

medical studies during Shuttle missions, 

362

NASA, relationship with, 160

national security and science, 42

politics and Shuttle missions, 363–64

Ranger program, investigation of, 12

research on problems confronting the 

nation, 218

Senate Committee on Armed Services, 

Preparedness Investigating 

Subcommittee, 35

space science projects, support for, 306

Space Shuttle, return to flight of, 2–3

support for NASA, 2, 19–21, 22, 69

Conquest of Mars (von Braun, Ley, and 

Bonestell), 332

Conquest to the Moon (von Braun), 330

Conrad, Charles, Jr., 623

Consolidated Vultee (Convair) XF-92A aircraft, 

240, 241, 245–47, 253n37

Constellation program, xv, 75, 164, 315n62

Consumption, species for, 349

Continuous Flow Electrophoresis System 

(CFES), 361

Contractors

Air Force’s use of, 17

contractor penetration, 17

711
NASA’s First 50 Years

distribution of contracts and legislative 

support for space program, 22–24

growth in use of, 22–24

mindset toward, 26

NASA’s relationship with, 17, 51

projects by, 27–29

space exploration culture, 28–29

Convair 990 aircraft, 187, 255

Convair Division, General Dynamics, 89–91, 94

Convair XF-92A aircraft, 240, 241, 245–47, 

253n37

Convair YF-102 Delta Dagger, 246–47, 248, 

249, 253n37

Conway, Erik, 563–85, 665

Cooper, George, 251

Cooper, L. Gordon, 614

Cooper-Harper Rating, 250–51

Co-optation, 20–21

Copernican-Keplerian Solar System, 431

Corell, Robert, 523

Corporal program, 293

Cosmic Background Explorer (COBE), 639, 645

Cosmic evolution, 641, 645, 649–50

Cosmography, 599

Cosmology, 393

Cosmos missions. See Bion/Cosmos missions

Council of Advisers on Science and Technology, 

509

Counselman, Charles C., III, 485

Cox, Hiden T., 157, 158

Coxwell, Henry, 546

Crab Nebula, 636, 640, 645

Crew Exploration Vehicle, 313

Crew Return Vehicles, 372

Crippen, Robert, 269

Critical Issues in the History of Spaceflight, xiv

Crossfield, A. Scott, 243

Cryopumping, 91

Cryosphere, 555

Cultivation theory, 180–81

Culture, NASA organizational

analysis of, 313, 314, 323

caution and risk avoidance, 21–22, 73, 

297, 603, 662

change of, 25, 27, 288–89, 312–14, 

318–23

definition of, 288–89

discretion in activities, 19–20

exceptionalism, 14–16, 19, 24, 289–90

failure of projects and, 311–12, 314–15, 

318, 321–24

incrementalism, 17–18

innovation mentality, 17

maturing of Agency, 20–25, 307–8

optimism of employees, 24

perfect place attitude, 14, 25

resilience of, 25

safety concern cycle, 319–20, 322–23

safety implications of, 318–23

success of projects and, 27–29, 288–89

technical capabilities, 16–19, 24, 26–29, 

289–93

Cyclops, Project, 358

Cydonia, 384

D

D-558-1 Skystreak, 232, 233, 240, 241, 242, 

249

D-558-2 aircraft, 224, 240, 241, 243

Dactyl, 448

Dana, Bill, 197

Daniels, Paul C., 118

Dark energy, 642, 645, 647

Dark matter, 642, 647

Darman, Richard, 525

Davis, Robert, 403–4, 406–7

Dawn mission, 448, 498

Day, Dwayne, 325–26, 335, 338, 346

DC-8 aircraft, 224, 570

De Havilland Comet IV aircraft, 224

De Havilland D.H. 108 Swallows, 244

De Havilland, Geoffrey, 244

Dean, Gordon, 41

Debord, Guy, 177–78

Decadal Planning Team, 345, 345n33

Decadal Survey for Earth Science and 

Applications from Space (National Research 

712
Index

Council), 505, 509, 531, 535, 536–37, 540, 

560–61

Decadal Surveys (National Academy of 

Sciences), 417–18, 425

Decade of the Brain, 362

Decision-making, 99–100, 298–300, 316, 

319–22

Deep Impact mission, 493, 495, 497, 498, 500, 

609, 631

Deep Space 1 mission, 306, 498–99

Deep Space 2 mission, 306, 308–9

Deep Space Climate Observatory, 531–32

Deep Space Network, 466, 479, 481, 482–83, 

494, 496

Deep space projects

spacecraft for, 466

sterilization of planetary probes, 357–58

Deep Space Tracking Network, 139

Defense, Department of (DOD)

AEC, relationship with, 42–45

Aeronautics and Astronautics 

Coordinating Board, 266

budget of, 143–44, 382, 652

influence on, 52

management of projects, 291

NASA, relationship with, 42–44, 51, 

142–43

NPOESS program, 508

priority ratings, 90–91

Scout launches for, 87

Space Shuttle, support for, 55, 56

Space Station Freedom negotiations, 143

Defense Affairs Division, 125

Defense Mobilization, Office of (ODM)

foreign policy and nuclear technology, 39

Science Advisory Committee (SAC), 35, 

35n13

Defoe, Shorty, 207

Deformation, Ecosystem Structure, and 

Dynamics of Ice (DESDynI), 536–37n67

Deimos, 382, 435, 497–98

Delta Inertial Guidance System, 83

Delta launch vehicle

Air Force management of, 85–86

Delta II launch vehicles, 85, 382

Delta III launch vehicles, 86

Delta IV launch vehicle, 86, 107

development of, 80, 81–82

discontinuation of use of, 85

engines for, 83, 85

evolution of, 85–86

guidance systems for, 81, 83

improvements and upgrades to, 82–83, 

85

launch of, 84

motors for, 83, 84, 85

payload capacity, 82

Delta wing design, 235, 238, 241, 245–47, 250, 

254, 262–64

∆DOR (delta-Differenced One-Way Range), 485, 

486–88, 493–95, 496

Deming, Edward, 303

Democracy in action and democratic process, 

5–7

Dennis, Michael, 389

Dependability, 317–18, 320–21, 322

Descent Advisor (DA) software, 193

Desert Storm, Operation, 143, 144

DesMarais, David, 641

Deutsche Forschungsanstalt für Segelflug DFS 

346 aircraft, 231

Development Operations Division, Army Ballistic 

Missile Agency, 185

Devereaux, W. C., 547

DeVorkin, David, 389–426, 564, 665–66

D.H. 108 aircraft, 234

Dick, Steven J., xiii–xvi, 587–662, 666–67

Differenced Range Versus Integrated Doppler 

(DRVID), 483

Digital fly-by-wire system, 195

Discovery program, 306

Discovery Shuttle, 23, 616, 622

Disney television series, 332–33, 335, 346

Dittmar Associates, 176–77

Dive recovery flaps, 229

Doel, Ron, 564, 585

Doell, Dan, 504

Donegan, Arthur J. “Joe,” 492

Doolittle, James H., 35, 35n11

Doppler, 480–83, 486–87, 493, 496

713
NASA’s First 50 Years

Dörries, Matthias, 574

D’Orsey, Leo, 168–69

Douglas Aircraft Company

Delta launch vehicle development, 82

Saturn IV launch vehicle, 94

scope of NACA research, 210

space station development, 368

Douglas B-26 Invader, 251

Douglas D-558-1 Skystreak, 232, 233, 240, 

241, 242, 249

Douglas D-558-2 aircraft, 224, 240, 241, 243

Douglas DC-8 aircraft, 224, 254, 570

Douglas XS-3 (X-3) aircraft, 240, 241, 243

Drake, Hubert, 263

Draper, Charles Stark, 408

Dream (Kepler), 429

Dryden, Hugh, 186, 225, 235, 257, 333–34

Dryden Flight Research Center (DFRC)

Flight Research Center (FRC), 212–14

High-Speed Flight Station (HSFS), 

211–12, 221, 240

lifting bodies research, 200, 212–14, 215

NASA facility, xiv

Rogers Dry Lake, 200, 215, 240

scope of research at, 214

Duberg, John, 257

Duckworth, Joseph P., 546

Dupas, Alain, 145–46

Dust storms, 556, 574

Duxbury, Thomas C. “Tom,” 489, 490

Dynamical Astronomy Division, 414, 416

Dyna-Soar. See X-20 Dyna-Soar

Dyson spheres, 651

E

Eagle Lunar Module, 624

Eagle Nebula, 640

Early Apollo Scientific Experiment Package, 111

Earth

ancient history and observations of, 

543–44

energy budget–monitoring satellite, 

531–32

evolutionary path, 436

exploration of, 433, 450

iceball Earth, 579

impact of seeing from space, 649

libration-point missions, 341, 342, 343, 

346

magnetic and geographic poles, 455

observation of

at altitude, 544–46

from satellites, 548, 549, 605–6, 

618–19

self-recording and transmitting 

instruments to report, 546–48

observation of from space

ability to, challenges to, 543

benefits of, 543, 561–62

Blue Marble image, 550, 561, 619, 

644

Brown Marble image, 551, 561

challenges of, 559–61

EOS achievements, 557–59

images from satellites, 550, 551, 

561, 618–19

images from spacecraft, 624, 

643–44

lumps and stress patterns, 553

planetary environment and, 541

satellites, discoveries made from, 

551–53, 561–62

satellites, scientific uses for, 551

as planet, 429

Planet of the Year designation, 524

planetary exploration and understanding 

of, 563–64, 585

search for life beyond, 70–71 (See also

Extraterrestrial life)

Space Age and, 604–8, 616–25

volcanoes on, 459, 574–79

Earth Day, 649

Earth departure stage, 107

Earth Observations from Space (National 

Research Council), 551

Earth Observing System Data and Information 

System (EOSDIS), 505, 524, 524n51

Earth Observing System (EOS)

approval of, 508, 525, 584

714
Index

budget and funding for, 508, 524, 

525–30, 527n54, 583

climate change information and, 505–6

components of

active remote sensing devices, 513

goals and tasks of, 504–5, 505n6

launch and operation of, 509, 

524n50, 530, 530n58, 531, 

532–33

number of satellites, 505

polar-orbiting platform for, 519–20

replacement of, 508, 524n50

restructuring of, 525–30, 527n54

data from

comprehensiveness and simultaneity of measurements, 525–28, 

527n54

Earth Observing System Data and 

Information System (EOSDIS), 

505, 524, 524n51

scope of data, 509, 524n50, 646

design of, 508

development and demonstration of, 524, 

524n50

down-to-Earth elements of, 530

Earth system science and, 583–84

faster, better, cheaper initiative, 525–28

goals and tasks of, 519, 530n58, 606

implementation of, 508

integration of information from, 505

Katrina and, 504, 505–6

NOAA management of, 534–35

priority of, 522–24

proposal for, 508

remote sensing projects, 524

scientific achievements of, 557–59

success and failure of missions, 538–41

Earth Radiation Budget Experiment, 553, 578

Earth Radiation Budget Satellite (ERBS), 578

Earth Resources Technology Satellites, 554. See 

also Landsat system

Earth Science Enterprise, 536

Earth science program

Bretherton Report and, 518–20

budget and funding for, 506, 507, 508, 

509, 532–34, 536–37

under Bush (George H. W.), 508

under Bush (George W.), 531–33

climate change and (See Climate change)

environmental change, monitoring of, 537

Habitat, Project, 516–17

importance of, 540–41

Katrina and, 503–4, 505–6

missions and themes, 509, 535, 

536–37n67, 539

NOAA management of, 531

under Obama, 509, 537–38, 540

ozone research, 57, 509–11

priority of, 507, 513–16, 531, 536

under Reagan, 508, 515, 516

remote sensing projects, 568–69

remote sensing projects and, 507

sensorweb observing system, 540

smart satellites, 540

stages of

Agenda Access and Program 

Adoption, 508, 521–25

Program Implementation, 509, 

530–41

Program Planning, 507, 509–20

Program Restructuring, 508, 

525–30, 527n54

start of, 509–11

success and failure of missions, 538–41

Earth system science, 579–84

Earth Systems Science (Bretherton Report), 

518–20

Earth Systems Science Committee, 511

Earth-oriented applications division, NASA, 51

Economic downturn, global, xv

Economic impact of Space Age, 650–52

Edelson, Burton “Burt,” 515, 517–18

Edlén, Bengt, 390

Edwards, George, 266

Edwards Air Force Base, 240

Eggers, Alfred J., Jr., 200, 263, 266

Ehricke, Krafft, 89, 90–91, 92

Eisenhower, Dwight D.

anti-von Braun faction, 326, 327, 336–37

715
NASA’s First 50 Years

atomic-powered research airplane, 41

Atoms for Peace program, 38, 39

foreign policy and nuclear technology, 

38–41

human spaceflight

costs of, 336–37, 337n23

value of, 275

international collaborative activities, 115

leadership in space, establishment of, 

50–51

leadership of NASA under, 50, 58

NACA transformation to NASA, 184

National Aeronautics and Space Act, xiii, 

113

peaceful use of space, 117

PSAC, creation of, 35n13

robotic programs, support for, 337, 

337n23

space exploration and national prestige, 

36–41

Sputnik launch and reaction to, 34, 

35–37, 336

vision for NASA, 337

El Niño, 554, 576, 578

Elachi, Charles, 310

Electric Lighting F.Mk. 1 aircraft, 243

Electromagnetic spectrum, 640, 646–47

Electrophoresis Operations in Space, 361

Electrophoresis research, 360–61, 361n36

Elliot, J. H., 648

Embraer aircraft, 201

Embryology, 349

Enceladus, 457, 461, 463–64

Endeavour Shuttle, 269, 358–59, 610

Energy, Department of, 360, 368

Energy efficiency, 218

Engineering and Safety Center, NASA, 312

Engineering design and reliability of product, 

287–88

Engineering Review Board, National Research 

Council, 527n54

Enos primate mission, 355

Ephemerides, 500–2

Epicurus, 471

ER-2 aircraft, 570

Erhard, Ludwig, 134

Eros, 28, 306, 448, 497, 632

Erythropoietin, 361

Erzberger, Heinz, 219–20, 221

Espy, James, 544

Ether planes, 259

Ethical issues, 470–76

exploitation considerations, 471, 475–76

preservation ethic, 471–73

stewardship concept, 471, 473–75

Europa, 457–58, 473, 481, 589, 633

Europe

collaborative activities with, 120

exploration by, 657–58

interactions of U.S. with, 652

post-Apollo program, participation in, 

136–37

scientific experiments conducted on 

lunar surface, 111–13

space exploration activities, 113

Space Station Freedom agreement, 124

Western Europe space program, 123, 

131, 132

European Launcher Development Organization, 

137

European Space Agency (ESA)

astronauts, recruitment campaign for, 

277

Cassini-Huygens mission, 469

EOS observation platforms, 524n50

Global Weather Experiment (GWE), 

559–60

Halley’s Comet project, 139

launch vehicles and technology, 138

Mars Express mission, 608

remote sensing projects, 524

satellite technology development, 139

SOHO spacecraft, 609, 634

space exploration activities, 602

Space Station Freedom development, 

141, 369

Space Station Freedom negotiations, 143

Spacelab agreement, 122–23

star catalogs, 491–92, 497

Venus Express mission, 446

716
Index

European Space Research Organization, 84

Evolution, cosmic, 641, 645, 649–50

Evolutionary biology, 349, 370

Evolved Expendable Launch Vehicle (EELV) 

program, 86, 107

Exceptional Scientific Achievement Medal, 489

Exceptionalism, 14–16, 19, 24, 147, 147n103

Exobiology, 71, 349, 367, 641

Expendable Launch Vehicles (ELVs), 363

Exploration, Office of, 68, 69

Exploration Systems Architecture Study, 345

Exploration Systems Mission Directorate, 314

Explorer 1 satellite, 185, 293, 337, 543, 552

Explorer 3 satellite, 552

Exploring the Unknown (NASA), xv–xvi, 592

Extended Duration Orbiter Medical Project, 359

External Relations, Office of, 123, 124, 125

External tanks, 105, 296, 297, 310–11, 316, 

504

Extraterrestrial life

ethical issues, 470–76

exploitation considerations, 471, 

475–76

preservation ethic, 471–73

stewardship concept, 471, 473–75

Mars, signs of life on, 70–71, 355–56, 

357–58, 372, 377, 379, 384–86, 444

search for, 357–58, 654

F

F-1 engines, 96–97, 289, 597

F4U Corsair, 251, 253n37

F-5 fighter, 247, 253n37

F6F Hellcat, 251

F-8 Crusader

digital fly-by-wire system, 195, 253n37

F-8C Crusader, 188–89, 195

supercritical wing, 188–89, 256

TF-8A Crusader, 256–57

F9F-9 Tiger, 246–47, 253n37

F-14 fighter, 188, 245

F-18B aircraft, 197

F-86 Sabre, 188, 238, 242, 253n37, 256

F-100 aircraft, 243, 253n37

F-102 Delta Dagger, 187, 246–47, 248, 249, 

253n37

F-104 Starfighter, 224

F-105 Thunderchief, 243, 247, 253n37

F-111 fighter, 188, 245, 253n37, 256–57

Faget, Maxime A., 86, 363, 363n40, 597

Failure

causes of, 293–94, 315–17, 317n65, 321

communication and, 300, 315, 316

culture of organization and, 311–12, 

314–15, 318, 321–24

definition of, 315, 315n62, 317n64

event chain, 315–16

reduction and prevention of, 317–18, 

318n66, 321–22

safety concern cycle, 319–20, 322–23

smart versus stupid failure, 8

social nature of, 314–22

types of, 8

Faint Early Sun Paradox, 579, 581, 582

Falcon Lunar Module, 625

Fales, Elisha, 225

Far Encounter Planet Sensor, 489

Far Ultraviolet Spectroscopic Explorer (FUSE), 

646

Farmer, Crofton B., 565–71

Farquhar, Robert, 341, 346

Faster, better, cheaper initiative

criticism of, 71

end of, 308, 310, 318, 323

EOS, 525–28

Goldin’s support for, 70, 304, 305–6, 

380–82, 525–28

at JPL, 304, 323

Mars exploration and, 70, 380–83

navigation, deep space, 494–95

projects, 304–7

launch of, 27

management of, 27, 28–29

success and failure of, 27–29, 71, 

72, 306–7, 308–10, 323

robotic programs, 70, 72, 302, 304, 

306–7

team approach to project development, 

305, 317–18

717
NASA’s First 50 Years

Fatigue Countermeasure Program, 365, 367

FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation), 16

Federal Aviation Administration (FAA)

air traffic management, 192–93, 219, 

220

hydroplaning research, 190–91

psychological research, 365

wind shear research, 192

Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), 16

Fellows, Jack, 523

Ferguson, Robert G., 205–21, 667

Fermi Gamma-ray Space Telescope, 640, 645, 

646

Field, George B., 419, 425–26

Final Approach Spacing Tool (FAST) software, 193

Finan, William F., 46

Finarelli, Margaret “Peggy,” 124, 125

First Men to the Moon (von Braun and 

Freeman), 334

Fleming, Arthur S., 39

Fleming, James R., 543–62, 667–68

Fletcher, James C.

Earth science program and, 57, 514, 521

goals of, 54, 68

human spaceflight, importance of, 281

leadership of NASA under, 54–56, 61, 68, 

77, 78

Mormon background of, 55, 514

Flexible Airplane Analysis Computer System 

(FLEXSTAB), 252

Flight Analogs Project, 365

Flight control systems, 195, 216, 216n15

Flight Investigation Reentry Environment (FIRE) 

project, 260, 267

Flight Research Center (FRC), 212–14

Florida, 652

Flyby spacecraft, 500

Fly-by-wire system, 195

Flying Test-tube, 232

Focke-Wulf fighter and bomber projects, 235

Folland Gnat, 243

Ford, Gerald R., 61, 300, 420

Foreign policy

international collaborative activities and, 

132

nuclear programs and weapons and, 

38–41, 652

Forman, Paul, 389

Forrester, Jay, 319

Fort Worth Air Route Traffic Control Center 

(ARTCC), 193

Foster, Thomas, 545

Foundation trilogy (Asimov), 40–41, 661n99

France

Ariane launcher, 137, 138

electrophoresis research, 361n36

Hermes, 269

Satellite Pour l’Observation de la Terre 

(SPOT), 113, 139

TOPEX/Poseidon satellite, 554

Frank, Pat, 41

Franklin, Benjamin, 544, 554

Franklin Kite Club, 544

Freeman, Fred, 330, 334

Frelich, Michael, 540

Friedman, Edward, 527, 527n54

Friedman, Herbert, 392, 393, 399, 403

Friendship 7 spacecraft, 620

Frontiers, conquest and control of, 147–49, 

147n103, 341, 590–91, 591n11

Frosch, Robert

Earth science program and, 515

Frutkin appointment by, 123

leadership of NASA under, 56, 62, 77

Frutkin, Arnold

career of, 122–23, 125

international collaborative activities

philosophy to underpin, 126–28

principles for, 123, 128–31, 135–36

scope of, 119

International Programs director, 122

Future Air traffic management Concepts 

Evaluation Tool (FACET), 193, 194

FW-4 motor, 83

G

Gagarin, Yuri, 52

Gaia hypothesis, 579, 582

Galaxies, 638–40, 645

718
Index

Galaxy Evolution Explorer (GALEX), 646

Galileo (scientist), 457, 458

Galileo mission

asteroid exploration with, 448, 494

engineering achievements, 466

ethical benefits of, 470–76

findings from earlier probes to design 

and plan, 455

international collaborative activities, 469

navigation methods, 488, 491, 494

occultation experiments, 481

outer planet exploration with, 453, 454, 

456, 609, 633

scientific achievements of, 457–60

technology for human and robotic exploration, 464–66

vitality of U.S. and, 470

Galloway, Eilene, 41–42, 41n31, 115, 116

Gallup, George, 173

Gallup Organization/Gallup, Inc., 173, 173n72, 

175–76

Gamma-ray spectrometer, 572

Gamma-ray universe, 640

Ganymede, 481, 633

Garbage patch, 551

Garvin, James, 375, 382, 522

Gas Chromatograph-Mass Spectrometer, 444

Gaspra, 448, 491

Gay-Lussac, Joseph Louis, 545–46

Gazenko, Oleg, 355

Gehman, Harold “Hal,” 1, 74

Geiss, Johannes, 112

Gemini, Project

astronauts, media interest in, 169

budget for, 12–13

difficulties during, 12

learning to fly in space during, 606, 620

life science activities during missions, 

352–53, 359

public relations importance of, 52

risk and safety issues, 323

schedule for, 12

space station, missions to, 368

spacecraft design, 260

success of, 323

X-15 aircraft and, 617

Gemini 8 mission, 323

Gemini IV mission, 359

Gemini VI mission, 620

Gemini VII mission, 620

General Applied Sciences Laboratory (GASL), 

271, 272

General Dynamics F-111 fighter, 188, 245, 

253n37, 256–57

General Dynamics/Astronautics (GD/A), 92–93. 

See also Convair Division, General Dynamics

General Electric Company, 225, 293, 294, 

368–69

Genesis for the Third Millennium, 649–50

Genetics, 349

Geodynamics, 121

Geological Survey, U.S., 434, 449, 536, 

599–600

Geophysical Research Directorate, Air Force 

Cambridge Research Center (AFCRC), 398, 

404

Geopolitical impact of Space Age, 652

Geosciences, 564, 584–85

Geostationary Coastal and Air Pollution Events 

(GEO-CAPE), 536–37n67

Geostationary Operational Environmental 

Satellites (GOES), 651

German rocket team, 16, 17–18, 51, 185, 290, 

297, 344n31

Germany

dive testing, 229

Galileo mission, 469

Helios project, 133–34, 135

Luftwaffe ME262, 186

Spacelab, 136, 137

swept-wing aircraft research, 234–36, 

238, 240

transonic flight research, 231, 233–36, 

238

Giacconi, Riccardo, 390, 425

Ginzberg, V. L., 390

Giotto, 139, 609

Glaisher, James, 546

Glass cockpits, 195

Glenn, John H., Jr., 355, 362, 614, 620

719
NASA’s First 50 Years

Glenn L. Martin Company, 80

Glenn Research Center/Lewis Research Center

Centaur project management, 93

leadership of, 93

NACA/NASA facility, 289

Safety Center, 312

success of Apollo program and, 100

Total Quality Management, 302–3

Glennan, T. Keith

contractors, use of, 23

leadership of NASA under, 50–51, 58, 

400

Mercury, public expectations about, 

156–57, 157n17

public relations and information efforts, 

153–55

Global Atmospheric Composition Mission 

(GACM), 536–37n67

Global Change (International GeosphereBiosphere Program), 517–18

“Global Change” workshop, 516

Global environment field, 57

Global Positioning System (GPS), 493–94, 546, 

651

Global Precipitation Measurement satellite, 

505n6, 539

Global System of Systems, 533

Global warming issue, 522–24, 533

Global Weather Experiment (GWE), 559–60

Glory satellite, 505n6, 539

Goddard, Robert, 259

Goddard Institute for Space Sciences (GISS), 

511–12, 573, 574, 575–76

Goddard Space Flight Center (GSFC)

Delta launch vehicle development, 82

employees of NRL and, 51

NASA facility, xiii, 289

planetary exploration and flybys, 433

Quasar Patrol, 485

robotic spacecraft design, 598

Scout launch vehicle management, 88

Godwin, Francis, 545

Goetzmann, William, 656–57

Goldberg, Leo, 390, 391, 399, 411, 414, 419, 

424

Goldin, Daniel S.

communication strategies, 170–71

EOS, 525–28

faster, better, cheaper initiative, support 

for, 70, 304, 305–6, 380–82, 525–28

goals of, 70, 367

leadership of NASA under, 65, 69–72, 77, 

78, 305–6, 381

national security and space capabilities, 

143, 144–45

Schumacher appointment, 125

small satellite technology, 304–5

Space Shuttle, management of, 307–8

space station program under, 345

Total Quality Management, 303

town hall meetings, 170

Goldstein, Edward S., 503–41, 668

Goodell, Charles, 159n26

Goody, Richard, 516

Gordon S. Black Corporation, 173n75

Gore, Al, 71, 78, 532

Gotleib, David, 217

Government

aeronautics, sponsorship of, 3

commercial space sector, relationship 

with, 4

excess of government, 4

management of government programs, 

5–7

role of in development of space frontier, 4

Gravity Recovery and Climate Experiment 

(GRACE)-II, 536–37n67, 553

Great Britain

British Tornado aircraft, 188

D.H. 108 aircraft, 234

dive testing, 229

Hawker Typhoon, 229

P1127 Kestrel, 199

Spitfire, 229

transonic flight research, 231

Great Galactic Ghoul, 383

Great Observatories satellite program, 422, 

423, 636, 645

Great Society, 53

Greenstein, Jesse, 391, 417–18

720
Index

Greer, Robert E., 97

Gregg, Willis R., 547

Griffin, Michael, 1–9, 668–69

budget for lab functions, 370

Decadal Survey budget, criticism of, 537

departure of, xv

Earth science program under, 532

frontiers, conquest and control of, 149

goals of, 2–5, 75, 345

highway analogy, 589–90

human spaceflight, support for, 282, 285

launch system changes under, xv

leadership of NASA under, 67, 74–76, 

77, 314

public relations under, 171

SEI director, 69

Grissom, Virgil I. “Gus,” 614

Grooved runways and highways, 190–91

Group on Earth Observations, 533

Grumman F6F Hellcat, 251

Grumman F9F-9 Tiger, 246–47, 253n37

Grumman F11F aircraft, 247

Grumman F11F-1 aircraft, 243

Grumman F-14 fighter, 188, 245

Grumman XF10F-1 Jaguar, 245, 253n37

Guggenheim Aeronautical Laboratory, California 

Institute of Technology (GALCIT), 230

Gulf Stream, 554

H

H-1 engine, 83, 85, 94–95

Habitat, Project, 516–17

Hall, Albert C., 80

Hall, Mike, 523

Hall Effect sensors, 309–10

Halley’s Comet, 139

Hallion, Richard P., 223–74, 669

Hammer, Mike, 304

Hancock, Graham, 384

Haney, Paul, 159, 159n26

Hansen, Grant L., 93

Hansen, James E., 509, 511–12, 523–24, 

575–76, 577–78

Hardy, George, 102

Harmonic International, 161

Harper, John, 251

Harper, Kristen, 572

Harrier aircraft, 199

Harris, Louis, 173

Harris Interactive, 173, 173n75, 176

Harvard College/University. See also

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO)

Center for Astrophysics, 419, 424–25

growth of, 410

Harvard College Observatory

budget of, 410

changes at, 423–25

growth of, 410, 411

leadership of, 398, 411, 419, 424

Ph.D. graduates from, 411

Hawker Typhoon, 229

Hayden Planetarium, 549

Hayes, Wallace, 187

Haystack Observatory, 485

Heavens and the Earth (McDougall), 595

Heinlein, Robert, 605, 652

Heliophysics, 609

Helios project, 133–34, 135

Henry the Navigator, 588, 596

Hercules, 88

Hermes rocket, 261

Herodotus, 660–61

Herrick, Samuel, 416

Hewish, Anthony, 482

High Energy Astrophysics Division, 413–14, 

415–16

High Speed Tunnel, 8-Foot, 208, 272

High-Energy Astronomical Observatory (HEAO), 

646

Highly Eccentric Orbit Satellite 1, 84

High-reliability organizations, 27, 288

High-Speed Flight Station (HSFS), 211–12, 221, 

240

Highway analogy, 589–90

Hilton, W. F., 226

Hinners, Noel, 421

Hipparcos star catalog, 491–92, 497

Hiroshima, 40

Hirsch, Richard, 415

721
NASA’s First 50 Years

History, lessons of, 660–62

History of Atmospheric Science at NASA

(Conway), 563–64

HL-10 lifting body, 200, 215, 266, 272

Holloman Air Force Base, 95, 408

Holmes, Jay, 157

Hoover Panel, 403

Hopfield, J. J., 392

Hopkins, Robert, 162–63

Horizon, Project, 335, 431

Housing and Urban Development, Department 

of, 382

Houssaini, Youssuff, 217

Houston, 434–35

Hubble Deep Fields, 638, 645

Hubble Space Telescope

Advanced Camera for Surveys (ACS), 637

astronomy, changes in and, 389

Deep Impact mission and Tempel-1 

comet, 500

funding for, 57, 300

galaxies, exploration of, 638

images and data from, 69, 441, 636–38, 

640, 645

lesson from problem with, 301

optical testing of lens, 300–1

repair of, 71, 75

servicing mission to, 73, 74, 662

stars, exploration of, 636, 637

support for, 55, 301

Wide Field Planetary Camera 2, 638

Hueter, Hans, 92

Hughes, Thomas P., 589

Hull, G. F., 225

Human factors, 352, 356

Human spaceflight and exploration

budget and funding for, 170, 277–78, 

336–37, 337n23

colonization goals of, 341, 474–75, 

653–54

commercial space enterprise and, 3–4

controversy about, 275–76

countries with programs for, 277, 277n4

criticism of goals of, 39–40

development of spaceflight architecture 

to support, 3–4

exploration and discovery and, 591–

92n12, 592

exploration beyond low-Earth orbit, 

283–85

international collaborative activities, 4–5, 

121

justification of, 276

low-Earth orbit activities, 3–4, 606

management of, 5

motivation for, 277, 278–79, 341, 

594–95

national prestige and, 40, 41, 112–13, 

280–83, 454, 595

number of missions, 351, 355

objectives of, 279–81, 653–54

opposition to, 336–37

priority of, 170

privatization of, 308, 362–63

public opinion of, 514

risks, danger, and safety issues and, 7–8, 

278, 278n7, 323, 603, 603n44, 662

robotic exploration, erosion of boundary 

between, 464–66

robotic exploration, partnership between, 

592, 653, 662

robotic exploration versus, 277–79, 347

soft power and, 282–83

space policy for, 284–85

stability in industry, 4

support for, 54, 275, 280–82, 326, 655

value of, 275, 276–77, 278–79

Humphreys, William Jackson, 547

Hunley, J. D., 79–107, 669–70

Huntoon, Carolyn, 367

Huntress, Wesley T., 71, 583

Hurricanes, 503–4, 505–6, 506n7, 546–48, 

556

HXLV booster rocket, 272

Hydrogen bombs, 40

Hydrogen chloride, 568

Hydrogen fluoride, 568

Hydroplaning, 190–91

Hynek, J. Allen, 399, 408

722
Index

Hypersonic flight

aerodynamic heating, 257–59, 261–62, 

273

aircraft design for, 259–62

commercial transportation, 273–74

interest in, 259

Mach thresholds for, 223n1

orbital vehicles, hypersonic, 263–73

propulsion for, 259, 261, 265–66, 271

reentry theory and research, 260–61, 

263, 330

research on, 263, 270–71, 273

Hypersonic Weapon and Research and 

Development System (HYWARDS), 263

Hyperspectral Infrared Imager (HyspIRI), 

536–37n67

Hyper-X (X-43) aircraft, 271–73, 274

HyShot, 271

HZE particles, 352, 357

I

IBM, 95

Ice, Cloud, and land Elevation Satellite 

(ICESat)-II, 505n6, 536–37n67

Icing research, 218

Ida, 448, 491

Illiac IV computer, 217

Impact Dynamics Research Facility, 202

Impactor spacecraft, 500

Incrementalism, 17–18

Independent Technical Authority (ITA), 312–13, 

314

India

human spaceflight program, 277

interactions of U.S. with, 652

Satellite Instructional Television 

Experiment (SITE) project, 134–35

space exploration activities, 139, 602

Indonesia, 574, 577

Industrial Management (Forrester), 319

Industrial Operations Directorate (IOD), 298

Industrial Space Facility (ISF), 363, 372

Industry Forum, 367

Inertial coupling, 243–44, 249, 250

Infrared Astronomical Satellite (IRAS), 645, 646

Inherent Accuracy Program, 480–81

Innovation mentality, 17

Institute for Computer Applications to Science 

and Engineering (ICASE), 217

Institute for Medical and Biological Problems 

(IMBP), 355

Institute of Navigation, Samuel M. Burka prize, 

489, 490

Instruments, self-recording and transmitting, 

546–48

Intellectual impact of Space Age, 648–50

Intellectual property rights, 46, 47

Intelligence satellites

impact of, 651

importance of, 118

objection to, 117

support for, 56, 336, 337n23

Intelsat, 651

Intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs), 40, 

263, 304–5

Interest group liberalism, 21

Interferometers, 568, 569

International Affairs Division, 123, 124

International Astronomical Union

General Assembly meeting, 397

planet, definition of, 450

Pluto, classification of, 430, 450, 609

system of constants, 501

International Atomic Energy Agency, 38, 123

International Cloud Year, 545

International collaborative activities

Apollo 11 mission, 109–13

attitude of scientists participating in, 

132–33

benefits of, 132, 469

Cassini-Huygens mission, 469

change in context during 1980s, 138–42

Galileo mission, 469

geopolitical realities and, 123–24, 

141–42

Group on Earth Observations, 533

Habitat, Project, 516

institutional dimension of, 122–25

723
NASA’s First 50 Years

ISS development, 5, 70, 345, 364, 595, 

658

maturity of partner country space programs and, 148–49

National Aeronautics and Space Act and, 

45–46, 113–15

national security and, 128, 130–31, 137, 

142–46

political issues and competition, 126–28, 

133–36

principles for, 123, 128–31

rationale for, 147

remote sensing projects, 524

satellites, 121, 559–60

scientific and technological aspect of, 

126

scientific experiments conducted 

through, 111–13

scope of, 119–22, 131

stimuli for, 125–26

technological projects, 130–31, 135–38

technology transfer during, 135–36, 

137–38, 140, 142–45

International Committee on Space Research 

(COSPAR), 122, 472–73

International cooperation in spaceflight, 4–5

International Geophysical Year (IGY)

Age of Discovery and, 588

Antarctic Treaty and, 118

engagement of other countries through, 

126

Frutkin’s role in, 122, 125

interest in satellite-based research and, 

395–96

optimism surrounding achievements of, 

127

programs included in, 127

satellite-based research development, 

395–99, 402–3

satellites launched during, 37, 80, 116

Working Group on Internal 

Instrumentation of the Earth Satellite 

Program, 395

International Geosphere-Biosphere Program 

(Global Change), 517–18

International Maritime Satellite Organization 

(INMARSAT), 139

International Polar Year, 545

International Programs, Office of, 122

International Relations Division, 125

International Space Station (ISS)

abandonment of, 345, 346

access to through Soyuz launch vehicle, xv

Ares launch vehicles for missions to, 106

budget for, 278, 345, 370–71

centrifuge to study microgravity effects, 

370–71, 372

commitment to, 3, 344, 345

completion of, 75, 313, 369

cost overruns, 72

development of, 77

EVA suits for, 364

image of, 622

international collaboration in development, 5, 70, 345, 364, 595, 658

life science activities, 369–71

as National Laboratory, 370

occupation of, 275

performance of, 283

Russia, reliance on for voyages to, 75, 

277, 364

soft power and, 283

solar arrays, 622

Space Shuttle, return to flight of, and, 3

support for, 70, 72

value of, 277

International Ultraviolet Explorer (IUE), 425, 646

Intrepid Lunar Module, 623

Io, 457, 458–60, 481, 493

Iraqi Freedom, Operation, 144

Irwin, James B., 625

ISEE-3 spacecraft, 341

Italy, 141, 369, 469

Iyengar, Shanto, 165

J

J-2 engines, 13, 17, 96, 100, 106

J-2S engine, 106

J-2X engine, 106, 107

724
Index

Jackson, John T., 356

Jacobs, Eastman, 186, 207, 227, 235

James, Jack, 294

Janus analogy, 128

Japan

astronauts, recruitment campaign for, 

277

electrophoresis research, 361n36

EOS observation platforms, 524n50

Global Weather Experiment (GWE), 

559–60

Halley’s Comet project, 139

Hope, 269

international collaborative activities, 131

Kibo lab, 370

launch vehicles and technology development, 138

remote sensing projects, 524

rocket technology transfer to, 137–38

satellite technology development, 139

space program of, 123

Space Station Freedom agreement, 124

Space Station Freedom development, 

141, 369

Space Station Freedom negotiations, 143

Total Quality Management, 302

Jastrow, Robert, 573

Jeffries, John, 545

Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL)

astronautics research, 416

autonomous navigation, 498–99

Congressional investigation of, 12

Corporal program, 293

deep space projects

plans for, 433

success and failure of, 301, 322–23

Development Ephemeris 200, 501

employees of, 51

ephemerides, 501–2

extraterrestrial life, search for, 357–58

faster, better, cheaper initiative, 304, 323

management of

management experience of employees, 291

reengineering initiative, 304, 310

systems engineering, 310, 323

Total Quality Management, 303–4, 

323

Mariner program, 294

missile development by, 79, 293

NASA facility, xiii, 51, 289, 433

optical navigation system, 489

planetary exploration and flybys, 433, 

434

radiation exposure research, 360

radio occultation experiments, 481–82

Ranger program, 12, 294

reliability of programs, 293–94, 322–23

robotic spacecraft design, 598

Sergeant motors, 87, 293, 294

spectroscopy research, 565–66, 567, 

570

star catalogs, 491

technical capabilities of, 16

Johns Hopkins University, 392

Johnson, Clarence “Kelly,” 27, 258, 305

Johnson, Lyndon B.

budget for NASA, 13

control of space, 114

expansion of NASA under, 48

human spaceflight and national prestige, 

280, 454

international collaborative activities, 134

leadership of NASA under, 52, 53, 59, 60

Moon landing, support for, 52

peaceful use of space, 116–17

Sputnik launch, reaction to, 34–35

support for NASA, 19, 22, 53

Johnson, Stephen B., 287–324, 670

Johnson, Torrence, 464, 466, 469

Johnson & Johnson, 360–61

Johnson Space Center (JSC)/Manned 

Spacecraft Center

astronauts at, 600

bedrest studies, 365

Fatigue Countermeasure Program, 366, 

367

J-2 engines, testing of, 17

location of, 52

NASA facility, xiv

725
NASA’s First 50 Years

planetary exploration and flybys, 433

psychological research, 365

public relations query, 159, 159n26

Space Shuttle, management of, 55–56, 

296, 307, 308, 312

space station development, 368–69

systems management and, 293

Titan II launch vehicle safety, 12

Jones, Robert T., 236

dagger tunnel model, 246, 246n32

delta wing design, 246

swept-wing concept, 186, 237, 238, 254

Jordan, Frank, 498

Journey to Inspire, Innovate, and Discover

(Aldridge Commission), 591

Jovian planets, 431

Junkers fighter and bomber projects, 235

Jupiter

asteroids and, 448

characteristics of, 436

conditions on, 565

exploration of

Galileo mission, 456, 457–60, 466, 

494, 609, 633

optical navigation, 490, 493

Pioneer program, 454–56

robotic exploration, 473

satellite discovery, 493

Voyager space probes, 55, 455, 

493, 609, 630, 633

magnetic and geographic poles, 455

occultation experiments, 481

size of, 430

system of planets, 429n3

telescopic observations, 429

Jupiter missiles, 94, 95, 98, 329

Jupiter Senior motor, 86–87

K

Kansas State University, 367

Katrina, Hurricane, 503–4, 505–6, 506n7, 

546–48

Kay, Woody, 595

KC-135 aircraft, 190, 365

Keeling, David, 559

Keeling curve, 559

Kellogg, W. W., 395

Kennedy, John F.

astronauts as public face of NASA, 169

budget for spaceflight activities, 12

control of space, 114

expansion of NASA under, 48

human spaceflight, support for, 280

international collaborative activities, 130

leadership of NASA under, 51, 52, 59

Moon landing, support for, 34, 52, 275

priority of NASA projects, 514

space exploration goals, 52–53

support for NASA, 22

Kennedy Space Center (KSC), xiv, 309, 599, 611

Kennel, Charles, 528–29

Kenyon, George, 266

Kepler, Johann, 429

Kepler spacecraft, 609

Khrushchev, Nikita, 32n5

Kilgore, DeWitt, 652

Killian, James R., Jr.

human spaceflight, value of, 275

PSAC, creation of, 35n13

as science advisor, 39, 275, 337n23

space exploration, motivation for, 37, 

594–95

KinetX Space Navigation and Flight Dynamics 

Team, 496

Kissinger, Henry, 133

Kistiakowsky, George, 40, 337n23

Kitt Peak National Observatory, 397, 397n19, 

415, 419, 640

Klep, Rolf, 330

Kliore, Arvydas “Art,” 482

Klute, Dan, 96

Knight, William J. “Pete,” 262

Koelle, H. H., 334

Kraemer, Sylvia Fries, 167–68

Kraft Report, 307–8

Krakatau, 574, 577

Krause, Ernst, 392

Krige, John, 109–49, 670

Kuiper, Gerard, 415, 428n2, 434, 565

726
Index

Kuiper Belt, 450, 496

Kupperian, James, 399

L

L-39 aircraft, 188, 238

La Niña, 554

Labeled Release Experiment, 444

Lacis, Andrew, 575–76

Ladwig, Alan, 179

Laeser, Richard, 303–4

Lambright, W. Henry “Harry,” 49–78, 515–16, 

525, 670–71

Lanchester, Frederick W., 189

Land, Edward H., 35

Landing Dynamics Facility (Langley Landings 

Load Track), 190–91

Landsat system

data from, 554–55

impact of, 651

Landsat 7 satellite, 504, 555

Landsat Data Continuity Mission, 505n6, 

539

technology of, 139

Langley Landings Load Track (Landing 

Dynamics Facility), 190–91

Langley Research Center (LaRC)/Langley 

Aeronautical Laboratory

air traffic management, 221

Aircraft Engine Research Laboratory, 211

Computational Fluid Dynamics (CFD) 

research, 217

computers at, 217

dedication of, 211

employees at, 211

Engineering and Safety Center, 312

High Speed Tunnel, 8-Foot, 208

Institute for Computer Applications to 

Science and Engineering (ICASE), 217

lifting bodies research, 200

modeling research, 576

NACA/NASA facility, xiii, 289

Pilotless Aircraft Research Division, 

Wallops Island, 86

radiation exposure research, 360

research facilities at, 211

Scout launch vehicle management, 88

space station development, 368

swept-wing research, 186

technical capabilities of, 16–17

Terminal Configured Vehicle program, 

219

transonic flight research, 229

Lankford, John, 392–93

Large Segmented Solid Rocket Motor Program, 

102

Large Space Telescope, 417, 420, 421, 423

Larsen B Ice Shelf, 555

Laser Ranging Retro-Reflector, 625

Launch vehicles and technology. See also

specific launch vehicles

challenge to U.S. leadership in, 138–39

collaborative development of, 81–82

development of, 79, 85, 107

discarding of, 658, 661

incremental approach to improvements 

to, 17–18

Launius, Roger

Eisenhower’s vision for NASA, 337

on Fletcher, 55, 514

international collaborative activities of 

NASA, 120

public opinion polling, 172

Robots in Space, 326

Space Stations, 326

von Braun paradigm, 326, 335, 338

Lautenbacher, Conrad C., 533

Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, 367

Lear 25 aircraft, 201

Lebreton, Jean-Pierre, 460

Leduc, Rene, 231

Lee, Gentry, 652

Lee Lewis Memorial balloon, 546

Leopold, Aldo, 472

Leovy, Conway, 573

Leveson, Nancy, 318–20

Lewis Earth observation satellite, 306

Lewis Engine Laboratory, 210, 211

Lewis Flight Propulsion Laboratory, xiii

727
NASA’s First 50 Years

Lewis Research Center. See Glenn Research 

Center/Lewis Research Center

Ley, Willy, 330, 332, 652

Libration-point missions, 341, 342, 343, 346

Lick Observatory, 491, 544

Lidar Surface Topography (LIST), 536–37n67

LIFE magazine, 168–69, 614

Life science activities. See also Astrobiology; 

Biology, fundamental/basic; Biology and 

medicine, operational

categories of, 349

contributions of, 371–72, 373

failures and frustrations, 372–73

ground-based research, 364–68

publication of research results, 372, 

372n79

research during Mercury, Gemini, and 

Apollo missions, 352–53

researchers for, 367–68

Soviet missions, 355, 357, 359, 373

Space Act and, 349–50

Space Shuttle missions, 358–64, 372–73

on space stations, 368–71

spinoffs, 372

success and failure of, 350

support for, 350

virtual institutes, 367, 371, 371n77

Life Sciences Glovebox, 370

Life Sciences Office, 353

Life support, species for, 349

Lifesat, 369

Lifting bodies, 199–200, 212–14, 215, 266–68, 

272

Lightning research, 191–92

Lilienthal, David, 47

Limerick, Patricia Nelson, 148, 591n11

Limits to Growth (Forrester), 319

Lippisch, Alexander, 235, 238, 245

Liquid hydrogen propellant, 89, 90, 91–92, 93, 

100

Little, Stephen, 566

Little Green Men 1 (LGM 1), 482–83

Lockheed A-12/YF-12A/SR-71 Blackbird, 224, 

253n37, 258

Lockheed F-104 Starfighter, 224, 253n37

Lockheed Martin, 309

Lockheed NT-33 Shooting Star, 251

Lockheed Propulsion Company, 102

Lockheed Skunk Works, 258, 305, 317, 323

Lockheed X-7 aircraft, 265

Lockheed X-17 aircraft, 260

Lockheed YP-38 aircraft, 229

Logsdon, John M., 275–85, 671–72

international collaborative activities, 120, 

132, 145–46

Mueller on Mars mission, 340

purpose and vision of NASA, 1, 661

Lomax, Harvard, 216, 217, 221

Longitudinal Study of Astronaut Health, 360

Louis Harris & Associates, 173, 173n75

Love, Eugene, 266

Lovelace Clinic, 351

Lovell, Frank, 620

Lovelock, James, 579–82

Low, George, 55

Low-cost projects. See Faster, better, cheaper 

initiative

Low-Earth orbit activities, 3–4, 606

Lowell, Percival, 333, 608

Lowell Observatory, 440, 448

Lucas, William, 297, 298

Lucky Dragon 5 (Japanese fishing boat), 40

Lucretius, 471

Luftwaffe ME262, 186

Luna program, 437–38, 606

Lunar and Planetary Laboratory, 415, 428n2, 

434, 572

Lunar Orbiters, 434, 436, 437, 482, 606, 624

Lunar Surface Access Module, 107

Lyman Alpha spectral lines, 564–65

Lynds Committee, 421, 422–23

M

M 51 galaxy, 640

M2 lifting bodies, 266

M2-F1 lifting body, 200, 213

M2-F2 lifting body, 200, 272

M2-F3 lifting body, 200, 215, 266, 272

MacGregor, Robert R., 31–48, 672

728
Index

Mach, Ernst, 223n1

Mach 1, 223n1

Mach 5, 223n1

MacKay, John S., 265

Mackowski, Maura Phillips, 349–73, 672

MacNeal-Schwedier Corporation (MSC), 203

Magellan, Ferdinand, 386–88, 591–92n12, 

592–93, 599, 600, 602–3

Magellan orbiter

navigation methods, 493–94

occultation experiments, 481

Venus, exploration of, 446, 493–94, 608, 

629

Mailer, Norman, 655

Malaysia, 277

Man on the Moon (Chaikin), 607

Man Very High project, 333

Management and Budget, Office of (OMB), 55, 

523, 525

Manifest destiny philosophy, 653–54

Man-in-Space-Soonest (MISS) studies, 224

Manned Orbital Laboratory (MOL) program, 351, 

363n41

Manned Space Flight, Office of (OMSF), 98, 291

Manned Space Flight Programs, Office of, 80

Manned Spacecraft Center. See Johnson Space 

Center (JSC)/Manned Spacecraft Center

Manned spaceflight. See Human spaceflight

Manned spaceflight division, NASA, 51

Mansfield, Mike, 412

Margulis, Lynn, 581

Mariner program

climate change observations, 574, 579

DRVID, 483

Mariner 1 probe, 445

Mariner 2 probe, 333, 432, 445, 575

Mariner 4 probe, 379, 439, 481, 482, 

566, 608, 626

Mariner 5 probe, 445

Mariner 6 probe, 439, 489

Mariner 7 probe, 439, 489

Mariner 9 probe, 439, 448, 483, 488, 

489, 608, 626

Mariner 10 probe, 447, 608, 628

Mars, exploration of, 379, 439, 488, 489, 

566, 574, 608, 626

Mercury, exploration of, 447, 608, 628

navigation of probes, 480

occultation experiments, 481, 482

optical navigation, 489, 491

technology for, 294

Venus, exploration of, 333, 432, 445, 

575, 608

Mark, Hans, 217, 515

Mark I interferometers, 569

Mark II interferometer, 569

Mark III interferometer, 568, 569

Mark IV spectrometer, 568–69, 570

Mars

Antarctica as analog to, 589

Ares launch vehicles for missions to, 106

carbon dioxide from, 565

characteristics of, 432, 439, 440–43, 446

climate change observations, 574

conditions on, 333, 346, 376, 377, 379, 

565–67, 579, 580, 581

development of spaceflight architecture 

to support missions to, 3–4

evolutionary path, 436, 450

expectations about, 376–77, 428, 450, 

563–64

exploration of, 439–45 (See also other 

Mars probes and spacecraft)

difficulty in returning information 

from, 439

funding for, 75–76, 381–82

implementation of, 74–75, 76

Magellan analogies, 592–93

Mariner program, 379, 439, 488, 

489, 566, 574, 608, 626

Mars Direct mission, 345

missions for, 436

navigation methods, 483, 493, 496, 

497–98

Phoenix Mars Lander, 608, 627

post-Apollo program, 338–41, 

340n26

programs for, 375, 379–86

proposal for, 342

729
NASA’s First 50 Years

public opinion of, 174, 175

race between U.S. and Soviet Union, 

427

Soviet plans for, 432

support for, 68–69, 73, 74, 284

technology for, 345

Viking program (See Viking 

program)

Vision for Space Exploration and, 

445, 509

Voyager mission, 357

Face on, 384

faster, better, cheaper initiative and, 70, 

380–83

images of, 440–43, 444

interest in and obsession about, 333, 

346, 432

map of, 376, 377, 613

mass concentrations (mascons), 482

observation of, Apollo knowledge and 

techniques for, 435

occultation experiment, 481

Orion crew vehicles missions to, xv

permanent base on, establishment of, 

325, 326

piloted flight to, 68, 70

reconnaissance missions to, 427

signs of life on, 355–56, 357–58, 372, 

377, 379, 444

bacterial/microbial life, 70–71, 

384–86

success and failure in exploration of, 

375–76, 378, 380–83, 444–45, 

598n34, 603

system of planets, 429n3

telescopic observations, 432

timekeeping on, 380

topography of, 376, 377, 613

Victoria Crater features, 386, 388

volcanoes on, 439, 441, 442, 613

water on, 565–67, 572

writings about, 327–32, 333, 377–80, 

384, 432

Mars Atmospheric Water Detector (MAWD), 

566–67

Mars Climate Orbiter

failure and loss of, 28, 71, 309, 316, 381, 

598n34, 603

faster, better, cheaper initiative, 381, 

382–83

mission of, 308–9, 382

navigation methods, 486–87

Mars Exploration Rovers (MERs), xv, 279, 386, 

388, 608, 627

Mars Express, 608

Mars Global Surveyor, 306, 377, 381, 382, 383, 

592, 608, 613, 626

Mars Mystery (Hancock), 384

Mars Observer

costs and budget, 301, 380

failure of, 70, 71, 301, 302, 380

navigation methods, 487–88

Mars Odyssey, 572, 608

Mars Opportunity, 71, 279, 386, 388, 608

Mars Optical Navigation Camera, 497–98

Mars Orbiter Camera (MOC), 626

Mars Orbiter Laser Altimeter (MOLA), 376, 377

Mars Pathfinder, 71, 306–7, 381, 382, 383, 

443, 592, 608

Mars Polar Lander, 71, 306, 308–10, 381, 487, 

603

Mars Project (von Braun), 328–30, 332, 333, 

378–79

Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter, 497–98

Mars Society, 345, 379

Mars Spirit, 71, 279, 386, 608, 627

Mars Surveyor, 306, 383

Marshall Space Flight Center (MSFC)

ABMA and, xiii–xiv

Centaur project management, 92, 93

decisions, basis for, 99–100

employees of DOD and NACA and, 51

external tank, 297

Hubble Space Telescope, 300–1

Industrial Operations Directorate (IOD), 

298

management of

management experience of employees, 290–91

730
Index

systems engineering, 297–98, 

298n27

systems management, 293

Total Quality Management, 303, 

303n37

von Braun management style, 

297–98

NASA facility, 289

planetary exploration and flybys, 433

protein crystal experimentation, 361–62

Saturn launch vehicle development, 95, 

97

Skylab, 368

solid rocket boosters, 102, 104, 297

space station development, 368–69

SSMEs, 297

success of Apollo program and, 100

von Braun as director, 335

Marshworks Team, 504

Martian ALH84001 meteorite, 70–71, 384–86

Martian Chronicles (Bradbury), 377–78

Martin Company. See Glenn L. Martin Company

Martin Marietta, 105

Martin Marietta Corporation Astronautics, 

303n37

Martin SV-5D PRIME, 268

Martin X-24 lifting body, 200, 215, 266, 267, 

268, 272

Mass concentrations (mascons), 482, 502

Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT)

ALSEP, 485

Instrumentation Laboratory, 408

Quasar Patrol, 485

Space, Policy, and Society Working Group, 

279, 283–84

Masursky, Harold, 434

Materials

composite materials, 201–2, 219

research on, 210, 219

Mathematical orbital specialists, 416

Mathilde asteroid, 448, 496–97

Matrix management system, 312–13

Matson, Dennis, 460

Maturing government agencies, 20–25, 307–8

Mazlish, Bruce, 589

MB-3 Block II engine, 85

McAuliffe, Christa, 364, 364n43

McCall, Robert, 342

McCook Field, 189, 225

McCormick, M. P., 576

McCurdy, Howard E., 11–29, 672–73

Eisenhower’s vision for, 337

faster, better, cheaper initiative, 306

NASA’s technical culture, 289

von Braun paradigm, 326, 338

McDanell, James P., 496

McDonald Observatory, 565

McDonnell Aerothermo-Structural SystemsEnvironmental Tests (ASSET) project, 267–68

McDonnell Douglas

Delta II launch vehicles, 85

electrophoresis research, 360–61

RS-27 engine, 83, 85

McDougall, Walter A., 31–33, 595

McKelway, Benjamin, 156–57

McKibben, Bill, 512

McMahon Act, 42. See also Atomic Energy Acts

McNamara, Robert S., 264, 280

McNeill, J. R., 658

McNeill, William, 658

Measurement of Pollution in the Troposphere 

(MOPITT) satellite, 556

Media

access to information by, 159

astronauts, media interest in, 168–69

communication strategies, 165–66

cultivation theory, 180–81

as ex officio part of government, 156n13

framing stories, 179–80, 181

infotainment, 165, 179

Mars, expectations of discoveries on, 

376–77

medium theory, 180

NASA, relationship with, 164–66, 376–77

political marketing and news, boundary 

between, 165

public expectations, control of through 

media, 156–57, 157n17

public information policy of NASA and, 

162, 162n32

731
NASA’s First 50 Years

role in telling about U.S. conquest of 

space, 153, 164–65

Science Service, 164–65

social construction of reality, role in, 

177–78

Medicine, operational. See Biology and medicine, operational

Medium theory, 180

Meinel, Aden, 397, 397n19

Meltzer, Michael, 453–77, 673

Menzel, Donald, 391, 398, 399, 403, 411

Mercury

characteristics of, 431, 435–36, 446, 

447, 450

exploration of

first visit to, 431, 436

Mariner program, 447, 608, 628

MESSENGER probe, 447, 496, 608

race between U.S. and Soviet Union, 

427

information about, 428

observation of, Apollo knowledge and 

techniques for, 435

occultation experiments, 481

reconnaissance missions to, 427

system of planets, 429n3

Mercury, Project

astronauts, screening and selection of, 

351

Enos primate mission, 355

history of, 593

leadership of, 51

learning to fly in space during, 606, 620

life science activities during missions, 

352–53

management of, 291

public expectations about, control of, 

156–57, 157n17

public face of NASA, 168–69, 177

research leading to, 224

risk and safety issues, 323

spacecraft design, 260

start of, 334

success of, 161, 323

telemedicine activities, 371

X-15 aircraft and, 617

Mercury 7 mission, 168–69, 177, 600

MErcury Surface, Space ENvironment, 

GEochemistry, and Ranging (MESSENGER) 

probe, 447, 496, 608, 628

Messerschmitt Bf 109 aircraft, 229

Messerschmitt ME 163 Komet, 234, 235, 240, 

244

Messerschmitt P 1101 fighter, 240

Messerschmitt swept-wing research, 235

Meteorographs, 546

Metis, 493

Michael, Donald, 173–74

Michener, James, 470

Michoud Assembly Facility, 504

Microcraft, Inc., 272

Microwave Landing System, 219

Microwave Limb Sounder, 555, 571

MiG-15 aircraft, 242

MiG-19 aircraft, 243

Military Authorization Act, 412

Military-industrial complex, 178

Milky Way, 372

Miller, Jon, 176

Miller, Walter M., Jr., 41

Mindling, George W., 547–48

Minneapolis-Honeywell, 87

Mintz, Yale, 573

Mintz/Arakawa model, 573

Minuteman missiles

flight testing, 99

Minuteman I, 80

PAM development from, 85

SRB development and, 102, 104

Mir space station, 275

Shuttle-Mir program, 364, 364n43

Missile defense, 263

Missile Row, Cape Canaveral, 612

Missile Technology Control Regime, 140

Missiles and rockets, 596–97. See also specific 

kinds

Mission to Planet Earth (MTPE) program

benefits of, 521

components of, 57

732
Index

EOS as centerpiece of (See also Earth 

Observing System [EOS])

motivation for, 521–22

proposal for, 342, 508, 517–18

Ride Report recommendation for, 521–22

solar system exploration and, 522

support for, 521

Model species, 349

Modeling, 511–12, 572–74, 577–78, 584–85

Moderate Resolution Imaging 

Spectroradiometer (MODIS) instrument, 504, 

556, 619

Molina, Mario, 568

Monday Notes, 290, 298

Monkeys, 353, 354, 355, 372–73

Montreal Protocols, 510, 571, 572

Moon

Ares launch vehicles for missions to, 106

base on and colonization of, 3, 54, 343, 

346, 651

characteristics of, 446

development of spaceflight architecture 

to support missions to, 3–4

ephemerides, 500

exploration of, 436–39

Apollo 11 mission, 109–10, 295

Apollo 12 mission, 623

Apollo program management and, 

98–100, 295

challenges of, 433

ease of in von Braun’s mind, 327

human spaceflight missions, 606–8

number of missions, 351

as obvious first destination, 431

post-Apollo program, 338–41

race between U.S. and Soviet Union, 

427

Saturn launch vehicle and, 334–35

Soviet plans for, 432

support for, 34, 52, 68–69, 275

unmanned missions, 606, 624

von Braun’s writings about, 330, 

334

information about, 428

interest in, 433

international partnership in return to, 5

libration-point missions, 341, 342, 343, 

346

lunar samples and information about 

surface of, 434–35, 646, 646n65

lunar samples and information about 

surface of Moon, 436–39

mass concentrations (mascons), 482

mining on, 341, 363n40

missiles based on, 431

moonwalks, 109–10, 607, 624

occultation experiments, 481–82

Orion crew vehicles missions to, xv

permanent base on, establishment of, 

3, 326

as planetary satellite, 429, 435

race between Soviet Union and U.S., 52

reconnaissance missions to, 427, 434

return to

Columbia Accident Investigation 

Board recommendation, 284

Columbus analogy, 654

commitment to, 345

Constellation program, 164

cost of, 75

funding for, 75–76

implementation of, 74–75, 76

O’Keefe’s support for, 73

SEI, 69

spaceflight architecture to support, 

3, 75

support for, 74, 284

Vision for Space Exploration, 73, 

313, 509

as Rosetta Stone of solar system, 434, 

438–39

Saturn launch vehicle for missions to, 98

science benefits from missions to, 

646n65

system of planets, 429n3

telescopic observations, 429, 431

volcanoes on, 431, 459

von Braun’s obsession with, 327, 328, 

335, 336

Moonwatch, Project, 402–3, 425

733
NASA’s First 50 Years

Moore, Berrien, 520

Morabito, Linda A., 492, 493

Morgan, Barbara, 364n43

Morrison, Dennis, 365

Morse, Ralph, 614

Mrazek, William A., 98

MSC.Nastran, 203

Mueller, George, 18, 98–100, 291, 338, 340

Mulholland, J. Derral, 416

Mullen, George, 581

Muller, Paul M., 482

Mulloy, Larry, 105

Multi-angle Imaging SpectroRadiometer (MISR), 

504

Munk, Max, 186, 206, 238

Muroc Air Force Base, 240

Muroc Flight Test Unit, 212, 240

Musgrave, Story, 365

N

N-156 aircraft, 243

Nagasaki, 40

Nagel, F., 189

NASA Advisory Council, 139, 511, 518–19

NASA Strategic Management Handbook, 560

NASA Structural Analysis (NASTRAN), 202, 203, 

252

“NASA’s Earth Science Program” (Goldstein), 

507

National Academy Committee on Science and 

Public Policy, 419

National Academy of Sciences

Decadal Surveys, 417–18, 425

Earth science program support, 509

Frutkin’s role at, 122, 125

Hubble repair mission, 73

IGY committee, 122

International Geosphere-Biosphere 

Program, 517–18

Science Service and, 165

Space Science Board (SSB), 396, 398, 

399–400

National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics 

(NACA)

aeronautics mission of, 205

aeronautics technology legacy, 183

battle between NACA and Air Force over 

wind tunnels, 210

budget of, xiii

contributions of, 185–86

creation of, xiii, 184, 205

employees

as different from average government employees, 15–16

number of, xiii, 51

facilities of, xiii

goals and tasks of, 184

laboratory facilities and competition 

between, 211–12

leadership of, 50

missile development by, 79

NACA airfoils, 185, 206, 207, 225

NACA cowling, 185–86

transformation to NASA, xiii, 31, 184–85

National Aeronautics and Space Act

Atomic Energy Commission and, 41–47

biology, medicine, and life sciences 

activities, 349–50

civilian-military divide, 41–43, 113–14

dissemination of information on NASA 

activities, 152

NASA creation through, 41–47, 185

objectives of NASA, 560, 647–48

organizational structure for NASA, 43–44

patents, 46

signing of, 34, 113

National Aeronautics and Space Administration 

(NASA)

AEC and, 41–47

atomic diplomacy and, 34

budget for (See Budgets, NASA)

challenges facing, 5–8, 11–14, 25, 592

confidence and complacency, 294–95, 

296, 308, 323

Congress, relationship with, 160

Congressional investigation of, 12

Congressional support for, 2

conservation of gains from programs, 9

contributions of, 1, 9

734
Index

creation of, xiii, 41–47, 184, 185

credibility of, 2, 7

criticism of goals of, 39–40

culture of (See Culture, NASA 

organizational)

divisions in, 51

DOD, relationship with, 42–44, 51, 

142–43

economic downturn and, xv

education and training programs, 120, 

122

employees

average age of, 295

control over content of work, 19–20

as different from average government employees, 15–16

as exceptional people, 15, 24, 

26–27, 289–90

management experience of, 

290–91

morale of, 297

number of, 23, 295, 296, 307

optimism of, 24

surveys of, 14–15, 18, 21, 22, 

24–25

technical problems, line of communication to report, 312–13

as environmental agency, 55

expansion of, 48

failures, lessons from, 301–2

50th anniversary celebration, xiv–xv

funding for, 2

goals and tasks of

Cold War and, 50, 140, 167, 363

Decadal Planning Team, 345, 

345n33

destination-driven goals, 72, 73–74

Earth science program, 505–6

National Aeronautics and Space Act, 

185, 647–48

planning and von Braun paradigm, 

327, 338–47

preeminence of U.S., 52–53, 114, 

153

R&D activities, 57, 289, 367

rationale for NASA, 166–68, 179

Ride Report, 68, 338, 342, 521–22

science-driven goals, 47–48, 72, 

560

history of, xv–xvi

image of, broadening of, 55–56

importance of, 588

leadership of, 49–50

Administrators, 50–76

Administrators, influence of, 50, 

76–78

strategic leadership, 49

triad concept, 51

liaison committees, 43–44

management of

bureaucracy, expansion of, 21, 22, 

24, 297

decentralization of operations, 

55–56

high-reliability organizations, 27

large-scale systems management, 

18–19, 26

lead Center concept, 55–56

matrix management system, 

312–13

project management capabilities, 

11–12

small-scale project teams, 27

Total Quality Management (TQM), 

302–4, 303n37

mission statement, 560

NACA transformation to, xiii, 31, 184–85

national constituency for, 52–53

national prestige and, 34, 39–40

patents and, 46

priority of NASA projects, 513–14, 

522–24, 533, 536, 537–38, 661

programs of, justification of, xv

public opinion and relations (See Public 

information and relations)

purpose and vision of, 1–5, 6

reorganization of, 12, 13, 125, 157, 291

research laboratories

competition between, 33n8, 

211–15, 216–17, 221

735
NASA’s First 50 Years

geographic diversity of, 33

NACA/NASA facility, xiii, 289

risk and safety issues, 7–8, 603, 603n44, 

662

science mandate, 47–48

stability of purpose and policy, 2

success and failure, 375–76

support for

under Carter, 56

from Congress, 2, 19–21, 22, 69

under Johnson, 19, 22, 53

under Kennedy, 22

under Nixon, 19, 54

political support, 2, 19–21, 22, 54, 

76, 181

under Reagan, 57, 68

technical capabilities of, 16–19, 24, 

26–29

as technocracy, 33–34, 47–48

transparency of scientists, managers, 

and engineers, 384

White House, relationship with, 160

National Aeronautics and Space Administration 

(NASA) History Division

conference to analyze first 50 years of 

NASA, xiv, 1

publications of, xv–xvi

National Aeronautics and Space Council, 43

National Aero-Space Plane (NASP), 198, 270, 

271

National Air Traffic Controller Association, 220

National Archives, 660

National Association of Science Writers, 157, 

157n17

National Center for Atmospheric Research, 583

National Commission on Space, 170, 341–42

National Defense Education Act, 31

National Institutes of Health (NIH), 16, 360

National Oceanic and Atmospheric 

Administration (NOAA)

Aeronomy Laboratory, 570

Decadal Survey for Earth Science and 

Applications from Space (National 

Research Council), 536

Earth science program management by, 

531

EOS management by, 534–35

NPOESS program, 508

weather satellites

NASA versus NOAA, 506

operation of, 505

radiation monitoring, 360

National Ozone Experiment (NOZE), 570

National Polar-orbiting Operational 

Environmental Satellite System (NPOESS), 

508

National Radio Astronomy Observatory (NRAO), 

398, 483

National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), 114, 

652

National Research Council

Decadal Survey for Earth Science and 

Applications from Space, 505, 509, 

531, 535, 536–37, 540, 560–61

Earth Observations from Space, 551

Engineering Review Board, 527n54

Hubble repair mission, 73

human spaceflight and robotic study, 

partnership between, 592

National Science Foundation (NSF)

Antarctica Space Analog Program, 366

astronomy, funding for, 393

funding for, 412, 415

national observatory system, 422

Polar Programs, Office of, 366

scientific satellite program, 37

VLBI funding, 483

National Science Teachers Association, 418

National security

human spaceflight and, 282–83, 595

international collaborative activities and, 

128, 130–31, 137, 142–46

satellites and, 605, 651

intelligence satellites, 56, 117, 118, 

336, 337n23

science and, 42

space capabilities and, 143–46, 468–69

National Security Council, 37, 363

736
Index

National Security Presidential Directive (NSPD), 

144–45

National Service, Office of, 125

National Space Biomedical Research Institute 

(NSBRI), 367

National Space Council (NSC), 37, 69, 305, 343

National Specialized Centers of Research and 

Training (NSCORTs), 367

Naval Air Warfare Center, Weapons Division Sea 

Range, 272–73

Naval Observatory, U.S., 492–93, 501

Naval Research Laboratory (NRL)

astronomy instruments, 392

astronomy research, rocket-based, 

391–92

budget and spending of, 393, 394

Clementine project, 304–5

GSFC and, 51

management experience of employees, 

291

NASA facility, xiii

space science projects, 398, 400, 404

Vanguard division, 289

Naval Research, Office of (ONR), 391, 394

Navier-Stokes equations, 216, 217

Navigation, deep space

accuracy of, 502

activities associated with, 479–80

astronomy and, 479, 502

autonomous navigation, 498–500

celestial mechanics and, 500–2

contracted services, 496

data, access to, 482–83

∆DOR (delta-Differenced One-Way 

Range), 485, 486–88, 493–95, 496

Differenced Range Versus Integrated 

Doppler (DRVID), 483

Doppler, 480–83, 486–87, 493, 496

Far Encounter Planet Sensor, 489

faster, better, cheaper initiative, 494–95

Global Positioning System (GPS), 493–94

Multimission Navigation Teams, 495

navigators, role of, 480

occultation experiments, 481–83

optical navigation, 487, 488–94, 495, 

496–98, 502, 599

Optical Navigation Image 

Processing System (ONIPS), 489

Optical Navigation Program (ONP), 

489

Orbit Determination Program, 480, 481

success of missions and, 479

Very Long Baseline Interferometry (VLBI), 

483–88

Navy, U.S.

fighter development program, 253, 

253n37

missile development by, 79

NavTechMisEu, 238

Program Evaluation and Review 

Technique, 100

propellant development, 88

Navy Appropriations Act, 184

NB-52B Stratofortress, 271–72, 274

Near Earth Asteroid Rendezvous (NEAR), 28, 

306

NEAR-Shoemaker project, 28, 448, 

496–97, 609, 632

Neice, Stanford, 263

Neptune

characteristics of, 436

exploration of

optical navigation, 491, 493

satellite discovery, 493

Voyager space probes, 456, 609, 

630

occultation experiments, 481

orbit of and Pluto (Planet X), 448, 450

telescopic observations, 429

Neufeld, Michael J., 325–47, 673–74

Neurolab, 362

“New Age of Exploration,” 591–92, 591–92n12

New Horizons spacecraft, 306, 450, 496, 609

New Millennium program, 306, 498

New public management, 21, 23

New World, impact on the Old World, 648

Newell, Homer, 350, 353, 354, 400, 406, 563, 

585

Newton, 383

737
NASA’s First 50 Years

Nikolayev, Andrian, 364–65

Nimbus 7 satellite, 509

Niña, 610

Nitrogen and nitrate ions, 580

Nitrogen oxides, 567, 568

Nixon, Richard

on Apollo 11 Moon landing, 109

Apollo landings, cancellation of, 514

budget of NASA under, 54

human spaceflight, value of, 281

leadership of NASA under, 54, 60, 61, 

413

NSC abolishment, 69

post-Apollo program, interest in, 170, 

338, 339

science funding under, 420

Space Shuttle, approval of, 55, 136, 276, 

296

support for NASA, 19

U.S./USSR space projects and, 133

Nobel Prize in Chemistry, 372n78

Noordung, Hermann, 328

North American Aviation, 97. See also

Rocketdyne Division, North American Aviation

North American Aviation F-86 Sabre, 188, 238, 

242, 253n37, 256

North American F-100 aircraft, 243, 253n37

North American Rockwell T-2C Buckeye trainer, 

188, 256

North American X-15 aircraft. See X-15 aircraft

North American XP-86 Sabre, 239

North American YF-100 Super Sabre, 242–43, 

253n37

North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), 134

North Carolina State University, 367

Northrop F-5 fighter, 247, 253n37

Northrop HL-10 lifting body, 200, 215, 266, 

267, 272

Northrop M2 lifting bodies, 200, 213, 215, 266, 

267, 272

Northrop N-156 aircraft, 243

Northrop T-38 supersonic trainer, 247

Northrop XS-4 (X-4) aircraft, 234, 240, 241, 244

Nose cone shape, 200

Nova launch vehicle, 334, 336

NT-33 Shooting Star, 251

Nuclear programs and weapons

atomic-powered research airplane, 41

Atoms for Peace program, 38, 39, 131

civilian government agency control of, 33

civilian-military divide, 42–43

Moon base for, 431

nuclear material, control of, 44–45

nuclear rocket research program, 46–47

perception of, 40–41

ROVER program, 46–47

space as battlefield, 115–17, 116n21

space station as base for, 116, 328–29, 

330

technology and atomic energy, 46–47

testing of, 40

U.S. foreign policy and, 38–41, 652

Nuclear Regulatory Commission, 123

O

Obama, Barack

Earth science program under, 509, 

537–38, 540

leadership of NASA under, 74, 76

space exploration policy, 285

space policy of, 146–47

transition to administration of, xv

Oberth, Hermann, 259, 328

Occultation experiments, 481–83, 569

Ocean Surface Topography Mission, 505n6, 539

Oceans

Age of Discovery and, 588

exploration analogies, 593

satellite monitoring of, 532–33, 554

temperature of and storm development, 

505–6, 506n7

O’Connor, Edmund, 298

O’Dell, C. R., 421

Odishaw, Hugh, 400

Of a Fire on the Moon (Mailer), 655

O’Hair, Ralph, 546

Ohio State University, 358

O’Keefe, Sean

budget for lab functions, 370

738
Index

Earth science program under, 536

leadership of NASA under, 66, 72–74, 77, 

78, 314

priority of NASA projects, 533, 536

public opinion of NASA, study of, 161

public relations under, 171

reorganization of NASA under, 536

Old World, impact of New World on, 648

On the Beach (Shute), 41

O’Neill, Gerard, 341, 342, 343, 652

Optical navigation, 487, 488–94, 495, 496–98, 

502, 599

Optical Navigation Image Processing System 

(ONIPS), 489

Optical Navigation Program (ONP), 489

Orbit Determination Program, 480, 481

Orbital Sciences, 271, 272

Orbital Space Plane, 72

Orbiter, Project, 403

Orbiting Astronomical Observatory (OAO), 400, 

401, 407, 645

Orbiting Carbon Observatory (OCO) mission, 

505n6, 556

Orbiting Frog Otolith project, 354

Orbiting Solar Observatory (OSO), 400

Origins program, 71, 647

O-rings, 103, 104–5, 299–300, 299n29, 307, 

316

Orion crew vehicles, xv, 370

Orion Nebula, 635, 645

Orion-Ares system

development of, 75

funding for, 75–76

implementation of, 76

missions of, 106, 107

Ortho Pharmaceuticals, 360–61

O’Sullivan, John L., 476

Over the Edge of the World (Bergreen), 386–87, 

593

Owen, Tobias, 415

Owens-Corning Company, 83

Oxygen, 580

Ozone research, 57, 509–11, 514, 555–56, 

567–72

P

P-38 aircraft, 229

P-47 aircraft, 229

P-51D Mustang, 230

P-63 Kingcobra fighter, 238

P1127 Kestrel, 199

Pacific Ocean, 554

Paine, Thomas O.

leadership of NASA under, 53–54, 55, 56, 

60, 69, 77, 339

National Commission on Space, 341–42

post-Apollo program, 136, 338–40, 

340n26

Paleolithic Era, 587–88

Pallas, 448

Paperclip, Project, 186, 247

Parkinson, C. Northcote, 20

Parkinson, Claire, 375

Parkinson’s Law, 20, 21

Parry, J. H., 588, 593, 594, 604

Pascal, Blaise, 544

Passive remote sensing devices, 513

Patents, 46, 47

Payload Assist Module (PAM), 82, 85

Pedersen, Kenneth, 119, 123–24, 125, 139–40, 

141–42

Pegasus booster rocket, 198, 271, 272, 274

Pellerin, Charles, 421

Perier, Florin, 544

Pershing missiles, 95, 98

Petrone, Rocco, 297

Petroski, Henry, 287–88, 322

Phillips, Samuel

Apollo and systems management, 18, 

99–100, 291–93, 294–95, 295n20

Apollo program management, 98, 291

MSFC systems management, 279–98

Phillips, William, 243

Phobos (Mars moon), 382, 435, 497–98

Phobos 1 mission, 316

Phoenix Mars Lander, 627

Phoenix mission, 608

Physicists, 390, 392–93, 418–19, 422–23

Piccard, Auguste, 546

739
NASA’s First 50 Years

Pickering, William, 293, 337

Pilâtre de Rozier, Jean François, 545

Pilot balloons, 545

Pilotless Aircraft Research Division, Wallops 

Island, 86, 211, 247

Pinatubo, Mount, 577, 578

Pinta, 610

Pioneer program

DRVID, 483

Jupiter, exploration of, 454–56

occultation experiments, 481

outer solar system exploration with, 433, 

453

Pioneer 10 mission, 455, 481

Pioneer 11 mission, 455, 481

Saturn, exploration of, 455

Venus, exploration of, 446, 608, 629

Pitchup, 243

Planetary astronomers, 415

Planetary satellites, 429, 435, 449, 609

Planetary science. See Solar system and planetary science

Planetary Sciences Division, 413, 415–16

Plant Gravitational Biology and Genomics 

NSCORT, 367

Pluto

exploration of, 306, 450, 496, 609

status of, 430, 435, 448, 450, 609

Plutoid class, 430, 450

Polar exploration analogy, 590

Polar Programs, Office of, 366

Polaris program, 100

Polhamus, Edward, 245

Policy Coordination and International Relations, 

Office of, 124–25

Policy Coordination Division, 125

Pollack, James, 574, 575, 576

Pollution, 218

Porco, Carolyn, 456

Porter, Richard, 122

Portugal, 601, 657–58, 659

Poseidon missiles, 104

Post-Apollo program, 52, 53, 54, 136–37, 170, 

325, 338–40, 340n26

Pounds of thrust, 383

Powell, Malvern, 207

Prandtl, Ludwig, 186, 206

Prather, Victor, 546

Pratt & Whitney

Centaur project, 89–91, 92, 94

liquid hydrogen engine, 89

RL10 engines, 94, 96

Saturn launch vehicle engines, 94

Precipitation and All-Weather Temperature and 

Humidity (PATH), 536–37n67

Precision Recovery Including Maneuvering 

Entry (PRIME) project, 267–68, 269

President’s Scientific Advisory Committee 

(PSAC)

astronomy experiments, 406

creation of, 31, 35n13

satellites, scientific uses for, 551, 562

space exploration and national prestige, 

37–38

Pride and Power (Van Dyke), 77

Primate missions, 353, 354, 355, 372–73

Process-Based Mission Assurance (PBMA), 

312–13, 314

Progress supply ship, 364n43

Propulsion

for hypersonic flight, 259, 261, 265–66, 

271

propeller design, 224, 225

research on, 210

Protein crystal experimentation, 361–62, 372, 

372n78

Psychohistory, 661, 661n99

Public Affairs Office (Public Information Office), 

152–60

Public information and relations. See also

Media

advertising and marketing the space 

program, 160–64, 171, 171n64, 179

communication strategies, 161–63, 

170–71

critical research on, 181

cultivation theory, 180–81

cultural environment and, 151

740
Index

dissemination of information on NASA 

activities, 152, 153–56, 158–59, 

159n26, 163, 180, 183

evolution of, 151

Gemini project and, 52

historical record of, 151

image and message

control of, 154–56, 158, 163

definition of, 173

framing stories, 179–80, 181

public face of NASA, 168–69, 177, 

179

industry relations, 157

infotainment, 165, 179

medium theory, 180

NASA Web site and, 160n28

open communications policy, 162

political appointees’ role in public affairs, 

163, 163n38

propaganda campaigns, 32, 32n5, 

165–66

Public Affairs Office (Public Information 

Office), 152–60, 165

public expectations, control of, 156–57, 

157n17

public information policy, 162, 162n32

public opinion of NASA, 161, 166–68, 

170, 171–77, 179–81, 602, 615

public queries, response to, 157–58

public support for NASA, 157, 161, 166

publicity and public information, distinction between, 154

publics that NASA responds to, 160, 

160n28

quantified assessment of public interest, 

159–60, 159n26

rationale for space program and, 166–68, 

179

selling of space program, 156

social construction of reality and, 177–78

space exploration as spectacle, 156, 165, 

177–79

speaking engagements, 157, 157n20

TV, NASA, 171

Pulsar, 482–83

Purdue University, 367

Puy de Dôme, 544

Q

Quasar Patrol, 485

Quayle, Dan, 69, 343

Quick Scatterometer (QuikSCAT) satellite, 504

Quiet Spike program, 196–97

Quiet Technology Demonstrator 2 program, 201

R

Rabi, I. I., 35n13

Radiation

chlorofluorocarbons and, 568

effects of, 379

HZE particles, 352, 357

monitoring and research on, 352, 357, 

360, 397

radiation belts, 337, 360, 552

radiation shielding for vehicles, 360

solar radiation bursts, monitoring of, 360

Radio occultation experiments, 481–83, 569

Radiosondes (rawindondes), 546, 552–53

Railroad and the Space Program (Mazlish), 589, 

656

Railroads, 589, 590, 656

Ramjets, 253, 265–66

RAND Corporation, 395

Ranger program, 12, 294, 434, 436–37, 480, 

606

Rasmussen Reports, 176

Rawindondes (radiosondes), 546, 552–53

Reaction Motors, 80

Read, Mrs. Clark P., 159, 159n26

Reagan, Ronald

Earth science program under, 508, 515, 

516

frontiers, conquest and control of, 

147–48

global warming issue, 522

human spaceflight, importance of, 281

leadership of NASA under, 56, 57, 61, 

63, 68

741
NASA’s First 50 Years

recapitalization of CIS countries, 140

Ride Report and, 522

Soviet Union as evil empire, 142

space exploration plan, development of, 

170

space policy of, 123–24, 145, 341–42, 

363

space station, approval of, 57, 277, 343, 

369

support for NASA, 57, 68

RECAST project, 201

Reckord, Frank, 546

Redstone Arsenal, 88

Redstone missiles, 94, 98, 332

Reed, Dale, 212–13

Reengineering initiative, 304, 310

Reentry-F, 260, 267

Rees, Eberhard, 297

Rees, M., 474

Reinventing government campaign, 71

Remote Manipulator System (RMS), 136

Remote sensing projects

active remote sensing devices, 513

controversy about, 584

development of, 139

Earth science program and, 507, 568–69

EOS and, 524

international collaborative activities, 121, 

524

passive remote sensing devices, 513

spectroscopy, 564–72

Report on the Implementation of United States 

Space Exploration Policy, 591, 659

Republic F-105 Thunderchief, 243, 247, 

253n37

Republic P-47 aircraft, 229

Research Airplane Projects Panel (RAPP), 233

Research laboratories, xiii, 33, 33n8

Research on Volcanic Eruptions (RAVE), 576

Rich, Ben, 258, 305

Ride, Sally, 68, 342, 521, 536

Ride Report, 68, 338, 342, 521–22, 521n44, 

536

Riker Pharmaceutical, 361n36

Rinehart, John, 408

Risks, danger, and safety issues, 7–8, 278, 

278n7, 323, 603, 603n44, 662

RL10 engines, 94, 96

Robert, Nicholas Louis, 545

Robotic exploration and programs

economic pressures and technical compromises, 308

Eisenhower’s support for, 337, 337n23

failures of, 308–10

faster, better, cheaper initiative, 70, 72, 

302, 304, 306–7

human exploration, erosion of boundary 

between, 464–66

human spaceflight, partnership between, 

592, 653, 662

human spaceflight versus, 277–79, 347

implementation of, 284

management of, 294, 318

Mars missions, 70

spacecraft for, 597–98, 598n34

support for, 326, 655

testing of, 301

Robots in Space (Launius and McCurdy), 326

Roché, Jean, 237

Rocket Dreams (Benjamin), 649

Rocket Sonde Research Panel, 404

Rocketdyne Division, North American Aviation

Experimental Engines Group, 94

F-1 engines, 96–97

H-1 engine, 83, 85, 94–95

J-2 engines, 13, 17, 96, 100, 106

Space Shuttle main engine (SSME), 101

X-1 engine, 94

Rockwell B-1 bomber, 188, 245

Rockwell Collins, 195

Rogers, Alan, 485

Rogers Commission, 300, 307, 308, 311, 312

Rogers Dry Lake, 200, 215, 240

Röntgen Satellite (ROSAT), 646

Roper, Elmo, 173

Roper Center for Public Opinion Research, 173, 

174

Rosen, Milton W., 80, 81, 82, 90, 326, 327, 336, 

337n23

Ross, Malcolm, 546

742
Index

Rossi, Bruno, 390

Rossi satellite, 646

Rotch, Lawrence, 544–45

Round Four research aircraft, 267

Round One research aircraft, 224, 240–50

Round Three research aircraft, 224, 261, 264

Round Two research aircraft, 224, 261–63

ROVER program, 46–47

Rowland, E. Sherwood, 568

RS-27 engine, 83, 85

RS-68B engine, 107

Rudolph, Arthur, 328, 343–44

Runway grooves, 190–91

Russell, James, 576

Russian space program

interactions of U.S. with, 652

ISS, voyages to, 75, 277, 364

ISS partnership, 70

Mir space station, 275

private citizens, launch of, 277, 277n6

Space Station Freedom development, 

140, 141, 369

Ryan, Cornelius, 330

Rycroft, Michael J., 474

Ryle, M., 390

S

Safety, Reliability, and Quality Assurance organization, 308, 312

Safety Center, NASA, 312

Safety Mission Quality Office, 302–4

Sagan, Carl

on Bradbury’s Martian Chronicles, 

377–78

exploration, privilege of, 451

Face on Mars, 384

Faint Early Sun Paradox, 579, 581

Golden Age of Exploration, 608

planetary astronomers division, 415

quarantine requirement for astronauts, 

435

Venus, conditions on, 432, 575

Sagikake, 139

Saint Helens, Mount, 576

Salpeter, E. E., 390

Salyut space stations, 355, 368

Salyut 1 space station, 368

Samuel M. Burka prize, Institute of Navigation, 

489, 490

San Marcos, 87

Sänger, Eugen, 259, 329

Santa Maria, 610

Santayana, 8

Satellite Instructional Television Experiment 

(SITE) project, 134–35

Satellite Pour l’Observation de la Terre (SPOT), 

113, 139

Satellites

antisatellite technology, 117, 125, 

146–47

challenges of launching, 423–43

development of, 139–40

discoveries made from, 551–53, 559, 

561–62

Earth observation from, 548, 549, 605–6, 

618–19

first launch of, 334

freedom of overflight in space, 37n18, 

116–18

fundamental biology research, 353–54

IGY launch of, 37, 80, 116, 402–3

impact of, 650–51

intelligence satellites

impact of, 651

importance of, 118

objection to, 117

support for, 56, 336, 337n23

international collaborative activities, 121, 

559–60

launch of, 138–39

Mission to Planet Earth program, 57

national prestige and launch of, 37

national security and, 605

ozone research, 509–10

payloads launched by, 122

preeminence of U.S., 139

radiation research and monitoring to 

protect, 360

SAO research projects, 403–8

743
NASA’s First 50 Years

Satellite Gap, 559, 560–61

satellite-based research development, 

395–99

scientific achievements of, 557–59

scientific experiments as payloads on, 

122

SITE project, 134–35

small satellite technology, 304–5, 306

smart satellites, 540

sounding rocket projects, 405

tracking and data acquisition, 402–3, 

404–6, 409

uses for, scientific, 551

weather satellites, 360, 505, 506, 537, 

549, 552, 556, 557, 605, 618

Saturn

characteristics of, 436

conditions on, 565

exploration of

Cassini-Huygens mission, 456–57, 

460–64, 466–67, 609, 633

optical navigation, 491, 493

Pioneer program, 455

satellite discovery, 493

Voyager space probes, 455–56, 

609, 630

magnetic and geographic poles, 455

missions to, 55

occultation experiments, 481

system of planets, 429n3

telescopic observations, 429

Saturn launch vehicle

Agena upper stage, 93

Centaur project and, 93

development of, 94–95

engines for, 94, 96–97, 289

flight testing, 98–99

fuel for, 93

guidance systems for, 95

management of, 97–100

Moon mission plans and, 334–35

museum display of, 658

Saturn I, 83, 94–95

Saturn IB, 94, 95–96

Saturn IV, 94–95

Saturn IVB, 96

Saturn V

Apollo mission, 611

design and development of, 96–97

diagram of, 99

difficulties with, 13, 96–98

guidance system, 95

launch of, 97

Sirius rockets and, 329

success of, 98

Sawin, Charles, 365

Scheuermann, Patrick, 504

Schindler, William R., 82

Schirra, Walter H. “Wally,” Jr., 506, 614

Schlesinger, Arthur M., Jr., 607

Schmitt, Harrison “Jack,” 363n40, 434, 651

School of Aviation Medicine, Brooks Air Force 

Base, 351, 365

Schorn, Ronald, 566

Schriever, Bernard, 291

Schubert, W., 92

Schumacher, John D., 125

Schweitzer, Albert, 471–72

Science. See also President’s Scientific Advisory 

Committee (PSAC)

civilian-military divide, 48

deficiencies in scientific ability, 34–35, 

659

funding for research, 584

international collaborative activities, 121, 

129

leadership in, 659n94

NASA’s mandate, 47–48, 72, 560

national prestige and strength and, 

36–41, 48, 147n103

national security and, 42

political concerns and competition, 

127–28

preeminence of U.S., 114, 139

propaganda, use of for, 32, 32n5

Space Age, benefits of, 646–47, 646n65

universalism of, 112

Science fiction, 40–41

Science Mission Directorate, 536

Science program, NASA

744
Index

budget for, 307

funding for, 57

importance of, 5

transparency of scientists, managers, 

and engineers, 384

Science Service, 164–65

Science Working Group, 421

Scott, Dave, 476

Scout launch vehicle

development of, 80, 86–87

evolution of, 87

guidance systems for, 87–88

improvements and upgrades to, 88

launch of, 87

management of, 87–88

motors for, 85, 88–89

Orbiting Frog Otolith project, 354

payload capacity, 88

success of, 88, 89

Scramjet engines, 198–99, 265–66, 271, 273

Scripps, Edwin W., 164–65

Scripps Institution of Oceanography, 367

Seaberg, John D., 90

Seamans, Robert, 12, 514

Sea-viewing Wide Field-of-view Sensor 

(SeaWiFS), 554

See Television Infrared Observation Satellite 

(TIROS). See Television Infrared Observation 

Satellite (TIROS)

Seidel, Robert, 389

Sellers, Piers, 541

Semi-Automatic Ground Equipment (SAGE) 

project, 319, 577

Senate Committee on Armed Services, 

Preparedness Investigating Subcommittee, 

35

Sensorweb observing system, 540

September 11 attacks, 144

Sergeant motors, 87, 293, 294

Sevastyanov, Vitaly, 364–65

Shaped Sonic Boom Demonstrator (SSBD), 196

Shaped Sonic Boom Experiment (SSBE) program, 196

Shapiro, Irwin I., 485

Shapley, Willis, 110

Shephard, Alan B., Jr., 275, 550, 614

Shock waves

aircraft design and, 187, 196, 235

airfoil shape and, 225, 255

slotted-throat wind tunnels and, 208

standing shock waves, 223n1, 224

wind tunnel measurement of, 226–27

Shoemaker, Eugene, 434

Short takeoff and landing (STOL) aircraft, 199, 

219, 221

Shute, Nevil, 41

Sikorsky, 202

Silbervogel (Silver Bird), 259

Silver Bird (Silbervogel), 259

Silverstein, Abe, 81, 93, 400, 406

Single stage to orbit (SSTO) vehicle, 259, 271

Sirius rockets, 329

Sjogren, William L. “Bill,” 482

Skylab, 323, 354, 357, 359, 368, 421

Slade, Martin A. “Marty,” 485

Slayton, Donald K., 614

Sloop, John L., 92

Small Explorer program, 305, 306, 308

Small Satellite Technology Initiative, 306

Smith, Henry J., 414

Smith, Peter G., 125

Smith, Robert, 389, 390, 420

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO)

Arizona Multiple Mirror Telescope, 425

brinksmanship principle, 409

budget and funding for, 424

budget of, 408, 410

Celescope, Project, 403, 404–8, 409, 425

Center for Astrophysics, 419, 424–25

changes at, 423–25

employees

enthusiasm of, 411

expertise of, 409–10

number of, 408, 409, 410, 425

institutional growth at, 408–11

Moonwatch, Project, 402–3, 425

research projects, 399

satellite-based research development, 

403–8

745
NASA’s First 50 Years

tracking and data acquisition, 122, 

126n51, 402–3, 404–6, 409

units within, 408–9

Smithsonian Folklife Festival, xiv

Smithsonian Institution, 660

Smyth, Piazzi, 544

Snow and Cold Land Processes (SCLP), 

536–37n67

Social impact of Space Age, 652–55

Societal Impact of Spaceflight (NASA), 654

Soil Moisture Active and Passive (SMAP) mission, 505n6, 536–37n67

Sojourner, 307, 382

Solar, Anomalous, and Magnetospheric Particle 

Explorer, 305

Solar and Heliospheric Observatory (SOHO) 

spacecraft, 609, 634

Solar astronomers, 413–15

Solar energy projects, 121

Solar Maximum Mission, 421, 425

Solar Physics Division, 413–14

Solar system and planetary science. See also

Asteroids; specific planets

Aristotelian-Ptolemaic-Scholastic 

Cosmos, 429, 429n3, 431

colonization of, 653–54

comparative study of planets, 429

Copernican-Keplerian Solar System, 431

cosmic evolution and, 641

diagram of, 430

Earth science, impact on, 563–64, 585

empty space between planets, 429–30, 

436

ephemerides, 500

exploration of solar system

international collaborative activities, 

121, 450

MTPE and, 522

rationale for human spaceflight, 

283–85

understanding gained from, 450–51

flybys, planetary, 341, 427

inaccessibility of, 428–29

inner planets

distinction between inner and outer 

solar system, 430, 435–36, 450

exploration of, 427–28

terrestrial characteristics, 430, 

435–36

mapping of, 449

minor planets, 430, 448, 449

observation of, Apollo knowledge and 

techniques for, 435

outer planets

characteristics of, 430–31

distinction between inner and outer 

solar system, 435–36, 450

ethical issues and exploration of, 

470–76

exploration of, 453–64, 477

societal benefits from tours of, 

467–68

planet, definition of, 448, 450

planetary satellites, 429, 435, 449, 609

size of planets, 430

Space Age and, 608–9, 626–34

system of planets, 429, 429n3

telescopic observations, 429–32

understanding of, 428, 428n2

Solar System Astronomy in America (Doel), 564

Solar terrestrial and astrophysics projects, 121

Solar Wind Composition Experiment, 111–13, 

624

Solid rocket boosters (SRBs), 101–5, 296, 297, 

298–300, 316

Solomon, Susan, 570

Somerville, Richard, 550

Sonic boom research, 196–97

Soufriere, Mount, 576

Sound, speed of, 223n1

Sounding rocket projects, 121, 130n63, 405

South Korea, 277

Southwood, David, 146

Soviet Union

Antarctic missile bases, 118

control of space by, 114

as evil empire, 142

overflight of, objection to, 117

von Braun’s novel and, 328–29

746
Index

Soviet Union space program. See also Bion/

Cosmos missions; Sputnik

Buran, 269, 358n27

Cosmonaut Training Center, 601

cosmonauts

media interest in, 169

screening and selection of, 600n37

training and preparation of, 601

Global Weather Experiment (GWE), 

559–60

Halley’s Comet project, 139

human spaceflight activities, 113

international collaborative activities, 131

launch vehicles and technology development, 139

life science activities, 355

manipulation of by Khrushchev, 32n5

number of missions, 355

physiological reactions to spaceflight and 

landing, 364–65

planetary exploration and flybys, 427, 

432

Moon exploration, 437–38

Venus exploration, 432, 445–46

race between U.S. and, 50, 51, 52, 154, 

155, 335, 427, 652

remote sensing projects, 524

as secretive program, 138, 153, 155

space station to establish space superiority over, 116, 328–29, 330

spacecraft, 606, 608

success of, 35

U.S./USSR space projects, 121, 122, 123, 

130–31, 133, 135, 368

Venus, exploration of, 608

Soyuz 9 mission, 364–65

Soyuz launch vehicle

ISS, voyages to, 75, 277, 364

learning to fly in space with, 606

U.S. use of, xv

Space

control of, 114, 143–46

freedom of overflight in, 37n18, 116–18

Janus analogy, 128

national security and space capabilities, 

143–46

peaceful use of, 115–19, 130

Space, Policy, and Society Working Group, 

Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 279, 

283–84

Space Age

Age of Discovery analogies, 386–88, 

588–93

Age of Discovery, comparison to, 588

Age of Reconnaissance, 588

beginning of, 543

benefits of to science, 646–47, 646n65

choice of exploration, 662

conditions for, 594–603

context within history of exploration, 

587–88, 655–56

cosmography, 613

Earth, realm of, 604–8, 616–25

funding for, 602, 602n42, 615

galaxies, realm of, 638–40, 645

global historical context of, 587

impact of, 643–44, 647–55, 656

economic impact, 650–52

geopolitical impact, 652

intellectual impact, 648–50

social impact, 652–55

importance of, 587, 588

infrastructure for, 403, 596–600, 610–13

lessons of history and, 660–62

management of, 601–2

motivation for, 591, 593–94

planets, realm of, 608–9, 626–34

primacy of exploration as key to understanding, 588

risks, danger, and safety issues, 603, 

603n44, 662

stars, realm of, 635–37, 645

story of, 604–9, 645–47

universe, evolution and content of, 

641–42, 647

voyagers, 600–1, 614

Space and Information Systems Division, North 

American Aviation, 97

Space Astronomy Laboratory (SAL), 401–2

747
NASA’s First 50 Years

Space Defense Initiative (SDI), 304–5

Space Economy, 164

Space exploration. See also Human spaceflight

benefits of, 477

choice of, 662

civilian government agency control of, 

45, 184

Cold War and, 32

control of space, 114

Earth science, impact on, 563

ethical issues, 470–76

exploitation considerations, 471, 

475–76

preservation ethic, 471–73

stewardship concept, 471, 473–75

frontiers, conquest and control of, 147–49, 

147n103, 341, 590–91, 591n11

goals of, 653–54

highway analogy, 589–90

importance of, 656–60

international collaborative activities (See

International collaborative activities)

leadership in space, establishment of, 

50–51, 147

lessons of history and, 660–62

motive power for, 596–97, 611

NASA’s leadership role, 52

national prestige and strength and, 

36–41, 77–78, 109–10, 110n5, 

147–49

plan for, development of, 170

political concerns and competition, 

126–28, 362–63

preeminence of U.S., 52–53, 112–13, 

114, 146, 470

public image and, 152–53

relevance of, 173–74, 181

societal impact of, 467–68, 643, 647–55

as spectacle, 156, 165, 177–79

success and failure, 375–76

support for, 655

urge for, 476–77

Space Exploration Initiative (SEI)

director of, 69

failure of, 325, 343, 344, 524

funding for, 69, 73, 305, 325, 508, 524

goals of, 69, 524

policy development, 69

programs included in, 366–67

support for, lack of, 70

von Braun paradigm and, 342–43

Space Flight Operations Contract, 23, 308

Space Flight Programs, Office of, 400

Space plasma, 121

Space policy

under Bush (George H. W.), 68–69, 343

under Bush (George W.), 1, 145–46, 

313–14, 344, 345, 369–70, 530–31, 

591

civilian-military divide, 41–43, 113–14, 

146–47

under Clinton, 145

Commission on Implementation of 

United States Space Exploration Policy 

(Aldridge Commission), 171n64, 

534–36, 591

development of, 1

dissemination of information on NASA 

activities, 152, 153–56, 158–59, 

159n26, 163, 180, 183

goals of, 6

human spaceflight programs, 284–85

management of government programs 

and, 6

national security and space capabilities, 

143–46

under Obama, 146–47

under Reagan, 123–24, 145, 341–42, 

363

Space Shuttle and, 340

stability of, 2

Space Radiation Health NSCORT, 367

Space Radiation Lab, 368

Space science

Congressional support for, 306

exploration and discovery and, 591–

92n12, 592

research projects

appeal for possible experiments, 

397–98

748
Index

cooperation between competing 

proposals, 398–400

funding for, 400, 413

infrastructure for, 400

schedule for development of, 

395–96

selection of projects, 398–99

Space Science and Applications, Office of 

(OSSA), 509

Space Science Board (SSB), 396, 398, 399–400

Space science division, NASA, 51, 400

Space Science Enterprise, 536

Space Science Working Group, 400, 402

Space Shuttle. See also specific Shuttle 

missions

approach and landing decision, 266–67

approval of, 55, 136, 170, 276, 296

budget for, 75, 278, 296, 307, 340

debate about approval of, 276

design of

lifting bodies research and, 214, 

215

winged design for, 329–30, 340

X-15 aircraft and, 617

X-20A Dyna-Soar and, 224

development of, 56, 100

disillusionment with, 346

economic pressures and technical compromises, 55, 105–6, 296, 307–8, 323

employees, number of, 307

end of program, 73, 313, 344, 345, 346, 

364

EOS and, 520

exhaust emissions, 509

experiments aboard, 606

external tanks, 105, 296, 297, 310–11, 

316, 504

first flight of, 147, 269, 296, 621

flaws of, 100, 105–6, 287, 288

fleet of, 68

Flight Readiness Reviews, 299–300, 312

fly-by-wire system, 195

fuel for, 93

glass cockpits, 195

global emulation of, 269–70

guests and foreign astronauts on, 

363–64, 364n43

human factors standards, 356

importance of contributions from, 106

insight versus oversight, 308

Katrina and, 503–4

launch services contract, 23, 308

life science activities during missions, 

358–64, 372–73

management of, 3, 55–56, 68, 296, 

307–8, 312, 318, 521

name of, 358n26

number of launches of, 275

operational status of, 57

optimism about, 268

organizational culture after, 24

O-rings, 103, 104–5, 299–300, 299n29, 

307, 316

PAM use on, 85

payload capacity, 358

performance of, 269, 283

politics and missions of, 363–64

privatization of, 308, 362–63

promotion of, 55

reentry and landing of, 330

Remote Manipulator System (RMS) and, 

136

return to flight following Challenger

accident, 68

return to flight of, 2–3, 75

reusability of, 100, 597

risks and danger associated with, 106, 

268

schedule for, 358n26

Shuttle-Mir program, 364, 364n43

Shuttle-only policy, 56, 68

soft power and, 283

solid rocket boosters (SRBs), 101–5, 296, 

297, 298–300, 316

space policy and, 340

Space Shuttle main engine (SSME), 

100–1, 296, 297, 597

Spacelab and, 136

start of, xv, 325

success of, 323

749
NASA’s First 50 Years

support for, 340

support for program for, 54, 301

tang-and-clevis joints, 103, 104–5

termination of program, 3

termination threat, 56

thermal protection system, 105, 268, 

269, 296, 310–11

transitioning away from, xv

Space states, 652

Space station. See also International Space 

Station (ISS)

approval of, 57, 277, 343, 369

as base for firing nuclear weapons, 116, 

328–29, 330

budget for, 170

development of, 68, 368

EOS and, 519–20

international collaborative activities and, 

57, 369n66

justification of, 276–77

life science activities, 368–71

modifications to, 68

promotion of, 56–57

purpose of, 340

Salyut space stations, 355

support for program for, 54, 70, 340

time schedule for, 170

von Braun’s obsession with, 328, 368

Space Station Freedom

agreement for, 124

budget, design, and planning, 344–45, 

369, 369n66

international collaborative activities and, 

140–42, 369, 369n66

status of, 362, 369

technology transfer, concerns about, 143

Space Stations (Launius), 326

Space Task Group

post-Apollo program

interest in, 170

proposal for, 338, 340

technical capabilities of, 16–17

von Braun paradigm and, 325, 327, 

338–41, 340n26, 344

Space Telescope Science Institute, 421

Space Transportation System, 358n26

Space Vehicle Design (Griffin), 74

Space weather, 557

Spacecraft

for deep space projects, 466

design of, 597–98, 598n34

development of, 23

international collaborative activities, 121

motive power for, 596–97, 611

reimbursable launchings, 121

reusability of, 597

winged design for, 329–30, 331, 340

Spacelab

agreement for, 122–23

ATMOS experiment, 569–70

building of, 136, 137

funding for, 421

Spacelab 3 mission, 569–70

Spaceports, 599, 612

SpaceShipOne, 600

Spain, 387–88, 601, 602, 659

Special Assistant for Science and Technology, 

31, 36

Special Committee on Space Technology, 396

Spectroscopy, 564–72

Speed of sound, 223n1

Sperry, Claudia, 158

Spin-scan camera, 550, 553

Spitfire, 229

Spitz, Armand, 408

Spitzer, Lyman, 391, 399

Spitzer Space Telescope, 635, 636, 640, 645, 

646

Springer, Anthony M., 183–204, 674

Sputnik

Age of Discovery and, 588

discoveries made during, 551

launch of and creation of NASA, xiii

launch of, reaction to, 31–32, 34–36, 50, 

173–74, 184, 333–34, 394–95

size and weight of, 31

Squyres, Steve, 279, 386, 388

SR-71 aircraft, 196

SR-71 Blackbird, 224, 258

Stack, John, 208, 226, 227–28, 247, 254

750
Index

Staelin, David, 571

Staged combustion, 100–1

Stanford University, 481–82

Star 48 motor, 85

Star 100 computer, 217

Star Wars, 27, 140, 142

Star Wars, 653–54

Stardust mission, 306, 497, 498, 499–500

Stars

birth of, 635, 640, 645

catalogs of, 491–93, 497, 502, 599

cosmic evolution and, 641

death of, 637, 645

electromagnetic spectrum, 640

experiments, 405–7

explosion of, 636, 645

Space Age and, 635–37, 645

spectrophotometry, expertise of SAO 

employees at, 409–10

television technology to image star fields, 

406–7, 409

ultraviolet studies of, 404, 406, 408

Stebbins, Joel, 394, 402, 405n42, 425

Stennis Space Center (SSC), xiv, 303

Stereophotoclinometry, 498

Sterne, Theodore, 408

Stevenson, David, 464

Stockman, David, 518

Stone, Ed, 303–4, 310

“Strategic Communications Framework 

Implementation Plan,” 162–63

“Strategic Communications Implementation 

Handbook,” 163

Strategic Communications Planning, Office of, 

161

Strategic Defense Initiative, 27, 140, 142

Stratosphere, 546, 567–72

Strauss, Lewis, 38, 43, 45–46

Structures

aerodynamic heating, 257–59

research on, 210

STS-1 mission, 269, 621

STS-2 mission, 299

STS-19 mission, 622

STS-41D mission, 361

STS-51D mission, 361

STS-61B mission, 361

STS-64 mission, 23

STS-90 mission, 362

STS-95 mission, 362

STS-96 mission, 616

Stuhlinger, Ernst, 332, 334

Subsonic flight, 223n1

Suisei, 139

Sulfate and sulfuric acid, 575, 576, 578

Sun

as center of universe, 429

experiments, 405–6

Helios project, 133–34, 135

hydrogen in, spectral signature of, 564

occultation experiments, 569

path of, 640

size of, 430

SOHO spacecraft, 609, 634

solar radiation bursts, monitoring of, 360

space weather, 557

system of planets, 429n3

ultraviolet studies of, 398, 399

Suntan project, 89–90

Suomi, Verner, 550, 553

Superconducting Supercollider project, 369

Supercritical wing, 188–89

Supersonic Combustion Ram-Jet (SCRJ), 

265–66

Supersonic Commercial Air Transport program, 

254

Supersonic flight

advances in, 223–24

aircraft design for, 197–99, 244–49, 250, 

255–57

breakthrough to, 224

commercial transportation, 273–74

flight loads, 249

global authority, NACA and NASA as, 

252–55

Mach thresholds for, 223n1

refinement of aircraft performance, 

251–52

requirement for supersonic speed, 233

research on, 263

751
NASA’s First 50 Years

scramjet engines, 198–99

sonic boom research, 196–97

stability during, 243–44, 249–52

Supersonic transport (SST), 188, 254

Surface Management System (SMS) tool, 

193–94

Surface Water Ocean Topography (SWOT), 

536–37n67

Surveyor Landers, 434, 436, 437, 606, 623

SV-5 lifting bodies, 266

Swept-wing concept, 186, 187–88, 234–41, 

244–45, 250, 254

Swift spacecraft, 646

Swiss National Science Foundation, 112

Synnott, Stephen P., 492, 493

System health management, 320–21

Systems engineering

concept and goals of, 292, 297–98, 582

failure reduction through, 318

at JPL, 310, 323

at MSFC, 297–98

reliability of programs and, 294, 323

resistance to, 297–98, 298n27

system health management and, 320

Systems management

alternatives to, 302–8

elements of, 291–92

failure reduction through, 318, 318n66

strengthening of, 293–95

weakening of, 295–302

Syvertsen, Clarence, 263, 266

T

T-2C Buckeye trainer, 188, 256

T-38 supersonic trainer, 247

Table Mountain Observatory, 499

Tambora, Indonesia, 574, 577

Tatarewicz, Joseph N., 413, 415, 427–51, 675

Team approach to project development, 305, 

317–18, 323

Technical Information and Education Programs, 

Office of, 157

Technical Warrant Holders, 312

Technocracy

AEC as, 33–34, 48

definition of, 32–33, 33n7

NASA as, 33–34, 47–48

Sputnik as roots of in America, 31–32

Technological Capabilities Panel (TCP), 37, 

37n18

Technology

atomic energy and, 46–47

capabilities of NASA, 16–19, 24, 26–29

civilian government agency control of, 33

communication of technical problems, 

312–13

development of, 183

economic pressures and technical compromises, 55, 105–6, 296, 307–8, 323

international collaborative activities, 

130–31, 135–38

leadership in, 659n94

superiority in and national pride, 109–10, 

110n5

transfer of during international collaborations, 135–36, 137–38, 142–45

Teide Volcano, Tenerife, 544

Teisserenc de Bort, Léon, 546

Teledyne, 83

Telescopes. See also Hubble Space Telescope

Arizona Multiple Mirror Telescope, 425

Celescope, Project, 403, 404–8, 409, 425

development of spaceflight architecture 

to support missions to, 3

experiments, 405n42

Large Space Telescope, 417, 420, 423

national observatory system, 422

observations from, 429–32

ultraviolet studies of stars, 404

Wisconsin Experiment Package (WEP), 

401–2, 407–8

Television Infrared Observation Satellite (TIROS)

hurricanes, information about, 556

technology for, 547

TIROS-1 satellite, 513, 552, 605, 618

TIROS-9 satellite, 552

Tempel 1 comet, 495, 497, 500, 631

Tenerife, 544

Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA), 47

752
Index

Terminal Configured Vehicle program, 219

Terra satellite, 504, 508, 530, 530n58, 531, 

556, 619

Texas, 652

Textile composites, 202

Thebe, 493

Theodorsen, Theodore, 227

Thermodynamic effects, 257–59, 261–62, 273

Thibodaux, Joseph G. “Guy,” Jr., 86

Thiokol

Antares IIIA rocket motor, 85, 88–89

Challenger Shuttle launch decision, 

298–300

Minuteman missile program, 102

motor for Scout launch vehicle, 87

propellant development, 88

solid rocket booster development, 102

Star 48 motor, 85

X-15 aircraft, 224

This New Ocean (Burrows), 593

This New Ocean (Project Mercury), 593

This Week newspaper supplement, 334

Thomson, Jerry, 96–97

Thor missiles

ASSET project, 267

development of, 82

engines for, 85

Saturn launch vehicle development and, 

94

Vanguard project, 80

Thor-Able launch vehicle, 80, 81, 82

Thor-Delta launch vehicle. See Delta launch 

vehicle

Thor-Jupiter engines, 94

Thornton, William, 356

3D-Winds, 536–37n67

Thrust in pounds, 383

Tilford, Shelby G.

ATMOS experiment, 569

Earth science program, 518, 569

Earth system science, 583

EOS priority, 522–23

Habitat, Project, 516

MTPE concept, 517

ozone research, 509, 510–11

replacement of, 528

USCGCRP development, 518, 523

Tilt rotor aircraft, 199

Time magazine, 524

Titan, 455, 456, 457, 460–61, 462, 481, 609

Titan missiles and launch vehicles

radio guidance system, 81

tang-and-clevis joints, 104, 105

Titan II launch vehicle, 12

Titan III booster, 264, 444

Titan IIIC, 102, 104

Titan solid rocket motors (SRMs), 101–2

Tombaugh, Clyde, 448

Toon, Geoffrey, 570

Toon, O. Brian, 574

TOPEX/Poseidon satellite, 554

Topside sounder experiment, 130n63

Total Ozone Mapping Spectrometer (TOMS), 

555, 556, 577

Total Ozone Mapping Spectrometer–Earth 

Probe, 316

Total Quality Management (TQM), 302–4, 

303n37, 323

Tousey, Richard, 392, 403

Tracking and data acquisition

international collaborative activities, 

121–22

need for, 126

programs for, 126n51

SAO program, 122, 126n51, 402–3, 

404–6, 409

Traffic Management Advisor (TMA) software, 

192–93

Transition Policy Book, NASA, 532

Transonic Aircraft Technology (TACT) program, 

257

Transonic flight

aircraft design for, 225–26, 227–29, 

231–51

airfoil shape and, 225

compressibility and, 225, 226–27, 

228–29

dive testing, 229–31

drag and drag rise and, 186, 188–89, 

224–25, 242, 246–47, 249, 254, 255

753
NASA’s First 50 Years

flight testing for, 229, 241–44

Mach thresholds for, 223n1

safe aircraft operation and, 225

wind tunnel research on, 226–27, 231

Transportation, Department of (DOT), 219, 221

Travers, Edwin S., 492

Triana satellite, 532

Trimble, Virginia, 415

Triton, 481

Tropical Rainfall Measuring Mission (TRMM) 

instrument, 504, 556

Tropopause, 546

Troposphere, 546

Truly, Richard H.

goals of, 68

leadership of NASA under, 64, 68–69, 70, 

77, 125, 305, 526

Policy Coordination and International 

Relations, Office of, 124–25

Truth Sites and Truth Trajectories, 552–53, 554

Tsiao, Sunny, 126

Tsiolkovskiy, Konstantin, 259

Tuck, Adrian, 569

Turner, Frederick Jackson, 590–91

Turner, Harold, 207

TV, NASA, 171

Two stage to orbit (TSTO) vehicles, 266

Tycho catalog, 491–92

Tycho star catalog, 497

U

U-2 spy plane, 117, 567–68

Ubell, Earl, 157n17

Ulam, Stanislaus, 46–47

Ulysses mission, 481, 609

Unitary Wind Tunnel system, 210

United Nations

Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer 

Space (COPUOS), 117–18, 119

Conference on the Peaceful Uses of Outer 

Space, 516

United Nations Educational, Scientific and 

Cultural Organization (UNESCO), 475

United Space Alliance, 23, 308

United States

American qualities, NASA as expression 

of, 9

control of space by, 114

exceptionalism, American, 15, 147, 

147n103

exploration tradition of, 656–57

foreign policy and nuclear technology, 

38–41, 652

leadership role of, 4–5, 659–60, 659n94

manifest destiny philosophy, 475–76, 

653–54

peaceful use of space, interpretation of, 118

science fiction, interest in, 40–41

urge to explore, 476–77

United States Climate Change Research 

Institute (USCCRI), 533

United States Global Change Research Program 

(USGCRP), 518, 522–24, 533, 584. See also

Earth Observing System (EOS)

United States space program

advertising and marketing of, 160–64, 

171, 171n64, 179

national prestige and, 34, 112–13, 

147–49, 147n103, 280–83, 468–69, 

470, 595

as national program, 153, 155–56

openness of, 153, 155

race between China and, 146–47, 658

race between Soviet Union and, 50, 51, 

52, 154, 155, 335, 427, 652

rationale for, 166–68

U.S./China space projects, 121

U.S./USSR space projects, 121, 122, 123, 

130–31, 133, 135, 368

United Technology Center, 102

United Technology Corporation of United 

Aircraft, 83

Universe, evolution and content of, 641–42, 

645, 647

University of Alabama, Birmingham, 361, 367

University of Arizona, 428n2, 572

University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), 411

University of California, San Diego, 367

University of Colorado, 392, 398

754
Index

University of Maryland, 485

University of Michigan, 411

University of Milan, 354

University of Texas, 411

University of Texas Medical Branch, 365

University of Wisconsin, 401–2, 407–8, 409

Upper Atmosphere Research Office, 509

Upper Atmosphere Research Program, 568

Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite (UARS), 

509–10, 555, 571, 577

Upper Atmosphere Rocket Research Panel, 395

Uranus

characteristics of, 436

exploration of

optical navigation, 491, 493

satellite discovery, 493

Voyager space probes, 456, 609, 

630, 633

occultation experiments, 481

telescopic observations, 429

Urban Dynamics (Forrester), 319

Urey, Harold, 434, 439

V

V-2 Panel, 403

V-2 rockets

astronomy research with, 391

development of, 98

feasibility of missions with, 597

observation of Earth from, 549

Saturn launch vehicle development and, 95

shock wave research, 235

swept-wing design, 235, 236

V-22 Osprey, 199

Valier, Max, 259, 329

Van Allen, James

anti-von Braun faction, 326, 327, 336, 

337, 337n23

human spaceflight, value of, 278–79

upper atmosphere research studies, 403, 

404

Upper Atmosphere Rocket Research 

Panel, 395

Van Allen radiation belts, 337, 360, 552

Vandenberg Air Force Base, 87, 358, 599

Vanguard, Project

contributions of, 80–81

Earth observation from, 552

leadership of, 80, 336

management of by NASA, 79, 80, 289

priority of, 37, 80

research projects for, 397

stages of, 80, 87

success and failure of, 79–81, 185, 293

Vanguard 1 mission, 552

Variable Density Tunnel (VDT), 206–7, 227

Variable sweep concept, 186, 244–45

Vaughan, Diane, 318

Vector processing computers, 217

Vega I, 139

Vega II, 139

Venera program, 445–46

Venus

absences of interest in, 333

characteristics of, 431–32, 445, 446

climate change observations, 574, 575

conditions on, 333, 341, 432, 565, 575, 

580

DRVID, 483

evolutionary path, 436, 450

expectations about, 428, 450, 563–64

exploration of, 445–46

ESA Express mission, 446

feasibility of missions to, 327, 

333n16, 346

Magellan orbiter, 446, 493–94, 608, 

629

Mariner program, 333, 432, 445, 

575, 608

missions for, 436

Pioneer program, 446, 483, 608, 

629

race between U.S. and Soviet Union, 

427

Soviet plans for, 432, 445–46

observation of, Apollo knowledge and 

techniques for, 435

occultation experiments, 481

reconnaissance missions to, 427

755
NASA’s First 50 Years

system of planets, 429n3

writings about, 432

Vertical short takeoff and landing (VSTOL) 

aircraft, 253

Vertical takeoff and landing (VTOL) aircraft, 199

Very Large Array, 417

Very Long Baseline Interferometry (VLBI), 

483–88

Vesta asteroid, 448, 498

Vietnam War, 53, 134

Viking program

development of, 80

equipment and instruments for, 357, 444, 

566–67

gimballing system for, 80, 81

justification of, 439

launch vehicles and technology, 80, 444

leadership of, 336

Mars images from, 442, 444, 626

occultation experiments, 481, 482

optical navigation, 490, 491

priority of, 55

programs that followed, 70, 80, 301, 

378, 496

pseudo-DRVID, 483

signs of life on Mars, 355–56, 372

sites of landers, 444

success of, 378, 382, 383, 608

support for, 54

Viking Orbiter 2, 482

Virtual institutes, 367, 371, 371n77

Vision for Space Exploration

budget and funding for, 509

goals of, 2, 313–14, 344, 345, 445, 509, 

524–25, 536, 591

implementation of, 74–75

life science activities and ISS, 369–71

promotion of, 163–64, 591, 593

public opinion of, 177

reorganization of NASA for, 535–36

space policy development, 1

support for, 607

von Braun paradigm and, 327

Volcanoes

climate change and, 574–79

on Earth, 574–79

on Io, 458–60, 493

on Mars, 439, 441, 442, 613

on Moon, 431, 459

von Braun paradigm

anti-von Braun faction, 326, 327, 

336–37, 337n23

creation of, 327–35, 346

Disney television series and, 332–33

elements of, 325, 326, 327, 335, 346

existence of, 335

influence of on NASA planning, 327, 

338–47

SEI and, 342–43

Space Task Group and, 325, 327, 

338–41, 340n26, 344

status of, 345–47

von Braun, Wernher

Apollo 11 launch, 18

asset transfer to NASA, 185

astrofuturism and, 652

Centaur project, 93

criticism of, 332, 336

departure from NASA, 297

Disney television series, 332–33

engineering conservatism of, 332, 

335–36

enthusiasm of, 327

exploration analogies, 592

imagination and romanticism of, 332, 

335

influence of, 327, 335

management style of, 98–100, 290, 

297–98

Mars voyage plans, 327–32, 378–79

missile development by, xiii–xiv, 79

missiles for satellite launches, 332

Moon

mission plans to, 334–35

obsession with, 327, 328, 335, 336

Saturn launch vehicle and, 334–35

at MSFC, 335

Nazi past of, 290, 328, 336, 343–44

rocket team under, 16, 17–18, 51, 185, 

290, 297, 344n31

756
Index

Rosen debate with, 336

satellites, first launch of, 334

Saturn launch vehicle development, 94, 

95, 98–99

space station

as base for firing nuclear weapons, 

116, 328–29, 330

Mars exploration and, 329

obsession with, 328, 368

shape of, 328, 331

spacecraft

design of, 329–30, 331

reentry and landing of, 330

spaceflight

crash project proposal following 

Sputnik launch, 333–34

discussion of, 335

importance of humans to, 331

obsession with human exploration, 

335

success of Apollo program and, 100

vision of space of, 326

writings by, 326, 327–32, 333, 333n16, 

334, 378–79

von Kármán, Theodore, 186, 227, 230, 231, 

233, 234, 255

Vought F4U Corsair, 251, 253n37

Vought F-8 Crusader

F-8C Crusader, 188–89, 195

TF-8A Crusader, 256–57

Voyage to Mars (Bergreen), 375, 592–93

Voyager (Mars mission), 357

Voyager Interstellar Mission, 609

Voyager space probes

efficiency of, 304

instruments for, 567

occultation experiments, 481

optical navigation, 490–91, 492, 493

outer planet exploration with, 453, 454, 

455–56, 608–9

support for, 55

VLBI and delta-VLBI, 485, 486

Voyager 1 mission, 455, 493, 630, 633

Voyager 2 mission, 455–56, 609, 630, 

633

W

Wake Forest University, 367

Walker, Charles D., 361

Walker, Joe, 617

Wallis, Barnes, 245

Wallops Island, Virginia

Pilotless Aircraft Research Division, 86, 

211, 247

Scout launches from, 87

Walt Disney Company television series, 332–33, 

335, 346

War and Remembrance (Wouk), 660

Warner, Deborah, 403

Washburn Observatory, 401

Waters, Joe, 571

Watson, Robert T., 568, 584

Weaponization of space, 652. See also Nuclear 

programs and weapons

Weapons Division Sea Range, Naval Air Warfare 

Center, 272–73

Weart, Spencer, 512, 523

Weather information

climate modeling, 511–12, 572–74, 

577–78

features from satellites, 548, 549

hurricanes, information about, 503–4, 

505–6, 506n7, 546–48, 556

self-recording and transmitting instruments to report, 546–48

weather hazards research, 190–92

Weather satellites, 360, 505, 506, 537, 549, 

552, 556, 557, 605, 618

Webb, James E.

budget for NASA, 13

contractors, use of, 23

dynamic equilibrium, creation of, 49

goals of, 52–53

human spaceflight and national prestige, 

280

Janus analogy, 128

leadership of NASA under, 49, 51–53, 55, 

59, 70, 77, 78, 293

priority of NASA projects, 513–14

757
NASA’s First 50 Years

public information office, reorganization 

of, 157

speaking engagements, 157n20

support for NASA, political, 19

Weber, Richard J., 265

Weinberger, Caspar, 281

Wexler, Harry, 546, 548, 549, 552

Whipple, Fred, 399, 402–7, 408–11, 419, 424

Whirlwind project, 319

Whitcomb, Richard T.

area rule theory, 187, 246, 247–49, 254, 

257

influence of, 257

supercritical wing, 188–89, 255–57

supersonic wing shaping, 254

trailing-edge shock body, 255

winglets, 190, 255, 257

White House

astronomy experiments, 406

international collaborative activities, 

benefits of, 126

NASA, relationship with, 160

NASA and

credibility of, 2

support for, 19–21, 22

research on problems confronting the 

nation, 218

Space Shuttle, return to flight of, 2–3

Whitford, Albert, 402, 417–18

Whitney, Charles, 410

Wide Field Planetary Camera 2, 638

Wide-Field Infrared Explorer, 306, 308

Wiesner, Jerome, 169

Wiggins, Russell, 156–57

Wild 2 comet, 497, 499–500

Wilford, John Noble, 167, 375

Wilkinson Microwave Anisotropy Probe (WMAP), 

639, 641, 642, 645

Wilson, Alexander, 544

Wilson, Mount, 565

Wind shear detection, 218

Wind tunnels

battle between NACA and Air Force over, 

210

Computational Fluid Dynamics and, 

217–18

funding for, 209, 210

High-Speed Tunnel, 8-Foot, 208, 272

importance of research in, 205, 206, 

208–9

institutional importance of, 209–10, 

210n6

purpose of, 206

slotted-throat wind tunnel, 186, 187, 

208, 247

transonic flight research, 226–27, 231

Unitary Wind Tunnel system, 210

Variable Density Tunnel (VDT), 206–7, 

227

Wind shear research, 192

Wings

delta wing design, 235, 238, 241, 

245–47, 250, 254, 262–64

design of and high-speed flight, 224, 255

supercritical wing, 188–89, 255–57

swept-wing concept, 186, 187–88, 

234–41, 244–45, 250, 254

winglets, 189–90, 255, 257

Winker, David, 576

Winzen Laboratories, 408

Wirth, Tim, 523

Wisconsin Experiment Package (WEP), 401–2, 

407–8

Wolfe, Tom, 177, 600

Wood, Floyd B., 546

Woods, Robert J., 240

World Fire Atlas, 555

Wouk, Hermann, 660

Wright, Ray, 247, 254

Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, 189, 351

X

X series research aircraft, 186, 231

X-1 aircraft, 94, 223–24, 232, 233, 241–42, 

243

X-1A aircraft, 223, 241, 243, 249

X-1B aircraft, 243

X-1D aircraft, 243, 249

758
Index

X-1E aircraft, 223–24, 232

X-2 aircraft, 240, 241, 243–44, 249

X-3 aircraft, 240, 241, 243

X-4 aircraft, 234, 240, 241, 244

X-5 aircraft, 186, 188, 240, 241, 244–45, 249

X-7 aircraft, 265

X-15 aircraft

aerodynamic heating challenge, 258–59

altitude record for, 617

characteristics of, 197

contributions of, 262, 605, 617

development of, 224, 261

flight testing, 197–98, 261–62

launch of, 272

NACA transformation to NASA and, 185

number of flights by, 617

rocket engines for, 198

X-17 aircraft, 260

X-20 Dyna-Soar, 261, 263–65

X-20A Dyna-Soar, 224

X-24A lifting body, 200, 215, 266, 267, 268, 

272

X-24B lifting body, 200, 266, 267, 272

X-29 aircraft, 252

X-30 aircraft. See National Aero-Space Plane 

(NASP)

X-31 aircraft, 252

X-33 program, 71, 72, 271

X-34 aircraft, 271

X-34A aircraft, 198–99

X-38 aircraft, 271

X-43 (Hyper-X) aircraft, 271–73, 274

X-51 aircraft, 273

XB-47 bomber, 238, 239

XB-70 bomber, 254

XB-70A bomber, 253

XF2A-2 Buffalo, 229

XF10F-1 Jaguar, 245, 253n37

XF-92A aircraft, 240, 241, 245–47, 253n37

XLR-99 rocket engines, 198

XP-86 Sabre, 239

X-ray Multi-Mirror Mission (XMM)-Newton, 646

XS-1 research aircraft, 186, 196, 223, 232, 233, 

238, 240, 241–42, 243

XS-2 aircraft, 240

XS-3 aircraft, 240, 241

XS-4 aircraft, 240

XV-15 aircraft, 199

Y

Yale University, 398

Yale Zone Catalog, 491

Yeager, Charles “Chuck,” 241–42

YF-12 aircraft, 196, 253n37

YF-12A Blackbird, 224, 253n37, 258

YF-100 Super Sabre, 242–43, 253n37

YF-102 Delta Dagger, 246–47, 248, 249, 

253n37

York, Herb, 396

Young, John, 269, 476–77

Young & Rubicam, 173

YP-38 aircraft, 229

Z

Zacharias, Norbert, 492

Zogby International, 174–75

Zond program, 437–38

Zubrin, Robert, 345, 379–80

759
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