SPACEFLIGHT 

REVOLUTION 
L-66-6399 

The ''picture of the century" was this first view of the earth from space. 

Lunar Orbiter I took the photo on 23 August 1966 on its 16th orbit just 

before it passed behind the moon. The photo also provided a spectacular 

dimensional view of the lunar surface. 
NASA SP~4308 

SPACEFLIGHT 

REVOLUTION 

NASA Langley Research Center 

From Sputnik to Apollo 

James R. Hansen 

The NASA History Series 

1995 • National AeronauticS and Space Administration 

Washington. DC 
NASA maintains an internal history program for two principal reasons: 

(1) Sponsorship of research in NASA-related history is one way in which 

NASA responds to the provision of the National Aeronautics and Space 

Act of 1958 that requires NASA to "provide for the widest practicable and 

appropriate dissemination of information concerning its activities and the 

results thereof." (2) Thoughtful study of NASA history can help agency 

managers accomplish the missions assigned to the agency. Understanding 

NASA's past aids in understanding its present situation and illuminates 

possible future directions. The opinions and conclusions set forth in this 

book are those of the author; no official of the agency necessarily endorses 

those opinions or conclusions. 

On the cover: Langley's innovative Little Joe rocket streaks into space from its launchpad 

at Wallops Island, Virginia, on 4 October 1959, two years to the day after the historic first 

orbit of the Soviet Sputnik 1. 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data 

Hansen, James R. 

Spaceflight revolution : NASA Langley Research Center from 

Sputnik to Apollo/ James R. Hansen. 

p. em.- (NASA history series) (NASA SP ; 4308) 

Includes bibliographical references and index. 

1. Langley Research Center-History. 2. Astronautics-United 

States-History. I. Title. II. Series. III. Series: NASA SP ; 4308. 

TL521.312.H36 1995 

629.4'0973-dc20 94-24592 

CIP 

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

Documents, Mail Stop:. SSOP, Washington, DC 20402-9328 
Contents 

Illustrations 

Foreword 

Acknowledgments 

Prologue .... 

1. The Metamorphosis . 

The Venerable Order of the NACA 

Glennan: Welcome to NASA 

Air versus Space 

The Public Eye . . . . . 

2. The First NASA Inspection . 

Following the NACA Way 

Project Mercury 

Big Joe, Little Joe 

3. Carrying Out the Task 

A Home at Langley 

The Tracking Range . 

Shouldering the Burden 

The End of the Glamour Days 

4. Change and Continuity . . . 

The Organization . . . . 

Thompson's Obscurantism 

The Sinking of Hydrodynamics-and Aeronautics? 

Growth Within Personnel Ceilings 

The Shift Toward the Periphery 

Contracting Out . . . . . . . 

The Brave New World of Projects 

Uncharted Territory ... 

5. The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

The ABCs of MPD . . . 

The Solar Wind Hits Home 

The MPD Branch . . . . . 

. ix 

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126 

v 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Out of the Thnnel . . . . . . 132 

Into the Cyanogen Fire 138 

The Barium Cloud Experiment 142 

The Search for Boundless Energy 147 

A Hot Field Cools Off . . 150 

6. The Odyssey of Project Echo 153 

The International Geophysical Year and the V-2 Panel . 156 

O'Sullivan's Design . . 159 

Extraterrestrial Relays . 162 

Finessing the Proposal . 164 

The "Sub-Satellite" . . 166 

Something the Whole World Could See 170 

Big Ideas Before Congress 175 

Assigning Responsibilities 177 

Shotput . . . . . . 179 

A Burst Balloon 185 

"Anything's Possible!" 187 

Reflections . . . . . 189 

The Hegemony of Active Voice 193 

7. Learning Through Failure: The Early Rush of the Scout 

Rocket Program . . . 

"Itchy" for Orbit 

Little Big Man 

Little Foul-Ups 

"3-2-1 Splash" 

Recertification 

An Unsung Hero 

Postscript 

8. Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous 

vi 

Concept .................. . 

Brown's Lunar Exploration Working Group 

Michael's Paper on a "Parking Orbit" 

The Rendezvous Committees . . . . 

Houbolt Launches His First Crusade 

The Feelings Against LOR . . . 

The Early Skepticism of the STG . 

Mounting Frustration . . . . . . 

President Kennedy's Commitment 

Houbolt's First Letter to Seamans 

A Voice in the Wilderness 

The LOR D~cision 

Postscript . . . . . . . 

197 

197 

200 

205 

209 

214 

216 

219 

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226 

230 

233 

237 

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260 

267 
Contents 

9. Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 269 

271 

274 

277 

286 

293 

301 

305 

307 

"As Inevitable as the Rising Sun" . 

The First Space Station Task Force 

From the Inflatable Torus to the Rotating Hexagon 

Betwixt and Between . . . . . . . 

Manned Orbital Research Laboratory 

Keeping the "R" Alive . . . . . . 

Understanding Why and Why Not 

Lost in Space? . . . . . . . . . 

10. To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 311 

The "Moonball" Experiment 315 

Initiating Lunar Orbiter . . . 319 

Project Management . . . . 321 

The Source Evaluation Board . 326 

Nelson's Team . . . . . . . 332 

The Boeing Team . . . . . . 334 

The "Concentrated" versus the "Distributed" Mission 336 

"The Picture of the Century" . . . 344 

Mission More Than Accomplished 346 

Secrets of Success . . 350 

11. In the Service of Apollo 355 

Langley's "Undercover Operation" in Houston 357 

The Dynamics of Having an Impact 361 

Inside the Numbers . . 366 

The Simulators . . . . . . . . . 369 

Rogalla's Flexible Wing . . . . . 380 

The Apollo Fire Investigation Board . 387 

12. The Cortright Synthesis 393 

The Stranger . . . 394 

The Reorganization . 401 

New Directions . . . 413 

Critique from the Old Guard 418 

Epilogue ... 

Abbreviations 

Notes 

Index 

The Author 

The NASA History Series 

427 

441 

447 

519 

537 

539 

vii 

Illustrations 

Earth as photographed by Lunar Orbiter I, 1966 

Dwight D. Eisenhower, 1958 ........ . 

Map of Tidewater Virginia, 1930s . . . . . . . 

Floyd L. Thompson ............ . 

Langley Aircraft Manufacturers' Conference, 1934 

NACA Main Committee, 1929 . . . . . . . . 

Henry J. E. Reid, Vannevar Bush, and George W. Lewis 

George W. Lewis and Hugh L. Dryden ... . 

T. Keith Glennan, 1958 . . . . . . ... . 

T. Keith Glennan and Henry J. E. Reid, 1959 

NACA test pilot Paul King, 1925 . . . . . . 

Variable-Density Wind Thnnel, 1922 . . . . . 

Bell P-59 Peashooter in Full-Scale Thnnel, 1944 . 

Swallow arrow-wing model in 16-Foot Transonic Thnnel, 1959 

X-15 model in 7 x 10-Foot High-Speed Thnnel, 1958 .... 

Aerial photo of Langley, 1950 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Mercury exhibit at NASA's First Anniversary Inspection, 1959 

Ira H. Abbott and Henry Reid, 1959 . . . . . 

T. Keith Glennan and Floyd L. Thompson, 1959 

Walter Bonney and T. Keith Glennan, 1959 

Full-size mock-up of the X-15, 1959 . . . . . . 

John Stack and Axel Mattson . . . . . . . . 

Goddard's exhibit at NASA's First Anniversary Inspection, 

1959 ............. . 

Robert R. Gilruth . . . . . . . . . 

Diagram of Mercury mission concept 

The Mercury astronauts . . . . . . 

Molded couches for Mercury capsule . 

Diagram of Mercury capsule . . . . 

John Glenn inside Mercury capsule . 

John Glenn and Annie Castor Glenn, 1959 

Little Joe capsules constructed in Langley shops 

Little Joe on the launchpad at Wallops Island 

Little Joe blasting off from Wallops Island, 1959 

Little Joe capsule recovered at sea . . . . . . 

Model of Mercury capsule in Full-Scale Thnnel, 1959 

Model of Mercury capsule in 7 x 10-Foot High-Speed Thnnel, 

1959. . . . . . . . . . . ............ . 

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ix 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Model of Redstone booster in the Unitary Plan Wind Thnnel, 

1959 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 

Impact studies of Mercury capsule in the Back River, 1960 62 

George Barry Graves, Jr . . . . . . . 67 

Layout of Project Mercury tracking site 68 

John A. "Shorty" Powers, 1962 . . . . 78 

Walter M. Schirra, 1962 . . . . . . . 78 

Robert R. Gilruth and the mayor of Newport News, 1962 79 

John Glenn and his wife, Annie, 1962 . . . . . . . . . 79 

Floyd L. Thompson, 1963 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 

Floyd L. Thompson, James E. Webb, and John F. Victory 84 

Langley organization chart, 1962 . . . . . . . . . 87 

Clinton E. Brown, Eugene C. Draley, and Laurence K. 

Loftin, Jr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 

Langley's top staff members greet Raymond Bisplinghoff . 90 

Aerial view of the Full-Scale Thnnel and Tank No. 1, 1959 95 

X-20 Dyna-Soar model in Tank No. 2, 1961 . . . . . . 96 

Aeronautics and Space Work as Percentages of Langley's Total Effort, 

1957-1965, table . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 

John Stack, 1959 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 

Scale model of the General Dynamics F-111A . . . 100 

Model of SCAT 15F in Unitary Plan Wind Thnnel 101 

Number of Paid Employees at NASA Langley, 1952-1966, 

graph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 

Paid Employees at NASA Langley as Percentage of NASA Total, 

1958-1968, graph . . . . . . 103 

Kitty O'Brien-Joyner, 1964 . . . . 105 

Langley's women scientists, 1959 105 

Langley's computer complex, 1959 111 

Scale model of WS-110A in 7 x 10-Foot High-Speed Thnnel 117 

Schematic drawings of the Van Allen radiation belts 124 

John V. Becker, 1961 . . . . . . . . . 128 

The Continuous-Flow Hypersonic Thnnel 128 

Macon C. Ellis, 1962 . . . . . . . . . 129 

Paul W. Huber and Marc Feix . . . . . 131 

Philip Brockman and the MPD-arc plasma accelerator, 1964 134 

GeorgeP. Wood, 1962. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 

The accelerator section of the 20-megawatt plasma accelerator 

facility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 

Charlie Diggs and an early version of a Hall-current plasma 

accelerator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 

Langley's Hall-current plasma accelerator, 1965 137 

Robert V. Hess, 1962 . . . . . . 139 

Langley's cyanogen burner . . . . 141 

Concept for a Mars landing vehicle 151 

X 
Illustrations 

Failed deployment of Echo test . . . . . 155 

William J. O'Sullivan and his family, 1961 157 

30-inch Sub-Satellite . . . . . 168 

Heat test of 30-inch Sub-Satellite 168 

Jesse Mitchell, 1958 . . . . . . 171 

Folded Beacon satellite . . . . 17 4 

William J. 0 'Sullivan and the Beacon satellite 17 4 

William J. O'Sullivan, 1958 . . . . . . . . 175 

Walter Bressette and prototype of the satelloon 175 

Echo I container . . . . . . . . . 181 

Inflation of Echo I in Weeksville, N.C. 182 

Edwin Kilgore and Norman Crabill . 183 

The Echo I team and inflated Echo I 183 

Will Taub and James Miller assembling Shotput launch vehicle 184 

Shotput ready for launch . 184 

Explorer 24 . . . . . . . . . . 192 

Pageos satelloon . . . . . . . . 193 

Scout on launchpad, Wallops Island 201 

James R. Hall, 1961 . . . . . . . 203 

LTV Scout team, 1967 . . . . . . 204 

Spectators at Wallops Island rocket launch 206 

The first Scout launch, 1 July 1960 . . 207 

Scout launch control building, Wallops . 208 

Scout control room, Wallops 208 

Eugene D. Schult, 1963 211 

Scout launch, 30 June 1961 . 212 

Scout launch, 1 March 1962 213 

Launchpad damaged by Scout, 20 July 1963 213 

Vought Astronautics technicians assemble Scout 214 

San Marco launch operation . . . . . . . . . 218 

San Marco's floating platform . . . . . . . . 218 

Committees Reviewing Lunar Landing Modes, table 225 

Clinton E. Brown, William H. Michael, Jr., and Arthur Vogeley, 

1989 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227 

John D. Bird, 1962 . . . . . . . . . . 229 

Sketch "To the Moon with C-l's or Bust" 229 

Houbolt's Early Crusades, table . . . . 234 

Houbolt 's Later Crusades, table . . . . . 240 

Early version of a lunar excursion module 243 

John C. Houbolt, 1962 . . . . . . . . . 244 

John C. Houbolt explaining lunar-orbit rendezvous scheme 247 

Viewgraph comparing the propulsion steps of the three lunar mission 

modes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254 

Comparative sizes of manned mission rockets 256 

Comparison of lander sizes . ·. . . . . . . 256 

Xl 
Spaceflight Revolution 

George M. Low . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259 

Wernher von Braun at Langley . . . . . . . . . . . · . 264 

Life magazine cover featuring the lunar excursion module 266 

Rejected Life cover of John C. Houbolt 266 

75-foot-diameter rotating hexagon . . . 273 

Paul R. Hill and Robert Osborne, 1962 275 

Rene Berglund, 1962 . . . . . . . . 278 

Early space station configurations . . . 278 

Inflation of the full-scale model of the inflatable torus 279 

Floyd L. Thompson, James Webb, and T. Melvin Butler with the 

24-foot inflatable torus . . . . . 279 

24-foot inflatable torus . . . . . . . . . . . . 280 

10-foot-diameter scale model of torus . . . . . . 282 

Zero gravity mock-up of the 24-foot-diameter torus 282 

Drawing of winning rotating hexagonal configuration 284 

Model of rotating hexagon assembled and collapsed .. 284 

Douglas MORL baseline configuration . . 296 

Cross section of interior of Douglas MORL 296 

MORL illustration from Douglas manual . 298 

Test of space station portal air lock . . . 299 

William N. Gardner explains model of the MORL 300 

MORL-Saturn IB model in 8-Foot Transonic Tunnel . 302 

Otto Trout, 1966 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303 

Integrative Life Support System arrives at Langley 304 

Integrative Life Support System in Building 1250 304 

William N. Gardner, 1966 . . . . . 308 

Lunar Orbiter above the lunar surface . . . 314 

Associate Director Charles J. Donlan 317 

Structural dynamics testing for lunar landing 318 

Lunar Orbiter III photo of Kepler crater . . 318 

Israel Taback and Clifford H. Nelson, 1964 . 323 

Eastman Kodak dual-imaging camera system 329 

Lee R. Scherer . . . . . . . . . . . . . 330 

Signing of the Lunar Orbiter contract, 1964 331 

Clifford H. Nelson and James S. Martin . . 333 

Floyd L. Thompson and George Mueller, 1966 337 

The Lunar Orbiter area of interest 337 

Typical flight sequence of Lunar Orbiter 340 

Lunar Orbiter with labeled components 343 

Final inspection of Lunar Orbiter I . . 343 

Lunar Orbiter I liftoff . . . . . . . . 344 

Lunar Orbiter team displays first photo of the earth from deep 

space . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345 

The dark side of the moon . . . . . 347 

The lunar surface, Copernicus crater 348 

xii 
Illustrations 

The lunar surface, Tycho crater . . . . . . . . . . . . 349 

The "Whole Earth" as photographed by Lunar Orbiter V 352 

Floyd L. Thompson and James E. Webb, 1961 358 

Axel Mattson, Robert R. Gilruth, Charles Donlan, 

and Donald Hewes . . . . . . 361 

Impact tests of the Apollo capsule . . . . . . . 364 

Project Fire wind-tunnel test . . . . . . . . . . 367 

Number of Langley Research Projects Directly Related to Apollo 

Program, 1962-1968, table . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 368 

The Langley Rendezvous and Docking Simulator . . . . . . 372 

Time-lapse sequence of a docking on the Rendezvous Simulator 372 

A pilot eyeballing a rendezvous on the simulator 372 

Donald Hewes and William Hewitt Phillips . . . . . . . 37 4 

Langley Lunar Landing Research Facility . . . . . . . 375 

Early LEM used with the Lunar Landing Research Facility 376 

LEM control cab, the Lunar Landing Research Facility 376 

LEM "in flight" using the Lunar Landing Research Facility·. 376 

Time-lapse sequence of an LEM landing using the simulator 377 

Modeled floor of the Lunar Landing Research Facility . . . 377 

Walter Cronkite using the Reduced Gravity Walking Simulator 378 

Lunar Orbit and Letdown Approach Simulator 380 

Francis and Gertrude Rogallo, 1963 . . 382 

Test flight of the Parasev . . . . . . . . . 382 

Parasev in Langley's Full-Scale Tunnel . . . . 386 

Floyd L. Thompson and Thomas 0. Paine, 1968 388 

Gus Grissom in the Rendezvous and Docking Simulator, 1963 390 

Roger Chaffee using the Reduced Gravity Walking Simulator, 

1965 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 390 

Neil Armstrong and the staff of the Lunar Landing Research Facility, 

1967. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 392 

Cortright appointment announced in the Langley Researcher 396 

Langley old guard welcomes Cortright, 1968 398 

Edgar M. Cortright, 1970 . . . . . . . . . . 399 

Cortright speaks in the Morale Activities building 399 

Organization of Langley, 1970, chart . . . . . . 405 

Viking Lander model in Langley wind tunnel, 1970 406 

View of Mars from Viking Orbiter 1, 1976 . . . . 407 

The Viking Lander 2 on the Martian surface, 1976 407 

John E. Duberg, George M. Low, and Edgar M. Cortright, 

1970. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 409 

Organization changes announced in the Langley Researcher, 1970 410 

Model of the Boeing 737 in the Anechoic Antenna Test Facility 416 

Richard H. Petersen in the National 'Ifansonic Facility, 1984 417 

The National 'Ifansonic Facility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 417 

xiii 

Foreword 

James R. Hansen has impeccable credentials as a thorough, perceptive 

investigator and writer of technological history. His accomplishments in the 

field are outstanding, as exemplified by his book Engineer in Charge, which 

was published in 1987. This book presents a careful analysis of the history 

of the Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory of the National Advisory 

Committee for Aeronautics (NACA) from its formation in 1917 to the demise 

of the NACA in October 1958 when this prestigious organization became 

the centerpiece of the new National Aeronautics and Space Administration 

(NASA). Whereas the NACA was concerned primarily with aeronautical 

research conducted by government employees in its own laboratories, NASA 

would have a much broader charter that included not only aeronautical and 

space research but also the development and operation of various types of 

space vehicles, including manned vehicles. Within this new organization, 

the Langley Aeronautical Laboratory became the Langley Research Center 

of NASA. 

As a part of NASA, Langley underwent many profound changes in 

program content, organization and management, and areas of personnel 

expertise. Although aeronautical research continued in the NASA era, 

research in support of such projects as Echo, Scout, Mercury, Apollo, and 

the Space Shuttle occupied a larger percentage of the Langley research effort 

as the years passed. In addition, Langley forged into new fields by assuming 

management responsibility for such large space projects as Lunar Orbiter 

and Viking. This responsibility involved major contract activities and 

support of in-house research. New research facilities, such as large vacuum 

tanks and high-speed and high-temperature air jets capable of simulating 

atmospheric entry from space, were developed and constructed. 

Although many new personnel were eventually hired, large numbers of 

the existing Langley complement easily made the transition to space-related 

research and thus showed that a proficient research professional could shift 

without too much difficulty into new fields of technical endeavor. For example, in orbital mechanics and space rendezvous, individuals who had 

previously worked in such diverse disciplines as theoretical aerodynamics, 

high-speed propellers, and aeroelasticity quickly became expert and assumed roles of national leadership. A well-known case is found in the activities of Dr. John C. Houbolt, an expert in aeroelasticity and dynamic 

loads, who became a leading proponent-according to Hansen, perhaps 

the key proponent-of Lunar Orbit Rendezvous as the preferred means of 

~CEDING PAGE BlANK NOT FU,J\f(EO 

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XV 
Spaceflight Revolution 

accomplishing the Apollo lunar landing mission. This technique, of course, 

turned out to be incredibly successful. 

A very unsettling aspect of the transition of Langley in the 1958-1975 

period was the replacement of the director, longtime Langley engineer Floyd 

L. Thompson, with Edgar M. Cortright. Cortright came from NASA 

headquarters and had had prior research experience at the N ACA Lewis 

Flight Propulsion Laboratory (later designated as the NASA Lewis Research 

Center). In the Cortright regime, along with many significant changes 

in center organization and management, there came a closer, and many 

thought an undesirable, control of Langley programs by a centralized NASA 

management. 

James Hansen's new book, Spaceflight Revolution, covers the turbulent 

seventeen-year period from 1958-1975 in great and interesting detail. With 

his usual thoroughness, Hansen has based this book on careful analysis 

of hundreds of written records, both published and unpublished, as well 

as on numerous personal interviews with many of the key individuals 

involved in the great transition at Langley. One .Langley activity that 

was intentionally omitted from this study is aeronautical research which, 

as the author mentions, will hopefully be covered in a separate book. 

Spaceflight Revolution is a very complete and well-researched exposition and 

interpretation of a period of great change at the Langley Research Center. 

The main events and trends are clearly and succinctly presented. Although 

many who worked for Langley during the period covered may not agree 

entirely with some of Hansen's interpretations -and conclusions, sufficient 

information is given in the text, references, and notes to permit the reader 

to evaluate the work. In any event, anyone who ever worked for Langley or 

NACA/NASA or who has any interest in the history of technology will find 

the book fascinating and thought provoking. In addition, anyone interested 

in the present and the future of NASA and the American space program will 

want to pay close attention to the insights found in his epilogue. Readers 

will see that Jim Hansen has again demonstrated his great abilities as a 

historian, and he deserves a well-earned "Thank you" for creating what will 

no doubt prove to be an enduring classic. 

November 1994 

xvi 

Laurence K. Loftin, Jr. 

Director for Aeronautics (Retired} 

NASA Langley Research Center 
Acknowledgments 

In writing this book, I am indebted not only to the many talented and 

caring people who have helped my project in one way or another in the past 

seven years but also to a seminal event of my adolescence that has fed my 

adult interest and colored my historical perspective on what I now see to 

have been "the spaceflight revolution" of the late 1950s and 1960s. 

People all over the world have their personal stories to tell about what 

they were doing and thinking when they first spotted a mysterious object 

in the night sky. For many, these stories involve Sputnik because it was 

the first man-made object to be observed. But for those, like myself, who 

were too young to be stargazing in 1957, the stories often involve the Echo 

balloon, NASA's first communications satellite. Stories about both objects 

may indeed relate to Sputnik because it was our hysterical reaction to the 

Soviet satellite that tempered our feelings about objects in space for some 

time to come. 

For me, the memory of my first satellite sighting is still vivid. One 

sultry evening in mid-August 1960 while I was serving as the batboy for my 

brother's Little League team in Fort Wayne, Indiana, something unusual and 

a little unnerving took place. About halfway through the game, I noticed 

that fans in the bleachers were no longer watching the game, but instead 

were standing, looking at the sky, and pointing at something. When our 

team was in the field and my batboy duties were temporarily over, I found 

my mother in the crowd and asked her what the fuss was all about. She 

said she had heard someone in the crowd call it "Echo." She reassured me 

that it was nothing to be afraid of, as it "belonged to us." 

But who exactly was "us," I wondered? To an eight-year-old in 1960, "us" 

meant human beings or "earthlings" ; "them" meant "aliens." I was glad to 

hear from my mother that the bright little light that I now, too, spotted 

moving so slowly yet perceptibly in the heavens did not mean "they" were 

coming to get me, but I was still concerned. Even at eight, I was informed 

enough about what was going on in the world to know that "us" and "them" 

also meant something else almost as sinister as earthlings versus aliens. "Us" 

meant "Americans" and "them" meant "Russians," and somehow I knew 

that it was better for us to have put something up into the sky for the world 

to look at than it was for them to have done it. Whether I knew that they 

in fact had already done it some three years earlier, I really cannot say. I do 

remember being so entranced by the man-made star that I had to be told 

more than once by the coach of our Little League team to "get my head in 

the game" and go out and pick up the baseball bats. 

xvii 
Spaceflight Revolution 

The next night, as soon as it started getting dark, my entire family 

headed to the backyard to look for Echo, only to find that parents all over our 

neighborhood were leading their children to hunt for the artificial star. This 

time my feelings about the bright dot of light moving so clearly across the sky 

were more positive. We were moving out into space. Like the morning paper 

had said, Echo was "the visible symbol of American creativity for all the 

world to see." In the next several weeks, a number of library books about 

space would come home from school with me. For me, too, a spaceflight 

revolution had begun. 

As I grew up, so did the American space program. As a second-grader, 

near the end of the school year that followed the summer of Echo 1, I sat 

on the wooden floor of a gymnasium with all the other kids in my school 

and watched shadowy black-and-white television pictures of the suborbital 

flight of Mercury astronaut Alan Shepard. Gus Grissom's suborbital flight 

came next; I watched it at home while on vacation that July. Then 

came John Glenn's historic orbital flight in February 1962 and a return to 

TV-watching from telescopic distance on the school gym floor. 

After that, my memory of NASA's space missions is cloudy and does 

not sharpen again until December 1968, when with the crew of Apollo 8, 

my family and I spent Christmas Eve circling the lunar sphere, seeing aweinspiring pictures of the moon's surface, and listening to the astronauts 

conclude their TV broadcast with "Merry Christmas and God bless all of 

you-all of you on the good earth." I also clearly remember July 1969, 

when the Apollo 11 lunar module Eagle landed on the Sea of Tranquility 

and Neil Armstrong took that first "small step but one giant leap" onto 

another heavenly body. 

These wondrous events· of the space age made a big impression on me, 

as they did in one way or another on nearly every human being alive at 

the time. But no space event ever surpassed that first sighting of the Echo 

balloon, glittering like a diamond over the baseball field. 

For a while, mostly on warm summer evenings, I continued to look for 

Echo and for other objects moving mysteriously through the sky. But 

gradually, I lost almost all interest in space. A child of the Age of Aquarius 

and the Vietnam War, I wondered, like so many others did at that time why, 

if we could put a man on the moon, we couldn't do so many other things. 

Only much later would I begin to look up again, seeking Echo, perhaps 

trying to find lost innocence and youth. Little did I know in 1960 that 

30 years later I would reexperience the orbits of Echo and write a detailed 

history of the satelloon's genesis, as I have in chapter 6 of this book. 

Whatever the object of fixation, be it Sputnik or Echo, stories like mine 

represent an illuminating cultural expression of the young space age. It was 

with our stirring personal experiences of these moving little lights in the 

night sky that the spaceflight revolution began. As one young Canadian girl 

wrote to NASA in 1968 in a poem entitled "To a Falling Star," on the eve 

XVlll 
Acknowledgments 

of Echo 1's falling back to its destruction into the atmosphere, "Thanks for 

making me look up." 

* * * 

Many times, in thanking all the people who have helped in the research 

and writing of a book, an author waits until the end of the acknowledgments 

to thank his own family for their love and support. But in this case, I want 

to thank my family first. My wife, Peggy, and my two children, Nathaniel 

and Jennifer, have been last too many times in the seven years it took me 

to research and write this book to be last once again. I was away from 

them and at NASA Langley in Virginia for most of every summer from 1987 

to 1993 writing this book. This means we all sacrificed and missed each 

other a lot. Summertime experiences my wife enjoyed with the children at 

our home in Alabama, she enjoyed alone. I only heard about them in our 

many long-distance telephone calls. When my children a:re grown-up and 

gone from home, I am sure I will regret what I missed with them even more 

intensely. 

I would also like to thank Charles and Robert Stanton. I spent my 

summers from 1987 to 1993 in their respective homes in Hampton, Virginia, 

and I enjoyed those times (especially the golf games) tremendously. I am 

sure that Charlie and Bob heard much more about NASA history than they 

ever cared to, but they never let on. My friendships with Sharon Buchanon 

and Rick Thompson while at Bob Stanton's also kept me from being too 

lonely, as they were a regular part of my Hampton "family." Dr. Fereidoun 

"Feri" Farassat, a remarkable person and accomplished acoustical scientist 

at NASA Langley, was also a valued companion. I have learned a great 

deal from him about science and technology, but what I most cherish is his 

friendship. 

Steve Corneliussen, a talented writer from Poquoson, Virginia, who 

edited my book Engineer in Charge and who then became one of my closest 

friends, has contributed immensely to my perspective on aerospace history 

and life in general. Over the years Steve has given me constant, generous 

encouragement and good advice. I regret that he was so busy with his work 

at the Continuous Electron Beam Accelerator Facility (CEBAF) in Newport 

News, Virginia, that he could not serve once again as my book editor. 

But how lucky I was to have Kathy Rawson, of Williamsburg, Virginia, 

edit this manuscript. Kathy has done many wonderful things for this book, 

turning an overly long and in some essential ways ailing manuscript into a 

much healthier one. Her consummate professionalism and her friendly words 

of encouragement inspired me to keep working for our book's improvement. 

In particular, Kathy prodded me in her gentle way to rewrite what was 

originally a weak epilogue. 

As Kathy has told me, many other people associated with the Research 

Publishing and Printing Branch at NASA Langley came together as a team 

xix 
Spaceflight Revolution 

to see this book to its completion. In particular, I wish to thank Lynn 

Heimerl, who supervised the entire project, and Mary McCaskill, the branch 

head, whose strong support for NASA Langley's major investment in the 

production of this book is sincerely appreciated. Others involved at RPPB 

that I would like to thank individually include Nancy Sheheen, who oversaw 

the editing and typesetting process; Linda Carlton, who formatted and 

typed the majority of the book; Peggy Overbey, who took over the typing 

for the homestretch; and Sybil Watson and Mary Edwards, who diligently 

proofread every page. 

I also want to thank the staff of the Floyd L. Thompson Technical 

Library at NASA Langley for their strong support of my project, notably 

H. Garland Gouger, Jr., Jane Hess (retired), Sue Miller, Sue Seward 

(retired), Susan A. Motley, and George Roncaglia. Also, the Photographics 

Section at Langley, under Alton T. Moore, performed yeoman's service for 

this book by providing excellent prints of its many photographs. I am 

particularly indebted to Frederick D. Jones not only for doing much of the 

photo lab work but also for giving me access to a number of pictures from 

the early days of Project Mercury, many of which he took on his own time 

with his own camera. 

Without the generous support and personal interest of Richard T. 

Layman of the Facilities Program Development Office, who has been in 

charge of the history program at NASA Langley since the late 1970s, this 

sequel to Engineer in Charge surely would not have been written. Dick has 

been constantly available to help me access historical materials and to solve 

problems associated with my work in the Langley Historical Archives. Dick 

himself started work at Langley in the early 1960s, and his insights into the 

center's history proved very helpful. 

A. Gary Price and J. Campbell Martin of Langley's Office of External 

Affairs have also provided tremendous support over many years for my work 

as the Langley historian, as have Richard H. Petersen and Paul F. Holloway, 

the Langley center directors during the years I prepared this book. I came 

to know "Pete" Petersen particularly well and wish to express special thanks 

to him for his genuine interest in what history books such as mine can offer 

to NASA management and the public at large. 

And then there are the "NACA Nuts," the dozens of men and women 

whom I first got to know while researching Engineer in Charge and came 

to know even better while investigating their metamorphosis into "NASA 

Wizards." I wish I could mention all of them by name but must focus on 

the few whom I have come to know the best: John V. Becker, William 

Boyer, Clinton E. Brown, Norman Crabill, Charles J. Donlan, John E. 

Duberg, Macon C. "Mike" Ellis, Robert R. Gilruth, Richard Heldenfels, 

Jane Hess, Robert Hess, John C. Houbolt, Vera Ruckel, Kitty O'BrienJoyner, Abraham Leiss, Axel T. Mattson, William A. Michael, Mark R. 

Nichols, W. Hewitt Phillips, Edward C. Polhamus, John P. "Jack" Reeder, 

Joseph A. Shortal (deceased), William Sleeman, Israel Taback, Helen Willey, 

XX 
Acknowledgments 

Herbert A. "Hack" Wilson (deceased), RichardT. Whitcomb, and Charles H. 

Zimmerman. To those with whom I talked about Langley's history but have 

failed to name, please accept my apologies and sincere thanks. Getting to 

know all of you was the best thing about writing this book. 

I need to single out Edgar M. Cortright, another Langley director (1969-

1975) and a major player in the history examined at the end of this book, 

and thank him for the long and comprehensive interviews. Dr. Cortright 

withheld very little from my tape recorder, and for that I sincerely thank 

him. I hope he feels that I have treated his time and his achievements at 

Langley fairly. 

Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., the author of this book's foreword, also deserves 

a special acknowledgment. Over the course of my 14 years as Langley's 

official (and unofficial) historian, Larry has spent hundreds of hours with me, 

talking about the history of airplanes, N ACA research, and the transition 

from the NACA to NASA. Much of my perspective about all these things 

has been shaped in my conversations with Larry. I owe him a huge debt of 

gratitude, not only because he has saved me from some major technical and 

historical blunders but also because he and his wife, Agnes, came to treat 

me over the years almost like a son. Much of my appreciation for what it 

means to be an engineer comes from the time I spent with Larry. 

I cannot fail to mention the help and encouragement given to me freely 

by my colleagues in the Department of History at Auburn University, a 

department for which I have been serving as chairman since my election 

in 1993. A faculty workshop in 1991 took a very critical look at an early 

draft of my first chapter, thus resulting in a major revision. My colleague, 

William F. Thimble, who is one of this nation's preeminent historians of 

naval aviation (and who stays abreast of the history of space exploration), 

offered a valuable critique of chapter 8 on the genesis of the lunar-orbit 

rendezvous concept. Major Roy F. Houchin (USAF), one of my doctoral 

students at Auburn, read a few of the chapters and offered some critical 

insights. Others in my department whom I have bothered regularly with 

reports on my work include Guy Beckwith, Lindy Biggs, Anthony Carey, 

J. Wayne Flynt, Larry Gerber, W. David Lewis, and Steve McFarland. I 

thank them for being splendid colleagues and good listeners. 

Two people at Auburn University that I wish to thank for finding 

the means and the tolerance to support me in the carrying out of my 

research projects are Gordon Bond, Dean of the College of Liberal Arts, and 

Paul F. Parks, University Provost. Before becoming my Dean, Gordon Bond 

was my department head in history, a job whose difficulties I appreciate 

now more than ever, since taking on departmental administration myself. 

Also, without the assistance of an unbelievably hardworking and talented 

administrative assistant, Jane Dunkelberger, I am afraid the job of the 

department chairman might have eaten me alive. Jane did an especially 

good job keeping people away from me in the hectic weeks when I just had 

to work on this book to meet its deadlines. 

xxi 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Other scholars outside of Auburn University also offered critical evaluations of all or part of my manuscript. In particular, I wish to thank 

Virginia P. Dawson of Case Western Reserve University and Michael Gorn, 

former chief historian of the Air Force Systems Command and current historian of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, for providing very careful 

and constructive reviews of the entire manuscript. Also, Richard K. Smith, 

one of the venerable sages in the study of American aviation history, gave 

the first three chapters a stern critical reading. 

Finally, I have been fortunate beyond any reasonable expectations to have 

had the enthusiastic support of Roger Launius, chief historian for NASA. 

Roger allowed this book project a high degree of independence. Apparently, 

he trusted that I could produce, and he had faith that the people at NASA 

Langley had the ability and judgment to take my book from start to finish 

without too much management from Washington. I hope the result is a 

book that he will be proud to say was published in the prestigious NASA 

History Series. 

Finally, I thank you, the reader, for picking up such a big book and giving 

it more than a passing glance. For you, I have given it my best. 

December 1994 

xxii 

James R. Hansen 

Auburn, Alabama 
In science as in life, it is well known that a chain of 

events can have a point of crisis that could magnify 

small changes. 

-James Gleick, 

Chaos: The Birth of a New Science 

Times go by turns, and chances change by course; 

From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 

-Robert Southwell 

"Times Go By Turns" 

xxiii 

Prologue 

Historians should start from the premise that what happened did not 

have to happen. They can then do a better job of explaining why it did. 

Too often we think about history as something that had to happen 

just the way that it did. We think about the past as inevitable and 

predetermined. For example, we think about the American Civil War as 

an irreconcilable conflict that had to occur given the depth of the regional 

differences between the North and the South or as a war that the North, 

given its greater population and industrial might, was bound to win-when, 

perhaps, neither necessarily had to be the case. The war might have been 

avoided, or the Southern states might have won their independence, if certain 

things about the flow of history had been different, perhaps only slightly 

different. 

In 1991 a controversy developed concerning the death of the twelfth 

president of the United States, Zachary Taylor, who died in 1850 from a 

mysterious intestinal ailment, conceivably a type of cholera. Given the 

symptoms of his illness, some believed that Taylor might in fact have 

died from arsenic poisoning; maybe a Southerner, angry at Taylor for his 

opposition to the expansion of slavery, found a way to murder him. Based 

on this theory, in 1991 a coroner and a forensic anthropologist obtained legal 

approval to exhume Taylor's body from his tomb in Louisville, Kentucky, 

and conducted an autopsy to try to find traces of arsenic in bits of hair, 

fingernail, bone, and tissue. As it turned out, they found nothing to 

substantiate the theory that Taylor was murdered. 

While this investigation was going on, columnist George Will wrote a 

thoughtful essay about the whole affair, in which he suggested that the 

country might have followed a different path if Zachary Taylor had lived: 

the Civil War might have been avoided. 1 Even more likely, had he lived, 

Taylor might have provoked the secessionist movement and brought on the 

bloodshed 10 years sooner. The South would have faced a North deprived of 

a decade's worth of growth in industrialism and immigration and would not 

have confronted a new political party, which found a nation-saving leader in 

a former Illinois congressman named Lincoln. This Civil War of the 1850s 

the South might have won. 

A more fanciful variation on this what-if theme, again involving the 

Civil War, can be found in Ward Moore's classic novella of 1955, Bring 

the Jubilee. 2 One of the great stories of time travel, this fascinating little 

book is based on the idea that the South won the Civil War because of a 

single turn of events at the Battle of Gettysburg. Moore's story is rooted in 

PRECED*NG P'AG~ [~!L~Nil( ~(Of rFBUflltiJ XXV 

PAGE 'f..~\~ iNTENTIONALLY stANK 
Spaceflight Revolution 

a historical event in which a Confederate patrol fails to arrive at a certain 

place at a given time, a failure that enabled the Northern forces to occupy 

a strategic place on the battlefield atop Little Roundtop. In Moore's book, 

however, the Confederate patrol does secure this strategic position, and 

the South goes on to win the war. Moore draws a stunning counterfactual 

portrait of post-Civil War America. The reader encounters a prosperous 

and progressive South, which has all the great universities, and a backward 

and poverty-stricken North. 

I have taken the time to mention Ward Moore's fantasy and the speculation surrounding Zachary Taylor's death simply to introduce the underlying 

theme of the epic story of space exploration that follows: the past was no 

more inevitable than is our future. Contrary to what we might have been 

taught in school, or to what we might in fact still be teaching, history is not 

a straight highway. To study history is not simply to take a pencil and play 

dot-to-dot. Rather, it is to thread a maze, to follow a course of what are 

potentially limitless directions, including "all sorts of twists and turns and 

fresh choices of route confronting each new generation." As George Will 

pointed out in his column on Zachary Taylor, history-whether it is the 

history of the American Civil War or the history of our own individual 

lives-is "a rich weave of many threads." Any one of these threads, if pulled 

out, could cause a radical unraveling, "setting the past in motion as a foaming sea of exhilarating contingencies." In other words, history could have 

been different: "Choices and chance cannot be scrubbed from the human 

story. The river of history could have cut a different canyon." 3 That is the 

theme I wish to explore in relation to the history of one of the premier institutions in the American space program, NASA Langley Research Center 

in Hampton, Virginia. 

In the keynote address of a conference on the history of space exploration 

held at Yale University in 1981, New York Times reporter and prominent 

American space journalist John Noble Wilford asked a provocative whatif question: what if the United States had launched the first satellite in 

1957 instead of the Soviets? The United States could have done it. We 

had German scientists and engineers who had more technical expertise than 

those "recruited" by the Soviets. As Wilford explains, "Wernher von Braun 

had the rocket [a modified Redstone designated the Jupiter C] and could 

have done it about a year before Sputnik, but was under orders from the 

Eisenhower administration not to-the first American satellite was supposed 

to be a civilian operation, and von Braun was working for the army at 

the time." 4 To guarantee that the president's orders were followed, army 

inspectors kept a careful watch on the prelaunch activities of von Braun and 

his men at Cape Canaveral; they suspected that the Alabama-based rocket 

team might just "accidentally" launch a satellite using what was supposed 

to be a dummy upper stage of the Jupiter C to boost a nose cone into orbit. 5 

In terms of technical capability alone, the United States could have 

beaten the Russians into space with a satellite. Explaining why our country 

xxvi 
Prologue 

did not and why the Eisenhower administration did not have the ambition 

to do so is difficult without reconstructing some complex histories. As 

Walter A. McDougall argues in his Pulitzer Prize-winning book of 1985, The 

Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age, the explanation 

hinges on Eisenhower's philosophy of government, especially his fear of the 

growing influence of what he would come to call "the military-industrial 

complex." More specifically, it involves his administration's recognition of 

the need for satellite reconnaissance of the closed and secretive Communist 

world, but at the same time, the administration's concern that a hot (and 

expensive) new battle in the cold war would erupt if an American satellite 

with military associations flew over the airspace of the Soviet Union. To 

avoid such an eruption, Eisenhower's political strategists suggested that it 

would be best to let the Soviets set the legal precedent by orbiting the first 

satellite; then, when an American satellite followed, the Soviets would not 

have solid grounds for protesting any American overflight. 6 

With these issues and others in mind, President Eisenhower made his 

fateful decision to support the more peaceful-appearing but technically 

inferior Vanguard satellite project rather than the project involving the 

Army Ballistic Missile Agency's (ABMA) Jupiter rocket. Jupiter, of course, 

would ultimately boost the first U.S. satellite, Explorer, into space on 31 

January 1958, nearly two months after the Vanguard-carrying Viking rocket 

exploded in flames on the launchpad at Cape Canaveral (the press dubbed 

it "Flopnik," "Kaputnik," and "Stayputnik") and nearly three months after 

the Russians successfully orbited their canine-carrying Sputnik 2. 7 

If Eisenhower could have known how traumatic and revolutionary the 

launching of the first satellite would prove to be and what a challenge it 

would pose to his presidency and his political party, he might have decided 

differently. The von Braun team might have been turned loose sooner, and 

the beep-beep-beeping that radio operators heard around the world in early 

October 1957 might have come from a small American satellite rather than 

a Russian one. 

What if the Americans had launched a satellite first? According to 

Wilford, "An American first would not have startled the world as much as 

Sputnik did, for American technological leadership was taken for granted. 

The impact of Sputnik, when it followed, would have been much less, 

another case of the Russians catching up, as with the atomic and hydrogen 

bombs." 8 And if that had been the case, if Americans had not found 

Sputnik so challenging, what kind of space program would U.S. leaders have 

formulated? Surely, that program would have differed from the ideologically 

motivated and in key respects shortsighted one that was mobilized in such 

a hurry to win the space race. If Sputnik had not provoked a major 

international crisis, much about the history of the world in the last four 

decades of the twentieth century would have been significantly different. 

Consider America without a Sputnik cns1s. Without the snowballing political repercussions that were so damaging to the Republicans, 

xxvii 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Richard M. Nixon, Eisenhower's vice-president, possibly would have defeated Democratic Senator John F. Kennedy of Massachusetts in the 

whisker-close 1960 presidential election. A reversal in that election alone, 

which turned on a few thousand questionable votes in Illinois, would have 

produced such an unraveling of contemporary American history that only a 

Ward Moore could do it justice.9 

The character of the country's inaugural ventures into space would have 

been vastly different. Without the media riot, without the panic incited 

by cold war misapprehensions about the Soviet satellite, without the feeling 

that the Russians had gotten a jump on us, and without the resulting clamor 

for our government to do something dramatic right now to close the gap, 

the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA), which dated 

to World War I and was the forerunner of the National Aeronautics and 

Space Administration (NASA), would have surely lived on.l0 Most likely 

this agency would have proceeded calmly with plans to expand its spacerelated research, and NASA would not have been established, at least not 

when it was. The United States would still have entered into space, but the 

country would not have rushed into it. 

Instead of plunging into the ocean in a ballistic capsule, the first 

American astronauts might have flown back from space on the wings of 

a hypersonic glider similar to those NACA researchers had been working on 

since the mid-1950s. If the United States had not lacked a booster rocket 

powerful enough to lift so heavy a weight out of the atmosphere, the first 

spaceflight might have happened like that anyway, even with the Sputnik 

crisis. The original seven astronauts (the ones with "the right stuff") or more 

likely, specially trained NACA or military test pilots would have traveled 

to space and back in a landable space plane akin to a small space shuttle. 

Given the time needed to develop the requisite booster and considering the 

extensive development and careful flight testing that such a radically new, 

winged reentry vehicle inevitably would have undergone, the hypersonic 

glider probably would not have been launched into space until the late 1960s, 

but it surely would have proved much more capable and versatile than the 

Mercury capsules.l1 

Moreover, instead of sending men to the moon by the end of the decade 

as President Kennedy had wanted, an NACA-led program under President 

Nixon likely would have focused on the construction of a small, staffed 

space station that could have been serviced by the shuttle-like vehicle. 

Such was the target project for space exploration at the NACA research 

laboratories before Sputnik, and it remained so until President Kennedy's 

lunar commitment in May 1961.12 

Whatever we think about the might-have-beens and paths-not-taken, the 

undeniable fact is that Sputnik changed the course of history. Sputnik was 

one of those revolutionary, megahistorical events that interrupted the flow of 

things, altered the would-have-beens, and made a lot of very unlikely events 

happen. No one has expressed the irony of the randomness and illogic in the 

xxviii 
Prologue 

historical process better than the longshoreman-philosopher and quasi-cult 

figure of the 1950s and 1960s, Eric Hoffer. "What were the terrible 1960s 

and where did they come from?" asked Hoffer after the end of the decade. 

"To begin with, the 1960s did not start in 1960. They started in 1957 .... 

The Russians placed a medicine-ball-sized satellite in orbit .... We reacted 

hysterically." 13 If we had not, or if we had put that "ball" in orbit first, 

everything would have been different. For the past was no more inevitable 

than is our future. 

After Sputnik, the American space program would contend with other 

critical turning points and other what-ifs: What if President Kennedy had 

not committed the country to the manned lunar landing-or at least not to 

accomplishing it so quickly? What if NASA had not chosen lunar-orbit 

rendezvous as the mission mode for Apollo and had instead gone with 

direct ascent or earth-orbit rendezvous, as most engineers at NASA Marshall 

Space Center had wanted? What if the national supersonic transport (SST) 

program had not been cancelled by Congress in 1971? (The U.S. Senate 

killed the program by only one vote.) Would the United States be flying 

a competitor to the Concorde? Would the resulting airplane have been a 

disastrous failure, thus putting Boeing and most of its customers out of 

business? What if the Nixon administration in 1972 had not decided to go 

ahead with a scaled-back version of the space shuttle but instead had wanted 

to develop a space station? What if President Reagan had not endorsed the 

space station in 1984? What if the temperature at Cape Canaveral on the 

morning of 28 January 1986 had been only a few degrees warmer? These 

are just some of the what-if questions we might ask about NASA and the 

American space program.14 

The study of history, at least the history of NASA, reveals something 

about the past that should not be surprising, but is: historical development 

is neither linear nor logical. In practice, talking about the next logical step, 

something that NASA planners have been talking about nonstop ever since 

NASA came to life, does not ensure that step will be the next one taken. 

After launching a man into space via Project Mercury, NASA said that the 

next logical step was to establish a permanent manned presence in low earth 

orbit, but instead the country landed men on the moon. After going to the 

moon via Project Apollo, the next logical step was to build an earth-orbiting 

space station along with a space shuttle to service it, but instead the Nixon 

administration decided that the country could not afford both and could 

manage temporarily with just the shuttle, even though the space station 

had always been the shuttle's main reason for existing. After the shuttle, 

surely the next logical step was to build a space station, but once again the 

country has found reasons to postpone building one. 

Clearly, logic does not determine our history. Historical logic, if we even 

want to use that phrase, is not the logic of scientists and mathematicians; 

it is the logic of Through the Looking-Glass. In that all-too-real fantasy 

land, Tweedledee explains logic to Alice: "Contrariwise, if it was so, it 

xxix 
Spaceflight Revolution 

might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't. That's 

logic." 15 Tweedledee's logic is the only kind the American space program 

has ever known, or probably ever will. 

In this book, I explore the impact of that logic on the research and development activities conducted at Langley Research Center in the 12 years 

after Sputnik. As the book's title suggests, this impact was revolutionary. I 

gave much thought to the word revolutionary before using it. In the history 

of science, since the publication of Thomas S. Kuhn's seminal study The 

Structure of Scientific Revolutions in 1962, no historian, in fact no scholar, 

has been safe in the use of the term revolution without reference to the essential Kuhnian concepts and terminology: "paradigm," "anomaly," "normal 

science," "Gestalt switch," "paradigm shift," and the "incommensurability 

of paradigms," to name just a few. 16 All these terms, along with the word 

revolution itself, which Kuhn defines as "those noncumulative developmental episodes in which an older paradigm is replaced in whole or in part by 

an incompatible one," have thus been loaded down with meaning, nuance, 

argument, controversy, and their own long academic histories.17 

But the reader can relax. Nowhere else in the text or notes of this 

book will I make direct reference to Thomas Kuhn or his sociological 

anatomy of revolution. I do not omit Kuhn because of any disdain for his 

insights; I just do not feel that any explicit application of Kuhn's analysis 

of scientific revolutions will do much to inform my chosen topic relevant 

to NASA Langley history. Whether Kuhn's notions have worked implicitly 

to influence my understanding of the spaceflight revolution at the research 

center, I leave to the reader to judge. 18 

Most scholars are familiar with Kuhn and his concept of revolution; far 

fewer are familiar with the particular concept of the spaceflight revolution for 

which Kuhnian sociologist William Sims Bainbridge is responsible. Despite 

my using Bainbridge's terminology and even sympathizing with parts of his 

concept, I wish to distance myself and this book on NASA Langley from it, 

even farther than I have from Kuhn. 

In 1976 Bainbridge, a professor in the sociology department at the 

University of Washington, published a fascinating if eccentric analysis of 

the enthusiasms of the space age, The Spaceflight Revolution: A Sociological 

Analysis.* According to its thesis, the space age came to life "despite the 

world's indifference and without compelling economic, military, or scientific 

* Even Bainbridge worried that the word revolution might be too strong. In the introduction to his book he defends its use, saying that "the scale and the manner of the achievement" in space "demand powerful language." According to his estimates, "approximately 

$100,000,000,000 has been spent on space technology; the exact figure is debatable, but the 

order of magnitude is not." Moreover, Bainbridge continued, "I use the word revolution as 

a scientifically descriptive term [as Kuhn did], not a metaphor. The development of spaceflight could be a revolution in two ways: its consequences and its causes." (The Spaceflight 

Revolution: A Sociological Analysis [New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1976], p. 1.) 

XXX 
Prologue 

reasons for its accomplishment." It was not the "public will," declared 

Bainbridge, but "private fanaticism" that drove us to the moon. "When 

Neil Armstrong called his 'small step' down on to the lunar surface a 'great 

leap for mankind', he spoke as the partisan member of a revolutionary social 

movement, eager to convert the unbelieving to his faith." 19 

Bainbridge's book essentially advances a conspiracy theory. The majority 

of people did not want spaceflight; only a few did. And those few romantic 

idealists, that extremely small but dedicated and well-organized network 

of men (very few women were at first involved, according to Bainbridge), 

coaxed, tricked, lobbied, and coerced the greatest technological nations 

into building mammoth programs to launch them into space. Bainbridge 

then analyzes the historical and social character of the conspirators: the 

pioneers and visionaries of spaceflight (the Russian Konstantin Tsiolkovskii, 

the German Hermann Oberth, and the American Robert Goddard, among 

others); the enthusiastic members of the early space and rocket clubs (such 

as the German Society for Space Travel, the British Interplanetary Society, 

and the American Interplanetary Society); Wernher von Braun's rocket team 

in league with the Nazis at Peenemiinde; the agenda of the Committee for 

the Future, that "mystical, almost religious organization," which came to 

life in the United States in 1970, less than one year after the first manned 

lunar landing; and finally, the science-fiction subculture, which he calls the 

"breeding ground of deviant movements," and the Star Trek and Search for 

Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) groupies of the present day. 20 

The book is a brilliant and troubling tour de force from a sociologist of 

some estimable abilities. I assign it perennially to my graduate students 

in aerospace history and not just to get a rise from them, which it always 

does-particularly from the students specializing in military air power who 

usually think that Bainbridge is simply silly or crazy. Bainbridge's version of 

the spaceflight revolution is worth investigating, if only because it explores 

the question of why something that did not have to happen, happened. In 

the introduction to his book, Bainbridge writes, as I have written in this 

prologue, that the spaceflight revolution "was a revolution that need not 

have happened." 21 

In my version of the spaceflight revolution, however, the revolutionaries 

are not conspirators from rocket enthusiast organizations and science-fiction 

clubs, nor are they romantic idealists aspiring to some quasi-religious, 

superhuman, or millenarian experience in outer space. And they are hardly 

members of a deviant social movement. Rather, my revolutionaries are 

government engineers and bureaucrats, who are members of an established 

research organization dating back to 1915, the venerable NACA. These 

revolutionaries, because of the hysteria over the launch of Sputnik 1 in 

October 1957, metamorphosed along with their organization into creatures 

of the space age. 

My spaceflight revolution is an unlikely story-perhaps as unlikely as 

Bainbridge's. But this one happened. 

xxxi 
1 

The Metamorphosis 

It was the worm, if you will, going into the cocoon 

and coming out a butterfly. 

-Walter Bonney, NACA/NASA 

public relations officer 

The first week of October 1958 was a busy time for the newspapers 

of Tidewater Virginia. Top stories included the explosive failure of an 

Atlas missile at Cape Canaveral, an atomic blast in Nevada that sent news 

and test personnel scurrying for cover from radiation fallout, the question 

of Red China's membership in the United Nations, and a United Auto 

Workers strike against the Ford Motor Company. Receiving the biggest 

headlines in the local papers, however, were stories concerning the path of 

Hurricane Helene up the Atlantic coast and the furor over the court:-ordered 

integration of public schools, which was taking place as far away as Little 

Rock, Arkansas, and as nearby as Richmond and Norfolk. Not even making 

the front page of the Newport News Daily Press on the cool, overcast morning 

of Wednesday, 1 October 1958, was the news that the National Advisory 

Committee for Aeronautics (NACA) had died the night before at midnight, 

only to be reborn at 12:01 a.m. as the National Aeronautics and Space 

Administration. Just a few hours earlier, on Tuesday, 7000 people had left 

work as NACA employees, but when they reported to their same jobs in the 

same buildings the next morning, they became members of NASA.* 

A few NACA veterans might have felt a twinge of doubt as they drove 

past the new NASA sign at the gates of Langley Research Center, but most 

NACA personnel were not at all nervous or wary about the changeover. 

Plans for an easy transition had been in the works for at least eight months, 

* Although foreigners tended to pronounce it as a two-syllable word, "Nacka," within the United 

States the organization was always known by its four individual letters, "theN-A-C-A." Veterans of the 

NACA assumed that the same would be true for NASA. Into the 1990s, NACA veterans could usually 

be identified by the way they treated the NASA acronym as individual letters. 
Spaceflight Revolution 

since President Dwight D. Eisenhower's panel of scientific advisers had 

recommended that a new civilian space agency be organized around the 

NACA.l Almost everything about working at Langley Field, or at any 

of the other former NACA facilities around the country, was supposed to 

remain the same. Employees had been reassured for several weeks by NACA 

headquarters and by Langley management that they were to come to work 

as always and do the same things they had been doing. Their jobs already 

had much to do with the nation's quickly accelerating efforts to catch up 

with the Soviet Union and launch America into space. As NASA personnel, 

they were simply to keep up the good work. 

After watching from a distance the hysteria provoked by the Soviet 

satellites and the political jousting and bureaucratic haggling that followed, 

Langley employees were relieved to see President Eisenhower resist the 

pressures applied by the military, particularly the air force, to militarize the 

infant American space program. 2 Ike, the former five-star army general and 

leader of the invasion of Nazi-occupied Europe in 1944, had risen above these 

pressures and put civilians in charge, entrusting the NACA with the space 

program. A small overhead agency that was both focused and accustomed 

to squeezing a dollar, the NACA appealed to a genuine balanced-budget 

man like Eisenhower. 

The creation of the NACA had been quite different from that of NASA. 

Although a group of prominent Smithsonian and Washington aviation 

enthusiasts had conceived the idea of an organization devoted to the support 

of aeronautical development as early as 1910, the actual founding of this 

new federal agency proved difficult, especially since aviation had not yet 

demonstrated its efficacy in World War I combat. In fact, establishment of 

the NACA might not have been approved if a friendly group of congressmen, 

fearing that President Woodrow Wilson's policy of neutrality was preventing 

the United States from properly preparing for its inevitable role in the war, 

had not devised a successful last-minute maneuver. In a classic example of 

American political sleight-of-hand, they attached the NACA enabling act as 

a rider to a naval appropriations bill that was sure to pass, and the NACA 

came into being on 3 March 1915.3 

For an important new government body to be established in such a 

manner was really quite extraordinary. But certainly no one in 1915 or for 

several years thereafter, perhaps not even many early NACA employees, 

considered the NACA very important. Now, 43 years later, President 

Eisenhower was making it the heart of the new American space program 

for which everyone was clamoring. Because of the heated public debate 

over national space policy, NASA could not have been founded in the 

relatively invisible way that the NACA had been established. Unlike the 

old agency, NASA was going to be exposed to direct congressional, media, 

and, consequently, public scrutiny from the start. 

Probably no NACA employees arriving at work on NASA's first day 

anticipated the impact that this new life in a goldfish bowl eventually would 

2 
L-58-68a 

The Meta morphosis 

Although his administration gave 

birth to NASA, President Dwight 

D. Eisenhower did not believe that 

the United States should rush into 

a "crash" federal program to beat 

the Soviets into space. Instead, 

he hoped for a more judicious 

and less hysterical approach to 

space exploration, one that would 

not require massive infusions of 

public funds but would still enable the United States to remain a leader, if not the leader, in 

space. His Democratic successors, 

John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. 

Johnson, would commit the country to an all-out race. 

have on their work and workplace. Change is difficult to perceive and 

evaluate while it is happening, let alone when it occurs in the middle of 

a week. Charles J. Donlan, veteran Langley researcher and soon-to-benamed associate director of NASA's Space Task Group, later reminisced 

about the innocence of his thoughts on the day the NACA became NASA: 

"It was like passing from December 31 to January 1 without going to a 

party. You didn't know the difference except that it was the New Year 

and you had to start signing your checks for one year later." 4 Indeed, a 

new era had begun, and although this was not apparent on the uneventful 

morning of 1 October 1958, Langley Research Center was now exposed to 

the complex forces and extreme circumstances that were rapidly reshaping 

U.S. aeronautical research and blasting the center pell-mell into space. 

The Venerable Order of the NACA 

The basic duty of the NACA, as expressed in its charter, was "to 

supervise and direct the scientific study of the problems of flight, with 

3 
Spaceflight Revolution 

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." But the original charter of 1915 did 

not assure the funds for the large, diversified, and increasingly expensive 

research establishment that the NACA eventually became. It stated only 

that "in the event of a laboratory or laboratories, either in whole or in part, 

being placed under the direction of the committee, the committee may direct 

and conduct research and experiment in aeronautics." 5 

That mandate was general enough to allow widely differing interpretations, and not everyone responsible for the NACA in its formative years 

agreed on what the mandate meant or, rather, what it should mean. Some 

felt that the N ACA should remain small and continue to serve, as it had 

throughout World War I, merely as an advisory body devoted to scientific 

research. Others argued that the NACA should grow larger and combine 

basic research with engineering and technology development. This second 

group wanted the NACA to attack the most pressing problems obstructing the immediate progress of American aviation; the group did not want 

the agency to spend all of its time on ivory-tower theoretical problems that 

would not result in many quick, practical payoffs. To be so effective, the 

NACA needed to have its own laboratory facilities and conduct its own 

programs of research. 

The NACA moved slowly but surely along the second course, and 

building a laboratory became its first order of business. Construction 

of the Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory, the NACA's original 

field station, began approximately 100 miles southeast of Washington, 

on an isolated peninsula of Tidewater Virginia in 1917. Named after 

Dr. Samuel P. Langley (1835-1906), an eminent American scientist whose 

pioneering experiments with powered flight at the turn of the century had 

been a mixture of success and failure, Langley served as the NACA's only 

research center for the next 20 years. 6 Some flight research was conducted 

there in late 1919 and early 1920, but the laboratory did not really begin 

routine operations until after the completion of its first wind tunnel in the 

summer of 1920. 

By the mid-1920s, engineers, not scientists, were put in charge at Langley. 

The head of the laboratory would in fact be called the "engineer in charge." 

The choice of engineers over scientists reinforced the NACA's decision to 

become an agency concerned with the practical, not the purely theoretical. 

Engineers would always support the NACA's charter. On Langley engineer 

Floyd L. Thompson's desk sat a framed quotation of the essence of the 

charter: "The scientific study of the problems of flight with a view to their 

practical solution." The quote stayed on Thompson's desk until he retired 

from NASA as the director of Langley Research Center in 1968. 

In the years following its founding, the NACA expanded far beyond the 

advisory role defined .in its charter. The NACA served as a national clearinghouse for scientific and technical information by establishing uniform 

4 
'TIDEWATER 

VIRGINIA 

The Metamorphosis 

L-36,942 

A Langley map of the Tidewater Virginia area from the late 1930s. 

5 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Floyd L. "Tommy" Thompson was Langley Research Center's associate director in 1958, its "number two" man under longtime and soon-to-retire Director 

Henry J. E. Reid. The number two man in those days also acted as the chief 

of research. 

L-9850 

Orville Wright, Charles Lindbergh, and Howard Hughes were among the attendees 

at Langley's 1934- Aircraft Manufacturers' Conference. Conference guests assembled 

underneath a Boeing P-26A Peashooter in the Full-Scale Tunnel for this photo. 

6 
The Meta morphosis 

aeronautical terminology; publishing reports; and collecting, compiling, and 

disseminating basic information in the various fields pertinent to aeronautics. It also contracted out research projects to universities. From 1926 on, 

it held annual meetings known as the NACA Aircraft Manufacturers' Conferences, which brought in experts from around the United States to talk 

about aviation technology and what the NACA should be doing to stimulate 

further progress. 7 It built up staffs to conduct research in aerodynamics, 

hydrodynamics, structures, and propulsion. Solutions to problems in these 

areas led to the design and operation of safer, faster, higher flying, and 

generally more versatile and dependable aircraft. With these aircraft, the 

United States became a world power in commercial and military aviation, 

and Allied victory in World War II was assured. 

To help meet the demand for advanced airplane work during World War 

II, the NACA created four new national facilities and seeded them with 

staff from Langley. They were the Aircraft Engine Research Laboratory, 

built in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1941 (later renamed the Lewis Flight Propulsion Laboratory and later still the Lewis Research Center); the Ames Aeronautical Laboratory, created at Moffett Field, California, also in 1941 (later 

renamed Ames Research Center); the Pilotless Aircraft Research Station, 

built on barren Wallops Island on Virginia's Eastern Shore in 1944 (later 

renamed Wallops Station); and the High-Speed Flight Station, established 

at Muroc Field (subsequently, Edwards Air Force Base (AFB]), California, 

in 1946 (later renamed Dryden Flight Research Center). At the last facility 

in the high California desert, a special unit of engineers from Langley supervised the flight trials of the first supersonic airplanes, the Bell X-1 and 

the Douglas D-558. Considering the many technological firsts and other 

achievements arising from this array of unique facilities, it is clear why many 

experts believe the NACA did at least as much for aeronautical progress as 

any organization in the world. 8 

Indeed, the NACA's track record was not bad for a committee, or 

rather, for a pyramid of committees-the NACA consisted of more than 

one. Foremost was the NACA's Main Committee, an unpaid body that met 

twice a year in Washington to identify and discuss the key research problems that the agency should tackle. Until World War II, it comprised 12 

members and from then on 15. Members represented the War and Navy 

departments (normally two from each), the Smithsonian Institution, the 

U.S. Weather Bureau, and the National Bureau of Standards, as well as select universities, industries, and airlines. The list of 120 men who served on 

the NACA Main Committee ("The NACA") from 1915 to 1958 is a "Who's 

Who" of American aeronautics: Dr. JosephS. Ames, Gen. Henry "Hap" 

Arnold, Dr. Vannevar Bush, Harry F. Guggenheim, Dr. William F. Durand, 

Dr. Jerome C. Hunsaker, Charles A. Lindbergh, Adm. William A. Moffett, 

Capt. Edward V. "Eddie" Rickenbacker, Gen. Carl "Tooey" Spaatz, Gen. 

Hoyt Vandenberg, and Orville Wright, to name a few. The president of 

the United States appointed all members, and in turn the Main Committee 

7 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-90-3727 

An 18 April 1929 meeting of the NACA Main Committee. Around this table sat some of the most outstanding authorities on the science, technology, and 

military uses of flight. Left to right: John F. Victory, NACA secretary; Dr. 

William F. Durand, professor and head of .the Department of Mechanical Engineering, Stanford University; Dr. Orville Wright; Dr. George K. Burgess, director, Bureau of Standards; Brig. Gen. William E. Gilmore, U.S. Army; Maj. 

Gen. James E. Fechet, Chief of Air Service, USA; NACA Chairman Dr. Joseph 

S. Ames, professor of physics and president of Johns Hopkins University; NACA 

Vice-Chairman Dr. David W. Taylor, former Chief Naval Constructor, U.S. 

Navy; Capt. Emory S. Land, Navy Bureau of Aeronautics; Rear Adm. William 

A. Moffett, Chief, Bureau of Aeronautics; Dr. Samuel W. Stratton, former director, Bureau of Standards; Dr. George W. Lewis, NACA director of research; 

Dr. Charles F. Marvin, Chief, Weather Bureau. 

reported directly to him via an annual written report. The eighth and last 

chairman of the Main Committee was Dr. James H. "Jimmy" Doolittle, the 

former racing pilot, air war hero, retired air force general, and Ph.D. in 

physics from Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). On 30 September 1958, the day before NASA took over, he sent the NACA's 44th and 

last annual report to President Eisenhower. 

The NACA was quite independent. Although the president appointed its 

members, he did so on advice from the standing NACA Main Committee, 

advice that Eisenhower and his predecessors almost always took. This 

helped to take politics out of the selection process. Furthermore, the Main 

Committee chose its own chairman and director of research and, in the words 

of longtime NACA member (1922~1923, 1938~1958) and former chairman 

8 
The Metamorphosis 

L-16,243 

One of the outstanding men to chair the NACA was Vannevar Bush (center), the 

computer pioneer and head of the Office of Scientific Research and Development 

during World War II. Bush chaired the NACA from 1939 to 1941. On either side 

of Bush stand George W. Lewis, the NACA 's longtime director of research (right) 

and Henry Reid, Langley's engineer-in-charge (left). 

(1941-1956) Jerome Hunsaker, "ran its show, within its budget, made its 

own statements to Congress for what it wanted to do and could do and 

was doing, and got [its] budgets without any interference from the executive 

branch of government." 9 

Organizationally, the old NACA committee system did not stop with 

the Main Committee. 10 Its members elected a smaller Executive Committee of seven who served terms of one year and acted as the NACA's actual 

governing body. This Executive Committee also appointed several technical 

committees that provid~d expertise to the parent committees on such major 

subjects as aerodynamics, power plants for aircraft, and aircraft construction. In turn, these committees (actually subcommittees) created sub(sub )-

committees of their own to study and give advice in more specialized areas, 

such as aircraft fuels, aircraft instruments, and aircraft operating problems. 

The NACA also had special committees, usually ad hoc, that dealt with extraordinary problems such as· the need, in 1938, to build new facilities to 

9 
Spaceflight Revolution 

meet the threat of another world war. Twenty years later, in the middle of 

another international crisis, the NACA had a special committee working to 

explore the ramifications of Sputnik and to help formulate a space policy 

for the N ACA. 

The committee system did not work perfectly, but in its unique way it 

did work. Prominent people in the American aviation enterprise became 

familiar with NACA capabilities and NACA results; concurrently, the 

NACA benefited from the insight of many talented and experienced men 

(no women ever served on any of the NACA committees). Further, the 

connections and the prestige of committee members helped the NACA 

to win friends and secure appropriations from Congress. Over the years, 

outsiders such as the Brookings Institution, self-styled experts in government 

organization, and several officers in the Bureau of the Budget had viewed 

the committee system of advise and consent as a messy way to structure and 

manage a federal agency. But NACA insiders did not. Nothing about the 

committee system meddled seriously in any unwelco~e fashion with work 

in the laboratories. The actual management of the research operation was 

left to the civil servants who worked full-time for the NACA. Within the 

laboratory itself, management was left to the engineer-in-charge.* 

At the Washington level, the management of research was left to the 

NACA's director of research. Only two men held this post during the 

NACA's 43-year history. Dr. George W. Lewis (honorary doctorate from 

Swarthmore, his alma mater) held the post from the time it was established 

in 1919 until his retirement in 1947. Dr. Hugh Dryden (one of the youngest 

Ph.D.'s ever to come out of Johns Hopkins University, in 1919, at age 21) 

served from 1947 to 1958. These two men, of very different backgrounds, 

demeanors, and talents, guided the NACA through the rapid technological 

evolution and sudden revolutions that in less than half a century had taken 

aeronautics on a turbulent whirlwind from the era of wooden biplanes, 

ponderous airships, and subsonic flight into the age of jets, supersonics, 

and rockets at the edge of spacefl.ight.11 

Most critics agreed that the NACA had served the general cause of 

American aeronautics well for more than 40 years. But now in the wake 

of Sputnik, they felt the time had come for a major reorganization and the 

injection of new blood. By early 1958, a growing number of American leaders 

joined in that opinion and were ready to tell the NACA thanks, slap it on 

the back, and bring its experiment in government organization to an end. 

A bold new initiative was required if the United States was to catch up to 

the Soviet Union. Space enthusiast Senator Lyndon B. Johnson, chairman 

of the Senate's new Special Committee on Space and Astronautics, felt this 

* In 1948 civil service requirements had forced the NACA to change the old title to director. No 

one liked the change, certainly not Langley's top man, Henry Reid, who had been engineer-in-charge 

for 22 years, since 1926. The old title had made it clear that an engineer, not a scientist, headed the 

organization. 

10 
The Metamorphosis 

L-90-3751 

The NACA 's directors of Research, George W. Lewis (left) and his successor, Dr. 

Hugh L. Dryden (right). 

way, as did others. They claimed that the old NACA was too timid and too 

conservative about exploring the potential of space. Such critics, as well as 

some "young Thrks" inside the NACA, felt that if the organization was to be 

reincarnated as NASA, then it should be revamped with new personnel and 

additional facilities and charged up by new leaders. 12 Out of this general 

sentiment for major change came the National Aeronautics and Space Act 

of 1958. The Space Act gave NASA an advisory board, but insiders knew 

it could not be the same as it was under the NACA. On NASA's first day, 

1 October 1958, the NACA committee system was essentially discarded. 

Glennan: Welcome to NASA 

At the head of NASA was Dr. T. Keith Glennan. When Eisenhower 

announced Glennan as his choice for the NASA administrator on 9 August 

1958, people at Langley and at other NACA centers asked, who was 

Glennan? They learned that he was the president of Case Institute of 

Technology in Cleveland. Then he must be a member of the NACA Main 

Committee? No, he was a former Hollywood movie mogul and a minor one 

at that, not in the class of a Samuel Goldwyn or Louis B. Mayer. 

These answers, which circulated via the NACA grapevine late in the 

summer of 1958, appalled some NACA employees, did not make much sense 

to most, and made none of _them very happy. In its 15 August edition, 

the Langley Air Scoop, the in-house newspaper, ran a picture of 53-year-old 

11 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Glennan along with a complete biographical sketch provided by Case Institute of Technology. Reading this article, Langley employees found that 

Glennan indeed had been a manager for Paramount and Samuel Goldwyn 

studios during World War II, but that his overall career was marked by 

"achievements in business, education, and the administration of scientific 

research." 13 In recent years he had served on the Atomic Energy Commission and on the board of the National Science Foundation, and he was supposed to have excellent connections in Washington. Considering the highly 

charged and politicized atmosphere now surrounding everything that had to 

do with rockets and space, something finally made sense about Glennan's selection. At ceremonies held in the White House on Tuesday, 19 August, Dr. 

Glennan raised his right hand, put his left on a Bible, and pledged the oath 

as NASA administrator. On the same Bible, close enough to touch the 

ends of his fingers, was the left hand of faithful Methodist lay minister Dr. 

Hugh Dryden, the NACA's director of research. Although many in Congress 

wanted Dryden out of the picture because they tholJ.ght that his quiet, almost mousy personality and conservative approach to launching America 

into space might tarnish the images of youthfulness, dynamism, and boldness they wanted for NASA, Glennan had insisted on making him his deputy 

administrator, and Dryden had accepted.l4 Glennan thought that this selection would help provide continuity and make the metamorphosis into NASA, 

as well as his own administration, easier for NACA people to accept. Other 

NACA headquarters officers came to NASA with Dryden, including John F. 

Victory, the Main Committee's fastidious executive secretary and first employee. (Victory had been working for the NACA since 1915.) Some viewed 

President Eisenhower's appointment of Jimmy Doolittle, the last NACA 

chairman, to his nine-member National Aeronautics and Space Council as 

another gesture toward the NACA old guard. For Eisenhower, however, 

the appointment of Doolittle was more than a gesture. Ike knew Doolittle, 

his former World War II air force commander in North Africa and Europe; 

trusted his judgment; and wanted his moderate, reasonable, and experienced 

voice on the newly formed space council. 

On the morning of 1 October 1958, not a single member of the Langley 

senior staff was likely to have remembered ever meeting Glennan. The new 

NASA administrator had not yet visited Langley or any other NACA facility, 

at least not as the NASA administrator. However, the former Hollywood 

executive had appeared at Langley via motion picture. On 22 September, 

the NACA public affairs officer in Washington, Walter Bonney, sent copies 

of a short 10-minute film, "Glennan Message to NACA Employees," for 

immediate showing at all NACA centers.15 

At Langley, employees gathered in the East Area a few days later to watch 

the film in the air force base's air-conditioned theater, next to the old 19-

Foot Pressure Tunnel, which dated to 1939. From its beginning, something 

about the film made many people in the audience uneasy. Perhaps they were 

disturbed by the Orwellian undertone of the presentation, a confident and 

12 
The Metamorphosis 

L-58-14a 

Glennan introduces himself to the Langley staff via motion picture. 

soothing "Big Brother" message coming to the people electronically from 

the center of government. This message did not come from the NACA's 

staid old headquarters at 1512 H Street NW in Washington (referred to 

as the "Washington office"), but rather from Glennan's new deluxe office 

within the recently acquired suite of NASA administrative offices in the 

Dolly Madison House at nearby 1520 H Street NW. Word had circulated 

that Glennan had had his office suite decorated just like the one he had 

enjoyed as president of Case Institute of Technology. 

The movie opened with the NASA administrator leaning on the front of 

his desk. "I very much want to talk with you about our future," Glennan 

began. But before he described "the mighty big job" that lay ahead for 

NASA, he took time to praise the NACA. He explained that during his 11 

years at Case Institute of Technology in Cleveland, he had worked with many 

people at NACA Lewis. He was both "familiar with [the] NACA's traditions 

and accomplishments" and ~~impressed by the high state of morale and by 

the vigor" with which the NACA conducted its research. 16 Glennan failed 

to mention, however, what he would soon record in his personal diary, his 

opinion that the NACA staff was "composed of reasonably able people," 

lacking experience in the "management of large affairs." 17 According to 

13 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Glennan's first live appearance at Langley in early January 1959. Here he is being 

welcomed by Henry Reid, the center director. 

one member of the Langley senior staff, Glennan "had so little knowledge 

of the organization" at the outset that he did not think its staff "had 

any competence." Upon seeing the huge vacuum spheres belonging to the 

Gas Dynamics Laboratory c:tt Langley, Glennan allegedlyremarked, "NASA 

doesn't have any capability to handle that kind of high pressure stuff. You're 

going to have to get some help from outside to do that, you know." 18 

Despite his true feelings, Glennan stressed in his message that "NASA 

must be like [the] NACA in the qualities of strength and character that 

make an organization great," but he also emphasized the arrival of "a new 

day" at Langley. To describe that new day, the NACA's changeover to 

NASA, Glennan quoted from what he called the "legalistic language" of the 

Space Act: "the NACA shall cease to exist" and "all functions, powers, 

duties, and obligations and all real and personal property, personnel (other 

than members of the Committee), funds, and records" of the NACA were 

to be transferred to NASA. But, he explained, he preferred to think of it 

differently: "I would like to say, and I believe that I am being very realistic 

and very accurate when I do, that what will happen September 30 is a sign 

14 
The Metamorphosis 

of metamorphosis. [It is] an indication of the changes that will occur as we 

develop our capacity to handle the bigger job that is ahead." 19 

The bigger job was outlined in the Space Act, which he encouraged all 

NACA employees to take the time to read, at least its first few pages. 

The job included the "expansion of human knowledge about space ... 

development and operation of vehicles capable of carrying instruments and 

man through space ... long-range studies of the benefits of using aeronautical 

and space activities for peaceful and scientific purposes ... preservation of 

the role of the United States as a leader in aeronautical and space science 

and technology." Glennan also outlined the metamorphosis. The NACA's 

vital function, research into the problems of atmospheric flight, would now 

become "only one part of NASA's activities." To accomplish the goals 

set out in the Space Act, NASA would have to add "new and extremely 

able people" to its staff; administer "substantial programs of research and 

development and procurement with others on a contract basis"; spend 

"large amounts of money outside the agency by contracts with scientific 

and educational institutions and with industry"; use military facilities "such 

as the launching pads at Cape Canaveral"; and operate satellite-tracking 

stations around the world. All this and more had to be done and quickly 

in preparation for a manned flight into space and exploration into the Solar 

System.20 

Finally, Glennan tried to end his message on a high note by quoting 

from a speech that Lyndon Johnson made in August during the Senate 

confirmation hearings of the top two NASA officials: 

There are no blueprints or roadmaps which clearly mark out the course. The limits 

of our job are no less than the limits of the universe. And those are limits which 

can be stated but are virtually impossible to describe. In a sense, the course of the 

new Agency can be compared to the voyage of Columbus to the New World. The 

only difference is that Columbus with his charts drawn entirely from imagination had 

a better idea of his destination than we can possibly have when we step into outer 

space.21 

Most NACA employees filing out of the base theater felt positive and excited 

about what they had heard, but a few cynics might have wondered out loud 

about that last reference to Columbus: "Wasn't he headed for China? And 

didn't he believe to his dying day that he had landed in Asia?" Hopefully, 

NASA had a better idea of its destination and would know where it was 

when it got there. 

Air versus Space 

NACA explorers, unlike Columbus, had a good idea of where they were 

going. They were going into the air faster, farther, higher, and more 

efficiently in a modern engineering marvel that their systematic research into 

15 
Spaceflight Revolution 

In this 1925 photo, NACA pilot Paul King, donned in a furlined leather flight suit with oxygen facepiece, is ready to test a 

Vought VE-7. 

L-1118 

aeronautics over the last 43 years had helped to make possible. Aeronautics 

and the NACA had grown up together; the business of the NACA for its 

entire existence had been to see that American aeronautics continued to 

progress. For NACA veterans who took Glennan's advice and read the 

Space Act of 1958, the time when the airways had been ruled by frail 

wooden biplanes covered with fabric, braced by wires, powered by heavy 

water-cooled engines, and driven by hand-carved wooden propellers did 

not seem so long ago. When 20-year-old Floyd Thompson served as a 

mechanic in Pensacola with the U.S. Navy's first torpedo squadron in 1918, 

the navy's fastest aircraft, an R6L biplane amphibian, had a top speed of 

110 knots and a fuel system with a windmill on the outside to pump fuel 

up to an overhead gravity tank. When flight research operations began at 

NACA Langley a year later, NACA researchers hardly knew the principles 

of aeronautical engineering. Airplane design was still a largely intuitive and 

empirical practice, thus requiring bold speculation and risk taking. In 1920 

the Langley staff copied the design of an existing wind tunnel at the British 

16 
The Metamorphosis 

National Physical Laboratory to fashion their Wind Tunnel No. 1 because 

no one at the NACA knew how to design a wind tunnel.22 

In the decades that followed, the NACA designed more wind tunnels 

than staff members could count (many of them unique facilities) and 

authored more reports on aeronautical technology than any other single 

institution in the world.23 With the aerodynamic information that these 

tunnels and technical reports provided, American universities educated 

most of the country's aeronautical engineers, and U.S. industry became 

the world leader in the manufacture of aircraft. By NASA's first day, 

the NACA had helped to advance aeronautics far beyond the primitive 

state of flight at the end of World War I. Commercial jet airliners were 

beginning to fly passengers comfortably around the world in pressurized 

cabins. Sleek military jets streaked across the skies at speeds in excess of 

Mach 1, greater than the speed of sound. In fact, two McDonnell F-101A 

supersonic jet fighters were being made ready in the hangar for further flight 

testing. (The F-101A was nicknamed "Voodoo" but known to enthusiasts 

as the "One-0-Wonder.") Langley acoustics specialists Domenic Maglieri, 

Harvey Hubbard, and Donald Lansing were taking ground measurements 

of the shock-wave noise produced by one of the F-101As in level flight at 

speeds up to Mach 1.4 and altitudes up to 45,000 feet. A team of engineers 

and technicians supervised by Langley Assistant Director Hartley "Buster" 

Soule, the NACA Research Airplane Project (RAP) leader, was evaluating 

several control systems for the North American XB-70 Valkyrie, a gigantic 

high-altitude, delta-winged bomber of some 550,000 pounds to be-built of 

titanium and stainless steel and capable of flying to Mach 3.24 

As the federal agency responsible for the progress of the nation's aviation 

technology, the NACA had enough to do without getting involved in what 

the public considered "Buck Rogers stuff."* During the first four decades 

of Langley's operation, the idea of working to promote the immediate 

achievement of spaceflight had been too ridiculous for consideration. Into 

the 1940s, NACA researchers were not certain that rockets and missiles were 

a part of aeronautics. Langley veteran Christopher C. Kraft, Jr: (the "C" 

stood for "Columbus"), who later became famous as "The Voice of Project 

Mercury" and the director of NASA's manned spaceflight operations at 

Mission Control in Houston, remembers that before the late 1950s "space" 

was a dirty word: "[It] wasn't even allowed in the NACA library. The 

prevailing NACA attitude was that if it was anything that had to do with 

space that didn't have anything to do with airplanes, [then] why were we 

* Younger readers may need to know that Buck Rogers was a science-fantasy comic strip created by 

Dick Calkins around 1930; the comic strip remained popular until it was terminated in the 1960s. In the 

1950s, it also became a popular television "space opera." As such, "Buck Rogers" significantly influenced 

American popular culture's attitudes about rocketry and space travel. (In the late 1970s, another TV 

show, "Buck Rogers in the 21st Century," went on the air; however, the updated character did not bring 

on a similar craze.) 

17 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-3310 

In this photo taken on 15 March 1922, NACA researchers conduct tests on airfoils 

in the Variable-Density Tunnel, a revolutionary new test chamber that permitted, for 

the first time anywhere in the world, aerodynamic testing at approximately full-scale 

conditions. 

,931 

Drag-cleanup testing of. America's first jet airplane, the Bell P-59, is conducted in 

the Full-Scale Tunnel, May 1944-

18 
The Metamorphosis 

working on it?" 25 One Langley veteran, Ira H. Abbott, recalled that the 

NACA stood "as much chance of injecting itself into space activities in any 

real way as an icicle had in a rocket combustion chamber." In the early 

1950s, Abbott had mentioned the possibility of manned spaceflight to a 

House subcommittee, and one of the congressmen scornfully accused him of 

talking "science fiction." 26 

Nevertheless, by the early 1950s, the NACA had become seriously involved in the study of rockets, missiles, and the potential of spaceflight; 

all of these topics related to aeronautics. Anything that concerned the 

science and technology of flight, whether it be in the atmosphere or beyond, eventually became an interest of the NACA. In the months following Sputnik, NACA leaders tried to capitalize on the agency's research into spaceflight to justify a central role in whatever space program 

came into existence. Acting prudently on behalf of their institution, the 

NACA Langley management and most staff members did everything possible to convince everyone concerned, including the new NASA administrator, 

T. Keith Glennan, that the old NACA laboratory could do and already was 

doing a great deal more than playing with airplanes. 

For example, ,in January 1958, only four months after the launching 

of Sputnik 1, a special Langley committee, surveying current and pending 

projects, documented the NACA's transition to space research. Chairing the 

committee was Langley Assistant Director Robert R. Gilruth, the future 

head of Project Mercury, America's first manned space program. Also 

serving on this committee were Eugene Draley, head of the laboratory's FullScale Research Division (and soon to succeed Robert R. Gilruth as assistant 

director for the Dynamic Loads, Pilotless Aircraft Research, and Structures 

Research Divisions); John V. Becker, chief of Langley's Compressibility 

Research Division; and Charles J. Donlan, technical assistant to Associate 

Director Thompson. The in-house review covered the activities of all 11 

Langley research divisions during fiscal years 1955 and 1957, as well as 

projected activities for fiscal year 1959. Two tables of numbers accompanied 

the committee's final report to Director Reid, and the more important of 

the two indicated that the "research effort" in the fields of hypersonics and 

spaceflight should increase from about 11 percent in 1955 to 54 percent 

in 1959; however, it was unclear what these percentages actually meant 

in terms of money and personnel hours. In fact, Langley management 

derived these percentages from hours spent on projects in the three research 

directorates. 

According to the review, the two most important fields of application 

were satellites and spacecraft, and ballistic missiles. Efforts in these areas 

were to rise from less than 1 percent to 16 percent and from 3 percent to 14 

percent, respectively. In the words of the committee members, "all research 

divisions are adjusting and reorienting manpower, curtailing work in areas 

of lesser importance [and) continually studying and developing the special 

facilities needed to attack these problems," and each division had been doing 

19 
Spaceflight Revolution 

so for some time. "The ability to reorient the Laboratory's efforts to the 

extent shown in the brief time period considered," the report concluded, 

"is due to a considerable extent to active planning for a number of these 

[space-related] fields during recent years." 27 

Langley senior management knew that these figures were authentic. The 

transition to space was happening at Langley, and it had been happening 

there even before Sputnik. Senior management also knew that more than 

a little finagling was done to get the space numbers up as high as possible, 

because they were doing the finagling. What was applicable to "space" and 

what was applicable to "aeronautics" depended on how they defined the 

research programs and divided the disciplines; to differentiate was splitting 

hairs. The Gilruth committee discovered, in January 1958, that much of 

the work at the laboratory, initially instigated to support what the NACA 

had always called the "aeronautics program," could in fact be conveniently 

reclassified as space research. In addition, Langley was working on many 

projects that honestly involved both aeronautics and space (truly "aerospace" research), yet could be classified as one or the other depending on 

what the center desired to emphasize.28 In the post-Sputnik era of national 

debate over the makeup of a new space agency, now was unquestionably 

the time to emphasize space, an emphasis on which Langley's future would 

depend. 

However, almost no one at Langley on the first day of NASA would have 

thought that the time had come to abandon the quest for improved aeronautical performance. Many great technological advances remained to be 

achieved in aeronautics: greater speeds, bigger airplanes, and superior flight 

efficiencies. Already in flight were radically new aircraft like Lockheed's 

supersonic F-104 Starfighter, the still-secret U-2 strategic reconnaissance 

"spy plane," and Convair's B-58 delta-winged bomber, which was capable 

of Mach 2. On the horizon were important developments, such as new helicopter applications, tilt wing, and other innovative vertical and short takeoff and landing (V/STOL) capabilities. Additionally, new high-performance 

wings with unusual degrees of backward and even forward sweep were being 

designed at Langley and elsewhere. One of the wings of the future would 

probably have some form of variable sweep, like those Langley's foremost 

expert on high-speed aerodynamics, John Stack, had seen on a model of the 

arrow-winged Swallow aircraft in England. This wing would no doubt be 

part of a commercial supersonic transport (SST) that before too long would 

be taking airline passengers from New York to London or Paris in a few 

hours. 29 Even more dear to the heart of some aerospace enthusiasts was 

the first of the next generation of research airplanes, North American Aviation's rocket-powered X-15, designed for the exploration of the hypersonic 

speed regime up to Mach 6, as well as the hypersonic boost-glider program, 

known as Project Dyna-Soar, sponsored jointly by the U.S. Air Force and 

NASA. In one of these "envelopes," many NACA/NASA engineers felt, an 

American might first fly into space. 30 

20 
The Metamorphosis 

L-59-3817 

A model of the Swallow arrow-wing aircraft is .tested in the 16-Foot Transonic Tunnel 

in June 1959. The British hoped that .a research airplane derived from the Swallow 

configuration would be the progenitor of a commercial SST. 

In 1958 two Langley researchers install a one-tenth scale model of the X-15 rocket 

plane in the Langley 7 X 10-Foot lligh-Speed Tunnel to study its spin characteristics. 

21 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Clearly, now was no time to take a hiatus from aeronautics. Although 

many congressional leaders and probably even the American people as a 

whole forgot the second word in the National Aeronautics and Space Act, 

calling it "the Space Act," most of the research staff at Langley took a 

different view. As preliminary drafts of the Space Act made their way to 

the NACA laboratory for review in the spring and early summer of 1958, 

aeronautically oriented staff members like RAP leader Hartley Soule and 

supersonics pioneer John Stack read them and said to one another, "Well, 

we're not doing that. Let those guys [up in Washington] go ahead and write 

it up, [but] we'll just [keep doing] what's necessary and get on with the 

program." Unlike the ardent space buffs, these men read the Space Act to 

mean that they "were supposed to pick up the space program" in addition 

to aeronautics not that they "were supposed to get out of aeronautics." 31 

A few days after passage of the Space Act, U.S. Army representatives 

visited Langley to find out who was going to take care of their aircraft 

engine problems now that the NACA was about to be dissolved in favor of a 

space agency. The surprised Langley people answered, "Well, we are! We're 

here and we know what we are doing, and under NASA, we will just keep 

doing it." 32 That literal view of the Space Act calmed the military visitors 

and reassured their hosts. If Langley people had known that the national 

commitment to space was going to. "backburner" their traditionally strong 

aeronautical programs for years to come, they might not have responded so 

glibly to questions about the changeover. 

In the following years, the aeronautics effort at Langley decreased 

significantly; at its lowest level, it shrank to about 25 percent of the center's 

total labor hours. Nonetheless, aeronautics was never allowed to die at 

Langley. Even during the rushed days of the Apollo lunar landing program 

in the 1960s, fruitful aeronautical programs quietly proceeded behind the 

scenes. Langley managed to retain a dedicated cadre of aeronautical people 

even when NASA recruited talent primarily in support of the space program. 

But for John Stack, Hartley Soule, and likewise air-minded NACA veterans, 

aeronautical research would often seem nearly forgotten at Langley. 

The Public Eye 

Most of those working in aviation knew about the NACA through 

exposure to NACA reports and articles concerning NACA research in 

aeronautical engineering magazines and other trade journals. But none of 

the NACA's operations had high public profiles, not even at the local level. 

Until1958 most Americans knew nothing about the NACA. Before World 

War II, some congressmen did not know it existed. Even the people near 

Langley Field ignored the place. As Langley engineer and Hampton native 

Caldwell (pronounced-Cad-well) Johnson remembers, "It [the NACA] wasn't 

like NASA. The press didn't care about it-to them it was a dull bunch 

22 
The Meta morphosis 

of gray buildings with gray people who worked with slide rules and wrote 

long e~uations on the board." Brain-busters like that were better-off left 

alone.3 Ironically, throughout its entire history, the only time the NACA 

was a high-profile agency was after Eisenhower had selected it as the nucleus 

for NASA. 

At times the NACA's obscurity put the agency at a disadvantage. The 

NACA could not rely on the strength of favorable public opinion in its 

campaigns for appropriations; such battles had to be fought and won quietly 

in private conferences in hallways or smoke-filled rooms with admirals, 

generals, and congressmen. These "gold-braided personages" made the case 

for the NACA to Congress, when it was necessary for a case to be made. 

Handling much of this delicate politicking from 1919 until his retirement 

in 1947 was the NACA's shrewd, cigar-smoking director of research, "Doc" 

Lewis (1892-1948). Although the gregarious Lewis and his successor, the 

quieter and scientifically sharper Dr. Hugh Dryden, usually acquired the 

necessary backing for NACA projects, they experienced many close calls. 

The closest one came in December 1932 when President Herbert Hoover, 

looking to reduce expenditures and increase efficiency in government, had 

ordered the NACA abolished and most of its resources handed over to the 

Bureau of Standards. However, House Democrats, anticipating the first 

term of Franklin D. Roosevelt, overrode the lame-duck executive order, and 

the NACA survived.34 

On balance, however, the advantages of the NACA's invisibility outweighed the few disadvantages. It certainly benefited the researchers; most 

of them thought NACA Langley was a wonderful place to work and "just 

a splendid organization." 35 Although administrative policies and bureaucratic guidelines involving anything related to the laboratory's communication with the outside world (such as mail, telephone calls, and technical 

reports) were rather prescriptive, considerable leniency existed in the performance of in-house research. Individuals could follow their own ideas quite 

far without formal approval from superiors. Any scheme that survived peer 

discussion and won the approval of the research section was likely to be 

implemented. If funding was not formally available to build a given windtunnel model, flight instrument, minor test facility component, or the like, 

employees were usually able to "bootleg" what they needed from resources 

appropriated to approved projects. As long as the initiative offered something promising, did not cost too much, and did not have the potential to 

get the NACA into real trouble, NACA managers rarely complained or put 

tight reins on the researchers. Within the laboratory, few barriers limited 

innovation and the free dissemination of knowledge; the young engineers 

could discuss their work comfortably with everyone from the technicians in 

the shops to the division chief.36 

Such freedoms existed because neither the NACA's own management, 

other government bureaucrats, nor newspaper or magazine journalists (or 

the American people as a whole) spent much time looking over the shoulders 

23 
Spaceflight Revolution 

of NACA researchers. The NACA shared what it did with major clients; 

the how was kept more or less within the NACA itself. Moreover, almost 

none of NACA Langley's research work involved contracts with outsiders; 

everything was accomplished in-house. As Caldwell Johnson has noted 

about the NACA, "It had the best wind tunnels, the best model-builders, 

the best technicians, the most rigorous standards." Nothing gave Langley 

people more pride than being a part of such an autonomous organization. 37 

If Langley engineers had cultivated any public image before NASA, it 

had been that of the "NACA Nuts." All the local hardware salesmen and 

auto dealers recognized them a mile away, and if it had not been for the 

federal paychecks that the NACA folks brought to the local economy, the 

natives would have dreaded to see them coming. Not only were most NACA 

Nuts overeducated Yankees, they were brilliant technical types who wanted 

to know the revolutions per minute (rpm) of their vacuum sweepers and 

ordered lumber cut to the sixteenth of an inch. Funny stories about their 

eccentricities abounded, leading everyone from Yorktown to Newport News 

to think that anyone from the NACA had to be either a weirdo or a screwball. 

The truth was that most locals in those days had not the faintest idea 

what the NACA people did. Few residents even distinguished the NACA 

from the army (and later the air force) at Langley Field. Langley was 

all about flying and noisy airplanes that woke residents before their alarm 

clocks went off. But the people at the NACA were not concerned about 

the confusion. Being grouped with the soldiers in uniform was often useful 

camouflage. This camouflage was especially helpful during World War II 

when hard feelings were expressed by local families who saw their boys 

going off to war while NACA men were able to stay put because of a special 

deal made between the NACA and the Selective Service System.38 

In 1958 the natives still poked fun at the NACA Nuts, but they did so in a 

more friendly way. Previously, a friction similar to that felt typically between 

university "town and gown" had determined much about the HamptonLangley relationship. The softening of hard feelings between locals and the 

NACA was due in large part to the marriage of many Langley engineers 

to area women and their subsequent assimilation into local society. For 

instance, the wife of Langley's number two man in 1958, Associate Director 

Floyd Thompson, was Jean Geggie, a native Hamptonian whose father 

carved wooden figureheads for ships at the nearby Newport News shipyard. 

By the 1950s, NACA employees had become pillars of the community. 

Thompson himself had been a member of the Hampton Rotary Club for 

several years and had served on the board of directors of the local "Dixie 

General" hospital. (In the late 1960s, partly through Thompson's efforts, 

the hospital board voted to drop the racially inflammatory name "Dixie" 

and renamed the hospital Hampton General.) Furthermore, in the turbulent 

and scary weeks following the first Soviet space launches, the scientists and 

engineers "over at Langley Field" became reassuring figures. Here, right in 

their midst, many locals felt, were experts who could explain the meaning of 

24 
The Meta morphosis 

This 1950 aerial photo of Langley shows the original East A rea along the Back River 

(bottom) and the West Area, constructed during World War II (top). 

the foreign objects orbiting ominously overhead. Interviewed for stories by 

the local newspapers, NACA personnel discussed the progress of American 

space efforts and helped calm local hysteria. Hamptonians developed greater 

appreciation for the technical talents of Langley personnel, and the once 

tepid feelings about the NACA warmed. 

With the transition to NASA, the public spotlight would inevitably shine 

on Langley. Personnel would soon figure out that the NACA attitude toward 

public relations had to change. In the old days, most N ACA staff members 

could have cared less about public opinion. They only cared about the 

opinion of generals, congressmen, and other powerful people who could 

influence the budget and appropriation processes. With NASA, however, 

things had to be different. Beginning the day after the launch of Sputnik 1, 

researchers had to make their case before .a much more concerned public. 

Without hesitating, they got right to it. 

25 

2 

The First NASA Inspection 

It was, by all odds, a superlative display. 

Our sincere thanks for a superbly designed, brilliantly 

mounted, and perceptive look at the very general goals 

man must achieve before he becomes a space traveler. 

-Editorial, Newport News Daily Press 

27 October 1959 

On Saturday morning, 24 October 1959, a little more than a year 

after the metamorphosis of the NACA into NASA, approximately 20,000 

visitors marched through the gates of Langley Field to attend a public open 

house that was being held in conjunction with NASA's First Anniversary 

Inspection. The NACA's first anniversary had passed unnoticed; NASA's 

proved to be a controlled mob scene. 1 

The crowds came at NASA's invitation. Local newspapers and community groups had spread the word: for the first time in its 42-year history, 

Langley Research Center was admitting curious outsiders into the previously 

sheltered sanctuary of aeronautical research. NASA scientists, engineers, 

and technicians would show the public just what the new space agency had 

been doing to launch their country into space. Throughout the day, men, 

women, and children streamed through the huge NASA aircraft hangar as 

well as through two other large buildings full of exhibits that represented a 

cross section of NASA programs. Escorting the visitors was a handpicked 

group of articulate and polite NASA employees whose job was to handle the 

pedestrian traffic, guide the visitors through the buildings included in the 

program, and explain the exhibits. 

The visitors moved "in fascination" past the many marvels on display.2 

They saw helicopters and aircraft, including a Chance Vought F8U-3 navy 

supersonic jet fighter used by NASA for sonic-boom research over Wallops 

Island; a Vertol 76, the world's first tilt-wing aircraft; a ground-effect vehicle 

designed to move over a cushion of air that the unusual craft created between 

its base and the ground; a ·display about the possibilities of SST flight 

27 
Spaceflight Revolution 

(subsonic commercial jet flights across the Atlantic had only been made 

for about a year); a full-size mock-up of the air force/NASA X-15 rocketpowered research airplane; plus dozens of static and dynamic demonstrations 

involving wind tunnels, electrically powered models, electromagnetism, 

research instrumentation, as well as several examples of NASA technical 

reports. 

Towering above all and attracting the most attention was a large fleet of 

space vehicles and rockets. This collection included a model of the original 

German V-2 rocket engine; a full-size version of the Thor-Able missile, which 

had been used to launch a number of U.S. space probes; a 19-foot Discoverer 

satellite to be used in polar-orbit research; a full-scale Little Joe rocket that 

was part of the Mercury program; a 72-foot Scout rocket to be used for 

general space research purposes; a six-stage rocket vehicle used for reentry 

physics studies at Wallops Island; and a 6-foot model of the world with 

orbital traces of the major satellites launched by the United States. 

The public was so eager to see these wonders of mc:>dern technology that 

visitors had started forming lines around the exhibits as early as 8:00 a.m. 

even though the program was not scheduled to begin until 10:00 a.m., and 

they continued to swarm around the exhibits throughout the day. Most 

of the visitors were residents of the Peninsula area, but the license plates 

on some of the cars indicated that several had traveled from more remote 

parts of Virginia and a few had come from as far away as Georgia and 

Tennessee.3 For the NASA Langley staff, "The Nice NASA Show For 

The People," as one local editor called it, was quite an eye-opener. No 

one expected the general public to be so curious about NASA's research 

programs.4 

After World War II, family members and friends of Langley personnel 

had been welcome on occasion to attend briefings and watch demonstrations 

"boiled down" from recently concluded NACA inspections (annual conferences for aeronautical insiders only). Never before the 1959 inspection, 

however, had Langley put on an open house involving more than just the 

center's employees and their families. Langley had neither a visitors' center 

(until 1971) nor any other regular means to handle many outsiders; none 

was necessary given the NACA's low profile and the limited public interest 

in what was going on inside a place that some locals referred to as "Sleepy 

Hollow." 

The unprecedented public open house came at the end of a week-long 

closed affair modeled after the old NACA annual inspections. Up to 400 

people a day had attended these NACA conferences. Although they came 

by direct invitation to learn about NACA programs, most guests already 

knew quite a bit about these programs because conference attendees were 

the patrons and clients of the NACA. Representatives from military aviation, 

the aircraft industry, and the airlines, and a few people from government 

28 
The First NASA Inspection 

L-59-8075 L-59-8097 

A mock-up of the Mercury space capsule appears to land by parachute on Langley's 

"Mercury Support" exhibit at the October 1959 event (top). At bottom left, 

Langley Director Henry Reid {middle}, former Langley researcher and soon-to-benamed head of the new Office of Advanced Research Programs (OARP} at NASA 

headquarters Ira H. Abbott (right), and an unidentified guest stare up at the capsule 

mounted atop a model of the Atlas booster rocket. At bottom right, Langley 

Associate Director Floyd L. Thqmpson {middle}, with Coke bottle in hand, and 

NASA Administrator Glennan (left} chat with guests and associates in front of the 

globe showing the orbital traces of previously launched American satellites. 

29 
Spaceflight Revolution 

and the trade journal media had been the only visitors invited to the NACA 

inspections.* 

No one at NASA headquarters had been sure whether to continue the 

tradition of the NACA inspection, which by the 1950s was rotating annually 

among Langley, Lewis, and Ames. The inspection was such a long-running 

show, having premiered at Langley in 1926, and its actors, settings, and 

stage directions were so closely identified with the NACA that some NASA 

officials wondered whether the event would serve the interests of NASA's new 

mission. But in the opinion of many others, including Dr. Hugh Dryden, 

NASA's deputy administrator, the inspection offered NASA an excellent 

means of publicizing what it had accomplished during its first year to achieve 

the nation's new objectives in aeronautics and space. "From a publicity 

point of view," read one NASA Langley document that outlined the general 

purpose of the proposed inspection, "the exhibits will present to the audience 

not only our aims and objectives, but the research background that led to 

the 'present-day' and future space developments." In other words, NASA 

could make the point, both directly and indirectly, that "pioneering 'inhouse' research is a first prerequisite to successful aeronautic and space 

developments." 5 

Although this emphasis on in-house capabilities did not match 

Keith Glennan's agenda for NASA (Glennan wanted to see more research 

being done by outside contractors), the overall objective of the plan persuaded the administrator. He decided that, in October 1959, NASA would 

hold its First Anniversary Inspection, a sort of public show-and-tell event. 

Because NASA was a new agency with different objectives and a much 

wider scope than its predecessor, a few things about the inspection were 

to be done differently. Not only was NASA to have an open house for 

the general public, it must also invite several foreign guests. While the 

NACA had discouraged their attendance, NASA had vested programmatic 

interests in (and mandated legal obligations to) foreign nations, which meant 

that some foreign scientists, diplomatic representatives, and members of the 

foreign press corps had to be invited to attend. At NASA headquarters, 

the Office of International Programs, under Henry E. Billingsley, and the 

Office of Space Flight Development, under Abe Silverstein, were in charge 

of issuing these invitations. 

Although NASA had to aggressively pitch its program to the taxpayers, 

which meant packaging it as attractively as possible, the 1959 inspection 

was virtually the same ritual that the NACA had always orchestrated for 

the visitors. After registering at the base gymnasium starting at 8:00 a.m., 

the guests moved to an introductory session in the base theater from 8:50 to 

* Some headquarters officials did not like the name "inspection," which had been in use since the 

1940s. They argued that it did not accurately convey what happened in the program. They suggested 

"exhibition," "observance," ."annual meeting," and a number of other substitutes, but none of these 

names was adopted. 

30 
The First NASA Inspection 

L-59-8081 

Administrator Glennan spends a few minutes in front of the Mercury capsule exhibit 

with Walter Bonney, NASA's first director of the office of public information. 

Bonney, who had worked for the NACA from 1949 to 1958, never found much 

favor in Glennan's employ. Glennan criticized Bonney harshly for his outdated, 

NACA approach to the public information field. 

9:00 a.m. and from there went to a brief technical program in the cavernous 

test section of the Full-Scale Tunnel. Pinned to the coat of every guest was 

an identification badge with the person's name and tour group. 

For the extended tour of the laboratory, Langley continued the old 

NACA practice of dividing the guests into color-coded groups, in this 

case into 10 groups of no more than 40 persons each. Each group had 

its own bus with a color-coded sign in the window, its own escorts and 

attaches, its own schedule to keep, and, at least in the minds of the 

inspection organizers, its own personality. NASA management wanted a 

mix of people in every group, but it also wanted the group members to be 

compatible. As expected, the gold group included dignitaries and VIPs. 

The brown and tan groups had the majority of the journalists, and the 

pink group included the few women who were invited. The red group 

comprised most of NASA's leaders. On the first day of the inspection, 

Tuesday, 20 October, Langley hypersonics specialist John V. Becker was 

the guide for the red group, which included Robert R. Gilruth, head of 

the new Space Task Group (STG); NASA Administrator Glennan; NASA 

Deputy Administrator Dryden; NASA Executive Secretary John F. Victory; 

NASA Goddard Director Harry J. Goett; NASA Ames Director Smith J. 

DeFrance; NASA Flight Research Center Chief Paul F. Bikle; Wallops 

31 
Spaceflight Revolution 

1"59-7828 

Four Langley secretaries serving as hostesses for the inspection take a look inside 

the cockpit of a full-size mock-up of the X-15. 

Station Engineer-in-Charge Robert L. Krieger; plus several lesser officials 

from NASA headquarters. Also in the group were a few important men 

from the aerospace industry, the airlines, and the armed forces.6 

Although some NASA personnel came to the inspection as guests, most 

came to Langley to report on the progress of the work at their respective 

centers. NASA Lewis sent an exhibit that demonstrated the relative 

merits of low-thrust space propulsion .systems, including chemical, nuclearhydrogen, and electrical rockets. NASA Ames contributed a display showing 

the physics of high-velocity impact in space and the potential dangers of 

meteoroid collision with spacecraft. For its part, the NASA Flight Research 

Center at Edwards AFB had contracted with North American Aviation 

for a mock-up of the X-15 and of the XLR-99 rocket engine along with 

a dummy pilot dressed in a pressure suit. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory 

(JPL) in Pasadena, California, formerly operated by the California Institute 

of Technology, had transferred to NASA in December 1958. The laboratory 

sent a small display and a team of scientists to present the story of the Vega 

rocket; at the time of the inspection, NASA thought that this three-stage 

booster would take a number of future vehicles and payloads into space, even 

into lunar orbit, but the proposed $65-million development program would 

be cancelled only two months after the inspection. The new Goddard Space 

Flight Center was still a part of the Naval Research Laboratory (NRL) at its 

Anacostia location pending construction ·of an independent NASA facility 

32 
The First NASA Inspection 

at Greenbelt, Maryland. Goddard contributed a display featuring several 

examples of lightweight inflatable structures that had applications for use 

in satellites and spacefl.ight.7 

As was becoming to the host center, NASA Langley presented by far 

the greatest number and variety of exhibits. Langley staff built displays 

and gave illustrated talks on many space subjects: the nature of the 

space environment, reentry physics, and manned reentry vehicles such as 

ballistic capsules, high-drag gliders, and high lift-drag boost-gliders. Langley 

engineers also reported on aeronautical programs, notably the X-15, Vertol 

76, and an SST airplane. Langley even supplemented Ames's display of 

high-velocity impacts in space with graphic results of its own experiments 

on the subject. 

Following the NACA Way 

According to the NACA's policy of triennial rotation among its three 

major research centers, it was "by the numbers" Langley's turn to host the 

1959 inspection. However, NASA probably would have held the inspection 

there regardless of the rotation. The assistant chief of the Full-Scale 

Research Division and Langley's coordinator for the technical program, Axel 

Mattson, remembers with pride: 

There was only one place that could put on that show .... There was no other place 

for it to go. . . . If it had been someplace else, the overall presentation wouldn't 

have been as good, and the emphasis might have been slightly different.8 

In other words, Langley had the most experience in staging this event. 

Langley was also the oldest NACA facility and the NASA center closest 

to Washington, D.C., thus making it convenient to congressional and other 

powerful visitors. Perhaps most importantly, Langley was the place where 

the stars of the space program-the STG and its astronauts-were in 

training for the first U.S. manned space effort, Project Mercury. 

Axel Mattson was a big, likeable, and loquacious engineer who loved the 

showmanship and conviviality of past inspections. In the weeks prior to 

the 1959 event, his job was to confer with the other NASA centers and to 

help them plan their participation in the inspection. In the cases of Ames, 

Lewis, Wallops, and the Flight Research Center at Muroc, Mattson's help 

was only minimal because the staffs at the former NACA facilities knew 

what an inspection demanded. They understood the rigorous standards for 

quality presentations and were ready for the customary competition among 

the centers for the best exhibits. All of the centers "tried to out-do one 

another" with the most sophisticated displays and demonstrations, Mattson 

recalls. "At least we thought they were sophisticated, let's put it that way." 9 

33 
Spaceflight Revolution 

The 1959 Anniversary Inspection was the first time that all the NASA 

facilities were participating, and those facilities included two that had not 

been part of the NACA-JPL and Goddard.* Mattson was responsible 

for encouraging the staffs of these new centers to develop appropriate 

and effective presentations for the inspection. "I had a dog and pony 

show," Mattson remembers. "I took slides with me from previous NACA 

conferences" to show them what went on. He assembled the initiates in 

a conference room, making sure that people "with enough horsepower" to 

make the right things happen were in the audience, and then he briefed 

them on what an inspection was about and the purposes it served.10 

Mattson tried his best to be polite and not to act arrogant while 

educating the non-NACA staffs about the do's and don'ts of an inspection, 

but he still did not receive a warm welcome at either of the two non-NACA 

centers. In fact, at Goddard's temporary home within the NRL, he feared 

he would "be tarred and feathered." Typically, any organization that had 

been "navy" had superb loyalty among its staff and was very closed, even 

resentful of outsiders. In the opinion of the Goddard staff members, the 

inspection "was just something that the NACA did, and they didn't think 

much of it." 11 

In particular, the navy personnel did not like the idea of rehearsals. In 

advance of NACA inspections, staff members customarily rehearsed their 

talks in their own research divisions and then sweated through another 

performance a week or so before the event as part of a fully staged dress 

rehearsal with center management and several key officials from NACA 

headquarters as the audience. For all the Washington office people to come 

down to Langley and critique the inspection material was a "big thing." 

Dr. Dryden, John Victory, and others "all had a grand time with that." 

Some laboratory employees complained privately about "having to put on 

a parade for their parents," but most had reconciled themselves to the 

imposition. By 1959, NACA veterans like Mattson saw the NACA practice 

of rehearsals as the only way to guarantee the success of such a complex 

show. Mattson had to convince NASA's new partners of the importance of 

all the planning and preparations. The staff at Goddard was unimpressed by 

Mattson's explanations. A few of the more indignant told Mattson: "You 

won't rehearse me. My gosh, I'm an expert, you know. Who's going to 

critique what I say?" But Mattson held his ground and told them they 

* The ABMA (Army Ballistic Missile Agency) under Dr. Wernher von Braun at the Redstone Arsenal 

in Huntsville, Alabama, did not become a part of NASA until their "shotgun marriage" was consummated 

by a vote of Congress in February 1960, but the decision to transfer the ABMA to NASA was actually 

finalized in October 1959, the month of the first NASA inspection. A number of ABMA representatives 

attended the NASA inspection. So, too, did the mayor of Huntsville. 

34 
The First NASA Inspection 

Ir-59-7831 

In this picture from the 1959 inspection, Axel Mattson (right) confers with John 

Stack, a devoted airplane man who surely experienced mixed feelings about the affair 

because of its emphasis on space rather than aeronautics. 

would have to do it. Thinking back, Mattson calls his visits to the nonNACA installations "interesting sessions," and he singles out the first NASA 

inspection as "the most difficult inspection of them all to put together." 12 

Other N ACA veterans have also commented on the difficulties of the new 

fraternal relationships within NASA. "There wasn't any love lost between 

us," remembers Langley's Charles J. Donlan. "I really shouldn't say 'love 

lost' because the people really didn't know one another." But "all the NRL 

guys" came "kicking and screaming into this new organization" that they 

thought was "going to be overwhelmed by the NACA bunch." 13 Everyone 

needed time to get over these psychological barriers and realize that they 

were all working as a team. A few people, some say particularly at Goddard, 

were never able to accept the partnership. 

Strained interaction among NASA centers represents a key tension in the 

story of NASA that historians have not explored fully. In the first NASA 

inspection, a vestige of the old NACA culture won out over other integral 

parts of NASA; in the ensuing years, the culture of the NACA research 

laboratories, dominant in the early years of NASA, would in many ways 

be overwhelmed and superseded by those at the more hardware-oriented 

and operations-oriented spaceflight and spacecraft centers in Huntsville, 

Houston, and at Cape Canaveral. This turnabout, which would have seemed 

unlikely in the earliest days of NASA, was made inevitable by the large 

manned spaceflight programs of the 1960s and 1970s. The biggest bucks 

would be spent on the more industrial side of NASA, as they still are. 

In the end, everyone at Goddard and JPL agreed to do their part in the 

1959 inspection. As mentioned earlier, Goddard staff sent an exhibit that 

featured four erectable space. structures, but they did so only after Langley 

35 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-59-7275 

The small exhibit area on space science and technology provided by .the Goddard 

Space Flight Center. 

had proposed that Goddard send an exhibit dealing with reentry physics. 

The JPL group sent an exhibit about the soon-to-be-cancelled Vega project. 

Both exhibits were prepared with the help of outside design consultants. 

The NASA representatives sent to Langley with those exhibits were "awful 

proud" of what they had done. "After all the trials and tribulations of 

getting them organized and getting them going," Mattson states, "they 

walked around like peacocks" strutting their stuff .and showing off their 

exhibits. 14 

Interestingly, after getting the new centers to cooperate and to do it the 

NACA way, some NACA veterans still found reasons to criticize. "For my 

money," Smith J. DeFrance, the director of Ames, wrote to Henry Reid, the 

director of Langley: 

the stops [on the tour] by your group were far superior to the Jet Propulsion 

Laboratory's stop and especially the Goddard Space Flight Center's stop. As you 

know, both of these were prepared by so-called specialists in the field of exhibition. 

Neither of the stops came up to the degree of perfection that was demonstrated by 

your own people.15 

DeFrance had come to work at NACA Langley in 1922; Reid had come 

in 1921. They had followed the NACA way for so long that they found it 

36 
The First NASA Inspection 

difficult to value any other. But Reid's answer did reflect an openness to the 

new NASA partnerships. "Letters are pouring in from many of the visitors," 

he wrote DeFrance, "and I feel that this inspection has certainly been very 

much worthwhile, not only because of the impression made on people outside 

our organization but also the impression made on many of our new members 

of the organization." Despite the problems convincing new members of the 

importance of an inspection, Reid summed up the experience as positive: 

"We were indeed very fortunate in having the excellent teamwork, even from 

our new organization, JPL." The teamwork of Goddard, to the extent that 

it materialized, Reid did not mention. 16 

Project Mercury 

"Ladies and gentlemen, at this stop we shall discuss Project Mercury," 

announced the NASA engineer as another busload of visitors to the 1959 

inspection found their way to the cold metal folding chairs set up in rows 

inside the West Area's Aircraft Loads Calibration building. Eight young 

members of the STG working in teams of two took turns giving this talk. 

The script of the presentation had been finalized just a day or two before 

the inspection to ensure an up-to-date report. 

The STG speakers did not bother to introduce themselves (they had been 

told not to), and their identities would not have meant much to most people 

in the audience. They were Edison M. Fields and Jerome Hammack, Systems 

Test Branch; Elmer A. Horton, Control Central and Flight Safety Section; 

Milton B. Windler, Recovery Operations Branch; John D. Hodge, Operations Division; Carl R. Russ, Trajectory Analysis Section; John E. Gilkey, 

Engineering Branch; and Norman F. Smith, Engineering and Contract Administration. As it turned out, some of these men were destined to play 

major roles in NASA's subsequent manned space programs. 17 

"The possibility of venturing into space," the inspection talk began, "has 

shifted quite recently from the fantasy of science fiction to the realm of 

actuality. Today, space flight is considered well within the range of man's 

capabilities." Only five days after its establishment, NASA had formed 

the STG to design and implement, as quickly as possible, a manned satellite 

project. NASA put veteran NACA researcher Robert R. Gilruth, the former 

head of Langley's Pilotless Aircraft Research Division (PARD), in charge; 

based the group at Langley; and named the Project Mercury after the fleetfooted Roman god of commerce, who served as messenger of the gods. 18 The 

speakers proudly declared the mission of Project Mercury: to send "this 

nation's first space traveler into orbit about the earth," to study "man's 

37 
Spaceflight Revolution 

NACA veteran Robert R. Gilruth directed Project Mercury from offices at 

Langley. 

L-59-57 

capabilities in space flight," and to assure "the safe return of the capsule 

and its pilot to the earth." l9 

The STG plan was to send a small one-person spacecraft into orbit using 

the existing Atlas intercontinental ballistic missile as the launch vehicle and 

a ballistic reentry module as the crew capsule. After a few passes around the 

earth, retrorockets would fire to slow the satellite and thus initiate descent 

from orbit. After reentry into the atmosphere-accomplished safely thanks 

to the capsule's blunt ablative heat shield-a large parachute would deploy 

to carry the capsule on its final approach and land it in the open sea. The 

capsule and the astronaut would be recovered by helicopter and brought 

home aboard a naval vessel. 

The Mercury plan was a bold yet essentially conservative engineering 

concept, and it was to be almost unbelievably successful. By May 1963, it 

resulted in the successful launches of six Americans into space, thus leading 

to some two and one-half days of flight time in space. Although glitches 

and other vexing technical problems would plague virtually every Mercury 

mission, no major accidents occurred. "We were pretty lucky," one leader of 

Project Mercury remembers. "In retrospect, we wouldn't dare do it again 

under the same circumstances. But that's true of most pioneering ventures. 

You wouldn't dare fly across the ocean with one engine like Lindbergh did, 

either, would you?" 20_ 

38 
The First NASA Inspection 

DEVElOPMENTS FOR MANNED FLIGHT IN SPACE 

~150 MILE ORBIT 

--------------------~ /"-- ---=-~--..._ ~--(;)_-

~- -~--- / 

-- [ROCKET -----,,~EENTRY // 

BRAKING / ---\ff , ,'// j.-FIRST STAGE I 

\ 

\ 

L-59-1167 

A diagram used at the first NASA inspection to illustrate the basic concept of a 

Mercury man-in-space mission. 

Without question, the Project Mercury stop was the featured attraction 

of NASA's entire anniversary show. In 1959 everyone around the country 

was obsessed with beating the Soviets to manned spaceflight, and that 

obsession soon included the men who would actually pilot the .spacecraft. 

Introduced to the public for the first time in April1959, NASA's astronauts 

were not yet the golden boys they eventually became, but with the national 

media already bearing down on them and NASA's public affairs officers 

polishing the seven former test pilots' armor to a blinding shimmer, the 

future knights of spaceflight had already acquired star quality. They were 

national heroes before they did anything heroic. Some of their luster was lost 

in August 1959, if only temporarily, when the astronauts sold the exclusive 

rights to their personal stories to Time-Life for one-half million dollars. To 

most Americans this seemed an excessive amount of money; at that time the 

federal minimum wage was a mere $1 an hour. The resulting controversy 

over the ethics of the deal was fueled largely by Life's legitimately disgruntled 

competition and did not really do much to damage the public's growing love 

affair with their handsome, if not yet "launched," astronauts.21 

A few minutes into their talk at the Project Mercury stop, the STG 

speakers dimmed the lights and showed a short motion picture devoted 

to "the seven brave young men who have been chosen as the Mercury 

astronauts." 22 First as a group, then one by one, the film introduced them, 

39 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-71-2971 

The "Original Seven": {left to right} Carpenter, Cooper, Glenn, Grissom, Schirra, 

Shepard, and Slayton. 

just as each had been introduced with such flair during the sensational opening press conference at NASA headquarters on 9 April1959. The "Original 

Seven" were Air Force Capts. Leroy G. Cooper, Jr. (later called L. Gordon), 

Virgil I. "Gus" Grissom, and Donald K. "Deke" Slayton; naval aviators 

Lt. Malcolm S. Carpenter (who preferred "M. Scott"}, Lt. Comdr. Alan B. 

Shepard, Jr., and Lt. Comdr. Walter M. Schirra, Jr.; and Lt. Col. John H. 

Glenn, Jr., of the Marine Corps. Everyone knew that one of these men 

would soon be the first American, possibly the first human, to venture into 

space; one of the seven was destined to become the greatest technological 

hero since Lindbergh. 

The Mercury astronauts were the survivors of an extraordinarily elaborate and rigorous search process that the STG had used to solicit applications from and to evaluate candidate astronauts. At the start nobody 

knew what sort or degree of skill, education, and training space pilots would 

need. So-called specialists in crew selection proposed that NASA choose the 

astronauts from "people in dangerous professions, such as race car drivers, 

mo11ntain climbers, scuba divers, as well as test pilots." But the STG was 

committed to the idea of test pilots from the beginning; with just any old 

breed of daredevil on board, the delegation of critical flight control and 

40 
The First NASA Inspection 

command functions to the crew in the capsule would be much more difficult. When President Eisenhower decided that astronauts would.be chosen 

from a military test-pilot pool, Gilruth and associates all "breathed a sigh 

of relief." 23 

A key person in the screening and final selection of the Mercury astronauts was Langley's Charles J. Donlan. Formerly the free-lance technical 

assistant to Floyd Thompson, Donlan was now serving as Gilruth's deputy. 

Working on a crash schedule basis, Donlan headed the NASA/Department 

of Defense (DOD) team, which included a psychologist on loan to NASA 

from the National Science Foundation. The team established the final seven 

evaluation criteria: 

1. Less than 40 years old 

2. Less than 511111 tall* 

3. Excellent physical condition 

4. Bachelor's degree in engineering or equivalent 

5. Test-pilot school graduate 

6. Minimum of 1500 hours flying time 

7. Qualified jet pilot 

Another Langley man who played a part in the screening process was Robert 

A. Champine, a veteran NACA test pilot who knew what kind of talents 

it might take to fly into space. Although not an STG member, he was 

part of the small NASA/DOD panel that evaluated the files of the nearly 

600 military service test pilots who had applied for the astronaut positions. 

Of the seven evaluation criteria, experience as a test pilot was clearly the 

deciding factor. 24 

Ironically, the greatest skeptiCism about the Mercury concept existed 

inside the family of test pilots. Pathbreaking NACA/NASA test pilots like 

A. Scott Crossfield, Joseph A. Walker, and even the young Neil Armstrong, 

who in 10 years was to become the first man to walk on the moon, were at 

first not in favor of Project Mercury. Their attitude was that the astronaut 

inside the ballistic spacecraft was no more than "Spam-in-a-can." Charles 

E. "Chuck" Yeager, the air force test pilot who broke "the sound barrier" 

in 1947 in the X-1, expressed this prejudice: "Who wanted to climb into 

a cockpit full of monkey crap?" 25 This was a crude reference to the noble 

primates (such as "Ham" and "Enos") who flew in the Mercury spacecraft 

prior to the astronauts and who went through some challenging and painful 

experiences to make the experience of humans safer and more certain. 

By the time of the NASA inspection, all seven Mercury astronauts had 

been in training at Langley under the STG's technical supervision (and 

Langley AFB's administrative care) for about five months. Six of the seven 

moved into the area with their families: Carpenter and Cooper lived in 

* The absence of a weight requirement is incredible given the demands of the payload on the launch 

rocket's boosting power and the tight squeeze for the passenger inside the Mercury capsule. 

41 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Hampton just across the tidal river from the air force base; Grissom, Schirra, 

and Slayton bought ranch-style homes within a few blocks of one another 

in the new Stoneybrook Estates subdivision of Newport News; and Shepard 

drove his white convertible through the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel each 

day from his family's home at the Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach. 

Glenn was the exception; while at Langley Field, he stayed in military base 

quarters and commuted to his home in Arlington, Virginia, on weekends to 

visit his wife and children. Already the local press was calling the astronauts 

"The Peninsula's Own" and trying to satisfy an adoring public's hunger for 

even the most mundane details of the astronauts' everyday existence, such 

as what kind of fruit juice they drank for breakfast. 26 

The film shown at the Project Mercury inspection stop said little about 

NASA's selection of the astronauts and showed nothing about their personal lives; it concentrated on illustrating key aspects of their training for 

the upcoming Mercury flights. In one of the film's early scenes, the astronauts sat in a classroom listening to a lecture delivered by an STG 

engineer. This lecture was one in a series organized by STG member 

Dr. Robert Voas, the navy psychologist in charge of coordinating astronaut training. The lecture series was designed to introduce formally 

the astronauts to the Mercury program. 27 Although not depicted in the 

film, the astronauts also took a short course equivalent to graduate-level 

study in the space sciences. Henry Pearson, W. Hewitt Phillips, and 

Clinton E. Brown were among those engineers with special competencies 

in reentry physics, astronomy, and celestial mechanics and navigation chosen to teach the course. 

While the astronauts learned a little about everything pertinent to the 

program, they were also trained to specialize in particular technical areas. 

Carpenter specialized in communications and navigation equipment; Cooper 

and Slayton concentrated on the liaison with the Army Ballistic Missile 

Agency (ABMA, later NASA Marshall Space Flight Center) and the launch 

vehicle suppliers; Glenn focused on cockpit layout; Grissom handled inflight control systems; Schirra was responsible for life-support systems and 

pressure suits; and Shepard followed tracking range and recovery. Each 

astronaut was then responsible for briefing the other six periodically about 

what he had learned. 28 

The inspection film of 1959 showed the Langley-based STG putting the 

astronauts through several spaceflight simulation systems and techniques 

to familiarize them with the Mercury capsule and evaluate the efficacy of 

astronaut capsule control. By this time in their training, the astronauts had 

already ridden on the end of the 50-foot arm of the centrifuge at the Naval 

Aviation Medical Acceleration Laboratory at Johnsville, Pennsylvania. The 

film showed one of the astronauts boarding what came to be known among 

the astronauts as "the wheel" because it resembled a medieval instrument 

of torture. Not even the grimacing face of the astronaut, as he desperately 

tried to operate a few manual controls, could communicate how miserable 

42 
The First NASA Inspection 

the experience actually was for the rider, who was being pushed back in the 

seat as the wheel picked up speed, pinned there unable to move either arms 

or legs, breath forced out of the lungs, vision narrowing and darkening, and 

a sharp pain growing beneath the breastbone. John Glenn recalls, "At 16 

Gs* it took just about every bit of strength and technique you could muster 

to retain consciousness." 29 

The training at Langley was a little easier, at least physically. The 

astronauts made several "flights" in a closed-loop analog simulator that had 

been developed by the training devices section of the STG's Operations 

Division. This simulator had a basic configuration similar to the X-15 

attitude control system simulator that had been built earlier at Langley. 

At the time of the October 1959 inspection, it contained a simple chair with 

a sidearm controller and rudder pedals.30 A later version would have a 

three-axis controller and a molded couch like those individually fitted for 

each astronaut for the actual Mercury missions. The function of this couch, 

which was one of many ideas supplied by the STG's brilliant Maxime Faget, 

was to protect the astronaut against the high G-forces during launch and 

reentry. In one scene of the film, two of the finished couch forms were visible 

in the background; in tests at the Johnsville centrifuge, such couches had 

proved effective for loads of more than 20 Gs. The movie also featured 

a sequence in which an astronaut used the sidearm controller to move his 

chair through various changes in pitch, roll, and yaw, and a scene showing 

an overheated astronaut in a full pressure suit undergoing what the speaker 

called "elevated temperature elevation." 31 

"The Space Task Group has found the seven astronauts inspiring young 

men with whom to work," speakers told the audience. To equip them with 

the "detailed knowledge and skills that the pilot of a pioneering orbital 

space capsule must possess," NASA was putting them through "an extensive 

program of training, indoctrination, and specialized education." And rest 

assured, the speakers told the audience, the astronauts were preparing for 

their upcoming launches into space "with an enthusiasm and a maturity 

that are vital in a program of such importance to our nation." 32 

The speakers did not mention that the astronauts sometimes felt they 

were being treated like guinea pigs. This was not the case in their dealings 

with the STG at Langley. As the astronauts later attested, the STG 

treated them as "active and valuable participants in the safe operation of 

the machine." Bob Gilruth and his staff had been dealing directly with test 

pilots in NACA aircraft research programs since before World War II. These 

years of experience contributed to a relationship with the astronauts that 

was built on respect.33 

Much to the disappointment of many in the audience at the NASA 

open house, especially the young people, the living, breathing astronauts 

were nowhere to be seen. Neither Gilruth nor anyone else responsible for 

* "G" is the symbol representing the acceleration due to gravity. 

43 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-59-4426 

Molded astronaut couches line the Langley model shop wall. The names of the test 

subjects-Langley employees-are written on the backs. 

L-61-5741 

This cutaway drawing was used by the STG to explain the Mercury ballistic capsule 

to visitors at the first NASA inspection. 

44 
The First NASA Inspection 

Astronaut John Glenn sits within the cozy cocoon of the Mercury spacecraft. 

the astronauts wanted to add to the astronauts' already heavy schedule 

by keeping them in front of several thousand sticky-fingered and cameraclicking fans for an entire Saturday. The astronauts' training at Langley 

included a rigorous regimen of physical exercise, including skin-diving 

operations designed to simulate weightlessness and the kind of sensory 

disorientation that they might experience during reentry frorn space. In 

Langley's large hydrodynamics tank (Building 720) as well as in the brackish 

water of the Back River, an inlet of the Chesapeake Bay behind the East 

Area, the astronauts were learning to get out of the space capsule as it 

floated in water. Along with the tiring training at Langley, the astronauts 

also made trips to the Johnsville centrifuge; to Cape Canaveral, where the 

countdown for their manned orbital flights would be made; as well as to 

the McDonnell Aircraft Corporation plant in St. Louis, where the Mercury 

capsules were being built. 

Although the astronauts were excused by NASA from appearing at the 

open house, they had participated in the inspection earlier in the week. 

They were not assigned to give speeches or conduct tours, but they were 

asked to mix with invited guests in the major exhibit hall within the large 

aircraft hangar, where the makeshift after-hours wet bar called "19th Hole" 

was set up and most socializing occurred. 

45 
Spaceflight Revolution 

John Glenn, who in three years 

would become the first American 

to orbit the earth (20 February 

1962}, explains a feature of the 

Mercury capsule to his wife, Annie 

Castor Glenn, whom he had known 

since his New Concord, Ohio, child" 

hood. 

Big Joe, Little Joe 

L-59-7859 

The success of two recent tests for Project Mercury lent a cautiously 

upbeat mood to the First Anniversary Inspection. Five weeks earlier, 

on 9 September 1959, the project reached an important early milestone 

with what the inspection speakers called the "highly successful firing" of 

"Big Joe." Big Joe was a one-ton, full-scale instrumented mock-up of the 

proposed Mercury spacecraft designed to test the efficacy of the ablative 

heat shield and the aerodynamic stability of the capsule design. Speakers at 

the Project Mercury stop boasted that the Big Joe project had not begun 

until December 1958 and was flying successfully only 10 months later.34 

After showing a short movie of Big Joe's launch atop an Atlas D booster 

from Cape Canaveral, the STG engineers explained that although the launch 

was normal, the two outer booster engines failed to jettison as planned 

because of a malfunction; the capsule"Atlas combination rose to an altitude 

of only about 100 miles. This was nevertheless high enough for the capsule, 

once separated from the Atlas, to fall back to earth in conditions that 

closely simulated orbital reentry. Another short movie showed the shipboard 

recovery of the capsule by a navy destroyer. The STG speakers explained 

that the recent Big ~oe test not only proved to be an excellent exercise for 

the military recovery teams but also provided data that confirmed that the 

46 
The First NASA Inspection 

blunt-body capsule shape had performed as predicted in NASA wind-tunnel 

and other laboratory studies. In their words, the Big Joe test was "the first 

major step" in proving that the Mercury design concepts were feasible. 35 

On display in the Aircraft Loads building was the recovered capsule; 

alongside it was a second Big Joe boilerplate capsule mounted on a Little 

Joe booster mock-up. NASA Langley was proud of Big Joe. A small group 

of Langley technical service people under STG's Jack Kinzler had actually 

fabricated the capsule's afterbody, including the upper heat shield and the 

parachute deck, while another NASA group under Scott Simpkinson at Lewis 

had made the lower part of the capsule, the instrumentation, the controls, 

and the rest of the heat shield. But Langley positively doted on its Little 

Joe. Little Joe was an innovative solid-fuel rocket, one of the earliest U.S. 

launch vehicles based on the principle of the clustered rocket engine. (The 

Soviets were already "clustering" the more complex and troublesome liquidfuel rocket engines.) STG engineers Max Faget and Paul Purser, then of 

Langley's PARD, had conceived Little Joe as a space capsule test vehicle 

even before the establishment of NASA and the formation . of the STG. 

Gilruth understood the importance of the Little Joe tests: "We had to 

be sure there were no serious performance and operational problems that 

we had simply not thought of in such a new and radical type of flight 

vehicle." 36 A launch of Little Joe on 21 August 1959 had failed, but at 

Wallops Station on 4 October 1959, just two weeks before the inspection, 

NASA successfully fired one of the "little" test rockets to an altitude of 

about 40 miles over the Atlantic Ocean before intentionally destroying it.37 

"Little" was relative, of course, because the rocket stood 50 feet 

tall, weighed 28,000 pounds-the gross takeoff weight of a Douglas DC-3 

airliner-and had a cluster of eight solid propellant engines that produced a 

quarter of a million pounds of thrust at takeoff. Nor did "little" accurately 

describe Little Joe's importance to the Mercury project. For the 4 October 

launch, neither the capsule nor the escape rocket had been instrumented, 

but Little Joe would carry instrumented payloads to varying altitudes, thus 

allowing NASA engineers to check the operation of the escape rocket and 

recovery systems. This they could do from Wallops Island before proceeding 

to the more expensive and difficult phases in the latter part of the program 

at Cape Canaveral. In ensuing months, Little Joe rockets (models I and 

II) also provided information on flight stresses as they related to "biological 

payloads." The first of these payloads was Sam, a 7-pound Rhesus monkey 

launched from Wallops on the nose of a Little Joe on 4 December 1959. Surviving a violent ride up and down from a height of 55 miles with a parachute 

landing into the Atlantic Ocean, Sam gave NASA flight engineers a better 

idea of how human astronauts would fare during their upcoming Mercury 

flights. 38 

To the public, Project Mercury looked to be proceeding smoothly. The 

major setback of July 1959, when the first Atlas-Mercury production vehicle 

failed structurally under launch loads at the Cape, was not mentioned 

47 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Langley technicians constructed the Little 

Joe capsules in-house in Langley's shops 

(top). A crane swings a capsule into 

place atop Little Joe in preparation for a 

launch at Wallops Island (right). 

48 

L-59-4946 

L-59·5134 
L-59-8427 

The First NASA Inspection 

Langley's Little Joe rocket blasting off 

(left) from Wallops Island in the fall 

of 1959. Max Faget thought that Little 

Joe could be made reliable enough 

to carry a man, but. Gilruth eventually scrapped the idea, deciding to use 

Redstone and Atlas. Below, .the Little 

Joe capsule is recovered at sea. 

L-64-6455 

49 
Spaceflight Revolution 

in Langley's open-house presentation. To everyone behind the scenes at 

Langley, Project Mercury was in fact advancing at breakneck speed. In the 

period between early October 1958 and mid-January 1959, specifications for 

the Mercury capsule had been prepared and sent to the aerospace industry 

with a Request for Proposals; the bidders had been briefed; all the source 

selection (evaluation of proposal) activity had taken place; and the contract 

had been placed. That was not all. During the same period, the STG 

procured Atlas rockets and launch services from the air force; worked out a 

plan with the army (and Wernher von Braun's rocket team in Huntsville) for 

Redstone boosters; drew up the specifications for Little Joe; tested escape 

rockets over the beach at Wallops; and were in the midst of a wide range 

of tests at Langley. The STG also had to present technical reviews of the 

project to NASA headquarters officials approximately every two months. 

To do all this, every member of the STG worked holidays, evenings, and 

weekends. "These were the days of the most intensive and dedicated work 

[by] a group of people that I have ever experienced," Gilruth recalls proudly. 

This kind of performance could have occurred only "in ·a young or~anization 

that had not yet solidified all of its functions and prerogatives." 3 · 

This performance could have happened only in an organization whose 

staff members did not know-or care to know-the difference between the 

possible and the impossible until they found out for themselves. 

50 
3 

Carrying Out the Task 

There are no billboards heralding the birthplace of the 

Nation's {space] program. There are no colorful banners proclaiming it the homebase for the U.S.'s seven 

astronauts. Yet nestled at one end of the historic Virginia Peninsula, a small group of buildings were the 

setting for the most penetrating research and development programs of our time. . . . It was here at the 

NASA Langley Research Center that America took its 

first step into space. 

-Virginia Biggins 

Newport News Daily Press 

For Bob Gilruth, the chief operational officer of the U.S. manned space 

program, NASA's First Anniversary Inspection meant only a brief respite 

from the torturously hectic schedule he had been following for more than 

a year. As head of Project Mercury, he had given dozens of talks and had 

answered thousands of questions in the past 15 months about America's 

highly publicized enterprise to send a man into space. He had made 

presentations before Congress, to Dr. Killian and the rest of the President's 

Science Advisory Committee, and to the senior staff of the Advanced 

Research Projects Agency (ARPA) including agency heads Roy Johnson and 

Dr. Herbert York.* "Some of these gentlemen were not at all enthusiastic 

about our plan to put a man into space," Gilruth later acknowledged. In 

fact, Presidential Science Adviser Dr. George Kistiakowsky had remarked 

with great displeasure that the plan "would be only the most expensive 

funeral man has ever had." 1 

* The secretary of defense had established ARPA in January 1958 to run U.S. space programs on an 

interim basis until NASA was established. 

51 
Spaceflight Revolution 

But at least during the anniversary inspection the pressure was off; 

officially, Gilruth was just one of the guests touring with the red group. 

At the Mercury stop, the eight men from the STG had to put on the good 

show that everyone had come to expect, and for once he could sit back and 

listen to someone else do the talking. 

For the balding 45-year-old aeronautical engineer from Nashawauk, Minnesota, Project Mercury had started in the hot summer of 1958 while on 

assignment in Washington, D.C. Dr. Hugh Dryden had needed help putting 

together a plan and a budget for the new space agency, and Gilruth, with 

about 20 senior men from Langley and the other NACA laboratories, went 

to lend a hand. Eisenhower had not yet given specific responsibility for 

management of the nation's manned spaceflight program to the soon-to-be 

NASA, nor had he officially named Glennan the NASA administrator. Abe 

Silverstein, subsequent head of space projects at NASA headquarters, had 

not yet come up with the name "Mercury" for the proposed manned satellite 

project. In one large room on the sixth floor of the NACA headquarters, 

Gilruth and associates worked feverishly through the muggy midsummer to 

put together a plan for a man-in-space program that would be acceptable 

not only to the reincarnated NACA but also to ARPA, the president, and 

his scientific advisers. 2 

"In order to do this," Gilruth remembers, "I collected a select group 

of people ... to form a sort of task force." The members of this original 

group included Langley's Max Faget, head of the Performance Aerodynamics 

Branch of PARD; Paul Purser, head of the High Temperature Branch of 

PARD; Charles W. Mathews, head of the Stability and Control Branch of 

the Flight Research Division; Charles H. Zimmerman, assistant chief of the 

Stability Research Division; and three men from Lewis. These men were 

called from the 10 telephones specially installed in the NACA's big sixthfloor room and were told to "be in Washington tomorrow afternoon." As 

Zimmerman remembers: 

I said, well, what for? [The voice said,] "I can't tell you what for." Who am I supposed 

to see? [The voice said,] "Just be in the Washington office tomorrow morning." I 

went to the Washington office and I stayed there three or four months .... I wasn't 

told anything, just be there. I had to go and tell my wife I'm going. [I] didn't win a 

popularity contest that day.3 

Gilruth brought in several other NACA engineers for consultation when 

their expertise was needed. He called in PARD's top engineering designer 

Caldwell Johnson, who had been hired by the NACA as a model builder 

in 1937 at the age of 18; Johnson's job was to put the first design of the 

Mercury capsule on paper. The result was an elegant series of freehand penand-ink sketches that artistically put many detailed engineering drawings to 

shame. Near the end of the summer, two more engineers from Lewis and 

one from Langley, Cha,rles Donlan, joined the group to finalize and fine-tune 

the Mercury plan. 

52 
Carrying Out the Task 

The work of the task force turned out well both in the short term and the 

long run. Thinking back on the substance of these early talks about what 

came to be Project Mercury, Gilruth would be impressed by how closely 

the STG was able to follow the original plan of that summer: "We said we 

would use the Atlas rocket; a special space capsule with a [NACA-proven] 

blunt heat shield; and parachutes for a landing at sea. All these things 

were to work out very much as we proposed." 4 During that hot summer of 

1958, Max Faget, Caldwell Johnson, and Lewis's Andre Meyer also came up 

with the idea of an escape rocket to enable the capsule to get away from a 

malfunctioning launch rocket, and Faget conceived the form of the contour 

couch, which would help to protect the astronauts against the high G-forces 

during launch and reentry. 

Much about the group's Mercury concept was not all that new: the 

aerodynamic benefits of the blunt-body shape had been discovered (at 

least for ballistic nose cones) by H. Julian "Harvey" Allen and Alfred J. 

Eggers at NACA Ames in the early 1950s.5 Since then, several important 

notions about ballistic reentry vehicles had been germinating in the minds of 

Gilruth's colleagues in PARD, notably in the brilliant one belonging to the 

outspoken Max Faget. (Because he was one of the most intuitive researchers 

on the Langley staff, jealous colleagues jibed that his name stood for Fat-Ass 

Guess Every Time.) By the launch of Sputnik 1, Faget had proposed that 

a simple nonlifting shape, if properly designed, could follow a ballistic path 

when reentering the atmosphere without overheating or accelerating at rates 

dangerous to the astronaut. Drag would slow the capsule as it reentered the 

atmosphere. Furthermore, the shape-though basically nonlifting-could 

generate the slightest amount of aerodynamic lift necessary to permit the 

capsule to make one or two simple maneuvers during reentry. Faget had 

made some rough tests to prove this theory. From the balcony overlooking 

the PARD shop, he had flipped two paper plates that had been taped 

together into the air. "I thought he was crazy at first," remembers fellow 

PARD engineer J. Thomas Markley. "Max, what are you doing?" asked 

Markley in amusement. Faget answered, "I think these things will really fly. 

We really have some lift-over-drag in this thing." 6 

A few months after the paper-plate toss, at the last NACA Conference on 

High-Speed Aerodynamics held at Ames in March 1958, the feisty 5-foot-6-

inch Faget gave a talk entitled "Preliminary Studies of Manned SatellitesWingless Configuration: Non-Lifting," which was coauthored by Langley's 

Benjamin J. Garland and James J. Buglia. In the talk Faget put forward 

most of the key items that NASA would later use in Project Mercury: a 

ballistic shape weighing some 2000 pounds and having a nearly flat-faced 

cone configuration, small attitude jets for controlling the capsule in orbit, 

retrorockets to bring the capsule down, and a parachute for final descent. 

"As far as reentry and recovery are concerned," Faget concluded his talk, 

"the state of the art is sufficiently advanced so that it is possible to proceed 

53 
Spaceflight Revolution 

confidently with a manned satellite project based upon the ballistic reentry 

type of vehicle."7 

Not everyone was so confident. In the wake of Sputnik, several interesting 

concepts for manned satellites had popped up. Some advocates of these alternatives disdained Faget's proposed ballistic approach because, as Gilruth 

explained, it represented "such a radical departure from the airplane." 8 This 

man-in-the-can approach was too undignified a way to fly. Many concerned 

with America's new space program searched for another plan: Couldn't a 

pilot fly into space and back in some honest-to-goodness flying machine? 

Why not doctor the X-15 so a pilot could take it into orbit and back without burning up? Or why not push to quickly build one of the hypersonic 

gliders that had been drawn up on paper? One of the most innovative concepts for such a space plane, proposed by Langley's Chuck Mathews, called 

for a craft similar to NASA's later Space Shuttle. Mathews' plane would 

have a circular wing and would glide back from space at a high angle of attack. During reentry, most of the intense heat caused by the friction would 

therefore be confined to the wing's lower surface. Upon reaching the atmosphere, the vehicle would pitch over and fly to a landing like a conventional 

airplane. 9 

Such concepts sparked much interest in the months after Sputnik. 

Gilruth and the rest of the team planning for Project Mercury considered 

the merits of each one separately. Several of the ideas could have been 

made to work in time, but the new space agency did not have time to spare. 

Everything indicated that the Soviets were intent on launching a man into 

space, and the United States was determined to beat them to it. The Atlas 

rocket, the most powerful American booster at the time, was not capable 

of lifting more than about 2000 pounds into orbit, which ruled out the hypersonic glider concepts. Furthermore, even the Atlas was still horribly 

unreliable. Only one out of eight Atlases had been launched successfully; 

the other seven had staggered off course or blown up. If the United States 

wanted to win this important second leg of the space race, waiting for the 

development of a bigger and more dependable missile capable of lifting the 

far greater weight of a small space plane did not make sense. "It seemed 

obvious to our group," Gilruth would explain many years later, "that only 

the most simple ballistic capsule could be used if manned spaceflight were 

to be accomplished in the next few years." 10 

Several options may have been more technologically attractive to some 

NASA engineers, but Faget's plan appeared the best to achieve America's 

immediate space objectives. In some respects the plan was an ungainly 

(some have said unimaginative, even ugly) way to send an American into 

space, yet in 1959 it seemed the only way to do so quickly. As Gilruth would 

say later, Project Mercury 

54 

wasn't pretty like a flower or a tree. But it had no bad traits. It was designed as a 

vehicle for a man to ride in, and circle the earth. With its blunt body, its retrorockets 

and parachutes, it was ·an elegant solution to the problem. 11 
Carrying Out the Task 

But a solution that was elegant in conception had no guarantee of becoming 

a practical success. Once ARPA heads Roy Johnson (a former General 

Motors executive) and Herbert York (a distinguished atomic physicist) 

approved the plan on 7 October 1958 and NASA gave the go-ahead, Gilruth 

and his people were left with the job of making Project Mercury work. 

A Home at Langley 

Gilruth and associates returned to Langley Research Center from the 

nation's capital in mid-October 1958 and immediately began to contend 

with the unknown challenges of putting together an organization that could 

manage an operation much bigger, more complicated, and far riskier than 

any previously undertaken by the NACA. In approving the project, Keith 

Glennan's comment had been, "All right. Let's get on with it." Bob Gilruth 

remembers that at the time he "had no staff and only [oral] .orders to return 

to Langley Field." When Gilruth politely pressed the administrator for some 

details about how he was to implement the plan in terms of staffing, funding, 

and facilities, Glennan reiterated brusquely, "Just get on with it." 12 

Gilruth's yet-to-be-built organization was given temporary quarters at 

Langley, where it would act, again temporarily, as a quasi-independent 

NASA field unit reporting directly to Abe Silverstein's Office of Space Flight 

Development in Washington. Though Langley lacked management control 

over the new group, the center's support of the task group's ambitious 

program proved remarkably strong. 

Almost everything about the initial organization and early operation 

of Gilruth's group happened catch-as-catch-can. Even the name of the 

STG itself suggested a makeshift character, as if NASA did not want to 

raise expectations too high about meeting the Soviet challenge. One STG 

member suggests that the choice of the title "Space Task Group" amounted 

to a "conscious effort to put the work in proper perspective and avoid 

grandiose organizational concepts at a time when satellite development 

experience was limited to basketball- and grapefruit-sized objects." 13 The 

timid nomenclature might protect NASA if the manned satellite program 

did not work as planned. NASA could say that only one task failed; the rest 

of NASA's operation was proceeding nicely. 

Excluding Bob Gilruth, the most important person behind the formulation of the STG was Langley's Floyd Thompson. Although still nominally 

the laboratory's number two man, Thompson had been serving as the director for some time because of Henry Reid's rather relaxed approach to 

his impending retirement. According to Gilruth, Thompson "was all for 

me, because he knew that if we didn't succeed, NASA wouldn't succeed." 

He realized that Gilruth would need substantial center support until the 

slow-grinding paper mill at NASA headquarters made alternative provisions. 

Thus, when Gilruth asked Thompson how he could get the men and women 

55 
Spaceflight Revolution 

he needed for the STG, Thompson told him simply to write a short memorandum stating that he had been authorized by Administrator Glennan to 

draft personnel. Gilruth wrote that memo on 3 November 1958 and personally took it down the hall to the associate director's office. The letter 

amounted to one brief paragraph: 

The Administrator of NASA has directed me to organize a space task group to 

implement a manned satellite project. This task group will be located at the Langley 

Research Center but, in accordance with the instructions of the Administrator, will 

report directly to NASA Headquarters.14 

For the project to proceed with the utmost speed, Gilruth proposed to form 

his group around a nucleus of key Langley personnel, the majority of whom 

had already worked with him on the project at NASA headquarters. 

Thompson did not want to run the STG himself, because he recognized 

that a quasi-independent person like Gilruth, not a center director, was 

"the best guy to do it." 15 At the same time, Thompson wanted Gilruth, a 

personal friend, to have a circle of bright and trustworthy individuals around 

him. In particular, Thompson felt Gilruth should have a good, solid deputy, 

so he gave him Donlan, his own energetic assistant.* For the past seven 

or eight years Donlan had been enjoying the enviable job of probing, at his 

own discretion, into different areas of the laboratory's research programs 

and acting as its technical conscience. "Thompson thought Gilruth needed 

me, because Bob liked to play around with ideas and not pay too much 

attention to the actual running of the technical functions," Donlan states. 

So, "for the first time in [my] professional career," Thompson told Donlan, 

"[I] am going to make a recommendation." Thompson asked Donlan to join 

the STG as Gilruth's deputy. 1

6 

Gilruth's terse memo created a rapidly expanding core group of space 

pilgrims. According to one cynic, these pilgrims were like those who came 

to America on the Mayflower, "considering how many people tell you they 

were in it." 17 But Gilruth asked by name for the transfer of only 36 

Langley personnel plus 10 engineers from Lewis laboratory. Lewis provided 

rocket-engine and electronic engine-component specialists-the experts in 

aerospace propulsion systems that Langley lacked. 

Fourteen of the 36 Langley personnel belonged to PARD. This major 

and quasi-independent division of the laboratory had been headed for a 

time in the early 1950s by Gilruth. The work of PARD had always 

required the management of flight operations (albeit pilotless ones) and 

had dabbled with hardware development. While studying the aerodynamics 

of various missiles and missile nose-cone configurations during the past 

* Later on, Thompson would "feel an obligation" to bring Donlan back to Langley, making him 

Langley's associate director in March 1961. Donlan stayed on as associate director (later renamed 

deputy director) until May 1968 when, at the request of the NASA administrator, Donlan transferred 

to NASA headquarters and became the deputy associate administrator for Manned Space Flight. 

56 
Carrying Out the Task 

few years, PARD engineers had established launch procedures at Wallops 

Island, experimented with the principles of rocket staging, developed key 

technologies for missile guidance and control systems, and built or refined 

sensitive instrumentation for telemetry studies. They had also supported 

manned satellite proposals from the Defense Department. In 1957 and early 

1958, before ARPA/NASA approval for Project Mercury, PARD engineers 

had given research support for Project MISS, the unfortunate acronym 

of the "Man-in-Space-Soonest project," an air force concept for simple 

manned orbital flights that in some technical respects presaged the Mercury 

concept. This early work in support of the manned satellite proposals had 

taken the PARD engineers into such areas as space environmental controls, 

communications systems, and heat-shield technology. Having had this 

experience, many members of PARD were not as concerned as other Langley 

employees about the possible compromise of traditional laboratory research 

functions implicit in heavy involvement in Project Mercury. In terms of 

technological expertise and organizational culture, PARD people were the 

most naturally inclined at Langley to become involved in the planning and 

management of NASA's manned spaceflight program.l8 

Of the remaining 22 STG staff members recruited from Langley, 10 were 

from research divisions other than PARD; 4 had been working in the 

Fiscal Division, central files, or in the stenographic pool; and 8 were 

either secretaries in PARD, stenographers, or "computers" (operators of 

the calculating machines). Thompson agreed to give Gilruth all the people 

he asked for, save one: a young electrical engineer, William J. Boyer. The 

Instrument Research Division (IRD) wanted to keep Boyer, and he was not 

anxious to be transferred. The head of that division, Edmond C. Buckley, 

finally found a satisfactory replacement in Howard C. Kyle. 

Most of the original STG crew signed up voluntarily; they were young, 

relatively unestablished, and they relished the challenge. At ages 45 and 

42, respectively, Gilruth and Donlan were experienced enough to recognize 

the difficulties of the job ahead, but many of their subordinates were naive 

about the ways of the world and did not consider the serious hazards facing 

them. Jack Kinzler, a skilled master craftsman in the West Area machine 

shop, recalls that he had grown "so consumed with space" after Sputnik 

that he just dropped everything when Gilruth called him to join the group. 

After accepting the transfer, Kinzler then had a devil of a time fighting off 

a swarm of excited co-workers who wanted to move to the STG with him. 

When the 21-year-old Lewis engineer Glynn Lunney heard about what the 

STG was doing, he thought, "Gee, that looks like it would be a hell of a lot 

of fun-let's go do that!" Carl Russ and Ted Scopinski worked at the same 

desk in the Aircraft Loads Laboratory in Langley's West Area. The two 

engineers recall one day in late 1958, after they had heard so much about 

the STG from former co-worker John P. Mayer: "[We] looked at each other 

and asked why we didn't transfer over to the Space Task Group. So we 

did." 19 

57 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Wild enthusiasm might have been confined to the young and inexperienced, but strong passion for Project Mercury was not. Donlan looked 

upon the manned satellite project "as a pioneering effort of a type that 

comes along only about once in a half century." To him, the project offered 

a moment in history that would be "similar to aviation when Lindbergh 

flew the ocean." He never doubted that he should join the STG: "I had 

to participate in what I instinctively felt would be a breathtaking operation, and I decided to do so without much thought as to the long-range 

possibilities." 20 In the end, his time with the STG (November 1958-May 

1961) did not hurt his career. When he resigned his position as the STG's 

number two man, he rejoined the Langley operation as Floyd Thompson's 

associate director. 

The rest of Langley's senior staff was not as easily impressed by the manin-space program. With the exception of the two men from the director's 

office, only one member of Langley's senior staff joined the STG: Charles 

Zimmerman, assistant chief of the Stability Research Division. Zimmerman 

was not keen about the assignment. "It was a traumatic experience as far as 

I was concerned," Zimmerman remembers. After spending a hectic summer 

in Washington with Gilruth's planning group, he said, "The hell with this." 

He got in touch with Henry Reid and told him that he wanted to come back 

to Langley. After taking a week off to vacation in Canada, he returned to 

Langley Field. "I got back home on Friday and was going to go to work 

on Monday," Zimmerman recalls, but that Friday night a colleague came to 

break the news that Zimmerman had been assigned to the Mercury group. 

"So, there I was in it again." 21 Once more, Zimmerman had to put aside 

his precious airplane work.* 

At 51, Zimmerman was the old man of the STG; several of the others 

were young enough to be his children. He had started his career at NACA 

Langley in 1929, only two years after Lindbergh's transatlantic flight, and 

like many NACA researchers of his generation, he was not comfortable with 

the idea of moving away from aeronautics into the management of a large 

manned space program. For Zimmerman and most other senior Langley staff 

members, the excitement of the program was not enough to compensate for 

the headaches and perhaps even the career risks associated with moving 

outside the comfortable confines of aeronautical research. Perhaps the 

country's interest in manned spaceflight was just a passing fancy, some of 

the older men thought. Project Mercury had been authorized, but nothing 

else up to this point had been. Throwing in with the lot of the "space 

cadets" meant accepting a great many technological, political, institutional, 

and personal career unknowns. t If the initial series of Mercury launches 

came off successfully, the manned space program would probably continue 

* Zimmerman, famous for the XF5U "flying flapjack," which he designed for Vought during the 1940s, 

had been busy for a number <;>f years trying to make the conventional airplane into a VTOL machine. 

t Space cadet is an expression of derision taken from a popular American television show of the 1950s. 

58 
Carrying Out the Task 

in some form, and it might even be expanded, but late in 1958 no one could 

be any more sure about that than they could be about the outcome of the 

upcoming 1960 presidential election, on which so much about the course of 

the U.S. space program would ultimately depend. 

With the exception of the graying triumvirate of Zimmerman, Gilruth, 

and Donlan, the entirety of Langley's senior management stayed where they 

were in the organization and continued what they had been doing. At least 

a few of the senior staff also privately advised their juniors to do the same. 

One member of the STG remembers that his division chief tried to persuade 

him not to accept the transfer to the STG. "You don't want to ruin your 

career," the division chief told him. "There's nothing going to come of this, 

and you're going to be hurt by it." Manned spaceflight, he warned, was just 

a fad. 22 

Many veteran employees felt that "it just wasn't the Langley way" to 

implement big projects like Mercury. The laboratory had flourished for 

more than 40 years by doing research, not by implementing things. 23 It 

had remained strong and autonomous by developing its own competencies 

and by doing nearly everything that involved research in-house, but Project 

Mercury was to be based on considerable work that was contracted out 

to industry. The people responsible for the contract work would have to 

cover many new fronts: they had to prepare space capsule specifications; 

evaluate contractor proposals, then monitor the awarded contracts; procure 

Redstone rockets from the army and Atlas rockets from the air force; arrange 

for launch services; coordinate recovery operations; and so on. Skeptics 

feared that members of the STG would be so caught up in the urgency 

of managing contract work and in refereeing contractor haggling sessions 

(much to his chagrin, Zimmerman became chief of the STG's Engineering 

and Contract Administration Division) that they would not be conducting 

much research, if any. Becoming bureaucrats rather than staying technical 

personnel was a fate too horrible to ponder. To this day, Bob Gilruth holds 

his forehead when remembering how Langley colleagues would approach 

him during the heyday of Mercury not to inquire whether he had had any 

good ideas recentl~ but rather to ask snidely, "Well, have you let any good 

contracts today?" 4 His old NACA associates might have envied Gilruth 

the publicity he was receiving, but they did not envy him his work. 

Gilruth's senior colleagues who did not want to join the STG did 

follow Floyd Thompson's example of helpfulness and energetically supported 

NASA's manned satellite project through traditional research avenues. 

"At the outset of the program, Langley threw all of its resources behind 

the infant STG," Thompson reflected in 1970, "providing technical and 

administrative support informally as required, just as though the STG was 

a part of Langley and not a separate organization." 25 Besides providing 

extensive support for the development and implementation of the Big Joe 

and Little Joe projects, dozen~ of center personnel conducted experimental 

studies aimed at evaluating the performance of the Mercury spacecraft at 

59 
Spaceflight Revolution 

launch, in space, during reentry, and during its ocean recovery. Dozens of 

others became involved in engineering, shop, instrumentation, and logistic 

support for much of the STG's own in-house testing. 

For example, in 1959 a battery of wind-tunnel tests using scale models 

of the Mercury capsule and capsule-booster combinations had helped to 

provide needed data about lift, drag, static stability, trajectories, heat 

transfer, heat-shield pressures, and afterbody pressures; only after hundreds 

of these tests would the shape and appearance of the Mercury capsule be 

refined and finalized. At Wallops, engineers had mounted small models of 

the Mercury capsule on the tips of research rockets, launched them through 

the complete speed range predicted for the proposed spaceshot, and collected 

thousands of data points about the capsule's structural integrity, tumbling 

characteristics, and reentry dynamics. With the military's assistance, 

Langley researchers also tested the reliability of the capsule parachute 

system and determined the optimum altitude at which to deploy the drogue 

chute. From a C-130 Hercules transport that had been loaned to NASA 

by the U.S. Air Force Tactical Air Command at Langley Field, full-scale, 

one-ton models of the Mercury capsule prepared at Langley were dropped 

from an altitude of 10,000 feet into the Atlantic Ocean off Wallops Island. 

Motion pictures from cameras in T -33 chase jets were used to make a detailed 

engineering study of the capsule's motions during descent and the impact 

forces on it when smacking into the sea. Langley personnel also conducted 

other impact studies by dropping small models of the space capsule at 30 

feet per second (21.6 miles per hour) into the Hydrodynamics Division's 

Water Tank No. 1. 26 

While the numerous aerodynamic, structural, materials, and component 

tests were going on at the center, Langley representatives were arranging 

a schedule for wind-tunnel tests at the air force's Arnold Engineering 

Development Center in Tullahoma, Tennessee, and a team of non-STG staff 

members was being assembled to travel around the world to plan Project 

Mercury's global tracking network, the responsibility for which NASA 

headquarters had just assigned to the research center at the STG's request 

in February 1959. In addition to this colossal effort, Langley engineers 

and technicians were developing the simulators and spaceflight procedure 

trainers for the Mercury astronauts who had just been entrusted to the STG. 

By opening day of the NASA inspection in October 1959, Langley had sent 

six months' worth of weekly reports to NASA headquarters about the great 

volume of work being done in support of Mercury. Of the laboratory's 1150 

employees, 119 of them (about 10 percent) had been working full-time on 

the project in recent months. 

In the year following the STG's establishment, between October 1958 

and October 1959, some 250 people were added to the original STG; 

more than half came from Langley's staff. Many of the key people who 

moved from Langley to the STG brought with them important experience 

in flight-test research. Floyd Thompson wanted to give Gilruth a strong 

60 
Carrying Out the Task 

L-59-336 

L-59-3397 

The Mercury spacecraft and booster rockets underwent extensive testing in Langley 

wind tunnels. The full-size capsule is mounted in the Full-Scale Tunnel (top). A 

one-sixth scale model of the Mercury capsule is tested in Langley's 1 X 10-Foot 

High-Speed Tunnel to determine the effect of escape system power on the capsule's 

stability (bottom). 

61 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-59-4335 

The Redstone booster carrying the spacecraft is mounted for testing in Langley's 

Unitary Plan Wind Tunnel. 

L-60-76 

In impact studies conducted in the Back River behind Langley's East Area, the 

astronauts practiced the dangerous maneuver of getting out of the space capsule as 

it floated in water. 

62 
Carrying Out the Task 

cohort that understood "flying men" -pilots, that is-not just the flying 

of pilotless models. "Tommy wanted to make sure that there were enough 

flight guys involved in this venture," Donlan remembers.27 Fortuitously, 

NASA headquarters recently had made a decision to limit Langley's flying 

and had transferred most of its flight research activities to the NASA 

center at Edwards AFB. This decision disappointed Langley researchers and 

made them ready to jump at the chance to get involved with the manned 

space program. Consequently, several top-notch Langley flight researchers 

became part of the STG. Along with Gilruth (also a former NACA flight 

research engineer), Walter C. Williams, former director of the NACA Flight 

Research Center in California, and Christopher C. Kraft, Jr., and Charles 

W. Mathews, both standouts in Langley's Flight Research Division, became 

the heart of the Project Mercury flight operations team. 

The Tracking Range 

Of all the Langley efforts in support of Project Mercury, by far the 

biggest, the most difficult to carry out logistically, and the most adventuresome was the Mercury tracking range project. NASA flight operations 

officers and aeromedical specialists wanted to have almost constant radio 

contact with the Mercury astronauts. To maintain communication with the 

spacecraft as it circled the earth, NASA had to create a worldwide communications and tracking network. 

In the early days of Project Mercury, NASA really did not know what 

sort of tracking network was needed to monitor its spacecraft. Those frontier 

days of the manned space program before the operation, let alone the very 

idea, of a "mission control" center are hard to remember. Over the last three 

decades, the public has grown familiar with the drama and the emotionally 

charged "electricity" of the control center amphitheater. This amphitheater, 

with its tidy rows of communications consoles, computerized workstations, 

and its front wall covered with a large electronic map of the world, became 

thought of as the brain and nerve center of a NASA spu.ceflight mission. 

Here, in what one NASA astronaut has called a "temple of technology," 

worked the middle-aged men in white shirts and dark neckties-the flight 

controllers who wore the headphones and the worried looks as they talked 

to the astronauts in the spacecraft and made the split-second, life-or-death 

decisions about whether to "abort" or "go for orbit." 28 

This stage for the high drama of "space theater" did not exist prior 

to Project Mercury. The flight tests of the most experimental, high-speed 

airplane had not required the development of a ground-control facility as 

sophisticated as mission control. Even at a pioneering place like Edwards 

AFB, the role of the flight experts on the ground had involved little more 

than "getting the airplane into the best possible mechanical condition, 

spelling out the day's test objectives for the pilot, and retrieving data from 

63 
Spaceflight Revolution 

the instrumentation after the plane landed." 29 During the flight itself, flight 

operations people talked to the pilot in moderation; for the most part, they 

quelled their curiosity, shaded their eyes, strained anxiously to follow the 

flashing metal arrow through the sky, and left the pilot to his own devices. 

At first, the STG envisioned little more than this rather passive mode 

of flight control for the Mercury spacecraft: checking it out before launch, 

maintaining a voice link with the astronaut to see how things were going, but 

letting the astronaut and the automatic in-flight systems do the rest. After 

reflecting seriously on the immense task before them, that vision changed. 

"I don't know how to describe it exactly," explains Glynn Lunney of the 

original STG, "but we began to realize that, 'Hey, we're going to fly this 

thing around the world!'" In that instant of stark realization came the 

feeling that certain critical decisions about a spaceflight-such as whether 

to abort immediately after launch, to use the escape rocket, or to blow up 

a maverick rocket before it dug a big hole into downtown Cocoa Beachcould be, and should be, controlled from the ground. Out of this conviction 

came the concept of a ground room with not just a person talking to the 

astronaut, but many people analyzing tracking and telemetry data on the 

status of the launch vehicle and the spacecraft.30 Already by the time of 

the first NASA inspection in October 1959, the STG was calling this room 

the Mercury "Control Center" and was moving rapidly to have one built at 

Cape Canaveral. 

As the vague and open-ended possibilities of Mercury flight operations 

and mission control became more clearly defined, the STG decided that to be 

out of communication with the astronauts during their spaceflights for very 

long would be neither wise nor safe. The STG's flight operations people 

and more conservative aeromedical specialists argued over the maximum 

amount of time they could be out of contact with the astronauts. The 

physicians were "horrified at the casualness" of one suggestion that in-flight 

communications with the astronauts could be handled like commercial air 

traffic control, with the pilot only reporting to the ground every 15 to 30 

minutes.31 The doctors, intent on continuous and complete monitoring of 

the astronaut's vital physiological and mental responses to the unknown 

demands of spaceflight, did not like the idea of gaps in communication 

lasting for any appreciable length of time. Without the resolution of this 

internal debate, engineers could not establish design parameters necessary 

for proceeding with the global tracking network. In the end, the STG 

decided that a tracking network was needed in which gaps in communication 

lasted no more than 10 minutes.32 

Fathoming the immensity of what had to be done to establish this 

network took time. Initially some naive Langley engineers believed that 

whatever tracking stations were needed by the Mercury team to provide 

"real-time" tracking data could be provided simply by mounting radar sets 

on rented air force trucks that could be stationed at sites around the world. 

But after giving the matter careful thought, the communications experts 

64 
Carrying Out the Task 

"began to realize that it wasn't good enough to have isolated radar sets: 

the people back at the Control Center needed a network of linked stations, 

capable of receiving, processing, and reacting to a variety of voice, radar, 

and telemetry data."33 

Thus began a Promethean task because 1960 was a different technological age--especially in terms of communications. An instantaneous telephone 

call around the world was not yet possible. The only long-range communication, from continent to continent, was by undersea telegraph cable, and 

most of these cables had been laid at the turn of the century by the British. 

That is not to say a remarkable telecommunications network did not exist. 

Over the years the British, among others, had built up an amazing global 

system involving tens of thousands of miles of submarine cables as well as 

vast distances covered by wireless communications, but the day of instantaneous electronic communication around the world had not yet arrived. 

Its arrival depended largely on the launch of communications satellites like 

Telstar, which the infant space programs at that time were making possible. 

For NASA staff to have the type of communications necessary for control 

of the Mercury spacecraft and for assistance to the astronauts, they had to 

build their own global system. 

Creating this global network was a job that NASA Goddard Research 

Center could not do from its temporary quarters at Anacostia. Also, 

Goddard people were still responsible for the Minitrack Network that had 

been set up for the Project Vanguard satellite, so they were busy tracking 

the unmanned satellites that were then being launched. This existing system 

was not suitable for tracking the orbit of the Mercury spacecraft because 

the system had been laid out north-to-south (along the 75th meridian), 

whereas STG studies had concluded that the best orbital path of the 

Mercury spacecraft would be west-to-east along the equator. Minitrack, 

even in combination with other existing commercial, scientific, and military 

communications networks, had far too many "bare spots" to provide the 

comprehensive global coverage required for Mercury.34 

The STG was unable to take on this job because its manpower was 

already stretched to the limit; STG staff could not bear the additional load 

of setting up an ambitious new tracking and communications net that had to 

reach completely around the world. "There was just no way [for the STG] to 

build the spacecraft as well as the ground tracking network," says William 

J. Boyer, the fellow from Langley's IRD whose transfer to the original STG 

had been short-circuited by his division chief in November 1958. Boyer, 

who became one of the most active members of the Langley team that 

built the Mercury tracking range, remembers that Howard Kyle, the IRD 

engineer who was named to replace him on the STG, was the first to come 

to this conclusion. Kyle, without any trouble, persuaded STG's Chuck 

Mathews of the impossibility; Mathews in turn convinced Bob Gilruth; and 

Gilruth asked Floyd Thompson whether Langley, with NASA headquarters' 

approval, could take on this additional heavy responsibility. 35 

65 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Once again, Thompson wanted to do everything he could to make Project 

Mercury a success. So in February 1959, he called in his assistant director, 

Hartley Soule, and they put together an ad hoc team that came to be 

known as TAGIU (pronounced "Taggy-you"), which stood for the Tracking 

and Ground Instrumentation Unit. Heading the temporary unit was Soule 

himself, who was deemed the tracking range project director. G. Barry 

Graves, Jr., the head of IRD's Pilotless Aircraft Research Instrumentation 

Branch, was to handle the detailed management of the tracking network 

project from a special TAGIU office, and Paul H. Vavra, Graves's colleague 

in the IRD branch, was to assist. The unit was placed within IRD on 

an organizational chart. No one really knew how much work faced them: 

members of TAGIU were told initially that their work would be part-time 

and add only slightly to their regular duties. But as Vavra notes, "a 

few weeks later we were in the space program night and day and never 

thought about our other jobs." 36 As with everything else concerning Project 

Mercury, TAGIU progressed rapidly. On 30 July 1959, NASA awarded the 

contract for the creation of an integrated spacecraft" tracking and ground 

instrumentation system to Western Electric Company and its four major 

subcontractors: Bell Telephone Laboratories of Whippany, New Jersey, for 

system engineering, engineering consultations, and command and control 

displays; the Bendix Corporation of Los Angeles and Towson, Maryland, for 

radar installation, ground-to-air communications, telemetry, and site display 

equipment; Burns and Roe of Long Island for site preparation, site facilities, 

construction, and logistic support; and International Business Machines 

Corporation of New York for computer programming, simulation displays, 

and computers. 37 Monitoring the contract involved the expenditure of 

nearly $80 million and extensive negotiation with other federal agencies, 

private industry, and representatives of several foreign countries. However, 

in June 1961, less than two years after awarding the contract, Langley 

looked on with pride as the power for the around-the-world-in-an-instant 

communications system was turned on for the first time. 

Working on the global tracking range took Langley personnel farther 

away from the comfortable confines of their wind tunnels than any other 

aerospace project ever had before, or has since. In the two-year period 

between the awarding of the contract and the initiation of the tracking 

operations, a team of engineers and technicians from NASA Langley traveled 

tens of thousands of miles to some of the most remote places on earth. They 

went to oversee the building of an ambitious network that when completed 

stretched from the new Mercury Control Center at Cape Canaveral to 18 

relay stations spanning three continents, seven islands, and two ocean-bound 

radar picket ships. Along its way around the world, the network utilized land 

lines, undersea cables and radio circuits, special computer programs and 

digital data conversion and processing equipment, as well as other special 

communications equipment installed at commercial switching stations in 

both the Eastern and Western hemispheres. The network involved range 

66 
L-61-659 

Carrying Out the Task 

George Barry Graves, Jr., head of the 

Pilotless Aircraft Research Instrumentation Branch of Langley's IRD, handled 

the detailed management- of the Mercury 

tracking network from a special office 

within the ad hoc TAGIU. 

stations in such faraway and inaccessible places as the south side of the 

Grand Canary Island, 120 miles west of the African coast; Kano, Nigeria, in 

a farming area about 700 rail-miles inland; Zanzibar, an island 12 miles off 

the African coast in the Indian Ocean; a place called Woomera, amid the 

opal mines in the middle of the Australian outback; and Canton Island, a 

small atoll about halfway between Hawaii and Australia. 

"It was quite mind-boggling to realize that you're living in Hampton, 

Virginia, and you were getting tickets to change planes in the Belgian Congo 

to go to Kenya and from there on to Zanzibar," exclaims Bill Boyer. Boyer 

traveled with Barry Graves's small "management team," which negotiated 

with foreign governments and picked the tentative sites for the Mercury 

tracking stations. In Madrid his team sat for four weeks waiting for the 

Spanish government to grant permission to go to the Canary Islands. On 

their way through central Africa, in the Belgian Congo, group members 

moved cautiously past threatening gun-toting rebels who were fighting 

against European colonial rule. ''We would pick the tentative sites based on 

the technical criteria established by the Space Task Group," Boyer states, 

"and then we'd go around to the telecommunications people in those foreign 

countries to get as much advice and assistance from them as we could." 

The TAGIU team looked into the logistics of particular sites: Where would 

NASA people eat? Where would they sleep? How would they be supplied? 

What were the capabilities of the local construction companies? After 

addressing these questions, the management team would move on, and a 

67 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-61-5740 

A layout of a typical Project Mercury tracking site as conceptualized by Graves's 

outfit in 1961. 

"technical team" would move into the recommended site. This larger, followon team would then conduct a detailed study to determine whether the site 

met technical criteria: could NASA construct the buildings .it needed, and 

were the materials easily available? The technical team would then make a 

final recommendation about the proposed site.38 

As with so many other rushed and complicated operations of the early 

manned space program, much about the multimillion-dollar Mercury tracking network could have gone wrong. Instead, it worked like a charm, tracking the spacecraft with a high degree of accuracy. In the words of Edmond 

C. Buckley, the former IRD head at Langley who by the time of the first 

Mercury orbital flight by John Glenn was the director of tracking and data 

acquisition at NASA headquarters, the network "worked better than it could 

have in the most optimistic dreams." 39 For example, as the system tracked 

the spacecraft from the Bermuda station on, NASA found that the "residuals," that is, the comparison of the computed predicted path and the actual 

path as determined by each location, differed in most cases by less than 1000 

68 
Carrying Out the Task 

feet and in some cases by less than 100 feet. These figures compared favorably with the ability of tracking systems of that day to report the location 

of naval ships crossing the oceans. 

The creation of this unprecedented and highly successful worldwide 

ground instrumentation and tracking network required the services of many 

members of the Langley staff beyond those formally part of TAGIU. Three 

Langley organizations (as well as several outfits at Wallops Island) played 

major roles in establishing the network: IRD, which helped to guide the 

design of the electronic systems; the Engineering Service Division, which 

assisted in the selection of sites and the coordination and monitoring of the 

station construction; and the Procurement Division, which negotiated the 

huge contract and maintained constant liaison with the prime contractor, 

Western Electric, and its associates. Thanks to this extensive effort, 

NASA was able to have the kind of direct and comprehensive contact 

with the astronauts and their spacecraft ths.t the flight operations and 

medical experts believed was necessary. As Edmond Buckley remarked, in a 

masterpiece of understatement, Langley "can take a well-deserved bow." 40 

Shouldering the Burden 

Nothing was more important to the stated objectives of the American 

space program by the early 1960s than Project Mercury, but supporting the 

program was still a burden on Langley Research Center. Gilruth admits 

that the days of a rapidly expanding Mercury program must have been 

"particularly difficult for Langley" because Gilruth's need for good people 

was such that he "could not help but continue to recruit" from the center. 

Faced with Gilruth's personnel demands, Thompson bargained with him. 

"Okay, Bob. I don't mind letting you have as many good people from 

Langley as you need ... but for every one that you want to take ... you must 

also take one that I want you to take." From that day, whenever Gilruth 

recruited a person for the STG, he also took a person that Thompson was, 

for one reason or another, eager to transfer. 41 

Thompson became the center director in May 1960, and Henry Reid 

moved on to become his titular senior adviser. Aware that certain Langley 

staff members were not productive in their present positions, the crafty 

Thompson wanted to make room in his organization for some new blood. 

Langley had found ways to make room in the past, notably in the 1940s 

when several wagonloads of its people had moved west to colonize the 

newly created NACA centers in Ohio and California. The founding of new 

laboratories such as Ames and Lewis, and now the STG, enabled the center 

director to transfer out restless souls and nonproductive old-timers along 

with the people who were crucial to the success of the new operation. These 

transfers allowed for the influx of fresh and dynamic young people that 

Langley continually needed to remain a productive laboratory. 

69 
Spaceflight Revolution 

While Langley's support for Project Mercury continued to expand, so too 

did the size and experience of the STG. With Langley's help, the STG's 

capacity for handling its own technical and administrative affairs increased 

dramatically. By the time Thompson officially became the director, he 

and his senior staff recognized that Langley's ad hoc parental role in the 

Mercury program needed further definition. According to Thompson, the 

time had come "to replace the informal free-wheeling and somewhat chaotic 

working arrangements with orderly procedures." A formalizing of relations 

was needed to "clearly identify the respective responsibilities of the two 

organizations" and to establish more distinct channels for authorizing and 

conducting business. Otherwise, too many more of Langley's own precious 

capabilities would be carved off for the STG. 42 

But Thompson's thoughts about Langley's proper relationship to the 

STG were ambivalent. On the one hand, a voice within Thompson told 

him to follow the advice that Hugh Dryden had been giving him about 

Project Mercury: "Support it, but don't let it eat you up." By that Dryden 

meant that the director of a research laboratory should not neglect his 

basic research programs because of the center's appetite for any one big 

project, however delectable it might seem.* As soon as possible, Dryden 

warned, the STG needed to become part of a laboratory devoted just to 

spaceflight development. Dryden knew that in a technical environment 

where a "research function" and a "development function" tried to coexist, 

the development function would always win out (as it would later do when 

Langley managed the Viking project). If Langley kept the STG, Dryden 

worried, the center would inevitably lose many of its most capable people 

to development. Without its expertise in research, NASA would turn into a 

shadow of its former self and something less than what the country needed 

it to be. 

Moreover, Thompson was plagued by some troubling questions: What 

happens when "the development" reaches completion? How are the "development people" brought back effectively into the general research program, 

or do these people just continue to look for things to develop? The only way 

to truly ensure the priority of the center's research function was to move 

the STG away from Langley completely, but by the early 1960s so much of 

NASA Langley's identity was tied up with the success of Project Mercury 

and the publicity glow surrounding its astronauts that Thompson and others at Langley were not at all sure they wanted to lose the STG to some 

other facility. The STG was so important to the national mission, so many 

resources were being devoted to it, and the American public was becoming 

so fascinated with astronauts and the prospect of manned spaceflight, that 

even the most clearheaded researchers at Langley were turning a little misty 

over the center's involvement in Project Mercury. At Langley the number 

* Although Hugh Dryden supported Project Mercury, he was in truth no great fan of the emphasis 

NASA placed on it. 

70 
Carrying Out the Task 

of "envious people who didn't want to leave their own jobs but who liked to 

bask in the [STG's]limelight" was growing.43 Mercury was a mushrooming 

project that was suddenly making national, even international, news. The 

local press was sending reporters out regularly to the center-something 

that had never happened before. The attention was a lot to lose. 

Thompson was less alarmed by the risks of supporting the STG and 

Project Mercury than Dryden, although he claims to have understood them 

welL Thompson was willing to gamble that the STG would help Langley 

more than harm it. In the long run, Thompson argued, "the broader 

demands imposed by a space program added to an existing aeronautics 

program" would make the research role more important to the country than 

it had ever been before. To carry out the space program while continuing to 

stimulate the aircraft industry and support commercial and military aviation 

required more fundamental research, not less.44 

A voice inside Thompson told him that the STG should become an official 

part of Langley; into the early 1960s, this voice of aggrandizement, not 

Dryden's of caution, dominated much of Thompson's thinking and some 

of his behind-the-scenes activities and management decisions pertaining to 

Project Mercury. "He wanted to combine the STG with Langley and have 

Langley manage it," recalls Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., one of Thompson's 

closest associates from the time. "He wanted to run the whole damn 

thing." 45 

However, in a research culture with deep NACA roots like Langley's, 

not everyone felt that supporting the STG was an acceptable risk. These 

feelings were reflected in such mundane matters as board hearings about 

promotions. Originally the STG went through the regular Langley board 

for promotions, but some STG members felt "they didn't get a fair deal" 

that way. For example, candidates for promotions who had done jobs such as 

the preparation of Mercury training manuals were "considered unfavorably" 

by Langley people who felt that the production of a traditional research 

report was a much more important achievement. Feelings about this "unfair 

treatment" eventually grew so strong that the STG decided to create its 

own promotions board to sidestep those at Langley who felt that writing 

training manuals amounted to "clambake work" and was not "worth that 

kind of money." 46 

Funding was at the root of some of the senior staff's concerns. They 

worried that the STG might absorb so much of the center's research 

capability that NASA headquarters would reduce its support for Langley's 

independent research function. The tail would start wagging the dog. 

Most members of the STG were too busy, ambitious, or imprudent to 

discourage this notion. Some STG members believed that they would 

continue conducting research while proceeding with Project Mercury. If that 

happened, some at Langley worried, NASA's and the country's support for 

independently funded research at the center might be badly, and perhaps 

71 
Spaceflight Revolution 

even fatally, compromised. Langley might turn into a place that handled 

big projects while remaining no more than semiactive in research.47 

Only very gradually and reluctantly did Langley management and the 

conflicted Floyd Thompson come to feel that something had to be done 

to cut the apron strings that connected Langley to the STG. Certain 

productive steps were taken by NASA headquarters in 1959 and 1960 to 

strengthen the STG's own organization and management and reduce its 

dependence on Langley for administrative and technical support.48 

One of the steps taken to distinguish the STG operation from that of 

the larger research center simply involved office space and physical facilities. 

Pressed for space, Langley had assigned the STG initially to the second floor 

of the Unitary Plan Wind Tunnel building in the West Area. But before 

long, Langley relocated Gilruth and his staff to facilities in the East Area. 

Two factors behind the move were the need to expand and the desire to 

find a cluster of offices where the growing STG could work as a consolidated 

team, but a third seems to have been the prejudice of the Langley senior 

staff against locating research and development functions so close together 

within the confines of the same center. 

In the East Area, the STG went to work inside two of the oldest buildings 

at the center; they had been constructed nearly 40 years earlier, before the 

laboratory's formal opening in 1920. Building 104 (later renumbered NASA 

no. 586) was the old Technical Services building; to make room for the 

STG, some of Langley's systems and equipment engineering people had to 

vacate their dusty premises. Building 58 (later renumbered NASA no. 587) 

had served as Langley's main office from 1920 until the new headquarters 

building opened in the West Area right after World War II; in the center 

telephone directory, this once important building on Dodd Boulevard, the 

former home of Langley's engineer-in-charge, was still referred to as the 

Administration building. In 1959 the sturdy two-story, red-brick structure 

housed the East Area's cafeteria, a group of stenographers, the center's 

editorial division, as well as most of the personnel, employment, and 

insurance offices. To accommodate members of the STG, some but not 

all of these office operations were moved to buildings in the West Area. 

The rapidly expanding STG eventually took over most of NASA's 

buildings in the East Area, as well as several adjacent air force facilities. But 

the STG remained hungry for space. Langley management had to release a 

few buildings in the West Area for STG use. For instance, Building 1244 

became a staging area where technicians refurbished the boilerplate capsules 

that were used for drop tests in the nearby Back River, and Building 1232 

was turned into an STG fabrication shop where prototype capsules were 

inspected and assembled. 

Members of the STG did not complain much about the patchwork nature 

of these quarters because the group was housed at Langley only temporarily, 

pending transfer to a permanent base of operation. Abe Silverstein, the 

head of the Office of. Space Flight Development, planned to move the STG 

72 
Carrying Out the Task 

to Goddard when the facility for the new spaceflight center in Greenbelt, 

Maryland, was completed. Although located at Langley, the STG had been 

reporting directly to Silverstein's office in Washington, but this arrangement, 

like housing the group at Langley, was a temporary expedient until a more 

permanent arrangement could be established.49 

The management logic behind the transfer of the STG into the Goddard 

organization came from Silverstein: a focused little organization like the 

STG might be capable of running the technical part of its operation, 

but in terms of handling budgetary matters, looking after swelling fiscal 

and procurement responsibilities, and supplying material and housekeeping 

support, the STG needed all the help it could get. NASA did not have 

the resources to build a complete organization around a solitary task force 

carrying out a single project, no matter how important the project. It 

made more sense to place the task force inside an existing organization 

already having a complete range of capabilities-but not as overburdened 

with responsibilities as Langley. 

Most members of the STG disliked Silverstein's plan. 'They did not 

want to move to a suburb of the nation's congested capital city, and they 

were a little bitter over what they viewed as a lack of appreciation for the 

magnitude of their work. The manned spaceflight program would be only 

one of several projects at the new Goddard center. If Gilruth and the rest 

of his STG could have had their way, they would have preferred to stay 

at Langley and continue the close relationship with the center that both 

sides had found workable from late 1958 on. In spite of the heavy drain 

on his center's manpower and facilities and the justifiable fears about what 

such a big space project might do to divert and distort essential research 

capability strengths, Floyd Thompson ultimately would have preferred to 

keep the entire manned space program at Langley. Such were the personal 

and institutional temptations that came with the spaceflight revolution and 

its "big technology." 

The STG, however, was made formally a part of Goddard on 1 May 1959, 

which was Goddard's official opening day. Although still housed at Langley 

and separated from the new spaceflight center by more than 100 miles of 

Tidewater Virginia, the STG became the Manned Spacecraft Division of 

Goddard, with Gilruth serving as the new center's assistant director for 

manned satellites while remaining the director of Project Mercury. 

In the beginning, everyone had thought that Bob Gilruth would be the 

director of Goddard and that the new space center would be not only the 

place for manned spaceflight but also for all of NASA's space science activity. 

As Charles Donlan remembers, "When Dr. Dryden gave Gilruth his first 

title, it wasn't 'Director of Project Mercury,' it was 'Assistant Director 

of Goddard.'" The thought was that Gilruth would be the director. In 

fact, in the fall of 1958, Gilruth and Donlan, figuring they were going to 

be the director and deputy director of this new Goddard center, "went up 

and looked over the place and what-not." Donlan recalls, "We spent some 

73 
Spaceflight Revolution 

time thinking about how we would organize it." In the meantime, however, 

Project Mercury was bubbling along at a very fast rate. "Silverstein was 

anxious to get Goddard moving, and he knew that Gilruth was going to be 

tied up with Mercury," Donlan explains. So Silverstein brought in Harry 

Goett, a friend he used to work with in Langley's Full-Scale Tunnel in the 

old days before Goett moved to the Ames laboratory in the early 1940s and 

before he, Silverstein, moved to Lewis. "This upset Gilruth very much," 

Donlan recalls, "but nevertheless he decided he'd rather work on the manned 

program than spend his time organizing a new center." 5° 

In truth, the STG always acted quite independently of Goddard's control. 

Harry Goett, the figurehead director of the STG's operation, and some of his 

associates visited Langley almost weekly and were always received "politely 

but noncommittally." Goett told Donlan and others flatly that "he knew 

what the situation was": Goddard's control over the STG was pro forma and 

that most STG members, from Gilruth on down, felt some contempt for the 

contrived relationship. Fortunately, the awkward "p~per" arrangement did 

not last long enough for hard feelings to develop on either side. 51 

By the time of President Kennedy's May 1961 commitment to landing 

astronauts on the moon, everybody in NASA realized that the manned 

space program was never going to be just a division of some other center. 

Silverstein and others at NASA headquarters finally decided to break off the 

STG as a completely separate entity, away not only from Goddard but also 

from Langley. 

The fate of the STG, however, ultimately came to rest in the hands of 

powerful people beyond the control of Langley or the STG-or even NASA 

headquarters. Influential people representing vested political and economic 

interests were maneuvering behind the scenes to build a manned spacecraft 

center in Texas. The principal players behind the Texas plan were VicePresident Lyndon B. Johnson, the nation's number two man in the executive 

office but number one space enthusiast; Representative Olin E. Teague 

of College Station, Texas, the third-ranking member of the House Space 

Committee; and Albert H. Thomas, chairman of the House Independent 

Offices Appropriations Committee, a powerful link in the legislative chain 

that reviewed NASA's annual budget requests. 52 In September 1961, after 

months of unsettling rumors (often denied by NASA) that the STG would 

be moving to a large and expensive new facility in Texas, and despite 

outspoken criticism of the alleged backstage chicanery expressed by the 

outraged politicos and newspapers serving the equally vested interests of 

the Commonwealth of Virginia, NASA announced that the STG would in 

fact be moving from Langley to a 1620-acre site at Clear Lake, some 25 

miles south of Houston, which just so happened to be in Albert Thomas's 

own, hurricane-torn, congressional district.53 

"Now what's behind this need for relocation?" asked one editorial in the 

Newport News Daily. Press. And the questions kept coming: 

74 
Carrying Out the Task 

What is needed that we don't h!!.ve, or can't get, right here where the Space 

Task Group was conceived and developed? ... What is wrong with research facilities 

presently located in the Langley Research Center area? Some of this 'back 40' could 

be conditioned for space probe progress and closely related to the existing complex 

of laboratories, facilities, and manpower. 

The simple one-word answer, the local media sourly reported, was "politics." 

This angered area residents. In their minds, the activities of the STG and 

Langley Research Center were "interwoven." To tear them apart was not 

only "a terrible waste of time and money" but was also tantamount to 

kidnapping a brainchild. 54 

Many of the STG members were unhappy as well. "I was so upset about 

going to Texas," one STG engineer still remembers with indignation, "I 

wouldn't even let them send me the free subscription to their goddanged 

newspaper." But, once the decision was made, nothing could be done 

about it short of leaving the manned space program. A native and lifelong 

resident of Hampton, Caldwell Johnson, who had just built a· beautiful new 

waterfront home, sums up the predicament: "I'd eat my heart out if I stayed 

here and let all these other guys come to Houston and do this. I would've 

kicked myself fifty thousand times." 55 In the frenetic period during late 

1961 and early 1962 when thousands of preparations for the first Mercury 

orbital flight still had to be made, Caldwell and 700 other engineers and 

their families packed their belongings and drove the 1000-plus miles to East 

Texas. 

Although no one at Langley was happy to see the STG go, many sighed 

with relief when the group finally left. "It would have been a great mistake 

to have had the STG stay at LangJey," argues Charles Donlan in retrospect. 

According to Donlan, who by the time of the move to Texas was back at 

Langley as Floyd Thompson's associate director, once the decision was made 

that the STG would go someplace else, Thompson and everybody else felt 

that "it was for the best, because if it had stayed it would have overwhelmed 

the center." 56 

The move helped Langley almost immediately. As a compensation for 

the loss of the STG, NASA approved a $60-million expansion of Langley 

and authorized the center to hire several hundred new employees to replace 

the departing STG members. Hugh Dryden, who had been looking out for 

the interests of the center at NASA headquarters, was in part responsible 

for these boons. "That was the best thing that could have happened," says 

Donlan about the authorization to hire, because one of the most important 

resources for creative thinking at a research laboratory is a supply of young 

minds. "We got the cream of the crop of many of the best kids coming out 

of the universities," Donlan remembers. Thanks to the STG's departure, 

Langley received a healthy infusion of the "fresh blood" Thompson wanted, 

and instead of it all flowing into s~ace project work, most of it was channeled 

into the general research areas. 5 It was a development that, on balance, 

75 
Spaceflight Revolution 

pleased Langley's senior management and made them less regretful over the 

STG's leaving. 

The experience of having had the STG at Langley also helped to clarify 

management's thinking about the proper relationship between projects and 

fundamental research and helped a few to understand better that all projects 

eventually reach a dead end. Donlan remembers the policy started after the 

STG moved away from Langley: ''Whenever a new guy came in, we never 

put him in a project. [We would] put him in one of the research divisions 

and let him work there for a few years. If a researcher then wanted to try 

something else, fine, stick him in a project." 58 

A management philosophy that called for a mix of experience was healthy 

for the overall NASA operation, especially because it enhanced the in-house 

capability of the field centers. People assigned to projects did not have to do 

research work, meaning that they could devote their time to the job at hand. 

But the breadth and depth of problem-solving experience gained during the 

required period in major research divisions almost always immeasurably 

helped scientists and engineers if and when they did become involved in the 

management of a project. 

Although the new management philosophy solved some problems, the 

tension and ambivalence created by supporting development work would 

persist at Langley well beyond Project Mercury. The same tension would be 

present through the Apollo program, the Viking project, the Space Shuttle 

program, the space station program, and beyond. Because of Sputnik 

and the ensuing space race, development projects would always be a part 

of Langley, and the conflicting feelings surrounding them would never go 

away. Buried deep inside those feelings was the final and most worrisome 

irony of all, which Hugh Dryden tried to make Floyd Thompson recognize: 

everything about the space program in the long run could turn out to be ad 

hoc except research. No one from the NACA except the clairvoyant Hugh 

Dryden anticipated this outcome of the spaceflight revolution, and no NACA 

veterans would be pleased by it. 

The End of the Glamour Days 

It took about nine months, until mid-June 1962, for the STG in its 

entirety to complete the move to the new $60-million facility south of 

Houston. For Gilruth and associates this period was busy and difficult. 

At the same time that they were clearing their desks and packing their 

files, families, and household belongings for the western trek from Langley, 

they were also doing the thousands of things that had to be done to make 

John Glenn's February 1962 Mercury-Atlas 6 flight (America's first manned 

orbital flight) and Scott Carpenter's May 1962 Mercury-Atlas 7 flight the 

great successes that they turned out to be. 59 

76 
Carrying Out the Task 

Thanks to President Kennedy's May 1961 commitment to the lunar 

landing program, the STG (renamed the Manned Spacecraft Center in 

November 1961) was also gearing up to meet the demands of what was 

now being called Project Apollo. Although several ideas for lunar missions 

had been circulating at Langley and the other NASA centers for some time, 

NASA did not yet know how to send an astronaut to the moon, how to land 

him on its surface and return him safely, or how to do all three by the end of 

the decade as President Kennedy wanted. Many crucial decisions had to be 

made quickly about the lunar mission mode, and the overworked manned 

spaceflight specialists of the STG, when they found the time and energy, 

were asked to help make those decisions. 

Project Mercury came to an end in the early summer of 1963, following 

the successful orbital flights of astronauts Walter A. Schirra (MercuryAtlas 8) in October 1962 and L. Gordon Cooper (Mercury-Atlas 9) in May 

1963. As the project drew to a close, Bob Gilruth wrote a letter to Floyd 

Thompson, thanking his old friend for all the help that Lal).gley had given 

the STG over the past four years. "It is fitting that the Manned Spacecraft 

Center express its sincere appreciation to the Langley Research Center 

for the invaluable part that the Center has played in our initial manned 

space flight program," Gilruth's letter stated. "The Manned Spacecraft 

Center owes much to Langley, since ... Langley was really its birthplace." 

Specific contributions that Langley had made to Project Mercury were 

"too numerous to detail completely" but briefly, they included assistance in 

the Big Joe program; implementation of the Little Joe program; planning 

and implementation of the tracking and ground instrumentation system; 

numerous aerodynamic, structural, materials, and component evaluation 

and development tests; engineering, shop, instrumentation, and logistic 

support for much of the STG in-house testing; and administrative support 

and office space during the period from late 1958 until mid-1962 when the 

STG completed its move to Houston. In conclusion Gilruth wrote, "As you 

can see, all elements of the Langley Center provided major assistance to 

Project Mercury, and we are deeply grateful for this help." 60 

The local public also wanted to express its gratitude. On Saturday 

morning, 17 March 1962, more than 30,000 shouting and flag-waving 

residents of the Peninsula lined a 25-mile motorcade route through the cities 

of Hampton and Newport News. The huge crowds, swelling to 10 and 20 

people deep in some places, came to salute the country's seven original 

astronauts, one of whom, Marine Lt. Col. Glenn, had just made the first 

American orbital flight into space on 20 February. Area residents wanted 

to show the people of NASA Langley Research Center just how much they 

appreciated Langley's effort to launch the first Americans into space. 

Frequent cries of "Good work, John," "You're one of us, Gus," and 

similar encouraging messages to the seven smiling astronauts followed the 

impressive motorcade throughout its meandering trip from Langley AFB 

to Darling Memorial Stadium in downtown Hampton. Inside the stadium, 

77 
Spaceflight Revolution 

In his capacity as the astronauts' public affairs officer, Lt. Col. "Shorty" Powers 

{sitting in the back seat of the convertible with his wife) introduced the astronauts 

one by one to the enthusiastic crowd. {Photo by .Fred D. Jones.) 

Astronaut Walter M. Schirm arrives at Darling Stadium for the rally; seven months 

later, on 3 October 1962, he would become the fifth American to be launched into 

space. {Photo by .Fred D. Jones.) 

78 
Carrying Out the Task 

The mayor of Newport News, 

Va., presents Robert R. Gilruth, 

head of Project Mercury, with 

a token of his citizens' esteem 

(left). Below, wild cheers greet 

astronaut John Glenn and his 

wife, Annie. From the outset of the manned space program, "The Mqrine," Lt. Col. 

Glenn, had been the public's favorite astronaut. (Photos by 

Fred D. Jones.) 

79 
Spaceflight Revolution 

5000 people waited anxiously in brisk 50-degree weather for the arrival of 

the parade. Beneath the speakers' stand in the middle of the football field, 

where Manned Spacecraft Center Public Affairs Officer John A. "Shorty" 

Powers would introduce the astronauts and Governor Albertis S. Harrison 

would deliver the featured speech in praise of them, the huddled spectators 

watched in anticipation as a red, white, and blue banner fluttered in the 

strong breeze; the banner read: "HAMPTON, VA., SPACETOWN U.S.A." 

Behind the astronauts in the procession of 40 open convertibles rode 

Gilruth, Thompson, and several prominent Langley researchers and senior 

staff members. Like the astronauts, the engineers smiled broadly and waved 

vigorously to the crowd while receiving lusty cheers from the throng. 61 Helping to launch the astronauts into space had altered, in a fundamental way, 

the public's perception of who these men were and what they did. Instead of 

NACA Nuts-those shadowy figures whom the public had mostly ignoredthey had become NASA Wizards, the technological magicians who were 

making the incredible flights of mankind into space a reality. 

Things had moved full circle. On a previous Saturday morning three 

years earlier, NASA Langley for the first time in its history had opened 

wide its gates and played host to the people of the Hampton area. Now 

the people of Hampton were returning the favor. For them, the glamour of 

having the nation's first seven space pilots living and working in their midst 

had been wonderful. Losing them and the rest of the STG to Texas was a 

bitter pill to swallow.* Thirty years later, long after changing the name of 

busy Military Highway to "Mercury Boulevard" and dedicating the bridges 

of Hampton in honor of the astronauts, area residents still reminisce fondly 

about "the good old days in Hampton and Newport News" when "those 

brave astronauts" lived iri their neighborhoods, ate in their restaurants, and 

drove down their streets and across their bridges. 62 

* A headline of the Newport News Daily Press, 24 Sept. 1961, read, "See Here, Suh! What Does 

Texas Have That Hampton Doesn't?" 

80 
4 

Change and Continuity 

What we should do is retain our competence and 

contract out our capacity. 

-Floyd L. Thompson, director of 

Langley Research Center 

In the working partnership between universities, industry, and government ... each of the three has retained its traditional values. . . . I believe that each 

has become stronger because of the partnership. 

-James E. Webb, NASA administrator 

Born in 1898, the offspring of another century, Floyd Thompson was 62 

years old when he took over officially from Henry J. E. Reid as the Langley 

director in May 1960. When defending the interests of his beloved Langley, 

Thompson could definitely play the part of a stubborn old curmudgeon. 

He played it particularly well in July 1963 at a press conference called 

by NASA Administrator James E. Webb, President Kennedy's appointed 

successor to Keith Glennan. In his office at NASA headquarters, Webb 

announced the appointment of Earl D. Hilburn, a former vice-president 

and general manager of the Electronics Division of the Curtiss-Wright 

Corporation, as a new deputy associate administrator. Webb reported 

to the assemblage that Hilburn would now be responsible for the general 

management of all the NASA facilities that were not manned spaceflight 

centers-in other words, Hilburn would manage Ames, Lewis, Langley, 

Goddard, Wallops, JPL in Pasadena, and the Flight Research Center at 

Edwards AFB. After introducing Hilburn, Webb turned to Thompson, who 

had been invited to Washington just for the occasion, stuck out his chin, and 

asked Langley's director what he thought of the news. Thompson answered 

loud enough for everyone to·hear, "Well, Langley has been around a long 

81 
Spaceflight Revolution 

time, and I suspect it will be around a lot longer no matter what you people 

up here do." 1 

This arrogant reply stemmed from Thompson's devotion to Langley's 

long tradition of independence and freedom from bureaucratic headaches 

and political machinations in Washington. Why should the director of a 

research center be overly impressed by the news that another bureaucrat was 

joining the organization in Washington? Although most NASA personnel 

in the audience knew Thompson well enough not to be stunned by his 

comment, they were still surprised that he would make it in Webb's own 

office and with reporters present. Neither Webb nor any other NASA officials 

present would ever forget the incident. For many of them, it was just another 

instance of a prideful Langley trying to go its own way. 

But Thompson's answer revealed more than just pride; it demonstrated 

his conviction that some essential continuity at NASA must be sustained 

amid the rapid changes taking place for the space race. Whatever management changes or reforms NASA headquarters made in the affairs of the 

research laboratories, Langley would continue to do its job. 

The Langley center director was no thoughtless institutional reactionary. 

Thompson had shown by his nurturing of the STG, if not by his comments 

to headquarters officials, that he was no foot-dragger when it came to 

supporting and promoting the space program. Not for a moment would 

he try to stop the spaceflight revolution from happening at Langley; rather, 

in his own cautious and pragmatic ways he would advocate, encourage, and 

even delight in NASA's ambitious objectives. In the changes in the modus 

vivendi of the NASA laboratory that were taking place in the early 1960s, 

Thompson recognized an elevated level of excitement and commitment, 

a new degree of freedom; and an unprecedented opportunity for building 

unique capabilities that went beyond the constraints of traditional NACAstyle, in-house research activities. After the fever of supporting the space 

race had passed, Langley, Thompson believed, would emerge not weakened, 

but strengthened. 

Sometime in the early 1960s, Thompson invented a motto to capture 

what he wanted Langley's new operational philosophy to be: "We should 

retain our competence and contract out our capacity." 2 By that Thompson 

meant that a NASA center forfeited none of its own capabilities by sharing 

some of its work with outsiders. Langley should nurture the industrialization 

of research and development (R&D), which had been taking place at an 

increasing rate in America since the end of World War II. Langley would 

not be losing control over its own destiny by farming out some of its 

responsibilities to American business and industry while taking on certain 

duties that went beyond the traditional in-house research function. Instead, 

Langley would benefit because it would now be able to focus on the genesis of 

valuable scientific and technological ideas, take its own potential to the limit, 

and accomplish important tasks that could not be done as well any other 

way. Moreover, in spreading its wealth to contractors, NASA would not just 

82 
L-63-3879 

Change and Continuity 

Langley Director Floyd Thompson 

might have done more to obstruct 

the spaceflight revolution at Langley if he had known how much the 

essential character of his research 

center was going to be changed by 

it. 

be putting together a national team to beat the Soviets in the space race 

but would also be invigorating the aerospace industry and strengthening 

the country's economy. NASA's new style of managing large endeavors 

might even demonstrate a cooperative means by which other national and 

international needs, such as the alleviation of poverty, could be met. 

Thompson's slogan was his own, but the broader message belonged 

to bigger thinkers. Whether Thompson was conscious of it or not, the 

phrase "retain our competence and contract out our capacity" echoed a 

more sweeping vision of his time, one that was an essential part of John 

F. Kennedy's "New Frontier." An ambitious program of space exploration 

would make the United States an overall healthier society, Kennedy declared 

during the 1960 presidential campaign. "We cannot run second in this vital 

race. To insure peace and freedom, we must be first. . . . This is the new 

age of exploration; space is our great New Frontier." A successful space 

program would help in the ultimate defeat of communism by showing to all 

peoples of the world the great things a western democratic and capitalistic 

society can do when its resources are effectively mobilized. NASA would 

make manifest the essential superiority of the American way of life. 3 

83 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-64-6455 

President Kennedy's (actually Vice-President Lyndon B. Johnson's) choice for 

NASA administrator, James E. Webb, sits between Langley Director Floyd 

Thompson (left} and the NACA 's retired executive $ecretary, John F. Victory 

(right}, at the 1964 NASA Inspection held at Langley. Although Thompson had 

some memorable run-in$ with Webb, the two were much alike. Both were country 

boys (Thompson from Michigan, Webb from North Carolina} with rumpled collars, 

corn-pone accents, and down-home homilie$. They were also highly intelligent, complex, and cunning. 

A dynamic new union of science, technology, and government-or what 

NASA Administrator Webb called the "university-industry-government 

complex" ~would lead the charge in this campaign for a better world. 

NASA, above all other national institutions, would help to forge this relationship, which would serve as the means for winning the contest with the 

Soviet Union, for solving pressing social and economic problems at home 

and abroad, and for accelerating the pace of progress in the human community. The elaborate teamwork necessary for spaceflight programs would 

force some major changes and adjustments in the workings of existing institutions, but the end result would be for the best. Traditional values, those 

worth keeping, would be retained. But through the new partnership, each 

of the team members, including NASA, would become stronger. 4 

Given his democratic leanings and his position of responsibility within 

the space program, not even a stubborn old curmudgeon like Thompson 

84 
Change and Continuity 

was outside the rising tide of thinking about how the world was changing 

and how even successful places like NASA Langley would also have to 

change if they were to contribute to and be a vital part of the new order. 

Thompson could be brusque with Webb, as at the Hilburn press conference, 

but in technological spirit he and the NASA administrator stood on common 

ground. "Every thread in the fabric of our economic, social, and political 

institutions is being tested as we move into space," Webb stated in a 1963 

speech on the meaning of the space program. 

Our economic and political relations with other nations are being reevaluated. Old 

concepts of defense and military tactics are being challenged and revised. Jealously 

guarded traditions in our educational institutions are being tested, altered, or even 

discarded. Our economic institutions-the corporate structure itself-are undergoing 

reexamination as society seeks to adjust itself to the inevitability of change. 5 

Thompson, in his much less publicized talks around Langley, often echoed 

the same sentiments. Not even the oldest and best American institutions 

could go on as before, unaffected, in light of the technological revolution that 

was taking place as humankind moved into space. Even a place like NASA 

Langley would have to make some major adjustments, and Thompson knew 

it-no matter what curt remark he might make to the contrary. 

The Organization 

Apart from meeting the sizable personnel requirements of the STG, 

Langley laboratory initially did. not change much to meet the growing 

demands of the nascent space age. Some new boxes were drawn on the 

organization charts, and a few old ones eliminated. Some existing divisions 

and branches received new names and experienced reorganizations, and 

a few significant new research sections and branches were built around 

emerging space disciplines (for example, the Space Applications Branch 

of the Full-Scale Research Division created in December 1959 and the 

Magnetoplasmadynamics Branch of the Aero-Physics Division created in 

May 1960). Several major project offices also came to life at the laboratory 

in the early 1960s, but, for the most part, everything about the formal 

structure of the laboratory remained the same as before. Thompson and his 

senior staff believed that the organization of the laboratory for its general 

applied aerodynamic research under the NACA in the late 1950s would 

serve the new combination of aeronautics and space equally well. When 

Langley's diversified capabilities needed to be focused on mission plans 

or specific program goals, ad hoc task forces, steering committees, study 

groups, and other "shadow organizations" that usually did not appear on 

the organization charts were created. 

The organization chart of 1962 shows the continuity in Langley's structure from the 1950s into the i960s even though four years had passed since 

85 
Spaceflight Revolution 

the changeover of the NACA to NASA and one year had passed since 

President Kennedy had committed the country to a manned landing mission 

to the moon by the end of the decade. In the summer of 1962, Langley 

Research Center consisted, as it had since the mid-1950s, of three major research directorates. Heading each directorate was an assistant director. This 

person was responsible for overseeing the work being done in the subsidiary 

research divisions. In 1962 each research directorate had three research divisions, for a total of nine at the center. Within the nine research divisions 

were -some 50 branches, plus a number of sections, offices, facilities, shops, 

and testing units. Typically, a division numbered between 100 and 150 fulltime research professionals. In the management formula, 3 nonprofessionals, 

that is, secretaries, mechanics, data processors and the like, were needed to 

support one researcher. That did not mean that every division employed 

300 to 450 support people; none in fact did. The research divisions instead 

received much of their nonprofessional assistance from two supporting directorates. One of these directorates, "technical services," employed the 

mechanics, modelmakers, electricians, and other technicians necessary for 

keeping the shops, testing facilities, and the rest of the infrastructure of the 

research operation alive. The other supporting directorate, "administrative 

services," handled fiscal matters, personnel affairs, the photo lab, the library, 

and the publications office as well as the rapidly increasing requirements for 

procurement. 6 

Until early in 1962, the research directorates did not have names or 

any official designation; on the organization charts were three boxes simply 

labeled "Office of Assistant Director" with no way to distinguish them, 

apart from knowing who the particular assistant director was and what 

divisions he directed. In February 1962, Director Thompson and Associate 

Director Charles J. Donlan decided to remedy this situation. There were 

three directorates, they thought, so why not call them "Group 1," "Group 

2," and "Group 3." 7 

Named to head Group 1 at the time of this nominal reorganization was 

Clinton E. Brown, formerly the chief of the Theoretical Mechanics Division. 

This division was one of several smaller Langley divisions that in the early 

1960s were focusing on the study of lunar missions. Brown replaced Hartley 

A. Soule, who retired. The new Analysis and Computation Division (ACD), 

whose chief was Paul F. Fuhrmeister, was part of Group 1. This division was 

established in January 1961 by combining the Analytical and Computation 

Branch of the Theoretical Mechanics Division with the Data Systems Branch 

of IRD. The goal of ACD was "to allow more effective management at the 

Center in the development and utilization of data systems for data reduction 

services and for theoretical analysis requirements." 8 Also within Brown's 

group were IRD, headed by electrical engineer and future assistant director 

Francis B. Smith, and the Theoretical Mechanics Division (in June 1963, 

renamed the Space Mechanics Division), led by Dr. John C. Houbolt, the 

champion of the lunar-orbit rendezvous concept for Project Apollo. 

86 
00 

-.:J 

LANGLEY RESEARCH CENTER 

DIRECTOR 

Floyd L Thompson 

I ASSOCIAlE DIRECTOR 

ChaJ1es J. Donlan 

I I I I I I 

REENTRY PROGRAMS FIELD PROJECTS OFFICE II COOPERATIVE PROJECTS OFFICE I SCOUT PROJECT I STAFF SCIEtrnST l RESEARCH 

Hetbert A. Wilson, Jr., Manager Reginald M. Mache\1, Head Thomas A. Hanls George R. Rupp, Head Alloll Busemann H. Dening, Head 

David G. Stone, Asst Manager GOidon E. Marter, Asst 

I I I I 

OFFICE OF ASSISTANT DIRECTOR OFFICE OF ASSISTANT DIRECTOR OFFICE OF ASSISTANT DIRECTOR OFFICE OF ASSISTANT DIRECT

CfintonE.Brown Eugene C. Draley LaurenceK.Lollin,Jr. !"'-- FOR ADMINISTRATION 

T. MeMn Buler 

(Group\) (Group2) (Group3) 

I I I I CHIEF } I 

COUNSEL 

APPLIED MATERIALS & GeorgeT. Melley 

ANALYSIS AND PHYSICS DIV. AERO-PHYSICS DIV. PROCUREMENT DIV, 

1- COMPUTATION DIV. 1- Joseph A. Shortal, ChOI 1- Jolm V. Becker, Chiel She!wood L Butler, ChOI 

Paul F. Fuhrmeis1er, Chief Paul R. HiD, Asst. Chief I PATENT John Munk:k, Asst Chief 

Thomas B. Andrews, Asst ChOI Samuel Kattolf, Asst. Chief COUNSEL \Wiiam J. O'SUHivan, Asst to ChOI 

Howard J. Osborn 

INSTIRUMENT RESEARCH DIV. DYNAMIC LOADS DIV. AERO-SPACE MECHANICS DIV. 

1- Francis B. SmHh, Chief 1- l Edwald Genk:k, Chief 1- Phinp Donely Chief 1 PUBLIC 

Howard B. E<t.vatds, Asst Chief Arthur A. Regier, Asst Chief Jolm P. Asst Chief AFFAIRS 

H. Phrllips, Asst ChOI OFFICE 

H. Lee Dickinson 

._ TIHEORETICAL MECHANICS DIV. STIRUCTURES RESEARCH D\\1 . FULL-SCALE RESEARCH DIV. 

.... R<hard R. Heldenfefs, Chief I. Mark R. Ndlol<, Chof I SECURITY JohnC.Houboi\Chief 

Paul Kuhn. Asst Chief OFFICE 

Roger A. Anderson, Asst ChOI Baals, Asst Chief 

Ed.YardB.Iloswell 

Organization chart of NASA Langley Research Center, summer 1962. 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-60-5232 L-64-9585 

L-77-3336 

The heads of Groups 1, 2, and 3: Clinton E. Brown (top left), Eugene C. Draley 

(top right), and Laurence K. Loftin, Jr. {bottom). When these groups were baptized 

in February 1962, the three men had been working at Langley for a combined 62 

years. 

88 
Change and Continuity 

Heading Group 2 was Eugene C. Draley, who had been serving as an 

assistant director since November 1958. Within this directorate was Joseph 

A. Shortal's (Class of 1929, Texas A&M) Applied Materials and Physics 

Division, the reincarnation of PARD, which had been dissolved in December 

1959. PARD, created near the end of World War II, had developed the 

methods of rocket-model testing at Wallops and had provided instrumented 

flight data at transonic and supersonic speeds important for the design 

of the country's postwar high-speed jets and ballistic missiles. Led in its 

early years by Bob Gilruth, the old PARD had served almost unwittingly 

as Langley's training ground for the space age. One year after the birth 

of NASA, and in view of the changed programs and responsibilities of 

PARD, Langley had changed its name to the Applied Materials and Physics 

Division. 9 The Dynamic Loads Division, headed by I. Edward Garrick, an 

applied mathematician who had graduated from the University of Chicago 

in 1930, and the Structures Research Division, headed by MIT aeronautical 

engineer (Class of 1942) Richard R. Heldenfels, were also in Group 2. 

Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., a mechanical engineer who came to work at 

Langley in 1944 after graduating from the University of Virginia, had served 

as the technical assistant to Floyd Thompson since December 1958. When 

Henry Reid relinquished his duties on 20 May 1960, Loftin began working 

for the laboratory's director. On 24 November 1961 Loftin replaced John 

Stack as Langley's third assistant director when Stack moved up to take 

charge of the agency's aeronautical programs at NASA headquarters. In 

practice, Loftin served also as Langley's director for aeronautics. When, 

four months later, Thompson assigned group numbers to the directorates, 

Loftin remained in charge of what was called from then on Group 3. 

Group 3 was home to the Aero-Physics Division, headed by hypersonics 

expert John V. Becker (M.S. in aeronautical engineering, New York University, 1935). The roots of this division went back to the old Compressibility 

Research Division of the late 1940s and 1950s, in which NACA researchers 

had studied the vexing problems of high-speed flight in new wind tunnels 

and other unique test facilities. In December 1958, Langley had redesignated 

this division the Supersonic Aerodynamics Division. But this name, which 

Becker and others did not like because it did not capture the range of research areas covered by the division's work, did not last long. Seven months 

later, after another reorganization, it was rebaptized the Aero-Physics Division, a title that then lasted until the major organizational shake-up brought 

on in 1969 and 1970 by Thompson's successor as center director, Edgar M. 

Cortright. 

The second division in Group 3 was the Aero-Space Mechanics Division, 

led by Philip Donely, an aeronautical engineer who had graduated from 

MIT in 1931. Like a few other parts of Langley, this division was created not long after the establishment of NASA, during the reorganization of 

September 1959. Essentially, .the Aero-Space Mechanics Division combined 

two older aeronautical research groups: the Flight Research Division and 

89 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-64-6446 

On the Langley tarmac in May 1964 to welcome Raymond Bisplinghoff, director of 

the Office of Advanced Research and Technology (OART) at NASA headquarters, 

are, left to right, Floyd Thompson, Langley director; Raymond Bisplinghoff; T. 

Melvin Butler, chief administrative officer; Eugene C. Draley, head of Group 2; and 

Laurence K. Loftin, head of Group 3. 

the Stability Research Division, both of which dated to the late 1930s. As 

with many other changes at the time, the establishment of the Aero-Space 

Mechanics Division reflected the snowballing of space-related research activities at Langley and the de-emphasis on aeronautics. In a directorate such 

as this, where aeronautics always had been the byword, center management 

was reclassifying activities to show how even the airplane flight research 

groups were tackling critical problems in the new regime of space. Nobody 

in Donely'.s division much liked the new name, because it eliminated the 

word "flight" to add the word "space." Effective 30 June 1963, after a reorganization, Donely's division became the Flight Mechanics and Technology 

Division, a redesignation that stuck until the Cortright reorganization, when 

the political advantages of calling everything "space" -this or "space" -that 

had mostly passed. 

The third division in Loftin's group was the Full-Scale Research Division, which comprised several large aeronautics groups clustered around the 

laboratory's larger wind tunnels. This division began in the early 1940s 

but had recently expanded in May 1961 with the addition of the former 

Unitary Plan Wind Thnnel Division as one of its major research branches. 

Aeronautical engineer· Mark R. Nichols, a 1938 graduate of the Alabama 

90 
Change and Continuity 

Polytechnical Institute (later Auburn University), led this division through 

the 1960s. 

Not surprisingly, all three assistant directors and all nine division chiefs, 

as well as the director and associate director, were former employees of 

the NACA. The average age of these 14 men in 1962 was just over 44. 

When Lindbergh made his famous transatlantic crossing in 1927, they were 

young boys. Many of them remembered the flight of "Lucky Lindy" as a 

seminal event in their lives, launching them toward professional careers in 

aeronautics. Only two of them, ACD's Fuhrmeister and IRD's Smith, had 

not worked at NACA Langley during World War II, but they arrived only 

a few years later. 

A few important changes in the structure of the organization occurred 

after 1962. A handful of new assistant directors would be assigned. In 

October 1965, IRD would be split into two divisions: a new IRD and a 

brand new Flight Instrumentation Division. Both divisions would belong 

to Group 1. In the spring of 1964, a fourth major researeh directorate, 

the Office for Flight Projects, was formed to accommodate the growing 

number of special projects at the laboratory. Under this office was placed 

the Flight Reentry Programs Office, which handled Project Fire, the Lunar 

Orbiter Project Office, the Manned Orbiting Research Laboratory (MORL) 

Studies Office, the Scout Project Office, and the Applied Materials and 

Physics Division (the old PARD). The first assistant director of this new 

Office for Flight Projects was Gene Draley, who moved over from Group 2. 

Replacing Draley as head of Group 2 was Dr. John E. Duberg (Ph.D. from 

the University of Illinois, Class of 1948). Duberg was responsible for a 

directorate comprising only the Dynamic Loads Division and the Structures 

Research Division. The Applied Materials and Physics Division, which for 

its entire history had been the maverick in Langley's overall organization, 

moved over with Draley to Flight Projects.1

° Curiously, this fourth research 

directorate was not called "Group 4." 

Thompson's Obscurantism 

Langley's organization charts did not reveal the substance of the laboratory operation. In keeping with a long-standing tradition of obscurantism 

fathered by George W. Lewis, the NACA's politically shrewd director of research in Washington from 1919 to 1947, Langley Directors Henry Reid and 

Floyd Thompson never made the structure of the laboratory too apparent. 

If they had, they thought, then outsiders-and that category of suspicious 

people included Langley's own superiors at NACA/NASA headquarters in 

Washington-would be able to interfere with what was going on inside the 

laboratory. Micromanagement was something that the directors of the field 

centers and their research staffs definitely did not want.l1 

91 
Spaceflight Revolution 

"Thompson was a great one for saying that you couldn't be too sensible 

about this kind of stuff," remembers Larry Loftin, assistant director for 

Group 3. He wanted to "keep things confused so that the people at 

headquarters wouldn't really know what was going on." Thus, Langley's 

formal organization, following the NACA way, was kept deliberately vague. 

Loftin remembers one instance from the early 1960s when a concerned 

Bernard Maggin from the Office of Aeronautical and Space Research in 

NASA headquarters asked Thompson outright how many people were 

working on space projects under William J. O'Sullivan, Jr., in Langley's 

Applied Materials and Physics Division. Thompson just looked at Maggin 

grimly (to some colleagues, the Langley center director was known as "The 

Grim Reaper") and said, "I'm not going to tell you." 12 

And he never did tell Maggin. Thompson could get away with veiling 

the organization because of his many years with the NACA, the outstanding 

reputation of Langley Research Center both inside and outside the agency, 

and the power Langley wielded early on within NASA. This policy of obscurantism, however, was not something that headquarters liked or wanted 

continued much longer; it was not to be carried on by Thompson's successor. 

Edgar M. Cortright, the headquarters official named by NASA Administrator Jim Webb in March 1968 to replace Thompson, believed that it would be 

to Langley's advantage if headquarters had a more detailed understanding 

of the laboratory operation. So, in 1969 and 1970, when he put Langley 

through what was the most sweeping and traumatic reorganization in its 

then more than 50-year history, Cortright made certain that the titles in all 

the boxes on the organization charts indicated exactly what staff members 

did. This was just what Thompson had avoided. 

Another hallmark of Thompson's management style was generating 

spirited competition among his research divisions. He did not want any one 

group to have all the research opportunities in a given technical area. No 

one group should be doing all the reentry heating work, all the space station 

design, or all the supersonic research. Monopolies such as that, though they 

might seem to prevent duplication of efforts, bred complacency. Better to 

have several research groups tackling the same set of problems from different 

angles. 

This philosophy of creative research through friendly competition led 

to the formation of shadow organizations and invisible lines of organizational communication and responsibility within Langley-a process that 

would become known to management theorists by the 1990s as "nonlinear" 

thinking. For example, besides serving as assistant director for Group 3, 

Loftin also was responsible for all the aeronautics efforts at the laboratorythat included all of the aeronautical work in the Structures Research Division, which was technically under the auspices of Gene Draley's Group 2. 

As part of his everyday duties, Loftin had to review and approve all the 

important paperwork related to the aeronautical activity of someone else's 

directorate. 13 

92 
Change and Continuity 

This arrangement did create some tension but frequently resulted in a 

positive outcome. "There was enormous technical competition between the 

divisions at Langley," remembers Israel Taback, a longtime member of IRD 

who came to work at the laboratory in the early 1940s and stayed into the 

1980s. "People would fight with each other over technical details. That was 

all very healthy. The end result was a battle of ideas. Ideas that had merit 

tended to float to the surface. The good ideas won." 14 

The Sinking of Hydrodynamics-and Aeronautics? 

Only one major research division completely disappeared at Langley 

during the first years of the spaceflight revolution: Hydrodynamics. This 

division had done pioneering work in the field of waterborne aircraft research 

since 1930. Langley management decided to dissolve Hydrodynamics in 

late December 1959 and reassign its roughly four dozen personnel to other 

divisions. Many of its staff members went to Dynamic Loads, which dated 

back to the old Aircraft Loads Division of World War II and had specialized 

in the study of such problems as aeroelasticity, flutter, buffeting, ground 

wind loads, gust loads, and aircraft noise. In recent months, however, 

Dynamic Loads, like most other Langley divisions, had been taking on work 

related to Project Mercury and the space program. 15 

With the group that moved to Dynamic Loads went the continued 

responsibility for operating the High-Speed Hydrodynamics Tank, a 2177-

foot-long, 8-foot-wide, and 5-foot-deep towing test basin. This long concrete 

water channel was located in the far West Area of Langley Field alongside 

the Dynamic Loads Division's Landing Loads Track.* In the High-Speed 

Hydrodynamics Tank, NACA researchers in the mid-1950s had evaluated 

the performance of floats for the navy's Martin YP6M-1 Seamaster jetpropelled flying boat. They had worked to develop retractable "hydroskis" for the navy's experimental little XF2Y-1 Sea Dart jet fighter built 

by Convair (still to this day the only supersonic seaplane ever to fly). 

In addition, they had searched for a way to provide water-based aircraft 

with the combat air performance of comparable land-based planes. These 

investigations contributed information essential to the design of several 

experimental military vehicles including a "panto-base" airplane, a proposed 

amphibious type that could operate from concrete runways, grass, mud, 

snow, sandy beaches, or even from seaplane ramps and floating rafts.16 

Those members of the Hydrodynamics Division who did not move to Dynamic Loads became members of the Full-Scale Research Division. This was 

the largest single division at the laboratory, and it was essentially composed 

of aeronautical researchers who staffed the larger wind tunnels. John B. 

* The Landing Loads Track was an outdoor facility that simulated aircraft landing loads and motions 

through the braking and impact of a catapult-launched test carriage onto a hard runway-like surface. 

93 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Parkinson, Hydrodynamic's ever-faithful chief and the 1957 winner of the 

first Water-Based Aviation Award given by the Institute of Aeronautical 

Science, was reassigned to this division. Parkinson had worked in Hydrodynamics since coming to Langley in 1931. He accepted with reluctance 

his new assignment as "Aeronautical Research Scientist, Aerodynamics," 

which then Associate Director Floyd Thompson invented for him. In that 

position, Parkinson was to help in program planning and serve as "the Center's consultant for the consideration of future vehicles that operate on or 

in the water as part of their mission and other future vehicles for which water landing or other hydrodynamic requirements affect and modify design 

requirements." As Parkinson would no longer be a division chief, Langley 

had to request an "excepted position" for him from the civil service that 

would allow him to retain his present salary of $15,500. Within two years 

of the dissolution of Hydrodynamics, Parkinson left Langley for a job overseeing the management of aerodynamics research in the Office of Advanced 

Research and Technology (OART) at NASA headquarters.l7 

Parkinson and his colleagues took with them to the Full-Scale Research 

Division the responsibility for maintaining what had always been Hydrodynamics premier facility, "Tank No. 1," a unique 2900-foot indoor seaplane 

towing basin on the shore of the Back River in the East Area. This tank 

was designed in 1930 by NACA civil engineer Starr Truscott, who according 

to Langley lore was a descendant of the Wild West outlaw Belle Starr and 

a veteran of the construction of the Panama Canal. The NACA's original 

hydrodynamics research program had begun in Tank No. 1 when, 29 years 

before, Truscott, Parkinson, and fellow engineers had employed it to test 

floats that were eventually used on several American seaplanes, including 

the Sikorsky twin-float "Amphibian," which set speed records in the 1930s. 

Data gained from work in this facility also contributed to the development 

of the famous Clipper flying boats, the romantic ocean-hoppers that before 

World War II had trailblazed air routes and carried hundreds of paying passengers over all the oceans of the world. In the big water tank, the NACA 

had studied the design characteristics of most American floatplanes and the 

performance of nearly all the early U.S. Navy flying boats that would be 

used for air-sea rescue, antisubmarine patrol, and troop transport in World 

War II. In the enlarged version of the tank (it was lengthened to its full 

2900 feet from an original 2000 feet in 1937) and in its 1800-foot-long little brother, Tank No. 2 (built adjacent to it in 1942), Langley engineers 

discovered ways to ease the shock on a landplane when crash-landing or 

ditching in the water. Both tanks were equipped with an overhead electric carriage from which a dynamic model could be suspended and towed 

at up to 80 miles per hour, which was sufficient to make a model take off 

from the water and fly at scale speed. As the model was moving along 

the surface, researchers took motion pictures and recorded measurements 

demonstrating the aircraft's stability, controllability, water resistance, drag, 

and spray characteristics. The tanks were equipped with catapult devices, 

94 
Change and Continuity 

L-59"8685 

Aerial view of Langley's East Area. The largest building on the shore of the Back 

River is the Full-Scale Tunnel; the long building seeming to run from the top of the 

tunnel is Tank No. 1. 

for the study of the free-launched landing characteristics of airplanes and 

with mechanical wave-makers, for the simulation of takeoff and landing in 

rough water.l8 

On the eve of the dissolution of the Hydrodynamics Division, researchers 

in Tank No. 1 were studying the characteristics of revolutionary VTOL 

machines over water. They were even investigating the requirements of a 

supersonic seaplane and a prototype "ground-effect" machine, a platformlike vehicle that could hover and move just above the ground by creating 

a cushion of supporting air between it and the ground surface. Nobody, 

not even the U.S. Navy, was interested enough in the research going on 

in Langley's Hydrodynamics Division to ask NASA to keep it alive. Two 

ambitiously experimental Martin YP6M-1 Seamaster jet seaplanes had 

recently been lost due to design failures; the navy was about to terminate 

its entire flying-boat program; and Martin, one of the most dedicated 

builders of flying boats, was on the verge of moving into the guided missile 

business.19 Langley's Hydrodynamics Division, historic as it was, .had 

apparently outlived its usefulness. Tank No. 2 had already been deactivated 

in April1958 after 16 years of continuous use. Beginning on the first working 

day of 1960, historic Tank No. 1 would be placed on standby status, with 

no operating personnel regularly assigned to it. It became an abandoned 

facility that was to be used "only to meet the requirements of such special 

needs as they might arise." 20 Shortly thereafter, NASA would give complete 

control over the tank to the n;:~.vy. 

95 
Spaceflight Revolution 

A Langley engineer prepares a model of the proposed air force X-20 Dyna-Soar 

aerospace plane for testing in Tank No. 2 in 1961. 

Langley management explained its decision to abolish the Hydrodynamics Division by pointing to "the declining need for hydrodynamics research 

as it applies to seaplanes and other water-borne aircraft." Although that 

justification was apparently legitimate, it was only half the story. The other 

half was that the exigencies of NASA's space program were sweeping over 

Langley like a tidal wave and, in this case, engulfing an entire aeronauticsoriented division whose activities, facilities, and reason for being suddenly 

seemed antiquated. It did not matter that the division had been contributing 

to Project Mercury by making studies of the water landing characteristics of 

the capsule; it was better to get rid of the division and make its staff more 

clearly a part of the new regime of space. "In view of the changing nature of 

the nation's research programs," conceded Langley Director Henry Reid, "it 

is felt that the experienced personnel of the Hydrodynamics Division could 

best be utilized by transferring them to the staffs of divisions which have 

assumed increased space research responsibilities in recent months." 21 

As indicated by the elimination of the Hydrodynamics Division in 1959, 

Langley management was doing everything it could to transform Langley 

into an R&D center ready-made for the space age. But aeronautical 

engineers and their passion for airplanes and other winged flight vehicles 

did not completely disappear at the center. Floyd Thompson was not about 

to let aeronautics die at the historic NACA facility where he had worked 

96 
Change and Continuity 

Aeronautics and Space Work as Percentages of 

Langley's Total Effort, 1957-1965 

Effort 1957 1958 1959 1960 1961 1962 1963 1964 1965 

Hypersonics 6 9 6 9 6 5 7 9 8 

Supersonics 12 16 13 13 16 15 12 12 10 

Subsonics 5 6 8 5 5 4 3 3 3 

Special Types 8 9 9 7 7 7 4 3 3 

Aeronautics Total 31 40 36 34 34 31 26 27 24 

Space Total 69 60 64 66 66 69 74 73 76 

Source: "Distribution of Effort" pie charts in folder labeled "Research Effort," 

Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., Collection, Langley Historical Archives. 

since before the Lindbergh flight and where so many ideas important to the 

progress of American aviation had been born.22 

The place of aeronautics at Langley was nevertheless to change significantly in the wake of Sputnik. For the NACA to metamorphose successfully 

into NASA, aeronautics, out of political necessity, had to give up the center 

stage that it had enjoyed for over five decades so that an overnight sensation 

could now dazzle in the spotlight. The astronaut rocketing into the darkness of space would now get top billing; the aviator flying through the wild 

blue yonder, and the engineers and scientists who made that flight possible, 

would play the part of supporting actors. Already by the spring of 1958, 

aeronautics at Langley made up only 40 percent of the total work done at 

the center. By 1965 aeronautics would plummet to its lowest point, a measly 

24 percent. The space program was outshining older stars. 

For aviation enthusiasts, this turn of events proved traumatic. Veteran 

aeronautical engineer Raymond L. Bisplinghoff, who directed the OART at 

NASA headquarters from 1962 to 1966, put it mildy when in a 1983 memoir 

he stated that the formation of NASA had 

a dramatic, and at first deleterious, influence on the on-going program of aeronautical 

research. The new space tasks were often under scientists who worked on a space 

problem for one week then switched back to aeronautics the next week. . . . 

The massive priority which the country, from the president on down, placed on 

eclipsing the Russian lead in spaceflight had a profound influence on the NACA 

aeronautical staff as they assumed positions in the new agency. Many took advantage 

of opportunities to move to higher grades and levels of responsibility in space 

activities. As a result, many moved from aeronautical research tasks to space program 

management tasks. 23 

97 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Others, such as Langley's fiery director of aeronautics, John Stack, were so 

sure that the first "A" in NASA was being erased forever that they decided 

to leave the space agency entirely. At the time, especially after NASA's 

annual R&D budget for aeronautics fell below a million dollars in 1962, these 

disillusioned aviation enthusiasts could not have known how extensively, or 

how successfully, NASA would rebuild its aeronautics programs following 

its major buildup for space. 

In the late 1950s and early 1960s, all that the aviation enthusiasts could 

think about was the overwhelming dominance of space over aeronautics. 

In private, many Langley aeronautical engineers held NASA's manned 

spaceflight programs in contempt, especially the quest to land men on the 

moon, believing it to be the height of dishonesty for their organization to 

undertake such a mission, even if it could be done, when it was not worth 

doing. John V. Becker, a talented Langley researcher who by the late 1940s 

had already shifted his attention to hypersonics and the possibilities of an 

evolutionary progression into space via transatmospheric vehicles like the 

X-15, remembers that his longtime colleague John Stack was "not really 

much interested in the reentry problem or in space flight in general." For 

Stack, even the X-15 was a program barely worth supporting, and he did so 

"with only the semblance of the notorious promotional fire he could generate 

if he was really interested." 24 

John Stack and his team of aeronautical engineers reserved their enthusiasm for advanced high-speed military jets and for a viable commercial 

SST. As Becker remembers about his volatile colleague, Stack developed 

"a hostile, adversary attitude towards Space, perhaps because it threatened to drain resources that otherwise might belong to aeronautics." When 

the Apollo program was established in 1961, Stack told Becker, "I don't 

buy this 'to the Moon by noon' stuff." Unimpressed by the great size and 

complexity of the booster rockets, he compared von Braun's Saturns to 

the impressive but very stationary Washington Monument and sided with 

some early but abortive attempts inside NASA to find viable air-breathing 

aircraft-like launch systems for the manned space missions. According to 

Becker, Stack, even after leaving NASA in 1962 for an executive position 

with Republic Aviation, "continued to favor advanced aircraft as opposed 

to space projects." 25 

Most members of the Stack team, as well as many of Langley's other 

aviation enthusiasts, felt exactly the same way. The hard-core aeronautical 

engineers in the years following Sputnik were in Mark R. Nichols' Full-Scale 

Research Division and in Philip Donely's Flight Mechanics and Technology 

Division, both of which were part of Group 3. Inside the wind tunnels and 

flight hangars of these two divisions, torrid love affairs with aerodynamics, 

with high lift/drag ratios, with satisfactory flying and handling qualities, 

and with the comely shapes and exciting personalities of airplanes and 

helicopters continued.to flourish long after the formation of the STG. Far too 

numerous to count or name them all, the strongest adherents to aeronautics 

98 
Change and Continuity 

If accomplished high-speed aerodynamicist John Stack looks disgruntled in 

his staff photo from 1959, it may be 

because of the growing predominance 

of the space program at Langley. 

during the 1960s can be spotted simply by looking at an organization chart 

or thumbing through the Langley phonebook noting who belonged to these 

divisions. From top to bottom, these men were the "aero guys." 

And they were not happy. In the aftermath of the Sputnik crisis, "there 

was a real strong emphasis on getting people out of aeronautics and into 

space," remembers Mark Nichols, the Full-Scale Research Division chief. In 

fact, Nichols himself was moved. In 1959, Floyd Thompson put Nichols 

in charge of Langley's first space station committee, choosing him, one of 

the laboratory's most die-hard aeronautical engineers, as a lesson to all 

others. Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., a devoted aeronautical researcher and 

aerodynamic flutter expert, also found himselfimmersed in planning for both 

space stations and lunar missions in the early 1960s. As this substitution 

pattern became clear, the air-rninded at Langley found themselves in "an 

adversarial mode with management, which was always trying to take our 

people and put them into space." Nichols and his buddies looked "for ways 

of resisting this," but were not successful. 26 

No one was unhappier with this development than Langley's number one 

"aero guy," John Stack. No one at Langley grew more disgruntled over 

what he believed the space agency was doing to, and not for, the country's 

precious aeronautical progress. Stack, the brilliant and outspoken head of 

aeronautics, set the tone for the numerous dissatisfactions of the air-minded 

engineers at the center during the first years of the space revolution. This 

was true especially after he, one of the most decorated and powerful men 

at the laboratory, started to lose out in some infighting within the Langley 

front office. Most notably, in March 1961, Thompson made Charles Donlan, 

99 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-65-2870 

One of the aeronautical passions at Langley in the late 1950s and early 1960s was 

variable wing sweep, a technology by which an airplane's wings could be mechanically 

adjusted to different sweep angles to conform to either subsonic, transonic, or 

supersonic flight requirements. In this photo from May 1965, a wind-tunnel engineer 

checks the mounting of a scale model of the General Dynamics F-111A, the ait 

force's version of the nation's first variable-sweep fighter. The F-111A first flew in 

December 1964; the navy version, the F-111B, made its initial flight in May. 

and not Stack, Langley's associate director. A man of rare accomplishments 

and visionary ambitions, Stack was not accustomed to being passed over. 

Not even NASA's heavy involvement in the national SST program could 

keep Stack working for the space agency. 

However preoccupied NASA became in the 1960s with space-related matters, at Langley aeronautics research continued and resulted in outstanding 

contributions to everything from hypersonic propulsion to the handling qualities of general aviation aircraft.* One reason for the unexpected degree 

of success, ironically, was the fact that aeronautics did not receive much 

attention from NASA management or from the public at large. The Apollo 

program and all its related activities so consumed NASA headquarters that 

it let the aeronautical engineers do as they pleased. In this sense, the aero-

* Originally, I planned to include a long chapter dealing specifically with aeronautics. As the 

study's thesis evolved, however, I realized that, although the spaceflight revolution certainly affected the 

aeronautics efforts in many significant ways, I could not do justice to the complete history ofaeronautics 

at Langley during the 1960s within the confines of an already long book. So, I decided not to cover the 

aeronautical programs ll.1ld Ie?-ve them for separate treatment at some later date, perhaps by someone 

other than myself. 

100 
Change and Continuity 

L-70-1386 

In this photo from 1970, a technician readies a model of Langley's own pet Supersonic Commercial Air Transport, known as SCAT 15F ("F" for fixed wing), for 

testing in the Unitary Plan Wind Tunnel. 

nautical work at Langley kept much the same personality and flavor as during the NACA era when the engineers, not the bureaucrats in Washington, 

had been in charge. 

But oddly, in retrospect, the rearguard of aviation enthusiasts at Langley 

in the 1960s in some ways resembled the vanguard of the spaceflight 

revolution. As much as the air-minded hated NASA's emphasis on space 

exploration, these air-minded engineers and scientists nevertheless became 

equally caught up in their own dreams of monumental new accomplishments. 

Perhaps it was just the nature of the revolutionary times brought on by 

Sputnik and President Kennedy's New Frontier to think so grandly and to 

feel that the old limitations no longer applied. 

NASA's aeronautical engineers had their own Apollo program in the 

1960s: the design of the most revolutionary aircraft ever built-a commercial supersonic airliner capable of flying two or even three times the speed of 

sound and crossing the Atlantic from New York to London or Paris in a few 

hours. This dream compared favorably with the lunar landing because an 

SST would have such immense economic, political, and social significance 

that it would change how humankind traversed the face of the earth. The 

Apollo program would accomplish nothing similar. Neither, of course, would 

the aeronautical engineers' national SST program because the U.S. Congress 

killed it in 1971. In this sense, too, the space cadets emerged "one up," for 

101 
Spaceflight Revolution 

they had their spectacular moment with the manned lunar landings; the 

"aero guys" never did. 

Growth Within Personnel Ceilings 

Despite the dissolution of the Hydrodynamics Division and the wane of 

aeronautics, Langley's formal organization did not change significantly in 

the early 1960s. This was in part because the center did not grow much 

bigger. By the changeover to NASA, Langley Research Center was already 

a large operation. It had greatly expanded during its NACA history from 

a few small buildings in an isolated corner of the military base prior to 

World War II to a 710-acre complex on both sides of the air force runways. 

It was now an establishment that included 30 major wind tunnels and 

laboratories and whose replacement worth to the federal government was 

estimated at nearly $150 million. In 1958 the center paid approximately 

$6 million in operating expenditures, including nearly $2 million just for 

electric power. Its annual payroll stood at $22 million. Its full-time civil 

service staff numbered about 3300, of whom approximately one-third were 

engineers, scientists, mathematicians, and other professional people. 27 

With the transition to NASA, the size of the Langley staff actually 

became a little smaller before it grew any larger: from 3795 paid employees 

in June 1959 to 3456 by the end of that year. The staff fell to 3191 six months 

after the previously auxiliary Wallops Station became an independent field 

installation (on 1 January 1960). In the next three years, the number rose 

to 4007. By June 1966 the Langley staff reached its all-time high of 4485 

employees. This was nearly 1000 more staff members than Langley's peak 

number in 1952. But relative to the agencywide growth of NASA in the 

1960s, Langley's expansion was actually quite moderate. 

In 1958, Langley's 3300 employees represented more than 41 percent of 

NASA's total first-year civil service complement of 7966. But in 1964, the 

4329 employees of the Virginia facility amounted to barely 13 percent of the 

agency's entire number, which in a span of just five years had doubled and 

doubled again, to 33,108. In other words, while Langley was growing, its rate 

of growth was slow compared with NASA's. At this rate Langley would be 

unable to retain its traditional position of dominance in the agency. NASA 

was adding large new manned spaceflight centers such as Marshall Space 

Flight Center in Alabama, the Manned Spacecraft Center in Texas, and the 

Launch Operations Center (in November 1963, renamed the Kennedy Space 

Center) at Cape Canaveral in Florida. The addition of Marshall alone had 

meant the mass influx of over 4000 personnel from the U.S. Army as part of 

the transfer of the ABMA's Development Operations Division to NASA. 

Moreover, NASA's total personnel headcount of 33,108 in 1964 represented a diminishing fraction of NASA's overall effort. In the late 1960s, 

NASA estimated that Project Apollo employed some 400,000 Americans 

102 
Number 

of paid 

employees 

Percentage 

of NASA 

total 

Change and Continuity 

3000~------~----~~----~------~------_.------~ 

1952 June 

1959 

Dec. 

1959 

Year 

June 

1960 

.Oec. 

1962 

June 

1966 

Number of paid employees at NASA Langley, 1952-1966. 

45 

40 

35 

30 

25 

20 

15 

10 

5 

0 

1958 1959 1960 1961 1962 1963 1964 1965 1966 1967 1968 

Year 

Paid employees at NASA Langley-percentage of NASA total, 1958-1968. 

103 
Spaceflight Revolution 

in government, industries, and universities. NASA's civil service employees 

amounted to just a little more than 10 percent of the total NASA work force, 

broadly defined. The other 90 percent were contractors. 

Langley was often called "Mother Langley" because it had been the 

mother lode for all NACA facilities. A guiding force throughout NACA 

history and for the first years of NASA, Mother Langley now was losing 

its central position in the agency. Although only a few concerned researchoriented people like Hugh Dryden would have thought about the significance 

of the changing personnel numbers at the time, they were symptomatic of a 

slow but sure decline of the formerly predominant influence of the research 

centers and the coming hegemony of the development centers. The personnel 

numbers signified the ascendancy of organizations devoted primarily not to 

research but to planning and conducting actual spaceflight operations and 

building hardware. 

The trend did not go unnoticed. Thompson received a forewarning of the 

siphoning of research center staff funds for development centers from Earl 

Hilburn, whose appointment as a NASA deputy associate administrator 

Thompson had summarily discounted. On 9 September 1963, Thompson 

sent a four-page letter to NASA headquarters regarding Langley's personnel 

requirements. His letter underscored what he called "the problem of 

manpower distribution" among the NASA centers. "The immediate needs 

of a development program are always more easily recognized," he began, 

"than is the requirement for a continuing research program that lays the 

basic foundation of technology upon which the development program can 

continually depend for guidance in solving detailed technical problems." 28 

At the heart of Thompson's illuminating letter was his concern about an 

ongoing tug-of-war between the manned spaceflight centers and the research 

centers over the apportionment (or reapportionment) of NASA's personnel 

quotas. The internal struggle, which the research centers were losing, was 

the result of work-load stresses caused by the ceilings that were imposed 

on the total number of people NASA could employ. The way the system 

worked, the agency asked for the amount of money it needed to pay salaries 

based on the number of people it anticipated it would employ. However, if 

Congress or the Bureau of the Budget found reason to trim the request, then 

NASA had to cut back on its staffing projections accordingly, even though 

the requirement to do so was not explicit in the appropriation act. 29 

In the first years of NASA, this sort of cutting back had happened frequently because Congress, the Bureau of the Budget, President Eisenhower, 

and even NASA Administrator Glennan hoped to keep a rather tight lid on 

civil service staffing. For Glennan as well as for many others, keeping the lid 

on the personnel total played directly into the Republican philosophy that 

government was already too big. At a NASA staff conference in Monterey, 

California, in early March 1960, Glennan claimed that "there was a need for 

some kind of arbitrary limitation on NASA's size. By limiting the number 

of employees, NASA ·would limit its in-house capability and thus be forced 

104 
L-64-5210 

Change and Continuity 

The first woman to work as an en~ 

gineer at NACA Langley was Kitty 

O'Brien-Joyner (left), who was also 

the first female to gra-duate with an 

engineering degree from the University of Virginia. 

L-59-7 

In 1959, Langley employed six women who were classified by NASA as "scientists." 

During the Apollo era, women made up 3 to 5 percent of the professional work force 

agencywide. The percentage of African American professionals was significantly 

smaller, from 1.5 to 3 percent. These percentages rose slowly for both groups as the 

decade proceeded. 

105 
Spaceflight Revolution 

to develop the capabilities of contractors." 30 This development would be far 

better for the American economy than hiring larger coteries of government 

workers. Glennan sanctioned relatively low personnel ceilings. For fiscal 

year 1962, for example, he approved a limit of 16,802 employees, which was 

less than 3 percent above the total authorized for the previous year.31 Naturally, no NASA center director facing the high public expectations and 

enormously expanded work load of the early 1960s could be expected to be 

happy about such limits on hiring. 

The acceleration of the space program brought on by President Kennedy 

and his dynamic new man, James Webb, jacked the personnel ceiling up to 

new heights. Instead of the 3-percent increase for fiscal year 1962 proposed 

by Glennan, an increase of a whopping 43 percent was approved. Between 

1961 and 1965 the total number of agency personnel would double, from 

17,471 to 35,860.32 Given this rapid growth in the size of the NASA 

staff, it may seem more than a bit astonishing to find a NASA center 

director worried about the need for more personn.el. But by late 1963, 

that was the case. Government controls on personnel totals even during the 

ensuing Democratic administrations of Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson 

were such that the only way to take care of any unforeseen requirements 

that occurred during a fiscal year was to transfer manpower and related 

financial resources among institutions. And when a transfer was needed, 

the research laboratories invariably lost. 

On more than one occasion, subsequent to a preliminary formulation 

of the basic data regarding the agency's manpower requirements at NASA 

headquarters, the managements of Houston and Huntsville would request a 

substantial number of supplementary personnel. (Earl Hilburn was warning 

Thompson about such a request in September 1963.) To give the space 

centers several hundred additional staff positions without obtaining the 

congressional authorization to increase the agency's overall complement 

meant that NASA headquarters had no other choice but to reapportion 

the personnel quotas among the field centers. In other words, in order for 

Houston and Huntsville to get more, Langley and other research centers 

would have to get less. 33 

In Thompson's mind, this was a tug-of-war that the research centers, 

given the priorities of the space race, could not win, but which the nation 

could not afford to lose. "Two-thirds of the current total effort of Langley 

is utilized in support of the NASA space effort," Thompson wrote to the 

NASA administration. "These programs have been prepared in cooperation 

with and approved by the OART and other cognizant program offices. 

They have been endorsed by NASA as essential to continued leadership in 

space exploration and vital to the success of such basic NASA programs 

as Saturn, Gemini, and Apollo." 34 To support this claim, he attached 

to his letter (along with lists and charts illustrating "the wide range 

of activity" at Langley) a 10-page document listing all the then-current 

Langley investigations relevant to the program interests at the Manned 

106 
Change and Continuity 

Spacecraft Center. This document, prepared by Axel T. Mattson, whom 

Thompson had dispatched as a special attache to Houston in the summer of 

1962, demonstrated that Langley was spending some 300 man-years just in 

support of the Texas center's projects.35 If NASA continued to neglect 

Langley's manpower needs and persisted in improperly distributing the 

quotas, something would have to give. Too few people would remain at 

the research center to perform the total center mission. Either Langley 

would do all the support work, leaving little if any time for fundamental 

research, or the support work would have to subside, thus putting the goals 

of the American space program at risk. 

The Shift Toward the Periphery 

The trend pushing Langley from the center of NASA toward its periphery 

is evident not only in the personnel numbers but also in the budget figures. 

In 1959 the direct cost of Langley's administrative operations :ln terms of its 

obligations to pay employees and honor all those contracts (not including 

Wallops') that were not funded by R&D money was $30.7 million. This 

amounted to 36 percent of the NASA total. In 1967, Langley spent $64.3 

million, the most money it would spend on operations during any one year in 

its entire history; however, this amount was less than 10 percent of the NASA 

total for that year. In 1959 the cost of running Langley was significantly 

higher than that of operating any other NASA facility. But by 1967, Langley 

was down to seventh place on that list, while Marshall stood at the top, at 

$128.7 million, or double what it cost to operate Langley. Even the price of 

running NASA headquarters was nearly up to the Langley figure. Whereas 

$5.5 million kept the offices in Washington going in 1959, by 1967 that figure 

had shot up over tenfold to a grandiose $57 million.36 

NASA headquarters was growing by leaps and bounds in the early 1960s. 

It was a larger, more multilayered, and more active bureaucracy than had 

ever been the case for the NACA's Washington office. A host of headquarters 

officials congealed and took charge of all the programs at Langley and the 

other NASA centers. This meant that the field centers had to work through 

Washington not only for their allotment of resources but also for many 

levels of program initiation and administration. Also unlike the days of 

the NACA, the bureaucrats in Washington were now directly in charge 

of their own little empires. They issued major contracts to universities 

and industries for R&D and for design studies.37 Between 1960 and 1968, 

the value of contracts awarded by NASA headquarters rose from 3 to 11 

percent of the total value of contracts awarded agencywide. During the 

same period, Langley experienced a decline from 35 to 3 percent of the 

total value of contracts agencywide, and Huntsville and Houston centers 

collectively hovered consistently between 50 and 60 percent of the NASA 

total.38 

107 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Compared with the megabucks turned over to the spaceflight centers for 

R&D during this period, Langley's funding was also relatively small. In 

1963 the center received less than 2 percent of the total money set aside by 

NASA for R&D programs. On the other hand, Marshall received almost 30 

percent of the total NASA R&D budget. The most Langley ever received 

in R&D funding was $124 million in 1966; the least that Marshall received 

in the same period was 10 times that in 1968.39 

The point of going through these numbers is not to show that Langley 

was being treated unfairly. As a facility devoted primarily to applied basic 

research in aviation and space, Langley simply was not doing as much 

procurement as were those NASA centers responsible for designing, building, 

launching, and operating spacecraft. What the numbers do show is a new 

technological order brought on by the spaceflight revolution. In examining 

the numbers we hold up a mirror to the new sociopolitical context of research 

activities at the former NACA aeronautics laboratory. The mirror reflects 

NASA's determination to allocate the lion's share of. its financial resources 

to those arms of the agency most directly involved in what the country 

was intent on achieving through its space program. In the 1960s that was, 

first, getting astronauts into orbit around the earth; second, per President 

Kennedy's May 1961 commitment, landing American astronauts on the 

moon; and third, in the process, refreshing the nation's spirit, reinvigorating 

its economy, and showing the world just what the U.S. system of democracy 

and free enterprise could do when the American people put their minds and 

energies to it. In other words, the intent was to win the space race. 

These figures signify more specifically the rather immediate effects that 

NASA's broader mission had on the lives of the old NACA research laboratories. Unlike the NACA, NASA would be an operational organization, not 

just a research organization. It would become heavily involved in projects 

with goals and schedules and it would contract out to American business 

and industry a great part of its work. As this happened, Langley staff feared 

that administrators in Washington would no longer see the center as special. 

With headquarters now running many of its own shows through contracts 

to industry, a place like Langley could come to be regarded by many at 

headquarters as just another contributor to the program. Langley was just 

one more possible center where work could be done, if NASA headquarters 

chose to locate it there. But headquarters might instead choose the General 

Electric Company's Command Systems Division; BellComm, Incorporated; 

the Douglas Aircraft Company; Thompson-Ramo-Wooldridge (TRW); MIT; 

or some other very capable organization. 40 Langley was now for the first 

time in competition with "outsiders," the many laboratories and firms that 

had been springing up or growing in competency in conjunction with the 

burgeoning of the "military-industrial complex" after World War II. 

The competition was not inherently harmful to Langley. Given the ample 

budgets brought on ~y the spaceflight revolution, NASA had more money 

than it could spend on itself or on its research laboratories. Langley was 

108 
Change and Continuity 

simply not accustomed to the competition, and it was not accustomed 

to relying on others. For more than four decades its organization had 

been largely self-sufficient. As an internal Langley study on the history 

of contracting at the NASA center by Sarah and Steve Corneliussen has 

noted, the laboratory staff had almost always conducted its own research, 

built its own models and instrumentation and wind tunnels, and handled its 

own logistical needs, from mowing the grass to operating its two cafeterias. 

Only occasionally had outsiders been brought in during the NACA period 

to augment the civil service staff-and "only temporarily at that, just to 

help out with occasional peaks in the center's housekeeping workload." 41 

Thus, many former NACA staffers would need time to adjust to the new 

environment of NASA and to see that the involvement of outsiders in the 

work of the new space agency would not take anything away from their 

historic capabilities or their tradition of self-sufficiency, but would instead 

add to them. "Contracting out" was not substituting the work of others for 

what the in-house staff had always done. It was augmenting the capabilities 

of the NASA researchers so that they could accomplish more: The Langley 

organization would be no less cohesive nor would contracting damage its best 

qualities; it would only enhance them. 42 That, at least, was the argument. 

Contracting Out 

Other than the occasional employment of temporary laborers for odd 

jobs, Langley had accomplished almost everything it had to do with its own 

staff. This self-sufficiency worked well during the NACA period because the 

range of what needed to be done was usually narrow enough for the civil 

service work force to handle it. If the work load increased significantly, as 

during World War II, then the solution was to obtain authorization from 

Congress for additional civil service staffing. The answer was not to hire 

contractors. 

With the quickening pace of the space race and the urgency of NASA's 

expanded mission, however, the work load increased so dramatically that 

civil service staffing authorizations could not keep up. An evolving mismatch 

between the high work load at the research center and the low level of 

congressional authorizations for more research staff eventually forced a 

reluctant Langley into contracting out for much of the work that it always 

had done and would have preferred to continue doing itself. 

At first the research center resisted the trend toward contracting out 

and was only willing to hand over to outsiders mundane maintenance and 

administrative jobs, such as delivering the mail, operating the cafeterias, 

running the center's credit union, and maintaining some of the warehouses. 

Procurements for these jobs involved so-called support service contracts, 

that is, binding legal relationships drawn up so that the time and the services 

of an outside firm (i.e., the contractor) could be secured to attain a specified 

in-house objective.43 

109 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Even for the tasks of routine housekeeping, Langley wanted the best 

employees. "If we're going to hire outsiders," the procurement officers emphasized, "then let's choose a way of doin~ so that maximizes their contributions as adjunct members of the team." 4 The best way to do this, they 

found, was to use a "cost-plus-award fee," a special-and for the government, 

novel-form of cost-reimbursement contract. In Langley's opinion, this arrangement had the highest potential for inducing quality in the contractor's 

performance because the contractor's profit-the award fee-rises or falls 

in direct correspondence to the customer's (i.e., Langley's) appraisal of the 

work. As with straight cost reimbursement, the expense to the government 

is not preset, but changes over time with the changing circumstances of the 

work. This process differentiates both cost-reimbursement and cost-plusaward fee contracts from the more typically used "fixed-price" contract, in 

which the contracting party specifically delineates the job requested and the 

time allowed for completing it, and the bidder assumes the risk of matching the forecast of the demands of the job to what .those demands will in 

fact turn out to be. However, in Langley's case of contracting for ongoing 

support services usually for terms of several years, during which working 

circumstances would change and jobs would have to be adjusted, the fixedprice approach would not work.45 

In essence, the cost-plus-award fee was an incentives contract; according 

to a formal NASA definition, it provided for "a basic fixed fee for performance to a level deemed acceptable, plus an additional award fee, not in 

excess of a stipulated maximum, for accomplishment of better than the 'acceptable' level." 46 Its downside was the administrative burden. The amount 

of the award was linked to the contractor's performance; thus, on a regular 

and in some cases almost daily basis, responsible Langley employees had 

to inspect and evaluate the contractor's work. A board of senior managers 

had to appraise the contractor's performance at agreed-upon intervals and 

decide the amount of extra money deserved. A much larger and more formal mechanism for handling contractors therefore had to be developed at 

Langley. One clear indicator of the burden of this added responsibility was 

the growth in the size of the Langley procurement staff itself. Before NASA 

replaced the NACA, this staff comprised 25 people. After the changeover, 

the staff quickly expanded to more than 100 before leveling off at 70 to 80 

after the STG left for Houston.47 

In this fashion, Langley did what it could to bring out the best in 

its contractors and to make them feel a vital part of the center. This 

method of contracting was a way of bringing outsiders "in," of making 

"them" part of "us." However, an inherent and potentially serious difficulty 

existed in carrying out the philosophy of these contracts. Like all other 

procurements by the U.S. government, these contracts for support services 

were governed by federal regulations. The regulations clearly allowed, and 

the then-current federal policy indeed encouraged, the direct involvement of 

American businesses; industries, and universities at government facilities like 

110 
Change and Continuity 

L-59-352 

The Langley division most assisted by support-service contractors in the early 

1960s was ACD. By mid-decade, contractors were programming the computers and 

handling the hardware and software support of the mainframe systems, and by 1970, 

contractors were contributing substantially to the development of computer programs 

for the guidance, navigation, and control of aircraft and spacecraft. 

In this photo, taken in 1959, engineers are at work in Langley's computer 

complex. Langley's electronic analog brain {seen in photo) with its plugboards and 

vacuum tubes was replaced in 1965 by mainframe digital computers. The conversion 

from analog to digital was a major technological development of the spaceflight 

revolution. Without it the on-board navigation and control needed to achieve the 

manned lunar landing would have been impossible. 

Langley, but the same body of regulations also insisted that the contractors 

make their contributions at arm's length from civil service management. In 

other words, the two could not be "in bed together." If civil servants did 

not maintain this distance, the contractors might become entrenched, their 

expense charges could get out of hand, and they would essentially have a 

"license to steal." 48 

Over the years, despite the best intentions of government, Langley 

staff would have trouble adhering always to the arm's-length requirement. 

Because Langley wanted to make the contractors feel that they were part of 

"the family" and in spirit no different from any other employee, staff could 

hardly treat contractors in the formal, mechanical ways required by the rules. 

Contracting officials were supposed to follow a labyrinth of procedures and 

policies to arrive at the letter of the law required by federal procurement. 

But as civil servants and contractors worked side by side, ate lunch together 

in the NASA cafeteria, and often became close friends, feelings that Langley 

should keep to the spirit of the law, as opposed to the letter, prevailed. As 

a result, the position of the contractors at Langley slowly grew stronger. 

111 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Starting with the assignment of the Scout booster rocket project to the 

center in the late 1950s, as Chief Procurement Officer Sherwood Butler 

recalls, "Langley began to branch out and contract for some highly technical 

services such as launch support, support of research, and maintenance 

and calibration of instrumentation." 49 Several representatives of the prime 

contractor, Ling-Temco-Vought (LTV) worked on-site on a daily basis as 

integral members of the Scout "team." These contractors included 12 LTV 

engineers working specifically in the field of instrumentation. Bringing in 

instrumentation experts amounted to "the first instance of support services 

contracting in a technical field at Langley." 5° With the start of other major 

projects like Fire and Lunar Orbiter, many contract employees of industrial 

firms came to work at the center and were such an integral part of the team 

that they could not be distinguished from the government workers without 

a glance at their ID badges. 

The Brave New World of Projects 

In the brave new world brought on by the spaceflight revolution, Langley, 

as we have seen in its support of the STG, for the first time became 

heavily involved in project work and the formal management of largescale endeavors involving hardware development, flight operations, and 

the administration of contracts. For some of these projects, Langley 

personally handled the reins of management for NASA headquarters as 

the designated "lead center." In the early 1960s such projects included 

Scout, which began in 1960 for the development of NASA's first launch 

vehicle, a dependable and relatively inexpensive solid-propellant rocket; 

Radio Attenuation Measurements (RAM), which came to life in 1961 to 

address the radio blackout that occurred during a spacecraft's reentry into 

the atmosphere; Fire, which was started in 1962 to study the effects of 

reentry heating on Apollo spacecraft materials; Lunar Orbiter, which was 

initiated in 1963 to take photographic surveys of the moon in preparation for 

the Apollo manned lunar landings; and the Hypersonic Ramjet Experiment 

Project, which began in 1964 to explore the feasibility of a hypersonic ramjet 

engine. 

Other NASA organizations took the lead for many other projects, and 

Langley helped by providing diversified R&D support. Langley contributed 

in this way to all the manned spaceflight projects, from Project Mercury 

through Apollo. Langley also participated in "cooperative projects." These 

were projects for which NASA headquarters assigned the overall project 

management to another center but gave Langley the official responsibility 

for subsidiary projects or for specific project tasks. The earliest example 

of a cooperative project involving Langley was Project Echo, which was 

started in 1959 for t:P.e development of a passive communications satellite. 

For Project Echo, NASA assigned the project management not to Langley 

112 
Change and Continuity 

but to Goddard; however, Langley was responsible for the development of 

the Echo balloon, for the container in which the balloon was carried into 

space, and for the balloon's in-space inflation system. Beyond that, Langley 

was also responsible for managing two flight projects in support of Echo, 

Projects Shotput and Big Shot, which were designed to test Echo designs 

under suborbital conditions before the balloons were launched into orbit. 

Before exploring the history of NASA Langley's early involvement in 

project work in subsequent chapters of this book, I want to address a few 

basic points about projects and about research. A project sets out to do 

something quite specific and to do it in a limited time frame. For example, 

the goal of the Manhattan Project during World War II was the design 

and construction of an atomic bomb; the goal of Project Sherwood in the 

1950s, as mentioned in the next chapter, was the design and construction 

of an effective fusion reactor. To fulfill these objectives, the projects' 

researchers had to move ahead quickly and adhere to strict schedules. They 

could not afford many detours. The Manhattan Project started in 1941 

and concluded in 1945. To achieve the project goal in those four years, 

a vast array of resources had to be effectively mobilized, organized, and 

supplied. The enormously complex task of creating the first atom bomb 

would not have been successful if the U.S. government and its wartime 

military establishment had not given high priority to completing such a 

"crash effort." With a far lower priority and with more intractable problems 

to solve, Project Sherwood staff never did achieve the project's final goal. 51 

In its bare essentials, a NASA project was no different from the two 

projects discussed above. According to a formal NASA definition in the 

early 1960s, a project was "an undertaking with a scheduled beginning and 

end," which involved "the design, development, and demonstration of major 

advanced hardware items such as launch vehicles or space vehicles." The 

purpose of a NASA project was to support the activities of a program. NASA 

defined a program as "a related series of undertakings which continue over 

a period of time and which are designed to accomplish a broad scientific or 

technical goal in the NASA Long-Range Plan." 52 Typically, the time span 

of a NASA project was two to three years. Two examples of the agency's 

"broad scientific and technical goals" from the early 1960s were manned 

spaceflight (spearheaded by Project Mercury) and the exploration of the 

moon and the planets (supported early on by the Ranger and Surveyor 

projects). After President Kennedy's speech in May 1961, NASA's most 

important goal became a manned lunar landing that was achievable by the 

end of the decade. That goal was so primary that Apollo, the project, 

quickly became Apollo, the program. It so dominated NASA's efforts that 

the moon landing became virtually coextensive with the mission of the entire 

space agency. 53 

In contrast to projects with their definite beginnings and ends and specific 

goals, research is by nature more open-ended and unpredictable. To obtain 

significant results from research, even from the more practical engineering 

113 
Spaceflight Revolution 

kind carried out at Langley during its NACA period, risks must be taken. 

Researchers must venture down long and winding roads· that might lead 

nowhere, ask questions that might turn out to be unanswerable, and spend 

money on experimental equipment to conduct demonstrations that might 

never work. 

In other words, the environment for research has to be flexible. Needless 

to say, so too does the researcher and, perhaps especially so, the research 

manager. For a technical culture to be understanding and supportive of 

research, it must be forgiving of failure and the apparent lack of progress. 

On the other hand, as a 1979 NASA study of the R&D process declares, 

"Projects often provide the ultimate reality. [They] are practical demonstrations. New equipment must function well, performance is measured against 

the previous experience, and success needs to be achieved." 54 Otherwise, 

the project is a total failure. The situation is rather black-and-white. 

In research, the criteria for success and failure are gray; success needs to 

be achieved only once in a while. One fundamental br:eakthrough that can 

be built upon for many years makes up for dozens of wrong turns and dead 

ends. A breakthrough may even be accidental or the fortuitous consequence 

of some meandering. This is rarely the case in a project. When success 

is a necessity and the timetable is short, nothing can be left to accident 

or luck; a "fail-safe" system is called for. Constructing such a system 

requires systematic and detailed planning, rigorous discipline, proof-tested 

technology, and extremely prudent management and overall leadership-not 

to mention enough talented and motivated people to work all the overtime 

required to complete the job on schedule. 

During its 41-year-long history as an NACA laboratory, Langley's "ultimate reality" had been firmly rooted in research, not in projects. Generally 

speaking, Langley valued research more than anything else. The most meritorious thing that a Langley scientist or engineer could do was to write 

an outstanding research paper that the NACA would publish as a formal 

technical report. Langley researchers did not design or build airplanes; as 

government employees, they were not supposed to, or allowed to, do that. 

What they did was the basic testing that generated the fundamental knowledge that the aircraft industry used to advance the state of the nation's 

aeronautical art. 

The NACA laboratory was, therefore, not a place for pure research; it 

was a place for applied basic research and for technology development. As 

such, Langley staff understood and placed great importance on project work. 

Most NACA research was neither "basic" nor "scientific" in the usual sense 

of those words; almost every investigation at the center, whether "fundamental" or "developmental," was aimed at a useful aircraft application. 

What Langley researchers did best was attack the most pressing problems 

obstructing the immediate progress of American aviation, particularly those 

vexing the military air services, and aircraft manufacturing and operating 

industries. This had often meant "fighting fires," bringing diversified R&D 

114 
Change and Continuity 

talents to bear on a problem of the moment, and eliminating or solving that 

problem in as short a time as possible. Doing so was virtually like carrying 

out a project. 

Thus, in the NACA's way of doing research, of developing wind tunnels 

and other test facilities, and of attacking technical problems, Langley 

researchers often followed an approach akin to project management. Many 

people at NACA Langley felt that their best research programs were those 

run as projects. For instance, the approach the center adopted to building 

many major new facilities had been very much like project management. 

Frequently during meetings of employee promotion boards in the 1950s, 

a member of the senior staff would ask whether the candidate was a 

"project engineer" or simply a "researcher." By project engineer, they 

meant someone who could take on all the responsibilities for carrying out 

a task and meeting a deadline. To do this, the project engineer had to 

deal with wind-tunnel operators, get work done in the shops, consult with 

systems engineering and other technical support people, alJ-d perhaps even 

do a little bit of procurement, such as arranging for the purchase of supplies, 

materials, or some minor piece of equipment. 

This kind of management was done on a much smaller scale than would 

be done for a NASA project, but NACA Langley researchers did have 

comparable experiences. With the coming of NASA, they only had to learn 

to do it on a larger scale. From the end of World War II, PARD had 

been involved with rocket acquisitions and launch operations, and starting 

in the mid-1950s, Langley was also heavily involved in the large Project 

WS-llOA. (The designation "WS" stood for "Weapons System.") This 

was a top secret air force project for the development of what became 

the North American XB-70, an experimental, six-engine, 520,000-pound 

strategic bomber designed for a speed in excess of Mach 3. (Only two were 

built before the project was canceled in 1964. )

55 

Experiences such as those in PARD and with WS-llOA made the management of a project easier for Langley when the time came. Most people 

who would be assigned to many of the earliest NASA projects at Langley 

would come from PARD. Although Langley staff moved into the project 

work brought on by the spaceflight revolution and the changeover to NASA 

without too much difficulty, the novelty or the essential differences between 

conducting project work and doing research should not be underestimated. 

PARD had more critics within Langley than did any of the laboratory's 

other research divisions. From the moment of PARD's establishment as a 

separate division in 1946 through its reincarnation as the Applied Materials 

and Physics Division in 1959, researchers in other divisions were always 

bickering with someone in PARD. Wind-tunnel groups questioned the merits 

of PARD's wing-flow and rocket-model transonic testing techniques, arguing 

that they were too costly and often took priority over more basic tunnel 

programs. Each firing of a PARD rocket model from Wallops Island required 

that a precious test model· be sacrificed; often the models had expensive 

115 
Spaceflight Revolution 

instruments inside. Among others, John V. Becker, the influential head 

of the Compressibility Research Division, complained about the "voracious 

appetite" of the rocket-model advocates, suggesting that many engineers in 

PARD were more interested in making their rocket models perform with 

increasing accuracy than in solving research problems. Becker warned that 

the practice was causing "a major slowdown" in the production of the 

models and instruments required by his division and by others. In his 

judgment, what PARD was expecting, and often receiving, from Langley's 

model shops and other technical support services was "roughly equivalent 

to the requirements of perhaps 10 major wind tunnels." 56 

Although much of the criticism was unfair, these feelings about PARD 

and about its focused, rather aggressive project-like approach to doing 

things worried many senior staff members of the 1960s. Becker and others 

thought that most of the personnel in PARD were "blacksmiths," hairyarmed, technical musclemen who did things hit or miss, with hammer and 

tongs, and without much serious forethought. One of Becker's branch heads, 

Macon C. Ellis, Jr., remembers that feelings against PARD within the Gas 

Dynamics Laboratory were so strong that "when we became MPD [the 

Magnetoplasmadynamics Branch, in 1960], we definitely didn't want to go 

into PARD. That was for sure."57 

As Langley took on more project work during the 1960s, people 

strictly involved in research grew increasingly upset. Larry Loftin, Floyd 

Thompson's technical assistant and later director of Group 3, remembers 

with some hard feelings that "anything with the name 'project' got first 

priority in the shops." Again, this perturbed those research groups involved 

in wind-tunnel testing. "You couldn't do wind-tunnel tests without models," Loftin recalls, "and you couldn't get your models done without the 

shops. All a person had to do was mention Mercury or some other project 

to somebody in the shops, and it got done. Everybody else waited their 

turn." Hostility was particularly high regarding Project WS-llOA. Any 

wor~ connected to WS-llOA received the highest priority at Langley. Any 

test model needed for the project immediately was built in the shops, then 

was pushed to the front of the line for wind-tunnel testing. This situation 

led a frustrated researcher to try connecting one of his job orders to Project 

WS-llOA so that he could get some of his own work done. 58 

In analyzing the impact of NASA project work on the traditional 

character of Langley, continuity from the NACA period must not be 

exaggerated. Researchers like Becker and Ellis drew a line dividing the 

ways of NASA projects from NACA research .and continued to draw it well 

into the NASA years. John Stack, the billy-goat-gruff of the Langley senior 

staff, never abandoned the research ideal of the NACA. In his opinion, the 

most valuable thing that any Langley employee ultimately could contribute 

was a published research paper that the American aerospace community 

could use. Without I?UCh contributions, a laboratory would amount to no 

more than an industrial plant.59 

116 
Change and Continuity 

L-57-5231 

In this 1957 photo, aerodynamicists prepare a scale model of the top secret WS-11 OA 

for testing in Langley's 7 X 10-Foot High-Speed Tunnel. ' 

Uncharted Territory 

No matter what PARD had done that was akin to project work during the 

NACA period, large-scale projects for spaceflight were totally new. Langley 

was inexperienced in many details of project management, in procurement, 

and in matters concerning the administration of the space agency's expanded 

R&D and mission activities. 

In putting together its diversified operation, NASA faced a complex task: 

it had to build an effective organizational structure involving intraagency 

relationships; it had to devise a rational complex of administrative procedures that took care of both internal and external matters; and it had to 

find the best ways to procure supplies and services. This last requirement, 

procurement administration, was especially problematic for a technical organization like Langley because it involved the writing, negotiating, and 

managing of contracts. This meant e:ftensive dealings, legal and otherwise, 

with corporations and industrial firms in the profit-motivated private sector 

of the American economy. Such a complicated affair had never been the 

case for N ACA research. 

In the early days of the space agency, NASA headquarters realized that 

most of its executive personp.el, especially those running the field centers, 

were "excellent technical people" who "lacked experience" in managing large 

117 
Spaceflight Revolution 

projects. Two outside studies sponsored by NASA in mid-1960, one by an 

advisory committee on NASA organization chaired by University of Chicago 

President Lawrence Kimpton and the other done under contract by the 

Washington management consulting firm of McKinsey & Co., found that 

NASA's executive class needed beefing up. With Administrator Glennan 

enthusiastically in support of this finding, NASA immediately began a 

formal program to train project managers. It hired a contractor, Harbridge 

House, to develop and lead a series of two-week training courses in project 

management. The first of these courses convened in Williamsburg, Virginia, 

not more than 25 miles from Langley, in December 1960. Employees 

from all the NASA installations attended. Langley sent several peoplenot all of them picked for their potential as project managers. Some 

general administrative staff also attended the seminars, as did a handful 

of senior managers like Larry Loftin and Gene Draley. Top NASA officials 

and managers of industry addressed the participants, while specialists 

from Harbridge House took groups through case studies "from actual, but 

camouflaged, R&D problems" faced by NASA and the DOD. Essentially, 

what everyone was supposed to glean from the training, and for the most 

part did, was a heightened concern for certain basic management principles 

and theories. 60 

What NASA hoped to achieve through this training course was "a 

measure of uniformity" in the management of its diverse projects agencywide. NASA did not want more centralized control over the projects; 

this had already been tried to some extent in the first two years of NASA's 

operation and had resulted in an impossibly heavy work load at NASA 

headquarters. 51 NASA wanted to move toward a more decentralized system 

in which one field installation would have virtually complete management 

control over the execution of an entire project; the need for inter-installation 

coordination would be at a minimum; and NASA headquarters could stay 

out of the intmproject coordination and instead could concentrate on interproject coordination, which included "the review and approval of projects 

in the light of overall objectives, schedules, and costs of the entire agency." 

All three points were underscored in the October 1960 final report of the 

McKinsey & Co. study of the NASA organization. In fact, the firm's advocacy of a training course in project management stemmed directly from the 

conclusions of its specialists about the advantages of a decentralized system. 

Such a system could work, the report said in emphatic terms, only if each 

NASA center trained 10 or 20 people in this kind of management.62 

NASA would need three years to create the decentralized system called 

for in the McKinsey report. With the NASA reorganization of October 1963 

asked for by Administrator Webb, the system finally was firmly put into 

place. From that point on, as Arnold S. Levine explains in his 1982 analysis, 

Managing NASA in the Apollo Em, NASA leadership stressed that "project 

management was the responsibility of the centers." For all flight projects, 

"there was to be one lead center, regardless of how many installations 

118 
Change and Continuity 

actually participated."* To take the lead, "a particular center had to 

[have] (or was assumed to have) the capacity to manage large development 

contracts, the skills to integrate the subsystems of a project parceled out 

among two or three different centers, and the ability to draw on the resources 

of the centers instead of needlessly duplicating them." 63 Those in charge of 

a project at a lead center would report their business, in a direct and official 

line of communication, to the head of the appropriate program office at 

NASA headquarters, for example, to the head of the OART. Senior staff in 

these program offices then supervised and counseled the work of the project 

managers in the field as they saw fit. 64 

Ironically, where this shift in NASA project management policy seems 

to have led by 1963 was back to the NACA concept of giving the field 

centers the responsibility for technical decisions. Of course, the overall 

political and cultural context in which those decisions were made was 

far different from the one in which Langley had operated as an NACA 

aeronautics laboratory. The NACA was not involved with contractors and 

all the snarly legalities and procedures that necessarily came· with them. In 

the narrower context of the NACA, technical decisions were not nearly as 

visible or important to the American public as they would be in the highprofile space program. If an NACA decision had been wrong, the result 

might have been tragic-if, for example, the aircraft industry or military air 

services had applied a mistaken NACA research finding in a new airplane 

design. But the overall context for NACA research was such that major 

mistakes were almost impossible to make. In normal periods, researchers 

could usually take all the time necessary to be scrupulously careful and 

certain of their findings. Even during the rush to support the Allied air 

forces in World War II, which involved "cleanup" of existing aircraft designs 

as well as fundamental research and development, researchers had time to be 

systematic.65 Furthermore, the NACA's clients never applied aerodynamic 

test results indiscriminately. All sorts of institutional checks and balances 

would be exercised to confirm the veracity of the government's research data 

before using it. In comparison, the context for NASA projects involved a 

much higher degree of institutional risk. As we have already noted about 

projects, "success needs to be achieved" and in a limited amount of time. 

The successes of the space race projects would eventually cost NASA and 

Langley in ways their researchers could not have calculated in the early 

1960s. In research, success had always been broadly defined and its price 

not so dear, but Langley would learn quickly just how exacting a space 

project could be. 

* This was not true for Apollo, which was so big and so important that NASA divvied up the work 

among lead centers: the spacecraft development to Houston, the launch vehicle development to Marshall, 

and the tracking system to Goddard. 

119 

5 

The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

What about this plasma physics? Will it ever amount 

to anything? 

-Dr. Hugh L. Dryden, NASA 

deputy administrator, to 

Macon C. Ellis, Jr., head of 

Langley's Magnetoplasmadynamics Branch 

While the Hydrodynamics Division sank at Langley, a few new research 

fields bobbed to the surface to become potent forces in the intellectual 

life of the laboratory. Most notable of these was magnetoplasmadynamics 

(MPD )-a genuine product of the space age and an esoteric field of scientific 

research for an engineering- and applications-oriented place like Langley. 

If any "mad scientists" were working at Langley in the 1960s, they were 

the plasma physicists, nuclear fusion enthusiasts, and space-phenomena 

researchers found in the intense and, for a while, rather glamourous little 

group investigating MPD. No group of researchers in NASA moved farther 

away from classical aerodynamics or from the NACA's traditional focus on 

the problems of airplanes winging their way through the clouds than those 

involved with MPD. 

The ABCs of MPD 

The field of MPD concerned the effects of magnetic and electric fields on 

the motions of plasmas. A plasma, as simply defined at the time, consists 

of an ionized high-temperature gas. For those readers who have forgotten 

their high school chemistry, a gas consists of atoms and molecules that are 

virtually unrestricted by intermolecular forces, thus allowing the molecules 

to occupy any space within an enclosure. In other words, the atoms and 

·~ PAGE Bl,ANK NOT fiLMED 

1 

PAGE_....,! ~;...:O __ INTENTtONALL y BLANK 

121 
Spaceflight Revolution 

molecules are continually moving around and colliding with one another. 

When a sufficiently violent collision between two atoms occurs, a negatively 

charged subatomic particle known as an electron is knocked out of its orbit, 

thus resulting in a "free electron" (an electron that is not bound to an atom). 

Sometimes in the collision, an ion (a positively charged particle bound to the 

electron) is knocked free as well. At the instant these particles are released, 

the gas is said to be "ionized" and is called a plasma. 

Considered as a whole, a plasma is electrically neutral, composed as it 

is of an approximately equal number of positively and negatively charged 

particles plus a variable fraction of neutral atoms. A plasma, however, by 

virtue of its charged particles, is nonetheless a conductor of electricity. Thus, 

as is true for any electrical conductor, the motion of a plasma can be greatly 

influenced, and perhaps even controlled, by electromagnetic forces. 1 

By the late 1940s, the study of the motion of ionized gases in the 

presence of magnetic fields had become a major international focus for 

scientific research. The new field, which was really a subfield of the 

large, complicated, and still emerging discipline ·of "plasma physics," 

was known by many names: "magnetohydrodynamics," "hydromagnetics," "magneto-aerodynamics," "magnetogasdynamics," and "fluid electrodynamics."* Generally speaking, however, the name "magnetohydrodynamics," or MHD, won out.2 

But the name did not prevail at NACA Langley. There, in the years 

before the establishment of NASA, a coterie of aerodynamic researchers 

involved in plasma studies conducted in the center's Gas Dynamics Laboratory, thought that the name magnetohydrodynamics was not appropriate. 

The interested researchers were not concerned with water but rather with 

hot gases or plasmas, so they coined the term "magnetoplasmadynamics." 

Outside of NASA, however, magnetohydrodynamics remained the standard 

term. 

The Solar Wind Hits Home 

Most work on plasmas before World War II pertained to the dynamics 

of upper atmosphere magnetic storms and to the phenomenon of radiant 

auroral displays similar to the aurora borealis or "northern lights." These 

studies, undertaken most notably by a British group interested in solar 

and terrestrial relationships led by astrophysicist Sydney Chapman (1888-

1970), involved questions about what fueled the sun and the stars and about 

how the ionized gases brought about by ultraviolet radiation behaved in 

* Preference for one name over the others depended on whether the scientists involved felt that the 

electrically active medium that they were studying should properly be regarded as a continuum or, 

more accurately, as comprising discrete individual particles. The astrophysicists preferred the name 

"hydromagnetics"; the aerodynamicists opted for "magneto-aerodynamics." 

122 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

interstellar space. In the 1920s, Chapman postulated that several geocosmic 

phenomena could be explained by the "differential action" of .the earth's 

magnetic field on protons and electrons emanating from the sun. Solar 

activity, in Chapman's soon-to-be dominant view, influenced the terrestrial 

magnetic field, aurorae, the conduct of atmospheric electricity, and the 

earth's weather patterns.3 

In 1942, Swedish astrophysicist Hannes Alfven (an eventual winner of 

the Nobel Prize) advanced an MHD theory of the so-called solar cycle, 

the periodic round of disturbances in the sun's behavior as seen in the 

fluctuation in the number and the area of sunspots and in the form and 

shape of the sun's corona. Some 10 years later, in the early 1950s, Alfven 

proposed an even more provocative theory. He postulated that the planets 

had been formed by an MHD process by which ionized gases became trapped 

electromagnetically and pulled inward by the sun's gravitational force, thus 

leaving them at certain distances from the sun. The only way to fathom the 

process, Alfven argued, was to work further with MHD equations.4 

Thus, in large measure, the interest in MHD began with the modern 

astrophysicists. From the 1920s on, many of their most essential questions 

concerned MHD: What mechanisms are involved in galaxy formation? 

What is the nature of the magnetic fields of the sun and the other stars? 

How does the internal energy in hot stars convert into the kinetic energy of 

gaseous clouds in interstellar space? How do stars form from gas clouds? 

What is the origin of cosmic rays, the Solar System, the universe? The key 

to understanding the cosmos lay in the fathoming of MHD principles. 

Revolutionary discoveries about the space environment made with the 

first space probes strengthened the belief in MHD's importance. On 1 May 

1958, five months to the day before the NACA transition to NASA, American astrophysicist James Van Allen announced his discovery of a region of 

intense radiation surrounding the earth at high altitude. Data from Geiger 

counters aboard the first three Explorer spacecraft, the first successful American satellites, confirmed a theory that Van Allen had been working on for 

some time. This theory suggested that the earth's magnetic field trapped 

charged subatomic particles within certain regions. Experiments aboard 

subsequent exploratory rockets and spacecraft indicated with a high degree 

of certainty that more than one radiation belt in fact enveloped the earth. 

The intensity of the belts varied with their distance from the earth. The 

zone of the most intense radiation began at an altitude of approximately 

1000 kilometers (621.37 miles).5 

The discovery of what immediately came to be known as the Van Allen 

radiation belts inspired a wide range of fundamental new investigations. 

Within months, scientists around the world realized that surrounding the 

earth was a vitally important magnetic region of still unknown character, 

shape, and dimension where ionized gases-plasmas-exerted a strong force. 

They dubbed this mysterious region "the magnetosphere." In the exciting 

but highly speculative early days of magnetospheric physics, this region was 

123 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-61-6169 

L-61"6163 

Langley's MPD researchers used these schematic dmwings to illustmte the main 

features of earth 's bordering region with outer space. 

124 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

alternately described as "a high re8ion of the earth's atmosphere" or as a 

"low or bordering region of space." 

Another important discovery of the space age fed the new science of 

magnetospheric physics: the notion of "the solar wind." This theory was 

first expressed by Eugene N. Parker of the University of Chicago in 1958 

and later confirmed by measurements taken from Soviet Lunik spacecraft 

in 1959-1960 and from Explorer 10 in 1961. Parker suggested that the 

sun's corona, or outer visible envelope, was expanding continuously, causing 

streams of ionized gases to flow radially outward from the sun through 

interplanetary space. (The sun is, after all, a big ball of plasma.) The 

intensity of these plasma streams varied greatly relative to solar activity, 

especially solar flares. The force of these streams, or solar wind, impinging 

upon the earth's magnetic field created the familiar magnetic storms. 7 By 

1960 scientists possessed evidence that a plasma wind did blow continuously 

from the sun, and the wind clearly displayed dynamic magnetic phenomena. 

The field of study that the Langley researchers had come to call MPD 

was growing quickly in esteem and importance, not only in the United States 

but also around the world. Newly conceived experiments with magnetically 

compressed plasmas provided scientists with an opportunity to generate 

and study a small sample of the solar corona in the laboratory. Scientists 

gathered basic data on subatomic behavior at temperatures for which no 

such information existed before. A major and extraordinarily exciting new 

age of modern physics was dawning. Scientists saw fascinating new research 

opportunities, and they dreamed of fantastic technological applications. 

Unfortunately, very few of their dreams would be realized. But in the early 

1960s, that was something impossible to know. 

What Langley researchers, especially those involved in gas dynamics and 

other hypersonic investigations, did know in the late 1950s was that the 

time for a major change had arrived. "The space age told us to move away 

[from] classical aerodynamics into more modern things," remembers Macon 

C. "Mike" Ellis, the man who would head Langley's formal MPD effort, 

"and, as quickly as we could, we did." 8 In handwritten notes made at 

an internal meeting of his Gas Dynamics Branch held on 18 June 1958-

during the same period that plans for NASA's initial organization were 

being formulated in Washington-Ellis wrote, "Either we make a big change 

now or [we] try to make more significant contributions in aerodynamics." 

MPD is 

a field we are already in and should push hard. . . . We should go all out to get 

qualified physics instructors. . . . We should have seminars on "space-type" and 

reentry subjects .... We must work and plan toward ultimate "conversion" of our 

work when aerodynamics becomes secondary. . . . We must go big into the new 

environment of space. 9 

125 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Now was the time for Langley researchers to assume leadership roles in 

the emerging space disciplines and vigorously seek major technological 

applications. 

The MPD Branch 

Through the late 1950s, nothing had been done formally at Langley to 

focus the efforts of those involved in the study of MPD-related subjects. 

Many people at the laboratory, some of them senior engineers and research 

managers, did not know what MPD was or did not understand what all 

the fuss was about. Furthermore, nearly all of the people concerned with 

MPD were members of the Gas Dynamics Laboratory, so they were already 

grouped together and interacting regularly. Thus, for several months, even 

after the new space agency was established, no Langley leaders saw a need 

to create a new organization just for the MPD enthu,siasts. 

But interest in the new field kept growing. The idea that flows could 

get so hot that the constituents of the air would actually break down and 

become treatable by applying magnetic forces was extremely exciting. If airflows could be "treated" electromagnetically, they might even be controlled. 

That was every aerodynamicist's dream. MPD offered a sort of aerodynamic 

alchemy, a magical way of turning lead into gold, rough turbulent flow into 

smooth laminar flow, dangerous reentry conditions into pacific ones. With 

these glorious possibilities, MPD fostered great technological enthusiasm 

and attracted many able researchers who hoped to find solutions to some 

fascinating and very complex problems. 

The study of MPD became increasingly glamourous in the late 1950s, so 

much so that Langley management soon understood that it should advertise 

the progress that Langley researchers were making in MPD studies. At each 

of the former NACA laboratories-Lewis, Ames, and Langley-research in 

MPD grew in earnest in the months just before the metamorphosis of the 

NACA into NASA and thereafter gained momentum. 10 At the first NASA 

inspection in October 1959, MPD was a featured attraction. In the printed 

inspection program, MPD merited one of the 13 subtitled sections. Visitors 

on the inspection tour stopped at a special MPD exhibit. At that stop, a 

Langley MPD specialist stood in front of a graphic panorama of the universe 

and introduced his subject by saying that "the space environment is filled 

with manifestations of this new science." 11 

Above all other members of Langley's staff, Floyd Thompson, still 

officially the associate director, became most enthralled with the glamour of 

MPD. As Mike Ellis remembers, "Thompson was tremendously supportive 

of our effort." One of the best measures of Thompson's enthusiasm was 

his request that the MPD staff be "on tap" as the special attraction 

for major events. He "always put us on stage at the NASA inspections 

and when various groups of scientists came through the laboratory," Ellis 

126 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

recalls. Thompson appreciated that work in this exciting new field of science 

could enhance the reputation of his aeronautics laboratory. 12 In May 1960, 

the same month he took over officially from Henry Reid as the Langley 

director, Thompson established a Magnetoplasmadynamics Branch of the 

Aero-Physics Division. From its beginning, MPD was one of Thompson's 

pet projects. 

The Aero-Physics Division was the natural home for Langley's MPD 

effort. This division was led by hypersonics specialist John V. Becker, an 

NACA veteran whose employment at Langley dated back to 1936 and who 

by the mid-1950s had become deeply involved in work related to hypersonic 

gliders and winged reentry vehicles. A research-minded engineer, Becker was 

a strong and confident division chief (he had been one since the mid-1940s, 

passing up several opportunities to move up to posts in senior management). 

He was comfortable having a research effort as esoteric and as sophisticated 

as MPD based in his division. Scientifically, he was quite sharp and was more 

than capable of appreciating the complexities of this new field of research 

as well as its promise for making major contributions to the space program. 

Through the 10-year span of the MPD Branch (1960-1970), Becker not only 

tolerated the many MPD enthusiasts in his division but also almost always 

supported their ideas. 

The first and only person to be in charge of Langley's MPD Branch 

was Mike Ellis, an NACA veteran who was 42 years old when the branch 

was organized. Ellis had come to work at Langley in 1939, and over the 

course of his career at the laboratory, he had been involved in pioneering 

work on the aerodynamics of jet engines, ramjets, and supersonic inlets 

and nozzles. Fittingly, Ellis had worked for Eastman Jacobs and with 

Arthur Kantrowitz in the early 1940s, and he had heard firsthand accounts 

of his former colleagues' attempt to design a fusion reactor in the spring 

of 1938. By the late 1950s, Ellis was one of Langley's most outspoken 

believers in MPD's promise of technological benefits. Ellis encouraged Floyd 

Thompson's enthusiasm for MPD and persuaded Langley's senior staff of 

mostly engineers that MPD was a field of research vital to the future of 

NASA. When the time came to pick someone to head the Hew branch, Ellis 

was unquestionably the person for the job. 

Ellis was no extraordinary "scientific brain." As an aeronautical engineer, 

his talents were quite respectable, but he possessed no special competency in 

the physics of fluids beyond his experience in aerodynamics or gas dynamics. 

He was always the first to admit that the complexities of plasma physics and 

MPD were such that "there was no way" that he personally could conduct 

basic MPD research. That challenge he would leave to minds more suited 

for it. But Ellis could bring the MPD researchers together as a unit, serve as 

their strong external advocate, shield them from front-office pressures, and 

make sure that they received the support they needed to carry out their 

work. "I just tried to keep my head above water," Ellis explains, "and keep 

127 
Spaceflight Revolution 

In the 1960s, John V. Becker 

(left) headed the Aero-Physics Division, which was home to many 

of the center's highest speed, and 

most radical, research facilities. 

These included supersonic and 

hypersonic wind tunnels, arc-jets, 

and shock tubes covering a speed 

range from Mach 1.5 to Mach 20. 

Some of these facilities, such as 

the $6.5 million Continuous-Flow 

Hypersonic Tunnel (below), were 

the forebearers of the strange 

apparatuses of the MP D Branch. 

128 

L-61-4064 

L-61-6268 
L-62-8043 

The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

Engineer Macon C. "Mike" Ellis was 

an early believer in the promise of 

MPD. 

these 'mad scientists' from going off on too many tangents, or going mad 

myself." 13 

The MPD Branch never became a large outfit. By the end of 1962, 

it had less than 50 total staff members: 27 professionals, 10 mechanics, 

4 computers (mathematicians who helped to process and plot numerical 

data), and 6 secretaries. This staff was divided into four teams or sections. 

Plasma Applications, headed by Paul W. Huber, was the largest section, 

with 8 professionals. Space Physics, led by British physicist David Adamson, 

was the smallest with 3. Robert Hess's Plasma Physics Section had 7 

professionals, and George P. Wood's Magnetohydrodynamics Section had 

5. These sections (and their section heads) remained in place until the 

dissolution of the MPD Branch in 1970. 

In addition to being small, MPD was self-contained. Whereas most of 

the research done in the center's branches regularly spilled over into other 

functioning units, most MPD work was done within the MPD Branch. A 

small amount of related research was done in the Flight Research Division 

and Full-Scale Research Division; however, most of this work concerned 

the development of microwave and spectroscopic diagnostic techniques. All 

told, the MPD work conducted outside the MPD Branch never involved 

more than about five researchers. 

In terms of organizational genealogy, the MPD Branch grew from a nat~ 

row stem. With the exception of Adamson, and a trio of his colleagues from 

a space physics group in the Theoretical Mechanics Division, all the original 

members of the MPD Branch carne from the Gas Dynamics Laboratory. 

The guru of MPD studies in· this lab was Adolf Busemann. Throughout 

129 
Spaceflight Revolution 

the 1950s, Busemann had inspired engineers with his provocative theories 

and experimental ideas. At Langley on 22-23 September 1958, the German aerodynamicist even chaired an important interlaboratory meeting on 

MHD. Ninety-three people attended the meeting, which featured 6 speakers 

from Ames, 4 from Lewis, and 11 from Langley and was organized into three 

sessions-plasma acceleration, arc-jets, and ion beams. Busemann gave a 

20-minute talk on the theory of alternating-current (AC) plasma acceleration. This two-day scientific meeting, held one week before the changeover 

to NASA, was the precursor of much larger conferences on MPD sponsored 

by NASA on almost an annual basis into the mid-1960s.l4 

Among the scientists working in MPD at Langley were several Germans. 

Like many other scientific institutions around the country, Langley had received a handful of German scientists who were part of Operation Paperclip, 

the U.S. Army intelligence operation that brought captured German rocket 

scientists and engineers to work for the U.S. government at the end of World 

War II. Busemann and two other outstanding researchers, Karlheinz Thorn 

and Goetz K. H. Oertel, came to Langley through Paperclip. Both Thorn 

and Oertel moved from Gas Dynamics to George Wood's MHD Section of 

the new MPD Branch. Both men stayed at Langley for several years before 

eventually taking posts at NASA headquarters. 

At least 10 German scientists came to Langley as part of a postdoctoral program funded by NASA but sponsored by the National Academy of 

Sciences. This program, which was totally divorced from the normal civil 

service procurement system, enabled NASA to obtain talented people as 

Resident Research Associates (RRAs) without going through the normal 

hiring procedures of the civil service and without regard for NASA's personnel ceilings. In 1968, for instance, 6 of the 39 professionals in the MPD 

Branch were RRAs. 15 

Langley's MPD group attracted other foreign scientists. These included 

Dr. Marc Feix, a French nuclear scientist who spent a few years at Langley 

in the mid-1960s and did some outstanding theoretical work. Feix was 

nominally assigned to Hess's Plasma Physics Section, but he actually 

worked with various people throughout the branch, especially with the 

Space Physics Section under David Adamson. Adamson had first worked at 

Langley at the end of World War II on an exchange program from the Royal 

Aircraft Establishment in Farnborough England.16 After the exchange, 

Adamson went home to England, but soon returned to Langley.* 

In the 1960s, the researchers of the MPD Branch were the most highly 

educated group of people at Langley. The MPD Branch enjoyed the 

* In 1958, in support of Assistant Director Eugene Draley's initiative to advertise Langley's (then 

largely alleged) expertise in space science, Adamson composed an excellent paper on the principles of 

gravity. According to some experts, this paper, which NASA published, turned out to be "one of the 

best papers ever written" on the subject, as well as one of the most quoted. (Ellis audiotape, Nov. 1991, 

author's transcript, p. 18.) 

130 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

L-62-8122 L-65-1110 

Paul W. Huber (left), head of MPD's largest section, Plasma Applications. In the 

mid-1960s, French nuclear scientist Dr. Marc Feix (right) floated from section to 

section within the MPD Branch, helping researchers solve theoretical problems basic 

to plasma physics. 

academic mystique of having by far the highest percentage of advanced 

degree holders. At one point MPD had eight employees with earned 

doctorates, seven others at the Ph.D. dissertation stage, and virtually all 

of its younger people working toward advanced degrees.* 

Compared with other research groups at Langley, the MPD enthusiasts 

participated in more international scientific conferences; had more contacts 

with consultants, important scientific committees, and advisory groups outside Langley; monitored more research contracts; and received more distinguished visitors. Senior management asked MPD researchers to occupy 

center stage during NASA inspections and to escort distinguished guests into 

their Frankensteinian laboratories, which were filled with plasma accelerators, MPD-arc fusion reactors, powerful electrical supplies, spectrometers, 

microwave diagnostic instruments, and other bizarre apparatuses. Even to 

other engineers, this equipment was strange and unidentifiable. Understandably, their peers considered the Ph.D.'s and other 'mad scientists' of MPD 

a prestigious group.l7 

* Ironically, neither Wood, head of the MHD Section, nor Hess, head of the Plasma Physics Section, 

held a Ph.D. Wood completed all the course work toward a doctorate in the early 1930s, but because of 

the Great Depression he had to go to work before re<:eiving his degree; Hess graduated from the Vienna 

Institute of Technology and had taken graduate courses in fluid mechanics and thermodynamics at MIT 

in the late 1930s, but he also did not possess an advanced degree. 

131 
Spaceflight Revolution 

But the prestige could last only if Langley's MPD work proved deserving; 

the proof lay in conducting outstanding research programs and producing 

meaningful results. When the MPD Branch was formed in 1960, Langley 

researchers saw three particularly promising applications for MPD research. 

First, they hoped to accelerate gases to very high speeds to study and 

solve the reentry problems of intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs), 

spacecraft, and transatmospheric or aerospace vehicles such as the North 

American X-15 rocket plane and the U.S. Air Force proposed X-20 DynaSoar boost-glider. The potential for these applications explains in part 

Langley's commitment to the small-scale but significant program of research 

and development of various plasma accelerators. 

Second, the MPD experts at Langley hoped to develop prospective applications of MPD for spacecraft propulsion and power generation systems. 

They were confident that electric or ion rockets would be the space propulsion system of the future. If humankind was to go to Mars or some other 

planet in a reasonable travel time, such radical sorts of propulsion systems 

would be required. Therefore, the centers for NASA's major propulsion efforts (especially Lewis in Cleveland and Marshall in Huntsville) must begin 

studying the ion and plasma devices that might someday offer to rocket 

technology the extraordinarily high specific impulses required for such faraway missions. Most definitely, the design and operation of these rockets 

would require the use of MPD principles. 18 

Third, Langley's MPD specialists realized that if controlled thermonuclear fusion was to become a practical source for the volume generation 

of electricity, much more about the subject would have to be learned. 

Beginning in the late 1950s, the Atomic Energy Commission had begun 

conducting MPD research with the production of electric power in mind. 

Branch Head Mike Ellis also believed that "the eventual energy source 

will be thermonuclear fusion" and that "the development of this energy 

source most likely will depend upon fundamental discoveries in the field of 

magnetoplasmadynamics." 19 

The promise of the field was indeed wonderful. But the promise of 

wonderful or even revolutionary findings and applications could sustain the 

new MPD group at Langley for only so long. At some point, MPD studies 

had to produce. The reality was, as John Becker later put it, "Of all the 

efforts we had, it was the most sophisticated and probably the least likely 

to succeed. We shouldn't have expected as much from it as we did." 20 

Out of the Tunnel 

Concern for the problems that the ICBM encountered during reentry 

flight prompted Langley researchers to begin the study of MPD in 1958. 

The physics of the unique conditions of the hot ionized flow around the 

missile's nose during· reentry demanded special attention. Space vehicles 

132 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

when reentering the atmosphere quickly became covered with electrically 

charged particles. These particles formed a "plasma sheath" behind the bow 

shock. Researchers hoped that an application of electric and/ or magnetic 

fields to the plasma sheath could affect the airflow in desirable ways; for 

example, it could reduce the heat transfer to the nose. The most direct 

effect of the plasma sheath, however, was that radio transmission from the 

vehicle during reentry was not possible for obtainable radio frequencies. The 

plasma caused a period of "radio blackout." 

To solve these problems, researchers at Langley had to simulate reentry 

conditions in the laboratory. This would require some new and unusual 

research equipment; conventional wind tunnels would not do the job. Small 

hypersonic tunnels, made possible by the development of high-temperature 

heat exchangers and high-speed nozzles and operated on an intermittent 

basis for flow durations of only seconds to no more than a minute, permitted 

studies of some forces during reentry, but not all and not some of the most 

important. 

Several university, industrial, and government research gr.oups had made 

significant advances in the acceleration of hot ionized gases by the late 

1950s. Some of these advances involved the arc-jet, a novel apparatus for 

aerodynamic testing that could heat a test gas (usually nitrogen, helium, 

or air) to temperatures as high as 20,000° Fahrenheit (F). In essence, 

the arc-jet was a primitive electric rocket engine. 21 In May 1957, five 

months before Sputnik, NACA Langley began operating a pilot model of 

its first experimental arc-jet. Installed in Room 118 of the center's Gas 

Dynamics Laboratory, it was an "Electro-Magnetic Hypersonic Accelerator 

Pilot Model Including Arc-Jet Ion Source," with a test section size of a 

minute 7 x 7 millimeters and gas temperatures ranging between 10,000° 

and 12,000°F.22 

Fundamentally, the arc-jet was just another hot-gas wind tunnel, which 

heated the gas electrically (typically using 100,000 kilowatts) to high temperatures in a low-velocity settling chamber, and then expanded it quickly 

through a tiny nozzle to supersonic velocities. No translational electric or 

magnetic forces acted on the gas in this conventional arc-jet. The gas was 

simply being heated by an electrical discharge. Most of the charged particles 

in this high-temperature discharge recombined in the cooling process that 

occurred during expansion. 

In 1962, Langley tried a slightly different but companion arc-jet facility 

known as the hotshot tunnel. This hybrid, invented in the mid-1950s by 

engineers at the U.S. Air Force's Arnold Engineering Development Center in 

Tullahoma, Tennessee, combined the basic features of an arc-jet with those 

of a new type of wind tunnel known as an impulse tunnel. In this tunnel 

an explosive release of energy created high pressures and temperatures in 

the test gas. 23 In practice Langley's hotshot mostly missed the mark. To 

generate the very high heat, its operators had to resort to exploding a piece 

of copper through the tunnel 'circuit, thus the name "hotshot." The material 

133 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-64-11,179 

Research physicist Philip Brockman pushes the button to start the MPD-arc plasma 

accelerator in December 1964. The test chamber for this facility was part of a larger 

high-flow, low-vacuum space simulation apparatus housed within the MPD Branch. 

that then made its way through the test section was a mixture of hot air and 

vaporized copper, a very unsatisfactory medium for aerodynamic testing. 

The facility remained active into the 1970s, but the amount of useful work 

accomplished in it was quite limited. 

Another facility for reentry testing that was developed in the late 

1950s was the shock tube. Fundamentally, this was an impulse tunnel, 

distinguished from a hotshot mainly by the way in which energy was added 

to the test gas. According to a formal definition of the time, a shock tube 

was "a relatively long tube or pipe in which very brief high-speed gas flows 

are produced by the sudden release of gas at very high pressure into a lowpressure portion of the tube." The idea was to generate a normal planar 

(that is, lying in one plane) shock wave and send it through a gas at a speed 

20 to 30 times the speed of sound, [and] thus heating the gas behind the 

normal shock to an extreme temperature. 24 

Langley's first shock tube began operation in the Gas Dynamics Laboratory in late 1951. By the end of the NACA period, three more shock 

tubes were put to work at the laboratory; they produced temperatures be~ 

tween 10,500° and 15;000°F, attained speeds of Mach 8 to Mach 20, and had 

134 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

running times of 0.001 to 0.002 seconds. 25 Researchers believed that experiments with these devices would yield much knowledge, even though everyone 

involved with shock-tube work conceded that "it was a very tough area of 

research." Contending with flows that lasted for only a few thousandths of 

a second and that required a considerable amount of special instrumentation was "a fantastic problem." How were researchers "to get answers out of 

something like that?" 26 Still, those passionate about high-velocity flows and 

high-temperature gases at Langley put great faith in the shock tube. The 

facility was used for much basic research including studies of shock waves 

generated by atomic bomb blasts. 

Through the transition period of 1957 and 1958, researchers at the lab 

continued to seek new ways to accelerate hot plasmas to the tremendous 

velocities of reentry flight. In a method devised by Langley MPD enthusiast 

George Wood, a hot gas was fed into a tube, then the body force of crossed 

electric and magnetic fields was used to accelerate the gas to the point where 

a mixture of disassociated, high-enthalpy flow would reproduce the very high 

Mach numbers of hypersonic flight. At NASA's First Anniversary Inspection 

in 1959, Langley engineers demonstrated a crude version of Wood's crossedfield plasma accelerator. It produced a flash of light, a loud bang, a startled 

audience, and a belief in the promise of major new scientific findings. 27 

Nearly everyone was excited by the potential of plasma accelerators. 

When John Stack first heard about the facility, he exclaimed, "This is great!" 

Stack felt that Langley should call the device something grand; he proposed 

the awe-inspiring name, the "Trans-Satellite-Velocity Wind Thnnel." 28 

Given the limited performance of Wood's early version of the experimental accelerator, such a pretentious name would have been a poor 

choice. As part of a guided tour for top officials from NASA headquarters in late 1959, Langley hoped to show off the radically new plasma acceleration device. Almost comically, it did not work. One embarrassed 

Langley engineer who watched the demonstration remembers, "We all sat 

around expectantly while Dr. [Adolf] Busemann explained the system. Then 

Busemann went over and threw the switch." Unfortunately, only "a little 

stream of red-hot particles sort of 'peed out' the end of this tube. It was 

a complete washout. Busemann just giggled and said, 'Well, we have a 

problem.' " 29 

The concept behind Wood's crossed-field plasma accelerator was sound: 

it was an application of a 130-year-old theory of electromagnetic force that 

had been expressed by Ampere in the 1820s. Langley researchers kept 

fiddling with the pilot model until in 1960 they successfully demonstrated its 

feasibility. Having done so, they continued research on larger, more powerful 

versions of the device. One version, the 20-megawatt plasma accelerator, was 

completed in 1966 at a cost of more than $1 million. With this facility, the 

MPD Branch planned to achieve more accurate simulation of the reentry 

conditions of both manned and unmanned vehicles. Shakedown testing in 

the accelerator continued until1969, when political pressures applied by the 

135 
Spaceflight Revolution 

George P. Wood (right}, head of MPD's 

Magnetohydrodynamics Section, developed 

Langley's earliest crossed-field plasma accelerator. The accelerator section of the 

20-megawatt plasma accelerator facility is 

shown below. Note the many electrodes for 

furnishing the high-energy electric field. 

136 

L-62-8047 

L-66-1913 
L-65-8509 

The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

L-63-3361 

In this April 1963 photo, MPD lab technician Charlie Diggs regulates the flow 

of a test gas in an early 1 0-kilowatt test 

version of Langley's Hall-current plasma 

accelerator (above}; over his left shoulder 

sits a Polaroid camera for photographing an oscilloscope. In November 1965, 

an unidentified technician (left) wears 

goggles to protect his eyes against the intense light in a later coaxial version of a 

Hall-current plasma accelerator. In the 

test section, one can see the very bright, 

high-velocity plume from the MPD arc~ 

jet exhausting into a vacuum tank. 

137 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Nixon administration forced an abrupt halt to the accelerator's pioneering 

work. Whether the machine would have ever completely panned out, no one 

can be sure. 

In NASA's report on the last tests made in this device, published in 1971, 

George Wood and his colleagues pointed out that an exit velocity of 30,176 

feet per second had been achieved, which was a remarkable 81 percent of 

the facility's computed capacity of 37,064 feet per second. According to the 

NASA report, the crossed-field accelerator "appears to be the largest and 

highest velocity nonpulsed linear plasma accelerator" to attain "an operable 

status." 30 An experimental facility with this record must be called a success. 

While trying to work out the kinks in Wood's crossed-field accelerator 

design, Langley's MPD experts conceived several other methods for accelerating plasmas. One of these methods, which was not pursued very far, 

they called "microwave cavity resonance." The major alternative, however, 

was known as the "linear Hall-current accelerator." This type of plasma 

accelerator was based on a principle of electrical polarization and current 

generation laid out by the American physicist Edwin H. Hall in the 1920s 

and 1930s. The facility used a constant rather than intermittent interaction 

of currents and magnetic fields across a channel to accelerate a steady flow 

of plasma. 

Beginning in the late 1950s, a small group of Langley researchers led 

by Robert V. Hess, an applied physicist from Austria who had come to 

work for the NACA in 1945, began pursuing two major variants of the 

Hall accelerator: the MPD arc and the so-called linear Hall accelerator. 

Throughout the 1960s, Hess and his associates refined these versions of 

the plasma accelerator, thus making extensive experimental and theoretical 

studies of the physics and overall performance of their devices. Although 

they successfully demonstrated the efficiency of the MPD arc and linear Hall 

accelerator and made several important findings relating to the manner in 

which oscillations and instabilities in plasma could develop into turbulent 

flows, MPD researchers were never able to simulate reentry conditions or 

the interaction between the solar wind and the geomagnetosphere, and they 

would never realize meaningful applications in space propulsion. As was 

the case with the other MPD experimental facilities mentioned, the linear 

Hall-current accelerator possessed limitations that Hess and his colleagues 

could not eradicate. By the late 1960s, Hess and others in MPD shifted the 

focus of their work with these accelerators to the potential application of 

gas lasers.31 

Into the Cyanogen Fire 

In the late 1950s, the Langley MPD group found a stopgap method of 

generating a plasma in the laboratory. This method involved the production 

of a hot flame fueled by the combustion of cyanogen gas and oxygen. 

138 
L-62-8120 

The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

Robert V. Hess, head of MPD's Plasma 

Physics Section. 

MPD physicist Bob Hess was an intense researcher and bibliophile. He 

combed the current technical and scientific literature for ideas that might 

prove useful to his and his colleagues' work. Proficient in German and French 

as well as English, he was able to keep abreast of scientific ideas along several 

fronts. With his desk piled high with papers, Hess ferreted out the best 

notions, and massaged them for his own creative uses.* In 1957, Hess came 

across a reference to a new experimental device at the Research Institute 

of Temple University in Philadelphia. This device produced an extremely 

hot flame by burning oxygen with cyanogen, a colorless, flammable, and 

poisonous gas, sometimes formed by heating mercuric cyanide. After reading 

about the cyanogen flame experiment, Hess hit on an idea for adapting the 

flame to create a hot plasma for simulating the space reentry environment. 

By feeding oxygen and cyanogen gas into a combustion chamber and igniting 

the mix, the researchers at Temple were producing a flame of more than 

8000°F. This was one of the hottest flames scientists had ever produced. 

What would be the result, Hess mused, if a potassium vapor that ionized 

easily at that temperature was added to the combustion chamber? Would 

* For example, in 1945 Hess found an overlooked British translation of German aerodynamicist Dr. 

Adolf Busemann's seminal 1937 paper on sweptwing theory. Hess found it in the Langley Teclmical 

Library, where his future wife, Jane, would someday serve as the head librarian and assist him greatly 

with his search for references, and he passed it on to colleague Robert T. Jones. This was just prior 

to Jones's final revision of a confidential NACA paper in which Jones would report his independent 

discovery of the advantages of wing sweep for supersonic flight. 

139 
Spaceflight Revolution 

this create a jet of hot gas that reproduced the extremely ionized plasma 

conditions of missile reentry? 

On 17 June 1957, Hess and his boss in the Gas Dynamics Laboratory, 

Macon C. Ellis, Jr., visited Temple University to discuss the details of 

producing a cyanogen-oxygen flame and to inquire about the feasibility of 

adding an easily ionizable alkaline material, potassium or perhaps cesium, to 

the flame. The key people to whom they spoke were Dr. Aristid V. Grosse, 

director of the Temple Research Institute, and Charles S. Stokes, who was in 

charge of the cyanogen flame program. Grosse and Stokes agreed that "the 

great stability of the combustion products" made them "well suited" for an 

addition of an ionizer such as potassium; they told the Langley visitors that 

they themselves had recognized this in one of their early reports, perhaps 

in the one that Hess had read. However, they had not made quantitative 

estimates of the electron densities or followed up on the idea in any way. 

They wondered whether the addition of potassium might not exert a cooling 

effect that would somewhat diminish the density of elE:Jctrons. Hess, however, 

had already made the estimates and knew that the density of the electrons in 

the seeded cyanogen flame would be sufficiently high (about 1016 per cubic 

centimeter) to compensate for any temperature-reducing reactions.32 

At Langley, Paul Huber with the help of the facilities engineering group 

quickly designed a cyanogen flame apparatus, and the funding for its 

construction was approved. By the time the NACA became NASA, the 

device had been operating for several months. As expected, the first major 

test program conducted in Langley's alkali-metal-seeded, cyanogen-oxygen 

flame explored how flow-field conditions near an ICBM nose prevented the 

transmission of radio signals back to earth. Researchers in the Gas Dynamics 

Laboratory working with Joseph Burlock of IRD mounted a transmitting 

antenna in front of a nozzle that bathed the antenna in the hot cyanogen 

gas jet. Instruments then measured the rate at which the transmitter lost 

its signal power. 

The early MPD test program demonstrated the feasibility of creating 

and controlling the highly ionized plasmas representative of the extreme 

dynamic conditions of spaceflight and reentry. The program also showed 

that certain simplified theoretical methods could be used to calculate the 

loss of electronic communication with a vehicle during reentry of a vehicle 

from space. If plasma conditions around the vehicle could be estimated 

with reasonable accuracy, researchers then would be able to predict the 

expected radio power loss. This was critical information for trips in and out 

of space by guided missiles, aerospace planes, and manned and unmanned 

spacecraft. Led by the outstanding theoreticians Calvin T. Swift and JohnS. 

Evans, who worked in the Plasma Applications Section under Paul Huber, 

MPD researchers at Langley continued to make significant contributions 

throughout the 1960s. On the problems of transmitting radio signals to and 

from reentry vehicles, no group inside or outside of NASA came to speak 

with more authority.'33 

140 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

L-63-2898 

Three-quarter top view of Langley's cyanogen burner, which was located for safety 

reasons in a remote spot on the edge of a marsh in Langley's West Area. To the left 

of the jet is a microwave "horn," a device for electron-concentration measurement 

and radio-transmission attenuation. 

The MPD program was particularly valuable to the little-known NASA 

project RAM. Initiated too late to help in the communications blackout 

problems of the Mercury and Gemini capsules, the purpose of Project 

RAM was to support the Apollo program. Many of the project's results 

proved inconclusive, and most of the hoped-for technological fixes, for 

example, the use of higher radio frequencies and the timed injection of 

small sprays of water into the hot gas envelope surrounding a reentering 

spacecraft, were judged too problematic for use in Apollo. However, MPD 

specialists at Langley did learn how to predict the flow-field characteristics of 

a reentering spacecraft more accurately, and their work led to viable schemes 

for alleviating or "quenching" part of the plasma sheath so that some level 

of effective radio communications to and from a reentering vehicle could 

occur.34 Experience gained in the MPD reentry experiments of the 1960s 

eventually aided in projecting the reentry conditions of the Space Shuttle. 

141 
Spaceflight Revolution 

The Barium Cloud Experiment 

Not all of Langley's MPD work sought such direct technological applications as Project RAM. Some of the more fruitful research efforts fell into 

the realm of basic science and represented what MPD Branch Head Ellis described in a February 1962 briefing to the Langley senior staff as "examples 

of keeping research alive on a reasonable scale without solid, specific applications or even the guarantee of applications!" 35 One such effort that made 

significant contributions was a barium cloud experiment designed for exploration of the interaction between the solar wind and the earth's magnetic 

fields. 

Although a continuous outpouring of plasma appeared to emanate from 

the sun (i.e., the solar wind), this plasma by virtue of its high conductivity 

did not seem to penetrate the earth's strong magnetic field; instead, the 

solar wind flowed around the earth's field, forming a huge cavity. Sensitive 

magnetometers aboard some of the first Soviet and American spacecraft 

provided useful information about the disposition of the magnetic fields 

within this cavity; however, many questions about the arrangement of the 

field lines remained unanswered. Conservative estimates of the volume of the 

cavity placed it at about 60,000 times the volume of the earth. Langley's 

interested MPD experts knew that it was "going to be a formidable task 

indeed to map such an extensive field by point to point samplings." 36 Little 

was known about the shape of the cavity on the nightside of the earth, 

and indeed astrophysicists had suggested that the cavity was in fact open 

and that the earth's magnetosphere had a tail extending out some several 

"astronomical units."* 

These were only some of the complications stirring the "intellectual stew" 

over the magnetospheric cavity. Other concerns stemmed from evidence that 

the magnetic field lines of the earth were linked at least partially with those 

of the interplanetary field, which in turn were entrained in the solar wind. If 

so, tangential stresses and drag forces in the realm of space affected motions 

within the magnetosphere in addition to those imparted by the earth's own 

rotation, which were themselves unknown.37 

At Langley, these cosmological matters were of particular interest to 

the small group of theoretically inclined researchers working in the MPD 

Space Physics Section under David Adamson. Beginning in late 1963, the 

Adamson group began to seriously consider a novel experimental technique 

by which scientists could use an artificially ionized plasma "cloud" as a space 

probe. As Adamson explained at the time, the principle of the cloud was 

rather simple. 

* An B.'ltronomical unit is usually defined B.'l the mean distance between the center of the earth and 

the center of the sun, i.e., the semimajor axis of the earth's orbit, which is equal to approximately 

92.9 X 1,000,000 miles or 499.01 light seconds. 

142 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

If a charged particle is projected into a magnetic field, it spirals along a magnetic 

field line, remaining tied to that field line until it is dislodged by colliding with 

another particle. Picture then a cloud of charged particles, sufficiently dispersed at 

a sufficiently great altitude that collisions can be ignored. The individual particles 

will be tied to the field lines, and motions of the cloud perpendicular to the field lines 

will be inhibited. Of course, the cloud can and will diffuse along the field lines, and 

as it does so will serve to define the shaping of those field lines to which it is frozen. 

Moreover, if the magnetic field lines are themselves in motion, this motion, too, will 

be imparted to the cloud. 38 

Only three requirements were placed on the cloud: it had to be fully ionized, 

the ionized atoms had to show resonance lines in the visible portion of the 

spectrum, and it had to be visible to observers on earth. 

The notion of an ionized cloud was not new. For several years, research 

groups around the world had been experimenting with chemical releases as 

a means of exploring the nature of the upper atmosphere. For the most 

part, the creation of such artificial clouds was done by launching a sounding 

rocket carrying on its nose a payload of pyrotechnic constituents mixed with 

alkali metals. At the proper altitude in the upper atmosphere, a canister 

carrying the payload would be ejected. The temperature of the canister's 

contents would rise thousands of degrees and then escape explosively to form 

a colorful vapor whose atoms would glow blue-violet in the sunlight. The 

result was a bright and rather beautiful space cloud, a sort of instant aurora, 

which could be seen quite distinctly by an observer watching from the 

nightside of the earth. Highly responsive magnetometers and spectroscopes 

could then be used to analyze the physics of what happened when a body of 

charged particles exploded in the outermost realms of the earth's atmosphere 

and at the fringes of space. 

The world leaders in developing the tricky optical cloud technique were 

the West Germans, specifically a group of experimental astrophysicists in 

the Gaerching Laboratory of the Max Planck Institut in Berlin. The leading 

figures in the development of what came to be known as "the barium 

bomb" were Dr. Ludwig Biermann and his associate Dr. Riemar Lust. In 

1951, Biermann had anticipated Parker's discovery of the solar wind by 

hypothesizing that a comet's tail, which always points away from the sun, 

was being pushed by streams of solar particles. He spent the rest of the 

decade looking for an experimental means by which to prove his theory. 

By the late 1950s, the Biermann group had developed a technique for the 

creation of an artificially ionized cloud in the upper atmosphere. By 1964, 

although the existence of the solar wind was by then taken for granted, the 

same group was ready to use more powerful rockets to deploy the first of 

these clouds in space. 

Biermann and Lust used a payload of barium inside their canisters. In 

their opinion, a mix of copper oxide and barium (a soft, silver-white, metallic 

element obtained when its chloride was decomposed by an electric current) 

143 
Spaceflight Revolution 

was most desirable because it ionized at a reasonable temperature and even 

in modest concentration could produce clouds visible to observers on earth. 

In the early 1960s, French sounding rockets fired from the Sahara began 

carrying West Germany's barium payloads into the upper atmosphere as 

part of a research program sponsored by the newly founded European Space 

Research Organization (ESRO). NASA's space scientists naturally knew 

about the European program, and some of them thought, like Biermann and 

Lust, that the barium cloud technique could be adapted for experimental 

use in space.39 

In the summer of 1964, Bob Hess traveled to Feldafing, near Munich, 

Germany, to participate in an international symposium on the diffusion of 

plasma across a magnetic field. At this meeting, Hess spoke with Biermann 

about the barium cloud technique. The interest of the West Germans in 

the experiment was different from that of Langley's MPD Branch. The 

Germans wanted to release barium in the streaming solar wind outside 

the magnetosphere in the hope of learning more ab.out the formation of 

comets; the NASA researchers sought to explore the magnetosphere itself. 

Nevertheless, the interests were similar enough to make Biermann and Hess 

agree that some measure of international cooperation would be useful. 

Upon his return to Langley, Hess wrote a letter to NASA's Space 

Sciences Steering Committee. Founded in May 1960 by the head of NASA's 

Office of Space Sciences and Applications (OSSA), Dr. Homer Newell, this 

committee consisted of NASA officials and leading academic scientists in 

the field. Their duty was to advise NASA on its space science program 

and evaluate proposals for scientific experiments on NASA missions. In his 

letter, Hess summarized the observational possibilities of plasma clouds as 

magnetospheric probes and proposed that NASA devise a cloud experiment, 

which perhaps could be done with the cooperation of Dr. Biermann and 

the West Germans. Instead of launching the barium from inside a rocket, 

Hess suggested that the makings for the plasma cloud be released from 

inside the MORL that NASA was planning, "where the advantages of longer 

observation of the plasma cloud and of a wider choice of materials are offered 

as compared with observation from the ground through the atmosphere." 40 

The space scientists at NASA headquarters were interested in the general 

idea, but plans to proceed progressed slowly through 1965 and 1966. Other 

space science experiments more directly supportive of the Apollo lunar 

landing program, like the Surveyor and Lunar Orbiter programs, received 

the highest priority. Still, the MPD Branch in conjunction with the 

appropriate program officers at NASA headquarters, as well as with the 

technical support of the Applied Materials and Physics Division at Langley, 

continued to plan for the cloud experiment. From Wallops Island, NASA 

would launch an explosive canister atop a high-altitude rocket.* Early on, 

* The type of rocket was yet to be determined. Ultimately, several sounding rockets, as well as 

Langley's multipurpose Scout· rocket, would be used. 

144 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

Langley researchers thought that the canister should contain a combustible 

mixture of cyanogen-oxygen with cesium; however, with input from Lust's 

team in Germany, they finally chose a barium payload. At the appropriate 

altitude in space (the rocket would not go into orbit), the canister would 

detonate and out would float the ionized particles which would form the 

space cloud. The cloud would last several minutes to more than one hour 

during which it would reflect radio waves and could be viewed from a location 

on earth in the sun's shadow. 

The general scientific purpose of the cloud would be to serve as "a 

ready means of discerning on a large scale the topology of the earth's 

[magnetic] field and of determining magnetospheric motions." However, 

Langley's MPD group felt that the cloud might also be used as an aid in 

tracking high-altitude vertical sounding rockets or even vehicles (hopefully 

not Soviet) bound for the moon. It could be used as a form of visible tracer, 

not altogether unlike the use of certain metallic elements (often barium) 

and radioactive isotopes fed into the stomach or injected into the blood as 

tracers for X-ray diagnosis of cancer and other diseases. 41 

Eventually, NASA gave the go-ahead for the barium cloud-in-space 

experiment. The approval was in part politically motivated; NASA wanted 

to encourage international cooperation, at least in certain noncritical space 

endeavors, and especially with the democratic nations of western Europe. 

In June 1965, representatives of the Max Planck Institut approached NASA 

with a proposal for a joint barium cloud experiment involving German 

payloads and NASA launches from Nike-Tomahawk and Javelin rockets. 

The following month, NASA and West Germany's Federal Ministry for 

Scientific Research signed a memorandum of understanding calling for 

cooperation in a program of space research on the earth's inner radiation 

belts and aurora borealis. According to the memorandum, NASA would 

provide a Scout booster for the launch of a German-made satellite into 

polar orbit by 1968, with the results of the experiment to be made available 

to the world scientific community. Pursuant to another memorandum 

of understanding between the two nations (signed in May 1966), the 

two research agencies would then proceed with investigations of cometary 

phenomena, the earth's magnetosphere, and the interplanetary medium 

through studies of the behavior of high-altitude ionized clouds.42 

Four months later, on 24 September 1966, in a joint effort with the Max 

Planck Institut, NASA launched a four-stage Javelin sounding rocket from 

Wallops Island to check its canister-ejection technique, and on the next day, 

again from Wallops, launched a Nike-Tomahawk rocket which released a 

mixture of barium and copper oxide. The second "shot" only reached 160 

miles, whereas the desirable altitude for a barium ·cloud release was 3 to 5 

earth radii. Nonetheless, the experiment was successful. For hundreds of 

miles up and down the Atlantic coast, three distinct clouds were visible. 

NASA and West German sci~ntists photographed the clouds in an effort to 

track and measure electric fields and wind motions in the upper atmosphere. 

145 
Spaceflight Revolution 

The results of both launches caused quite a public stir. Some residents along 

the coast reported sightings of brilliant UFOs, and some motorists became 

so fascinated by the brightly colored clouds that they ran off the road. 

What came to be known formally as the MPI (Max Planck Institut) /NASA Magnetospheric Ion Cloud Experiment was the next step in the 

two parties' cooperative investigation. Proposed formally by the Germans 

in February 1967, the joint experiment was not approved by NASA until 

December 1968. According to the final agreement, the Germans would provide the barium payload, two ground observer stations, and data analysis; 

NASA would furnish the rocket, conduct the launch from Wallops Island, 

and provide tracking and communications services. 43 

Despite a fatal explosion on 5 October 1967, at the Downey, California, 

plant of North American Rockwell, which was caused by a mishandling 

of finely divided barium mixed with Freon, the barium cloud experiment 

eventually proved a great success.44 On 17 March 1969, a barium cloud 

1865 miles long, lasting some 20 minutes, and visible to the naked eye, 

formed at an altitude of 43,495.9 miles (69,999.87 kilometers). Heos 1, 

a "Highly Eccentric Orbiting Satellite" belonging to ESRO, carried the 

cloud-producing canister into space. Instrumented observation of this 

and subsequent plasma cloud-in-space experiments revealed the motions 

of the earth's magnetic field lines, including those influencing the aurorae; 

demonstrated other plasma effects in space; helped scientists to correlate 

these motions and effects as a function of solar flares; and generally allowed 

world astrophysicists to model the geomagnetosphere more accurately. All 

the barium cloud shots generated considerable public concern and interest 

and were widely announced in advance in the press. 

Aside from fascinating the public, this experimental probing of the nearearth environment of space also led researchers to explore what was believed 

to be the great potential value of magnetospheric data for understanding and 

perhaps even controlling the earth's weather. Although the energies in space 

were recognized to be small compared with those in the atmosphere, those 

researchers interpreting the results of the barium cloud experiment raised 

the possibility that even small disturbances of inherently unstable regions 

in space could trigger significant behavior in large regions around the earth. 

The few people outside Langley who remember the barium cloud research 

program believed NASA left most of the interpretation of the results to the 

Germans. In truth, as the NASA reports on the program demonstrate, 

Langley's space physics group moved ahead very quickly to interpret the 

data, "scooping" the preeminent Germans by first reporting and explaining 

in full many of the essential findings. 45 

NASA Langley planned to participate in at least one follow-on barium 

cloud test in 1974 or 1975. The purpose of this proposed test was to shape 

the barium charge along a magnetic field line, then time the discharge to 

coincide exactly with t.he passage of an unmanned satellite having a very 

high-frequency (VHF) receiver aboard. The receiver would measure the 

146 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

cyclotron radiation from the electrons circling the field line. The test did 

not take place, however, because of the lack of support in the OSSA at 

NASA headquarters. 46 

The Search for Boundless Energy 

Astrophysics was not the only driving force behind the explosion of MPD 

research in the 1950s. Another inciting factor was the quest for atomic 

energy. After World War II and the dawn of the atomic age, many physicists 

had begun exploring ways to confine plasmas magnetically in a new sort 

of nuclear reactor based not on fission but on fusion. Such projects were 

designed to explore the potential of generating thermonuclear power. Many 

researchers and institutions believed this was the pot of gold at the end of 

the MPD rainbow. 

In 1951 the four-year-old U.S. Atomic Energy Commission initiated a 

secret project known by the code name "Sherwood"; its ambitious objective 

was the controlled release of nuclear energy through stable confinement 

of plasmas at an extremely high temperature. Interestingly, the strategy 

behind Project Sherwood was not to build a scientific and technical base for 

advanced fusion experiments; rather, the goal was to immediately develop a 

working technology. Researchers were "to invent their way to a reactor," so 

to speak, just as the scientists and engineers through a crash effort had built 

the first atomic bomb. Such was the mood of optimism and enthusiasm over 

the human capacity for solving any problem, however monumental, in the 

wake of the successful Manhattan Project.47 

Many of the devices developed during Project Sherwood served as advanced research tools. Although highly varied in their designs, almost all 

the facilities tried, with only partial success, to produce fusion reactions 

through some type of magnetic containment of a plasma. By the 1950s, 

scientists knew that a thermonuclear reactor would require a reacting gas 

with a temperature of at least 1,000,000,000 kelvin (K). Because containment of such an extraordinarily hot gas by solid walls seemed impossible, 

many plasma physicists believed that the only way to contain the gas was 

by powerful magnetic forces. Further work in MPD became vital. 

At Langley, as elsewhere, researchers turned to the sun (a giant fusion 

reactor) to find the answers. In Langley laboratories, the MPD group 

worked on designing facilities that would simulate the activity of the solar 

corona. George Wood's MHD Section built several highly experimental 

devices to study solar physics; however, none of them yielded the secret 

of thermonuclear power. 

Consider, for example, George Wood's first highly experimental facility 

for the basic study of solar-coronal physics, the one-megajoule theta-pinch. 

147 
Spaceflight Revolution 

"The pinch" used a powerful, one-million-joule* discharge of direct-current 

(DC) electricity along a single-turn coil to generate a strong longitudinal 

magnetic field. Wood's section hoped that an interaction of this highdensity cun;ent with its own magnetic field would cause a contained column 

of plasma (that is, a molten conductor) to self-contract and become pinched 

even tighter and perhaps even to rupture itself momentarily, thus producing 

a controlled fusion reaction. 

First explained in a theoretical paper by American physicist Willard H. 

Bennett in 1934, the application of this self-focusing pinch effect had become 

a basic mechanism of plasma and plasma-containment research worldwide 

in the 1950s. Langley's MPD enthusiasts (notably MHD's Nelson Jalufka) 

naturally wanted to get involved. Unfortunately, research in the Langley 

pinch facility, as in all other reactors of the time designed to generate 

controlled nuclear fusion, did not lead to fundamental breakthroughs. It 

did, however, make some solid contributions to the literature. 48 

Another device that perhaps did not live up to all expectations but 

nonetheless succeeded in fundamental respects was ·Langley's Magnetic 

Compression Experiment. In the early 1960s, Karlheinz Thorn, Goetz 

Oertel, and George Wood devised an experimental apparatus capable of 

generating a multimillion-degree-kelvin plasma for simulation of the solar 

corona and for studying the processes that produce highly ionized atoms in 

the corona. Completed in 1965 at a total cost of roughly $2 million, the 

apparatus consisted of a one-megajoule capacitor bank (a device for storing 

electrical energy) plus a straight narrow tube that produced a theta-pinch. 

Experiments conducted with this device led to some significant results on the 

spectral lines of highly ionized gases like deuterium and argon, and members 

of Wood's MPD group published several papers on the experiments into the 

late 1960s. Well after the dissolution of the MPD branch in 1970, the facility 

was still operating, thanks largely to the support of Karlheinz Thorn, who 

had moved to a position of partronage in the OSSA at NASA headquarters. 

Thorn was able to keep the Magnetic Compression Experiment alive by 

relating its research more directly to astrophysics, thereby circumventing 

a policy of the Nixon administration against basic research in the highly 

speculative energy field of thermonuclear fusion. 49 

A third important fusion research effort of the MHD Section involved 

the plasma-focus research facility. Although the stated purpose of this facility (whose operation dates to the mid-1960s) was to simulate and study 

the physics of solar flares, its real purpose from the outset was to explore 

* A joule is equivalent to one watt-second. 

148 
The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

the possibilities of fusion.* Essentially, the plasma-focus apparatus was a 

coaxial arrangement wherein a sheet of electrical current was created by a 

high-energy discharge from a powerful capacitor bank. The current sheet 

traveled down a ring-shaped (annular) channel designed around a central 

anode (positive electrode) and collapsed by virtue of its own self-induced 

magnetic field into a high-density plasma. 

Several researchers in Wood's MHD Section became deeply involved in 

experiments with the plasma-focus facility, and although their work did not 

produce the boundless energy of nuclear fusion, it cannot be called a failure; 

rather, the effort, which was extensive, turned out to be important and 

lasting. Between 1968 and 1985, Langley researchers published no less than 

81 papers based on their experiments in the plasma-focus facility; only 7 of 

these papers were written between 1968 and 1970, when the MPD Branch 

was still functioning. Clearly, the research did not end with the formal 

dissolution of the branch. In this collection of papers authored or coauthored 

by the members of the former MPD Branch are significant offshoots from 

the initial purpose of the experiments. These offshoots include exploration 

of space-based lasers both for direct conversion of solar energy and for 

early "Star Wars" designs. In the late 1970s, the plasma-focus facility 

received national and international attention and acclaim by producing more 

neutrons per experimental "shot"-1019 fusion neutrons from a deuterium 

plasma-than had been produced by any other fusion experiment to date 

in the United States. By placing enriched uranium at the end of the anode, 

researchers were even able to get 1010 fissions, which was another remarkable 

result. 5° 

These achievements signified that Langley's general fusion-related research rated near the top of the American scientific effort by the early 1980s. 

Langley's work was equal to similar pioneering efforts by Winston H. Bostick 

at the Stevens Institute of Technology in New Jersey and G. R. Mather at 

Los Alamos National Laboratory in New Mexico. Of course, the chronology for this work extends beyond the period that is the focus of this book; 

however, the relevance of the research carried on by the MPD Branch of the 

1960s extended to these significant follow-on efforts. 

* A much earlier piece of equipment for plasma reBearch at Langley known as "the diffusion inhibitor" 

was developed to pursue thermonuclear power. In 1938, Langley researchers Eastman N. Jacobs 

and Arthur Kantrowitz tried to confine a hot plasma magnetically and thereby achieve a controlled 

thermonuclear reaction. Although NACA management quickly stopped the unauthorized research, the 

preliminary experiments attempted by Jacobs and Kantrowitz in their toroidal (or doughnut-shaped) 

chamber represent not only Langley's first flirtation with the basic science later leading to MPD studies 

but also the first serious effort anywhere in the world .(and three years before the Manhattan Project} 

to obtain energy from the atom. For a complete account of the Jacobs-Kantrowitz fusion experiment of 

1938, see James R. Hansen, "Secretly Going Nuclear," in American Heritage of Invention & Technology 

(Spring 1992) 7:60-63. 

149 
Spaceflight Revolution 

A Hot Field Cools Off 

Although the promise of MPD remained high into the late 1960s, its 

mystique was slowly dissipating. In a briefing to new Langley Director 

Edgar M. Cortright in 1968, Mike Ellis had to admit that "a large part of 

the glamour of moving into plasma physics that existed ten years ago is now 

over and we feel that hard-headed research is now the order of the day." 51 

Ten years had passed, and the ambitions of the first exhilarating moments of the spaceflight revolution had been moderated by the mounting 

frustrations of trying to achieve significant research results in what was 

proving to be a much more illusive area of research than anticipated. "The 

field was just so incredibly complicated," Mike Ellis remembers, "that to 

make a really significant contribution that would apply to some great problem just became increasingly hard." 52 The deeper the Langley researchers 

and others plunged into the MPD field, the more they realized how difficult 

contributing to any applications would be. 

Because they could not find clear applications for most of their research, 

the sights of the MPD enthusiasts changed gradually over the course of the 

1960s. In terms of simulating the reentry conditions, which was the practical 

application driving so much of the MPD effort in its early years, neither 

Langley's arc-jets, nor its plasma accelerators, nor any other new facility 

ever succeeded in generating on the ground a flow of high-temperature 

air that corresponded to actual flight conditions. And, by the late 1960s, 

NASA knew that a spaceflight program could do well without having that 

capability. As John Becker of Aero-Physics explains, 

We learned everything that we could in an airstream that was way too cool, and then 

we corrected wherever we needed to for the effects of the temperature, by calculation, 

by studying the effects of temperature in adequate facilities, and then adding that 

to what we already knew. It was a partial simulation, but the corrections were good 

enough to design successful hardware. 53 

In other words, much of what MPD researchers had been trying to do just 

proved unnecessary. 

The primary motivation for many who had joined the MPD field had 

been the hope of controlled thermonuclear fusion. Anybody and everybody 

in the scientific community who was connected to plasma physics had the 

dream of inventing the final device that would allow controlled fusion, or 

at least they hoped to contribute in some direct way to its eventual design. 

But by the late 1960s, the lack of progress in the field clearly indicated that 

any practical technology based on fusion (other than an atomic bomb or 

nuclear warhead) was still a long way off.54 

At the dawn of the space age, NASA's MPD enthusiasts at Langley and 

elsewhere had also believed that nuclear-powered rockets, ion rockets, and 

other advanced space· propulsion systems might be just around the corner 

150 
L-65-3960 

The "Mad Scientists'' of MPD 

This May 1965 photqgraph shows a 

Langley concept for a Mars landing ve" 

hicle. By the end of the decade, all 

thoughts of making a quick trip to Mars 

ended. 

and that with them astronauts would soon be shooting off for Mars and other 

faraway places. As the decade passed, the idea of the nuclear rocket fell by 

the wayside and was for all practical purposes killed when NASA planning 

for a manned Mars mission was put to an abrupt halt in 1970 by President 

Nixon. The value of exploring the potential of electric propulsion systems 

also diminished. Mike Ellis remembers the impact of the presidential policy 

on his own work: "In early 1970, I was told to cease working immediately 

on a paper I was preparing for formal presentation on the proposed manned 

mission to Mars. The paper, on which I was working with Walter B. Olstad 

and E. Brian Pritchard in the Aero-Physics Division, was all ready for 

rehearsal. But then word came down from Washington, and I was told 

not even to breathe the notion of a manned Mars mission." 55 

As their lofty aspirations were forced down to earth, the MPD enthusiasts 

shifted their focus and began to look for other objectives. A group in the 

Plasma Physics Section, for example, started to explore the potential of gas 

lasers. Under the direction of Bob Hess and his associate Frank Allario, 

this new area of interest grew into a sustained field of intense research at 

NASA Langley. By the early 1970s, this effort provided some information 

basic to the eventual development of the plasma cutting torches and plasma 

metal-definition apparatuses that have since come to dominate the metals 

field. 56 

151 
Spaceflight Revolution 

In 1970, Edgar Cortright as part of his major reorganization of the center 

dissolved the MPD Branch and put most of its people and many of their 

facilities under a new Space Sciences Division headed by William H. Michael. 

Aware of MPD's practical limitations, Mike Ellis did not complain about 

his branch's dissolution, nor did any other member of his staff.* Cortright 

was somewhat familiar with the MPD field from his days as a researcher 

at Lewis laboratory and from his management experience in the OSSA at 

NASA headquarters, so he did not criticize MPD's work or refer to it in 

any way as a failure. John Becker, who had supported his MPD Branch for 

nearly a decade, best sums up Langley's view of MPD: It was "a field that 

we had to explore in detail because of the great promise. The fact that it 

didn't yield any earth-shaking new things is not our fault. It's just the way 

nature turned out to be." 57 

Never before in the history of applied basic research at Langley had a 

field of study promised so much, yet delivered so little. But the "mad scientists" of MPD were not mad in their pursuit; they were just different from 

the "normal" body of researchers at Langley, who ·searched for practical 

solutions and did not stray into matters of fundamental cosmological importance. The MPD group's commitment to basic scientific research was in 

fact quite sensible. At a time when NASA had an increasingly strong political mandate for research that was "relevant" to the technological objectives 

of space projects, the "mad scientists" of MPD maintained a broader and 

more fundamental interpretation of relevant research. 

Mike Ellis would always feel that MPD's interpretation was the proper 

one and that the urgency of project work had deteriorated the status of 

basic research at Langley. Project work so dominated the agency in the 

late 1960s that all work, even basic research such as that conducted by the 

MPD Branch, was judged by the black-and-white criteria for project success. 

Results must be quickly achieved and immediately applicable. The results 

of Langley's MPD work were neither. Mike Ellis puts the experience in 

perspective: "It is certainly true that we didn't produce any earth-shaking 

results or great breakthroughs. Not many efforts do." 58 

* Ellis himself, however, did not move into the new Space Sciences Division; instead, he became one 

of the assistant chiefs (and later associate chief) of John Becker's Aero-Physics Division. Paul Huber, 

head of the Plasma Applications Section, became head of Aero-Physic's Propulsion Research Branch, 

which worked on hypersonic· scram jets. 

152 
6 

The Odyssey of Project Echo 

The vitality of thought is an adventure. Ideas won't 

keep. Something must be done about them. When the 

idea is new, its custodians have a fervor. They live 

for it. 

-Dialogues of Alfred North Whitehead 

For the things we have to learn before we can do them, 

we learn only by doing them. 

-Aristotle 

In the early hours of 28 October 1959, five days after the close of the 

first NASA inspection, people up and down the Atlantic coast witnessed a 

brilliant show of little lights flashing in the sky. This strange display, not 

unlike that of distant fireworks, lasted for about 10 minutes. From New 

England to South Carolina, reports of extraordinary sightings came pouring 

into police and fire departments, newspaper offices, and television and radio 

stations. What were those mysterious specks of light flashing overhead? 

Was it a meteor shower? More Sputniks? UFOs? Something NASA finally 

managed to launch into space? 

Several hours later, the press was still trying to solve the mystery. At 

about three o'clock in the morning, a night watchman roused NASA Langley 

rocket engineer Norman L. Crabill from a sound sleep in a dormitory near 

the launchpads on Wallops Island. The watchman told Crabill that a longdistance telephone call was waiting for him in the main office. A reporter 

for a New York City newspaper wanted a statement about, as he put it, 

"the lights that you guys had put up." Crabill, an irascible young member 

of Langley's PARD, had not been able to celebrate his thirty-third birthday 

properly the night before because of what had happened, and now he had 

gotten out of a warm bed, put on his pants, and taken a walk in the cool night 

153 
Spaceflight Revolution 

air just to explain the situation to some newspaper guy. "My statement is, 

'It's three o'clock in the morning,' " growled Crabill, slamming the receiver 

down. As he would later remember, "It was the only time I, a government 

employee, ever told off the press and got away with it." 1 

Given the events of that evening, Crabill's anger was understandable. 

Although the disaster that had occurred was minor, it was big enough to 

potentially damage Crabill's NASA career. The initial test of a 110-footdiameter inflatable sphere for the Echo 1 Passive Communication Satellite 

Project had ended abruptly with the sphere blowing up as it inflated. 

Floating back into the atmosphere, the thousands of fragments of the 

aluminum-covered balloon had reflected the light of the setting sun, thus 

creating. the sensational flashing lights. 

The inflatable sphere had been launched from Wallops Island at 5:40 

p.m. For the first few minutes, everything went well. The weather was 

fine for the launch, and the winds were not too high. PARD engineers 

were worried about the booster called "Shotput," an experimental two-stage 

Sergeant X248 rocket, because the performance of the rocket's second-stage 

Delta was to be the initial test of the U.S. Thor-Delta satellite launching 

system. However, in the early moments of its test flight, Shotput 1 had 

performed flawlessly. The rocket took the 26-inch-diameter, spherical, 

190-pound payload canister-inside of which the uninflated 130-pound 

aluminum-coated Mylar-plastic satellite had been neatly folded-to secondstage burnout at about 60 miles above the ocean. There, the payload 

separated successfully from the booster, the canister opened, and the balloon 

started to inflate. The first step in Project Echo had been taken with 

apparent success. 

Then, unexpectedly, the inflating balloon exploded. The payload engineers had left residual air inside the folds of the balloon by design as an 

inflation agent. The air expanded so rapidly, because of the zero pressure 

outside, that it ruptured the balloon's thin metallized plastic skin, ripping 

the balloon to shreds. Shotput 1 was history; the use of residual air to help 

blow up the balloon had been, in Crabill's words, a "bad mistake." 2 

After spending a depressing night reviewing why the test went wrong, 

the only thing for Crabill to do the next morning was to get to work solving 

the problem. After all, this was project work-the ultimate reality-not 

general research. No time to cry over spilled milk-or burst balloons. 

At the NASA press briefing at Wallops, held about one hour after the 

explosion, Crabill and others had given their usual matter-of-fact postlaunch 

systems report. In the midst of taking a quick look at the telemetry records 

to make sense of the balloon failure, a NASA official sensitive to public affairs 

approached Crabill and told him, "Just tell them everything worked all 

right." 3 Sure, Crabill thought, no problem. No data pointed to the contrary. 

All the visual evidence on the Shotput launch vehicle, which was Crabill's 

responsibility, suggested that Shotput had worked as planned. Moreover, the 

154 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

L-93-8337 L-93-8339 L-93-8333 

During a test of the Echo deployment in 1962, which was three years after Shotput 's 

first failed deployment of the Echo satelloon, a structural load problem caused the 

balloon once again to explode. A camera aboard the launcher captured these images. 

The earlier Shotput failure would have looked very much the same. 

purpose of the Shotput phase of Project Echo* was to determine whether the 

mechanism designed to deploy an inflatable passive communications satellite 

of that size and weight would work, and it had; in that sense, Shotput 1 was 

indeed successful. To tell the whole truth about that scintillating collection 

of little moving lights tumbling through the upper atmosphere before all the 

records were examined and understood was premature~and the complete 

story would be too complicated for the press to understand. This was a time 

when launching any object into space was big news for the American people. 

Why let an otherwise uplifting moment be turned into another letdown? 

Thus, for the initial newspaper stories about the launch of Shotput 1, the 

press would not be told enough even to hint at the possibility of a failure. For 

example, in a front-page article appearing in the next morning's Newport 

News Daily Press, the headline for military editor Howard Gibbons' article 

about the launch was: "Earthlings Stirred by NASA Balloon, Awesome 

Sight in the Sky." According to Gibbons, NASA had launched "the largest 

object ever dispatched into space by man, stirring the .curiosity and awe of 

thousands of Americans residing on the Eastern Seaboard." The inflated 

sphere "rode for 13 minutes in the sun's rays ... before it fell again into 

the atmosphere and dropped into the Atlantic about 500 miles east of 

Wallops." Gibbons made no mention of the rupture. The balloon "was 

probably deflated on the way down into the atmosphere, NASA reported." 

Not a word appeared about a mistake involving the use of residual air as an 

inflation agent. According to Gibbons, "NASA's assessment of the operation 

was that 'it did what we wanted it to do,' " 4 

Also on the front page of the Daily Press that morning, next to the 

article on Shotput 1, was an Associated Press wire story from Washington, 

D.C., announcing the start of extensive congressional hearings. The House 

* The word "echo" was already in use ~y the late 1950s to describe a pulse of reflected radio-frequency 

energy. 

155 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Space Committee was investigating why the United States continued "to 

play second fiddle" to the Soviets in the exploration of space; the headline 

of this second article read: "Why U.S. Lagging In Space Explorations To 

Be Probed." The last thing NASA needed at the moment was to explain a 

burst balloon. 

Norm Crabill knew that NASA was not telling the press the truth, but 

he and the rest of the Langley crew responsible for the shot understood 

and accepted the subterfuge. This was project work, and it had to succeed. 

For public consumption, both failure and the inability to achieve complete 

success need not be admitted, at least not immediately. Sometimes mistakes 

could not be concealed, such as a missile blowing up on the launchpad before 

hundreds of cameras, as so many had been doing. But a balloon bursting 

in space, especially one producing such a sensational show of flashing 

lights, could be presented as a total success. This age of the spaceflight 

revolution was a new epoch. Research activities were now exposed to the 

nontechnical general public, and so many old rules and definitions no longer 

were applicable. Some discretion in the discussion of results seemed justified. 

The International Geophysical Year and the V-2 Panel 

As with so many early NASA projects and programs, Project Echo 

originated in NACA work. In fact, the idea predated the Sputnik cns1s 

by several months and at first had nothing to do with proving the feasibility 

of a global telecommunications system based on the deployment of artificial 

satellites. Rather, the original purpose of Echo was to measure the density 

of the air in the upper atmosphere and thereby provide aerodynamic 

information helpful in the design of future aircraft, missiles, and spacecraft. 

Like so many other matters affected by the spaceflight revolution, the 

concept that led to Project Echo had modest and circumscribed beginnings 

that ballooned into sensational results. 

The father of the Echo balloon was Langley aeronautical engineer 

William J. O'Sullivan, who was a 1937 graduate of the University of Notre 

Dame (and Langley employee since 1938) and a former staff member of 

PARD. The idea for the air-density experiment first came to O'Sullivan on 

26 January 1956, nearly two years before the launch of Sputnik 1. All that 

raw winter day, the 40-year-old O'Sullivan sat in a meeting of the Upper 

Atmosphere Rocket Research Panel, which was being held at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. Originally known as the "V-2 Panel," this 

body had been formed in February 1946 to help the army select the most 

worthwhile experiments to be carried aboard the captured and rebuilt German V-2 rockets.* After World War II, scientists from around the country 

* The V-2 rockets were originally known as A-4s. To avoid association with the German "Vengeance 

Weapons" that had terrorized England, the U.S. military often referred to them by their original name. 

156 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

L--61-7786 

William J. 0 'Sullivan, the father of the Echo balloon, was also the father of five 

children. They, too, were caught up in the enthusiasms of the spaceflight revolution. 

Notice the homemade NASA emblems on the blazers worn by the two teenage sons. 

The NASA public affairs office distributed copies of this family portrait to the news 

media along with stories about O'Sullzvan's ingenious invention of the Echo balloon. 

had flooded the army with requests for an allotment of space aboard the 

V-2s, and the army had handled the awkward situation rather adroitly by 

instructing the scientists to form a panel of their own to decide which experiments should go on the rockets. Thus, the V-2 Panel came to life as a free 

and independent body, with no authority to enforce its decisions, but with 

a voice that carried the weight of the scientific community behind it. By 

the early 1950s, the name of the panel changed to the Upper Atmosphere 

Rocket Research Panel, signifying both a wider agenda of research concerns 

and the use of rockets other than the V-2s as flight vehicles.5 

The purpose of the Ann Arbor meeting was to choose the space experiments for the forthcoming International Geophysical Year (IGY). This 

event, to be celebrated by scientists around the world beginning 1 July 1957, 

stimulated many proposals for experiments, including the stated ambition of 

both the American and Soviet governments to place the first artificial satellites in orbit about the earth. The panel's job was to sort these proposals into 

two groups: those that could most satisfactorily be conducted with sounding 

rockets and those that could be performed aboard "Vanguard," the proposed 

157 
Spaceflight Revolution 

National Academy of Sciences/U.S. Navy earth satellite. Then, after hearing 

20-minute oral presentations in support of each proposal, the panel, chaired 

by University of Iowa physicist James Van Allen, was to choose the most 

deserving experiments. 6 

As the NACA representative to this panel, O'Sullivan sat through the 

day-long meeting and grew increasingly frustrated with what he was hearing. 

He was particularly disappointed by the methods proposed to measure 

the density of the upper atmosphere. As an aeronautical engineer, he 

understood that information about air density might prove vital to the 

design of satellites, ICBMs, and every aerospace vehicle to fly in and around 

the fringes of the earth's atmosphere. In 1952 and 1953, O'Sullivan had 

belonged to a three-man study group supported by Langley management for 

the purpose of exploring concepts for high-altitude hypersonic flight. With 

fellow Langley researchers Clinton E. Brown and Charles H. Zimmerman, 

O'Sullivan had educated himself in the science of hypersonics and helped 

the group to conceptualize a manned research airplane that could fly to 

the limits of the atmosphere, be boosted by rockets· into space, and return 

to earth under aerodynamic control. In essence, the Brown-ZimmermanO'Sullivan study group had envisioned a "space plane" very similar to the 

future North American X-15 and its related heir, the Space Shuttle.7 

Given his enthusiasm for spaceflight, O'Sullivan was disappointed to hear 

respected scientists offering such defective plans for obtaining the critical 

air-density data. One proposal, developed by a group at the University of 

Michigan, involved the use of a special omnidirectional accelerometer whose 

sensitivity, according to O'Sullivan, would have to be "improved by between 

100 and 1000 times before the experiment would work." Another proposal, 

one of two submitted by Princeton University physicist Lyman Spitzer, Jr., 

called for the measurement of drag forces on a satellite spiraling its way back 

to earth. In O'Sullivan's view, the principle behind Spitzer's proposal was 

sound, but not practical. The experiment would work, he predicted, "only at 

altitudes much below that at which practical satellites of the future would 

have to fly in order to stay in orbit long enough to be worth launching, 

probably at least five years." 8 Several of the day's proposals, including the 

ones just mentioned, were based on the presumption that somebody could 

build and launch a lightweight structure strong enough to remain intact 

during its turbulent ballistic shot into space. But as far as O'Sullivan knew, 

nobody had yet discovered how to do this. At that moment, still more than 

a year and a half before Sputnik, no one had yet succeeded in launching 

even a simple grapefruit-sized object into space, let alone objects as big 

and complicated as those being suggested by the scientists that day in Ann 

Arbor. 

In his hotel room that evening, O'Sullivan could not let go of the problem. 

None of the proposals he had heard were satisfactory. But were there better 

alternatives? Even if he could think of one himself, technically, as a panel 

member, he was supposed to judge the suggestions formally submitted by 

158 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

others, not make any of his own. With a pad of paper from the hotel desk in 

hand, however, he could not resist making some rough calculations. Over the 

next several hours, O'Sullivan was engaged in a process of creative problem 

solving, which he would later outline in seven major points of analysis. 9 

O'Sullivan's Design 

(1) Aero theory. O'Sullivan naturally started his analysis from the point 

of view of aerodynamic theory. He knew from theory that "the drag force 

experienced by a satellite in the outer extremities of the earth's atmosphere 

was directly proportional to the density of the atmosphere." This meant 

that "if the drag could be measured, the air density could be found." Thus, 

in the first few minutes of his analysis, O'Sullivan had reduced the entire 

problem to measuring the satellite drag. 10 

(2) Shape and size. How big should the satellite be and. what shape? 

O'Sullivan chose a sphere. Such a fixed shape eliminated the problem of 

the satellite's frontal area relative to the direction of motion, and it also 

simplified the question of the satellite's size. 

(3) Drag forces. O'Sullivan turned next to a consideration of celestial 

mechanics. On his pad of paper, he began to play with the classical equations 

for the drag forces on a body as it moves on a ballistic trajectory through 

the atmosphere and into orbit around the earth. After several minutes 

of mathematical work, during which he constantly reminded himself that 

the success of the experiment depended on making the satellite extremely 

sensitive to aerodynamic drag, O'Sullivan realized that he must devise a 

satellite of exceedingly low mass relative to its frontal area. The satellite 

could be a large sphere, but the sphere's material could not be so dense as 

to make the satellite insensitive to the very air drag it was to detect. Only 

an object with a low mass-to-frontal area ratio could be pushed around by 

an infinitesimal amount of air. 

(4) Design considerations. No researcher who worked at such a diversified 

place of technical competence as Langley, which was the only NACA 

aerodynamics laboratory with a Structures Research Division, could long 

proceed with the analysis of a flight-vehicle design without considering 

matters of weight, loads, elasticity, and overall structural integrity. The 

structural problems of O'Sullivan's sphere might prove serious, for the 

lighter the weight (or .lesser the mass), the weaker the structure. With 

this conventional knowledge about structural strength in mind, O'Sullivan 

contemplated the magnitude of the loads that his satellite structure would 

have to withstand. Calculations showed that the loads on his sphere, once 

in space, would be quite small, amounting to perhaps only one-hundredth to 

one-thousandth the weight that the sphere would encounter at rest on the 

surface of the earth. From this, he concluded that the satellite need only be 

a thin shell, as thin perhaps as ordinary aluminum foil. 

159 
Spaceflight Revolution 

But herein was the dilemma. In orbit, the sphere would encounter 

negligible loads and stresses on its structure, but to reach space, it would 

have to survive a thunderous blast-off and lightning-like acceleration through 

dense, rough air. O'Sullivan knew that he could not design a satellite for the 

space environment alone; rather, a structure must be designed to "withstand 

the greatest loads it will be exposed to throughout its useful life." The 

satellite would have to withstand an acceleration possibly as high as 10 Gs, 

which was 1000 to 10,000 times the load the structure would be exposed to 

in orbit. To survive, the satellite could not consist merely of a thin shell; 

it would have to be so strong and have such a high mass-to-area ratio that 

it would be insensitive to minute air drag and thereby "defeat the very 

objective of its existence." 11 

Midnight was approaching, and O'Sullivan, the scientific wizard of 

Langley's PARD, still sat at the hotel desk, perched on the horns of this 

dilemma. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, he arrived at a 

possible solution: why not build the sphere out of a thin material that 

could be folded into a small nose cone? If the sphere could be packed 

snugly into a strong container, it could easily withstand the acceleration 

loads of takeoff and come through the extreme heating unscathed. After 

the payload container reached orbit, the folded satellite could be unfolded 

and inflated pneumatically into shape. Finding a means of inflation should 

not be difficult. Either a small tank of compressed gas such as nitrogen, or 

a liquid that would readily evaporate into a gas, or even some solid material 

that would evaporate to form a gas (such as the material used to make 

mothballs) could be used to accomplish the inflation. (He apparently had 

not yet thought of using residual air as the inflation agent, as in Shotput 1.) 

Almost no air pressure existed at orbiting altitude, so a small amount of gas 

would do the job. "Clearly then," O'Sullivan concluded, "that is how the 

satellite had to work." 12 

(5) Construction materials. Other critical questions still needed answers. 

Surely, if he presented his notion of an inflatable satellite to the prestigious 

scientific panel the next day, someone would ask him to specify its construction material. The material had to be flexible enough to be folded, 

strong enough to withstand being unfolded and inflated to shape, and stiff 

enough to keep its shape even if punctured by micrometeoroids. O'Sullivan 

reviewed the properties of the materials with which he was familiar and 

quickly realized that "no one of them satisfied all the requirements." Next 

he tried combining materials. The forming of thin sheet metal into certain 

desired shapes was a standard procedure in many manufacturing industries, 

but sheet metal thin enough for the skin of his satellite would tear easily 

during the folding and unfolding. Perhaps, thought O'Sullivan, some tough 

but flexible material, something like a plastic film, could be bonded to the 

metal foil. 13 

Here was another critical part of the answer to O'Sullivan's satellite 

design problem: a sandwich or laminate material of metal foil and plastic 

160 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

film. "I could compactly fold a satellite made of such a material so that 

it could easily withstand being transported into orbit, and once in orbit, I 

could easily inflate it tautly, stretching the wrinkles out of it and forming it 

into a sphere whose skin would be stiff enough so that it would stay spherical 

under the minute aerodynamic and solar pressure loads without having to 

retain its internal gas pressure." 14 Such a thin-skin satellite would be so 

aerodynamically sensitive that even a minute amount of drag would cause 

a noticeable alteration in its orbit. Researchers on the ground could track 

the sphere, measuring where and when it was being pushed even slightly 

off course, and thereby compute the density of the air in that part of the 

atmosphere. 

(6) Temperature constraints. Would a satellite made out of such material 

grow so cold while in the earth's shadow that the plastic film would embrittle 

and break apart? O'Sullivan reckoned that this would not be a problem 

as he knew of several plastic films that could withstand extremely low 

temperatures. The real concern was heat. Exposure to direct sunlight 

might melt or otherwise injure the outer film. But this, too, seemed to 

have a remedy. Rough calculations showed that high temperatures could be 

controlled by doping the outside of the satellite with a heat-reflecting paint. 

Some heat-reflecting metals might even do the job without paint, if they 

could be made into a metal foil. 

(7) Satellite tracking. One problem remained: the means of tracking the 

satellite. As a member of the Upper Atmosphere Rocket Research Panel, 

O'Sullivan was familiar with current tracking techniques. These included the 

radio method built into the navy's Minitrack network in which the object 

to be tracked carried a small transmitter or radio beacon. This system 

would be adopted for the Vanguard satellite project. Unfortunately, the 

radio-tracking method would not work for O'Sullivan's satellite concept. If 

a radio beacon was attached to his sphere, it would add significantly to the 

structural mass, thereby reducing the sphere's sensitivity to air drag. The 

only way to track the sphere, it seemed, was optically, with special cameras 

or telescopes. 

Tracking a satellite optically when the satellite would be made out of 

something as bright and highly reflective as polished sheet metal would not 

be difficult; however, optical tracking limited satellite observation to the 

twilight hours. At all other times, reflections from the satellite would not be 

practical. At night the satellite would be in the earth's shadow and hence 

would receive no sunlight to reflect to tracking instruments or observers on 

earth; in daylight, the satellite would reflect light, but that light would be 

obliterated from view by the scattering of the sun's rays in the earth's dense 

lower atmosphere. 

O'Sullivan knew that tracking a satellite at all times of the day and at 

night was possible only by radar. As a member of Langley's PARD, he 

was intimately familiar with the radar tracking of rocket models; at Wallops 

Island, it had been a routine and daily procedure for several years. As 

161 
Spaceflight Revolution 

O'Sullivan suspected, the problem was that radars powerful enough to do 

the job, even if the satellite were as big as a house, would not be available 

for several years because they were still in development. 

Extraterrestrial Relays 

These thoughts about radar tracking led O'Sullivan to a much higher 

level of technological speculation. "As I thought about this ability to reflect 

radio and radar waves, there came a stream of thoughts about the future 

possibilities of such a satellite when there would exist ... rockets capable 

of launching big enough satellites, and when powerful enough radars and 

radios [would exist] to be able to use such satellites for radio and television 

communication around the curvature of the earth, and as navigational aids 

that could be seen by ship and airplane radars night and day, clear weather 

or cloudy: satellites that some day might take the place of the stars and sun 

upon which navigators have depended for so many generations." 15 

On many occasions in the history of modern technology, science fiction 

has blazed the way to an understanding of real possibilities and has motivated scientists and engineers to seek practical results; perhaps O'Sullivan's 

concept for the inflatable satellite was one of those occasions. Several 

years earlier, in October 1945, the British science-fiction writer Arthur C. 

Clarke had published a visionary article in the popular British radio journal 

Wireless World suggestively entitled "Extraterrestrial Relays." In the article, Clarke predicted the development of an elaborate telecommunications 

system based on artificial satellites orbiting the earth.16 

The key to such a system, according to Clarke, would be the "geosynchronous" satellite. Such a satellite, launched to a distance of roughly 22,000 

miles high in an equatorial orbit, would, according to the laws of celestial 

mechanics, take exactly 24 hours to complete one orbit, thereby staying 

fixed indefinitely over the same spot on the earth. The satellite would act 

as an invisible television tower, which could maintain line-of-sight contact 

with one-third of the earth's surface. If three satellites were put into geosynchronous orbit above the equator and made to communicate with one another through long-distance "extraterrestrial relays," as Clarke called them, 

electronic signals, be they radio, television, or telephone, could be passed 

from satellite to satellite until those signals made their way around the 

globe. For the first time in history, people all over the world would be able 

to communicate instantaneously. 

The impact of a global communications system would be revolutionary, 

Clarke was sure. "In a few years every large nation will be able to establish 

(or rent) its own space-borne radio and TV transmitters, able to broadcast 

really high-quality programs to the entire planet." This would mean "the 

end of all distance barriers to sound and vision alike. New Yorkers or 

Londoners will be able to tune in to Moscow or Peking as easily as to their 

162 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

local station." The new communications technology might even lead to a 

new order of world cooperation and peace. "The great highway of the ether 

will be thrown open to the whole world, and all men will become neighbors 

whether they like it or not." Inevitably, peoples of all nations will become 

"citizens of the world." 17 

We do not know if Langley's William J. O'Sullivan (who died from cancer 

in 1971 at age 56) had read any of Arthur Clarke's writings or was in any 

other way acquainted with Clarke's ideas about communications satellites 

at the time of the Ann Arbor meeting in 1956. Most likely O'Sullivan knew 

something of them, given the intellectual proclivities of the flight-minded 

community in which he worked and the extent to which some of the bolder 

ideas about space exploration were making their way into the mainstream 

of American culture during the early 1950s through books, magazines, and 

movies. Some of the ambitious ideas about space, including the scheme for 

a global system of communications satellites, were beginning to appear in 

the serious technical literature. 

Take the relevant case of John R. Pierce, the visionary American electrical engineer working at Bell Telephone Laboratories. In 1952, Pierce 

began to develop his own ideas for a communications satellite system but, 

fearing the ridicule of his colleagues, decided to publish his ideas under a 

pseudonym. They appeared in a popular magazine, Amazing Science Fiction. In the next few years, however, the climate of opinion changed; the 

electronics revolution, as well as the notion of integrating rockets, transistors, computers, and solar cells, progressed far enough to make a serious 

technical discussion of the possibility of "comsats" (communication satellites) professionally acceptable. Pierce then came out of the closet; in April 

1955, he published "Orbital Radio Relays" under his own name in therespected trade journal Jet Propulsion. 18 

In the same month, another provocative article by Pierce appeared in the 

Journal of the American Rocket Society; in it, the Bell engineer specified the 

use of large spherical reflector satellites, much like the one being designed 

by O'Sullivan, for long-range telecommunications. Such satellites would 

be "passive" rather than "active." A passive satellite served simply as an 

electronic mirror, retransmitting back to earth only those signals that were 

intercepted.* The chief advantage of a passive system, Pierce indicated, was 

that a passive satellite was less complicated electronically than an active 

satellite. Unlike a passive satellite, an active one could receive and amplify 

signals before retransmitting them to the ground, but, in order to do so, it 

had to carry its own power supply or possess the means of deriving power 

from external sources.19 

A global communications network based on a series of geosynchronous 

satellites like those suggested by Pierce and Clarke interested O'Sullivan, but 

* The navy was soon to use this concept as the basis for an experimental system called "Communication by Moon Relay," in which the moon was used as a passive reflector for radar waves. 

163 
Spaceflight Revolution 

in January 1956, as a member of the Upper Atmosphere Rocket Research 

Panel, his sights were set on a much more limited and immediate goal, 

the upcoming IGY. So just as quickly as he began to speculate about the 

potential of communications satellites in earth orbit, the Langley engineer 

once again narrowed his focus and concentrated on the requirements of the 

air-density experiment at hand. These other applications "were things for a 

few years in the future," he said to himself, "not for the year 1956." 20 Little 

did he know how quickly those wildly ambitious applications would be 

realized once the spaceflight revolution began. 

Finessing the Proposal 

Having pondered the problems of designing an air-density flight experiment into the wee hours of the morning, O'Sullivan finally went to bed. But 

he could not sleep. He tossed and turned, worrying that when he disclosed 

his idea to the Upper Atmosphere Rocket Research Panel the next day he 

would find that he had "overlooked some factor that would invalidate the 

whole idea." At one point, he sat up in bed, laughed, and said aloud, "It 

will probably go over like a lead balloon!" 21 His plastic-covered, inflatable 

metal-foil sphere was about as close to a lead balloon as any professional 

engineer would ever want to get. 

The next day, January 27, after hearing several members of the panel 

express their disappointment in the proposed methods of measuring satellite 

drag and air density, O'Sullivan mustered enough courage to tell a few of 

the panel members about his design. He talked to Fred L. Whipple, then 

of the Harvard College Observatory (and soon to be named director of the 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Laboratory), as well as to Raymond Minzer of 

the U.S. Air Force Cambridge Research Center. Their principal concern 

was that the payload space in the Vanguard satellite was almost completely 

taken up by other experiments. All that was left for O'Sullivan's inflatable 

balloon was a tiny space the size of a doughnut. Could the balloon be made 

to fit? And could it be made to weigh no more than seven-tenths of a pound? 

O'Sullivan was not sure about meeting either requirement, but, puffing on 

a cigarette, said he would try to work it out. That was enough of an answer 

for Whipple and Minzer. Both men urged O'Sullivan to put his proposal 

in writing and submit it to the U.S. National Committee/International 

Geophysical Year (USNC/IGY) Technical Panel on the Earth Satellite 

Projects, which was being formed in Ann Arbor that afternoon.22 

For O'Sullivan, the proposal posed a problem. Most technical panels 

of the USNC/IGY had already been formed, and he had just accepted an 

appointment, with the NACA's permission, on the Technical Panel on Rocketry. Not only was he a member of this panel, but he also was responsible for 

coordinating the NACA's development of two sounding rockets: the NikeDeacon (DAN) and an improved version of it, the Nike-Cajun (CAN). Both 

164 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

were to become mainstays of the USNC/IGY sounding rocket program. Furthermore, O'Sullivan knew that a rather strict USNC/IGY policy required 

that a "principal experimenter" accept complete responsibility for carrying 

out his experiment from beginning to end. The USNC/IGY would deal 

only with him, not with any organization with which he was associated, in 

all matters pertaining to his experiment, including funding. The purpose of 

this policy was to ensure that every scientist, regardless of institutional affiliation or backing, would enjoy an equal opportunity to propose experiments 

and to obtain the necessary funding from the USNC/IGY if the experiment 

was accepted. Taking on the heavy duties of a principal experimenter would 

be a full-time job that O'Sullivan could not possibly do and still hold his 

civil service position with the NACA. The options appeared to be either 

to resign his 18-year position with the NACA and obtain funding to do the 

experiment from the USNC/IGY or to forget about the inflatable satellite. 23 

O'Sullivan found another option, which was to share the satellite project 

with someone else. He talked again with Raymond Minzer, this time about 

joining him as a "co-experimenter." Minzer agreed, and within a few weeks, 

the two men submitted a successful proposal to Dr. Richard W. Porter, 

the General Electric engineer in charge of the V-2 test program at White 

Sands and chairman of the Technical Panel on the Earth Satellite Projects. 

Unfortunately, after the proposal was accepted, the air force withdrew 

its support of the experiment, and Minzer had to bow out. Once again, 

O'Sullivan was left alone with his lead balloon, and by that time, O'Sullivan 

explains, the USNC/IGY Technical Panel on the Earth Satellite Projects 

was "hounding [him] to get the experiment under way." 24 

Upon returning to Langley, the only option left open to O'Sullivan, 

besides dropping the experiment, was to secure full support from his 

employer. As the NACA's representative on the Upper Atmosphere Rocket 

Research Panel, O'Sullivan had reported all of his activities in travel reports 

and memoranda that were routed to the office of the Langley director 

(still Henry Reid), with copies forwarded to NACA headquarters. In midJune 1956, Associate Director Floyd Thompson and Bob Gilruth, then the 

assistant director responsible for PARD, had heard all about the concept 

for an inflatable satellite. They advised O'Sullivan to prepare a formal 

memorandum giving the complete theory of the experiment and requesting 

that the NACA sponsor the experiment for development at Langley as 

another NACA contribution to the IGY. 

Immediately, O'Sullivan wrote the proposal, dated 29 June 1956. In it, he 

explained why the NACA, an organization hitherto devoted to the progress 

of aircraft, "not only should, but must" become engaged in development of 

earth satellites. With the recent advances in rocket propulsion and guidance 

systems, O'Sullivan argued, "earth satellites can and will be developed 

and used for numerous defense and commercial purposes. Not 

least among the foreseeable benefits is the lessening of world tension by 

bringing closer together the various nations through interest in a common 

165 
Spaceflight Revolution 

beneficial development." The development of earth satellites was therefore 

"inevitable." For the NACA not to be involved with satellites would be 

a serious mistake. "In every industry, failure to undergo evolution in pace 

with technological development inevitably leads to extinction. In the field of 

research, by virtue of it being the technological frontier, no time lag between 

recognition of an important problem and initiation of work upon it can 

exist without loss of ground." To begin, the NACA should perform research 

"particularly in the field of air drag measurement, employing lightweight 

inflatable spheres," with a special task group established at Langley to 

perform the necessary technical work. Given the low estimated cost of 

the experiment, which O'Sullivan placed very conservatively at just over 

$20,000, he was hopeful that NACA management would accept his proposal, 

even though he knew that his employer would have to bear all the expenses 

of developing the project because federal law prevented the NACA from 

accepting any funds from the USNC/IGY. 25 

Very quickly the NACA accepted the proposal, Hugh Dryden, the 

director of research for the NACA in Washington, liked the concept and 

in September 1956 authorized John W. Crowley, his associate director, to 

report to the USNC/IGY Technical Panel on the Earth Satellite Projects 

with news of the NACA's willingness to develop the satellite. But the 

advocacy was not over. Not everyone on Dr. Richard Porter's newly 

constituted technical panel had heard about O'Sullivan's idea, and many of 

them needed to be convinced. O'Sullivan remembers, "I had to describe (the 

experiment] in minute detail and defend it against all scientific and technical 

objections the (panelists] could think of." This was "the acid test," for 

most members of this panel came from academe and not from government; 

everyone on the panel had a Ph.D., and O'Sullivan did not. After a careful 

presentation of his proposal, however, O'Sullivan managed to clear the 

hurdle and persuade the panel to accept the NACA project. At a meeting 

on 9 October 1956, Porter's committee put it on the official list of approved 

experiments and designated O'Sullivan as the principal experimenter. The 

committee was convinced that no other means for measuring satellite drag 

and thus deducing air density in the upper atmosphere approached the 

sensitivity of 0 'Sullivan's little inflatable balloon. 26 

The "Sub-Satellite" 

The panel's approval gave O'Sullivan's air-density experiment only the 

right to compete for what little space remained on the Vanguard launching 

rocket; it did not guarantee that the experiment would ever be flown. The 

sole allotment of space remaining in the payload amounted to a few cubic 

inches of space in an annular or ring-shaped area between the head end of the 

third stage of the rocket motor and the placement of an IGY magnetometer 

satellite developed by the NRL. Into these cramped quarters, O'Sullivan 

166 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

and his helpers at Langley would have to squeeze their satellite, along with 

its inflation mechanism and surrounding container. All of it together could 

be no more than 20 inches in diameter or a mere seven-tenths of a pound. 

Because it was so little and was to be carried into orbit underneath the 

magnetometer satellite, O'Sullivan named the small inflatable vehicle the 

"Sub-Satellite."* 

Although the USNC/IGY technical panel designated O'Sullivan as the 

principal experimenter for the balloon project, too many problems had to be 

solved in too short a time for one man to do all the work alone. Therefore, in 

the fall of 1956, Floyd Thompson authorized the formation of a small team 

of engineers and technicians, mostly from PARD, to assist O'Sullivan in the 

preparation of the satellite project. Administratively, Thompson facilitated 

this in late December 1956 by appointing O'Sullivan as head of a new 

Space Vehicle Group placed inside PARD. The group would report directly 

to the division office, which was headed by Joseph A. Shortal. Jesse L. 

Mitchell of the Aircraft Configurations Branch and Walter E. Bressette from 

the Performance Aerodynamics Branch of PARD would assist O'Sullivan. 

Significantly, this small Space Vehicle Group was the first organizational 

unit at Langley to have the word "space" in its title.27 

First, the Space Vehicle Group tested dozens of plastic and metal foils 

(even gold) in search of the right combination to withstand the extreme 

range of temperatures that the little satellite would encounter: from 300°F 

in direct sunlight to -80°F when in the shadow of the earth. The group 

found half of the answer to the problem in a new plastic material called 

"Mylar." Made by E. I. du Pont de Nemours & Co., Mylar was being 

used for recording tape and for frozen-food bags that could be put directly 

into hot water. When manufactured in very thin sheets, perhaps only half 

as thick as the cellophane wrapper on a pack of cigarettes, Mylar plastic 

proved enormously tough. It showed a tensile strength of 18,000 pounds per 

square inch, which was two-thirds that of mild (low-carbon content) steel. 

The second half of the answer, that is, an effective metal covering for 

the plastic that could protect the satellite from radiation and make it 

visible to radar scanners, proved a little more difficult to find. For more 

than a month, the O'Sullivan group "tested metal after metal, looking for 

ways to faint them on Mylar in layers far thinner than airmail onionskin 

paper." 2 Then, one man in the Space Vehicle Group heard about a 

technique for vaporizing aluminum on plastic that the Reynolds Metals 

* An interesting and seemingly appropriate name, it nonetheless turned out to be problematic 

technically, because of confusion with the term "subsatellite point," a term from orbital mechanics 

that defined the point of intersection where a straight line (known as the "local vertical") drawn from a 

satellite to the center of the body being orbited (in this case, the earth) cuts through the surface of that 

body. The confusion would grow worse in the late 1960s when the term "subsatellite" came to be used to 

describe small artificial satellites ejected from other satellites or spacecraft, such as those released from 

Apollo 15 in 1971 and Apollo 16 in 1972. for the purpose of carrying out certain scientific experiments. 

167 
Spaceflight Revolution 

To determine the capacity of the 30-

inch "Sub-Satellite" {right) to withstand 

the high temperature of direct sunlight in 

space, Langley researchers subjected it to 

a 4 50 ° F heat test {below). Results indicated that the aluminum-covered Mylar 

plastic would effectively reflect the dangerous heat. 

168 

L-57-3113 

L-58-4293 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

Company of nearby Richmond, Virginia, was experimenting with for the 

development of everyday aluminum foil. This new and unique material 

was acquired and successfully tested. The fabrication problem was solved 

by cutting the material into gores, that is, into three-cornered or wedgeshaped pieces, and gluing them together along overlapping seams. Using 

this technique with this material, the Langley researchers built the outer 

skin of their first 20-inch domes for inflation tests. 

Almost everyone involved was excited by the prospect of sending the 

experiment into space, and several individuals worked nights and weekends 

through the last months of 1956 to get the Sub-Satellite ready. The right 

blend of materials had been found for the inflatable sphere; now, two major 

problems remained: how to fold the sphere so that it could expand quickly 

without a single one of its folds locking up and causing a tear, and how to 

inflate the balloon. As for the means of inflation, the Langley researchers 

tried dozens of strange chemicals before discovering that a small bottle of 

nitrogen would inflate the little balloon, at the proper rate, so that the 

sphere would not blow apart. Learning how to fold the satellite was also 

a purely empirical process; no theory existed to guide the group. As one 

observer remembers, "Harassed by O'Sullivan, men who couldn't fold a road 

map properly found a way to fold his aluminum balloon." 29 

However, this characterization gives O'Sullivan too much credit. Walter 

Bressette and Edwin C. Kilgore were the engineers who actually worked 

out not only the folding pattern but also the ejection method and inflation 

bottle pressure for the Sub-Satellite. Bressette, an airplane pilot in World 

War II and a 1948 graduate in mechanical engineering from Rhode Island 

College (now the University of Rhode Island), had spent the last 10 years 

working on ramjet propulsion systems, jet effects on airplane stability, and 

reentry problems using both rocket-propelled vehicles and a supersonic 

blowdown tunnel at Wallops Island. Kilgore, a 1944 engineering graduate 

from Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, had proved to be 

one of Langley's top machine designers. The two men conducted many 

trials in a small vacuum chamber in the PARD shop before solving the SubSatellite's problems. In addition, Bressette made frequent trips to the NRL 

in Washington to put the Sub-Satellite package through what he called "the 

shake, rattle, and roll" of vehicle environmental tests.30 

By January 1957, the Sub-Satellite was almost ready. A front-page article 

appearing in the Langley Air Scoop on 5 January touted the little satellite 

for having originated at Langley, credited O'Sullivan with "having conceived 

the novel manner of construction," and told employees to look forward to 

its impending launch. Next to the article was a photograph of O'Sullivan 

holding in his right hand the shiny inflated Sub-Satellite, the emblem of 

the NACA wing on its side, and in his left hand, a folded uninflated SubSatellite. 31 

However, just when everything was proceeding on schedule, a complication developed. The Baker-N unn precision optical tracking cameras at 

169 
Spaceflight Revolution 

White Sands would not be able to follow and photograph such a small 

sphere; Fred Whipple urged O'Sullivan and the NACA to increase the size 

of the Sub-Satellite from 20 to 30 inches in diameter. The Sub-Satellite 

could not weigh more or take up more space on the Vanguard; it just had to 

be 10 inches bigger. On 7 February 1957, Whipple's panel made this request 

official, reconfirming assignment of the NACA experiment on Vanguard if 

the change was made. O'Sullivan believes that the new size requirement 

"would have been a deathblow to the Sub-Satellite had it occurred at the 

start"; however, with the experience gained at Langley through actually 

building the sphere, the increase to a 30-inch diameter was accomplished 

over the next few months without too much trouble. 32 

After all Langley's work, the Sub-Satellite was finally on the launchpad 

at Cape Canaveral on 13 April1959. Seconds after takeoff, the second stage 

of the Vanguard SLV-5 vehicle experienced a failure that sent the rocket 

and the Sub-Satellite crashing ignominiously into the depths of the Atlantic 

Ocean. With this launch failure, the attempt to dete:t:mine air density with 

the Sub-Satellite came to an end. (This was Vanguard's third attempted 

launch.) However, other models of the 30-inch sphere were used for a short 

time both before and after the SLV-5 misfire as a calibration target for a new 

long-range radar being developed at MIT's Lincoln Laboratory at Millstone 

Hill Radar Observatory in Westford, Massachusetts.33 

Something the Whole World Could See 

Even before the Sub-Satellite's fatal plunge into the ocean in April1959, 

O'Sullivan had started to contemplate the benefits of a larger reflector 

satellite that could be the sole payload on a Vanguard. In November 1957, 

Fred Whipple presided over a space science symposium in San Diego, which 

was sponsored jointly by the air force and Convair Astronautics. At this 

symposium, O'Sullivan proposed that a large inflatable launched by a rocket 

more powerful than Vanguard could be used as a lunar probe. "It could be 

seen and photographed through existing astronomical telescopes, not only 

giving conclusive proof to everyone that such a probe had reached the moon, 

but its location as it orbited the moon or impacted on the moon would be 

known." Before sending a balloon to the moon, however, O'Sullivan felt 

that something must be put into earth orbit, perhaps a 12-foot-diameter 

satellite, which "the whole world could see." 34 

For a professional engineer, O'Sullivan was something of a universalist. 

He worked on airplanes, missiles, and satellites; he knew aerodynamics, and 

he knew space. But he was not gracious about sharing credit. The idea for 

the 12-foot satellite was not O'Sullivan's but Jesse Mitchell's. An analysis 

performed by Mitchell had indicated that a 30-inch-diameter sphere would 

not make a suitable optical device for a lunar probe; the sphere would have to 

be several times larger. So in the summer of 1957 while O'Sullivan was away 

170 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

Space Vehicle Group engineer Jesse 

Mitchell examines the Sub-Satellite 

package in early October 1958, only 

days after NASA 'ii establishment. 

Mitchell, who would later become head 

of the Geophysics and Astronomy Di~ 

vision at NASA headquarters, directed 

Langley's program development plan 

for Echo 1. 

from Langley, Mitchell and Bressette had consulted the model shop about 

building a larger sphere. The size of the sphere became 12 feet because of 

the ceiling height in the model shop, not because O'Sullivan had determined 

it to be the perfect size.35 

For millions of people, the spaceflight revolution began the first time 

they looked up in wonder at the bright twinkling movement of an artificial 

satellite. O'Sullivan was aware of this when he proposed his 12-foot 

inflatable. With the appearance of Sputnik 1 a month earlier in October 

195 7, people around the world, especially Americans, developed a heightened 

if not exaggerated interest in searching the sky for UFOs. A widespread 

interest in UFOs had existed before the ominous overflights of the Russian 

satellites. As historian Walter McDougall explains in his analysis of the 

onset of the space age, 10 years prior to the first Sputnik, "beginning in the 

midsummer of 1947 the American people began to see unidentified flying 

objects, kicking off a flying saucer 'epidemic' of such proportions that the 

air force launched a special investigation and began compiling thousands of 

case studies that, in the end, satisfied no one." 36 The cause of the epidemic 

was the new need of Americans to externalize their postwar fears about 

technology, about the atomic bomb, and about nuclear war destroying the 

world. 

171 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Into the blackness of that anxiety-ridden mass psychology came the 

specter of Sputnik. Across the United States, people went outside with 

binoculars and telescopes, straining to see the faint blinking reflection of 

the tiny yet ominous metal globe tumbling end over end. For instance, in 

San Francisco on Friday night, 4 October 1957, volunteer crews of amateur 

astronomers with special "moon-watch" telescopes maintained a vigil atop 

the Morrison Planetarium in Golden Gate Park in hopes of sighting the 

Russian satellite. Crew members took up their prearranged stations as soon 

as reports of the satellite's launching were received. Six tireless individuals 

continued the lonely vigil until morning, when conditions for viewing were 

allegedly at their best. How many people actually spotted the satellite that 

night and over the next several months as it moved in its north-to-south orbit 

is unknown, but certainly far fewer saw Sputnik 1 than said they did. 37 

On that same evening in early October on a large ranch in Texas, Senate 

Majority Leader Lyndon B. Johnson was having a few guests in for dinner 

when the news of Sputnik 1 came over the radio and television. After eating, 

the party went outside rather nervously for what was supposed to be a 

calming stroll in the dark along the road to the Padernales River. But the 

walk only unnerved them. As one of the guests, Gerald Siegel, a lawyer with 

the Senate Democratic Policy Committee, remembers thinking at the time: 

"In the Open West you learn to live closely with the sky. It is a part of your 

life. But now, somehow, in some new way, the sky seemed almost alien. I 

also remember the profound shock of realizing that it might be possible for 

another nation to achieve technological superiority over this great country 

of ours." 38 

On the Atlantic coast, among the millions of people all over the country 

and the world who were looking up in the sky that night to see Sputnik 

were O'Sullivan and his colleagues at NACA Langley. Bob Gilruth recalls 

seeing the satellite from his bayside home in Seaford, Virginia. In Gilruth's 

words, the sighting "put a new sense of value and urgency" on everything he 

and his co-workers were doing at Langley. Charles Donlan also remembers 

sighting the little satellite: "I was running around my yard in Hampton 

one evening, when I looked up and saw Sputnik go right over my house. I 

remember stopping and staring at it. What I remember thinking was how 

much better it would be if the thing belonged to America." 39 

Everyone involved with decisions regarding U.S. satellites, including the 

State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), felt the same 

way. In the wake of the Sputniks, virtually all government officials concerned 

expressed a desire to orbit a satellite that would be visible over Russia as 

well as the United States. O'Sullivan's 12-foot inflatable sphere seemed to 

fit the bill. Because of shocking world events, what had started out as a 

simple air-density experiment was becoming an instrument of propaganda 

in the cold war. 

The idea for an in:flatable sphere big enough for everyone to see received 

high priority. Whipple and other members of the USNC /IGY Technical 

172 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

Panel on the Earth Satellites expressed serious interest in O'Sullivan's 

proposal for a bigger inflatable, but they had to wait a few ·months to 

see whether a booster more powerful than the Vanguard rocket could be 

obtained. Finally, in the spring of 1958, the USNC/IGY informed the 

NACA that some space was available inside the nose cone of a Jupiter C, an 

intermediate-range ballistic missile developed by the ABMA that was more 

powerful than the Vanguard rocket. If the Jupiter failed, and of course none 

of these boosters had yet proved reliable, a Juno II, a new vehicle similar to 

the Jupiter C, might be available as the backup. A Juno II would launch 

America's first successful lunar flyby, Pioneer 4, on 3 March 1959.40 

The NACA agreed to the project, and the Space Vehicle Group continued 

to construct and test its 12-foot inflatable.41 Because it was to orbit at 300 

to 400 miles above the earth and thus would appear as bright as the north 

star, Polaris, the satellite eventually came to be called "Beacon." Beacon 

would be easy to see with the naked eye and so could be tracked optically 

and photographically without difficulty. Big new radars, s~ch as the one 

being developed by MIT at Millstone Hill,* were just coming on line and 

would be able to track day or night, regardless of the weather.42 

On 25 June 1958, the USNC/IGY officially assigned the 12-foot Beacon 

satellite as a payload for the launch of Jupiter C No. 49. To obtain 

the difficult orbit that O'Sullivan insisted on-it was circular rather than 

elliptical-the Jupiter C had to have a small "high-kick" rocket motor 

that gave an extra boost to help the satellite reach the desired orbit. 

Unfortunately, on 23 October 1958, the "high-kick" did not get a chance to 

"kick in," because the "low kicks" kept failing. As was the case with its 30-

inch ancestor, the Beacon was not launched into orbit from Cape Canaveral 

because the booster failed. Fourteen months later, Juno II No. 19 was ready 

to carry a second 12-foot satellite into orbit but failed to do so when the 

rocket's fuel supply emptied prematurely.43 

With three failures in a row, O'Sullivan and the Space Vehicle Group 

might have given up on the balloon if not for the spectacular successes 

of Explorer 1 on 31 January and Vanguard 1 on 17 March 1958. These 

American satellites proved not only that Americans could put an object in 

orbit but also that those objects, tiny as they were, could disclose great 

scientific discoveries such as the Van Allen radiation belts. Beyond that, 

satellites could be of tremendous economic and social benefit. They could 

make continuous worldwide observation of the weather possible, and the 

existence and the likely paths of hurricanes and other destructive storms 

would be accurately predicted. By studying the development of the world's 

weather patterns from space, humans might someday control the climate. 

In summary, satellites offered too many far-reaching benefits for researchers 

to allow a few launch vehicle failures to dis~ourage them. Rockets were still 

* On 3 June 1959, Millstone Hill wquld transmit a voice message from President Eisenhower and 

reflect it off the moon to Prince Albert in Saskatchewan, Canada. 

173 
Spaceflight Revolution 

In July 1959, William J. 

O'Sullivan (right, standing) and 

an unidentified engineer examine the capsule containing the 

tightly folded and packed 12~ 

foot-diameter Beacon satellite 

(below). 

L-59-2836 L-59-4973 

in their infancy, in the "Model-T" stage of technical evolution. Failures were 

to be expected, Langley's ·team consoled itself. All the problems had been 

with the boosters, not with their own satellites. 44 

According to O'Sullivan, he set an example of grit and determination for 

the rest of his people, many of whom were still quite young. As he told a 

magazine writer at the time, he was "mindful of his research associates who 

had labored so hard" to produce the experiments and who "looked to me as 

their leader." This was driven home to him, he told the writer, during the 

unsuccessful launch of the 12-foot satellite. Watching the Doppler velocity 

drop off rather than climb, he knew instantly the launching rocket had failed. 

Turning to his associates, he said, "The launching is a failure." Standing 

dumbfounded, staring at O'Sullivan, one of them asked, "What do we do 

now?" O'Sullivan immediately answered, "We pack up our instruments and 

equipment as quickly as we can. We haven't a moment to lose. We have to 

get back to the Laboratory and get the next satellite ready for launching." 

When his men started moving in a hurry, O'Sullivan informed the writer, 

he knew for sure that he "must never waiver or hesitate no matter how 

stunning the blow." 45 

According to other key individuals involved with the project, however, 

O'Sullivan was not the leader he claimed to be. Walter Bressette remembers 

that "O'Sullivan never went to the satellite launch areas." In fact, he gave 

174 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

L-58-88a L-58-1063a 

The genius of William J. O'Sullivan {left) rested in the theory stage of an engineering development; other Langley researchers took over the main responsibility during 

the design and deployment phases. Walter Bressette {right) played a major role in 

the Echo program from start to finish. Here he examines a scaled prototype of the 

satelloon in December 1958. 

up direction of the 12-foot satellite mission immediately after the Juno II 

failure, handing it over to Claude W. Coffee, Jr., and Bressette, who then 

made the 12-foot Scout proposals. O'Sullivan abandoned his project, leaving 

it to others to carry on. Those who did continue the work view O'Sullivan's 

self-publicized heroic role in the eventual success of the effort as egotistical 

and inaccurate. 46 

Big Ideas Before Congress 

Up to the point of the Juno II failure, Langley's interest in inflatable 

satellites had been limited to air-density experiments in the upper atmosphere and to orbiting an object large enough to be seen by the naked eye; 

the notion of deploying satellites for a worldwide telecommunications network like the one suggested by John Pierce and Arthur Clarke had not yet 

taken hold as an immediate possibility. 

But the flight of the Sputniks emboldened conservative researchers. In 

the spring of 1958, as plans for NASA were being formulated in Washington, 

communications satellites or "comsats" became a moderately hot topic. Not 

surprisingly, even the NACA began to take a healthy interest in them. At 

175 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Langley, an advance planning committee recommended that the center begin 

a comprehensive study of radio-wave propagation and channel requirements, 

as well as the requirements for active relays. In a decision that would later 

come to haunt them, the planning committee resolved that the first flight 

experiment should involve only a simple passive reflector, one in which the 

satellite acted merely as a mirror and retransmitted only those signals it 

received. That sort of simple experimental communications satellite could 

be placed in orbit very soon, perhaps as early as fiscal year 1959, the Langley 

planners stated. The greater difficulties of building an active system were 

being tackled elsewhere. A passive flight experiment would demonstrate the 

feasibility of a space-based system, and the new NASA could accomplish the 

task largely on its own, without extensive help from industrial contractors, 

notably Radio Corporation of America (RCA), American Telephone and 

Telegraph (AT&T), and General Electric (G.E.), who at that time were 

petitioning the federal government to invest in their own special comsat 

projects.47 

Throughout the spring and summer of 1958, Congress listened to arguments about the potential of space exploration and what should be done to 

ensure that the country's nascent "into space" enterprises would continue 

far beyond the end of the IGY. This testimony, in part, was the genesis 

of NASA. The NACA's director of research, Hugh Dryden, testified more 

than once on Capitol Hill. Before the House Select Committee on Science 

and Astronautics on 22 April, Dryden explained, among many other things, 

how large aluminized balloons could be inflated in orbit and used for communication tests. Accompanying him on this occasion was O'Sullivan, who 

took a full-size Beacon satellite into the Capitol and inflated it there "to 

demonstrate the structural, optical, and electronic principles involved." In 

his testimony, O'Sullivan delighted the congressmen by saying, quite emphatically, that Langley had been studying the problem of communications 

satellites for several months and that its staff was absolutely convinced that 

a very large inflatable reflecting sphere, at least 10 stories high, could be 

built quickly and launched into space. This big balloon "would reflect radio signals around the curvature of the earth using frequencies not otherwise usable for long range transmission, thus mostly increasing the range 

of frequencies for worldwide radio communications and, eventually, for television, thus creating vast new fields into which the communications and 

electronics industries could expand to the economic and sociological benefit 

of mankind." 48 

The ideas of Pierce and Clarke were finding a home at, of all places, a 

government aeronautics laboratory. On 31 March 1958, some three weeks 

before Dryden and O'Sullivan testified in Washington, John W. "Gus" 

Crowley, Dryden's associate director, had visited Langley and told Floyd 

Thompson, O'Sullivan, Joseph Shortal, and others that Dryden had been 

having conversations with Dr. Pierce of Bell Telephone Labs and with 

members of President Eisenhower's Science Advisory Committee about 

176 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

the potential of a global telecommunications system based on satellites. 

What NACA headquarters now wanted to know, Crowley said, was whether 

Langley was interested in constructing a larger 100-foot inflatable sphere, on 

a tight schedule, to be used as an orbital relay satellite like that envisioned 

by Pierce. 49 

O'Sullivan assured Crowley a few days later that his Space Vehicle Group 

was "not only interested but enthusiastic about the possibility of placing 

such a satellite in orbit, and that the schedule could be met." On 3 April 

1958, a follow-up meeting took place at Shortal's PARD office to consider 

designs for the big balloon. At this meeting, O'Sullivan, adopting Jesse 

Mitchell's scheme, suggested using the 100-foot sphere as a lunar probe. On 

18 April, Langley submitted to NACA headquarters a proposed research 

authorization entitled, "A Large Inflatable Object for Use as an Earth 

Satellite or Lunar Probe." The NACA did not formally approve the proposal 

until 8 May, but work on the big sphere had actually started at Langley on 

a high-priority basis even before Crowley's visit.5° . 

In early February 1959, Project Echo, as O'Sullivan had begun to call 

it, cleared another major hurdle when NASA headquarters assured Langley that an allotment of space would be devoted to the large inflatable in 

a forthcoming "space shot." Following this authorization, on 19 February, 

Langley Assistant Director Draley approved the creation of a large interdisciplinary "task group" of approximately 200 people, assigned on a temporary 

basis without change of organization and initially under O'Sullivan's leadership. The Space Vehicle Group alone could not handle the entire work load, 

which at this point still involved the 30-inch Sub-Satellite and the 12-foot 

inflatable. Significantly, as befitting a project that had to succeed, Draley 

announced that the move was necessary to meet an "emergency." He informed the directorate that "for the duration of this emergency condition," 

O'Sullivan's Space Vehicle Group and Clarence L. Gillis's Aircraft Configuration Branch, both of PARD, "will merge and work as one unit" with 

O'Sullivan as head and Gillis as his deputy. To make room for the work 

load in this merged group, "it may be necessary to postpone, or transfer 

to other units, some of the work now in progress." In other words, Project 

Echo took priority over business-as-usual, and everyone at Langley would 

just have to adjust. 51 

Assigning Responsibilities 

The first planning meetings for Project Echo convened at NASA headquarters in the summer of 1959, not long before the first NASA inspection. 

At the second of these meetings, on 13 October 1959, Leonard Jaffe, chief of 

NASA's fledgling communications satellite program and director of one of 

the program offices in the Office of Space Sciences at NASA headquarters, 

surprised Langley representatives by announcing that the "primary responsibility" for managing Echo was being given, not to Langley, but to Goddard, 

177 
Spaceflight Revolution 

which was still under construction in Greenbelt, Maryland. Various parties 

would contribute to the project through expanded in-house activities and 

some extensive contracting, Jaffe explained. The Douglas Aircraft Company plant in Tulsa (a converted B-24 factory) would provide the assembled 

booster, a three-stage Thor-Delta (later it would be called just a Delta); Bell 

Telephone Laboratories, where comsat pioneer John Pierce worked as director of electronics research, would make available at Holmdel, New Jersey, a 

20 x 20-foot horn-fed parabolic receiver, a 60-foot antenna, as well as amplifiers, demodulators, and other electronic and radar equipment; RCA would 

provide the radar beacon antenna for incorporation upon the Echo spheres; 

NRL would use its large 60-foot dish antenna at Stump Neck, Maryland, 

to receive the reflected signals from Echo; and JPL would employ its two 

85-foot low-noise antennae at the Goldstone (California) Receiving Site to 

track the satellite. 52 

Naturally, Langley was quite disturbed over the assignment of the overall 

responsibility to Goddard. As one senior Langley researcher remembers, 

"Echo was considered to be but the first in a long series of large satellite 

experiments under the jurisdiction of Langley." If Langley lost Echo to 

Goddard, all the other large satellite experiments would probably go to 

Goddard as well. Whatever proved to be the case, however, Langley felt that 

Jaffe's instructions need not have any immediate effect on Echo. Langley, 

both through in-house work and the monitoring of contracts, would keep 

the responsibilities for the key research and development tasks. These tasks 

were not spelled out precisely by Jaffe at the planning meeting, and more 

than a year would pass before a working agreement satisfactory both to 

Goddard and Langley was finalized. Even after the agreement was reached in 

January 1961, relations between the two NASA centers were stressful. As we 

have seen, tensions already existed between them. Goddard staff wanted to 

exercise management authority over a project they felt was rightfully theirs; 

Goddard was the center for all NASA space projects. As the originators of 

the Echo concept, O'Sullivan and his associates saw Goddard as an intruder. 

Langley researchers, therefore, planned to ignore Goddard and continue 

working as before the reassignment.53 

Pending the final agreement over the division of responsibilities, Langley's 

Project Echo Task Group continued to do whatever it felt needed to be done 

to assure the success of the "satelloon." * This included doing virtually all 

* Langley could proceed independently of Goddard in part because of the manner in which NASA 

managed Echo and provided funding to Langley for the project. With its establishment as an 

official NASA spaceflight project, responsibility for managing Echo went to the Office of Space Flight 

Development under Abe Silverstein, who then assigned the project to the Office of Space Sciences, 

wherein Leonard Jaffe, the chief of communications satellites, took over the regular responsibilities. 

Funding for Echo came from Silverstein's bailiwick, through Jaffe's office, and then made its way to 

Langley via transfers from Bob Gilruth's STG. For a time, O'Sullivan's entire Space Vehicle Group was 

carried on the personnel rolls of the STG. In effect, this convoluted but cozy arrangement meant that 

178 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

of the preliminary design for the payload, including the satellite itself; the 

satellite container with all its associated circuitry, hardware, and pyrotechnics; the container-separation or deployment mechanism; and the inflation 

system. The Langley group developed the techniques for fabricating, folding, packing, and inflating the rigidized sphere, and it carried out the systematic ground tests to make sure that everything worked properly. After 

completing the ground tests, Langley also assisted in all launches and test 

flights. 

Nonetheless, as the Langley engineers involved would soon discover, the 

assignment of Project Echo to the Goddard Space Flight Center was the 

initial step in the demise of the development of any passive communications 

satellite system. The Goddard director had already heavily committed his 

resources to the development of an active system; his organization was thus 

reluctant to take on the added burden of the passive system, which many 

Goddard engineers, and probably Goddard Director Goett, believed would 

prove inferior. 

Shot put 

One of the responsibilities taken on by Langley in early 1959 was the 

management of a project essential to Echo's success: Shotput. The purpose 

of Shotput was "to ensure proper operation of the payload package at 

simulated orbital insertion" -in other words, to do thorough developmental 

testing of the techniques by which the folded Echo balloon would be ejected 

from its canister and inflated in space. The techniques conceived and 

refined for the Sub-Satellite and the 12-foot Beacon satellite were almost 

totally inapplicable to the giant Echo balloon, so new schemes had to be 

perfected. Only some of the critical tests could be made on the ground 

because a vacuum chamber large enough to simulate the complete dynamics 

of the balloon inflating in space was impractical to build. The only option 

was to do the testing in the actual environment of space, and that meant 

developmental flight tests. 54 

The importance of Shotput to Project Echo's ultimate success bears witness to the need for thorough developmental testing prior to any spaceflight 

program. Before NASA researchers risked an expensive launch of a precious 

piece of space hardware, they made sure that the project would work from 

start to finish. Langley's plan was to flight-test suborbital Shotput vehicles from Wallops Island, then conduct as many orbital launches from Cape 

Canaveral as needed to put an Echo satellite in orbit successfully. For the 

most part, that plan was followed. 

the part of Langley working on Echo was really working for the Office of Space Flight Development under 

Silverstein. But it also meant that the Langley Project Echo Task Group relied not on Goddard, but 

on Langley's Procurement Division for its funding. See Joseph A. Shortal, A New Dimension: Wallops 

Flight Test Range, the First Fifteen Years, NASA RP-1028 (Washington, 1978), p. 688. 

179 
Spaceflight Revolution 

One of the most difficult technical tasks facing Langley researchers 

working on Project Echo was designing a container that would open safely 

and effectively release the satelloon. After several weeks of examining 

potential solutions to this problem, the Langley engineers narrowed the 

field of ideas to five. They then built working models of these five container 

designs, and 12-foot-diameter models of the satellite for simulation studies. 

With help from Langley's Engineering Service and Mechanical Service 

divisions, the Echo group built a special 41-foot-diameter spherical vacuum 

chamber equipped with pressure-proof windows. There the dynamics of 

opening the container and inflating the satelloon could be studied as the 

satelloon fell to the bottom of the tank. To observe and photograph 

the explosive opening and inflation within the dark chamber, a special 

lighting rig had to be devised. Employing heavy bulbs enclosed in protective 

housings, the rig ensured that in the short time the test required, the bulbs 

would not overheat or be shattered by a shock wave.55 

The container-opening mechanism that eventually resulted from these 

vacuum tests was surely one of the oddest explosive devices ever contrived. 

The container was a sphere that opened at its equator into top and bottom 

hemispheres. The top half fit on the bottom half much like a lid fits snugly 

atop a kitchen pot. The joint between the two hemispheres, therefore, 

formed a sliding valve. The halves had to move apart an inch or two before 

the canister was actually open. It was in this joint between the hemispheres 

that the charge was placed. 

The charge was incased in a soft metal tube that encircled the canister; 

in cross section, the tube had the shape of a sideways V. This shape 

concentrated the blast into a thin jet that shot out the mouth of the V. When 

the charge had been placed, Langley technicians fastened the hemispheres 

of the container together. Because even minimal pressure remaining inside 

the canister would be greater than that in space, the team had to take steps 

to prevent the canister from blowing apart too soon. The solution was to 

lace fishing line through eyelet holes in the hemispheres. When the explosive 

charge fired out, the resulting jet cut the lacing so that the container halves 

were free to separate. At the same time, pressure from the charge drove the 

hemispheres apart, releasing the balloon. 

This ingenious arrangement proved successful despite its inelegance. So 

pleased were the Langley researchers with their invention that they were 

"somewhat taken aback" when visiting scientists and engineers, hearing 

descriptions of a container-opening mechanism involving such crazy things 

as a pot-lid sliding valve and a lacing made of fishing line, "thought we were 

joking." 56 

As challenging as the opening of the satelloon container was, the problem 

of inflating the large satelloon without bursting it was even more vexing. 

O'Sullivan once explained the crux of the matter: "When the satelloon 

container is opened to release the satelloon in the hard vacuum of space, 

any air inside the folded satelloon or outside of the satelloon between its 

180 
L-64-6971 

The Odyssey of Project Echo 

A technician assigned to the Project 

Echo Task Group separates the two 

hemispheres of the Echo 1 container 

for inspection. The charge that freed 

the balloon was placed inside of .a ring 

encircling the canister at its equator. 

folds tends to expand with explosive rapidity and rip the satelloon to pieces. 

But this understanding of the problem was not easily acquired, for there is 

no vacuum chamber on earth big enough and capable of attaining the hard 

vacuum of space, in which the ejection and complete inflation of the satelloon 

could be performed and the process photoAfaphed with high speed cameras 

to detect malfunctionings of the process." 

Before risking the launch of a balloon into space, the Project Echo Task 

Group determined that it should first conduct a static inflation test on 

the ground to see whether the 100-foot-diameter satelloon would assume 

a spherical shape with surface conditions sufficient to serve as a passive 

communications relay satellite between two distant stations on the surface 

of the earth. To make the static inflation tests, Jesse Mitchell took a team 

of engineers to nearby Weeksville, North Carolina, off the north shore of 

the Albemarle Sound, where a cavernous navy blimp hangar big enough to 

inflate the Echo balloon to full size stood empty. The inflation process was 

slow, taking more than 12 hours, and thus did not offer a dynamic simulation 

of the explosive inflation that would take place in space; however, the results 

did reassure everyone that the balloon would work as a communication relay. 

As Norm Crabill, present at the Weeksville tests, explains, "It was another 

one of the tests we had to go through before we could trust the design." 58 

These tests also demonstrated that the original balloon, manufactured by 

General Mills, was seriously defective. When the balloon was inflated in the 

hangar, the triangular panels, or gores, began coming apart at the seams. 

181 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-58-3598 1-B 

1-F 

Testing Echo 1 's inflation (above) in the navy hangar at Weeksville took half the 

day but proved worth the trouble. 

182 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

L-58-3603 

Langley engineers Edwin Kilgore (center), Norman Crabill (right),,and an unidentified man take a peek inside the vast balloon during inflation tests. 

1"61-4603 

The Echo 1 team stand in front of their balloon. William J. 0 'Sullivan is the tall 

man at center; Walter Bressette is to his left. 

183 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-60-490 L-60-485 

Langley technicians Will Taub and James Miller {left) prepare to spin-balance the 

final stage of the Shotput launch vehicle. The ABL X248 motor sits on the spin 

table; the balloon-containing canister is at the top. When the Shotput was fully 

prepared for launch (right}, a pencil-shaped shroud was fitted over the payload. 

Another manufacturer, the G. T. Schjeldahl Company of rural Northfield, 

Minnesota, had a glue perfect for sealing the seams, so General Mills hired 

the company to construct a second sphere. The proud Schjeldahl Company 

provided all subsequent inflatable spheres for NASA. 59 

Although the ground testing proved critical, the only sure way to test 

the inflation process was to launch the sphere in its container up to satellite 

altitude. To do this, members of the Project Echo Task Group designed the 

special two-stage test rocket called "Shotput." This, they thought, was the 

perfect nickname for a vehicle that would essentially hurl a big ball out of 

the atmosphere. 

Shotput's first stage was the Sergeant XM-33; its second stage was the 

ABL (Allegheny Ballistics Laboratory) X248. The latter also served as the 

third stage of the Douglas Thor-Delta, soon to be one of the United States' 

primary satellite launchers. Although the test program's main purpose was 

to check out the Echo satelloon, testing this part of the Thor-Delta became 

a critical secondary task. The ABL X248 stage included a solid-propellant 

rocket motor designed to achieve proper satellite velocity and altitude. The 

motor was spin-stabilized, so after it had burned out and the motor-satellite 

complex had entered orbit, the whole ensemble had to be de-spun before 

the satellite could be separated. To accomplish that, engineers fashioned a 

184 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

weighted mechanism known as a "yo-yo," which stopped the spinning and 

allowed the container to separate safely. 60 

Solving the problems of the launch vehicle was as difficult as solving the 

problems of the balloon. Norm Crabill traveled back and forth to Tulsa 

several times to understand the detailed design of the Delta third stage. 

(O'Sullivan once tried to remove Crabill from the project because he thought 

the young Langley engineer did not know enough to be in charge of the 

development of the Shot put test vehicle.) Crabill and his assistant Robert 

James intensely studied the forces and moments (i.e., the aerodynamic 

tendency to cause rotation about a point or axis) on the Shotput vehicle 

as it shot up and out of the atmosphere, spun its way to altitude, and despun for payload separation. The researchers had to assimilate in just a few 

months what amounted to an advanced course in aerodynamics and missile 

dynamics, but finally, after numerous analytical studies and simulations, 

Crabill and his helpers, one by one, solved the problems of launching 

Shotput 1. 

A Burst Balloon 

By the second Project Echo planning meeting, Langley had established 

a schedule for four Shotput tests. (Five Shotput launches would in fact 

occur; the last would take place on 31 May 1960.) Everyone inside NASA, 

including the interested parties at Goddard, agreed that the responsibility 

for managing Shotput and launching the vehicles from Wallops Island should 

remain in Langley's hands. 

Unfortunately, keeping their brainchild at home did not assure total 

success. As described in this chapter's opening, the launch of Shotput 1 on 

28 October 1959 started off well, but far above the "sensible" atmosphere, 

upon inflation, the big balloon blew up. Instead of a respectable scientific 

experiment, Echo looked more like a Fourth of July skyrocket.61 

Despite the initial subterfuge of calling the test a success and omitting 

any mention of the balloon's explosion, the group's spokesmen finally confessed under pressure from the media and with great embarrassment, "that it 

was not supposed to work that way." l<or several weeks thereafter, everyone 

at Langley became an authority on inflatable satellites, telling O'Sullivan's 

associates (not daring to tell O'Sullivan himself, as he was known to have 

little charity for opinions contrary to his own) what had caused the explosion and how to fix it. Many of these "self-appointed experts" demanded 

to be heard. The Project Echo Task Group accommodated most of them, 

trying to keep in mind that "all of these p·eople meant well and were trying 

to help." 62 Thereafter, NASA headquarters also announced the Shotput 

tests well ahead of time, so that everyone on the East Coast could watch 

and enjoy them. However, if everything went right with the balloon, the 

spectacular fireworks would not occur. 

185 
Spaceflight Revolution 

A 500-inch focal-length photographic camera set up on the beach at 

Wallops Island had taken pictures of Shotput 1 as the balloon inflated and 

blew up, but even with these data a team from the Project Echo Task Group 

spent several weeks trying to confirm why the balloon had burst apart. Some 

researchers believed that the water used to help inflate the balloon had been 

the culprit. Like other volatile liquids, water will boil explosively in the zero 

pressure of space. It was "entirely conceivable that the elastic containers 

in which the water was carried inside the satellite might have leaked or 

ruptured during launch, and thus did not release the water at a slow and 

controlled rate as planned, to give a slow and gentle inflation." 63 Leaked 

water could easily have produced an explosion. 

To ensure that the water inflation system would not malfunction in the 

future, the team, led by Walter Bressette, switched to benzoic acid, a solid 

material that underwent sublimation-that is, transformation from a solid 

state directly to a vapor. With such a material, conversion to a gas would be 

limited by the rate at which it would absorb heat from the sun. In essence, 

it would "gas off" slowly, not instantaneously. 

Researchers worried that another contributor to the explosion may have 

been residual air, which the payload engineers had intentionally left inside 

the folds of the balloon as an inflation agent. Langley's O'Sullivan once 

explained: "When the satelloon container is opened to release the satelloon 

in the hard vacuum of space, any air inside the folded satelloon or outside 

the satelloon between its folds tends to expand with explosive rapidity 

and rip the satelloon to pieces." 64 To remove all residual air from future 

deployments, the engineers made over 300 little holes in the balloon to allow 

the air to escape after the balloon was folded. Once the balloon was packed, 

the canister was placed, slightly open, in a vacuum tank. When its internal 

pressure had been reduced to near zero, the canister was closed, and an 

0-ring maintained the internal vacuum. 

Finally, to better identify deployment problems, the engineers put a red 

fluorescent powder into the folded-up balloon. If the balloon ruptured during 

ejection or inflation in subsequent tests, the powder- would blow out and leave 

a trail that could be instantly seen around the satellite even from the earth. 

Four Shotputs were launched before the Langley researchers were satisfied that Echo would work. The second shot, on 16 January 1960, failed 

because of a problem with Crabill's beloved launch vehicle. The yo-yo despin system of the Shotput second stage did not deploy properly, and the 

payload separated from the burned-out second stage still spinning at 250 

rpm. When the red dye appeared in the sky, it was clear that the de-spin 

failure had caused the balloon to tear while inflating. Following this test, 

no more serious problems with the launch vehicle occurred; there were only 

problems with the test balloon. On the third shot five weeks later, on 27 

February, the balloon tore and developed a hole, although not before Bell 

Labs was able to use the sphere to transmit voice signals from its headquarters in Holmdel, New Jersey, to Lincoln Labs in Round Hill, Massachusetts. 

186 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

A successful shot took place on 1 April, but the tests were still incomplete 

as the satellite did not yet carry any of the tracking beacons tha,t the final 

version would have.65 (Because Echo's orbit would not be geostationaryhovering over the same spot on earth 24 hours a day-such devices were 

required to enable ground crews to track the balloon.) 

The Project Echo Task Group, however, believed that "they were over 

the hump" and that the next step was to move beyond Shotput, put the 

completely equipped 100-foot passive reflector balloon on the Thor-Delta, 

and attempt a launch. The scheduled launch date of "TD No. 1" from Cape 

Canaveral was 13 May 1960, just over a month away. Unlike the Shotput 

tests, whose ABL X248 carried the test balloons only to 200 to 250 miles 

above the surface, the much more powerful 92-foot-high Thor-Delta would 

ultimately take the balloon to an orbit 1000 miles above the earth. From 

there, the enormous Echo would be visible to people all around the world. 66 

"Anything's Possible!" 

The Echo balloon was perhaps the most beautiful object ever to be put 

into space. The big and brilliant sphere had a 31,416-square-foot surface of 

Mylar plastic covered smoothly with a mere 4 pounds of vapor-deposited 

aluminum. All told, counting 30 pounds of inflating chemicals and two 11-

ounce, 3/8-inch-thick radio-tracking beacons (packed with 70 solar cells and 

5 storage batteries), the sphere weighed only 132 pounds. 

For those enamored with its aesthetics, folding the beautiful balloon into 

its small container for packing into the nose cone of a Thor-Delta rocket 

was somewhat like folding a large Rembrandt canvas into a tiny square and 

taking it home from an art sale in one's wallet. However, the folding of the 

balloon posed more than aesthetic problems. The structure not only had to 

fit inside the spherical canister but also had to unfold properly for inflation. 

The technique for folding the 100-foot inflatable balloons evolved from 

a classic "Eureka" moment. One morning in 1960, Ed Kilgore, the man 

in the Engineering Service Division responsible for the Shotput test setups, 

received a call from Schjeldahl, the manufacturer of the Echo balloons. The 

company's technicians were having a terrible time: not only were they unable 

to fit the balloon into its canister, they couldn't even squeeze it into a small 

room. 

Kilgore mulled over the problem all day and part of the night, but it 

wasn't until the next morning that he happened upon a possible solution. 

"It was raining," he recalls, "and as I started to leave for work, my wife 

Ann arrived at the door to go out as I did. She had her plastic rain hat 

in her hand. It was folded in a long narrow strip and unfolded to a perfect 

hemisphere to fit the head." Recognizing the importance of his accidental 

discovery, Kilgore told his wife that she "would have to use an umbrella or 

get wet because I needed that rain hat." 67 

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Spaceflight Revolution 

At Langley, Kilgore gave the hat to Austin McHatton, a talented 

technician in the East Model Shop, who had full-size models of its fold 

patterns constructed. Kilgore remembers that a "remarkable improvement 

in folding resulted." The Project Echo Task Group got workmen to 

construct a makeshift "clean" room from two-by-four wood frames covered 

with plastic sheeting. In this room, which was 150 feet long and located 

in the large airplane hangar in the West Area, a small group of Langley 

technicians practiced folding the balloons for hundreds of hours until they 

discovered just the right sequence of steps by which to neatly fold and pack 

the balloon. For the big Echo balloons, this method was proof-tested in the 

Langley 60-foot vacuum tank as well as in the Shotput flights. 68 

Whether the packed balloon would have deployed properly on 13 May 

1961, no one will ever know because once again the launch vehicle failed. The 

second stage of the Delta refused to fire, and the whole rocket dropped into 

the Atlantic. The vehicle's manufacturer, Douglas, blamed a malfunctioning 

accelerometer. 69 

By this point, the program had experienced a total of seven failures 

including those of the two small pre-Echo test satelloons. For a test 

conducted on 31 May, the team returned to using the Shotput launcher. 

With tracking beacons aboard, the balloon deployed successfully, which 

helped the NASA engineers rally from their recent setback. 

Still, critics continued to doubt the overall Echo concept. Some swore 

that even if the satelloon ever got up into space and inflated properly, 

micrometeorites would puncture its skin, thus destroying the balloon within 

hours. Not so, the Langley engineers countered. The idea was to pressurize 

the balloon just enough to overstress the material slightly, thus causing it 

to take on a permanent set. Even after its internal pressure had dwindled 

to nothing, the balloon would retain its shape. Because the outer skin was 

not extremely rigid-it was in engineering slang "dead-soft" -it could be 

punctured by a small meteorite and still not shatter. Finally, a study by 

Bressette showed that micrometeorites would erode less than one-millionth 

of the surface area a day. If only a launching and deployment would go right, 

the satelloon's sublimating solid-pressurization system would work lonS 

enough to enable engineers to conduct their communications experiment.7 

The next time around, the launch finally did go right. At 5:39 a.m. 

on 12 August 1960, Thor-Delta No. 2 blasted into the sky from launchpad 

17 at Cape Canaveral, taking its balloon into orbit. A few minutes later, 

the balloon inflated perfectly. At 7:41 a.m., still on its first orbit, Echo 1 

relayed its first message, reflecting a radio signal shot aloft from California 

to Bell Labs in New Jersey. "This is President Eisenhower speaking," the 

voice from space said. "This is one more significant step in the United 

States' program of space research and exploration being carried forward 

for peaceful purposes. The satellite balloon, which has reflected these 

words, may be used freely by any nation for similar experiments in its 

own interest." 71 After the presidential message, NASA used the balloon to 

188 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

transmit two-way telephone conversations between the east and west coasts. 

Then a signal was transmitted from the United States to France and another 

was sent in the opposite direction. During the first two weeks, the strength 

of the signal bounced off Echo 1 remained within one decibel of Langley's 

theoretical calculations. 

The newspapers sounded the trumpets of success: "U.S. Takes Big Jump 

in Space Race"; "U.S. Orbits World's First Communications Satellite: Could 

Lead to New Marvels of Radio and TV Projection"; "Bright Satellite Shines 

Tonight." So eager was the American public to get a glimpse of the balloon 

that NASA released daily schedules telling when and where the sphere could 

be seen overhead. 72 

For the engineers from Langley who were lucky enough to be at Cape 

Canaveral for the launch, this was a heady time. Norm Crabill remembers 

hearing the report that "Australia's got the beacon," meaning that the 

tracking station on that far-off continent had picked up the satellite's beacon 

signal. To this day, Crabill "gets goose bumps just thinking about that 

moment." He remembers thinking, "Anything's possible!" 73 After all, the 

space age had arrived, and in a sense, anything was. 

Reflections 

Out of the seven failures, including the scintillating bits of Shotput 1, 

NASA built a successful communications satellite program, which entranced 

the public. After a fully operational Echo balloon was launched into orbit 

on 12 August 1960, the big silver satelloon continued to orbit for eight 

years, not falling back to earth until May 1968. For that entire period, the 

satelloon served as a significant propaganda weapon for the United States. 

It was a popular symbol of the peaceful and practical uses of space research, 

especially in the early 1960s when the country still seemed so far behind the 

Soviets. 

During its long sojourn in space, Echo 1 proved to be an exceptionally 

useful tool. First and foremost, by enabling numerous radio transmissions 

to be made between distant ground stations, it demonstrated the feasibility 

of a global communications system based on satellites. The rapid and 

successful development of worldwide communications in the 1960s depended 

upon this demonstration. Echo 1 also proved wrong the experts who 

said that the satelloon, after losing internal pressure because of meteoroid 

punctures, would collapse from external pressure. Echo actually retained its 

sphericity far longer than expected, the external pressures (including solar 

radiation) doing more to change the orbit of the satelloon than to collapse 

it.74 In addition, NASA researchers studied the long-term durability of the 

unique metallized plastic of the Echo balloons (an Echo 2 was launched 

in 1964) in order to evaluat.e similar materials proposed for components 

of other spacecraft, including early versions of a manned space station. 

189 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Finally, Echo permitted scientists to demonstrate a triangulation technique 

for determining the distance between various points on the earth's surface, 

thus improving mapping precision. The satelloon also served as a test target 

for the alignment and calibration of a number of new radars. 

However, the Echo satelloon demonstrated some critical limitations. As 

it turned out, the balloon's shape was a poor passive reflector. When hit 

with a plane wave (a wave in which the wave fronts lay in a fixed line 

parallel to the direction of the propagation), the sphere tended to propagate 

the wave outward and reflect it as a divergent wave. Echo did an adequate 

job reflecting radio signals transmitted from the ground, but it did a poor 

job of focusing them. As a result, everybody received some of the reflected 

signal, but nobody received very much of it. 

Thus, the Echo balloon served primarily as a demonstration model, 

showing how a simple passive comsat might work. For actual operations, a 

better concept, which NASA and the companies involved in the development 

of commercially viable satellites were already working on, was satellites that 

could communicate with active electronics. Because the force or intensity 

of a radio wave is weakened or attenuated by the square of the distance it 

must travel through space, an active communications system has a distinct 

advantage over the passive system: the active system receives the signal at 

one frequency and retransmits it at another. In effect, the signal travels 

the earth-to-satellite distance only once; the signal in a passive system must 

travel the distance twice, and thus is more seriously attenuated, as the fourth 

power of the distance. 75 

The demise of the passive satellite communication system and the 

emergence of the active ·communication system, however, also need to be 

explained in the context of broader economic, political, and institutional 

realities. In the beginning, satellite communications research was funded by 

the U.S. government because the military required worldwide instantaneous 

communications for national defense. The military was interested in the 

passive system because it could not be electronically jammed. On the other 

hand, the private telecommunications companies were not yet interested 

in a satellite communications system, partly because they were investing 

heavily in ground relay stations and under-the-ocean cable systems and 

partly because their engineers strongly suspected that radio signals passing 

through the earth's ionosphere would be seriously weakened in intensity. 

In an ironic twist of fate, given the history that was to follow, the Echo 

balloon actually changed this thinking about the potential of a communications system in space. When Echo 1 demonstrated that the ionosphere was 

not going to be a problem in satellite communications, the private sector 

jumped on the bandwagon and demanded their own geosynchronous satellite 

system, but the private sector wanted an active rather than a passive system. 

Many of the companies involved had the technical knowledge to develop an 

active system, but this was not the sole reason for their interest; money was 

another factor. Individual companies could charge for sending a message 

190 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

through the system since they would own the frequency channels located 

in the particular satellites. As Bressette comments, "The active communications people used the capitalistic approach for the success of a project: 

'Does it make money?' On the other hand, the few people [like Bressette] 

who were promoting the passive system were thinking more democratically. 

Just think how inexpensive satellite communications would be today, if it 

were possible to replace all the active communications satellites with just 

three nonmaintenance passive satellites." 76 

To overcome the problem of radio-wave attenuation from geosynchronous 

orbit, the Echo satelloon would need to be many times larger. Since the 

technology did not exist in the early 1960s to put such a large satelloon 

in orbit, even the military began to opt for the active system. Given the 

logistical difficulties and tremendous costs of flying high-altitude radio-relay 

stations over the oceans inside giant aircraft such as the B-52, the DOD 

was excited by the promise of a space-based geosynchronous system, which 

could move the high-altitude radar-relay flights into a backup position. 

For its part, NASA Langley did not easily give up on the passive 

system. Between 1963 and 1965, in conjunction with Goodyear Aerospace 

Corporation, a team of Langley researchers performed a study showing that 

as little as a 10° segment cut from a very large sphere in geosynchronous 

orbit would be satisfactory for passive communications between two remote 

stations on earth. 77 

William J. O'Sullivan's original concept for the inflatable satellite, which 

was to serve as an air-density experiment, was not forgotten. The long-term 

orbiting of the satelloon allowed scientists to measure accurately, for the 

first time, the density of the air in the far upper atmosphere. With the 

data came some important insights into the effects of solar pressure on the 

motion of satellites, information that was helpful in predicting the behavior 

and lifetime of future satellites. Several versions of the basic experiment 

were carried out at a high altitude over both low and high latitudes of the 

earth's surface as part of four Explorer missions: Explorer 9 in February 

1961, Explorer 19 in December 1963, Explorer 24 in November 1964, and 

Explorer 39 in August 1968. NASA launched these satellites at regular 

intervals to provide continual coverage of density variation throughout a 

solar cycle. With the findings from these worthwhile missions, scientists 

were able to improve their measurements of atmospheric density, better 

understand variations in density caused by variations in the solar cycle, and 

study the MPD-related phenomena of feomagnetically trapped particles and 

their down-flux into the atmosphere. 7 

O'Sullivan's 1956 concept led to not just a single experiment but an entire 

program of inflatable satellites, all of which involved Langley in some central 

way. This program included, in addition to the Echo satelloons and the airdensity Explorers, a Langley-managed passive geodetic satellite known as 

"Pageos" (Passive Geodetic Earth-Orbiting Satellite). A Thor-Agena lifting 

off from the Pacific Missile Ri=mge in June 1966 took Pageos 1, which was 

191 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-64-9269 

This satellite, Explorer 24, was a 12-foot-diameter inflatable sphere developed 

by an engineering team at Langley. It provided information on complex solar 

radiation/air-density. relationships in the upper atmosphere. 

very similar to Echo 1, into a near polar orbit some 200 nautical miles above 

the earth. This orbit was required by the U.S. Coastal and Geodetic Survey 

to use the triangulation technique developed from Echo 1 for determining 

the location of 38 points· around the world. More than five years and the 

work of 12 mobile tracking stations, which waited for favorable weather 

conditions during a few minutes of twilight each evening, were required to 

complete the project. Finally, the geodetic experts were able to fix the 38 

points into a grid system helpful in determining the precise location of the 

continents relative to each other. Some of this information, that which was 

not classified as secret, enabled the U.S. scientific community to determine 

geometrically the shape and the size of the earth. This, in turn, was useful to 

scientists studying the theory of continental drift. Data that the U.S. Army 

Map Service classified as secret proved helpful to U.S. military planners 

concerned with the accuracy of intercontinental ballistic missiles. Thus, 

although initially conceived to tell us about the upper atmosphere, NASA's 

inflatable satellite profgam told us perhaps even more about the military 

buildup here on earth. 9 

O'Sullivan became one of NASA's most highly publicized scientists. In 

December 1960, the U.S. Post Office Department issued a commemorative 

4-cent stamp in honor of his beloved Echo balloon. For his concept of the 

inflatable space vehicle, NASA would award him one of its distinguished 

service medals, in addition to $5000 cash. In 1962, O'Sullivan would appear 

as a guest on the popular TV game show "What's My Line?"; all four of 

192 
L-65-6894 

The Odyssey of Project Echo 

Hanging from the ceiling of the 

W eeksville blimp hangar like a 

shiny Christmas tree ornament, 

Langley's Pageos satelloon was virtually identical to Echo l. 

the celebrity panelists correctly picked him from the lineup as the father of 

the Echo satelloons. 

As is nearly always the case in the history of a large-scale technological 

development, however, many other individuals, mostly overlooked, deserved 

a significant share c,f the credit. Jesse Mitchell was one of those individuals. In late 1959, Mitchell, who had been responsible for the program 

development plan for Echo 1, left Langley for a special assignment on an 

important space advisory committee chaired by Dr. James Killian, President Eisenhower's special assistant for science and technology. After this 

assignment, Mitchell became the head of the Geophysics and Astronomy 

Division at NASA headquarters. In following years, his office funded the 

last three air-density satellites and the Langley-managed Pageos geodetic 

survey satellites. 

The Hegemony of Active Voice 

Project Echo continued for several more years. In 1962, Langley engineers staged "Big Shot" -two space deployment tests of the Echo 2 

193 
Spaceflight Revolution 

balloon.* The first test was a disaster, with the balloon tearing apart 

because of a structural load problem. The second test wa.S a success. Echo 2 

was launched into orbit in 1964, serving, like its predecessor, as a passive 

communications relay. By the mid-1960s, however, the active satellite had 

proved itself the better method for communications in space. In July 1962, a 

little more than two years after the launch of Echo 1 and some 20 years after 

the publication of Arthur C. Clarke's speculative essay on the potential of 

"extraterrestrial relays," NASA had launched its first active communications 

satellite, Telstar 1. This experimental "comsat," which belonged to AT&T, 

sent the first direct television signals ever between two continents (North 

America and Europe). In December 1962, while Langley and Goddard 

were still quarreling over what to do with Echo 2, NASA's own Relay 1 

satellite went into action. Within days, Relay 1, which was developed at 

NASA Goddard, was transmitting civilian television broadcasts between 

the United States and Europe. When TV viewers saw astronaut L. Gordon 

Cooper being ;recovered from his capsule on 16 May 1963 at the end of the 

last Mercury mission, they were seeing a signal from Relay 1. 80 

The age of the active comsat had arrived, and with it came a revolution 

in telecommunications that would have an enormous impact worldwide. On 

25 February 1963, NASA announced that it was canceling its plans for 

any advanced passive communications satellites beyond Echo 2 and cutting 

off funding for several feasibility study contracts aimed at determining the 

best shape, structure, and materials of future communications balloons in 

space. In light of the formation of the national Communications Satellite 

Corporation ( ComSatCorp), the space agency instead would focus its efforts 

on the development of synchronous-orbit active satellites.81 

The next American active comsat, Telstar 2, went into space in May 

1963, which was still before the launch of Echo 2. Telstar 2 sent the first 

color television pictures across the Atlantic Ocean. On 22 November 1963, 

NASA's Relay 1 was scheduled to transmit color television pictures across 

the Pacific. An audience in Japan waited to see a ceremonial meeting 

between NASA Administrator James E. Webb and the Japanese ambassador 

in Washington. The audience in Tokyo was also supposed to receive a taped 

greeting from President Kennedy; instead, Relay 1 transmitted the shocking 

news of his assassination. Thanks to Relay 2, which was launched in January 

1964, TV viewers were able to witness Pope Paul VI's visit later that year 

* The management of Big Shot and Echo 2 proved more quarrelsome than Shotput and Echo 1. 

Langley and Goddard personnel disagreed strongly about many engineering details and fought over 

budgetary and procurement matters. The Langley engineers were angry that Goddard officials were 

in charge of Echo when Langley was doing the basic planning leading to launch. Goddard's satellite 

experts, on the other hand, were already involved in the development of active electronic comsats and 

were not much interested in improving the performance of passive reflectors. Thus, the tug-of-war 

between Langley and Goddard was more than a turf battle; it was a technical debate between advocates 

of passive and active satellites. 

194 
The Odyssey of Project Echo 

to the Middle East as well as Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev's tour of 

Poland. Thanks to another NASA-sponsored communications satellite, the 

Hughes Aircraft-developed Syncom 3, Americans enjoyed live TV covera~e 

of the Olympic games taking place on the other side of the world in Tokyo. 2 

In 1964, 10 nations (plus the Vatican) formed the International Telecommunications Satellite Consortium, or Intelsat. In the next 12 years, Intelsat 

built something close to the integrated system of global communications 

that Arthur Clarke had suggested. By the late 1960s, Intelsat's membership included 80 countries. Individual nations owned and operated their 

own ground stations and reaped dividends in proportion to their investment 

shares, while a large, new American joint-stock company, ComSatCorp, 

whose operations were private but heavily subsidized by the U.S. government, managed the financial and operations end of the satellite communications system. (NASA simply launched the satellites and was reimbursed for 

its costs.) By the early 1970s, Intelsat's sophisticated network was enabling 

rapid long-distance telephoning and distribution of TV programs as never 

before. One NASA h~storian has written, "Before these satellites existed, 

the total capability for transoceanic telephone calls had been 500 circuits; 

in 1973 the Intelsat satellites alone offered more than 4000 transoceanic circuits. Real-time TV coverage of events anywhere in the world-whether 

Olympics, wars, or coronations-had become commonplace in the world's 

living rooms." 83 

Arthur Clarke's prophecy of "global TV" and "citizens of the world" had 

arrived. By the 1980s, satellite television had grown so popular, especially 

in rural and mountainous areas where standard TV reception was poor or 

cable TV business did not reach, that hundreds of thousands of people in 

the United States and around the world were installing their own personal 

satellite dishes in their backyards, thereby receiving into their homes directly 

from space a seemingly boundless number of channels and programs, only 

a small fraction of which they would have had access to through their local 

ultra-high frequency (UHF), VHF, or even cable stations. By the early 

1990s, many people and governments around the world were relying for 

their news not on local or even national stations, but on Ted Thrner's Cable 

News Network (CNN) via satellite from Atlanta. 

In just a few decades, Arthur Clarke's idea for a global communications 

system (for which the British radio journal paid him the equivalent of a 

measly $40) exploded into a multibillion-dollar industry, leading Clarke to 

pen a facetious little article, "A Short Pre-History of Comsats, Or: How I 

Lost a Billion Dollars in My Spare Time." 84 None of this, not even Clarke's 

humorous lament, would have been possible with just the passive reflectors. 

Others besides Clarke also came to recognize the missed opportunities. In 

1962 and 1963, when members of the Project Echo Task Group first learned 

in detail about the capabilities of the inaugural active comsats Telstar and 

Relay, they were a little disappointed that they had spent so much time on 

the passive reflector. "I remember thinking, damn, we worked on the wrong 

195 
Spaceflight Revolution 

one!" recalls Norman Crabill. "Except I really didn't because I had learned 

a lot. Whether it was active or passive, I had a job to do." 85 In the late 

1950s and early 1960s, before the advent of the silicon chip, which completely 

altered the scale of electronic devices and made possible the miniaturized 

amplifiers required for actively transmitting satellites, the passive reflector 

seemed to be the only "do-able" technology. Because of their work on 

passive satellite technology, Crabill and many other Langley researchers had 

prepared themselves well for the management of more significant unmanned 

spaceflight and satellite programs, such as Lunar Orbiter and the Viking 

landing on Mars. 

196 
7 

Learning Through Failure: 

The Early Rush of the Scout 

Rocket Program 

Failure analysis is basically research, when you get 

down to it. You recover and learn from mistakes; 

you don't do that with success. 

-Eugene Schult, head of guidance 

and control work for the Scout Project 

at NASA Langley 

Nothing demonstrates the pitfalls of rushing into space more dramatically 

than the early history of the Scout rocket program. This relatively small, 

four-stage solid-fuel rocket was conceived in 1956 by NACA engineers in 

Langley's PARD as a simple but effective way of boosting light payloads 

into orbit. Scout eventually proved to be one of the most economical, 

dependable, and versatile launch vehicles ever flown-not just by NASA 

but by anyone, anywhere. The program did not begin, however, with an 

impressive performance; it began with four years of confidence-crushing 

failures. To make Scout a success, researchers had to climb a long and 

torturous learning curve, which resembled, at least to those involved, the 

infernal hill up which Sisyphus eternally pushed his uncooperative rock. 

"Itchy" for Orbit 

Max Faget, Joseph G. Thibodaux, Jr., Robert 0. Piland, and William 

E. Stoney, Jr., formed the core of a notoriously freethinking group within 

Langley's PARD. Early in 1956, a year.and a half before Sputnik 1, this 

group began playing with the idea of developing a multistage hypersonic 

197 
Spaceflight Revolution 

rocket. 1 These engineers had been launching dozens of rockets each year 

from the lonely beach at Wallops Island. To them, the idea of building one 

powerful enough to reach orbit did not seem at all farfetched. 2 

Moreover, the organizers of the IGY in 1955 had asked expressly for 

someone to put up the first artificial satellite as the highlight of the upcoming 

celebration. In response, the governments of the United States and the 

Soviet Union, respectively, on two consecutive days, 29 and 30 July 1955, 

had announced their rival intentions to launch satellites. Each country, given 

its burgeoning ballistic missile program, expressed confidence that it, and 

not the other, would be the first to put an object in space. A few months 

later, in the fall of 1955, the Eisenhower administration made the ultimately 

history-turning (and in the opinion of some critics, disastrous) decision to 

endorse the navy's Vanguard proposal-and Viking booster-as the way to 

launch America's first satellite. Viking's competitor, the army's Jupiter C 

rocket, the darling of von Braun and associates in Alabama, had to wait in 

the wings, ready to perform when the Vanguard program flopped. 3 

But von Braun's rocket experts were not the only ones "itchy" for orbit. The PARD group felt that the boosting of a small, lightweight payload 

into orbit would require only an extension of the hypersonic solid-fuel rocket 

technologies that they had been developing at Wallops Island and Langley 

since the early 1950s. "Solid-fueled rockets have always had the advantage 

over liquid-fueled as far as simplicity, cost, and possibly reliability," remembers PARD engineer and later Scout Project team member Roland D. "Bud" 

English. The PARD group's idea was to employ solid propulsion and use 

as many existing solid-fuel rockets for the various stages of the proposed 

launch vehicle as possible. "It was the logical extension of the work going 

on in PARD on solid rockets," says English. "It was a natural progression 

from Mach 15 [ballistic velocity] to the audacity to think in terms of orbit," 

agrees his colleague James R. Hall. 4 

In the mid-1950s, large solid-fuel rocket motors such as the Cherokee and 

the Jupiter Senior-the latter being the largest solid-fuel rocket motor up to 

that time-were undergoing rapid development to meet the need to power 

the U.S. military's growing fleet of ballistic missiles. The PARD engineers 

were convinced that by combining a few of these new motors intelligently 

into a three- or four-stage booster configuration, the NACA in a relatively 

short period could develop a launch vehicle that would have enough power to 

shoot past ballistic velocity and fly into orbit. This would require a speed 

of at least Mach 18. The Honest John rocket, a five-stage vehicle under 

development for the army, had achieved speeds of Mach 15 in flight tests at 

Wallops in the summer of 1956, and the Sergeant, a five-stage rocket also 

under development, was supposed to be capable of Mach 18. Other rocketstage motors were under way for the navy's Polaris and Vanguard project 

missiles. From this promising menu, PARD engineers believed they could 

assemble a stack of rocketry that could achieve orbit.5 

198 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

The only problems were that this stack would amount to "the most 

expensive vehicle ever developed by PARD" and "no funds were immediately 

available." 6 Furthermore, as the rocket was to serve as a satellite launch 

vehicle, it directly competed not only with the navy's presidentially anointed 

Vanguard and the army's overlooked Jupiter C, but also with the air 

force's Thor-Able, which was rapidly nearing completion. These long-range 

military rockets, all of them liquid rather than solid-fuel, made the case 

for the little Scout harder to advocate. The modest PARD proposal for a 

simpler, cheaper, and potentially more reliable bantam rocket simply could 

not compete with such heavyweights. 

Then came Sputnik, complicating this contest among American rocket 

initiatives. Engineer William Stoney, perhaps the earliest champion of what 

became the Scout Project, remembers feelings within PARD about Sputnik, 

"We were disappointed we weren't the first but in another sense it reassured 

us that we were really on the right track-that, boy, we really could get 

supported from now on, because this was important that the U.S. continue 

to try to catch up, and we were part of that game." Sputnik made the 

PARD rocketeers think "at a whole new level of exploration that heretofore 

was beyond consideration." 7 

In the hectic and uncertain months following Sputnik, PARD tried 

to push a formal proposal for its rocket development through Langley 

management for consideration by NACA headquarters. In January 1958, 

however, Ira H. Abbott, one of the NACA's assistant directors for research in 

Washington who had excellent connections to Langley, informed PARD that 

"NACA Headquarters would not be receptive to a proposal for development 

of another satellite vehicle." 8 However, the political environment for such 

proposals was in a state of flux iri early 1958, and Langley engineers knew 

it; therefore, they kept design studies for their rocket going even after such 

an emphatic refusal. 

In late March 1958, another Langley veteran, John W. "Gus" Crowley, 

associate director for research at NACA headquarters, revived hopes for the 

rocket when he asked Langley to prepare a "Space Technology Program" for 

the prospective new space agency. In its report, submitted on 15 May, the 

Langley senior staff, "without any opposition," included the PARD concept 

"as a requirement of the program for the investigation of manned space 

flight and reentry problems." The report stated that, for $4 million, Langley 

could develop a booster that launched "small-scale recoverable orbiters" into 

space, and could do it in a matter of months. 9 

Even before the report circulated, on 6 May, Langley requested a research 

authorization to cover "the investigation of a four-stage solid-fuel satellite 

system capable of launching a 150-pound satellite in a 500-mile orbit." 

Formal approval, which took just a few weeks, meant that PARD's vehicle 

had officially made it into the space program.10 The air force's interest 

in an advanced solid-fuel rocket test vehicle, with mutually acceptable 

specifications for a joint system negotiated in July, further secured Scout's 

199 
Spaceflight Revolution 

position. Such a deal eventually complicated the Scout Project greatly, 

however, because Langley had to take on the added burden of handling many 

of the contractual details for the coordinated NASA/DOD project. The 

DOD objective was to obtain a fleet of solid-fuel boosters for support of the 

air force's wide range of space research projects, which at that time included 

Dyna-Soar support, anti-ICBM research, and nuclear weapons. The last of 

these was to lead to the development of the so-called "Blue Scout" rocket. 11 

After Scout won further approval, engineering analysis of the rocket 

system indicated that the proposed third-stage motor (an ABL X248) had 

to be replaced with a larger motor of the same type. This was a problem 

that could have killed an earlier proposal but now bothered no one. As 

one PARD veteran remembers, "The overall space plans for NASA were so 

grandiose when compared with NACA operations" that such changes, and 

such costs, were now relatively minor items. 12 

Little Big Man 

Sometime during 1958, PARD's William Stoney, soon to be assigned 

overall responsibility for development of the new rocket, named it "Scout." 

Given engineers' propensity for acronyms, some believed Scout stood for 

"Solid Controlled Orbital Utility Test System"; however, Stoney insists today that the various acronyms that have appeared attached to the name 

"Scout" (even in official publications) have all been "after-the-fact additions." According to him, Scout was named in the spirit of the contemporary 

Explorer series of satellites with which the rocket would often be paired. He 

and his colleagues gave no thought at the time to deriving its name from a 

functional acronym. 13 

As for the technical definition of the rocket, as suggested earlier, the 

Langley engineers tried to keep developmental costs and time to a minimum 

by selecting components from off-the-shelf hardware. The majority of 

Scout's components were to come from an inventory of solid-fuel rockets 

produced for the military, although everyone involved understood that some 

improved motors would also have to be developed under contract.* By early 

1959, after intensive technical analysis and reviews, Langley settled on a 

design and finalized the selection of the major contractors. The rocket's 

40-inch-diameter first stage was to be a new "Algol" motor, a combination 

of the Jupiter Senior and the navy Polaris produced by the Aero jet General 

Corporation, Sacramento, California. The 31-inch-diameter second stage, 

* The only new technology required for Scout was its hydrogen peroxide reaction-jet control system, 

developed by contractor Walter Kidde and Company, which enabled controlled flight outside the 

atmosphere. Later versions of this technology would be used for various purposes in space programs, 

including the spatial orientation and stabilization of "Early Bird," ComSatCorp's first experimental 

satellite. 

200 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

L-60-6627 

In this photo from October 

1960, Scout Test-2 (ST-2} 

stands ready for launch at 

Wallops Island. 

"Castor," was derived from the army's Sergeant and was to be manufactured 

by the Redstone Division of the Thiokol Company in Huntsville, Alabama. 

The motor for the 30-inch-diameter third stage, "Antares," evolved under 

NASA contract from the ABL X248 design into a new version called the 

X254 (and subsequently into the X259); it was built under contract to 

NASA by ABL, a U.S. Navy Bureau of Ordnance facility operated by the 

Hercules Powder Company, Cumberland, Maryland. The final upper-stage 

propulsion unit, "Altair," which was 25.7 inches in diameter (34 inches at the 

heat shield), amounted to an improved edition of the X248 that was also 

manufactured by ABL. Joining these four stages were transition sections 

containing ignition, guidance and attitude controls, spin-up motors, and 

separation systems. 

Upon assembly of the vehicle, which was to be done by Chance Vought 

of Dallas, the rocket's airframe and control-system contractor, the original 

Scout stood only 72 feet high from the base of its fins to the tip of its nose 

cone and weighed, at first-stage ignition, a mer.e 37,000 pounds. The thrust 

of the four stages added together totaled just over 200,000 pounds, which was 

easily enough to carry the proposed 150-pound payload into space, although 

at a 300-mile rather than a 500-mile orbit. (Later versions of Scout would 

201 
Spaceflight Revolution 

eventually fly missions with 300-pound and even 450-pound payloads, using 

an optional fifth stage.) 14 , . 

For such a comparatively small rocket, Scout turned into something quite 

significant-the first large NASA project that Langley ran in-house. The 

only previous in-house project to match Scout was the Bell X-1 supersonic 

research airplane of a decade earlier. The X-1, however, was a joint effort 

with the air force and was physically remote from Langley at faraway Muroc 

Dry Lake in California. The plane never got to Langley Field, although 

NACA Langley was primarily responsiblefor its development. 15 The Scout 

project, on the other hand, was conceived, designed, and for the most part, 

built at Langley. Components were brought to nearby Wallops for launch 

and flight testing, thus making a "very tight Langley loop." 16 

A formal "Scout Project Group" was not organized at Langley until 

February 1960 after a recommendation was made by a NASA headquarters review committee chaired by NASA Lewis Research Center's Bruce 

LundinP Until that time, all the work on the rocket had been overseen 

first by regular PARD management and later, after the creation of the STG 

in 1958, by Bob Gilruth and his staff. Gilruth already had his hands full 

with Project Mercury, but he reluctantly took over the responsibility for 

a short period because Abe Silverstein, whose Office of Space Flight Development initially funded Scout, insisted on it.* Given Gilruth's intimate 

knowledge of PARD and its personnel, he trusted the Scout engineers to 

manage themselves. So did Langley Associate Director Floyd Thompson, 

who gave Scout personnel "remarkable freedom" to operate almost independently. "[Our work] was of course part of the race to catch the Russians," 

James Hall has stated. "But more important it was to prove something to 

ourselves. People worked hard and were selfless about helping each other." 

They were mostly young men "trying to do something that had never been 

done before." 18 Such naive enthusiasts neither cared for nor would have 

benefited from top-heavy management. 

The project office started small with nine personnel: Project Office 

Head Bill Stoney, Technical Assistant Bud English, Administrative Assistant Abraham Leiss, three project engineers (C. T. Brown, Jr., Eugene D. 

Schult, and William M. Moore), Field Director James Hall, Project Coordinator Elmer J. Wolfe, Secretary Edith R. Horrocks, plus two resident 

representatives from industry. Each division of the laboratory also made 

one employee responsible for coordinating support for Scout whenever it 

was required. 19 

This skeletal crew and associated shadow organization began to race 

against the calendar to build and launch Scout. The project team grew 

in size rather quickly, so by 1962 more than 200 Langley staff members 

* With the establishment of the Scout Project Group in February 1960, the Scout team began to 

report instead to Donald R. Ostrander, director of the new Office of Launch Vehicle Programs at NASA 

headquarters, which was established on 29 December 1959 and had responsibility for all launch vehicles. 

202 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

L-61-5176 

James Hall, Langley's original field director 

for the Scout Project Group. 

were working almost exclusively on Scout, which even project leaders had 

to concede was "a very large segment of people to work on anything 

at Langley." 20 At Wallops, Scout work dominated, taking over several 

assembly shops and other buildings. The core staff in the project office 

stayed relatively small, however, reaching its peak of 55 employees in 1965 

and then dropping back to 34 by the time of Scout flight number 75 in 1971. 

The involvement of contractors was essential. Especially helpful were 

the people from Chance Vought-soon to he organized into the LTV Missile 

Group of the Chance Vought Corporation-who had won the bid to develop 

the Scout airframe and launching capability.2l The partnership between 

Langley and LTV grew into one of the most cooperative, fruitful, and longlasting (30 years) in NASA history. As James Hall remembers so fondly, 

from almost the beginning, the Scout Project Office made "no distinction 

between government people and contractors. We were all on the same team 

and did what we had to do regardless of the color of our badges." The 

feeling was mutual. According to Ken Jacobs, who worked many years on 

Scout for LTV, "We were very much more liable to work together than we 

were to work apart. If your counterpart in the government had a problem or 

a question, he would contact you on the telephone and [we would] be able to 

come up with a mutual agreement or solution. The end result was that the 

program would be much better off for experiencing this degree of cooperation 

between the two individuals who had the task." Milt Green, another LTV 

employee, remarks, "We all had one common goal." The teamwork resulted 

from "a mutual respect for each other. It wasn't an adversarial relation with 

a lot of gnarling of hands. [It was] strictly a job that had to be done, and 

done in the most reliable manner." 22 

203 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-67-95 

In this picture from June 1967, 32 LTV employees pose in front of the Scout S-159C, 

which a few months later on 19 October 1967 would successfully carry the RAM C-1 

experiment into orbit. 

This deeply felt sense of mutual reliance and cooperation, .at least on 

Langley's part, related to the deeply ingrained, 40-year-old NACA .culture. 

If Langley's work included Scout, and Scout needed LTV to succeed, then 

Langley needed LTV and would consider it a member of the family; that 

was the formula. The LTV staff appreciated it. "It was just a close-knit, 

dedicated group," remembers Larry Tant, a Scout operations manager for 

Langley. "We had a lot of pride in what we were doing. We were like 

brothers." "There was something about the program," declares Jon Van 

Cleve, an early Scout team member from Langley. "You worked in it for a 

little while and really got involved in it. When that happened, you lost the 

lines of whether you were agency, LTV, or air force. You became a Scout 

person." 23 

These warm testimonials, which came years after Scout had amassed 

its remarkable record, were mostly made in the early 1990s when NASA 

honored members of the Scout team in official ceremonies. Both government 

and industry Scout staff reminisced about Scout's record, which no other 

booster, large or small, foreign or American, had surpassed. Langley's Scout 

Project Group enjoyed incredible strings of 22 and 37 consecutive launches 

without failure during two long periods, the first lasting from July 1964 

until January 1967 and the second from September 1967 until December 

1975. In 1991, when NASA Langley reluctantly turned over the direction 

of the Scout Project to NASA Goddard and the commercial production of 

the vehicle to LTV, the scorecard of 113 launches showed an overall success 

rate of an astounding 96 percent. 

204 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

The retrospective comments about the great teamwork on the Scout 

Project need to be understood within the context of that final glorious 

record. The feelings between government and contractor could not have 

been so positive in the early years of the Scout program, when one rocket 

after another self-destructed or otherwise failed. In the Scout program, 

such can-do, throw-your-arm-around-your-buddy camaraderie developed 

only gradually and was tested severely by frequent early experiences with 

misfortune. These are trials that Scout team members understandably 

prefer to forget. 

Little Foul-Ups 

On 18 April1960, only 14 months after the creation of the Langley Scout 

Project Office, the first experimental Scout sat ready to be fired from a new 

launch tower at Wallops Island. For weeks NASA headquarters had been 

demanding that "some type of flight test be made in the Scout program 

as soon as possible." 24 The only way for Langley and its contractors to 

meet this demand was to work hours of overtime. James Hall recollects the 

days before this and other early Scout launches: "It was schedule-driven. 

People worked very hard and long hours. This was such a dynamic program, 

people felt compelled to work however long it took. The closer to launch, 

the more demanding the schedule became. At the launch site, people would 

often go without sleep to make up time or make something work or correct 

a problem. People were consumed by the program's schedule." 25 

On 7 March, after deflecting the demands of NASA headquarters for as 

long as he could, Langley Director Floyd Thompson gave in and conceded 

that an unguided Scout, one greatly reduced in scope from later Scouts, 

could be fired under the direction of Langley's Applied Materials and 

Physics Division (the old PARD) to obtain "some information on the overall 

configuration," but preparations would take a month. The second stage of 

the rocket would have to be a weighted dummy, one of several supplied by 

the contractors for fitting transition sections during construction and for 

checking "overall alignment and general suitability including freedom from 

interference with components supplied by other contractors." Thompson, 

reflecting the concerns of his Scout Project team, wanted it to be known 

that this was "not an official Scout test." It was an "expedited launch," a 

"Cub Scout," meant only to obtain engineering data on the vehicle.26 

Several problems occurred during this hurried, "unofficial" test flight of 

Cub Scout. The rocket rolled more than anticipated during ascent, thus 

causing a structural failure near the burnout of the first stage. This failure 

prevented the third stage (atop the second-stage dummy motor) from testfiring. In addition, the heat-shield design proved defective by breaking away 

from the fourth stage as the vehicle passed through the transonic region. 

This was not the start everyone had hoped for. Scout Project personnel 

205 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-63-5567 

Spectators~mainly the families of NASA employees-usually filled the makeshift 

grandstand at Wallops Island to witness the launch of NASA's small unmanned 

rockets. 

tried to put on a happy face, remarking that the test provided valuable 

experience assembling the rocket's components on the new launcher .and 

actually firing from it. No one, however, was fooled. The launch had been 

important to the test program and was meant to develop confidence in the 

systems. As one Langley engineer at the launch later recorded, "The failure 

was a blow. to the prestige of the project, and efforts to complete the first 

actual Scout were redoubled." 27 

With these efforts, the first launch of a full-fledged Scout- ST-1-was 

to take place on 1 July 1960, less than three months after Cub Scout's little 

foul-up. The anticipation level was extremely high. By the time of Scout 

Test-1, Langley had been firing rockets at Wallops for 16 years, since 1944. 

To Langley engineers launching rockets might have been "old hat," but 

this launch was different. "Everybody was excited," James Hall remembers 

with a gleam in his eye. "The concept of launching an orbital vehicle was 

a new and a really exciting challenge. That launch was the culmination 

of two years of intensive work. We had a number of practice countdowns 

and dry runs. We got our timing down and got things all set up. In fact, 

we were almost wearing that thing out testing it. That's what you're up 

206 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

The first Scout was launched on the 

evening of 1 July 1960. 

against in space. But you reach a point where you have to come down to 

the countdown." 28 

The countdown lasted 11 hours. As it progressed, the Scout launch 

team gradually moved away from the vehicle. During the last hour or so, 

the rocketeers moved into a little cinder block building with three racks of 

switches, controls, and displays. By later launch system standards, it was 

simple, crude technology, but it was enough to light the fuse. Compared 

with ICBMs, Scout was tiny, but compared with all the previous rockets 

launched at Wallops, it was quite large. When the first-stage Algol motor 

was lit up, with its approximately 100,000 pounds of thrust, an awesome 

energy was released. As Hall describes it, "The ground shakes and the fire 

and smoke appear. It's a very splendid thing." 29 It was similar to being 

close to the heart of an earthquake, with massive pressure waves bouncing 

off the chest. 

The rocket was to ascend into space and then use its last-stage Altair 

motor to fire a 193-pound acceleration and radiation package back through 

the atmosphere as a probe. But Scout did not reach a high enough altitude 

to fire the package. One of the new built-in features of the full-fledged Scout 

system was a destruct capability to be used if the rocket flew off course and 

endangered populated areas. Scout Test-1 would appear to do just that. 

At 136 seconds after launch, radar tracking on the ground showed that 

the rocket had gone off cou;rse. A rolling moment (i.e., an aerodynamic 

207 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-62-6440 

The cone-shaped cinder block building was the site of Scout's launch control. 

L-67-212 

Worried looks on the f0ces of the NASA men in the control room at Wallops bear 

witness to the vicissitudes of launching rockets into space. 

208 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

tendency to rotate the body about its longitudinal axis) developed with the 

Antares motor, and then it just as quickly dissipated. However, the rolling 

caused a very slight disorientation of the radar tracking. As the postflight 

test analysis would later show, the shift of the radar that was indicated on 

the plotboard meant that "the vehicle had taken a violent turn in azimuth 

and a dip down in elevation." The rocket seemed to be about 50 degrees off 

course and heading somewhere it definitely was not supposed to go. This 

deviation forced the radar safety officer inside the blockhouse to take action. 

He actuated the "hold-fire" signal for the fourth stage, then, as James Hall, 

who was also in the blockhouse bitterly recalls, the range officer "waited 

as long as he could, looked over to us, and we had to concur. He hit the 

destruct button." 30 The radar tracking recovered quickly, thus showing that 

there really never had been a significant problem. 

"That was a crushing blow to destroy a rocket that was doing exactly 

what it was programmed to do," Hall laments 30 years later, "but which just 

indicated on a range safety plotboard that it was on an incorrect trajectory. 

You can't imagine how hard people worked as a group to bring this to the 

launch point." Inside the blockhouse the men kicked cans and cussed the 

unfortunate safety officer. "But after an hour," according to Hall, "most 

people recognized there was only one thing to do. That was to work 

and build the next vehicle, which we did in three or four months." The 

spaceflight revolution demanded nothing less. 3l 

In fact, circumstances also demanded that the test be labeled a success 

even when everyone knew better. The many subsequent chronicles of the 

Scout program all classified ST-1 as a success. "The fourth stage never had 

a chance to perform," but "radiation measurements were successfully made 

to an altitude of 875 miles." 32 

"3-2-1 Splash" 

On 4 October 1960, ST-2 proved to be the first real success of the project. 

Also launched as a probe with a radiation payload on board, the rocket 

reached a maximum altitude of 3500 miles and achieved a total range of 

5800 miles. The newspaper headlines underscored the elation surrounding 

this successful launch. In the Newport News Times Herald, a large typeface 

banner headline celebrated the feat. The headline on page 12 of section 

A of the Washington Post read: "'Poor Man's Rocket' Fired Successfully." 

The Washington Star followed with a feature article, "Versatile Scout to 

Get Space Chores." During this period, Scout also received additional 

positive publicity for the air force's successful launch of two of its "Blue 

Scouts." 33 The Scout Project was, indeed, looking up. 

With this one successful but nonorbital mission behind them, the Scout 

leaders believed that testing was complete and that the missile was ready to 

start operations as one of NASA's launch vehicles. As such, it would be used 

209 
Spaceflight Revolution 

for three types of missions: placing small satellites in orbit, making highvelocity reentry studies and testing heat-resistant materials, and launching 

high-altitude and space probes. The Scout rockets were scheduled to take off 

not only from Wallops but also, beginning in early 1962, from a Scout launch 

site being prepared at the Western Test Range located on Vandenberg AFB 

in California. NASA headquarters was so optimistic about Scout that it 

arranged for a full-scale 72-foot model of the rocket to be displayed at the 

15th annual meeting and "astronautical exposition" of the American Rocket 

Society in mid-December 1960. More than 5500 attendees viewed the model 

outside the Shoreham Hotel in Washington, D.C., and were impressed that 

it stood almost as high as the nine-story building. 

Such a celebration of Scout proved premature. The first orbital flight 

from Wallops on 4 December 1960 failed. Now the headlines read, "NASA 

Fizzles Orbit Attempt" (Virginian-Pilot, 5 Dec. 1960), "Scout Sinks After 

Fizzle" (Norfolk-Portsmouth Ledger-Star, 5 Dec. 1960), "Feeling of Unsuccess Persists at Rocket Site" (Norfolk Ledger-Dispatch, 5 Dec. 1960), and 

"Rocket, Satell~te Lie Under Deep Waters" (Richmond News Leader, 5 Dec. 

1960). Three of the first six flights were in fact failures. Not long thereafter, Lt. Col. George Rupp, formerly project officer on the Bullpup missile 

weapons system, came to NASA from the U.S. Marine Corps to replace 

a disheartened Bill Stoney as director of Langley's Scout Project Office.* 

This change solved nothing because Stoney's management had not been the 

problem. In the first four months following Stoney's replacement, three out 

of four launches failed. A NASA investigation found faults with the electrical systems, the heat shield, the ignition systems, and much more. As a 

later Scout program brochure recalls, "This was a time of exhilarating successes and heart breaking failures. The space age was in its infancy and the 

participants were learning about the operation of complex systems in the 

unforgiving environment of a high speed flight through the atmosphere to 

the border of space." 34 Personal accounts come closer to the truth. Roland 

"Bud" English, one of the original nine members of the Scout Project Group 

and the fourth head of the Scout Project Office, remembers: "The Scout 

program was done in a rush. Unquestionably, everything was behind schedule, and there was pressure on NASA to perform. The Space Act had been 

passed, and NASA was supposed to be going up to do a job, and Scout was 

part of that. So there was very definitely a pressure to do it in a hurry, 

too much of a hurry, and not enough emphasis on proper quality and really 

getting ready for an operational flight."35 

Even with the many failures, the launch dates just kept coming. "None 

of us liked to slip a commitment," James Hall admits, "and slippages were 

relatively modest considering the complexity of the program. As things 

got down to deadline, completion of ground system checkout, completion of 

* Rupp stayed in this post until his retirement from the military in June 1963, whereupon he was 

succeeded by Eugene D. Schult and later by Roland English. 

210 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

L-63-4479 

Succeeding Rupp in June 1963 was 

Langley engineer Eugene D. Schult, 

who had been with the Scout Project 

Office from the start. 

launch tower checkout, and then the actual practice countdown and final 

launch countdown-those critical milestones-didn't slip that much, but 

people had to work 24 hours a day to hold them." 36 

Not until 20 July 1963 and the launch of Scout flight number 22 did the 

problem come to a head. (Preceding this flight, ironically, three consecutive 

missions had been successful, and two of three had been orbital.) Two 

and one-half seconds after liftoff at Wallops, a flame appeared above the 

first-stage fins. Two seconds later, the Algol stage became engulfed by fire. 

"It was obvious something terrible had happened," Bud English recalls, 

frowning. "You could tell from the communications coming from the range 

safety net[work]. There had been a burnthrough of the first stage nozzle a 

few seconds after takeoff. The vehicle went through some wild gyrations. It 

got about 300 feet high and broke into three parts: the first stage went in one 

direction; the second stage went in another; and the third and fourth stages 

fell more or less back on the launch pad and burned. It was a disaster." 37 

Langley's Scout engineer Tom Perry was part of the recovery team that 

slogged through the salt marshes a mile off the coastal island to pick up 

bits and pieces of the rocket to help NASA determine what went wrong. He 

found one large chunk of the fiery debris in an unexpected place. "Someone 

had parked a small car inside one of the assembly buildings and it just so 

happened that a flaming piece of the rocket had come right down through 

the roof and into the front seat, burning that car to a crisp." 38 

211 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-61-5743 

As this sequence of photos demonstrates, the launch of ST-5 on 30 June 1961 went 

well; however, a failure of the rocket's third stage doomed the payload, a scientific 

satellite known as S-55 designed for micrometeorite studies in orbit. 

NASA headquarters launched a formal investigation. A seven-man 

review board found flaws in a rocket nozzle that had gone undetected 

during production and testing. Following the board's recommendation, the 

space agency imposed a three-month moratorium on the launch schedule; 

no more Scouts would fly until a comprehensive study of all the data from 

the previous 21 Scouts had been completed.39 

Significantly, the in-depth investigations of the rocket's subsystems made 

during this review revealed that each Scout failure had been caused by a 

different problem. That in itself was the essential problem. "We never had 

the same failure twice," James Hall underscores, "but it was clear from the 

early record of Scout that there was .enough miscellaneous failure that we 

had to sit down and rethink the whole thing very seriously." 40 

Certain institutional and bureaucratic factors also had contributed to 

Scout's failures. As much as the Langley engineers had wanted to make 

Scout contractors and !1ir force partners members of one integrated team, 

in many key essentials they simply were not. Former PARD engineer and 

212 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

L-62-1729 L-63-5790 

What kept the Scout engineers going through the tough times was the occasional 

spectac7.J,lar success. In this photo from 1 March 1962 (left}, ST-8 streaks into the 

night sky above Wallops, carrying a reentry heating experiment. The bumthrough 

of ST-110's first-stage nozzle just seconds after firing on 20 July 1963 resulted in 

significant damage to the launch tower (right}. Remnants of the third and fourth 

stages of the erratic Scout can be seen on the launchpad. 

member of Langley's original Scout Project Office Eugene Schult remembers, 

"We did things differently at Wallops than at the Western Test Range. 

The air force had its own way of doing things; the contractor had his 

ways; and we had our ways. It was a problem trying to coordinate 

them." 41 Essentially, each organization employed its own safety procedures: 

an assembly checkout line at the LTV plant in Dallas, other checkout lines 

on the ground at Wallops and Vandenberg, and yet two more lines in the 

towers at the launchers, both in California and Virginia. Each line used 

different equipment and procedures. 

However, the principal cause of Scout's mishaps was simply the need to 

make everything happen so fast. The LTV mission integrator, Ken Jacobs, 

recalls how engineers scrambled to assemble the rocket: "Back in those days, 

if you needed a part, you did what we called a 'midnight requisition. ' We'd 

go get the part from the space vehicle in inventory." This was obviously one 

of the shortcomings of the system. "People were robbing Peter to pay Paul, 

and the result was we had an unsuccessful vehicle." Over and above this 

"cannibalizing" of the hardware, Bud English feels that ''there simply were 

213 
Spaceflight Revolution 

In this photo from December 1960, employees of Vought Astronautics, Scout's 

prime contractor, work with NASA technicians to prepare ST-3 for launch. Unfortunately, this rocket would fail because of a second-stage misfire. 

not good standardized vehicle safeguards and checkout procedures, which 

were needed to have a successful vehicle." 42 

"Our record was not good," Jacobs has to admit. "Our reliability was 

3-2-1 splash, 3-2..;1 splash." The time had come to "blow the whistle and 

take a look at this program and see what our problem was." The Scout 

Project Office, LTV, the supporting engineers at Langley, the related air 

force personnel, and everyone involved had to sit down and do some "deep 

thinking" about what had to be done to fix not only the rocket but also the 

entire program. 43 

Recertification 

The Scout team decided that a 14-month reliability improvement program to recertify the rocket was needed. The effort was spearheaded by 

a NASA/LTV /air force "tiger team," whose mission was "to revise com~ 

pletely how [the project office] handled the vehicle and to standardize the 

214 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

process to the ultimate degree." 44 The tiger team concept, which in essence 

was a technological commando squad, had already proved effective in industrial settings. NASA was beginning to use it more frequently in the 1960s 

to attack particularly troublesome problems. The tiger team's activities 

started at Langley when James Hall, operations manager for Scout, wrote 

an inch-thick specification that laid out a single set of test equipment, a 

single checkout procedure, and the rigorous standards for using both. 

Such an approach proved to be exactly what was needed. Under the 

direction of the tiger team, all 27 of the Scout rockets already manufactured 

for the program were returned to LTV in Dallas to be taken apart and 

inspected. Weld seams were X-rayed, and solder joints were inspected under 

microscopes. Everything that could be standardized was standardized. Even 

the lengths of the cable in Vought's laboratories now had to match those 

at the two launch sites. The launch countdown now included more than 

800 items. Additional tiger teams were put together at Wallops and at 

Vandenberg to assure compliance with the new standards. No Scout was 

to leave Dallas until· an inspection team had done a complete worthiness 

review of the whole vehicle and given it a clean bill of health.45 

At the end of the long recertification process, nearly all members of the 

Scout team were confident that they now understood why things had gone 

wrong: from the time that NASA had adopted the concept for the little solidfuel rocket and made it an agenda item for the spaceflight revolution, the 

Scout Project Group simply had had neither the time, nor the inclination, to 

look before they leaped. "We all underestimated the magnitude of the job at 

that time," Milt Green admits. "The biggest problem we had was denying 

the existence of problems that we did not understand." 46 The problem was, 

of course, all too human. 

The process of honestly facing up to fundamental mistakes and moving 

beyond them was probably what made the Scout Project Group the remarkably successful organization it eventually became. Certainly the experience 

turned the project's leaders into some of the most reflective of NASA's engineer/philosophers. Eugene Schult, who was responsible for Scout's guidance 

and control, ponders the project, "We wouldn't learn anything if we didn't 

have problems; that's basic in engineering training .... Success doesn't tell 

us anything. It doesn't tell us where the limits are, or what the limiting 

aspects of the envelope are. But when you hit a mistake, you dig into it 

and you find out there's a weakness. And by curing weaknesses you get 

success." 47 

Schult and his Scout group did indeed recover from failure. The first three 

launches after the recertification-in December 1963 (from Vandenberg), 

March 1964 (from Wallops), and June 1964 (from Vandenberg)-were all 

resounding orbital successes. Between July 1964 and January 1967, Scout 

established a record of 22 consecutive launches. Only one of the 16 recertified 

rockets experienced a failure. The pressure to succeed was now off. Scout 

workers no longer had to perform failure reviews every other month, and 

215 
Spaceflight Revolution 

they no longer had to work the endless overtime and spend weekends away 

from their families. In such a positive environment, success bred success. 

"Now we really had the kind of vehicle we'd set out to develop," boasts 

Bud English. "Reliable. It was still simple and inexpensive, but we could 

launch [it] quickly." 48 In fact, the Scout group needed only six weeks to 

process one of the rockets for a successful launch. Even with this short 

turnaround time, NASA would launch this little rocket for 10 years without 

a problem. English and his colleagues had indeed done the job they set out 

to do. 

An Unsung Hero 

Scout made a total of 113 flights under NASA Langley's direction; the 

last one before the official transfer of the program to NASA Goddard and 

LTV took place on 9 May 1990 from Vandenberg AFB. As a result of these 

flights, NASA ·engineers and their contractors authored more than 1300 

technical and scientific reports on various aspects of the rocket's design, 

performance, and mission findings. 49 

The pride that the Scout Project Group felt for the rocket's performance 

sprang not only from its phenomenal post-recertification accomplishment 

rate of 22 and 37 successful launches but also from the critical roles played 

by Scout payloads in the advancement of atmospheric and space science. 

Early Scout missions helped researchers study the density of the atmosphere 

at various altitudes, the properties of the Van Allen radiation belts, and the 

possible dangers of the micrometeoroid environment on spacecraft. Scouts 

in the 1970s tested Einstein's theory of relativity by carrying an extremely 

accurate atomic clock into space, and they also helped to confirm the theory 

of the "black hole." 

In support of NASA's early space program, Scout was critical to the 

important research into reentry aerodynamics for the manned space missions. With the resulting data, NASA researchers determined what materials best withstood the heat of reentry. This information as well as other 

data acquired by Scout missions contributed directly to test programs such 

as Projects Fire and RAM and to the successes of Mercury, Gemini~ and 

Apollo. In one notable mission in. November 1970, the rocket carried two 

male bullfrogs into orbit. This turned out to be the only time a Scout satellite was to carry a living payload. The unusual mission enabled NASA to 

study the effects of space on the inner ear and thereby better understand 

the causes of the space sickness experienced by astronauts. 

Scout also delivered into space several reconnaissance and communications satellites. For the DOD, the rocket launched classified payloads; for 

the navy, it put into orbit the satellites needed for its Transit system, which 

by the late 1960s provided instantaneous global navigation data not only for 

the operational fleet but also for commercial shipping worldwide. 

216 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

Much of Scout's contribution was international: the rocket launched 23 

satellites for foreign countries, including Germany, the Netherlands, France, 

and the United Kingdom, and the European Space Agency. Based on a 1961 

agreement between the United States and Italy, NASA Langley supplied 

Scouts for an innovative Italian launch operation known as San Marco, which 

was established on two huge mobile platforms in the Indian Ocean, 3 miles off 

the coast of Kenya. From this unusual location in N gwana Bay, the Centro 

Italiano Ricerche Aerospaziali (the Center for Italian Aerospace Research), 

starting in April 1967, used NASA Scouts to boost an international series 

of eight spacecraft into orbit. The flights of these spacecraft, many of 

which were placed into equatorial orbits, gathered valuable data about the 

ionosphere and the magnetosphere, about the galactic sources of radiation 

and X-rays, and especially about the nature of the earth's atmosphere in the 

region of the equator. Participation in the San Marco project incidentally 

gave some Langley engineers their first opportunity for foreign travel and 

international cooperation. In 1966 it even afforded some of them the rare 

opportunity of an audience with Pope Paul VI, who blessed the rocket. 

Fortunately, the launch of the anointed Scout went well. 5° 

Over the years, through the waning of the Apollo program and into 

the era dominated by the Space Shuttle, Scout became more of a bargain. 

Improvements in its stage motors enabled the rocket to carry larger payloads, 

but costs remained low.* Using the consumer price index, Langley employees 

hoping to retain the Scout program calculated that a Scout cost less when 

NASA Goddard took over the program (and LTV took over the rocket) in 

1991 than the original $4 million invested in it in 1958.51 

In summary, Scout, although virtually unknown outside NASA circles, 

developed into one of the finest pieces of technology in the history of space 

exploration. As Tom Perry has observed about the evolution of his most 

cherished rocket, "The Scout became so reliable that mission planners could 

take it for granted. They focused on the science of the satellite payload 

rather than on its transportation system .... It happens to be NASA's 

smallest launch vehicle and it does not receive the same level of notoriety 

you would with a larger system. But over the years it has proven to be a very 

reliable, consistent, performing warhorse." As Perry and other Scout people 

at Langley, Houston, Wallops Island, Vandenberg AFB, and San Marco are 

still fond of saying, more than 30 years after its first countdown, Scout is 

"the unsung hero of space." 52 

* For the first 10 production Phase II Scouts (Phase I was the developmental phase), the vehicle 

hardware costs amounted to $0.96 million per vehicle; for the next 14 production Scouts (Phase III), the 

cost per vehicle rose to $1.42 million. Costs decreased for the 25 Phase N rockets (provided by LTV) 

to $1.19 million per vehicle. Costs for later Scouts rose only slightly, and stayed under $1.5 million per 

vehicle. 

217 
Spaceflight Revolution 

From Italy's innovative San Marco 

launch operation in the Indian 

Ocean, NASA Langley helped to 

launch an international series of 

eight spacecraft into orbit. A huge 

mobile launcher lifts Scout into firing position {right); the San Marco 

platform floats securely in international waters in Ngwana Bay 

(below). 

218 

L-74-7828 

L-71-1197 
The Early Rush of the Scout Rocket Program 

Postscript 

A cynic might suggest that it was entirely in keeping with Scout's 

difficult and publicly unappreciated sojourn into space that the project 

ended as it did. In the late 1970s, NASA policymakers proposed to 

launch all future NASA satellites using the Space Transportation System 

(STS) still under development and abolish all expendable launch vehicles; 

the Space Shuttle, when fully operational, could do it all. Only the 

Challenger explosion in 1986, which underscored the need for alternative 

launch capabilities, reversed the shortsighted policy. In the aftermath of 

the Challenger accident, and in league with the Reagan administration's 

objectives for the commercialization of space and the privatization of many 

government services, NASA created the "Mixed Fleet" concept. Under this 

plan, NASA was to give up its other launch services to commercial firms, 

which from then on were to handle whatever NASA payloads the Shuttle 

could not carry. Essentially, this meant the end of the expendable launch 

vehicle business as NASA's Scout Project Group had known and developed 

it. 53 

Scout engineers sorely lamented the loss of Scout. For them, the venture into space had come to mean an all-enveloping system and a rigorous 

discipline: a government-driven version for rockets of Henry Ford's mass production. "Other programs are full of changes and improvisations," declares 

James Hall; they are always "borrowing from other missiles and assembling 

something just to get it delivered on schedule"-which is exactly what the 

Scout team itself had been doing in the pre-recertification days. 54 Over 

time, however, the "cannibalizing" became minimal in Scout. The program 

for rocket assembly matured beyond the practice, thus becoming standard 

almost to the point of stereotype. Scout engineers wanted to produce a 

launch vehicle that was as reliable for a trip to space as an automobile was 

for a trip to town. Scout, like the Ford Model T, was the "poor man's 

rocket." 

Learning hard lessons through failure and then enjoying such incredible 

long-term success made losing the rocket especially difficult for the Scout 

Project Group. Scout had been giving the country access to space for more 

than 30 years. It succeeded in spite of-and ironically perhaps because ofits hurried early development. Not many programs born of the spaceflight 

revolution survived the spaceflight revolution; Scout was one. 

219 

8 

Enchanted Rendezvous: 

The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

There was a reluctance to believe that the rendezvous 

maneuver was an easy thing. In fact, to a layman, 

if you were to explain what you had to do to perform 

a rendezvous in space, he would say that sounds so 

difficult we'll never be able to do it this century. 

-Clinton E. Brown, head, Langley 

Lunar Mission Steering Group 

on Traject.ories and Guidance 

I'm not so sure we ever thought of rendezvous as very 

complicated. It's an amazing thing. We thought that 

if our guys could work out the orbital mechanics and 

we gave the pilot the right controls and stuff, then he'd 

land it and make the rendezvous. We didn't think it 

was very complicated. 

-Arthur W. Vogeley, head, Langley 

Guidance and Control Branch 

On Thursday morning, 25 May 1961, in a speech to a joint session of 

Congress, President John F. Kennedy challenged the American people to 

rebound from their recent second-place finishes in the space race: "First, I 

believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before 

this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him 

safely to earth. No single space project ... will be more exciting, or 

more impressive . . . or more important . . . and none will be so difficult or 

expensive." "It will not be one man going to the Moon," the dynamic 

43-year-old president told his. countrymen, "it will be an entire nation. For 

all of us must work to put him there." 1 

221 
Spaceflight· Revo.lution 

At first no one at Langley could quite believe it. If President Kennedy 

had in fact just dedicated the country to a manned lunar landing, he could 

not be serious about doing it in less than nine years. NASA had been 

studying the feasibility of various lunar missions for some time, but had 

never dreamed of a manned mission that included landing on and returning 

from the surface of the moon by the end of the 1960s. NASA was not exactly 

sure how such a lunar mission could be achieved, let alone in so little time. 

Not even Bob Gilruth, the leader of the STG, was prepared for the sensational announcement. He heard the news in a NASA airplane somewhere 

over the Midwest on his way to a meeting in Tulsa. He knew that Kennedy 

planned to say something dramatic about the space program in his speech, 

and so he asked the pilot to patch it through on the radio. Looking out 

the window over the passing clouds, he had heard every incredible word. 

Only one word described Gilruth's feelings at that moment: "aghast." The 

first manned Mercury flight by Alan Shepard had taken place only three 

weeks before, on 5 May. NASA had made this one brief 15-minute suborbital flight, and suddenly the President was promising Americans the moon. 

The audacity of the goal was stunning. 2 American astronauts would fly a 

quarter of a million miles, make a pinpoint landing on a familiar but yet so 

strange heavenly body, blast off, and return home safely after a voyage of 

several days through space, and do it all by the end of the decade. Only 

one thought was more daunting to Gilruth, and that was that he was one 

of the main people who would have to make it happen. Already the STG 

had its hands full preparing for another suborbital flight (Virgil I. "Gus" 

Grissom's, on 21 July) and for the first orbital flight sometime early in the 

next year (John Glenn's, on 20 February 1962). Gilruth himself, before 

the president's announcement, "had spent almost no time at all" on lunar 

studies, so demanding were the activities of Project Mercury.3 

Only the project managers directly responsible for making Mercury a 

success felt burdened by the prospects of now having to fulfill the lunar 

commitment. Other planners and dreamers about space exploration within 

NASA were elated. 

When they heard about Kennedy's announcement, Clinton E. Brown and 

his adventurous colleagues cheered, "Hooray, Iet's put on full speed ahead, 

and do what we can." To them, landing astronauts on the moon as quickly 

as possible was obviously the next step if the United States was going to 

win the space race. Furthermore, Brown and his little band of men-plus 

one other key Langley researcher, Dr. John C. Houbolt-were confident that 

they already knew the best way to accomplish the lunar goal.4 

Brown's Lunar Exploration Working Group 

After Sputnik, a s~all circle of Langley researchers had plunged into the 

dark depths of space science. "We were aeronautical engineers," remembers 

222 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

William H. Michael, Jr., a member of Brown's division who had recently 

returned to Langley after a two-year stint in the aircraft industry. "We 

knew how to navigate in the air, but we didn't know a thing about orbital 

mechanics, celestial trajectories, or interplanetary travel, so we had to teach 

ourselves the subjects." In the Langley Technical Library, Michael could find 

only one pertinent book, An Introduction to Celestial Mechanics, written 

in 1914 by British professor of astrophysics Forrest R. Moulton (someone 

Michael had never heard of).5 With this out-of-date text, Michael and a 

few associates taught themselves enough about the equations of celestial 

mechanics to grow confident in their computations. Before long, the novices 

had transformed themselves into experts and were using their slide rules and 

early electronic computers to calculate possible paths to the moon. 

In anticipating the trajectories for lunar missions in the late 1950s, 

Brown, Michael, and the few others were leapfrogging over what most people 

considered to be "the logical next step" into space: an earth-orbiting space 

station. Little did they know that their mental gymnastics would set the 

direction of the U.S. space program for the next 30 years. 

Following the wisdom of Konstantin Tsiolkovskii, Hermann Oberth, 

Guido von Pirquet, Wernher von Braun, and other spacefaring visionaries, 

most proponents of space travel believed that the first step humans would 

take into the universe would be a relatively timid one to some sort of space 

station in earth orbit. The station could serve as a research laboratory 

for unique experiments and valuable industrial enterprises, and from this 

outpost, human travelers could eventually venture into space using craft 

for trips to the moon, the planets, and beyond. Most NASA researchers 

believed that the space station was the perfect target project because it 

could focus NASA's space-related studies as well as its plans for future 

space exploration.6 , 

Clint Brown and associates felt differently: they thought that the space 

station step must be skipped. The politics of the space race, not the inspired 

prophecies of the earliest space pioneers, were dictating the terms of our 

space program. The Russians had already demonstrated that they had 

larger boosters than the United States. This meant that they had the 

capability of establishing a space station first. As Brown explains, "If we put 

all our efforts into putting a space station around the world, we'd probably 

find ourselves coming in second again." The "obvious answer" was that 

"you had to take a larger bite and decide what can really give us leadership 

in the space race." To him "that clearly seemed the possibility of going to 

the moon and landing there." 7 

Inside Brown's Theoretical Mechanics Division, the conviction that lunar studies should take precedence over space station studies grew. In early 

1959, Langley's assistant director, Eugene Draley, agreed to form a Langley 

working group to study the problems of lunar exploration. Brown, the catalytic group leader, asked fo:r the participation of six of Langley's most 

thoughtful analysts: David Adamson, Supersonic Aerodynamics Division; 

223 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Paul R. Hill, PARD; John C. Houbolt, Dynamic Loads Division; Albert A. 

Schy, Stability Research Division; Samuel Katzoff, Full-Scale Research Division; and Bill Michael of his own Theoretical Mechanics Division. Leonard 

Roberts, a talented young mathematician from England, eventually joined 

the group. Brown assembled these researchers for the first time in late March 

1959 and periodically into 1960. Besides advising Langley management on 

the establishment of lunar-related research programs, Brown's group also 

organized a course in space mechanics for interested employees. For many, 

this course provided their first real brush with relativity theory. The Brown 

study group even worked to disseminate information about the moon by 

holding public seminars led by experts from Langley and from the nearby 

universities. 8 

Everything about this original lunar study group was done quietly 

and without much fuss. In those early days of NASA, the management 

of research was still flexible and did not always require formal research 

authorizations ~Jr approval from NASA headquarters in Washington. When 

Brown expressed his desire to work more on lunar exploration than on the 

space station, Draley simply told him, "Fine, go ahead." Henceforth, he and 

his lunar working group proceeded with their efforts to solve the problems of 

sending an American to the moon. Brown's group was doing what Langley 

researchers did best: exploring an interesting new idea and seeing how far 

they could go with it. 

Langley researchers were not the only people in the United States thinking seriously about lunar missions. Officers in the air force, scientists in think 

tanks, professors at universities, and other engineers and researchers in and 

around NASA were all contemplating a journey to the moon. In February 

1959, a month before the creation of Brown's Lunar Exploration Working 

Group at Langley, NASA headquarters had created a small "Working Group 

on Lunar and Planetary Surfaces Exploration" (evolving later into the 

"Science Committee on Lunar Exploration") chaired by Dr. Robert Jastrow, 

the head of NASA headquarters' new Theoretical Division. This group included such leaders in planetology and lunar science as Harold C. Urey, 

professor at large at the University of California at San Diego, several leading scientists from JPL in Pasadena, and a few from Langley. In their 

meetings Jastrow's group looked into the feasibility of both "rough" (later 

usually called "hard") and "soft" landings on the moon. In a rough landing, 

a probe would crash onto the surface and be destroyed, but only after an 

on-board camera had sent back dozens of valuable pictures to earth. In a 

soft landing, a spacecraft would actually land intact on the moon. Langley's 

Bill Michael sat in on one of the first meetings of the J astrow Committee. 

In reaction to what he heard, Michael and others at Langley began developing ideas for photographic reconnaissance of the moon's surface from lunar 

orbit as well as for lunar impact studies. 9 Houbolt, of Langley's Dynamic 

Loads Division, also attended some of these meetings to share his budding 

knowledge of the requirements for spacecraft rendezvous. 

224 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

Committees Reviewing Lunar Landing Modes 

Date 

Formed Location Title Chairman 

Feb. 1959 NASA HQ Working Group on Lunar Jastrow 

and Planetary Surfaces 

Exploration 

Mar. 1959 Langley Lunar Exploration Working Brown 

Group 

Apr. 1959 NASA HQ Research Steering Committee Goett 

on Manned Space Flight 

Summer Langley Manned Space Lab Group Nichols 

1959 Subcommittee: Rendezvous Houbolt 

May 1960 Langley Intercenter Review of Maggin 

Rendezvous Studies 

May 1960 Langley Lunar Mission Steering Group Becker 

Subcommittee: Brown 

Trajectories and Guidance 

Subcommittee: Houbolt 

Rendezvous 

Oct. 1960 NASA HQ Manned Lunar Landing Task Low 

Group (Low Committee) 

May 1961 NASA HQ Ad Hoc Task Group for a Fleming 

Lunar Landing Study 

(Fleming Committee) 

May 1961 NASA HQ Lundin Committee Lundin 

June 1961 NASA HQ Ad Hoc Task Group for Heaton 

Study of Manned Lunar 

Landing by Rendezvous 

Techniques 

(Heaton Committee) 

July 1961 NASA HQ NASA/DOD Large Launch Golovin 

Vehicle Planning. Group 

(Golovin Committee) 

Dec. 1961 NASA HQ Manned Space Flight Holmes 

Management Council 

225 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Two months later, in April1959, NASA headquarters formed a Research 

Steering Committee on Manned Space Flight. Chaired by Harry J. Goett 

of NASA Goddard, this committee was to review man-in-space problems, 

recommend the missions to follow Project Mercury, and outline the research 

programs to support those missions. 10 

In its final report, which came at the end of 1959, the Goett Committee 

called for a manned lunar landing as the appropriate long-term goal of 

NASA's space program. Between that goal and the present Project Mercury, 

however, a major interim program designed to develop advanced orbital 

capabilities and a manned space station was needed. Before that program, 

to be named Gemini, took shape, however, basic priorities would change. 

Langley's representative on the Goett Committee, Laurence K. Loftin, 

Jr., the technical assistant to Associate Director Thompson, agreed that the 

space station should be NASA's immediate goaL But two other members 

disagreed: the STG's Max Faget and George Low, NASA's director of 

spacecraft and flight missions in Washington. During meetings from May 

to December, they voiced what turned out to be the minority opinion that 

the moon should be NASA's next objective. George Low was particularly 

vocal in making the point. Not only did he want to go to the moon, Low 

also wanted to land on it, with men, and the sooner the better. 11 

Michael's Paper on a "Parking Orbit" 

At Langley, members of Brown's lunar exploration group were studying 

ways of accomplishing Low's dream. One of these studies, by Bill Michael, 

examined the benefits of "parking" the earth-return propulsion portion of a 

spacecraft in orbit around the moon during a landing mission. 

The spark for Michael's interest in what came to be called a "parking 

orbit," a spacecraft in a waiting orbit around the moon or some other 

celestial body, was calculations he had made to see whether any advantage 

could be gained in a lunar mission from additional "staging." First explained 

by Tsarist Russia's space visionary Tsiolkovskii in the late 1800s, staging 

was the proven technological concept by which a self-propelled, stagedrocket vehicle (Tsiolkovskii called it a rocket "train") could ascend to greater 

heights as its stages expended their fuel and separated. 

In a lunar landing mission, Michael speculated, flying a big rocket ship 

directly from the earth to the moon would be impracticaL (Jules Verne's 

popular book and other science-fiction fantasies had pictured this method 

for a lunar landing.) Too much unnecessary weight would have to be 

transported to the moon's surface. How much wiser it would be to make "an 

intermediate step" and place the vehicle in lunar orbit where much of the 

total weight remained behind including the structure of the interplanetary 

spacecraft, its heavy fuel load for leaving lunar orbit and returning home, 

and its massive heat shield necessary for a safe reentry into the earth's 

226 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

L-89-8683 

At a colloquium held at Langley on 20 July 1989 to celebrate the 20th anniversary of 

the first lunar landing, William H. Michael, Jr., (center) reviews the evolution of his 

parking orbit concept with Clinton E. Brown (right), head of the Lunar Exploration 

Working Group and Arthur Vogeley (left), mastermind of Langley's rendezvous and 

docking simulators of the 1960s. 

atmosphere. "It's very expensive to accelerate any type of mass to high 

velocity," Michael thought. "Any time you do not have to do that, you save 

a lot of fuel and thus a lot of weight." 12 

Michael wrote his calculations in 1960 in a never-to-be-published paper, 

"Weight Advantages of Use of Parking Orbit for Lunar Soft Landing 

Mission." In the paper, Michael identified the most basic advantage of what 

came to be known as lunar-orbit rendezvous (LOR). His results implied 

that LOR could save NASA an impressive 50 percent or more of the total 

mission weight. Figuring the numbers did not require any difficult or 

sophisticated calculations.13 Nor did it require any knowledge of the writings 

of Russian rocket theoretician Yuri Kondratyuk and British scientist and 

Interplanetary Society member H. E. Ross, both of whom had expressed the 

fundamentals of the LOR concept years earlier (Kondratyuk in 1916, and 

Ross in 1948).14 Neither Michael nor anyone else at Langley at this point, 

so they have always maintained, had any knowledge of those precursors. 

They also knew nothing about competition from contemporaries; however, they soon would. The same morning that Michael first showed his 

227 
Spaceflight Revolution 

rough parking-orbit calculations to Clint Brown, a team led by Thomas E. 

Dolan from Vought Astronautics, a division of the Chance Vought Corporation in Dallas, gave a briefing at Langley. The briefing concerned 

Vought's ongoing company-funded, confidential study of problems related 

to Manned Lunar Landing and Return (MALLAR) and specifically its plans 

for a manned spaceflight simulator and its possible application for research 

under contract to NASA. 15 

During the briefing, Dolan's staff mentioned an idea for reaching the 

moon. Although the Vought representatives focused their analysis on the 

many benefits of what they called a "modular spacecraft" -one in which 

several parts, including a lunar landing module, were designed for certain 

tasks-Brown and Michael understood that Vought was advertising the 

essentials of the LOR concept. "They got up there and they had the whole 

thing laid out," Brown remembers. "They had scooped us" with their idea 

of "designing a spacecraft so that you can throw away parts of it as you go 

along." For the next several days, Michael walked around "with his face 

hanging down to the floor." 16 

Nevertheless, the chagrined Langley engineer decided to write a brief 

paper because he was confident that he had come up with his idea independently. Furthermore, the word around Langley later came to be that Dolan 

had developed the idea of using a detachable lunar landing module for the 

landing operation after an earlier visit to Langley when PARD engineers familiar with Michael's embryonic idea had suggested a parking orbit to him. 

This explanation may simply be "sour grapes." On the other hand, Dolan 

had been visiting Langley in late 1959 and early 1960, and Michael does 

remember having already mentioned his idea to a few people at the center, 

"so it shouldn't have been any surprise to anybody here at Langley that 

such a possibility existed." 17 The truth about the origin of Dolan's idea 

will probably never be known. 

Michael's paper, at least in retrospect, had some significant limitations. 

It was only two pages long and presented little analysis. Its charts were difficult to follow and interpret. He did not mention "earth-escape weights," 

though an informed reader could infer such numbers. Perhaps most importantly, the paper did not explicitly mention either the need for a separate 

lunar lander or the additional weight savings derived from using one and 

discarding it before the return trip home. A reader would already have to 

be familiar with the subject even to recognize, let alone fully fathom, what 

was being implied. Michael's paper was hardly a fully developed articulation 

of a lunar landing mission using LOR. Nonetheless, it made a fundamentally 

important contribution: it made rendezvous the central theme for Langley 

researchers contemplating lunar missions. As his paper concluded, the chief 

problems in a lunar landing mission were the "complications involved in 

requiring a rendezvous with the components left in the parking orbit." 18 

Although disappointed by the news that Vought had scooped them 

with the idea of LOR, the Langley researchers were hardly demoralized. 

228 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

c.- I 

Three days before President Kennedy's 

lunar commitment, John D. Bird, 

"Jaybird" {left), captured Langley's enthusiasm for a moonshot in his sketch 

"TO THE MOON WITH C-1's OR 

BUST" {below). In essence, his plan 

called for a mission via earth-orbit rendezvous (EOR) requiring the launch of 

1 0 C-1 rockets. 

C.-It ~ ~ll11 I e~1 C-1 

I 

1 

229 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Researchers in and around Brown's division quickly began making lunar 

and planetary mission feasibility studies of their own. John P. Gapcynski, 

for example, considered factors involved in the departure of a vehicle from a 

circular orbit around the earth. Wilbur L. Mayo calculated energy and mass 

requirements for missions to the moon and even to Mars. Robert H. Tolson 

studied the effects on lunar trajectories of such geometrical constraints as 

the eccentricity of the moon's orbit and the oblate shape of the earth, and 

also looked into the influence of the solar gravitational field. John D. Bird, 

"Jaybird," who worked across the hall from Michael, began designing "lunar 

bugs," "lunar schooners," and other types of small excursion modules that 

could go down to the surface of the moon from a "mother ship." Jaybird 

became a particularly outspoken advocate of LOR. When a skeptical visitor 

to Langley offered, with a chuckle, that LOR was "like putting a guy in 

an airplane without a parachute and having him make a midair transfer," 

Bird set the visitor straight. "No," he corrected, "it's like having a big ship 

moored in the harbor while a little rowboat leaves it, goes ashore, and comes 

back again." 19 · 

The Rendezvous Committees 

A feeling was growing within NASA in late 1959 and early 1960 that 

rendezvous in space was going to be a vital maneuver no matter what 

NASA chose as the follow-on mission to Project Mercury. If the next 

step was a space station, a craft must meet and dock with that station 

and then leave it; if the next step was a lunar mission, that, too, would 

require some sort of rendezvous either in lunar orbit, as Michael's study 

suggested, or in earth orbit, where a lunar-bound spacecraft might be 

assembled or at least fueled. Even if neither of these projects was adopted, 

communications and military "spy" satellites would require inspection and 

repair, thus necessitating rendezvous maneuvers. Rendezvous would be a 

central element of all future flight endeavors-whatever NASA decided. 

By late summer 1959, Langley's senior staff was ready to proceed with 

detailed studies of how best to perform rendezvous maneuvers in space. Two 

rendezvous study committees eventually were formed, both chaired by Dr. 

John C. Houbolt, the assistant chief of Langley's Dynamic Loads Division. 

Houbolt was an aircraft structures expert who had begun work at Langley 

in 1942 with a B.S. and M.S. in civil engineering from the University 

of Illinois. In contrast to most Langley researchers, he had spent a 

significant amount of time conducting research abroad. He had been an 

exchange research scientist at the British Royal Aircraft Establishment at 

Farnborough, England, in 1949, and in 1958, Houbolt had only recently 

returned from a year at the Swiss Federal Polytechnic Institute in Zurich, 

where his dissertation. on the heat-related aeroelastic problems of aircraft 

structures in high-speed flight had earned him a Ph.D. 20 

230 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

Upon returning from his graduate work in Switzerland, Houbolt had 

found himself becoming more curious about spaceflight as were other 

Langley researchers. On his own, largely independent of the conversations 

taking place within Brown's group, Houbolt learned the fundamentals of 

space navigation. "I racked down and went through the whole analysis of 

orbital mechanics so I could understand it." From his own preliminary studies of trajectories, he saw the vital importance of rendezvous and began to 

recognize and evaluate the basic problems associated with it. During the 

STG's training of the Mercury astronauts at Langley, Houbolt taught them 

their course on space navigation. 21 

Houbolt focused on one special problem related to rendezvous-the 

timing of the launch. NASA could not launch a mission at just any time and 

be assured of effecting a rendezvous with an orbiting spacecraft. In order 

to visualize the problem, Houbolt built a gadget with a globe for the earth 

and a small ball on the end of a short piece of coat hanger for the satellite. 

He connected it all to a variable-ratio gearbox. The gadget simulated a 

satellite at different altitudes and in different orbital planes. With this 

little machine Houbolt could figure the time that satellites would take at 

varying altitudes to orbit the revolving earth. From his considerations of 

orbital mechanics, Houbolt found that a change in orbital plane at 25,000 

feet per second without the help of aerodynamic lift would require such an 

enormous amount of energy that it could not be made. With this simple 

but ingenious model, Houbolt saw how long NASA might have to wait-a 

period of many days-in order to launch a rendezvous mission from Cape 

Canaveral. However, he also found a way to circumvent the problem: "if the 

orbital plane of the satellite could be made just one or two degrees larger 

than the latitude of the launch site," the launch "window" could be extended 

to four hours every day. Thus, he began to understand how NASA could 

avoid the long waiting periods.22 

The word quickly spread through Langley that Houbolt, the aircraft 

structures specialist, was now "the rendezvous man." He even had a 

"license to rendezvous" issued to him by the Rand Corporation, a nonprofit 

think tank (affiliated with Douglas Aircraft) in southern California. The 

Rand Corporation, which had an interest in space rendezvous and a space 

rendezvous simulator, presented Houbolt with this "license" in November 

1959 after he successfully linked two craft on the Douglas rendezvous 

simulator.23 Thus, when NASA Langley created its steering groups to 

study the problems of orbital space stations and lunar exploration missions, 

Houbolt naturally was asked to provide the input about rendezvous. 

The first of Houbolt's rendezvous committees was linked to Langley's 

Manned Space Laboratory Group. Headed by the Full-Scale Research 

Division's Mark R. Nichols, an aerodynamics specialist who was reluctant 

to accept the assignment, this group was formed late in the summer of 

1959. It was similar to Brown's interdivisional Lunar Exploration Working 

Group, except that it was larger and had committees of its own. One of 

231 
Spaceflight Revolution 

them, Houbolt's committee, was to look into the matter of rendezvous as 

it pertained to earth-orbit operations. This it did in a "loosely organized 

and largely unscheduled" way during the first months of 1960. Serving 

on the committee were John M. Eggleston, Arthur W. Vogeley, Max C. 

Kurbjun, and W. Hewitt Phillips of the Aero-Space Mechanics Division; 

John A. Dodgen and William Mace of IRD; and John Bird and Clint Brown 

of the Theoretical Mechanics Division. 24 The overlapping memberships and 

responsibilities of the committees and study groups created during this busy 

and chaotic period have caused much confusion in the historical record about 

where the concept of LOR first arose at Langley and about who deserves 

the credit. 

At one of the early meetings of the Manned Space Laboratory Group 

on 18 September 1959, Houbolt made a long statement on the rendezvous 

problem. In this statement, one of the first made on this subject anywhere 

inside NASA, Houbolt insisted that his committee be allowed to study 

rendezvous "in the broadest terms" possible because, as he argued correctly, 

the technique was certain to play a major role in almost any advanced 

space mission NASA might initiate.25 Three months later, in December 

1959, Houbolt appeared with other leading members of the Manned Space 

Laboratory Group before a meeting of the Goett Committee held at Langley. 

He urged the adoption of a rendezvous-satellite experiment-an experiment, 

in essence, similar to NASA's later Project Gemini-which could "define 

and solve the problems more clearly." The Goett Committee members, the 

majority of whom were still narrowly focusing on a space station and a 

circumlunar mission, showed little interest in Houbolt's experiment idea.26 

Representatives from Goddard, Marshall, and JPL met at Langley on 

16-17 May 1960 for an intercenter review of NASA's current rendezvous 

studies. At this meeting, Houbolt gave the principal Langley presentation 

based on a paper he had just delivered at the National Aeronautical Meeting 

of the Society of Automotive Engineers in New York City, 5-8 April. All 

representatives were in "complete agreement" that rendezvous was "an 

important problem area" that opened "many operational possibilities" and 

that warranted "significant study." The strength of Houbolt's presentation 

demonstrated that of all the NASA centers, Langley was "expending the 

greatest effort on rendezvous." Eleven studies were under way at the 

center compared with three at Ames and two each at Lewis and the Flight 

Research Center. Marshall had an active interest in rendezvous but only 

in connection with advanced Saturn missions. With their "leanings toward 

orbital operations," von Braun's people had done little work specifically on 

rendezvous and were not prepared to talk about what little they had done. 27 

One week after the intercenter review, a second rendezvous committee 

met for the first time. It was part of a Lunar Mission Steering Group 

created by Director Floyd Thompson. Chairing this group was hypersonics 

specialist John V. Becker, chief of the Aero-Physics Division.28 Much larger 

and more formal than' Brown's original little band of lunar enthusiasts, the 

232 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

group chaired by Becker incorporated the Brown group, with the dynamic 

Brown himself serving as chairman of the new group's subcommittee on 

trajectories and guidance. Five other subcommittees were quickly organized: 

Howard B. Edwards of IRD chaired an instrumentation and communications 

committee; Richard R. Heldenfels of the Structures Research Division 

headed a committee on structures and materials; Paul R. Hill of the AeroSpace Mechanics Division was in charge of a committee on propulsion, flight 

testing, and dynamic loads; Eugene S. Love, Becker's assistant chief of the 

Aero-Physics Division, led a committee on reentry aerodynamics, heating, 

configuration, and aeromedical issues; and John C. Houbolt headed the 

rendezvous committee. Serving with Houbolt were Wilford E. Silvertson, 

Jr., of IRD and John Bird and John Eggleston, who were also members of 

his other rendezvous committee for the Manned Space Lab Group. 

Becker's Lunar Mission Steering Group was to take a "very broad look 

at all possible ways of accomplishing the lunar mission." At the time NASA 

envisioned a circumlunar rather than a landing mission. (By late summer 

1960, Lowell E. Hasel,· secretary of Becker's study group, was referring to it 

in his minutes as the "LRC Circumlunar Mission Steering Group.") More 

specifically, the Becker group was to decide whether it approved of the 

general guidelines for lunar missions as established by the STG in meetings 

a month earlier, in April1960. 29 In the next six months, Becker's group met 

six times, sent representatives to NASA headquarters and Marshall Space 

Flight Center for consultation and presentation of preliminary analyses, and 

generally educated itself in the relevant technical areas. Its exploratory 

experimental data eventually appeared in 12 Langley papers presented at 

the first NASA/Industry Apollo Technical Conference held in Washington 

from 18-20 July 1961. Long before that time, however, Langley's Lunar 

Mission Steering Group discontinued its activities. In mid-November 1960, 

when the STG developed its formal Apollo Technical Liaison Plan, which 

organized specialists in each problem area from every NASA center, the 

group was no longer needed and simply stopped meeting.30 

Houbolt Launches His First Crusade 

In his paper presented before the Society of Automotive Engineers in 

April 1960, Houbolt had focused on "the problem of rendezvous in space, 

involving, for example, the ascent of a satellite or space ferry as to make 

a soft contact with another satellite or space station already in orbit." 

His analysis of soft rendezvous could have applied to a lunar mission, but 

Houbolt did not specifically refer to that possibility.31 

He had been seriously studying it, as revealed in the minutes of a meeting 

of Langley's Manned Space Laboratory Group held on 5 February 1960. On 

that occasion Houbolt discussed the general requirements of a "soft landing 

device" in a lunar mission involving LOR. He did so in spite of the fact that 

233 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Houbolt's Early Crusades 

Date Location Presentation Audience 

Sept. 1959 Langley Manned Space Lab Group 

Dec. 1959 Langley Goett Committee 

Feb. 1960 Langley Manned Space Lab Group 

Apr. 1960 New York Society of Automotive Engineers 

Spring 1960 Langley Robert Piland and STG members 

(informal) 

Spring 1960 Langley William Mrazek 

May 1960 · Langley Intercenter Review 

Sept. 1960 Langley Seamans (informal) 

Nov. 1960 Pentagon Air Force Scientific Advisory 

Board 

Dec. 1960 Langley STG leaders 

Dec. 1960 NASA HQ Headquarters staff 

including Glennan, von Braun, 

Seamans, and Faget 

this particular rendezvous committee was supposed to be focusing more 

narrowly on a rendezvous with an earth-orbiting space station. 32 

From this point on, Houbolt began to advertise LOR in meetings and 

conversations. In the spring of 1960, he talked about LOR with Robert 0. 

Piland and other members of the STG at Langley. During the same period, 

Houbolt mentioned LOR to William A. Mrazek, director of the Structures 

and Mechanics Division at Marshall. Houbolt had been helping Mrazek to 

evaluate the S-IV stage (consisting of four uprated Centaur engines) of the 

Saturn rocket. 33 

In the summer of 1960, while making back-of-the-envelope calculations to 

confirm the savings in rocket-boosting power gained by the LOR approach, 

Houbolt experienced a powerful technological epiphany. Three years later, 

in a 1963 article, he described what happened: "Almost simultaneously, it 

became clear that lunar-orbit rendezvous offered a chain reaction simplification on all 'back effects': development, testing, manufacturing, erection, 

count-down, flight operations, etc." In this moment of revelation, Houbolt 

made an ardent resolve: "I vowed to dedicate myself to the task." From 

234 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

that instant until NASA's selection of the mission mode for Project Apollo 

in July 1962, he tirelessly crusaded for the LOR concept.34 

On 1 September 1960, Dr. Robert C. Seamans, who had a Ph.D. in 

aeronautical engineering and was a former member of an NACA technical 

subcommittee, became NASA's new associate director. One of his first 

official duties was visiting all the agency's field centers for orientations 

about their programs and introductions to their personnel. During his 

visit to Langley, one of the many people he encountered was an excited 

John Houbolt, who seized the moment to say something privately about the 

advantages of LOR. He told the associate administrator, "We ought to be 

thinking about using LOR in our way of going to the moon." 35 

Bob Seamans, in his previous job as chief engineer for RCA's Missile 

and Electronics Division in Massachusetts, had been involved in an air force 

study known as Project Saint-an acronym for satellite interceptor. This 

"quiet but far-reaching" classified military project involved the interception 

of satellites in earth orbit. Project Saint predisposed Seamans to entertain ideas about rendezvous techniques and maneuvers. Houbolt explained 

to him that LOR would work even if less weight than that of the entire 

spacecraft was left in a parking orbit. If only the weight of the spacecraft's 

heat shield was parked, NASA could realize some significant savings. Impressed with the importance of leaving weight in orbit, and equally impressed 

with Houbolt 's zeal, Seamans invited the impassioned Lan~ley researcher to 

present his ideas formally before his staff in Washington.3 

Before that presentation, however, Houbolt gave two other briefings 

on rendezvous: the first, in November 1960, to the Air Force Scientific 

Advisory Board at the Pentagon; the second, on 10 December, to leading 

members of the STG including Paul Purser, Robert Piland, Owen Maynard, 

Caldwell Johnson, James Chamberlin, and Max Faget. (Gilruth was not 

present.) In both talks, Houbolt spoke about all the possible uses of 

rendezvous. For LOR, the uses included a manned lunar landing, and 

for earth-orbit rendezvous (EOR) they included assembly of orbital units, 

personnel transfer to a space station, proper placement of special purpose 

satellites, and inspection and interception of satellites. Houbolt stressed 

that rendezvous would be both inherently useful and technically feasible in 

many space missions. Historians have missed this key point about Houbolt: 

he was advocating rendezvous generally, not just LOR. 

If humans were going to land on the moon using existing rocket boosters, 

or even the boosters that were then on the drawing boards, a combination 

of EOR and LOR would be required. "We would put up a component 

with a first booster; we would put up another component with another 

booster; then we would rendezvous the two of them in earth orbit. Then we 

would go to the moon with this booster system and perform the lunar-orbit 

rendezvous with the remaining spacecraft. The whole reason for doing it 

this way would be because the boosters were still too small." 

235 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Although he presented several rendezvous concepts, Houbolt championed 

LOR. With charts showing a soft manned lunar landing accomplished both 

with the Saturn-class rockets then in development and with existing launch 

vehicles such as Atlas or Langley's Scout, Houbolt concluded his lecture 

by emphasizing the "great advantage" of LOR. In a lunar landing mission, 

the earth-boost payload would be reduced two to two-and-a-half times. "I 

pointed out over and over again" that if these boosters could be made bigger, 

then NASA "could dispense with the earth-orbit rendezvous portion and do 

it solely by lunar-orbit rendezvous." 37 

Houbolt recalls that neither the Scientific Advisory Board nor the STG 

seemed overly interested; however, they did not seem overly hostile. He was 

to experience this passive reaction often in the coming months. But not all 

the reactions were so passive. Some of them, from intelligent and influential 

people inside the space program, were loud, harshly worded, and negative. 

On 14 December 1960, Houbolt traveled to Washington with a group of 

Langley colleagues to give the staff at NASA headquarters the briefing he 

had promised Bob Seamans three months earlier. All NASA's important 

people were in the audience, including Keith Glennan, Seamans, Wernher 

von Braun, and the leadership of the STG. For 15 minutes, Houbolt moved 

carefully through his charts and analysis. He concluded, as he had done 

in the earlier briefings, with an enthusiastic statement about LOR's weight 

savings-a reduction of earth payload by a "whopping" two to two-and-ahalf times. 

When he finished, a small man with a receding hairline and a bow tie 

jumped up from the audience. Houbolt knew all too well who he was: the 

hot-blooded Max Faget, his longtime Langley associate and present member 

of the STG. "His figures lie." Faget accused. "He doesn't know what he's 

talking about." Even in a bull session at Langley, Faget's fiery accusation 

would have been upsetting. But "in an open meeting, in front of Houbolt's 

peers and supervisors," it was "a brutal thing for one Langley engineer to 

say to another." 38 Faget had not bothered to voice these doubts four days 

earlier during the more private STG management briefing at Langley, when 

Houbolt and the others who were to give talks at headquarters had rehearsed 

their presentations. Faget continued his vocal objections in the hallway after 

the headquarters briefing was over. Houbolt tried to stay calm, but clearly 

he was agitated. He answered the charge simply by telling Faget that he 

"ought to look at the study before [making] a pronouncement like that." 39 It 

was an "ought to" that Houbolt would be passing on to many LOR skeptics 

before it was all over. 

Curiously, earlier at the same NASA headquarters meeting, Clint Brown 

had made a presentation based on a study he had done with Ralph W. 

Stone, Jr., of the Theoretical Mechanics Division. Brown had explained a 

general operational concept for an LOR plan for a manned lunar mission. 

Brown's basic idea was to develop an early launch capability by combining 

several existing rocket ·boosters, specifically the Atlas, Centaur, and Scout. 

236 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

He also illustrated the advantage of rendezvous for weight reduction over 

direct ascent. But oddly, Brown's talk-unlike Houbolt's-did not provoke 

a strong negative reaction.40 Perhaps this was because Houbolt gave a 

more explicit analysis of the advantages of LOR over the direct approach, 

or perhaps it was because Brown had given his presentation first and Faget 

needed to build up some steam, or perhaps it was personal, with Faget 

simply liking Brown better than he liked Houbolt. 

The Feelings Against LOR 

The basic premise of the LOR concept that NASA would eventually 

develop into Project Apollo was to fire an assembly of three spacecraft into 

earth orbit on top of a single powerful (three-stage) rocket, the Saturn V. 

This 50,000-pound-plus assembly would include a mother ship or command 

module ( CM); a service module (SM) containing the fuel cells, attitude 

control system, and main propulsion system; and a small lunar lander or 

excursion module. Ortce in earth orbit, the last stage of the Saturn rocket 

would fire and expend itself, thus boosting the Apollo spacecraft with its 

crew of three astronauts into its trajectory to the moon. Braking into lunar 

orbit via the small rockets aboard the service module, two members would 

don space suits and climb into the lunar excursion module (LEM), detach 

it from the mother ship, and pilot it to the lunar surface. The third crew 

member would remain in the CM, maintaining a lonely but busy vigil in 

lunar orbit. If all went well, the top half or ascent stage of the LEM would 

rocket back up, using the ascent engine provided, and redock with the CM. 

What remained of the lander would then be discarded to the vast void 

of space--or crashed on the moon as was done in later Apollo missions for 

seismic experiments-and the three astronauts in their command ship would 

head for home.* 

Knowing what we know now, that is, that the United States would 

land Americans on the moon and return them safely before the end of 

the decade using LOR, the strength of feeling against the concept in the 

early 1960s is hard to imagine. In retrospect, we know that LOR enjoyedas Brown, Michael, Dolan, and especially John Houbolt had said-several 

advantages over its competitors. It required less fuel, only half the payload, 

and somewhat less new technology; it did not require a monstrous rocket 

such as the proposed Nova for a direct flight; and it called for only one launch 

from earth, whereas one of LOR's chief competitors, EOR, required at least 

two. Only the small lightweight LEM, not the entire spacecraft, would have 

to land on the moon. This was perhaps LOR's major advantage. Because 

* One can summarize the LOR concept with three specifications: (1) Only a specially designed LEM 

would actually descend to the moon's surface; (2) Only a portion of that LEM, the ascent stage, would 

return to dock with the CM in lunar .orbit; and (3) Only the CM or Apollo capsule itself, with its 

protective heat shield, would fall back to earth. 

237 
Spaceflight Revolution 

the lander was to be discarded after use and would not be needed to return 

to earth, NASA could customize the design of the LEM for maneuvering 

flight in the lunar environment and for a soft lunar landing. In fact, the 

beauty of LOR was that NASA could tailor all the modules of the Apollo 

spacecraft independently-without those tailorings having to compromise 

each other. One spacecraft unit to do three jobs would have forced some 

major concessions, but three units to do three jobs was another plus for LOR 

that no one at NASA, finally, could overlook. 

In the early 1960s, these advantages were theoretical, but the fear that 

American astronauts might be left in an orbiting coffin some 240,000 miles 

from home was quite real. If rendezvous had to be part of the lunar mission, 

many people felt it should be attempted only in earth orbit. If rendezvous 

failed there, the threatened astronauts could be brought home simply by 

allowing the orbit of their spacecraft to deteriorate. If a rendezvous around 

the moon failed, the astronauts would be too far away to be saved. Nothing 

could be done. The specter of dead astronauts sailing around the moon 

haunted those responsible for the Apollo program. This anxiety made 

objective evaluation of LOR by NASA unusually difficult. 

John Houbolt understood NASA's fears, but he recognized that all the 

alternative schemes had serious pitfalls and dreadful possibilities of their 

own. He was certain that all the other options would be more perilous and 

did not really offer rescue possibilities. The LOR concept, in contrast, did 

offer the chance of a rescue if two small landing modules, rather than one, 

were included. One lander could be held in reserve with the orbiting mother 

ship to go down to the lunar surface if the number one lander encountered 

serious trouble. Or, in the case of an accident inside the command-service 

module, one attached LEM could serve as a type of "lifeboat."* Houbolt 

just could not accept the charge that LOR was inherently more dangerous, 

but neither could he easily turn that charge aside. 

The intellectual and emotional climate in which NASA would have to 

make perhaps the most fundamental decision in its history was amazingly 

tempestuous. The psychological obstacle to LOR's progress made the 

entire year of 1961 and the first seven months of 1962 the most hectic and 

challenging period of John Houbolt's life.41 

On 5 January 1961, Houbolt spoke again on rendezvous during the 

first afternoon session of a historic two-day Space Exploration Program 

Council (SEPC) in Washington. This council had been created by NASA 

for "smoothing out technical and managerial problems at the highest level." 

Chaired by the associate administrator, this council meeting-the first that 

* This scenario would indeed happen during the mission of Apollo 13, when outward bound and 

200,000 miles from earth, an explosion in one of the oxygen tanks within the service module caused a 

leak in another oxygen tank and confronted NASA with an urgent life-threatening problem. NASA solved 

the problem by having the astronauts head home, without landing, and by moving them temporarily 

into the atmosphere of the LEM. 

238 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

Seamans presided over-included, as always, all program office heads at 

headquarters, the directors of all NASA field centers, and their invited guests 

and speakers. The SEPC had been meeting quarterly since early 1960, but 

this first meeting of 1961 was by far the most historic to date; it was the 

first meeting inside NASA to feature an agencywide discussion of a manned 

lunar landing.42 

At the end of the first day of this meeting, everyone agreed that the 

mission mode for a manned lunar landing by NASA could be reduced to 

three options: direct ascent, which was still the front-runner; EOR, which 

was gaining ground quickly; and LOR, the dark horse on which only the 

most capricious gamblers in NASA would have ventured a bet. 

One speaker had presented each option. First, Marshall's impressive 

rocket pioneer from Germany, Wernher von Braun, reviewed NASA's launch 

vehicle program, with an eye to the advantages of EOR. Von Braun explained how two pieces of hardware could be launched into space independently using advanced Saturn rockets then under development; how the two 

pieces could rendezvous and dock in earth orbit; how a lunar mission vehicle could be assembled, fueled, and detached from the joined modules; and 

how that augmented ship could proceed directly to the surface of the moon 

and after exploring, return to earth. The clearest immediate advantage of 

EOR, as von Braun pointed out, was that it required a pair of less powerful 

rockets that were already nearing the end of their development. Two of his 

early Saturns would do the job. The biggest pitfall of EOR, as with direct 

ascent, was that no one knew how the spacecraft would actually make its 

landing. On the details of that essential maneuver, von Braun said nothing 

other than to admit that more serious study would have to be done very 

quickly.43 

Next, Melvyn Savage of the Office of Launch Vehicle Programs at NASA 

headquarters explained direct ascent. A massive rocket roughly the size of a 

battleship would be fired directly to the moon, land, and blast off for home 

directly from the lunar surface. The trip required one brute of a booster 

vehicle, the proposed 12-million-pound thrust Nova rocket. 

Late in the afternoon, Houbolt came to the podium to discuss rendezvous 

and highlight the unappreciated strengths of his dark-horse candidate. To 

him the advantages of LOR and the disadvantages of the other two options 

were obvious. Any single rocket such as Nova that had to carry and lift 

all the fuel necessary for leaving the earth's gravity, braking against the 

moon's gravity as well as leaving it, and braking against the earth's gravity 

was clearly not the most practical choice-especially if the mission was to 

be accomplished in the near future. The development of a rocket that 

mammoth would take too long, and the expense would be enormous. In 

Houbolt's opinion, EOR was a more reasonable choice than direct ascent but 

not as sensible as LOR. After the lunar-bound spacecraft left its rendezvous 

station around the earth, the rest of an EOR mission would be accomplished 

in exactly the same way as direct ascent. NASA's crew of astronauts would 

239 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Houbolt's Later Crusades 

Date Location Presentation Audience 

Jan. 1961 NASA HQ Space Exploration Program 

Council Meeting 

Jan. 1961 Langley STG members 

Jan. 1961 Langley Pearson (Low Committee) 

Jan. 1961 NASA HQ NASA Headquarters staff 

Apr. 1961 Langley STG 

May 1961 Letter to Seamans (NASA HQ) 

June 1961 NASA HQ Lundin Committee 

June 1961 France International Space Flight 

Symposium 

July 1961 Langley Rehearsal with STG 

July 1961 Washington, D.C. NASA/Industry Apollo Technical 

Conference 

Aug. 1961 NASA HQ Golovin Committee 

Aug. 1961 Langley STG 

Nov. 1961 Letter to Seamans (NASA HQ) 

Jan. 1962 Langley Shea and STG 

Jan. 1962 MSC, Houston Manned Spacecraft Center 

personnel 

Feb. 1962 NASA HQ Manned Space Flight Management 

Council 

Apr. 1962 Report and papers sent to 

von Braun (MSFC) 

have to land an incredibly heavy and large vehicle on the surface of the 

moon. The business of backing such a large stack of machinery down onto 

the moon and "eyeballing" a pinpoint soft landing on what at the time 

was still a virtually unknown lunar surface would be incredibly tricky and 

dangerous. Those few.NASA researchers who had been thinking about the 

terrors of landing such a behemoth (and getting the astronauts down from 

240 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

the top of it using some little inside elevator!) knew that no satisfactory 

answers to these problems were on the horizon. 44 

Other talks were given that day, including an introduction by George 

Low, chair of NASA headquarters Manned Lunar Landing Task Group 

(formed in October 1960), and a technical talk by Houbolt's nemesis 

Max Faget outlining the hardware and booster requirements for several 

possible types of lunar missions. Everyone walked away from the meeting 

understanding that, if the United States was someday to reach the moon, 

NASA would have to choose a plan soon.45 At this point, the odds were 

excellent that the choice would be direct ascent, which seemed simplest in 

concept. Coming in second, if a vote had been taken that day, would have 

been EOR. LOR, to many NASA officials present, was an option almost 

unworthy of mention. 

The Early Skepticism of the STG 

In the early months of 1961, the STG was preoccupied with the first 

manned Mercury flight and the hope--soon to be crushed by Vostok 1-

that an American astronaut would be the first human in space. When 

any of its members had a rare moment to consider rendezvous, they were 

typically thinking about it "as one of several classes of missions around 

which a Mercury program follow-on might be built." 46 

At Langley on 10 January 1961, five days after the meeting of the SEPC, 

Houbolt went with three members of the Theoretical Mechanics Divisionthe division chief Clint Brown, Ralph Stone, and Manuel J. "Jack" Queijoto an informal meeting at the center with three members of the STG's 

Flight Systems Division-H. Kurt Strass, Owen E. Maynard, and Robert 

L. O'Neal. Langley Associate Director Charles Donlan, Gilruth's former 

chief assistant, also attended. At this meeting Houbolt, Brown, and the 

others tried to persuade representatives from the STG that a rendezvous 

experiment belonged in the Apollo program and that LOR was the way to 

go if any plans for a manned lunar landing were to be made. 47 

They were not persuaded. Although the STG engineers received the 

analysis more politely than had cohort Max Faget the month earlier, 

all four men admitted quite frankly that the claims about the weight 

savings were "too optimistic." Owen Maynard remembers that he and 

his colleagues initially viewed the LOR concept as "the product of pure 

theorists' deliberations with little practicality." In essence, they agreed with 

Faget's charge, though they did not come out and say it, that Houbolt's 

figures did "lie." The STG engineers believed that in advertising the earthweight savings of LOR and the reduction in the size of the booster needed 

for the lunar mission, Houbolt and the others were failing to factor in, or 

they were at least greatly underestimating, the significant extra complexity, 

and thus added weight, of the systems and subsystems that LOR's modular 

spacecraft would require. 48 . 

241 
Spaceflight Revolution 

This criticism was central to the early skepticism toward the LOR concept 

both inside and outside the STG. Even Marshall's Wernher von Braun 

initially shared the sentiment: "John Houbolt argued that if you could leave 

part of your ship in orbit and don't soft land all of it on the moon and fly it 

out of the gravitational field of the moon again, you can save takeoff weight 

on earth." "That's pretty basic," von Braun recalled later in an oral history. 

"But if the price you pay for that capability means that you have to have one 

extra crew compartment, pressurized, and two additional guidance systems, 

and the electrical supply for all that gear, and you add up all this, will you 

still be on the plus side of your trade-off?" Until the analysis was done (and 

some former NASA engineers still argue today that "this trade-off has never 

been realistically evaluated"), no one could be sure. Many NASA people 

suspected that LOR would prove far too complicated. "The critics in the 

early debate murdered Houbolt," von Braun remembered sympathetically.49 

Houbolt recalls this January 1961 meeting with the men from the STG as 

a "friendly, scientific discussion." He, Brown, and the others did what they 

could to counter-the argument that the weight of a modular spacecraft would 

prove excessive. Using an argument taken from automobile marketing, 

they stated that the lunar spacecraft would not necessarily have to be 

"plush"; an "economy" or even "budget" model might be able to do the job. 

Houbolt offered as an example one of John Bird's lunar bugs, "a strippeddown, 2,500-pound version in which an astronaut descended on an open 

platform," 50 but the STG engineers did not take the budget model idea 

seriously. In answer to the charge that a complicated modular spacecraft 

would inevitably grow much heavier than the LOR advocates had been 

estimating, Houbolt retaliated with the argument that the estimated weight 

of a direct-ascent spacecraft would no doubt increase during development, 

making it an even less competitive option in comparison with rendezvous. 

But in the end, the substantive differences between the two groups 

of engineers went out the window. All Houbolt could say to the STG 

representatives was "you don't know what you're talking about," and all 

they could say to him was the same. "It wasn't a fight in the violent sense," 

reassures Houbolt. "It was just differences in scientific opinion about it." 51 

Whether the skeptical response to that day's arguments in favor of LOR 

was indicative of general STG sentiment in early 1961 has been a matter 

of some serious behind-the-scenes debate among the NASA participants. 

Houbolt has argued that the STG consistently opposed LOR and had to be 

convinced from the outside, by Houbolt himself, after repeated urgings, that 

it was the best mission mode for a lunar landing. Leading members of the 

STG, notably Gilruth and Faget, have argued that was not really the case. 

They say that the STG was too busy preparing for the Mercury flights to 

think seriously about lunar studies; they began considering such missions 

only after Kennedy's commitment. Gilruth recalls that when Houbolt first 

approached him "with some ideas about rendezvousing Mercury capsules 

in earth orbit" as "ali exercise in space technology," he did in fact react 

242 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

L-61-6790 

Looking like a birdie for a badminton game, 

this early lunar excursion model was proposed by Langley researchers in the spring 

of 1961 for the suggested Project MALLIR 

(Manned Lunar Landing Involving Rendezvous). 

negatively. It was a "diversion from our specified mission" according to 

Gilruth and, therefore, not something about which he as the head of Project 

Mercury then had any time on which to reflect.52 

According to Gilruth, he did not know of Houbolt's interest in LOR until 

early 1961. By that time, NASA had begun studying the requirements of 

a manned lunar landing through such committees as the Manned Lunar 

Landing Task Group chaired by George Low {the Low Committee). The 

STG, although still overwhelmed with work, did its best to follow suit. When 

it did begin serious consideration of a lunar program, especially of landing 

men on the moon, LOR gained "early acceptance . . . notwithstanding the 

subsequent debates that erupted in numerous headquarters committees." 53 

''I was very much in favor of that mode of flight to the moon from the very 

beginning," Gilruth has since claimed. "I recall telling our people that LOR 

seemed the most promising mode to me-far more promising than either the 

direct ascent or the earth orbital rendezvous modes." The most important 

thing in planning for a manned lunar program was to minimize the risk of 

the landing operation. Thus, LOR was the best of the contending modes 

because it alone permitted the use of a smaller vehicle specifically designed 

for the job. In Gilruth's view, he was always encouraging to Houbolt. In 

his estimation, he felt all along that "the Space Task Group would be the 

key in carrying the decision through to the hifhest echelons of NASA" and 

that, "of course, this proved to be the case." 5 

243 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Although Houbolt was not the first 

to foresee the adv·antages of a moon 

landing via LOR, his total commitment and crusading zeal won the 

support of key people in NASA. 

L-62-5208 

Houbolt accepts very little of these ex post facto assertions; indeed, he 

violently disagrees with them. He points out that on several occasions in 

late 1960 he had briefed leading members of the STG about LOR and that 

Gilruth had to know his ideas. According to Houbolt, the STG had ignored 

and resisted his calculations as too optimistic and continued to ignore and 

resist them while insisting on the development of the large Nova boosters. 

As evidence, Houbolt points to many subsequent incidents in which his 

ideas were summarily discounted by the STG and to various statements of 

resistance from key STG members. One such statement came from Gilruth 

in an official letter as late as September 1961. "Rendezvous schemes are 

and have been of interest to the Space Task Group and are being studied," 

Gilruth informed NASA headquarters on 12 September. "However, the 

rendezvous approach itself will, to some extent, degrade mission reliability 

and flight safety." Rendezvous schemes such as Houbolt's "may be used 

as a crutch to achieve early planned dates for launch vehicle availability," 

Gilruth warned. Their advocates propose them "to avoid the difficulty of 

developing a reliable Nova class launch vehicle." 55 

Houbolt felt strongly that if he could just persuade Gilruth's people to do 

their homework on rendezvous, "then they too would become convinced of its 

merits." But for months he could not get them, or anyone else, to do that. 

LOR met with "virtually universal opposition~no one would accept it~ 

they would not even study it." In Houbolt's words, "my perseverance, and 

solely mine" caused the STG and various other groups finally to study and 

244 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

realize "the far-sweeping merits of the plan." "My own in-depth analysis, 

... my crusading, ... paved the way to the acceptance of the scheme." 56 

In early 1961, when the Low Committee announced its plan for a manned 

lunar landing and its aspiration for that bold mission to be made part of 

Project Apollo, NASA still appeared to be resisting LOR. In outlining the 

requirements for a manned lunar flight, the committee's chief recommendation was to focus on the direct approach to the moon, thus leaving rendezvous out; LOR was not discussed at all. Low remembers that during the 

time of his committee's deliberations, he asked one of the committee members, E. 0. Pearson, Jr., to visit John Houbolt at Langley and "to advise 

the Committee whether we should give consideration to the Lunar Orbit 

Rendezvous Mode." Pearson, the assistant chief of the Aerodynamics and 

Flight Mechanics Research Division at NASA headquarters, returned with 

the answer, "No," LOR "was not the proper one to consider for a lunar landing." A rendezvous 240,000 miles from home, when rendezvous had never 

been demonstrated-Shepard's suborbital flight had not even been made 

yet-seemed, literally· and figuratively, "like an extremely far-out thing to 

do."57 

Thus the Low Committee in early 1961, recognizing that it would be 

much too expensive to develop and implement more than one lunar landing 

mission mode, made its "chief recommendation": NASA should focus 

on direct ascent. "This mistaken technical judgment was not Houbolt's 

fault," Low admitted years later, "but rather my fault in trusting a 

single Committee member instead of having the entire Committee review 

Houbolt's studies and recommendations."58 

Mounting Frustration 

Everything that happened in the first months of early 1961 reinforced 

John Houbolt's belief that NASA was dismissing LOR without giving it 

due consideration. On 20 January, Houbolt gave another long talk at 

NASA headquarters on rendezvous. In this briefing, he displayed analysis 

showing a manned lunar landing using Saturn rockets and outlined a 

simplified rendezvous scheme that had been devised by Art Vogeley and 

Lindsay J. Lina of the Guidance and Control Branch of Langley's AeroSpace Mechanics Division. He also mentioned preliminary ideas for the 

development of fixed-base simulators by which to study the requirements 

for manned lunar orbit, landing, and rendezvous. 59 On 27 and 28 February, 

NASA held an intercenter meeting on rendezvous in Washington, but 

no LOR presentation was made by Houbolt or anyone else. As if by 

political consensus, the subject was not even brought up. This prompted 

one concerned headquarters official, Bernard Maggin from the Office of 

Aeronautical and Space Research, to write Houbolt a memo commenting 

on NASA's, and especially the STG's, lack of consideration for LOR.60 

245 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Institutional politics was involved in the unfolding lunar landing mission 

mode debate. The politics centered around the concern over where the work 

for the manned lunar program was going to be done. The organizations 

involved in building the big rockets were interested in direct ascent, which 

required the giant Nova, and in EOR, which required two or more Satui'ns 

per m1sS10n. Abe Silverstein, the director of the Office of Space Flight 

Programs at NASA headquarters, was working primarily from his experience 

as the former head of Lewis Research Center, which was the old NACA 

propulsion research laboratory now heavily involved in rocket development, 

so he naturally favored direct ascent. Wernher von Braun had to be thinking 

about the best interests of his Marshall Space Flight Center, which was 

primarily responsible at that time for developing the Saturns.61 For the 

most part, the management staff of Langley kept out of these debates. No 

matter which mission mode was implemented, Langley researchers and wind 

tunnels would have plenty of work to do to support the program.62 

In some arti~les and history books on Project Apollo, LOR has been 

called a pet concept of Langley, but that was not the case. Even within 

Langley, LOR was embraced only by a small but vocal minority. Langley 

management did not get behind LOR until after the STG and the rest of 

NASA did. The personal opinion of Langley Director Floyd Thompson, as 

well as that of most of his senior staff, mirrored that of the STG: LOR was 

too complicated and risky. Direct ascent or EOR was the better choice.63 

Although a brilliant engineering analyst and an energetic advocate of the 

causes he espoused, Houbolt was not an overly shrewd behind-the-scenes 

player of institutional politics. Faced with the impasse of early 1961, his 

first instinct was simply to find more informed retorts to the criticisms he 

had been hearing. So, with the help of Brown, Vogeley, Michael, Bird, 

Kurbjun, and a few others, he developed elaborate and detailed studies 

of the lunar landing mission he envisioned along with extensive analyses 

of weight savings. Somehow, he felt, he must find a way to circumvent 

the problem and convince the agency that it was making a big mistake by 

dismissing LOR. 

On 19 April 1961, Houbolt was to give another briefing on rendezvous 

to the STG. In an effort to package his argument more convincingly, he 

created an "admiral's page." This was a short, visually convenient summary 

for "the admiral" designed to save him wading through a long report. For 

his STG briefing, Houbolt put 16 pages of charts, data plots, drawings, 

and outlined analyses-taken from his own analysis as well as material 

supplied by Langley's John Bird, Max Kurbjun, and Art Vogeley--onto 

one 17 x 22-inch foldout sheet. The title of his foldout was "Manned Lunar 

Landing Via Rendezvous" and on its cover was a telescopic photograph of 

the moon. Several important people attending the meeting. received a copy 

of the foldout which helped them follow Houbolt's talk more closely.64 

As had been the case in Houbolt's earlier presentations, this one also 

dealt with both EOR and LOR, but it had a clearly stated preference 

246 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

Houbolt explains the critical weight-saving advantage of the LOR scheme. Because 

the lunar excursion vehicle ("L.E. V. ") in Houbolt's plan weighed only 19,320 

pounds, compared to 82, 700 pounds for the lander required for direct ascent or EOR, 

the total weight that must be boosted to earth escape could be reduced by more than 

half using LOR. 

for LOR. In this talk, however, Houbolt advocated for the first time two 

specific projects for which he supplied project names and acronyms. 

The first of these ("Project 1") he called "MORAD"-Manned Orbital 

Rendezvous and Docking. This was his old idea for a modest flight "experiment" follow-on to Mercury that would "establish confidence" in manned 

rendezvous techniques. An unmanned payload from a Scout rocket would 

serve as a target vehicle for a maneuvering Mercury capsule in earth orbit. 

The second of the projects ("Project 2") he called "MALLIR"-Manned 

Lunar Landing Involving Rendezvous. This contained the essence of the 

controversial LOR scheme.65 

247 
Spaceflight Revolution 

In the last box of his foldout, Houbolt listed his recommendations for 

"Immediate Action Required." For MORAD, he wanted NASA to give 

a quick go-ahead so that Langley could proceed with a work statement 

preparatory to contracting with industry to do a study. For MALLIR, he 

wanted NASA "to delegate responsibility to the Space Task Group" so that 

the STG would have to give "specific and accelerated consideration" to 

the possibility of including rendezvous as part of Project Apollo. In place 

of the STG's apparent resistance to his rendezvous ideas and its current 

discretionary freedom to treat the matter of rendezvous as part of Apollo on 

a will-also-consider basis, he wanted a NASA directive that made rendezvous 

integral to an accepted project. Houbolt wanted something that would make 

the STG, finally, give rendezvous the attention it merited. "I simply wanted 

people to study the problems and look at (them], and then make a judgment, 

but they wouldn't even do that," Houbolt remembers with some of his old 

frustration. "It was that strange a position." 66 

Nothing came immediately from either one of his proposals. Again, the 

reaction seemed to him to be mostly negative, as if the STG still wanted 

no part of his ideas. His frustration mounted. "I could never find a real 

answer to why they wouldn't even consider it," Houbolt laments. Perhaps 

it was the not-invented-here syndrome, perhaps it was just because he was an 

"outsider" who was "rocking the boat on their own thinking, and they didn't 

want anybody to do that," 67 or perhaps the STG was just not prepared to 

think seriously about such an incredibly bold and seemingly treacherous idea 

when they were still not even sure that they would be able to make their own 

Mercury program a complete success. Mercury "was proving so troublesome 

that rendezvous, however simple in theory, seemed very far away." 68 

At this April1961 briefing, however, a solitary STG engineer did demonstrate a clear and exceptional interest in Houbolt's rendezvous analysis. 

James Chamberlin approached Houbolt after the meeting and asked him for 

an extra copy of the foldout sheet and "for anything else he had on rendezvous." Interestingly, both Houbolt and Chamberlin recall Chamberlin 

telling him that he had known about Langley's rendezvous work but this 

was the first time he had heard any of the details about the lunar-orbit 

version. 69 One might indeed wonder then how widely the information from 

Houbolt's previous talks had spread within the STG. It seems significant 

that Chamberlin was not one of Gilruth's old-time associates from the 

NACA; he was one of the relative newcomers.* 

President Kennedy's Commitment 

Houbolt's April briefing to the STG came at the end of a humbling 

week for America. On 12 April the Soviets sent the first human into space, 

* The former chief of design for the A vro Arrow aircraft, Chamberlin had been recruited by the STG 

in late 1959. 

248 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, beating the United States in the second leg of the 

space race. Three days later, with President Kennedy's hesitant approval, a 

confused invasion force prepared by the CIA landed at Cuba's Bay of Pigs 

only to be driven back quickly by an unexpectedly efficient army of 20,000 

led by communist Fidel Castro. Pierre Salinger, Kennedy's articulate press 

secretary, later called this period "the three grimmest days" of the Kennedy 

presidency. This national crisis proved in some ways to be more urgent than 

even the troubled aftermath of Sputnik.70 

Up to this time, NASA had been preparing for a lunar landing mission 

as its long-term space goal. Some NASA visionaries, such as George Low, 

wanted to go to the moon sooner rather than later and were working to 

convince NASA leadership, now headed by a new administrator, James E. 

Webb, that such a program should be pushed with the politicians. Not all 

the politicians needed to be pushed. Most notably, Vice-President Lyndon 

B. Johnson was pressing NASA for a more ambitious space agenda that 

included a lunar landing program.71 President Kennedy, however, needed to 

be convinced. The one-two punch of the Gagarin flight and Bay of Pigs fiasco 

followed by the welcome relief and excitement of Alan Shepard's successful 

Mercury flight on 5 May was enough to persuade the president. Sputnik 1 

and 2 had taken place in the previous Republican administration and had 

helped the dynamic young senator from Massachusetts nose by Eisenhower's 

vice-president, Richard M. Nixon, in the 1960 election. Now, in just a 

month, Kennedy's "New Frontier" had itself been undermined by crisis. 

Something had to be done to provoke the country into rebounding from its 

recent second-place finishes and national humiliations. 72 On 25 May, John 

Kennedy announced that American astronauts would be first to land on the 

moon. 

Houbolt 's First Letter to Seamans 

Six days before Kennedy's historic announcement, and unaware that 

it was coming, John Houbolt shot off "a hurried non-edited and limited 

note" of three single-spaced pages to Bob Seamans. Confident from past 

meetings that Associate Administrator Seamans was greatly interested in 

the subject of rendezvous, Houbolt took the liberty of cutting through 

several organizational layers to communicate with him directly. 

Houbolt's message was straightforward and not overly passionate: the 

situation with respect to the development of new launch vehicles was 

"deplorable." The Saturns "should undergo major structural modifications" 

and "no committed booster plan" beyond Saturn was in place. Furthermore, 

NASA was still not attending to the use of rendezvous in the planned 

performance of the Apollo mission. "I do not wish to argue" whether "the 

direct way" or "the rendezvous way" is best, Houbolt reassured Seamans. 

But "because of the lag in launch vehicle developments," it appeared to 

249 
Spaceflight Revolution 

him that "the only way that will be available to us in the next few years 

is the rendezvous way." For this reason alone Houbolt believed that it was 

"mandatory" that "rendezvous be as much in future plans as any item, and 

that it be attacked vigorously." 73 If NASA researchers continued to dismiss 

LOR totally as they had been doing, Houbolt knew that someday they would 

be sorry. 

If Houbolt had known that an ad hoc task group at NASA headquarters 

was at that moment in the midst of concluding that rendezvous had no place 

in the lunar landing program, his letter to Seamans might have been more 

urgent. But nothing in his letter suggests that Houbolt knew anything 

about the meetings of the Fleming Committee. Established by Seamans 

on 2 May, the job of this committee was to determine, in only four weeks, 

whether a manned lunar landing was in fact possible and how much it would 

cost. Chaired by NASA's assistant administrator for programs, William 

A. Fleming, who-unlike George Low-was known to be neutral on the 

ideas of both a moon landing and the method for accomplishing it, this 

committee eventually recommended a lunar landing program based on a 

three-stage Nova. In essence, the Fleming Committee "avoided the question 

of rendezvous versus direct ascent." Seeing "no reason to base its study 

on a risky and untried alternative" -and apparently not recognizing that 

using a huge and unproven launch vehicle was also "risky and untried"-

the committee spent all four weeks trying to choose between solid-fuel and 

liquid-fuel propellants for the Nova stages.74 

Houbolt and the other LOR advocates at Langley would have been dismayed. To them, development of the rendezvous concept was "the obvious 

thing" to do before a lunar mission, but to so many others, space rendezvous 

was still an absurdly complicated and risky proposition. Some, like Bob 

Seamans, were not sure what to think. On 25 May, after hearing President 

Kennedy's speech, the associate administrator called for the appointment 

of yet another ad hoc committee, this one "to assess a wide variety of possible ways for executing a manned lunar landing." 75 Bruce T. Lundin, an 

associate director of NASA Lewis, would chair this new committee. 

Whether Houbolt's letter, written nearly a week before, directly caused 

Seamans to create the Lundin Committee is not certain. But the letter 

surely was a contributing factor as two pieces of circumstantial evidence appear to indicate.* First, in explaining why a new task force was necessary, 

* Houbolt believes that Seamans created the Lundin Committee solely in response to his letter. "The 

story I got [from somebody else at NASA headquarters] was that my letter jolted Seamans, and he got up 

at five o'clock in the morning, got on the phone, called several people and said, 'Be at my office at seven 

o'clock' .... And then they formed the Lundin Committee." No documents exist to back up Houbolt's 

version of the story. Based on what Seamans has said about the formation of the Lundin Committee, 

there is no doubt that Houbolt's letter did contribute directly to its establishment but perhaps not as 

exclusively as Houbolt has heard. (Houbolt interview with author, Williamsburg, Va., 24 Aug. 1989, 

transcript, p. 31, Langley Historical Archives.) 

250 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

Seamans explained to his director of Advanced Research Programs (Ira H. 

Abbott) and his director of Launch Vehicle Programs (Don R. Ostrander) 

that the Fleming Committee was finding it necessary "to restrict its considerations to a limited number of techniques by which it is feasible to accomplish the mission in the shortest possible time." Consequently, "numerous other approaches" -and Seamans specifically mentioned the use of 

rendezvous-were not currently being assessed. Second, Seamans, a busy 

man, wrote to Houbolt on 2 June, thanking him for his comments andreassuring the distressed Langley researcher that "the problems that concern 

you are of great concern to the whole agency." NASA headquarters had just 

organized "some intensive study programs," Seamans informed him, without 

mentioning the Fleming or Lundin committees by name. These programs 

"will provide us a base for decisions." 76 

Some historians have said that Seamans made sure that Houbolt was on 

the Lundin Committee; this is untrue. Houbolt was not an official member 

of that committee. Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., was Langley's representative, 

although he apparently did not attend all the meetings. Houbolt did meet 

with and talk to the committee several times, and in his view, was "the real 

Langley representative" because Loftin did not attend as regularly as he. 77 

The idea behind the Lundin Committee, at least as originally conceived 

by Seamans, was to take an open-minded look into the alternative "modes" 

for getting to the moon. Primarily, Seamans wanted the committee to examine those options involving "mission staging by rendezvous" and "alternative Nova vehicles." In the committee's initial meeting, however, that 

original objective seems to have been seriously compromised. Larry Loftin, 

who attended the opening meeting in early June 1961, remembers that Bob 

Seamans came in the first day and "sort of gave us our marching orders." 

Then Abe Silverstein, director of the Office of Space Flight Programs at 

NASA headquarters, came in to address the men: 

Well, look fellas, I want you to understand something. I've been right most of my 

life about things, and if you guys are going to talk about rendezvous, any kind of 

rendezvous, as a way of going to the moon, forget it. I've heard all those schemes and 

I don't want to hear any more of them, because we're not going to the moon using 

any of those schemes. 

With those words of warning, which completely violated the reason for 

forming the committee in the first place, Silverstein "stomped out of the 

room."'~8 · 

To its credit, the Lundin Committee disregarded Silverstein's admonition 

and considered a broad range of rendezvous schemes. With a complete 

analysis of the rendezvous problems by Houbolt and assorted insights from 

invited analysts both from inside and outside NASA, the group looked into 

mission profiles involving rendezvous in earth orbit, in transit to the moon, 

in lunar orbit before landing, in lunar orbit after takeoff from the moon, and 

in both earth and lunar orbit. The committee even considered the idea of 

251 
Spaceflight Revolution 

a lunar-surface rendezvous. This involved launching a fuel cache and a few 

other unmanned components of a return spacecraft to the moon's surface-a 

payload of some 5000 pounds-and then landing astronauts separately in a 

second spacecraft whose fuel supply would be exhausted just reaching the 

moon. The notion, as absurd as it now sounds, was for the landed astronauts 

to leave their craft and locate the previously deposited hardware (homing 

beacons previously landed as part of the unmanned Surveyor program were 

to make pinpoint landings possible) and then to assemble and fuel a new 

spacecraft for the return trip home. The spacecraft would be checked out 

by television monitoring equipment before sending men from earth to the 

landing area via a second spacecraft. 

Houbolt thought this was "the most harebrained idea" he had ever heard. 

In the committee's final "summary rating" of the comparative value of 

the various rendezvous concepts, however, lunar-surface rendezvous finished 

only slightly lower than did Houbolt's LOR. One anonymous committee 

member (most likely the JPL representative) chose lunar-surface rendezvous 

as his first choiCe. 79 

As Houbolt remembers bitterly, the Lundin Committee "turned down 

LOR cold." In the final rating made by the six voting committee members 

(Loftin voted, but Houbolt did not), it finished a distant third-receiving 

no first-place votes and only one second-place vote. Coming in far ahead of 

LOR were two low-earth-orbit rendezvous schemes, the first one utilizing two 

to three Saturn C-3 boosters and the other involving a Saturn C-1 plus the 

Nova. Both were concepts strongly favored by NASA Marshall staff, who by 

this time had grabbed onto the idea of EOR for its potential technological 

applications to the development of an orbiting space station.80 

Houbolt was devastated when he heard the results. To have LOR placed 

on the same level as the ridiculous lunar-surface rendezvous was especially 

insulting. He had given the Lundin Committee his full-blown pitch complete 

with foldout sheet and slides. "They'd say, 'That sounds pretty good, John,' 

but then the next morning the same guys would come up and say, 'John, 

that's no good; we don't like it at all."' For Houbolt, this perverse reaction 

was hard to understand. 81 Loftin reflects on the general fear and pessimism 

about LOR that ultimately ruled the committee: 

We thought it was too risky. Remember in 1961 we hadn't even orbited Glenn yet. 

We certainly had done no rendezvous yet. And to put this poor bastard out there, 

separate him in a module, let him go down to the surface, and then fire him back 

up and expect him to rendezvous. He didn't get a second chance; it had to be dead 

right the first time. I mean that just seemed like a bit much. 

Loftin and the others believed-incorrectly-that LOR offered no possibility 

for a rescue mission. In earth orbit, if something went wrong, NASA still 

might be able to save .its astronauts. Loftin felt along with the others that 

the idea of LOR was just "kind of absurd." 82 The Lundin Committee could 

252 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

not bring itself to acknowledge that all the other mission-mode options 

entailed greater risks. 

As discouraged as John Houbolt was after the Lundin Committee's 

recommendation, the situation would soon become worse. On 20 June, 

10 days after the Lundin Committee delivered its blow, Bob Seamans 

formed yet another task force. This one was chaired by his assistant director 

of launch vehicle programs, Donald H. Heaton. Following up on the 

summary ratings and recommendations of the Lundin Committee, Seamans 

asked Heaton's group to focus on EOR and to establish the program 

plans and the supporting resources needed to accomplish the manned 

lunar landing mission using rendezvous techniques. 83 Trying to stay within 

those guidelines, Heaton refused to let Houbolt, an official member of this 

committee, mention LOR. 

Houbolt felt he was caught in a bizarre trap of someone else's making. 

He was one of the strongest believers in rendezvous in the country, and that 

meant either kind of rendezvous. Just days before the Heaton Committee 

was formed, he had returned from France, where he had given a well-received 

formal presentation on EOR and LOR at an international spaceflight 

symposium. 84 He and his Langley associates had done the analysis, and 

they knew that LOR would work better than EOR for a manned lunar 

landing. He pleaded with Heaton to study LOR as well as EOR. Heaton 

simply answered, "We're not going to do that, John. It's not in our charter." 

"If you feel strongly enough about it," Heaton challenged, "write your own 

lunar-orbit report."85 

Houbolt eventually did just that. As for Heaton's own report, which was 

published in late August, it concluded that rendezvous-EOR, that is-

"offers the earliest possibility for a successful manned lunar landing." In 

postulating the design of the spacecraft that would make that type of lunar 

mission, however, the Heaton Committee previewed a baseline configuration 

that Houbolt regarded as a "beast." It involved "some five different pieces 

of hardware that were going to be assembled in the earth-orbit rendezvous," 

Houbolt remembers. "It was a great big long cigar." In his opinion, such an 

unwieldy concept "would hurt the cause of rendezvous." He feared NASA 

engineers, especially in the STG, would read the Heaton report and say, 

"Well, we knew it all the time: these rendezvous guys are nuts." 86 

Or they were being driven nuts. For many NASA engineers, the summer 

of 1961 was the busiest summer of their lives; it certainly was the busiest 

of John Houbolt's. "I was living half the time in Washington, half the 

time on the road, dashing back and forth." 87 In mid-July he was to be in 

Washington again, to give a talk at the NASA/Industry Apollo Technical 

Conference. This was an important meeting that was to include about 300 

potential Project Apollo contractors. It was so important that Langley 

management in association with the STG, in the tradition of NACA/NASA 

annual inspections, was holding a formal rehearsal of all its presentations 

prior to the conference. 

253 
Spaceflight Revolution 

2 

Direct Flight 

Relatiw 

pl1lbobility 

.981 1 Launch 

.941 I Establish coosting orbit 

.941 3 Earth escape 

.94 4 Midcourae correction 

.94 ~ Brakeintolunarorbit 

.90 8 Descent and landing 

.98 7 Ascent 

.98 8 Lunar eacape 

.98 9 Midcourae conection 

.99 10 Re-entry 

ll 1buch down 

2 

.34 ---------

.l9 ---------

Relative 

probability 

.985 1Launch 

11 

.945 2 Eatabliah coasting orbit 

.94 3 Earth eocape 

.99 4 Midcomae correction 

.99 5 Bralte into lunar orbit 

.95 6 Descent with lander .99 7 Aocent ~th lander . 

.95 8Rendezvoua 

.99 9 Lunar --pe 

.99 10 Miclcounoecorrection 

.99 llfu.entry 

·12 1bucb clown 

.53 

.78 

Relative 

probability 

6 

.98• 1 Launch part of escape payload 

.94 • 2 Establish coosling orbit 

.98• 3 Launch remainder of escape payload 

.94. 4 Establish parking orbit 

.94 5 Accelerate to tranafer to outer orbit 

.90 6 Rendezvoua (and fu~l transfer) 

.94 7 Earth .... pe 

.94 8 Midcomae correction 

.94 9 B.alre into luuar orbit 

.90 10 Descent and landing .98 llA..:ent 

.98 12 Lw>or- .98 13 MidcouJR correction 

.99 14 Re-entry 

15 1bucb down 

.26 ----- Overall probability 

Probability lorequal 

.26 --- poundage on pad 

In making his pitch to various NASA committees and study groups in 1961 and 1962, 

Houbolt used this viewgraph comparing the propulsion steps involved in direct flight, 

LOR, and EOR, thereby demonstrating the much higher probability of success with 

LOR. 

Houbolt was to give his talk at the end of rehearsals because he had 

another NASA meeting earlier that day in Washington. "I was to rush out 

to the airport at Washington National, get on the airplane, they were to pick 

me up here and then bring me to where they were having the rehearsals." 

However, when he arrived breathless at the airport, the airplane could not 

take off. In refueling the aircraft, the ground crew had spilled fuel on one 

of the tires and the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) would not let 

the plane take off until the tire had been changed. That made Houbolt a 

little late and the STG member waiting for him a little impatient. "They 

dashed me back to the conference room," and with all of the other rehearsals 

finished, "everybody was sort of twiddling their thumbs," complaining, 

"'Where the hell is this Houbolt?' " 88 

With a brief apology, Houbolt moved right into his talk. Until the end, 

he purposefully said nothing about LOR; he spoke only about rendezvous 

in general. Then he showed three or four final slides. "There is a very 

interesting possibility that rendezvous offers," Houbolt ventured, feeling like 

a lawyer who was trying to slip in evidence that he knew the judge would 

254 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

not allow, "and that is how to go to the moon in a very simplified way." He 

then described the whole LOR concept.89 

People listened politely and thanked him when he had finished. "That's 

a damn good paper, John," offered Langley Associate Director Charles 

Donlan. "But throw out all that nonsense on lunar-orbit rendezvous." 

Houbolt remembers that Max Faget and several other members of the STG 

piped in with the same advice.90 

The Lundin Committee had been strike one against Houbolt: LOR had 

been turned down cold. The Heaton Committee had been strike two: LOR 

would not even be considered. Houbolt 's rehearsal talk was in a sense a 

third strike. But at least all three had been swinging strikes, so to speak. 

Houbolt had used each occasion to promote LOR, and he had given his best 

effort each time. Furthermore, he was allowed a few more times at bat. An 

inning was over, but the game was not. 

Houbolt's next time at bat came quickly, in August 1961, when he 

met with the Golovin Committee, which was yet another of Bob Seamans' 

ad hoc task forces. Established on 7 July 1961, this joint Large Launch 

Vehicle Planning Group was co-chaired by Nicholas E. Golovin, Seamans' 

special technical assistant, and Lawrence L. Kavanau of the DOD. This 

committee was to recommend not only a booster rocket for Project Apollo 

but also other launch vehicle configurations that would meet the anticipated 

needs of NASA and the DOD.91 

Nothing in the committee's charge, which was to concern itself only with 

large launch vehicle systems, necessitated an inquiry into the LOR scheme; 

however, Eldon W. Hall, Harvey Hall, and Milton W. Rosen (all of the Office 

of Launch Vehicle Programs) and members of the Golovin Committee asked 

that the LOR concept be presented for their consideration in the form of a 

mission plan. 92 This was to be done as part of a systematic comparative 

evaluation of three types of rendezvous operations (earth-orbit, lunar-orbit, 

and lunar-surface) and direct ascent for manned lunar landing. The Golovin 

Committee assigned the study of EOR to Marshall Space Flight Center, 

lunar-surface rendezvous to JPL, and LOR to Langley. The NASA Office 

of Launch Vehicle Programs would itself provide the information on direct 

ascent.93 

This commitment to a comparative evaluation of the mission modes, including LOR, constitutes a critical turning point in the torturous intellectual 

and bureaucratic process by which NASA eventually decided upon a mission 

mode for Project Apollo. The Golovin Committee would not conclude in 

favor of LOR. Its final somewhat vacillating recommendation, made in midOctober, was in favor of a hybrid rendezvous scheme that combined aspects 

of both EOR and LOR. However, the committee's preference was clearly 

for some form of rendezvous. Lunar-surface rendezvous, JPL's pet project, 

had been ruled out, and direct ascent was fading from the realm of possibility. The engineering calculations showed clearly that any single rocket that 

had to carry all the fuel necessary for completing the entire lunar mission 

255 
Spaceflight Revolution 

C-1 

(SATURN) 

~ 

GEMINI 

(TITAN}{ ATLAS\ 

\AGENA D) 

MERCURY 

:r t t 

LOR 

C-5 

I 

L-1630 

COMPARISON OF LANDER SIZES 

DIRECT LANDING 

LUNAR FERRY OF 

LUNAR RENDEZVOUS 

LUNAR 

EXCURSION 

VEHICLE 

L-1629 

By using drawings that compared the sizes of rockets (top) and lunar landing vehicles 

(bottom), Houbolt tried to convince the nonbelievers that LOR was the only way to 

go to the moon. 

256 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

was not a realistic option-especially if the mission was to be accomplished 

anytime close to President Kennedy's deadline. 

For Houbolt and the other LOR advocates, the work of the Golovin 

Committee meant the first meaningful opportunity to demonstrate the 

merits of LOR in a full-blown comparison with the other viable options. 

This consideration was the opportunity that Houbolt had been asking for 

in all of his previously unsuccessful briefings. When he appeared before the 

Golovin Committee in August, "they were damn impressed." They asked 

him, to his delight, whether the STG knew all about LOR. Golovin turned 

to Aleck C. Bond, the STG's representative on the committee, and asked 

him to go back to Langley and "check with your fellows on what they're 

doing about this." A few days later, Houbolt was back in front of the STG 

talking to them about the same thing that they had told him not to talk 

about just the month before. 94 

The STG, with the Shepard and Grissom flights at least behind them 

and the Golovin Committee now urging them to study rendezvous, started 

to reconsider. Thus far, as other historians have noted, the STG had "seen 

little merit in any form of rendezvous for lunar missions," but reserved 

"its greatest disdain for the lunar orbit version." Now, at least, some 

STG engineers were showing solid interest. In early September 1961, 

Jim Chamberlin, who had asked for Houbolt's material after hearing the 

proposals for MORAD and MALLIR five months earlier, talked to Gilruth 

about an LOR plan for a lunar landing program and for a preparatory 

three-flight rendezvous experiment, both of which sounded similar to the 

ideas Houbolt had been promoting. Although Gilruth was not convinced of 

the merits of such a scheme, he was open to their further evaluation.95 

Chamberlin's notion derived in part from the STG's August 1961 proposal for an accelerated circumlunar program; this proposal appeared as an 

appendix to its "Preliminary Project Development Plan for an Advanced 

Manned Space Program Utilizing the Mark II Two-Man Spacecraft." In 

essence, the larger document called for the start of what became known 

as Project Gemini, the series of two-man rendezvous and docking missions in earth orbit that NASA successfully carried out between March 

1965 and November 1966. But the idea for Project Gemini, as proposed 

by Chamberlin at least, must also have had some important connection to 

Houbolt's April1961 MORAD proposal.96 

A Voice in the Wilderness 

During the late summer and early fall of 1961, Houbolt was busily 

preparing the formal report that the Golovin Committee had requested. 

Except for his "admiral's page," much of the analysis in favor of LOR was 

still in a loose form. With John Bird, Art Vogeley, Max Kurbjun, and the 

other rendezvous people at Langley, he set out to document their research 

257 
Spaceflight Revolution 

findings and demonstrate what a complete manned lunar landing mission 

using LOR would entail. The result was an impressive two-volume report 

entitled "Manned Lunar-Landing through Use of Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous." 

Published by NASA Langley on 31 October 1961, this report promoted what 

its principal author, John Houbolt, called a "particularly appealing scheme" 

for performing the manned lunar landing mission. 97 

This extremely thorough document might seem sufficient even for a 

zealous crusader like Houbolt, but it was not. The Heaton Committee had 

submitted its final report in August 1961-a report with which Houbolt 

fervently disagreed. Houbolt took committee chair Heaton up on his remark 

about submitting his own report. 

On 15 November 1961, Houbolt "fired off" a nine-page letter to Seamans 

with two different editions of his LOR admiral's page attached to it without 

ever thinking that it might cost him his job. He was again bypassing proper 

channels, a bold move for a government employee, and appealing directly 

to the associate administrator. "Somewhat as a voice in the wilderness," 

Houbolt's letter opened, "I would like to pass on a few thoughts that have 

been of deep concern to me over recent months." Houbolt's main complaint 

was about the bureaucratic guidelines that had made it impossible for the 

Heaton Committee to consider the merits of LOR. "Do we want to go to 

the moon or not?, and, if so, why do we have to restrict our thinking to a 

certain narrow channel?" He asked: "Why is Nova, with its ponderous size 

simply just accepted, and why is a much less ~randiose scheme involving 

rendezvous ostracized or put on the defensive?" 8 

"I fully realize that contacting you in this manner is somewhat unorthodox," Houbolt admitted, "but the issues at stake are crucial enough to us all 

that an unusual course is warranted." Houbolt realized that Seamans might 

feel that he was "dealing with a crank." "Do not be afraid of this," Houbolt 

pleaded. "The thoughts expressed here may not be stated in as diplomatic 

a fashion as they might be, or as I would normally try to do, but this is by 

choice." Most important was that Seamans hear his heartfelt ideas directly 

and "not after they have filtered through a score or more of other people, 

with the attendant risk [that] they may not even reach you." 99 

It took two weeks for Seamans to reply to Houbolt's extraordinary letter. 

When he did, the associate administrator agreed that "it would be extremely 

harmful to our organization and to the country if our qualified staff were 

unduly limited by restrictive guidelines." He assured Houbolt that NASA 

would in the future be paying more attention to LOR. 100 

Seamans also informed him that he had passed his long letter with its 

attachments on to Brainerd Holmes, who had just replaced Abe Silverstein 

as head of the Office of Manned Space Flight (recently renamed Space Flight 

Programs). Unlike Seamans, who apparently was not overly bothered by the 

letter being sent out of formal organizational channels, Holmes "didn't like 

it at all" and said so when in turn he passed Houbolt's letter on to George 

Low, his director of spacecraft and flight missions. Low was more forgiving. 

258 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

L-70-1270 

Although he too had been slow to accept the LOR scheme, NASA leader 

George M. Low eventually became a 

devout believer not only in LOR but 

also in the essential role played by 

Houbolt in its adoption. 

Although he conceded that Houbolt probably should have followed standard 

procedures, he found the basic message "relatively sound." He, too, felt that 

"the bug approach" might yet prove to be "the best way of getting to the 

moon" and that NASA needed to give it as much attention as any other 

alternative. At the end of the memo to Holmes in which he passed on 

these feelings, Low recommended that Houbolt be invited to Washington to 

present in detail Langley's plan for a manned lunar landing via LOR. Low 

even went so far as to suggest that Houbolt should be made a member of 

Holmes's staff. 101 

That never happened, but another person who joined Holmes's staff at 

this time, Dr. Joseph F.. Shea, came to play a major role in supporting 

Houbolt's ideas and making the eventual decision in favor of LOR. Shea 

arrived at NASA the first week of January 19.62 as Holmes's deputy director 

for spaceflight systems. From 1956 to 1959 the energetic engineer from 

the Bronx had served as the systems engineer at Bell Laboratories for a 

radio guidance project involving the Titan I rocket. In 1959 he moved to 

General Motors, where he ran the advanced development operation for its 

A. C. Sparkplug Division. His major achievement while in this job was to 

win a contract for the development of an inertial guidance system for the 

Titan II. 102 

With NASA, Joe Shea found himself thrust into the job of sorting out the 

best means of accomplishing the lunar landing mission. During his first days 

259 
Spaceflight Revolution 

in office, Brainerd Holmes came to see him, with his copy of Houbolt's letter 

in hand. Shea perused the long letter and was taken down to Seamans' office 

where Seamans asked him if he thought anything of value could be found 

in Houbolt's message. Having received an unsure response, Seamans then 

advised the young systems engineer that NASA really did not know how it 

was going to go to the moon. Shea answered tactfully, "I was beginning to 

get that same suspicion." 103 

"Shea didn't know much about what was going on," John Houbolt 

remembers, but quickly he became informed. Within days of his meeting 

with Seamans and Holmes about the Houbolt letter, Shea was at Langley for 

a private conversation with Houbolt and for a general briefing attended by 

Langley management and the leadership of the STG. Going into the meeting, 

if Shea had a preference for any one lunar mission mode, it was a weak one for 

EOR, but after reading Houbolt's letter to Seamans and knowing Seamans' 

sympathetic reaction to it, Shea was not adverse to other options. Shea was 

?-n open-minded man who "prided himself on going wherever the data took 

him."104 

This time the data took him to LOR. When Houbolt finished his muchpracticed pitch, the receptive Shea admitted that the analysis looked "pretty 

good" to him. The new boy on the block of manned spaceflight then turned 

to Gilruth, Faget, and other members of the STG and asked them politely if 

they, too, had been thinking along the lines of LOR. Having gotten the word 

about the general skepticism to Houbolt's ideas, Shea expected a negative 

reaction. He did not receive one. Instead, the STG leaders responded in 

a mildly positive way that signified to Shea, as the discussion continued, 

that "actually, they had been doing some more thinking about lunar-orbit 

rendezvous and, as a matter of fact, they were beginning to think it was a 

good idea." 105 

Shea returned to Washington convinced that LOR was a viable option 

for Apollo and that the next step was for NASA to contract for an even 

more detailed study of its potential. On 1 March 1962, eight days after 

astronaut John Glenn's historic three-orbit flight in the Mercury spacecraft 

Friendship 7, NASA named Chance Vought Corporation as the contractor 

to study spacecraft rendezvous. The firm had on staff one of the original 

proponents of LOR, Tom Dolan. At Langley on 29 March 1962, a group of 

researchers led by Houbolt briefed a Chance Vought team on the center's 

LOR research and mission plan. On 2 and 3 April, Shea presented LOR 

as a possible mission mode for Apollo in a headquarters meeting that was 

attended by representatives of all the NASA centers.l06 The final decision 

to select LOR for Apollo was about to be made. 

The LOR Decision 

In the months following Houbolt's second letter to Seamans, NASA gave 

LOR the serious consideration that Houbolt had long been crusading for. 

260 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

To the surprise of many, both inside and outside the agency, the darkhorse candidate became the front runner. Several factors worked in LOR's 

favor. First, many were becoming disenchanted with the idea of direct ascent 

because of the time and money required to develop the huge Nova rocket. 

Second, technical apprehension was growing over how the relatively large 

spacecraft demanded even by EOR would be able to maneuver to a soft 

and pinpoint landing on the moon. As Langley's expert on the dynamics 

of rendezvous, Art Vogeley, has explained, "The business of eyeballing that 

thing down to the moon really didn't have a satisfactory answer. The best 

thing about LOR was that it allowed us to build a separate vehicle for 

landing." 107 

The first major group to break camp in favor of LOR was Bob Gilruth's 

STG, which during the critical months of the Apollo mission mode debate 

was harried not only with the planning for the first Mercury orbital flight 

but also with packing and leaving for its new home, the Manned Spacecraft 

Center in Houston. During an interview in the late 1980s, Houston's Max 

Faget recalled the details of how the STG Manned Spacecraft Center finally 

became convinced that LOR was the right choice. By early 1962, 

we found ourselves settling into a program that was not easy to run, because so 

many different groups were involved. In particular, we were concerned about the big 

landing rocket, because landing on the moon would, of course, be the most delicate 

part of the mission. The landing rocket's engine, which would be controlled by the 

astronauts, would have to be throttleable, so that the command-and-service module 

could hover, and move this way and that, to find a proper place to touch down. 

Obtaining that capability meant the need for "a really intimate interface, 

requiring numerous connections, between the two elements," as well as 

between Houston and NASA Lewis. 

Accordingly, we invented a new proposal for our own and von Braun's approach. It 

involved a simpler descent engine, called the lunar crasher, which Lewis would do. 

It wouldn't be throttleable, so the interface would be simpler, and it would take 

the astronauts down to a thousand feet above the lunar surface. There it would 

be jettisoned, and it would crash onto the moon. Then there would be a smaller, 

throttleable landing stage for the last thousand feet, which we would do, so that we 

would be in charge of both sides of that particular interface. 

At that point, however, Faget and his colleagues in Texas "ran into a real 

wall." 108 

Initially their thinking had been that the landing would be done automatically with radar and instrument control. Then the astronauts, along 

with a growing number of NASA engineers (primarily at Langley), began to 

argue that the astronauts were going to need complete control during the 

last phases of landing and therefore would require a wide range of visibility from the descending spacecraft. How to provide that visibility "with a 

261 
Spaceflight Revolution 

landing rocket big enough to get the command-and-service module down to 

the lunar surface and wide enough to keep it upright" was the problem that 

Houston began tackling in early 1962 and found very quickly they could not 

solve. "We toyed with various concepts," Faget remembers, such as putting 

a front viewing porch on the outside or a glass bubble on top of the CM 

similar to the cockpit of a helicopter. But all the redesigns had serious flaws. 

For example, "the porch would have to be jettisoned before lift-off from the 

moon, because it would unbalance the spacecraft." "It was a mess," Faget 

admitted. "No one had a winning idea. Lunar-orbit rendezvous was the 

only sensible alternative." 109 

Houbolt's role in the STG's eventual "coming-around" to LOR cannot be 

described without upsetting someone-or at least questioning the accuracy 

of someone's memory. Faget, Gilruth, and others associated with the 

Manned Spacecraft Center believe that Houbolt's activities were "useful" 

but hardly as vital as many others, notably Houbolt himself, believe them 

to be. "John Houbolt just assumed that he had to go to the very top," 

Gilruth has explained, "he never talked to me." Gilruth maintains that "the 

lunar orbit rendezvous would have been chosen without Houbolt's somewhat 

frantic efforts." The "real work of convincing the officials in Washington and 

Huntsville," he says, was done "by the spacecraft group in Houston during 

the six or eight months following President Kennedy's decision to fly to 

the moon." Gilruth's group sold the concept, first to Huntsville and then, 

together with von Braun, to NASA headquarters. Houbolt's out-of-channels 

letter to Seamans was, in Gilruth's opinion, irrelevant.l10 

Houbolt calls the STG's version self-serving "baloney." He talked to 

Gilruth or his people many times, and not once did they tell him that they 

were really on his side. If just one time Gilruth or some other influential 

officer in the manned space program had said to him, "You can stop fighting. 

We are now on your side; and we'll take it from here," then, Houbolt claims, 

he would have been satisfied. But they never said that to him, and they 

certainly did not say it "during the six or eight months" after Kennedy's 

speech. In fact, their words always suggested just the opposite. Not until 

early 1962, after prodding from Joe Shea, did the STG give any indication 

that it, too, was interested in LOR. 111 

Significantly, the outsiders or third parties to the question of Houbolt's 

role in influencing the STG's position on the mission mode for Apollo tend 

to side with Houbolt. Bob Seamans remembers the STG showing nothing 

but disdain for LOR during 1961.112 George Low agrees. To the best 

of his recollection, "it was Houbolt's letter to Seamans that brought the 

Lunar Orbit Rendezvous Mode back into the picture." Only after that 

did a group within the STG under Owen Maynard begin to study LOR. 

"Based on Houbolt's input" and on the results of the systems engineering 

studies carried out at the behest of Joe Shea's Office of Manned Space 

Flight Systems, "the decision was finally made" about the lunar landing 

mission mode. "Without a doubt," in Low's view, the letter Houbolt sent 

262 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

to Seamans in November 1961 and the discussions at headquarters that it 

provoked "were the start of bringing LOR into Apollo." l13 

One final piece of testimony from an informed third party supports 

the importance of Houbolt's role in convincing the STG of the benefits 

of LOR. Starting in late 1961, NACA veteran Axel Mattson served as 

NASA Langley's technical liaison officer at the Manned Spacecraft Center. 

Mattson, who was responsible for coordinating the other NASA centers 

for the first NASA inspection, maintained a small office at the Houston 

facility for the timely moving of technical information between Langley and 

Gilruth's recently removed STG. Mattson's operation was not high profile, 

nor was it supposed to be. According to the agreement that had been worked 

out between Gilruth and Langley Director Floyd Thompson, Mattson was 

to spend most of his time with the engineers who were working on Mercury 

problems.114 

In early 1962, sometime after the Shea briefing, Langley sent Houbolt to 

Houston. The purpose of his visit was, in Mattson's words, "to get the STG 

people .really to agree that [LOR] was the best way to go and to support 

it." Mattson took him to practically everyone who had some interest in the 

mission mode issue, and Houbolt told them about LOR and answered all 

their questions. At the end of the day, Mattson felt that "it was all over." 

"We had the support of the Manned Spacecraft Center" for LOR.115 

Significantly, on 6 February 1962, Houbolt and former Langley engineer 

Charles W. Mathews of the Manned Spacecraft Center gave a joint presentation on rendezvous to the Manned Space Flight Management Council. This 

council was a special body formed by Brainerd Holmes in December 1961 

to identify and resolve difficulties in the manned spaceflight program on a 

month-to-month basis. In their presentation the two engineers compared the 

merits of LOR and EOR and clearly favored LOR. Gilruth had telephoned 

Houbolt personally to ask him to give this talk. In Houbolt's memory, the 

invitation was "the first concession" that Gilruth had ever made to him 

regarding LOR.l16 

With the STG now firmly behind LOR, its adoption became a contest 

between the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston and the Marshall Space 

Flight Center in Huntsville. Marshall was a bastion of EOR supporters. Von 

Braun's people recognized two things: EOR would require the development 

of advanced versions of Marshall's own Saturn booster, and the selection of 

EOR for the lunar landing program would require construction of a platform 

in earth orbit that could have many uses other than for Apollo. For this 

reason, space station advocates-who existed in droves at the Alabama 

facility-were enthusiastic about EOR.117 To this day, many of them feel 

that EOR would have had the best long-term results. 

But von Braun, their own director, would disappoint them. During the 

spring of 1962, the transplanted German rocket designer made the decision 

to throw his weight behind LOR. He surprised his staff with this shocking 

263 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-66-3090 

Taking charge of every situation, Wernher von Braun {second from left) entertains 

his hosts during a visit to Langley in April 1966. To the far right stand Floyd 

Thompson and Charles Donlan. 

announcement at the end of a day-long briefing given to Joe Shea at Marshall 

on 7 June 1962: 

We at the Marshall Space Flight Center readily admit that when first exposed to the 

proposal of the Lunar Orbit Rendezvous Mode we were a bit skeptical~particularly 

of the aspect of having the .astronauts execute a complicated rendezvous maneuver 

at a distance of 240,000 miles from the earth where any rescue possibility appeared 

remote. In the meantime, however, we have spent a great deal of time and effort 

studying the four modes [EOR, LOR, and two Direct Ascent modes, one involving 

the Nova and the other a Saturn C-5], and we have come to the conclusion that this 

particular disadvantage is far outweighed by [its] advantages. . . . 

We understand that the Manned Spacecraft Center was also quite skeptical at 

first when John Houbolt advanced the proposal of the Lunar Orbit Rendezvous Mode, 

and that it took them quite a while to substantiate the feasibility of the method and 

finally endorse it. 

Against this background it can, therefore, be concluded that the issue of 'invented 

here' versus 'not invented here' does not apply to either the Manned Spacecraft Center 

or the Marshall Space Flight Center; that both Centers have actually embraced a 

scheme suggested by a third source. . . . I .consider it fortunate indeed for the 

Manned Lunar Landing. Program that both Centers, after much soul searching, have 

come to identical conclusions. 

264 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

The persuasive von Braun then elaborated on "why we do not recommend" 

the direct ascent and EOR modes, and "why we do recommend the LunarOrbit Rendezvous Mode." 118 

For Marshall employees and many other people inside NASA, von Braun's 

announcement seemed to represent a type of closure, that is, the culmination 

of a sociopolitical process "when a consensus emerges that a problem arising 

during the development of a technology has been solved." In this case, it 

was a very undemocratic form of closure, coming from von Braun himself, 

with very little support from his own people. But NASA, of course, was 

not a democratic organization. For closure to occur and LOR to become 

the mission mode for Apollo, referendum or consensus was not necessary; it 

only required that a decision be made and supported by a few key people: 

von Braun, Bob Gilruth, Bob Seamans, Administrator James Webb, and 

President Kennedy.119 

How von Braun was persuaded is a historically significant matter. Although some questions about his motives remain unanswered, one apparent 

factor in his conversion was that he understood the necessity of moving 

ahead with the program if NASA was to meet President Kennedy's deadline. No progress was possible until the decision about the mission mode 

was made. Both the Manned Spacecraft Center and Langley's John Houbolt 

had worked to convince von Braun to come over to their side. In April 

1962 Houbolt sent von Braun several papers prepared at Langley on a lunar landing mission using LOR, including the published two-volume report. 

Von Braun had requested the papers personally after hearing Houbolt's presentation at NASA headquarters. Von Braun not only passed copies of the 

Langley papers to Hermann Koelle in Marshall's Future Projects Office but 

also, after making his unexpected announcement in favor of LOR to the 

stunned crowd of Marshall employees in early June, reciprocated by sending Houbolt a copy of the remarks he had made. This was a noteworthy 

courtesy. The final sentence of the cover letter asked Houbolt to "please 

treat this confidentially since no final decision on the mode has yet been 

made." 120 

The LOR decision was finalized in the following weeks when the two 

powerful groups of converts at Houston and Huntsville, along with the 

original little band of true believers at Langley, persuaded key officials at 

NASA headquarters, notably Administrator James Webb, who had been 

holding out for direct ascent, that LOR was the only way to land on the 

moon by 1969. With the key players now supporting the concept, the NASA 

Manned Space Flight Management Council announced on 22 June 1962 that 

it favored LOR. On 11 July, the agency announced that it had selected the 

mode for Apollo. Webb made the announcement even though President 

Kennedy's science adviser, Dr. Jerome Wiesner, remained firmly opposed to 

LOR.l21 

On the day that NASA made the public announcement, Houbolt was giving a paper on the dynamic response of airplanes to atmospheric turbulence 

265 

c -'1 
Spaceflight Revolution 

On 14 March 1969, four months before 

the first lunar landing, Life magazine featured the LEM on its cover (right). The 

magazine proposed a cover featuring John 

Houbolt (below) but did not use it because 

of NASA 's concern for giving too much 

credit to any one person for the decision 

to go to the moon via LOR. 

266 

L-66-6301 
Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

at a meeting of NATO's Advisory Group for Aeronautical Research and 

Development (AGARD) in Paris. 122 His division chief, Isadore E. ("Ed") 

Garrick, was also at the meeting. A talented applied mathematician who 

had been working at Langley since the 1930s, Garrick had witnessed the 

evolution of his assistant's ideas on space navigation and rendezvous. He 

had listened sympathetically to all of Houbolt's stories about the terrible 

things that had been blocking a fair hearing of LOR. 

While at the AGARD meeting in Paris, Garrick saw a little blurb in the 

overseas edition of the New York Herald Tribune about NASA's decision 

to use LOR. Garrick showed the paper to Houbolt, who had not seen it, 

shook Houbolt's hand, and said, "Congratulations, John. They've adopted 

your scheme. I can safely say I'm shaking hands with the man who singlehandedly saved the government $20 billion." 123 

In the ensuing years, whenever the question of Houbolt's importance 

for the LOR decision came up for discussion, Garrick said that he was 

"practically certain that without John Houbolt's persistence it would have 

taken several more years for LOR to have been adopted." Although "the 

decisions of many other people were essential to the process" and although 

"there is no controversy that Houbolt had help from others, ... the essential 

prime mover, moving 'heaven and earth' to get the concepts across, remains 

Houbolt himself." 124 

Postscript 

Whether NASA's choice of LOR would have been made in the summer of 

1962 or at any later time without the research information, the commitment, 

and the crusading zeal of Houbolt remains a matter for historical conjecture. 

His basic contribution, however, and that of his Langley associates who in 

their more quiet ways also developed and advocated LOR, seem now to be 

beyond debate. They were the first in NASA to recognize the fundamental 

advantages of the LOR concept, and for a critical period in the early 1960s, 

they were also the only ones inside the agency to foster and fight for it. The 

story of the genesis of LOR underscores the vital role occasionally played by 

the unpopular opinion. It testifies to the essential importance of the single 

individual contribution even within the context of a large organization based 

on teamwork. And it demonstrates the importance of passionate persistence 

in the face of strong opposition and the pressure for conformity. 

Thousands of factors contributed to the ultimate success of the Apollo 

lunar landing missions, but no single factor was more essential than the 

concept of LOR. Without NASA's adoption of this stubbornly held minority 

opinion, the United States might not have reached the moon by the end of 

the decade as President Kennedy had promised. Without LOR, possibly no 

one even now-near the beginning of the twenty-first century-would have 

stepped onto the moon. 

267 
Spaceflight Revolution 

No less an authority than George Low has expressed this same judgment. 

"It is my opinion to this day," Low wrote in 1982, "that had the Lunar Orbit 

Rendezvous Mode not been chosen, Apollo would not have succeeded." All 

of the other modes "would have been so complex technically, that there 

would have been major setbacks in the program, and it probably would 

have failed along the way." Low has also gone on record with his belief, that 

without "John Houbolt's persistence in calling this method to the attention 

of NASA's decision makers," and "without Houbolt's letter to Seamans (and 

the work that backed up that letter)," NASA "might not have chosen the 

Lunar Orbit Rendezvous Mode." Houbolt's commitment was a key factor 

in the adoption of LOR and was "a major contribution to the success of 

Apollo and, therefore, to the Nation." 125 

* * * 

. At 4:17 p.m. (EDT) on 20 July 1969, John Houbolt, now a senior consultant with the innovative Aeronautical Research Associates of Princeton, 

New Jersey, sat inconspicuously as one of the invited guests and dignitaries 

in the viewing room of Mission Control at the Manned Spacecraft Center in 

Houston. Like so many others around the world at that moment, he listened 

in wonder to the deliberately spoken yet wildly dramatic words of Apollo 11 

astronaut Neil Armstrong: "Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has 

landed." 

Alternate cheering and shushing followed that precious moment, when 

Americans landed and stepped onto the moon for the first time. Turning from his seat, NASA's master rocketeer, Wernher von Braun, found 

Houbolt's eye among all the others, gave him the okay sign, and said to him 

simply, "John, it worked beautifully." 126 

268 
9 

Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

The reason some of us wanted EOR was not just to go 

to the moon but to have something afterwards: orbital 

operations, a space station, a springboard. LOR was 

a one-shot deal, very limited, very inflexible. 

-Jesco von Puttkamer 

NASA Marshall engineer 

By 1969, it was apparent that there was no logical sequel to the lunar landing, and that the agency would 

have to redeploy its resources in a radically different direction. Had NASA selected earth-orbit rendezvous instead, the .lunar landing could still have 

been achieved and NASA would have had at least a 

ten-year start on deploying an orbiting space station, 

rather than waiting until 1982 to let contracts for its 

design. 

-Hans Mark and Arnold Levine 

The Management of Research Institutions 

No decision in NASA history had a greater impact on the course of 

the American space program than the selection of LOR as the mission 

mode for Apollo. The LOR decision led to a total of six successful lunar 

landing missions by 1972, thus enabling the United States to win the most 

important leg of the space race. Whether the United States reaped the 

many anticipated advantages of winning that race, given the critical national 

and international problems plaguing the country during the Vietnam era, 

is another matter altogether. The LOR decision, however, had other 

ramifications for the U.S. space program; it meant that the country would 

skip the well-laid plans for a manned space station. 

269 
Spaceflight Revolution 

· Excited NASA researchers had been studying space station concepts 

seriously for at least four years when NASA chose the LOR mode for Apollo; 

in truth, many researchers had been planning for a space station from 

the moment of NASA's beginning as an organization. Although the LOR 

decision did not stop all space station planning, it decisively changed space 

station studies by de-emphasizing the immediate importance of earth-orbital 

capabilities. Moreover, the goal of landing humans on the moon by the end 

of the decade became all-consuming, and researchers who did space station 

work in the wake of the mission-mode decision had to compete with Apollo 

for support. After Apollo, the situation did not improve; space station 

advocates then had to justify a return to the development of something 

that the country had once decided it did not need. NASA Marshall engineer 

Jesco von Puttkamer explains this predicament: 

After the close down of Apollo, we began to pay the price. We are trying to fill 

that gap, which we jumped over, and are having a tough time with a convincing 

justification to do it. Sometimes I wish we had done EOR. Then we would probably 

have a space station already. Then we wouldn't have to go back and rejustify 

something that looks to many people like a step backwards. And in a certain sense 

it is. We've been to the moon already, history knows, and now all of a sudden we're 

trying to fill this empty space.1 

This was a major psychological and political obstacle for the champions of 

any space station concept to overcome. It explains why now, on the eve of 

the twenty-first century, "the next logical step" in space exploration after 

orbiting a human has not yet been taken. 

In the mid-1970s, the United States did launch an orbital space station, 

Skylab. The technology for this station was a direct outgrowth of the 

Apollo Extension System, a spin-off of the LOR-determined Apollo program. 

Skylab, as successful as it proved to be, was not the versatile and longlasting station that NASA had planned since the late 1950s. Designed 

to satisfy the institutional need to do something after Apollo and to keep 

the NASA team together long enough to finish the lunar landing missions, 

Skylab was makeshift and temporary. NASA's space station engineers, 

in fact, deliberately built the station without the thrusters necessary to 

keep it in orbit for any significant amount of time. By limiting Skylab's 

"lifetime," they hoped to ensure the construction of a more permanent and 

sophisticated station-one more in keeping with their original plans. When 

Skylab came down, they would replace it with the station they had always 

wanted-that was the idea. In 1979, Skylab did fall to earth and made 

more news as a burning hunk of metal than it ever did as an operating 

space laboratory. The public feared that falling pieces of the spacecraft 

might destroy homes or kill children at play in school yards. Most of the 

orbital workshop landed in Western Australia, and none of it did any serious 

damage. Although Skylab came down, by the 1990s, NASA still had not 

270 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

been able to replace it as hoped. Once skipped over, "the next logical step" 

proved increasingly difficult to justify. 2 

"As Inevitable as the Rising Sun" 

In imagining how humans would voyage to the moon and the planets, 

all rocket pioneers envisioned the value of a staging base in earth orbit. 

The Russian theoretician Konstantin Tsiolkovskii recommended such an 

outpost in 1911 in his pioneering Investigation of Universal Space by Means 

of Reactive Devices, and the German scientist Hermann Oberth suggested 

likewise in his 1923 book Die Rakete zu den Planetenraumen. Austria's 

Guido von Pirquet envisioned the use of an earth-orbit station in his series 

of provocative articles on "Interplanetary 'Thavel Routes" appearing in Die 

Rakete {The Rocket), which was published by the German Society for Space 

'Thavel in 1928 and 1929. Despite these early ideas for a station, rocket 

enthusiasts did not seriously consider building one until several years after 

the end of World War II and the appearance of the first practical jet and 

rocket engines.3 

One of the first to offer a station design was the master designer of 

the V-2 rocket, Wernher von Braun. In 1952, having quickly acclimated 

himself to the American scene and recognizing the need to make spaceflight 

a respectable topic for public discussion, von Braun wrote an article for a 

special issue of the popular American magazine Colliers. This issue was 

devoted to the idea of space exploration. Von Braun called his contribution 

"Crossing the Last Frontier" and made its focus the imaginative design of 

a manned space station in permanent earth orbit.4 

In the article von Braun wrote, "Development of the space station is as 

inevitable as the rising sun." "Man has already poked his nose into space" 

with sounding rockets, and "he is not likely to pull it back." "Within the 

next 10 to 15 year:s," von Braun predicted, "the earth will have a new 

companion in the skies." An "artificial moon," an earth-orbiting base "from 

which a trip to the moon itself will be just a step," will be "carried into space, 

piece by piece, by rocket ships." From there, the human civilization of deep 

space would begin. 5 

The space station conceived by von Braun was no crude affair; it was an 

elaborate and beautiful object, a huge 250-foot-wide wheel. The enormous 

torus rotated slowly as it orbited the earth to provide artificial or "synthetic 

gravity" for pressurized living spaces situated about the wheel's center. 

Writer Arthur C. Clarke and moviemaker Stanley Kubrick would borrow 

the torus design for their exhilarating (and baffling) 1968 movie epic 2001: 

A Space Odyssey. In the film, the space wheel turns majestically to the 

waltz of Johann Strauss's "The Blue Danube," while a space shuttle vehicle 

with passengers aboard leisurely approaches the station. 

271 
Spaceflight Revolution 

The hub of von Braun's wheel served as a stationary zero-gravity module for earth and space observations with an assembly of equipment and instruments useful for a host of scientific and applied industrial experiments. 

On-board apparatuses would include "powerful telescopes attached to large 

optical screens, radarscopes, and cameras to keep under constant inspection every ocean, continent, country, and city." At short distances from the 

station, there would be unmanned stationary platforms for remotely controlled telescopic observation of the heavens. While helping to uncover the 

secrets of the universe, the space station would also work to disclose the evil 

ambitions of humankind. With its telescopic and camera eyes, von Braun 

claimed, the station would make it virtually "impossible for any nation to 

hide warlike preparations for any length of time." Such would be the novel 

and unprecedented benefits of a permanent manned base in earth orbit. Von 

Braun predicted that the station would become a reality in a few decades. 6 

At NACA Langley in the 1950s, the prospects of an orbiting space station 

did not pass unnoticed. Several researchers speculated about the technology 

that would be needed someday to develop an operational space station 

such as the one von Braun had described. Suddenly, in 1958, interest 

in a space station exploded. While the ink was still drying on the Space 

Act, preliminary working groups concerned with space station concepts and 

technology came alive both within NASA and around the aerospace industry. 

NASA's intercenter Goett Committee was one of these early groups. 

At the first meeting of the Goett Committee on 25-26 May 1959, each 

member addressed the group for 10 to 15 minutes to propose ideas for the 

next manned spaceflight objective after Project Mercury. Of all the speakers 

at the meeting, no one sounded more enthusiastic about the potential of 

an orbiting space station than Langley representative Larry Loftin. In his 

presentation for what he called Project AMIS, or Advanced Man In Space, 

Loftin recommended that "NASA undertake research directed toward the 

following type of system: a permanent space station with a 'transport 

satellite' capable of rendezvous with the space station." According to 

Loftin, the space station should possess the following general characteristics: 

It should be "large enough to accommodate two or more persons for an 

extended period of time"; it should be "stabilized and oriented in some 

prescribed manner"; it should be "capable of changing its orientation, and 

perhaps its orbit, under control of the crew"; and it should be able to attach 

to the transport satellite for supply and change of personnel. In addition, 

Loftin argued that the satellite transport or "rendezvous machine" should 

be able to alter, "through appropriate guidance and control systems, its 

initial orbit so as to rendezvous with the space station." It should possess a 

navigation system "which will ensure that that pilot can find and intercept 

the space station." The transport vehicle should be able to dock with the 

station "in such a way as to permit transfer of payloads between vehicles," 

and, importantly, it should be able to return from space and land, under 

control of the pilot, "at. a preselected spot on the earth." 7 

272 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

L-62-8400 

One of Langley's early concepts for a manned space station: a self-inflating 15-footdiameter rotating hexagon. 

For emergency use, Loftin explained, the station could be outfitted with 

a "space parachute," some sort of "flexible, kite-like" package that would 

deploy to make it possible for the station's occupants to survive atmospheric 

reentry. Otherwise, the space transport would make all trips to and from 

space. As for what this shuttle-like vehicle might be, Loftin indicated 

that the air force's X-20 Dyna-Soar manned boost-glider vehicle, "could be 

modified to perform the desired function." (The X-20 would not be built; 

Secretary of Defense RobertS. McNamara canceled the multimillion-dollar, 

six-year-old program in 1963.) As an "initial step" to test the transport 

concept, Loftin suggested that a "proximity rendezvous of Dyna Soar" with 

some orbiting satellite might be undertaken. 8 

273 
Spaceflight Revolution 

In his talk Loftin emphasized the many uses of the space station. It could 

serve as "a medical laboratory for the study of man and his ability to function on long space missions." In the station, researchers could study "the 

effects of space environment on materials, equipment, and powerplants." 

NASA could use the station to develop new stabilization, orientation, and 

navigational techniques, as well as to learn how to accomplish rendezvous in 

space. With telescopes and cameras on board, the station could also serve 

as an orbiting astronomical observatory and as an "earth survey vehicle" 

for meteorological, geographical, and military reconnaissance. The minutes 

of the Goett Committee do not record the immediate reaction to Loftin's 

AMIS presentation specifically, but several members of the steering committee did come away from their two-day meeting in Washington with a 

strong feeling that a manned space station should be the "target project" 

after Mercury. 9 

At NASA's First Anniversary Inspection a few months later, Loftin told 

a large audience at one of the major stops along the tour that NASA's longrange objectives included "manned exploration of the moon and planets 

and the provision of manned earth satellites for purposes of terrestrial and 

astronomical observation," and perhaps even for military surveillance. But 

"the next major step [author's emphasis] in the direction of accomplishing 

these long-range objectives of manned space exploration and use would 

appear to involve the establishment of a manned orbiting space laboratory 

capable of supporting two or more men in space for a period of several 

weeks." NASA Langley, Loftin told the crowd, was now focusing its research 

"with a view toward providing the technological background necessary to 

support the development of a manned orbiting laboratory." 10 

Interestingly, in his original typed comments for the inspection, Loftin 

had written: "I would like to stress that we at Langley do not intend to 

develop, build, or contract for the construction of such a vehicle." The 

center's goal, according to Loftin, in keeping with its conservative NACA 

policy not to design aircraft, was to "seek out and solve the problems which 

lie in the way of the development of such a vehicle system." Loftin, however, 

had crossed through this first line. Perhaps he realized that the times were 

changing; Langley could "develop, build, or contract" for NASA's space 

station.l1 This was NASA not the NACA, after all. 

The First Space Station Task Force 

When Larry Loftin spoke to the Goett Committee, he had already 

helped Floyd Thompson organize 15 of the center's brightest researchers 

into the Manned Space Laboratory Research Group. Thompson had made 

a surprising choice for the chair of the space station committee in veteran 

aeronautical engineer Mark R. Nichols, the longtime head of the Full-Scale 

Research Division. Nichols, a dedicated airplane man, had little interest 

274 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

L-62-4088 

Two key members of Langley's early space station research were Paul R. Hill (left) 

and Robert Osborne {right}. 

in making the transition to space. As mentioned in chapter 4, Thompson 

made the appointment as an example to the many other airplane buffs at 

the center. Langley research was still a team effort, and the team was 

now moving beyond the atmosphere. Aeronautics staff members would be 

expected to become involved in space projects. No one should expect a 

deferment-not even the head of a division. 12 

The Manned Space Laboratory Research Group consisted of six subcommittees responsible for the study of various essential aspects of space station 

design and operations: (1) Design and Uses of the Space Station, led by 

Paul R. Hill of PARD; (2) Stabilization and Orientation, led by the brilliant 

and mild-mannered head of the Guidance and Control Branch, W. Hewitt 

Phillips; (3) Life Support, headed by A. Wythe Sinclair, Jr., of the new 

Theoretical Mechanics Division; ( 4) Rendezvous Analysis, led by Houbolt, 

then the assistant chief of the Dynamic Loads Division; (5) Rendezvous Vehicle, led by Eugene S. Love, who was an extremely talented hypersonics 

specialist working in the Aero-Physics Division; and (6) Power Plant, led 

by Nichols himself.* According to handwritten comments by Thompson 

on the rough organization chart sketched by Loftin, the objective of the 

space station committee was to "develop technology and make pitch for doing it." The goal was to demonstrate that "this is possible and this is the 

way we can do it." As for how to organize and manage the work of the 

* Due to Nichols' ambivalence abou~ the space project, Paul R Hill actually took over much of the 

leadership role for the group. 

275 
Spaceflight Revolution 

committee, Thompson said only to "organize like WS 110," that is, similar 

to the support of the development of Weapons System 110, the air force's 

experimental B-70 strategic bomber. The organization would be informal 

so that it could cut across formal divisional lines, but its work would receive 

the highest priority in the shops.13 

Thompson made one other revealing note at the bottom of the committee's organization chart: "Plan whole organization of getting man to moon." 

This footnote implies that in Thompson's mind the clear and accepted objective of NASA's manned space effort following Project Mercury was to 

send an astronaut to the moon and back. The way to achieve that objective 

was, as all the visionaries of space exploration had articulated, by moving 

out from an orbiting relay station. Langley's associate director was asking 

his in-house committee to study the entire enterprise involved not only in 

building and operating a space station but also in using it as a launchpad 

for the eventual manned lunar landing mission. 14 

Not everyone in NASA thought that the space station should be the target project. Dr. Adolf Busemann, the German pioneer of the swept wing 

who came to Langley in 1947, argued that the space environment would offer 

experimenters no vital scientific or technological knowledge that researchers 

with some ingenuity could not acquire on earth. But with the exception of 

Busemann and the small group of lunar landing advocates mostly clustered 

around Clint Brown and the Theoretical Mechanics Division, nearly everyone else at Langley in the summer of 1959, including senior management, 

threw their weight behind the space station. Members of Nichols' group 

immersed themselves in a centerwide effort to define and answer a host 

of major questions related to placing and operating a manned laboratory 

in earth orbit. Inquiries and suggestions were pouring into Langley from 

the aerospace industry, notably from the Goodyear Aircraft Corporation, 

Chance Vought Astronautics, and the Martin Company, whose representatives had heard what NASA Langley was up to and wanted to participate 

in the development of the manned station.15 

By the fall of 1959, the work of the Nichols committee had progressed to 

the point where Loftin could make a simple three-point statement of purpose. Langley would (1) "study the psychological and physiological reactions 

of man in a space environment over extended periods of time," thereby determining "the capabilities and limitations of man in performing long space 

missions"; (2) "provide a means for studying materials, structures, control 

and orientation systems, auxiliary powerplants, etc., in a true space environment"; and (3) "study means of communication, orbit control, rendezvous," 

as well as techniques for earth and astronomical observations.16 In summary, Loftin told the committee that Langley was primed and ready to take 

on the role of the lead center in all NASA's space station work-quite an 

ambitious undertaking for the former NACA aeronautics laboratory. 

276 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

From the Inflatable Torus to the Rotating Hexagon 

If Langley researchers favored any particular kind of space station as 

they set out to examine the feasibility of various configurations in 1960, 

their preference was definitely a self-deploying inflatable. The Langley 

space station office had eliminated one-by-one the concepts for noninflatable 

configurations, some of which came from industry. Notions for a simple 

orbiting "can," or cylinder, and for a cylinder attached to a terminal stage 

of a booster were rejected as dynamically unstable; they had a tendency 

to roll at the slightest disturbance. A version of Lockheed's sophisticated 

elongated modular concept was turned down because it was too futuristic 

and required the launch of several boosters to place all the components into 

earth orbit. Proposals for hub-and-spoke designs, big orbiting Ferris wheels 

in space, were turned down because of the Coriolis effects. Disturbances of 

the inner ear, such as nausea, vertigo, and dizziness, would debilitate crew 

members moving radially in any system that was rotating too rapidly. 

Langley's space station team had sound technical reasons for doubting 

the feasibility of these proposals. However, the team possessed a strong 

institutional bias for an inflatable station. After all, the inflatable was 

developed at Langley. The concept also made good engineering sense. 

Hundreds of pounds of propellant were required to put one pound of payload 

into orbit. Any plan that involved lightening the payload meant simplifying 

rocket requirements. Because of their experience with the Echo balloon, 

Langley engineers also knew firsthand that a folded station packed snugly 

inside a rocket would be protected during the rough ride through the 

atmosphere. 

The first idea for an inflatable station was the Erectable Torus Manned 

Space Laboratory. A Langley space station team led by Paul Hill and 

Emanuel "Manny" Schnitzer developed the concept with the help of the 

Goodyear Aircraft Corporation. Their idea called for a flat inflatable ring 

or torus 24 feet in diameter, or about one-quarter the size of the Echo 1 

sphere.l7 

The inflatable torus had several major selling points. It was "unitized," 

meaning that all its elements were part of a single structure that could be 

carried to orbit by the launch of one booster, just as was the case with the 

Echo balloon. NASA would simply fold the station into a compact payload 

for an automatic deployment once the payload had reached altitude. The 

inner volume of the torus could be given a gravity capability of 0 to 1 G. 

The station could be designed for both natural and artificial stability, for 

rendezvous-dock-abort capability, and for variable-demand power supply. 

The torus could also have regenerative life-support systems for a six-person 

crew. To provide their space station with electric power, Hill and Schnitzer 

pursued the possibility of using a solar turboelectric system, which used an 

innovative umbrella-like solar collector then under development by TRW 

as part of the NASA-supported Sunflower Auxiliary Power Plant Project. 

277 
Spaceflight Revolution 

(c) 

'''@''' 

(f) 

L-63-3879 

Langley researcher Rene Berglund (left) used this figure (right) in 1962 to illustrate 

some of the earliest space station configurations investigated at the center: (a) a 

large cylinder, (b) a smaller cylinder attached to a terminal-stage booster, (c) a 

boom with multiple docking ports powered by a nuclear power plant at one end, 

(d) a spoke configuration, (e) a modified spoke configuration with vertical rather 

than horizontal modules, and (f) a wheel or torus. 

By April 1960, Schnitzer was so enthusiastic about the inflatable torus 

that he made a formal presentation on the design to a national meeting 

of the American Rocket Society. A revised and updated version of his talk 

appeared as the feature article in the January 1961 issue of Astronautics 

Magazine. (In late 1962, Schnitzer moved to the Office of Manned Space 

Flight at NASA headquarters, where he would remain active in space station 

R&D and promote Langley's work in the field. )18 

In the months following Schnitzer's presentation, Langley built and tested 

various models of the Erectable Torus Manned Space Laboratory, including 

a full-scale research model constructed by Goodyear. But researchers began 

to suspect that the design was lacking in certain key respects. The principal 

concern was the same .one that had plagued the promoters of Echo: the 

danger of a meteorite puncturing the structure. Goodyear built the research 

278 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

L-61-8027 

Testing indicated that the inflatable torus could be packaged around the hub so that 

it occupied only 2 percent of its inflated volume. 

L-61-8693 

Looking like a huge pneumatic tire sitting on a giant car jack, Langley's full-size test 

model of its 24-foot toroidal space station receives a visit from NASA Administrator 

James Webb in December 1961 .. Escorting Webb are Floyd Thompson (far left) and 

T. Melvin Butler, Langley's assistant director for administration. 

279 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-62-312 

Langley engineers check out the interior of the inflatable 24-foot space station in 

January 1962. 

model out of a lightweight three-ply nylon cord held together firmly by 

a sticky rubber-like material known as butyl elastomer. Such a large 

rubberized surface would certainly be vulnerable during a meteoroid shower. 

This concern proved much harder to dismiss for a manned station than for 

the unpiloted satellite. In addition, while the condition of being "dead soft" 

was seen as an advantage for the Echo balloon, it was a disadvantage for 

a busy manned space station. Some engineers worried that if the flexible 

material was not strong enough, crew members moving around vigorously 

in the space station might somehow propel themselves so forcefully from one 

side of the station to the other that they would break through a wall and 

go shooting into outer space. 

A more serious engineering concern arose that was related to the dynamics of the toroidal structure. When arriving crew members moved equipment 

from the central hub to a working area at the outside periphery of the ring, 

or when a ferry vehicle simply impacted with the station's docking port, 

Langley researchers believed that the station might become slightly unstable, thus upsetting its precisely established orbit. Less strenuous activities 

might also disturb the fragile dynamics of the torus. Knowing that the human occupants of the .station would have no weight but would still have 

mass, the Langley space station group conducted analytical studies using 

280 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

analog computers to calculate the effect of astronauts moving about in the 

station. The results showed that the mass distribution would be changed 

when crew members just walked from one part of the vehicle to another. 

This change produced a slight oscillation, or what the researchers called a 

"wobble," of the entire station. 

To discover whether they could alleviate this wobble, the Langley space 

station group decided to build a 10-foot-diameter elastically scaled model of 

the torus. This model did not become operational until the summer of 1961, 

however, and by that time NASA had realized that it must either develop 

a more rigid inflatable or abandon the idea of an inflatable altogether.l9 

While still in pursuit of the best possible inflatable torus, the NASA 

Langley spa~e station group did explore other ideas. Most notably, in the 

summer of 1961 it entered into a six-month contract with North American 

Aviation for a detailed feasibility study of an advanced space station 

concept.* Developed by Langley engineer Rene A. Berglund, the design 

called for a large modular manned space station, which although essentially 

rigid in structure, could still be automatically erected in space. In essence, 

Berglund's idea was to put together a series of six rigid modules that were 

connected by inflatable spokes or passageways to a central nonrotating hub. 

The 75-foot-diameter structure (initially planners thought it might be as 

large as 100 feet) would be assembled entirely on the ground, packaged into 

a small launch configuration, and boosted into space atop a Saturn rocket. 

One of Berglund's prerequisites for the design was that it provide protection 

against micrometeorites. To accomplish this, he gave the rigid sections of 

the rotating hexagon air-lock doors that could be sealed when any threat 

arose to the integrity of the interconnecting inflatable sections.20 

This sophisticated modular assembly was to rotate slowly in space, thus 

making it possible for its occupants to enjoy the benefits of artificial gravity, 

which virtually all space station designers at the time believed was absolutely 

necessary for any long-term stay in space. In fact, the diameter of 75 

feet was selected because it provided the minimal rotational radius needed 

to generate at low rotational velocities the 1 G desired for the station's 

living areas. Rotation was the only mechanism known at the time for 

artificially creating gravity conditions. The only part of the structure that 

would not rotate was the central hub; suspended by bearings, the hub 

would turn mechanically in the opposite direction of the hexagon at just 

the right rate to cancel all the effects of the rotation. Located in this 

nonrotating center of the space station would be a laboratory for various 

experiments, including comparative studies of the effects of zero and artificial 

gravity. The nonrotating hub would also contain the dock for the ferry 

vehicle. Preliminary experience with Langley's earliest rendezvous and 

docking simulators indicated that a trained pilot could execute a docking 

* North American had been studying the logistics of a permanent satellite base and a global 

surveillance system for the air force, ~d the physics of meteoroid impact for NASA. 

281 
Spaceflight Revolution 

With a 10-foot-diameter scale model 

(above), Langley researchers studied the 

attitude errors, wobbling motions, and 

other dynamic characteristics of a space 

station spinning in space. The effects of 

crew motion and cargo transfer within 

the station were simulated by an electrically driven mass moving around a track 

on the torus. To the right, a Langley 

engineer takes a walk in simulated zero 

gravity around a mock-up of a full-scale, 

24-foot-diameter space station. 

282 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

maneuver with surprising ease as long as the station docking hub was fixed. 

If the hub rotated along with a rotating station, the maneuvering operations 

would have to be much more complicated. 

As engineers from North American and Langley probed more deeply into 

the possibilities of a rotating hexagon, they became increasingly confident 

that they were on the right track. The condition that the station be selfdeploying or self-erecting (implying some means of mechanical erection or a 

combination of mechanical erection with inflation) was not negotiable, given 

the economic and technological benefits of being able to deliver the space 

station to its orbit via a single booster. Early on, the space station group 

talked with their fellow engineers in the Scout Project Office at Langley 

about using a Scout booster to launch the station, but Scout did not appear 

to be powerful enough to carry all 171,000 tons of the rotating hexagon 

to orbit altitude. The group also looked into using a Centaur, a liquidfuel booster for which NASA had taken over the responsibility from the 

DOD. The Centaur promised higher thrust and bigger payloads for lunar 

and planetary missions; however, Langley learned in early 1961 that the 

Centaur was "out of the question" because "nothing in the [high priority] 

NASA manned space programs calls for it." Furthermore, the Centaur was 

not yet "man-rated," that is, approved for flights with astronauts aboard, 

and a man rating was "neither expected nor anticipated." Centaur would 

prove to be a troublesome launch vehicle even for its specified unmanned 

missions, and the rocket never would be authorized to fly humans. 21 

Soon space station advocates turned to von Braun's Saturn. With its 

210,000-pound payload capacity, an advanced Saturn could easily lift the 

171,000-pound hexagon into orbit. A team of Langley researchers led by 

Berglund did what they could to mate their space station to the top stage 

of a Saturn. Working with a dynamic scale model, they refined the system 

of mechanical hinges that enabled the six interconnected modules of the 

hexagon to fold into one compact mass. As a bonus, the hinges also 

eliminated the need for fabric connections between modules, which were 

more vulnerable to damage. Tests demonstrated that the arrangement could 

be carried aloft in one piece with the three retractable spokes stowed safely 

inside the cavity of the assimilated module cluster. Once orbit was achieved, 

a series of screw-jack actuators located at the joints between the modules 

would kick in to deploy the folded structure. The Langley researchers also 

made sure that the nonrotating central hub of their hexagon would have a 

port that could accommodate ferry vehicles. Such vehicles were then being 

proposed for the Apollo circumlunar mission and, later, for a lunar landing 

via EOR. 

The estimated cost for the entire space station project, for either the 

erectable torus or the rotating hexagon, was $100 million, a tidy sum upon 

which Langley and NASA headquarters agreed. This figure amounted to 

the lowest cost proposal for a space station submitted to the air force at 

its space station conference ih early 1961. But, as George Low pointed out 

283 
Spaceflight Revolution 

DOCKING 

FAC 

HEXAGONAL CONFIGURATION 

L-62-8730 

T 

63FT t.j 

c\ rI -

- I-33FM 

North American selected this space station design in 1962 for final systems analysis 

(diagram shown at top, models at bottom, left and right). Incorporating all the 

advantages of a wheel configuration, it had rigid cylindrical modules arranged in a 

hexagonal shape with three rigid telescoping spokes. This configuration eliminated 

the need for exposed flexible fabric. 

284 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

at a space station meeting held at Langley on 18 April 1961, NASA did 

not have the money for a space station follow-on to Project Mercury; what 

funds NASA expected were "only enough to finish Mercury and $29 million 

for Apollo." 22 

For five more weeks, until President Kennedy's speech on 25 May, Apollo 

entailed only a circumlunar mission, with the possibility of building a space 

station as a by-product of the earth-orbital phase; however, as George Low 

observed, NASA had not guaranteed that such a phase would be part of 

Apollo. Low warned the assembled space station advocates that the chances 

were high that Apollo would not require a space station with artificial 

gravity. If that were the case, NASA would have neither the mandate nor 

the money to build a space station of any kind for some time to come. 

Such uncertainty put Langley in a difficult but not unfamiliar situation. 

Some sort of space station was possible for the Apollo era, and as long as that 

possibility existed, the basic technology needed for a station had to be ready, 

perhaps at short notice. To assure that Langley would be technologically 

prepared, exploratory research had to be ongoing. 

Larry Loftin made this point clear on 19 May 1961, six days before 

President Kennedy's lunar landing speech, in his testimony to the U.S. 

House Committee on Science and Astronautics, chaired by Overton Brooks 

(Democrat from Louisiana). "We have not been developing a manned 

vehicle," Loftin reassured the congressmen and their staffs. "We have been 

studying what we would consider to be salient or pertinent problems which 

would have to be solved" if the country decided that a station was needed. 

Loftin described in some detail Langley's manned space station work. "In 

order to try to fix what the problem areas were," he explained, "it was 

necessary to arrive at some sort of a concept of what the vehicle might 

look like." He then passed around a series of pictures showing Langley's 

concepts for both the inflatable torus and the rotating hexagon, expressing 

no preference for either design.* After reviewing the general characteristics 

of both designs, Loftin summarized Langley's assessment of the status of 

the space station: 

So far as we know, so far as we have gone at the present time, we don't see that there 

are required any fundamental scientific breakthroughs . . . in order to design one of 

these things. However, we have not undertaken at the Langley Research Center a 

detailed engineering design study. If such a study were undertaken, you might run 

into some problems that we haven't been smart enough to think about that are 

fundamental. I don't know if you would, but you could. 

Moreover, Loftin concluded his testimony with a caution, "In such a careful 

engineering design, this is a long-term proposition. We ar_e not really sure 

* Two representatives of the Goodyear Aircraft Corporation, the primary contractor involved in 

Langley's study of the inflatable torus, were testifying the same day before the congressional committee. 

285 
Spaceflight Revolution 

when you got all done whether you would have something you really want 

or not." 23 

Whether the politicians understood Loftin's essential point is uncertain, 

for they had a difficult time even fathoming what a manned space station was 

all about and how someday it might be used. Chairman Overton Brooks, for 

example, asked, "You are just going to allow that [thing] to float around in 

space?" When asked by Minnesota congressman Joseph E. Karth what the 

"primary function of this so-called space station" would be, Loftin answered, 

"It could have many functions. We are not really proposing a space station. 

What we are doing here is saying if you want one, we would like to look into 

the problems of how you might make it." Encouraged to say what those 

functions were, Loftin explained how the experience of having humans in 

an orbiting space station would be helpful and perhaps even necessary in 

preparing for long-distance space flights, perhaps even for the two-week 

trip from the earth to the moon and back that the United States was now 

planning. Certainly, if the United States was to attempt any flights to places 

more distant than the moon, Loftin explained, "it would be desirable to have 

a space station in orbit where we could put men, materials, different kinds 

of mechanisms. We could put them up there for weeks at a time and see if 

there are any undesirable effects that we have not foreseen. If these effects 

crop up, then you bring the man back." An astronaut already on course to 

a distant planet was not so easily retrieved. 24 

Betwixt and Between 

Six days after Loftin's appearance before the congressional committee, 

President Kennedy stunned NASA with his lunar landing speech. Apollo 

was no longer a manned circumlunar mission; it was now the project 

for landing a man on the moon by 1969. In one extraordinary political 

moment, step three of the space program had become step one. For 14 

months following Kennedy's speech, NASA debated the advantages and 

disadvantages of various mission modes. For at least the first half of this 

period, many in NASA were quite sure that the country would be going 

to the moon via EOR. In this mode, the lunar spacecraft would actually 

be assembled from components put into orbit by two or more Saturn 

launch vehicles. This EOR plan would therefore involve the development 

of certain orbital capabilities and hardware that might easily translate into 

the country's first space station. 

With this possibility in mind, Langley's space station team worked 

through the remainder of 1961 and into 1962 to identify and explore the 

essential problems facing the design and operation of a space station. 

The thrust of the center's research during this period of political and 

institutional limbo for . the space station was divided among three major 

areas: (1) dynamics and control, or how to control a rotating structure in 

286 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

orbit; (2) on-board power, or how to provide electrical power as well as store 

and use energy in the space station; and (3) life support, or how to ensure 

that the occupants of the station could best remain healthy and vigorous 

during (and after) long sojourns in space. 

From the start, almost all space station designers presumed the need 

for artificial gravity. From this presumption came the notion of a rotating 

structure, be it a rotating cylinder, torus, or hexagon, or of a centrifuge 

mechanism within a nonrotating structure that could provide a force that 

substituted for the lack of gravity. Whether it was absolutely necessary 

to substitute centrifugal force for the effects of gravity, no one really knew. 

Perhaps a human in space would need 1 G; perhaps as little as 0.25 G would 

do. One thing the space station researchers did know with some certainty 

was that they needed to be careful about this matter of gravitational effects. 

If the rotational radius was too small, or the structure rotated at too high 

an rpm, the astronauts inside would suddenly become ill. 

The rotation had to be controlled precisely, whatever the station's 

configuration. Thus, one set of problems that Langley researchers attempted 

to solve concerned a spinning space station's inherent vulnerability to 

disturbances in dynamic stability; this included compensating for the wobble 

motions that might occur when crew members moved about inside the 

station or when ferry vehicles pushed up against the outside structure during 

docking. 

The Langley space station group found a solution for attitude control 

using a system of four pulse jets.* These small pulse jets could be mounted 

at 90-degree intervals around the outside rim of the station to reorient the 

station when necessary. Then, to dampen the wobbles caused by crew 

movements and other disturbances in mass distribution, Langley found that 

a spinning flywheel could be rotated to produce the necessary countervailing 

torques; the same flywheel could produce the torque required to keep the 

station rotating around its predetermined axis. If the flywheel failed to 

steady the wobbles, the pulse jets could be fired as a backup. In late 

1961 and early 1962, Langley researchers subjected full-scale models of 

both the rotating hexagon and the inflatable torus (the torus was then still 

being considered) to systematic tests involving these experimental control 

mechanisms. 25 

Langley researchers found little reason to disagree about what was needed 

for the dynamic control of the space station; however, bitter arguments 

arose over the power source for the station. Two main energy sources were 

considered: solar and nuclear. (A third possibility, involving the use of 

chemical energy from a regenerative fuel cell, was considered briefly but was 

summarily dismissed as "futuristic" and "unfeasible.") To many at Langley, 

* A pulse jet is a simple jet engine, which does not involve a compressor, in which combustion takes 

place intermittently and produces thrus~. In this case, 10 pounds of thrust per pulse jet is produced by 

a series of explosions. 

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Spaceflight Revolution 

the obvious choice was solar. The sun's energy was abundant and available. 

If solar power was used, the space station would not have to carry the weight 

of its own fuel into orbit; photovoltaic or solar cells (which existed in 1960 

but not in a very advanced form) would simply convert the sunlight into the 

electrical energy needed to run the space station. 

Outspoken critics, however, argued that the technology did not yet exist 

for a solar-powered system that could sustain a spacecraft over long missions. 

With the rotation necessary for artificial gravity, situating and realigning the 

solar panels so that they would always be facing the sun became problematic. 

Depending on the station's configuration, some solar panels would be shaded 

from the sun most of the time. Solar panels, especially large ones, would 

also have an undesirable orbital drag effect. 

Some argued that the better choice was nuclear power. The problems 

of shielding living areas from the reactor's radiation and radioactive waste 

would have to be solved, of course, because humans would be on board, 

but once these problems were resolved, a small nuclear reactor could safely 

supply enough power (10 to 50 kilowatts) to sustain the operation of a station 

for a year or more. Yet engineers were not able to overcome the major 

logistical and safety problems of the proposed reactor systems. Particularly 

bothersome was the problem of replacing an operational reactor should 

it fail. Even the shielding problem proved more difficult to handle than 

imagined. In later space station designs, engineers tried to bypass the 

shielding problem by employing a large shadow shield and a long boom 

to separate the reactor from the habitation areas, but the boom required 

such a major reconfiguration of the proposed space station structure that 

the idea had to be abandoned. 

Some researchers rejected both solar and conventional nuclear systems 

and advocated a radioisotope system. In this arrangement a radioactive 

element such as uranium 238 or polonium 210 would emit energy over a long 

period and at a specific and known rate. This power system was based on 

the so-called Brayton cycle (also called the "Joule cycle"), which was a wellknown thermodynamic cycle named after American engineer and inventor 

George B. Brayton (b. 1873). The Brayton cycle consisted of an isentropic 

compression of a working substance, in this case a radioactive isotope, 

the addition of heat at a constant pressure, an isentropic expansion to an 

ambient pressure, and, finally, the production of an exhaust. Such a system 

required minimum shielding and did not require booms or large panels. 

The availability of high-quality waste heat could also be used in thermal 

control and in the life-support system, thereby reducing the overall power 

system requirements. On the other hand, the isotope Brayton cycle power 

system did require internal rotating machinery that still needed considerable 

development. It would also require an increased radiator area as well as 

doors on the skirt of the radiator that could open to allow the isotope to 

radiate directly into space when the power system was not functioning. Even 

288 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

nuclear enthusiasts had to admit that this machinery and auxiliary hardware 

would probably not be available for at least 10 years. 26 

In trying to choose between the various options for the on-board power 

supply, the "power plant" subcommittee of Langley's Manned Space Laboratory Research Group reviewed several pertinent R&D programs involving 

solar and nuclear power plants then under development by NASA, the air 

force, and the Atomic Energy Commission; however, after this review, the 

subcommittee was still undecided about the best power source. In a feasibility study of the rotating hexagon conducted by North American Aviation, 

solar power was the favored source. According to the company's proposed 

design, a group of solar cells and associated electrical batteries could be 

mounted successfully on the six main modules as well as on the hub of the 

space station. When Langley's power plant subcommittee evaluated the solar modular system, they judged it to be the most feasible in the near term 

because the system did not require the development of much technology but 

was still adequate to meet the projected station's electric power needs. 27 

This evaluation only temporarily resolved the controversy about which 

type of power plant to incorporate in the study configurations. Several 

Langley researchers who favored a small on-board nuclear reactor (and who 

were to be closely associated with subsequent space station planning at the 

center) were never convinced by the arguments in favor of solar power. This 

small group, whenever the opportunity arose, would argue that energy from 

a naturally decaying radioactive isotope ultimately offered the best means of 

powering a space station. However, this group never could overcome the fear 

that many researchers had about a nuclear accident, no matter how remote 

that possibility might be. If the small canister carrying the radioactive 

isotope ever happened to crash into the earth, because of a launch failure, 

for instance, the results of the contamination could be catastrophic. 28 

The issue of the power supply was critical to the design of the space 

station because of the "human factor." As everyone involved with space 

station research understood, the greatest single draw on the power supply 

would be the systems necessary to keep the crew inside the space station 

alive and in good physical and emotional condition. In fact, the human 

factor was central to all the elements of space station design: the gravity 

and energy requirements, the sources of wobble, the number and sizes of 

modules and ferry vehicles, the number and length of missions, and the types 

of internal furnishings and accommodations. Human occupancy established 

the central parameters for the entire research and design process. The job 

of the Langley space station group was not to build the actual hardware 

that would sustain human life in space; rather, it was to "evaluate and 

originate basic concepts of life support systems." This evaluation was to 

include exploration of a range of prototypes to generate the technological 

knowledge that could form the basis for an "optimum-system concept." 29 

The essential requirements for a human life-support system aboard a 

long-duration spacecraft in earth orbit were not hard to determine. The 

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Spaceflight Revolution 

system had to be lightweight and very dependable, and it had to consume as 

little energy as possible. It would have to provide oxygen for breathing; food 

for eating; accommodations for sleeping, exercising, washing, and taking 

care of other bodily functions; and it would have to somehow eliminate or 

recycle human and other waste products. 

Either through in-house research or by contracting out to industry, all of 

these basic matters of life support and many others were thoroughly studi~;l 

by the Langley space station group in 1961 and 1962. Several contractors 

became specialists in the development of experimental mechanisms for 

collecting, treating, reclaiming, and disposing of solid and liquid wastes. 

For its rotating hexagon, North American invented a method for carbon 

dioxide removal involving a regenerative molecular sieve. Small silica gel 

beds removed water vapor from the air and passed it into the molecular sieve, 

which then either vented the absorbed water and exhaled carbon dioxide to 

the outside or shunted it to an oxygen regeneration system. 30 

None of the solutions proposed during this period, however, were completely satisfactory. What Langley researchers wanted for their optimum 

space station was a totally closed water-oxygen system-one that did not 

have to be resupplied from the ground. In the early years, many problems 

associated with such a closed life-support system appeared relatively easy to 

solve, but they proved troublesome. This was especially true for the water 

recovery and recycling system in which the astronauts' urine was to be converted into drinking water. In the early years, researchers tried such things 

as simply blowing air over the liquid waste, controlling the odor by using 

a bactericide, and evaporating the water on a cold plate. Unfortunately, a 

huge amount of power was needed to do that, and it was more power than 

any space station could afford. The astronauts' natural aversion to drinking 

water made in this manner also posed a problem. Psychological studies, 

however, showed that thirst would quickly overcome disgust. Today, after 

more than 30 years of space station research, effective technology for such a 

closed water recycling system still does not exist.31 

Langley researchers went to great lengths to discover the unknowns of life 

in a spinning spacecraft. One fun-loving group made a trip to the amusement 

park at Buckroe Beach near the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay to ride the 

carousel. They took a bunch of tennis balls with them to throw back and 

forth while sitting atop their colorfully painted wooden ponies. The man 

attending the carousel soon threw the researchers off the ride because they 

were making children sick. But even this information was instructive about 

Coriolis effects on astronaut equilibrium and hand-eye coordination.32 

Of course, the Langley researchers also carried out many less frivolous and 

more systematic simulations of human performance in space. To investigate 

how the effects of rotation might conceivably hamper astronaut performance, 

the space station group put several volunteers, including a few Langley test 

pilots, into simulators that mimicked the rotations of a space station. Some 

of these volunteers managed to stay in the simulator for several hours before 

290 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

asking (or in some cases, demanding) to be let out. Data from other manin-space simulations, some of them done to garner real-time data about how 

crews would do during 7-day and 14-day missions to the moon, also shed 

light on what to expect inside a space station. 33 

Overall, the early findings about the ability of humans to adapt to life in 

space were quite reassuring. Simple adjustments in sleep and work schedules 

alleviated astronaut fatigue and boredom. An on-board exercise program 

would forestall marked deterioration in muscle tone and other physiological 

functions at zero gravity. Most importantly, a weeklong confinement of a 

three-person crew within the close quarters of a module had no detrimental 

effect on performance, nor did it trigger psychological stress. In short, 

the Langley simulations of 1961 and 1962 reinforced a growing body of 

evidence that humans could indeed live successfully in space, and could 

remain physically and mentally healthy and able to carry out complex tasks 

for extended periods. 

Other critical matters, however, still demanded study. To see if a comfortable "shirt-sleeve" working environment could be provided for astronauts 

inside the space station, Langley researchers worked with a thermal vacuum chamber in which they put small, scale models of their inflatable torus 

and rotating hexagon designs. Built for Langley by Grumman, this chamber employed an arc that served as the "sun" and smaller electric heaters 

that served as analogues for heat-producing humans. After several weeks of 

tests with this thermal chamber, researchers found that the North American 

hexagon design, because of its insulated, protective walls, was superior to 

the torus. 34 

Protecting the occupants of the space station from the heat of the sun 

was one thing; protecting them from meteorite showers was still another. 

Into the early 1960s, according to a Langley study, NASA still faced "severe 

uncertainties regarding the basic structure of manned space stations." How 

should the walls of such a structure be built, and out of what materials? 

They had to be light because of launch-weight considerations and built of 

a material that would help in the control of internal temperatures. The 

walls also had to provide dependable and long-term protection from major 

meteoroid penetrations; some small chinks and dents in the sides of a space 

station might cause no trouble, but big hits, especially in the case of an 

inflatable torus, could prove disastrous. Thus, structures experts at both 

Langley and Ames looked for the type of wall structure that offered the 

greatest protection for the least weight. They turned to a sandwiched 

structure with an inner and an outer wall. Developed by North American 

for the rotating hexagon, the outer wall was a "meteoroid bumper" made 

of aluminum, backed by a polyurethane plastic filler that overlay a bonded 

aluminum honeycomb sandwich. Such a wall seemed to meet the design 

criteria, but no one could be sure because the actual velocities of meteoroid 

impacts were impossible to simulate in any ground facility. The only thing 

to do was to make further studies. For the inner wall, Langley's space 

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Spaceflight Revolution 

station office looked into the efficacy of nylon-neoprene, dacron-silicone, 

saran, Mylar (E. I. du Pont de Nemours & Co., Inc.), polypropylene, 

Teflon (E. I. du Pont de Nemours & Co., Inc.), and other flexible and 

heat-absorbing materials. These materials could not be toxic or leak gases 

(especially oxygen), and they had to be able to withstand a hard vacuum, 

electromagnetic and particle radiation, and temperatures ranging from -50° 

to 150°F.35 

At a symposium held at Langley in late July 1962, the Langley staff 

assembled in the large auditorium in the center's main activities building 

to present summary progress reports on their exploratory space station 

research. By the time of this symposium, Langley's space station researchers 

had arrived at four key conclusions: 

(1) The rotating hexagon was superior to the inflatable torus; a 15-

foot scale model of the North American design had been undergoing tests 

at Lan~ley for several months, whereas studies of the torus had virtually 

ceased. 6 

(2) Although the hexagon was preferable to the torus, the Langley 

researchers knew that they had not yet discovered the optimum design and 

were committed to carrying out "the conceptual design of several space 

stations in order to uncover the problem areas in such vehicles." 37 

(3) A flight program, something akin to a Project Shotput, was needed 

to extend space station research. The space environment was difficult to 

impossible to simulate in a ground facility, thus making tests of station 

materials impossible as well. As early as May 1961, members ofthe Langley 

space station office had proposed using a Scout rocket to test the deployment 

of a 10-foot version of the inflatable torus at an orbit of 220 miles; however, 

the idea for the test had gone nowhere. 38 

(4) Whatever R&D was to be done on space stations in the future, 

the researchers wanted their work to be guided by the broad objectives 

of learning how to live in space, of making the station a place for scientific 

research, and of finding ways to make the station "a suitable facility for 

learning some of the fundamental operations necessary for launching space 

missions from orbit." Moreover, they wanted their space station efforts to 

be better integrated with the overall NASA effort.39 

Langley researchers regarded a manned space station as more than a 

jumping-off point for Apollo or for some other specific mission. They 

thought of it as a versatile laboratory in space, a Langley research operation 

that happened to be located hundreds of miles above the earth rather than in 

Tidewater Virginia. Just as Langley had always explored the basic problems 

of flight with a view to their practical solution, the ultimate use of a space 

station was "for continuing to advance the technology of space flight." 40 The 

objective was long-term, not just immediate. 

How the space station would fare without any direct application to 

the Apollo lunar landing program was a question that loomed over the 

researchers at the symposium. With an expensive Apollo program in 

292 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

progress and LOR the chosen strategy, Washington's support for an earthorbiting space station might quickly plummet, no matter what Langley 

scientists and engineers had to say about the potential benefits of space 

station operations. If the space station was to be built in the near future, 

Langley would have to quickly reconcile the objectives of the station with 

those of the Apollo mission. 

Manned Orbital Research Laboratory 

In the months following the in-house symposium, Langley management 

initiated a revised program of space station studies that would better dovetail with the Apollo lunar landing program. In late 1962, this determination 

brought forth a more focused space station effort-one that proved to be 

qualitatively quite different from the broader conceptual studies that had 

given birth to the inflatable torus and the rotating hexagon. As a result 

of this concentrated effort, Langley researchers in early 1963 conceived a 

smaller and more economical space station that would complement and make 

maximum use of the technological systems being developed for Apollo. They 

called it the Manned Orbiting Research Laboratory, or MORL, for short. 

The original MORL concept evolved within Langley's space station 

group. The idea was for a "minimum size laboratory to conduct a national experimental program of biomedical, scientific, and engineering experiments," with the laboratory to be specifically designed for launch in one 

piece atop a Saturn I or IB. The goal of the MORL program was to have one 

crew member stay in space for one year, with three other crew members on 

board for shorter periods on a rotating schedule. Langley wanted to achieve 

this goal in 1965 or 1966, a few years before the anticipated first manned 

Apollo flight, and accomplish it in unison with Project Gemini, the NASA 

program that bridged Mercury and Apollo, whose basic purpose was to resolve the problems of rendezvous and docking and of long-duration manned 

spaceflights necessary for a successful lunar landing via LOR. The MORL 

would be launched unmanned by a Saturn booster into a circular orbit from 

Cape Canaveral, and after a short checkout period, two crew members in a 

Titan-mounted Gemini spacecraft (then under development) would "ascend 

to the laboratory's orbit and complete a rendezvous and docking maneuver." A few weeks later, two more crew members would join the laboratory 

by the same method, completing the four-person crew. One new astronaut 

would enter the laboratory at each crew change, thus providing a check on 

the cumulative effects of weightlessness on the total capability of the crew. 

Three of the astronauts would occupy the space station for only parts of 

a year; only one crew member would try to complete a full year's mission. 

Every 90 days or less, an unmanned resupply spacecraft launched by an 

Atlas-Agena combination would be orbited and brought by radio control to 

a rendezvous with one of the laboratory's multiple docking ports. These 

ports would not only provide the means for the crew rotations and any 

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Spaceflight Revolution 

emergency evacuations but also would serve as attachment sites for cargo 

and experiment modules.41 

By the spring of 1963, Langley management judged the MORL design 

ready for industry evaluation. A contractor was to look for ways of 

improving and refining the concept into what engineers called a "baseline 

system," that is, a detailed plan for an optimum MORL configuration. In 

late April, Langley asked the aerospace industry to submit brief proposals 

by 14 May for a contract study of "Manned Orbital Research Labo\atory 

Systems" capable of sustaining such a rotating four-person crew in space 

for one year. The Request for Proposals outlined an industry competition 

in two phases: Phase I was to be an open competition for "comparative 

study of several alternative ways to obtain the orbital laboratory which is 

envisioned" ; Phase II was to be a closed contest between the two winners 

of the first competition, for "preliminary design studies." If all progressed 

well and NASA approved continued work on MORL, Langley might propose 

a follow-on to the second phase (Phase II-A) in which "a single contractor 

would be requested to synthesize into a mature concept" the design study 

that had been judged by NASA as the most feasible and to furnish a baseline 

configuration for a complete orbital laboratory system. Yet another phase 

(Phase II-B) might involve a final design stage, including test mock-ups of 

the laboratory and resupply spacecraft.42 

Phase I, the open competition, lasted only until mid-June 1963, when 

Langley Director Floyd Thompson announced that from the 11 proposals 

received, he had selected those from Boeing and Douglas as the winners. 

An 11-member in-house MORL Technology Steering Committee, chaired by 

Paul R. Hill of the Applied Materials and Physics Division space station 

office, had helped Thompson with the selection. At the same time that 

Thompson established this ad hoc steering committee, on 6 June, he also 

created a small MORL Studies Office, which comprised originally only six 

members and was to report directly to the director's office. Thompson chose 

someone new to space station research to head the new office. William 

N. Gardner, formerly head of the Flight Physics Branch of the Applied 

Materials and Physics Division, and his six-person staff were to implement 

the management of the study contracts soon to be awarded to Boeing and 

Douglas. Thomp~on also formalized the many R&D efforts relating to a 

space station that had popped up inside the Applied Materials and Physics 

Division. He did this on 10 June by establishing a new 19-member Space 

Station Research Group, with Robert S. Osborne, a veteran of the center's 

previous space station office, in charge.43 

Langley's revised space station effort had not progressed without a hitch. 

Earlier in 1963, still in the immediate wake of the LOR decision, NASA 

headquarters had threatened the cancellation of all the MORL research 

at the research center. To have it reinstated even on a provisional basis, 

Langley Associate Director Charles J. Donlan, who from the start had lent 

strong support to space station research at Langley, traveled to Washington 

294 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

with some of the most articulate members of the center's space station group 

for several meetings with old friends and other NASA officials. Donlan had 

always been a strong supporter of Langley's space station research, and 

together with associates he argued that a manned space station was still 

"the next logical step," after Apollo, and was thus likely to be a central 

part of the agency's post-Apollo planetary exploration. Donlan pointed out 

that a manned orbital laboratory offered perhaps the only way of making 

many necessary studies such as the effects of weightlessness. 

Eventually, the lobbying paid off. In the spring of 1963, Bob Seamans 

issued MORL a reprieve, thus arranging for the authorization Langley 

needed to proceed with the first phase of the industry competition. At 

the start, that was the only permission Langley had. When Phase I started, 

NASA headquarters had not yet approved Phase II and had certainly not 

given the go-ahead for any follow-on phases.44 

Some of the ground rules for Phase I of the MORL competition conformed 

closely to the general specifications of the rotating hexagon, but others 

reflected some significant changes in the way Langley was now thinking 

about space stations. The major shift in thinking was the realization, gained 

by American and Soviet experiences with manned spaceflight, that humans 

could in fact function quite well in zero gravity, at least for several orbits, 

without serious ill effects. If a few days of weightlessness did not debilitate 

an astronaut, the same would most likely hold true for a couple of weeks. 

Further experimentation certainly had to be done to determine exactly how 

long humans could perform in zero gravity, but as reflected in MORL ground 

rules, researchers were growing confident that a person might be able to 

perform well in space for as long as a year. When Langley asked industry 

in April 1963 to design MORL with zero gravity as the primary operating 

mode, it was abandoning once and for all the long-held notion that a space 

station must continually rotate to provide artificial gravity. 45 

Douglas and Boeing took Phase II of the competition seriously, each 

assembling its MORL personnel into a team situated at a single plant (Santa 

Monica for Douglas and Seattle for Boeing). Douglas had shown interest 

in a space station for some time; in 1958, the company had won a $10,000 

first prize in a contest for a design of "A Home in Space," which had been 

sponsored by the London Daily Mail. 46 Douglas had also been a serious 

bidder for the NASA contract for a six-month study of Berglund's rotating 

hexagon concept, which NASA had awarded to North American in the 

summer of 1961.47 Boeing, on the other hand, was something of a newcomer 

to the field of space exploration. However, as the reader shall learn in more 

detail in the next chapter, the well-known airplane manufacturer was at 

this time completing a solid performance in the Bomarc missile program 

and was keen to be involved with the civilian space program. Not only did 

Boeing want the space station study contract, it also wanted to become the 

prime contractor for the ambitious Lunar Orbiter project, the unmanned 

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Spaceflight Revolution 

Douglas engineers incorporated the 

idea of a two-person centrifuge into 

their winning MORL baseline configuration proposal in 1963 (right}. 

The centrifuge (bottom, second cutaway from left) was to serve as a 

possible remedial or therapeutic device for enhancing the astronauts' 

tolerance to weightless conditions and 

for preconditioning crew members 

for the stresses of reentry. 

296 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

photographic mission to the moon which NASA was planning in order to 

select the best landing sites for Apollo. 

A NASA "technical assessment team" consisting of 43 engineers (36 

of them from Langley) and organized into four review panels ("Major 

Systems Configuration and Integration," "Subsystems Configuration and 

Integration," "Operations," and "Management and Planning") looked very 

carefully and fairly at both MORL studies in late September 1963 before 

recommending the Douglas study to the Langley director. 48 Perhaps NASA 

was reluctant to give a company inexperienced in space exploration the 

responsibility for doing two big new jobs at one time. (Boeing had just been 

awarded the contract for Lunar Orbiter.) More likely, however, the Douglas 

proposal was simply superior. Members of the MORL Studies Office at 

Langley had spent many hours at the plants of the contractors assessing 

their space station work, and they knew firsthand the capabilities of their 

assembled teams. 

For the next two months, NASA Langley negotiated with Douglas (and 

with NASA headquarters, where the approval for Phase II-A was still 

uncertain) over the details of what would come next: a six-to-nine-month 

study at the end of which Douglas would furnish a baseline system that 

would be so detailed and fully documented that a final design could be 

prepared from it, if NASA so chose. By mid-December all the parties 

involved reached an agreement, and on 20 December, as a nice little 

Christmas present, NASA awarded Douglas a Phase II-A nine-month study 

contract worth just over $1.4 million to refine its winning MORL concept.49 

The baseline configuration fleshed out by the Douglas engineers between 

December 1963 and August 1964 proved, not surprisingly, to be a mixture of 

old and new ideas. As had been the case with Langley's former pet concept, 

the Berglund/North American rotating hexagon, Douglas's baseline facility 

would be carried into orbit as a unit aboard a Saturn launch vehicle. As had 

been proposed for the hexagon, the first generation MORL would be powered 

by solar cells, but with either a nuclear reactor or isotope Brayton cycle 

system phased in at an early date. The same life-support systems for meeting 

the physical needs of a small crew in a shirt-sleeve working environment 

would also be part of MORL. As before, many of MORL's design features, 

such as separate zero-gravity and artificial-gravity operational modes, would 

in effect serve as experiments that would yield data applicable to other 

manned space programs. 

Because Langley's thinking changed about what was best for a space 

station in the age of Apollo, Douglas's baseline system for MORL involved 

key differences from all the previous space station concepts. Unlike the 

earlier configurations, which had unitized structures, MORL would consist of 

a series of discrete modules. The modular approach would promote greater 

flexibility of function: MORL could grow with evolving space technology 

and over time serve multiple purposes for a varied constituency, including 

perhaps the DOD. The DOD·had been carrying out its own manned space 

297 
Spaceflight Revolution 

MORL 

& LOGISTICS SYSTEM 

MORL LAUNCH VEHICLE SII ,· APOLLO LOGISTICS VEHI.CLE 

According to the briefing manual submitted by Douglas to NASA Langley in August 

1964, MORL ''provides a flexible, expandable facility developed in a manner similar 

to current submarine concepts that permit redundancy of life-support equipment and 

evacuation from one compartment to another." As shown in this illustmtion from 

the manual, MORL was to be launched by an Apollo Saturn SIB. 

station R&D since the Military Test Space Station (MTSS) project of the 

late 1950s and was currently involved in a study of what it called the 

National Orbiting Space Station (NOSS).50 

Besides benefitting the military, the MORL could .serve the progress 

of science, in general. This was a mission capability that had not been 

298 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

L-64-841 

Two Langley engineers test an experimental air lock between an arriving spacecraft 

and a space station portal in January 1964. 

especially emphasized in the earlier space station studies. When considering the inflatable torus and rotating hexagon, Langley researchers and their 

contractors had envisioned only a limited role for general scientific experimentation aboard the station, but the Douglas engineers were beginning 

to see the MORL as a facility for research covering the spectrum of scien~ 

tific disciplines. In addition to carrying one or more astronomical telescopes 

(a capability that proponents of a space station had in fact been pushing 

from the start), the MORL could be designed to have a self-contained module for biological studies involving animals, plants, and bacteria. Such research had potential applications not only in basic life sciences research but 

also in medicine and pharmaceuticals. For geologists, oceanographers, and 

meteorologists, Douglas provided a specialized nine-lens camera system for 

multiband spectral reconnaissance of earth features and weather systems. A 

special .radar system could be placed on board to garner the data necessary 

for large-scale topographical mapping. 

This was not all that the MORL could provide. The orbital station would 

also be the ideal place to study subsystems for interplanetary vehicles and 

their propulsion systems, technologies that could not be tested adequately 

on the ground. Douglas's integrated plan even included using the MORL 

in lunar orbit to provide su,rface observation and mapping, landing site 

selection, and LEM support. With such capabilities, NASA might not need 

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Spaceflight Revolution 

L-64-4636 

William N. Gardner, head of the MORL Studies Office, explains the interior design 

of the space station at the 1964 NASA inspection. 

the unmanned Lunar Orbiter program. If equipped with a state-of-the-art 

landing stage, the MORL could land on the moon and become a long-term 

base for exploration. MORL could serve as the jumping off point for a 

manned mission to Mars and as a module of a planetary-mission vehicle 

in which a crew would investigate the physical environment and assess the 

habitability of a selected planet. 51 

In fact, as Douglas touted it, there was little that the MORL system 

could not do, if NASA wanted it done. Thus, while trying to stay within the 

political and economic framework of Apollo, the proponents of the MORL 

were actually demonstrating how a versatile space station could greatly 

expand U.S. capabilities in space and make new exploration possible. The 

MORL would have spin-off studies in areas such as biology, medicine, and 

possibly industrial manufacturing, which would ultimately benefit all sectors 

of society. The lunar landing program, by itself, would make few of those 

things possible. But in 1964 that was a point that neither the Langley space 

station advocates nor their counterparts in industry dared to make, given 

the national commitment to Apollo. 

300 
Skipping ''The Next Logical Step" 

Keeping the "R" Alive 

All in all, Langley was happy with the baseline system that Douglas 

submitted to NASA in August 1964 and was interested in moving to 

Phase li-B in which full-scale mock-ups of the laboratory would be tested in 

preparation for a final MORL design. By 1964, however, MORL was facing 

stiff competition from other space station concepts, not to mention space 

projects proposed by other NASA centers. 

As Phase II-A of the MORL began in early 1964, the Office of Manned 

Space Flight at NASA headquarters was considering what to do next with 

several other space station designs. Most of these ideas came from either 

Houston or Huntsville. The most ambitious of these schemes called for 

a Large Orbiting Research Laboratory (LORL), a huge structure to be 

launched unmanned by a Saturn V, with a volume more than seven times 

that of MORL (67,300 cubic feet compared with MORL's 9000) and a weight 

more than 10 times greater (74,600 pounds versus 6800). According to the 

plan, LORL would be capable of holding a 24-person crew for five years; as 

such, it was the· "Cadillac" of NASA's space station concepts at the time. 

At the other end of the design spectrum was a "Volkswagon" version known 

as "Apollo X." This space station (only 600 cubic feet in volume) was based 

entirely on Apollo technology; a modified Apollo command module would 

be used as a small orbital workshop. Manned from time of launch, Apollo 

X would thus be a small "limited-life" laboratory serving a crew of two for 

30 to 120 days. Between these two extremes were various designs for some 

type of Apollo Orbital Research Laboratory (AORL), a -medium-size station 

(5600 cubic feet in volume) that would have an extended life of two years, 

with a crew of three to six. 52 

Besides the NASA concepts, military space station ideas also had to be 

considered. Interagency agreements had been made related to the Gemini 

program requiring that all planning for manned earth-orbital missions and 

supporting technology be coordinated between NASA and the DOD. As 

mentioned earlier, the DOD, particularly the air force, was busy conducting 

its own space station studies. By late 1963, experts in the DOD were keenly 

interested in the potential military applications of MORL or of a revised 

MORL design for an air force Gemini-based Manned Orbiting Laboratory 

(MOL) in which NASA's research component was left out. Even before the 

Phase II contract was awarded to Douglas, managers in the OART at NASA 

headquarters had been referring not to MORL studies, but simply to MOL, 

which Secretary of Defense McNamara and NASA Administrator Webb were 

coming to see as a way of combining DOD and NASA first-generation space 

station objectives. 53 

Surprisingly, Langley researchers seem to have accepted the shift from 

MORL to MOL without complaint. In the minutes of the 28 October 1963 

meeting of the Langley MORL Technology Steering Committee, secretary 

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Spaceflight Revolution 

L-65-7433 

The MORL·Saturn IB launch combination undergoes aerodynamic testing in the 

8-Foot Transonic Tunnel in October 1965. 

John R. Dawson noted with emphasis that MORL was being "redesignated 

MOL" and that "MOL Phase IIA was now planned so as to fit with DOD 

coordination requirements." In all the committee minutes following that 

meeting, Dawson always referred to "MOL Phase II" rather than to MORL 

Phase II. 54 So, too, would the Langley press release of 2 December 1963 

refer to MOL Phase II. (In this release, NASA announced that Douglas 

had won the second round of competition over Boeing for a "follow-on 

study contract for refinement and evaluation of a NASA Manned Orbital 

Laboratory concept.") Somehow the "R" in the space station plan was 

being erased as Langley tried to justify a space station as part of the Apollodriven national space program. 

At Langley, researchers did what they could to keep the spirit of MORL 

alive. Looking beyond the industry study contracts, Langley engineers and 

managers invested thousands of hours in MORL/MOL research. In 1963 

and 1964, basic studies continued on a broad front. 

In the .area of lif&support systems, Langley researchers tried to stay 

particularly active. As outlined earlier in this chapter, Langley early on had 

taken the lead among the NASA centers in this vital field. In 1963, Langley 

researchers wanted to extend their efforts with a fully operational prototype 

of a space station lif&support system. In such a prototype, they could 

302 
L-66-7850 

Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

Langley's Otto Prout suggested as early as 

1963 that zero-gravity activities could be 

simulated by immersing astronauts in a 

large tank of water. Years .later, Marshall 

Space Flight Center turned Prout's abortive 

idea into a major component of NASA's 

astronaut training program. 

test all the integrated mechanisms for water management and sanitation, 

oxygen regeneration, ridding the system of waste heat and gases, and all 

other required functions. They wanted a ground test facility~a wind tunnel 

of sorts but one equipped for the physiology of humans rather than for the 

physics of air molecules. 

Langley explored several options before it found the right facility to meet 

these research needs. Engineers working with the MORL Studies Office built 

a small life-support test tank but found that the device could not be used 

in manned tests because of safety concerns. As William Gardner, head of 

the MORL Studies Office remembers, "Essentially, the medical profession 

killed it. The medical experts who came in as consultants would not endorse 

anything we were doing. We couldn't get the medical people to say it would 

be safe to do the tests." 55 Another bold idea came from Otto Trout, an 

ingenious engineer working in the Space Systems Division. Trout suggested 

that the space station group simulate zero gravity by immersing test subjects 

in a tank of water for long pf:lriods. Robert Osborne curtly dismissed Trout's 

novel idea, a hasty decision that Osborne came to regret when engineers at 

Marshall Space Flight Center took up the idea and turned it into a major 

component of NASA's astronaut training program. 56 

Osborne and others did not want Gardner's little tank or Trout's big tank 

of water but sought an enclo.sed, self-sustaining life-support system in which 

four human subjects could live for as long as six months. A rivalry existed 

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Spaceflight Revolution 

The $2.3 million ILSS arrives at Langley 

by barge (right) from its manufacturer, 

the Convair Division of General Dynamics, in August 1965. Below is the home 

of the huge 30-ton life-support tank in 

Building 1250. Test subjects occupied 

this facility for as long as 28 days at a 

time. 

304 

L-65-6054 

L-70-566 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

between Gardner's MORL group and Osborne's life-support studies group. 

In this case the Osborne group won. In late June 1963, he and his colleagues 

got their wish when NASA awarded a contract to the Astronautics Division 

of the General Dynamics Corporation for the design and construction of an 

Integrative Life Support System (ILSS). Funded by the OART's director of 

Biotechnology and Human Research, this facility was to be built by General 

Dynamics at its plant in San Diego and shipped to Langley at a total cost 

of $2.3 million.57 

Two years passed before General Dynamics finished the ILSS unit. The 

unique structure stood 18 feet tall, weighed 30 tons, and was housed in a 

cylindrical tank 18 feet in diameter. When the big chamber arrived by barge 

at the dock of Langley AFB in August 1965, a more curious structure had 

not been delivered since the 85-ton pressure shell for the laboratory's historic 

Variable-Density Tunnel had arrived atop a railcar from the Newport News 

Shipyard and Dry Dock Co. in February 1922. 

The ILSS did not prove to be the landmark facility that the VariableDensity Tunnel became, but it did contribute significant data. In the years 

following its long-anticipated arrival, manned and unmanned tests in the 

big test chamber provided a wealth of new information about how various 

life-support systems would work individually and together. The longest 

human occupancy experiment lasted 28 days. The ILSS test program 

even included microbiological experiments on possible toxic contaminants 

in space. Langley management heartily supported the ILSS program, thus 

allowing it to encompass the efforts of dozens of Langley staff members in 

the Space Systems and Instrument Research divisions. Associate Director 

Charles Donlan even worked personally on some aspects of the project.58 

By the time ILSS came on-line at Langley in August 1965, however, 

NASA knew that its space station research must, out of political and 

economic necessity, become more sharply defined. With costs for Gemini and 

Apollo rapidly outstripping early estimates and the nation in an increasingly 

expensive war in Vietnam, the space agency realized that if any manned 

orbiting facility was to obtain funding and become a reality, it would have 

to be a part of Apollo. 

Understanding Why and Why Not 

The economical Apollo Extension System became NASA's surrogate 

choice for its first orbiting space station. This crushed Langley researchers' 

dreams for MORL. Instead of a versatile laboratory with an extended 

life of five years in which all sorts of experiments could be done, NASA 

would settle, at least for the time being, for a small space station with 

a limited life. This station would be launched as soon as possible after 

Apollo astronauts set foot on the moon. For the Apollo Extension System, 

NASA headquarters asked Langley researchers to devise potential mission 

305 
Spaceflight Revolution 

experiments, tempting them with the responsibility of acting as principal 

investigators. Osborne's panel on space station experiments responded 

by collecting experiments in 11 categories ranging from regenerative lifesupport systems to extravehicular activities, horizon sensing, and radiation 

effects. 59 

Two years would pass before a new president, Richard Nixon, and the 

Congress extinguished what remained of Langley's hopes for a multifaceted 

U.S. space program. In 1967 the Apollo Extension System became the 

Apollo Applications Program. NASA headquarters called upon Langley, 

Houston, and Marshall to carry out independent studies to "identify the 

most desirable Agency program for the Saturn workshop," noting "the 

constraints of projected funding limitation." The outcome at Langley 

was one of the research center's last major contributions to space station 

development: an "Intermediate Orbital Workshop System Study" issued by 

the MORL Studies Office on 28 June 1968.60 

The concluding remarks of this 1968 in-house report encapsulate the 

years of hard work and intellectual energy Langley designers and researchers 

had devoted to the idea of a U.S. civilian space station. The report described 

a versatile facility that "should be and can be inherently capable of growth 

into the ultimate space station which will provide broad capability manned 

systems." True to the original Langley vision, it called for a two-phase 

program that would begin with a manned orbiting workshop, followed by a 

space station similar to MORL. The report emphasized that "definition of a 

real manned experiment program and supporting requirements is mandatory 

to the true understanding of spacecraft system needs and total flight system 

scope." 61 

Not even the economical first phase came to pass as conceived. In 

late 1968, a spending-weary Congress slashed the budget of the Apollo 

Applications Program to one-third of the NASA request. A down-scaled 

concept, the Skylab orbital workshop, would be launched in May 1973, 

carrying with it an experiment package developed by Langley researchers. 

By that time, however, with personnel reductions and program shifts 

resulting from severe budget cuts within NASA, Langley was largely out 

of the space station business. When so-called Phase B Definition Studies 

for NASA's space station program began in 1969, they were managed by 

the Marshall and Johnson centers. 62 

Bigger ideas were stealing the thunder from the Langley concept. At 

Houston in 1968, engineers were working on plans for a huge "Space 

Base" weighing a million pounds, with room for thousands of pounds of 

experiments, and a crew of 75 to 100 people. According to the plan, the 

Space Base would provide .1 G by spinning at 3.5 rpm at the 240-foot 

radius of the living module and would operate "on a permanent basis to 

take advantage of the economics of size, centralization, and permanency." 

The base would be constructed in an orbital buildup of hardware delivered 

by no less than three Saturn launches.63 

306 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

Although everyone recognized that this large space station would have 

to come after the Apollo Applications workshop, Houston's grandiose 

idea nonetheless had "a significant effect on agency planning" -and one 

that in the end did not help the ultimate cause of the space station 

program.64 When Phase B Definition began in late 1969, with major contracts awarded to McDonnell Douglas and North American Rockwell, the 

notion of a large station held sway. The contractors were asked to explore 

the feasibility of a smaller but still rather large station, 33 feet in diameter, 

to be launched by a Saturn V and manned initially by a crew of 12. The 

NASA/industry space station teams were to do this "in concert with studies of future large space bases," involving crews of 100 people or more, as 

well as with manned missions to Mars. Crews for some of these space base 

concepts exceeded 100 and included plans for an advanced logistics system, 

which was soon to be named the "Space Shuttle." 65 

In 1971, when the decision was made to go forward with the development 

of the manned Space Shuttle, NASA redirected its space station contractors 

to consider a modular design, with the modules to be placed in orbit, not 

by Saturns, but by a totally reusable shuttle. The purpose of Phase B from 

that point on, into 1972, was to define the modular concepts. A large space 

station with the Space Shuttle to assemble and service it was now "the 

next logical step" in NASA's manned space program following the Apollo 

Applications Program and Skylab. 

Politics and budget pressures, however, once again meant a missed step. 

The nation had neither the will nor the money for NASA's entire mission 

package. As Howard McCurdy points out in his 1990 analysis The Space 

Station Decision: Incremental Politics and Technological Choice, NASA 

officials, having failed to win the support of the Nixon administration for 

their internal long-range plan, decided to shift their strategy. "Rather than 

seek a comprehensive, Apollo-style commitment, they decided to pursue the 

steps in their plan one by one." 66 NASA would ask first for an economical 

Space Transportation System, the Shuttle, then they would ask for the space 

station. The result, after Nixon accepted NASA's compromise, meant that 

"the next logical step" would be skipped once again. 

Lost in Space? 

The majority of Langley researchers involved in the pioneering space 

station studies of the early 1960s believe that the decision not to develop 

and deploy the MORL was a major national mistake. As many of them 

have asserted in retrospect, the Soviet's tremendously successful MIR space 

station of the 1980s (the spacious follow-on to the more primitive Salyuts 

first launched in 1971) "would prove to be almost exactly like what MORL 

would have been." 67 W. Ray Hook, a member of Langley's MORL Studies 

Office, expresses the general sentiment of Langley researchers: 

307 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Skipping over a space station for a second time 

left William N. Gardner, head of Langley's 

MORL office, with a bitter taste for his pioneering work of the 1960s and a judgment 

that NASA, unlike NACA, was too much the 

creature of presidential projects-or the lack of 

them. 

Our goal was to get one man in space for one year. That was the simple objective. 

Of course, it has since gotten a lot more complicated. I have often thought that if 

we'd stuck with that simple-minded objective, we would have, thirty years later, one 

man in space for one year, which we don't.68 

If the modular MORL had been ready for deployment on the heels of Skylab, 

as MIR was ready to go after the Salyuts, the United States like the Soviets 

would have amassed countless man-hours in space and conducted numerous 

useful experiments. If the country had supported MORL, it might have been 

easier to design and justify Space Station Freedom, and instead of being in 

the present position of considering the purchase of a MIR from the former 

Soviet Union and proceeding toward an international space station, Alpha, 

the United States might today be operating its own station. 

The most bitter among Langley space station enthusiasts feel that the 

decisions regarding the station were not only mistakes but also symptoms of 

a basic flaw in NASA's organizational character. "It finally dawned on 

me," explains William Gardner, the head of the MORL Studies Office, 

"that NASA wasn't intended to be a real federal agency." NASA did 

not enjoy a long-term goal like the former NACA-an agency designed 

"to supervise and direct the scientific study of the problems of flight with 

a view to their practical solution," or even like the FAA, whose job was 

to make air travel effective and safe. "NASA was just a project of the 

presidential administration," and under Presidents Kennedy, Johnson, and 

Nixon, the project was "just to put a man on the moon." "We do spectacular 

things when the Administration wants spectacular things done," Gardner 

challenges, and when it does not, ''we don't really have a mandate." 69 

308 
Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

But Langley researchers, out of technological conviction or political 

naivete, or both, kept working on the space station as if they had such 

a mandate. The effort was not in vain. In persisting with their design and 

redesign of space stations and seeking to understand how humans could live 

and work in space, they contributed to the successes of Apollo, Skylab, and 

the Space Shuttle, and they laid a solid foundation upon which to build 

when NASA in the early 1980s created a new Space Station Task Force 

and once again began examining the program options for "the next logical 

step" -a step that may in its own time be skipped over for something else. 

In the wake of the spaceflight revolution, it would take all the running space 

station researchers could do, just to keep in the same place. 

309 

10 

To Behold the Moon: 

The Lunar Orbiter Project 

But, Cliff, you said we weren't going to improvise like 

this ... 

But, listen to what I say now! We've worked out the 

numbers. It's worth the risk. 

-Conversation between Boeing engineer 

project manager Robert J. Helberg 

and Clifford H. Nelson, head of 

Langley's Lunar Orbiter Project Office, 

concerning a change in the mission 

plan for Lunar Orbiter I. 

The bold plan for an Apollo mission based on LOR held the promise 

of landing on the moon by 1969, but it presented many daunting technical 

difficulties. Before NASA could dare attempt any type of lunar landing, 

it had to learn a great deal more about the destination. Although no one 

believed that the moon was made of green cheese, some lunar theories of 

the early 1960s seemed equally fantastic. One theory suggested that the 

moon was covered by a layer of dust perhaps 50 feet thick. If this were true, 

no spacecraft would be able to safely land on or take off from the lunar 

surface. Another theory claimed that the moon's dust was not nearly so 

thick but that it possessed an electrostatic charge that would cause it to 

stick to the windows of the lunar landing vehicle, thus making it impossible 

for the astronauts to see out as they landed. Cornell University astronomer 

Thomas Gold warned that the moon might even be composed of a spongy 

material that would crumble upon impact. 1 

At Langley, Dr. Leonard Roberts, a British mathematician in Clint 

Brown's Theoretical Mechanics Division, pondered the riddle of the lunar 

PRECEDtNG PAGE BLANK Nor fiLMED 

PAGE3IO INTENTtONALL Y BLANK 

311 
Spaceflight Revolution 

surface and drew an equally pessimistic conclusion. Roberts speculated 

that because the moon was millions of years old and had been constantly 

bombarded without the protection of an atmosphere, its surface was most 

likely so soft that any vehicle attempting to land on it would sink and be 

buried as if it had landed in quicksand. After the president's commitment 

to a manned lunar landing in 1961, Roberts began an extensive three-year 

research program to show just what would happen if an exhaust rocket 

blasted into a surface of very thick powdered sand. His analysis indicated 

that an incoming rocket would throw up a mountain of sand, thus creating 

a big rim all the way around the outside of the landed spacecraft. Once 

the spacecraft settled, this huge bordering volume of sand would collapse, 

completely engulf the spacecraft, and kill its occupants. 2 

Telescopes revealed little about the nature of the lunar surface. Not even 

the latest, most powerful optical instruments could see through the earth's 

atmosphere well enough to resolve the moon's detailed surface features. 

Even an object the size of a football stadium would not show up on a 

telescopic photograph, and enlarging the photograph would only increase 

the blur. To separate fact from fiction and obtain the necessary information 

about the craters, crevices, and jagged rocks on the lunar surface, NASA 

would have to send out automated probes to take a closer look. 

The first of these probes took off for the moon in January 1962 as part 

of a NASA project known as Ranger. A small 800-pound spacecraft was 

to make a "hard landing," crashing to its destruction on the moon. Before 

Ranger crashed, however, its on-board multiple television camera payload 

was to send back close views of the surface-views far more detailed than 

any captured by a telescope. Sadly, the first six Ranger probes were not 

successful. Malfunctions of the booster or failures of the launch-vehicle 

guidance system plagued the first three attempts; malfunctions of the 

spacecraft itself hampered the fourth and fifth probes; and the primary 

experiment could not take place during the sixth Ranger attempt because 

the television equipment would not transmit. Although these incomplete 

missions did provide some extremely valuable high-resolution photographs, 

as well as some significant data on the performance of Ranger's systems, 

in total the highly publicized record of failures embarrassed NASA and 

demoralized the Ranger project managers at JPL. Fortunately, the last 

three Ranger flights in 1964 and 1965 were successful. These flights showed 

that a lunar landing was possible, but the site would have to be carefully 

chosen to avoid craters and big boulders. 3 

JPL managed a follow-on project to Ranger known as Surveyor. Despite 

failures and serious schedule delays, between May 1966 and January 1968, 

six Surveyor spacecraft made successful soft landings at predetermined 

points on the lunar surface. From the touchdown dynamics, surfacebearing strength measurements, and eye-level television scanning of the 

local surface conditions, NASA learned that the moon could easily support 

the impact and the weight of a small lander. Originally, NASA also 

312 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

planned for (and Congress had authorized) a second type of Surveyor 

spacecraft, which instead of making a soft landing on the moon, was to 

be equipped for high-resolution stereoscopic film photography of the moon's 

surface from lunar orbit and for instrumented measurements of the lunar 

environment. However, this second Surveyor or "Surveyor Orbiter" did not 

materialize. The staff and facilities of JPL were already overburdened with 

the responsibilities for Ranger and "Surveyor Lander"; they simply could 

not take on another major spaceflight project.4 

In 1963, NASA scrapped its plans for a Surveyor Orbiter and turned 

its attention to a lunar orbiter project that would not use the Surveyor 

spacecraft system or the Surveyor launch vehicle, Centaur. Lunar Orbiter 

would have a new spacecraft and use the Atlas-Agena D to launch it into 

space. Unlike the preceding unmanned lunar probes, which were originally 

designed for general scientific study, Lunar Orbiter was conceived after a 

manned lunar landing became a national commitment. The project goal 

from the start was to support the Apollo mission. Specifically, Lunar Orbiter 

was designed to provide information on the lunar surface conditions most 

relevant to a spacecraft landing. This meant, among other things, that 

its camera had to be sensitive enough to capture subtle slopes and minor 

protuberances and depressions over a broad area of the moon's front side. 

As an early working group on the requirements of the lunar photographic 

mission had determined, Lunar Orbiter had to allow the identification of 45-

meter objects over the entire facing surface of the moon, 4.5-meter objects 

in the "Apollo zone of interest," and 1.2-meter objects in all the proposed 

landing areas. 5 

Five Lunar Orbiter missions took place. The first launch occurred in 

August 1966 within two months of the initial target date. The next four 

Lunar Orbiters were launched on schedule; the final mission was completed 

in August 1967, barely a year after the first launch. NASA had planned five 

flights because mission reliability studies had indicated that five might be 

necessary to achieve even one success. However, all five Lunar Orbiters were 

successful, and the prime objective of the project, which was to photograph 

in detail all the proposed landing sites, was met in three missions. This 

meant that the last two flights could be devoted to photographic exploration 

of the rest of the lunar surface for more general scientific purposes. The final 

cost of the program was not slight: it totaled $163 million, which was more 

than twice the original estimate of $77 million. That increase, however, 

compares favorably with the escalation in the price of similar projects, such 

as Surveyor, which had an estimated cost of $125 million and a final cost of 

$469 million. 

In retrospect, Lunar Orbiter must be, and rightfully has been, regarded 

as an unqualified success. For the people and institutions responsible, 

the project proved to be an overwhelmingly positive learning experience 

on which greater capabilities and ambitions were built. For both the 

prime contractor, the Boeing Company, a world leader in the building of 

313 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-66-1571 

The most successful of the pre-Apollo probes, Lunar Orbiter mapped the equatorial 

regions of the moon and gave NASA the data it needed to pinpoint ideal landing 

spots. 

314 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

airplanes, and the project manager, Langley Research Center, a premier 

aeronautics laboratory, involvement in Lunar Orbiter was a turning point. 

The successful execution of a risky enterprise became proof positive that 

they were more than capable of moving into the new world of deep space. 

For many observers as well as for the people who worked on the project, 

Lunar Orbiter quickly became a model of how to handle a program of space 

exploration. Its successful progress demonstrated how a clear and discrete 

objective, strong leadership, and positive person-to-person communication 

skills can keep a project on track from start to finish.6 

Many people inside the American space science community believed that 

neither Boeing nor Langley was capable of managing a project like Lunar 

Orbiter or of supporting the integration of first-rate scientific experiments 

and space missions. After NASA headquarters announced in the summer 

of 1963 that Langley would manage Lunar Orbiter, more than one space 

scientist was upset. Dr. Harold C. Urey, a prominent scientist from the 

University of California at San Diego, wrote a letter to Administrator James 

Webb asking him, "How in the world could the Langley Research Center, 

which is nothing more than a bunch of plumbers, manage this scientific 

program to the moon?" 7 

Urey's questioning of Langley's competency was part of an unfolding 

debate over the proper place of general scientific objectives within NASA's 

spaceflight programs. The U.S. astrophysics community and Dr. Homer E. 

Newell's Office of Space Sciences at NASA headquarters wanted "quality 

science" experiments incorporated into every space mission, but this caused 

problems. Once the commitment had been made to a lunar landing mission, 

NASA had to decide which was more important: gathering broad scientific 

information or obtaining data required for accomplishing the lunar landing 

mission. Ideally, both goals could be incorporated in a project without one 

compromising the other, but when that seemed impossible, one of the two 

had to be given priority. The requirements of the manned mission usually 

won out. For Ranger and Surveyor, projects involving dozens of outside 

scientists and the large and sophisticated Space Science Division at JPL, 

that meant that some of the experiments would turn out to be less extensive 

than the space scientists wanted.8 For Lunar Orbiter, a project involving 

only a few astrogeologists at the U.S. Geological Survey and a very few space 

scientists at Langley, it meant, ironically, that the primary goal of serving 

Apollo would be achieved so quickly that general scientific objectives could 

be included in its last two missions. 

The "Moonball" Experiment 

Langley management had entered the fray between science and project 

engineering during the planning for Project Ranger. At the first Senior 

Council meeting of the Office of Space Sciences (soon to be renamed 

315 
Spaceflight Revolution 

the Office of Space Sciences and Applications [OSSA]) held at NASA 

headquarters on 7 June 1962, Langley Associate Director Charles Donlan 

had questioned the priority of a scientific agenda for the agency's proposed 

unmanned lunar probes because a national commitment had since been 

made to a manned lunar landing. The initial requirements for the probes 

had been set long before Kennedy's announcement, and therefore, Donlan 

felt NASA needed to rethink them. Based on his experience at Langley and 

with Gilruth's STG, Donlan knew that the space science people could be 

"rather unbending" about adjusting experiments to obtain "scientific data 

which would assist the manned program." What needed to be done now, 

he felt, was to turn the attention of the scientists to exploration that would 

have more direct applications to the Apollo lunar landing program. 9 

Donlan was distressed specifically by the Office of Space Sciences' recent 

rejection of a lunar surface experiment proposed by a penetrometer feasibility study group at Langley. This small group, consisting of half a dozen 

people from the Dynamic Loads and Instrument Research divisions, had 

devised a spherical projectile, dubbed "Moonball," that was equipped with 

accelerometers capable of transmitting acceleration versus time signatures 

during impact with the lunar surface. With these data, researchers could 

determine the hardness, texture, and load-bearing strength of possible lunar 

landing sites. The group recommended that Moonball be flown as part of 

the follow-on to Ranger .

10 

A successful landing of an intact payload required that the landing loads 

not exceed the structural capabilities of the vehicle and that the vehicle 

make its landing in some tenable position so it could take off again. Both of 

these requirements demanded a knowledge of basic physical properties of the 

surface material, particularly data demonstrating its hardness or resistance 

to penetration. In the early 1960s, these properties were still unknown, and 

the Langley penetrometer feasibility study group wanted to identify them. 

Without the information, any design of Apollo's lunar lander would have to 

be based on assumed surface characteristics. 11 

In the opinion of the Langley penetrometer group, its lunar surface 

hardness experiment would be of "general scientific interest," but it would, 

more importantly, provide "timely engineering information important to 

the design of the Apollo manned lunar landing vehicle." 12 Experts at JPL, 

however, questioned whether surface hardness was an important criterion 

for any experiment and argued that "the determination of the terrain was 

more important, particularly for a horizontal landing." 13 In the end, the 

Office of Space Sciences rejected the Langley idea in favor of making further 

seismometer experiments, which might tell scientists something basic about 

the origins of the moon and its astrogeological history.* 

* Later in Apollo planning, engineers at the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston thought that 

deployment of a penetrometer from the LEM during its final approach to landing would prove useful. The 

penetrometer would "sound" the anticipated target and thereby determine whether surface conditions 

316 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

L-67-8553 

Associate Director Charles J. Donlan understood that the requirements of the 

manned lunar landing took priority over pure science experiments. 

For engineer Donlan, representing a research organization like Langley 

dominated by engineers and by their quest for practical solutions to applied 

problems, this rejection seemed a mistake. The issue came down to what 

NASA needed to know now. That might have been science before Kennedy's 

commitment, but it definitely was not science after it. In Donlan's view, 

Langley's rejected approach to lunar impact studies had been the correct 

one. The consensus at the first Senior Council meeting, however, was that 

"pure science experiments will be able to provide the engineering answers 

for Project Apollo." 14 

Over the next few years, the engineering requirements for Apollo would 

win out almost totally. As historian R. Cargill Hall explains in his story 

of Project Ranger, a ''melding" of interests occurred between the Office 

were conducive to landing. Should surface conditions prove unsatisfactory, the LEM could be flown to 

another spot or the landing could be aborted. In the end, NASA deemed the experiment unnecessary. 

What the Surveyor missions found out about the nature of the lunar soil (that it resembled basalt and 

had the consistency of damp sand) made NASA so confident about the hardness of the surface that it 

decided this penetrometer experiment could be deleted. For more information, see Ivan D. Ertel and 

Roland W. Newkirk, The Apollo Space~raft: A Chronology, vol. 4, NASA SP-4009 (Washington, 1978), 

p. 24. 

317 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-63-1777 

L-67-4028 

Langley gathered information specifically for the accomplishment of Apollo. Top, a 

Langley engineer monitors the structural dynamics of a simulated lunar landing in 

early 1963. Bottom, Lu]Jar Orbiter III maps a potential Apollo landing site. The 

large crater is Kepler, which is 30 miles across. 

318 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

of Space Sciences and the Office of Manned Space Flight followed by a 

virtually complete subordination of the scientific priorities originally built 

into the unmanned projects. Those priorities, as important as they were, 

"quite simply did not rate" with Apollo in importance.15 

Initiating Lunar Orbiter 

The sensitive camera eyes of the Lunar Orbiter spacecraft carried out a 

vital reconnaissance mission in support of the Apollo program. Although 

NASA designed the project to provide scientists with quantitative information about the moon's gravitational field and the dangers of micrometeorites and solar radiation in the vicinity of the lunar environment, the 

primary objective of Lunar Orbiter was to fly over and photograph the best 

landing sites for the Apollo spacecraft. NASA suspected that it might have 

enough information about the lunar terrain to land astronauts safely without the detailed photographic mosaics of the lunar surface compiled from 

the orbiter flights, but certainly landing sites could be pinpointed more accurately with the help of high-resolution photographic maps. Lunar Orbiter 

would even help to train the astronauts for visual recognition of the lunar 

topography and for last-second maneuvering above it before touchdown. 

Langley had never managed a deep-space flight project before, and 

Director Floyd Thompson was not sure that he wanted to take on the burden 

of responsibility when Oran Nicks, the young director of lunar and planetary 

programs in Homer Newell's Office of Space Sciences, came to him with the 

idea early in 1963. Along with Newell's deputy, Edgar M. Cortright, Nicks 

was the driving force behind the orbiter mission at NASA headquarters. 

Cortright, however, first favored giving the project to JPL and using 

Surveyor Orbiter and the Hughes Aircraft Company, which was the prime 

contractor for Surveyor Lander. Nicks disagreed with this plan and worked 

to persuade Cortright and others that he was right. In Nicks' judgment, JJ?L 

had more than it could handle with Ranger and Surveyor Lander and should 

not have anything else "put on its plate," certainly not anything as large 

as the Lunar Orbiter project. NASA Langley, on the other hand, besides 

having a reputation for being able to handle a variety of aerospace tasks, had 

just lost the STG to Houston and so, Nicks thought, would be eager to take 

on the new challenge of a lunar orbiter project. Nicks worked to persuade 

Cortright that distributing responsibilities and operational programs among 

the NASA field centers would be "a prudent management decision." NASA 

needed balance among its research centers. To ensure NASA's future in 

space, headquarters must assign to all its centers challenging endeavors that 

would stimulate the development of "new and varied capabilities." 16 

319 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Cortright was persuaded and gave Nicks permission to approach Floyd 

Thompson.* This Nicks did on 2 January 1963, during a Senior Council 

meeting of the Office of Space Sciences at Cape Canaveral. Nicks asked 

Thompson whether Langley "would be willing to study the feasibility of 

undertaking a lunar photography experiment," and Thompson answered 

cautiously that he would ask his staff to consider the idea. 17 

The historical record does not tell us much about Thompson's personal 

thoughts regarding taking on Lunar Orbiter. But one can infer from the 

evidence that Thompson had mixed feelings, not unlike those he experienced 

about supporting the STG. The Langley director would not only give Nicks 

a less than straightforward answer to his question but also would think 

about the offer long and hard before committing the center. Thompson 

invited several trusted staff members to share their feelings about assuming 

responsibility for the project. For instance, he went to Clint Brown, by 

then one of his three assistant directors for research, and asked him what 

he thought Langley should do. Brown told him emphatically that he did 

not think Langley should take on Lunar Orbiter. An automated deep-space 

project would be difficult to manage successfully. The Lunar Orbiter would 

be completely different from the Ranger and Surveyor spacecraft and being 

a new design, would no doubt encounter many unforeseen problems. Even 

if it were done to everyone's satisfaction-and the proposed schedule for the 

first launches sounded extremely tight-Langley would probably handicap 

its functional research divisions to give the project all the support that it 

would need. Projects devoured resources. Langley staff had learned this 

firsthand from its experience with the STG. Most of the work for Lunar 

Orbiter would rest in the management of contracts at industrial plants and 

in the direction of launch and mission control operations at Cape Canaveral 

and Pasadena. Brown, for one, did not want to be involved.18 

But Thompson decided, in what Brown now calls his director's "greater 

wisdom," that the center should accept the job of managing the project. 

Sq,me researchers in Brown's own division had been proposing a Langleydirected photographic mission to the moon for some time, and Thompson, 

too, was excited by the prospect. 19 Furthermore, the revamped Lunar 

Orbiter was not going to be a space mission seeking general scientific 

knowledge about the moon. It was going to be a mission directly in 

support of Apollo, and this meant that engineering requirements would be 

primary. Langley staff preferred that practical orientation; their past work 

often resembled projects on a smaller scale. Whether the "greater wisdom" 

stemmed from Thompson's own powers of judgment is still not certain. 

Some informed Langley veterans, notably Brown, feel that Thompson must 

* Edgar Cortright and Oran Nicks would come to have more than a passing familiarity with the 

capabilities of Langley Research Center. In 1968, NASA would name Cortright to succeed Thompson 

as the center's director. Shortly thereafter, Cortright named Nicks as his deputy director. Both men 

then stayed at the center into the mid-1970s. 

320 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

have also received some strongly stated directive from NASA headquarters 

that said Langley had no choice but to take on the project. 

Whatever was the case in the beginning, Langley management soon 

welcomed Lunar Orbiter. It was a chance to prove that they could manage 

a major undertaking. Floyd Thompson personally oversaw many aspects 

of the project and for more than four years did whatever he could to make 

sure that Langley's functional divisions supported it fully. Through most of 

this period, he would meet every Wednesday morning with the top people in 

the project office to hear about the progress of their work and offer his own 

ideas. As one staff member recalls, "I enjoyed these meetings thoroughly. 

[Thompson was] the most outstanding guy I've ever met, a tremendously 

smart man who knew what to do and when to do it." 20 

Throughout the early months of 1963, Langley worked with its counterparts at NASA headquarters to establish a solid and cooperative working 

relationship for Lunar Orbiter. The center began to draw up preliminary 

specifications for a lightweight orbiter spacecraft and for the vehicle that 

would launch it (already thought to be the Atlas-Agena D). While Langley 

personnel were busy with that, TRW's Space Technologies Laboratories 

(STL) of Redondo Beach, California, was conducting a parallel study of 

a lunar orbiter photographic spacecraft under contract to NASA headquarters. Representatives from STL reported on this work at meetings at 

Langley on 25 February and 5 March 1963. Langley researchers reviewed the 

contractor's assessment and found that STL's estimates of the chances for 

mission success closely matched their own. If five missions were attempted, 

the probability of achieving one success was 93 percent. The probability of 

achieving two was 81 percent. Both studies confirmed that a lunar orbiter 

system using existing hardware would be able to photograph a landed Surveyor and would thus be able to verify the conditions of that possible Apollo 

landing site. The independent findings concluded that the Lunar Orbiter 

project could be done successfully and should be done quickly because its 

contribution to the Apollo program would be great.21 

Project Management 

With the exception of its involvement in the X-series research airplane 

programs at Muroc, Langley had not managed a major project during the 

period of the NACA. As a NASA center, Langley would have to learn 

to manage projects that involved contractors, subcontractors, other NASA 

facilities, and headquarters-a tall order for an organization used to doing all 

its work in-house with little outside interference. Only three major projects 

were assigned to Langley in the early 1960s: Scout, in 1960; Fire, in 1961; 

and Lunar Orbiter, in 1963. Project Mercury and Little Joe, although 

heavily supported by Langley, had been managed by the independent STG, 

and Project Echo, although managed by Langley for a while, eventually was 

given to Goddard to oversee.· 

321 
Spaceflight Revolution 

To prepare for Lunar Orbiter in early 1963, Langley management reviewed what the center had done to initiate the already operating Scout and 

Fire projects. It also tried to learn from JPL about inaugurating paperwork 

for, and subsequent management of, Projects Ranger and Surveyor. After 

these reviews, Langley felt ready to prepare the formal documents required 

by NASA for the start-up of the project.22 

As Langley prepared for Lunar Orbiter, NASA's policies and procedures 

for project management were changing. In October 1962, spurred on by its 

new top man, James Webb, the agency had begun to implement a series 

of structural changes in its overall organization. These were designed to 

improve relations between headquarters and the field centers, an area of 

fundamental concern. Instead of managing the field centers through the 

Office of Programs, as had been the case, NASA was moving them under 

the command of the headquarters program directors. For Langley, this 

meant direct lines of communication with the OART and the OSSA. By 

the end of 1963, a new organizational framework was in place that allowed 

for more effective management of NASA projects. 

In early March 1963, as part of Webb's reform, NASA headquarters issued an updated version of General Management Instruction 4-1-1. This 

revised document established formal guidelines for the planning and management of a project. Every project was supposed to pass through four 

preliminary stages: (1) Project Initiation, (2) Project Approval, (3) Project 

Implementation, and (4) Organization for Project Management.23 Each step 

required the submission of a formal document for headquarters' approval. 

From the beginning, everyone involved with Lunar Orbiter realized that 

it had to be a fast-track project. In order to help Apollo, everything about 

it had to be initiated quickly and without too much concern about the letter 

of the law in the written procedures. Consequently, although no step was 

to be taken without first securing approval for the preceding step, Langley 

initiated the paperwork for all four project stages at the same time. This 

same no-time-to-lose attitude ruled the schedule for project development. 

All aspects had to be developed concurrently. Launch facilities ·had to 

be planned at the same time that the design of the spacecraft started. 

The photographic, micrometeoroid, and selenodetic experiments had to be 

prepared even before the mission operations plan was complete. Everything 

proceeded in parallel: the development of the spacecraft, the mission 

design, the operational plan and preparation of ground equipment, the creation of computer programs, as well as a testing plan. About this parallel 

development, Donald H. Ward, a key member of Langley's Lunar Orbiter 

project team, remarked, "Sometimes this causes undoing some mistakes, 

but it gets to the end product a lot faster than a serial operation where 

you design the spacecraft and then the facilities to support it." 24 Using the 

all-at-once approach, Langley put Lunar Orbiter in orbit around the moon 

only 27 months after signing with the contractor. 

322 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

Israel Taback (left) andClifford H. 

Nelson (right}, head of LOPO, 

ponder the intricacies of the spacecraft design. 

On 11 September 1963, Director Floyd Thompson formally established 

the Lunar Orbiter Project Office (LOPO) at Langley, a lean organization 

of just a few people who had been at work on Lunar Orbiter since May. 

Thompson named Clifford H. Nelson as the project manager. An NACA 

veteran and head of the Measurements Research Branch of IRD, Nelson was 

an extremely bright engineer. He had served as project engineer on several 

flight research programs, ·and Thompson believed that he showed great 

promise as a technical manager. He worked well with others, and Thompson 

knew that skill in interpersonal relations would be essential in managing 

Lunar Orbiter because so much of the work would entail interacting with 

contractors. 

To help Nelson, Thompson originally reassigned eight people to LOPO: 

engineers Israel Taback, Robert Girouard, William I. Watson, Gerald 

Brewer, John B. Graham, Edmund A. Brummer, financial accountant 

Robert Fairburn, and secretary Anna Plott. This group was far smaller 

than the staff of 100 originally estimated for this office. The most important 

technical minds brought in to participate came from either IRD or from the 

Applied Materials and Physics Division, which was the old PARD. Taback 

was the experienced and sage head of the Navigation and Guidance Branch 

of IRD; Brummer, an expert in telemetry, also came from IRD; and two 

323 
Spaceflight Revolution 

new Langley men, Graham and Watson, were brought in to look over the 

integration of mission operations and spacecraft assembly for the project. A 

little later IRD's talented Bill Boyer also joined the group as flight operations 

manager, as did the outstanding mission analyst Norman L. Crabill, who 

had just finished working on Project Echo. All four of the NACA veterans 

were serving as branch heads at the time of their assignment to LOPO. This 

is significant given that individuals at that level of authority and experience 

are often too entrenched and concerned about further career development 

to take a temporary assignment on a high-risk project. The LOPO staff set 

up an office in a room in the large 16-Foot Transonic Tunnel building in the 

Langley West Area. 

When writing the Request for Proposals, Nelson, Taback, and the others 

involved could only afford the time necessary to prepare a brief document, 

merely a few pages long, that sketched out some of the detailed requirements. 

As Israel Taback remembers, even before the project office was established, 

he and a few fellow members of what would become LOPO had already 

talked extensively with the potential contractors. Taback explains, "Our 

idea was that they would be coming back to us [with details]. So it wasn't 

like we were going out cold, with a brand new program." 25 

Langley did need to provide one critical detail in the request: the 

means for stabilizing the spacecraft in lunar orbit. Taback recalls that an 

"enormous difference" arose between Langley and NASA headquarters over 

this issue. The argument was about whether the Request for Proposals 

should require that the contractors produce a rotating satellite known as 

a "spinner." The staff of the OSSA preferred a spinner based on STL's 

previous study of Lunar Orbiter requirements. However, Langley's Lunar 

Orbiter staff doubted the wisdom of specifying the means of stabilization 

in the Request for Proposals. They wished to keep the door open to other, 

perhaps better, ways of stabilizing the vehicle for photography. 

The goal of the project, after all, was to take the best possible highresolution pictures of the moon's surface. To do that, NASA needed to 

create the best possible orbital platform for the spacecraft's sophisticated 

camera equipment, whatever that turned out to be. From their preliminary 

analysis and conversations about mission requirements, Taback, Nelson, and 

others in LOPO felt that taking these pictures from a three-axis (yaw, pitch, 

and roll), attitude-stabilized device would be easier than taking them from 

a spinner. A spinner would cause distortions of the image because of the 

rotation of the vehicle. Langley's John F. Newcomb of the Aero-Space 

Mechanics Division (and eventual member of LOPO) had calculated that 

this distortion would destroy the resolution and thus seriously compromise 

the overall quality of the pictures. This was a compromise that the people 

at Langley quickly decided they could not live with. Thus, for sound 

technical reasons, Langley insisted that the design of the orbiter be kept 

an open matter and not be specified in the Request for Proposals. Even 

if Langley's engineers were wrong and a properly designed spinner would 

324 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

be most effective, the sensible approach was to entertain all the ideas the 

aerospace industry could come up with before choosing a design. 26 

For several weeks in the summer of 1963, headquarters tried to resist the 

Langley position. Preliminary studies by both STL for the OSSA and by 

Bell Communications (BellComm) for the Office of Manned Space Flight 

indicated that a rotating spacecraft using a spin-scan film camera similar to 

the one developed by the Rand Corporation in 1958 for an air force satellite 

reconnaissance system ("spy in the sky") would work well for Lunar Orbiter. 

Such a spinner would be less complicated and less costly than the three-axisstabilized spacecraft preferred by Langley. 27 

But Langley staff would not cave in on an issue so fundamental to the 

project's success. Eventually Newell, Cortright, Nicks, and Scherer in the 

OSSA offered a compromise that Langley could accept: the Request for 

Proposals could state that "if bidders could offer approaches which differed 

from the established specifications but which would result in substantial 

gains in the probability of mission success, reliability, schedule, and economy," then NASA most certainly invited them to submit those alternatives. 

The request would also emphasize that NASA wanted a lunar orbiter that 

was built from as much off-the-shelf hardware as possible. The development 

of many new technological systems would require time that Langley did not 

have.28 

Langley and headquarters had other differences of opinion about the 

request. For example, a serious problem arose over the nature of the contract. Langley's chief procurement officer, Sherwood Butler, took the conservative position that a traditional cost-plus-a-fixed-fee contract would be 

best in a project in which several unknown development problems were 

bound to arise. With this kind of contract, NASA would pay the contractor 

for all actual costs plus a sum of money fixed by the contract negotiations 

as a reasonable profit. 

NASA headquarters, on the other hand, felt that some attractive financial 

incentives should be built into the contract. Although unusual up to this 

point in NASA history, headquarters believed that an incentives contract 

would be best for Lunar Orbiter. Such a contract would assure that 

the contractor would do everything possible to solve all the problems 

encountered and make sure that the project worked. The incentives could be 

written up in such a way that if, for instance, the contractor lost money on 

any one Lunar Orbiter mission, the loss could be recouped with a handsome 

profit on the other missions. The efficacy of a cost-plus-incentives contract 

rested in the solid premise that nothing motivated a contractor more than 

making money. NASA headquarters apparently understood this better than 

Langley's procurement officer who wanted to keep tight fiscal control over 

the project and did not want to do the hairsplitting that often came with 

evaluating whether the incentive clauses had been met. 29 

On the matter of incentives, Langley's LOPO engineers sided against 

their own man and with NASA headquarters. They, too, thought that 

325 
Spaceflight Revolution 

incentives were the best way to do business with a contractor-as well 

as the best way to illustrate the urgency that NASA attached to Lunar 

Orbiter.30 The only thing that bothered them was the vagueness of the 

incentives being discussed. When Director Floyd Thompson understood 

that his engineers really wanted to take the side of headquarters on this 

issue, he quickly concurred. He insisted only on three things: the incentives 

had to be based on clear stipulations tied to cost, delivery, and performance, 

with penalties for deadline overruns; the contract had to be fully negotiated 

and signed before Langley started working with any contractor (in other 

words, work could not start under a letter of intent); and all bidding had 

to be competitive. Thompson worried that the OSSA might be biased in 

favor of STL as the prime contractor because of STL's prior study of the 

requirements of lunar orbiter systems.31 

In mid-August 1963, with these problems worked out with headquarters, 

Langley finalized the Request for Proposals and associated Statement of 

Work, which outlined specifications, and delivered both to Captain Lee 

R. Scherer, Lunar Orbiter's program manager at NASA headquarters, for 

presentation to Ed Cortright and his deputy Oran Nicks. The documents 

stated explicitly that the main mission of Lunar Orbiter was "the acquisition 

of photographic data of high and medium resolution for selection of suitable 

Apollo and Surveyor landing sites." The request set out detailed criteria 

for such things as identifying "cones" (planar features at right angles to 

a fiat surface), "slopes" (circular areas inclined with respect to the plane 

perpendicular to local gravity), and other subtle aspects of the lunar surface. 

Obtaining information about the size and shape of the moon and about 

the lunar gravitational field was deemed less important. By omitting a 

detailed description of the secondary objectives in the request, Langley made 

clear that "under no circumstances" could anything "be allowed to dilute 

the major photo-reconnaissance mission." 32 The urgency of the national 

commitment to a manned lunar landing mission was the force driving Lunar 

Orbiter. Langley wanted no confusion on that point. 

The Source Evaluation Board 

Cliff Nelson and LOPO moved quickly in September 1963 to create a 

Source Evaluation Board that would possess the technical expertise and 

good judgment to help NASA choose wisely from among the industrial 

firms bidding for Lunar Orbiter. A large board of reviewers (comprising 

more than 80 evaluators and consultants from NASA centers and other 

aerospace organizations) was divided into groups to evaluate the technical 

feasibility, cost, contract management concepts, business operations, and 

other critical aspects of the proposals. One group, the so-called Scientists' 

Panel, judged the suitability of the proposed spacecraft for providing 

valuable information to the scientific community after the photographic 

326 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

mission had been completed. Langley's two representatives on the Scientists' 

Panel were Clint Brown and Dr. Samuel Katzoff, an extremely insightful 

engineering analyst, 27-year Langley veteran, and assistant chief of the 

Applied Materials and Physics Division. 

Although the opinions of all the knowledgeable outsiders were taken 

seriously, Langley intended to make the decision. 33 Chairing the Source 

Evaluation Board was Eugene Draley, one of Floyd Thompson's assistant 

directors. When the board finished interviewing all the bidders, hearing 

their oral presentations, and tallying the results of its scoring of the 

proposals (a possible 70 points for technical merit and 30 points for business 

management), it was to present a formal recommendation to Thompson. He 

in turn would pass on the findings with comments to Homer Newell's office 

in Washington. 

Five major aerospace firms submitted proposals for the Lunar Orbiter 

contract. Three were California firms: STL in Redondo Beach, Lockheed 

Missiles and Space Company of Sunnyvale, and Hughes Aircraft Company of 

Los Angeles. The Martin Company of Baltimore and the Boeing Company 

of Seattle were the other two bidders.34 

Three of the five proposals were excellent. Hughes had been developing 

an ingenious spin-stabilization system for geosynchronous communication 

satellites, which helped the company to submit an impressive proposal for a 

rotating vehicle. With Hughes's record in spacecraft design and fabrication, 

the Source Evaluation Board gave Hughes serious consideration. STL also 

submitted a fine proposal for a spin-stabilized rotator. This came as no 

surprise, of course, given STL's prior work for Surveyor as well as its prior 

contractor studies on lunar orbiter systems for NASA headquarters. 

The third outstanding proposal-entitled "ACLOPS" (Agena-Class 

Lunar Orbiter Project)-was Boeing's. ·The well-known airplane manufacturer had not been among the companies originally invited to bid on 

Lunar Orbiter and was not recognized as the most logical of contenders. 

However, Boeing recently had successfully completed the Bomarc missile 

program and was anxious to become involved with the civilian space program, especially now that the DOD was canceling Dyna-Soar, an air force 

project for the development of an experimental X-20 aerospace plane. This 

cancellation released several highly qualified U.S. Air Force personnel, who 

were still working at Boeing, to support a new Boeing undertaking in space. 

Company representatives had visited Langley to discuss Lunar Orbiter, and 

Langley engineers had been so excited by what they had heard that they 

had pestered Thompson to persuade Seamans to extend an invitation to 

Boeing to join the bidding. The proposals from Martin, a newcomer in the 

business of automated space probes, and Lockheed, a company with years 

of experience handling the Agena space vehicle for the air force, were also 

quite satisfactory. In the opinion of the Source Evaluation Board, however, 

the proposals from Martin and Lockheed were not as strong as those from 

Boeing and Hughes. · 

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Spaceflight Revolution 

The LOPO staff and the Langley representatives decided early in the 

evaluation that they wanted Boeing to be selected as the contractor; on 

behalf of the technical review team, Israel Taback had made this preference 

known both in private conversations with, and formal presentations to, 

the Source Evaluation Board. Boeing was Langley's choice because it proposed a three-axis-stabilized spacecraft rather than a spinner. For attitude 

reference in orbit, the spacecraft would use an optical sensor similar to the 

one that was being planned for use on the Mariner C spacecraft, which fixed 

on the star Canopus. 

An attitude-stabilized orbiter eliminated the need for a focal-length spin 

camera. This type of photographic system, first conceived by Merton E. 

Davies of the Rand Corporation in 1958, could compensate for the distortions caused by a rotating spacecraft but would require extensive 

development. In the Boeing proposal, Lunar Orbiter would carry a 

photo subsystem designed by Eastman Kodak and used on DOD spy 

satellites. 35 This subsystem worked automatically and with the precision of 

a Swiss watch. It employed two lenses that took pictures simultaneously on 

a roll of 70-millimeter aerial film. If one lens failed, the other still worked. 

One lens had a focal length of 610 millimeters (24 inches) and could take 

pictures from an altitude of 46 kilometers (28.5 miles) with a high resolution 

for limited-area coverage of approximately 1 meter. The other, which had 

a focal length of about 80 millimeters (3 inches), could take pictures with 

a medium resolution of approximately 8 meters for wide coverage of the 

lunar surface. The film would be developed on board the spacecraft using 

the proven Eastman Kodak "Bimat" method. The film would be in contact 

with a web containing a single-solution dry processing chemical, which eliminated the need to use wet chemicals. Developed automatically and wound 

onto a storage spool, the processed film could then be "read out" and transmitted by the spacecraft's communications subsystem to receiving stations 

of JPL's worldwide Deep Space Network, which was developed for communication with spacefaring vehicles destined for the moon and beyond. 36 

How Boeing had the good sense to propose an attitude-stabilized platform based on the Eastman Kodak camera, rather than to propose a rotator 

with a yet-to-be developed camera is not totally clear. Langley engineers had 

conversed with representatives of all the interested bidders, so Boeing's people might possibly have picked up on Langley's concerns about the quality of 

photographs from spinners. The other bidders, especially STL and Hughes, 

with their expertise in spin-stabilized spacecraft, might also have picked up 

on those concerns but were too confident in the type of rotationally stabilized 

system they had been working on to change course in midstream. 

Furthermore, Boeing had been working closely with RCA, which for 

a time was also thinking about submitting a proposal for Lunar Orbiter. 

RCA's idea was a lightweight (200-kilogram), three-axis, attitude-stabilized, 

and camera-bearing payload that could be injected into lunar orbit as part of 

a Ranger-type probe. A lunar orbiter study group, chaired by Lee Scherer 

328 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

Lunar Orbiter was essentially a flying camera. The payload structure was built 

around a pressurized shell holding Eastman Kodak's dual-imaging photographic 

system, which used a camera with wide~angle and telephoto lenses that could 

simultaneously take two kinds of pictures on the same film. 

at NASA headquarters, had evaluated RCA's approach in October 1962, 

however, and found it lacking. It was too expensive ($20.4 million for flying 

only three spacecraft), and its proposed vidicon television unit could not 

cover the lunar surface either in the detail or the wide panoramas NASA 

wanted.37 

Boeing knew all about this rejected RCA approach. After talking to 

Langley's engineers, the company shrewdly decided to stay with an attitudestabilized orbiter but to dump the use of the inadequate vidicon television. 

Boeing replaced the television system with an instrument with a proven 

track record in planetary reconnaissance photography: the Eastman Kodak 

spy camera. 38 

On 20 December 1963, two weeks after the Source Evaluation Board made 

its formal recommendation to Administrator James Webb in Washington, 

NASA announced that it would be negotiating with Boeing as prime contractor for the Lunar Orbiter project. Along with the excellence of its proposed spacecraft design and Kodak camera, NASA singled out the strength 

of Boeing's commitment to the project and its corporate capabilities to 

329 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Capt. Lee R. Scherer served as Lunar 

Orbiter's program manager at NASA 

headquarters. 

L-66-6301 

complete it on schedule without relying on many subcontractors. Still, the 

choice was a bit ironic. Only 14 months earlier, the Scherer study group 

had rejected RCA's approach in favor of a study of a spin-stabilized spacecraft proposed by STL. Now Boeing had outmaneuvered its competition by 

proposing a spacecraft that incorporated essential features of the rejected 

RCA concept and almost none from the STL's previously accepted one. 

Boeing won the contract even though it asked for considerably more 

money than any of the other bidders. The lowest bid, from Hughes, was 

$41,495,339, less than half of Boeing's $83,562,199, a figure that would 

quickly rise when the work started. Not surprisingly, NASA faced some 

congressional criticism and had to defend its choice. The agency justified 

its selection by referring confidently to what Boeing alone proposed to do 

to ensure protection of Lunar Orbiter's photographic film from the hazards 

of solar radiation. 39 

This was a technical detail that deeply concerned LOPO. Experiments 

conducted by Boeing and by Dr. Trutz Foelsche, a Langley scientist in the 

Space Mechanics (formerly Theoretical Mechanics) Division who specialized 

in the study of space radiation effects, suggested that even small doses 

of radiation from solar flares could fog ordinary high-speed photographic 

film. This would be true especially in the case of an instrumented probe 

like Lunar Orbiter, which had thin exterior vehicular shielding. Even if 

the thickness of the shielding around the film was increased tenfold (from 

1 g/cm2 to 10 g/cm2), Foelsche judged that high-speed film would not make 

it through a significant solar-particle event without serious damage.40 Thus, 

330 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

L-64-4141 

Representatives of NASA Langley and Boeing signed the Lunar Orbiter contract 

on 16 April 1964 and sent it to NASA headquarters for final review. Three weeks 

later, on 7 May, Administrator James E. Webb approved the $80-million incentives 

contract to build five Lunar Orbiter spacecraft. 

something extraordinary had to be done to protect the high-speed film. A 

better solution was not to use high-speed film at all. 

As NASA explained successfully to its critics, the other bidders for the 

Lunar Orbiter contract relied on high-speed film and faster shutter speeds 

for their on-board photographic subsystems. Only Boeing did not. When 

delegates from STL, Hughes, Martin, and Lockheed were asked at a bidders' 

briefing in November 1963 about what would happen to their film if a solar 

event occurred during an orbiter mission, they all had to admit that the 

film would be damaged seriously. Only Boeing could claim otherwise. Even 

with minimal shielding, the more insensitive, low-speed film used by the 

Kodak camera would not be fogged by high-energy radiation, not even if 

the spacecraft moved through the Van Allen radiation belts.41 This, indeed, 

proved to be the case. During the third mission of Lunar Orbiter in February 

1967, a solar flare with a high amount of optical activity did occur, but the 

film passed through it unspoiled. 42 

Negotiations with Boeing did not take long. Formal negotiations began 

on 17 March 1964, and ended just four days later. On 7 May Administrator 

Webb signed the document that made Lunar Orbiter an official NASA 

331 
Spaceflight Revolution 

commitment. Hopes were high. But in the cynical months of 1964, with 

Ranger's setbacks still making headlines and critics still faulting NASA for 

failing to match Soviet achievements in space, everyone doubted whether 

Lunar Orbiter would be ready for its first scheduled flight to the moon in 

just two years. 

Nelson's Team 

Large projects are run by only a handful of people. Four or five key 

individuals delegate jobs and responsibilities to others. This was certainly 

true for Lunar Orbiter. From start to finish, Langley's LOPO remained 

a small organization; its original nucleus of 9 staff members never grew 

any larger than 50 professionals. Langley management knew that keeping 

LOPO's staff small meant fewer people in need of positions when the project 

ended. If all the positions were built into a large project office, many careers 

would be out on a limb; a much safer organizational method was for a small 

project office to draw people from other research and technical divisions to 

assist the project as needed.43 

In the case of Lunar Orbiter, four men ran the project: Cliff Nelson, 

the project manager; Israel Taback, who was in charge of all activities 

leading to the production and testing of the spacecraft; Bill Boyer, who 

was responsible for planning and integrating launch and flight operations; 

and James V. Martin, the assistant project manager. Nelson had accepted 

the assignment with Thompson's assurance that he would be given wide 

latitude in choosing the men and women he wanted to work with him in the 

project office. As a result, virtually all of his top people were handpicked. 

The one significant exception was his chief assistant, Jim Martin. In 

September 1964, the Langley assistant director responsible for the project 

office, Gene Draley, brought in Martin to help Nelson cope with some of 

the stickier details of Lunar Orbiter's management. A senior manager 

in charge of Republic Aviation's space systems requirements, Martin had 

a tremendous ability for anticipating business management problems and 

plenty of experience taking care of them. Furthermore, he was a wellorganized and skillful executive who could make schedules, set due dates, 

and closely track the progress of the contractors and subcontractors. This 

"paper" management of a major project was troublesome for Cliff Nelson, 

a quiet people-oriented person. Draley knew about taskmaster Martin from 

Republic's involvement in Project Fire and was hopeful that Martin's acerbity and business-mindedness would complement Nelson's good-heartedness 

and greater technical depth, especially in dealings with contractors. 

Because Cliff Nelson and Jim Martin were so entirely opposite in personality, they did occasionally clash, which caused a few internal problems 

in LOPO. On the whole, however, the alliance worked quite well, although 

it was forced by Langley management. Nelson generally oversaw the whole 

endeavor and made sure that everybody worked together as a team. For 

332 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

L-66-6301 

In contrast to the quiet, people-oriented LOPO director Cliff Nelson (left), James 

"Big Jim" Martin (right) breathed fire when it came to getting consistent top-grade 

performance from the NASA contractors. 

the monitoring of the day-to-day progress of the project's many operations, 

Nelson relied on the dynamic Martin. For example, when problems arose 

with the motion-compensation apparatus for the Kodak camera, Martin 

went to the contractor's plant to assess the situation and decided that 

its management was not placing enough emphasis on following a schedule. 

Martin acted tough, pounded on the table, and made the contractor put 

workable schedules together quickly. When gentler persuasion was called for 

or subtler interpersonal relationships were involved, Nelson was the person 

for the job. Martin, who was technically competent but not as technically 

talented as Nelson, also deferred to the project manager when a decision required particularly complex engineering analysis. Thus, the two men worked 

together for the overall betterment of Lunar Orbiter.44 

Placing an excellent person with just the right specialization in just 

the right job was one of the most important elements behind the success 

of Lunar Orbiter, and for this eminently sensible approach to project 

management, Cliff Nelson and Floyd Thompson deserve the lion's share of 

credit. Both men cultivated a management style that emphasized direct 

dealings with people and often ignored formal organizational channels. 

Both stressed the importance of teamwork and would not tolerate any 

individual, however talented, willfully undermining the esprit de corps. 

Before filling any position in the project office, Nelson gave the selection 

much thought. He questioned whether the people under consideration were 

compatible with others already in his project organization. He wanted to 

know whether candidates were goal-oriented~willing to do whatever was 

333 
Spaceflight Revolution 

necessary (working overtime or traveling) to complete the project. 45 Because 

Langley possessed so many employees who had been working at the center 

for many years, the track record of most people was either well known or easy 

to ascertain. Given the outstanding performance of Lunar Orbiter and the 

testimonies about an exceptionally healthy work environment in the project 

office, Nelson did an excellent job predicting who would make a productive 

member of the project team.46 

Considering Langley's historic emphasis on fundamental applied aeronautical research, it might seem surprising that Langley scientists and engineers did not try to hide inside the dark return passage of a wind tunnel 

rather than be diverted into a spaceflight project like Lunar Orbiter. As has 

been discussed, some researchers at Langley (and agencywide) objected to 

and resisted involvement with project work. The Surveyor project at JPL 

had suffered from staff members' reluctance to leave their own specialties 

to work on a space project. However, by the early 1960s the enthusiasm 

for spaceflight ran so rampant that it was not hard to staff a space project 

office. All the individuals who joined LOPO at Langley came enthusiastically; otherwise Cliff Nelson would not have had them. Israel Taback, who 

had been running the Communications and Control Branch of IRD, remembers having become distressed with the thickening of what he calls "the 

paper forest": the preparation of five-year plans, ten-year plans, and other 

lengthy documents needed to justify NASA's budget requests. The work he 

had been doing with airplanes and aerospace vehicles was interesting (he 

had just finished providing much of the flight instrumentation for the X-15 

program), but not so interesting that he wanted to turn down Cliff Nelson's 

offer to join Lunar Orbiter. "The project was brand new and sounded much 

more exciting than what I had been doing," Taback remembers. It appealed 

to him also because of its high visibility both inside and outside the center. 

Everyone had to recognize the importance of a project directly related to 

the national goal of landing a man on the moon.47 

Norman L. Crabill, the head ofLOPO's mission design team, also decided 

to join the project. On a Friday afternoon, he had received the word that 

one person from his branch of the Applied Materials and Physics Division 

would have to be named by the following Monday as a transfer to LOPO; as 

branch head, Crabill himself would have to make the choice. That weekend 

he asked himself, "What's your own future, Crabill? This is space. If you 

don't step up to this, what's your next chance. You've already decided not 

to go with the guys to Houston." He immediately knew who to transfer, 

"It was me." That was how he "got into the space business." And in his 

opinion, it was "the best thing" that he ever did.48 

The Boeing Team 

Cliff Nelson's office had the good sense to realize that monitoring the 

prime contractor did not entail doing Boeing's work for Boeing. Nelson 

334 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

approached the management of Lunar Orbiter more practically: the contractor was "to perform the work at hand while the field center retained 

responsibility for overseeing his progress and assuring that the job was done 

according to the terms of the contract." For Lunar Orbiter, this philosophy 

meant specifically that the project office would have to keep "a continuing watch on the progress of the various components, subsystems, and the 

whole spacecraft system during the different phases of designing, fabricating 

and testing them." 49 Frequent meetings would take place between Nelson 

and his staff and their counterparts at Boeing to discuss all critical matters, but Langley would not assign all the jobs, solve all the problems, or 

micromanage every detail of the contractor's work. 

This philosophy sat well with Robert J. Helberg, head of Boeing's 

Lunar Orbiter team. Helberg had recently finished directing the company's 

work on the Bomarc missile, making him a natural choice for manager of 

Boeing's next space venture. The Swedish-born Helberg was absolutely 

straightforward, and all his people respected him immensely-as would 

everyone in LOPO. He and fellow Swede Cliff Nelson got along famously. 

Their relaxed relationship set the tone for interaction between Langley and 

Boeing. Ideas and concerns passed freely back and forth between the project 

offices. Nelson and his people "never had to fear the contractor was just 

telling [them] a lie to make money," and Helberg and his tightly knit, 220-

member Lunar Orbiter team never had to complain about uncaring, papershuffling bureaucrats who were mainly interested in dotting all the i's and 

crossing all the t 's and making sure that nothing illegal was done that could 

bother government auditors and put their necks in a wringer. 50 

The Langley/NASA headquarters relationship was also harmonious and 

effective. This was in sharp contrast to the relationship between JPL 

and headquarters during the Surveyor project. Initially, JPL had tried 

to monitor the Surveyor contractor, Hughes, with only a small staff that 

provided little on-site technical direction; however, because of unclear 

objectives, the open-ended nature of the project (such basic things as 

which experiment packages would be included on the Surveyor spacecraft 

were uncertain), and a too highly diffused project organization within 

Hughes, JPL's "laissez-faire" approach to project management did not 

work. As the problems snowballed, Cortright found it necessary to intervene 

and compelled JPL to assign a regiment of on-site supervisors to watch 

over every detail of the work being done by Hughes. Thus, as one 

analyst of Surveyor's management has observed, "the responsibility for 

overall spacecraft development was gradually retrieved from Hughes by JPL, 

thereby altering significantly the respective roles of the field center and the 

spacecraft systems contractors." 51 

Nothing so unfortunate happened during Lunar Orbiter, partly because 

NASA had learned from the false steps and outright mistakes made in 

the management of SurveyoL For example, NASA now knew that before 

implementing a project, everyone involved must take part in extensive 

335 
Spaceflight Revolution 

preliminary discussions. These conversations ensured that the project's 

goals were certain and each party's responsibilities clear. Each office should 

expect maximum cooperation and minimal unnecessary interference from 

the others. Before Lunar Orbiter was under way, this excellent groundwork 

had been laid. 

As has been suggested by a 1972 study done by the National Academy 

of Public Administration, the Lunar Orbiter project can serve as a model 

of the ideal relationship between a prime contractor, a project office, a field 

center, a program office, and headquarters. From start to finish nearly 

everything important about the interrelationship worked out superbly in 

Lunar Orbiter. According to LOPO's Israel Taback, "Everyone worked 

together harmoniously as a team whether they were government, from 

headquarters or from Langley, or from Boeing." No one tried to take 

advantage of rank or to exert any undue authority because of an official 

title or organizational affiliation. 52 That is not to say that problems never 

occurred in the management of Lunar Orbiter. In any large and complex 

technological project involving several parties, some conflicts are bound to 

arise. The key to project success lies in how differences are resolved. 

The "Concentrated" versus the "Distributed" Mission 

The most fundamental issue in the premission planning for Lunar Orbiter was how the moon was to be photographed. Would the photography 

be "concentrated" on a predetermined single target, or would it be "distributed" over several selected targets across the moon's surface? On the 

answer to this basic question depended the successful integration of the 

entire mission plan for Lunar Orbiter. 

For Lunar Orbiter, as with any other spaceflight program, mission planning involved the establishment of a complicated sequence of events: When 

should the spacecraft be launched? When does the launch window open and 

close? On what trajectory should the spacecraft arrive in lunar orbit? How 

long will it take the spacecraft to get to the moon? How and when should 

orbital "injection" take place? How and when should the spacecraft get to 

its target(s), and at what altitude above the lunar surface should it take the 

pictures? Where does the spacecraft need to be relative to the sun for taking 

optimal pictures of the lunar surface? Answering these questions also meant 

that NASA's mission planners had to define the lunar orbits, determine how 

accurately those orbits could be navigated, and know the fuel requirements. 

The complete mission profile had to be ready months before launch. And 

before the critical details of the profile could be made ready, NASA had to 

select the targeted areas on the lunar surface and decide how many of them 

were to be photographed during the flight of a single orbiter.53 

Originally NASA's plan was to conduct a concentrated mission. The 

Lunar Orbiter would go up and target a single site of limited dimensions. 

336 
·•lllllluumulmmuu 

MOON'S TRAVEL 

AROUND EARTH 

AS OBSERVED 

FROM EARTH 

To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

Top NASA officials listen to 

a LOPO briefing at Langley 

in December 1966. Sitting to 

the far right with his hand on 

his chin is Floyd Thompson. 

To the left sits Dr. George 

Mueller, NASA associate administrator for Manned Space 

Flight. On the wall is a di" 

agram of the sites selected for 

the "concentrated mission." 

The chart below illustrates the 

primary area of photographic 

interest. 

., TARGET SITES 

lUNAR SURFACE PHOTOGRAPHIC COVERAGE 

337 
Spaceflight Revolution 

The country's leading astrogeologists would help in the site selection by 

identifying the smoothest, most attractive possibilities for a manned lunar 

landing. The U.S. Geological Survey had drawn huge, detailed maps of the 

lunar surface from the best available telescopic observations. With these 

maps, NASA would select one site as the prime target for each of the five 

Lunar Orbiter missions. During a mission, the spacecraft would travel into 

orbit and move over the target at the "perilune," or lowest point in the 

orbit (approximately 50 kilometers [31.1 miles] above the surface); then 

it would start taking pictures. Successive orbits would be close together 

longitudinally, and the Lunar Orbiter's camera would resume photographing 

the surface each time it passed over the site. The high-resolution lens would 

take a !-meter-resolution picture of a small area (4 x 16 kilometers) while at 

exactly the same time, the medium-resolution lens would take an 8-meterresolution picture of a wider area (32 x 37 kilometers). The high-resolution 

lens would photograph at such a rapid interval that the pictures would just 

barely overlap. The wide-angle pictures, taken by the medium-resolution 

lens, would have a conveniently wide overlap. All the camera exposures 

would take place in 24 hours, thus minimizing the threat to the film from a 

solar flare. The camera's capacity of roughly 200 photographic frames would 

be devoted to one location. The result would be one area shot in adjacent, 

overlapping strips. By putting the strips together, NASA had a picture of a 

central !-meter-resolution area that was surrounded by a broader 8-meterresolution area-in other words, it would be one large, rich stereoscopic 

picture of a choice lunar landing site. NASA would learn much about that 

one ideal place, and the Apollo program would be well served. 54 

The plan sounded fine to everyone-at least in the beginning. Langley's 

Request for Proposals had specified the concentrated mission, and Boeing 

had submitted the winning proposal based on that mission plan. Moreover, 

intensive, short-term photography like that called for in a concentrated 

mission was exactly what Eastman Kodak's high-resolution camera system 

had been designed for. The camera was a derivative of a spy satellite photo 

system created specifically for earth reconnaissance missions specified by the 

DOD.* 

* In the top-secret DOD system, the camera with the film inside apparently would reenter the 

atmosphere inside a heat-shielded package that parachuted down, was hooked, and was physically 

retrieved in midair (if all went as planned) by a specially equipped U.S. Air Force C-119 cargo airplane. 

It was obviously a very unsatisfactory system, but in the days before advanced electronic systems, it 

was the best high-resolution satellite reconnaissance system that modern technology could provide. Few 

NASA people were ever privy to many of the details of how the "black box" actually worked, because 

they did not have "the need to know." However, they figured that it had been designed, as one LOPO 

engineer has described in much oversimplified layman's terms, "so when a commander said, 'we've got 

the target,' bop, take your snapshots, zap, zap, zap, get it down from orbit, retrieve it and bring it 

home, rush it off to Kodak, and get your pictures." (Norman Crabill interview with author, Hampton, 

Va., 28 August 1991.) 

338 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

As LOPO's m1ss1on planners gave the plan more thought, however, 

they realized that the concentrated mission approach was flawed. Norman 

Crabill, Langley's head of mission integration for Lunar Orbiter, remembers 

the question he began to ask himself, "What happens if only one of these 

missions is going to work? This was in the era of Ranger failures and 

Surveyor slippage. When you shoot something, you had only a twenty 

percent probability that it was going to work. It was that bad." On that 

premise, NASA planned to fly five Lunar Orbiters, hoping that one would 

operate as it should. "Suppose we go up there and shoot all we [have] on one 

site, and it turns out to be no good?" fretted Crabill, and others began to 

worry as well. What if that site was not as smooth as it appeared on the U.S. 

Geological Survey maps, or a gravitational anomaly or orbital perturbation 

was present, making that particular area of the moon unsafe for a lunar 

landing? And what if that Lunar Orbiter turned out to be the only one to 

work? What then?55 

In late 1964, over the course of several weeks, LOPO became more 

convinced that it should not be putting all its eggs in one basket. "We 

developed the philosophy that we really didn't want to do the concentrated 

mission; what we really wanted to do was what we called the 'distributed 

mission,'" recalls Crabill. The advantage of the distributed mission was 

that it would enable NASA to inspect several choice targets in the Apollo 

landing zone with only one spacecraft.56 

In early 1965, Norm Crabill and Tom Young of the LOPO mission 

integration team traveled to the office of the U.S. Geological Survey in 

Flagstaff, Arizona. There, the Langley engineers consulted with U.S. 

government astrogeologists John F. McCauley, Lawrence Rowan, and Harold 

Masursky. Jack McCauley was Flagstaff's top man at the time, but he 

assigned Larry Rowan, "a young and upcoming guy, very reasonable and 

very knowledgeable," the job of heading the Flagstaff review of the Lunar 

Orbiter site selection problem. "We sat down with Rowan at a table with 

these big lunar charts," and Rowan politely reminded the Langley duo that 

"the dark areas on the moon were the smoothest." Rowan then pointed to 

the darkest places across the entire face of the moon. 57 

Rowan identified 10 good targets. When Crabill and Young made orbital 

calculations, they became excited. In a few moments, they had realized that 

they wanted to do the distributed mission. Rowan and his colleagues in 

Flagstaff also became excited about the prospects. This was undoubtedly 

the way to catch as many landing sites as possible. The entire Apollo zone of 

interest was ±45° longitude and ±5° latitude, along the equatorial region of 

the facing, or near side of the moon. Within that zone, the area that could 

be photographed via a concentrated mission was small. A single Lunar 

Orbiter that could photograph 10 sites of that size all within that region 

would be much more effective. If the data showed that a site chosen by the 

astrogeologists was not suitable, NASA would have excellent photographic 

coverage of nine other prime sites. In summary, the distributed mode would 

339 
Spaceflight Revolution 

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L-66-5819 

Lunar Orbiter's "Typical Flight Sequence of Events" turned out to be quite typical 

indeed, as all five spacecraft performed exactly as planned. 

give NASA the flexibility to ensure that Lunar Orbiter would provide the 

landing site information needed by Apollo even if only one Lunar Orbiter 

mission proved successful. 

But there was one big hitch: Eastman Kodak's photo system was not 

designed for the distributed mission. It was designed for the concentrated 

mission in which all the photography would involve just one site and be 

loaded, shot, and developed in 24 hours. If Lunar Orbiter must photograph 

10 sites, a mission would last at least two weeks. The film system was 

designed to sustain operations for only a day or two; if the mission lasted 

longer than that, the Bimat film would stick together, the exposed parts of 

it would dry out, the film would get stuck in the loops, and the photographic 

mission would be completely ruined. 

When Boeing first heard that NASA had changed its mind and now 

wanted to do the distributed mission, Helberg and his men balked. According to LOPO's Norman Crabill, Boeing's representatives said, "Look, we understand you want to do. this. But, wait. The system was designed, tested, 

used, and proven in the concentrated mission mode. You can't change it 

340 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

now because it wasn't designed to have the Bimat film in contact for long 

periods of time. In two weeks' time, some of the Bimat is just going to go, 

pfft! It's just going to fail!" Boeing understood the good sense of the distributed mission, but as the prime contractor, the company faced a classic 

technological dilemma. The customer, NASA, wanted to use the system to 

do something it was not designed to do. This could possibly cause a disastrous failure. Boeing had no recourse but to advise the customer that what 

it wanted to do could endanger the entire mission. 58 

The Langley engineers wanted to know whether Boeing could solve the 

film problem. "We don't know for sure," the Boeing staff replied, "and we 

don't have the time to find out." NASA suggested that Boeing conduct tests 

to obtain quantitative data that would define the limits of the film system. 

Boeing's response was "That's not in the contract." 59 The legal documents 

specified that the Lunar Orbiter should have the capacity to conduct the 

concentrated mission. If NASA now wanted to change the requirements for 

developing the Orbiter, then a new contract would have to be negotiated. A 

stalemate resulted on this issue and lasted until early 1965. The first launch 

was only a year away. 

If LOPO hoped to persuade Boeing to accept the idea of changing 

a basic mission requirement, it had to know the difference in reliability 

between the distributed and concentrated missions. If analysis showed that 

the distributed mission would be far less reliable, then even LOPO might 

want to reconsider and proceed with the concentrated mission. Crabill gave 

the job of obtaining this information to Tom Young, a young researcher 

from the Applied Materials and Physics Division. Crabill had specifically 

requested that Young be reassigned to LOPO mission integration because, 

in his opinion, Young was "the brightest guy [he] knew." On the day Young 

had reported to work with LOPO, Crabill had given him "a big pile of stuff to 

read," thinking he would be busy and, as Crabill puts it, "out of my hair for 

quite a while." But two days later, Young returned, having already made his 

way through all the material. When given the job of the comparative mission 

reliability analysis, Young went to Boeing in Seattle. In less than two weeks, 

he found what he needed to know and figured out the percentages: the 

reliability for the concentrated mission was an unspectacular 60 percent, 

but for the distributed mission it was only slightly worse, 58 percent. "It 

was an insignificant difference," Crabill thought when he heard Young's 

numbers, especially because nobody then really knew how to do that type 

of analysis. "We didn't gag on the fact that it was pretty low anyway, but 

we really wanted to do this distributed mission." The Langley researchers 

decided that the distributed mission was a sensible choice, if the Kodak 

system could be made to last for the extra time and if Boeing could be 

persuaded to go along with the mission change. 60 

LOPO hoped that Young's analysis would prove to Boeing that no 

essential difference in reliability existed between the two types of missions, 

but Boeing continued to insist that the concentrated mission was the legal 

341 
Spaceflight Revolution 

requirement, not the distributed mission. The dispute was a classic case 

of implementing a project before even the customer was completely sure of 

what that project should accomplish. In such a situation, the only sensible 

thing to do was to be flexible. 

The problem for Boeing, of course, was that such flexibility might cost 

the company its financial incentives. If a Lunar Orbiter mission failed, the 

company worried that it would not be paid the bonus money promised in the 

contract. Helberg and Nelson discussed this issue in private conversations. 

Floyd Thompson participated in many of these talks and even visited Seattle 

to try to facilitate an agreement. In the end, Langley convinced Helberg 

that the change from a concentrated to a distributed mission would not 

impact Boeing's incentives. If a mission failed because of the change, LOPO 

promised that it would assume the responsibility. Boeing would have done 

its best according to the government request and instructions-and for that 

they would not be penalized. 61 

The missions, however, would not fail. NASA and Boeing would handle 

the technical problems involving the camera by testing the system to 

ascertain the definite limits of its reliable operation. From Kodak, the 

government and the prime contractor obtained hard data regarding the 

length of time the film could remain set in one place before the curls 

or bends in the film around the loops became permanent and the torque 

required to advance the film exceeded the capability of the motor. From 

these tests, Boeing and LOPO established a set of mission "rules" that 

had to be followed precisely. For example, to keep the system working, 

Lunar Orbiter mission controllers at JPL had to advance the film one frame 

every eight hours. The rules even required that film sometimes be advanced 

without opening the door of the camera lens. Mission controllers called these 

nonexposure shots their "film-set frames" and the schedule of photographs 

their "film budget." 62 

As a result of the film rules, the distributed mission turned out to be a 

much busier operation than a concentrated mission would have been. Each 

time a photograph was taken, including film-set frames, the spacecraft had to 

be maneuvered. Each maneuver required a command from mission control. 

LOPO staff worried about the ability of the spacecraft to execute so many 

maneuvers over such a prolonged period. They feared something would 

go wrong during a maneuver that would cause them to lose control of the 

spacecraft. Lunar Orbiter I, however, flawlessly executed an astounding 

number of commands, and LOPO staff were able to control spacecraft 

attitude during all 374 maneuvers.63 

Ultimately, the trust between Langley and Boeing allowed each to take 

the risk of changing to a distributed mission. Boeing trusted Langley to 

assume responsibility if the mission failed, and Langley trusted Boeing to 

put its best effort into making the revised plan a success. Had either not 

fulfilled its promise to the other, Lunar Orbiter would not have achieved its 

outstanding record. 

342 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

P36982 

Simple as this diagram of Lunar Orbiter 

(left) may look, no spacecraft in NASA history operated more successfully than Lunar 

Orbiter. Below, Lunar Orbiter I goes 

through a final inspection in the NASA 

Hanger S clean room at Kennedy Space 

Center prior to launch on 10 August 1966. 

The spacecraft was mounted on a three-axis 

test stand with its solar panels deployed 

and high-gain dish antenna extended from 

the side. 

L-66-6387 

343 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Lunar Orbiter I lifts off from Cape 

Kennedy on 10 August 1966. With a 

payload weighing only 860 pounds, the 

spacecraft was light enough to fly on 

an Atlas-Agena instead of the more 

expensive Atlas-Centaur. 

"The Picture of the Century" 

The switch to the distributed mission was not the only instance during 

the Lunar Orbiter mission when contract specifications were jettisoned to 

pursue a promising idea. Boeing engineers realized that the Lunar Orbiter 

project presented a unique opportunity for photographing the earth. When 

the LOPO staff heard this idea, they were all for it, but Helberg and 

Boeing management rejected the plan. Turning the spacecraft around so 

that its camera could catch a quick view of the earth tangential to the 

moon's surface entailed technical difficulties, including the danger that, 

once the spacecraft's orientation was changed, mission controllers could 

lose command of the spacecraft. Despite the risk, NASA urged Boeing to 

incorporate the maneuver in the mission plan for Lunar Orbiter I. Helberg 

refused. 64 

In some projects, that might have been the end of the matter. Peo-. 

ple would have been forced to forget the idea and to live within the circumscribed world of what had been legally agreed upon. Langley, however, was not about to give up on this exciting opportunity. Cliff Nelson, 

344 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

L-66-7999 

With "the picture of the century" proudly displayed before them, key members of 

the LOPO team report the success of Lunar Orbiter I at a press conference in 

August 1966. Left to right are Oran W. Nicks, director of Lunar and Planetary 

Programs at NASA headquarters; Floyd Thompson; Cliff Nelson; and Isadore 

G. Recant, the Langley scientist in charge of data handling for the spacecraft. At 

the podium is the U.S. Geological Survey's Dr. Larry Rowan, the young geologist 

who helped LOPO identify the most promising landing sites. 

Floyd Thompson, and Lee Scherer went to mission control at JPL to talk 

to Helberg and at last convinced him that he was being too cautious-that 

"the picture was worth the risk." If any mishap occurred with the spacecraft during the maneuver, NASA again promised that Boeing would still 

receive compensation and part of its incentive for taking the risk. The enthusiasm of his own staff for the undertaking also influenced Helberg in his 

final decision to take the picture. 65 

On 23 August 1966 just as Lunar Orbiter I was about to pass behind the 

moon, mission controllers executed the necessary maneuvers to point the 

camera away from the lunar surface and toward the earth. The result was 

the world's first view of the earth from space. It was called "the picture of the 

century" and "the greatest shot taken since the invention of photography."* 

* The unprecedented photo also provided the first oblique perspectives of the lunar surface. All 

other photographs taken .during the first mission were shot from a position perpendicular to the surface 

and thus, did not depict the moon in three dimensions. In subsequent missions, NASA made sure to 

include this sort of oblique photography. Following the first mission, Boeing prepared a booklet entitled 

Lunar Orbiter !-Photography (NASA Langley, 1968), which gave a detailed technical description of the 

earth-moon photographs; see especially pp. 64-71. 

345 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Not even the color photos of the earth taken during the Apollo missions 

superseded the impact of this first image of our planet as a little island of 

life floating in the black and infinite sea of space.66 

Mission More Than Accomplished 

Lunar Orbiter defied all the probability studies. All five missions worked 

extraordinarily well, and with the minor exception of a short delay in the 

launch of Lunar Orbiter J-the Eastman Kodak camera was not readyall the missions were on schedule. The launches were three months apart 

with the first taking place in August 1966 and the last in August 1967. 

This virtually perfect flight record was a remarkable achievement, especially 

considering that Langley had never before managed any sort of flight 

program into deep space. 

Lunar Orbiter accomplished what it was designed to do, and more. Its 

camera took 1654 photographs. More than half of these (840) were of the 

proposed Apollo landing sites. Lunar Orbiters I, II, and III took these site 

pictures from low-flight altitudes, thereby providing detailed coverage of 

22 select areas along the equatorial region of the near side of the moon. One 

of the eight sites scrutinized by Lunar Orbiters II and III was a very smooth 

area in the Sea of Tranquility. A few years later, in July 1969, Apollo 11 

commander Neil Armstrong would navigate the lunar module Eagle to a 

landing on this site. 67 

By the end of the third Lunar Orbiter mission, all the photographs needed 

to cover the Apollo landing sites had been taken. NASA was then free to 

redesign the last two missions, move away from the pressing engineering 

objective imposed by Apollo, and go on to explore other regions of the 

moon for the benefit of science. Eight hundred and eight of the remaining 

814 pictures returned by Lunar Orbiters IV and V focused on the rest of the 

near side, the polar regions, and the mysterious far side of the moon. These 

were not the first photographs of the "dark side"; a Soviet space probe, 

Zond III, had taken pictures of it during a fly-by into a solar orbit a year 

earlier, in July 1965. But the Lunar Orbiter photos were higher quality 

than the Russian pictures and illuminated some lunarscapes that had never 

before been seen by the human eye. The six remaining photos were of the 

spectacular look back at the distant earth. By the time all the photos were 

taken, about 99 percent of the moon's surface had been covered. 

When each Lunar Orbiter completed its photographic mission, the 

spacecraft continued its flight to gather clues to the nature of the lunar 

gravitational environment. NASA found these clues valuable in the planning 

of the Apollo flights. Telemetry data clearly indicated that the moon's 

gravitational pull was not uniform. The slight dips in the path of the Lunar 

Orbiters as they passed·over certain areas of the moon's surface were caused 

by gravitational perturbations, which in turn were caused by the mascons. 

346 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

L-67-6702 

Lunar Orbiter V provided the first wide-angle view of the moon's mysterious "dark 

side." 

347 
Spaceflight Revolution 

One of the most spectacular mosaics produced by Lunar Orbiter II was this close-up 

of the enormous cmter Copernicus with its 300-meter-high {984.3 feet) mountains 

rising from the cmter floor. On the horizon are the Carpathian mountains with the 

920-meter-high {3018.4 feet) Guy-Lussac Promontory. 

The extended missions of the Lunar Orbiters also helped to confirm that 

radiation levels near the moon were quite low and posed no danger to 

astronauts unless a major solar flare occurred while they were exposed on 

the lunar surface. A few months after each Lunar Orbiter mission, NASA 

deliberately crashed the spacecraft into the lunar surface to study lunar 

impacts and their seismic consequences. Destroying the spacecraft before it 

deteriorated and mission controllers had lost command of it ensured that it 

would not wander into the path of some future mission. 68 

Whether the Apollo landings could have been made successfully without 

the photographs from Lunar Orbiter is .a difficult question to answer. 

Without the photos, the manned landings could certainly still have been 

attempted. In addition to the photographic maps drawn from telescopic 

observation, engineers could use some good pictures taken from Ranger and 

Surveyor to guide them. However, the detailed photographic coverage of 

22 possible landing site:;; definitely made NASA's final selection of ideal sites 

much easier and the pinpointing of landing spots possible. 

348 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

In August 1967, Lunar Orbiter V photographed the 90-kilometer-wide {55.9 miles) 

Tycho crater, one of the brightest craters seen from earth. A young impact crater, 

Tycho reveals its central peak, rough floor, and precipitous walls. 

Furthermore, Lunar Orbiter also contributed important photometric 

information that proved vital to the Apollo program. Photometry involves 

the science of measuring the intensity of light. Lunar Orbiter planners had 

to decide where to position the camera to have the best light for taking 

the high-resolution photographs. When we take pictures on earth, we 

normally want to have the sun behind us so it is shining directly on the 

target. But a photo taken of the lunar surface in these same circumstances 

produces a peculiar photometric function: the moon looks flat. Even 

minor topographical features are indistinguishable because of the intensity 

of the reflecting sunlight from the micrometeorite-filled lunar surface. The 

engineers in LOPO had to determine the best position for photographing 

the moon. After studying the problem (Taback, Crabill, and Young led the 

attack on this problem), LOPO's answer was that the sun should indeed be 

behind the spacecraft, but photographs should be taken when the sun was 

only 15 degrees above the horizon. 69 

Long before it was time for the first Apollo launch, LOPO's handling of 

the lunar photometric function was common knowledge throughout NASA 

349 
Spaceflight Revolution 

and the aerospace industry. The BellComm scientists and engineers who 

reviewed Apollo planning quickly realized that astronauts approaching the 

moon to make a landing needed, like Lunar Orbiter, to be in the best 

position for viewing the moon's topography. Although a computer program 

would pinpoint the Apollo landing site, the computer's choice might not be 

suitable. If that was the case, astronauts would have to rely on their own 

eyes to choose a spot. If the sun was in the wrong position, they would not 

make out craters and boulders, the surface would appear deceptively flat, 

and the choice might be disastrous. Apollo 11 commander Neil Armstrong 

did not like the spot picked by the computer for the Eagle landing. Because 

NASA had planned for him to be in the best viewing position relative to the 

sun, Armstrong could see that the place was "littered with boulders the size 

of Volkswagons." So he flew on. He had to go another 1500 meters before 

he saw a spot where he could set the lunar module down safely. 70 

NASA might have considered the special photometric functions involved 

in viewing the moon during Apollo missions without Lunar Orbiter, but 

the experience of the Lunar Orbiter missions took the guesswork out of the 

calculations. NASA knew that its astronauts would be able to see what they 

needed to see to avoid surface hazards. This is a little-known but important 

contribution from Lunar Orbiter. 

Secrets of Success 

In the early 1970s Erasmus H. Kloman, a senior research associate with 

the National Academy of Public Administration, completed an extensive 

comparative investigation of NASA's handling of its Surveyor and Lunar 

Orbiter projects. After a lengthy review, NASA published a shortened 

and distilled version of Kloman's larger study as Unmanned Space Project 

Management: Surveyor and Lunar Orbiter. The result-even in the 

expurgated version, with all names of responsible individuals left out-was 

a penetrating study in "sharp contrasts" that should be required reading for 

every project manager in business, industry, or government. 

Based on his analysis of Surveyor and Lunar Orbiter, Kloman concluded 

that project management has no secrets of success. The key elements are 

enthusiasm for the project, a clear understanding of the project's objective, 

and supportive and flexible interpersonal and interoffice relationships. The 

history of Surveyor and Lunar Orbiter, Kloman wrote, "serves primarily 

as a confirmation of old truths about the so-called basic principles of 

management rather than a revelation of new ones." Kloman writes that 

Langley achieved Lunar Orbiter's objectives by "playing it by the book." 

By this, Kloman meant that Langley applied those simple precepts of 

good management; he did not mean that success was achieved through 

a thoughtless and strict formula for success. Kloman understood that 

Langley's project engineers broke many rules and often improvised as 

they went along. Enthusiasm, understanding, support, and flexibility 

350 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

allowed project staff to adapt the mission to new information, ideas, or 

circumstances. "Whereas the Surveyor lessons include many illustrations of 

how 'not to' set out on a project or how to correct for early misdirections," 

Kloman argued, "Lunar Orbiter shows how good sound precepts and 

directions from the beginning can keep a project on track." 71 

Lunar Orbiter, however, owes much of its success to Surveyor. LOPO 

staff were able to learn from the mistakes made in the Surveyor project. 

NASA headquarters was responsible for some of these mistakes. The 

complexity of Surveyor was underestimated, unrealistic manpower and 

financial ceilings were imposed, an "unreasonably open-ended combination 

of scientific experiments for the payload" was insisted upon for too long, 

too many changes in the scope and objectives of the project were made, 

and the project was tied to the unreliable Centaur launch vehicle.72 NASA 

headquarters corrected these mistakes. In addition, Langley representatives 

learned from JPL's mistakes and problems. They talked at great length 

to JPL staff in Pasadena about Surveyor both before and after accepting 

the responsibility for Lunar Orbiter. From these conversations, Langley 

acquired a great deal of knowledge about the design and management of an 

unmanned space mission. JPL scientists and engineers even conducted an 

informal "space school" that helped to educate several members of LOPO 

and Boeing's team about key details of space mission design and operations. 

The interpersonal skills of the individuals responsible for Lunar Orbiter, 

however, appear to have been the essential key to success. These skills centered more on the ability to work with other people than they did on what 

one might presume to be the more critical and esoteric managerial, conceptual, and technical abilities. In Kloman's words, "individual personal qualities and management capabilities can at times be a determining influence 

in overall project performance." 73 Compatibility among individual managers, Nelson and Helberg, and the ability of those managers to stimulate 

good working relationships between people proved a winning combination 

for Lunar Orbiter. 

Norman Crabill made these comments about Lunar Orbiter's management: "We had some people who weren't afraid to use their own judgment 

instead of relying on rules. These people could think and find the essence 

of a problem, either by discovering the solution themselves or energizing 

the troops to come up with an alternative which would work. They were 

absolute naturals at that job."74 

Lunar Orbiter was a pathfinder for Apollo, and it was an outstanding 

contribution by Langley Research Center to the early space program. The 

old NACA aeronautics laboratory proved not only that it could handle a 

major deep space mission, but also that it could achieve an extraordinary 

record of success that matched or surpassed anything yet tried by NASA. 

When the project ended and LOPO members went back into functional 

research divisions, Langley possessed a pool of experienced individuals who 

were ready, if the time came, to plan and manage yet another major 

351 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-67-6777 

Although most people have come to associate the first picture of the "Whole Earth" 

with the Apollo program, Lunar Orbiter V actually captured this awesome view of 

the home planet. When this picture was taken on 8 August 1967, the spacecraft was 

about 5860 kilometers {3641.2 miles) above the moon in near polar orbit, so that the 

lunar surface is not seen .. Clearly visible on the left side of the globe is the eastern 

half of Africa and the entire Arabian peninsula. 

352 
To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

project. That opportunity came quickly in the late 1960s with the inception 

of Viking, a much more complicated and challenging project designed to 

send unmanned reconnaissance orbiters and landing probes to Mars. When 

Viking was approved, NASA headquarters assigned the project to "those 

plumbers" at Langley. The old LOPO team formed the nucleus of Langley's 

much larger Viking Project Office. With this team, Langley would once 

again manage a project that would be virtually an unqualified success. 

353 

11 

In the Service of Apollo 

We were working beyond the state of the art. Nobody 

had done things like this before. 

-E. Barton Geer, associate chief 

of Langley's Flight Vehicle and 

Systems Division during the 

Apollo era and member of the 

Apollo 204 Review Board 

And just as we got to the transonic field, then all of 

a sudden we opened up with the supersonic field and 

find out we're flying-militarily anyway-we're flying 

at speeds of [Mach] 2 and 3. And you just get that 

pretty well understood and, Holy Smoke, here we are 

going to the Moon and things like that. 

-Floyd L. Thompson, Langley director 

and chairman of the Apollo 204 

Review Board 

The crowning moment, as well as the denouement, of the spaceflight 

revolution came at 4:18p.m. on Sunday, 20 July 1969, when American astronauts Neil A. Armstrong and Edwin E. "Buzz" Aldrin, Jr., made the 

first manned lunar landing. The realization of this spectacular moment 

required the most sudden burst of technological creativity and the largest 

commitment of resources ever made by any nation in peacetime: an estimated $24 billion. At its peak the Apollo program employed approximately 

400,000 Americans and enlisted the support of over 20,000 industrial firms 

and universities. As President Kennedy had said in his May 1961 speech, 

"It will not be one man going to the moon-it will be an entire nation. For 

all of us must work to put him there." 1 

355 

PAGE-::3.5{ INTENTIONAL~ y BLAJ 
Spaceflight Revolution 

"All of us" also meant all the NASA facilities, including the research 

centers. To be sure, Langley did not serve as the heart of the Apollo 

program, as it temporarily had for the man-in-space effort before the STG 

left for Texas. Apollo would not be managed by any of the field centers 

but by a well-staffed central program office within the Office of Manned 

Space Flight at NASA headquarters. Of course, the spaceflight centers (the 

Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston and the Marshall Space Flight Center 

in Huntsville) were deeply involved. A large, well-funded Apollo program 

office at Houston was responsible for the budget, schedule, technical design, 

and production of the three-module Apollo spacecraft; moreover, Houston 

was the home of Mission Control, the nerve center of NASA's manned flight 

operations and the place where all the news reporters went after the launch 

at Cape Kennedy. At Marshall the von Braun team handled the awesome 

task of developing the giant Saturn rocket. 2 These were the two NASA 

centers where the staff "lived and breathed" Apollo. But neither Langley 

nor any of the other NASA facilities were left out. Nor could they be. There 

was too much work to do, too much to learn, and too little time. All NASA 

centers eventually became heavily involved in the program, and with the 

exception of Houston and Huntsville, none was more involved than Langley. 

Yet, when it came to the Apollo flights themselves and their worldwide 

publicity, Langley and the other centers were not part of the big show. By 

the time the Apollo spacecraft sat atop the huge Saturn Vat Launch Complex 39A at Kennedy Space Center in July 1969, Langley's contributions to 

the Apollo program had already been made and mostly forgotten. That, 

after all, was the purpose and the predicament of a research center: to lay 

the groundwork for the technological achievements that others would pursue 

and for which others would receive the credit. Of course, John Houbolt's 

concept of LOR would not be forgotten in the dramatic days of Apollo 11, 

nor would the flights of the Lunar Orbiter spacecraft. But many other elemental tasks that Langley had done in the service of Apollo would not 

be remembered: the basic rendezvous and docking studies, the wind-tunnel 

investigations of the aerodynamic integrity of the Saturn-Apollo launch combination, the work on reentry heating and its potentially fatal effects on the 

returning Apollo spacecraft, and the simulation training that helped prepare 

the astronauts not only for the rendezvous and docking in space but alsq 

for the actual landing of a manned spacecraft and for astronaut locomotion 

activities on the moon. From launch to splashdown, there was no aspect 

of the Apollo mission that scientists, engineers, and technicians at Langley 

had not helped to develop in one way or another. All this work, however, 

had been done long before the two Apollo astronauts skillfully maneuvered 

their lunar module Eagle down to the Sea of Tranquility on that historic 

day in July 1969. All that Langley employees could do on that hot Sunday 

afternoon in July was sit in front of televisions in their own living rooms, 

sip cool glasses of lemonade, and applaud with the rest of the country what 

everyone together had accomplished. 

356 
In the Service of Apollo 

Langley's "Undercover Operation" in Houston 

Langley was in a novel situation during the heyday of Apollo. It was 

the original (and for over 20 years only) NACA center, not to mention the 

"mother" of many of the other centers (including the Manned Spacecraft 

Center in Houston), but during the Apollo period, it was relegated to 

the periphery of NASA's most urgent task. Langley management was not 

accustomed to being in a marginal position and did not especially like being 

there. 

Members of the local Hampton elite did not like it either. For them and 

other groups of Langley supporters, the unfortunate situation was the work 

of conniving politicians who had stolen their precious STG for Texas. The 

bitterness over this did not fade quickly. On occasion, concern for Langley's 

displacement led those who knew better to make imprudent remarks. For 

example, in December 1961 during James Webb's first visit to Langley after 

becoming NASA administrator, Floyd Thompson, as savvy a person as ever 

sat in the Langley director's chair, mentioned to Webb that the area's city 

fathers were wondering exactly what they might expect in terms of new 

jobs and government contracts as a result of the lunar landing program. 

Webb responded sharply with a statement that echoed the already famous 

line from President Kennedy's inaugural address: "The city fathers should 

be asking not what Apollo can do for them, but what they can do for 

Apollo." 3 Thompson never forgot the sting of this retort and resolved 

never to give Webb or anyone else reason to question the effort that his 

own research center was putting into the nation's lunar landing program. 

At a meeting of NASA center directors and program office directors held 

in the so-called control room on the top floor of the NASA headquarters 

building in early 1962, the question of Langley's contribution to Apollo did 

come up. For Jim Webb, Apollo was everything, and he wanted assurances 

from the center directors that they were doing all they could to support the 

program. Characteristically, Thompson bided his time, waiting while his 

counterparts at the other NASA centers answered. Then in his deliberate 

and rather high-pitched midwestern voice, he reported with confidence, 

"Well, we have a senior man in Houston who keeps track of all that we're 

doing for it, and is on the spot ready to contact us whenever anyone down 

there wants us to do anything more." 4 Such a remark was typical "Tommy" 

Thompson, and Webb let it pass. He had no idea that such a thing was going 

on down in Houston or that the Houston organization would even allow it, 

but he took Thompson at his word. 

The Langley center director did have a "senior man" on duty in Houston 

and only in part so that he could give such smart answers to "Big Jim" Webb. 

In April 1962, which was a few months before the STG had completed its 

move to the Southwest, Thompson had dispatched Langley veteran Axel 

T. Mattson to Houston to serve as research assistant for Manned Spacecraft 

Projects. The experienced a.Ssistant chief of the Full-Scale Research Division, 

357 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Under the wily direction of Floyd 

Thompson {left), Langley did everything it could to support Project 

Apollo and satisfy Administrator 

Jim Webb {right). 

L-61-8539 

Mattson was to report his findings to Langley Associate Director Charles 

Donlan, Thompson's right-hand man. 5 

This was an interesting and unusual development; no other NASA center 

had such an arrangement, and certainly no other center but Langley could 

have gotten away with it. Langley had an official explanation of the 

purpose of this liaison: "to create a mechanism for the timely exchange 

of information on manned space programs and projects of mutual interest 

to the Langley Center and the Manned Spacecraft Center and to provide a 

means for quickly initiating action at Langley as may be required in support 

of manned spacecraft projects." 6 In truth, Mattson was acting as a sort of 

spy-a Langley agent. 

"I was running an undercover operation, really, in the technical sense," 

Mattson remembers, his eyes glimmering. "Here we were a research outfit 

trying to get involved more directly not only with the Apollo work but with 

the big Apollo money. It had to do with the way the funding was set up; this 

was the big controlling factor. For everything Langley was doing in support 

of the Office of Manned Space Flight and Apollo, it was my assignment 

to try to get a transfer of funds from Houston, which was getting a lot of 

money, to Langley, which wasn't." The scheme seems a bit dishonest, but 

Mattson liked even that ·aspect of his work. "I was bootlegging material. 

358 
In the Service of Apollo 

I was transferring certain material [from Houston to Langley) without any 

official authorization." At Langley, Donlan made it clear to Mattson that 

he should not initiate any work on Apollo for which Langley would have to 

go running to NASA headquarters for approval and funding. Donlan had 

told him, "Get it from Houston." That was the real reason Langley had 

quietly sent Axel Mattson to Houston in April 1962.7 

At the same time that Americans were becoming enamored with the 

much exaggerated romance of spies through the first James Bond movies, 

the free-spirited Mattson fell in love with the intrigues of his espionage 

work. What made it "so beautiful" for him was the freewheeling nature of 

the assignment-the freedom to innovate and take some chances. "I didn't 

fool with protocol or with the big shots. I dealt almost exclusively with the 

troops in the field who would be honest and open with me." During the 

working day, he walked from office to office, starting conversations, finding 

out what was going on, what the problems were, and what Langley might be 

able to do about them. In the evening, he socialized at the many Houston 

area cocktail and dinner parties, where he made the important personal 

contacts that led to office meetings the next day. Besides enjoying convivial 

relations with his Houston buddies, many of whom he had known at Langley, 

Mattson also developed close professional and social relationships with many 

of the NASA contractor representatives. These relationships allowed him to 

tap a gushing pipeline of Apollo-related technical data.8 

Through this technological espionage, Mattson was able to obtain valuable information for Langley. Whenever an important new technical matter was being discussed by Houston engineers and industry representatives, 

Mattson would say, "Gee, I'm awfully interested in that," and those involved 

would give him all the information they had. "You wouldn't believe it. I 

went over to their offices the next day and they just gave it to me," all 

the data, all the technical reports. Conversely, "when they wanted some 

information, they called me and I'd get it. It would come in my suitcase 

[from Langley) and I'd go peddle it out." Much of it was raw data, "no formality, nothing to it," a transfer of basic and sometimes even unprocessed 

information that went unrecorded and was never revealed in any formal documentation. Mattson tried to feel out "when a guy was just having troubles 

even with calculations. He would be grunting them out and not too sure 

of the inputs, and I'd bring them back to Langley and have the guys look 

at it and say, 'How about critiquing it and see if you can change numbers 

by using the latest test information' and things like that." It was basically 

"a back-scratching operation." Mattson sometimes went even farther. He 

admits now that he occasionally would "take a man's calculations right off 

his desk, make a carbon copy," without the man's knowledge, and put it in 

his suitcase or in the mail for Langley. 9 

"Let me tell you, my suitcase was full whenever I came back to Langley," 

not only with papers but also with the slides and films that were being 

produced at Houston by the.carton. Such goodies made Mattson something 

359 
Spaceflight Revolution 

of a star attraction at Langley department meetings and senior staff gettogethers where he provided some special entertainment. At some point 

in such proceedings, Mattson remembers, Floyd Thompson would typically 

pause and joke, "'Well, I guess we might just as well see if Mattson's got 

another film to show us.' And sure enough, I had another film to show them, 

or slides, or something." 10 This was the way Langley kept up with what 

was going on in Houston and minimized the loss of its STG to Texas. 

The other NASA centers, with no direct ties to the STG, could not have 

placed a man inside the Manned Spacecraft Center; Bob Gilruth and his 

men would not have tole:rated such interlopers. Other centers were left out 

in the cold. Sometimes those who knew about Langley's operation tried to 

tap Mattson for information. "Once in a while," Mattson remembers, "I 

would get a call from a guy at Lewis or Ames about something he wanted 

that was available down in Houston." For such casual requests, especially if 

he knew the guy, Mattson usually did his best, but he always kept Langley's 

interests foremost in his mind. 11 

It is rather amazing that the fledgling Houston organization put up with 

Mattson for as long as it did, which was to the time of the first Apollo flights 

in 1968. Certainly this would not have been possible without the good graces 

of Gilruth, who was Floyd Thompson's good friend. Not everyone at the 

Manned Spacecraft Center wanted Mattson nosing around. In one meeting 

not long after the opening of the Houston center, Gilruth was surprised to 

encounter Mattson and wanted to know what Mattson was doing there. Max 

Faget answered, "He's doing nothing as far as I know." In Mattson's opinion, 

Faget did not know. Mattson had stayed as far away from Faget as possible, 

knowing that the former member of PARD and the STG did not like him 

or the idea of his walking the halls of the new Houston space center. To 

the extent that he reported to anyone at Houston, Mattson dealt exclusively 

with Paul Purser, Gilruth's deputy director, a longtime friend and Langley 

veteran. Purser knew what Mattson was up to, generally speaking, but for 

a short period of time at the beginning had failed to tell his boss anything 

about it.12 

Immediately after that first encounter with Mattson, Gilruth called both 

Purser and Mattson "on the carpet" and demanded the details of the latter's 

assignment. Mattson explained his operation and what Thompson and 

Donlan wanted out of it, and Gilruth grudgingly gave his okay. Whether 

Gilruth ever brought up the matter of Mattson's presence in Houston with 

his former Langley compatriots, Thompson and Donlan, is unknown, but he 

probably did. Whatever the details of that conversation were, the outcome 

was that Mattson stayed at Houston off and on for the next several yearsdespite Max Faget's objections. In key respects, the assignment was a 

thankless job, not only professionally but also personally; b~ Mattson's 

own admission, it forced him to neglect his family in Virginia. 3 But such 

sacrifices were consistent with the demands of the spaceflight revolution, 

360 
In the Service of Apollo 

L-67-1562 

Axel Mattson (far left) flashes the winning smile that made it possible for him, an 

outsider, to walk the halls of the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston for months at 

a time. Robert R. Gilruth {center), the Houston center director grudgingly indulged 

Mattson's presence. {This photo was actually taken at Langley in 1967 at the foot 

of the Lunar Landing Research Facility.) To the right of Gilruth is Charles Donlan, 

Langley's deputy director; to his right is Donald Hewes, the Langley engineer in 

charge of the Lunar Landing Research Facility. The identity of the man in the 

NASA overalls is unknown. 

and he could always take comfort in the romantic notion that he was an 

agent in Langley's secret service for Apollo. 

The Dynamics of Having an Impact 

Only in one or two isolated instances did Mattson's presence in Houston 

contribute in any dramatic way to Apollo's ultimate success. As discussed 

in chapter eight, in early 1962, not long after starting his assignment in 

Houston, Mattson helped win support for John Houbolt's LOR concept in 

the face of some stubborn opposition at the Texas center. Mattson took 

Houbolt to every person Mattson thought might be willing to listen, and 

at the end of the day, at least in Mattson's opinion, the majority of the 

361 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Houston center engineers supported the LOR concept as the best mission 

mode for Apollo. A few months later, thanks to some rather keen technical 

insight regarding the kind of test data NASA might need to assure the 

design integrity of the returning Apollo command module, Mattson made a 

less significant but still notable contribution-one that does not appear in 

the formal NASA record. 

The story of that contribution begins three months after Mattson's 

arrival in Houston-that was when Mattson first got wind of an important 

full-scale test being planned to measure the impact dynamics of the Apollo 

command module. The North American Aviation Corporation, which in 

November 1961 had won the contract to design and build the command and 

service modules of the Apollo spacecraft, had built a swimming-pool-like 

facility with a big gantry next to it at the site of its Space Information 

Systems Division in Downey, California; the purpose of this facility was to 

acquire data on the pressure and acceleration loads placed on the command 

module upon impact with the ocean. In late 1962 and early 1963, North 

American and NASA engineers had already put the command module 

through preliminary impact tests at the facility and were planning for a 

final verification test involving the highest and most severe impact drop 

angle and an Apollo capsule configuration systematically equipped with 

pressure transducers to measure the impact loads. Inside the capsule the 

engineers were even installing instrumented mannequins, as in automobile 

crash tests, to see how astronauts would come through the jolting splash 

into the water. 14 

Mattson became interested in the details of this important test. He 

made contacts with some of the informed NASA researchers and contractor 

representatives and started reading up on it. From his knowledge of similar 

capsule-drop tests carried out in the Back River at Langley on the Mercury 

capsule, he understood that such a test would prove troublesome. First, a 

flexible bottom surface on a space capsule, such as the heat-shield system 

designed for the underneath side of the Apollo command module, would 

cave in or "oilcan" upon any hard impact. Second, when transducers were 

put on a boilerplate capsule for the purpose of measuring the loads of 

the impact pressure, the Langley engineers had found that the pressure 

would just "wash out" or dissipate, thus making it impossible for them to 

obtain the needed data. "There would be so much resonance and what-not 

in the structure," Mattson explains, "that the damn pressure transducers 

wouldn't give you that instantaneous spike [i.e., the unusually high and 

sharply defined maximum or pointed element in the graph]. And that was 

what busted things up [when one dropped a space capsule from a great 

height into the water]. It wasn't all that other trash. It was that instant 

spike." In the Mercury program the only way that the Langley engineers 

could get that spike in the recorded data was to work not with boilerplates 

but with solid models. This solution had worked perfectly.15 

362 
In the Service of Apollo 

Immediately upon hearing about the proposed Apollo tests, Mattson 

called Sandy M. Stubbs, a bright young engineer in the Impacting Structures Section of Langley's Structures Research Division. Stubbs was then 

conducting a test program on the water landing characteristics of various 

spacecraft models. Mattson asked Stubbs if he was getting any data on a 

solid model that duplicated the Apollo command module. Stubbs answered 

that he had no such data; he was not using the Apollo configuration because 

North American's capsule design was already fixed and was not going to be 

changed. That was not the answer Mattson wanted to hear, so he tried 

coaxing Stubbs into adding an Apollo model to his test. Stubbs replied that 

he was "running a little short" on funds and was in charge of a "low-key 

kind of operation." He would like to do it, of course, as he was trying to do 

a systematic study and was planning to write a formal technical report. If 

Mattson could obtain the funding, Stubbs told Langley's agent in Houston, 

then he would be glad to go ahead with the test. 16 

Mattson made an appointment with the Manned Spacecraft Center's 

Joseph N. Kotanchik, NASA's main technical monitor for spacecraft structures work on the North American contract. Kotanchik, like many of the 

other Houston officials, was a Langley old-timer; he had been a key member 

of the design team that had built Langley's Structures Research Laboratory 

in 1939-1940. Unfortunately, he and Mattson did not get along well. Perhaps it was because Kotanchik was quite formal, a northerner, and an MIT 

graduate, whereas Mattson was usually informal, a loquacious southerner 

by disposition if not by birth (he was born in New Jersey), who was educated at North Carolina State University in Raleigh. Perhaps the friction 

also stemmed from the professional difficulties Kotanchik had experienced 

while at Langley. If Mattson had not had previous dealings with Kotanchik, 

he would not have even bothered to make an appointment. Mattson usually just walked into someone's office, gave a warm greeting, sat down, and 

started talking. No one just walked in on Kotanchik except his bosses. 

Kotanchik did not want to be bothered with Mattson and told him to be 

quick. Mattson promptly asked for a transfer of $40,000 to cover the costs of 

Sandy Stubbs's impact loads test on a solid model of the Apollo command 

module at Langley. Kotanchik flatly refused, and essentially told Mattson to 

get out of his office. According to Mattson, Kotanchik said, "Don't you know 

that we're going to have a full-scale test that we've spent a million dollars on? 

Don't you know that it will get us all the information we need?" Mattson 

tried to explain about Langley's experience with the problem of flexible 

bottom structures oilcanning and the resonance of impacting boilerplate 

capsules, about the character of the data spike, and about the need for 

solid-model testing, but Kotanchik would not listen. "Well, I got kind of 

hot about that," Mattson remembers. "But the business I was in, you 

couldn't stay hot too long. You just momentarily got shook up, but then 

forgot about it real quick. But I put it on the back burner and I made 

my contacts with North American." In addition, he told Charles Donlan 

363 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-61-8040 

One of Langley's notable behind-the-scenes contributions to the success of Project 

Apollo was its testing to assure the landing integrity of the returning command 

module whether the capsule splashed down into water {top) or maneuvered to a soft 

landing on earth {below). 

364 
In the Service of Apollo 

about Kotanchik's refusal. Donlan, understanding the good sense of what 

Mattson was trying to do, told him to tell Sandy Stubbs to go ahead and 

include a solid model of the Apollo command module in his tests, because 

Stubbs wanted to do the systematic testing anyway. Langley management 

would just have to find another way to pay for it.17 

By the day of the big drop test in California in late September 1964, 

Mattson had developed such good rapport with one of the North American 

representatives that Mattson's office had been hooked up by telephone to 

the North American office in Houston, which was linked to the test site in 

California, so he could hear a blow-by-blow, "real-time" narration of the 

entire command module drop test. The test did not go well. As Mattson 

remembers, the gist of the telephone narration originating in Downey was 

as follows: "All right, the capsule drops. It lands in the water. My God, 

it's sinking. It has gone in and split wide open. All the mannequins are 

drowning. The whole spacecraft is in ruins." At that moment, it was clear 

to everyone that a minor catastrophe was at hand; at that moment, also, 

Mattson's telephone hookup was cut of£. 18 

Mattson knew he had "a hot one." Raw technical data existed at Langley, 

or soon would, that might be the key to solving the problem; but what 

exactly was he to do with this knowledge, and when? He decided it was 

best to bide his time and see what developed, because before long something 

would surely "hit the fan." In a few days, NASA and North American put 

together an Impact Test Program Review to look into the splashdown of 

the wrecked command module. "You wouldn't believe the collection of 

structural experts and spacecraft experts that all convened at Houston." 

Into these meetings sneaked Axel Mattson. He sat in the back trying to be 

inconspicuous but listening carefully to all that was said. By the third day 

of these meetings, chaired by Kotanchik, the engineers involved had come 

up with a plan of attack for solving the Apollo spacecraft's splashdown 

structures problem; the plan was basically to retest after strengthening the 

overall structure of the command module with special attention to increasing 

the thickness and stiffness of the heat-shield structure. The only way to 

strengthen the structure was to add material and move toward a solid-model 

capsule test program similar to the one that had been conducted at Langley 

for Mercury. At this point, very late in the course of the meetings, Mattson 

began to "lick his chops," because the questions then became: "Who has got 

the impact loads? Who knows what they are?" These data were apparently 

not available, but Mattson-and Mattson alone--knew how to get them. 19 

Joe Kotanchik knew Mattson knew. From his seat in the front of the 

auditorium, the chairman of the meeting nervously looked around the room 

until he spotted the one man in the back with a wry smile on his face; then, 

Kotanchik called for a coffee break. He immediately got up and pointed his 

finger at Mattson and motioned the Langley interloper to follow him into 

his office. Inside he asked Mattson if he had heard what it was that was 

needed to move on with the !'!pacecraft verification program. Mattson, with 

365 
Spaceflight Revolution 

more than a little personal satisfaction, answered that he had indeed heard 

and that it was "exactly what I was talking about in here when I came in 

two months ago, Joe. I was trying to get that damn spike. They don't know 

what that spike is. They don't know the magnitude of the impact loads 

that busts things up." Kotanchik, however, close to panic, was in no mood 

for such a speech and told Mattson to shut up. Mattson did, his victory 

sweet enough without rubbing it in. He told Kotanchik that he would have 

Sandy Stubbs on an airplane and in Houston by tomorrow morning-which 

he did. "And that's how NASA got the information it needed." Stubbs 

did a terrific job presenting his research findings to Kotanchik's assembled 

experts: he discussed the pertinent parameters of his 1/4-scale model of the 

Apollo command module, presented the acceleration and pressure data for 

the capsule's landings on water, and explained a slide with a cross section 

of the solid model showing its construction details. In the ensuing years, 

Stubbs went on to make a major contribution to understanding the impact 

dynamics that would affect the Apollo command module upon splashdown. 20 

Mattson never wrote a report on the affair, but he, too, had made a 

contribution. It was the sort of undercover technical work that did not 

make its way into the history books, but nothing in his service for Apollo, 

or for Langley, ever gave Mattson greater pride or satisfaction. 

Inside the Numbers 

Mattson did write other reports. At least once a year, he put together a 

detailed inventory, "Langley Research Center Tests of Interest to Project 

Apollo," for Bob Gilruth at the Manned Spacecraft Center and Floyd 

Thompson at Langley. The document described briefly the tests being done 

by Langley researchers in support of Apollo, identified the research divisions 

and facilities in which the work was being done and the project engineers 

conducting it, gave the scheduled test dates, and offered some associated 

remarks. The purpose of the report was dual: to demonstrate how much 

Langley was doing to support the lunar landing program and to show the 

Manned Spacecraft Center the wide range of Langley research that could 

perhaps be useful to Apollo. Mattson distributed copies of this unpublished 

typescript to four or five of the most important Apollo program managers 

in Houston, including the manager of the Apollo Spacecraft Program Office 

(in 1963, Joseph F. Shea).21 

Although it was self-serving, Mattson's regular inventory nevertheless 

provided a rather accurate survey of everything being done at Langley 

that was in any way related to Apollo. Every item listed was legitimate. 

Nothing was invented, although the breadth or depth of certain studies was 

sometimes stretched a bit to make them seem more applicable to Apollo 

than they really were. Still, these informal reports provide an unusually 

complete record of how much Langley did in the service of Apollo, at least 

as reported by Mattson between December 1962 and February 1968. 

366 
In the Service of Apollo 

Project Fire explored the effects of reentry heating on Apollo spacecraft materials. 

Although the ultimate tests involved Atlas rockets carrying recoverable reentry 

packages, the flight tests from Cape Canaveral were preceded by a series of important 

wind-tunnel tests at Langley, as shown in this photo from 1962. 

Langley's work on Apollo grew steadily from 1962 to 1968, with an 

apparent peak in the period covered by Mattson's March 1966 report. Of the 

three major research groups in Langley's organization after the laboratory's 

formal reorganization in late 1964, Group 1, under the direction of Francis 

B. Smith, did the most work for Apollo-133 projects (85 of them discrete) 

compared with 92 (46 discrete) for Group 2, headed by John E. Duberg, 

and 98 (51 discrete) for Group 3, headed by Laurence K. Loftin, Jr. 

Besides the three research directorates, two other major organizations 

at the center contributed to Apollo. One of them, the Office for Flight 

Projects, led by Eugene C. Draley, actively supported Apollo; within the 

office, the Applied Materials and Physics Division reported 43 Apollo-related 

projects. This organization, formerly PARD, was particularly busy with 

work for Project Fire, an important NASA effort to study the effects of 

reentry heating on a spacecraft returning to earth at a high speed. Fire, 

for which Langley created a special program office in May 1961 (under the 

direction of Herbert A. "Hack" Wilson), not only consisted of flight tests 

from Cape Canaveral involving Atlas rockets carrying recoverable reentry 

packages but also involved a considerable amount of Langley wind-tunnel 

testing. Two Fire missions eventually took place. The first, launched on 

14 April 1964 from Wallops Island, fired a payload into the atmosphere 

367 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Number of Langley Research Projects 

Directly Related to Apollo Program, 1962-1968 

X 

Dec. 

Directorate 1962 

Group 1 

ACD 0 

FID X 

IRD 1 

SMD 4 

Total 5 

Group 2 

DLD 7 

SRD 2 

Total 9 

Group 3 

APD 6 

FMTD 10 

FSRD 9 

Total 25 

Flight Projects 

LOPO X 

MORL X 

AMPD 0 

Total 0 

Engineering and 

Technical Services 

FVSD X 

ESD 0 

MSD 0 

PMD 0 

RMFD 0 

Total 0 ... diVISIOn did not eXISt 

Analysis and Computation Div. 

Flight Instrumentation Div. 

Instrument Research Div. 

Space Mechanics Div. 

Dynamic Loads Div. 

Structures Research Div. 

Aero-Physics Div. 

Dec. 

1963 

0 

X 

6 

9 

15 

7 

5 

12 

5 

5 

10 

20 

0 

0 

2 

2 

X 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

ACD 

FID 

IRD 

SMD 

DLD 

SRD 

APD 

FMTD Flight Mechanics and Technology Div. 

368 

Nov. 

1964 

0 

X 

4 

19 

23 

9 

9 

18 

9 

2 

6 

17 

0 

0 

5 

5 

X 

0 

0 

0 

0 

0 

FSRD 

LOPO 

MORL 

AMPD 

FVSD 

ESD 

MSD 

PMD 

RMFD 

Nov. Mar. 

1965 1966 

1 1 

X X 

9 9 

19 19 

29 29 

12 13 

7 8 

19 21 

5 5 

2 3 

6 6 

13 14 

1 1 

2 2 

10 11 

13 14 

X X 

0 0 

0 0 

0 0 

0 0 

0 0 

Full-Scale Research Div. 

Lunar Orbiter Project Office 

Feb. 

1968 

0 

8 

1 

23 

32 

8 

5 

13 

4 

1 

4 

9 

4 

0 

15 

19 

1 

0 

0 

0 

0 

1 

Manned Orbiting Research Laboratory 

Applied Materials and Physics Div. 

Flight Vehicles and Systems Div. 

Electrical Systems Div. 

Mechanical Services Div. 

Plant Maintenance Div. 

Research Models and Facilities Div. 
In the Service of Apollo 

at a speed in excess of 40,000 kilometers an hour, the velocity that the 

Apollo spacecraft returning from the moon was expected to reach. The 

second, on 22 May 1965, basically confirmed the findings of the first 

mission, which indicated that "the radiation and the temperatures that 

would be experienced by an Apollo spacecraft reentry were less severe than 

expected." 22 Spacecraft engineers at Houston and North American made 

use of this important data from Project Fire in designing and qualifying 

Apollo's heat shield. 

Even Langley's Office of Engineering and Technical Services, Langley's 

fifth directorate, which normally was not involved in much research, took on 

a special Apollo project by conducting a study of an electrolytic chlorinator 

for water sterilization. 

The Simulators 

The most active of all Langley divisions in Apollo work was the Space 

Mechanics Division (SMD) of Group 1. This division conducted more studies 

related to the lunar landing mission than did any other division at Langley, 

perhaps because it was in this division, previously known as the Theoretical 

Mechanics Division, that LOR had germinated. 

The essence of SMD's contributions to Apollo rested in its simulation 

research. This was a field of work that dated, at the center, to the early 1940s 

when manned simulation for aeronautical R&D began because of the need 

for World War II pilot trainers. In the following 15 years, with significant 

advances in servomechanism and control theory and, more importantly, in 

analog and digital computers, simulation technology made a quantum leap 

forward. A new generation of intricate and capable machines was developed 

just when such simulators were needed for spaceflight. As Langley's foremost 

simulation expert, Arthur W. Vogeley, head of SMD's Guidance and Control 

Branch, said in a speech to the American Society of Mechanical Engineers 

in 1966, "Simulation is now big business. In total investment of professional 

manpower and facilities it is larger now than the whole aviation industry 

was not many years ago. Simulation is growing rapidly-exponentially, it 

seems. Where it will go in the next 15 years is anybody's guess." 23 

The Sputnik crisis had made simulation research and astronaut training 

absolutely vital-in large part because human ambitions began to outstrip 

human understanding; simulators were needed to fill in the gaps in the 

basic knowledge about spaceflight. Building simulators to investigate the 

interface between the airplane and the pilot had been a difficult challenge 

for aeronautical researchers prior to the spaceflight revolution; building 

machines that simulated the interface between astronaut and spacecraft in 

the weightless environment of outer space was an even tougher job-but 

one that had to be done. In Projects Gemini and Apollo, astronauts and 

spacecraft were to be committed to major, complex, and untried maneuvers 

369 
Spaceflight Revolution 

which, of necessity, had to be carried through to a successful completion, 

and usually on the first attempt. Simulation was vital to success. 

Very little simulation was necessary for Project Mercury, but Project 

Gemini entailed orbital rendezvous and docking, which was a more dangerous and complex maneuver than sending a capsule into orbit. Learning how 

to link two spacecraft or spacecraft modules in orbit-an operation required 

by Apollo's LOR mode-ultimately became the primary purpose of Project 

Gemini, NASA's second man-in-space program. Many people fail to appreciate the basic purpose of Project Gemini, which was to serve as a bridge 

between Mercury and Apollo and to develop the techniques of rendezvous 

and docking, spacewalking, and long-duration flights required by the Apollo 

lunar landing mission.24 

Docking itself was a straightforward operation, very much like the midair refueling of a jet airplane, which was a maneuver that experienced pilots 

routinely managed just by flying "all eyeballs" and by the seat-of-the-pants. 

Rendezvous, however, seemed to be an altogether different matter. Michael 

Collins had more than his share of experience with the "dark mysteries" of 

rendezvous during his Gemini X and Apollo 11 flights: "Sir Isaac Newton, 

when formulating the laws of gravity and motion, had no idea how difficult 

he was making it for those of us who would fly his circles and ellipses. It 

was simple enough to explain, with a chalkboard or, better yet, a powerful 

digital computer, but in flight one had to be extraordinarily careful not 

to make a false move, not to trust the eyes alone, not to fire the engines 

unless each maneuver had been checked and double-checked." Collins, one 

of the most thoughtful astronauts (and best writers) to comment on his 

experiences in space, captures what it was like for a Gemini pilot to try to 

catch and rendezvous with his Agena target/docking vehicle some 2 miles 

ahead of him: 

The pilot sees the Agena's twinkling light out the window, points the nose of the 

Gemini at it, and fires a thruster to move toward the Agena. For a short time 

all seems well, and the Agena grows in size. Then a strange thing happens: the 

Agena begins to sink and disappears under the Gemini's nose. Then minutes later 

it reappears from below, but now it is going faster than the Gemini and vanishes 

out front somewhere. What has happened? When the Gemini fired its thruster it 

increased its velocity but also its centrifugal force, causing its orbit to become larger. 

As it climbed toward its new apogee, it slowed down, so that it began to lose ground 

compared to the Agena. The Gemini pilot should have fired a thruster to move away 

from the Agena, causing him to drop down below it into a faster orbit, and begin to 

overtake it. Then, when the Agena reached a precisely calculated angle above him, 

he could thrust toward it and his resulting orbit would intercept that of the Agena. 

Sir Isaac demands that you play his game his way. 

Rendezvous in space could turn sour with paralyzing swiftness. An on-board 

computer might fail, a gyroscope might tilt the wrong way, or some other 

glitch might occur to complicate the performance of a necessary maneuver. 

370 
In the Service of Apollo 

Pilots of both the LEM and the CM had to be ready to make crucial decisions 

instantaneously. They could not simply say to one another "Meet Me Over 

St. Louis" and expect their two spacecraft to rendezvous successfully in 

space. The usual way of piloting in atmospheric flight just would not work. 

Because of these stark new realities about flight in space, Collins notes, "a 

great amount of care and pre-planning had to go into the planning of, and 

hardware for, the rendezvous missions." 25 

Engineers in Langley's Theoretical Mechanics Division (which was actually renamed the Aero-Space Mechanics Division before becoming SMD) 

had become heavily involved in certain aspects of spaceflight simulation 

even before Sputnik. Their work for the X-15 program (when they were 

still NACA employees) had led them to construct and "fly" an X-15 attitude and control simulator. But Sputnik set them loose; over the course 

of the next 10 years they conceived, built, and operated nine new simulators. These included a Rendezvous and Docking Simulator, a Rotating 

Vehicle Simulator to study the effects on astronauts of long stays in a rotating space station, and a Reduced Gravity Walking Simulator that was 

used to evaluate the effects of lunar gravity on man's walking and running 

capabilities (with and without pressure suits). A Lunar Orbit and Letdown Approach Simulator (LOLA), a $1.9-million facility, was designed so 

that pilots could experience the same sort of visual cues that they would 

encounter while navigating and controlling a spacecraft in the vicinity of 

the moon. The Lunar Landing Research Facility, a mammoth $3.5-million 

facility, simulated manned lunar landings, and a Projection Planetarium 

was built that could either project stars on a plastic dome while test pilots 

sat on a rotating gun turret "spacecraft" to get the feel of heavenly movement or generate a horizon-to-horizon view of Florida as seen from about 

100,000 feet for "out-the-window" studies of Apollo launch-abort problems. 

The Virtual Image Rendezvous Simulator used a closed-circuit television 

system and analog computers to represent a moving target vehicle for rendezvous and docking studies; a Water Immersion Simulator used a water 

tank for investigating problems associated with manned extra- and intravehicular activities in reduced-G environments; and a One-Man Propulsion 

Research Apparatus suspended a person equipped with vertical thrusters 

and translation and attitude controllers from a lightweight gimbal unit 

for maneuverability studies in reduced-gravity fields. 26 Two of the spaceflight simulators in particular-the Rendezvous and Docking Simulator and 

the Lunar Landing Research Facility-made significant contributions to the 

successes of projects Gemini and Apollo. 

In the months following NASA's adoption of the LOR concept, a 

team of Langley engineers led by Arthur W. Vogeley and Max C. Kurbjun 

of the Space Mechanics Division, and including Roy R. Brissendon, 

Alfred J. Meintel, Jr., Jack E. Pennington, and Marvin C. Waller, designed 

an unusual research facility explicitly for the purpose of studying the special 

problems of rendezvous and docking. In its essentials, the design belonged 

371 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-64-1610 L-62-9652 

The Langley Rendezvous and Docking Simulator suspended from the roof of the West 

Area airplane hangar (top). Bottom left, a time-lapse look at a successful docking. 

Bottom right, an unidentified pilot "eyeballs" his way to a docking by peering through 

the portal in his capsule. 

372 
In the Service of Apollo 

to Vogeley, the head of SMD's Guidance and Control Branch, and entailed 

full-scale mock-ups of the Gemini and Apollo cockpits that could be hung 

from an overhead carriage and cable-suspended gimbal system. This entire 

assembly could then be attached to an overhead moving crane that moved 

along a 210-foot track running along the rafters of Langley's cavernous West 

Area hangar. Pilot astronauts could then "fly" the cockpits both in nighttime and daylight conditions to rehearse and perfect rendezvous and docking 

skills. 

Upon its completion in early 1963, SMD began using this ingenious 

simulator to study the finer points of various rendezvous missions. (The 

simulator included a general-purpose analog computer, which made it 

possible for the pilot inside the gimbal to experience all six degrees of 

motion freedom.) Experience with the facility confirmed something that 

Vogeley and other experienced guidance and control experts at Langley had 

believed for some time: rendezvous, if practiced, was not as mysterious or 

as difficult as many people imagined. In fact, it could be accomplished quite 

easily.27 

Nonetheless, without their experience in the Rendezvous and Docking 

Simulator, the Gemini and Apollo astronauts would not have been as well 

prepared for handling the pressures of rendezvous. "We trained an awful 

lot of astronauts," Vogeley remembers with pride, "who all appreciated the 

realism of the simulator's visual scene. It gave us a lot of satisfaction just 

to show that NASA could do that sort of thing in a unique piece of ground 

equipment that only cost about $300,000. I think we got our money's 

worth." 28 In his branch office Vogeley kept a picture of the simulator 

that was signed by all the pilots who ever used the facility-with one 

exception. Apollo astronaut Ed White, who visited Langley twice to fly 

on the simulator, died in the tragic launchpad fire at Cape Kennedy on 

27 January 1967 before he could add his autograph to the list. 

The other simulator to contribute in a significant way to the success 

of Apollo was the Lunar Landing Research Facility, an imposing 250-foothigh, 400-foot-long gantry structure that became operational in 1965 at a 

cost of nearly $4 million. Conceived in 1962 by engineer Donald Hewes and 

built under the careful direction of his quiet but ingenious division chief, 

W. Hewitt Phillips, this gigantic facility was designed to develop techniques 

for landing the rocket-powered LEM on the moon's surface. Because the 

moon had no atmosphere and its gravitational pull was only one-sixth that 

of the earth's, piloting the LEM would be completely unlike atmospheric 

flying. The thrust of the LEM's rockets in a vacuum would produce unusual 

and abrupt up-and-down, side-to-side, or rolling motions. In addition, the 

lack of an atmosphere would create a harsh light. As the astronauts landed, 

they would face this bright glare, as well as deep, dark shadows, which would 

skew depth perception. Some unique problems had to be overcome to make 

a pinpoint lunar landing. Some means of simulation seemed called for; the 

question was how to do it. · 

373 
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L-69-7140 L-63-3268 

The two men responsible for the design and early operation of the Lunar Landing 

Research Facility were Donald Hewes {left) and his division chief, William Hewitt 

Phillips (right). 

Hewitt Phillips, a soft-spoken, MIT -educated engineer born in Port 

Sunlight, England, remembers how the idea for the Lunar Landing Research 

Facility originated between 1962 and 1963: "Since we knew that the 

moon's gravity is one-sixth that of the Earth's, we needed to support 

five-sixths of the vehicle's weight to simulate the actual conditions on the 

moon." 29 Perhaps, some practical method could be devised to lower the 

apparent weight of a mock-up LEM to its lunar equivalent by a method of 

suspension using vertical cables attached to a traveling bridge crane. 

From this basic notion, the design evolved. A huge gantry structure was 

built that would dominate Langley's landscape for years to come. Phillips 

and Hewes wanted the supporting gantry to be even taller, but because 

of the heavy military air traffic from adjacent Langley AFB, the structure 

was limited to 200 feet. The completed facility, however, stood 240 feet 

6 inches, excluding the top warning lights and antennae. Two long cables 

provided the desired vertical lifting force equal to five~sixths of the vehicle's 

weight, thereby opposing the pull of the earth's gravity and simulating the 

low gravitational force of the moon's surface. The cables were attached to 

a servocontrolled hoist system in a dolly unit mounted under a traveling 

bridge; the hoist system was controlled automatically by load cells in each 

support strut. As the test vehicle moved up and down and back and forth in 

response to the controlling pilot, the bridge and dolly responded to signals 

from the vehicle and from cable angle sensors at the top of the cables to 

374 
In the Service of Apollo 

L-69-6324 

Langley's Lunar Landing Research Facility, completed in 1965, helped to prepare the 

Apollo astronauts for the final150 feet of their lunar landing mission by simulating 

both the lunar gravity environment and the full-scale LEM vehicle dynamics. 

stay directly over the vehicle at all times and to keep the cables vertical. 

Because the bridge and dolly system were driven hydraulically, they provided 

a responsive servocontrol system. Moreover, safety features were built into 

the system to prevent the lunar landing vehicle from crashing or the bridge 

and the dolly from overrunning their tracks in the event of an equipment 

malfunction or the pilot exceeding the safety limits of the system. 

The lunar landing test vehicle itself could be flown up to about 17 miles 

per hour within the confines of the overhead structure, which provided a 

travel range 400 feet long, 50 feet wide, and 180 feet high. The vehicle could 

also be hoisted to the overhead platform, where two cables connected to 

the trolley units on the lower horizontal truss structure could catapult the 

vehicle downward at 35 miles per hour. To make the simulated landings 

more authentic, Hewes and his men filled the base of the huge eight-legged, 

red-and-white structure with dirt and modeled it to resemble the moon's 

surface. They erected floodlights at the proper angles to simulate lunar 

light and installed a black screen at the far end of the gantry to mimic the 

airless lunar "sky." Hewes personally climbed into the fake craters with 

cans of everyday black enamel to spray them so that the astronauts could 

experience the shadows that· they would see during the actual moon landing. 

375 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-68-547 

L-67-9108 

Langley engineers designed the control cab of the Lunar Landing Research Facility's 

original landing module (top left) from the cockpit of a Bell helicopter. To make it 

similar to the actual LEM, they eventually redesigned it with a stand-up cab (top 

right and bottom). 

376 
In the Service of Apollo 

L-69-4361 L-67-3857 

With floodlights shining down to simulate lunar light and the base modeled to 

resemble the lunar surface, 24 astronauts practiced landings at the Lunar Landing 

Research Facility between 1965 and 1969. 

As a final touch to the facility, Hewes attached to an overhead, lightweight 

trolley track a simple contrivance, which came to be known as the Reduced 

Gravity Walking Simulator. Made of canvas slings, steel cables, a small 

trolley, and a wooden walking surface, this rig tilted a walker some 80 degrees from vertical by holding him up with two cables. Astronauts, thus 

suspended, could practice moonwalking down the plywood surface. They 

made 12-foot jumps with ease, rapidly climbed a "vertical" pole with one 

hand, and generally got a feel for what it would be like to traverse the lunar 

surface.30 The Reduced Gravity Walking Simulator became quite a hit with 

all press members who visited Langley during the Apollo era. In 1968, for 

example, CBS anchorman Walter Cronkite suited up in an orange astronaut 

outfit for what turned out to be a rather comical televised walk on the moon. 

Of course, the landing facility was a complicated system and had kinks 

that had to be ironed out. The electrohydraulic system that kept the crane 

platform directly over the flight vehicle and the cables vertical was extremely 

involved. The facility had a wonderful assortment of structural, cablestretch, and pendulous frequencies that were unpredictable and required 

innovative compensation systems. The LEM model was attached to the 

cables through gimbal rings allowing pitch, roll, and yaw motions produced 

by a hydrogen peroxide rocket attitude control system. The one-sixth weight 

not lifted by the cable system had to be lifted by throttleable hydrogen 

377 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-68-8308 

The spaceflight revolution captivated many in the news media, including then-CBS 

news anchorman Walter Cronkite. During a 1968 visit to Langley, the adventurous 

Cronkite tried out the Reduced Gravity Walking Simulator~a series of cablesupported slings hanging down from the Lunar Landing Research Facility designed 

to approximate lunar locomotion. 

peroxide thrusters fixed to the vehicle structure. With such marvelous 

complexities, it is no wonder that it took some time for the Langley engineers 

to perfect their gargantuan but sensitive and responsive mechanism. 

As Neil Armstrong testified, once the kinks were ironed out, the Lunar 

Landing Research Facility was "an engineer's delight." The flying volume 

was "limiting, but adequate to give pilots a substantive introduction to 

Lunar flight characteristics." Moreover, thanks to the built-in safety features, whereby the cable system could be locked if the vehicle was out of 

control, the astronauts were able to "investigate unorthodox attitude, trajectory and control combinations which would be impractical in a free-flying 

simulator." 31 

Armstrong knew the limitations of other simulators from personal experience. On 6 May 1968, during a test flight of a fre€-'-flying Lunar Landing 

Training Vehicle at NASA's Flight Research Center at Edwards AFB in 

California, he was almost killed. Historian Richard Hallion, author of the 

378 
In the Service of Apollo 

definitive book on the history of NASA's Flight Research Center, relates the 

accident: 

While hovering 10 meters above the ground, the vehicle suffered a loss of helium 

pressure in its propellant tanks, causing shutdown of its attitude control rockets. It 

started nosing up and rolling over, and Armstrong immediately ejected. His zerozero seat kicked him away from the stricken craft, which tumbled into the ground 

and exploded as the astronaut safely descended by parachute. 

"It was a sad fate for a pioneering flight craft," writes Hallion, a great 

lover of flying machines. Indeed, but it almost sealed a far worse fate for 

America's first man on the moon. 32 From that day on, Neil Armstrong 

made no flights in the Lunar Landing Training Vehicle or any other freeflying test vehicle simulating lunar landings. He did, however, continue to 

use Langley's facility to practice landings. 

Ironically, in the early days of the facility's development, many people 

associated with the Apollo program did not see the need for such a facility 

and questioned whether it would ever work. How could a vehicle hanging 

from cables, like a child's top jumping at the end of a string, adequately 

simulate moon landings? Axel Mattson recalls that Gilruth's engineers 

in Houston never expressed much enthusiasm for the device. They felt 

that the best simulations would be provided by helicopters approximating 

final descent trajectories (all Apollo crew members did in fact become 

qualified helicopter pilots) by a test program involving a modified Bell 

X-14A VTOL aircraft, or by the special free-flight lunar landing research 

vehicles being developed by NASA for the test flights at Edwards. All these 

research vehicles made significant contributions to developing techniques 

for the lunar landing. But Langley's controversial Lunar Landing Facility 

provided astronauts with a unique experience. So realistic was its imitation 

moonscape, for example, that Neil Armstrong remarked that when he saw 

his shadow fall upon the lunar dust, it was exactly as he had seen it at the 

landing facility at Langley. 33 

Some of Langley's other simulators did not make significant contributions 

to Apollo-or to any other program. The clearest case in point was the 

intricate LOLA, which started operating in 1965 at an imposing cost of 

nearly $2 million. This simulator was designed to provide a pilot with 

a detailed visual encounter with the lunar surface; the machine consisted 

primarily of a cockpit, a closed-circuit TV system, and four large murals or 

scale models representing portions of the lunar surface as seen from various 

altitudes. The pilot in the cockpit moved along a track past these murals, 

which would accustom him to the visual cues for controlling a spacecraft in 

the vicinity of the moon. Unfortunately, such a simulation-although great 

fun and quite aesthetic-was not helpful because flight in lunar orbit posed 

no special problems other than the rendezvous with the LEM, which the 

device did not simulate. Not long after the end of Apollo, the expensive 

machine was dismantled. 34 · 

379 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-65-5579 

Although as much fun as riding through the fun house at the county fair, the 

$2 million LOLA proved unnecessary. In this photo from 1965, a Langley technician 

takes great care to make sure that the surface features of the moon are being 

represented exactly. 

Rogallo's Flexible Wing 

More than any other division at Langley, the Full-Scale Research Division 

acted as a "service effort" for Apollo. Testing in the high-speed wind 

tunnels of this division provided essential data in the transonic regime for 

the moon shot. Not all Apollo work carried out in the Full-Scale Research 

Division, however, involved high-speed aerodynamics. Perhaps the most 

interesting and potentially significant technologies developed in this division 

involved low-speed aerodynamics-specifically, a proposed Apollo capsule 

recovery system that used a controllable paraglider. This concept, which 

was eventually turned down both for Gemini and Apollo, was the brainchild 

of Francis M. Rogallo, an ingenious thinker and kite-flying enthusiast who 

worked in the 7 x 10-Foot Tunnel Branch. 

Although Bob Gilruth and many other engineers responsible for Project 

Mercury considered the ballistic capsule approach "an elegant solution" to 

the problem of quickly putting a person in orbit, no aeronautical engineer 

was especially happy with the plan.35 Their dream was for the spacecraft 

380 
In the Service of Apollo 

to return to earth using "wings and wheels" -that is, to really fly down 

through the atmosphere to a landing on a conventional runway. 

NASA placed its hopes for such an airplane-like landing on an unusual 

inflated-fabric flexible wing, or parawing. Such a wing was being developed 

at Langley in the early 1960s under the intellectual direction of Francis 

M. Rogalla. Rogalla's idea for Gemini, as well as for Apollo, was to pack 

away a carefully designed parawing like a parachute until the spacecraft fell 

to about 60,000 feet, at which time an elaborate unstowing and unfurling 

process began. By 20,000 feet, if all went well, the descending spacecraft 

would turn into the world's heaviest hang glider, suspended under a dartshaped parawing. The astronauts themselves would then bring the soaring 

craft down to a landing either on water or on soil. 36 

Rogalla had started at NACA Langley in 1936 after graduation from 

Stanford University, and since 1945 the flexible wing had been a pet project. 

A survey of the history of the parawing provides not only an understanding of the genesis of one of Langley's most intriguing-if never useddevelopments for Apollo but also insight into the sudden and dramatic impact of Sputnik and the spaceflight revolution on the course of independent 

research at Langley. 

Rogalla and his wife, Gertrude, spent their spare time flying home-built 

kites at their beach house at Nags Head, North Carolina, which is near 

Kitty Hawk. By the end of World War II, this hobby had begun to give the 

couple ideas for unconventional vehicles, such as hydrofoil boats, groundeffect machines, V/STOL aircraft, and flexible wings. Because they could 

not find any organization, including their own NACA, to support R&D for 

their ideas, they "decided to do what we could privately as time permitted." 

Initially their efforts focused on configurations resembling boat sails; later, 

their designs were similar to parachutes. Finally, they concentrated on 

shapes somewhere between boat sails and parachutes-flexible wings. By 

the end of 1948, the couple had developed a flexible kite, which the Rogallos 

called "Flexi-Kite," and a type of gliding parachute, which they later named 

a "paraglider." 37 

In 1948, Rogalla and his wife filed a patent for a V-shaped flexible wing, 

which was awarded (U.S. Patent No. 2,546,078) in March 1951. From 

the outset, the inventors had thought of their parawing as a wing not 

only for sport gliders but also for military and civil powered aircraft. No 

one, however, took their proposals seriously. As Rogalla remembers, when 

meeting friends and acquaintances, they were generally greeted with, "How's 

the kite business?" The Rogallos had resorted to selling their Flexi-Kite as 

a toy in order to illustrate the parawing principle and help finance their 

work. Francis Rogalla would often say in later years that toys should copy 

the real thing and not the other way around. 38 

For the first seven years of its development, the motivation behind the 

flexible wing had been "purely aeronautical," but that changed in 1952 

when the Rogallos saw the· Colliers magazine that ran the exciting series 

381 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Francis and Gertrude Rogalla (right}, inventors of the V-shaped flexible "parawing." In December 1961, Langley flighttested a 50-foot parawing's ability to bring 

down safely a model of a manned space 

capsule from a few thousand feet above 

Plum Tree Island (below} , an old army 

bombing range near Langley Field. 

382 

L-63-5441 
In the Service of Apollo 

of stories about spaceflight. Francis Rogalla was struck by the issue's 

beautiful illustrations of rigid-winged gliders mounted on top of huge rockets. 

As he recalled later in a 1963 speech to the American Astronautical 

Society, "I thought that the rigid-winged gliders might better be replaced 

by vehicles with flexible wings that could be folded into small packages 

during the launching." In August 1952 he met Dr. Willy Ley, one of 

Colliers consultants, and told Ley his thoughts about flexible wings for 

astronautics. In the conversation Rogalla mentioned that the technology of 

flexible wings might someday prove very useful when spacecraft commute 

regularly between planets: a rocket ship returning from Mars could pop out 

flexible wings as it entered the earth's atmosphere and glide the last 100 

or 200 miles home, saving "the stockholders" that much fuel. "But the 

time was not yet ripe." 39 (Note that Rogalla imagined, perhaps in jest, 

that private corporations would be sponsoring the interplanetary travel, not 

governments.) 

In April 1954, hoping to gain acceptance of his concept for aerospace 

applications, Rogalla gave a presentation, complete with glider model 

demonstrations, to the local Tidewater reserve unit of the Air Force Research 

and Development Command. Two months later, he submitted a proposal 

to include parawing research in the NACA budget, but the proposal was 

rejected. Indefatigable, he submitted a proposal to discuss his flexible wing 

concepts at the annual meeting of the Institute of Aeronautical Sciences 

(lAS). This was "the first [proposal] that actually reached the program 

committee after several tries," but it too was turned down. The lAS 

rejection letter read: "Although the paper is out of the ordinary and looks 

like it might be fine to hear, it just does not fit into our program." 40 

As it did for so many research projects, the launch of Russia's Sputnik 1 in 

October 1957 changed the course of history for the parawing. Even before 

the formation of NASA in 1958, Rogalla had received NACA approval to 

make a few crude wind-tunnel and model flight investigations of parawings 

in the 7 x 10-Foot Tunnel Branch. In December 1958, he made a presentation to the Langley Committee on Aerodynamics, and as he remembers, 

"gradually people in other divisions became interested and volunteered to 

investigate parawings in their facilities." During 1959 cloth parawings were 

tested in the 4-Foot Supersonic Pressure Tunnel at Mach 2, and still other 

parawing models were deployed at high altitudes (150,000 to 200,000 feet) 

at nearly Mach 3 from rocket launchings at Wallops Island. In August 1959, 

von Braun invited Rogalla to Huntsville for a presentation, so "business was 

picking up." 41 

For the next year and a half, into early 1961, Rogalla gave talk after 

talk on his parawing concept to various technical groups. He spoke at 

the national aeronautics meeting of the Society of Automotive Engineers 

(April1960); at Ryan Aeronautical Company and North American Aviation 

(May 1960); at the annual lAS meeting in New York City (Jan. 1961); 

and at local lAS chapter meetings in Lancaster, California, and San Diego 

383 
Spaceflight Revolution 

(March 1961). By the end of 1960, the Ryan company, the same company 

that built Charles Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis, began building a powered 

man-carrying "Ryan Flex-Wing" at its own expense; Rogalla was on hand in 

San Diego to witness its first flight. Also, in early 1961, NASA Marshall gave 

Ryan and North American contracts to study the feasibility of recovering 

Saturn boosters by means of parawings. NASA in-house studies of the 

technological capabilities of the wing were made at Marshall and Langley 

and demonstrated that recovery of the (later canceled) C-2 rocket stage 

was feasible. By the end of 1961, the DOD let its first parawing contract, 

to Ryan, for flight tests of the Flex-Wing. The aircraft was later sent to 

NASA Langley for investigation in the Full-Scale Tunnel. Thereafter, the 

number of projects and contracts related to parawings increased too rapidly 

to mention in this brief history. 42 

"It looked like parawings were here to stay," Rogalla rejoiced at the time, 

and Sputnik was the reason.43 By the summer of 1963, it appeared that the 

concept had achieved worldwide acceptance and that the time had come for 

his parawing study group to give the U.S. government royalty-free license to 

use its patents, which it did in a ceremony in Washington on 18 July 1963. 

In a short speech, Rogalla expressed his hopes for the invention: "We feel 

confident that the civil and military agencies of the government will carry on 

this work, and we hope private industry will promote use of the concept for 

business and pleasure as effectively as they have for astronautics and military 

aeronautics." In a separate ceremony a day earlier, Dr. Hugh Dryden, deputy administrator of NASA, presented Francis Rogalla and his wife with a 

check for $35,000 for their development of the flexible-wing concept; at that 

time, it was the largest cash award ever made by the space agency to an 

inventor. 44 

Unfortunately, the spaceflight revolution, which had so quickly turned 

circumstances in the wing's favor, just as quickly turned circumstances 

against it. That is often the nature of revolutions-to take things full 

circle. From the beginning, NASA's interest in Rogalla's paraglider grew 

primarily from the possibility of using it as a controllable space capsule 

recovery system. When that interest waned, so too did NASA's support for 

the innovative flight technology. 

Given NASA's formal go-ahead for research, Rogalla and his colleagues in 

the Full-Scale Research Division invested much time, energy, and emotion in 

the paraglider concept. Several Langley employees shared Rogalla's enthusiasm for the innovative flight technology and even conducted manned flexiblewing flight research during weekends on the Outer Banks with privately 

owned equipment. Although qualitative in nature, these investigations 

proved "valuable in providing quick answers and indicating promising directions for the much more costly and time-consuming instrumented but 

unmanned NASA flight research." 45 In wind-tunnel studies at Langley, 

this research covered a broad spectrum of parawing design parameterseverything from the original concept of a flexible lifting surface (indicated 

384 
In the Service of Apollo 

in the engineering data as a "limp paraglider") to rigid frame gliders with 

conical and cylindrical canopies. 

As this research on the basic technology of the parawing gained momentum at Langley, NASA's STG, still at Langley at this time, grew interested in the possible application of the foldable, deployable, inflatable-frame 

paraglider to its Gemini EOR program. Specifically, the STG believed it 

might be used as part of Mercury Mark II, the follow-on to Project Mercury, 

which ultimately (in January 1962) became Project Gemini. The STG felt 

that such a wing could be deployed either before or after reentry to provide 

controlled glide and horizontal landing. Even on a lifting reentry bodyNASA was giving "lifting body" technology considerable attention in relation to space station studies during this period (see the epilogue)-tests 

at Langley and other NASA facilities were showing that a parawing could 

improve the postentry flight or landing characteristics. 46 

In early July 1961, a few weeks before the second manned Mercury flight 

by Gus Grissom, Gilruth's organization initiated three well-funded design 

study contracts on the paraglider concept with Ryan, North American, and 

Goodyear. Of these three companies, North American would eventually 

produce the most acceptable plan-a study to explore the parawing as an 

earth-landing system for Project Apollo.47 A few weeks later, the STG 

began requesting that studies of the Rogallo-type paraglider be conducted 

at NASA centers. At Langley this led, on 31 August, to a research 

authorization for "Free-Flight and Wind-Tunnel Tests of Guided Parachutes 

as Recovery Devices for the Apollo Type Reentry Vehicle." By late fall, all 

of this work came together as a formalized NASA paraglider development 

program, with Langley and Ames responsible for the wind-tunnel tests and 

the Flight Research Center for scheduling manned flight tests. Starting in 

mid-1963, 12 manned flight tests were actually made at Edwards with a 

so-called Parasev. 48 

If the United States had not been in a hurry to go to the moon, the 

Rogalla paraglider might have been used as the capsule recovery system 

for Gemini and Apollo; of course, if the country had not been in such a 

hurry, it would not have gone to the moon at all in the 1960s-and perhaps 

would not have gone there ever. As it turned out, the paraglider became 

"hopelessly snarled in a financial, technical, and managerial morass." 49 

Richard Hallion recollects the specific problems encountered during the flight 

tests at Edwards: 

Paraglider development involved solving major design difficulties in deploying the 

wing, ensuring that crew would have adequate control over the parawing-equipped 

craft, and providing stability, control, and handling qualities. The Flight Research 

Center's technical staff was never convinced that the scheme was workable. Eventually, because of poor test results and rising costs and time delays, the idea was dropped 

from Gemini in mid-1964. FRC engineers and pilots had believed that any vehicle 

so equipped might present a pilot with a greater flying challenge than contemporary 

advanced airplanes. 

385 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-62-631 

An early version of the single-seat Paraglider Research Vehicle ("Parasev") is test 

"flown" in Langley's Full-Scale Tunnel in January 1962. 

These conclusions were based on experience. Flights with the small, single~ 

seat experimental Parasev had proved extremely tricky even in the hands of 

experienced test pilots. The first machine, Parasev I, flew as if "controlled by 

a wet noodle." As Hallion records, during one ground tow, a veteran NASA 

test pilot "got out of phase with the lagging control system and developed 

a rocking motion that got worse and worse; just as the tow truck started 

to slow, the Parasev did a wing-over into the lakebed, virtually demolishing 

the Parasev and injuring [the pilot], though not seriously." This was not 

the only time that a paraglider test vehicle would slam into the ground. 50 

The Parasev, built and rebuilt several times, eventually made over 

100 flights at Edwards and showed enough progress that it might have proved 

feasible for capsule reentry if further developed. However, NASA could 

not wait for its maturation. Besides, the paraglider was "not absolutely 

necessary, being more technological frosting than cake." 51 NASA did not 

need an elegant reentry plan, just a workable one. By early 1964, NASA was 

committed to a water landing for Apollo. In mid-1964, Gemini's program 

386 
In the Service of Apollo 

manager, Charles W. Mathews, a former Langley STG engineer, canceled 

the paraglider. Rogalla's idea would not fly anyone or anything back from 

space. 

Rogallo never gave up on his pet concept and continued to develop it 

even after he retired and moved with Gertrude to Nags Head. There they 

spent all their time working on their paragliders for sport aviation and other 

applications. Before leaving NASA Langley, Rogallo and his colleagues 

in the Low-Speed Vehicle Branch had continued to explore a very broad 

spectrum of wing shapes and structures for his flexible wings. Never again, 

however, would his concept receive the same high level of NASA support 

and funding that it had received when linked to the manned space programs 

of the early 1960s. Nevertheless, a Parawing Project Office (under engineer 

Dewey L. Clemmons, Jr.) continued at Langley until 1967 and kept the 

research alive. 

The Apollo Fire Investigation Board 

Langley played one other significant, if very sad, role in the Apollo 

program. The program seemed to be moving along extremely well, so well 

in fact that by New Year's Day 1967 many observers believed that President 

Kennedy's "by the end of the decade" deadline for landing a man on the 

moon might be achieved a couple of years ahead of schedule. Then tragedy 

struck-making it abundantly clear to NASA and the nation just how high a 

price would have to be paid to pursue such bold ventures into the unknown. 

Early in the evening of 27 January 1967, a fire broke out inside the Block I 

Command Module sitting on top of the uprated Saturn I 204 rocket on the 

launchpad of Complex 34 at Cape Kennedy. The fire killed three Apollo 

astronauts-Gus Grissom, Edward H. White, and Roger B. Chaffee-who 

were in the capsule for a prelaunch test. 52 

The next day, Deputy Administrator Robert C. Seamans, Jr., speaking 

for Administrator Webb, named Floyd L. Thompson chairman of the 

Apollo 204 Review Board.53 Serving with Thompson were five other NASA 

officials, one air force official, and one official from the U.S. Bureau of 

Mines. No one institution was better represented on the board than 

Langley. Besides Thompson (and probably because of him), the board also 

included E. Barton Geer, associate chief of Langley's Flight Vehicles and 

Systems Division, and George Malley, Langley's chief counsel. Furthermore, 

Max Faget, then of the Manned Spacecraft Center, but formerly a Langley 

engineer, also served on the board.* 

* The other members of the Apollo 204 Review Board were Col. Charles F. Strang, chief of the 

Missiles and Space Safety Division, air force inspector general, Norton AFB, Calif.; Lt. Col. Frank 

Borman, astronaut, Manned Spacecraft Center; George C. White, Jr., director of reliability and quality, 

Apollo Program Office, NASA headquarters; Dr. Robert W. Van Dolah, research director, Explosive 

Research Center, Bur~au of Mines, U.S: Department of Interior, Pittsburgh, Pa.; and John J. Williams, 

director of Spacecraft Operations, NASA Kennedy Space Center. 

387 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-68-9680 

Floyd Thompson (left), chairman of the Apollo Fire investigation board, talks with 

Thomas 0. Paine (right), who took over from James Webb as NASA administrator 

in September 1968. 

NASA was handing a terribly difficult job to Langley's 69-year-old di~ 

rector, who was only a year and some months away from retirement. Ironically, someone like Floyd Thompson, with no national public reputation 

and a surface personality that even some close friends described as a bit 

"hayseed," would have been out of the question for the investigation committee that was appointed after the Challenger accident-even as a commission member let alone as its chairman. 54 But, as the results of the Apollo 

fire investigation and the subsequently successful Apollo program demonstrated, Thompson would be the perfect man for the Apollo job. As Robert 

Seamans once said about Thompson, "I think he acted to fool people a 

little bit so he could get their measure-and then watch out, you know. 

Very adaptable. At Langley, through all this chaotic period, he kept it out 

front doing the right kind of things. And then of course the real crunch 

came when we had the Apollo fire. The question was, 'Who do we have who 

388 
In the Service of Apollo 

has the ability and the credibility to be responsible for that review?' That's 

when we put Tommy into that very, very difficult job." 55 Interestingly, after 

the mishap of Apollo 13, when exploding oxygen tanks in the service module 

forced the highly dramatic return of the three astronauts even before they 

had reached the moon, NASA appointed another Langley center director, 

Edgar M. Cortright, Thompson's successor, to chair the accident review 

board. Perhaps this was in part a testimony to how well Floyd Thompson 

had conducted the Apollo fire investigation. 

Within 24 hours of the command module inferno, Thompson and the rest 

of his committee were on hand at Pad 34, beginning the long and arduous 

process of finding out why the tragedy had happened. Under Thompson's 

disciplined direction, the investigation marched along quickly and quietly. 

This low-profile progress was possible because the inquiry was an internal 

NASA investigation without the national media exposure that those on the 

Challenger investigation committee would face. By 5 April, after spending 

about 10 weeks on the job, most of it on site at the Kennedy Space Center, 

the Apollo 204 Review Board was ready to submit its formal report, which 

was several thousand pages long including appendixes. According to its 

terse prose, arcs from faulty electrical wiring in an equipment bay inside 

the command module had started the fire. In the 100-percent oxygen 

atmosphere, the crew had died of asphyxia caused by inhalation of toxic 

gases. The board report concluded with a list of 11 major recommendations 

for hardware and operational changes. 56 

NASA would need two more years to fix all the problems with Apollo. A 

special Apollo Configuration Control Board, chaired by George Low, eventually oversaw the completion of over 1300 design changes for the spacecraft. The mending process had really begun, however, with the Apollo 204 

Review Board's fast action to a first draft of an investigation report. As 

chairman and as a person well aware of the inherent dangers of flight research, Floyd Thompson wanted everyone to know that his board's written 

description of "the defects in the Apollo Program that led to the condition existing at the time of the Apollo 204 accident" should not be interpreted as "an indictment of the entire manned space flight program" 

or as a "castigation of the many people associated with that program." 

"Nothing is further from the Board's intent," Thompson emphatically declared. The function of his board had been "to search for error in the 

largest and most complex research and development program ever undertaken," and that was why the report on the fire commented only on the 

deficiencies uncovered and did not present a total picture of the Apollo 

program, including the good points with the bad, or look for scapegoats. 

However, the report tried to make clear to the nation that such tragedies 

389 
Spaceflight Revolution 

All three astronauts who died in the 

Apollo fire had spent a considerable amount of time in simulators 

at Langley. Gus Grissom (right) 

at the controls of the Rendezvous 

and Docking Simulator in 1963; below, Roger Chaffee strapped into the 

Lunar Landing Research Facility's 

Reduced Gravity Walking Simulator 

in 1965. Unfortunately, a picture of 

Edward White while in training at 

Langley was not found. 

390 

L-63-1515 
In the Service of Apollo 

would occasionally occur if the bold venture into space was to continue and 

progress. *57 

It is unfortunate that tragic accidents such as the Apollo fire and 

the Challenger explosion have to happen for errors to be discovered and 

corrected. Both events made NASA and its contractors more cautious, and 

in the case of the Apollo fire, they actually slowed the pace of work so that 

tasks could be performed more carefully. "It gave everyone not working on 

fire-related matters a breather, a period to catch up on their work." "In 

the race for the moon," as Apollo astronaut/historian Michael Collins has 

written, "no one wanted his piece of the machine to be the laggard, the one 

to hold up the whole procession. Consequently, no one wanted to admit 

being 'the long pole in the tent' as it was called, and managers were apt 

to fudge their schedules a bit, hoping someone else would admit to being 

even farther behind. Many long poles got whittled down to manageable 

size during the time North American was struggling to get the Command 

Module back on track."58 

This scenario really did not apply to NASA Langley; its work to achieve 

the lunar landing objective was for the most part over by the time the Apollo 

command module was fixed and ready for its first manned flight (Apollo 7, 

11-22 Oct. 1968). Langley's contributions to Apollo had little to do with 

final preparations but rather rested largely in the groundwork for such an 

ambitious program. By the time of Apollo 11 's historic first lunar landing 

on 20 July 1969, Langley's multifarious R&D efforts for Apollo had been 

largely forgotten; except for the Hampton area press, the media gave the 

center little attention. But without Langley, an American lunar landing 

that summer day may not have been possible. 

"We had a target and a goal," says John Houbolt, one of the few from 

Langley privileged with an invitation to watch the historic lunar landing 

event from the viewing room at Mission Control in Houston. "Congress 

* By the authority granted to the center in a letter from Deputy Administrator Robert Seamans on 

27 February 1967, NASA Langley became "the custodian of all pertinent physical evidence, reports, files, 

and working materials dealing with the investigations and review of the Apollo 204 accident." (Copy in 

Apollo 204 Review Board files, Langley Central Files.) In 1978, Langley shipped all the documentary 

records of the review board to the National Archives; however, it kept all the related hardware, including 

the Apollo capsule itself. In 1990 preparations were made to send the "Apollo storage container," which 

included the capsule, to the Kennedy Space Center for an appropriate burial with remnants of the Space 

Shuttle Challenger. However, those preparations halted after a controversy ensued over the historical 

significance of the Apollo capsule and its possible use in a museum exhibition. Thus, in the summer 

of 1990, NASA made the decision to keep the Apollo hardware right where it was, in a warehouse 

at Langley. (The press was allowed to view the remains briefly, in part to confirm that Langley still 

possessed them.) On 7 November 1990, Langley Director Richard H. Petersen ordered his director of 

operations "to seal the entrance to the Apollo 204 storage container" and not to break it "without my 

written approval." For the relevant ~ocumentation, see the Apollo 204 Review Board files, Langley 

Central Files. 

391 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-67-1697 

The Lunar Landing Research Facility staff crowds around Apollo astronaut Neil 

Armstrong (center) in March 1967, 28 months before he was to become the first 

human to set foot on the moon. 

was behind it. Funding was available. The entire nation mobilized for a 

common goal." In his opinion, to this day, ~'the landing on the Moon was 

undoubtedly mankind's greatest technological achievement and engineering 

accomplishment. We started essentially from scratch in 1962 and seven years 

later we were on the Moon. It was a remarkable achievement and remains 

unsurpassed." 59 

Indeed, Apollo was the crowning achievement of the spaceflight revolution, but it had also served as NASA's only guiding star through nearly all 

of the 1960s. Apollo shone so spectacularly, few aboard NASA suspected 

that it would ever dim. Unfortunately, near the end of the program, interest in spaceflight waned, and Apollo's brightness proved to be that of a 

supernova~dazzling yet brief. Once Apollo had faded, NASA found itself 

traveling without direction. 

392 
12 

The Cortright Synthesis 

A new era had already started. All I did was accelerate it. Thompson was wedded to the Langley way of 

doing things and under Tommy everything would be 

done well, but done their way and in their good time. 

All I did was speed it up, I think, what was bound to 

happen eventually. 

-Edgar M. Cortright, Langley director 

Cortright came down here with the idea that he knew 

everything and that he was going to control everything. And this made it very difficult for some of us. 

Some of us could adjust to it, some of us didn't. I'm 

one of those who didn't. 

-Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., former 

Langley director of aeronautics 

Every revolution needs its culminating figure, its rationalizer, its 

Napoleon, who synthesizes chosen elements of the old regime and the revolution to create a new order. Under the firm and confident direction of 

this dynamic leader, a revolutionary episode calms down, grows structured, 

becomes what is expected, and establishes norms. The revolution eventually 

becomes the social and intellectual world in which the new generation lives, 

awaiting the next major upheaval. 

For NASA Ames Research Center in Sunnyvale, California, this 

culminating-and dominating-figure was Dr. Hans Mark, who succeeded 

NACA Langley veteran H. Julian "Harvey" Allen as center director in 

February 1969.1 For Langley, it was Edgar M. Cortright, who would serve 

as Langley center director from May 1968 to August 1975. In the first 

36 months of his tenure, Cortright put Langley through the most sweeping 

393 
Spaceflight Revolution 

reorganization in the center's history, be it NACA or NASA. At the end of 

it, Langley was not the same place it had been. Many of Langley's most 

vital links to the old culture of NACA research were eliminated or retired. 

In their place would be established a still very reputable and effective organization but one completely adapted to-even tamed by-the criteria and 

standards set by the spaceflight revolution. 

Putting a comprehensive treatment of the Cortright reorganization and 

its aftermath at the end of this long study of the spaceflight revolution 

at Langley, however, would be like piggybacking a complete study of the 

Napoleonic period on top of a history of the French Revolution from the 

fall of the Bastille to the coup d'etat of 18 Brumaire. The two subjects, 

although intricately related, need to be treated separately because they are 

both so vast. In this conclusion, the reader will find discussed only a few 

of Cortright's changes and their ramifications. I include them to illustrate 

the dialectical process by which Cortright institutionalized the spaceflight 

revolution at Langley. 

The Stranger 

Up to the time of Cortright, whenever a Langley center director left his 

job, he had been replaced by someone already working at the laboratory. 

In 1925 upon the resignation of Leigh M. Griffith, young Henry Reid, an 

electrical engineer who had been working in Langley's instrument research 

laboratory since 1921, became the engineer in charge. In 1960 upon Reid's 

long-awaited retirement, Floyd Thompson succeeded him; Thompson had 

been working at Langley since 1927, and for the past several years he had 

been Reid's associate director. In office, Thompson immediately faced the 

problem of naming his own second-in-command. Prior to the spaceflight 

revolution, the director had always given this position to a close and trusted 

associate, someone who had been working at Langley for some time. But 

in the new political and bureaucratic environment of NASA, Thompson 

hesitated. For over a year, he acted as his own associate director, naming no 

one to replace him in his old position until he could thoroughly think through 

the appointment. Cagey Thompson was considering an unprecedented 

move: the appointment of a non-Langley person, Dr. Ernst Stuhlinger 

of NASA Marshall Space Flight Center. By naming Stuhlinger, one of 

von Braun's rocketeers, Thompson would prove to NASA headquarters 

that he was not so parochial as to only consider Langley researchers for 

the job. Approached confidentially so that no one at Langley would hear 

about the offer until it was finalized, Stuhlinger eventually turned down the 

job. Thus, almost no one heard about-or even now know of-the offer 

to Stuhlinger. Only after Stuhlinger's refusal did Thompson turn to his 

talented young friend at Langley, Charles Donlan. By selecting Donlan as 

394 
The Cortright Synthesis 

the associate director, according to Langley tradition, Donlan was anointed 

as Thompson's heir apparent. 

Donlan, however, was never given the directorship because the spaceflight 

revolution would interfere with the tradition of succession at Langley. In 

March 1968, NASA named not Donlan but Edgar M. Cortright, a virtual 

stranger to Langley, as the center's new director. Donlan found himself out 

in the cold; he soon left Langley to serve as deputy associate administrator 

for manned spaceflight at NASA headquarters. Donlan did this even before 

Cortright named another outsider, Oran W. Nicks, his former assistant in 

the office of unmanned spaceflight in Washington, as his associate director. 

Floyd Thompson made a fuss over none of this; after all, eight years earlier, 

he had himself tried to bring in Stuhlinger as his number two man. Moreover, 

Thompson had not retired voluntarily as Langley's director. Instead, NASA 

headquarters announced unilaterally that "Dr. Floyd L. Thompson, Director 

of Langley Research Center, will retire when he reaches the age of 70 

on November 25, 1968, and that Edgar M. Cortright, Deputy Associate 

Administrator for Manned Space Flight at NASA Headquarters, will replace 

him as Director of Langley Center on May 1, 1968." This would enable 

Thompson, NASA headquarters said, to "utilize a large part of his time 

on agency-wide planning and evaluation activities." His first extra-Langley 

task was to be as special consultant to the NASA administrator, Dr. Thomas 

0. Paine, who in March had succeeded James Webb. 2 

In certain respects the coming of Cortright was in keeping with the 

Langley tradition. Like Thompson and Henry Reid, he was an engineer 

whose first professional employment had been with the NACA. After graduating with a bachelor's degree in aeronautical engineering from Rensselaer 

Polytechnic Institute in 1947, Cortright had gone to work at the NACA's 

Lewis laboratory, where he had specialized in the propulsion aerodynamics of 

supersonic aircraft and guided missiles. While in Cleveland, he had become 

protege to Abe Silverstein, Lewis's dynamic associate director. Because 

Silverstein had worked at Langley from 1929 to 1943, Cortright became 

familiar with many of the traditions of the NACA's first laboratory.3 

In keeping with the spaceflight revolution, however, the coming of 

Cortright also meant dramatic change. Unlike his two predecessors as director, he had never worked at Langley. Instead of making his way to a high 

position through leadership in the laboratory's general research program, 

Cortright had earned the directorship through his project management work 

at NASA headquarters. When Abe Silverstein came to Washington in the 

summer of 1958 to prepare for the transition to NASA, he had brought young 

Cortright with him. For most of his years in Washington, Cortright was associated with the unmanned space program-including the Mariner, Ranger, 

and Surveyor projects. In that program, his boss was Homer E. Newell, 

the former chief scientist at NRL. (The core staff of Goddard Space Flight 

Center had come from NRL, an organization, as we have seen, that would 

often be at odds with Langley.) In 1963, Cortright became NASA's deputy 

395 
Spaceflight Revolution 

VOLUME 7, NUMBER 5 LANGLEY RESEARCH CENTER MARCH 22, 1968 

DR. THOmPSOn, mR. DODLAD ID TOP DASA POSTS; 

EDGAR m. lORTRIGHT nAmED DEIU .LADGLEY DIREITOR 

Edgar M. Cortright Charles J. Donlan Dr. Floyd L. ·Thbmpson 

The National Aeronautics and Space Administration an- As Program Manager for Apollo Applications, Luskin 

rtounced this week that Dr. Floyd L. Thompson, Director will have responsibility for planning and carrying otit the 

ofits Li:mgleyResearchCenter, wiUretire when he reaches utilization of the large Saturn boosters and the Apollo 

the age of 70 on November 25, 1968, and that Edgar M. spacecraft systems in the period foHowing the demonCortright, Deputy Associate Administrator for Manned stration of the capability of this equipment to land men on 

Space ·Flight at NASA Headquarters, will replace him as the moon and return them safely to earth. 

Director of the Langley Center on May l, 1968, enabling In October 1967, Cortright joined the Office of Manned 

Dr. Thompson to utiliZe a large part of his time on agency- Space Flight in NASA Headquarters as Deputy Associate 

wide planning and evaluation activities. Administrator. In this position, he serves as general manOr. Thompson will continue to serve as Special Assistant ager of NASA's program for manned space flight. 

to the Administrator until hiS retirement and will serve Cortright joined the former National Advisory committee 

as Consultant to the Administrator on a part-time basis for Aez:onautics (predecessor to NASA) as an aeronautical 

after retirement. On May 1, CharlesJ. Donlan, Deputy Di- research scientist at the Lewis Flight Propulsion Labrector of the Langley Research Center, will transfer from oratory (now Lewis Research Center), Cleveland, Ohio, 

the Langley Center to NASA Headquarters to serve as in 1948. From 1~49 to 1~54, he was head of the Small 

Deputy Associate Administrator for Manned Space Flight Supersonic Tunnels Section; from 1954 to 1958, he vias 

(Technical). Chief of the 8- by 6-foot Supersonic Wind Tunnel Branch. 

Replacing Cortright May 1 as Deputy Associate Admin- In January 1958, he was appointed Chief of the Plasma 

istrator for Manned Space Flight will be Charles Mathews, Physics ·sranch. 

Director, Apollo Applications Program, and formerly Pro- Upon NASA's creation on October 1, 1958, Cortright begram Manager for Gemini. came Chief of the Advanced Technology Programs and 

The successor to Mathews will be Harmd Luskin, former directed initial formulation .of NASA's Meteorological 

Chief of Advanced Design Engineering of Lockheed-Cali- Satellite Program, including Tiros and Nimbus. In FebforniaCompany and the former President of the American ruary 1960, he became Assistant Director fOr lunar 

Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics. Until May 1, and planetary programs in the former Office of Space 

Luskin will serve as Deputy Associate Administrator for Flight Programs. In this capacity, he directed the planM!lDiled Space Fligl)t (Tecll!lical). (Continued on page 3) 

Langley tr:umpets a changing of the guard, 22 March 1968. 

396 
The Cortright Synthesis 

associate administrator for space sciences and applications. Just before coming to Langley, he became deputy associate director of the Office of Manned 

Space Flight under George E. Mueller. 

Throughout his stay at NASA headquarters, which essentially spanned 

the era of the spaceflight revolution, Cortright had been involved with the 

management of an unmanned space program that, with the exception of 

the Lunar Orbiter project, did not involve Langley. To make matters 

worse, as far as Langley veterans were concerned, by the mid-1960s, Webb's 

organization in Washington had strong feelings that Langley had gone its 

own way too often under Thompson's paternalistic and rather closed NACA 

style of management. This group within headquarters, which included 

young Cortright, felt that Langley needed to be brought under tighter 

central control. When Webb picked Cortright to replace Thompson, he 

was essentially sending him to the center to ensure such waywardness did 

not continue-to bring Langley into the fold. 

Webb did not draft Cortright for the job; Cortright eagerly applied for it. 

His last assignment at NASA headquarters, as George Mueller's deputy in 

the Office of Manned Space Flight, involved "troubleshooting" for the Apollo 

program; this basically amounted to staying in Washington to stroke the 

troops during day-to-day meetings at headquarters while the real excitement 

took place elsewhere. This did not satisfy the ambitious Cortright. "It was 

awfully hard to come in that late in Apollo and make much of an impact," 

he remembers. So Cortright went directly to Webb and asked him for the 

Langley job.* "I wanted my own ship. I always felt that the Center director 

was absolutely the best job in NASA, and it is." To him, filling Thompson's 

post would be "a career dream achieved." 4 

Webb gave the forty-five-year-old Cortright the job, apparently with little 

hesitation. In Cortright's view, Webb had a "gut feeling" that "Langley 

needed a shot in the arm" and that it had gotten "a little bit sleepy, a little 

bit complacent .... It needed to be brought up to speed." That was his 

broad charge to him. Webb gave him no specifics about what directorate 

or division needed attention; he only conveyed the message that Cortright, 

as a younger person and an outsider, might succeed in "putting more life" 

into the historic "Mother Langley." 5 

Langley employees were surprised but not shocked upon hearing the 

news of Cortright's appointment. "My reception was very cordial, very 

courteous. Well, I say very cordial. It was certainly friendly but maybe a 

little standoffish because they didn't know me. I didn't know them and I was 

an unknown factor in the equation to some extent." 6 The only ones upset by 

Cortright's arrival were Charles Donlan's many close friends and associates, 

who believed the job should have been his, but not even they openly showed 

* This is Cortright's version. People at Langley heard at the time that Webb, when he was about to 

leave NASA, asked Cortright what he c~uld do for him. Cortright answered he wanted Langley. There 

are no authoritative sources to contradict Cortright's version, only hearsay. 

397 
Spaceflight Revolution 

L,68,2747 

The old guard welcomed Cortright to Langley politely but without real enthusiasm. 

From left to right: Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., Cortright, Charles Donlan, T. Melvin 

Butler, Clifford Nelson, Eugene Draley, and John Duberg. 

their disappointment. Most people gave Cortright the benefit of the doubt. 

What little they knew about him and his reputation at NASA headquarters 

gave them reason to believe he was a dynamic leader and high achiever who 

might be successful in getting Langley more resources and more of NASA's 

project work. But as we shall see, the latter was not something that the 

research-minded at Langley wanted to see happen. 

When Cortright arrived, he had no detailed master plan for restructuring 

Langley; thus, the reorganization that followed did not happen overnight. 

Cortright started his job as Langley center director on 1 May 1968, but 

he did not have all the major organizational changes formulated and ready 

to be announced publicly until September 1970. That is not to say that 

he did not hit the ground running. A dynamic man with tremendous selfconfidence, Cortright believed that his project management experience at 

NASA headquarters had prepared him to take over Langley's direction. On 

his first day at the center, he met with the senior staff and the mid-level 

supervisors in the Langley Morale Activities building to discuss his plans 

for becoming more acquainted with the many aspects of his new position. 

In his speech to them, he praised the center for its reputation as a "well 

398 
L-70-6003 

The Cortright Synthesis 

On his first day as director (Wednesday, 

1 May 1968}, Edgar M. Cortright (left) 

met with the senior staff in the Morale 

Activities building (below). Many members of the senior staff believed that 

Cortright had arrived at Langley with 

preconceived ideas and plans for the 

center. 

399 
Spaceflight Revolution 

managed and smoothly operating organization" and expressed "pleasure at 

the opportunity to work with the Langley staff in moving forward as a team 

to continue to contribute to the advancement of flight." 7 Because he was 

an outsider and largely unknown to most of the Langley staff, Cortright 

did what he could to reassure people that he had not come to Langley to 

make wholesale changes, but suspicions remained. Several members of the 

senior staff, in particular, worried that Cortright had been sent to Langley 

for the express purpose of bringing Langley into line under headquarters-a 

sentiment not far from the truth. 

For at least the first year, however, no one at Langley could be sure what 

Cortright intended. During his first six months, Cortright spent two or three 

days a week in meetings in which every branch of the center reported on 

the status of all its facilities and activities. "I had every group at the center 

come in and brief me in depth on what they were doing so I wouldn't go off 

half-cocked. I think I got grudging respect out of that, for taking the time 

to learn that much about what was going on." From this thorough review, 

Cortright formed a better picture of Langley's strengths and weaknesses. 

"What I found was a high degree of technical competence. There was hardly 

anything in aeronautics that Langley was not expert in and didn't have at 

least a small pool of experts." In aeronautics Langley "didn't have to take 

second place to anyone in the country in almost any area one could think of." 

In space, however, Langley "didn't have quite that much capability." The 

staff had good project management capability from Lunar Orbiter and from 

Scout, but there were "quite a few areas of space technology that they had 

very little capability in," such as electronics (Langley did have electronics 

under IRD), which Cortright knew was not Langley's fault because NASA 

had not given the research center much opportunity to develop these areas. 8 

Overall, Cortright felt that the organization "could stand improvement 

in terms of the way the authorities were parceled out" inside the center and 

in the way Langley interacted with NASA headquarters. On both counts, 

he was a critic of the old NACA way of doing things. The NACA, in his 

view, was "a very loosely structured research organization where the power 

resided in the centers, with the center directors and the key researchers." 

NACA headquarters was "primarily a bookkeeping type of organization .... 

They were super people at NACA headquarters, starting with Hugh Dryden, 

but mostly they went in and fought for authorizations and appropriations." 

They did not control the centers much, which meant that the centers usually 

got what the centers wanted. "What the centers wanted to work on, they 

worked on." 9 In other words, the engineers not the managers were in charge. 

Under the demands of the spaceflight revolution, NASA had worked to 

invent a new system. "We did not delegate total management authority to 

the centers. We kept a rather strong management team in NASA headquarters." Every project had "program managers" in headquarters, along with 

a designated project .manager at the centers. "When it worked right, those 

two guys worked hand in glove. When it didn't work right, frequently the 

400 
The Cortright Synthesis 

center directors got in the middle and resisted direct independent interaction 

between the program office and the project office." Floyd Thompson had 

done this more than occasionally, which was one of the main reasons that 

Cortright was given Thompson's job. And he was just the man to correct 

the situation. While working under Homer Newell, he had written the book 

on the relationship between the program manager and the project manager. 

Cortright now had the responsibility of leading Langley into a new age in 

which it would live by the book much more closely than it ever had under 

Thompson, who in Cortright's view was "not overly responsive" to following 

set procedures. 10 

Cortright also wanted to keep closer tabs on how research was being 

managed at Langley. In the old days of the NACA, research was allowed 

to take its time and run its course, which meant that many efforts were 

allowed to go on indefinitely awaiting clear results. But times had changed, 

and the uncertainty of such tortoise-paced fundamental explorations could 

not be tolerated as in the past. About a year after coming to the center, 

one meeting in particular cemented Cortright's opinion of what needed to 

be done to invigorate the center. For this meeting, he asked the directors 

of all the divisions to put on the briefing and explain what their programs 

involved and where the most progress could be made. 

That meeting, Cortright remembers, was a "disaster." First, he discovered to his dismay that some of Langley's research divisions were working 

on technology that was "95 percent soft," meaning that the researchers involved were "squeezing the last ounce out of it at a fair expenditure of time 

and money." More disturbing was that "it was very hard to get anyone to 

tell you what his program was under him. It was just a collection of miscellaneous things which he, the individual, may have known how to justify 

informally on a one-to-one basis, but was not very articulate at explaining." 

This poor performance fixed Cortright's feeling that Langley was indeed a 

sleepy place in need of new lifeblood. "I was very disappointed because the 

directors hadn't done their homework and gave some very bad presentations. 

And that set my mind at work that there should be some changes." 11 

The Reorganization 

One of the goals of the major reorganization of the center that ensued was 

to make responsibilities and lines of communication clearer within Langley. 

According to the NACA way, such things were kept informal and rather 

obscure. Dr. George Lewis, the NACA's longtime director of research 

(1919-1947), disliked formal organization charts, once saying to a young 

Langley industrial engineer interested in developing them that the only 

thing that boxes were good for was burying people. Henry Reid and Floyd 

Thompson agreed wholeheartedly with Lewis. The best way to set up an 

organization was to make things very fluid so that "shadow organizations" 

401 
Spaceflight Revolution 

could cut horizontally through the formal boundaries. Such an organization 

also made it hard for outsiders to know exactly what was going on inside 

the laboratory, thereby making it harder for them to exploit or manipulate 

its resources. Such thinking resulted in Floyd Thompson's creation of the 

Groups 1, 2, and 3 organization, which made it impossible to tell the players 

inside them without a scorecard. 

Ed Cortright wanted none of this. In his own words, he was always 

"180 degrees opposite" from Thompson's shell game. Instead, he thought 

that a center director should "show everything and everyone, right up to 

the administrator, exactly how you were organized and everything you were 

doing." In other words, "total display" was his policy. Organization charts 

should be simple and obviously understandable, with "a good person in every 

box." Reporting procedures should be equally clear so that no surprises. 

lurked in the wings. "If we were screwing up someplace, we'd learn it as 

we were going along-not at the end of the project when something bad 

has happened and a [government auditor] comes back and says that we've 

misperformed." At NASA headquarters earlier in the 1960s, Cortright had 

set up a reporting system for budgets and projects that guaranteed such 

total display. With the same bureaucratic purposes in mind, Cortright now 

set out to reorganize Langley and its reporting procedures. "We spent a 

lot of time putting together our presentations every year, of every project, 

every program area, with pictures and charts to show exactly where the 

money was going, how it was being spent." 12 Not everyone at Langley liked 

such visibility, and some may not have abided by it faithfully, but by the 

early 1970s, it had become standard at the center. Those people who did 

not like it "lumped it." 

By the end of 1969, Cortright had bided his time long enough; he was 

ready to carry out the reorganization that had been germinating in his mind 

since he arrived. In typical Cortright fashion, he brought those who would 

be most affected by the changes into the process of making them so that 

they would feel that they had at least a part in determining the course of 

their own future. "I gave the problem to my directors," whether they liked 

it or not. He said to them, "Look, this is roughly what I want, and I'm 

not going to tell you how to do it." The only thing that he specified was 

that he did want basic changes, because "you get comfortable with your 

mistakes," and he wanted opportunities made "for creative young people to 

get a chance to lead." 13 

In the director's main conference room-the "Brown Room" in the Administration building, which was next to Cortright's own office-a small task 

force made up of the directors and a few handpicked staff assistants, themselves mostly young, orchestrated the reorganization that the spaceflight 

revolution had made inevitable. On a large mahogany conference table, this 

task force laid out big sheets of paper and went to work reorganizing the 

center and everything and everyone who belonged to it. As the directors 

brought in their ideas· and plans, the task force coordinated and massaged 

402 
The Cortright Synthesis 

them, keeping Cortright's agenda foremost in mind. When it was all done, 

in the summer of 1970, between 80 and 90 percent of all the supervisory 

positions at Langley had new faces in them. A few of the old supervisors 

left NASA through early retirements; some did not retire but became consultants on salary out of the line of command; most were shuffi.ed into new 

positions and into new organizations. Only the people who really did not 

like where this rearranging landed them left. 

On 24 September 1970, after months of planning, Cortright's office distributed a large 79-page report to all center employees. It was entitled 

"Reorganization of Langley Research Center." The report detailed all the 

organizational changes and provided charts outlining the new overall structure of the center. On its green-colored cover, Cortright explained the 

report's purpose and immediate history: "Several weeks ago I submitted 

proposals for the reorganization of Langley Research Center to the Administrator [Dr. Thomas 0. Paine] and the Office of Advanced Research and 

Technology for review and consideration. These proposals have now been 

approved by Headquarters, and the organizational and personnel changes 

will be made effective October 4, 1970." 14 Whether Cortright was aware of 

it or not-and no evidence exists to indicate that he was-4 October was 

the 13th anniversary of Sputnik. To Cortright, the day was just the start 

of a new fiscal year. (Coincidentally, or perhaps as part of some underlying 

pattern in the unfolding of revolutions, the birth of the Napoleonic Code 

in 1802 dates from almost exactly 13 years after the outbreak of the French 

Revolution.) 

In his letter to Administrator Paine, the contents of which he reviewed 

in the "Green Paper" report, Cortright stated that "the proposed reorganization would accomplish a number of important steps toward effective 

prosecution of the projected research program of this Center during the 

coming decade." He then outlined the six principal advantages of the realignment: first, each of the major areas of research responsibility at the 

center would have a clearer "organizational focus" ; second, all emerging 

R&D responsibilities would be recognized organizationally; third, new supervisory assignments would be tailored to the future opportunities for the 

center; fourth, personnel and facilities working on closely related problems 

would be more efficiently integrated; fifth, the center would strengthen its 

effort on institutionalproblems and work more effectively with NASA headquarters; and sixth, technical and administrative support of the research 

effort would be improved. More specifically, the reorganization would result 

in better integration of programs; greater stimulation of new program efforts 

as well as the enhanced development of supervisory personnel; more efficient 

use of manpower, equipment, and materials; and better interface between 

the center and other organizations.15 

The new organization consisted of four major research directorates: Electronics, Structures, Aeronautics, and Space, thus eliminating Thompson's 

mysterious Groups 1, 2, and 3. Supporting these four were two other 

403 
Spaceflight Revolution 

directorates: Systems Engineering and Operations, and Administration. In 

addition, one other directorate was formed for center development. This 

final directorate, first headed by Gene Draley and later by Langley veteran 

T. Melvin Butler,* was to report directly to the center director on matters 

that encompassed the interest of all or most of the other directorates, such 

as safety, reliability, and quality assurance. 

Without a doubt, the overall layout was much cleaner and clearer than 

any during Floyd Thompson's term as director. Every aspect of the center 

that could be rationalized was rationalized. The reorganization drew a 

clear line between aeronautics and space. Aeronautics was split into three 

basic research divisions: one for low-speed aircraft, one for high-speed 

aircraft, and one for hypersonic vehicles, with two additional divisions 

focusing on advanced technology transports (most notably the SST, which 

was not canceled until the following year) and on the operation of flight 

research vehicles. The Structures Directorate also divided neatly into three 

divisions: loads, structures, and materials. Even after the reorganization, 

directors and division heads still exercised some crossover responsibilities 

but not nearly as many as before. 

In addition, at Cortright's specific request, the new organization made 

room for and focused some of the center's newest R&D interests. Electronics, 

as Cortright had noted in his earliest staff briefings, needed beefing up, 

so it became its own directorate, with four divisions. Inside the Space 

Directorate, a new division devoted to the study of environmental and space 

sciences was formed. This represented a new focus of interest at Langley, 

one stimulated in large part by the growing international interest in the 

problems of environmental pollution and energy consumption. Under the 

direction of Cortright, who considered himself a pragmatic environmentalist, 

the atmospheric sciences ultimately proved to be one of the center's most 

productive and worthwhile areas of research. 16 

Another noteworthy item on the organization chart was the Viking 

Project Office. The goal of Project Viking was to land scientific payloads 

on Mars; this mission would be achieved in 1976. In December 1968, just 

a few months after Cortright took office, NASA gave Langley the overall 

responsibility for managing the project. The assignment made sense given 

Langley's management of the tremendously successful Lunar Orbiter project 

and Cortright's own experience in project management and in the OSSA, 

where he had been the first to propose a manned Mars mission. In a sense, 

Viking came to Langley with Cortright, and it went where he did even after 

it came to Langley. As can be seen in the 4 October 1970 organization 

chart, the Viking Project Office reported directly to Cortright. No one 

else, no other box on the chart, intervened. Before the reorganization, the 

Viking office was in the Office for Flight Projects, which meant an assistant 

* Butler, 30 years previously, had been the young industrial engineer whom NACA Director of 

Research George Lewis had scolded for wanting to formalize Langley's organization charts. 

404 
CJl 

NASA LANGLEY RESEARCH CENTER 

VIKING 

PROJECT 

OFFICE 

DIRECTOR 

DEPUTY DIRECTOR 

ASSOCIATE DIRECTOR 

-------,----;--

ARMY AERONAUTICAL 

RESEARCH LABORATORY 

DIRECTOR 

FOR 

CENTER DEVELOPMENT 

OFFICE O

RELIAB

QUALITY A

Organization chart of NASA Langley Research Center, effective 4 October 1
Spaceflight Revolution 

L-70-7351 

Reaching Mars with just an unmanned spacecraft meant overcoming engineering 

challenges greater in some respects than those posed by Apollo. Above, a scale 

model of the Viking Lander is tested in a Langley wind tunnel in 1970. 

director intervened between Viking managers and Cortright. But Viking was 

Cortright's baby, and with the reorganization he made sure it was pampered. 

As the Green Paper makes clear, "The Viking Project Office reports to the 

Center Director and thus occupies a unique position at the Center. This 

change recognizes the fact that Viking has the highest priority of any single 

undertaking at the Center and that authority has been delegated to the 

Viking Project Manager [James Martin] to exercise necessary direction and 

control over Center personnel who have been committed to the .support of 

Viking within the research and engineering divisions." Such was not the case 

for the only other major project office at Langley in 1970-Scout-which 

was still within a larger directorate. 17 

This clear preference for Project Viking disturbed several Langley researchers who feared that the big and virtually independent project office 

would dominate the general research programs. They worried that Viking 

would influence the center to a greater extent than Project Apollo had in 

the 1960s. Some feared a "Viking raid," and justifiably so. 

Cortright was enthusiastically committed to Viking; by his own admission, it "probably took half my time as director." With his help, the project 

office built up a full-time staff of more than 250. Supporting them were an 

equal number of employees in systems engineering, the shops, and in administration. This did cause real problems .at Langley. "The researchers felt I 

gave too much of my. time to Viking and that it got too many resources. 

Some even felt that it split the center. But my philosophy was simple. We 

406 
The Cortright Synthesis 

Left, a Viking Orbiter 1 photo of the mysterious "Red Planet" taken in June 1976. 

In September 1976, the camera aboard 

Viking Lander 2 (below} shows a boulderstrewn field reaching to the Martian horizon approximately 2 miles away. 

407 
Spaceflight Revolution 

had Viking. We had to make it succeed, period. There was no choice but 

to do it properly. And it did succeed, magnificently. It was the highlight of 

the whole space program, as far as I am concerned. Two orbiters around 

Mars; two landers on Mars. They all operated the way they were supposed 

to do. I never would have expected, in my fondest dreams, that they would 

have been that successful. . . . If anyone ever thought [Langley] was a sleepy 

center, they sure didn't while Viking was going on or when it succeeded." 18 

Viking concerned researchers, but nothing upset them as much as the 

personal trauma of leaving old and comfortable jobs, moving into new 

and unknown ones, and perhaps even facing retirement. In concluding his 

executive summary of the contents of the reorganization report, Cortright 

stated: "It is realized that the changes outlined herein affect a large 

number of employees, many of whom will be relocated and working under 

new supervision. During the initial transition stages, some inconveniences 

will be experienced. This is to be expected and is a normal outgrowth 

of reorganization. However, I believe that the immediate and long-range 

future of Langley Research Center is of prime concern to all of us, and I 

feel confident that all supervisors and employees will make every effort to 

facilitate the transition." 19 

Any executive officer wants to put together his own team of subordinates, 

and Cortright was certainly no exception. Long before the reorganization, he 

had made it clear that he would clean house. For example, when Donlan left 

Langley for Washington in early 1968 after being bypassed, Floyd Thompson 

had chosen 51-year-old Dr. John E. Duberg, a structures expert and Langley 

veteran since 1943, as the acting associate director. Thompson believed that 

Duberg should stay on as Cortright's associate director because he was just 

the person who could help a stranger learn everything he needed to know 

about Langley. Unfortunately for Duberg, Cortright came to realize that 

Duberg "liked the center the way it was," which marked him in Cortright's 

mind as "inflexible." 2° Cortright eventually took him out of the post and 

made him chief scientist, a position in which Duberg performed well.* 

In truth, Duberg just was not the kind of number two man Cortright 

wanted. He was looking for "a hard-nose driver who will implement and 

follow through." In Cortright's view, his own strongest suit had always been 

"understanding what needs to be done, being able to put teams together to 

do it, and providing the leadership, with the correct policies and decisions." 

He was not terribly good, however, at stepping on toes or being ruthless 

about getting things done; he was "too soft for that." For the "tough 

follow-through," he needed someone else--a "hard-nose" deputy. 21 

As part of the September 1970 reorganization, Cortright found his man, 

Oran W. Nicks, the acting associate administrator of the OART at NASA 

* Before becoming chief scientist, Duberg served a short time as acting director for center development, 

succeeding Eugene Draley, who wanted no part of his new job under the Cortright reorganization but 

stayed on until he died of cancer. 

408 
The Cortright Synthesis 

L-70-176 

John E. Duberg {left) became Langley's chief scientist after serving briefly as 

the associate director for Edgar M. Cortright (right). The man in the middle 

is George M. Low, former head of the Office of Manned Spaceflight at NASA 

headquarters. Low, at the time of this photo, was serving as acting NASA 

administrator following Thomas 0. Paine's resignation in September 1970. 

headquarters. His choice was not a popular one at Langley, to put it mildly, 

in large part because Langley employees were just not used to having such 

a gunslinging honcho around. Thompson had been a tough number two 

for Henry Reid, and Donlan had been tough enough for Thompson, but no 

one ever cut quite as sharply into the flesh of employees as Nicks. This 

was especially hard to take from someone who did not know Langley. Like 

Cortright, Nicks had spent all his time up to then at NASA headquarters 

and mostly in the management of the space sciences arena, and unlike 

Cortright, he did not have the time to acquaint himself with the center, or 

vice-versa, before launching into action. Even Cortright admits in retrospect 

that "people either loved him or hated him, and there wasn't too much in 

between. He did step on toes. He was impatient with inaction, and research 

centers don't normally leap into action every time you suggest something." 22 

The person who felt the bite of the reorganization and Cortright's hardnose deputy the most was Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., the sage head of Group 3 

and John Stack's successor as head of aeronautical research at the center. 

Loftin survived the reorganization and was made director of the Office of 

409 
Spaceflight Revolution 

fkngley •R£searchu VOLUME 9, ·NUMBER 20 LANGLEY RESEARCH CENTER OCTOBER 2, 1•70 

AWARDS CEREMONY SPEAKER: Neil Armstrong, Commander of the Apollo ll moon mission, will be guest speaker at the Center's Annual Awards Ceremony which will be 

held October 14 at 1:30 p.m. in the NASA Hangar, BUilding 

1244. Each year the Center sets aside a special day ln Oct. 

for purposes of presenting length of service awards t o employees -and of recognizing individuals and groups at Langley for _outstanding achievements which they have made _to-

. ~rd realizing the mission of the Center and of NASA-. 

MAJOR ORGANIZATIONAL CHANGES 

ANNOUNCED; EFFECTIVE OCTOBER 4 

Major changes in the Langley Research Center's organization, which ·will become effective October 4, have been .announced by Di~ector Edg~r M. Cortright. 

''This r.eorganization, which is keyed to the future,'' Cortright satd, "is designed -with several important objectives 

in mind. We a re consolidating our research talents and 

focusingthem on NASA's roles and missions for the 197(J's. 

We are giying ine;reased attention to the future growth of the 

Langley Research Center and to its relationships with other 

organizations. And we are moving some _of our most promising young men into positions of management responsibility 

where they can exercise research leadership." 

Four major research directorates are -being established 

in Aeronautics, Space, Electronics, and Structures. They 

will be headed by Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., Director for 

Aeronauticsj Clifford H. Nelson, "Director for _.Space; Oeorge 

B. Graves, Jr., Dir_ector for Electronics; and Dr. George 

W. Brooks, Director for Structures. 

The four resear.ch dire.ctorates will be supported by three 

Center-wide directorates in the areas of Systems Eng'ineeringand _Oper<ltion, Administration, and Center Development. 

Percy .J. ·Crain .will be Director for Systems Engineering; 

T. Melvin .Butler, :Direc:tor for Administration; and. EugEme 

C. Draley, Director for Center Development. 

Oran W. Nicks, Associate AdminiStrator for Advanced Research and Technology (Acting), NASA Headquarters, will 

join the Center as Deputy Director in early November. 

In _a meeting with Langley senior staff officials, -Cortright 

_outlined some of the future NASA goals with which the Center is closely identified. 

These include an expanded aeronautics pr.ogram with inCreased emphasis on civil aircraft; a new era of manned 

(Continued on page 5) 

Cortright unveils his sweeping reorganization. 

410 
The Cortright Synthesis 

Aeronautics, but he did not last long. Loftin and Cortright represented 

different philosophies about research and how it could best be accomplished. 

Loftin had gone along grudgingly with the spaceflight revolution and had 

played a prominent role in both the early planning for Apollo and the 

space station. In this regard, he was typical of many of the former NACA 

researchers, but his heart had always remained true to airplanes and the 

golden years of NACA aerodynamic research. In the twilight of his career, 

he was not inclined to bow to Cortright's plans for Langley-and he was 

even less inclined to tolerate Oran Nicks, whose technical abilities he did 

not respect. 

In June 1971, Cortright replaced Loftin, who moved to a special assignment in the Office of the Assistant Secretary for the U.S. Air Force.23 

Although the outward appearance of Loftin's job change may have looked 

normal, Loftin in fact felt he had been fired. Cortright exacerbated the 

problem at the center when he gave Loftin's old job temporarily to Nicks. 

This lasted for only three months, until September, when Robert Bower, 

director of advanced development for Grumman Aerospace Corporation in 

Bethpage, New York (and Cortright's college fraternity brother), replaced 

him. 24 Unfortunately, Bower proved no more popular at Langley than Nicks. 

Part of what inspired the reorganization was Cortright's desire for a 

youth movement. "I wanted more youth," Cortright remembers. "I wanted 

people who had been in the same job for twenty years to move and do 

something a little different .... That's what I felt my charter was and I 

felt after that first year of studying the center and its people that it was 

justified." During Cortright's apprenticeship at NASA in the early 1960s, 

Abe Silverstein had told him, "You've got to keep the new blood coming in 

at the bottom all the time. If not, you have big gaps in your management 

later on." Cortright launched an aggressive recruitment campaign at the 

same time he was encouraging some of the older employees to retire early. 

He did this in the face of rather significant manpower reductions NASAwide. Even the heads of the directorates had to go out and give talks at 

some of the major colleges and universities to recruit talented graduates. 

Cortright himself went to Rensselaer, his alma mater, and to the California 

Institute of Technology (Caltech), which he knew well from his days at 

NASA headquarters when he monitored studies being done at JPL.25 

Cortright changed Langley's recruitment policy. He found by asking the 

center's personnel department that Langley had been recruiting in the 1960s 

almost exclusively from a handful of schools, notably Virginia Polytechnic 

Institute and State University, North Carolina State University, and Georgia 

Institute of Technology. When he asked why that was the case, personnel 

officer E. Townsend Johnson, Jr., replied, "Well, Mr. Cortright, we're sort 

of partial to southern boys." That displeased Cortright, and rightfully so, 

given the extent to which NACA Langley in the early years had built its 

talented staff on young people from northeastern and midwestern schools. 

411 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Cortright insisted on a nationwide search from then until the time he left 

in 1975.26 

Cortright's youth movement was not designed just to fill slots at the 

bottom of the organization; he also wanted to give younger people the 

chance to take on additional responsibility and assume leadership positions. 

To make room for the new people, however, Langley needed to get rid of 

some of the old. As suggested earlier, Cortright asked for early retirements. 

A number of senior people felt that if anyone had to go because of the 

manpower reductions, it ought to be them because they already had enjoyed 

good careers and should give younger people a chance. These younger people 

moving up, of course, were happy with the reorganization and provided 

Cortright with a solid base of support lasting throughout his stay at Langley. 

Other senior employees, however, became dissatisfied because of Cortright's 

downscaling of many of the highest civil service salaries at the center. 

Instead of trying to get as much as he could for his employees, as Thompson 

had always done, Cortright felt that researchers, no matter how many years 

of service, should not make more money than the boss. 

One group that strongly supported Cortright was the staff toiling in the 

shops. For them, Cortright rehabilitated facilities to provide better working 

conditions and, most importantly, air conditioning for the hot and humid 

Tidewater summers. In large buildings like the huge West Area airplane 

hangar where air conditioning was impractical, he found enough money to 

install large fans that hung down from the ceiling and blew cool air on the 

mechanics and other workers. "Boy, these shop people were my friends from 

then on," Cortright is proud to say. "And when I retired, they wrote in 

their shop news that they thought it was unfortunate that the best director 

they'd ever had had seen fit to retire .... I loved those folks. They're the 

salt of the earth. And I wasn't going to have them working in sweat-shop 

conditions while all the engineers sat in air conditioning." 27 

Cortright did other things to build support for his programs. He initiated 

the practice of giving an annual "state of the center" address, an affair that 

had no precedent at Langley. "I was a big one for getting people on my side 

and pumped up," he states. "Langley did so many great things before I got 

there under Reid and Thompson, that I just wanted to get more of the same. 

I didn't particularly want to do any better than they did, just to make sure 

that I did that well, at least." Besides giving this formal overview of the 

center's current programs and future directions to the Langley employees, 

Cortright also presented a simplified version of his state of the center address 

to the employees' spouses. "I gave them about an hour and a half lecture on 

what the center was doing, why their husbands were coming home late, and 

what they were accomplishing. That 'coffee and briefing program' worked 

out real well. It was just part of my style." 28 

Cortright also moved to stimulate NASA's popular appeal in the community at large by creating an official NASA Visitors' Center, which opened 

on site at the center in 1971. Such an attraction contrasted sharply with 

412 
The Cortright Synthesis 

the old NACA days prior to the spaceflight revolution when the low-key 

Langley installation was largely invisible to the American public. The leaders of the NACA wanted to keep it that way, but Cortright, following his 

philosophy of total display, wanted the center opened to visitors-as many 

of them as would come. "I built the Visitors' Center. I initiated a major 

program to communicate the good works of the lab. I got headquarters' 

approval for it and we designed it internally, put up all the displays, and 

opened it up in less than two years' time. It became the place for having outside groups and hosting receptions." (Axel Mattson, Langley's former secret 

agent in Houston, actually put the visitors' center together, along with many 

of its exhibits.) In fact, until its official closing in 1992 and its move to the 

multimillion-dollar Virginia Air and Space Center on the riverfront in downtown Hampton, this small visitors' center on site at Langley Research Center attracted (at least according to NASA statistics) more tourists than any 

other single attraction on the Peninsula, which includes the many historic 

and entertaining sites in the Jamestown-Williamsburg-Yorktown triangle. 29 

In a similar vein, Cortright brought Langley and its surrounding community together by joining with the city of Hampton in the building of a 

unique steam-generating trash burner. "We saw where we could burn trash 

and get all of Langley Field's steam requirement and help solve the landfill 

problem." Put into operation in 1978, this unique facility worked well except 

for the release of some nitrogen oxides into the air, a problem that the plant 

engineers eventually solved. The incinerator, which remains in operation to 

this day, is a testimony to the kind of community program that Cortright 

sponsored. 30 

New Directions 

Ed Cortright was not an unpopular center director. Nor was he unaccomplished. During his seven years at the center, Langley again built a solid 

record of R&D achievements.* Topping the list, of course, were the successful landings of the Viking spacecraft, Cortright's pride and joy, on Mars 

in 1976. Nothing in the history of space exploration, except perhaps the 

manned lunar landing, was a more amazing feat or more difficult to carry 

out. Under Langley's expert project management and Cortright's general 

oversight, Viking accomplished its mission almost flawlessly. 31 

One of the technological developments that had made the spaceflight 

revolution possible was the arrival of powerful new computers with new 

integrated circuitry. Langley had made good use of this new technology 

* After Langley, Cortright moved to executive jobs in industry, first with a $4-billion glass, plastics, 

and paperboard packaging company in Owen, Illinois, and then as president of Lockheed's California 

company. 

413 
Spaceflight Revolution 

through Paul Fuhrmeister's ACD, but little had been done programmatically during Floyd Thompson's term as director to formalize and consolidate the opportunities made possible by the development of new electronic 

capabilities. During Cortright's directorship, Langley's computational skills 

grew much more sophisticated and organized. Early in his term as director, 

he sponsored the development of the Institute for Computer Applications 

in Science and Engineering (ICASE) at the center, which enabled leading 

professors from around the world to use Langley's Star computer to explore 

ways of applying their mathematical abilities to the development of new 

aerospace-related technologies. At about the same time, Langley's computational specialists refined a system called "NASTRAN," which stood for 

NASA Structural Analysis. This innovative computer system, first conceived at NASA Goddard in the mid-1960s, expedited analysis of many 

types of structures, including large launch vehicles, aircraft, bridges, and 

even automobiles. As part of the Cortright reorganization, a NASTRAN 

Systems Management Office evolved inside the Structures Division of the 

Structures Directorate. The office continued until 1978.32 

Cortright sponsored the development of a computer program that was 

not as successful-IPAD, or the Integrated Program for Aerospace-Vehicle 

Design. IPAD engineers were to help optimize aircraft design by creating interactive computer programs relating aerodynamics, propulsion, and 

structures. The computer program was to be set up with subroutines that 

would interact through a master central computer. At the master computer, in Cortright's words, "a group of whizzes can design airplanes in a 

quarter of the time" that it normally took. Ultimately, IP AD would give 

Langley researchers important insights into such questions as how a change 

in wing shape would affect the weight of an aircraft or how changing engine 

placement would influence the craft's aerodynamics.33 

Unfortunately, the optimizing of an aircraft through computers was not 

an easy matter. Moreover, veteran Langley researchers were not accustomed 

to being put into the role of actual aircraft designers. By formal NACA 

policy, researchers were to provide the fundamental information that aircraft 

designers in industry would need to do their jobs; they were not to design 

particular airplanes. At senior staff meetings in the early 1970s, Cortright 

had it "thrown" at him that "we were not a design center" but a place where 

researchers worked on the problems that those who were designing would 

encounter. Old-timers like Larry Loftin and NACA veteran and assistant 

director of the Structures Directorate Richard Heldenfels warned Cortright 

about IPAD: "That's too elaborate. The companies design; we do basic 

research." To which Cortright replied, "Well, how do you know you're doing 

the right basic research if you don't know anything about design? And who 

is going to do this type of advanced thinking of getting computers to play 

with each other?" After all, at that time computers were just becoming 

important in the nation's research centers.34 

414 
The Cortright Synthesis 

In spite of the resistance from his senior aerodynamicists (who argued 

that they indeed did know a lot about design because they conducted 

fundamental research), Cortright went ahead with IPAD and eventually 

contracted Boeing for the system for just under $40 million. IPAD never 

achieved everything it set out to do, partly because its original goals were 

so elaborate, and NASA eventually canceled it when further developments 

in computer technology, including the development of personal computers 

(PCs) and individual work stations, made IPAD obsolete. Still, IPAD did 

have some positive results: it taught engineers in the aircraft industry and 

NASA how to begin conceptualizing an integrated aircraft design. 

A more noteworthy Cortright program that was to incorporate new computational capabilities was the Terminal Configured Vehicle and Avionics (TCVA) program, which NASA co-sponsored with the FAA.* In 1973, 

NASA bought Boeing's 737-100 prototype, a twin-jet standard-body airliner, at a cost of only $2.2 million (the market value of a used 737 in 1972 

was about $3.5 million) and outfitted the plane for research. The goal of 

the TCVA program was "to provide improvements in the airborne systems 

(avionics and air vehicle) and operational flight procedures for reducing approach and landing accidents, reducing weather minima, increasing air traffic controller productivity and airport and airway capacity, saving fuel by 

more efficient terminal area operations, and reducing noise by operational 

procedures." More specifically, the program was to investigate the best approaches of airliners for noise abatement and improved airport acceptance 

rates, cockpit displays of traffic information, and computer-aided navigation 

for improved fuel efficiency and closer spacing of aircraft landings. Other 

experiments eventually carried out as part of the program explored such 

things as high-speed runway turnoffs and use of the new microwave landing 

system that the FAA was developing. 35 

In summary, the task of the TCVA program was to improve air operations in crowded airport areas, which was a goal in some ways as formidable 

(and certainly as worthwhile) as landing humans on the moon. As this 

program evolved, TCVA became concerned with the quest for "the cockpit 

of the future." This cockpit would incorporate the most advanced digital avionics, a subfield that proved to be among the most ambitious aeronautical applications of computer power. The program also was one way 

for the center to stay involved with technologies relevant to the operation 

of the supersonic transport, even after Congress's cancellation of the SST 

in 1971. In particular, TCVA funding allowed NASA researchers to continue 

investigating the advanced digital electronic displays and automatic guidance and control systems that Boeing, the former SST prime contractor, 

had been considering for its supersonic airliner. 

* The word "Avionics" was later dropped, leaving the acronym TCV. In 1982 the entire name was 

changed to the Advanced Transport Operating System, or ATOPS program. 

415 
Spaceflight Revolution 

A 1/11-scale model of the 737 airplane is prepared for testing in Langley's 

Anechoic Antenna Test Facility as part 

of an effort to develop a collision avoidance system for commercial airliners. 

"I got the center into avionics," Cortright claims with pride, "which was 

totally new." Langley insiders, however, argue that veteran NACA/NASA 

test pilot John P. "Jack" Reeder and other researchers actually deserve the 

credit. Whoever was most responsible, the results were impressive, not 

just for Langley, which became perhaps NASA's foremost research center 

specializing in the application of microelectronics to aviation, but also for 

the FAA and the world of civil aviation. For Boeing specifically, TCVA led 

to sophisticated avionics systems incorporated into the company's new 757 

and 767 jet airliners. 36 

Cortright also believes that he kept Langley active in supersonic and 

hypersonic aerodynamics, which were two fields of high-speed performance 

that had lost national support by the early 1970s. "There was a huge effort 

to cancel hypersonics," he recalls, "but I fought for it all the eight years I 

was here, and kept it pretty much alive." The same was true for supersonics, 

which became something of a dirty word around the country following the 

controversies over sonic booms, noise, and environmental pollution, which 

prompted Congress to kill the national SST program in 1971. "We pushed 

supersonics even when we were told to drop all of it." In both these cases, 

Cortright had to back off his philosophy of "total display," because the only 

way to keep such politically sensitive work going in the early 1970s was by 

"bootlegging" it. "Sometimes you just have to survive. So we found ways 

to keep research going~critical research on supersonics and hypersonics~ 

even when Congress wanted anything labeled supersonic transport or the 

416 
L-84-13,632 

The Cortright Synthesis 

Cortright won initial funding in 1975 

for what became the National Transonic 

Facility, but his successor, Donald P. 

Hearth (director 1975- 1985}, would 

spend considerably more time, energy, 

and money than expected to build the 

innovative new wind-tunnel design and 

establish its regular operation. Left, 

Hearth's successor, Richard H. Petersen 

(1985-1991}, stands next to a model of 

the Boeing 767 prototype mounted in 

the NTF. Below, .a tunnel technician 

checks the nozzles that inject nitrogen 

gas into the airflow. 

417 
Spaceflight Revolution 

like, struck." 37 Cortright's critics, however, underplay the importance of 

his role in keeping these research areas alive. 

Cortright initiated one last project before leaving office in 1975, and 

this project proved to be critical to Langley's future: he won NASA's 

approval for $250,000 to build a small pilot facility to prove the feasibility 

of an in-house concept for a large cryogenic, high Reynolds number wind 

tunnel. The pilot facility did prove the large tunnel feasible. In 1983 after a 

long and tortuous developmental period under Cortright's successor, Donald 

P. Hearth, this major new facility, the National Transonic Facility (NTF or 

"The Big Cold One"), opened at Langley to rave reviews, not to mention 

the audible sighs of relief. 38 

Critique from the Old Guard 

Not everyone was happy with the Cortright reorganization or with the 

way the spaceflight revolution had been changing the character of Langley 

Research Center. Many of these critics were members of the old guard from 

the days of the NACA when the engineers were in charge and fundamental 

research was their bread and butter. This group was concerned that NASA 

Langley was heading in a dangerous direction: toward project management 

work, toward bureaucracy, toward contracting out, and toward less in-house 

capability. Some of the disenchanted were so frustrated and depressed by 

the changes taking place around them that they resigned and moved to new 

jobs or retired. Others stayed on to fight for their vision of Langley's future. 

To nurture communication among his supervisory personnel, Ed 

Cortright had initiated the practice of holding brief "retreats" from the 

center. The first of these included three dozen people and took place in 

the summer of 1969 at Airlie House, a quiet resort lodge in the mountains 

of western Virginia. A second and third retreat followed at Airlie in 1970 

and 1971, followed by annual retreats to Williamsburg, Virginia, which was 

much closer to Langley. On these occasions, some of the Langley veterans 

spoke up and exchanged opinions about the proper balance of research and 

project work. One of the retreat participants most concerned about the 

decay of the research effort at Langley was Macon C. Ellis, Jr., head of the 

MPD Branch, which Cortright would abolish as part of his September 1970 

reorganization. (See chapter 5.) 

Mike Ellis, however, was unhappy even before the dissolution of the 

MPD Branch. In January 1969, just months after Cortright took over, 

Ellis began putting down on paper what he called "Very Rough Thoughts 

on the Degeneration of Research-Mindedness at Langley and the Need 

for a 'Research Renaissance.'" He eventually shared the polished version, 

"Rough Thoughts on Status and Future of Research at Langley," with only 

a few sympathetic colleagues. At the heart of his critique was the rather 

categorical conclusion that "the Center is no longer research-oriented; it is 

418 
The Cortright Synthesis 

project-oriented." Driven by the urgencies of the space program, Langley 

management had grown "much more concerned with projects and their 

problems almost to the exclusion of concern and action related to the status 

of our future research." NASA management was only giving "lip service" 

to "the concept that projects require a research cadre at the Center to draw 

upon," but in reality "most of management's attention is to projects, taking 

for granted the necessary input from research people." 39 

In his confidential paper, Ellis identified several circumstances and trends 

that he believed were indicative of what he called "the second-best present 

position of research." For instance, "In former years of almost solid research 

orientation, we had monthly meetings of research 'committees' and an 

overall monthly research-oriented meeting called 'the department meeting.' " 

But in recent years, the monthly department meeting had been replaced by 

"a very large meeting open not only to the research and engineering staffs 

but to the administrative and technical staffs." This change has "pulled the 

level of presentation down to the level of Scientific American or even Life 

magazine." Such a meeting "where most of the scientific flavor is lost" was 

fine for fiscal and other administrative personnel, but it was "demeaning 

to research personnel," especially so when "no alternate forum" for the 

researchers existed at any level inside the center. 40 

Ellis cited more evidence for the deteriorating status of research at 

Langley: "Awards and rewards are now being made for lesser and lesser 

accomplishments" and with "no apparent recognition of the diminution 

of awards for research." In Ellis's opinion, NASA was even giving out 

some of its exceptional scientific awards for achievements that were "clearly 

not scientific." This, he lamented, was "demoralizing to the hardworking 

successful researcher aspiring to t:rue scientific excellence." What was worse, 

NASA management was not keeping up, "even to a cursory degree," with the 

details of the various specific research areas, such as his own fields of space 

science and plasma physics. "How often does management above the division 

level examine, criticize, and evaluate research activities and objectives," he 

asked pointedly, "in areas other than those very close to applied problems?" 

Furthermore, why was it that in nearly all activities requiring the support of 

administrative or technical services, "the top priority and attention" always 

went to the projects? Pointing to two recent cases of personnel transfers 

"out of research," Ellis emphasized that the prime reason given by both 

individuals involved was that "all types of support for research," especially in 

terms of help from the shops and from laboratory technicians, have "declined 

to such a point that research activities do not have management priority." 41 

In October 1969, Ellis sat as a member of a Space Sciences and Technology Steering Committee, which Cortright had put together to evaluate 

the status of space sciences research at the center. At this meeting, Ellis 

expressed very strong opinions about the deterioration of the overall status of research at Langley and recommended that Langley's various efforts 

in space science be consolidated by creating a new space sciences division. 

419 
Spaceflight Revolution 

His MPD Branch would become a part of this new division. In a typed 

statement that he planned to present to the committee's chairman, Herbert 

A. Wilson, Jr., but apparently never did, Ellis wrote: 

It is believed that the Center's reputation as a Research Center has eroded considerably over the past 10 years. The trend has been toward a Center primarily concerned 

with projects and contract administration, with increasingly scattered and smaller 

groups of research excellence. Good research people, including our brightest young 

ones, who see the situation going in this direction with no apparent positive action to 

preserve a strong research role, do not stay. A degenerative process results in which, 

not only research itself, but projects which depend on the research cadre, may also 

diminish ultimately leaving only management activities and contract administration. 

What is needed at this point is a hard examination of the research situation at Langley, and the initiation of positive steps to preserve and upgrade the status of research. 

To the researcher, the present situation appears to be that leadership of a successful 

project is the acme of accomplishment at Langley. For equal recognition, research 

accomplishment must be so truly outstanding and highly visible as to discourage 

many competent researchers. 42 

Unfortunately, the ideas Ellis did express on these matters were mostly 

neglected, or at least he thought so. In a handwritten set of notes to himself 

dated 10 November 1969 and entitled "So-called Minutes of 10/27/69 Mtg. 

of Sp. Sci. & Tech. Steer. Comm.," he wrote, "I begin to detect a lack of 

candor in reporting what actually was said in the discussions. There were 

some very forthright statements made (by MCE among others) that are very 

much unreported. ["MCE" stands for himself, Macon C. Ellis.] Everybody 

seems to see and hear what he wants to, regardless of what is presented." 43 

Ironically, Cortright, in his reorganization the following year, did create 

an Environmental and Space Sciences Division within the new directorate 

for space as Ellis had recommended. Mike Ellis, however, would not be 

a part of the new division, although most of his MPD scientists would. 

Instead, Ellis became associate chief of the Hypersonic Vehicles Division 

under John V. Becker-a position that he did not want. As for his ideas 

on the degeneration of research-mindedness at the center, nothing in the 

historical record suggests that the Cortright administration tried to reverse 

the trend by moving away from projects toward basic research as Ellis 

recommended; the administration seems only to have pushed the center 

further in the direction of projects. 

Another individual who spoke up about the erosion of Langley research 

was John V. Becker, Ellis's boss both when he worked in the MPD Branch 

in the Aero-Physics Division and now in his position in the new Hypersonic 

Vehicles Division. Although Becker had started working in the field of 

high-speed aerodynamics at NACA Langley under John Stack's tutelage 

in 1936, he was no dinosaur. When it came to keeping up with the times and 

adapting to changing circumstances, Becker always proved to be thoughtful, 

420 
The Cortright Synthesis 

pragmatic, and adept. He understood NASA's reasons for naming Ed 

Cortright Langley's new center director. As Becker has written in the 

notes to his private papers, "to a shrewd aggressive administrator like James 

E. Webb, who had studied and written on modern management techniques, 

Langley's director F. L. Thompson and his staff of aging Langley employees 

must have appeared old-fashioned and in need of managerial rejuvenation. 

Langley's long-standing division structure established along disciplinary 

lines and deliberately provided with vague names like 'Full-Scale' or 'AeroPhysics' was an obvious target for change. Thus in 1968 Webb chose 

a man from his HQ staff, Ed Cortright, to succeed Thompson, passing 

over Langley heir apparent C. Donlan." In Becker's opinion, Cortright 

"undoubtedly came with a clear mandate to shake up and modernize the 

Langley operation." 44 

Becker was one of a small minority of Langley managers who believed 

that changes were definitely needed. "Communications both within and 

among the research divisions were clearly inadequate and in fact entirely 

lacking in many cases," he admitted. "Mechanisms to insure accountability were virtually non-existent at all levels from researchers on up through 

division offices." What bothered Becker specifically was that researchers in 

some of the "aging divisions" were pursuing research in areas completely 

unrelated to NASA's aerospace charter, such as cancer-cell biology, interstellar mechanics, and even personalized rocket propulsion units for U.S. 

soldiers. In his own division, he saw the need for improvement. Although 

he had supported the esoteric pursuits of MPD for many years, Becker now 

felt the branch needed to be discarded so that its staff could move on to 

more promising research.45 

The Cortright reorganization was not exactly the change Becker had 

in mind, however. "After a few months of review Cortright concluded 

that a part of the research talent should be reorganized into dedicated 

divisions focusing specifically on the prime NASA systems of the immediate 

future, i.e., the Space Shuttle and the Space Station." Becker and others 

on the senior staff, notably Larry Loftin, disagreed with this approach. 

"Loftin and I argued strongly against Ed's concept of a Space Systems 

Division." This division was formed by Cortright in 1969 and named the 

Space Systems Research Division; it was to serve as the lead division for 

support of NASA's major manned space systems. In Becker's view, "such 

a management-favored division having the bulk of industry contacts, liberal 

funding, shop priorities, etc.," would "seriously degrade the disciplinary 

divisions." Rather than a Space Systems Research Division, Becker and 

Loftin advocated using ad hoc task groups with memberships drawn as 

required from the disciplinary divisions; this method had been used by 

Thompson and others at Langley with great success. Specifically, the duo 

suggested an ad hoc Shuttle task group to be headed by Becker's longtime 

associate, NACA veteran Eugene S. Love, then the associate chief of the 

Aero-Physics Division. In the end, Cortright made Eugene Love the first 

421 
Spaceflight Revolution 

head of the new Space Systems Research Division, the unit Becker and 

Loftin had fought against.46 

Clearly, Cortright was "intent on making large breaks with former 

Langley practices," Becker believes. His Space Systems Research Division 

"soon became the centerpiece" of his new Space Directorate. This directorate included the new Environmental and Space Sciences Division, which 

Becker also opposed because it was an "obviously earthbound" area of research related to aerospace only through the use of satellite photography 

and satellite navigational aids. Most of Becker's former MPD researchers, 

with the exception of Mike Ellis and a few others, were moved into these two 

new divisions; the work in these divisions, in Becker's opinion, fell outside 

Langley's essential charter. Most of the other old disciplinary divisions "contributed heavily" to the new nondisciplinary divisions as well; the Applied 

Materials and Physics Division, the historic PARD, was "virtually wiped 

out." "Perhaps to ease the pain Cortright chose to make these reorganization moves piecemeal over a three-year period." 47 

Although he did not agree with many components of the Cortright 

reorganization, Becker, like many other Langley employees, eventually made 

his peace with what appeared to be inevitable. However, this did not 

stop him from speaking out. Over and above the specific details of the 

center's structural reorganization, what concerned Becker most deeply in 

the late 1960s and early 1970s was the decline of the general research culture 

at NASA Langley. On 13 March 1970, at the second Airlie House retreat, 

he presented a stinging appraisal of what had been happening to Langley 

in the years since Sputnik. This critique captures the essence of how the 

spaceflight revolution had changed Langley. 

Becker began his talk by distinguishing between "research" and "projects." He defined the former as "the whole spectrum of Langley Research 

Center activity, basic and applied," and the latter as "any highly focused 

ad hoc endeavor, involving usually the development of a flight vehicle 

system." He then reviewed the interaction of research and projects during 

the NACA era. Becker did concede that the entire research program had 

always been "shaped and characterized by aircraft and missile projects and 

their demands for R&D." Langley research (even during the NACA period), 

although "fundamental" and "basic," was always meant to be "applied" and 

"practical." Indeed, the NACA worked on projects, but these projects were 

driven by research needs such as the lack of transonic wind-tunnel data, not 

by operational flight requirements. 48 

After Sputnik such research-related projects continued to be "key factors 

in NASA research" as evidenced by space projects Fire, RAM, the hypersonic research engine (HRE), the barium cloud experiment, and continued 

involvement in the development of specific aircraft, including the F-14, the 

SST, and the V/STOL. "But with NASA came a new type of project involvement: project management," Becker argued. Because of the spaceflight revolution, Langley became an "operating and management agency 

422 
The Cortright Synthesis 

rather than a research agency." Less than 10 percent of its budget went to 

in-house use, whereas in-house research received more than 90 percent of 

NACA funding. 49 

Given the natural diversion of NASA center management's interests to 

"the high-dollar areas of project operation rather than research," it was "remarkable," in Becker's view, that "research has continued to survive in this 

atmosphere to the extent it has." Nonetheless, despite this tenacious ability 

to survive, Becker felt that research was "losing its identity in the NASA 

management/operations jungle." An increasing number of researchers were 

saying that "NASA is a management agency and we should be getting into 

management." Even their spouses asked, "What projects are you working 

on?" or "Shouldn't you get into a project to get ahead?" 50 

In his talk before the senior staff at the Airlie House, Becker made the 

interesting point that research involvement with projects usually hit a high 

mark early in the project; as the project progressed, research dropped off 

significantly, thus leaving only project management. He then cited three 

examples: the Apollo program, for which the years 1959 to 1961 (before 

President Kennedy committed the country to the lunar landing) were "the 

big years from the research view"; the Viking program, which in 1968 

occupied eight of his crew in the Aero-Physics Division but in 1970 involved 

only one; and the proposed manned Mars program, for which, in his opinion, 

"our principal involvement in research will be over before a project office is 

set up." These examples led him to a keen observation: "Any one LaRC 

[Langley Research Center] project, no matter how large, will provide only a 

small and short-lived part of the total project stimulus desirable for LaRC 

research." 51 Research demanded not more projects but more commitment to 

the development of a broad spectrum of technical and scientific disciplines. 

"Ten percent of Langley research personnel are now in Project Offices," 

Becker told his colleagues, which amounted to only the tip of the iceberg 

given how much additional support projects required. "Much more than 

10 percent of Center management is involved due to the heavy concentration 

of dollars, management problems, and pressure to meet schedules." Becker 

wanted to know, "Where will the growth end?" In the eyes of many 

researchers, Becker advised, project management appears to be "primarily 

a service function, not a research function." 52 

Becker then asked the key question: "Is it desirable for a Research 

Center to develop and maintain a corps of project management people whose 

services are available for successive space projects, many of which do not 

spring from and do not relate strongly to the main research activities of the 

Center? If it is desirable, there must be some clear benefits." Try as hard as 

he could, however, Becker could not find any. Did Langley's management of 

nonresearch-related projects such as Scout benefit research simply by being 

close to it, the "benefit of proximity"? It did not, according to Becker. Did 

projects people return to research after the termination of a project with 

"recharged interests and new ideas"? Becker saw no evidence of that. Could 

423 
Spaceflight Revolution 

projects be used as "a haven for research misfits"? Yes, but this was really 

an organizational disadvantage because it was a quick fix for a problem, 

not a long-term resolution. Do effective project management practices and 

techniques "rub off on research and improve it"? No, Becker answered, such 

methods were "actually incompatible with research." 53 

Becker then suggested that project management may simply be the "easy 

way out for NASA Headquarters." Those who are responsible for managing 

a research center like Langley get their "brownie points" for cooperating with 

NASA headquarters in its pet projects. And given the contemporary social 

apathy (and even growing antipathy) for basic science and technology, it was 

easier for NASA to "impress local politicians and public with management of 

$800 million" in projects than it was to explain the benefits of basic research 

to them as the lower-key NACA officials had always done.54 

Becker's Airlie House presentation struck a responsive chord with most 

of the veteran NACA researchers present, and several of them asked him 

afterward for copies of his talk. Naturally, Cortright and those involved 

primarily with project management made their counterpoints. These included the notion that Langley needed projects to remain in the public eye. 

Becker and some of the other skeptics interpreted that to mean that the 

most important goal was not to keep Langley alive and prosperous doing 

what it was designed to do best but simply to keep it alive at all costs. 

Cortright also responded with the suggestion that research division chiefs 

simply would have to do a better job of "selling" the benefits of research 

to the center, to NASA headquarters, and to the American public at large. 

This would make research more competitive with projects and keep it from 

being pushed aside. 55 

Such was the mindset of the man who synthesized the spaceflight 

revolution at NASA Langley. Basic research, the NACA's reason for being, 

had to be explained not only to the country's body politic as in the past 

but also to those leading the organization in which it was done. As NASA 

Administrator Thomas Paine had been quoted in an August 1969 newspaper 

article entitled "Future Operation of LRC Assured," the fate of Langley 

Research Center "will rise or fall" depending upon the fortunes of the space 

program. 56 

To John Becker, the administrator's remark epitomized all that was 

wrong with NASA's attitude toward research. In a calculated act of defiance, 

Becker sent a copy of the newspaper article quoting Paine to Cortright with 

a two-page "unsolicited opinion." Becker pointed out to the director that 

Langley was a research center and, therefore, its fate should not depend 

on the "uncertain, short-lived projects of the space program." Becker 

lamented that "the current movement of Langley to glorify and expand 

project involvement at the expense of research, if it succeeds eventually 

in replacing the old research and technology development program, will 

put Langley in the 'rise or fall' predicament described by Dr. Paine." He 

concluded, "No reply .necessary or expected." 57 

424 
The Cortright Synthesis 

Cortright responded immediately (in what he called an "Unsolicited 

Reply") with the single comment that "Paine did not make the statement 

during his talk-if at all." 58 This was a rather lame rejoinder to the serious 

matters raised by Becker's cutting memo. Cortright, however, would hear 

such criticisms again. Although he and the other consolidators of the 

spaceflight revolution would prevail, the fundamental tensions caused by the 

essential incompatibility of basic research and project management would 

always remain at Langley. The clarity of purpose that Langley had enjoyed 

during its history as an NACA laboratory was gone forever. 

425 

Epilogue 

Either spaceflight will be proven a successful revolution that opened the heavens to human use and habitation, or it will be proven an unsuccessful revolution 

that demonstrated in its failure the limits of technological advance . . . . If spaceflight does fail, its abandonment will represent a technological counterrevolution of great consequence, symbolizing the end of 

progress as it is understood today. 

-William Sims Bainbridge 

The Spaceflight Revolution: 

A Sociological Analysis 

America's space program was once a source of pride 

and inspiration. Now it is a shambles, its mission 

unclear, and its very existence at hazard. 

-Stuart F. Brown 

"Space after the Race" 

By the early 1970s, the spaceflight revolution was already gasping for 

breath. Born in the violence of the cold war, driven by the Sputnik hysteria, 

perverted by the specter of atomic apocalypse, and ultimately fed by the 

need to demonstrate in some dramatic-maybe even primal or mythicway the essential superiority of the American democratic system over its 

supposedly entrenched and black-hearted communist enemies, the U.S. 

civilian space program of the 1960s represented an extraordinary national 

movement that could be sustained only for a brief but intense period when 

Americans were deathly afraid of the end of life as they knew it. Kennedy's 

moon shot was meant to alleviate deeply embedded fear and paranoia. By 

design, his Apollo program put America back on course as the world's 

indisputable technological leader and the guardian of a safer and more 

hopeful future. 

Until the United States beat the Soviets in space and answered the 

enemy's challenge, nothing dear seemed secure. It did not take a half dozen 

lunar landings to reassure the American people and the rest of the world 

427 
Spaceflight Revolution 

of America's virtues; the Apollo 11 mission alone was enough. With 

the lunar landing accomplished, the country had faced down the rival 

superpower and had won the space race; the public could feel safe once 

again. The threshold of terror that our national psyche had crossed through 

because of Sputnik receded to a more comfortable distance. In turn, the 

United States no longer felt the need to support the adventurous and 

expensive space program of the 1960s. That venture cost Americans as 

much as $5 billion annually-or 4.5 percent of the national budget per 

year.l The country retreated from NASA's expansive plans for setting off 

as regular travelers through the Solar System. Instead, the country looked 

to accomplish other, more earthly objectives. These included ending the 

war in Vietnam, cleaning up the polluted natural environment, and finding 

a better way to get along with the communist world through detente. 2 This 

"new age" agenda moved the American people back to the earth, not away 

from it, and whether spaceflight enthusiasts realized it or not (and for the 

most part, they did not), the extraordinary flurry of technological activity to 

get humans off the planet and on their way to other worlds far, far away was 

over-at least for the time being, until external circumstances would once 

again come together to spur the inner disquiet that launches such odysseys. 

"In a fundamental way, Apollo was about leaving." This is what 

Apollo 11 astronaut Mike Collins said shortly after the end of the lunar landing program. "It was our first move outward, off the home planet." 3 For 

a variety of reasons, a lot of people had been eager to go. In July 1969, 

Thomas Paine, the NASA administrator at the time of Apollo 11, predicted 

that a $5000 lunar vacation would be available by 1990. A future president, 

Ronald Reagan, was one of thousands who joined the waiting list in the 

summer of 1969 for the first commercial flight to the moon. Pan American 

World Airways actually booked reservations for lunar flights scheduled in 

the year 2000-plans that today look more than a little premature technologically, not to mention commercially because Pan Am is now defunct.4 

Apollo may have been about leaving as Collins has suggested, but not 

everybody wanted to go. In truth, Americans of the 1960s were ambivalent 

about the moon shot. Not everyone felt the urgency or saw the sense in 

Jack Kennedy's goal. Many were skeptical or outraged at the billions of 

dollars spent. Maybe once, only once, did a vast majority of Americans 

approve of the Apollo program-on 20 July 1969, the day Armstrong and 

Aldrin stepped onto the Sea of Tranquility. But July 20 was just one day 

in a very turbulent year. The year 1969 was the time of Woodstock and 

the Age of Aquarius, the movie Easy Rider, the bridge at Chappaquidick, 

campus unrest, anti-Vietnam War marches, and the trial of the Chicago 

Seven. Cities still smoldered from race riots. 5 

"I don't know whether it's the noblest expression of the twentieth century 

or a statement of our lunacy," Norman Mailer thought to himself while 

watching the first lunar landing from the spectator's gallery at Mission 

Control and later wrote in his offbeat account of Apollo 11, Of a Fire on the 

428 
Epilogue 

Moon. 6 Even more offbeat was the declaration made by rock critic Grell 

Marcus that "Janis Joplin's new album is more important than landing on 

the moon." Others were less impressed. "It means nothing to me," artist 

Pablo Picasso said. Some were downright hostile. The historian and· social 

critic Lewis Mumford called the moon landing "a symbolic act of war" by a 

"megatechnic power system in the lethal grip of the myth of the machine." 

He predicted that "the very triumphs of technology" would soon turn "the 

planet into a lunatic asylum or a crematorium." 7 That dire prediction was 

perhaps misguided in several respects, but it certainly overestimated the 

passing influence of Apollo. 

The year 1969 simply may not have been a good time for bold predictions 

of any kind. Wernher von Braun, the deus ex machina of the Apollo 

program, predicted that by the year 2000 "we will undoubtedly have a 

sizable operation on the moon; we will have achieved a manned Mars 

landing; and it's entirely possible we will have flown with men to the 

outer planets." 8 "Undoubtedly" and "entirely possible" were phrases that 

reflected NASA's wishful thinking but not the present mood of most 

Americans. 

If Apollo was about leaving, the period after Apollo was to be about 

staying home; that is what the predictors should have been forecasting 

in 1969. Having visited our nearest neighbor half a dozen times between 

July 1969 and December 1972, and having brought back all the souvenirs 

our travel bags could carry, we were ready to return to a more normal 

routine. On a much larger scale, the American space program seems to have 

gone through something comparable to the aftermath of a family vacation 

to the Grand Canyon; it was an exciting and valuable adventure but also 

an exhausting and expensive trek from which Americans needed to recover. 

This was certainly the attitude of the general public and their president. 

Just a few months after Apollo 11, an opinion poll showed that 50 percent 

of Americans thought the country should "do less" in space; only 20 percent 

thought the country should "do more." As for President Nixon's view, 

only four days after flying out to the USS Hornet in the middle of the 

Pacific Ocean to personally welcome back the crew of Apollo 11 from 

its lunar sojourn, he hit NASA with the first of several sharp blows to 

its ambitious plans for the future. On 28 July 1969, his director of the 

Office of Management and Budget, Robert Mayo, sent a letter to Thomas 

Paine, the NASA administrator who had predicted lunar vacations by 1990; 

this letter stated that the space program's budget would be frozen at 

$3.5 million for the remainder of Nixon's term.9 A second blow came 

shortly before Christmas 1969: President Nixon rejected NASA's appeal 

for enough additional money to keep production of the Saturn V going. 

This news devastated NASA's long-range plans. A few weeks later, buoyed 

by this victory for fiscal responsibility, Nixon's budget director along with 

other members of the White House staff informed NASA that "there is no 

429 
Spaceflight Revolution 

commitment, implied or otherwise, for development starts for either the 

space station or the shuttle in FY [fiscal year] '72." 10 

Barely a scintilla of hope remained for the continuation of the spaceflight 

revolution. That small chance was a report that in early 1970 sat on a 

desk in the White House awaiting a reply. Vice-President Spiro Agnew's 

Space Task Group had submitted the report to Nixon for consideration 

in September 1969. The report, issued after a lengthy seven-month study 

made in response to Nixon's own request for a "definitive recommendation 

on the direction the U.S. space program should take in the post-Apollo 

period," called for a bold continuation of the aggressive space program 

of the 1960s: a permanent lunar base and a space station serviced by 

a completely reusable space shuttle-technologies long envisioned by the 

pioneers of space exploration as the springboard to Mars and the other 

planets. 11 The Agnew team's report essentially ratified NASA's own vision 

of where the space program needed to go after Apollo. 12 But the glimmer 

of hope associated with the fate of this report was soon squelched. In early 

March 1970, President Nixon issued a policy statement entitled "The Future 

of the United States Space Program," which, although conceding that "space 

activities will be part of our lives for the rest of time," sounded the deathbell 

of the spaceflight revolution by cautioning that "we must also realize that 

space expenditures must take their proper place within a rigorous system 

of national priorities. What we do in space from here on in must become a 

normal and regular part of our national life and must therefore be planned 

in conjunction with all of the other undertakings which are also important to 

us." The country could not afford more "separate leaps" like the moon shot, 

another "massive concentration of will," or another "crash timetable." 13 As 

one scholar who has examined the post-Apollo retrenchment in detail has 

said, NASA would now "have to get down on the ground and scratch for 

seed with all the other government chickens." 14 The revolution was over. 

Times were again to be "normal" and "regular." 

Congress agreed with Nixon's conservative space policy, in large part 

because the country's legislators were in the same stay-at-home mood as 

the president. With opinion polls clearly demonstrating a declining interest 

in space (poll data had actually shown a significant decline in support for 

the space program long before the achievement of the first moon landing), 

NASA was lucky to win the few political concessions it did in the early 

1970s, including the one in the summer of 1970 that ensured just enough 

funding to launch an orbital workshop called Skylab inside the upper stage 

of an already assembled Saturn y_15 

By 1971 even NASA leadership was waving a white flag. James Fletcher, 

who took over as NASA administrator in April 1971, understood when he 

accepted the Nixon appointment that "there is no way" to do a space station 

and a space shuttle at the same time. 16 The best NASA could do was 

to approach its long-term objectives incrementally, by first requesting a 

shuttle-and not even the fully reusable vehicle it wanted-and later asking 

430 
Epilogue 

for a space station that the shuttle could eventually service. This made much 

less sense technologically, but it made sense fiscally and politically, and that 

was what counted. In early 1972, the year that saw the last two Apollo flights 

(Apollo 16 and 17), President Nixon finalized the country's retreat from the 

spaceflight revolution with a key policy decision: the space station was 

again to be leapfrogged and postponed until some indeterminate time in the 

future. For the time being, the country indeed would have only a shuttleand a scaled-down, partially reusable version of the vehicle that NASA really 

wanted. This way initial development costs could be minimized. The fact 

that operational costs for such a shuttle would eventually skyrocket was 

something for a future president and NASA administrator to worry about. 

Thus, NASA and the space program entered a 20-year period of incremental 

politics and the less-than-optimum technologies produced by such politics, 

in which the development of a limited shuttle mission sufficed and the fight 

to build an affordable (and almost perennially redesigned) space station 

dragged on.17 Even though the space budget would approximately double 

between the early 1970s and the early 1990s, the result would nonetheless 

be a rather pathetic space exploration program locked in earth orbit. Of 

the 155 U.S. spacecraft launched between 1984 and 1994, only 7 left earth 

orbit.18 

One could argue that, even with this reversal of fortune, the spaceflight 

revolution never really ended-and, for that matter, Americans did not 

really stay home. Pioneer 10, launched in 1972, became the first manmade object to exit the Solar System. In 1976, Viking took our robots to 

Mars. And beginning in 1977, the Voyager spacecraft began a phenomenal 

"Grand Tour" of the outer planets. In taking us into earth orbit, even the 

scaled-down Space Shuttle, which made its first operational flights in 1981, 

took us someplace we needed to go routinely if we were ever to become 

real space travelers. Thus, the spaceflight revolution continued, only with 

a temporarily different emphasis. From this point of view, what Sputnik 

started was permanent. It was only a matter of time before humankind 

again spurted ahead on target to some distant star. 

A fundamental change in the ulterior makeup of American society and 

government also survived Apollo, some would say. As historian Walter 

McDougall has argued in The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History 

of the Space Age, the launch of Sputnik in 1957 gave birth to a state of 

"perpetual technological revolution" through technocracy, which McDougall 

defines as "the institutionalization of technological change for state purposes, 

that is, the state-funded and -managed R&D explosion of our time." 19 Once 

institutionalized, technocracy would not go away; this is McDougall's 

message. The Soviet Union was the world's first technocracy, and it would 

stay in power even if that required murderous purges. The United States 

was the world's second technocracy, created by Sputnik, and although not 

a brutal oppressor like Soviet militaristic totalitarianism, America's civilian 

technocracy, which would stay in power through the federal bureaucracy and 

431 
Spaceflight Revolution 

military-industrial complex, would eventually prove as oppressive in terms 

of the social engineering it directed as the Soviet system it was designed to 

fight. Thus, in McDougall's view, the spaceflight revolution did not end in 

the early 1970s, and it never will, short of a fundamental spiritual upheavala conversion that would place far less faith in the passing material values 

of scientific and technological progress and more faith in the transcendent. 

"When that day arrives," McDougall imagines, "the technocratic pump may 

cavitate, the human heart have a meltdown, and science become again a 

branch of moral philosophy." 20 

But nothing about human history is perpetual, and such days of 

cavitation--or some less cataclysmic version of them--can and do happen. McDougall's controversial book was published in 1985, a year before 

the Challenger accident, four years before Tiananmen Square, six years before the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union, and 

nearly a decade before the Republican party regained majority control in the 

U.S. Congress for the first time since 1954. During the period McDougall 

was researching and writing his book, President Reagan, the hopeful moon 

traveler, strongly endorsed the building of Space Station Freedom, gave his 

wholehearted support to the Space Defense Initiative or SDI (better known 

to its critics as "Star Wars"), and called for the development of a National 

Aero-Space Plane (NASP), which was a futuristic hypersonic vehicle capable 

of flying in and out of the atmosphere. It was misnamed by Reagan's speechwriters "The Orient Express," because such a spaceplane might someday be 

able to fly nonstop from New York to Tokyo in a few hours. 21 Although 

NASA had lost many major battles by then, agency leadership still operated in the 1980s according to the momentum model of the 1960s. Because 

the United States seemed to be locked in mortal competition with intransigent communism, this model deemed it necessary to have an expansive 

space program doing whatever it took for the country to remain number 

one technologically. 

The ambition of many well-meaning supporters of the space program 

was, therefore, to secure another dramatic presidential commitment for 

a bold new initiative. This initiative was on the scale of Kennedy's 

lunar commitment in May 1961, which energized the American people 

so successfully, or Reagan's commitment to Space Station Freedom in 

January 1984, which failed to do anything of the sort. Even critical and 

scholarly observers of the U.S. space program, including those who lamented 

the bureaucratization of NASA and the devaluation of its technical culture 

since Apollo, have made that suggestion. For example, political scientist 

Howard McCurdy, professor of public affairs at American University in 

Washington, D.C., suggested in his article "The Graying of Space" that 

NASA could best rejuvenate itself by aiming at a big new goal such as a 

trip to Mars.22 In essence, however, such suggestions implied that American 

space policy would be best served if the momentum model could be refueled. 

This analysis missed the point that the momentum model has actually been 

432 
Epilogue 

the major reason for the failure of American space policy since Apollo 11 

and that it, too, has been the cause for much of the technical decline in the 

NASA organization. If NASA's long-term competency and productivity in 

basic R&D are a main concern, U.S. presidents need to stop making such 

bold pronouncements, not make more of them. 

The collapse of the Berlin Wall in 1991 and the fall of the Soviet Union 

proved, if proof were necessary, that the unimaginable really does happen. In 

a very short span of time, these megahistorical events, which were certainly 

in the league of Sputnik in terms of unraveling the expected, pulled the plug 

on the momentum model that had been driving the American space program 

since Sputnik. U.S. leadership saw that the ground rules of what had been a 

space race had changed fundamentally almost overnight. President George 

Bush appointed Daniel Goldin as the head of NASA in early 1992. Goldin 

had worked the prior two decades in U.S. weapons factories on top-secret 

military space hardware projects, but as the NASA administrator he proved 

so innovative that President Bill Clinton decided to keep him on after the 

election. Goldin understood that the space program of the mid-1990s and 

beyond could not operate on the basis of an obsolete world order of fear, 

violence, and competition with an enemy who was no longer there. The key 

words for the future were cooperation and international partnerships. The 

Soviet Union no longer existed; now there was only Russia. The United 

States would still be concerned about Russian cosmonauts, but not as 

competitors or as instruments of the Soviet propaganda machine, rather as 

fellow crew members in an international space program working alongside 

not just NASA astronauts, but those of Germany, Canada, France, Japan, 

and other nations. The world had turned topsy-turvy again. Up was down; 

down was up. Space explorers had to adjust. 

The political and technological imperatives that had driven the American 

space program through its revolutionary period after Sputnik and that had 

tried with diminishing effectiveness to move it after Apollo had evaporated. 

With their disappearance, much about the space program had to change. 

In Goldin's pet phrase, NASA needed to do everything "smaller, faster, 

cheaper, better." 23 In keeping with tough economic times and the trend 

toward downsizing in American business and industry, the American space 

program had to learn how to do more with less. To meet a directive from 

President Clinton in 1993, NASA moved to "reinvent" itself and find ways 

to reduce its spending by 30 percent over five years, which resulted in a 

$30 billion budget cut. (In contrast, in the summer of 1990, a NASA 

advisory panel still operating from the momentum model and chaired 

by systems engineering guru Norman Augustine of the Martin Marietta 

Corporation, had called for a 10-percent budget increase for NASA each 

and every year into the early twenty-first century just to meet the "critical 

national needs" in space. 24) The nation would still move boldly out into 

space, but in cooperation with the rest of the world, not alone, not facing 

down enemies, and not niaking great leaps. Instead of placing such a 

433 
Spaceflight Revolution 

predominant emphasis on government-directed spending, the privatization 

and commercialization of the enterprise gained momentum. Instead of the 

prospect of an ever-increasing technocracy, there was a growing possibility 

that space exploration might move ahead with less overriding government 

involvement and direction. The U.S. space program would still be part of the 

total equation of national strength and security, but, because that equation 

had changed so dramatically with the end of the cold war, NASA had a 

chance to escape from the old mindset, be much less bureaucratic, return 

to basic operating principles more like those of the former NACA before 

Sputnik, and be part of the solution, not part of the problem. 

All of this augurs significant and positive change for the American 

space program and NASA. This may be especially true for NASA Langley 

Research Center, a place that has done its best, not only to abide by, but 

to encourage the prevailing momentum model through the 1970s and 1980s, 

even though it meant the slow but sure dissipation of the traditional research 

values that had been the creative heart and soul of the center since its 

formative days in the 1920s under the NACA. Langley, perhaps more than 

any other NASA facility, needed to move away from the modus vivendi of 

the cold war and refocus on what it has always done best: basic applied 

research. The cold war, perhaps war of any kind, ultimately used up more 

good ideas than it replenished. 

Following Apollo 11, NASA Langley had moved beyond the waning 

aspirations of moonflight to manage the Viking missions to Mars-a planet 

some 65 million kilometers ( 40.39 million miles) away. Although not nearly 

as celebrated as the manned lunar landings, Project Viking rated as one 

of the greatest technological triumphs of all time, in some respects even 

surpassing Apollo. "To that day-maybe to this day-Viking was the most 

difficult unmanned space project ever taken," a justifiably proud Edgar 

Cortright has declared. "It brought Langley to the forefront of spacecraft 

technology," which was where Cortright thought Langley should be although 

many, like John Becker and Mike Ellis, would have preferred a return to 

the ways of the NACA and were calling for a "research renaissance." 25 In 

Cortright's mind and that of other avid participants in the spaceflight 

revolution, the Viking robots set the stage for a manned mission to the 

mysterious red planet, an adventure that they felt was sure to come before 

the end of the twentieth century. What Viking accomplished at Langley, 

however, was not altogether positive. Although it did keep the center 

focused on the technologies necessary for another successful space mission, 

the attention given to Viking continued a dangerous trend dating from the 

Apollo period; this trend marginalized research in favor of managing big 

projects, and thus was something that could not continue forever if the 

center was to live up to its original charter and serve the nation well over 

the long haul. 

After Viking, Langley gave all-out support for the Space Shuttle. 

Langley's contribution was a herculean engineering effort that was absolutely 

434 
Epilogue 

necessary for the Shuttle's success but that prevented Langley researchers 

from seeking breakthroughs across the broadest possible technological front. 

Because NASA was staking so much of its future on just this one vehicle, 

every NASA facility was expected to provide support for the new STS, and 

Langley, relying on in-house capabilities developed largely during its NACA 

years, was still well equipped to help. The problems facing a hybrid reusable 

vehicle that was to fly into, through, and back from space, from blastoff to 

a landing on a runway, were unusually extreme. During any mission, the 

Shuttle had to pass through three distinctly different flight regimes: hypersonic, supersonic, and subsonic. Over the years, dating to the NACA 

period, Langley engineers had pioneered research in each one of these speed 

regimes and knew that each regime by itself posed difficult flight problems. 

Together, these problems made the Shuttle program into one of the biggest 

challenges Langley's wind-tunnel complex ever faced. Just to confirm the 

basic aerodynamic soundness and structural integrity of the Shuttle required 

more than 60,000 "occupancy hours" of testing in several tunnels over a period of an entire decade. Thousands of hours were necessary to optimize the 

design of the Shuttle's thermal protection system-a unique arrangement of 

ceramic tiles protecting the reusable vehicle from the intense heat of reentry. A team of over 300 Langley engineers and technicians put together by 

Director Donald P. Hearth took on this sticky problem and eventually came 

up with a practical way of certifying the performance of the hundreds of 

glue-on tiles. 26 

Although the Shuttle program predominated, many studies were conducted at Langley that explored the feasibility of advanced spaceflight technologies for future U.S. civil and military operations-many of them, but 

not all, were for manned missions. These investigations focused on new 

concepts like the "aerobrake," which was a technology with important applications for space transfer vehicles taking payloads and crews from a space 

station to the moon, to Mars, or even to other destinations in the inner Solar 

System. 27 Langley researchers also rehabilitated a few neglected older concepts such as the "lifting body," a promising technology that had been 

left in the lurch after Sputnik because powerful enough rockets did not yet 

exist to boost such a heavy vehicle to orbit. In the 1970s and 1980s, engineers at Langley helped to revitalize the lifting-body concept, and they 

eventually identified a highly innovative configuration called the HL-20 that 

offered a less expensive alternative to the Shuttle for direct manned access 

to orbit.28 With NASA's new emphasis on "smaller, faster, cheaper, better" 

in the mid-1990s, Langley's persistent interest in the lifting body may yet 

pay off; perhaps it will be a convenient way of traveling to and from the 

international Space Station Alpha. 

Something that will surely pay off in the future is Langley's sustained 

level of basic R&D in hypersonics, a field that has been one of the center's 

strengths since the early 1950s when NACA researchers pioneered concepts 

that were incorporated in the North American X-15. So solid was Langley's 

435 
Spaceflight Revolution 

reputation in hypersonics that when the NASP program began under joint 

NASA/DOD sponsorship early in President Reagan's second term, Langley 

became the project's "lead center." By the early 1990s, although many 

critical engineering problems had yet to be solved before such a radically 

new technology (the prototype was labeled X-30) could become operational, 

Langley's involvements in NASP had proved the value of not only the 

revolutionary supersonic combustion ramjet engine (nicknamed "scramjet") 

but also of the novel integrated lifting-body aerothermal shape as the best 

suited for transatmospheric flight. 29 

Like everything else that originated before the fall of the Berlin Wall, 

however, the NASP program was driven by cold war thinking. The DOD 

had planned to use the X-30 as a reconnaissance vehicle, a weapon against 

enemy satellites, and possibly as a nuclear bomber. Thus, with the collapse 

of the Soviet Union, the NASP program (as well as the SDI with which it 

was in certain ways associated) had to change fundamentally. Faced with 

a much smaller budget, NASP officials developed a plan in 1994 to close 

out work on the X-30 and transform the project from the development of 

a prototype military vehicle to the development of more generic hypersonic 

flight technologies.30 Such a change, although it meant less money, signified 

a reorientation of R&D priorities more suited to an open intellectual 

environment wherein creative thinking about a wide range of technological 

possibilities can be better cultivated than in the so-called "black" world of 

top-secret military hardware development. 

Another important effort that Langley managed to continue in the troubled post-Apollo era was its work on the cutting edge of wind-tunnel technology; this research was essential to the center's ability to stay vitally relevant 

in the twenty-first century. From the time of the Wright brothers, the wind 

tunnel had proved to be the essential piece of versatile experimental machinery on which much about the progressive evolution of aircraft depended. 

Without a new state-of-the-art tunnel, especially one that simulated the 

vexatious conditions of flight at transonic speeds (a regime that both highspeed aircraft and rockets had to fly through), Langley might have ceased 

being Langley, which had been for decades a mecca for aerodynamicists from 

around the world. 

In the mid-1970s, NASA assured Langley's future by pursuing funding for 

what became the National Transonic Facility (NTF). The NTF was a radically new wind tunnel. It was to operate cryogenically with liquid nitrogen 

replacing air as the test medium. Conceptually, the NTF had roots going 

back to Langley's own Variable-Density Tunnel (VDT) of the early 1920s, 

which was a revolutionary machine that provided a pressurized airflow for 

higher Reynolds numbers (the parameter representing the accuracy of test 

results using scale models in a wind tunnel). With the VDT, the NACA had 

obtained more realistic aerodynamic data than anyone had yet been able to 

obtain from any previous tunnel. Like the VDT, which put the struggling 

early NACA on the world map, the NTF also represented breakthrough 

436 
Epilogue 

technology. By using a spray of liquid nitrogen to refrigerate the tunnel's 

airstream, thereby dramatically decreasing its viscosity, the all-important 

Reynolds numbers could be increased up to five times with no increase in 

model loads or required drive power.31 

Authorized by Congress in 1975, the incredibly complex NTF design, 

which was meant to serve the transonic R&D needs of both NASA and the 

DOD, became the major preoccupation of Langley for the rest of the decade 

and beyond. It gave Langley Director Don Hearth and his associates endless 

headaches before all the kinks were worked out in 1982. The total cost of the 

NTF was $85 million, much more than NASA could have afforded for such 

a general research tool during the 1960s when such large amounts of money 

could not have been spent without directly tying the project to the lunar 

landing. But the result was formidable. The most ambitious and expensive 

wind tunnel ever built anywhere, the NTF was quickly put to use, not 

only testing models of the Space Shuttle (the STS had to pass through the 

transonic speed range both to and from space) but also evaluating advanced 

subsonic transports, fighter aircraft, and attack submarines. Beginning in 

the late 1980s, NASP designs also underwent hundreds of hours in "The Big 

Cold One," as it came to be known. 32 

The NTF incorporated the most modern automated equipment, which 

included four separate high-speed digital computers capable of handling up 

to 50,000 data points per second. These computers controlled virtually 

everything about the NTF, from monitoring the facility's environment to 

maneuvering the scale models in the test sections. When the NTF first 

began running in 1982, its builders felt that it would give the United States 

a full five-year technological lead over other countries and would "provide 

aspiring young aerodynamicists the wherewithal to design the aerospacecraft 

of the future." 33 Occasional tunnel mishaps and breakdowns led a few 

critical observers to question whether the NTF lived up to its billing, but 

as the fits and starts of Langley's earlier wind-tunnel history demonstrate, 

it sometimes takes years of refinement before such a basic research facility 

hits its full stride. 

In important respects, the NTF helped to pave the way to Langley's 

future by recalling its strong NACA roots. Like the closed-loop circuitry 

of its NTF, NASA Langley by the mid-1990s seemed to be on the verge of 

coming full circle, not returning to the exact place where it had been 40 years 

earlier-history never really repeats itself-but arriving at a familiar spot 

closer to the one it occupied during the NACA, before Sputnik changed 

history. In 1993, NASA Langley officials estimated that 60 percent of its 

employees worked on aeronautics and only 40 percent on space. By the 

following year, the margin had widened to 70/30.34 

At Langley, this ratio points to a rather curious trend. Thirty-five 

years earlier, it was the aeronautical enthusiasts who were losing ground 

and becoming disgruntled with the transition to space at Langley. In the 

mid-1990s, it is the space enthusiasts who worry about the possibility that 

437 
Spaceflight Revolution 

the rug might be pulled from under them. Aeronautics is coming back 

strong at Langley; space work is being taken away and assigned to other 

centers. The center has never forgotten that the first "A" in NASA stands for 

"Aeronautics." Indeed, although its many achievements in aeronautics after 

Sputnik were usually overshadowed (as they are in this book) by the hype 

over spaceflight, the center still managed somehow to maintain its position 

as a world leader in aeronautical R&D. Langley's contributions included the 

X-15, VTOL aircraft, the variable-sweep wing, the supercritical airfoil, SSTrelated technology, sonic boom studies, winglets, runway riblets, composite 

materials, laminar-flow control systems, and flight avionics. Still, NASA for 

its entire history had been the "space agency," and aeronautics, although 

important, had played second fiddle. 

True to the symbols in the original NASA logo (the "meatball"), which 

signify that the organization was about both aeronautics and space, Langley 

will continue to play a viable role in space.* Although Langley probably 

will not be conducting any space missions, it still stays active, in less visible but nonetheless critical ways, in space-related research. For example, 

researchers at the center continue to help design the space station and the 

next-generation space shuttle, repair and test space-bound instruments and 

materials, and conduct research on the effects of clouds and pollution on 

the earth's atmosphere. As organized in early 1994, there will be four space 

"thrusts" at Langley: first, the Spacecraft Technology Thrust, which will entail the continued analysis of the space station design and a joint effort with 

NASA Goddard researchers to launch a spacecraft called the EOS-AM1, 

an unmanned earth-observing space vehicle, scheduled for launch in 1998; 

second, the Remote Sensing Thrust, which will involve development of instruments such as the Lidar In-Space Technology Experiment (LITE), which 

uses a laser system to probe the atmosphere and provide new information 

about the biosphere; third, the Space Transportation Technology Thrust, 

which will encompass the design of the next-generation space shuttle and 

the testing of spacecraft materials and structures to see how they hold up 

to extreme heat, sound, air pressure, and collisions with micrometeorites; 

and fourth, the Atmospheric Sciences Thrust (a research division created 

by Ed Cortright in the early 1970s), which will focus on NASA's "Mission 

to Planet Earth" that was started in the 1980s and involves monitoring the 

* Shortly after becoming NASA administrator, Daniel Goldin replaced the NASA "worm," which had 

become the logo of the space agency in the 1970s, with the aesthetic blue "meatball" of NASA's early 

days. Goldin decided to do this after visiting NASA Langley, seeing the handsome old NASA logo on 

the outside of the West Area flight hangar, and hearing from Langley's center director, Paul Holloway, 

that a return to the old symbol would help improve NASA morale. Goldin agreed, thinking that it 

might be a good way of signaling NASA's return as a high-quality, less bureaucratic organization. The 

decision, however, gave NASA's graphics department and public affairs offices a fit, because it meant 

that all NASA letterhead and promotional materials had to be redone. 

438 
Epilogue 

ozone hole and measuring the carbon monoxide and aerosol gases in the 

atmosphere. 35 

Despite the general reorientation in favor of aeronautics, space will not 

be forgotten completely at Langley. As a local NASA beat reporter has 

written, "When man first set foot on the moon 25 years ago, NASA Langley 

Research Center was a star player in the space program, training astronauts 

and developing the lunar lander. But in the future, the Hampton research 

center will play a behind-the-scenes role in space research, like the football 

lineman who blocks for the star running back." 36 This general trend is as 

it should be-and as it was at Langley before Sputnik. Revolutions come 

and go, but basic research needs to stay. 

Langley Research Center survived the spaceflight revolution and its 

aftermath. It helped the country accomplish some wonderful things along 

the way. With the changes in orientation that are now taking place inside 

NASA, the center is likely to remain productive well into the twenty-first 

century, if not beyond. To do so, however, Langley does not need to turn 

back the clock to before 1957 or necessarily return to the ways of the NACA, 

but it does need to refocus on what it does best. During the NACA years, it 

had a clarity of purpose that served it extremely well. Like the rest of NASA, 

it needs to regain much of its lost in-house capabilities and not depend so 

heavily upon contractors. If the staff has to become a little smaller and the 

overall organization a little leaner, that can work out to be a great advantage. 

The small size and more intimate collegiality of the NACA staff before World 

War II stimulated a high level of creativity within the organization. And 

above all, the bureaucracy in Washington must be streamlined and able to 

give a wide berth to people who want to follow through with bright ideas. 

Langley during the NACA years operated with maximum independence from 

NACA headquarters; somehow the best elements of that kind of freedom 

need to be revived in NASA. 

Someday, the country may see another extraordinarily tempestuous time 

like the 12 years following Sputnik. Hopefully, if that time does come, 

Langley will again be in a general state of good health as it was when Sputnik 

first orbited the earth and will be able to make the tremendous contributions 

it made during the first spaceflight revolution. The ways and means of the 

old NACA are now mostly dead and gone, and Apollo anniversaries are a 

time to celebrate what now seems an impossible achievement. If Langley's 

future-and NASA's future-is to be as productive as the NACA and early 

NASA past, the spark of greatness in the present will have to come from 

something else besides the momentum of a satellite launched nearly 40 years 

ago by a country that no longer exists; it will have to come from a fresh new 

stream of historical development, only now at its headwaters. 

Contrary to what many space enthusiasts inside and outside of NASA 

might still prefer to believe, the spaceflight revolution of the 1960s was 

something of an aberration. We should not look to Apollo as a model to 

emulate. That is what the children of the twenty-first century, who will not 

439 
Spaceflight Revolution 

remember when there even was a Soviet Union or a Khrushchev toy called 

Sputnik, perhaps need most to understand about this history. The nervous 

energies that took us on our wonderful trips to the moon produced little in 

terms of a creative infrastructure that the country could hope to sustain for 

long; rather, they created a more expansive and plodding bureaucracy that 

has sustained itself quite well for the past three decades but only at great 

cost to what was worth saving in the first place. 

Hopefully, Langley Research Center and the rest of NASA will continue to 

find ways through the dawn of the next millennium to recover the best about 

what they have been, and still should be, no matter what convulsion-or 

realized impossible dream-any future revolution might bring. 

440 
AAS 

ABL 

ABMA 

AC 

ACD 

A CLOPS 

AFB 

AGARD 

AIAA 

AMIS 

AORL 

ARPA 

AT&T 

A TOPS 

AVRO 

BellComm 

CAN 

CIA 

CM 

CNN 

comsat 

ComSatCorp 

DAN 

DC 

DOD 

Abbreviations 

American Astronomical Society 

Allegheny Ballistics Laboratory 

Army Ballistic Missile Agency 

alternating current 

Analysis and Computation Division 

Agena-Class Lunar Orbiter Project 

air force base 

Advisory Group for Aeronautical Research and 

Development 

American Institute for Aeronautics and Astronautics 

Advanced Man in Space 

Apollo Orbital Research Laboratory 

Advanced Research Projects Agency 

American Telephone and Telegraph 

Advanced Transport Operating System 

A.V. Roe Aircraft Corporation 

Bell Communications 

Nike-Cajun 

Central Intelligence Agency 

command module 

Cable News Network 

communication satellite 

Communications Satellite Corporation 

Nike-Deacon 

direct current 

Department of Defense 

441 
Spaceflight Revolution 

EDT 

EOR 

ESRO 

F 

FAA 

FRC 

FY 

G.E. 

Heos 

HRE 

IAF 

lAS 

IAU 

I CASE 

ICBM 

IEEE 

IGY 

ILSS 

Intelsat 

IPAD 

IRD 

JPL 

K 

LCF 

LEM 

LHA 

LITE 

LOLA 

LOPO 

442 

eastern daylight time 

earth-orbit rendezvous 

European Space Research Organization 

Fahrenheit 

Federal Aviation Administration 

Flight Research Center 

fiscal year 

General Electric 

Highly Eccentric Orbiting Satellite 

hypersonic research engine 

International Astronautical Federation 

Institute of Aeronautical Sciences 

International Astronomical Union 

Institute for Computer Applications in Science and 

Engineering 

intercontinental ballistic missile 

Institute of Electrical and Electronic Engineers 

International Geophysical Year 

Integrative Life Support System 

International Telecommunications Satellite 

Consortium 

Integrated Program for Aerospace-Vehicle Design 

Instrument Research Division 

Jet Propulsion Laboratory 

kelvin 

Langley Central Files 

lunar excursion module 

Langley Historical Archives 

Lidar In-Space Technology 

Lunar Orbit and Letdown Approach Simulator 

Lunar Orbiter Project Office 
LOR 

LORL 

LRC 

LTV 

MALLAR 

MALLIR 

MHD 

MISS 

MIT 

MOL 

MORAD 

MORL 

MPD 

MSC 

MSFC 

MTSS 

MWDP 

NACA 

NASA 

NASA HQ 

NASA HQA 

NASA NP 

NASA RP 

NASA SP 

NASA TN 

NASA TR 

NASP 

NASTRAN 

NATO 

NHFRF 

NOSS 

Abbreviations 

lunar-orbit rendezvous 

Large Orbiting Research Laboratory 

Langley Research Center 

Ling-Temco-Vought 

Manned Lunar Landing and Return 

Manned Lunar Landing Involving Rendezvous 

magnetohydrodynamics 

Man-In-Space-Soonest Project 

Massachusetts Institute of Technology 

Manned Orbiting Laboratory 

Manned Orbital Rendezvous and Docking 

Manned Orbiting Research Laboratory 

magnetoplasmadynamics 

Manned Spacecraft Center 

Marshall Space Flight Center 

Military Test Space Station 

Mutual Weapons Defense Program 

National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics 

National Aeronautics and Space Administration 

NASA headquarters 

NASA Headquarters Archives 

NASA Publication 

NASA Reference Publication 

NASA Special Publication 

NASA Technical Note 

NASA Technical Report 

National Aero-Space Plane 

NASA Structural Analysis 

North Atlantic Treaty Organization 

National Hypersonic Flight Research Facility 

National Orbiting Space Station 

443 
Spaceflight Revolution 

NRL 

NTF 

OART 

OHC 

OSSA 

Pageos 

Parasev 

PARD 

PC 

PCC 

PSAC 

R&D 

RA 

RAM 

RAP 

RCA 

rpm 

RRA 

Saint 

SCAT 

SDI 

SEPC 

SETI 

SM 

SMD 

SNAP 

SST 

STG 

STL 

STS 

TAGIU 

444 

Naval Research Laboratory 

National Transonic Facility 

Office of Advanced Research and Technology 

Oral History Collection 

Office of Space Sciences Applications 

Passive Geodetic Earth-Orbiting Satellite 

Paraglider Research Vehicle 

Pilotless Aircraft Research Division 

personal computer 

Peninsula Chamber of Commerce 

President's Science Advisory Committee 

research and development 

Research Authorization 

Radio Attenuation Measurements 

Research Airplane Project 

Radio Corporation of America 

revolutions per minute 

Resident Research Associate 

Satellite Interceptor project 

Supersonic Commercial Air Transport 

Space Defense Initiative 

Space Exploration Program Council 

Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence 

service module 

· Space Mechanics Division 

Systems for Nuclear Auxiliary Power 

supersonic transport 

Space Task Group 

Space Technologies Laboratories 

Space Transportation System 

Tracking and Ground Instrumentation Unit 
TCVA 

Texas A&M 

TRW 

TWGEP 

UHF 

USNC/IGY 

VDT 

V/STOL 

VHF 

WS-llOA 

Abbreviations 

Terminal Configured Vehicle and Avionics 

Texas Agricultural and Mechanical University 

Thompson-Ramo-Wooldridge 

Technical Working Group for Electric Propulsion 

ultra-high frequency 

U.S. National Committee/International Geophysical 

Year 

Variable-Density Tunnel 

vertical and short takeoff and landing 

very high frequency 

Weapons System-llOA 

445 

Notes 

A Caveat to Chapter Notes 

Many of the following notes refer to a piece of correspondence by file number (e.g., A32-1, 

LCF [Langley Central Files]). The NACA/early NASA correspondence files have been 

accessioned by the National Archives (NASA Record Group). Any reference that appears 

as above is now in the National Archives. This caveat applies only to correspondence by file 

number in the Langley Central Files. Other references to documents in the Langley Central 

Files and Langley Historical Archives are correct as of publishing date. 

Prologue 

1. George Will, "What Paths Would the Nation Have Taken Had Taylor Lived?" 

Washington Post, 20 June 1991. 

2. Ward Moore, Bring the Jubilee (London: Heinemann, 1955). 

3. Will, "What Paths." 

4. John Noble Wilford, "A Spacefaring People: Keynote Address," in A Spacefaring People: 

Perspectives on Early Spaceflight, ed. Alex Roland, NASA SP-4405 (Washington, 1985), 

p. 69. 

5. See Walter A. McDougall, The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the 

Space Age (New York: Basic Books, 1985), p. 123; also Frederick I. Ordway III and 

Mitchell R. Sharpe, The Rocket Team (New York: Crowell, 1979), pp. 377-378. 

6. See chap. 5, "The Satellite Decision," pp. 112-134, in McDougall, Heavens and the Earth. 

7. McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, pp. 153-154; on Project Vanguard, see Constance M. 

Green and Milton Lomask, Vanguard: A History, NASA SP-4202 (Washington, 1970). 

8. Wilford, "A Spacefaring People," pp. 69-70. For a persuasive account of the responses of 

American policymakers to the launching of Sputniks 1 and 2, see Robert A. Divine, The 

"Sputnik" Challenge: Eisenhower's Response to the Soviet Satellite (New York: Oxford 

University Press, 1993); for an interesting revisionist interpretation, see Rip Bulkeley, 

The Sputniks Crisis and Early United States Space Policy (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana 

University Press, 1991). Bulkeley argues that no U.S. president could have quieted the 

alarm aroused in 1957-1958 by the Soviet demonstration of ICBM capability. If the Soviet 

Union had been only the second country in the world to· orbit a satellite, the American 

electorate would have still perceived the ICBM demonstration as a cataclysmic threat 

to its strategic security and as a turn of events demanding an instant and dramatic 

response from the country's leadership. Although Dr. Bulkeley's thesis has some merit, I 

remain convinced that the post-Sputnik media riot and the country's generally hysterical 

447 

PAGE l{h INTENTiONALLY at.ANK 
Notes for Prologue 

reaction could have been generated only in response to the Soviets having the first space 

launch. If the Soviets had been second into space, I do not believe that the NACA would 

have been abolished and NASA established before a year had passed. 

9. For an analysis of this close election, see pp. 350-365 of Theodore H. White, The Making 

of the President, 1960 (New York: Atheneum, 1961). 

10. For a critical interpretation of the history of the NACA, NASA's predecessor, see 

Alex Roland, Model Research: The National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, 

1915-1958, 2 vols., NASA SP-4103 (Washington, 1985). For more sympathetic interpretations focusing on the operations of the NACA's various research laboratories, see Richard P. Hallion, On the Frontier: Flight Research at Dryden, 1946-1981, 

NASA SP-4303 (Washington, 1984); Elizabeth A. Muenger, Searching the Horizon: 

A History of Ames Research Center, 1940-1976, NASA SP-4304 (Washington, 1985); 

James R. Hansen, Engineer in Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 1917-1958, NASA SP-4305 (Washington, 1987); and Virginia P. Dawson, Engines 

and Innovation: Lewis Laboratory and American Propulsion Technology, NASA SP-4306 

(Washington, 1991). For a brief survey treatment, see Roger E. Bilstein, Orders of Magnitude: A History of the NACA and NASA, 1915-1990, NASA SP-4406 (Washington, 

1989). 

11. James R. Hansen, "Transition to Space: A History of Space Plane Concepts at Langley 

Aeronautical Laboratory, 1952-1957," Journal of the British Interplanetary Society 40 

(Feb. 1987): 67-80. For additional historical and engineering analysis of the technologies 

pertinent to the development of hypersonic boost-gliders and other "space planes," see 

The Hypersonic Revolution: Eight Case Studies in the History of Hypersonic Technology, 

ed. Richard P. Hallion (Wright-Patterson AFB, Ohio: Special Staff Office, Aeronautical 

Systems Division, 1987). 

12. On the many twists and turns of NASA's space station development since the late 

1950s, see Howard E. McCurdy, The Space Station Decision: Incremental Politics and 

Technological Choice (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990). 

13. Eric Hoffer, Before the Sabbath (New York: Harper and Row, 1979), p. 55. 

14. On NASA's controversial decision to go to the moon via lunar-orbit rendezvous, see John 

Logsdon, "Selecting the Way to the Moon: The Choice of the Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous 

Mode," Aerospace Historian 18 (June 1971): 66-70. On the demise of the American SST 

program, see Mel Horwitch, Clipped Wings: The American SST Conflict (Cambridge, 

Mass., and London: MIT Press, 1982). On the space station, see McCurdy, The Space 

Station Decision, pp. 30-31. The books we have on the Space Shuttle Challenger accident 

came out in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy and really do not adequately explore 

either the causes of the explosion or the character of the follow-up investigation by the 

presidential commission chaired by former Secretary of State William Rogers. Essentially, 

they are little more than examples of sensational journalism. For the best treatment of 

the forces at work in the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster, see Michael Collins, Liftoff: 

The Story of America's Adventure in Space (New York: NASA/Grove Press, 1988), 

pp. 222-242. As a former NASA astronaut (Gemini X and Apollo XI), Collins is, of 

course, sympathetic to NASA's interests; however, he provides a keen analysis of what 

went wrong with the ~pace Shuttle program. 

448 
Notes for Chapter 1 

15. Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass (New 

York: Macmillan Co., 1963), bk. 2, p. 43. 

16. Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (University of Chicago Press, 

1962). 

17. Ibid., p. 91. 

18. For an extensive and interesting application of Kuhn's theory of revolution, see Edward 

Constant II, Origins of the Turbojet Revolution (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University 

Press, 1980). 

19. William Sims Bainbridge, The Spaceflight Revolution: A Sociological Analysis (New York: 

John Wiley & Sons, 1976), p. 1. 

20. On the Committee for the Future, see Bainbridge, The Spaceflight Revolution, pp. 12-14 

and 158-197. On the deviancy of science-fiction fandom, see pp. 227-233. 

21. Ibid., p. 4. 

Chapter 1 

The Metamorphosis 

1. In the wake of Sputnik, Eisenhower created a President's Science Advisory Committee 

(PSAC) from an existing science advisory board that was helping the Office of Defense 

Mobilization; chairing the new PSAC was James R. Killian, Jr., president of MIT 

and new special assistant to the president for science and technology. Eisenhower 

asked the committee to identify American objectives in space and advise him on how 

those objectives could best be met. On 22 Feb. 1958, the PSAC recommended in a 

preliminary staff document entitled "Organization for Civil Space Programs" (copy in 

NASA HQA) that a new space agency be established with the NACA as its nucleus. 

NACA leaders learned about this recommendation and passed informal word of it to 

their laboratories soon thereafter. On 2 Apr. 1958, all NACA Main Committee members 

received a confidential letter from the NACA's executive secretary informing them that 

the president, following the PSAC recommendation, had just sent a plan for a new space 

agency to Congress. 

See John F. Victory's letter to Floyd L. Thompson, Langley associate director, with 

attached memorandum from Dwight D. Eisenhower to the secretary of defense and the 

chairman of the NACA, 2 Apr. 1958, plus the attached White House press release, 

marked "strictly confidential" and dated 2 Apr. 1958, 12:00 noon EST, with the text 

of Eisenhower's message to Congress. The letter from Victory to Thompson is in the 

folder "Space Material," Floyd L. Thompson Collection, LHA. 

For a historical analysis of Killian's and the PSAC's role in the establishment of NASA, 

see Walter A. McDougall's Pulitzer Prize-winning book, The Heavens and the Earth: A 

Political History of the Space Age (New York: Basic Books, 1985), pp. 170-172. 

2. For Eisenhower's reaction to Sputnik and his concerns about the militarization of space, 

see McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, pp. 158-176. The reader needs to pay special 

attention, however, to McDougall's interpretation of the NACA in these pages. On page 

164, for instance, McDougall argues that "by the mid-1950s the venerable NACA was 

slumping. It was the best equipped aeronautical research organization in the world, but 

institutional conservatism and· financial strictures rendered its future very dubious." In 

449 
Notes for Chapter 1 

the opinion of other historians, including myself, McDougall's portrayal of the NACA 

in its last years is off the mark. The NACA was not in any slump. In the years just 

preceding 1958, the NACA was involved in some of the most productive work it had ever 

done. McDougall's interpretation implies that the NACA died of old age. An alternative 

interpretation, which I support, would suggest that the NACA was killed in its prime. 

It was not Sputnik per se that killed it; it was the hysterical American reaction to the 

threat posed by the Soviet satellite. For criticism of McDougall's interpretation of the 

late NACA similar to my own, see Richard P. Hallion's review of Heavens and the Earth 

in Technology and Culture 28 (Jan. 1987): 130-132, and Virginia P. Dawson, Engines 

and Innovation: Lewis Laboratory and American Propulsion Technology, NASA SP-4306 

(Washington, 1991), p. 162. 

3. Alex Roland, Model Research: The National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, 1g15-

1958, 2 vols., NASA SP-4103 (Washington, 1985), 1:1-25. On the NACA's inaugural 

meeting, see the "Minutes of Meeting of National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics 

held in the War Department of Washington, D.C., April23, 1915," cited in Roland, Model 

Research, 1:27 and 326 n. 2. 

4. Charles J. Donlan interview with author, Hampton, Va., 17 Aug. 1990, transcript, 

pp. 34-35, OHC, LHA. 

5. For the full text of the NACA charter, see app. A to James R. Hansen, Engineer in 

Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 1gJ7-1958, NASA SP-4305 

(Washington, 1987), p. 399. 

6. Tom D. Crouch offers an excellent and fair appraisal of Samuel P. Langley's mixed 

contributions to aeronautics in A Dream of Wings: Americans and the Airplane, 

1875-1905 (New York and London: W. W. Norton & Co., 1981). See especially chap. 7, 

"S. P. Langley: The Scientist as Engineer," pp. 127-156, and chap. 12, "The Great 

Aerodrome," pp. 255-283. A 1988 paperback version of Crouch's book is available from 

the Smithsonian Institution Press. 

7. On the NACA's annual Aircraft Manufacturers' Conferences (later called NACA inspections), see Roland, 1:111-114 and 232-233, and my own Engineer in Charge, pp. 148-158. 

8. This opinion was expressed by British aviation journalist C. G. Grey in an obituary for 

NACA Director of Research George W. Lewis, published in The Aeroplane, 27 Aug. 1948. 

More recently, distinguished American aviation historian Richard K. Smith wrote in the 

Smithsonian Institution's Milestones of Aviation (New York: Hugh Lauter Levin, 1989) 

that "in the years 1928-1938 no other institution in the world contributed more to the 

definition of the modern airplane than the Langley Laboratory of the U.S. National 

Advisory Committee for Aeronautics" (p. 240). 

For the history of Ames laboratory, see Edwin P. Hartmann, Adventures in Research: 

A History of Ames Research Center, 1940-1965, NASA SP-4302 (Washington, 1970), 

and Elizabeth A. Muenger, Searching the Horizon: A History of Ames Research Center, 

1940-1985, NASA SP-4304 (Washington, 1985); and for a history of Lewis, see VirginiaP. 

Dawson, Engines and Innovation. On the High-Speed Flight Station at Muroc Dry Lake 

(later renamed Dryden Flight Research Center), see Richard P. Hallion, On the Frontier: 

Flight Research at Dryden, 1946-1981, NASA SP-4303 (Washington, 1984). The best 

work so far on the history of Wallops Island is Joseph A. Shortal, A New Dimension: 

Wallops Flight Test Range, The First Fifteen Years, NASA RP-1028 (Washington, 1978). 

450 
Notes for Chapter 1 

9. Jerome C. Hunsaker interview with Walter Bonney, 2 Nov. 1971, transcript, p. 1, OHC, 

LHA. 

10. For all the details, plus a critical analysis, of the NACA committee system, consult 

Roland, Model Research, esp. app. B, 2:423-465. For a rough breakdown of the roles 

played by the various committees, see Hansen, Engineer in Charge, pp. 5-9. 

11. A biography of Hugh Dryden is badly needed. The place to start is Richard K. Smith, The 

Hugh L. Dryden Papers, 1898-1965: A Preliminary Catalogue of the Basic Collection 

(Baltimore: Milton S. Eisenhower Library, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974). 

Dr. Smith, who compiled and edited this collection of Dryden's papers, informs me that 

the collection is in truth a rather meager potpourri. 

Our picture of George W. Lewis is a little more complete. See, for example, my chapter, 

"George W. Lewis and the Management of Aeronautical Research," in William P. Leary's 

biographical anthology, Aviation's Golden Age: Portraits from the 1920s and 1930s (Iowa 

City: University of Iowa Press, 1989), pp. 93-112. Those interested in source materials 

about George Lewis should consult my short bibliographical essay about him at the end 

of Leary's book (pp. 186-187). 

12. Some of the "young Thrks" came from Langley (for example, Robert Gilruth and Max 

Faget, future leaders of the NASA Space Task Group, which put together Project 

Mercury), but the leading group developed at NACA Lewis. This group was led by 

Lewis's dynamic associate director, Abe Silverstein, and included, among others, such 

promising young men as George Low, who before too many years would be heading 

NASA's Manned Lunar Landing Task Force, and Edgar M. Cortright, Jr., future director 

of NASA Langley (1968-1976). To be a "young Thrk" in 1957-1958 meant to be an 

NACA employee who, in historian Alex Roland's words, "wanted the NACA to campaign 

for a broad new role in space" (Model Research, 1:292). The title apparently dated 

from an informal NACA dinner meeting hosted by NACA Chairman Jimmy Doolittle in 

Washington on 18 Dec. 1957. During the dinner, an NACA generation gap became 

obvious over the issue of what the NACA's role should be in space, and Langley's 

intemperate John Stack called Hugh Dryden "an old fogey." To qualify the inferences 

drawn from Roland's portrayal, I must add that Stack's passion rested squarely in 

aeronautics; he was hardly a "space cadet" as Roland (and McDougall) seems to suggest. 

A few months after the Washington dinner, in the spring of 1958, Silverstein reported 

to Washington, at Dr. Dryden's request, to take on the huge job of inventing NASA's 

spaceflight development program. He eventually brought with him to Washington 

several other Lewis people. On this subject, see also Dawson, Engines and Innovation, 

pp. 163-166. In Heavens and the Earth, McDougall refers to the "young Thrks" as the 

NACA's "frontier faction" (p. 200). However, the NACA actually employed two frontier 

factions: one devoted to space and one devoted to aeronautics. The spaceflight revolution, 

in key respects, left members of the second group behind. 

13. "Biographical Sketch of Dr. T. K. Glennan," Langley Air Scoop, 15 Aug. 1958. On the 

front page of the same issue was a news item, "President Announces Nominees to Head 

NASA." 

14. Both Roland and McDougall refer to the occasion when Hugh Dryden told the House 

Space Committee in the spring of 1958 that some of the ideas being proposed for putting 

Americans into space have "about the same technical value as the circus stunt of shooting 

451 
Notes for Chapter 1 

a young lady from a cannon." Sensibly cautious remarks like this did not endear Dryden 

to congressmen who were in a rush to 1>ee Americans in space and made his selection as 

the first NASA administrator politically impossible. Model Research, 1:299; Heavens and 

the Earth, pp. 195-196. 

15. A seven-page carbon transcript of "Glennan Message to NACA Employees," dated 

22 Sept. 1958, can be found in the folder marked "Space Material" in the Thompson 

Collection, LHA. Glennan did not make his first trip to Langley until Wednesday, 

7 Jan. 1959. Accompanying the administrator was Hugh Dryden, deputy administrator, 

as well as a number of other NASA headquarters officials. The group arrived at Langley 

around 11:30 a.m., after a brief stop to see research facilities at Wallops Island, and 

they returned to Washington in the late afternoon. Glennan and his staff toured a 

number of Langley wind tunnels in which various tests were being conducted in support 

of NASA's nascent space programs. See the article "Glennan Views Facilities, Hears 

Research Reports," in NASA Langley Air Scoop, 9 Jan. 1959. 

16. "Glennan Message," pp. 1-2. 

17. T. Keith Glennan, "The First Years of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration," unpublished diary, 1964, Eisenhower Library, Abilene, Kans., 1:6-7. Subsequent 

to the drafting of this book, NASA published an edited version of Glennan's diary, The 

Birth of NASA: The Diary of T. Keith Glennan, ed. J. D. Hunley, NASA SP-4105 

(Washington, 1993). 

18. Donlan interview, 17 Aug. 1990, p. 9. 

19. "Glennan Message," pp. 2-3. 

20. Ibid., pp. 3-4. 

21. Quoted in "Glennan Message," pp. 6-7. 

22. Floyd L. Thompson interview with Walter Bonney, Hampton, Va., 28 July 1975, transcript, p. 25, OHC, LHA; -on the history of NACA Wind Tunnel No. 1, see Hansen, 

Engineer in Charge, pp. 69-72 and 442. 

23. For detailed inventories of the history of the NACA's wind tunnels, see Roland, Model 

Research, 2:507-528, and Hansen, Engineer in Charge, pp. 441-478. 

24. Flight Log Book, 1958, 7 Oct. 1958, Langley Flight Log Book Collection, LHA; next to 

the F-101A entry are the words "Hubbard's Sound Flight." See also Domenic J. Maglieri, 

Harvey H. Hubbard, and Donald L. Lansing, "Ground Measurements of the Shock-Wave 

Noise From Airplanes in Level Flight at Mach Numbers to 1.4 and at Altitudes to 

45,000 Feet," NASA TN D-48, Sept. 1959. For information on the variable-electronic 

control system, see Siguard A. Sjoberg, "Flying Qualities Associated with Electronic 

Flight Control Systems," NASA TN-66282, 5-6 Nov. 1958. 

25. Quoted in Charles Murray and Catherine Bly Cox, Apollo: Race to the Moon (New York: 

Touchstone Books, 1989), p. 31. 

26. Ira H. Abbott, "A Review and Commentary of a Thesis by Arthur L. Levine, Entitled 

'A Study of the Major Policy Decisions of the National Advisory Committee for 

Aeronautics,' Dated 1963," NASA HQA, HHN-35, Apr. 1964, p. 195. The LHA also 

preserves a copy of Abbott's manuscript. 

27. H. J. E. Reid to Dr. Hugh L. Dryden, "Transmittal of Report on Review of Langley 

Research Effort," 31 J.an. 1958, A200-1A, LCF. A photocopy ofthis report is also in the 

Thompson Collection, LHA, in the folder "Space MateriaL" 

452 
Notes for Chapter 1 

28. Langley was a strong supporter of the Dyna-Soar project. Inaugurated by the U.S. Air 

Force in Nov. 1957, the concept was for the design and operation of an experimental 

manned hypersonic glider, designated the X-20, that could fly out of the atmosphere, 

bounce in and out of shallow earth orbit for at least a large part of a trip around 

the planet, and return horne to a runway landing. Even before the NACA's formal 

agreement in May 1958 to support the air force's manned military space project, Langley 

had been active in hypersonic and boost-glider research. Some of its researchers and 

facilities stayed active in support of Dyna-Soar until the DOD canceled the project in 

Dec. 1963. For firsthand insights into Langley's involvement in Project Dyna-Soar, 

see John V. Becker, "The Development of Winged Reentry Vehicles," unpublished 

manuscript, May 1983, pp. 35-51, copy in the LHA. For a brief critical examination of the 

Dyna-Soar's controversial history, see McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, pp. 339-341. 

29. In midsummer 1958, Stack visited the Vickers organization in Weybridge, England, to 

review a British proposal for the Swallow arrow-wing aircraft. The proposal consisted of 

a plan for a 25,000-pound research airplane derived from the Swallow configuration that 

would be the progenitor of a supersonic commercial transport. Stack made several trips 

to Europe in the late 1950s and early 1960s as an NACA/NASA representative to NATO 

meetings concerning the Mutual Weapons Defense Program (MWDP). For information 

on the Swallow and Stack's trips to Europe, see the miscellaneous material in the folders 

marked "MWDP," in section 6 of the John Stack Collection, LHA. 

30. James R. Hansen, "Transition to Space: A History of 'Space Plane' Concepts at Langley 

Aeronautical Laboratory 1952-1957," Journal of the British Interplanetary Society 40 

(1987): 67-80. On the X-15, see Richard P. Hallion, On the Frontier, pp. 101-129, and 

Milton 0. Thompson, At the Edge of Space: The X-15 Flight Program (Washington and 

London: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992). 

31. Thompson interview with Bonney, 28 July 1975, p. 20. 

32. Ibid. 

33. Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 28. 

34. Roland, Model Research, 1:135-137; Hansen, Engineer in Charge, pp. 145-146. 

35. Caldwell Johnson quoted in Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 28. 

36. For an appraisal of Langley's research environment in the early years, see Hansen, 

Engineer in Charge, pp. 33-40. For an insightful autobiographical look into the freedoms 

of NACA laboratory research, read John V. Becker, The High-Speed Frontier: Case 

Histories of Four NACA Programs, 1920-1950, NASA SP-445 (Washington, 1980). 

Becker, who came to work at Langley in 1936, did pioneering research in high-speed 

aerodynamics culminating in major contributions to the X-15 program. 

37. Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 27. 

38. In essence, the deal with the Selective Service System called for the induction of 

eligible Langley employees into the Army Air Corps Enlisted Reserves. However, NACA 

inductees received no military training, never wore a uniform, and spent absolutely no 

time on active duty. For the details of this arrangement, see Hansen, Engineer in Charge, 

pp. 203-205. 

453 
Notes for Chapter 2 

Chapter 2 

The First NASA Inspection 

1. As had been the case for the NACA's annual manufacturers' conferences, Langley's planning for NASA's First Anniversary Inspection was complete. The typically exhaustive 

thoroughness of preinspection planning is evident in both the abundance and the detail of 

the extant archival material. This material includes several relevant internal memoranda, 

including an "Operation and Policy" statement; all purchase requests; complete lists of 

the invited guests plus copies of the invitations; all programs and booklets; representative 

visitor identification badges; luncheon menus; maps of tour-bus routes; as well as group 

photos, sheets with daily attendance figures, selected press-coverage clippings, and all 

NASA press releases. In the LHA are five large folders of material for the 1959 inspection. They are located, along with the records for the 1964 NASA inspection (also held 

at Langley), in a special cabinet drawer labeled "1959 Inspection-1964 Inspection." Material on the 1959 inspection can also be found in E6-1E, LCF. Langley's correspondence 

files are located in the LHA. 

2. "The Nice NASA Show for the People," Newport News (Va.) Daily Press, 27 Oct. 1959. 

3. "Nearly 20,000 at Open House; Public Pays First Visit to NASA," Newport News Daily 

Press, 25 Oct. 1959. 

4. "Nice NASA Show," Daily Press. 

5. Axel T. Mattson, "Synopsis of the NASA First Anniversary Inspection, Technical 

Presentations," 6 July 1959, p. 1, in 1959 inspection folder labeled "NASA 'First 

Anniversary Inspection' LRC-1959 Policy Statement," in the "1959 Inspection-1964 

Inspection" drawer. 

6. T. Melvin Butler, Langley administrative management officer, "Memorandum for All 

Concerned; Subject: Special Duties for the 1959 NASA Inspection at Langley Research 

Center," 5 Oct. 1959, and "Information for Group Leaders and Assistant Group Leaders, 

NASA 1959 Inspection," 9 Oct. 1959. Both memoranda are in the "1959 Inspection File" 

in the LHA. For in-house news stories (with photographs) on the 1959 inspection, see 

the 16 Oct. 1959 issue of the Langley Air Scoop. For outside technical reviews, consult 

the 19 Oct., 26 Oct., and 2 Nov. 1959 issues of Aviation Week. An editorial team from 

Aviation Week covered all four days of the NASA inspection and published several articles 

on NASA's research highlights. Most of these articles, however, were based largely on 

NASA's press releases prior to the inspection. 

7. See folder entitled "NASA 'First Anniversary Inspection' LRC-1959 Policy Statement" 

for correspondence between Langley and the various NASA centers regarding their 

participation in the 1959 inspection. See also the relevant NASA press releases in the 

"Press Releases" folder for the 1959 inspection. On the cancellation of the Vega program, 

see "NASA Kills Vega, Adopts USAF Agena," Aviation Week, 21 Dec. 1959, and "Vega 

Out, Hopes Pinned on Centaur," Missiles and Rockets, 21 Dec. 1959. 

8. Axel Mattson interview with author, 14 Aug. 1989, Hampton, Va., transcript, pp. 9-10, 

OHC, LHA. At the time, Mattson was the assistant chief of Langley's Full-Scale Research 

Division. 

9. Mattson interview, 14 Aug. 1989, pp. 9-10. 

10. Ibid. 

454 
Notes for Chapter 2 

11. Ibid., pp. 2-5 and 11. See also Axel Mattson to the associate director. The Langley 

correspondence files, E6-1E, LCF, contain several letters from Mattson to Langley and 

NASA headquarters concerning his visits to JPL, Goddard, and other NASA centers in 

preparation for the 1959 inspection. 

12. Mattson interview, 14 Aug. 1989, p. 5. 

13. Charles J. Donlan interview with author, Hampton, Va., 17 Aug. 1990, transcript, p. 16, 

OHC, LHA. 

14. Mattson interview, 14 Aug. 1989, p. 4. 

15. Smith J. DeFrance to Dr. H. J. E. Reid, 29 Oct. 1959, E6-1E, LCF. 

16. H. J. E. Reid to Dr. Smith J. DeFrance, 30 Oct. 1959, E6-1E, LCF. 

17. Englishman John Hodge had joined the STG in the spring of 1959 along with 30 other 

engineers who had been handpicked by the STG after they had been laid off by the 

AVRO (A. V. Roe) aircraft corporation in Canada; a new Conservative government in 

Ottawa had canceled a project for the building of a technologically innovative supersonic 

interceptor, the CF-105 Arrow, and some swift action by NASA had allowed the space 

agency to acquire some exceedingly talented people. Hodge became the second NASA 

flight director-Christopher C. Kraft's deputy-at Mission Control in Houston. It was 

his misfortune to be the flight director on duty during the tragic Apollo 1 fire that killed 

astronauts Roger Chaffee, Edward White, and Virgil Grissom in Jan. 1967. Subsequent 

to the Apollo program, Hodge served as director of NASA's Space Station Task Force. 

Windler also became a Houston flight director, and Russ, too, served in Mission Control. 

On the recruitment of the Canadians into NASA's space program, see Loyd S. Swenson, 

Jr., James M. Grimwood, and Charles C. Alexander, This New Ocean: A History of 

Project Mercury, NASA SP-4201 (Washington, 1966), p. 153, as well as Charles Murray 

and Catherine Bly Cox, Apollo: The Race to the Moon (New York: Touchstone Books, 

1989), pp. 21-23. See also Donlan interview, 17 Aug. 1990, p. 21. 

18. Among the Langley documents relevant to the establishment of the STG, see especially 

Paul E. Purser to Robert R. Gilruth, "Initial Hiring of Personnel for Space Center," 

3 Sept. 1958; and Robert R. Gilruth to Langley Associate Director Floyd L. Thompson, 

"Space Task Group," 3 Nov. 1958. Both letters can be found in the Floyd L. Thompson 

Collection, LHA. On the formation of the STG, see also Gilruth's "Memoir: From 

Wallops Island to Mercury, 1945-1958," unpublished manuscript presented at the Sixth 

International History Symposium, Vienna, Austria, 13 Oct. 1972, pp. 39-42, copy in 

LHA. For an excellent history of NASA's Project Mercury, see Swenson, Grimwood, and 

Alexander, This New Ocean. 

19. STG script for "NASA 1959 Inspection: Project Mercury," Oct. 1959, p. 1. All of the 

scripts for presentations given at the 1959 inspection are in the folder labeled "Press 

Releases, 1959 Inspection," in the 1959-1964 inspection drawer in the LHA. 

20. Donlan interview, 17 Aug. 1990, pp. 29-30. 

21. Swenson, Grimwood, and Alexander, This New Ocean, pp. 237-238. See also John A. 

(Shorty) Powers' memorandum for STG files, "Response to queries about Astronauts' 

personal stories," 27 Aug. 1959, Cl36-l, LCF. 

22. STG script, "Project Mercury," pp. 1-2. 

455 
Notes for Chapter 2 

23. Gilruth, "Memoir," p. 45. On NASA's selection of the Mercury astronauts, see Swenson, 

Grimwood, and Alexander, This New Ocean, pp. 129-131; also Mae Mills Link, Space 

Medicine in Project Mercury, NASA SP-4003 (Washington, 1965), pp. 44-46. 

24. By this time Bob Champine, one of Langley's most talented test pilots, had already 

experienced the high G-forces of the navy's centrifuge at Johnsville, Pa., and had also 

ridden several of the Project Mercury simulators, so he knew what NASA astronauts 

must endure. See Swenson, Grimwood, and Alexander, This New Ocean, pp. 43 and 94. 

For some thoughts on the tortures of the wheel from the perspective of a Gemini and 

Apollo astronaut, see Michael Collins, Liftoff: The Story of America's Adventure in Space 

(New York: NASA/Grove Press, 1988), pp. 30-31. 

25. Yeager quoted in Collins, Liftoff, p. 46. 

26. In the LHA, I have left a folder with photocopies of dozens of local newspaper stories 

about the Mercury astronauts. The chief local reporter covering the astronauts was 

Virginia Biggins, columnist for the Newport News Times Herald. In her column, "Point 

of View," Ms. Biggins often covered the personal lives of the astronauts, in spite of 

the notoriously restrictive Time-Life contract. For some fascinating recollections of the 

Project Mercury astronauts and their days in the Hampton Roads area, see the transcript 

of my interview with Ms. Biggins, dated 1 Aug. 1990, OHC, LHA; for comments on how 

she was able to work around the Time-Life restrictions, see pp. 4-5. A Langley videotape 

of a presentation made by Ms. Biggins in July 1991 at the former Langley Visitors' Center 

on her recollections of the days when the astronauts were training at Langley is available 

through the Langley Office of Public Services. 

27. See Robert Voas, "Project Mercury Astronaut Training Program," unpublished paper 

presented at the Symposium on Psychophysiological Aspects of Space Flight, San 

Antonio, Tex., 26-27 May 1960, copy in Langley Technical Library. Dr. Voas (a navy 

lieutenant with a Ph.D. in psychology) served on the NASA astronaut selection committee 

and became a formal member of the organization within the STG that evaluated, tested, 

and trained the Mercury astronauts. For a virtually complete bibliography of Voas's 

contemporary papers and presentations on Mercury astronaut training, consult the 

NACA/NASA card file in the Langley Technical Library. For a historical analysis of 

Mercury astronaut selection and evaluation, as well as the role of Dr. Voas and others in 

it, see Swenson, Grimwood, and Alexander, This New Ocean, pp. 159-165. 

28. Swenson, Grimwood, and Alexander, This New Ocean, pp. 237-238. 

29. See STG script, "Project Mercury," pp. 3-5. John Glenn is quoted in Collins, Liftoff, 

p. 31. 

30. Some readers may be surprised by this reference to a "sidearm controller" for the X-15 

"space plane" and Mercury spacecraft simulator if they associate the original development 

of sidearm-control technology with the much ballyhooed and supposedly altogether new 

electronic flight control systems of the 1980s. The history of the sidearm controller goes 

back at least to German research into new flight control systems for their advanced fighter 

aircraft of World War II. For those interested in this specialized technical topic, see 

the short bibliography compiled by engineer Paul E. Hunt of Langley's 8-Foot Tunnels 

Branch in 1959, on early (post-World War II) American research into sidearm flight 

controls, NACA/NASA card file, Langley Technical Library. 

31. STG script, "Project Mercury," pp. 1-4. 

456 
Notes for Chapter 3 

32. Ibid., pp. 1 and 3. 

33. The phrase that the STG treated the Mercury astronauts as "active and valuable 

participants" is from Collins, Liftoff, p. 48. Mike Collins was not part of Project 

Mercury, but as an astronaut in the follow-up Gemini and Apollo programs, he became 

very familiar with the experiences, good and bad, of the original seven astronauts. For 

Gilruth's experiences in flight testing, see the early sections of his "Memoir" as well as the 

analysis in my Engineer in Charge, NASA SP-4305 (Washington, 1987), pp. 262-270 and 

275-278. Gilruth's systematic and quantified approach to aircraft flight testing is also 

featured prominently in chap. 3 of Walter G. Vincenti, What Engineers Know and How 

They Know It: Analytical Studies from Aeronautical History (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins 

University Press, 1990); chap. 3 is entitled, "Establishment of Design Requirements: 

Flying-Quality Specifications for American Aircraft, 1918-1943." 

34. "Capsule Built at Langley and Lewis Launched Atop Atlas in Mercury Test," Langley Air 

Scoop, 11 Sept. 1958. On the history of Big Joe, see Swenson, Grimwood, and Alexander, 

This New Ocean, pp. 125-128. 

35. STG script, "Project Mercury," pp. 4-5. 

36. Gilruth, "Memoir," p. 46. On the history of Little Joe, see Swenson, Grimwood, and 

Alexander, This New Ocean, esp. pp. 124-126, 208-213, and 291-294. 

37. Swenson, Grimwood, and Alexander, This New Ocean, pp. 208-209. 

38. Ibid., pp. 210-213. For a contemporary news magazine story, see "Little Joe Launch 

Tests Mercury Capsule Escape," Aviation Week, 14 Dec. 1959. For a former astronaut's 

thoughtful summary of the role played by chimpanzees and other primates in Project 

Mercury, see Collins, Liftoff, pp. 48 and 51-52. 

39. Gilruth, "Memoir," p. 43. 

Chapter 3 

Carrying Out the Task 

1. Robert R. Gilruth, "Memoir: From Wallops Island to Mercury, 1945-1958," unpublished 

manuscript presented at the Sixth International History Symposium, Vienna, Austria, 

13 Oct. 1992, p. 38, copy in LHA. In the OHC, LHA, is a barely audible copy of my 

tape-recorded interview with Gilruth at his home at Kilmarnock, Va., 10 July 1986. This 

interview, which lasted for over three hours, covers important aspects of Gilruth's entire 

NACA/NASA career. 

On Presidential Science Adviser Kistiakowsky and ARPA's contrasting positions on 

the early space program, see Walter A. McDougall, The Heavens and the Earth: A 

Political History of the Space Age (New York: Basic Books, 1985), pp. 202-205. On 

ARPA specifically, see pp. 195-198 and 201-206. 

2. Gilruth, "Memoir," pp. 34-39; Loyd S. Swenson, Jr., James M. Grimwood, and Charles C. 

Alexander, This New Ocean: A History of Project Mercury, NASA SP-4201 (Washington, 

1966), pp. 110-116; Michael Collins, Liftoff: The Story of America's Adventure in Space 

(New York: NASA/Grove Press, 1988), p. 28. 

3. Charles Zimmerman interview with author, 1 Aug. 1990, Hampton, Va., transcript, 

pp. 5-6, OHC, LHA. 

4. Gilruth, "Memoir," pp. 38-39. 

457 
Notes for Chapter 3 

5. The key technical paper was H. J. Allen and A. J. Eggers, Jr., "A Study of the Motion 

and Aerodynamic Heating of Ballistic Missiles Entering the Earth's Atmosphere at High 

Supersonic Speeds," NACA Conf. Research Memo. A53D28, Aug. 1953. Five years later, 

in 1958, the NACA issued updated versions of the original report as NACA TN-4047 

and NACA TR-1381. For historical analysis of the blunt-body concept, see Edwin P. 

Hartmann, Adventures in Research: A History of Ames Research Center, 1940-1965, 

NASA SP-4302 (Washington, 1970), p. 218; Elizabeth A. Muenger, Searching the Horizon: A History of Ames Research Center, 1940-1976, NASA SP-4304 (Washington, 

1985), pp. 66-68; Alex Roland, Model Research: The National Advisory Committee for 

Aeronautics, 1915-1958, 2 vols., NASA SP-4103 (Washington, 1985), 1:285-286; Collins, 

Liftoff, p. 24; and James R. Hansen, Engineer in Charge: A History of Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 1917-1958, NASA SP-4305 (Washington, 1987), pp. 349-350 and 

358-361. 

6. PARD engineers J. Thomas Markley and Max Faget are quoted in Charles Murray and 

Catherine Bly Cox, Apollo: The Race to the Moon (New York: Touchstone Books, 1989), 

pp. 39-40. Faget analyzed the Mercury capsule design in "Mercury Capsule and Its 

Flight Systems," Aero/Space Engineering 19 (Apr. 1960): 48-53. Charles Donlan speaks 

highly of Faget and his contributions to the Mercury spacecraft design: "Max was a 

very ingenious fellow. He had some novel and sound ideas, for the most part, a good 

engineer. The original ballistic capsule approach came out of Harvey Allen's work. But as 

a simple, quick way to get the job done, I think the Mercury capsule came [from] Max, and 

[from] Caldwell Johnson." Donlan interview with author, Hampton, Va., 17 Aug. 1990, 

transcript, p. 28, OHC, LHA. Langley veteran Charles Zimmerman seconds Donlan's 

appraisal of Faget: "I don't think Max Faget has ever gotten the credit he deserved in 

this project." Zimmerman interview with author, 1 Aug. 1990, p. 14. Many references 

to Faget's contributions to Project Mercury may be found in Swenson, Grimwood, and 

Alexander, This New Ocean. 

7. The NACA published the Faget-Garland-Buglia paper on nonlifting, wingless satellites in 

NACA Conference on High-Speed Aerodynamics, Ames Aeronautical Laboratory, Moffett 

Field, Calif., March 18, 19, and 20, 1958: A Compilation of Papers Presented (NACA: 

Washington, 1958), p. 19ff. 

8. Gilruth, "Memoir," p. 32. 

9. Ibid., p. 33. It is easy to confuse Matthews' concept with the winged reentry vehicle 

concepts championed by Langley's hypersonics specialist John V. Becker, as the two 

researchers' theoretical findings were combined for various analytical purposes beginning 

in 1957. For detailed information on Becker's early space plane concepts, see his autobiographical "The Development of Winged Reentry Vehicles, 1952-1963," 23 May 1983. 

A copy of this manuscript is preserved in the LHA. Becker's pioneering ideas for hypersonic gliders and transatmospheric vehicles are featured prominently in Hansen, Engineer 

in Charge, esp. pp. 367-373 and 377-381. On Becker's winged manned satellite proposal 

in 1957-1958, see also Swenson, Grimwood, and Alexander, This New Ocean, p. 89. 

10. Gilruth, "Memoir," p. 34. John V. Becker offers what might be interpreted as a mild 

dissent from this consensus in "The Development of Winged Reentry Vehicles," p. 34. 

11. Gilruth quoted in Coll_ins, Liftoff, p. 61. 

458 
Notes for Chapter 3 

12. Gilruth interview, 10 July 1986. See also Gilruth, "Memoir," p. 41; and Donlan interview, 

17 Aug. 1990, p. 7. 

13. Jack C. Heberlig interview with Robert B. Merrifield, Oct. 1967, quoted in comment 

draft of Dr. Merrifield's history of the early years of NASA's Manned Spacecraft Center 

in Houston, Tex., dated 16 Feb. 1970, chap. 3, p. 11. Merrifield's unpublished manuscript 

provides a thorough and thoughtful account of the history of the STG and its move from 

Virginia to Texas. A copy of the comment draft of his manuscript is preserved in the 

LHA. I do not know why Merrifield's work, which was sponsored by NASA, was never 

published. 

14. Robert R. Gilruth to Associate Director Floyd L. Thompson, "Space Task Group," 

3 Nov. 1958. A copy of this document can be found in the Floyd L. Thompson Collection 

in the LHA. With the memorandum is a cover sheet with a handwritten note from 

Thompson to Administrative Chief Officer T. Melvin Butler saying "For prompt action. 

Important-Do Not Destroy." See also the earlier document from Langley's Paul E. 

Purser to Gilruth, "Initial hiring of personnel for Space Center," 3 Sept. 1958, also in the 

Thompson Collection. Both memoranda are in the folder labeled "Space Task Group, 

Formulation." 

15. Donlan interview, 17 Aug. 1990, p. 22. 

16. Ibid., p. 7. 

17. This quote, from an anonymous Langley engineer who was not part of the STG, is from 

Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 30. 

18. On Langley's PARD, see Gilruth, "Memoir," pp. 3-28; former Langley engineer Joseph 

A. Shortal's exhaustive A New Dimension: Wallops Island Flight Test Range, The 

First Fifteen Years, NASA RP-1028 (Washington, 1978); as well as Hansen, Engineer 

in Charge, esp. pp. 269-270. 

On the air force's proposed Project MISS, see McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, 

p. 197; and Swenson, Grimwood, a:rid Alexander, This New Ocean, p. 93. 

19. Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 32. 

20. Donlan interview, 17 Aug. 1990, pp. 29-30. 

21. Charles Zimmerman interview with Walter Bonney, 30 Mar. 1973, transcript, p. 24, OHC, 

LHA. See also Zimmerman interview with author, 1 Aug. 1990, pp. 5-6 and 11-13. 

22. The Langley division chief is quoted in Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 31. The authors do 

not identify him. 

23. Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 31. 

24. Ibid. 

25. Floyd L. Thompson, "Comments on Draft Chapters I-IV of MSC [Manned Spacecraft 

Center] History [Robert B. Merrifield's manuscript, seen. 13], Dated February 16, 1970," 

27 Mar. 1970, p. 7. Copies of this memorandum to Dr. Eugene Emme, NASA HQA, can 

be found in the Thompson Collection, LHA, in a folder labeled "MSC History Comments" 

and in E1-3, LCF. At the time of his "Comments," Thompson was special consultant to 

the NASA administrator. 

26. For complete internal files documenting NASA Langley's support of the STG and Project 

Mercury, see the correspondence in A189-5, LCF, and in the LCF's even more voluminous 

collection of letters filed under the project name "Mercury." See also the material in 

459 
Notes for Chapter 3 

Thompson's personal collection of "Project Mercury" papers, now preserved as part of 

the LHA's Thompson Collection. 

27. Donlan interview, 17 Aug. 1990, pp. 32-33. 

28. Collins, Liftoff, p. 150. Liftoff is an excellent "insider" history, while Collins' Carrying 

the Fire: An Astronaut's Journey (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1974) is the 

best autobiography yet to come from anyone-astronaut or otherwise-involved in the 

space program. 

29. Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 254. On ground control of flight tests at Edwards AFB in 

the late 1940s and 1950s, see Richard P. Hallion, On the Frontier: Flight Research at 

Dryden, 1946-1g81, NASA SP-4303 (Washington, 1984), pt. 1. 

30. Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 255. 

31. William J. Boyer interview with author, Hampton, Va., 24 Aug. 1990. This tape-recorded 

interview has not been transcribed, but the tape is available in the OHC, LHA. 

32. NASA Langley press release, "NASA Langley Research Center Directs Establishment of 

$80 Million Tracking System for Project Mercury," 16 Aug. 1961. For analysis and more 

information on the tracking network, see Swenson, Grimwood, and Alexander, This New 

Ocean, esp. pp. 213-221. 

33. Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 255. 

34. Boyer interview, 24 Aug. 1990. On Goddard's responsibility for Minitrack, see This New 

Ocean, p. 146; and Alfred Rosenthal, Venture into Space: Early Years of Goddard Space 

Flight Center, NASA SP-4301 (Washington, 1968), pp. 65-66. 

35. Boyer interview, 24 Aug. 1990. 

36. Paul Vavra interview with Robert B. Merrifield, quoted in Merrifield's manuscript, 

chap. 3, p. 39 n. 7 4. 

37. See the Western Electric Company's Final Progress Report to NASA: Project Mercury, 

Contract Number NAS 1-43.0 (June 1961), copy in Project Mercury files, LHA. 

38. Boyer interview, 24 Aug. 1990. 

39. Edmond C. Buckley, director, Tracking and Data Acquisition, NASA headquarters, to 

Floyd L. Thompson, director, NASA Langley, 27 Feb. 1962, E1-2C, LCF. Another 

copy of this letter is in the folder labeled "Mercury Tracking Range" that is part of the 

Thompson Collection in the LHA. 

40. Ibid. 

41. Gilruth, "Memoir," p. 47. Reflecting on Thompson's agreement with Gilruth, Caldwell 

Johnson has jested that all STG members to this day "wonder which half they were in," 

the half Gilruth wanted or the half Thompson wanted to give away. 

42. Thompson, "Comments on Draft Chapters," p. 7. 

43. Donlan interview, 17 Aug. 1990, p. 17. 

44. Thompson, "Comments on Draft Chapters," pp. 7-8. 

45. Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., interview with author, Newport News, Va., 26 June 1990, OHC, 

LHA. 

46. Donlan interview, 17 Aug. 1990, pp. 27-28. 

47. Thompson, "Comments on Draft Chapters," p. 8. 

48. Merrifield's manuscript, chap. 3, pp. 61-64. See also Swenson, Grimwood, and Alexander, 

This New Ocean, pp. 2?1-253. The official moves to lessen STG's dependence on Langley 

can be followed in the Langley correspondence files: Code A189-5 and "Mercury." 

460 
Notes for Chapter 3 

49. On the difficult genesis of Goddard Space Flight Center, see Rosenthal, Venture 

into Space, pp. 27-35, and Robert L. Rosholt, An Administrative History of NASA, 

1958-1963, NASA SP-4101 (Washington, 1966), p. 79. 

50. Donlan interview, 17 Aug. 1990, p. 15. 

51. Ibid., pp. 16-17. 

52. Swenson, Grimwood, and Alexander, This New Ocean, pp. 390-392; Murray and 

Cox, Apollo, pp. 130-132; McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, pp. 373-374; Merrifield 

manuscript, chap. 4, pp. 21-33. 

53. Joe Stein, NASA headquarters news release, "Manned Space Flight Laboratory Location 

Study Completed," 19 Sept. 1961. Constant rumors of the STG's impending move 

appeared in the Hampton Roads newspapers for weeks; see, for example, Bill Delany, 

"Mercury Unit Move Rumors Cited by NASA as 'Unofficial Reports,' " Newport News 

(Va.) Daily Press, 30 May 1961. 

54. Editorial, "A Terrible Waste of Time and Money," Newport News Daily Press, 

27 June 1961. So disturbed were members of the Peninsula Chamber of Commerce 

(PCC) that they launched a campaign of letter writing, petitioning, and lobbying to 

keep the STG where it was. Leading the "call to arms," was a special subcommittee of 

the PCC's legislative committee whose members worked in conjunction with the efforts 

of home district Congressman Thomas N. Downing. Members of this "Save the STG" 

subcommittee included local newspaper magnate William R. Van Buren; prominent real 

estate broker John P. Yancey (the subcommittee's chairman); Charles K. Hutchens, delegate to the Virginia General Assembly; Mayor 0. J. Brittingham, Jr., of Newport News; 

Mayor George C. Bentley of Hampton; Mayor G. S. Forrest of Poquoson; Rodger Smith 

of the York County Board of Supervisors; Leslie O'Hara, a PCC director; Frank Floyd, 

co-manager of the Peninsula Shipbuilders Association; and Irving L. Fuller, the PCC's 

executive vice-president. The local. newspapers, besides staying on top of rumors and 

NASA statements about the STG's relocation, reported regularly on the actions of this 

special committee. One can follow the outline of the losing battle to keep the STG at 

Langley from the late spring to the early fall of 1961 in articles from the Newport News 

Daily Press from 1 June through 21 Sept. 

55. Caldwell Johnson quoted in Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 131. 

56. Donlan interview, 17 Aug. 1990, p. 39. 

57. Ibid., pp. 39-40. 

58. Ibid., p. 23. 

59. See the day-to-day correspondence from this period pertaining to STG activities 

in A189-5, LCF. For the details of the Glenn and Carpenter flights, see Swenson, 

Grimwood, and Alexander, This New Ocean, pp. 422-436 (Glenn's Mercury-Atlas 6 

flight in Friendship 7, 20 Feb. 1962) and 446-460 (Carpenter's Mercury-Atlas 7 flight 

in Aurora 7, 24 May 1962). For a more popular and abbreviated history, see Collins, 

Liftoff, pp. 52-57. 

60. This letter was quoted at length in "Gilruth Thanks Langley Staff for Support of Project 

Mercury," Langley Researcher, 5 July 1963. 

61. My account is derived from the following articles in the Newport News Daily Press: 

"Saturday's Tribute to Astronauts Set," 13 Mar. 1962; "Sen. Byrd Accepts Invitation 

to Program Honoring Space 'Team,' Parade Route Set," 14 Mar. 1962; "State to Pay 

461 
Notes for Chapter 4 

Tribute to Project Mercury Space 'Team' Today," 17 Mar. 1962; "Seven Astronauts Get 

Rousing; Peninsula Throng Hails Project Mercury Team," 18 Mar. 1962; "Respect, Awe 

Mix with Pride as Peninsula Pays Its Respects to America's Astronauts," 18 Mar. 1962. 

62. Parke Rouse, Jr., The Good Old Days in Hampton and Newport News (Richmond: Dietz 

Press, 1986), p. 69. 

Chapter 4 

Change and Continuity 

1. Various people have related this story to me, notably Edgar M. Cortright in a July 1988 

interview, Yorktown, Va., transcript, pp. 9-10, OHC, LHA, and Laurence K. Loftin, 

Jr., in a July 1990 interview, Newport News, Va. The versions told by Cortright and 

Loftin are virtually identical in the details of the incident; however, Cortright, who at 

the time of the incident was the deputy director of the Office of Lunar and Planetary 

Programs at NASA headquarters, tells the story with an implicit criticism of Thompson's 

behavior. Loftin, Thompson's assistant director, praises the boldness and independence 

of his center director. Cortright witnessed the incident; Loftin heard about it. 

2. Dr. John E. Duberg interview with author, Hampton, Va., 8 Aug. 1991. 

3. Senator John F. Kennedy quoted in Michael Collins, Liftoff: The Story of America's 

Adventure in Space (New York: NASA/Grove Press, 1988), p. 63. 

4. For a critique of Webb's approach to the management of NASA and its application to 

other arenas of American life, see Walter A. McDougall, The Heavens and the Earth: A 

Political History of the Space Age (New York: Basic Books, 1985), pp. 380-383. 

5. Quoted in McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, p. 383, from Webb's remarks to a 

"Conference on Space, Science, and Urban Life," held at the Dunsmuir House, Oakland, 

Calif., 30 Mar. 1963. 

6. My presentation of the general character of Langley's formal organization in the 1960s 

is based on my study of organization charts, correspondence pertaining to the formal 

organization found in file E26-3C, LCF, and a staff office notebook that chronicles 

the major organizational changes at Langley from World War II to the present. This 

notebook, in the LHA, has been kept up-to-date in recent years by Langley historical 

program coordinator RichardT. Layman. 

7. Langley Announcement, No. 7-62, "Reorganization of Langley Research Center," 16 Feb. 

1962, E26-3C, LCF. 

8. Ira H. Abbott, director of Advanced Research Programs, to Langley, Attn.: F. L. 

Thompson, "Establishment of an Analysis and Computation Division at the Langley 

Research Center, and authorization to appoint a division chief for the new division," 

13 Dec. 1960, E26-3C, LCF. 

9. For the complete history of PARD, see Joseph A. Shortal's exhaustive A New Dimension: 

Wallops Flight Test Range, The First Fifteen Years, NASA RP-1028 (Washington, 1978). 

For a shorter treatment with special emphasis on PARD's role as a training ground for 

space, see Robert R. Gilruth, "Memoir: From Wallops Island to Mercury, 1945-1958," 

unpublished manuscript presented at the Sixth International History Symposium, 

Vienna, Austria, 13 Oct. '1972, copy in LHA. 

462 
Notes for Chapter 4 

10. Duberg interview, 8 Aug. 1991. For some interesting history related to the "maverick" 

character of PARD, see HenryS. F. Cooper's essay, "We Don't Have to Prove Ourselves," 

in The New Yorker, 2 Sept. 1991, esp. pp. 57-58. Dr. Cooper's article tells the story 

of former PARD employees Maxime A. Faget and Caldwell Johnson; after working on 

the STG, the two NACA/NASA engineers went on to operate their own company, Space 

Industries International, on the outskirts of Johnson Space Center. 

11. Cortright interview, July 1988, esp. pp. 1-6. On NACA Director George Lewis and 

his paternalistic and obfuscatory style of management, see James R. Hansen, Engineer in Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 1917-1958, NASA 

SP-4305 (Washington, 1987), pp. 24-40, and "George W. Lewis and the Management of 

Aeronautical Research," in Aviation's Golden Age: Portraits from the 1920s and 1930s, 

ed. William M. Leary (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1989), pp. 93-112. 

12. Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., interview with author, Newport News, Va., 26 June 1991. 

13. Ibid. 

14. Israel Taback quoted in James Schultz, Winds of Change: Langley Research Center's 75 

Years of Accomplishment, NP-130 (Washington, 1992), p. 21. 

15. On the dissolution of the Hydrodynamics Division, see H. J. E. Reid, internal memorandum for all concerned, "Changes in Organization of the Langley Research Center," 

23 Dec. 1959, E26-3C, LCF. 

16. For a brief history of Langley's hydrodynamics work, see the NASA Langley press 

release, "Changing Research Emphasis Leads to Dissolution of NASA's Hydrodynamics 

Division after 29 Years," 29 Dec. 1959, E26-3C, LCF. For design information on 

the Martin YP6M-1 Seamaster jet-propelled flying boat, see Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., 

Quest for Performance: The Evolution of Modem Aircraft, NASA SP-468 (Washington, 

1985), pp. 382-385. For basic information about Convair's Sea Dart, see Ray Wagner, 

American Combat Planes, 3d enlarged ed. (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co., 1982), 

pp. 515-517. 

17. See H. J. E. Reid to NASA headquarters, "Proposed Reorganization of Langley 

Research Center and Changes in Excepted Positions," 16 Dec. 1959, E26-3C, LCF. For 

Parkinson's principal work on the hydrodynamics of seaplanes, see his "Appreciation and 

Determination of the Hydrodynamics Qualities of Seaplanes," NACA TN-1290, 1947. 

18. On the NACA Tank No. 1, see Starr Truscott, "The NACA Tank-A High-Speed Towing 

Basin for Testing Models of Seaplane Floats," NACA TR-470, 1933. For an excellent 

detailed presentation on the nature and contributions of Langley's Hydrodynamics 

Research Division in the 1930s and early 1940s, see "Air and Water," in George W. 

Gray, Frontiers of Flight: The Story of NACA Research (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 

1948), pp. 63-81. For the history of flying boats, see Kenneth Munson, Flying Boats and 

Seaplanes Since 1910 (New York: Macmillian Co., 1971); and Capt. Richard C. Knott, 

The American Flying Boat, An Illustrated History (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 

1979). On the floatplanes of World War II specifically, see Wagner, American Combat 

Planes, pp. 334-345. 

19. On the U.S. Navy's termination of its flying-boat program in the late 1950s, see Loftin, 

Quest for Performance, p. 385, and Wagner, American Combat Planes, p. 481. 

20. Reid, "Changes in Organization of Langley Research Center," 23 Dec. 1959. 

21. Quoted in NASA Langley press release, "Changing Research Emphasis," p. 1. 

463 
Notes for Chapter 4 

22. Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., interview with author, Newport News, Va., 5 Aug. 1989, 

transcript, p. 5, OHC, LHA. 

23. Raymond L. Bisplinghoff, "Twenty-Five Years of NASA Aeronautical Research: Reflections and Projections," in Space Applications at the Crossroads: 21st Goddard Memorial 

Symposium, eds. John H. McElroy and E. Larry Heacock (San Diego: Published for the 

American Astronautical Society by Univelt, 1983), pp. 30-31. 

24. John V. Becker, "The Development of Winged Reentry Vehicles, 1952-1963," unpublished, 23 May 1983, p. 31, copy in LHA. 

25. Ibid. 

26. Mark R. Nichols interview with author, Hampton, Va., 6 July 1988, transcript, pp. 2-3, 

OHC, LHA. 

27. All of the statistical information in this chapter regarding personnel, payroll, budget, 

expenditures, and so forth is from the NASA Historical Data Book, NASA SP-4012 

(Washington, 1988), vol. 1, NASA Resources 1958-1968, by Jane Van Nimmen and 

Leonard Bruno with help from Robert L. Rosholt. ·NASA personnel statistics given in 

various sources may seem contradictory. The NASA Historical Data Book gives certain 

personnel numbers for a given year, and the NASA Historical Pocket Statistics may give 

others. Neither is in error; the differences depend on when the count was taken. The 

number of NASA employees changed every day. The NASA Historical Data Book, vol. 1, 

NASA Resources 1958-1968, which is my source, provides personnel statistics for 30 June 

and 31 Dec. of each year. 

28. Earl D. Hilburn, deputy associate administrator, NASA headquarters, to Dr. Floyd 

L. Thompson, 16 Aug. 1963, copy in C131-1, LCF. Floyd L. Thompson to NASA 

headquarters, "Manpower Requirements," 9 Sept. 1963, C131-1, LCF. 

29. On NASA's early problems involving the low ceiling on its personnel complement, see 

Robert L. Rosholt, An Administrative History of NASA, 1958-1963, NASA SP-4101 

(Washington, 1966), pp. 139-141. 

30. See the summary of the NASA Staff Conference, Monterey, Calif., 3-5 Mar. 1960, p. 56, 

copy in NASA HQA. Glennan's views are outlined in Rosholt, Administrative History of 

NASA, p. 140. 

31. Rosholt compared Glennan's 1962 "Budget Guidelines" with the "Summary Financial 

Plan for Fiscal Year 1961, NASA," that NASA submitted to the Bureau of the Budget 

on 19 Aug. 1960, Administrative History of NASA, p. 140. 

32. Roger E. Bilstein, Orders of Magnitude: A History of the NACA and NASA, 1915-1990, 

NASA SP-4406 (Washington, 1989), p. 71. 

33. See Hilburn to Thompson, 16 Aug. 1963. 

34. Thompson to NASA headquarters, "Manpower Requirements," 9 Sept. 1963. 

35. Axel T. Mattson, research assistant for Manned Spacecraft Projects, Langley, to Manned 

Spacecraft Center, Attn.: Mr. M. A. Faget, "Langley Research Center Tests of Interest 

to Manned Spacecraft Center," 27 Aug. 1963. Mattson compiled these reports regularly 

from late 1962 into 1967. Copies of them are preserved in the Project Apollo files, LCF. 

Their contents will be discussed in chap. 11 in relation to Langley's work in support of 

Apollo. 

36. See Table 4-19, "Administrative Operations Direct Obligations, by Installation (in 

millions of dollars)," in NASA Historical Data Book, 1:146. 

464 
Notes for Chapter 4 

37. For a general analysis of how procurement and contracting were done by NASA in its early 

years, see Rosholt, Administrative History of NASA, pp. 61-65, and Arnold S. Levine, 

Managing NASA in the Apollo Era, NASA SP-4102 (Washington, 1982), pp. 65-105. On 

the allocation of resources by NASA headquarters, see Levine, pp. 63-64. 

38. See Table 5-19, "Value of Awards by Installation (in millions of dollars)," NASA 

Historical Data Book, 1:202. 

39. See Table 4-26, "Amounts Programmed for Research and Development, by Installation 

(in millions of dollars)," NASA Historical Data Book, 1:166. 

40. See tables 5-20 through 5-27 of the NASA Historical Data Book, 1:203-226, for detailed 

information on NASA contracts and contractors in the period 1958 to 1968. 

41. Steven T. and Sarah W. Corneliussen, "NASA Langley Research Center Support Services 

Contracting, Historical Summary," 29 May 1991, p. 1. Much of the discussion about the 

history of support services contracting at Langley that follows in this chapter is based 

on the unpublished Corneliussen study or on the oral histories they conducted for it. A 

copy of this study and all the materials collected for it are preserved in the LHA. 

42. Duberg interview, 8 Aug. 1991. 

43. Corneliussen and Corneliussen, "Support Services Contracting," p. 6. For an analysis of 

support services and the issue of the integrity of the NASA civil service staff, see Levine, 

Managing NASA in the Apollo Era, pp. 86-87. 

44. Corneliussen and Corneliussen, "Support Services Contracting," pp. 9-10. 

45. For definitions of the various types of contracts authorized by NASA, see app. D of Levine, 

Managing NASA in the Apollo Era, pp. 313-314. Levine's definitions are based on House 

Committee on Science and Astronautics, 1965 NASA Authorization, 88th Cong., 2d sess. 

(1964), pp. 1327-1328. 

46. Levine, Managing NASA in the Apollo Era, app. D, p. 313. 

47. Corneliussen and Corneliussen, "Support Services Contracting," p. 17. 

48. Edwin Kilgore interview with Steven T. Corneliussen, Hampton, Va., Apr. 1991, LHA. 

49. Sherwood Butler interview with Sarah W. Corneliussen, Hampton, Va., Apr. 1991, LHA. 

50. Robert Moore interview with Sarah W. Corneliussen, Hampton, Va., Apr. 1991, LHA. 

51. On the American atomic bomb project, see H. D. Smyth, Atomic Energy (Washington: 

Government Printing Office, 1945); this is the original official report. For a very readable 

historical analysis, see Stephane Groueff, Manhattan Project: The Untold Story of the 

Making of the Bomb (Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1967), and Richard Rhodes, The 

Making of the Atomic Bomb (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1986). See also R. G. 

Hewlett and 0. E. Anderson, A History of the United States Atomic Energy Commission 

(Pennsylvania State University Press, 1962), vol. 1, The New World. 

On Project Sherwood and the history of the program in controlled thermonuclear 

reactions carried out by the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission during the period 1951 to 

1958, see Amasa Bishop, Project Sherwood: The U.S. Program in Controlled Fusion 

(Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley Publishing Co., 1958), and Joan Lisa Bromberg, 

Fusion: Science, Politics, and the Invention of a New Energy Source (Cambridge, Mass.: 

MIT Press, 1983.) 

52. NASA Management Manual, pt. 1, "General Management Instructions," chap. 4, No. 

4-1-1, 8 Mar. 1963, p. 1. 

465 
Notes for Chapter 5 

53. On the administrative evolution of Apollo from a project to a program, see Levine, 

Managing NASA in the Apollo Era. 

54. National Research Council, NASA's Aeronautics Research and Technology Base: A Study 

of the Report of the Ad Hoc Aeronautics Research Committee, Aeronautics and Space 

Engineering Board (Washington: National Academy of Sciences, 1979), p. 6. 

55. On the NACA/NASA work on the XB-70 and XB-70A, see Richard P. Hallion, On the 

Frontier: Flight Research at Dryden, 1946-1981, NASA SP-4303 (Washington, 1984), 

pp. 180-189. 

56. John V. Becker, High-Speed Frontier: Case Histories of Four NACA Programs, 1920-

1950, NASA SP-445 (Washington, 1980), pp. 86-87. For more on the feelings of other 

Langley divisions about PARD, see Hansen, Engineer in Charge, pp. 269-270. 

57. Macon C. Ellis, Jr., interview with author, Hampton, Va., 5 Nov. 1991. 

58. Loftin telephone interview with author, 30 Jan. 1992. 

59. Charles J. Donlan interview with author, Hampton, Va., 17 Aug. 1990, transcript, 

pp. 27-28, OHC, LHA. 

60. Rosholt, Administrative History of NASA, pp. 145-146. 

61. Ibid. 

62. Ibid., pp. 157-158. 

63. Levine, Managing NASA in the Apollo Era, pp. 43-45. 

64. What has been described in the text is a system of project management that evolved 

gradually, in fits and starts, through several major reorganizations taking place during 

the first five years of NASA, from October 1958 to October 1963. For a far more 

comprehensive examination of the development of the NASA organization and its 

management in this period, the reader should consult the previously cited works by 

Rosholt and Levine. Both books go into great detail about NASA's project management. 

65. On the nature of the wartime work at NACA Langley, see Hansen, Engineer in Charge, 

pp. 194-202. 

Chapter 5 

The "Mad Scientists" of MPD 

1. The scientific and technical literature generated by the field of plasma physics since its 

emergence as an identifiable scientific discipline in the 1950s is too vast to cite. For basic 

technical information about the field provided in this chapter, I have primarily used 

a well-known textbook from the early 1960s, Ali Bulent Cambel, Plasma Physics and 

Magnetoftuid-Mechanics (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1963) and one NASA publication 

by Langley authors Adolf Busemann, Robert V. Hess, Paul W. Huber, Clifford H. 

Nelson, and Macon C. Ellis, Jr., Plasma Physics and Magnetohydrodynamics in Space 

Exploration, NASA SP-25 (Washington, 1962). These papers were originally presented by 

their authors at a NASA/University Conference on the Science and Technology of Space 

Exploration, Chicago, Ill., 1-3 Nov. 1962. Ironically, in the midst of using Cambel's 

book, I discovered that the MPD Branch at Langley did not care for Cambel, a physics 

professor at Northwestern University in Evanston, Ill. In the 1960s, the head of the 

MPD Branch, Macon C. Ellis, Jr., turned down more than one of Cambel's ideas for 

doing MPD research urider contract to Langley. 

466 
Notes for Chapter 5 

For a more basic discussion of the nature of gases and plasma than can be found in 

the Cambel textbook, consult, as I did, Paul G. Hewitt, Conceptual Physics, 6th ed. 

(Glenview, Ill.: Scott, Foresman and Co., 1989), pp. 244-246; Gary L. Buckwalter and 

David M. lliban, College Physics (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1987), pp. 832-835; or some 

other textbook in physics. 

2. See Thomas G. Cowling, Magnetohydrodynamics (London: Adam Hilger, 1976), pp. 1-2. 

However, the best discussion of the confounding nomenclature of plasma physics can be 

found in the introduction to an unpublished paper by Langley MPD researcher George P. 

Wood. A copy of this paper, which is undated (but seems to have been written in 1959), 

can be found in the collection of personal papers donated in 1991 to the LHA by Macon C. 

Ellis, Jr. 

3. For a historical analysis of Chapman's work on solar physics and solar and terrestrial relationships, see Karl Hufbauer, Exploring the Sun: Solar Science Since Galileo (Baltimore 

and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991), esp. pp. 154-158 and 217-221. Several references are made to the contributions of the Chapman group in Homer Newell, 

Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space Science, NASA SP-4211 (Washington, 

1980). 

4. For those interested in the many complex details of Alfven's work, see Alfven, Cosmical 

Electrodynamics (Oxford University Press, 1950). Also see Hufbauer, Exploring the Sun, 

pp. 205-206, 216, 242, 253, and 311. 

5. For details about the discovery of the earth's radiation belts from the scientist who discovered them, see James Van Allen, The Origins of Magnetospheric Physics (Washington: 

Smithsonian Institution Press, 1983). For a brief historical analysis of the discovery of 

the Van Allen radiation belts, see Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere, esp. pp. 173-176; 

Hufbauer, Exploring the Sun, pp. 165-166; Roger Bilstein, Orders of Magnitude: A History of the NACA and NASA, 1915-1990, NASA SP-4406 (Washington, 1989), pp. 46-47 

and 81-82; and John E. Naugle, First Among Equals: The Selection of NASA Space 

Science Experiments, NASA SP-4215 (Washington, 1991), pp. 15-17. 

6. On the emergence of the concept of the magnetosphere, see Van Allen, The Origins of 

Magnetospheric Physics; Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere, pp. 172-186; and Hufbauer, 

Exploring the Sun, pp. 228, 235, and 240-243. 

7. Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere, pp. 182-184. On Eugene Parker's theory of the solar 

wind and its impact on astrophysics and solar science from 1957 to 1970, see chap. 6 in 

Hufbauer, Exploring the Sun, pp. 213-258. 

8. In response to questions that the author had posed to him in a letter, retired 

NACA/NASA researcher Macon C. Ellis, Jr., in early Nov. 1991 tape-recorded answers 

and provided other oral reminiscences concerning the history of MPD at Langley. The 

information contained on the roughly 90-minute tape provides an excellent overview of 

MPD research at Langley. However, because of the candid nature of some of the remarks 

made about fellow MPD personnel, Ellis chose to restrict access to the tape. This he 

did by giving the tape to the author for his personal use and asking that a copy not be 

placed in the LHA. The quotation from Ellis in the text is from the author's handwritten 

transcript of this audiotape, p. 2. 

9. Quoted from Ellis's handwritten notes entitled "Branch Re-Cap," for a meeting of the 

Compressibility Research Division on 18 June 1958, p. 1. The branch referred to was the 

467 
Notes for Chapter 5 

Gas Dynamics Branch. These notes are in a folder labeled "Editorial Copy, 1958," Ellis 

Collection, LHA. 

10. A significant amount of MPD-related research was conducted at the other NASA research 

centers. For example, a parallel MPD branch at Lewis was especially interested in the 

promise of ion thrusters and electric propulsion. The best sources for NASA's early 

MPD activities agencywide are the published reports of the intercenter conferences on 

plasma physics; see, for example, Program of the Third NASA Intercenter Conference 

on Magnetoplasmadynamics, held at Langley, 24-25 Apr. 1962, or "Program of the 

Fourth NASA Intercenter Conference on Plasma Physics," held at NASA headquarters, 

2-4 Dec. 1964. Copies of most of these NASA meeting programs are in the Ellis 

Collection, LHA. For a list of organizations that conducted MPD and plasma physics 

research, as well as for lists of the dozens of people involved, see the relevant documents 

in the folder labeled "Statistics on Visitors, etc.," Ellis Collection, LHA. 

11. NASA Langley press release, "NASA 1959 Inspection: Magnetoplasmadynamics," 

Oct. 1959, p. 1, "1959-1964 Inspection" drawer, LHA. 

12. Ellis audiotape, author's transcript, p. 9. 

13. Ibid., p. 5. 

14. "Agenda and Tentative Schedule for Interlaboratory Magnetohydrodynamics Meeting, 

Sept. 22-23, 1958," copy in folder labeled "MHD Meeting-9-22/23-58," Ellis Collection, 

LHA. The folder contains several documents related to the conference. Dr. Busemann 

served as the "meeting chairman," and Macon C. Ellis, Jr., served as its "coordinator." 

Busemann continued to work on MHD-related problems throughout the early 1960s; see, 

for example, "On the Karman Vortex Street in Magnetofiuid-Dynamics," 80th Annual 

Proceedings of the Institute of Aerospace Sciences, 1962; "Relations between Aerodynamics and Magnetohydrodynamics," which was presented at a NASA-sponsored conference 

at the University of Chicago, 1-3 Nov. 1962; and "Lift Control in Magnetohydrodynamics," a paper presented at the International Symposium of Applications of the Theory 

of Functions in Continuum Mechanics at Tbilisi in the Soviet Union, 18-24 Sept. 1963. 

Copies of all three papers are available in the Langley Technical Library. 

15. Macon C. Ellis, Jr., to Charles J. Donlan, Langley associate director, "Outline of 

NASA-Postdoctoral Resident Research Associate Program Administered by National Research Council-NASA-NAB and recommendations relative to Langley participation," 

29 Nov. 1966, copy in folder labeled "RRA Program," Ellis Collection, LHA. This folder 

contains a rather complete file on MPD's involvement in the RRA program at Langley. 

16. Special personnel folders for Adamson and Feix are in the Ellis Collection, LHA. 

17. For insight into the amount and type of MPD research conducted by outside groups under 

contract to Langley, see "MPD Branch Research Grants and Contracts," a seven-page 

document, dated Oct. 1966, in the Ellis Collection, LHA. MPD monitored 37 contracts 

amounting to almost $4 million. 

The MPD Branch collected comple~e information on its committee memberships, 

publications, contracts, and visitors in preparation for a major June 1968 briefing of new 

Langley Director Edgar M. Cortright. Much of this information is in a folder labeled 

"Statistics on Visitors, etc.," Ellis Collection, LHA. 

18. NASA established a Technical Working Group for Electric Propulsion (TWGEP) on 

1 Sept. 1960. Chaired by Dr. Ernst Stuhlinger of NASA Marshall, the group comprised 

468 
Notes for Chapter 5 

representatives from Marshall, JPL, Lewis, Goddard, Langley, and NASA's Nuclear 

Engine Project Office. MPD Branch Head Mike Ellis was Langley's representative. The 

Ellis Collection contains a complete set of minutes to the TWGEP meetings. The first 

of these meetings convened at Marshall on 13 Oct. 1960. 

19. NASA Langley press release, "NASA 1959 Inspection: Magnetoplasmadynamics," 

Oct. 1959, p. 1. 

20. John V. Becker interview with author, Hampton, Va., 5 Aug. 1991. 

21. Donald D. Baals and William R. Corliss, Wind Tunnels of NASA, NASA SP-440 

(Washington, 1981), p. 85. 

22. For information on the arc-jet facilities built and operated at Langley in the 1960s, 

see Martin A. Weiner, Resume of Research Facilities at the Langley Research Center 

(Washington: NASA, July 1968). A copy of this catalogue (No. CN-123,837) is available 

in the Langley Technical Library. 

23. For more information on the hotshot tunnel, see Baals and Corliss, Wind Tunnels of 

NASA, pp. 84-85; and Weiner, Resume of Research Facilities, facilities in Building 1247B. 

24. William H. Allen, ed., Dictionary of Technical Terms for Aerospace Use, NASA SP-7 

(Washington, 1965), p. 251. See also Baals and Corliss, Wind Tunnels of NASA, p. 84. 

25. A one-page chronology of early shock-tube operation in Langley's Gas Dynamics Laboratory from 1951 to 1953 is located in the Ellis Collection, LHA; see the folder labeled 

"Editorial Copy, 1958." Also in this folder is a chart (circa 1957) listing the major research facilities in the Gas Dynamics Laboratory and giving basic data on their test 

section sizes, running times, dates of initial operation, and stagnation temperatures and 

pressures. Mike Ellis used this chart and its associated information to brief a meeting of 

the NACA's aerodynamics committee held at Langley on 1 May 1958. 

26. Becker interview, 5 Aug. 1991. See George P. Wood and Arlen F. Carter, "Considerations 

in the Design of a Steady DC Plasma Accelerator," presented at the Third Biennial Gas 

Dynamics Symposium, Northwestern University, Evanston, Ill., 24-26 Aug. 1959, copy 

in the Langley Technical Library. 

27. George P. Wood, Arlen F. Carter, Alexander P. Sabol, and Richard H. Weinstein, 

"Experiments in Steady State Crossed-Field Acceleration of Plasma," in Physics of Fluids 

5 (May 1961): 652; George P. Wood, Arlen F. Carter, Hubert K. Lintz, and J. Byron 

Pennington, "A Theoretical Treatment of the Steady-Flow, Linear, Crossed-Field, DirectCurrent Plasma Accelerator for Inviscid, Adiabatic, Isothermal, Constant-Area Flow," 

NASA TN D-924, June 1961; Arlen F. Carter, George P. Wood, D. R. McFarland, and 

W. R. Weaver, "Research on a Linear Direct-Current Plasma Accelerator," in AIAA 

Journal 3 (June 1965): 1040-1045. For an earlier version of this paper, see George 

P. Wood, Arlen F. Carter, Alexander P. Sabol, D. R. McFarland, and W. R. Weaver, 

"Research on Linear Crossed-Field Steady-Flow DC Plasma Accelerators at Langley 

Research Center, NASA," presented at the AGARD Specialists' Meeting on Arc Heaters 

and MHD Accelerators for Aerodynamic Purposes, Rhode-Saint-Genese, Belgium, 21-23 

Sept. 1964, published as AGARDograph 84, copy in the Langley Technical Library. For 

a general description of Langley's early work on plasma accelerators, see NASA Langley 

press release, "NASA 1959 Inspection: Magnetoplasmadynamics," pp. 2-3. 

28. Becker interview, 5 Aug. 1991. 

469 
Notes for Chapter 5 

29. Ibid. A preliminary proposal for what Stack wanted to call a "Trans-Satellite-Velocity" 

wind tunnel can be found in the folder labeled "Editorial Copy, 1958," Ellis Collection, 

LHA. 

30. Arlen F. Carter, Willard R. Weaver, Donald R. McFarland, Stephen K. Park, 

and George P. Wood, "Development and Initial Operating Characteristics of the 

20-Megawatt Linear Plasma Accelerator Facility," NASA TN D-6547, Dec. 1971; see 

also "Design of the 20-Megawatt Linear Plasma Accelerator Facility," NASA TN D-6116, 

Jan. 1971, by the same authors. 

31. On Langley's work with Hall-current accelerators, see John R. Sevier, Robert V. Hess, 

and Philip Brockman, "Coaxial Hall-Current Accelerator Operation at Forces and Efficiencies Comparable to Conventional Crossed-Field Accelerators," in ARS Journal 

32 (Jan. 1962): 78-80; Philip Brockman, Robert V. Hess, and Richard Weinstein, 

"Measurements and Theoretical Interpretation of Hall Currents for Steady Axial Discharges in Radial Magnetic Fields," presented at the Fifth Biennial Gas Dynamics 

Symposium, Northwestern University, Evanston, Ill., 14-16 Aug. 1963; W. Grossmann, 

H. A. Hassan, and R. V. Hess, "Experiments with Co-Axial Hall-Current Plasma Accelerator," presented at AIAA Fourth Electric Propulsion Conference, Philadelphia, 

31 Aug.-2 Sept. 1964; H. A. Hassan, R. V. Hess, and W. Grossmann, "Study of Coaxial Hall Current Accelerators at Moderate Pressures," NASA TN D-3286, Oct. 1966. 

Copies of all these papers are available in the Langley Technical Library. The author 

wishes to thank Mr. Hess for his generous assistance in explaining, via letters, telephone 

conversations, and personal interviews, the development of the MPD accelerators at 

Langley. 

32. Robert V. Hess and Macon C. Ellis, Jr., to Floyd L. Thompson, associate director, 

"Visit to the Research Institute of Temple University, Philadelphia, Pa., to discuss high 

temperature flames," 21 June 1959, copy in folder labeled "CN (Early)," Ellis Collection, 

LHA. Three folders containing material on Langley's development of a cyanogen flame 

apparatus are in the Ellis Collection, LHA. Ellis also comments on the cyanogen flame 

apparatus in his audiotape, author's transcript, p. 4. 

33. NASA Langley press release, "NASA 1959 Inspection: Magnetoplasmadynamics," 

pp. 1-2. For the early experimental findings involving the Langley cyanogen flame apparatus, see Paul W. Huber and Paul B. Gooderum, "Experiments with Plasmas Produced 

by Potassium-Seeded Cyanogen Oxygen Flames for Study of Radio Transmission at Simulated Reentry Vehicle Plasma Conditions," NASA TN D-627, Oct. 1961. See also Huber, 

"Experiments with Plasmas Produced by Alkali-Metal-Seeded Cyanogen-Oxygen Flames 

for Study of Electromagnetic Wave Propagation at the Langley Research Center," paper 

presented at the Symposium on the Plasma Sheath, Cambridge, Mass., 7-9 Dec. 1959, 

copy in the Langley Technical Library. 

Calvin T. Swift's major MPD research papers from the period include "Generalized 

Treatment of Plane Electromagnetic Waves Passing through an Isotropic Inhomogeneous 

Plasma Slab at Arbitrary Angles of Incidence," NASA TR R-172, Dec. 1963, coauthored 

by J. S. Evans; "Radiation from Slotted-Cylinder Antennas in a Reentry Plasma Environment," NASA TN D-2187, Feb. 1964; "The Aperture Admittance of a Ground PlaneMounted Waveguide Illuminating a Perfectly Conducting Sheet," NASA TN D-4366, 

Mar. 1968, coauthored 'by J. Earl Jones; "Experimental Investigation of a Plasma 

470 
Notes for Chapter 5 

Covered, Axially Slotted Cylinder," in IEEE Transactions on Antennas and Propagation 17 (Sept. 1969): 598-605, coauthored by P. B. Gooderum and S. L. Castellow, Jr.; 

and "A Theoretical Investigation of Electromagnetic Waves Obliquely Incident Upon a 

Plasma Slab," NASA TR R-339, Apr. 1970. 

34. Very little can be found in any publications of the NASA History Series about Project 

RAM. The NASA Historical Data Book, vol. 2, Programs and Projects, 1958-1968, 

pp. 464-466, provides only the most basic information. For technical information 

on the radio transmission problem caused by the plasma sheath and early thoughts 

about the potential for attenuating it, see Macon C. Ellis, Jr., and Paul W. Huber, 

"Real Gas Flow Conditions about Hypersonic Vehicles," in Reentry Dynamics, Part II: 

Proceedings of the Conference on Physics of the Solar System and Reentry Dynamics, 

July 31 to Aug. 11, 1961 (Blacksburg, Va.: Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State 

University, 1962), pp. 120-154; and John S. Evans and Paul W. Huber, "Calculated 

Radio Attenuation due to Plasma Sheath on Hypersonic Blunt-Nosed Cone," NASA TN 

D-2043, Dec. 1963. 

35. Handwritten notes for briefing of the Langley senior staff, 15 Feb. 1962, in folder labeled 

"Text and Vu-graphs for 2/15/62 Briefing," Ellis Collection, LHA. 

36. Quoted from "Langley Feasibility Study of Release of Barium Cloud within Earth's 

Magnetosphere," 16 Aug. 1965, p. 1, copy in folder labeled "Ba-Cloud Project," Ellis 

Collection, LHA. 

37. For a summary of the scientific objectives of the barium cloud experiment, see "Scientific 

Merits of Experiment Involving a Barium Release at High Altitude (Several Earth 

Radii)," an unpublished Langley paper from early 1968, Ba-Cloud file, Ellis Collection, 

LHA. 

38. "Langley Feasibility Study of Release of Barium Cloud," p. 2. 

39. L. Biermann, R. Lust, Rh. Lust, and H. U. Schmidt, "Zur Untersuchung des interplanetaren Mediums mit hilfe kunstliche eingebrachtee Ionenwolken" ["Study of the Interplanetary Media by Means of Artificially Ionized Clouds"], in Zeitschrift fur Astrophysik 53 

(1961): 226-236. On Biermann's important contributions to solar physics, see Hufbauer, 

Exploring the Sun, pp. 215-221. 

40. R. V. Hess, head, Plasma Physics Section, to Charles J. Donlan, Langley associate 

director, "Request for transmittal of letter to the Secretary of the Space Sciences Steering 

Committee concerning recent discussion of R. V. Hess with Prof. Biermann on use of 

plasma cloud as space probe," 15 July 1964, Ba-Cloud file, Ellis Collection, LHA. On 

the front of this memorandum, MPD Branch Head Mike Ellis has penned the words, 

"Hess'[s] claim for plasma cloud ideal" 

41. NASA, "MPI/NASA Magnetospheric Ion Cloud Experiment Project Proposal/ 

Development Plan," 15 Dec. 1967, copy in Bar-Cloud file, Ellis Collection, LHA. Ellis 

audiotape, author's transcript, pp. 3 and 19. 

42. For draft copies of the relevant memoranda of understanding between NASA and West 

Germany's Federal Ministry for Scientific Research, see Ba-Cloud file, Ellis Collection, 

LHA. 

43. NASA, "MPI/NASA Magnetospheric Ion Cloud." 

44. On the accident and the findings of the NASA investigative board, see the story in the 

New York Times, 9 July 1967. Max Planck Institut researchers also experienced an 

471 
Notes for Chapter 5 

accident involving the mishandling of barium; for an account see Linda Shiner, "Come 

to Aruba Whenthe Barium Blooms," Air & Space 6 (Feb./Mar. 1992): 58. 

45. Macon C. Ellis, Jr., letter to author, 28 Jan. 1991, p. 3. Ellis communicated Langley's 

"scooping" of the West Germans after talking to Leo D. Staton, one of the Langley 

men involved in NASA's analysis and reporting of the findings from the barium cloud 

experiments. For a summary of the results of the barium cloud experiments, see Hal 

T. Baber, Jr., Kenneth H. Crumbly, and David Adamson, Barium Releases at Altitudes 

Between 200 and 1000 Kilometers-A Joint Max Planck Institut-NASA Experiment, 

NASA SP-264 (Washington, 1971). For further analysis from NASA researchers, see 

David Adamson, Clifford L. Fricke, Sheila Ann T. Long, W. F. Landon, and D. L. Ridge, 

"Preliminary Analysis of NASA Optical Data Obtained in Barium Cloud Experiment of 

Sept. 21, 1971," in Journal of Geophysical Research 78 (1 Sept. 1973): 5769-5784; David 

Adamson and C. L. Fricke, "Barium Cloud Evolution and Striation Formation in the 

Magnetospheric Release on Sept. 21, 1971," NASA TN D-7722, Sept. 1974; and David 

Adamson, C. L. Fricke, and Sheila Ann T. Long, "Results of Magnetospheric Barium Ion 

Cloud Experiment of 1971," NASA TR R-437, Mar. 1975. 

46. Ellis to author, 28 Jan. 1991, p. 3. 

47. The best source for the history of Project Sherwood remains Amasa Bishop, Project 

Sherwood: The U.S. Program in Controlled Fusion (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley 

Publishing Co., 1958). From 1953 to 1956, Dr. Bishop served as chief of research division 

in the Controlled Thermonuclear Branch of the Atomic Energy Commission. Several 

aspects of Project Sherwood are also covered in Joan Lisa Bromberg, Fusion: Science, 

Politics, and the Invention of a New Energy Source (Cambridge and London: MIT Press, 

1983). 

48. Most of my insight into the nature of Langley's one-megajoule theta-pinch apparatus 

comes from the Ellis audiotape, author's transcript, p. 7. For a survey of the historical 

development of the various sorts of "pinch" devices, see chap. 3 (pp. 22-32) and chap. 10 

(pp. 90-105), in Bishop, Project Sherwood. Also see Bromberg, Fusion, esp. pp. 6-7, 

19-20, 25-26, 70-71, and 134-135; on the theta-pinch specifically, see pp. 143-144 

and 226-227. For those interested in the technical details of Langley's one-megajoule 

energy storage system, a copy of the successful Nov. 1961 proposal for the system is 

preserved in the Ellis Collection, LHA. 

49. For a general summary of the intent of the Magnetic Compression Experiment, see the 

"Rough Text on Laboratory Astrophysics," prepared by Karlheinz Thorn as the proposed 

text for an MPD presentation at the 1964 NASA Inspection, copy in Ellis Collection, 

LHA. Mike Ellis discusses this experiment on his audiotape, author's transcript, p. 15, 

and in his 28 Jan. 1991 letter to the author, p. 1. 

50. Langley's earliest published papers on the results of experiments in the plasma-focus 

facility include the following, all of which appeared in The Bulletin of the American 

Physical Society: J. H. Lee and C. E. Roos, "An Investigation of Hard X-rays from a 

Plasma Focus," 15 (1970): 642; J. H. Lee and L. P. Shomo, "Angular Variation of Neutron 

Yield from a Plasma Focus by Neutron-Induced Gamma Spectrometry," 15 (1970): 814; 

J. H. Lee and Nelson W. Jalufka, "Investigation of X-ray Emission from a Plasma Focus," 

15 (1970): 815; J. H. Lee and L. P. Shomo, "Dependence of Neutron Fluence Anisotropy 

on the Neutron Yield of a Plasma Focus," 15 (1970): 1463; and Nelson W. Jalufka and 

472 
Notes for Chapter 6 

J. H. Lee, "Investigation of Current Sheet Collapse in a Plasma Focus Apparatus," 15 

(1970): 1462. For a complete list of publications and presented papers based on research 

in Langley's plasma-focus facility from 1968 to 1985, see the special bibliography on the 

plasma-focus facility that I have added to the Ellis Collection, LHA. 

51. Macon C. Ellis, Jr., "15 Minute Briefing for Mr. Cortright," handwritten notes, June 

1958, copy in folder labeled "Cortright June 24, 1968 Briefing," p. 4, Ellis Collection, 

LHA. 

52. Ellis audiotape, author's transcript, p. 14. 

53. Becker interview, 5 Aug. 1991. 

54. Ellis audiotape, author's transcript, p. 17. For historical analysis of the slow and tortuous 

progress of fusion work through the doldrums in the 1960s, see Bromberg, Fusion, esp. 

pp. 110-174. 

55. On the Nixon administration's rejection of the plan for a manned Mars mission in 

the 1970s and 1980s as the follow-on to the Apollo program and as the next great 

space challenge accepted by the United States, see Walter A. McDougall, The Heavens 

and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age (New York: Basic Books, 1985), 

pp. 420-423; Michael Collins, Liftoff: The Story of America's Adventure in Space (New 

York: NASA/Grove Press, 1988), p. 201; and Edward C. Ezell and Linda Neuman Ezell, 

On Mars: Exploration of the Red Planet, 1958-1978, NASA SP-4212 (Washington, 1984), 

p. 186. Mike Ellis also comments on the ramifications of President Nixon's decision for 

the study of electric propulsion in his audiotape: "Nixon said that a manned Mars 

mission was a subject we could not talk about. 'It shall be relevant or it shall not be at 

all.' Electric propulsion was no longer relevant to any practical application; so, bingo, 

politically, we couldn't mention it," Ellis audiotape, author's transcript, p. 17. 

If a manned mission to Mars is to be attempted in the twenty-first century, as many 

advocates of the American space program have strongly suggested, it will require a 

radically new nuclear or electric propulsion system like those studied by NASA's MPD 

experts in the 1960s. If that is the case, and the United States does endeavor to 

land astronauts on Mars sometime during the next century, the decision of the Nixon 

administration to stop basic research in that area will be seen as a significant temporary 

setback. 

56. Robert V. Hess interview with author, 12 Nov. 1991; Ellis audiotape, author's transcript, 

p. 6. 

57. Becker interview, 5 Aug. 1991. 

58. Ellis to author, 28 Jan. 1991, p. 3. 

Chapter 6 

The Odyssey of Project Echo 

1. Norman L. Crabill interview with author, Newport News, Va., 11 Nov. 1991, OHC, LHA. 

2. Ibid. 

3. Ibid. 

4. Howard Gibbons, "Earthlings Stirred by NASA Balloon, Awesome Sight in the Sky," 

Newport News (Va.) Daily Press, 29 Oct. 1959. 

473 
Notes for Chapter 6 

5. On the Upper Atmosphere Rocket Research Panel and its earlier incarnation as the 

V-2 Panel, see Homer Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space Science, 

NASA SP-4211 (Washington, 1980), pp. 33-49, and John E. Naugle, First Among Equals: 

The Selection of NASA Space Science Experiments, NASA SP-4215 (Washington, 1991), 

pp. 1-4. Both Newell and Naugle participated as research scientists in the history they 

examine in these books. A mathematician-turned-physicist, Newell worked with the V-2 

missiles at White Sands, New Mexico, from 1947 to 1955, when he became the NRL's 

science program coordinator for Project Vanguard. Newell then joined NASA in 1958 

and led its space science program through much of the 1960s. In 1960 physicist Naugle 

transferred from the Space Science Division at NASA Goddard, where he had been 

studying cosmic rays and protons in the magnetosphere using nuclear emulsions exposed 

during the flights of upper-atmosphere sounding rockets, to NASA headquarters where he 

supervised the space agency's research into fields and particles. On the history of the V-2, 

both in Germany and White Sands, see Walter Dornberger, V-2-Shot into the Universe: 

The History of a Great Invention, trans. James Cleugh, with intro. by Willy Ley (New 

York: Viking Press, 1958). Dornberger was the German army officer responsible for the 

V-2 program at Peenemtinde. He came to work for the American rocket program after 

World War II as part of Operation Paperclip. 

6. On the central role of Project Vanguard in the U.S. celebration of the IGY, see Constance 

Green and Milton Lomask, Vanguard: A History (Washington: Smithsonian Institution 

Press, 1971). For final edited versions of the presentations made at the Ann Arbor 

meeting, see James Van Allen, ed., Scientific Uses of Earth Satellites (Ann Arbor: 

University of Michigan Press, 1956). For a readable history of the IGY, see Walter 

Sullivan, Assault on the Unknown: The International Geophysical Year, 2d ed. (New 

York: McGraw-Hill, 1971). 

7. C. E. Brown, W. J. O'Sullivan, Jr., and C. H. Zimmerman, "A Study of the Problems 

Relating to High Speed, High Altitude Flight," 25 June 1953, copy in the Langley 

Technical Library. For several years, this report was classified as "Secret." For more 

on the history of the Brown-Zimmerman-O'Sullivan study group, see James R. Hansen, 

Engineer in Charge: The History of Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 1g11-1g58, NASA 

SP-4305 (Washington, 1987), pp. 351-353. 

8. William J. O'Sullivan to Don Murray, Glen Ridge, N.J., 29 Sept. 1960, p. 3, copy in 

Milton Ames Collection, box 6, LHA. O'Sullivan wrote this letter to answer questions 

that Murray, a free-lance writer, had asked in preparation for a magazine article on 

O'Sullivan and the Echo balloon. The article was published as "O'Sullivan's Wonderful 

Lead Balloon" in the Feb. 1961 issue of Popular Science Monthly. Also, an bterview 

with O'Sullivan about the genesis of inflatable satellites, conducted by Edward Morse 

and dated 28 Aug. 1964, is in a biography file concerning O'Sullivan in NASA HQA. 

Morse eventually drafted a "Preliminary History of the Origin of Project Syncom," NASA 

HNN-40, 1 Sept. 1964, copy in NASA HQA. 

9. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, pp. 3-4. 

10. Ibid., p. 4. See also O'Sullivan to Associate Director [Floyd L. Thompson], "Report 

on Project Vanguard and the lAS, UAARP, and TPR meetings of Jan. 25-27, 1956," 

7 Feb. 1956, in Project Vanguard file, LCF. 

11. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, pp. 4-5. 

474 
Notes for Chapter 6 

12. Ibid., p. 6. 

13. Ibid. 

14. Ibid., pp. 6-7. 

15. Ibid., p. 7. 

16. For Arthur C. Clarke's thoughts on his 1945 article on "Extraterrestrial Relays" in 

Wireless World, see his Profiles of the Future: An Inquiry Into the Limits of the Possible 

(New York: Popular Library, 1977), pp. 205-207. Profiles of the Future first appeared in 

print in 1958. 

17. Clarke, Profiles of the Future, pp. 205-207. 

18. John R. Pierce, "Orbital Radio Relays," Jet Propulsion 25 (Apr. 1955): 153-157. For 

a later presentation by Pierce, see "Satellite Systems for Commercial Communications," 

a paper presented at the 28th Annual Meeting of the Institute of Aeronautical Sciences 

(lAS), New York City, 25-27 Jan. 1960, copy in Langley Technical Library. On Pierce's 

early ideas for communications satellites, see Delbert D. Smith, Communications via 

Satellite: A Vision in Retrospect (Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1976), pp. 18-19. 

19. For contemporary technical distinctions between active and passive satellites, see NASA, 

Space Communications and Navigation, 1958-1964, NASA SP-93 (Washington, 1966), 

pp. v and 1; see also Linda Neuman Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book, vol. 2, Programs 

and Projects, 1958-1968, NASA SP-4012 (Washington, 1988), p. 364. For insights into 

the nature of early U.S. satellite proposals, see R. Cargill Hall, "Early U.S. Satellite 

Proposals," Technology and Culture 4 (Fall1963): 410-434. 

20. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 7. 

21. Ibid. 

22. Ibid., pp. 7-8. On the IGY satellite program, see Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere, 

pp. 46-49. 

23. See the introduction to James A. Van Allen, ed., Scientific Uses of Earth Satellites (Ann 

Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1956); O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 8. 

24. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 8. 

25. William J. O'Sullivan, Jr., to Director [Henry J. E. Reid], "Proposal for the NACA to 

undertake research on development of earth. satellites," 29 June 1956; Robert R. Gilruth 

to Associate Director [Floyd L. Thompson], "Comments on suggestion for research on 

drag of earth satellite," 13 July 1956. Both letters are in the Project Vanguard file, LCF. 

A long section of O'Sullivan's 1956 proposal to NACA Langley for satellite research is 

quoted in Joseph A. Shortal, A New Dimension: Wallops Flight Test Range, The First 

Fifteen Years, NASA RP-1028 (Washington, 1978), p. 600. In the late 1950s and early 

1960s during the genesis of inflatable spheres for space research, Shortal served as chief 

ofPARD. ) 

26. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, pp. 8-9; O'Sullivan to Associate Director 

[Thompson], "Report on Action Taken by USNC/IGY Technical Panel on Earth Satellites 

on Sept. 5,,1956, regarding NACA Proposal," 19 Sept. 1956, in Project Vanguard file, 

LCF. See Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere, pp. 50-57 and app. E, "Original Membership 

of the U.S. National Committee for the International Geophysical Year," p. 433. 

27. Joseph A. Shortal, memorandum for all concerned, 26 Dec. 1956, Project Vanguard file, 

LCF; Walter E. Bressette to author, 11 Mar. 1992, p. 2, author's files; Shortal, A New 

Dimension, p. 600. 

475 
Notes for Chapter 6 

28. Murray, "O'Sullivan's Wonderful Lead Balloon," p. 47. 

29. Ibid. Murray visited Langley while writing.his story and witnessed the balloon-folding 

procedure. 

30. Bressette to author, 11 Mar. 1992, p. 3. 

31. "Sub-Satellite Originated at Langley Lab," Air Scoop, 5 Jan. 1957, p. 1. For details about 

the Sub-Satellite, see O'Sullivan, "The USNC/IGY-NACA Earth Sub-Satellite Experiment," a paper presented to the Comite Speciale de l'Annee Geophysique Internationale 

(CSAGI) Rocket and Satellite Conference, Washington, D.C., 30 Sept.-5 Oct. 1957, copy 

in Langley Technical Library. 

32. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 10. For a chronology of the "Highlights in 

the Inflatable Satellite Program," including a reference to the reconfirmation of an 

allotment of space for O'Sullivan's Sub-Satellite on Vanguard by the Technical Panel 

on the Earth Satellite Project, see "Recommendation for Distinguished Service Medal, 

Mr. William J. O'Sullivan, Jr., Aeronautical Research Engineer, Assistant to Division 

Chief, Applied Materials and Physics Division, and Head, Space Vehicles Group, AMPD, 

Langley Research Center," [ca. 1961], copy in Milton Ames Collection, box 6, LHA. 

33. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, pp. 9-10; Shortal, A New Dimension, pp. 600-

604. For a chronology of the development and operations of Project Vanguard, see Ezell, 

NASA Historical Data Book, 2:87. 

34. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 10. A copy of O'Sullivan's San Diego paper, 

"The USNC/IGY-NACA Earth Sub-Satellite Experiment," can be found in the Langley 

Technical Library. O'Sullivan presented an earlier version of this paper at a rocket and 

satellite conference held at the National Academy of Sciences in Washington the previous 

month. 

35. Bressette to author, 11 Mar. 1992, p. 3; O'Sullivan to Associate Director [Thompson], 

"NACA 12-foot spherical satellite," 5 Dec. 1957, Project Vanguard file, LCF. 

36. Walter A. McDougall, The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age 

(New York: Basic Books, 1985), p. 100. 

37. "Moonwatchers," Newport News Daily Press, 6 Oct. 1957, front page. 

38. Quoted in McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, p. 141. A transcript of an interview with 

Gerald Siegel about Sputnik and other issues related to politics and space is in NASA 

HQA. 

39. Robert R. Gilruth, "Memoir: From Wallops Island to Mercury, 1945-1958," unpublished 

manuscript presented at the Sixth International History Symposium, Vienna, Austria, 

13 Oct. 1972, pp. 33-34, copy in LHA; Charles J. Donlan interview with author, 

17 Aug. 1990, transcript, p. 6, OHC, LHA. 

40. O'Sullivan to Associate Director [Thompson], "Decisions made on NACA 12-foot satellite 

at Apr. 3, 1958 meeting of TPESP," 9 Apr. 1958, Project Vanguard file, LCF. See also 

O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 10. For a summary description of the Jupiter C's 

development, see Wernher von Braun, Frederick I. Ordway III, and Dave Dooling, Space 

Travel, A History: An Update of History of Rocketry and Space Travel, 4th ed. (New 

York: Harper & Row, 1985), pp. 128-129. 

41. At the same time O'Sullivan was directing the development of the NACA's 12-foot 

inflatable, he was also working on a pneumatically erectable satellite intended specifically 

for navigation purposes. Because a sphere would reflect radar signals in all directions, 

476 
Notes for Chapter 6 

O'Sullivan realized that this shape would not work as a navigation satellite. What was 

required instead was a "corner reflector" that would reflect signals back precisely from 

whence they came. With this basic knowledge of radar signals and optics in mind, 

O'Sullivan designed a little 6.4-inch-diameter passive reflector satellite equipped with 

tiny solar cells for flight into orbit aboard a Vanguard. Ground tests demonstrated, 

however, that an active satellite with a more powerful transmitter would make a much 

better navigation satellite, as it could be tracked by a comparatively small tracking 

receiver requiring little space and power and would not require a large and powerful 

radar. O'Sullivan, therefore, laid the corner reflector satellite aside in the spring of 1958 

and concentrated on the Beacon satellite. See O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, 

pp. 10-11. 

42. Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 607; Eugene M. Emme, Aeronautics and Astronautics: An 

American Chronology of Science and Technology in the Exploration of Space, 1915-1960 

(Washington: NASA, 1961), p. 110. Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book (2:370-371) 

provides a chronology of the development and operations of Project Echo, including 

information on the 30-inch Sub-Satellite and 12-foot inflatable sphere. 

43. O'Sullivan to Associate Director [Thompson], "Launch vehicle for NACA 12-foot satellite," 11 July 1958, Project Vanguard file, LCF. See also Shortal, A New Dimension, 

p. 610; "Highlights in the Inflatable Satellite Program," in "Recommendation for Distinguished Service Medal, Mr. William J. O'Sullivan, Jr., [ca. 1961]," Ames Collection, 

box 6, LHA; Bressette to author, 11 Mar. 1992, p. 4. Bressette has pointed out that 

O'Sullivan's dogged insistence on a circular orbit for the inflatable satellites "nearly 

negated the Scout missions with the 12-foot sphere, because for the early Scout satellite 

launchings the Scout management required a 6-percent over-velocity at satellite insertion. 

This resulted in a very elliptical orbit." Scout was a low-budget, solid-propellant booster 

built by LTV of Dallas, Tex., which specialized in putting small payloads in orbit. As 

shall be explained in the next chapter of this book, NASA Langley served as project 

manager for Scout. 

For details concerning the deployment and inflation techniques used for the 12-foot 

satellite, see Alan B. Kehlet and Herbert G. Patterson, "Free-Flight Test of a Technique 

for Inflating an NASA 12-Foot-Diameter Sphere at High Altitude," NASA Memo 2-5-59L, 

1959, copy in the Langley Technical Library. Details about the design of the 30-inch and 

12-foot inflatable spheres were presented in a special NASA report by Claude W. Coffee, 

Jr., Walter E. Bressette, and Gerald M. Keating, Design of the NASA Lightweight 

Inflatable Satellites for the Determination of Atmospheric Density at Extreme Altitudes, 

NASA TN D-1243, Apr. 1962. 

44. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, pp. 14-15; Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 610; 

von Braun, Ordway, and Dooling, Space Travel, pp. 156 and 172-173; Roger Bilstein, 

Orders of Magnitude: A History of the NACA and NASA, 1915-1990, NASA SP-4406 

(Washington, 1980), p. 47. 

45. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 15. 

46. Walter E. Bressette, letter to author, 16 May 1992, author's files. 

47. [Langley Aeronautical Laboratory], "Preliminary Langley Staff Study, NASA Space 

Flight Program," 15 May 19.58, copy in folder "Space Material," Floyd L. Thompson 

Collection, LHA. On the early work by U.S. industry on communications satellites, see 

477 
Notes for Chapter 6 

Smith, Communications via Satellite, pp. 58-59; McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, 

p. 352. 

48. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 11. 

49. Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 686; Bressette to author, 11 Mar. 1992, p. 4. 

50. Research Authorization (RA) A12L145, dated 8 May 1958, in Research Authorization 

Files, LHA. See also Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 686. For an outline of the early 

organization at Langley for Echo, see Jesse L. Mitchell to Associate Director [Thompson], 

"NACA 100-Foot Diameter Communications Satellite Experiment," copy in Project Echo 

file, LCF. See also Shortal, A New Dimension, pp. 686-687. 

51. William J. O'Sullivan to Associate Director [Floyd L. Thompson], "Meeting on establishment of a task group to carry work load on 30-inch, 12-foot, and 100-foot satellite, 

held on February 18, 1959," 19 Feb. 1959, Project Echo file, LCF. For NASA's public 

justification for Project Echo, see "NASA Urges Project Echo Participation," Aviation 

Week, 71 (14 Dec. 1959): 65-67. 

52. Leonard Jaffe, chief, Communications Satellite Program, "Project Echo: Results of 

Second Planning Meeting," 13 Oct. 1959, Project Echo file, LCF. The first Echo planning meeting had taken place on 10 June 1959; see Leonard Jaffe, "Results of Project 

Echo Planning Meeting on June 10, 1959," 16 June 1959, in Project Echo file. On 

JPL's part in the early stages of Project Echo, see Walter K. Victor and Robertson 

Stevens, "The Role of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Project Echo," JPL Tech. 

Release 34-141, 14 Oct. 1960; on the Goldstone receiving station, see Stevens and 

Victor, "The Goldstone Station Communications and Tracking System for Project Echo," 

JPL TR 32-59, 1 Dec. 1960. Copies of both are in the Langley Technical Library. 

On Bell Telephone's role, see William C. Jakes, Jr., Bell Labs, "Participation of Bell 

Telephone Laboratories in Project Echo and Experimental Results," NASA TN D-1127, 

Dec. 1961. The July 1961 issue of the Bell System Technical Journal is devoted to 

extensive discussion of Project Echo and Bell's participation in it. 

53. Robert J. Mackey, Jr., head, Communications Branch, NASA Goddard, "Echo A-12 

Working Agreement: GSFC-LRC," 4 Jan. 1961, Project Echo file, LCF; Shortal, A New 

Dimension, p. 689. At the second Project Echo planning meeting on 13 Oct. 1959, 

Leonard Jaffe had named Goddard's Robert Mackey to be the "action officer" for Project 

Echo. 

54. On Project Shotput, see Shortal, A New Dimension, pp. 685-695. The author would like 

to thank Norman L. Crabill, one of the heads of the Shotput program at Langley, for 

sharing his personal papers relevant to Shotput, for example, his unpublished talk given 

at Langley on 24 May 1961 to the NASA/DOD Technical Committee on Communications 

Satellites, "The Echo A-12 Vertical Test Program." The complete documentary record 

of Shotput is preserved in the Project Shotput file, LCF. 

55. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, pp. 12-13. 

56. Ibid., pp. 13-14; Shortal, A New Dimension, pp. 690-691. 

57. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 14. 

58. Norman L. Crabill interview, 11 Nov. 1991. 

59. Bressette to author, 11 Mar. 1992, pp. 4-5. On 19 May 1961, the president of 

Schjeldahl, G. T. Schjeldahl, testified about his company's involvement with "Erectable 

and Inflatable Structures in Space" at a Hearing before the Committee on Science and 

478 
Notes for Chapter 6 

Astronautics, U.S. House of Representatives, 87th Congress, First Session, May 19, 

1961, no. 12 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1961), pp. 2-5. At this same 

hearing, Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., technical assistant to Langley Director Floyd Thompson, 

and William J. O'Sullivan, Jr., head of the Space Vehicle Group at Langley, also gave 

testimony concerning inflatable structures in space, including structures that could be 

used as space stations. Anyone interested in the manufacturing of the balloons should 

see G. T. Schjeldahl Co., "Design and Inflation of Inflatable and Rigidizable Passive 

Communication Satellites (Echo I and Echo II)," in Aerospace Expandable Structures 

(Mar. 1964): 576-604. 

60. Crabill interview, 11 Nov. 1991; Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 690. By the early 1960s, 

Norman Crabill had become an expert on the ascent problems of sounding rockets and 

other launch vehicles; see his paper, "Ascent Problems of Sounding Rockets," presented 

at an AGARD meeting on the Use of Rocket Vehicles in Flight Research, Scheveningen, 

the Netherlands, 18-21 July 1961, copy in Langley Technical Library. 

61. O'Sullivan to Associate Director [Thompson], "Results of Shotput test no. 1," 16 Nov. 

1959, in Project Echo file, LCF. For technical analysis of the launch problems involved 

with Shotput 1, see Robert L. James, Jr., and Ronald J. Harris, Calculation of Wind Compensation for Launching of Unguided Rockets, NASA TN D-645, Apr. 1961; Robert L. 

James, Jr., A Three-Dimensional Trajectory Simulation Using Six Degrees of Freedom 

with Arbitrary Wind, NASA TN D-641, Mar. 1961; and Sherman A. Clevenson, memorandum for files, "Spin-balancing and alignment of the second stage of the first SHOT PUT 

at Wallops Island, Virginia," 4 Nov. 1959, Project Shotput file, LCF. See also Norman L. 

Crabill, Ascent Problems of Sounding Rockets, AGARD Report 391, July 1961. 

62. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 12. 

63. Ibid.; Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 691. 

64. O'Sullivan to Murray, 29 Sept. 1960, p. 13; O'Sullivan to Associate Director [Thompson], 

"Echo satellite collapsing and inflation pressures," 19 Jan. 1960, Project Echo file, LCF. 

65. For details about the launch-vehicle problem in Shotput 2, see Norman L. Crabill to 

Clarence L. Gillis, "Preliminary data and analysis for the SHOTPUT No. 2 vehicle, fired 

Jan. 16, 1960, at 5:30:00.108 p.m. EST," 29 Jan. 1960. On the balloon tear in Shotput 3, 

see C. D. Bailey, memorandum for files, "Shotput 3," 29 Feb. 1960, as well as "NASA 

Trajectory Data for Shot Put 3, Flown Feb. 27, 1960, at 6:20:54.3 p.m. EST," 9 May 1960. 

These documents are in the Project Shotput file, LCF. 

66. Crabill interview, 11 Nov. 1991; Shortal, A New Dimension, pp. 690-692. For general 

information and the public reaction to Shotputs 2 and 3, see "Wallops Launches Inflatable 

Satellite, Visible from Afar," Newport News Daily Press, 17 Jan. 1960; "Recorded 

Message Bounced Off NASA's Space Sphere," Daily Press, 28 Feb. 1960. Many technical 

documents relating to the trajectory and tracking of the Shotputs are in the Project 

Shotput file, LCF. 

67. Edwin P. Kilgore to author, 17 Feb. 1992, author's files. 

68. Ibid.; Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 693. 

69. Crabill interview, 11 Nov. 1991. 

70. Crabill interview, 11 Nov. 1991; Shortal, A New Dimension, pp. 689-690. Bressette and 

Coffee conducted an analysis in the spring of 1959 to determine the gas leakage to be 

expected from meteoroid puncture, concluding that the balloon should retain sufficient 

479 
Notes for Chapter 6 

pressure to remain spherical for at least seven days. For their optimistic findings, see 

their memorandum for Space Vehicle Branch files, "Gas leakage from the 100-foot sphere 

caused by meteoroid puncture," 22 May 1959, in Project Echo file, LCF. 

71. President Eisenhower's message is quoted in full in "Highlights in the Inflatable Satellite 

Program," p. 4, box 5, Milton Ames Collection, LHA. 

72. For these articles, see the front pages of the Newport News Daily Press, 12-16 Aug. 1960. 

On 14 Aug., the Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone Company of Virginia ran a full-page 

ad in the Daily Press in celebration of Echo and the "First Phone Call Via a Man-Made 

Satellite." 

73. Crabill interview, 11 Nov. 1991. For a complete technical overview of the Echo 1 mission 

from the point of view of the launch-vehicle contractor, see Douglas Aircraft Co., Inc., 

"Detailed Test Objectives for Launch Vehicle Mission No. 1-Echo 1 Payload Delta 

Program," Feb. 1960, copy in Langley Technical Library. 

74. Leonard Jaffe, "Project Echo Results," Astronautics 6 (May 1961): 32-33, 80. See also 

Shortal, A New Dimension, pp. 694-695, and Alfred Rosenthal, Venture into Space, 

NASA SP-4301 (Washington, 1968), p. 89. 

75. See George R. Thompson, "NASA's Role in the Development of Commercial Satellite 

Communications," NASA HHM-8, 31 Jan. 1966; Bilstein, Orders of Magnitude, pp. 56-

57 and 65-65. For basic information about the NASA satellite communications programs 

of the 1960s, see Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book, 2:364-394. For the contemporary 

thinking on satellite programs, see "The NASA Communications Satellite Program," 

9 Feb. 1961, copy in Langley Technical Library, code N-96842; this report reviews NASA 

objectives in passive and active communications satellite programs as of early 1961. See 

also Leonard Jaffe, "NASA Communications Satellite Program," in Proceedings of the 

Second National Conference on the Peaceful Uses of Space, Seattle, May 8-10, 1962 

(Nov. 1962): 103-114, copy in Langley Technical Library. 

76. Bressette to author, 16 May 1992. 

77. See Bressette, Study of a Passive Communication, Gravity-Gradient Stabilized, Lenticular 

Satellite, Jan. 1965, copy in Langley Technical Library, GER 11893. For Langley's 

commitment to passive reflectors in the early 1960s, see Warren Gillespie, "An EarthOriented Communication Satellite of the Passive Type," in Advances in Astronautical 

Sciences 6 (1961): 51-63. 

78. Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere, pp. 144-153. For information on the Explorer missions, 

see also Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book, 2:232-253; Helen T. Wells, Susan H. Whitely, 

and Carrie E. Karegeannes, "Explorer," in Origins of NASA Names, NASA SP-4402 

(Washington, 1976), pp. 49-52. For technical details of the Explorer 9 mission, see 

O'Sullivan, Claude W. Coffee, Jr., and Gerald M. Keating, "Air Density Measurements ~ 

from the Explorer 9 Satellite," paper presented at a Meeting of the International 

Committee on Space Research, Washington, D.C., 30 Apr.-11 May 1962, copy in Langley 

Technical Library. 

79. Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book, 2:298, 400. See also Coffee, Bressette, and Keating, 

Design of the NASA Lightweight Inflatable Satellites, NASA TN D-1243, Apr. 1962. 

80. Von Braun, Ordway, and Dooling, Space Travel, pp. 174-175. 

81. In keeping with a historic and unique national pattern of competitive private ownership 

of the means of communications, it was NASA's job to help private enterprise set up 

480 
Notes for Chapter 7 

an effective commercial comsat system through its state-funded R&D, not to create the 

entire system itself. A rather flexible policy directive from the Eisenhower administration 

supporting the early establishment of a commercial comsat system led to NASA's joint 

project with AT&T for Telstar but still left room for NASA's own development of Relay. 

In May 1961, however, the political framework for NASA's participation in the comsat 

business changed dramatically with President Kennedy's announcement of his ambitious 

plan for a single global comsat system. This announcement was made in his lunar landing 

speech. For analysis of these developments involving NASA and commercial comsats, see 

McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, pp. 352-359. 

82. Von Braun, Ordway, and Dooling, Space Travel, p. 174. 

83. Bilstein, Orders of Magnitude, pp. 65-66. 

84. Arthur C. Clarke, "A Short Pre-History of Comsats, Or: How I Lost a Billion Dollars in 

My Spare Time," in Voices from the Sky: Previews of the Coming Space Age (New York, 

1965), pp. 119-128. 

85. Crabill interview, 11 Nov. 1991. 

Chapter 7 

Learning Through Failure: The Early Rush 

of the Scout Rocket Program 

1. Abraham Leiss interview with author, Hampton, Va., 19 July 1990; see also Roland D. 

English interview with David Ferraro, Hampton, Va., 14 Dec. 1990. Transcripts of all 

Ferraro's interviews, which were conducted in preparation for a 1991 NASA video on the 

history of Scout, are located in the OHC, LHA. The author wishes to thank Mr. Ferraro, 

a talented producer of video documentaries, for generously sharing his many interviews 

concerning Scout. The essential documents regarding the history of Scout can be found 

in the Scout Project files, LHA, which are organized chronologically. 

Fortunately, personnel in the Scout Project Office (notably Abraham Leiss), because 

of their understandable pride in the many accomplishments of the Scout rocket, kept 

detailed scrapbooks with clippings, documents, photos, and other miscellaneous materials 

central to the history of Scout. This chapter offers only a brief look into that history 

during its troubled early period. A comprehensive scholarly history of the Scout program 

has not yet been written. 

2. For a detailed history of PARD's work at Wallops Island, see Joseph A. Shortal, A 

New Dimension: Wallops Island Flight Test Range, the First Fifteen Years, NASA RP1028 (Washington, Dec. 1978). Shortal was the second head of PARD operations (and 

subsequently of the Applied Materials and Physics Division) at Wallops Island from 

1951 to his retirement in the late 1960s. His history is especially valuable as an insider's 

account of what went on at Wallops Island just before and after the start of the spaceflight 

revolution. 

3. On Vanguard, nothing has yet surpassed Constance M. Green and Milton Lomask, 

Vanguard: A History, NASA SP-4202 (Washington, 1970); on the IGY, see Sydney 

Chapman, IGY: Year of Discovery (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1959); 

Walter Sullivan, Assault on the Unknown: The IGY Discovery (New York: McGrawHill, 1961); and J. Tuzo Wilson, IGY: The Year of the New Moons (New York: Knopf, 

481 
Notes for Chapter 7 

1961). For a concise and insightful analysis of the IGY history, see Walter A. McDougall, 

The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age (New York: Basic 

Books, 1985), pp. 112-140. 

4. English interview with Ferraro, 14 Dec. 1990; James R. Hall interview with Ferraro, 

Hampton, Va., 4 Dec. 1990. 

5. Shortal, A New Dimension, pp. 706-707. 

6. Ibid. 

7. Remarks made by William E. Stoney to Ferraro and used in the 1991 NASA video, 

"Scout: The Unsung Hero of Space." 

8. Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 707. 

9. NASA Space Flight Program, Preliminary Langley Staff Study, 15 May 1958, pp. 1 and 

28, Scout Project files, LHA. 

10. This research authorization (RA) is not in the RA files in the LHA, which for some 

unknown reason only encompass the early 1950s. For a discussion of this RA, see Shortal, 

A New Dimension, p. 707. 

11. This air force effort to develop an advanced solid-fuel rocket launch vehicle was known 

to the DOD as "Project 609A" (Hyper-Environmental Test System 609A). For details 

of the agreement between the air force and the NACA (and later NASA), see Clotaire 

Wood to Langley Director [Reid], 11 July 1958, in the Scout Project files, LHA. Enclosed 

in this letter is a document entitled "Specifications for Solid-Fuel Rocket Test Vehicle," 

dated a day earlier. See also "Aeroneutronic Wins New Space Contract, AF Project 

Involves High-Altitude Tests," Aeroneutronic News, Newport Beach, Calif., 9 May 1960. 

For an example of Scout's early role in the air force's nuclear weapons testing program, 

see the 10 Oct. 1960 issue of Aviation Week and Space Technology; its lengthy cover 

story concerns the air force's first launch of a "Blue Scout" rocket. See also "Nuclear 

Detector Sent Up, Blue Scout's 1st Flight," Norfolk-Portsmouth (Va.) Virginian-Pilot, 

22 Sept. 1960. 

12. Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 707. 

13. Ibid., p. 708; see also Ferraro letter to author, 9 Sept. 1991, copy in LHA. 

14. Warren J. North, chief, Manned Satellite Program, to NASA Administrator (T. Keith 

Glennan), "Status Report No. 1-Scout," 3 Mar. 1959, copy in Scout Project files, 

LHA. See also "NASA Awards Scout Contracts," Aviation Week, 2 Mar. 1959, p. 2; 

and "First Scout Vehicle Delivery Due Aug. 15," Aviation Week, 16 Mar. 1959, p. 26. 

For a concise and well-illustrated introduction to the details of the Scout rocket, see LTV 

publication, The Scout: Solid Propellant Launch Vehicles (Dallas, 1962), copy in the 

Floyd L. Thompson Collection, LHA, folder labeled "Scout." See also Shortal, A New 

Dimension, pp. 708-710. 

For an excellent technical summary of the evolution of the Scout program to 1968 by 

someone intimately involved with it, see Milt Green, "Project Review-Scout Launch 

Vehicle," in Spacecraft Systems Education, 2 vols. (Belgrade, [formerly] Yugoslavia: 

Pergamon Press, 1968), 2:3-15. Green was the program director for the Scout Missiles 

and Space Division of LTV in Dallas. 

15. On the X-1 (or more technically, XS-1) program at Langley, see chap. 10 of James R. 

Hansen, Engineer in Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 

482 
Notes for Chapter 7 

1917-1958, NASA SP-4305 (Washington, 1987), pp. 271-310; for more general histories of the X-1 flight test program, see llichard P. Hallion, Supersonic Flight: The Story 

of the Bell X-1 and Douglas D-558 (New York & London: Macmillan Co., 1972) and 

On the Frontier: Flight Research at Dryden, 1946-1981, NASA SP-4303 (Washington, 

1984), esp. chap. 1, pp. 3-22. 

16. James R. Hall quoted in "Scout Moves to Goddard: Leaves Legacy of Camaraderie," 

Langley Researcher News, 25 Jan. 1991, p. 7. 

17. H. J. E. Reid, memorandum for all concerned, "Establishment of Scout Project Group," 

29 Feb. 1960, in Scout Project files, LHA. On Scout's organization, see also Eugene C. 

Draley, memorandum for files, "Scout Organization," 4 Mar. 1960, Scout Project files, 

LHA. This group was already located on the second floor of the impact basin building 

on Langley's west side. The individuals assigned to Scout from the various Langley 

research divisions were: Carl A. Sandahl and Andrew G. Swanson from the Applied 

Materials and Physics Division; William J. Nelson from the Aero-Physics Division; Max 

C. Kurbjun from the Aero-Space Mechanics Division; Harry L. Runyan, Jr., from the 

Dynamic Loads Division; Axel T. Mattson from the Full-Scale Research Division; James 

E. Stitt from IRD; Leonard Sternfield from the Theoretical Mechanics Division; Isidore 

G. Recant from the Unitary Plan Wind Thnnel Division; and Edwin C. Kilgore from the 

Engineering Service Division. One individual each was also assigned from the Mechanical 

Service Division, the Electrical Service Division, the Procurement Division, as well as 

from Maintenance. The project office gave regular written status reports to Langley 

management, copies of which are preserved in the Scout Project files, LHA. 

18. Hall interview with Ferraro, 4 Dec. 1990. In 1959 two Langley researchers in the 

Theoretical Mechanics Division, Robert H. Tolson and Wilbur C. Mayo, conducted 

"Studies of Use of the Scout as a Booster Vehicle for Lunar Exploration." For more 

about the lunar exploration studies based in this Langley research division, see the next 

chapter. 

19. Leiss interview, 19 July 1990. 

20. Hall quoted in "Scout Moves to Goddard," Langley Researcher News, 25 Jan. 1991, p. 7. 

For basic information on the Scout Project in its very early period, see the unofficial 

"Scout Manual," prepared by the Scout Project Office at Langley on 25 Apr. 1960 and 

distributed to all Langley Scout team members. The cover of this manual shows a 

triangle-faced Boy Scout saluting in front of a Scout rocket. A copy of this manual and 

all subsequent Scout manuals are in the notebook "Scout Project, 1959-1961," LHA. 

Such notebooks, unofficial scrapbooks, were kept by the Scout Project Office for the 

entire period of Scout's operation. 

21. Shortal, A New Dimension, pp. 709-710. 

22. Hall interview with Ferraro, 4 Dec. 1990; Ken Jacobs interview with Ferraro, Hampton, 

Va., 29 Nov. 1990; Milt Green interview with Ferraro, Hampton, Va., 28 Nov. 1990. 

23. Larry Tant interview with Ferraro, Hampton, Va., 14 Dec. 1990; Jon Van Cleve interview 

with Ferraro, Hampton, Va., 16 Nov. 1990. 

24. William E. Stoney, Jr., and Edwin C. Kilgore, memorandum for the Langley Associate 

Director (Floyd L. Thompson), "Outline of steps required to insure an earliest possible 

firing of the Scout and those required to make possible subsequent firings at intervals 

of not over two months," 28' Jan. 1960; H. J. E. Reid, Langley director, to NASA, 

483 
Notes for Chapter 7 

Code R (Research), "Acceleration of Scout Program to insure earliest possible firing 

and to make possible subsequent firings at intervals of not over 2 months," 29 Jan. 1960. 

Both documents are in the Scout Project files, LHA. See also Shortal, A New Dimension, 

p. 717. 

25. Hall quoted in "Scout Moves to Goddard," p. 7. 

26. Shortal, A New Dimension, pp. 717-718. 

27. Ibid., p. 718; "NASA Launches 'Scout' Vehicle in Wallops Test," Newport News (Va.) 

Daily Press, 19 Apr. 1960; "Ignition Failure in Third Stage Aborts Initial Scout Test 

Launch," Daily Press, 25 Apr. 1960. 

28. Hall quoted in "Scout Moves to Goddard," p. 7. 

29. Ibid. 

30. Ibid.; "Scout Veers, Is Destroyed After Firing From Wallops," Baltimore Sun, 2 July 

1960. See also Robert J. Mayhue, Scout ST-1 Flight-Test Results and Analyses, Launch 

Operations, and Test Vehicle Description, NASA TN-1240 (Washington, June 1962), and 

Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 720. 

31. Hall quoted in "Scout Moves to Goddard," p. 7. For details of the launch, see 

"Preliminary Flight Report on Scout ST-1," Dec. 1960, Scout Project files, LHA. 

32. "Obtain Valuable Data in First Scout Launching," NASA Langley Air Scoop, 8 July 

1960; "NASA Fires Scout," Newport News (Va.) Times Herald, 2 July 1960. Copies 

of the press releases given out by NASA after the launch are preserved in the "Scout 

Project, 1959-1961" notebook, LHA. Also see Shortal, A New Dimension, p. 720. 

33. "Preliminary Flight Test Results of Scout ST-2," Dec. 1960, Scout Project files, LHA. 

On the military launches, see "USAF Launches Second Blue Scout," Aviation Week, 

21 Nov. 1960, p. 30. Copies of all newspaper articles mentioned in the text can be found 

in the notebook, "Scout Project, 1959-1961," LHA. 

34. Vought Corp. brochure, "100 Scout Launches, 1960-1979," published for program in 

celebration of lOOth Scout, held in Williamsburg, Va., 27 July 1979. 

35. English interview with Ferraro, 14 Dec. 1990. 

36. Hall quoted in "Scout Moves to Goddard," p. 7. 

37. "Scout Shot Veers Off, Destroyed," Newport News Daily Press, 21 July 1963; English 

interview with Ferraro, 14 Dec. 1990. For details, see LTV, "NASA Scout S-110, Final 

Flight Report," 7 Aug. 1963, report code 3-30000/3R-233, copy in Scout Project files, 

LHA. 

38. Tom Perry interview with Ferraro, Hampton, Va., 14 Dec. 1990. 

39. Eventually two Scout review committees were formed. The first, created on 22 July 

1963, was chaired by Richard R. Heldenfels, the hard-nosed director of the Structures 

Research Division at Langley. The other six members of this review committee were ~· 

Langley engineers Edward M. Gregory, Edwin C. Kilgore, Clifford H. Nelson, Eugene D. 

Schult, Joseph A. Shortal, and Joseph G. Thibodaux, Jr. This committee was to look 

specifically into the most recent Scout 110 failure. The second committee, an intercenter 

group chaired by Richard B. Morrison of NASA headquarters, was to look more generally 

into the problems of the Scout program. The other members of this panel included Eugene 

C. Draley of Lanl/lley; Hermann W. Kroeger of Marshall Space Flight Center; Daniel G. 

Mazur of Goddard Sp\).Ce Flight Center; and William A. Fleming, Milton W. Rosen, and 

Warren A. Guild, all of NASA headquarters. For details on the second committee, see 

484 
Notes for Chapter 7 

Homer E. Newell, director, Office of Space Sciences, NASA headquarters, to director, 

Langley Research Center, "Scout Review Committee," 9 Oct. 1963, in Scout Project 

files, LHA. All the documents collected by the Langley committee, all the minutes of 

meetings, plus the final reports and recommendations of both committees can be found 

in the Scout Project files, LHA. 

40. Hall interview with Ferraro, 4 Dec. 1990. 

41. Eugene D. Schult interview with Ferraro, Hampton, Va., 6 Dec. 1990. 

42. Jacobs interview with Ferraro, 29 Nov. 1990; English interview with Ferraro, 14 Dec. 1990. 

43. Jacobs interview with Ferraro, 29 Nov. 1990. The ups and downs of the Scout program 

can best be followed by surveying the "Scout Vehicle Status Reports." These reports 

were reviewed after every one or two flights. Copies of all these reports are in the Scout 

Project files, LHA. 

44. Hall interview with Ferraro, 4 Dec. 1990. 

45. See Langley Research Center, Project Development Plan: Scout Program, Jan. 1964. 

This 100-page document expresses the essentials of the recertification process. Other 

documents from the recertification process include "Scout Engineering Program Plan," 

revised 4 Mar. 1964, and "NASA/DOD Scout Launch Complex Maintenance Manual," 

2 vols., 15 Feb. 1964. All these documents are in the Scout Project files, LHA. 

46. Green interview with Ferraro, 28 Nov. 1990. 

47. Schult interview with Ferraro, 6 Dec. 1990. 

48. English interview with Ferraro, 14 Dec. 1990. 

49. LTV Missiles and Electronics Group brochure, "Scout: 30 Years of Service, 1960-1990," 

(Dallas, Feb. 1991). For more basic historical information on Scout, see Linda Neuman 

Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book, vol. 2, Programs and Project 1958-1968, NASA 

SP-4012 (Washington, 1988), pp. 19-21, 61-67, 244-247, 444-448, and 465-477. For 

a comprehensive listing of the technical reports published by NASA and its contractors 

relevant to Scout, see Abraham Leiss, Scout Launch Vehicle Program, Final Report, 

3 vols. (NASA Langley: NASA CR-165950, May 1982), 3:1122-1206. 

50. The preceding summary of Scout's accomplishments has been composed largely from 

a survey of the newspaper clippings, magazine stories, documents, and miscellaneous 

materials in the Scout Project Office scrapbooks. For more exhaustive details on the 

Scout launch vehicle program, including the San Marco operation, see Abraham Leiss, 

Scout Launch Vehicle Program. Mr. Leiss, as the chief administrative assistant of the 

Scout Project Office from its inception in 1960, has collected in these three volumes 

everything any researcher could possibly want to know about Scout. For an excellent 

short history of the Scout program to 1979, see Andrew Wilson, "Scout: NASA's Small 

Satellite Launcher," Spaceflight 21 (Nov. 1979): 446-459. 

51. See "Scout Financial Data" in Leiss, Scout Launch Vehicle Program, 1:268-270. 

52. Perry interview with Ferraro, 14 Dec. 1990. David Ferraro used Perry's phrase "the 

unsung hero of space" as the subtitle for his 1991 NASA video on Scout. 

53. Van Cleve interview with Ferraro, 16 Nov. 1990. 

54. Hall quoted in "Scout Moves to Goddard," p. 7. 

485 
Notes for Chapter 8 

Chapter 8 

Enchanted Rendezvous: The Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous Concept 

1. President John F. Kennedy, quoted in John M. Logsdon, The Decision to Go to the 

Moon: Project Apollo and the National Interest (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 

1976), p. 128. 

2. Robert R. Gilruth, "Experts Were Stunned by Scope of Mission," New York Times, 

Moon Special Supplement, 17 July 1969. The description of Gilruth's reaction is from 

my interview with him in Kilmarnock, Va., 10 July 1986, and from Charles Murray and 

Catherine Bly Cox, Apollo: The Race to the Moon (New York: Touchstone Books, 1989), 

pp. 16-17. 

3. Robert R. Gilruth to Francis W. Kemmett, director of the staff, Inventions and Contributions Board, NASA headquarters, 28 Aug. 1973. The main purpose of Gilruth's 

letter, solicited by a NASA awards board, was to evaluate Dr. John C. Houbolt's role in 

NASA's July 1962 decision in favor of LOR for Project Apollo and to determine whether 

Houbolt's contribution was worthy of the maximum prize that NASA had been authorized to give ($100,000) for an outstanding national contribution. To do that, however, 

Gilruth had to review the STG's position on LOR and the entire Apollo mission-mode 

controversy. I do not believe any historian besides myself has seen this letter, a copy of 

which is in my personal LOR file. 

4. Clinton E. Brown interview with the author, Hampton, Va., 17 July 1989. Brown's 

remarks are from a panel discussion (involving Brown, William H. Michael, Jr., and 

Arthur W. Vogeley), which I organized and led as part of NASA Langley's celebration 

of the 20th anniversary of Apollo 11, the first manned lunar landing. A videotape of the 

evening program featuring this panel discussion is preserved in the LHA. 

5. Interview with William K Michael, Jr., Hampton, Va., 17 July 1989, videotape, 

LHA. F. R. Moulton's book on celestial mechanics was available by 1958 in a second 

edition (London: Macmillan Co., 1956), but the Langley Technical Library appears not 

to have had it. The library has obtained one since. 

6. On the history of pioneering thought about and proposals for space stations, see 

Frederick I. Ordway III, "The History, Evolution, and Benefits of the Space Station 

Concept," presented to the 13th International Congress of History of Science, Aug. 1971; 

and Barton C. Hacker, "And Rest as on a Natural Station: From Space Station to Orbital 

Operations in Space-Travel Thought, 1885-1951." Both of the preceding unpublished 

papers are available in the HQA. For published information, see Wernher von Braun 

and Frederick I. Ordway III, Space Travel: A History: An Update of 'History of Rocketry 

& Space Travel' (New York: Harper & Row, 1985), pp. 18-20; and Howard E. McCurdy, 

The Space Station Decision: Incremental Politics and Technological Choice (Baltimore 

and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991), pp. 5-8 and 237 n. 7. On 

NASA's belief that a space station was the logical follow-on to Project Mercury, see 

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

of Project Gemini, NASA SP-4203 (Washington, 1977), pp. 5-6; and McCurdy, Space 

Station Decision, pp. 7-9. 

7. Brown interview, 17 July 1989. 

486 
Notes for Chapter 8 

8. Clinton E. Brown to Eugene C. Draley, "Formation of a working group to study the 

problems of Lunar exploration," 24 Mar. 1959, A200-1B, LCF. 

9. William H. Michael, Jr., to Eugene C. Draley, "Attendance at meeting of Working Group 

on Lunar and Planetary Surfaces Exploration at NASA Headquarters on February 14, 

1959," A200-1B, LCF; Michael, "Attendance at meeting for Discussion of Advanced 

Phases of Lunar Exploration at NASA Offices, Silver Spring, Md., Saturday, May 2, 

1959," A200-1B, LCF. On the Jastrow Committee, see R. Cargill Hall, Lunar Impact: 

A History of Project Ranger, NASA SP-4210 (Washington, 1977), pp. 15-16; and 

William David Compton, Where No Man Has Gone Before: A History of Apollo Lunar 

Exploration Missions, NASA SP-4214 (Washington, 1989), pp. 13-14. 

10. Harry J. Goett to Ira H. Abbott, "Interim Report on Operation of Research Steering 

Committee on Manned Space Flight," 17 July 1959, A200-1B, LCF. On the Goett 

Committee, see Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, pp. 9-10; Logsdon, 

Decision to Go to the Moon, pp. 56-57; and Murray and Cox, Apollo, pp. 43-45. 

11. Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., interview with author, Newport News, Va., 5 Aug. 1989, 

transcript, p. 100, OHC, LHA; Murray and Cox, Apollo, pp. 43-45. 

12. Michael interview, 17 July 1989. 

13. W. H. Michael, Jr., "Weight Advantages of Use of Parking Orbit for Lunar Soft Landing 

Mission," in Lunar 'ITajectory Group's [Theoretical Mechanics Division] unpublished 

"Studies Related to Lunar and Planetary Missions," 26 May 1960, A200-1B, LCF. 

14. On 13 Nov. 1948, H. E. Ross presented the essential elements of LOR to a meeting of the 

British Interplanetary Society in London. His conclusion was that LOR-compared with 

a direct flight to the lunar surface from the earth-would reduce the earth-launch weight 

by a factor of 2.6. In his paper Ross credited Hermann Oberth, Guido von Pirquet, 

Hermann Noordung, Walter Hohmann (of "Hohmann transfer" fame), Tsiolkovskii, and 

F. A. Tsander for their early ideas concerning LOR. See H. E. Ross, "Orbital Bases," in 

Journal of the British Interplanetary Society 26 (Jan. 1949): 1-18. For the history of the 

first pioneering inklings about the value of rendezvous in orbit, lunar and otherwise, see 

Barton C. Hacker, "The Idea of Rendezvous: From Space Station to Orbital Operations 

in Space-'Thavel Thought, 1895-1951," Technology and Culture 15 (July 1974): 373-388; 

as well as Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, pp. 5-6. 

15. For the Vought concept that came out of the MALLAR study, see Vought Astronautics 

brochure, Manned, Modular, Multi-Purpose Space Vehicle, Jan. 1960. 

16. The quote from Clint Brown about Michael's reaction to the Vought briefing is from 

Murray and Cox, Apollo, pp. 114-115. 

17. Michael interview with author, Hampton, Va., 7 Apr. 1989, transcript, p. 6, OHC, LHA. 

The story about Tom Dolan discussing the essentials of LOR with unknown engineers in 

PARD is taken from John D. Bird, "A Short History of the Development of the LunarOrbit-Rendezvous Plan at the Langley Research Center," 6 Sept. 1963 (supplemented 

5 Feb. 1965 and 17 Feb. 1966), box 6, Milton Ames Collection, LHA. 

18. Michael, "Weight Advantages of Use of Parking Orbit for Lunar Soft Landing Mission," 

p. 2. 

19. The "Jaybird" story is taken from Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 115. For the technical 

reports that resulted from the early lunar studies in the Theoretical Mechanics Division, 

see among others: J.P. Gapcynski, "A Consideration of Some of the Factors Involved in 

487 
Notes for Chapter 8 

the Departure of a Vehicle from a Circular Orbit About the Earth"; and W. L. Mayo, 

"Energy and Mass Requirements for Lunar and Martian Missions." Both articles are 

in the Lunar Trajectory Group's "Studies Related to Lunar and Planetary Missions." 

On Bird's lunar bug ideas, see Michael interview, 7 Apr. 1989, pp. 14-15. See also 

William H. Michael, Jr., and Robert H. Tolson, "Effect of Eccentricity of the Lunar 

Orbit, Oblateness of the Earth, and Solar Gravitational Field on Lunar Trajectories," 

June 1960, copy in the Langley Technical Library. 

20. John C. Houbolt, "A Study of Several Aerothermoelastic Problems of Aircraft Structures 

in High-Speed Flight," in Eidgenossische Technische Hochshule Mitteilung 5 (1958): 108. 

Throughout his career at NACA and NASA Langley, Houbolt was not a terribly prolific 

author. A complete bibliography of his papers is available in the LHA. 

21. John C. Houbolt interview with author, Williamsburg, Va., 24 Aug. 1989, transcript, 

p. 3, OHC, LHA. 

22. Ibid., pp. 7-8. 

23. Ibid., p. 9. On Rand and the early space program, see Walter A. McDougall, The Heavens 

and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age (New York: Basic Books, 1985), esp. 

pp. 89, 102, 106-110, and 121-123. 

24. Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, p. 13; Loftin interview, 5 Aug. 1989, 

pp. 100-101. 

25. NASA Langley, "Minutes of Meeting of LRC Manned Space Laboratory Group," 

18 Sept. 1959, A200-4, LCF. See paragraph 5 for Houbolt's statement on the rendezvous 

problem. 

26. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, pp. 9-10. 

27. Bernard Maggin to Milton B. Ames, Jr., "Inter-center discussions of space rendezvous," 

23 May 1960; John C. Houbolt, "Considerations of the Rendezvous Problems for Space 

Vehicles," presented at the National Aeronautical Meeting of the Society of Automotive 

Engineers, New York City, 5-8 Apr. 1960. Both documents are in A200-1A, LCF. The 

point about Marshall's limited interest in the rendezvous problem is made in Hacker and 

Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, pp. 14-15. 

28. Lowell E. Hasel, "Minutes of Meeting of LRC Lunar Mission Steering Group," 

24 May 1960, A200-1B, LCF. 

29. STG, "Guidelines for Advanced Manned Space Vehicle Program," June 1960. For the 

summary details of these guidelines, see Ivan D. Ertel and Mary Louise Morse, The 

Apollo Spacecraft: A Chronology (Washington: NASA, 1969), 1:38-41. In brief, the STG 

identified a manned circumlunar mission as the "logical intermediate step" toward future 

goals of lunar and planetary landing. Essential to the guidelines were plans for advanced 

earth-orbital missions and an earth-orbiting space station. 

30. STG, "Apollo Technical Liaison Plan," 16 Nov. 1960, A200-1B, LCF; Langley to STG, 

"Langley appointments to Apollo technical liaison groups," 7 Dec. 1960, in Project Apollo 

files, LCF. Interestingly, John Houbolt was not appointed to any of the liaison groups. 

On the first NASA/Industry Apollo Technical Conference, see the Wall Street Journal, 

18 July 1961. Among the many valuable papers given by Langley's John Becker to the 

Archives of Aerospace Exploration at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University 

is his file on the Lunar _Mission Steering Group. On the cover of this file, Becker provides 

a brief written introduction to its contents. Inside is a copy of the Apollo Technical 

488 
Notes for Chapter 8 

Liaison Plan, with handwritten notes by Becker. For information about this file and 

others in the Archives of Aerospace Exploration, contact the special collections archivist 

at the university library in Blacksburg, Va. 

31. Houbolt, "Considerations of the Rendezvous Problems for Space Vehicles," p. ~· 

32. NASA Langley, "Minutes of Meeting of LRC Manned Space Laboratory Group," 

5 Feb. 1960, A200-4, LCF. See paragraphs 3 and 10. 

33. William A. Mrazek, Marshall Space Flight Center, to John C. Houbolt, 16 May 1960, 

Bl0-6, LCF; Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, p. 11. 

34. John C. Houbolt, "Lunar Rendezvous," International Science and Technology 14 

(Feb. 1963): 63. Several attempts have been made to clarify the detailed history of 

the genesis of LOR at Langley and Houbolt's role in it. The best efforts to date are: 

Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, pp. 14-16 and 60-68; John M. 

Logsdon, "The Choice of the Lunar Orbital Rendezvous Mode," in Aerospace Historian 

(June 1971): 63-70; and Murray and Cox, Apollo, chaps. 8 and 9. However, none of 

these are complete, and none fully satisfy the Langley participants involved: Houbolt, 

Michael, Brown, et al. In a footnote to their excellent book on Project Apollo, Murray 

and Cox remark on the gaps in the overall LOR story, suggesting that "there is a fascinating doctoral dissertation yet to be written on this episode." This chapter may not 

close off the possibility of a doctoral dissertation, but my goal in writing it was to fill in 

many of the gaps and stress Langley's role in LOR. 

35. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, p. 15; Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of 

Titans, pp. 15-16. 

36. "RCA Will Do Saint Payload," Aviation Week and Space Technology 5 (Dec. 1960): 

27. For other sources on Project Saint, see Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of 

Titans, p. 416 n. 64. 

37. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, pp. 16 and 21-25. On Houbolt's final chart were 

three conclusions: (1) "RENDEZVOUS OPENS POSSIBILITY FOR EARLIER ACCOMPLISHMENT OF CERTAIN SPACE MEASUREMENT WITH EXISTING VEHICLES"; (2) "THERE IS A NEED FOR RAPID DEVELOPMENT OF MANNED 

RENDEZVOUS TECHNIQUES-SHOULD MAKE USE OF MERCURY AND 'SAINT' 

TECHNOLOGY''; and (3) "NASA SHOULD HAVE MANNED RENDEZVOUS PROGRAM IN LONG-RANGE PLANS WITH OBJECTIVES OF EXPEDITING SOFT 

LUNAR LANDINGS AND FLEXIBLE ORBITAL OPERATIONS." 

38. Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 116. 

39. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, pp. 17-18. 

40. See the reference to Brown's presentation in Charles J. Donlan to NASA headquarters, 

director of the staff, Inventions and Contributions Board, 1 Mar. 1974, author's LOR 

file. John D. Bird also refers to it in "A Short History of the Development of the LunarOrbit-Rendezvous Plan," p. 2. 

41. The preceding two paragraphs are derived from my unsigned feature story, "The Rendezvous That Was Almost Missed: Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous and the Apollo Program," 

NASA News Release No. 89-98, 7 July 1989, pp. 5-6. 

42. Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, pp. 28-29. 

43. Ibid., and Ertel and Morse, The Apollo Spacecraft: A Chronology, 1:66. 

44. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, pp. 21-26. 

489 
Notes for Chapter 8 

45. John I. Cumberland, executive secretary, SEPC, to members and speakers, "Agenda for 

SEPC Meeting, Jan. 5-6, 1961," A200-1B, LCF. 

46. Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, p. 29. 

47. Robert L. O'Neal to Charles J. Donlan, associate director, "Discussion with Dr. Houbolt, 

LRC, concerning the possible incorporation of a lunar orbital rendezvous phase as a 

prelude to manned lunar landing," 30 Jan. 1961, A200-1B, LCF. 

48. Ibid., p. 60; Owen Maynard to Frederick J. Lees, chairman, NASA Inventions and 

Contributions Board, 13 Nov. 1982, copy in author's LOR file. In truth, Houbolt's 

numbers were overly optimistic in estimating the required weights for the LEM, because in 

some critical areas detailed information about the necessary subsystems was not available. 

Subsequent analysis by NASA and its industrial contractors provided much more realistic 

weight numbers. Still, the later values for these weights did not turn out to be so radically 

different than Houbolt's projections: they were within the single-launch capability of the 

Saturn V vehicle and therefore validated the advertised feasibility of the LOR mode for 

the manned lunar landing mission. 

49. Von Braun quoted in Murray and Cox, Apollo, pp. 116-117. Quote expressing skepticism 

about LOR from Dr. Harvey Hall to director of the staff, NASA Inventions and 

Contributions Board, 28 Mar. 1973, author's LOR file. 

50. Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 117. 

51. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, p. 22. 

52. Gilruth to Kemmett, 28 Aug. 1973, p. 1. 

53. Donlan to director of the staff, NASA Inventions and Contributions Board, 1 Mar. 197 4, 

p. 2. 

54. Gilruth to Kemmett, 28 Aug. 1973, p. 1. 

55. Gilruth to Nicholas E. Golovin, 12 Sept. 1961, quoted in Hacker and Grimwood, On the 

Shoulders of Titans, p. 61.. 

56. The quoted phrases are from Houbolt's letters to Francis W. Kemmett, NASA Inventions 

and Contributions Board, 23 May 1978 and 2 Sept. 1981, copies in author's LOR file. 

57. George Low, "A Plan for Manned Lunar Landing," 24 Jan. 1961, A200-1B, LCF. 

On the cover sheet of this report, Low identifies the members of his Lunar Landing 

Working Group; Houbolt's name is not included. George M. Low, president, Rensselaer 

Polytechnic Institute, Troy, N.Y., to Mr. Frederick J. Lees, NASA Inventions and 

Contributions Board, 21 Oct. 1982, copy in author's LOR file. See also E. 0. Pearson, 

"Notes on Key Problems of Manned Lunar Missions," 13 Jan. 1961, A200-1B, LCF. The 

phrase "extremely far-out thing to do" is George Low's, quoted in Murray and Cox, 

Apollo, p. 117. 

58. Low to Lees, 21 Oct. 1982, p. 2. 

59. SeeM. J. Queijo to associate director, "Techniques and problems associated with manned 

lunar orbits and landings," 21 Feb. 1961, A200-1B, LCF. 

60. Bernard Maggin to John Houbolt, 1 Mar. 1961, A200-1B, LCF. 

61. Brown interview, 17 July 1989. The politics also involved at least one major industrial 

firm, North American Aviation in Los Angeles, which already had a contract for a 

command-and-service module based on the direct-ascent mode. If NASA selected 

LOR, North American most probably would have to "share the pie" with some other 

contractor who would be responsible for the separate lunar lander. The other contractor 

490 
Notes for Chapter 8 

turned out to be Grumman. For more on the politics of the mission-mode decision, 

see Henry S. F. Cooper, "We Don't Have to Prove Ourselves" in The New Yorker 

(2 Sept. 1991): 64. 

62. NASA Langley, "Work at LRC in Support of Project Apollo," 3 May 1961, Project Apollo 

file, LCF. See also Rufus 0. House to the Langley director, "Number of professionals in 

support of Project Apollo," 19 May 1961, Project Apollo file, LCF. This memo advised 

center management that 326.5 professionals were currently involved in research projects 

supporting Apollo; 91 of these professionals were involved in the study of reentry heating 

problems. 

63. Loftin interview, 5 Aug. 1989, p. 93. 

64. NASA Langley, "Manned Lunar Landing Via Rendezvous," 19 Apr. 1961, A200-1B, LCF. 

65. Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, p. 61. 

66. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, p. 30. 

67. Ibid., p. 28. 

68. Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, p. 61. 

69. Ibid. 

70. See McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, pp. 8, 318, and 328, and Murray and Cox, Apollo, 

pp. 79-80. 

71. For an analysis of Vice-President Lyndon Johnson's enthusiasm for the lunar mission, 

see McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, pp. 319-320, and Logsdon, Decision to Go to the 

Moon, pp. 119-121. 

72. For a more complete analysis of the political thinking behind Kennedy's lunar commitment, see chap. 15 "Destination Moon" (pp. 307-324) of McDougall, Heavens and the 

Earth. 

73. John C. Houbolt to Dr. Robert C. Seamans, Jr., NASA associate administrator, 

9 May 1961, copy in box 6, Milton Ames Collection, LHA. 

74. Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, p. 36; Murray and Cox, Apollo, 

pp. 81-82 and 110. The Fleming Committee had 23 members, including 18 from NASA 

headquarters; Langley had no representative. The committee members from headquarters were Fleming, Addison M. Rothrock, Albert J. Kelley, Berg Paraghamian, 

Walter W. Haase, John Disher, Merle G. Waugh, Eldon Hall, Melvyn Savage, 

William L. Lovejoy, Norman Rafel, Alfred Nelson, Samuel Snyder, Robert D. Briskman, 

Secrest L. Barry, James P. Nolan, Jr., Earnest 0. Pearson, and Robert Fellows. The 

other members were Heinz H. Koelle (Marshall), Kenneth S. Kleinknecht and Alan Kehlet 

(STG), A. H. Schichtenberg (The Lovelace Foundation), and WilliamS. Shipley (JPL). 

Not surprisingly, most of these men were big-rocket specialists. 

75. Seamans to director, Launch Vehicle Programs (Don R. Ostrander) and director, 

Advanced Research Programs (Ira H. Abbott), "Broad Study of Feasible Ways for 

Accomplishing Manned Lunar Landing Mission," 25 May 1961, A200-1B, LCF. 

76. Seamans, "Broad Study." Seamans, associate administrator, to John C. Houbolt, NASA 

Langley, 2 June 1961, copy in box 6, Milton Ames Collection, LHA. 

77. Murray and Cox state that Houbolt was a member of the Lundin Committee (Apollo, 

p. 118). Loftin interview, 5 Aug. 1989, pp. 91-97; Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, 

pp. 32-34. In reading a preliminary draft of this chapter, Loftin challenged Houbolt's 

statement. Loftin insists that 'he spent weeks in Washington on this committee and only 

491 
Notes for Chapter 8 

sent Houbolt in his place the few times he could not attend a meeting. Other members 

of the Lundin Committee, besides Lundin and Loftin, were Walter J. Downhower (JPL), 

Alfred E. Eggers (Ames), Harry 0. Ruppe (Marshall), and Lt. Col. George W. S. 

Johnson (U.S. Air Force). Unlike the Fleming Committee, this task force-by designhad no members from NASA headquarters and was conceived to represent the technical 

judgments of the NASA centers. 

78. Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., told this story from the audience during the videotaped 

celebration program for the 20th anniversary of the Apollo 11 lunar landing. See also 

Loftin interview, 5 Aug. 1989, p. 93. 

79. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, pp. 33-34. NASA (Lundin Committee), "A Survey 

of Various Vehicle Systems for the Manned Lunar Landing Mission," 10 June 1961, 

A200-1B, LCF. 

80. Ibid., p. 16; Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, p. 34. 

81. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, p. 33; see also Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 118. 

82. Loftin interview, 5 Aug. 1989, pp. 93-94. 

83. Seamans to directors for Launch Vehicle Programs, Advanced Research Programs, and 

to acting director for Life Sciences Program, "Establishment of Ad Hoc Task Group or 

Manned Lunar Landing by Rendezvous Techniques," 20 June 1961, A200-1B, LCF. See 

also Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, pp. 37-38. Serving on the 

Heaton Committee were 10 officials from NASA headquarters, 5 from Marshall, 1 from 

the Flight Research Center, and 2 from Langley, Houbolt and W. Hewitt Phillips. One 

representative from the U.S. Air Force was also a member. 

84. Houbolt's paper "Problems and Potentialities of Space Rendezvous," first presented at 

the International Academy of Astronautics' International Symposium on Space Flight 

and Reentry Trajectories, was published under the same title in Astronautica Acta 7 

(1961): 406-429. 

85. Houbolt interview, 29 Aug. 1989, p. 39. 

86. For the conclusions of the Heaton Committee, see Ad Hoc Task Group for Study of 

Manned Lunar Landing by Rendezvous Techniques, "Earth Orbital Rendezvous for an 

Early Manned Lunar Landing," pt. 1, "Summary Report of Ad Hoc Task Group Study," 

Aug. 1961. Houbolt interview, 29 Aug. 1989, p. 39. 

87. Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 119. See also Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, p. 46. 

88. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, pp. 47-48. 

89. Ibid. 

90. Ibid. 

91. "Report of DOD-NASA Large Launch Vehicle Planning Group, Vol. 1, 1961," A200-1B, 

LCF. See Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, pp. 67-68. The members of this committee, besides those mentioned in the text, were: Kurt R. Stehling 

and William A. Wolman (NASA headquarters); Warren H. Amster and Edward J. 

Barlow (Aerospace Corp.); Seymour C. Himmel (Lewis); Wilson Schramm and Francis L. 

Williams (Marshall); Col. Matthew R. Collins (army); Rear Adm. Levering Smith and 

Capt. Lewis J. Stecher, Jr. (navy); and Col. Otto J. Glaser, Lt. Col. David L. Carter, 

and Heinrich J. Weigand (air force). No Langley representatives were on the committee. 

92. Bird, "A Short HistorY: of the Development of the Lunar-Orbit-Rendezvous Plan," final 

supplement, 17 Feb. 1966, p. 3. 

492 
Notes for Chapter 8 

I 

93. Harvey Hall, NASA coordinator, NASA/DOD Large Launch Vehicle Planning Group, to 

Langley, 23 Aug. 1961, A200-1B, LCF. 

94. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, p. 49. 

95. Hacker and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, pp. 55-60. 

96. On the Shoulders of Titans is an outstanding, detailed history of the Gemini Program. 

For a more brief and somewhat more colorful insight into this important preparatory 

program for the Apollo mission, see Mich¥1 Collins, Liftoff: The Story of America's 

Adventure in Space (New York: NASA/Gro~e Press, 1988), pp. 63-113. See also Collins' 

memoir Carrying the Fire: An Astronaut's Journeys (New York: Macmillan Co., 1977). 

Collins, the CM pilot for the Apollo 11 mission to the moon, was also an astronaut in the 

Gemini program (Gemini-Titan X, 18-21 July 1966). His memoir is one of the best books 

about the manned space program of the 1960s. On Gemini's relationship to MORAD, 

see Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, pp. 49-50. 

97. NASA Langley, Manned Lunar-Landing through Use of Lunar-Orbit Rendezvous, 2 vols., 

31 Oct. 1961, copy in box 6, Milton Ames Collection, LHA. Other Langley researchers 

who made contributions to this two-volume report were Jack Dodgen, William Mace, 

Ralph W. Stone, Jack Queijo, Bill Michael, Max Kurbjun, and Ralph Brissenden. In 

essence, Houbolt and associates prepared this report as a working paper that could 

provide, as NASA Deputy Administrator Hugh L. Dryden would later explain, "a quick 

summary of the information then available on LOR as a mode of accomplishing manned 

lunar landing and return." See Dryden to the Honorable Clinton P. Anderson, chairman, 

Committee on Aeronautical and Space Sciences, U.S. Senate, 11 Apr. 1963, A200-1B, 

LCF. 

98. John C. Houbolt to Robert C. Seamans, associate administrator, NASA, 15 Nov. 1961, 

p. 1, copy in box 7, Milton Ames Collection, LHA. 

99. Ibid., p. 1. 

100. Robert C. Seamans, Jr., to Dr. John C. Houbolt, 4 Dec. 1961, box 6, Milton Ames 

Collection, LHA. 

101. George M. Low, president, Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, Troy, N.Y., to Mr. Frederick 

J. Lees, chairman, Inventions and Contributions Board, NASA, 21 Oct. 1982, copy in 

author's LOR file. See also Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 120. 

102. For an excellent capsule portrait of Dr. Joseph F. Shea, see Murray and Cox, Apollo, 

pp. 12Q-125. 

103. Ibid., p. 124. 

104. Ibid. 

105. Ibid., p. 125. 

106. On Glenn's historic flight, see Loyd S. Swenson, James H. Grimwood, and Charles C. 

Alexander, This New Ocean: A History of Project Mercury, NASA SP-4201 (Washington, 

1966), pp. 420-436. For more on the Chance Vought contract, see Ertel and Morse, Apollo 

Spacecraft: A Chronology, 1:141. On the Chance Vought team briefing, see Bird, "A 

Short History of the Development of the Lunar-Orbit-Rendezvous Plan," supplemented 

17 Feb. 1966, p. 4. Regarding the headquarters meeting, see NASA, "Minutes of Lunar 

Orbit Rendezvous Meeting, April 2--:3, 1962," copy in A200-1B, LCF. See also Ertel and 

Morse, Apollo Spacecraft: A Chronology, 1:147-152. 

107. Arthur W. Vogeley interview with author, Hampton, Va., 17 July 1989, videotape, LHA. 

493 
Notes for Chapter 8 

108. Faget quoted in HenryS. F. Cooper, "We Don't Have to Prove Ourselves," p. 64. 

109. Ibid. For details of the Manned Spacecraft Center's final evaluation in favor of LOR, see 

Charles W. Matthews, chief, Spacecraft Research Division, MSC, to Robert R. Gilruth, 

MSC director, "Summary of MSC Evaluation of Methods for Accomplishing the Manned 

Lunar Landing Mission," 2 July 1962; and Robert R. Gilruth to NASA headquarters 

("Attn: Mr. D. Brainerd Holmes"), "Summary of Manned Spacecraft Center evaluation 

methods for accomplishing the manned lunar landing mission," 5 July 1962. Both memoranda are included in app. A of the NASA Office of Manned Space Flight's confidential 

169-page report, Manned Lunar Landing Program Mode Comparison, 30 July 1962. 

110. Gilruth to Kemmett, 28 Aug. 1973. 

111. See Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 125. 

112. Ibid. 

113. Low to Lees, 21 Oct. 1982; Low to John C. Houbolt, Senior Vice-President and Senior 

Consultant, Aeronautical Research Associates of Princeton, 7 Aug. 1969, copies in 

author's LOR file. 

114. Axel T. Mattson, research assistant for Manned Spacecraft Projects, to Charles J. Donlan, 

"Report on activities (April 16-April 19, 1962) regarding Manned Spacecraft Projects," 

A189-5, LCF. Mattson's memo lists all personnel that Houbolt saw at the Manned 

Spacecraft Center. One of the Houston engineers with whom Houbolt and Bird met, 

Chuck Matthews, had just returned from a meeting at NASA Marshall. There Matthews 

had reviewed Houston's thinking on the LOR concept. According to Mattson's memo, 

that presentation was "apparently well received by von Braun, since he made favorable 

comments." See also Mattson interview with author, Hampton, Va., 14 Aug. 1989, 

transcript, LHA. 

115. Statement by Axel T. Mattson at the 17 July 1989 evening program on the 20th 

anniversary of Apollo 11, videotape, LHA. 

116. "Minutes of the MSF Management Council," 6 Feb. 1962, p. 1, A200-1B, LCF; Houbolt 

interview, 24 Aug. 1989, p. 64. 

117. Brown interview, 17 July 1989; Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, pp. 68-72. 

118. "Concluding Remarks by Dr. Wernher von Braun about Mode Selection for the Lunar 

Landing Program Given to Dr. Joseph F. Shea, Deputy Director (Systems) Office of 

Manned Space Flight," 7 June 1962, copy in box 6, Milton Ames Collection, LHA. For 

more on von Braun's surprise announcement in favor of LOR and the reaction of the 

Marshall audience to it, see Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 139. 

119. For an introduction to the concept of "closure" in science and technology, see The Social 

Construction of Technological Systems: New Directions in the Sociology and History of 

Technology, eds., Wiebe E. Bijker, Thomas P. Hughes, and Trevor Pinch (Cambridge and 

London: MIT Press, 1990), pp. 12-13. 

120. John C. Houbolt to Dr. Wernher von Braun, director, NASA Marshall, 9 Apr. 1962, 

A189-7, LCF; von Braun to Houbolt, 20 June 1962, copy in author's LOR file. Von 

Braun argued later that he really had not changed his mind from EOR to LOR; he had 

not been that strong a supporter of EOR in the first place. His people at Marshall had 

investigated EOR, and Gilruth's people in Houston had investigated LOR, but that was 

part of a NASA management strategy to cover all the options thoroughly. He claims he 

494 
Notes for Chapter 8 

personally did not take sides until he had all the facts. When he did, he supported LOR. 

See Murray and Cox, Apollo, p. 139. 

121. NASA, "Lunar Orbit Rendezvous: News Conference on Apollo Plans at NASA Headquarters on July 11, 1962," copy, box 6, Milton Ames Collection, LHA. In the press 

conference, Dr. Robert Seamans credited John Houbolt specifically for his contribution 

to the LOR concept: "I would first like to say that when I joined NASA almost two years 

ago one of the first places that I went to was Langley Field, and there reviewed work going 

on on a research basis under Dr. John Houbolt. This work related both to rendezvous 

and what a man could do at the controls, of course under simulated conditions, as well 

as the possibility of lunar orbit rendezvous" (p. 8). On Wiesner's opposition to LOR, see 

McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, p. 378, and Murray and Cox, Apollo, pp. 140-143. 

Even after its July 1962 announcement in favor of LOR, NASA continued to evaluate 

the other major options for the Apollo mission mode. See, for example, the Office of 

Manned Space Flight's confidential Manned Lunar Landing Program Mode Comparison, 

30 July 1962, and the follow-up, Manned Lunar Landing Mode Comparison, 24 Oct. 1962. 

Copies of both documents are in A200-1B, LCF. Both reports concluded that on the 

basis of "technical simplicity, scheduling, and cost considerations," LOR was the "most 

suitable" and the "preferred mode." Some forms of EOR were also feasible and would 

have adequate weight margins. 

122. John C. Houbolt, Roy Steiner, and Kermit G. Pratt, "Flight Data and Considerations of 

the Dynamic Response of Airplanes to Atmospheric Turbulence," July 1962. 

123. Houbolt interview, 24 Aug. 1989, p. 73. 

124. I. E. Garrick, Distinguished Research Associate, NASA Langley, to Mr. Francis W. 

Kemmett, Inventions and Contributions Board, NASA headquarters, 18 Nov. 1974. 

Garrick wrote two other letters to Kemmett, dated 14 Nov. 1975 and 12 Sept. 1978. 

Copies of all three are in author's LOR file. 

125. Low to Lees, 21 Oct. 1982, pp. 2-3. 

126. On 7 Aug. 1969, two weeks after the successful completion of the Apollo 11 mission, 

von Braun wrote Houbolt a personal letter in which he referred to Houbolt's "singular 

contribution to the Apollo program." "We know that it must be highly gratifying to 

you because of the rousing and complete success of your Eagle. The LM concept that 

you developed and defended so effectively-even, on occasion, before unsympathetic 

tribunals-was indeed a prime factor in the success of man's first lunar landing mission." 

Wernher von Braun, director, NASA Marshall, to John C. Houbolt, senior vice-president 

and senior consultant, Aeronautical Research Associates of Princeton, Princeton, N.J., 

7 Aug. 1969, copy in author's LOR file. 

Throughout this chapter, I have often called Houbolt "a crusader," knowing all too 

well that this association has plagued Houbolt for nearly 30 years. This characterization 

of Houbolt is one of the major factors that killed his chances for receiving a $100,000 cash 

award from a NASA inventions and contributions board in the late 1970s and early 1980s. 

This board decided after a lengthy inquiry that it did not give awards to individuals who 

simply advocated or "crusaded" for causes-however righteous. 

The NASA awards board perhaps significantly underestimated the sometimes vital role 

of a crusader in the ultimate success of a major technological endeavor. Most certainly 

in this case the awards board worked from far too literal a definition of "crusader," 

495 
Notes for Chapter 9 

because Houbolt was not just arguing for something for which other people were more 

responsible. He made LOR a personal cause. only after his own extensive work on the 

relevant problems. "Not until I showed them all my analysis and so forth did the awards 

committee even realize that I had gone into so much depth in terms of working through 

all the various parts of the problem," says Houbolt. 

Chapter 9 

Skipping "The Next Logical Step" 

Much of the information expanded upon in this chapter is based on an earlier 

unpublished essay, "Visions of Man in Space: NASA Langley Research Center and the 

United States Space Station Program," by Beverly C. McMillan and James R. Hansen, 

final revision, Sept. 1992. I would like to thank Ms. McMillan for her valuable assistance 

in clarifying the early history of space station research at Langley. 

1. Von Puttkarner quoted in Charles R. Pelligrino and Joshua Stoff, Chariots for Apollo 

(N.Y.: Atheneum, 1986), pp. 24-25. 

2. For an analysis of the long and twisting political history of NASA's attempt to develop and operate an orbiting space station, see Howard E. McCurdy, The Space Station 

Decision: Incremental Politics and Technological Choice (Baltimore & London: Johns 

Hopkins University Press, 1990), and Sylvia D. Fries, "2001 to 1994: Political Environment and the Design of NASA's Space Station System," Technology and Culture 29 (July 

1988): 568-593. On the operational history and demise of Skylab, see Michael Collins, 

Liftoff: The Story of America's Adventure in Space (New York: NASA/Grove Press, 

1988), pp. 163-200, as well as James E. Oberg's insightful essay, "Skylab's Untimely 

End," in Air-& Space/Smithsonian 6 (Feb./Mar. 1992): 73-79. My assertion that space 

station designers deliberately designed Skylab for only a short stay in space so that they 

could replace it with a more elaborate station is based on personal interviews with key 

NASA officials involved in space station work; they wish to remain anonymous. 

3. K. E. Tsiolkovskii, Investigation of Universal Space by Means of Reactive Devices (1911 

and 1926), NASA translations in Tsiolkovskii, Works on Rocket Technology, Nov. 1965, 

HQA; Hermann Oberth, Die Rakete zu den Planetenraumen (1923), NASA translation 

in HQA; and Guido von Pirquet, "Fahrtrouten," in Die Rakete (May 1923 to Apr. 1929). 

For a summary of the pioneering ideas on space stations, see McCurdy, Space Station 

Decision, pp. 5-8. On Tsiolkovskii specifically, see I. A. Kol'chenko and I. V. Strazheva, 

"The Ideas of K. E. Tsiolkovskii on Orbital Space Stations," in History of Rocketry and 

Astronautics, ed. R. Cargill Hall (San Diego: American Astronautical Society, 1986), 

pp. 170-176; on Pirquet, see Fritz Sykora, "Guido von Pirquet: Austrian Pioneer of 

Astronautics," in History of Rocketry and Astronautics, pp. 140-156. 

For a summary and analysis of early space station proposals, see the following 

essays: Frederick I. Ordway III, "The History, Evolution, and Benefits of the Space 

Station Concept," presented to the 13th International Congress of the History of 

Science, Aug. 1971, copy in HQA; Barton C. Hacker, "And Rest as in a Natural 

Station: From Space Station to Orbital Operations in Space-Travel Thought, 1885-1951," 

unpublished manuscrip.t, [undated], HQA; Alex Roland, "The Evolution of Civil Space 

496 
Notes for Chapter 9 

Station Concepts in the United States," unpublished manuscript, May 1983, HQA; 

and John M. Logsdon, "The Evolution of Civilian In-Space Infrastructure, i.e., 'Space 

Station' Concepts in the United States," in Civilian Space Stations and the U.S. Future 

in Space (Washington: U.S. Congress, Office of Technology Assessment, OTA-STI-241, 

Nov. 1984). 

4. Wernher von Braun, "Crossing the Last Frontier," Collier's 129 (22 Mar. 1952): 24-29 

and 72-74. For the other articles in this special issue of Collier's devoted to the theme 

of space exploration, see "Man Will Conquer Space Soon." 

5. Von Bri!<un, "Crossing the Last Frontier," pp. 24-25. 

6. Ibid. For additional information and thoughts on von Braun's space station concept, 

see McCurdy, Space Station Decision, pp. 5-7, and Christopher Lampton, Wernher 

von Braun (New York: Franklin Watts, 1988), p. 106. 

7. [Laurence K. Loftin, Jr.], "Manned Space Flight Proposal" [Summer 1959]; Harry J. 

Goett to Research Steering Committee on Manned Space Flight, "Plans for May 25-26 

Meeting," 6 May 1959. Both documents can be found in the Floyd L. Thompson 

Collection, LHA. See also the Minutes of the Research Steering Committee on Manned 

Space Flight, 25-26 May 1959, copy in HQA. 

8. Laurence K. Loftin, "Manned Space Flight Proposal," pp. 2-4. For a brief analysis of 

the X-20 Dyna-Soar program, see Walter A. McDougall, The Heavens and the Earth: 

A Political History of the Space Age (New York: Basic Books, 1985), pp. 190-191 and 

339-341. 

9. Loftin interview with author, Newport News, Va., 5 Aug. 1989. 

10. [Laurence K. Loftin, Jr.], untitled talk at the 1959 NASA inspection [Fall 1959], AMIS 

Committee file, Thompson Collection, LHA. 

11. Ibid.; Loftin interview, 5 Aug. 1989. In his inspection presentation, Loftin expressed 

many of the same ideas that he had offered at the second meeting of the Research Steering 

Committee on Manned Space Flight, held at Ames Research Center, on 25-26 May 1959. 

A copy of the minutes of this meeting is preserved in the HQA. 

12. Mark R. Nichols interview with author, Hampton, Va., 6 July 1988, transcript, p. 3, 

OHC, LHA. 

13. [Laurence K. Loftin, Jr.], "Manned Space Laboratory Research Group," [Fall 1959], an 

organization chart with handwritten notes on attached page by Floyd Thompson, AMIS 

Committee file, Thompson Collection, LHA. 

14. Ibid. 

15. Loftin interview, 5 Aug. 1989. See also McCurdy, Space Station Decision, pp. 8-9. 

Industry's early interest in the space station can be seen in several documents in file 

A200-1A, LCF. For example, see J. 0. Charshafian, general manager, Santa Barbara 

Division, Curtiss-Wright Corporation, to E. C. Draley, assistant director, NASA Langley, 

"NASA Assistance on Aerial Platform," 19 May 1959; Beverly Z. Henry, Jr., to Associate 

Director (Thompson], "Visit of Goodyear Aircraft Corporation representatives to the 

Full-Scale Research Division," 19 Oct. 1959; Ralph W. Stone, Jr., to Associate Director 

(Thompson], "Visits of Messrs. A. B. Thompson and Paul Petty of Chance Vought 

Astronautics to Langley, November 6, 1959," 12 Nov. 1959; Beverly Z. Henry, Jr., 

to Associate Director [Thompson], "Visit of the Martin Company representatives on 

January 12, 1960," 26 Jan. 1960. 

497 
Notes for Chapter 9 

16. [Loftin], untitled talk at the 1959 NASA inspection, p. 1; Loftin interview, 5 Aug. 1989. 

17. Emanuel Schnitzer, "Erectable Torus Manned Space Laboratory," 16 May 1960, A200-4, 

LCF. See also Schnitzer to Associate Director [Thompson], "Space Station ProjectResults of discussions at NASA Headquarters on May 10-11, 1960," 23 May 1960, 

A200-4, LCF. 

18. Schnitzer to Associate Director [Thompson], "Transmittal of updated article on Erectable 

Torus Manned Space Laboratory to the American Rocket Society," 24 Oct. 1960, A200-4, 

LCF. Several documents from 1960 and 1961 pertaining to the work on the inflatable 

torus are in A200-4, LCF. See also W. Ray Hook, "Space Stations-Historical Review 

and Current Plans," unpublished paper presented at the winter annual meeting of the 

American Society of Mechanical Engineers, Phoenix, 14-19 Nov. 1982, Langley Technical 

Library. Hook is a Langley engineer who has been involved with space station work since 

the 1960s. 

19. On the wobble problem, see Peter R. Kurzhals, James J. Adams, and Ward F. Hodge, 

"Space Station Dynamics and Control," in NASA Langley, A Report on the Research and 

Technological Problems of a Manned Rotating Spacecraft, NASA TN D-1504 (Washington, 

Aug. 1962), pp. 71-72. 

20. Floyd L. Thompson to NASA, "100-foot diameter automatic erecting modular space 

station-Request for approval of study contract," 9 June 1961, A200-4, LCF. For design 

information, see Rene Berglund, "Space Station Research Configurations," in NASA 

TN D-1504, pp. 9-21. For an analytical summary of Langley's designs of the inflatable 

torus and rotating hexagon, see Fries, "2001 to 1994," pp. 572-578. The opening paper 

of TN D-1504, "Space Station Objectives and Research Guidelines" by Paul R. Hill 

and Emanuel Schnitzer (pp. 1-9), offers a general statement of early Langley goals and 

ambitions regarding its space station work with both the inflatable torus and rotating 

hexagon concepts. For North American's presentation of the hexagon concept, see North 

American Aviation, "Self-Deploying Space Station, Final Report," SID 62-1302, 31 Oct. 

1962, Langley Technical Library. 

21. Emanuel Schnitzer, memorandum for files, "Results of Space Station Conference between NASA Headquarters and Goodyear Aircraft Corporation," 21 Apr. 1961, A200-4, 

LCF. For insights into the turbulent history of the Centaur development, see Roger 

Bilstein, Stages to Saturn: A Technological History of the Apollo/Saturn Launch Vehicles, 

NASA SP-4206 (Washington, 1980), esp. pp. 36-38, 43-46, and 131-137; and Virginia P. 

Dawson, Engines and Innovation: Lewis Laboratory and American Propulsion Technology, NASA SP-4306 (Washington, 1991), pp. 166-169, 179, and 188-193. On the matter 

of maneuvering a rendezvous with a rotating space station, see Roy F. Brissenden, "Some 

Considerations of the Operational Requirements for a Manned Space Station," in NASA 

TN D-1504, p. 97. 

22. Low cited in Schnitzer, "Results of Space Station Conference," p. 1. Details concerning 

the design of the rotating hexagon can be found in Berglund, "Space Station Research 

Configurations," pp. 9-21. 

23. Loftin quoted in U.S. House of Representatives, Hearing Before the Committee on Science 

and Astronautics, 87th Cong., 1st sess., 19 May 1961, pp. 5-9 and 12-18. For this 

committee's analysis of the situation, see U.S. House of Representatives, Expandable 

Space Structures: Report of the Committee on Science and Astronautics, 87th Cong., 

498 
Notes for Chapter 9 

1st sess. (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1961), Serial m. Copies of both 

publications are in the Thompson Collection, LHA. 

24. The quotes are from the Hearing Before the Committee on Science and Astronautics, 

pp. 12-13. 

25. See Kurzhals, Adams, and Hodge, "Space Station Dynamics and Control," pp. 76-77. 

See also Hook, "Space Stations," p. 4. 

26. For insights into Langley's early thinking about the power requirements of the orbiting 

space station, see the records of the Nichols committee in A200-4, LCF, esp. the reports of 

the subcommittee on auxiliary power chaired by William J. O'Sullivan. The issues of the 

power supply for the inflatable torus and rotating hexagon are clarified in John R. Dawson 

and Atwood R. Heath, Jr., "Space Station Power Systems," in NASA TN D-1504, 

pp. 59-71. For an account of the debate at Langley between those favoring solar and 

nuclear power for a space station, see Hook, "Space Stations," p. 5, and listen to Beverly 

McMillan's tape-recorded interview with Langley space station researcher William N. 

Gardner, Newport News, Va., 26 Sept. 1991, OHC, LHA. See also Gardner, "A Review 

of Langley Space Station Studies," in Compilation of Papers Presented at the Space 

Technology Symposium, NASA Langley, Feb. 1969, Langley Technical Library. 

27. H. A. Storms, president, Space and Information Systems Division, North American 

Aviation, to Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., technical advisor to director, NASA Langley, 

"Transmittal of Proposal for Engineering Analysis of NASA Self-Erecting Space Station," 

14 July 1961, A200-4, LCF; Gardner interview with McMillan, 23 Sept. 1991. On the 

development of nuclear reactors for the space program, see William R. Corliss, SNAP 

Nuclear Space Reactors (Washington: U.S. Atomic Energy Commission, Sept. 1966). 

The Atomic Energy Commission initiated SNAP, which stood for Systems for Nuclear 

Auxiliary Power, in 1955 specifically to develop a nuclear power system for a space vehicle. 

The commission's effort involved both nuclear reactors and radioisotope systems. NASA 

Langley researchers learned quite a bit about SNAP findings during the early 1960s, as 

they struggled to choose the right power plant for their space station designs. The first 

SNAP system actually to go into space was SNAP 10-A, a 500-watt system launched 

from Vandenberg AFB on 13 Apr. 1965. See Corliss, SNAP, pp. 59-66 and 108-118. 

28. See the reports of the Subcommittee on Radioisotope Power to the Langley MORL 

Technology Steering Committee from 1963 and 1964, A200-4, LCF. 

29. Dan C. Popma, Charles H. Wilson, and Franklin W. Booth, "Life Support Research for 

Manned Space Stations," in NASA TN D-1504, pp. 107-120. 

30. Ibid., pp. 108-112. 

31. W. Ray Hook interview with McMillan, Hampton, Va., 16 Sept. 1991, in OHC, LHA; 

Gardner to McMillan, 23 Sept. 1991. 

32. Hook interview with McMillan, 16 Sept. 1991. 

33. JosephS. Algranti, Donald L. Mallick, and Howard G. Hatch, Jr., "Crew Performance 

on a Lunar-Mission Simulation," in NASA TN D-1504, pp. 135-146. 

34. George W. Zender and John R. Davidson, "Structural Requirements of Large Manned 

Space Stations," in NASA TN D-1504, pp. 33-44. 

35. Ibid.; RobertS. Osborne and George P. Goodman, "Material and Fabrication Techniques 

for Manned Space Stations," in NASA TN D-1504, pp. 45-53. 

36. See Berglund, "Space Station Research Configurations," pp. 12-15. 

499 
Notes for Chapter 9 

37. Ibid., pp. 13-14. 

38. Emanuel Schnitzer, memorandum for files, "Orbital Flight Test of 10-Foot Inflatable 

Space Station Model on Scout-Details," 10 May 1961, A200-4, LCF. 

39. Hill and Schnitzer, "Space Station Objectives and Research Guidelines," p. 2. For similar 

statements about the ultimate use of a space station, as conceived at Langley in the 

early 1960s, see Loftin's testimony in the Hearing Before the Committee on Science and 

Astronautics, pp. 6, 9, and 13-14. 

40. Loftin's testimony, pp. 13-14. 

41. Hook, "Space Stations," p. 4; see also the description of the MORL concept in the NASA 

Langley press release, "Industry Asked to Propose Manned Orbiting Research Laboratory 

Plans," 24 Apr. 1963, A200-4, LCF. 

42. NASA Langley press release, "Industry Asked to Propose Manned Orbiting Research 

Laboratory Plans." Hook interview with McMillan, 16 Sept. 1991; Gardner interview 

with McMillan, 23 Sept. 1991. 

43. Floyd L. Thompson, Langley Research Center Announcement No. 32-63, "Reorganization of Langley Research Center and reassignment of personnel effective June 10, 1963," 

6 June 1963; Thompson, Langley Research Center Announcement No. 33-63, "Changes 

in Organization of the Applied Materials and Physics Division," 6 June 1963. Copies of 

both announcements are preserved in the Thompson Collection, LHA. For the minutes 

of the meetings of the Langley MORL Technology Steering Committee, as well as the 

weekly and (later) biweekly reports of the MORL Studies Office, see A200-4, LCF. 

44. Gardner interview with McMillan, 23 Sept. 1963. 

45. William N. Gardner, head, MORL Studies Office, to Associate Director [Donlan], "MORL 

Studies Office Weekly Report-Week ending June 22, 1963," 24 June 1963, A200-4, LCF. 

46. W. Nissim, Douglas Aircraft Co., "London Daily Mail Astronomical Space Observatory," 

Douglas Report No. SM-36173, Nov. 1959, copy in Langley Technical Library. 

47. C. C. Walkey, Contracts Division, Douglas Aircraft Company, to Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., 

"Unsolicited Proposal for Advanced Technology Studies Related to Orbiting Laboratories," 13 July 1964, A200-4, LCF. 

48. Charles J. Donlan, chairman, Source Evaluation Board, Langley Research Center Announcement No. 63-63, "Establishment of Technical Assessment Team for Evaluation 

of Manned Orbital Research Laboratory (MORL) Phase I Study, Douglas Contract 

NAS1-2974 and Boeing Contract NAS1-2975, for Comparative Studies and Preliminary 

Design of an MORL Concept," 24 Sept. 1963, Thompson Collection, LHA. 

49. NASA Langley press release, "NASA Selects Douglas to Continue Space Station Study," 

2 Dec. 1963, A200-4, LCF. ·:: 

50. For some contemporary thoughts on manned space stations from a military vantage point, 

see John W. Massey, "Historical Resume of Manned Space Stations," ABMA, Redstone 

Arsenal, Ala., Report No. DSP-TM-9-60, 15 June 1960, HQA. On the history of the 

U.S. military's interest in a space station, see McCurdy, Space Station Decision, esp. 

pp. 101-105, 131-134, 149-150, 166-168, and 198-199. See also Emanuel Schnitzer's 

11-page report (once classified "Secret"), "Military Test Space Station-Details of 

Midterm Briefing at WADD [Wright Air Development Division-Wright Patterson AFB, 

Ohio]-Preliminary Station for Pre-1965, Feb. 7-9, 1961," 23 Feb. 1961, as well as 

Alfred C. Loedding, ARDC [Air Research and Development Command] Liaison Office, 

500 
Notes for Chapter 9 

Langley Research Center, memorandum for files, "Man in Space in 1963 for Military 

Planning," 6 July 1960; both documents are in A200-4, LCF. As yet, no complete 

(unclassified) history of the DOD's involvement in space station planning has been 

written. 

51. Douglas Aircraft Company, Missile and Space Systems Division, "MORL: Manned 

Orbital Research Laboratory," Douglas Report SM-47966, Aug. 1964, Langley Technical 

Library. For Douglas's follow-up work, see "Report on the Optimization of the Manned 

Orbital Research Laboratory (MORL) System Concept," Douglas Report SM-46071, 

Sept. 1964, and "Report on the Development of the Manned Orbital Research Laboratory 

(MORL) System Utilization Potential," Douglas Report SM-48922, Ja:Q. 1966. Copies of 

both are also available in the Langley Technical Library. 

52. Douglas, "MORL," Aug. 1964, p. 3. For a historical summary of early space station 

work at Johnson Space Center in Houston, see Henry C. Dethloff, Suddenly, Tomorrow 

Came .. . : A History of the Johnson Space Center, NASA SP-4307 (Houston, 1993), 

pp. 188-196 and 221-226. 

53. On the air force's MOL concept, see McCurdy, Space Station Decision, pp. 70 and 

132-133, and McDougall, Heavens and the Earth, pp. 340-341. The DOD announced 

its plans for MOL ip. Dec. 1963, one day after terminating the X-20 Dyna-Soar program. 

54. John R. Dawson, secretary, "Minutes of Meeting of Langley MORL Technology Steering 

Committee, Oct~ber 28, 1963," 28 Oct. 1963, A200-4, LCF; NASA Langley press release, 

"NASA Selects Douglas," p. 1. 

55. Gardner interview with McMillan, 23 Sept. 1991. 

56. Robert S. Osborne interview with McMillan, Newport News, Va., 21 Nov. 1991. 

57. Numerous references to the General Dynamics contract for the life-support system can 

be found in the minutes to the meetings of the Langley MORL Technology Steering 

Committee and in the weekly and biweekly reports of the MORL Studies Office from 

mid-1963 to 1964. 

58. Hook interview with McMillan, 16 Sept. 1991; Gardner interview with McMillan, 23 Sept. 

1991. 

59. Osborne interview with McMillan, 21 Nov. 1991. See also the minutes of the meetings 

of the MORL Technology Steering Committee and the reports of the MORL Studies 

Office from late 1964 and 1965. On the Apollo Extension System Program, see Wernher 

von Braun and Frederick I. Ordway III, Space 'Jlravel, A History, 4th ed. (New York: 

Harper & Row, 1985), p. 225. 

60. Charles W. Matthews, director of Apollo applications, NASA Manned Spacecraft Center, 

to Charles J. Donlan, acting director, NASA Langley, 25 Apr. 1968, A200-4, LCF; NASA 

Langley, MOR~ Studies Office, "Intermediate Orbital Workshop System Study, In-House 

Study Summary," 28 June 1968, Langley Technical Library. On the Apollo Applications 

Program, see Collins, Liftoff, pp. 164-165; von Braun and Ordway, Space 'Jlravel: A 

History, p. 225; Linda Neuman Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book, vol. 3, Programs and 

Projects, 1969-19'18, NASA SP-4012 (Washington, 1988), pp. 56-57, 63-64, and 94-100. 

61. MORL Studies Office, "Intermediate Orbital Workshop System Study," 28 June 1968, 

viewgraph LRC-8-2. 

62. Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book, 3:10Q-101. 

501 
Notes for Chapter 10 

63. See Robert R. Gilruth, "Manned Space Stations," in Proceedings of the Fourth International Symposium on Bioastronautics and the Exploration of Space, San Antonio, Tex., 

24-27 Apr. 1968, pp. 153-177; also William J. Normyle, "NASA Aims at 100-Man 

Station," Aviation Week f3 Space Technology, 24 Feb. 1969, pp. 14-17. 

64. Hook, "Space Stations," p. 6. For insights into the Apollo Applications Program and 

the plans leading to Skylab, see W. David Compton and Charles D. Benson, Living and 

Working in Space: A History of Skylab, NASA SP-4208 (Washington, 1983). 

65. Compton and Benson, Living and Working in Space. See McCurdy, Space Station 

Decision, pp. 23-24; and Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book, 3:100-101. See also North 

American Rockwell, Space Division, "Space Station Program Phase B Definition, Second 

Quarterly Progress Report," Report SD 70-146, 13 Mar. 1970, and North American 

Rockwell, "Modular Space Station Phase B Extension, NASA Administrator's Review," 

Report SD 71-582, 3 Dec. 1971. Copies of both reports can be found in the Langley 

Technical Library. 

66. McCurdy, Space Station Decision, pp. 27-28. 

67. Gardner interview with McMillan, 23 Sept. 1991. 

68. Hook interview with McMillan, Hampton, Va., 16 Sept. 1991. 

69. Gardner interview with McMillan, 23 Sept. 1991. 

Chapter 10 

To Behold the Moon: The Lunar Orbiter Project 

1. See R. Cargill Hall, Lunar Impact: A History of Project Ranger, NASA SP-4210 

(Washington, 1977), p. 285, and Michael Collins, Liftoff: The Story of America's 

Adventure in Space (New York: NASA/Grove Press, 1988), p. 117. 

2. Leonard Roberts, "Exhaust Jet-Dust Layer Interaction during a Lunar Landing," unclassified report presented at the 13th International Aeronautical Congress, Varna, Bulgaria, 

24-28 Sept. 1962; "The Interaction of a Rocket Exhaust with the Lunar Surface," unclassified report presented at the Specialists' Meeting of the Fluid Dynamical Aspects 

of Space Flight, Marseilles, France, 20-24 Apr. 1964. Copies of both papers are in the 

Langley Technical Library. 

3. See Hall's comprehensive and well told, Lunar Impact. 

4. A complete history of the Surveyor program has not been published. In addition to 

Hall's Lunar Impact, see Homer E. Newell, Beyond the Atmosphere: Early Years of Space 

Science, NASA SP-4211 (Washington, 1980), pp. 263-272. A fine summary of Surveyor 

is contained in Linda Neuman Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book, vol. 2, Programs and 

Projects 1958-1968, NASA SP-4012 (Washington, 1988), pp. 325-331. For an analysis of ~ 

NASA's problems in the management of the Surveyor project, see Erasmus H. Kloman, 

Unmanned Space Project Management: Surveyor and Lunar Orbiter, NASA SP-4901 

(Washington, 1972). 

5. ThP. chairman of this Lunar Photographic Mission Study Group was Capt. LeeR. Scherer, 

a naval officer on assignment to NASA headquarters and a program engineer with the 

Surveyor project. In Oct. 1962, NASA gave him the job of heading the Office of Space 

Sciences/Office of Manned Space Flight working group, which was to identify what 

information about the moon would be most essential to the landing mission. See Scherer, 

502 
Notes for Chapter 10 

Study of Agena-based Lunar Orbiters, NASA headquarters, Office of Space Sciences, 

25 Oct. 1962, copy in Langley Technical Library. See also Bruce K. Byers, Destination 

Moon: A History of the Lunar Orbiter Program, NASA TM X-3487 (Washington, 1977, 

multilith), pp. 20-23. Byers' study is the most complete history to date of Lunar Orbiter. 

6. Kloman, Unmanned Space Project Management. 

7. Clinton E. Brown interview with author, Hampton, Va., 17 July 1989. Brown acted 

as Langley's spokesman in early discussions at NASA headquarters in 1963 regarding 

Langley's proposed management of the Lunar Orbiter program. 

8. Hall, Lunar Impact, p. 157. 

9. "NASA Minutes of the First Senior Council for the Office of Space Sciences," 7 June 1962, 

E1-2A, LCF. Also quoted in Hall, Lunar Impact, p. 157. 

10. Penetrometer Feasibility Study Group, Langley Research Center, "Preliminary Project 

Development Plan for a Lunar Penetrometer Experiment for the Follow-On Ranger Program," 18 Aug. 1961, Code N-101,24218, Langley Technical Library. See also the following memoranda: E. M. Cortright (for Abe Silverstein, director of Space Flight Programs), to Ira H. Abbott, director of Advanced Research Programs, "Lunar Surface 

Hardness Experiments," 29 June 1961; E. C. Kilgore, assistant chief, Engineering Division, to Charles J. Donlan, associate director, "Meeting at Jet Propulsion Laboratory 

on July 18, 1961, attended by representatives of Langley Research Center, Aeronutronics 

Division of Ford Motor Company, NASA Headquarters, and JPL, to discuss a penetrometer experiment for the follow-on Ranger program," 21 July 1961; John L. McCarty 

and George W. Brooks, "Visit to NASA Headquarters, Washington, D.C., by George 

W. Brooks and John L. McCarty, Vibration and Dynamics Section, DLD [Dynamic 

Loads Division], June 28, 1961, to discuss possible Lunar Penetrometer Experiment on 

Ranger Spacecraft," 7 July 1961; Floyd L. Thompson to NASA headquarters, "Lunar 

surface hardness experiments," 27 July 1961; and George W. Brooks to Associate Director Charles J. Donlan, "Langley action on lunar penetrometer experiment for Ranger 

follow-on program," 27 July 1961. All these memos are in LCF, A200-1B. 

11. See John L. McCarty and Huey D. Carden, "Impact Characteristics of Various Materials 

Obtained by an Acceleration-Time-History Technique Applicable to Evaluating Remote 

Targets," NASA TN D-1269, June 1962. 

12. Penetrometer Feasibility Study Group, "Preliminary Project Development Plan for a 

Lunar Penetrometer Experiment," p. 1. 

13. Kilgore to Donlan, "Meeting at Jet Propulsion Laboratory." 

14. Hall, Lunar Impact, p. 158. 

15. Ibid., pp. 156-163. 

16. Oran Nicks quoted in Byers, Destination Moon, p. 26. 

17. Floyd L. Thompson to Dr. Eugene Emme, NASA historian, "Comments on draft of Lunar 

Orbiter History dated November 4, 1969," 22 Dec. 1969, in folder labeled "Lunar Orbiter 

Historical Notes" in Floyd L. Thompson Collection, LHA. See also Byers, Destination 

Moon, p. 25. 

18. Clinton E. Brown interview, 17 July 1989. 

19. Ibid. On 12 July 1961, six weeks after President Kennedy's lunar landing speech, 

three men in Clint Brown's Theoretical Mechanics Division-William H. Michael, Jr., 

Robert H. Tolson, and John P. Gapcynski-put forward a "Preliminary Proposal for a 

503 
Notes for Chapter 10 

Circumlunar Photographic Experiment." The idea essentially was to support the Apollo 

program by adapting the Ranger spacecraft so that it could perform a circumlunar mission 

that could take high-resolution color photographs during the lunar-approach phase of a 

"single-pass," circumlunar trajectory. In the cover memorandum to this unpublished 

proposal, one of its authors, Bill Michael, wrote that "a desirable situation would be 

that of Langley having prime responsibility for the photographic experiment, in a role 

similar to that of chief experimenter in other specific experiments carried by the Ranger 

and other vehicles." See William H. Michael, Jr., head, Mission Analysis Section, to 

Langley Associate Director Charles J. Donlan, "Preliminary Proposal for a Circumlunar 

Photographic Mission," 17 July 1961. See also C. I. Cummings, Lunar Program Director, 

JPL, to Bernard Maggin, Office of Programs, NASA headquarters, 9 Nov. 1961, and 

Maggin to Clinton E. Brown, 14 Nov. 1961. Copies of the above documents are in LCF, 

A200-1B. 

20. Israel Taback interview with author, Hampton, Va., 13 Aug. 1991. 

21. Floyd L. Thompson to NASA headquarters (Attn: Capt. Lee Scherer), 6 Mar. 1963, 

A200-1B, LCF. Attached to this memo is a "system block diagram" for the Lunar 

Orbiter as well as the data from the mission reliability analysis. 

22. On the genesis of NASA's system for project management, see Robert L. Rosholt, 

An Administrative History of NASA, 1958-1963, NASA SP-4101 (Washington, 1966), 

pp. 145-158 and 273-276. 

23. NASA Management Manual, pt. 1, General Management Instruction, Number 4-1-1, 

"Subject: Planning and Implementation of NASA Projects," NASA GMI (Washington, 

18 Jan. 1961), chap. 4, p. 4. See also Edgar M. Cortright interview with author, Yorktown, 

Va., July 1988, transcript, pp. 8-9, OHC, LHA. 

24. Donald H. Ward, One Engineer's Life Relived (Utica, Ky.: McDowell Publications, 1990), 

p. 61. Ward served as head of spacecraft launch operations for LOPO. 

25. Taback interview, 13 Aug. 1991. 

26. See Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 40-41. 

27. See Dr. A. K. Thiel, STL, to Oran W. Nicks, director, Lunar and Planetary Programs, 

OSSA/NASA, Washington, D.C., 20 Sept. 1962, copy in Thompson Collection, LHA. See 

also Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 16-17. 

28. See Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 43-44. 

29. Interview with Sherwood Butler, Hampton, Va., 23 Aug. 1991. Butler was Langley's chief 

procurement officer at the time. For an analysis of the benefits of incentives contracting 

for Lunar Orbiter, see Kloman, Unmanned Space Project Management, pp. 34-36. See 

also Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 39-40. For a contemporary news story covering 

the details of the novel incentives contract for Lunar Orbiter, see Richard G. O'Lone, 

"Orbiter is First Big NASA Incentive Job," Aviation Week & Space Technology 79 

(7 Oct. 1963): 32. 

30. Taback interview, 13 Aug. 1991. 

31. See Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 40-47. 

32. Ibid., pp. 43-44. 

33. Taback interview, 13 Aug. 1991; see Byers, Destination Moon, p. 56. 

34. Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 57-70. 

504 
Notes for Chapter 10 

35. For the basics of the Lunar Orbiter camera system, see Leon J. Kosofsky and S. Calvin 

Broome, "Lunar Orbiter: A Photographic Satellite," paper presented to the Society 

of Motion Picture and Television Engineers, Los Angeles, 28 Mar.-2 Apr. 1965, copy 

in Langley Technical Library. Broome was head of the photo subsystem group in 

LOPO; Kosofsky was the camera expert in Lee Scherer's office at NASA headquarters. 

For a more general description of the photographic mission and the Eastman Kodak 

camera, see The Lunar Orbiter (revised Apr. 1966), a 38-page booklet prepared by 

Boeing's Space Division and published by NASA Langley, esp. pp. 18-20 and 22-26, 

and The Lunar Orbiter: A Radio-Controlled Camera, a glitzy 14-page brochure that was 

published by NASA Langley with Boeing's assistance after the Lunar Orbiter project 

had ended. 

36. Kosofsky and Broome, "Lunar Orbiter: A Photographic Satellite." See also Israel 

Taback, "A Description of the Lunar Orbiter Spacecraft," reprinted in Highlights of 

Astronomy (Dordrecht, Netherlands: D. Reidel Publishing Co., 1968), p. 464. Taback 

presented this paper at the 13th General Assembly of the International Astronomical 

Union (IAU) in Prague, Czechoslovakia, 1967. At this meeting, renowned astronomers 

from all over the world took off their shoes and crawled around on the floor looking at a 

huge layout of photographs taken by the Lunar Orbiters. 

37. Scherer, Study of Agena-based Lunar Orbiters; see Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 20-23. 

38. Telephone interview with Thomas Costello of the Boeing Co., Colorado Springs, Colo., 

15 Aug. 1961. Costello was an engineer with Boeing who worked on the company's 

proposal for Lunar Orbiter and then served as one of its project engineers from 1963 to 

1966. 

39. See "Boeing to Build Lunar Orbiter," Aviation Week & Space Technology 79 (30 Dec. 

1963): 22; "NASA To Negotiate with Boeing for Lunar Orbiter Spacecraft," NASA 

Langley Researcher, 2 June 1963; and "NASA Explains Choice of Boeing over Hughes in 

Lunar Orbiter Award," Missiles and Rockets 14 (9 Mar. 1964): 13. 

40. Dr. 'Irutz Foelsche, "Remarks on Doses Outside the Magnetosphere, and on Effects 

Especially on Surfaces and Photographic Films," paper presented at the Meeting to 

Discuss Charged Particle Effects, OART, 19-20 Mar. 1964, Washington, D.C., p. 8, copy 

in the Langley Technical Library. 

41. Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 72-74. 

42. See Lee R. Scherer, The Lunar Orbiter Photographic Missions, p. 2. This is a 20-page 

typescript booklet published by NASA Langley in late 1967. 

43. Erasmus H. Kloman, "Organizational Framework: NASA and Langley Research Center," 

p. 7. This is a chapter draft from Kloman's comment copy of his subsequent Unmanned 

Space Project Management. In draft form, Kloman's book contained many more details 

including the names of responsible individuals, which were omitted in the shortened 

version published by NASA. The author wishes to thank Thomas R. Costello, former 

engineer in the Boeing Lunar Orbiter project office, for making available a copy of 

Kloman's comment edition. 

44. The portraits of Cliff Nelson and James Martin are derived from statements made to the 

author by several people associated with LOPO. 

45. Kloman, "Organizational Framework: NASA and Langley Research Center," pp. 10-11. 

46. Kloman, Unmanned Space Project Management, pp. 18-19 and 38. 

505 
Notes for Chapter 10 

47. Taback interview, 13 Aug. 1991. 

48. Norman L. Crabill interview, Hampton, Va., 28 Aug. 1991. 

49. Kloman, "Organizational Framework," p. 9. 

50. Taback interview, 13 Aug. 1991. See also the press release from News Bureau, the Boeing 

Co., Seattle, "Robert J. Helberg, Lunar Orbiter Program Manager," 27 Sept. 1965. 

51. Kloman, Unmanned Space Project Management, p. 25. 

52. Taback interview, 13 Aug. 1991. 

53. The author wishes to thank LOPO member Norman L. Crabill for his careful explanation 

of the mission planning for Lunar Orbiter. Crabill interview, 28 Aug. 1991. For a 

lengthy written account of mission planning in relation to the design of the Lunar 

Orbiter spacecraft system, see Thomas T. Yamauchi, the Boeing Co., and Israel Taback, 

NASA Langley, "The Lunar Orbiter System," paper presented at the 6th International 

Symposium on Space Technology and Science, Tokyo, 1965, copy in the Langley Technical 

Library. 

54. For the details about the evolution of the early mission plans for Lunar Orbiter, see 

Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 177-194. 

55. Crabill interview, 28 Aug. 1991. 

56. Ibid. 

57. Ibid. 

58. Ibid. 

59. Ibid. 

60. Ibid.; also see A. Thomas Young to Crabill, "Mission Reliability Analyses and Comparison for the BellComm Mission and TBC's S-110 Mission," A200-1B, LCF. 

61. By the end of the project, Boeing earned nearly an extra $2 million dollars in incentives. 

See Newport News (Va.) Daily Press, "Orbiter Incentive Award is $1.9 Million," 28 Jan. 

1967; "Lunar Orbiter Successes Earn Boeing $1,811,611," 17 Nov. 1967; and "Lunar 

Success Pays Dividend for Boeing Co.," 18 Nov. 1967. 

62. Crabill interview, 28 Aug. 1991. 

63. See L. C. Rowan, "Orbiter Observations of the Lunar Surface," AAS (American Astronomical Society) Paper, 29 Dec. 1966; and L. R. Scherer and C. H. Nelson, "The 

Preliminary Results from Lunar Orbiter I," in Spacecraft Systems, vol. 1, International 

Astronautical Federation, 17th International Astronautical Congress, Madrid, Spain, 

9-15 Oct. 1966. 

64. See Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 241-243. 

65. Taback interview, 13 Aug. 1991. 

66. I have not been able to track down the exact source of the phrase, "the picture of the 

century," which came to be used generally to describe the historic first picture of the earth 

from deep space. A number of journalists used it in the weeks following the release of 

the photographs taken by Lunar Orbiter I. One might guess that a NASA public affairs 

officer invented it, but there is better reason to think that someone at Eastman Kodak 

coined the phrase. In January 1967, the company unveiled a rendition of the remarkable 

photograph on the huge Kodak Colorama inside Grand Central Station in New York City. 

The Kodak caption indeed called it "the picture of the century." This phrase, however, 

was also used to desq-ibe other Lunar Orbiter photographs. For example, Boeing and 

NASA Langley used it in "The Lunar Orbiter/A Radio-Controlled Camera," a brochure 

506 
Notes for Chapter 11 

published in 1968 (copy in LHA, Ames Collection, box 6), not to caption the earth 

shot, but to dramatize a stereoscopic picture of the Copernicus crater (see p. 350 of this 

book). Veterans of the Lunar Orbiter project team at Langley remember the earth shot 

as "the real picture of the century," however, partly because they know the story of how it 

almost did not get taken. See Langley Researcher News, "Reliving a Moment in History," 

6 Sept. 1991, p. 5. 

67. See Lunar Orbiter Photo Data Screening Group, "Preliminary Geological Evaluation 

and Apollo Landing Analysis of Areas Photographed by Lunar Orbiter II," LWP-363, 

Mar. 1967, copy in Milton Ames Collection, LHA. 

68. Byers, Destination Moon, pp. 243-244. 

69. Crabill interview, 28 Aug. 1991. 

70. Collins, Liftoff, p. 8. 

71. Kloman, Unmanned Space Project Management, p. 7. 

72. Ibid., p. 33. 

73. Ibid., p. 22. 

74. Crabill interview, 28 Aug. 1991. 

Chapter 11 

In the Service of Apollo 

1. President John F. Kennedy, quoted in John M. Logsdon, The Decision to Go to the 

Moon: Project Apollo and the National Interest (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 

1976), p. 128. 

2. As one might imagine, the literature on the Apollo lunar landing program is extensive, 

involving much more than just historical treatments. This diverse literature will be 

cited where most appropriate. For the details of the involvement of the various 

NASA centers in the Apollo program, the only adequate sources are in the official 

NASA History Series: Charles D. Benson and William Barnaby Faherty, Moonport: A 

History of Apollo Launch Facilities and Operations, NASA SP-4204 (Washington, 1978); 

Courtney G. Brooks, James M. Grimwood, and Loyd S. Swenson, Jr., Chariots for 

Apollo: A History of Manned Lunar Spacecraft, NASA SP-4205 (Washington, 1979); 

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

Vehicles, NASA SP-4206 (Washington, 1980); Arnold Levine, Managing NASA in the 

Apollo Era, NASA SP-4102 (Washington, 1982); W. David Compton, Where No Man 

Has Gone Before: A History of Apollo Lunar Exploration Missions, NASA SP-4214 

(Washington, 1989); and Sylvia Doughty Fries, NASA Engineers and the Age of Apollo, 

NASA SP-4104 (Washington, 1992). For more complete pictures of the roles of Houston 

and Huntsville in the Apollo program, readers should see two new NASA-sponsored books 

on the histories of these key NASA facilities: Henry C. Dethloff, Suddenly, Tomorrow 

Came .. . : A History of the Johnson Space Center, NASA SP-4307 (Lyndon B. Johnson 

Space Center, Tex., 1993), and Andrew Dunai- and Stephen Waring, History of Marshall 

Spaceflight Center (forthcoming in the NASA History Series). 

3. Laurence K. Loftin, Jr., interview with author, Newport News, Va., 8 July 1990. 

4. Axel T. Mattson interview with author, Hampton, Va., 21 July 1989;-only notes exist for 

this interview. 

507 
Notes for Chapter 11 

5. In the LHA is a notebook labeled "Research Organization Changes/ Announcements," 

which contains a chronological listing of all the major changes in the Langley organization 

from 1943 to the present. At one time this book was kept by the Langley staff office; for 

the past several years, it has been updated by the Langley historical programs monitor, 

Richard T. Layman. The entry for 28 Mar. 1962 reads: "Axel T. Mattson appointed 

Research Assistant for Manned Spacecraft Projects reporting to Associate Directorrelieved of duties as Assistant Chief of Full-Scale Research Division." 

6. "Mattson Named to New Position," Langley Air Scoop, 6 Apr. 1962, p. 1. 

7. Mattson interview, 21 July 1989, and Mattson interview, Hampton, Va., 14 Aug. 1989, 

transcript, pp. 52-53, OHC, LHA. There is a recording and transcript for the latter 

interview only. 

8. Mattson interview, 14 Aug. 1989, pp. 53-54. 

9. Ibid., pp. 54-55. 

10. Ibid., p. 76. 

11. Ibid., pp. 55-56. 

12. Ibid., pp. 56-58. 

13. Mattson interview, 21 July 1989. 

14. None of the published histories on Apollo have much to say about the impact studies 

conducted by North American in Downey. However, numerous technical reports have 

been written on this work and can be found in NASA technical libraries at Houston 

and elsewhere. In the LCF, code "Apollo Project," I have found numerous letters 

and memos concerning such studies. Several references to this R&D aspect of Apollo 

are made in the following excellent chronologies: Ivan D. Ertel and Mary Louise 

Morse, The Apollo Spacecraft: A Chronology, vol. 1, Through November 7, 1962, 

NASA SP-4009 (Washington, 1969); Mary Louise Morse and Jean Kernahan Bays, The 

Apollo Spacecraft: A Chronology, vol. 2, November 8, 1962-September 30, 1964, NASA 

SP-4009 (Washington, 1973); and Courtney G. Brooks and Ivan D. Ertel, The Apollo 

Spacecraft: A Chronology, vol. 3, October 1, 1964-January 20, 1966, NASA SP-4009 

(Washington, 1973). 

See also the transcript of my 14 Aug. 1989 interview with Axel Mattson for a rather 

complete personal account of North American's (and Langley's) work on the impact 

dynamics of the Apollo capsule. 

15. Mattson interview, 14 Aug. 1989, p. 50. 

16. Ibid., pp. 51-54; also Sandy M. Stubbs's telephone interview with author, 29 June 1993. 

Several memos pertaining to Stubbs's work on the return landing characteristics of the 

Apollo spacecraft are in the LCF, "Apollo Project." There is a microfiche copy of this 

entire file in the LHA. 

17. Mattson interview, 14 Aug. 1989, pp. 57-58. 

18. Ibid., p. 55. 

19. Ibid., p. 56. 

20. Mattson interview, 14 Aug. 1989, pp. 56-58. See Sandy M. Stubbs, aerospace engineer, 

Structures Research Division, to Langley associate director, "Transmittal of information 

on a water pressure landing investigation of a 1/4-scale model of the Apollo spacecraft," 

12 Oct. 1964, Apollo project files (microfiche), LHA. For Stubbs's work on Apollo's 

landing impact characteristics, see "Landing Characteristics of the Apollo Spacecraft 

508 
Notes for Chapter 11 

With Deployed-Heat-Shield Impact Attenuation Systems," NASA TN D-3059, Jan. 1966; 

and "Dynamic Model Investigation of Water Pressures and Accelerations Encountered 

During Landings of the Apollo Spacecraft," NASA TN D-3980, Sept. 1967. These two 

published papers contain references to his earlier work. 

21. Mattson's reports can be found in the Apollo project files (microfiche), LHA. The dates 

of the reports evaluated in this chap. were: 4 Dec. 1962, 3 Dec. 1963, 17 Nov. 1964, 

30 Nov. 1965, 23 Mar. 1966, and 19 Feb. 1968. 

22. For basic information on Project Fire, see Linda Neuman Ezell, NASA Historical Data 

Book, vol. 2, Programs and Projects, 1958-1968, NASA SP-4012 (Washington, 1988), 

pp. 448-451. The rocket lifting the Fire reentry payloads was an Atlas-Antares; this 

made Fire unique in that it was the only NASA project ever to utilize the configuration. 

Herbert A. Wilson served as Lang~ey's project manager for Fire 1, David G. Stone for 

Fire 2. Under contract to Langley, the Chance Vought Corp. of LTV built the velocity 

package. Republic Aviation built the reentry vehicle. 

For complete details on Langley's management of this program, see Project Development Plan: Flight Reentry Research Project at Hypersonic Velocities, Project Fire 

(Langley Station, Hampton, Va.: Project No. 714-00-00, Mar. 1964), copy in LHA. Also 

preserved in the LHA is a videotape of key moments in the project's history from 1963 

to 1965. 

For an excellent technical summary of the problems of "Reentry from Lunar Missions" 

by a leading Langley engineer, see John V. Becker's presentation for Administrator James 

E. Webb, 5 Aug. 1961, LHA. Another copy of this document, along with an entire 

collection of Becker's personal papers, is in the Archives for Aerospace Exploration at 

the library at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University in Blacksburg, Va., 

Becker's alma mater. 

23. Arthur W. Vogeley, "Piloted Space-Flight Simulation at Langley Research Center," 

unpublished paper presented to the American Society of Mechanical Engineers, winter 

meeting, 27 Nov.-1 Dec. 1966, copy in file "Langley Contributions to Manned Space 

Flight," Milton Ames Collection, LHA. In this file are numerous items pertaining to 

Langley's development of aerospace simulators. For a more brief and less technical 

contemporary overview of Langley's simulation work in support of the lunar landing 

program, see the NASA Langley press release, "Crucial Lunar Mission Events Are 

Duplicated by Langley Simulators," 18 May 1964, copy in 1964 NASA Inspection 

materials, LHA. 

24. On Project Gemini, see Barton C. Hacker and James M. Grimwood, On the Shoulders 

of Titans: A History of Project Gemini, NASA SP-4203 (Washington, 1977), which is 

one of the best books in the NASA History Series. 

25. Michael Collins, Liftoff: The Story of America's Adventure in Space (New York: NASA/ 

Grove Press, 1988), pp. 72-73. 

26. All the basic information about these facilities is in Martin A. Weiner, "Resume of 

Research Facilities at the Langley Research Center," July 1968, a copy of which is 

preserved in the LHA. Weiner, an employee in Langley's Research Models and Facilities 

Division, had the job of keeping this resume updated from the mid-1960s into the 1970s. 

509 
Notes for Chapter 11 

27. Arthur W. Vogeley interview with author, Hampton, Va., 19 July 1989; only notes 

exist for this interview. For the details about this simulator, see Vogeley's "Discussion of Existing and Planned Simulators for Space Research," unpublished paper given 

at the Conference on the Role of Simulation in Space Technology, Blacksburg, Va., 

17-21 Aug. 1964, as well as Francis B. Smith, "S for Manned Space Research," unpublished paper presented at the 1966 IEEE International Convention, 21-25 Mar. 1966, 

New York City. Copies of both are in the folder "Langley's Contributions to Manned 

Space Flight," Milton Ames Collection, LHA. For various documents, reports, references, 

newspaper articles, and other clippings relevant to this simulator, see the folder labeled 

"Rendezvous and Docking Simulator," LHA. 

28. Quoted in Allan C. Hanrahan, "Rendezvous and Docking Maneuvers: Critical to Apollo 

Flight Plan," Langley Researcher News, 30 June 1989, p. 5. 

29. Quoted in Matthew Paust, "Brainstorms Led to Practice's Realism," Newport News 

(Va.) Daily Press, 20 July 1989, p. A6. 

30. W. Hewitt Phillips interview with author, Hampton, Va., 27 July 1989; this interview 

was not taped, but the author took notes. Numerous documents and newspaper clippings 

are in a folder labeled "Lunar Landing Facility and Apollo," LHA. 

31. Neil A. Armstrong, Wingless on Luna (New York: The Wings Club, 1988), pp. 8-9. 

This book was produced from the Wings Club's 25th General Harold R. Harris "Sight" 

Lecture given by Armstrong at the Grand Hyatt Hotel, New York City, 18 May 1988. 

32. Richard P. Hallion, On the Frontier: Flight Research at Dryden, 1946-1981, NASA 

SP-4303 (Washington, 1984), p. 146. 

33. Mattson interview, 21 July 1989; see also Armstrong, Wingless on Luna, pp. 6-11. 

34. Vogeley interview, 19 July 1989. According to an official NASA statement from May 1964, 

LOLA was not built as a training device for astronauts but as "a research tool with 

which NASA scientists can establish a fundamental understanding in the laboratory of 

the problems associated with the complex task of approaching the Moon and preparing 

for a landing on its surface." See Lee Dickinson, Langley Public Affairs Office, to Mr. Ken 

Allen, Beckman Instruments, Fullerton, Calif., 6 May 1964, Apollo project files, LHA. 

35. Gilruth quoted in Michael Collins, Liftoff, p. 61. 

36. On Rogallo and the idea of using his paraglider concept for Project Gemini, see Hacker 

and Grimwood, On the Shoulders of Titans, esp. pp. 18-20, 92-93, 98-100, 132-134, 

147-148, and 170-172. 

37. Francis M. Rogallo, "Parawings for Astronautics," luncheon speech presented at the 

Specialist Meeting on Space Rendezvous, Rescue and Recovery, co-sponsored by the 

American Astronautical Society and the Air Force Flight Test Center, Edwards AFB, 

Calif., 10-12 Sept. 1963, p. 1, copy in Ames Collection, box 6, LHA. 

38. Ibid., p. 2. 

39. Ibid. 

40. Ibid., p. 3. 

41. Ibid., p. 4. 

42. In the Milton Ames Collection in the LHA is a folder labeled "Flexible Wing17 with 

numerous items relevant to the history of Rogallo's concept. These include several talks 

and papers that cover this period of the parawing's development delivered by Francis 

Rogallo to various professional organizations. 

510 
Notes for Chapter 11 

43. Francis Rogalla, "Flexible Wings," in Astronautics and Aeronautics (Aug. 1968): 54. 

44. "NASA Honors Rogallos with Large Cash Award," Langley Researcher, 2 Aug. 1963, 

p. 1. 

45. Rogalla, "Flexible Wings," pp. 52-53. 

46. "Lifting bodies" are exactly what their names imply; that is, they are bodies that 

provide lift without the benefit of wings. In the 1950s, engineers in the NACA and 

the aerospace industry started thinking about such rounded half-cone designs, which 

resembled bathtubs or one-half of a baked potato, as a means of providing a minimum 

yet significant amount of aerodynamic lift for hypersonic gliders or other manned reentry 

vehicles. They thought that sufficient lift could be generated by such a shape to allow 

the pilot to maneuver the craft down from space through the atmosphere to a graceful 

gliding landing on a runway. In addition, the lift could be used to slow the spacecraft as it 

reentered at a high speed from orbital altitude. Lifting-body research continued through 

the 1960s to the present day. For an analysis of some of this NACA/NASA work, see 

Hallion, On the Frontier, pp. 147-172 and 339-346. 

47. Robert R. Gilruth, STG, Langley Field, to NASA headquarters, Attn: George M. Low, 

"Development program on spacecraft landing systems," 6 July 1961, Apollo project files 

(microfiche), LHA. 

48. Floyd L. Thompson to NASA, Code RAA, "Proposed Research Authorization entitled 

'Free-Flight and Wind-Tunnel Tests of Guided Parachutes as Recovery Devices for the 

Apollo Type Reentry Vehicle,'" 30 Aug. 1961, Apollo project files (microfiche), LHA. 

On the testing of the Parasev at Edwards, see Hallion, On the Frontier, pp. 137-140. 

49. Collins, Liftoff, pp. 82-83. 

50. Hallion, On the Frontier, p. 138. 

51. Collins, Liftoff, p. 82. 

52. For an accurate narrative and analytical summary of the Apollo fire, see W. David 

Compton, Where No Man Has Gone Before: A History of Apollo Lunar Exploration 

Missions, pp. 91-112. For an inaccurate and sensational popular account of the tragedy, 

see Murder on Pad 34 (New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1968) by Eric Bergaust. There 

is definitely some blame and much resp<mSibility to assign in the matter of the Apollo 

fire, but Bergaust's indictment is largeLy off the mark. 

53. Robert C. Seamans, Jr., memorandum for the Apollo 204 Review Board, 28 Jan. 1967, 

Apollo project files (microfiche), LHA .. 

54. Report of the Presidential Commission on the Space Shuttle Challenger Accident, 5 vols. 

(Washington, 1987). For an, excellent historical summary and analysis of the Challenger 

accident and the Rogers Commission investigation, see Collins, Liftoff, pp. 222-238. 

55. Robert C. Seamans, Jr., interview with Walter Bonney, the Pentagon, Washington, D.C., 

23 Feb. 1973, transcript, p .. 19, OHC, LHA. 

56. Report of Apollo 204 Review Board to the Administrator, National Aeronautics and Space 

Administration, 5 Apl!: 19.6:7, copy in the Langley Technical Library, CN-122577. 

57. Ibid., p. iii. 

58. Collins, Liftoff, pp. 137-138. 

59. John C. Houbolt quoted in James Schultz, Winds of Change: Expanding the Frontiers 

of Flight: Langley Research Genter's 75 Years of Accomplishment, NP-130 (Washington, 

1992), p. 98. 

511 
Notes for Chapter 12 

Chapter 12 

The Cortright Synthesis 

1. On Hans Mark's term as director of NASA Ames Research Center (1969-1977), see 

Elizabeth A. Muenger, Searching the Horizon: A History of Ames Research Center, 

Jg40-1976, NASA SP-4304 (Washington, 1985), pp. 146-168. For insights into Mark's 

Machiavellian management philosophy, see Arnold Levine and Hans Mark, The Management of Research Institutions: A Look at Government Laboratories, NASA SP-481 

(Washington, 1984). 

2. "Dr. Thompson Receives Special Assignment," Langley Researcher, 8 Mar. 1968, p. 1. 

The Langley Researcher article was basically a reprint of a press release prepared at 

NASA headquarters. 

3. Edgar M. Cortright interviews with author, Yorktown, Va., 18 July 1988 and 7 Aug. 1989. 

The author wishes to thank Mr. Cortright for the detailed and very candid interviews. 

Most of the insights used for this chapter come from the 18 July 1988 interview. The 

subsequent interview covered history pertinent to Cortright's work at NASA headquarters 

earlier in the 1960s. 

4. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, transcript, pp. 3-4 and 5-6, OHC, LHA. 

5. Ibid., pp. 3-4. On the feeling that NASA Langley was a little "sleepy" under Thompson's 

direction and needed some rejuvenation, also see pp. 9-10, 22, 48, and 68-70. 

6. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, pp. 5-6. 

7. Quoted from "Cortright Assumes Duties as New Langley Director," Langley Researcher, 

17 May 1968, p. 1. 

8. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, pp. 12-14. 

9. Ibid., pp. 6-7. 

10. Ibid., pp. 7 and 10. 

11. Ibid., pp. 14-15. 

12. Ibid., pp. 27-28. 

13. Ibid., pp. 69 and 19-20. 

14. Langley Research Center Announcement No. 73-70, "Reorganization of Langley Research 

Center," 24 Sept. 1970, p. 1, copy in file labeled "Cortright Reorganization," LHA. 

15. Ibid. 

16. For an overview of the work of the Atmospheric Sciences Division, see "Atmospheric 

Sciences Division, Space Directorate, Langley Research Center," 10 Apr. 1992, unpublished, copy available in the Langley Public Affairs Office. For a published summary of Langley's achievements in the field of atmospheric sciences, see James Schultz, 

Winds of Change: Expanding the Frontiers of Flight, NASA NP-130 (Washington, 1992), 

pp. 119-121. 

17. "Reorganization of Langley Research Center," p. 7. See also "Langley Announced 

Manager of Viking Project Office," Langley Researcher, 13 Dec. 1968, p. 1. 

18. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, pp. 45-48. 

19. "Reorganization of Langley Research Center," p. 2. 

20. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, p. 16. See also "Dr. John E. Duberg Named Acting 

Associate Director," Langley Researcher, 19 Apr. 1968, p. 1. I conducted a long interview 

512 
Notes for Chapter 12 

with John E. Duberg that covers the history of the Cortright reorganization and his 

ambivalent feelings about it. A transcript of this interview is located in the OHC, LHA. 

21. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, pp. 17-18. 

22. Ibid., pp. 35 and 41. 

23. "Loftin Appointed to Special Assistant to Air Force," Langley Researcher, 28 May 1971, 

p. 1. For Loftin's critique of the Cortright reorganization, see interview with author, 

5 Aug. 1989, Newport News, Va., transcript, pp. 72-87, OHC, LHA. For Cortright's 

version, see Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, pp. 34-35. 

24. "R. E. Bower Named Langley Director for Aeronautics," Langley Researcher, 9 July 1971, 

p. 1. Also see Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, p. 35. 

25. For additional thoughts from Cortright on his youth movement, see Cortright interview, 

18 July 1988, pp. 19-20, 42-43, and 69. 

26. Ibid., pp. 32-33. Langley in the 1960s and before did actually recruit at many universities 

outside of the South. It is true, however, that graduates of southern schools outnumbered 

the rest. 

27. Ibid., p. 44. The phrase "sweat-shop conditions" is overly dramatic and implies a 

callousness toward manual labor on the part of Langley management that did not exist; 

Floyd Thompson and the old NACA crowd were extremely fond of the technical support 

staff and interacted with them much more regularly than Cortright and his successors 

ever did. Furthermore, into the late 1960s, several buildings at Langley that housed 

researchers were not air-conditioned, leaving them to suffer through the summer heat 

and humidity as well. Nevertheless, Cortright's initiative should not be undervalued. His 

changes to the shops made a big difference to those who worked with their hands in the 

center's various shops, plants, and hangars. 

28. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, p. 61. 

29. Ibid., p. 56. See also "Contract Awarded to Build Visitor Information Center," Langley 

Researcher, 10 July 1970, p. 1. 

30. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, p. 60. 

31. For the complete history of Project Viking and Langley's management role, see Edward 

C. and Linda Neuman Ezell, On Mars: Exploration of the Red Planet, 1958-1978, NASA 

SP-4212 (Washington, 1984). 

32. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, pp. 49-53. On NASTRAN, see Thomas G. Butler and 

Douglas Michel, NASTRAN: A Summary of the FUnctions and Capabilities of the NASA 

Structural Analysis Computer System, NASA SP-260 (Washington, 1971). ICASE has 

remained active from its inception under Cortright to the present. Its director in 1993 

was Mohammed Y. Hussaini, Bldg. 1192, 18 West Taylor Street, NASA Langley Research 

Center. 

33. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, pp. 51-52. For information on the early history of 

IPAD, see Robert E. Fulton, "National Meeting to Review IPAD Status and Goals," in 

Astronautics and Aeronautics 18 (July/Aug. 1980): 49-52. 

34. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, pp. 52-53. 

35. "Langley Buys Boeing Aircraft for Flight Research Program," Langley Researcher, 

30 Mar. 1973, p. 1. For all the details on the TCV program, see NASA Langley Research 

Center, Terminal Configured Vehicle Program Plan (Hampton, Va., 1 Dec. 1973). For a 

513 
Notes for Chapter 12 

complete history of Langley's use of the Boeing 737 airplane in the TCV j A TOPS program, see Lane E. Wallace, Airborne Trailblazer: Two Decades with NASA Langley's 737 

Flying Laboratory, NASA SP-4216 (Washington, 1994). 

36. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, pp. 65-66. 

37. Ibid., pp. 54-55. For an insightful history of how Langley was able to support 

supersonic research in the 1970s and 1980s in spite of the political and budgetary climate 

working against it, see F. Edward McLean, Supersonic Cruise Technology, NASA SP-472 

(Washington, 1985), esp. pp. 101-170. 

38. Cortright interview, 18 July 1988, pp. 55-56. For information related to the origins of the 

NTF at Langley, see "Langley Tested for NTF Site," Langley Researcher, 11 July 1975, 

p. 1, and "National Transonic Facility to be Dedicated," Langley Researcher, 18 July 1977, 

p. 1. For an excellent technical and historical overview of the development of the NTF, 

see Donald D. Baals and William R. Corliss, Wind Tunnels of NASA, NASA SP-440 

(Washington, 1981). 

39. Macon C. Ellis, "Rough Thoughts on Status and Future of Research at Langley," p. 2, 

in file labeled "Thoughts on Status of Research at Langley," Macon C. Ellis Collection, 

LHA. 

40. Ibid. 

41. Ibid., pp. 1-2. 

42. "Some Thoughts on the Status of Research at Langley, 1969," p. 1, in file labeled "Reasons 

for Accepting Assoc(iate) Ch(ief)-H(ypersonic) V(ehicles) D(ivision) in 1970/Case for 

Sp(ace) Scien(ces) Div(ision)," in Ellis Collection, LHA. 

43. Ellis notes to "So-called Minutes of 10/27/69 Mtg. of Sp. Sci. & Tech. Steer. Comm.," 

10 Nov. 1969, in Ellis Collection, LHA. 

44. "Some Hindsight Comments on Langley Management and Reorganizations of 1969-1974," 

p. 1, in John V. Becker Collection, folder 22-1, Archives of Aerospace Exploration, Main 

Library, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, Va. 

45. Ibid., pp. 1-2. 

46. Ibid., p. 2. 

47. Ibid. 

48. See "Abstract of Remarks for Session 7, Airlie House Meeting, 3/13/70," in folder 22-3, 

Archives of Aerospace Exploration, pp. 1-2, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State 

University. 

49. Ibid., p. 1. 

50. Ibid., pp. 1-2. 

51. Ibid., p. 2. 

52. Ibid., pp. 2-3. 

53. Ibid. 

54. Ibid., p. 3. 

55. See the marginal notes to Becker's "Abstract of Remarks for Session 7," p. 3, for handwritten notes concerning the comments made by others to his presentation. Cortright's 

views on keeping Langley alive mirrored those of his counterpart at NASA Ames, Dr. Hans 

Mark. In his 1984 study of government laboratories (coauthored by Arnold Levine), Mark 

wrote: "There is a misconception that organizational self-perpetuation is somehow bad 

514 
Notes for Epilogue 

or even sinister. But this is not so. If it were, there would scarcely be a major corporation or nonprofit organization that could outlive its original reason for being and find 

other uses for its resources and experience" (The Management of Research Institutions, 

p. 82). The only way for a government laboratory to survive hard times, Mark argued, 

was for its management to be boldly entrepreneurial. In summary, this meant carving 

out a unique research area or "area of emphasis," attracting new programs to it, playing 

hardball bureaucratic politics, and generally doing whatever was necessary to cultivate 

powerful clients, sponsors, and constituencies. In contrast to this Machiavellian approach, 

Becker's view was not that Langley had totally achieved the objective for which it was 

first organized, or ever could, and thus could be put to death, but that it should live on 

to do what it was set up to do and, in fact, did the best. For him, it was a quality of life 

issue, so to speak. It made no sense to keep Langley breathing artificially for just any 

purpose; the country needed Langley to survive for basic applied research. 

56. Kenneth Scheibel, "Future Operation ofLRC Assured," Newport News (Va.) Daily Press, 

17 Aug. 1969. 

57. Routing slip, J. V. Becker to Mr. Cortright, 19 Aug. 1969, pp. 1-2, copy in folder 22-1, 

Becker Collection, Archives of Aerospace Exploration, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and 

State University. 

58. Ibid.; Cortright wrote his reply on top of Becker's memorandum with a thick black pen, 

Archives of Aerospace Exploration, Virginia Polytechnic and State University. 

Epilogue 

1. The Apollo program cost a total of $25 billion-$21 billion on the first lunar landing. In 

contrast, in fiscal year 1961, the U.S. government spent a total of only $98 billion. In 1961 

the entire NASA budget was still less than $1 billion; by 1964 it reached over $5 billion 

and stayed at that level for the next four years. For data on the funding history of the 

Apollo program, see Linda Neuman Ezell, NASA Historical Data Book, vol. 2, Programs 

and Projects, 1958-1968, NASA SP-4012 (Washington, 1988), pp. 128-132, and Ezell, 

NASA Historical Data Book, vol. 3, Programs and Projects, 1969-1978, NASA SP-4012 

(Washington, 1988), pp. 71-63. 

2. A vast historical literature exists that treats the remarkable developments in American 

history in the late 1960s and early 1970s. For contrasting contemporary insights into 

these tur.bulent years, see W. L. O'Neill, Coming Apart: An Informal History of 

America in the 1960s (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1971), and Morris Dickstein, Gates 

of Eden: American Culture in the Sixties (New York: Basic Books, 1977). For a more 

balanced treatment, I recommend T. Gitlin, The Sixties: Years of Hope, Days of Rage 

(Toronto and New York: Bantam Books, 1987). On public policy in the years of the 

waning spaceflight revolution, see A. J. Reichley, Conservatives in an Age of Change: The 

Nixon and Ford Administrations (Washington: Brookings Institution, 1981). On the 

policies of detente, see Raymond L. Garthoff, Detente and Confrontation: AmericanSoviet Relations from Nixon to Reagan (Washington: Brookings Institution, 1985). 

3. Michael Collins, Liftoff: The Story of America's Adventure in Space (New York: Grove 

Press, 1988), p. 269. 

515 
Notes for Epilogue 

4. For a thoughtful retrospective on the ambitions of 1969, both for and against the space 

program, read John Tierney's feature story, "Earthly Worries Supplant Euphoria of Moon 

Shots," The New York Times, 20 July 1994, sec. A, pp. 1 and 11. 

5. Ibid. To revisit the days of the "counterculture," peruse Charles Reich, The Greening 

of America: How the Youth Revolution Is Trying to Make America Livable (New 

York: Random House, 1971). For a detailed account of the Nixon presidency during 

the year 1969, see Stephen E. Ambrose, Nixon: The Triumph of a Politician, 1969-1972 

(New York and London: Simon and Schuster, 1989), pp. 223-321. 

6. Norman Mailer, Of a Fire on the Moon (New York: Signet, 1969), p. 337. 

7. Marcus, Picasso, and Mumford quoted in Tierney, "Earthly Worries Supplant Euphoria 

of Moon Shots," p. 11. 

8. Von Braun quoted in Tierney, "Earthly Worries Supplant Euphoria of Moon Shots," 

p. 11. 

9. Howard McCurdy, The Space Station Decision: Incremental Politics and Technological 

Choice (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), pp. 25-26. 

10. Memorandum from Peter Flanagan to Thomas 0. Paine and Robert Mayo, 6 Jan. 1970, 

in NASA HQA; quoted in McCurdy, The Space Station Decision, p. 26. 

11. Richard M. Nixon, memorandum for the Vice-President et al., 13 Feb. 1969, taken from 

Space Task Group, The Post-Apollo Space Program: Directions for the Future, report to 

the president (Washington, D.C.: Executive Office of the President, Sept. 1969). 

12. McCurdy, The Space Station Decision, p. 23. 

13. Richard M. Nixon, "The Future of the United States Space Program," Weekly Compilation of Presidential Documents, 7 Mar. 1970, p. 329. 

14. McCurdy, The Space Station Decision, p. 27. 

15. William David Compton and Charles D. Benson, Living and Working in Space: A History 

of Skylab, NASA SP-4208 (Washington, 1983), pp. 52-56. 

16. Fletcher quoted in McCurdy, The Space Station Decision, p. 27. 

17. McCurdy, The Space Station Decision, pp. 22-23. 

18. "America's Future in Space," speech given by Daniel S. Goldin, NASA administrator, 

at "'The Eagle Has Landed' at Auburn: A 25-Year Retrospective on the First Lunar 

Landing," a symposium held at the Auburn University Hotel and Conference Center, 

Auburn University, Auburn, Ala., 27 Oct. 1994. 

19. Walter A. McDougall, The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age 

(New York: Basic Books, 1985), p. 5. 

20. Ibid., p. 459. 

21. For an analysis of President Reagan's 1984 State of the Union address and its support of 

Space Station Freedom, see McCurdy, The Space Station Decision, pp. 177-196. On the 

history of SDI-or at least that part of the top-secret program that is open to scholarssee Donald R. Baucom, The Origins of SDI, 1944-1983 (Lawrence: University of Kansas 

Press, 1992). 

22. Howard McCurdy, "The Graying of Space," Space World, 12 Oct. 1988. 

23. For an excellent profile of NASA Administrator Daniel S. Goldin's philosophy for 

"reinventing" NASA, see William J. Broad, "Scientist at Work: DanielS. Goldin: Bold 

Remodeler of a Drifting Agency," The New York Times, 21 Dec. 1993, sec. B, pp. 5 and 8. 

516 
Notes for Epilogue 

For NASA's "Vision, Missions, and Goals" under Administrator Goldin, see the "NASA 

Strategic Plan" of May 1994. A copy is available from any NASA public affairs office. 

24. Quoted in H. J. P. Arnold's chapter, ''The Shuttle: Tragedy and Recovery," in Man 

in Space: An illustrated History of Spaceflight (New York: Smithmark, 1993), p. 159. 

For the complete findings and recommendations, see U.S. House of Representatives, The 

Future of the U.S. Space Program. Hearings before the Subcommittee on Space Science 

and Applications of the Committee on Science, Space, and Technology, 101st Cong., 2d 

sess., 23 July 1990. 

25. Edgar M. Cortright quoted in James Schultz, Winds of Change: Expanding the Frontiers 

of Flight: Langley Research Center's 75 Years of Accomplishment, 1917-1992, NASA 

NP-130 (Washington, 1992), p. 111. 

26. For a summary of Langley's wind-tunnel testing in support of the Shuttle's development, 

see Donald D. Baals and William R. Corliss, Wind Tunnels of NASA, NASA SP-440 

(Washington, 1981), pp. 117-121. A. M. Whitnah and E. R. Hillje provide a detailed 

engineering report on Shuttle wind-tunnel testing in Space Shuttle Wind Tunnel Testing 

Program Summary, NASA RP-1125 (Washington, 1984). For a discussion of the 

development of the special tiles used to protect the Shuttle during reentry, see Paul 

Cooper and Paul F. Holloway, "The Shuttle Tile Story," Astronautics & Aeronautics 19 

(Jan. 1981): 24-36. Cooper and Holloway were Langley researchers directly involved in 

the Shuttle tile program. In 1991, Holloway became the director of Langley Research 

Center, succeeding Richard H. Petersen. It is also worth noting that former Langley 

engineer Max Faget played a critical role at the NASA center in Houston in the conceptual 

design of the Space Shuttle. For an important article that looks at early plans for 

the Space Shuttle, see Faget's "Space Shuttle: A New Configuration," Astronautics & 

Aeronautics 8 (Jan. 1970): 52-61. Starting in June 1973, the journal Spaceflight began 

running a series of articles by David Baker on the design evolution of the Space Shuttle; 

the last in the series appeared in Mar. 1978. 

Langley remained deeply involved with the STS program even after the maiden flight 

of Columbia in 1981. The center developed simulations to solve problems in the orbiter's 

flight control and guidance systems and conducted additional landing tests on tires and 

brake systems. After the Challenger accident in Jan. 1986, Langley pitched in by helping 

to redesign the solid rocket boosters and develop new crew emergency escape systems. 

27. On the potential of the aerobrake in the mid-1980s, see Thomas 0. Paine et al., Pioneering 

the Space Frontier: The Report of the National Commission on Space (Toronto and New 

York: Bantam Books, 1986), pp. 121-122. For a fascinating science-fiction account of 

the use of aerobraking to accomplish a Mars orbital insertion (or MOl) for humankind's 

first permanent colonizing of the Red Planet, I highly recommend Kim Stanley Robinson, 

Red Mars (New York: Bantam Spectra Books, 1993), pp. 70-91. 

28. Several ambitious proposals, NASA and non-NASA, surfaced in the 1970s to continue 

lifting-body research, but they failed to rejuvenate the program. With the Shuttle well 

into its design phase by the mid-1970s, NASA could not afford to vigorously pursue what 

amounted to a rival technology. For an analytical look into the history of the liftingbody concept in the United States, see Richard P. Hallion, On the Frontier: Flight 

Research at Dryden, 1946-1981, NASA SP-4303 (Washington, 1984), pp. 161-172. See 

517 
Notes for Epilogue 

also Stephan Wilkinson, "The Legacy of the Lifting Body," Air & Space Smithsonian 6 

(Apr./May 1991): 62. 

On ambitions for the HL-20 by the early 1990s, see Theodore A. Talay and Howard 

H. Stone, "The Personal Launch System-A Lifting Body Approach," a paper presented 

at the 42d Congress of the International Astronautical Federation, 5-11 Oct. 1991, 

Montreal, Canada. The IAF published this paper as IAF-91-202. 

29. Donald P. Hearth and Albert E. Preyss, "Hypersonic Technology: Approach to an Expanded Program," Astronautics & Aeronautics (Dec. 1976): pp. 20-37. Hearth served 

as director of Langley Research Center from 1975 to 1985. On the hopes for the scramjet, see The National Commission on Space, Paine et al., Pioneering the Space Frontier, 

pp. 101-103. The technical literature on the scramjet is extensive, and much of it is 

classified. For summaries of Langley's work, see 0. A. Buchanon, "Development and 

Fabrication of Structural Components for a Scramjet Engine" (Hampton, Va.: NASA 

Langley Research Center, 1990), microfiche; "Shock Thnnel Studies of Scramjet Phenomena" (Hampton, Va.: NASA Langley Research Center, 1988), microfiche; and Stanley 

W. Candebo, "Scramjet Test Bridges Hypersonic Efforts," Aviation Week & Space Technology 140 (28 Mar. 1994): 52-54. The Candebo article reports on planned tests of a 

large-scale ramjet/scramjet power plant in Langley's 8-Foot High-Temperature Thnnel 

that will allow NASP investigators to determine, for the first time, how scale effects have 

influenced the design calculations used in scramjet R&D. 

30. On the status of NASP in early 1994, see Stanley W. Candebo, "Redirected NASP Program to Focus on Technology," Aviation Week & Space Technology 140 (10 Jan. 1994): 29. 

See also Candebo's story from the previous summer, "NASP Canceled, Program Redirected," Aviation Week & Space Technology 138 (14 June 1993): 32. 

31. Baals and Corliss, Wind Tunnels of NASA, pp. 96 and 133-134. See also Keith 

F. Mordoff, "New, Wind Thnnel Improves Accuracy," Aviation Week & Space Technology 

119 (19 Dec. 1983): 69. 

32. For a popular treatment of the NTF's design features and promises for important new 

data, see "Mighty Wind Roars," Popular Mechanics 162 (Apr. 1985): 65. There is 

a rather vast technical literature on the NTF, mostly NASA reports, all of which are 

available in the Langley Technical Library. A history of the NTF would make a fascinating 

doctoral dissertation in contemporary technology. 

33. Baals and Corliss, Wind Tunnels of NASA, p. 134. 

34. Mark Di Vincenzo, "Heaven's Call Ever Present; NASA Langley to Continue Role in 

Space Program," Newport News-Hampton (Va.) Daily Press, 20 July 1994, sec. A, 

pp. 1-2. 

35. On the ambitions for the Mission to Planet Earth, see Paine et al., Pioneering the Space 

Frontier, pp. 30-33. 

36. DiVincenzo, "Heaven's Call Ever Present," p. 1. 

518 
Index 

Abbott, Ira H., 19, 199, 251, 29ill. 

ABL. See Allegheny Ballistics Laboratory. 

Adamson, David, 129, 130, 142-143, 223 

Administration Directorate, . 404 

Advanced Man in Space (AMIS) project, 

272~274 

Advanced Research Projects Agency 

(ARPA), 51, 52, 55 

Advanced Transport Operating System 

(ATOPS), 415 

Advisory Group for Aeronautical Research 

and Development (AGARD), 267 

aerobrake, 435 

Aerojet General Corporation, 200 

aeronautics, 

decline at Langley, 96-102, 97ill. 

present-day at Langley, 438 

the shift to space, 17-22, 451 

Aeronautics Directorate, 403, 404 

Aero-Physics Division, 89, 127 

Aero-Space Mechanics Division, 8~90 

Agena, 370 

Agena-Class Lunar Orbiter Project 

(ACLOPS), 327 

Agnew's Space Task Group, 430 

Aircraft Configuration Branch, 177 

Aircraft Engine Research Laboratory, 7. 

See also Lewis Research Center. 

Aircraft Manufacturers' Conferences, 7, 

6ill. 

air-density measurement, 156, 158-162, 

166, 191 

Air Force Scientific Advisory Board, 235, 

236 

Air Force Tactical Air Command, 60 

Air Force, U.S., 20, 57, 165, 170, 199, 200, 

214,289,327,338,453 

Mrlie House, 418, 422, 423, 424 

Air Scoop, 11, 169 

air traffic, improvement, 415 

Aldrin, Edwin E., Jr., 355, 428 

Alfven, Hannes, 123 

Algol motor, 200, 207, 211 

Allario, Frank, 151 

Allegheny Ballistics Laboratory ( ABL), 

X248, 184, 187, 200, 201, 184ill. 

X254, 201 

X259, 201 

Allen, H. Julian, 53, 393 

Altair motor, 201, 207 

American Telephone and Telegraph 

(AT&T), 176, 194 

Ames Aeronautical Laboratory, 7 

Ames, Joseph S., 7, Bill. 

Ames Research Center, 7, 32, 232, 393 

Ampere, Andre-Marie, 135 

Analysis and Computation Division 

(ACD), 86, 111, 414 

Antares motor, 201, 209 

Apollo 11, 268, 346, 350, 391, 429, 495 

Apollo 13, 238, 389 

Apollo 204 fire, 373, 387-391, 455 

Apollo Applications Program, 306-307 

Apollo Configuration Control Board, 389 

Apollo Extension System, 270, 305-306 

Apollo Orbital Research Laboratory 

(AORL), 301 

Apollo project, 77, 98, 100, 113, 141, 245, 

253, 369, 370, 371, 423 

command module, 237, 362-366, 364ill. 

flight plan, 237 

funding, 358 

Langley contributions, 366-369, 368ill. 

See also simulation research and 

Apollo 204 fire. 

management of, 356 

mission modes. See lunar landing 

mission modes. 

reentry, 38Q-381, 385, 386 

scope of effort, 355 

Apollo Spacecraft Program Office, 366 

519 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Apollo Technical Liaison Plan, 233 

Applied Materials and Physics Division, 

89, 91, 367, 422 

arc-jet, 133 

Armstrong, Neil A., 41, 268, 346, 350, 355, 

378-379, 428, 392ill. 

Army Ballistic Missile Agency (ABMA), 

xxvii, 34, 42, 102 

Army, U.S., 22 

Arnold Engineering Development Center, 

60, 133 

Arnold, Henry, 7 

astronauts, Mercury, 39-45, 77, 456 

Atlas-Agena, 293, 313, 321, 344 

Atlas-Centaur, 344 

Atlas-Mercury vehicle, 47 

Atlas rocket, 38, 46, 50, 53, 54, 59, 236, 

367 

atmospheric sciences, 404 

atomic bomb, 113, 135, 147, 171 

Atomic Energy Commission, 12, 132, 147, 

289 

AT&T, 176, 194 

Augustine, Norman, 433 

aurora borealis, 122, 145, 146 

avionics, 415 

A.V. Roe (AVRO), 248, 455 

Back River, 45, 72, 94, 62ill. 

Bainbridge, William Sims, xxx-xxxi 

Barium Cloud Experiment, 142-147 

Bay of Pigs, 249 

Becker, John V., 19, 31, 89, 98, 116, 127, 

132, 150, 151, 232, 420-425, 434, 

128ill. 

Bell aircraft, 

P-59, 18ill. 

X-1, 7, 202 

X-14A, 379 

Bell Communications (BellComm), 108, 

325, 350 

Bell Telephone Laboratories, 65, 163, 176, 

178, 186, 259 

Bendix Corporation, 65 

Bennett, Willard H., 148 

Berglund, Rene A., 281, 283, 295, 297, 

278ill. 

B-58, 20 

Biermann, Ludwig, 143-144 

520 

Biggins, Virginia, 456 

Big Joe, 46-47, 59, 77 

Big Shot, 113, 193-194 

Bikle, Paul F., 31 

Billingsley, Henry E., 30 

Bird, John D., 230, 232, 233, 242, 246, 257, 

229ill. 

Bisplinghoff, Raymond L., 97, 90ill. 

black hole, 216 

Boeing aircraft, 

P-26A Peashooter, 6ill. 

737-100, 415, 416ill. 

757, 416 

767, 416 

Boeing Company, 294, 295-297, 302, 

313-314, 327 

Lunar Orbiter, 328-332, 334-336, 

340-342, 344-346 

Terminal Configured Vehicle and Avionics program (TCVA), 415-416, 

416ill. 

Bomarc Missile program, 295, 327 

Bond, Aleck C., 257 

Bonney, Walter, 12, 31ill. 

Borman, Frank, 387 

Bostick, Winston H., 149 

Bower, Robert, 411 

Boyer, William J., 57, 65, 67, 324, 332 

Braun, Wernher von. See von Braun, 

Wernher. 

Brayton cycle, 288 

Brayton, George B., 288 

Bressette, Walter E., 167, 169, 171, 

174-175, 186, 191, 175ill., 183ill. 

Brewer, Gerald, 323 

Brissendon, Roy R., 371 

British National Physical Laboratory, 17 

Brockman, Philip, 134ill. 

Brookings Institution, 10 

Brooks, Overton, 285, 286 

Brown, C. T., Jr., 202 

Brown, Clinton E., 42, 86, 158, 222, 

223-224, 228, 232, 233, 236-237, 

241, 242, 246, 276, 320, 327, 88ill., 

227ill. 

Brummer, Edmund A., 323 

Buckley, Edmond C., 57, 68, 69 

"Buck Rogers", 17 
budget, 

Langley, 423 

space program, 428 

Buglia, James J., 53 

Bulkeley, Rip, 447 

Bullpup missile, 210 

Bureau of the Budget, 10, 104 

Burgess, George K., Bill. 

Burlock, Joseph, 140 

Burns and Roe, 65 

Busemann, Adolf, 129-130, 135, 139, 276 

Bush, George, 433 

Bush, Vannevar, 7, 9ill. 

Butler, Sherwood, 112, 325 

Butler, T. Melvin, 404, 90ill., 279ill., 

398ill. 

Cable News Network (CNN), 195 

Cambridge Research Center, 164 

Cape Canaveral, xxvii, xxix, 64, 66, 102, 

170, 179, 187, 188, 189, 293, 367 

Cape Kennedy, 356 

Carpathian mountains, 348ill. 

Carpenter, Malcolm Scott, 40, 41, 42, 76, 

40ill. 

Case Institute of Technology, 11, 13 

Castor, 201 

Castro, Fidel, 249 

Centaur rocket, 236, 283, 313, 351 

Center Development Directorate, 404 

Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 172, 

249 

centrifuge, 42, 45 

Centro Italiano Ricerche Aerospaziali, 217 

CF-105 Arrow, 455 

Chaffee, Roger B., 387, 455, 390ill. 

Chamberlin, James, 235, 248, 257 

Champine, Robert A., 41 

Chance Vought Astronautics, 228, 276 

Chance Vought Corporation, 201, 203, 228, 

260 

F8U-3, 27 

Chapman, Sydney, 122 

Cherokee, 198 

CIA, 172, 249 

Clarke, Arthur C., 162-163, 175, 176, 194, 

195, 271 

Clear Lake, Texas, 7 4 

Clemmons, Dewey L., Jr., 387 

Index 

Clinton, Bill, 433 

cockpit development, 415 

Coffee, Claude W., Jr., 175 

cold war, xxviii, 83, 172, 427, 433 

Colliers, 271-272, 381-383 

Collins, Michael, 370, 391, 428 

comets, 143, 144, 145 

command module ( CM), 237, 362-366, 

364ill. 

committees on lunar exploration, table, 

225 

Communications Satellite Corporation 

(ComSatCorp), 194, 195, 200 

communications satellites (comsats), 480, 

481 

communications system, global, 189 

computers, 111, 413-416, lllill. 

Congress, 51, 430 

Apollo, 392 

appropriations, 437 

House Independent Offices Appropriations Committee, 74 

House Select Committee on Science and 

Astronautics, 176, 285 

House Space Committee, 74, 451 

NACA, 2, 9, 10, 23 

NASA confirmation hearings, 15 

personnel authorizations, 104, 106, 109 

space station, 306 

supersonic transport (SST), 101, 416 

contracting, 

for Langley services, 108-112 

Langley philosophy, 82-84 

Lunar Orbiter, 325-326, 331ill. 

Manned Orbiting Research Laboratory 

(MORL), 294-302, 307 

Mercury, 59, 65 

Scout, 203-205, 212-215 

Convair aircraft, 93 

B-58 delta-winged bomber, 20 

SF2Y-1 Se~!- Dart, 93 

Convair Astronautics, 170 

Cooper, L. Gordon, Jr., 41, 42, 77, 194, 

517, 40ill. 

Copernicus crater, 348ill. 

Coriolis effects, 277, 290 

Corneliussen, Sarah and Steve, 109 

Cortright, Edgar M., Jr., 150, 335, 389, 

434, 451, 398ill., 399ill., 409ill. 

521 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Cortright, Edgar M., Jr. (continued): 

appointed Langley director, 393-397 

critique of, 418-425 

development of electronics, 413-418 

Lunar Orbiter, 319, 320, 325, 326 

1970 reorganization, 89, 90, 92, 152, 

398-407, 421-422 

public relations, 412-413 

staff, 408-412 

Crabill, Norman L., 153-156, 181, 185, 

189, 195-196, 324, 334, 338, 339, 

340-341, 349, 351, 183ill. 

Cronkite, Walter, 377, 378ill. 

Crossfield, Scott A., 41 

Crowley, John W., 166, 176-177, 199 

Curtiss-Wright Corporation, 81 

Davies, Merton E., 328 

Dawson, John R., 302 

Deep Space Network, 328 

DeFrance, Smith J., 31, 36-37 

Department of Defense (DOD), 41, 200, 

216, 255, 297-298, 301, 327, 328, 

338, 437, 453 

detente, 428 

D-558, 7 

diffusion inhibitor, 149 

Diggs, Charlie, 137ill. 

Discoverer, 28 

Dodgen, John A., 232 

Dolan, Thomas E., 228, 237, 260 

Donely, Philip, 89 

Donlan, Charles J., 19, 52, 63, 86, 458, 

264ill., 361 ill., 398ill. 

Langley appointments, 99-100, 394-395, 

397, 409, 421 

Lunar Orbiter, 316, 317, 317ill. 

Manned Spacecraft Center, 358, 359, 

360, 363, 365 

Mercury, 41 

NACA transition to NASA, 2 

1959 inspection, 34 

rendezvous, 241, 255 

space station, 294-295, 305 

Space Task Group (STG), 56, 57-58, 73, 

74,75 

Doolittle, James H., 8, 12, 451 

Douglas aircraft, 

D-558, 7 

522 

Douglas Aircraft Company, 108, 178, 231, 

294, 295-302 

Draley, Eugene C., 19, 89, 91, 118, 177, 

223, 224, 327, 332, 367, 404, 408, 

88ill., 90ill., 398ill. 

Dryden Flight Research Center, 7 

Dryden, Hugh L., 10, 31, 52, 70, 71, 75, 

76, 384, 400, 451, 452, Hill. 

appointment to NASA, 12 

Echo, 166, 176 

NACA appropriations, 23 

1959 inspection, 30, 34 

Space Task Group, 73 

Duberg, John E., 91, 367, 408, 398ill., 

409ill. 

Durand, William F., 7, 8ill. 

Dynamic Loads Division, 89, 91, 93 

Dyna-Soar project, 20, 132, 200, 273, 327, 

453, 96ill. 

Eagle, 346, 350, 356, 495 

earth, 

first deep space photo, 344-346, 

506-507, iiill., 345ill., 352ill. 

earth-orbit rendezvous (EOR). See lunar 

landing mission modes. 

East Area, 45, 72, 94 

Eastman Kodak, 328, 342, 506 

Echo 1, 188-191, 192, 193, 277 

Echo 1 Passive Communication Satellite 

Project, 154 

Echo 2, 189, 193-194 

Echo project, 278, 280, 321 

air-density measurement, 156, 158-162, 

166, 191 

Beacon satellite, 170-176, 17 4ill. 

construction material, 160, 167-169 

container, 180, 181ill. 

design, 158-162 

folding the balloon, 187-188 

Goddard, 177-179 

inflation, 154, 160, 169, 180-184, 186, 

155ill., 182ill., 183ill. 

initial test, 153-156 

management, 112-113 

mapping, 190 

micrometeorites, 188, 189 

lOO~foot satelloon, 177-185 

proposal for, 164-166 

Sub-Satellite, 166-170, 168ill., 171 ill. 
Echo project (continued): 

Task Group, 177,178,181,186,187, 

188, 195, 183ill. 

telecommunications, global system, 

162-164 

tracking, 161 

yo-yo de-spin system, 184-185, 186 

Edwards Air Force Base (AFB), 7, 63. 

See also Dryden Flight Research 

Center. 

Edwards, Howard B., 233 

Eggers, Alfred J., 53 

Eggleston, John M., 232, 233 

E. I. duPont de Nemours & Co., 167, 292 

Eisenhower, Dwight D., xxvi, xxvii, 173, 

3ill. 

administration, 198 

creation of NASA, 2, 12, 449 

Echo 1, 188 

Mercury astronauts, 41 

NASA personnel, 104 

Electronics Directorate, 403, 404 

Ellis, Macon C., Jr., 116, 125, 126-129, 

132, 140, 142, 150, 151, 152, 

418-420, 422, 434, 129ill. 

engineer-in-charge, 10 

English, Roland D., 198, 202, 210, 211, 

213-214, 216 

"Enos", 41 

Environmental and Space Sciences Division, 404, 420, 422 

Erectable Torus Manned Space Laboratory, 277-281, 279ill., 280ill. 

European Space Agency, 217 

European Space Research Organization 

(ESRO), 144, 146 

Evans, John S., 140 

Explorer, 123 

Explorer 1, 173 

Explorer 9, 191 

Explorer 10, 125 

Explorer 19, 191 

Explorer 24, 191, 192ill. 

Explorer 39, 191 

F8U-3, 27 

F-101A, 17 

F-104 Starfighter, 20 

F-111A, 100ill. 

F-111B, lOOill. 

Index 

Faget, Maxime, 52, 226, 387, 451, 458, 517 

Mattson, Axel T., 360 

Mercury capsule, 43, 47, 53-54, 44ill. 

rendezvous, 235, 236-237, 241, 242, 255, 

260, 261-262 

Scout, 197 

Fairburn, Robert, 323 

Fechet, James E., Bill. 

Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), 

415 

Federal Ministry for Scientific Research, 

West Germany, 145 

Feix, Marc, 130, 131ill. 

Fields, Edison M., 37 

Fire project, 91, 112, 216, 321, 322, 332, 

367-369, 367ill. 

Fleming Committee, 250 

Fleming, William A., 250 

Fletcher, James, 430 

Flexi-Kite, 381 

Flight Instrumentation Division, 91 

Flight Mechanics and Technology Division, 

90, 98 

Flight Reentry Programs Office, 91 

Flight Research Center, Edwards Air Force 

Base, 232, 378-379, 385, 386 

flying boats, 94 

Foelsche, Trutz, 330 

France, 217 

Friendship 7, 260 

Fuhrmeister, Paul F., 86, 91 

Full-Scale Research Division, 90, 93, 94, 

98, 380 

Gagarin, Yuri, 249 

Gapcynski, John P., 230 

Gardner, William N., 294, 303-305, 308, 

300ill., 308ill. 

Garland, Benjamin J., 53 

Garrick, Isadore E., 89, 267 

Gas Dynamics Laboratory, 122, 126, 129 

Geer, E. Barton, 387 

Geggie, Jean, 24 

Gemini project, 232, 257, 293, 301, 369, 

370, 371, 385 

reentry, 380-381, 385 

General Dynamics aircraft, 

F-111A, lOOill. 

F-111B, lOOill. 

General Dynamics Corporation, 305 

523 
Spaceflight Revolution 

General Electric (G.E.), 108, 176 

General Mills, 181, 184 

General Motors, 259 

Geophysics and Astronomy Division, 193 

Germany, 217 

Gibbons, Howard, 155 

Gilkey, John E., 37 

Gillis, Clarence L., 177 

Gilmore, William E., 8ill. 

Gilruth, Robert R., 19, 31, 37, 43, 50, 202, 

222, 379, 451, 38ill., 79ill., 361 ill. 

Echo, 165 

lunar-orbit rendezvous, 248, 265 

Marshall Space Flight Center, 360, 366 

Mercury planning, 51-55 

rendezvous, 242-245, 257, 260, 261, 262, 

263 

Space Task Group's move to Texas, 

76-77, 80, 79ill. 

Space Task Group staffing, 55-57, 59, 

60-63, 65, 69, 72, 73-74 

Sputnik, 172 

Girouard, Robert, 323 

Glenn, Annie Castor, 46ill., 79ill. 

Glenn, John H., Jr., 40, 42, 43, 76, 77, 222, 

260, 40ill., 45ill., 46ill., 79ill. 

Glennan, T. Keith, 31, 81, 118, 236, 452, 

13ill., 14ill., 29ill., 31ill. 

appointment to NASA, 11-15 

"Message to Employees", 12-15 

NASA personnel, 104-106 

1959 inspection, 30 

Space Task Group, 55 

global telecommunication system, 175-177 

Goddard Space Flight Center, 65, 194, 

232, 395 

Echo, 177-179 

1959 inspection, 32, 34-37, 36ill. 

Scout, 217 

Space Task Group, 72-74 

Goett Committee, 226, 232, 272-274 

Goett, Harry J., 31, 74, 179, 226 

Gold, Thomas, 311 

Goldin, Daniel, 433, 438 

Golovin Committee, 255-257 

Golovin, Nicholas E., 255 

Goodyear Aerospace Corporation, 191 

Goodyear Aircraft Corporation, 276, 277, 

278, 285, 385 

524 

Graham, John B., 323, 324 

Graves, G. Barry, Jr., 66, 67, 67ill. 

gravity, artificial, 281, 295, 297 

Green, Milt, 203, 215 

Griffith, Leigh M., 394 

Grissom, Virgil I., 42, 222, 385, 387, 455, 

40ill., 390ill. 

Grosse, Aristid V., 140 

Group 1, 86, 91, 367, 369 

Group 2, 86, 89, 367 

Group 3, 86, 89, 367 

G. T. Schjeldahl Company, 184, 187 

Guggenheim, Harry F., 7 

Guy-Lussac Promontory, 348ill. 

Hall, Edwin H., 138 

Hall, Eldon W., 255 

Hall, Harvey, 255 

Hall, James R., 198, 202, 203, 205, 

206-207, 209, 210, 212, 215, 219, 

203ill. 

Hall, R. Cargill, 317-319 

Hallion, Richard, 378-379, 385-386 

"Ham", 41 

Hammack, Jerome, 37 

Harbridge House, 118 

Harrison, Albertis S., 77 

Harvard College Observatory, 164 

Hasel, Lowell E., 233 

Hearth, Donald P., 417, 435, 437 

Heaton Committee, 253, 255, 258 

Heaton, Donald H., 253 

heat shield, 53, 362, 369 

Helberg, Robert J., 335, 340, 342, 344, 

345, 351 

Heldenfels, Richard R., 89, 233, 414 

Heos 1, 146 

Hercules Powder Company, 201 

Hess, Robert V., 129, 131, 138, 139-140, 

144, 151, 139ill. 

Hewes, Donald, 373, 374, 375, 377, 361ill., 

374ill. 

High-Speed Flight Station, 7. See also 

Dryden Flight Research Center. 

High-Speed Hydrodynamics Tank, 93 

Hilburn, Earl D., 81, 104, 106 

Hill, Paul R., 223, 233, 275, 277, 294, 

275ill. 

HL-20, 435 
Hodge, John D., 37,455 

Hoffer, Eric, xxix 

Holloway, 517 

Holmes, Brainerd, 258-259, 260, 263 

Honest John, 198 

Hook, W. Ray, 307 

Hoover, Herbert, 23 

Horrocks, Edith R., 202 

Horton, Elmer A., 37 

Houbolt, John C., 86, 222, 224, 230-231, 

275, 356, 361-362, 391-392, 

495-496, 244ill., 247ill., 266ill. 

letters to Robert Seamans, 249-251, 

258-260 

lunar landing mode decision, 262-263, 

265-268 

lunar-orbit rendezvous (LOR), 233-237, 

238, 239-247, 252, 253-255, 257 

rendezvous committees, 231-233 

Hubbard, Harvey, 17 

Huber, Paul W., 129, 140, 152, 131ill. 

Hughes Aircraft Company, 194, 319, 327, 

328, 330, 331, 335 

Hunsaker, Jerome C., 7, 9 

Russ, Carl R., 37, 57 

Hydrodynamics Division, 60, 93 

Hypersonic Ramjet Experiment, 112 

hypersonics, 158, 432, 435-436. See also 

Dyna-Soar project. 

boost glider, xxviii, 20, 54, 273 

tunnels, 133 

Hypersonic Vehicles Division, 420 

ICBM. See intercontinental ballistic 

missiles. 

incinerator, Hampton, 413 

Inspection, 1959, 51, 52 

exhibits, 27-28, 32-33, 35-38, 39-40, 42, 

46-47, 126, 135, 29ill., 31ill., 32ill., 

36ill. 

guests, 31-32 

planning, 30, 33-37 

space station, 27 4 

Space Task Group, 37-38, 4Q-45 

Inspections, NACA, 28-30, 33-37 

Institute for Computer Applications in 

Science and Engineering (ICASE), 

414 

Institute of Aeronautical Sciences (lAS), 

383, 94 

Index 

Instrument Research Division (IRD), 86, 

91 

Integrated Program for Aerospace-Vehicle 

Design (IPAD), 414-415 

Integrative Life Support System (ILSS), 

305, 304ill. 

intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBM), 

132, 140, 200 

International Business Machines (IBM) 

Corporation, 65 

International Geophysical Year (IGY), 157, 

163, 198 

International Telecommunications Satellite 

Consortium (Intelsat), 195 

inventor's award, 384, 495 

ion rockets, 132, 150 

Italy, 217 

Jacobs, Eastman N., 149 

Jacobs, Ken, 203, 214 

Jaffe, Leonard, 177, 178 

Jalufka, Nelson, 148 

James, Robert, 185 

Jastrow, ,Robert, 224 

Javelin rocket, 145 

Jet Propulsion, 163 

Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL), 178, 

224, 232, 255, 312-313, 315, 316, 

319, 321, 334, 335, 351 

1959 inspection, 32, 34, 35-37 

Johnson, Caldwell, 

lunar-orbit rendezvous, 235 

NACA, 22-23, 24 

Space Task Group, 52, 53, 75, 458 

Johnson, E. Townsend, Jr., 411 

Johnson, Lyndon B., 10, 15, 74,172,249 

Johnson, Roy, 51, 55 

Jones, Robert T., 139 

Journal of the American Rocket Society, 

163 

Juno II, 173 

Jupiter C, xxvi, xxvii, 173, 198, 199 

Jupiter Senior, 198, 200 

Kantrowitz, Arthur, 149 

Karth, Joseph E., 286 

Katzoff, Samuel, 224, 327 

Kavanau, Lawrence L., 255 

Kennedy, John F., 

assassination, 194 

525 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Kennedy, John F. (continued): 

lunar landing commitment, xxviii, xxix, 

77, 106, 221-222, 249, 286, 355, 427, 

428 

lunar-orbit rendezvous, 265 

management of NASA, 106 

New Frontier, 83 

Kennedy Space Center, 102, 356, 389 

Kepler crater, 318ill. 

Kilgore, Edwin, 169, 187-188, 183ill. 

Killian, James R., Jr., 51, 193, 449 

Kimpton, Lawrence, 118 

King, Paul, 16ill. 

Kinzler, Jack, 47, 57 

Kistiakowsky, George, 51 

Kloman, Erasmus H., 350-351 

Koelle, Hermann, 265 

Kondratyuk, Yuri, 227 

Kotanchik, Joseph N., 363, 365-366 

Kraft, Christopher C., Jr., 17, 63, 455 

Krieger, Robert L., 32 

Kubrick, Stanley, 271 

Kuhn, Thomas S., xxx 

Kurbjun, Max C., 232, 246, 257, 371 

Kyle, Howard C., 57, 65 

Land, Emory S., 8ill. 

Landing Loads Track, 93 

Langley, 

budget, 107-108 

competition among divisions, 91-93 

organization, 1962, 85-91, 87ill. 

policy of obscurantism, 91-93, 401-402 

public relations, 22-25, 412-425 

relationship with headquarters, 104-109, 

398-407 

reorganization, 1970, 393-394, 403-418, 

405ill. 

"shadow" and ad hoc groups, 85, 92 

Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory, 4 

Langley Researcher, 396ill., 410ill. 

Langley, Samuel P., 4 

Lansing, Donald, 17 

Large Launch Vehicle Planning Group, 255 

Large Orbiting Research Laboratory 

(LORL), 301 

lasers, 138, 149, 151 

Launch Operations Center, 102 

Leiss, Abraham, 202 · 

526 

Levine, Arnold S., 118 

Lewis Flight Propulsion Laboratory, 7, 13, 

395 

Lewis, George W., 10, 23, 91, 401, 404, 

8ill., 9ill., 11 ill. 

Lewis Research Center, 7, 32, 202, 232, 

246, 261 

Ley, Willy, 383 

Lidar In-Space Technology (LITE), 438 

Life magazine, 266ill. 

life-support system, 287, 289-292, 297, 

302-305 

lifting-body research, 435, 511, 517 

Lina, Lindsay J., 245 

Lindbergh, Charles A., 7, 38, 58, 91, 97, 

384, 6ill. 

Ling-Temco-Vought (LTV), 112, 203-205, 

213, 214-215, 216, 217, 204ill. 

Little Joe, 28, 47, 50, 59, 77, 48ill., 49ill. 

Lockheed aircraft, 

F-104 Starfighter, 20 

Lockheed Missiles and Space Company, 

277, 327, 331 

Loftin, Laurence K., Jr., 71, 89, 92, 99, 

116, 118, 226, 251, 252, 276, 367, 

414, 421, 422, 88ill., 90ill., 398ill. 

AMIS, 272-274 

Cortright reorganization, 409-411 

space station, 285-286 

Los Alamos National Laboratory, 149 

Love, Eugene S., 233, 275, 421 

Low Committee, 243, 245 

Low, George M., 226, 241, 243, 245, 

249, 250, 258-259, 262-263, 268, 

283-284, 389, 451, 259ill., 409ill. 

lunar excursion module (LEM), 230, 

237, 238, 242, 316-317, 373-375, 

37'(-378, 243ill., 266ill., 376ill., 

377ill. 

lunar exploration committees, table, 225 

Lunar Exploration Working Group, 

223-224, 226 

lunar landing mission modes, 

compared, 234-241, 255-257, 261-262, 

24 7 ill., 254ill., 256ill. 

direct ascent, 237, 239-241, 242, 246, 

250, 255, 261-262 
lunar landing mission modes (continued): 

earth-orbit rendezvous (EOR), xxix, 

231-232, 235, 237, 239, 241, 246, 

247, 253, 255, 263 

lunar-orbit rendezvous (LOR), xxix, 

233-239, 241-247, 250, 252, 253, 

255, 257, 258, 259, 260-270, 356, 

361-362, 495-496 

lunar-surface rendezvous, 252, 255 

Lunar Landing Research Facility, 371, 

373-379, 375ill., 376ill., 377ill., 

392ill. 

Lunar Landing Training Vehicle, 378-379 

Lunar Mission Steering Group, 232-233 

Lunar Orbit and Letdown Approach 

Simulator, 371, 379, 380ill. 

Lunar Orbiter, 112, 196, 295, 297, 356, 

400, 314ill. 

assignment to Langley, 319-321 

basic research vs. project objectives, 

315-319, 320 

budget, 313, 330 

camera, 324-325, 328-329, 333, 336, 342, 

329ill. 

concurrent development, 322 

contract, 325-332, 334-336, 340-342, 

344-346, 331 ill. 

earth photos, 344-346, iiill., 345ill., 

352ill. 

lunar gravity data, 346 

mission objective, 313, 315, 319, 346 

NASA headquarters, 335-336 

photographic targets, 336-342, 346-350, 

337ill. 

photometry data, 349-350 

project management, 350-353 

project start-up, 322-326 

solar radiation, 330-331, 348 

typical flight sequence, 340ill. 

Lunar Orbiter I, 342, 344, 345, 346, 506, 

343ill., 344ill. 

Lunar Orbiter II, 346, 348 

Lunar Orbiter III, 318, 346 

Lunar Orbiter IV, 346 

Lunar Orbiter V, 346, 347, 349, 352 

Lunar Orbiter Project Office (LOPO), 91, 

323-324, 328, 332-334 

lunar-orbit rendezvous (LOR). See lunar 

landing mission modes. 

Index 

lunar surface, 311-312, 316-317, 314ill. 

Carpathian Mountains, 348ill. 

Copernicus crater, 348ill. 

dark side, 34 7 ill. 

Guy-Lussac Promontory, 348ill. 

Kepler crater, 318ill. 

landing dynamics test, 318ill. 

Sea of Tranquility, 346, 356, 428 

Tycho crater, 349ill. 

lunar vacation, 428 

Lundin, Bruce T., 202, 250 

Lundin Committee, 250-253, 255 

Lunik, 125 

Lunney, Glynn, 57, 64 

Lust, Riemar, 143-144 

Mace, William, 232 

Maggin, Bernard, 92, 245 

Maglieri, Domenic, 17 

Magnetic Compression Experiment, 148 

Magnetohydrodynamics Section, 129, 

147-149 

magnetoplasmadynamics (MPD), 

conferences, 130 

definition, 121-122 

early theories, 122-126 

Inspection 1959 exhibits, 126, 135 

wane of, 150-152 

Magnetoplasmadynamics (MPD) Branch, 

85, 191 

creation, 126 

dissolution, 150-152, 421 

facilities, 133-141 

goals, 132 

organization, 129-130 

staff, 129, 130-131 

Thompson, Floyd L., 126-127 

magnetosphere, 123-124, 142, 144, 145, 

146, 217 

Mailer, Norman, 429 

Main Committee, NACA, 7 

Malley, George, 387 

Manhattan Project, 113, 147, 149 

Man-In-Space-Soonest project (MISS), 57 

Manned Lunar Landing and Return 

(MALLAR), 228 

Manned Lunar Landing Involving Rendezvous (MALLIR), 247-248, 257, 

243ill. 

Manned Lunar Landing Task Group, 243 

527 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Manned Orbital Rendezvous and Docking 

(MORAD), 247-248, 257 

Manned Orbiting Research Laboratory 

(MORL), 91, 293-302, 307-308, 

296ill., 298ill., 300ill., 302ill. 

contract bidding, 294-302, 307 

lunar exploration, 299-300 

Studies Office, 294, 297, 303, 308 

Manned Spacecraft Center, 102, 107, 261, 

262, 263, 264, 316-317, 356 

Mattson, Axel T., 357-366 

Manned Space Flight Management Council, 263, 265 

Manned Space Laboratory Research 

Group, 231-232, 233, 274-276, 289 

Marcus, Greil, 429 

Marine Corps, U.S., 210 

Mariner C, 328 

Mark, Hans, 393 

Mars, 132, 151, 306, 353, 383, 404, 408, 

413, 423, 429, 432, 434, 151ill., 

407ill. 

Marshall Space Flight Center, 102, 108, 

232, 233, 246, 252, 255, 263, 

264-265, 303, 356, 394 

Martin aircraft, 

YP6M-1 Seamaster, 93, 95 

Martin Company, 276, 327 

Martin, James V., 331, 332-333, 406, 

333ill. 

Martin Marietta Corporation, 433 

Marvin, Charles F., Bill. 

Massachusetts Institute of Technology 

(MIT), 108 

Millstone Hill Radar Observatory, 170, 

173 

Masursky, Harold, 339 

Mather, G. R., 149 

Mathews, Charles W., 52, 54, 63, 65, 263, 

387 

Mattson, Axel T., 33-37, 107, 35ill. 

lunar-orbit rendezvous, 263 

Manned Spacecraft Center, 357-366, 

379, 361ill. 

Visitors' Center, 413 

Max Planck Institut, 143, 145, 146 

Mayer, John P., 57 

Maynard, Owen E., 235, 241, 262 

Mayo, Robert, 429 

528 

Mayo, Wilbur L., 230 

McCauley, John F., 339 

McCurdy, Howard, 432-433 

McDonnell aircraft, 

F-101A, 17 

McDonnell Aircraft Corporation, 45 

McDonnell Douglas, 307 

McDougall, Walter A., xxvii, 171, 431-432 

McHatton, Austin, 188 

McKinsey & Co., 118 

McNamara, Robert S., 273, 301 

Meintel, Alfred J., Jr., 371 

Mercury-Atlas 6, 76 

Mercury-Atlas 7, 76 

Mercury-Atlas 8, 77 

Mercury-Atlas 9, 77 

Mercury Mark II, 385 

Mercury project, 

astronauts, 39-45, 77, 456 

capsule, 45, 46, 52, 53, 60, 247, 458 

29ill., 31ill., 44ill., 45ill., 46ill. 

See also Big Joe. 

contract requirements, 59, 65 

control center, 64, 66 

early skepticism, 58-59 

flight concept, 38, 51, 52-55, 39ill. 

impact tests, 60, 65, 96, 362, 6lill., 62ill. 

Langley support of, 59-63, 65-66, 77 

orbital flights, 76, 77 

tracking range, 63-69, 68ill. 

Meyer, Andre, 53 

Michael, William H., Jr., 152, 223, 224, 

226-230, 237, 246, 227ill. 

micrometeorites, 188, 189, 216, 278-280, 

281 

microwave cavity resonance, 138 

Military Test Space Station (MTSS), 298 

Miller, James, 184ill. 

Millstone Hill Radar Observatory, 170, 173 

Minitrack Network, 65, 161 

Minzer, Raymond, 164, 165 

MIR, 307-308 

Mission Control, 63-64, 268, 356, 391 

Mitchell, Jesse L., 167, 17Q-171, 181, 193, 

171ill. 

Moffett Field, 7. See also Ames Research 

Center. 

Moffett, William A., 7, Sill. 

Moonball experiment, 316 
Moore, William M., 202 

Morrison Planetarium, 172 

Moulton, Forrest R., 223 

Mrazek, William A., 234 

Mueller, George E., 397, 337ill. 

Mumford, Lewis, 429 

Muroc Dry Lake, 202 

Muroc Field, 7 

Mutual Weapons Defense Program 

(MWDP), 453 

Mylar, 167 

NACA, xxviii, 

aeronautical research, 15-17 

appropriations, 9, 10, 23 

charter, 3-7 

committee system, 7-10, 449, 8ill. 

conferences. See Inspections, NACA. 

creation of, 2 

director of research, 10 

headquarters, 400, 401 

Lewis, 451 

Nuts, 24, 80 

public relations, 22-25 

research management, 23-24 

transition to NASA, 1-3, 14-15 

young Thrks, 11, 451 

NACA Conference on High-Speed Aerodynamics, 53 

NASA, 

after Apollo, 308, 392 

creation of, xxviii, 1-2, 3, 10-11 

First Anniversary Inspection. See Inspection, 1959. 

intercenter relationships, 35-37, 178-179, 

194, 357 

inventions and contributions board, 384, 

495 

logo, 438 

NASA Flight Research Center, 32 

NASA headquarters, 91, 92, 100, 108, 

395-397 

center management, 224, 319, 322, 

400-401, 424 

Lunar Orbiter, 335-336 

personnel, 107 

NASA/Industry Apollo Technical Conference, 233, 253 

NASA Structural Analysis (NASTRAN), 

414 

Index 

National Academy of Public Administration, 336, 350 

National Academy of Sciences, 130, 158 

National Aeronautics and Space Act, 11, 

14, 15, 16, 22 

National Aeronautics and Space Council, 

12 

National Aero-Space Plane (NASP), 432, 

436 

National Orbiting Space Station (NOSS), 

298 

National Science Foundation, 12, 41 

National Transonic Facility (NTF), 418, 

436-437, 417ill. 

NATO, 267, 453 

Naugle, John E., 474 

Naval Aviation Medical Acceleration 

Laboratory, 42, 45 

Naval Research Laboratory (NRL), 32, 

34-37, 166, 169, 178, 395 

Navy, U.S., 16, 95 

Polaris, 198, 200 

R6L biplane amphibian, 16 

Transit system, 216 

Nelson, Clifford H., 323, 324, 326, 332-334, 

334-335, 342, 351, 323ill., 333ill., 

345ill., 398ill. 

Netherlands, 217 

Newcomb, John F., 324 

Newell, Homer E., 144, 319, 325, 395, 401, 

474 

Newport News Daily Press, 74-75, 155 

Nichols, Mark R., 90, 99, 231, 274, 275 

Nicks, Oran W., 319, 320, 325, 326, 395, 

408-409, 411, 345ill. 

Nike-Cajun (CAN), 164 

Nike-Deacon (DAN), 164 

Nike-Tomahawk, 145 

Nixon, Richard M., xxviii, xxix, 148, 151, 

249, 306, 307, 429-431 

North American aircraft, 283, 295, 297, 

384, 385, 391 

X-15, 20, 28, 32, 54, 98, 131, 158, 371, 

435, 456, 21 ill., 32ill. 

XB-70 Valkyrie, 17, 115 

XLR-99, 32 

North American Aviation, 281, 290, 362, 

363, 365 

North American Rockwell, 146, 307 

529 
Spaceflight Revolution 

North Atlantic Treaty Organization 

(NATO), 267, 453 

Nova rocket, 237, 239-241, 244, 246, 250, 

252, 258, 261-262 

nuclear power, 288-289 

nuclear weapons, 200 

Oberth, Hermann, 223, 271 

oblique photography, 345 

O'Brien-Joyner, Kitty, 105ill. 

Oertel, Goetz K. H., 130, 148 

Office for Flight Projects, 91, 367 

Office of Advanced Research and Technology (OART), 94, 106, 322 

Office of Aeronautical and Space Research, 

92 

Office of Engineering and Technical Services, 369 

Office of International Programs, 30 

Office of Launch Vehicle Programs, 202, 

239, 255 

Office of Manned Space Flight, 301, 319, 

325, 356, 397 

Office of Space Flight Development, 30, 55, 

72, 178-179, 202 

Office of Space Flight Programs, 246, 251 

Office of Space Sciences, 177, 178, 315, 

316, 317, 319, 320 

Office of Space Sciences and Applications 

(OSSA), 144, 146, 148, 322, 324, 

325, 326, 327 

Olstad, Walter B., 150 

O'Neal, Robert L., 241 

One-Man Propulsion Research Apparatus, 

371 

"One-0-Wonder", 17 

Operation Paperclip, 130 

Osborne, Robert S., 294, 303-305, 275ill. 

Ostrander, Donald R., 202, 251 

O'Sullivan, William J., Jr., 92, 156, 

157-162, 163, 164-166, 169, 

170-171, 176-177, 178, 180-181, 

185, 186, 191, 192-193, 476-477, 

157ill., 174ill., 175ill., 183ill. 

P-26A Peashooter, 18ill. 

P-59, Bill. 

Pageos, 193, 193ill. 

Pageos 1, 191-192 

Paine, Thomas 0., 395, 424, 428, 429, 

388ill. 

530 

Pan American World Airways, 428 

panto-base airplane, 93 

Parasev, 385-387, 386ill. 

Parasev I, 386 

parawing, 381-387, 382ill. 

Parawing Project Office, 387 

Parker, Eugene N., 125, 143 

Parkinson, John B., 93-94 

Passive Geodetic Earth-Orbiting Satellite 

(Pageos), 191 

Pearson, E. 0., Jr., 245 

Pearson, Henry, 42 

penetrometer, 316-317 

penetrometer feasibility study group, 316 

Peninsula Chamber of Commerce (PCC), 

461 

Pennington, Jack E., 371 

Perry, Tom, 211, 217 

personnel, 

agency ceilings, 104-106 

congressional authorization, 109 

distribution among NASA centers, 104, 

106, 103ill. 

growth at Langley, 102, 103ill. 

NASA headquarters, 107 

recruitment policy, 411-412 

Petersen, Richard H., 391,517, 417ill. 

Phillips, W. Hewitt, 42, 232, 275, 373, 

374ill. 

Picasso, Pablo, 429 

Pierce, John R., 163, 175, 176, 177, 178 

Piland, Robert 0., 197, 234, 235 

Pilotless Aircraft Research Division 

(PARD), 56-57, 89, 115-116, 167, 

197, 198, 205 

Pilotless Aircraft Research Station, 7. See 

also Wallops Station. 

Pioneer 4, 172 

Pioneer 10, 431 

plasma accelerators, 133-141 

Plasma Applications Section, 129, 140 

Plasma Physics Section, 129, 130, 151 

plasma sheath, 132-133 

Plott, Anna, 323 

Pope Paul VI, 217 

Porter, Richard W., 165, 166 

Powers, John A., 80, 78ill. 

President's Science Advisory Committee 

(PSAC), 51, 176, 449 
primate pilots, 41, 47 

Pritchard, E. Brian, 150 

Projection Planetarium, 371 

project work, 108-109, 112-119 

predominance of, 315-319, 320, 406-408, 

418-420, 422-425, 434. See also 

research culture deterioration. 

public relations, 412-413 

Langley, 357 

NACA, 22-25 

Purser, Paul, 47, 52, 235, 360 

Queijo, Manuel J., 241 

Radio Attenuation Measurements (RAM), 

112, 141, 216 

radio blackout, 133, 140 

Radio Corporation of America (RCA), 

176, 178, 328-330 

radio-transmission attenuation, 140 

Rand Corporation, 231, 325, 328 

Ranger, 113, 312, 315-316, 317, 319, 332, 

504 

Reagan, Ronald, xxix, 219, 428, 429, 435 

Recant, Isadore G., 345ill. 

Redstone Arsenal, 34 

Redstone rockets, 50, 59 

Reduced Gravity Walking Simulator, 371, 

377 

reentry experiments, 132-141, 150, 216 

Reid, Henry J. E., 10, 36-37, 55, 58, 81, 

91, 96, 394, 409, 9ill., 14ill., 29ill. 

relativity theory, 216 

Relay 1, 194 

Relay 2, 194 

rendezvous, 

earth-orbit. See lunar landing mission 

modes. 

importance of, 230, 232, 233, 235, 248, 

249-250, 251, 253 

launch window, 231 

lunar-orbit. See lunar landing mission 

modes. 

Michael's parking orbit, 226-230 

simulators, 281-283 

space station, 286 

Rendezvous and Docking Simulator, 

371-373, 372ill. 

Republic Aviation, 98, 332 

Research Airplane Project (RAP), 17 

Index 

research culture deterioration, 59, 70-72, 

76, 116, 152, 315-319, 320, 406-408, 

418-420, 422-425, 434, 439 

research management, 23-24 

Research Steering Committee on Manned 

Space Flight, 226 

Resident Research Associates (RRAs), 130 

retreats, staff, 418, 422 

Reynolds Metals Company, 167-169 

Rickenbacker, Edward V., 7 

Roberts, Leonard, 224, 311 

Rogalla, Francis M., 380-384, 387, 382ill. 

Rogalla, Gertrude, 381, 384, 387, 382ill. 

Roosevelt, Franklin D., 23 

Rosen, Milton W., 255 

Ross, H. E., 227 

rotating hexagon, 273ill. 

Rotating Vehicle Simulator, 371 

Rowan, Lawrence, 339, 345ill. 

Royal Aircraft Establishment, 130 

R6L biplane amphibian, 16 

Rupp, George, 210 

Ryan Company, 384, 385 

Saint project, 235 

Salinger, Pierre, 249 

Salyuts, 307, 308 

"Sam",47 

San Marco, 217, 218ill. 

satellites, 

communication ( comsats), 163, 175-177 

geosynchronous, 162-164 

global telecommunication network, 

194-196 

mapping, 189, 192, 216 

passive, 176 

passive vs. active, 163, 179, 190-191, 194 

weather monitoring, 173 

Saturn C-1, 252, 229ill. 

Saturn C-3, 252 

Saturn I, 293, 297 

Saturn rocket, 98, 236, 239, 245, 246, 249, 

263, 283, 286, 293, 297, 306, 307, 

356 

Saturn V, 237, 429 

Savage, Melvyn, 239 

Scherer, Lee R., 325, 326, 328, 345, 330ill. 

Schirra, Walter M., Jr., 40, 42, 77, 40ill., 

78ill. 

Schnitzer, Emanuel, 277-278 

531 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Schult, Eugene D., 202, 210, 213, 215, 

211ill. 

Schy, Albert A., 224 

science fiction, 162, 163 

Scopinski, Ted, 57 

Scout project, 28, 112, 144, 145, 236, 247, 

283, 321, 322, 400, 406, 204ill., 

208ill., 214ill. 

approval, 199-200 

Blue Scout, 200, 209 

contractors, 203-205, 212-215 

cost, 217 

Cub Scout, 205-206 

design, 198, 200-202 

failures, 210-214 

Goddard, 217 

Project Office, 91, 202-203, 219 

recertification, 212, 214-216 

tests, 206-209, 201ill., 207ill., 212ill., 

213ill., 214ill. 

scramjets, 152, 436 

Seamans, Robert C., Jr., 235, 236, 239, 

249-251, 253, 255, 258, 260, 262, 

295, 327, 387, 388-389, 391 

Sea of Tranquility, 346, 356, 428 

Sergeant, 198, 201 

X248, 154 

XM-33, 184 

service module (SM), 237 

737-100, 415, 416ill. 

757, 416 

767, 416 

SF2Y-1 Sea Dart, 93 

Shea, Joseph F., 259-260, 262, 264, 366 

Shepard, Alan B., Jr., 40, 42, 222, 249, 

40ill. 

Sherwood project, 113, 147 

shop conditions, 

Langley, 513 

Shortal, Joseph A., 89, 167, 176, 177 

Shotput, 113, 179, 184-187, 188, 184ill. 

Shotput 1, 153-156, 160, 185-186 

Siegel, Gerald, 172 

Sikorsky aircraft, 

twin-float Amphibian, 94 

Silverstein, Abe, 30, 55, 72-74, 178-179, 

202, 246, 251, 258, 395, 411, 451 

Silvertson, Wilford E., Jr., 233 

Simpkinson, Scott, 47 · 

532 

simulation research, 369-371 

simulators, 

closed-loop analog, 43 

Gemini and Apollo, 371-380 

lunar gravity, 282ill. 

rendezvous, 281-283 

Sinclair, A. Wythe, Jr., 275 

Skylab, 270-271, 306, 307, 308, 430 

Slayton, Donald K., 40, 42, 40ill. 

Smith, Francis B., 86, 91, 367 

Smith, Norman F., 37 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Laboratory, 

164 

Society of Automotive Engineers, 232, 233 

solar corona, 147, 148 

solar cycle, 123 

solar flares, 125, 146, 148 

solar physics, 147 

solar power, 277, 288, 289 

solar wind, 125, 142, 143 

solid-fuel rockets, 198 

Soule, Hartley A., 17, 22, 66, 86 

sound barrier, 41 

Source Evaluation Board, 326-329 

Soviet Union, 10, 157, 189, 198, 307-308, 

433, 440 

Spaatz, Carl, 7 

Space Applications Branch, 85 

Space Base, 306-307 

Space Defense Initiative (SDI), 432 

Space Directorate, 403, 404, 422 

Space Exploration Program Council 

(SEPC), 238-241 

spaceflight revolution, xxx-xxxi, 355, 381, 

393, 395, 400, 439-440 

changes at Langley, 418-420 

present-day, 431-434, 439-440 

Space Mechanics Division (SMD), 369-380 

Space Physics Section, 129, 130, 142 

space program, NASA, 

budget, 428, 433 

declining interest in, 428-429 

present-day goals, 433-434 

space race, 76, 82, 83, 108, 202, 223, 269, 

427-428 

space research, 

present-day at Langley, 437-438 

Space Sciences and Technology Steering 

Committee, 419-420 
Space Sciences Division, 152 

Space Sciences Steering Committee, 144 

Space Shuttle, xxviii, xxix, 54, 141, 158, 

307, 421, 434-435, 517 

Challenger, 219, 388, 389, 391, 432, 448, 

517 

Columbia, 517 

Nixon, Richard M., 430 

space sickness, 216 

space station, xxix, 189, 421. See also 

Manned Orbiting Research Laboratory (MORL). 

air lock, 281, 299ill. 

Apollo's influence, 292-293, 305 

Apollo X, 301 

artificial gravity, 281, 287, 295, 297 

budget constraints, 306 

competing concepts, 301, 306-307 

construction material, 291-292 

dynamic control, 280-281, 286-287 

early budgets, 283-285 

early concepts, 223, 226, 271-272 

early proposals, 277, 278ill. 

inflatable torus, 277-281, 292, 279ill., 

280ill., 282ill. 

life-support system, 287, 289-292, 297, 

302-305 

Nixon, Richard M., 430 

opposition to, 276 

power source, 287-289, 297 

rotating hexagon, 281-283, 292, 295, 

297, 284ill. 

skipped step, 307-309 

testimony before congress, 285-286 

Space Station Alpha, 308, 435 

Space Station Freedom, 308, 432 

Space Station Research Group, 294 

Space Station Task Force, 309 

Space Systems Research Division, 421, 422 

Space Task Group (STG), 178, 202, 222, 

321, 455 

facilities, 72 

Goddard, 72-75 

Hampton parade, 77-80, 78ill., 79ill. 

lunar-orbit rendezvous, 234, 235, 236, 

241-245 

move to Texas, 74, 76-80, 461 

1959 inspection, 37-38, 40-45 

promotions, 71 

Index 

Space Task Group (STG) (continued): 

rendezvous, 245, 246, 248, 255, 257, 260, 

261-263 

staffing, 55-59, 60-62, 69, 72, 73-74 

Space Technologies Laboratories (STL), 

321, 325, 326, 327, 328, 330, 331 

Space Transportation System (STS), 219, 

307, 434, 517 

Space Vehicle Group, 167, 173, 177, 178 

Special Committee on Space and Astronautics, 10 

Spirit of St. Louis, 384 

Spitzer, Lyman, Jr., 158 

Sputnik, 76, 97, 199, 381, 384, 439, 440 

crisis, xxvi-xxix, 10, 99, 156, 171-172, 

369, 449-450 

Sputnik 1, xxxi, 19, 171, 172, 249, 383, 447 

Sputnik 2, xxvii, 249, 447 

Stack, John, 20, 22, 89, 98-100, 116, 135, 

451, 453, 35ill., 99ill. 

"Star Wars", 432. See also Strategic 

Defense Initiative (SDI). 

State Department, 172 

Stevens Institute of Technology, 149 

Stokes, Charles S., 140 

Stone, Ralph W., Jr., 236, 241 

Stoney, William E., Jr., 197, 199, 200, 202, 

210 

Strang, Charles F., 387 

Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI), 149 

Stratton, Samuel W., Bill. 

Strauss, H. Kurt, 241 

Structures Directorate, 403, 404, 414 

Structures Research Division, 89, 91, 92 

Stubbs, Sandy M., 363, 365, 366 

Stuhlinger, Ernst, 394 

Sunflower Auxiliary Power Plant Project, 

277 

Supersonic Commercial Air Transport 

(SCAT), 10lill. 

supersonic transport (SST), xxix, 20, 27, 

98, 100, 101, 404, 415, 416-418 

Surveyor Lander, 319 

Surveyor Orbiter, 319 

Surveyor project, 113, 252, 312-313, 315, 

327, 334, 335, 350-351 

Swallow aircraft, 20, 453, 21 ill. 

sweptwing theory, 20, 139 

Swift, Calvin T., 140 

533 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Syncom 3, 195 

Systems Engineering and Operations 

Directorate, 404 

Taback, Israel, 93, 323, 324, 328, 332, 334, 

336, 349, 323ill. 

Tank No. 1, 45, 60, 94, 95ill. 

Tank No. 2, 94, 95, 96ill. 

Tant, Larry, 204 

Taub, Will, 184ill. 

Taylor, David W., Bill. 

Teague, Olin E., 74 

technical report, 114, 116 

telecommunications satellite ( comsat), 

194-196 

Telstar, 65 

Telstar 1, 194 

Telstar 2, 194 

Temple University Research Institute, 

139-140 

Terminal Configured Vehicle and Avionics 

(TCVA), 415-416 

Theoretical Mechanics Division, 86, 223, 

369, 371 

thermonuclear fusion, 132, 147-149, 150 

Thibodaux, Joseph G., Jr., 197 

Thiokol Company, 

Redstone Division, 201 

Thorn, Karlheinz, 130, 148 

Thomas, Albert H., 74 

Thompson, Floyd L., 16, 81-85, 86, 94, 

96, 104, 342, 345, 6ill., 29ill., 84ill., 

90ill., 264ill., 279ill., 337 ill., 345ill., 

358ill., 388ill. 

Apollo, 357, 360, 366 

Apollo 204 fire, 387-389 

associate director, 394-395 

Echo, 165, 167, 176 

Hampton community, 24 

Lunar Orbiter, 319-321, 323, 326, 333 

lunar-orbit rendezvous, 246 

magnetoplasmadynamics, 126-127 

management style, 91-93, 99-100, 421 

NACA charter, 4 

personnel, 106-107 

rendezvous, 232 

replacement of, 395, 397, 396ill. 

Scout, 202, 205 

534 

Thompson, Floyd L. (continue([): 

space station, 274-276, 294 

Space Task Group, 55-56, 59-63, 65-66, 

69-72, 75, 76, 77, 80 

Thompson-Ramo-Wooldridge (TRW), 108, 

277, 321 

Thor-Able, 28, 199 

Thor-Agena, 191 

Thor-Delta, 154, 177, 184, 187, 188 

Tidewater Virginia, 4, 5ill. 

tiger team, 214-215 

Time-Life, 39, 456 

Titan, 259, 293 

Tolson, Robert H., 230 

Tracking and Ground Instrumentation 

Unit (TAGIU), 66-69 

Trout, Otto, 303ill. 

Truscott, Starr, 94 

Tsiolkovskii, Konstantin, 223, 226, 271 

Tycho crater, 349ill. 

UFOs, 146, 171 

United Kingdom, 217 

Upper Atmosphere Rocket Research Panel, 

156-157, 161, 164, 165 

Urey, Harold C., 224, 315 

U.S. Army Map Service, 192 

U.S. Coastal and Geodetic Survey, 192 

U.S. Geological Survey, 338, 339 

U.S. National Committee/International 

Geophysical Year (USNC/IGY), 

technical panel on rocketry, 164 

technical panel on the earth satellite 

projects, 164, 165, 166, 172-173 

U.S. Post Office Department, 192 

USS Hornet, 429 

U-2 "spy plane", 20 

Van Allen, James, 123, 158 

Van Allen radiation belts, 123-125, 145, 

173, 216, 331, 124ill. 

Van Cleve, Jon, 204 

Vandenberg Air Force Base (AFB), 210, 

213, 215, 216 

Vandenberg, Hoyt, 7 

Van Dolah, Robert W., 387 

Vanguard 1, 173 

Vanguard rocket, 166, 170, 173 

Vanguard satellite, xxvii, 157-158, 164, 

170, 198 

Variable-Density Tunnel (VDT), 305, 436 
variable wing sweep, 100 

Vavra, Paul H., 66 

Vega, 32, 36 

Verne, Jules, 226 

Vertol 76, 27 

VE-7, 16ill. 

Victory, John F., 12, 31, 34, Bill., 84ill. 

Vietnam War, 269, 305 

Viking Lander, 406ill. 

Viking Lander 2, 407 ill. 

Viking project, 70, 196, 353, 404-408, 413, 

423, 431, 434 

Viking Project Office, 353, 404 

Viking rocket, xxvii, 198 

Virginia Air and Space Center, 413 

Virtual Image Rendezvous Simulator, 371 

Visitors' Center, 412-413 

Voas, Robert T., 42, 456 

Vogeley, Arthur W., 232, 245, 246, 257, 

261, 369, 371, 373, 227ill. 

von Braun, Wernher, xxvi, 34, 50, 198, 

223, 239, 246, 356, 383, 429, 494, 

495, 264ill. 

rendezvous, 236, 241, 262, 263-265, 268 

space station, 271-272 

von Pirquet, Guido, 223, 271 

von Puttkamer, Jesco, 270 

"Voodoo", 17. See also McDonnell aircraft. 

Vostok 1, 241 

Vought aircraft, 

VE-7, 16ill. 

XF5U, 58 

Voyager, 431 

VTOL tests, 95 

V-2 Panel, 156-157, 474 

V-2 rockets, 28, 156, 157 

Walker, Joseph A., 41 

Waller, Marvin C., 371 

Wallops Station, 7, 27, 28, 47, 60, 89, 107, 

144, 146, 153, 154, 179, 198, 201, 

202, 203, 205, 207, 210, 211, 213, 

215, 367, 383, 206ill., 208ill. 

Walter Kidde and Company, 200 

Ward, Donald H., 322 

Water Immersion Simulator, 371 

Watson, William I., 323, 324 

Weapons System (WS)-llOA, 115, 116, 

276, 117ill. 

Index 

weather, controlling, 146 

Webb, James E., 81-82, 84-85, 92, 106, 

118-119, 194, 249, 265, 315, 322, 

331, 357, 397, 421, 84ill., 279ill., 

331ill., 358ill. 

West Area, 72 

Western Electric Company, 65, 69 

Whipple, Fred L., 164, 170, 172 

White, Edward H., 373, 387, 455 

White, George C., Jr., 387 

Wiesner, Jerome, 265 

Wilford, John Noble, xxvi, xxvii 

Williams, John J., 387 

Williams, Walter C., 63 

Wilson, Herbert A., Jr., 367, 420 

wind tunnels, 

Anechoic Antenna Test Facility, 416ill. 

Continuous-Flow Hypersonic Tunnel, 

128ill. 

crossed-field plasma accelerator, 135-138 

cyanogen flame apparatus, 138-140, 

141 ill. 

8-Foot Transonic Tunnel, 302ill. 

Electro-Magnetic Hypersonic Accelerator Pilot Model Including Arc-Jet 

Ion Source, 133 

4-Foot Supersonic Pressure Tunnel, 383 

Full-Scale Tunnel, 74, 384, 6ill., !Bill., 

61 ill., 95ill., 386ill. 

Hall-current plasma accelerator, 137ill. 

hotshot, 133-134 

impulse, 133, 134 

linear Hall-current accelerator, 138 

MPD-arc plasma accelerator, 138, 134ill. 

one-megajoule theta-pinch, 147-148 

plasma-focus research facility, 148-149 

7 x 10-Foot High-Speed Tunnel, 21ill., 

61ill., 117ill. 

shock tube, 134-135 

16-Foot Transonic Tunnel, 21ill. 

20-megawatt plasma accelerator, 135, 

136ill. 

Unitary Plan Wind Tunnel, 62ill., 101ill. 

Variable-Density Tunnel (VDT), 18ill. 

Wind Tunnel No.1, 17 

Windler, Milton B., 37 

Wireless World, 162 

Wolfe, Elmer J., 202 

women scientists, 105ill. 

535 
Spaceflight Revolution 

Wood, George P., 129, 131, 135, 138, 

136ill. 

Working Group on Lunar and Planetary 

Surfaces Exploration, 224 

World War I, 2, 4 

World War II, 7, 12, 24, 94, 113, 119, 130, 

156, 369 

Wright, Orville, 7, 6ill., 8ill. 

X-1, 7, 202 

X-14A, 379 

X-15, 20, 28, 32, 54, 98, 131, 132, 158, 371, 

435, 456, 21 ill., 32ill. 

X-20, 20, 132, 200, 273, 327, 453, 96ill. 

X-30, 436 

XB-70 Valkyrie, 17, 115 

XF5U, 58 

XLR-99, 32 

X-rays, 217 

Yeager, Charles E., 41 

York, Herbert, 51, 55 

Young, Tom, 339, 341, 349 

YP6M-1 Seamaster, 93, 95 

Zimmerman, Charles H., 52, 58, 59, 158, 

458 

Zond III, 346 

536 
The Author 

James R. Hansen is Alumni Associate Professor of History and chair 

of the Department of History at Auburn University in Auburn, Alabama. 

He is the author of three books as well as several book chapters, articles, 

and reviews in aerospace history and the history of technology. His books 

include: Engineer in Charge: A History of the Langley Aeronautical Laboratory, 1917-1958, which was published by NASA in 1987, and From the 

Ground Up: The Autobiography of an Aeronautical Engineer, co-authored 

by American aviation pioneer Fred E. Weick and published by the Smithsonian Institution Press in 1988. The latter book received the History Book 

Award of the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics (AIAA). 

Professor Hansen has received a number of citations for his historical 

scholarship, including the Robert H. Goddard Award from the National 

Space Club and distinctions of excellence from the Air Force Historical 

Foundation and the American Institute for Aeronautics and Astronautics. 

In 1986-1987 he gave historical talks around the country as an AIAA 

Distinguished Lecturer. He has served on a number of important advisory 

boards and panels, including the Research Advisory Board of the National 

Air and Space Museum, the Editorial Advisory Board of the Smithsonian 

Institution Press, the Board of Advisers for the Society for the History 

of Technology, and the Advisory Board for the Archives of Aerospace 

Exploration at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University. He is 

also a past vice-president of the board of directors of the Virginia Air and 

Space Center and Hampton Roads History Center in Hampton, Virginia. 

At Auburn University, Dr. Hansen teaches courses on the history of flight, 

the history of science, space history, as well as a large auditorium class that 

surveys the history of technology from ancient times to the present-or, as 

he puts it, "from Australopithecus to Arthur Clarke." 

Hansen earned an A.B. degree, with high honors, from Indiana University 

(1974) and an M.A. (1976) and Ph.D. (1981) from The Ohio State University. He was born in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, on 12 June 1952. He is married to 

Margaret Anne Miller-Hansen and has two children, Nathaniel and Jennifer. 

537 

The NASA History Series 

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Grimwood, James M., and Hacker, Barton C., with Vorzimmer, Peter J. Project Gemini 

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SP-4016, 1972). 

539 

$' 3 (INTENTIONALLY ow 
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SP-4017, 1974). 

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SP-4018, 1975). 

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1914: Chronology of Science, Technology, and Policy (NASA 

SP-4019, 1977). 

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1975: Chronology of Science, Technology, and Policy (NASA 

SP-4020, 1979). 

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1916: Chronology of Science, Technology, and Policy (NASA 

SP-4021, 1984). 

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1977: Chronology of Science, Technology, and Policy (NASA 

SP-4022, 1986). 

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1918: Chronology of Science, Technology, and Policy (NASA 

SP-4023, 1986). 

Astronautics and Aeronautics, 1979-1984: Chronology of Science, Technology, and Policy 

(NASA SP-4024, 1988). 

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SP-4025, 1990). 

Gawdiak, Ihor Y., compiler. NASA Historical Data Book, Vol. IV: NASA Resources, 1969-

1978 (NASA SP-4012, 1994). 

Management Histories, NASA SP-4100: 

Rosholt, Robert L. An Administrative History of NASA, 1958-1963 (NASA SP-4101, 1966). 

Levine, Arnold S. Managing NASA in the Apollo Era (NASA SP-4102, 1982). 

Roland, Alex. Model Research: The National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, 1915-

1958 (NASA SP-4103, 1985). 

Fries, Sylvia D. NASA Engineers and the Age of Apollo (NASA SP-4104, 1992). 

Glennen, T. Keith. The Birth of NASA: The Diary of T. Keith Glennan, edited by 

J. D. Hunley (NASA SP-4105, 1993). 

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Swenson, Loyd S., Jr., Grimwood, James M., and Alexander, Charles C. This New Ocean: A 

History of Project Mercury (NASA SP-4201, 1966). 

Green, Constance MeL., and Lomask, Milton. Vanguard: A History (NASA SP-4202, 1970; 

rep. ed. Smithsonian Institution Press, 1971). 

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

Gemini (NASA SP-4203, 1977). 

Benson, Charles D., and Faherty, William Barnaby. Moonport: A History of Apollo Launch 

Facilities and Operations (NASA SP-4204, 1978). 

Brooks, Courtney G., Grimwood, James M., and Swenson, Loyd S., 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). 

Compton, W. David, and Benson, Charles D. Living and Working in Space: A History of 

Skylab (NASA SP-4208, 1983). 

540 
Ezell, Edward Clinton, and Ezell, Linda Neuman. The Partnership: A History of the ApolloSoyuz 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 Ezell, Linda Neuman. On Mars: Exploration of the Red Planet, 

1958-1918 (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). 

Wallace, Lane E. Airborne Trailblazer: Two Decades with NASA Langley's Boeing 731 Flying 

Laboratory (NASA SP-4216, 1994). 

Center Histories, NASA SP-4300: 

Rosenthal, Alfred. Venture into Space: Early Years of Goddard Space Flight Center (NASA 

SP-4301, 1985). 

Hartman, Edwin P. Adventures in Research: A History of Ames Research Center, 1940-1965 

(NASA SP-4302, 1970). 

Hallion, Richard P. On the Frontier: Flight Research at Dryden, 1946-1981 (NASA SP-4303, 

1984). 

Muenger, Elizabeth A. Searching the Horizon: A History of Ames Research Center, 1940-

1976 (NASA SP-4304, 1985). 

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

1917-1958 (NASA SP-4305, 1987). 

Dawson, Virginia P. Engines and Innovatio.n: 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). 

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Corliss, William R. NASA Sounding Rockets, 1958-1968: A Historical Summary (NASA 

SP-4401, 1971). 

Wells, Helen T., Whiteley, Susan H., and Karegeannes, Carrie. Origins of NASA Names 

(NASA SP-4402, 1976). 

Anderson, Frank W., Jr: Orders of Magnitude: A History of NACA and NASA, 1915-1980 

(NASA SP-4403, 1981). 

Sloop, John L. Liquid Hydrogen as a Propulsion Fuel, 1945-1959 (NASA SP-4404, 1978). 

Roland, Alex. A Spacefaring People: Perspectives on Early Spaceflight (NASA SP-4405, 

1985). 

Bilstein, Roger E. Orders of Magnitude: A History of the NACA and NASA, 1915-1990 

(NASA SP-4406, 1989). 

541 
New Series in NASA History, published by The Johns Hopkins University Press: 

Cooper; Henry S. F., Jr. Before Lift-Off: The Making of a Space Shuttle Crew (1987). 

McCurdy, Howard E. The Space Station Decision: Incremental Politics and Technological 

Choice ( 1990). 

Hufbauer, Karl. Exploring the Sun: Solar Science Since Galileo (1991). 

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

Space Program (1993). 

542