by Derwin Mak
“It is possible, but I had no way of knowing that,” Tsien insisted. “They were always arguing about politics and world affairs. Sometimes they would ask for my opinions because I am Chinese. There were heated political discussions, but I thought this was part of the university experience in America.”
“Mr. Tsien,” Del Guercio asked, “in the event of a conflict between the United States and Communist China, would you fight for the United States?”
Cooper threw up his hands.
“What kind of a question is that?” Di Carlo interrupted.
Del Guercio glared. “Mr. Di Carlo, this is an INS hearing. You are here as a courtesy to the State Department, which insisted on your presence because of Mr. Tsien’s unique background. So, kindly stick to observing and be silent about it!”
“Don’t answer the question,” Cooper said.
“Mr. Tsien, you will answer the question,” Waddell ordered.
Tsien did not respond for a long time, until Del Guercio looked about to prompt him, and then he spoke. “My essential allegiance is to the Chinese people. If a war were to start between the United States and China, and if the war aim of the United States was for the greater good of the Chinese people—and I think it would be—then, of course, I would fight on the side of the United States.”
Pasadena, California
April 30, 1951
The dark Ford Tudor had been parked outside the Tsien household since the late morning. Tsien would periodically take a peek through the venetian blinds. The car’s windows were tinted, making it difficult to see if anyone was inside.
“No light, bàba?” Yucon asked.
Tsien picked up the toddler and carried him to an armchair. He sat and reached for a scientific journal but didn’t even have time to open it before the telephone rang. Fearful of waking the baby, Yung-jen, Tsien immediately got up and answered the phone with Yucon still in his arm.
“Hello?”
There was no response.
“Who is this?”
The caller hung up.
Tsien replaced the handset, summoning his will to keep from slamming it down in anger. He went to the window and peered outside. The dark sedan was gone.
Jiang Ying emerged from the nursery.
“Is Yung-jen still sleeping?” Tsien asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Who was that?”
Tsien handed Yucon to his wife. “I am going to see Professor von Kármán.”
“Is he on campus today? You should call to check.”
“There is something wrong with our telephone,” Tsien said.
Tsien drove to Caltech and found von Kármán in his old office on the second floor of the Guggenheim Building.
“I do not know how much more I can stand,” Tsien said. “I have not been able to do meaningful work for almost a year. I cannot answer questions from the JPL engineers about my own papers. I cannot go to conferences. I am not allowed to even go to the beach in Orange County!” Tsien gripped his hands. “And I am certain I am being watched.”
“I don’t doubt it,” von Kármán said grimly. “Things have gotten crazier with the fighting in Korea. I read in the LA Times that the FBI has even been spying on the Chinese Hand Laundry Association.”
Tsien signed. “I fear my days in America are numbered.”
“We’re not finished yet. Grant Cooper is still pursuing appeals, and Lee DuBridge has been campaigning tirelessly for us,” said von Kármán, referring to the president of Caltech. “Lee had written numerous letters on your behalf. He is even planning a trip to Washington.”
“I do not want to go back to China,” Tsien said, “but I may have no choice.”
“There are always choices.” Von Kármán thought for a moment, then reached into a drawer and pulled out a letter. “This is from Frank Malina. He only recently took that job with UNESCO, but he’s already thinking about leaving the United States and going to Paris to pursue his art.”
“I am not an artist.”
“No, of course not.” Von Kármán tossed the letter on his desk. “Do you know who else was here last week? Bill Rennie. We met for dinner, and he told me about some interesting projects going on in Canada.”
“What kind of projects?” Tsien asked.
“Oh, he mentioned something about a fighter plane and a new missile, and he said their National Research Council is upgrading their high-speed wind tunnels in anticipation of future projects.” Von Kármán rubbed his chin. “Yes, it was all very interesting.”
Shortly after returning home, a mailman arrived with a registered letter for Tsien. It was on INS letterhead, dated April 26, 1951. The letter stated that the INS had reached its decision and determined that Tsien was “an alien who was a member of the Communist Party of the United States and is therefore subject to deportation.”
Los Angeles, California
November 1952
Grant Cooper’s legal tactics and Lee DuBridge’s eloquent letters, and even a small campus protest (rumored to have been “encouraged” by von Kármán) were all for naught. In early November, Tsien’s last appeal was denied.
“This is very bad,” Cooper said grimly. “It means you can now be picked up at any time and taken into custody.”
Tsien and von Kármán sat silently in Cooper’s office, letting the attorney’s words sink in.
“I’m sorry,” Cooper said.
Tsien shrugged. “Our bags are already packed. We are ready to go to China at any time.”
Von Kármán pounded his fist on Cooper’s desk. “America or China. No, I do not accept it! This is not a binary condition.” He thought for a moment, then reached for the telephone.
“No.” Cooper pointed to the door. “Use the pay phone across the street. I’m sure this one’s bugged.”
Von Kármán returned a few minutes later. “I’ve invited Bill Rennie to join us for lunch.”
Tsien, Cooper, and von Kármán met Rennie at a restaurant on East First Street. A large red vertical neon sign with the words “Far East Chop Suey” ran up the building’s beige facade.
“This Chinese stuff is good,” Cooper said, chewing a mouthful of chicken and bean sprouts.
Tsien grimaced. “It is not Chinese.”
Von Kármán put down his fork. “Bill, you just got back from Canada?”
Rennie took a sip of water and nodded. “Yeah, spent some time with my parents, then went to a seminar at the University of Toronto Institute of Aerophysics.”
“And what have our northern friends been up to?” von Kármán asked.
Rennie wiped his mouth. “Quite a few things, actually. They’ve started flight testing a subsonic fighter plane called the CF-100, and there are proposals floating around for a supersonic interceptor.” He pulled out a notebook. “I met this really sharp kid at UTIA, one of the PhD students.” He flipped to a page. “Gerald Bull, that’s his name. He’s doing aerodynamic modeling for a missile project called Velvet Glove.”
Tsien’s eyes widened. “A rocket?”
“An air-to-air missile for their fighters,” Rennie said. “But there’s talk of a sounding rocket program for space research.”
Von Kármán turned to Tsien. “Are these projects of interest to you?”
Rennie held up his hands. “Before we get too far, I should point out most of this stuff is being done by industry, which might not be the best fit for Hsue-shen. But I have some contacts at the High-Speed Aerodynamics Laboratory in Ottawa. It’s a great facility, and they need fluid dynamics people to support the Velvet Glove program.”
“Canada ...” said Tsien, his tone uncertain.
“It is a possibility, and I think you should give it serious consideration,” von Kármán said. “The research facilities in Canada must be much better than in China, and I believe it would be advantageous for you to stay in a Western country. You don’t want to close any doors.”
Tsien recalled his master’s studies at MIT and the harsh Boston winters. “Is it cold in Canada?”
“Oh, yeah,” Rennie said.
Cooper shook his head. “The government will never go for this.”
“But we haven’t asked,” von Kármán pointed out. “In any event, my lăo péngyou must first make a choice.”
Two weeks later, Tsien made his decision.
December 15, 1952
Neither the INS nor the FBI returned Grant Cooper’s calls. But one person did respond: Nick Di Carlo from the State Department, who flew out to Los Angeles to meet Tsien and Cooper in the attorney’s office.
“Your proposal is interesting,” Di Carlo said. “I’m going to bring it to my superiors in Washington.”
Cooper looked surprised.
“The INS still wants to send me back to China,” Tsien said.
“Yeah well, I like to think that we in State have a more ... strategic view of things than some of the other three-letter Washington bureaucracies.” Di Carlo leaned back in his chair. “I’m sure we could get the Department of Defense on side too.” He pointed at Tsien. “I had a chat with Navy Secretary Dan Kimball about you a few days ago. Do you know what he said?”
Tsien shook his head.
“Kimball said he’d rather shoot you than let you go back to China.”
“I assume he was joking,” Cooper muttered without humor.
Di Carlo continued. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best to advocate for this.”
“Thanks,” Cooper said.
Tsien asked, “Why are you advocating our proposal?”
Di Carlo looked Tsien in the eye. “We Italians have a saying, Mr. Tsien. I’m sure you’ve heard it, the one about keeping your friends close?”
Tsien understood. “I believe Sun Tzu said it first.”
Di Carlo rose from his seat. “Merry Christmas, gentlemen. Let’s see what the future brings.”
Malton, Ontario, Canada
October 4, 1957
The afternoon of the Avro Arrow’s rollout was cool and sunny. A steady stream of cars, buses, and limousines had been arriving at the A.V. Roe Canada aircraft company parking lot since noon, disgorging scores of people.
Tsien could feel the excitement as the crowd swelled into the thousands. On stage were a number of dignitaries, including Air Marshal Hugh Campbell, Minister of National Defense George Pearkes, some Royal Canadian Air Force vice-marshals, several Members of Parliament, and the senior management of the A.V. Roe Company, lead by president Crawford Gordon.
Scanning the crowd, Tsien spotted his friend Jim Chamberlain, the aerodynamicist and chief of technical design for the Arrow. It was Chamberlain who had invited Tsien to the rollout. Their eyes met, and Chamberlain waved.
Tsien returned his attention to the stage as Defense Minister Pearkes took the podium.
“Fifty years ago, the great Canadian pioneer John McCurdy, who is with us on the platform today, flew the Silver Dart, the first aircraft in Canada, and in fact the first heavier-than-air plane to fly in the British Commonwealth. History recognizes that event as the beginning of Canada’s air age.
“Today, we mark another milestone—the production of the first Canadian supersonic airplane. I am sure the historians of tomorrow will regard this event as being equally significant in the annals of Canadian aviation.”
As soon as Pearkes finished his speech, he pulled a gold cord that symbolically opened immense blue-and-gold curtains stretched across the mouth of the hangar. On cue, a fly-past of CF-100 fighters swept overhead as a band struck up a fanfare, and with deliberate majesty the CF-105 Arrow was slowly towed out. The crowd broke into applause as the gleaming white delta-winged aircraft was revealed in the late afternoon sunshine.
This was the first time Tsien had seen an actual Arrow, having worked only on theoretical analyses and wind tunnel models at the High-Speed Aerodynamics Laboratory. Tsien’s expert eye spotted the aerodynamic improvements to the nose and engine nozzles he had worked on with Chamberlain, drawing on his experience with rockets, to increase the Arrow’s speed.
Later that afternoon, as Tsien wandered through the crowd, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir.” It was a young airman. “Are you Dr. H.S. Tsien?”
“Yes.”
“Please come with me.”
The airman led Tsien to the parking lot, out to a waiting black limousine with tinted windows. Tsien entered the car and, to his surprise, saw Air Marshal Campbell and Defense Minister Pearkes inside.
“Are you Dr. Tsien?” Campbell asked.
“Yes.”
“Dr. Tsien,” Minister Pearkes said, “the Russians have successfully launched an artificial satellite.”
“A satellite!”Tsien exclaimed.
“It’s called Sputnik,” Campbell said. “TASS reports it was launched from Kazakhstan at 20:28 Moscow time.”
“A satellite,” Tsien repeated. “This is ... incredible!”
“Yes, and now we need to totally rethink our strategies for the defense of North America,” Campbell said. “Sputnik changes everything.”
“Dr. Tsien, we have a job for you.” Defense Minister Pearkes leaned forward. “The Government of Canada needs to learn everything you know about rockets.”
Jeanne Sauvé, Minister of State for Science and Technology, yesterday announced the appointment of Tsien Hsue-shen, 64, as the first president of the newly created Canada National Space Administration (CNSA).
“I am honored to be entrusted with the responsibility of leading the Canadian space program, and I will focus my efforts on ensuring that Canada remains at the frontier of science,” said Tsien in a written statement.
The CNSA was created by an Act of Parliament that came into force on July 1, 1975. Established to develop the robotic arm that will be Canada’s contribution to the NASA Space Shuttle program, the CNSA will also take over current space projects such as the Communications Technology Satellite and the Black Brant sounding rockets.
Born in Hangzhou, China, Tsien received a doctorate from the California Institute of Technology and played a key role in the early U.S. rocket programs before emigrating to Canada with his family in 1953. As a senior researcher at the National Research Council in the 1950s, Tsien worked on both the Velvet Glove missile and the Avro Arrow.
After becoming a Canadian citizen in 1957, he founded the Scientific Advisory Group at the Department of National Defense. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Tsien remained in Canada following the cancellation of the Arrow in 1959. Prior to his appointment to the CNSA presidency, Tsien was chair of the Department of Mechanical and Aerospace Engineering at Carleton University.
Tsien is married to Jiang Ying, the award-winning Chinese-Canadian soprano whose acclaimed final performance in the opera Eugene Onegin opened the National Arts Center in 1969. They have two adult children and recently celebrated the birth of their first grandchild.
The appointment of Tsien is controversial. On CTV Question Period, Progressive Conservative industry critic George Hees questioned Tsien’s suitability to head the CNSA. “The allegations of Communist affiliations that lead to his departure from the US. have never been unambiguously resolved,” Hees said, citing also a 1970 CBC interview in which Tsien said the deaths attributed to Mao’s disastrous Great Leap Forward were “probably exaggerated. ”
Sauvé defended Tsien’s appointment, dismissing Opposition concerns as “baseless and irrelevant.”
—The Globe and Mail
July 16,1975
Shadow City
Susan Ee
A body thumped against the barge. The waxy face still had a look of ecstasy. One open eye had a fresh bruise, maybe only a day old by the look of the red and black. The face dipped under water as it slid along the boat. The silver water flowed over the face, softening the bruises, flashing fool’s gold over the eyes.
Zian bowed to the body as it flowed by, giving it the respect it deserved. Among all the things that floated in the river, a dream addict was the most precious. Without their dried and ground flesh
, the dust that gave the gatekeepers so much power in Shadow City would be impotent with hardly more power than a passing daydream.
The barge scraped the bank of the river beside the dock. The dock sat in a gap in a rickety wall of houses built on stilts. A string of red lanterns strung along the houses gave a festive feel to the city that belied the sorrow hidden within. City dwellers, whom the gatekeepers called Shadowers, reached out their tattered arms through the bars of the gate surrounding the dock. Didn’t they understand the futility of pressing against the reinforced metal? Didn’t they know it was fortified with the power of suggestion by the daily prayers of the monks?
Zian took a deep breath and bid himself peace. The humid heat, the stench of sewage, the buzzing of insects, stirred his emotions and churned them into something ragged and raw, like the nightmares of a guilty man. He vowed to investigate the incident as quickly as possible and return to the peace of the Gate House.
The mob of reaching hands and maddened voices made him want to shrink back and not leave the safety of the barge. But he held his posture, exaggerated it even—straightening his shoulders, puffing out his chest as he tied the barge to the dock. Just out of reach of the grasping arms, Zian dipped into his pouch, pulled out a handful of dust, and sprayed it above the crowd’s heads. The Shadowers—animal eyes and broken hair, skeletal faces and distended bellies—scrambled like rats to catch a grain of dust and place it on their tongues.
While the Shadowers were occupied, Zian quickly unlocked the gate, slipped out, and slammed it shut behind him. Unmolested, he walked past the city dwellers fighting over the grainy bits of precious drug. It wasn’t so long ago that he had scrambled for dust along with the other tattered wretches, longing for the rush of pleasure as soon as the grains touched his tongue, craving the high that blighted the nightmare of Shadow City for what seemed like months.
A man smacked a grubby woman and snatched her finger toward his own tongue to lick the traces of dust. But before the man could drag the resisting hand to his face, the woman lurched at him in a blur of broken teeth and snatched her hand back, leaving the man to howl over his bitten arm.