Space: A Novel

by James A. Michener

  The nation’s scientists and engineers had their own mind-breakers to solve: What kind of machine should be launched into space? Since ordinary compasses would be of no use, how could this machine guide itself to the Moon or the planets? Was the Moon a solid body on which men could walk, or was its surface composed of dust into which they would disappear? And suppose the round trip proved feasible, how could the returning vehicle make its way back through the terrible heat of reentry without burning up?

  Penny Pope started to tackle her duties one minute after she heard the news report about Sputnik. Dashing in to Senator Glancey’s office, she called Senator Grant in Clay, and by conference phone the two senators talked with Lyndon Johnson, who had been informed by the CIA. Hurried meetings were arranged, which Grant joined as soon as an Air Force jet could fly him to Washington.

  After the committee consulted by telephone with Dieter Kolff in Huntsville, Stanley Mott at NACA laboratories in Langley, and General Funkhauser in Los Angeles, the most urgent strategies were devised. Especially helpful was Wernher von Braun, who assured the senators that ‘America can have its own satellite orbiting the Earth in sixty days,’ and when the committee checked with Kolff, this big-rocket man cried, ‘Thirty days.’

  Accordingly, Penny scheduled a score of meetings whose purpose was to make decisions regarding America’s first flight into space, and each meeting was attended by the beep-beep-beep of Russia’s Sputnik as it sped across the United States in amazing obedience to the schedule announced in advance by the Moscow propagandists:

  1932 hours: Above San Francisco, California

  1933 hours: Above Reno, Nevada

  1939 hours: Above Clay, Fremont

  The Soviets had included the last location because they knew that Norman Grant, a major force in aviation and space groups in the Senate, lived there.

  In these meetings, at which she served as rapporteur, Penny had a chance to observe the considerable differences that individualized Johnson of Texas, Glancey of Red River and Grant of Fremont. The first was a folksy wheeler-dealer who believed that absolutely anything was possible if reasonable men sat down to find a common ground from which to proceed; he simply would not accept defeat and could conjure a dozen dirty deals to avoid it; he had a personal vision of what the next few months would produce and an unquenchable faith that things would evolve as he wanted them to. Penny found his attempts at humor unbearably corny and she did not like the suggestive way in which he put his arm about her: ‘Now, honey, you jus’ call him and reason with him. He’ll come around.’ But she developed an enormous respect for the man, for she realized that on him—and at times, on him alone—depended America’s space program.

  Senator Glancey was her man, a hefty manipulator in his rumpled pin-stripe suits, his unkempt hair and his jutting Irish jaw bespeaking a bulldog tenacity. He had the ability to give rich people, whom he admired immensely, everything they wanted to ensure their financial support, while protecting the little people on any emotional issue, for their voting support. He was not a demagogue, but he did have an amazing aptitude for being highly visible on any issue which promised votes and deftly concealed on those which were likely to produce controversy. Like many Southwestern Democrats, he voted Republican most of the time but gave resounding speeches filled with references to Thomas Jefferson and Franklin D. Roosevelt. He had what many self-educated men like him acquired, a sure sense of American history and an abiding belief in the destiny of his country.

  In the dark years when America accomplished nothing in space, he was convinced that this condition could not continue indefinitely, and Penny knew that it was due mainly to his prescience that the engineers at NACA and the scientists at Huntsville received the funds they needed to continue their work in obscurity. By now Penny recognized everything that was wrong about her senator— his drinking, his obsequiousness toward anyone with wealth, his pitiful eagerness to get even the smallest government installation located in Red River, and his willingness to trade away any position if it would gain him votes on something he profoundly believed in—and she had concluded that he was, all things considered, the best man in the Senate and the kind of politician she would probably be if she ever got the chance.

  For Senator Grant, whose presence in the Senate was partially due to her inspired assistance, she had both awe and contempt. She knew from what Finnerty, Penzoss and Butler told her that he was a hero beyond compare, and she had observed his incorruptible deportment in the Senate: grave, thoughtful, fearfully conservative, always reluctant to take a major stand on anything, and totally supportive of any bill that might aid the military, while remaining generally indifferent to the kinds of social-engineering bills which sometimes ignited Senator Glancey. Grant was a fine senator but his horizons were severely limited, and her contempt for him derived solely from the fact that he refused to grasp the opportunities which a secure seat in the Senate provided. Knowing him personally, she felt no hesitancy about challenging him on issues which she felt he misunderstood or on which he should have taken a stronger stand, and he felt no embarrassment in fending her off with an indulgent smile. It was on committee work that Norman Grant and Penny Pope formed a sturdy team, he the conservative Republican with growing leverage within his party, and she the superefficient young lawyer whose spiked heels beat a rat-tat-tat as she hurried from desk to desk with essential papers.

  It was significant that both Glancey and Grant thought of Penny as ‘my girl,’ and each relied on her for major decisions, but whenever they used the word girl, she immediately corrected them: ‘You are not my boy. You’re a grown man and a United States senator. I’m a grown woman and the administrative director of a very important committee.’

  It was Penny who convened six rocket experts, who cautiously decided: ‘We should be able to launch an American rocket during the second week in January with a strong likelihood of success,’ and she circulated a memorandum establishing 14 January as the target date, but on 3 November 1957 Russia lofted into orbit Sputnik II, much larger than the first and containing a passenger, the dog Laika.

  In panic, those preparing America’s response insisted that the launching be rushed forward to December or even the end of November, and they received lively support from those in charge of Vanguard, who assured them that their rocket was ready. But when the compromise date of 6 December was announced, Penny warned her senators: ‘Don’t be surprised if it flops. I know we’re not ready.’

  However, the entire Senate committee, accompanied by their executive secretary, flew down to Cape Canaveral in Florida for the auspicious entry of the United States into the space age. They watched five miles away when the Navy’s thin, frail Vanguard stood poised at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, ignited with a roar, rose upward for one second, then collapsed in a wild and fiery explosion. And the radio, which should have been soaring into space, lay on the ground uttering a feeble beep-beep-beep while the whole world watched and listened in dismay.

  ‘A shameful disaster,’ one of the committee members wailed, and everyone who spoke to the senators reflected the same attitude. Even Glancey was disgusted, but Norman Grant, with that stubbornness which had characterized his behavior at Leyte Gulf, tightened his neck muscles and said, ‘Schedule the next shot as soon as possible.’

  He was watching, grim-lipped, some weeks later when the second rocket collapsed with a pitiful moan, after a flight of six inches, and he listened bitterly when a naughty joke began to circulate: ‘How does an American space scientist teach his son to count? 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, oh … hell.’

  In Huntsville, Dieter Kolff heard the taunts and kept his mouth shut, but at night when he climbed the hill to his sanctuary on Monte Sano he hammered at the table and told Liesl in German, ‘It’s heartbreaking! They insist on showing the world the failure of their Vanguard. And all the time I have the Juno rocket that will do the work. It’s insane! Liesl, I’m chasing butterflies.’

  She stopped what she was preparing for dinner and m
ade instead a dish of salt pork, onions, caraway seeds and sauerkraut, but he was so distraught that he could not eat, and then she knew that he was assailed by severe depression.

  These humiliating disappointments had no visible effect on Grant, and even less on Wernher von Braun when he appeared before the committee: ‘In one sequence at Peenemünde we tried to fire seventeen rockets, and fifteen failed. Often you learn more from a failure you can analyze than from an accidental success.’

  ‘I’d settle for an accidental success,’ Glancey said, but he knew that what Von Braun said was correct.

  Penny Pope was impressed by the methodical way in which Senator Grant grappled with his chagrin over the televised collapse of the Vanguard, and she applauded when he announced President Eisenhower’s determination to conduct the forthcoming tests in full scrutiny of the taxpayers who were financing it: ‘We’ll make our next attempt exactly as we made the last. All the television the networks want. All the foreign press that wish to come in—’

  ‘There’s a Japanese reporter asking special privileges,’ Penny interrupted. ‘Asahi Shimbun. Shall I encourage him?’

  ‘He’s welcome,’ Grant snapped. ‘Our war with Japan is over.’ Then he turned to basic matters. ‘If we failed so badly with the Navy’s Vanguard, we won’t repeat that folly. We’ll go with that Juno rocket Huntsville’s been advocating, and the heads of NACA will inform the Alabama team immediately.’ When Dieter Kolff learned of the decision he threw his hands in the air and exulted: ‘At last we have our chance!’

  On 29 January 1958 the senators and Mrs. Pope were again in Florida, examining from a distance Kolff’s massive Juno rocket atop which sat the Explorer spacecraft, and as they watched through binoculars, they noticed that the palm trees nearby were beginning to bend in a heavy wind and they learned that at 40,000 feet up, this wind was blowing at such a speed that it would divert the rocket and make any ascent impossible. ‘A hundred and eighty miles an hour up there,’ the meteorologists reported, so reluctantly the flight was scrubbed, and the disheartened committee returned to its motel.

  On 30 January they were out again to study Juno and her historic cargo, but this time the winds rose to the savage speed of 235 miles an hour, enough to blow the rocket and the Explorer apart, so again the mission was aborted, and at dawn when the senators returned disconsolately to their motel, they saw that Penny Pope had tears in her eyes.

  ‘It’s so damned unfair,’ she said, pointing to a headline in an early newspaper she had collected: American Space Shot Phhhhhts Again.

  Senator Grant took her into the motel bar, where he ordered a tonic water for himself, plain, and a beer for her. ‘Have you ever tried to guess how many failures the Russians must have had before they succeeded?’

  ‘Do you like to wash your dirty linen in public?’ she asked.

  ‘Failure in a technical process is not dirty linen. It’s inescapable.’

  ‘You like our way better? This public ridicule?’

  ‘I’m never afraid of public ridicule if I’m going to win in the long run.’

  ‘And are we going to win?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’ He took a sip of his tonic water, then added, ‘Isn’t it reasonable to believe that our Germans are as good as their Germans?’

  ‘You think men from Von Braun’s team did it for the Russians?’

  ‘Who else?’

  On the night of 31 January the winds subsided, and at 2030 hours word flashed through the Canaveral area: ‘Tonight we go!’ But when the countdown reached 2145 hours, Dieter Kolff noticed a leakage of liquid fuel on the launch pad, and rumor circulated: ‘The launch is scrubbed,’ and Penny could hear groans from the press area.

  Dear God, she prayed, please let it go off on schedule. She felt that America could not tolerate another fiasco; the senators who backed the project with their reputations could not survive endless disasters. Please, God, she prayed.

  The countdown was halted and it appeared that the launch would indeed have to be scrubbed, but suddenly Kolff broke from the blockhouse, ran forward, dropped face down, and started inching toward where the mighty rocket was throwing its fuel.

  ‘Get back!’ the safety crew bellowed.

  ‘Kolff! It could blow at any minute!’

  Stubbornly he kept crawling forward until he was directly under the massive engines. Then, tasting the spill, he returned to the blockhouse and smiled broadly. ‘Condensation. Nothing’s broken. Resume countdown.’

  At 2245 hours the Peenemünde experts reached the pregnant sequence, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 … There was a titanic flash as Juno’s engines roared into action, a mighty gasp as the multipart instrument rose in the air, and then a second burst of flame as those in charge signaled Kolff to arm the upper stages.

  ‘There she goes!’ Glancey shouted, and members of the committee started to dance. Senator Grant caught Penny by the waist and lifted her in the air as she cried, ‘Thank God, thank God.’ But late that night, when it was certain that the American satellite had attained orbit and was functioning even better than predicted, Senator Grant asked Penny to draft a cautionary note to President Eisenhower:

  The policy you so wisely promulgated of doing everything under public scrutiny has succeeded admirably, but it is my duty to point out that we have put one satellite in orbit weighing 31 pounds, but Russia has put two, Sputnik I weighing 184.3 pounds, and Sputnik II weighing a huge 1,121 pounds. Most important of all, Sputnik II proved that a living thing could survive in space, so one must suppose that a Russian man will soon follow.

  We are far behind, Mr. President. We are in military peril and we had better catch up. I am eager to talk with you about these matters.

  Satisfied that it could get something into orbit, the nation turned its attention to the problem of how the space effort should be organized, and Senator Grant leaped eagerly into the debate: ‘The entire project must be turned over to the military. At installations like Redstone Arsenal in Alabama they have the capacity to do all that’s needed. Furthermore, they have the personnel and the managerial capacity to take giant leaps forward.’ Many congressmen with military service supported his arguments, and one pointed out: It’ll be easier to fund the effort through the military budget, because Congress is always eager to vote whatever military funds are needed and damned reluctant to give money to civilian science.’ Grant made a final telling point: ‘President Eisenhower, himself a military man, will opt for military control.’

  A group of powerful Western senators, having observed at firsthand how ably the Atomic Energy Commission handled large projects and even larger budgets, recommended that America’s space effort be governed by such a body: ‘We’ll have no scandals if we go that route.’ And each of these senators had two or three personal friends they were eager to nominate as members of the commission when it was formed.

  Senator Glancey spearheaded a third group, ably supported by General Funkhauser, civilian leaders of the aircraft industry and many champions of private enterprise. These men argued that the entire project should be placed in the hands of existing private firms, since it was clear that the great industries of California had the expertise to do the job and the know-how to keep costs down. When Glancey became vociferous in his support of such thinking, he was sharply challenged by Grant:

  GRANT: Why do you oppose the military?

  GLANCEY: Because I’m in favor of the American way, private enterprise.

  GRANT: When the security of the nation’s at stake, the military’s the one to be trusted.

  GLANCEY: You control costs better if you rely on private enterprise. They have to make a profit.

  GRANT: Cost is not a consideration when the safety of the nation—

  GLANCEY: The same men are going to be making the decisions, whatever we select. If the Army fires Von Braun and his gang today, private industry will pick them up tomorrow.

  GRANT: I am especially impressed by the need for security, secrecy if you will, in this field. The mi
litary knows how to handle that, the private sector doesn’t.

  GLANCEY: You make too much of security. On most things we can work in the open.

  GRANT: In this field, one of these days, security will be of the utmost importance. Believe me.

  GLANCEY: For a few brief months, or even weeks. Then the whole world knows.

  GRANT: But it could be precisely those weeks that might determine the fate of the world.

  While such debate fermented, a group of scientists gathered to argue that the whole project could best be left in the hands of those who were going to provide the answers, and they urgently proposed that a national scientific foundation of some kind be formed to assume control. The outstanding part played by certain university laboratories in developing the atomic process was cited, and it was proposed that a consortium of MIT, Cal Tech, Chicago and Stanford could easily and effectively bring the space age into being, but the possibility that a gaggle of scientists could organize anything, let alone supervise a budget, was so roundly ridiculed in the press, in Congress and in industry, all of whom depended upon science for their safety and advancement, that this proposal was quietly dropped.

  That left a fifth possibility. Often in the early stages of the debate each of the four major claimants conceded that NACA was a possibility, with its three excellent centers at Langley in Virginia, Lewis in Cleveland, Ames out in California, but they always spoke with disparagement: ‘Of course, we have good gray NACA, but it’s never been capable of managing much.’ The fact that NACA had always been governed by an unpaid board of dedicated scientists and engineers, without a visible and voluble spokesman, had worked against it. Also, its tradition of rarely spending all the money budgeted because its quiet leaders believed that any project ought to be cost-efficient, raised suspicions, for Washington felt that any agency which did not have huge overruns could not be doing serious work. And finally, since NACA worked closely with three segments of the society—the military, the private airplane industry, the academic community—it was perceived to be subordinate to all three and not a viable entity of itself. In the great debate, NACA did not have to be taken seriously.