Category The First Men on the Moon

Edwin Eugene Aldrin was born in Worchester, Massachusetts, in 1896, not long after his parents, brother, and two sisters had immigrated to the USA from Sweden. After World War One he became a friend of Orville Wright. Later, while serving in the Philippines, he married Marion Gaddys Moon, the daughter of an Army chaplain. On his return to the USA in 1928 Aldrin left the Army to become a stockbroker. Three months prior to the financial crash of August 1929 he sold his stocks, bought a large house in Montclair, New Jersey, and joined Standard Oil to expand the market for petroleum by promoting commercial aviation. In 1938 he left Standard Oil to become an aviation consultant, and in World War Two joined the Army as a colonel in the Air Force.

Edwin Eugene Aldrin Jr was born on 20 January 1930 – a new brother for 3- year-old Madeline and 1-year-old Fay Ann. As Fay Ann pronounced ‘brother’ as ‘buzzer’, he gained the nickname ‘Buzz’. He had his first ride in an aeroplane at 2 years of age, when his father flew to Florida, but was sick for most of the journey. At school his priority was sports, at which he was extremely competitive, with his father cheering him on – as long as he excelled, his father was content. On leaving high school in 1947 Buzz accepted his father’s case for attending a military school, but dismissed his father’s recommendation of the Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland, opting instead for the Military Academy at West Point, New York. Instead of going to summer camp as he usually did, he attended a 6-week school in order to prepare for the entrance examinations, in which he scored sufficiently well to be accepted. The first-year curriculum gave more or less equal time to scholastics and athletics. One-third of the course work was in mathematics, at which he excelled, with the result that he was rated first in both scholastics and athletics. At his graduation in 1951, at the age of 21, he was rated third in his class of 435 students.

In his final year at West Point, Buzz and his father agreed that he should join the Air Force, but while his father favoured multi-engine school because it would inevitably lead to command of a crew, Buzz wished to be a fighter pilot. After 6 months of basic flight training, 3 months of fighter pilot training, and 3 months at Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada, learning to fly the F-86 fighter-interceptor, he was

posted to the 51st Fighter Wing, arriving in Seoul, South Korea, on 26 December 1951. Although the war was less intense by the time he was ready for his first operational mission in February 1952, on 14 May he shot down a MiG during a patrol over North Korea (his gun camera film of the pilot ejecting was featured in Life magazine a week later) and on 7 June shot down a second. By the ceasefire on 1 July 1952 he had clocked up a total of 66 missions. He returned to Montclair in December. Prior to his Korean deployment he had accompanied his parents to a cocktail party where one of his father’s acquaintances, Mrs Evelyn Archer, invited him to dinner to meet her daughter, Joan, who had just gained her degree from Columbia and was hoping to make a career as a television actress. Michael Archer, her father, was an oil executive. Although Buzz and Joan had not corresponded while he was in Korea, he phoned her on his return and asked her to accompany him to a New Year’s Eve party, which she did. They met twice more before he returned to Nellis as a gunnery instructor (he had gained two ‘combat kills’, after all), and they kept in touch. Some time later, Buzz invited Joan for a week’s sightseeing in Las Vegas, which, although nearby for him, represented a major trip for her. As her mother had been killed in an air crash while Buzz was in Korea, Joan asked her father to accompany her. On the penultimate day Buzz proposed marriage, to which Joan agreed with her father’s consent. When Buzz’s parents were informed, they were delighted. Buzz and Joan were married on 29 December 1954, and two days later they left for Maxwell Field, Alabama, where Buzz was to spend 4 months in squadron officer school. He was then assigned as aide to the Dean of the Air Force Academy in Colorado, and as a flight instructor six months later. In August 1956 he went to Bitburg in West Germany to fly the F – 100 with the 36th Fighter Wing. In June 1959 they returned to the USA to enable Buzz to gain a postgraduate degree at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to advance his military career. One option was a masters degree as a preliminary to attending Experimental Test Pilot School. If he took a doctorate, he would, on graduating, have exceeded the age limit for Experimental Test Pilot School. He opted therefore for a doctorate in astronautics – a new subject that was clearly going to become important to the Air Force. In May 1961, when John F. Kennedy initiated the ‘Moon race’, Aldrin was 30 years old and well into his doctorate. In December 1962, with a thesis entitled Line of Sight Guidance Techniques for Manned Orbital Rendezvous in draft, he was sent to the Air Force’s Space Systems Division in Los Angeles. When NASA invited applications for its third intake of astronauts in June 1963, he noted that the requirement for test pilot experience had been relaxed; now 1,000 hours of jet time was sufficient. He applied, and on 17 October was announced as one of 14 new astronauts. The family set up home in Nassau Bay, one of many new housing developments near the Manned Spacecraft Center.

In view of his background, Aldrin’s assigned specialism was mission planning, working with the Trajectories and Orbits group led by Howard W. ‘Bill’ Tindall, which studied every contingency involving the computer that would process either radar tracking or sextant sightings to compute a sequence of manoeuvres designed to make a rendezvous in space – the primary objective of the Gemini program was to demonstrate rendezvous techniques for Apollo. He tutored Wally Schirra and Tom Stafford for Gemini 6, which was to attempt the first rendezvous. As Aldrin noted, “It was essential for the pilot to understand what the computer was doing, and to make sure it made no errors that went unnoticed – i. e. the pilot must know how to guide the computer to the correct conclusion.” When Aldrin was assigned as backup pilot for Gemini 10, the frustration was that the system of ‘rotation’ introduced by Slayton – although not rigidly followed, by which, after serving in a backup capacity, a crew would skip two missions and fly the next – would in this case lead nowhere since the program was to finish with Gemini 12. Nevertheless, Aldrin was delighted to get a crew assignment because, having served in a backup capacity for Gemini he would rank ahead of the total ‘rookies’ when it came to selecting the early Apollo crews. Fate intervened, however. On 28 February 1966 Elliot See and his partner for Gemini 9, Charles Bassett, died in an air crash. In reshuffling the crews, Slayton advanced Lovell and Aldrin from backing up Gemini 10 to backing up Gemini 9, which put them in line to fly Gemini 12. When the radar on that mission failed, Aldrin completed the rendezvous by computing the manoeuvres manually, and later, during a record three spacewalks, he demonstrated a mastery of the art of working in weightlessness that paved the way for such activities to be included on Apollo missions. Although Aldrin had not been as involved in the development of the LM as some of his peers, his expertise made him well suited to accompany Armstrong on the first lunar landing attempt.

At the time of Apollo 11, the Aldrin family comprised Buzz and Joan, sons Michael, aged 13, and Andrew, 11, and daughter Janice, 11.

When John F. Kennedy challenged his nation to land a man on the Moon before the decade was out, Hubert M. ‘Jake’ Drake at Edwards Air Force Base, who in the 1950s participated in the initial planning for the X-15 rocket plane, concluded that to provide realistic training for flying a lunar module it would be necessary to build a free-flying craft that accurately reproduced the stability and control issues involved in ‘flying’ in a vacuum and a reduced gravitational field. Drake set up a study group to design such a machine and enrolled Neil Armstrong as one of the team’s members. After reviewing 1950s research into vertical takeoff and landing (VTOL) aircraft, it was decided to mount a jet engine in a gimbal to provide vertical thrust. Its throttle would operate in two modes: in ‘terrestrial mode’ the jet would run conventionally in order to lift off vertically and climb to the altitude needed to simulate the lunar landing, and then be throttled back into ‘lunar mode’ in order to offset five-sixths of the craft’s weight. The rate of descent would be controlled by a pair of throttleable thrusters affixed to the airframe. The attitude control system was based on that developed for the X-15 at the top of its ballistic arc, where aerodynamic control surfaces are useless. It was decided to use 16 thrusters, arranged in pairs, to control roll, pitch and yaw. The project attracted interest precisely because aerodynamics played no part in the craft’s operation. To translate, it would have to tilt, and use the angled component of the thrust from the ‘descent engines’ to impart lateral motion, then tilt back to cancel this motion. By a remarkable coincidence, Bell Aerosystems in Buffalo, New York – which had built the X-1 rocket plane in which Charles E. Yeager had ‘broken the sound barrier’ on 14 October 1947, and was the only US

It was for this reason that the KC-135 aircraft used for such training was nicknamed the Vomit Comet.

aircraft manufacturer with experience of using jet engines for VTOL – independently submitted to NASA a proposal to develop a vehicle to be used to investigate the issues of making a landing on the Moon. When NASA sent Bell out to Edwards, Drake realised that the company was better placed to develop the vehicle and, as a result, on 18 January 1963 NASA issued Bell with a contract to supply two Lunar Landing Research Vehicle (LLRV) aircraft.

On 15 April 1964 the two LLRVs were shipped to Edwards Air Force Base in crates, because Drake’s team wished to do the assembly and install the instruments themselves. Each vehicle stood 10 feet tall on four legs spanning some 13 feet, and weighed 3,700 pounds. The General Electric CF-700-2V turbofan jet delivered a maximum of 4,200 pounds of thrust. The descent engines for ‘lunar mode’ were non­combustion rocket thrusters using pure hydrogen peroxide propellant, each of which could be throttled between 100 and 500 pounds of thrust in order to control the rate of descent and horizontal translations.[12] The pilot sat on a platform that projected forward between the front legs. In view of the fact that if a vehicle were to get into trouble it would be close to the ground, probably be falling, and certainly be within seconds of crashing, it was fitted with a lightweight ejection seat developed by Weber Aircraft that was not only capable of lifting its user clear of an aircraft on the ground but also from an aircraft that was at low level and falling at 30 feet per second. On 30 October 1964 NASA test pilot Joseph S. Walker, a former X-15 pilot, made three vertical ‘hops’ in LLRV-1, remaining within 10 feet of the ground for a total duration of 60 seconds to exercise the hydrogen peroxide attitude control thrusters, the steam from which nearly obscured the view of the spectators. Armstrong was no longer at Edwards, but having been assigned the task of overseeing the development of trainers and simulators he closely monitored the test program.

In 1963 NASA began to train astronauts to fly helicopters in the hope that this would enable them to gain a feel for the issues of making a landing on the Moon. However, while a helicopter could duplicate the trajectory of the final phase of a lunar landing, the basic aerodynamic requirements of helicopter flight meant that the controls could not simulate those of a spacecraft. In contrast, the ми-aerodynamic LLRV did accurately simulate control over the rate of descent, attitude, and lateral movement. On 26 January 1965, Warren J. North, who was in charge of training, ordered that astronauts must have 200 hours of helicopter training prior to trying to fly the LLRV. In October that year NASA drew up the preliminary specifications for a Lunar Landing Training Vehicle (LLTV). Based on the LLRV, this new vehicle was to have an upgraded jet and larger tanks of peroxide for longer endurance in ‘lunar mode’, a cabin with a similar field of view to that envisaged for the LM, a 3- axis hand controller (instead of the stick and pedals of the LLRV), instruments laid out as in the LM, and as much as possible of the LM’s built-in flight control logic in order to enhance its fidelity as a trainer. In August 1966 Armstrong and Joseph S. Algranti, chief of aircraft operations at the Manned Spacecraft Center, worked with Bell to implement these upgrades. To augment helicopter training, a cratered surface based on the highest resolution pictures from the Ranger probes was mocked up, and on climbing to 500 feet the astronauts would cut the throttle and land at various angles and rates of descent and in a variety of lighting conditions to familiarise themselves with visually gauging their height and sink rate over the alien landscape. Meanwhile, it had been decided that once Edwards completed its LLRV tests these vehicles should be sent to Ellington. When LLRV-1 arrived on 12 December 1966, Armstrong was present to watch Algranti perform the formal acceptance trial. LLRV-2 followed in mid-January 1967. In a rationalisation, the two LLRVs were redesignated LLTV A1 and A2, and the three new vehicles were to be B1, B2 and B3. Before being permitted to fly, an astronaut was required to undertake a 3-week helicopter refresher, 1 week of familiarisation with the Lunar Landing Research Facility at Langley,[13] spend 15 hours in a ground simulator and then be cleared by Algranti.

Armstrong made his first flight in LLTV A1 on 27 March 1967, but did not fly again until starting an intensive program of lunar landing rehearsals in early 1968. A typical flight involved using the jet at maximum thrust to lift off vertically and climb to 500 feet altitude, throttling back to balance five-sixths of the weight, and then, as when using the helicopter, flying a profile that would match the trajectory of a LM at that altitude, except that now the rate of descent and lateral manoeuvres were actively controlled employing the ‘descent engines’. As Armstrong reflected of his experience:[14]

‘‘The thing that surprises people on their initial flights in ‘lunar mode’ is the tendency of the vehicle to float far beyond where you think it is going to go. It takes practice to anticipate the distance required to slow down – you must start to brake much earlier, if you are to stop where you want to stop. Similarly, if you are in a hover, and change your mind, it takes a lot of effort to get moving again. The vehicle is sluggish in its translating ability, so it takes a long time, and big angles, to gain a little speed and translate 50 feet. We hope to have one – and-a-half to two minutes of fuel essentially in hover when we’re landing on the

Moon, but you can use that up really fast if you change your mind frequently about where you want to go.”

On 6 May 1968 LLTV A1 went out of control during a descent and he had to eject.

“I lifted the vehicle off the ground and climbed to an altitude of 500 feet in preparation for making the landing profile. I had been airborne for about 5 minutes, and was down to about 200 feet when the trouble began. The first indication was a decreasing ability to control the vehicle. It began to tilt sharply. There was less and less response. The trouble developed rather rapidly, but wasn’t an abrupt stop. It was a decay in attitude control. Without attitude control there is no way to remain upright. The vehicle does have two separate systems for doing this, but in this case both systems failed at their common point – the high-pressure helium to pressurise the propellant to the rockets. I was losing both systems simultaneously, and that’s where I had to give up and get off. I guess I ejected at 100 feet, plus or minus – we don’t have a way of measuring it accurately, even from photographs. How far the ejection throws you depends on your attitude at the time you leave, and also on your upward or downward velocity at the time. If you start from an upright attitude at a hover, it will take you up about 300 feet. The parachute ejector is automatic, although there is a manual override. I had always thought I might be able to match the automatic system, but when I was reaching for the D-ring the automatic system had already fired.’’

Early on the morning of Sunday, 20 July, Ron Evans made the wake-up call.

‘‘Good morning,’’ replied Collins half a minute later. ‘‘You guys sure do start early.’’

‘‘It looks like you were really sawing them away.’’ Evans said, having noted the telemetry indicating that all three astronauts had been sleeping soundly.

‘‘You’re right,’’ Collins agreed. ‘‘How are all the CSM systems looking?’’

‘‘It looks like the command module’s in good shape. The Black Team’s been watching it real closely for you.’’

‘‘We appreciate that, because I sure haven’t.’’

Moments later, the spacecraft passed ‘over the hill’. While on the far side, the crew tidied up and prepared the breakfast. On their reappearance on revolution 10, Evans, making the most of his opportunity to converse, announced, ‘‘The Black Bugle just arrived with some morning news briefs, if you’re ready.’’

‘‘Go ahead,’’ Armstrong replied.

‘‘Today church services around the globe will be mentioning Apollo 11 in their prayers. President Nixon’s worship service at the White House is also dedicated to the mission, and fellow astronaut Frank Borman is still in there pitching – he will read the passage from Genesis that was read out on Apollo 8 last Christmas. The Cabinet and members of Congress, with emphasis on the Senate and House space committees, have been invited, together with a number of other guests. Buzz, your son, Andy, got a tour of the Manned Spacecraft Center yesterday which included the Lunar Receiving Laboratory; he was accompanied by your uncle, Bob Moon.’’ ‘‘Thank you,’’ said Aldrin.

‘‘Among the headlines about Apollo this morning,’’ Evans continued, ‘‘there is one asking that you watch for a lovely girl with a big rabbit. An ancient legend says a beautiful Chinese girl called Chang-o has been living there for 4,000 years. It seems she was banished to the Moon because she stole the pill of immortality from her husband. You might also look for her companion, a large Chinese rabbit, who is easy to spot since he is always standing on his hind feet in the shade of a cinnamon tree; the name of the rabbit is not reported.’’

The astronauts promised that they would ‘‘keep a close eye out for the bunny girl’’.

Evans went on, “You residents of the spacecraft Columbia may be interested in knowing that today is Independence Day in the country of Colombia. Gloria Diaz of the Philippines was crowned Miss Universe last night, beating sixty other girls for the global beauty title. Miss Diaz is 18, has black hair and eyes, and measures thirty – four-and-a-half, twenty-three, thirty-four-and-a-half. The first runner up was Miss Australia, then Miss Israel and Miss Japan. When you are on your way back, Tuesday night, the American and National League All Stars will be playing ball in Washington. Mel Stottlemyre of the Yankees is expected to be the American League’s first pitcher. No one’s predicting who’ll be first pitcher for the National League yet; they have nine on the roster.’’ And then he rounded off with a funny: “Although research has certainly paid off in the space program, research doesn’t always pay off, it appears. Woodstream Corporation, the parent company of the Animal Trap Company of America that has made more than a billion wooden spring mousetraps, reported that it built a better mousetrap but the world didn’t beat a path to its door. As a matter of fact, it had to go back to the old-fashioned kind. They said, ‘We should have spent more time researching housewives, and less time researching mice’. And with that the Black Bugle is completed for this morning.’’

‘‘Thank you, very much,’’ acknowledged Armstrong.

A few minutes later, the spacecraft passed around the far side again.

Meanwhile, at home

On his arrival in Mission Control, Kranz was astonished to find Dick Koos absent; Koos had rolled his new Triumph TR3 driving in, but was uninjured and arrived in time for the powered descent. On reviewing Lunney’s console log, Kranz was pleased to discover that he had not inherited any problems – the spacecraft was in excellent condition. Chris Kraft arrived, patted Kranz on the shoulder and wished him ‘‘good luck’’, then took his seat on Management Row. When Kranz was made a flight director early in the Gemini program, his wife Marta had begun the tradition of making him a waistcoat specifically for each mission. For Apollo 11 she had made one of white brocade inlaid with very fine silver thread. At 095:41 Kranz took over the flight director’s console, and Lunney went to brief the press. During the far-side pass, the other members of the White Team settled in for what was to be a momentous shift – the landing was about 7 hours off. Man could land on the Moon for the first time only once. As the shift began, this task had not yet been attempted. Soon it would be. Once achieved, the moment of its attainment would become part of the historical record. On looking around into the viewing gallery, Kranz noticed Bill Tindall, and waved him down to sit alongside him at his console. Kranz would later write of Tindall, ‘‘he was the guy who put all the pieces together, and all we did was execute them.’’[22]

At 9.30 am Joan Aldrin, her children and Robert and Audrey Moon, attended

Webster Presbyterian Church, where her husband served as an elder. The church was packed, with folding chairs in place to accommodate the extra worshippers. As in Mission Control, the mood was tense. The Reverend Dean Woodruff began his sermon: “Today we witness the epitome of the creative ability of Man. And we, here in this place, are not only witnesses but also unique participants.” Everyone knew that by the day’s end Armstrong and Aldrin might well be dead. Pat Collins, her children and sister Ellie Golden, went to morning Mass at St Paul’s Roman Catholic Church. Jan Armstrong remained at home and impatiently watched the clock. At noon some of the churchwomen delivered a cold luncheon to the Aldrin home, together with a cake that had been frosted with the Stars and Stripes and the words ‘We came in peace for all mankind’. Woodruff arrived later, and remained for the powered descent.

SEA OF TRANQUILITY

The Air Force C-141 Starlifter carrying NASA Administrator Thomas O. Paine and the first rock box landed at Ellington Air Force Base on Friday, 25 July 1969. Awaiting it were Samuel C. Phillips, the Apollo Program Director, Robert R. Gilruth, Director of the Manned Spacecraft Center, and George M. Low, Manager of the Apollo Spacecraft Program Office in Houston. Gilruth and Low posed for photographs holding the box, before taking it to the Lunar Receiving Laboratory on the campus of the Manned Spacecraft Center. The second box arrived later that day. The next day, a member of the 50-strong Preliminary Examination Team used a vacuum chamber with a window and rubberised ‘arms’ to raise the lid of the first box, and found the interior so coated with black dust as to make it impractical to say anything definitive about the contents! When the boxes were emptied, there was found to be 48 pounds of lunar material in the form of 20 individual rocks and a pile of fragments and grains. One by one, the rocks were cleaned for inspection. At a press conference on 28 July, Persa R. Bell, Director of the Lunar Receiving Laboratory, opined that the rocks had been ‘‘beautifully selected’’. Elbert King, the curator, announced that the first rock to be examined under a microscope appeared to be a granular igneous rock. Gene Shoemaker of the US Geological Survey suggested that it represented a lava flow. But this was only a first impression. Once the material had been catalogued, small samples were issued to 150 principal investigators who had spent years developing the means to subject such material to almost every possible kind of analysis. The investigations proceeded at such a pace that on 15 September NASA was able to announce the preliminary findings and, to follow up, on 4 January 1970 the agency hosted the first of what was to become an annual Lunar Science Conference.1

To Harold C. Urey, who favoured the ‘cold’ Moon theory in which the interior was uniformly composed of ‘pristine’ material, the dark plains were the result of

These gatherings are now entitled the Lunar and Planetary Sciences Conferences.

impact melting on a vast scale. While the astronauts were out on the surface, Urey had been concerned when Armstrong reported a vesicular rock, encouraged when Armstrong changed his mind, and dismissed Armstrong’s later report of a rock he was sure was vesicular. Most of all, Urey was encouraged that they did not report finding the ‘frothy vacuum lava’ predicted by his leading rival, Gerard P. Kuiper, who favoured the ‘hot’ Moon theory in which the interior was differentiated and the dark plains were the result of upwellings of lava through fractures in the floors of major impact basins. The rocks proved to be a form of basalt rich in magnesium and iron (and therefore described as being ‘mafic’) which isotopic dating revealed to have crystallised some 3.84 to 3.57 billion years ago. In terms of texture, it was strikingly similar to terrestrial basalt. It was not impact melt. This meant that the Moon had undergone a process of thermal differentiation in which lightweight aluminous minerals had migrated up to the surface and the heavier minerals had sunk into the interior. The fact that some of this denser material had later been erupted indicated

that the interior had remained ‘hot’ for a significant period. However, when compared to terrestrial basalt, the lunar variety was enriched in titanium. The titanium-bearing mineral, which was new to mineralogists, was named ‘armalcolite’, in honour of the astronauts.[51] The lack of oxidised iron meant that the lava was created in a reducing environment (i. e. one devoid of oxygen). The most striking fact was the total absence of hydrous minerals. The lunar basalt was also deficient in volatile metals such as sodium. The low-alkali (i. e. sodium-depleted) lava would have had an extremely low viscosity, which is why it flowed so readily, and why it left so few ‘positive-relief’ features. The Sea of Tranquility was evidently accumulated by episodic volcanism over a period of several hundred million years. The presence of two types of basalt implied either that there were separate reservoirs of magma or that the single source had undergone chemical evolution over time.

As Armstrong later reflected of the lunar surface, ‘‘My impression was that we were taking a ‘snapshot’ of a steady-state process in which rocks are being worn down on the surface of the Moon with time, and other rocks are being thrown out on top as a result of new events somewhere near or far away. In other words, no matter when you had visited this spot before – 1,000 years ago or 100 years ago, or if you come back to it 1,000,000 years from now – you’d see some different things each time but the scene would generally be the same.’’ This was insightful. On the airless Moon there was little chemical erosion. Large impacts simply excavated bedrock, and this was progressively worn down by smaller impacts to produce the regolith, the majority of which was pulverised basalt. There was little meteoritic material. Many of the discrete samples proved to be regolith compacted by shock. When subjected to physical stress these ‘regolith breccias’ tended to fall apart. The ‘glassy material’ found in a small fresh-looking crater was regolith that had been heated and fused by a high-energy impact. This impact-driven weathering process was given the name ‘gardening’.

There was a small residue of the regolith that was very different in character. On the basis of his analysis of chemical data provided by Surveyor 7, which had landed near the crater Tycho in the southern highlands in 1968, Shoemaker had predicted that 4 per cent of the regolith at the Apollo 11 site would comprise minuscule fragments of light-coloured rock – and this proved to be the case. This light rock was plagioclase feldspar. Terrestrial plagioclase is rich in sodium, but the Moon is depleted in sodium and the lunar variant had calcium, making it calcic-plagioclase. Some of the fragments were sufficiently pure to justify being called anorthosite, this being the name for a rock comprising at least 90 per cent plagioclase, but most were diluted with mafic minerals and therefore were more properly called anorthositic gabbro; like the material Surveyor 7 had analysed. Shoemaker’s rationale for there being highland material in the regolith of the Sea of Tranquility was based on the manner in which the most recently formed highland craters splashed out ‘rays’ of material. Regarding the highlands, it could now be inferred that the primitive crust was composed of anorthositic rock. At the Lunar Science Conference, J. A. Wood noted that if the ‘exotic’ fragments in the Apollo 11 regolith were indeed highland rock, then their density of 2.9 grams per cubic centimetre (in comparison to the 3.4 average for the Moon) meant that the heat generated by giant impacts during the accretion of the Moon from planetesimals had created a ‘magma ocean’ which later solidified to form the crust. This was a significant insight into early lunar history.

What a difference one brief field trip had made; its ‘ground truth’ had scythed through the long-held theories without consideration for the professional standing of their proponents. Previously minor players found themselves in the limelight by virtue of having been proved right. For example, in a paper published a few weeks prior to Apollo 11, Anthony Turkevich reported a study of data from Surveyor 5, which landed in the Sea of Tranquility in 1967, near where Apollo 11 was to try to land, and he predicted the astronauts would return with titanium-enriched basalt.

General James L. Collins was a career officer who served in the Philippines, in the 1916 Mexican campaign, and in France in World War One. He married Virginia Stewart, whose family had British roots; his own family came from Ireland. Michael Collins was born on 31 October 1930 while his father was Army attache to Rome, joining siblings James L. Collins Jr, who was 13 years older, and sisters Agnes and Virginia, 10 and 6 years older respectively. The family returned to the USA in 1932. As a child, Michael read a lot, was athletic, and had fun, but in contrast to most of his contemporaries did not develop any great passion for airplanes. His father had graduated from West Point Military Academy, as had his brother, but Michael was inclined towards medicine. His mother suggested a career in the State Department. Although his father put no pressure on him to attend West Point, Louisiana congressman Edward Hebert, a family friend, urged him to follow in the family tradition, which, on leaving high school in 1948, Michael decided to do – more for the free education than for any desire to join the military. After graduating in 1952 he joined the Air Force, gained his ‘wings’ in the summer of 1953, and was sent to Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada, for advanced fighter training, followed by training for ground attack using nuclear bombs. In December 1954 he was posted to an F-86 fighter squadron at a NATO base in France. In 1956 he met 21-year-old Patricia

Finnegan, a civilian worker in the Air Force who had arrived the previous year and was the eldest of the eight children of Joseph and Julia Finnegan of Boston, Massachusetts. Michael and Patricia were soon engaged, but did not marry until 28 April 1957. On returning to the USA a few months later, Collins was assigned as an instructor, and as he considered a test pilot to be more an engineer than a seat-of – the-pants fighter pilot, in August I960 he enrolled at the Experimental Test Pilot School at Edwards Air Force Base. When NASA sought a second intake of astronauts in April 1962 he applied, but was rejected. When the agency made another call in June 1963 he applied again, and on 17 October was announced as one of 14 new astronauts. The family moved to Nassau Bay, buying a house not far from that of the Aldrins.

As his specialism Collins was assigned to track the development of space suits and miscellaneous equipment for extravehicular activity. On 18 July 1966, John Young and Collins were launched for the Gemini 10 mission, during which, over a three-day period, they rendezvoused with an Agena target vehicle which was then used to rendezvous with the Agena left by Gemini 8. Collins made two spacewalks, one standing in the hatch and the other involving floating across to the old Agena in order to retrieve an experiment which, if Gemini 8 had not been cut short, Dave Scott would have retrieved.

On being assigned to Apollo 11, Collins was asked whether he was frustrated by having to remain in lunar orbit while his colleagues attempted the landing. “I’d either be a liar or a fool if I said that I think I have the best of the three seats on the mission. On the other hand, all three seats are necessary. I would very much like to see the lunar surface – who wouldn’t!? – but I am an integral part of the operation, and am happy to be going in any capacity. I am going 99.9 per cent of the way, and I don’t feel frustrated at all.’’

At the time of Apollo 11, the Collins family comprised Mike and Pat, son Michael, aged 6, and daughters Kathleen, 10, and Ann, 7.

AMIABLE STRANGERS

The crew of Apollo 11 did not become close friends, as some crews did during training, but this was not a prerequisite for mission success – it was required only that each man should know his job, trust his colleagues to do likewise, and work together as part of a team. Collins later described the trio as “amiable strangers’’. In a sense, they were no more than military men assigned to a mission. Of Armstrong, Collins observed, “Among the dozen test pilots who flew the X-15 rocket ship, Neil was considered one of the weaker stick-and-rudder men, but the very best when it came to understanding the machine’s design and how it operated.’’ He was “notable for making decisions slowly, but making them well’’. Collins considered him “far and away the most experienced test pilot among the astronauts’’, and the best choice to command the first attempt to land on the Moon.

“The ejection system threw me somewhat east of the crash, but the wind was from the east and at the time my chute opened I was a bit concerned that I might be drifting down into the fire, but the wind was strong and I actually missed the flames by several hundred feet. After I landed, I got up and walked away. The only damage to me was that I bit my tongue.’’

As Armstrong had abandoned a stricken Panther jet over Korea, this was his second ejection. Most astronauts would have sought out colleagues and related an enthusiastic account of the event, but Armstrong returned to his office to catch up on paperwork. At the time, observers speculated that there had been an explosion, but they had been misled by the steam issuing from the thrusters as Armstrong was attempting to recover. LLTV A2, which was not yet in operation, was grounded pending an investigation led by Algranti, which concluded that a design flaw had enabled the helium pressurisation of the peroxide system to decay, rendering the thrusters ineffective.

The first В model LLTV was delivered to Ellington in December 1967, but did not become available until mid-1968. A Flight Readiness Review on 26 November declared LLTV В1 ready for astronaut training. On 8 December 1968, on its tenth flight, the vehicle developed an uncontrollable lateral control oscillation, obliging Algranti to eject at an altitude of 200 feet. Kraft and Robert R. Gilruth, Director of the Manned Spacecraft Center, suggested that the LLTV was too dangerous, but the

astronauts, particularly Armstrong, who had most experience with it, insisted it was essential. On 13 June 1969 LLTV B2 was declared ready for astronaut training. As commander of the mission that was to attempt a lunar landing, Armstrong had first call, and he flew it on 14, 15 and 16 June. Since the vehicle carried propellant only for about 6 minutes of flight and it took several minutes to climb and establish the required profile, a descent test lasted at most 4 minutes and often was concluded with only seconds to spare. Although dangerous, the LLTV was the only effective training for flying the LM in a manual mode.[15]

ISOLATION

On 17 June the Apollo 11 crew had their T-30-day medicals and transferred to the Manned Spacecraft Operations Building, located on the industrial facility 5 miles south of the Vehicle Assembly Building. The third-floor crew quarters, which had a ventilation system designed to maintain a germ-free environment, comprised a living room, dining room, kitchen, briefing room, bathroom, exercise room, equipment room, and a number of small windowless bedrooms. Lewis Hartzell had been hired to cook for the Gemini crews and remained, not for the money, but for the honour of cooking for the astronauts. As a former Marine and a cook on tugboats, Hartzell only did plain cooking, which raised no objections from the astronauts.

A flight readiness review later on 17 June authorised loading the hypergolic propellants into the LM and CSM tanks. This represented a major decision point, because if a mid-July launch should prove impracticable, it would not be safe to retain such corrosive chemicals in the tanks for an additional month – not only would the tanks have to be drained, but certain components would require to be removed and returned to the vendor for refurbishment. Worse, there would be no guarantee that the vehicles could be reassembled in time for the August launch window. The loading operation began on 18 June and, despite delays caused by weather conditions at the Cape, was completed on 23 June.[16]

On 26 June Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins had medical examinations that were not only to confirm their physical state, but also to catalogue the organisms in their systems to provide a ‘baseline’ for spotting any infections that they might contract during the final stages of preparation. After a countdown demonstration test that concluded with a simulated launch at 9.32 am local time on Wednesday, 3 July, they flew to Houston for the Fourth of July weekend. Life magazine published an issue

with the cover ‘Off To The Moon’, with stories about their home lives. NASA would have loved to have scheduled the lunar landing for 4 July, but operational constraints did not permit this.

Gene Kranz’s flight control team took 4 July off, but returned to work the next day for their ‘graduation’ simulations. As Armstrong and Aldrin were unavailable, Pete Conrad and Al Bean took their places as a welcome training opportunity for Apollo 12. The flight controllers successfully overcame six tough scenarios during the morning. The afternoon sessions were to be ‘flown’ by the Apollo 12 backup crew of Dave Scott and Jim Irwin, the rationale being that a less-experienced crew would increase the pressure on the flight controllers. Three minutes into the first run, Koos prompted the LM’s computer to issue an alarm. A caution and warning light illuminated, and the computer flashed the numerical identifier for that particular problem. Computer alarms could result from a hardware fault, a software issue, out- of-tolerance data, or a procedural error either by the crew or the ground. Steve Bales, the guidance officer, was monitoring the LM’s computer to ensure that it received the correct data from Earth and that its guidance, navigation and control tasks were being properly executed. In this case the alarm was a 12-01. Bales had previously seen it during functional tests of the computer on the ground, but never in a simulation, and certainly not in flight. While the LM crew awaited advice, he checked his manual: the 12-01 alarm was ‘executive overflow’, which meant that the computer was overloaded. The computer’s executive was to repeatedly cycle through a list of tasks in a given interval of time, and evidently the time available was no longer sufficient to finish the tasks before it was obliged to begin the next cycle. Bales called Jack Garman, a support room colleague and software expert, and they agreed that the alarm was serious, especially since it was recurrent. With no mission rules to inform his decision-making, Bales called Kranz, told him that there was something amiss with the computer, although he could not say what, and recommended an abort. This call came out of the blue as Kranz had not been party to the discussion between Bales and Garman, but as a flight director must trust the judgement of his controllers – especially on abort calls – he confirmed it. Charlie Duke, serving as CapCom, relayed the abort to the crew, who performed the manoeuvre and made as if to rendezvous with their mother ship (which was not actually in the simulation). At the debriefing, Koos pointed out that the 12-01 had not necessitated an abort; in the absence of a positive indication that the computer was failing they should have continued. Shocked that he had made a bad call, Bales got together with the people from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology who had written the software, in order to investigate the alarm. Later that evening, he called Kranz and conceded there had been no need to abort. The next day, 6 July, Koos triggered a range of computer alarms to enable Bales’ team to record data on the ability of the computer to continue to function. On 11 July Bales added a new mission rule listing the alarms that would require an immediate abort; in all other cases the powered descent was to continue pending a positive indication of a critical failure.

In 1966 Slayton had told George E. Mueller, Director of the Office of Manned Space Flight, that an Apollo crew would require 140 hours of training in the CSM simulator, with a lunar landing crew spending an additional 180 hours in the LM. In

fact, as they completed their training, Collins had spent 400 hours in the CSM; Armstrong had spent 164 hours in the CSM, 383 hours in the LM, and a total of 34 hours in the Lunar Landing Research Facility at Langley and flying the LLTV; and Aldrin had spent 182 hours in the CSM and 411 hours in the LM, but had not used the other facilities. Training for lunar surface activities accounted for no more than 14 per cent of their time.

After breakfast Aldrin went into the lower equipment bay, removed his constant – wear garment, reinstalled his urine-collection and fecal-containment utilities and put on his liquid-cooled garment, the fishnet fabric of which had a network of narrow flexible plastic tubes sewn into it through which cold water would be pumped to manage the heat generated by the exertion of the moonwalk. It had to be donned now, since they were to remain suited while in the LM. Aldrin then went into the LM, vacating the lower equipment bay to Armstrong, who suited up with Collins assisting with the zippers and checking fixtures – a process that took 30 minutes. When Armstrong went into the LM, Aldrin returned to suit up. Collins also suited up as a precaution against inadvertent decompression during undocking, or the need for an early abort in which Eagle’s crew would conduct an external transfer using the side hatch.4

At AOS on revolution 11, Aldrin was well into powering up Eagle’s systems. When Duke requested a status report, it became evident that Aldrin was running about 30 minutes ahead of the flight plan. When the steerable high-gain antenna mounted on a boom on the right-hand side of the roof was pointed to Earth, the LM flight controllers received their first significant telemetry of the mission.

The two crews worked independently in their preparations, but certain events required coordination. One item was setting Eagle’s clock, which was to be done by synchronising it with its counterpart in Columbia.

‘‘I have 097:03:30 set in,’’ called Armstrong.

Collins counted down, ‘‘15 seconds to go. 10, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. MARK.’’

‘‘Got it,’’ confirmed Armstrong.

Another task, some time later, was to coarsely align the platform of Eagle’s

Only once Eagle was safely on the surface would Collins remove his suit, and he would don it again shortly prior to liftoff.

inertial navigation system. In essence, two humans acted as an interface between two machines.

“I’m ready to start on a docked IMU coarse-align,’’ Armstrong said. “When you’re ready, go to Attitude Hold with Minimum Deadband.’’ Once Collins had confirmed that he was holding the docked vehicles stea­dy, Armstrong said, “I need your Noun 20.’’

“I’ve got Verb 06, Noun 20. Give me a Mark on it,’’ Collins replied. “MARK!” called Armstrong. “Register 1, plus 11202, plus 20741, plus 00211,’’ said Collins, reading the display on his DSKY. The numbers represented the CSM’s attitude with respect to the current REFSMMAT.

Armstrong gave a read-back for confirmation, “11202, 20741, 00211.’’ “That’s correct,’’ Collins agreed. After performing an arithmetical transformation to allow for the fact that the designers of the vehicles had specified their Cartesian axes differently, Armstrong keyed the attitude into his DSKY.

The alignment showed up in the telemetry, and Duke reported, “That coarse align looks good to us.’’

“Okay, Mike,’’ said Armstrong. “Your Attitude Hold is no longer required.’’

If necessary, Eagle would later make star sightings for its equivalent of a P52 to refine the alignment.

Once he had installed the probe and drogue assemblies in the tunnel and fully extended the probe, Collins called to Eagle, “The capture latches are engaged in the drogue. Would you like to check them from your side?’’

“Stand by,’’ Armstrong replied. He looked up through the open hatch to verify that the tip of the probe projected through the hole in the centre of the drogue and the three small latches, each no larger than a finger nail, were engaged. “Mike, the capture latches look good.’’ Armstrong then closed the upper hatch to make Eagle air-tight.

At this point, Apollo 11 passed around the far side of the Moon. They were to continue with the preparations during revolution 12, and undock prior to AOS on revolution 13.

Collins slowly retracted the probe until the latches established a firm grip of the drogue. The next task was to release the main latches in the docking units. To guard against the possibility of depressurisation, he donned his helmet and gloves.

Five minutes later, Aldrin called, “Mike, let us know how you’re coming up there, now and then.’’

“I’m doing just fine,’’ Collins replied. He was physically priming the latches, imparting the stored energy they would need to re-engage on the redocking. “I’ve cocked eight latches, and everything is going nominally.’’ And then a minute later, “All 12 docking latches are cocked.’’

“Okay,” acknowledged Aldrin.

“I’m ready to button up the hatch,’’ Collins announced.

Although the vehicles were now held together only by the capture latches, these were able to maintain the hermetic seal in the tunnel because the interface had been compressed by the hard docking. “Mike, have you got to the Tunnel Vent step yet?’’ Aldrin asked.

“I’m just coming to that,’’ replied Collins. “What can I do for you?’’

“Well, we’re waiting on you,’’ Aldrin noted. Although ahead of schedule, the LM crew had to wait for Collins to vent the tunnel before they could proceed.

Two minutes later, Collins reported, “I’m ready to go to LM Tunnel Vent.’’ He opened the valve to space. The process was expected to take about 8 minutes.

“How’re you doing, Mike?’’ Armstrong asked several minutes after that time had elapsed.

“Stand by, and I’ll give you the delta-P reading,’’ replied Collins. He reset the valve to enable a nearby gauge to measure the difference in pressure between the tunnel and the command module, which was at about 5 psi. “It’s 3.0 psi.’’ There was still a significant amount of air remaining in the tunnel.

In Eagle, Armstrong and Aldrin donned their helmets and gloves to check the hermetic integrity of their suits.

Meanwhile, Collins started to manoeuvre into the attitude required for the next P22 landmark tracking, which would be Site 130-prime, a crater inside Crater 130 in the Foaming Sea. Because this had been selected as a reference by John Young on Apollo 10 for the reason that it was both readily identified and small enough to be accurately marked using the sextant, it was also referred to as John Young’s crater. The sightings were to be used to update Houston’s knowledge of the orbit, and where the spacecraft was in that orbit, in order to calculate the precise time at which to initiate Eagle’s powered descent.

When the manoeuvre was finished, Armstrong called Collins, “We’re going to put our gear down.’’

“Master Arm,’’ said Aldrin on intercom, reading the checklist. “Landing Gear Deploy, Fire.’’

“Here we go, Mike,’’ Armstrong warned before detonating the pyrotechnics to release the spring-loaded legs.

“Bam, it’s out. There ain’t no doubt about that,’’ Aldrin mused. “Master Arm, Off.’’

“The gear went down okay, Mike,’’ Armstrong called. There were redundant circuits, but the primary had successfully fired the pyrotechnics to deploy the legs. The 67-inch-long probes, whose tips had been latched against the inner parts of the legs, hinged on the undersides of the lateral and rear foot pads to project ‘straight down’. For Apollo 5 in February 1968, a Saturn IB had launched LM-1 absent its legs for an unmanned test. LM-3 had demonstrated the deployment of the legs on Apollo 9 in March 1969. At that time the design had included a probe on each of the pads but, at Armstrong’s request, it had been decided to delete the probe from the forward leg lest it be bent on touchdown in such a manner as to cause him to slip (or worse, puncture his suit) as he jumped backwards down off the ladder.

As Apollo 11 appeared around the trailing limb on revolution 12, Duke made them aware that communications had been restored. “Apollo 11, Houston. We’re standing by.’’ There was a lot of static on the downlinks. With no response, in all likelihood owing to the fact that he had not directed his call to a specific vehicle, Duke persisted. “Columbia, Houston. Do you read?’’

“Loud and clear,’’ Collins acknowledged.

“Eagle, Houston. Do you read?’’ No response.

“Eagle, do you read Columbia?’’ asked Collins.

“Yes,’’ acknowledged Aldrin. “I’m working on the high-gain right now.’’ He slewed the steerable dish as per the flight plan, but could not establish contact with Earth. “Are you in the right attitude, Mike?’’

“That’s affirm.’’

“Columbia, Houston,’’ called Duke.

“Houston, Columbia. You’re loud and clear.’’

“Eagle, Houston. Will you verify you are on the forward omni?’’ No response. “Columbia, Houston. We have no voice with Eagle. Would you please verify that Eagle is on the forward omni.’’

“Buzz,’’ Collins called. “Are you on the forward omni?’’ When there was no response, he repeated the call.

“Roger. I am,’’ confirmed Aldrin.

“Houston, Columbia. Eagle is on the forward omni.’’

Duke tried again, “Eagle, Houston.’’

“Roger, I’ve got you now,’’ acknowledged Aldrin. “I fed in those angles for the S – Band, and couldn’t get a lock-on. It appears as though the antenna would have to be looking through the LM in order to reach the Earth.’’

Because the docked vehicles were oriented to facilitate P22 landmark tracking shortly after flying around the limb, it was difficult for the boom-mounted S-Band antenna cluster on Columbia to point at Earth, and the body of the LM blocked the line of sight of its steerable dish. In this attitude the vehicles would have to rely on their respective omnidirectional antennas.

“Eagle, Houston. Could you give us an idea where you are in the activation?’’

“We’re just sitting around waiting for something to do,’’ Aldrin replied. “We need a state vector and a REFSMMAT before we can proceed to the AGS calibration, and we need you to watch our digital autopilot data load, the gimbal drive check and the throttle test.’’

Although Armstrong and Aldrin were well ahead in their LM activation, they were again obliged to wait until Houston was able to upload information and monitor their telemetry, which could not be done until they could use their high-gain antenna, which in turn meant waiting until Collins had performed his landmark

tracking. While getting ahead created a margin against encountering a problem that might slip them behind schedule, the need to do certain tasks at given times meant that being ahead early on did not in itself enable the process to be completed ahead of the flight plan.

“It’ll be about another 10 minutes or so before we get the P22 and manoeuvre to an attitude for the high-gain,’’ Duke pointed out.

Armstrong and Aldrin proceeded with those items that could be done using the low data-rate provided by an omnidirectional antenna.

“We’re ready to pressurise the RCS,’’ Aldrin announced.

“You can go ahead with RCS pressurisation,’’ Duke agreed, “but we’d like to hold off on the RCS hot-fire checks until we get the high bit-rate.’’

“Eagle, Columbia. My P22 is complete,’’ Collins reported. He manoeuvred to let the high-gain antennas on both of the vehicles see Earth, and communications markedly improved. With high data-rates on both its uplink and downlink, Eagle was able to complete data uploading and checkout.

“Houston, Eagle,’’ Aldrin called. “Both RCS helium pressures are 2,900 psi.’’ “Let me know when you come to your RCS hot-fire checks,’’ said Collins, “so I can disable my roll thrusters.’’

Fifteen seconds later, Aldrin announced that they were ready. “Columbia,’’ he called, “We’d like Attitude Hold with Wide Deadband.’’

“You got it,’’ Collins replied. A wide deadband on the Attitude Hold would allow the testing of Eagle’s thrusters to disturb the attitude of the docked vehicles without prompting Columbia’s control system to waste propellant in attempting to intervene. “My roll is disabled. Give me a call as soon as your hot-fire is complete, please.’’ “Houston, Eagle,’’ Aldrin called several minutes later. “The RCS hot-fire test is complete. How did you observe it?’’

“It looked super to us,’’ Duke confirmed.

“I’ve got my roll jets back on now,’’ Collins announced.

At this point, Kranz polled his flight controllers, and Duke relayed the result, “Apollo 11 Houston. You’re Go for undocking.’’

“Understand,’’ replied Aldrin.

Apollo 11 had proved the ability of the LM to land on the Moon, but the fact that it came down off target was frustrating. The ability to land within about 1,000 feet of a specific point was a prerequisite to being able to undertake a planned geological traverse. After the flight dynamics team had devised a simple method to correct for the perturbations of the mascons, they were so confident that they reduced the size of the target ellipse. In addition, it was decided to cut the number of backup sites from two to one. There were five prime sites on the short-list for the first landing. The easterly ALS-1 and ALS-2 sites in the Sea of Tranquility had been backed up by ALS-3 in the Meridian Bay, with ALS-4 and ALS-5 in the Ocean of Storms in reserve against a major launch delay. It would have been natural to send Apollo 12 to one of these sites, but the conservative constraints had resulted in the choice of ‘open’ sites, and the geologists were eager to sample the ejecta of a sizeable crater. In fact, even before Apollo 11, the site selectors had re-examined sites rejected due to the inconvenient proximity of a crater, and listed them for a later mission. In the end, however, in order to convincingly demonstrate the ability to address a ‘pin-point’ target it was decided to land alongside an unmanned probe. The relaxation of the operational constraints allowed the reinstatement of the Surveyor 1 site (ALS-6) in the Ocean of Storms. However, because this was so far west that it did not permit a backup, it was decided instead to visit Surveyor 3 in the eastern Ocean of Storms. Originally designated 3P-9, this site became ALS-7. Pete Conrad and Al Bean landed their LM, ‘Intrepid’, within 600 feet of Surveyor 3 on 19 November 1969. On their first excursion they deployed the deferred ALSEP, and during a 3-hour traverse the next day they ranged 1,200 feet from home, collected samples, and cut parts off the Surveyor as trophies. Meanwhile, in orbit, Dick Gordon photographed the site being considered for the next mission.

A pre-mission investigation of the morphology of the craters at the Apollo 12 site predicted that the regolith would not exceed 6 feet in thickness, and that the large impacts would have excavated bedrock. Whereas breccias and basalts were represented equally by number in the Apollo 11 samples, just two of the 34 rocks returned by Apollo 12 were breccias. The crystalline rocks were coarser and more texturally diverse. In view of the fact that they contained less titanium, it appeared, on reflection, that the basalt of the Sea of Tranquility was unusually enriched in this element. This chemical variation confirmed that the dark plains were not from a single source. Indeed, the fact that four kinds of basalt were identified at the Apollo 12 site meant that there had been several distinct flows in this local area.[52] However, the crystallisation dates clustered within a fairly narrow window, which suggested that the extrusions were the result of partial melting of pockets of rock at shallow depth. The initial results were confusing, but it was immediately recognised that something profound had been discovered concerning early lunar history. The first measurement yielded an age of 2.7 (±0.2) billion years, which meant a billion years had elapsed between the extrusions in the Sea of Tranquility and the Ocean of Storms. The next result pushed this up to 3.4 billion years, but as the analyses continued the dates converged on 3.2 billion years. This 500-million-year span in ages for the lavas at the two landing sites indicated that the driving process had been persistent. Geochemist Paul W. Gast made a surprising discovery in the basalts, in the form of an abundance of potassium, phosphorus and some of the ‘rare earth’ elements. By linking their chemical symbols, Gast coined the label ‘KREEP’. On trying to isolate this material, he realised that it was not present as a mineral. The term is an adjective, and it is more correct to describe the Ocean of Storms basalts as being KREEPy. By way of an ‘instant science’ explanation for the media, Gast suggested this chemical additive might have been picked up from the ancient crust that some scientists believed formed the ‘basement’ of the dark plains, and he even speculated that it might be associated with the putative light-toned basalt believed (by some) to be prevalent in the highlands, but when the material proved to be rich in radioactive elements, in particular thorium and uranium, it was realised that this could not be typical of the crust because the heat of radioactive decay would have prevented the crust from solidifying. This KREEPy additive became a mystery for a subsequent mission to resolve.

After being discarded, the ascent stage of the LM was deliberately de-orbited, and the ALSEP seismometer recorded the crust ‘ringing’ for nearly an hour with a signature quite unlike a terrestrial signal. At the Lunar Science Conference, Gary V. Latham, the principal investigator for the seismic instruments, noted it had been difficult to tell the difference between a moonquake and an impact until this strike had provided a point of reference, whereupon it was found that surprisingly few of the 150 seismic events on record were internal quakes. It seemed that the crust was brecciated to a depth of about 18 nautical miles, indicating that, after the crust had solidified, further impacts had churned this up to a considerable depth, forming a

‘megaregolith’. In order to probe to greater depths, it was decided that on future missions the spent S-IVB should be made to impact the Moon.

LUNAR SURFACE EXPERIMENTS

During a meeting in the summer of 1964 at Woods Hole, Massachusetts, the Space Science Board of the National Academy of Sciences listed basic questions relating to the Moon that ought to be studied either by spacecraft placed into lunar orbit or by instruments emplaced on the lunar surface.

On 19 November 1964, after tests conducted on an aircraft providing one-sixth gravity established that astronauts would be able to offload scientific instruments from the descent stage of the LM onto the lunar surface, the Manned Spacecraft Center began to study how instruments might be powered. It was decided that the best source would be a radioisotope thermal generator (RTG) in which heat was converted by thermocouples into electricity. The Grumman Aircraft Engineering Corporation of Bethpage, New York, which was developing the LM, was asked to give some thought to how an RTG might be packaged and carried. Grumman was also asked to develop a prototype for a container in which to return to Earth samples of lunar material. This would require to be carried on the exterior of the vehicle, accessed while on the surface, loaded, hermetically sealed, transferred into the ascent stage, and later passed through the tunnel into the command module and stowed for the flight home.

In January 1965 NASA undertook a time-and-motion investigation in order to assess how best to use the limited time that would be available to the first Apollo crew to land on the Moon. In May, a preliminary list of surface experiments was drawn up, and George E. Mueller, Director of the Office of Manned Space Flight, initiated a two-phase procurement process: the definition phase was to be done in parallel by a number of companies, one of which would be selected to develop the hardware for flight. In June the Manned Spacecraft Center set up the Experiments Program Office within its Engineering Development Directorate to manage all experiments for manned spacecraft, and Robert O. Piland, formerly deputy manager of the Apollo Spacecraft Program Office, was selected to head it. On 7 June Mueller approved the procurement of the Lunar Surface Experiments Package (LSEP) and assigned responsibility for its development to the Experiments Program Office. It was to be an RTG-powered suite of instruments that had to be able to be deployed

by two men in 1 hour, and was to transmit data to Earth for 1 year. Overall, it was envisaged as a passive seismometer to monitor moonquakes; an active seismometer that would detonate calibrated explosive charges in order to seismically probe the shallow subsurface; a gravimeter to measure tidal effects that might shed light on the deep interior; an instrument to measure the heat flowing from the interior; radiation and meteoroid detectors; and an instrument to analyse the composition of any lunar atmosphere. The instruments would be electrically connected to a central station that would transmit to Earth. Mueller specified that the package should be available for the first landing mission. On 3 August NASA announced that Bendix Systems, TRW Systems and Space-General Corporation had each been given a 6-month contract worth $500,000 to propose designs. On 14 October NASA contracted the General Electric Company to supply the RTG under the supervision of the Atomic Energy Commission. An instrument to investigate any lunar magnetic field was added to the suite on 15 December. By early 1966 the instrument suite had been renamed the Apollo Lunar Surface Experiments Package (ALSEP). On 16 March NASA Administrator James E. Webb decided that, in view of the company’s experience in developing experiments for automated lunar spacecraft, Bendix of Ann Arbor, Michigan, would receive the contract to design, manufacture, test and supply four ALSEPs (three flight units and one in reserve), the first of which was to be delivered no later than 1 July 1967.

Homer E. Newell, Associate Administrator for Space Science and Applications, wrote to Mueller on 6 July 1966, “the highest scientific priority for the Apollo mission is the return to Earth of lunar surface material’’, with the position of each sample being carefully documented prior to sampling. Newell recommended that on the first moonwalk the astronauts start by collecting an assortment of readily accessible samples (a ‘grab bag’ in the vernacular of field geology), deploy the ALSEP, and end with a ‘traverse’ to collect a number of ‘documented samples’, utilising a range of tools, including core tubes.

By the autumn of 1966 the magnetometer was having serious developmental problems, and the central data-processor was in a critical state. At the end of the year, NASA headquarters suggested that an instrument on the second ALSEP be brought forward as a replacement for the magnetometer, but as the scientists said that the magnetometer would be required to properly interpret the data from the other instruments, it was decided to develop a simpler magnetometer as a stand-by. It was also necessary to consider the ‘fuel cask’ of plutonium-238 for the RTG. The cask gave structural support and thermal insulation to the fuel capsule: in the case of the SNAP-27 unit for the ALSEP this comprised 8.4 pounds of plutonium. On the Moon, an astronaut would require to remove the 500°C fuel capsule from the cask on the exterior of the LM and insert it into the thermocouple assembly. When simulations revealed flaws in this procedure, the design had to be modified, and after several launch failures unrelated to the Apollo program the cask had also to be ‘hardened’ to ensure that it would not spill its contents. The Manned Spacecraft Center established the Science and Applications Directorate in December, which took over the activities of the Experiments Program Office and, as Newell had long urged, put science on a par with engineering and operations. Wilmot N. Hess, formerly of the Goddard Space Flight Center, was appointed as Director of the Science and Applications Directorate, with Piland as his deputy.

On 4 January 1967 Christopher C. Kraft, Director of Flight Operations at the Manned Spacecraft Center, said that if a lunar landing was to involve two surface excursions, the first outing should facilitate lunar environment familiarisation, an inspection of the vehicle, photographic documentation and contingency sampling. The ALSEP should be deployed on the second outing, and be followed by a more systematic geological survey. Conversely, if only one excursion was planned, that mission should not be provided with an ALSEP since its deployment would use a disproportionate amount of the time. This rationale applied particularly to the first landing, when the mass saved by deleting the instruments would undoubtedly be able to be put to good use. It was also decided that the astronauts should be provided with a rough time line but be allowed to make real-time decisions; the surface operations must not be micro-managed by Mission Control, at least not on the first mission, when there would be so many unknowns and the people on the spot would be best positioned to make decisions. On 16 March NASA announced that 110 scientists, including 27 working in laboratories outside the USA, had been selected to receive lunar samples. In June, Apollo Program Director Samuel C. Phillips formed an ad hoc team to review the status of the magnetometer. It was concluded that while the technical problems were certain to be resolved, the instrument was unlikely to be ready for the first landing, which at that time was thought might occur in the latter part of 1968. Unfortunately, neither would the simpler magnetometer be ready for that date, so work on this was terminated. Leonard Reiffel, on Phillips’s science staff, recommended on 20 June that in view of the uncertainties concerning an astronaut’s ability to work in one-sixth gravity, “an uncrowded time line’’ would be “more contributory to the advance of science than attempting to do so much that we do none of it well’’.

By mid-September 1967, on the basis of the LM spending 22.5 hours on the lunar surface, the planners recommended that two excursions should be defined, but the second, to follow a sleep period, should not be listed as a primary objective. The decision on whether to conduct the second excursion – on which the ALSEP would be deployed – should be made on the basis of the astronauts’ performance during the first outing. However, one year later, on 6 September 1968, with the LM significantly overweight and the development of the RTG behind schedule, Robert R. Gilruth, Director of the Manned Spacecraft Center, recommended that the first landing should make a single excursion of 2.5 hours; the ALSEP should not be carried (as it could not function without the RTG); the high-gain antenna for the television should not be carried (instead, the 210-foot-diameter antenna at Goldstone in California could receive a transmission from a smaller antenna on the LM); and the geological activities be restricted to the ‘minimum lunar sample’. As Gilruth put it, “I’m sure all will agree that if we successfully land on the Moon, transmit television directly from the surface, and return with lunar samples and detailed photographic coverage, our achievement will have been tremendous by both scientific and technological standards.’’ However, Hess argued for a compromise in which, in view of the development problems of the ALSEP, a smaller package should be assigned to this

mission using instruments that would be easier to deploy, with the duration of the outing being open ended. On 9 October the Manned Space Flight Management Council, chaired by Mueller, agreed to the development of three lightweight experiments for the first landing mission – a solar-powered passive seismometer, an unpowered laser reflector, and a solar wind composition experiment that would be deployed and later retrieved for return to Earth. It was decided to carry the erectable antenna for the television transmission in case the time of the moonwalk did not coincide with a line-of-sight to Goldstone. The mass saved by not carrying the ALSEP would allow more fuel to be carried, and thereby increase the time available for the hovering phase of the descent. In effect, the first landing was to be an ‘operational pathfinder’ for its successors. On 5 November Bendix was told to make the three-instrument Early Apollo Surface Experiments Package (EASEP), which was to be shipped by mid-May 1969. On 6 December Phillips said that if the special tools under development for the geological investigation were ready, and if the astronauts had sufficient time to train in their use, they would be carried. One such item was a camera designed by Thomas Gold, an astronomer at Cornell University. In the early 1960s he had argued, on the basis of radar reflections, that the lunar surface was a thick blanket of extremely fine dust into which a spacecraft would sink without trace, and he maintained this position even after automated landers settled on firm ground. His camera was designed to take stereoscopic close-up pictures of the lunar dust.

FIRST MAN OUT

At the press conference in Houston on 10 January 1969 that introduced the crew of Apollo 11, a reporter enquired about which of them would be first to set foot on the Moon. Armstrong turned to Deke Slayton, Director of Flight Crew Operations, for guidance. Slayton said the matter had not yet been decided, but would be resolved by the training exercises. This ambiguity provoked much speculation in the media. The Gemini precedent was that a commander remained in the spacecraft while his copilot undertook extravehicular activity. In March, after the success of Apollo 9 increased the likelihood of Apollo 11 being assigned the first lunar landing, Kraft and George M. Low, Manager of the Apollo Spacecraft Program Office in Houston, had an informal discussion and both felt that since the first man to set foot on the Moon should be a Lindbergh-like figure, Armstrong would be preferable to Aldrin. On hearing a rumour that Armstrong had been chosen to egress first because (despite his being a former naval aviator) he was ‘‘a civilian’’, Aldrin discussed the issue with Armstrong, who said simply that since it was not their decision to make they must wait and see. Several days later, Aldrin went to Low and urged that a decision be made in order to facilitate training. This was a reasonable request, because one of Aldrin’s assignments in planning the mission was to refine procedural issues. Low and Kraft then met with Gilruth and Slayton, and they formally decided that the first man to exit the LM would be Armstrong, if only for the fact that the hatch was hinged to open towards the man on the right, meaning that the man on the left, the

Portable life-support system 17

commander, must exit first. When Slayton called the astronauts into his office, he cited the hinge on the hatch as the reason for Armstrong being first out and last in.1 On Monday, 14 April, Low announced to the press that if all went well, Armstrong would be the first man to set foot on the lunar surface.

Apollo spacecraft CSM-107 was built by North American Rockwell at its plant at Downey, California. The conical command module was 11 feet 5 inches high, 12 feet 10 inches in diameter, and provided a habitable volume of 210 cubic feet. The cylindrical service module was 12 feet 10 inches in diameter and 24 feet 7 inches tall. Radial beams divided it into a central tunnel, which contained tanks of helium pressurant, and six outer compartments, four of which held propellant tanks, one contained the fuel cell system and the sixth was unused.9 The systems tests on the individual modules were completed on 12 October 1968, and the integrated tests on 6 December. The modules were flown to the Cape on 23 January 1969 by a ‘Super Guppy’ aircraft of Aerospace Lines. They were mated on 29 January, passed their combined systems testing on 17 February and altitude chamber tests on 24 March. At the Grumman Aircraft Engineering plant at Bethpage on Long Island, LM-5 completed its integrated test on 21 October 1968, and its factory acceptance test on 13 December. The ascent stage arrived at the Cape on 8 January 1969 and the descent stage on 12 January. After acceptance checks, the stages were mated on 14 February, passed their integrated systems tests on 17 February, and altitude chamber tests on 25 March. Overall, the vehicle stood 22 feet 11 inches tall. The descent stage was 10 feet 7 inches high and had a diagonal span of 31 feet across its foot pads. Two layers of parallel beams in a cruciform shape gave it a central cubic compartment (housing the descent engine), four cubic side compartments (each housing a propellant tank) and four triangular side compartments (carrying apparatus the astronauts would require during their moonwalk). The ascent stage comprised a pressurised crew compartment and midsection with a total volume of 235 cubic feet, and an unpressurised aft equipment bay.

The 138-foot-long, 33-foot-diameter S-IC first stage of the sixth launch vehicle in the Saturn V series was fabricated by Boeing at the Michoud Assembly Facility in Louisiana, and moved in a horizontal configuration by barge up the Intracoastal Waterway to the Mississippi Test Facility, arriving on 6 August 1968. It was then shipped around the southern tip of Florida, to the Kennedy Space Center. On arrival on 20 February 1969 the 24-wheeled trailer bearing the stage was offloaded by a

The fuel cell system had three fuel cells, two tanks of cryogenic oxygen and two tanks of cryogenic hydrogen, and provided 28 volts.

prime mover and driven into the ‘low bay’ annex of the Vehicle Assembly Building. The S-II second stage had the same diameter as the S-IC, but was only 81 feet 6 inches in length. After assembly at the North American Rockwell plant at Seal Beach in California, it was shipped via the Panama Canal to the Mississippi Test Facility, where it was tested on 3 October 1968. On arriving at the Cape on 6 February 1969, the S-II, complete with its 18-foot-tall aft interstage ‘skirt’, was driven on its 12­wheeled trailer to the low bay. After tests at the Douglas Aircraft Corporation facility in Sacramento, California, the S-IVB third stage was flown to the Cape by ‘Super Guppy’ on 19 January 1969. In all, some 12,000 companies across America participated in the production of the launch vehicle.

The principal structure of the Vehicle Assembly Building was 718 feet long, 517 feet wide and 525 feet tall. Its internal volume of almost 130 million cubic feet required a 10,000-ton air-conditioning system to prevent a ‘weather system’ with its own rainfall developing. The cavernous interior provided four ‘high bays’ for simultaneous assembly of Saturn V vehicles. Each pair of bays shared a bridge crane located 462 feet above the floor. The operator was in walkie-talkie contact with his colleagues at the work sites, and used a computer to move loads of up to 250 tons with a tolerance of 1/228th of an inch. Mobile Launch Platform 1 was a two-level steel structure 160 feet long, 135 feet wide and 25 feet high. At one end was the Launch Umbilical Tower, which rose 398 feet above the deck, and offset towards the other end of the platform was a 45-foot-square hole to allow launch vehicle exhaust to pass through. On 21 February the S-IC was hoisted, turned to vertical, and clamped to the supporting arms, one on each side of the hole. The S-II was added on 4 March. The next day the 260-inch-diameter S-IVB, now with its flared aft skirt fitted, was added, and the Instrument Unit containing the guidance system for the launch vehicle (which had arrived on 27 February) was placed on top. The 28-foot – long truncated-cone to house the LM and support the 154-inch-diameter CSM was fabricated at the North American Rockwell plant in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and delivered on 10 January. The integrated CSM, LM, adapter and launch escape system tower was referred to as the ‘spacecraft’ because it was the payload of the three-stage launch vehicle. Its addition on 14 April completed the ‘stack’. From the aperture of the F-1 engines of the first stage to the tip of the escape tower, the ‘space vehicle’, as the integrated launch vehicle and spacecraft was known, stood 363 feet tall. Nine hydraulically operated arms on the umbilical tower provided access to key sections of the vehicle.[17] The combined systems test of LM-5 was finished on 18 April. The integrated systems test of CSM-107 was completed on 22 April, and the spacecraft was electrically mated with the launch vehicle on 5 May. The overall test of the space vehicle was accomplished on 14 May.

The 6-million-pound transporter for the mobile launch system was 131 feet long,

VHF ANTENNA(2)

TRANSFcR TUNNEL AND OVERHEAD HATCH

EVA ANTENNA

AFT EQUIPMENT BAY

REPLACEABLE ELECTRONIC ASSEMBLY

FUEL TANK (REACTION CONTROL)

REACTION CONTROL

INGRESS/EGRESS HATCH

CREW COMPARTMENT

LAND NG

PAD (4)

LUNAR SURFACE SENSING PROBE

A cutaway diagram of the two LM stages.

Launch Escape System (LES)

ty, ‘ у Command module (CM)

Service module (SM)

Spacecraft/LM adapter (SLA)

Lunar Module (LM)

Instrument Unit (IU)

S-IVB

From the point of view of the Saturn V launch vehicle, the ‘spacecraft’ comprises the Launch Escape System, the CSM, and the LM contained within the adapter.

The space vehicle for Apollo 11 is ‘stacked’ in the Vehicle Assembly Building (clockwise from top left): a crane hoists the S-IC on 21 February; the S-II is added on 4 March; the S-IVB is added on 5 March; and the spacecraft is added on 14 April 1969.

114 feet wide, and travelled on four independent double-tracked crawlers, each ‘shoe’ of which weighed about 1 ton. The access road was comparable in width to an 8-lane highway. It comprised three layers, averaging a total depth of 7 feet. The base was a 2-foot-6-inch-thick layer of hydraulic fill. Next was a 3-foot-thick layer of crushed rock. This was sealed by asphalt. On top was an 8-inch layer of river rock to reduce friction during steering. The vehicle was operated jointly by drivers in cabs located on opposite diagonals, who communicated by intercom. On 20 May the Apollo 11 space vehicle was driven to Pad A, the southernmost of the two launch sites of Launch Complex 39. Because the concrete pad was built above ground level to accommodate a 43-foot-tall flame deflector in the flame trench, the transporter had to climb a 5 per cent gradient while tilting the platform such that the tip of the launch escape system tower did not diverge more than 1 foot from the vertical alignment. Once in position, hydraulic jacks lowered the platform to emplace it on six 22-foot-high steel pedestals on the pad. In all, the ‘roll out’ lasted 6 hours. In its final orientation, the umbilical tower stood towards the north, with the axis of the central trench aligned north and south. After the transporter had withdrawn, the flame deflector was rolled in beneath the hole in the platform. On 22 May, the transporter collected the Mobile Service Structure from its parking place alongside the access road, and delivered it to the pad. The flight readiness test was completed on 6 June. The countdown demonstration test started on 27 June; the ‘wet’ phase was completed on 2 July, and the ‘dry’ phase on 3 July. As Kurt H. Debus, Director of the Kennedy Space Center, once said in jest, ‘‘When the weight of the paperwork equals the weight of the stack, it is time to launch!’’