Category Why Mars

In December 1964, following preliminary studies by NASA, JPL, and industry, NASA’s Science Directorate, the Office of Space Science and Applications, of­ficially established Voyager as a flight program. Like Mariner, it was conceived as a program, not a single project. OSSA projected a mission to launch the first Voyager spacecraft as early as 1971, with successor flights at later two-year Mars opportunities. Webb, who could deal with LBJ on a one-on-one basis, obtained President Johnson’s assent to include modest definitional start-up funds in the budget Johnson sent to Congress in early 1965. By the end of 1965, buoyed by Mariner 4’s success, Congress approved Voyager.

NASA started with strong scientific support for Voyager. The National Acad­emy of Sciences Space Science Board declared in 1965, “The biological explora­tion of Mars is a scientific undertaking of the greatest validity and significance. Its realization will be a milestone in the history of human achievement. Its im­portance and the consequences for biology justify the highest priority among all scientific objectives in space, indeed, in the space program as a whole.”1 Mariner 4 findings seemed to have made it all the more imperative for Mars advocates with an interest in finding life to have a lander program. They saw no other way to answer their questions.

However, while Congress went along with the initiation of Voyager, the schedule and longer-term prospects were uncertain. The political and funding

environment of NASA began to change rapidly for the worse. NASA budgets peaked in 1965-1966. The Vietnam War and Johnson’s Great Society began to place increasing burdens on the overall federal budget. NASA was clearly catching up to the Russians in the race to the Moon, and some of the urgency behind NASA was ebbing. NASA was still a national priority, but other national needs had arisen. The result was less money for “new starts” or implementation of those that were authorized.

In this shifting environment, various NASA centers looked for work in al­ternative areas. The Langley Research Center in Hampton, Virginia, saw op­portunity in Voyager. An aeronautics center, Langley could boast expertise in the science and technology of landing. JPL did not take kindly to Langley’s foray into JPL’s bureaucratic turf, but Langley had support for a role in Mars activ­ity in OSSA. Edgar Cortright, Newell’s deputy, reacted positively to Langley’s proposed Mars entry system at a meeting in 1965. Langley got a go-ahead to continue developing its ideas.2

While JPL and Langley jockeyed for roles, major decisions at the NASA Administrator’s level were under way with implications for both centers. The in­ability to get new programs authorized or funded adequately increasingly trou­bled Webb. He knew that he had to sell a post-Apollo program before NASA reached the Moon to avoid a major downsizing problem for his agency in the early 1970s. He was having difficulty getting the president to focus on post – Apollo goals. Johnson kept telling Webb to wait until next year. The problem was the production line of Saturn 5 rockets (the Moon rockets). To have future uses for more Saturn 5s, NASA needed post-Apollo programs, and it had none.

Once NASA got to the Moon, what would it do? Build a Moon base? Go to Mars? Decisions needed to be made. Without decisions justifying more work on Saturn 5s, von Braun’s Marshall Space Flight Center might have to start laying off rocket engineers. Webb went to Johnson and Congress and explained that it made no sense to spend so much money to create an unparalleled rocket/ spacecraft system and then not keep it going and put it to use. He received sympathy, but no decisions, and decisions had to start soon with the president and his budget given lengthy technology development times.

Webb got Voyager approved by his political masters at a time when NASA’s budget was still ample. It had not been authorized as a “post-Apollo” program, but Webb sought quietly to use it in this way. He did so by choosing to launch Voyager spacecraft by Saturn 5 rockets. This move in October 1965 shocked JPL, Langley, and the scientific community, because the spacecraft they con­

templated did not need so huge a booster. In fact, it would enlarge the scale and substantially raise the cost of Voyager as a program. It would also complicate roles, for the decision meant von Braun would be deeply involved in manage­ment decisions—maybe in charge. Newell tried to sell the use of Saturn 5s to the Mars scientists, however. From his standpoint, OSSA should have use of Saturn 5s and would find uses for this massive capability. He told the SSB, in seeking endorsement, “Fellows, if you don’t help me, George [Mueller, associate admin­istrator of the Office of Manned Space Flight, and bitter rival of Newell] will get all the Saturn 5s.”3 However, there were many scientists inside and especially outside NASA who worried that a Saturn-driven Voyager would take money from smaller scientific robotic programs they wanted.

The Saturn 5 decision ignited a debate within the Mars science community. The debate had many nuances, but at its heart was a question of priorities. There were scientists who were not exobiologists who envisioned a string of Mariner flights to Mars at every two-year launch opportunity. They saw robotic Mars exploration in incremental and multidimensional terms, leading gradually to Voyager’s landing. Murray of Caltech was most articulate in expressing these concerns.4 He was an avid Mars advocate, although a skeptic about finding life on the Red Planet. He and his allies wanted a more comprehensive Mariner program that would systematically study geologic, meteorological, and numer­ous other disciplinary questions in addition to biology. Murray was himself a planetary geologist, and he believed that understanding the Mars physical en­vironment came first and was intrinsic to detecting life on Mars—if there was life on Mars. Exobiologists did not necessarily disagree with this gradualist, comprehensive approach, but they were anxious to get moving as fast as possible toward Voyager. After all, they reasoned, finding life was the big prize, and why not go for it while they could?

The real pressure for more direct flight to Mars came not from scientists but from NASA leadership, and the issue was use of the Saturn 5. Once Webb made that decision, it was obvious that not science but post-Apollo needs were his reasons for the Voyager priority. Moreover, cost considerations in a steady – state NASA budget might mean eliminating possible intervening Mars Mariner flights. Doing so did not sit well with scientists generally or with JPL. But JPL found its own influence in NASA decision making slipping. In the first half of the 1960s, when headquarters was overwhelmingly preoccupied with the Moon, JPL was where the most important technical decisions affecting Mariner were made. In the second half of the decade, headquarters began pulling decisions upward as it thought about the future, and NASA funding became constrained. Plans called for managing Voyager in an Apollo mode, with a strong headquar­ters director making use of multiple NASA centers, industry, and universities.5 The “incrementalists” and Saturn 5 “leaper” camps were both represented in OSSA, but OSSA was not making the Saturn 5 decision.

Pickering, seeing competition from Langley for Voyager, tried to be sup­portive of larger NASA decisions. He said he wanted to move toward Voyager as soon as possible but did not want to eliminate Mariner flights. Some head­quarters officials described the JPL attitude as “schizophrenic.”6 As Koppes, in his history of JPL, wrote, “The ambivalence about, and outright opposition to, Voyager derived from the fundamental question of what the laboratory should be. . . . Voyager would entail a huge expansion of JPL. . . the sheer size of the project would divert the laboratory from the in-house tasks that Pickering and the senior staff considered vital to its elan and substitute extensive monitoring of industrial contracts. JPL staff were ‘doers’ rather than ‘managers,’ and Mariner – type projects allowed them to do what they had come to the laboratory to do.”7

Voyager’s high-level proponents in headquarters were aware of the resis­tance to Saturn 5-Voyager within the scientific community and at JPL. JPL’s attitudes, and traditional independence in general, did not help its cause with NASA Headquarters in decisions about roles in the Voyager program which JPL might play vis-a-vis Langley. Nor did JPL’s use of the California congres­sional delegation to get its way go over well with Webb.

President Johnson postponed post-Apollo decision making as long as he could. At the end of 1966, he acquiesced to Webb’s importunings. As January 1967 began, Johnson sent a budget to Congress that provided $71.5 million to begin developing Voyager hardware using a Saturn 5 rocket. The proposed program would send two large orbiters and landers to Mars in 1973 (a slip from the previously projected 1971 launch) and then do so again in 1975. It was im­plicit that those two missions were the beginning of a major robotic exploration program that would extend further in time and destination. Mars would come first, but NASA would develop a capability to explore the solar system.

The budget also included for the first time funds to start an Apollo Applica­tions Program (AAP) that would also use Saturn 5s in near-Earth orbit. The Skylab “space station” effort would evolve from this activity. The point of both AAP and Voyager from Webb’s perspective was to sustain institutional infra­structure and technological capability in space after the Moon landing, pending the nation’s readiness to make a national policy decision akin to Apollo. The only decision that could be like Apollo in size and dramatic challenge would be one about human flight to Mars. Webb was thus buying time for his agency in a deteriorating political environment. Voyager would be justified publicly in its own right, on the basis of science, but it was also a means to an unstated end— keeping Saturn rockets, von Braun’s center, and human space exploration going.

Webb also wanted to link von Braun to Voyager not only technically but politically. The famed rocket engineer and Marshall Space Flight Center direc­tor had dreamed of going to Mars for years. Webb believed that von Braun could help him sell Voyager in the difficult budget climate. Telling von Braun he could build not only the Saturn 5s for Voyager but also “the main vehicle that would stay in orbit around Mars,” Webb “wanted to link the Voyager to Dr. von Braun’s name and to a proven management team.” He even asked von Braun to move to Washington at least for a time to help sell the program to Congress.8

July 20 came. The Soviets had landed twice, once in 1972 and then in 1974. The first lander had survived 20 seconds and the second most likely crashed, neither transmitting pictures back. Would the United States meet a similar fate? Mars was 212 million miles away as the flight controllers at JPL made the decisions that separated the lander from Viking’s orbiter. Then came the slow descent, begun with a parachute, braced by retro-rockets, as the lander neared the surface. Because of the distance between Earth and Mars, Viking could land—or crash—19 minutes before anyone on Earth would know which fate had occurred. NASA had prepared two press statements: one for success, one for failure. Naugle called the wait the longest of his life.57 It was “nail-biting time,” Martin later said. Mutch looked at his shoes as he waited and silence engulfed the mission control room. Dreading failure, he composed a statement of condolence for friends standing near him.

“A muffled prayer came over the loudspeaker. ‘Come on, baby,’ said a voice.” Finally, the waiting and agony ended: “We have touchdown.”58 When the signal came that Viking had landed safely at 5:12 a. m. (PDT), everyone at JPL gave a loud cheer, followed by hugs, laughs, and other expressions of sheer relief. Hinners cried, as did Lee (whose wife was still days away from giving birth).59 Pictures later showed that Viking came within 10 feet of hitting a huge boulder, and almost certain failure.60

Politicians and the media joined in the celebration. Headlines across the United States and beyond congratulated NASA for what the New York Times called a “superb and triumphant achievement.”61 As Viking sent back the first color pictures of Mars, revealing a light blue sky (later determined to be an imaging error; the sky was pink) above reddish land, there was rapt attention to the mission. President Gerald Ford was among those who greeted the news and photos with awe and excitement. He personally called to congratulate Fletcher, Martin, and the NASA team.62

Viking had passed its first great test in landing. Now all it had to do was find life.

Mars Observer was still on target for 1992. However, it was not exactly un­troubled. Its budget was mounting from the $250 million slated for the first in a series of low-cost “planetary observers” its original architects had planned.33 The administration and Congress had approved only one Observer, not a pro­gram of closely coupled missions, and this initial “low-cost” venture was up to at least $450 million in cost in 1988, not counting launch expenses. The problems causing growth were many, but the basic reason for the cost overrun was that Observer was increasingly vital to all stakeholders: NASA, JPL, scientists, the industrial contractors, administration, Congress, and even the Soviet Union.

Seeing Observer as the first U. S. Mars spacecraft in the years since Viking, Mars scientists were desperate to get their experiments on the machine. NASA, JPL, and their political masters did not want it to fail, especially now that it embraced foreign policy purposes. NASA sought to reduce risk through various technological safeguards. Virtually all involved agreed that the delay from I990 to I992 made it all the more essential that the scientific payoff be substantial. Moreover, the use of a shuttle added to the pressures to make the mission wor­thy of the huge launch cost.

Indicative of how costs could rise was a decision in 1986 by Edelson. He had personally ordered that a sophisticated new camera developed by Michael Malin, then at JPL, be put on Observer. He thereby overruled Malin’s JPL superior, who had tried to keep it off. “I’m not going to approve of any mission to Mars, or any planet that doesn’t have a camera aboard,” Edelson had de­clared.34 The decision had merit, but so did other decisions that added expense. Briggs, as NASA official responsible for the flight at headquarters, tried hard to keep costs down, struggling with a host of stakeholders for whom technical suc­cess loomed largest in values. He did not succeed. Many headquarters officials shared the performance-oriented values of those doing the work at JPL.35 Thus, formally and informally, the mission was redefined and grew in instruments and complexity over time.

The rising expense became so much an issue that Briggs in May 1988 asked the Space Science Board’s Committee on Planetary and Lunar Exploration (COMPLEX) what instruments might be taken off Mars Observer. The com­mittee refused to say, declaring,

For whatever reasons, Mars Observer has now outgrown all the original Observer class parameters. Moreover, it is clear from the recently promulgated OSSA strategic plan that with the failure to establish a true Observer line, MO almost surely represents the only mission to Mars by this nation in the coming decades. COMPLEX therefore takes the position that in these circumstances MO cannot be judged by the criteria for science return that would apply to Observer-class missions as initially conceived by the Solar System Exploration Committee. Consequently, the potential surrender of any current mission capability that substantially addresses the primary science objectives established for the exploration of Mars is a matter of great concern to the committee.36

On July 19, Fisk went to JPL and met with Allen, the director of the facil­ity. They agreed, via a “handshake,” to descope the mission, removing certain instruments. At the same time, they concurred that NASA would add the Mars balloon relay, with funding from outside the Mars Observer project, to enable possible U. S.-USSR collaboration.37

Although human exploration was the long-term goal, the search for life in the universe was the immediate driver for Mars activities. Goldin went on CNN after the December 1996 Gore workshop on the Mars meteorite and said he would provide money to nurture astrobiology.59 Huntress had coined the term, a change from Viking-era “exobiology.”60 He wanted to convey a broader search for life in line with recent discoveries of extrasolar planets and possible water under Jupiter’s ice-laden Europa moon. The new term also aimed to herald a new beginning in NASA’s search for life.

Goldin designated Ames Research Center in California as home to a new Astrobiology Institute. Ames had been in jeopardy. It was an old aeronautics center whose role had diminished over the years. Senator Barbara Boxer (D – CA) had urged Goldin to secure Ames, and Goldin told her not to worry. NASA needed a lead center for astrobiology, and Ames was the logical place. It had always had an interest in life sciences and had played an important role in that respect in the Viking era through the pioneering work of biologist Chuck Klein. It had helped keep life-on-Mars research alive in the hiatus years after Viking. Goldin also asked Soffen, who had been lead scientist in Viking, but who had worked at NASA in the Earth observation field subsequently, to return to the life-search quest. He asked him to assist in planning for how NASA should rebuild the astrobiology field. The search for life on Mars and in the universe was now Goldin’s vision and rhetoric for NASA.

What Soffen and others told him, and Goldin well knew, was that NASA and the planetary science community had few life scientists in their ranks. In July, Goldin spoke at the American Astronomical Society meeting and asked his large audience, “How many life scientists are in this room?” Practically no one raised a hand. If we are going to search for life, said Goldin, we are going to need life scientists. He announced that NASA was creating an Astrobiology Institute that would bring traditional planetary scientists and life scientists together.61 Even though NASA’s budget was constricted, Goldin proclaimed he would add astrobiology to his list of priorities. Although based at Ames, the institute would enlist an astrobiology community elsewhere, especially at universities. The in­tent was to rebuild a field of science which had become almost moribund after Viking.

Mars momentum was growing rapidly, the meteorite had been a catalyst, and then came the spectacular impact on the public of the Pathfinder mission. Launched in 1996, Pathfinder landed on Mars on July 4, 1997. For the first time in two decades, an object from Earth had made it successfully to the Red Planet. Pathfinder’s task was not to search for life, but to demonstrate that a faster, bet­ter, cheaper mission could work at Mars. Its role was to establish credibility for the 10-year Mars Surveyor Program. Moreover, it carried a small rover, named Sojourner, and its goal was to show that such a vehicle could maneuver at Mars.

Everything about the Pathfinder/Sojourner mission was fascinating, in­cluding the way the landing was accomplished. Surrounded and protected by a cocoon of airbags, Pathfinder hit the ground and then bounced as high as a five-story building. Then it bounced again, 20 times, before coming to rest a mile from the initial landing point, on an ancient floodplain amidst rocks and boulders.62 When Huntress, who was at JPL witnessing the landing, heard someone announce, “Full stop,” he “jumped up and screamed.” He ran to the mission team. Many were in tears, and one turned to him and said, “Thanks for giving us the responsibility to do this.” Such a heartfelt statement of apprecia­tion “broke me up,” Huntress remembered.63

All the scientists and NASA officials at JPL rejoiced and then celebrated again the next day when Sojourner, a six-wheeled rover, rolled from its carrier and inched along the surface. It eventually met with rocks that got names such as Barnacle Bill, Yogi, Scooby Doo, and Boo-Boo.64

Pathfinder was an unalloyed triumph. Headlines everywhere proclaimed the success, as did appreciative editorials in leading newspapers. Both Clinton and Gore issued congratulatory statements to NASA, and Gore called JPL to praise all those associated with the mission. After so many years and a sequence of failures (Russian and U. S.), it was marvelous to have what was universally seen as a great success.65 Striking pictures of Mars were shown on television, and Clinton admitted he couldn’t get enough of watching them. Gore declared that the “validity” of faster, better, cheaper was being borne out by Pathfinder.66

Huntress was ecstatic: “This mission,” he said, “has demonstrated quite clearly that we can in fact build and launch planetary missions for a low cost.” And low costs “will allow us to continuously launch these missions and provide the American public with the excitement, the drama, and the knowledge that comes from our solar system exploration program.”67

It was obvious that Pathfinder and Sojourner had hit a nerve with the public. NASA released images quickly not only to the media, but to the Internet. This decision to use the Internet brought about the largest virtual participation in exploration by people since the world watched the Apollo Moon landing in 1969. Indeed, no event up to this time had as many “hits” on the Internet—80 million a day in the first days, 450 million by the beginning of August. Various observers commented excitedly on the phenomenon: “It wasn’t just the media that’s picked up on this story,” said Alex Roland, a Duke University history pro­fessor and former NASA historian. “People of their own volition are turning to it in incredible numbers.”68 What was especially impressive, said another NASA watcher, Jerry Grey of the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics, was that this achievement came on “a shoestring” budget. Louis Friedman, ex­ecutive director of the Planetary Society, said that the mission had “reawakened the image of NASA as ‘the can do’ agency.” John Logsdon, space policy profes­sor at George Washington University, called Pathfinder a “robotic folk hero” with the public.69

NASA made the most of the public’s interest, emphasizing cost-benefit com­parisons, pointing out that Pathfinder had cost taxpayers $250 million, whereas Viking would have cost, in 1997 money, $3.6 billion.70 Viking employed thou­sands, whereas Pathfinder only a few hundred. Goldin personally gained enor­mous credit, and he said Pathfinder was just the beginning of NASA’s assault on the Red Planet.

Pathfinder and Sojourner were destined to gradually cease operating in Sep­tember, but while they were highest on the public consciousness, Goldin paid tribute to the late Carl Sagan. He held a special ceremony honoring the famous astronomer, writer, Mars advocate, and advisor to Goldin. With Sagan’s widow, Ann Druyan, present, Goldin named Pathfinder a memorial station for Sagan.71 Sagan thus joined former Viking scientist and NASA official Tim Mutch as having a memorial station on Mars.

On September ii, 1997, MGS, also launched in 1996, moved into Mars orbit. Its goal was to map Mars in unprecedented detail, almost as much as Mars Observer was to do. NASA again pointed to the difference in spending. NASA priced Mars Observer at $i billion. This mission cost $250 million.

To get into proper lower orbit, MGS used aerobraking, a method by which

it employed the friction of Mars’s atmosphere to slow the descent. However, when it sought to do so, the air resistance caused one of the solar panels needed to power the craft to bend too far backward. NASA had to reposition the space­craft to a higher orbit and replan the mission. The solar panel in question had apparently been damaged earlier in the flight; hence, there was serious concern of added harm. In November, NASA concluded that it could save the mission by very gradually lowering the orbit. This approach would minimize the atmo­spheric resistance, but it would take an extra year before MGS would be in its optimal orbit.72 NASA decided to take the time; the process of a slow aerobrak – ing began. The prognosis was positive.

The NASA budget Clinton proposed in February 1998 was $13.5 billion, a modest decline from the previous year. However, space science fared extremely well, getting another 4% increase.73 With budget balancing continuing to be top priority for the president and Congress, this raise was impressive. Huntress used the good news for science as an occasion to announce he had decided to leave NASA after heading space science since 1993. “We seemed to be on a roll,” he later commented. He felt it was the right time to retire.74 He was also exhausted. Joseph Boyce, one-time NASA chief scientist, marveled that he had lasted this long. Huntress “had the highest threshold of pain I’ve seen,” said Boyce. He saw Goldin “embarrass him in public. Rip him apart. But he knew how to get things out of Goldin. He kept his eye on the ball.”75

Huntress gave way to Weiler, who had run the Origins initiative. Age 49 at the time, Weiler was an experienced science manager who had honed his internal and external political skills earlier as science leader of the Hubble Space Telescope. Pugnacious in style, he got along with Goldin. Because he was a single parent of a child with health problems, he had to leave his office at 4 p. m. Goldin gave Weiler the OK for this need but kept in touch with Weiler via a pager. He called Weiler at any time, day or night, seven days a week.76 Weiler took over at a time of consensus in the White House and Congress that space science, especially Mars, should be protected from budgetary vagaries. The Mars rock was obviously the chief reason for this view.

In the time since the Mars rock announcement, scientific skepticism about the claims had grown, however. A University of Arizona-Scripps Institution of Oceanography study contended that 80% of the organic materials in the rock came from terrestrial contamination. JSC’s McKay found the new report “inter­esting,” but said the team stood by its original contention. Richard Zare of Stan­ford, the most prominent scientist on the team, said the research “cast doubt”

but was not “a refutation” of the life hypothesis.77 He did not believe minds had changed one way or the other since the claim was first announced. What was different, he said, was that prior to the Mars rock, “if you talked about searching for life on another planet, you were considered a nut. It has now become a huge topic that is attracting the best scientists.” Weiler said there would be no settling the Mars debate “until we go there and get some samples.”78

Whatever the scientific debate, the rock, combined with Pathfinder’s pub­lic impact, gave NASA’s Mars exploration program much greater momentum. Goldin saw search for life as the kind of exciting vision that could unify activities in the agency and build support outside.

Origins was a compelling theme for all NASA missions beyond Earth. Astro – biology was now an ongoing activity at NASA, with Ames the lead center. Scott Hubbard, the senior space scientist at Ames who had conceptualized Pathfinder in its formative stage, was working to relate astrobiology to flight missions.79 In 1998, NASA formally established its Astrobiology Institute. This was seen as a “virtual” organization, with many institutions involved in government and the university world. Soffen assisted Goldin and worked with others to get the institute started. Soffen was at an age when he could have retired, but he wanted to help fulfill his own much-delayed dream.

In May, NASA announced the selection of 11 academic and research insti­tutions as the first members of the Astrobiology Institute, calling it “a major component of NASA’s Origins Program.”80 Goldin asked Hubbard to take over for Soffen, now that the institute was under way. Like Soffen, Hubbard was “in­terim.” Goldin said he intended to recruit a “King Kong” biologist to head the new institute.81 The next year Goldin hired the 73-year-old Baruch Blumberg, a biochemist who had won a Nobel Prize, to be its official director.

Also in May 1998, Goldin gave a commencement address at the University of Arizona. He urged the graduates to have a dream and follow it. “Mine,” he said, “is an astronaut on Mars—in a nice, white spacesuit set against a red back­ground, with a NASA logo on one shoulder and an American flag on the other.” In August, he spoke at a memorial for Alan Shepard, the recently deceased first American to fly into space. “Alan,” he promised, “America will go to Mars.”82

Zubrin helped fuel this momentum from outside. The Mars Underground was gone, with Goldin acquiring one of the last remaining red identity buttons from its early days as a quasi-secret society. He “begged me for a button,” Carol Stoker recalled.83 In the Underground’s place was Zubrin’s newly organized Mars Society, which held its first meeting in Boulder in August. At least 750 people from 40 countries paid $180 to attend the four-day conference to make a case for sending humans to Mars. While emphasizing human exploration, Zubrin wanted the robotic program to scout the way. He urged that its budget be doubled.84

The sense of progress was surely felt at JPL. Charles Elachi, director ofJPL’s Space and Earth Science Program, headed a study for how to return samples of soil and rock from Mars, and Goldin approved plans he worked out. Norm Haynes, now Mars program director at JPL, spoke of returning four samples from four separate locations on Mars by 2011.85 His boss, Ed Stone, JPL direc­tor, was caught up in the sense of optimism that permeated the agency, and Stone pressed Haynes hard for action.86 Maybe it would be possible to go even sooner than 2005, some Mars advocates said.

The “yes, we can” mood was embodied in Elachi. Elachi called for sending two MSR landers, perhaps one as early as 2003 and another in 2005. An orbiter would collect samples in 2007 and return them to Earth in 2008. Asked to advise NASA, a panel of the SSB, while applauding the goal of MSR and endorsing the Elachi plan, nevertheless expressed some concerns that it was “aggressive” and entailed “risk.” It stated “low confidence” that NASA had the money for such a multistage mission. It called for a more “comprehensive” approach to under­stand the context of Mars as an abode of life, past or present.87 NASA’s scientific advisors did not wish to deter the agency from speeding toward a goal the Mars community had long sought, but they clearly were worried that NASA might be going too hard, too fast, too narrowly with insufficient resources.

Goldin pushed, and there were some doubters, but most connected with Mars in NASA and at JPL shared Goldin’s enthusiasm and longing. Doubters within NASA tended to keep quiet. No one wanted to be associated with what Huntress had called the “old guard.” NASA was launching two missions to Mars every two years under its Mars Surveyor Program. These were faster, better, cheaper missions. They were now geared to the accelerated goal of MSR. So far they were successful. In December, NASA launched Mars Climate Orbiter (MCO) and followed it up a month later with Mars Polar Lander (MPL). These were half the size of their predecessors (Pathfinder and MGS). The polar lander mission was in part a fulfillment of Lederberg’s desire to “go north” for landing in the Viking era. This was where Lederberg had thought life was most likely to be found. Unfortunately, Lederberg, who had helped pioneer the search for life on Mars, had died in February 1998.

NASA added two penetrators to MPL which would bore as deep as three feet below the planet’s surface. MGS, meanwhile, was gradually wending its way into an optimal orbit, and already sending back striking images. Ironically, one of its first findings was to prove that a “face” on Mars some enthusiasts still believed to have been carved by intelligent beings, and which Viking had detected, was a mesa.88

America was going to Mars. And so were the Japanese. Japan, in July, had successfully launched its first Mars probe, Planet B. Like the U. S. spacecraft, it was scheduled to arrive in 1999. The excitement and ambition among Mars advocates were palpable. As people got to see Mars, even vicariously, they would start to comprehend that there was a fascinating world out there, Zubrin said. It was time for “political action,” he proclaimed.89

In late 1998, NASA sent the elderly ex-astronaut, Senator John Glenn, back into space on a shuttle. It was a media extravaganza, as well as an occasion for national celebration and nostalgia for past glory. Walter Cronkite, who had cov­ered the Apollo landing for television news, came out of retirement to interview Clinton at Cape Canaveral at the time of the launch. Clinton said that he was open to more financial support to NASA for the International Space Station. However, human spaceflight to Mars would have to wait. “Let’s get the Space Station up and going and [then] evaluate what our long-term prospects are,” he told Cronkite.90 Where Mars was concerned, the robotic program held center stage, it seemed to be performing exceptionally well, and there was political support up to the president.

On August 28, CAIB released its report on the Columbia disaster. It found that the immediate, technical cause of the shuttle accident was a chunk of foam that had been jarred loose during takeoff and hit a vulnerable part of the shuttle with sufficient force to cause a rupture. On entering Earth’s atmosphere, the enormous heat that built up penetrated the shuttle and caused it to disintegrate. CAIB went beyond the technical explanation to score NASA on numerous or­ganizational fronts, all of which revealed the agency to be less vigilant than it should have been. Finally, it went beyond even NASA to criticize the “failure of national leadership” in space policy. National leaders had not had the will to replace the aging shuttle or provide the vision and money a robust human space program required. CAIB wanted a national policy response—a new vision for the space program. CAIB urged the president and Congress to give NASA a higher purpose for risking human lives, one that was greater than sending people around and around in near-Earth orbit.

Following the publication of the CAIB report, Congress held hearings, mak­ing its own inquiry about what had gone wrong and what specifically NASA was doing to improve the safety situation. The congressional hearing showed that many lawmakers wanted NASA to have a bolder goal and grander “vision” than it had. Exactly what that might be was undecided, however.27

In his first year, O’Keefe had not wanted to talk about destinations. After Columbia, and particularly the new pressures for a bold and clear vision, he was open to possibilities. He understood that that vision would ultimately have to come from the president.

Prior to Columbia, Bush had shown little interest in space. After Columbia, he said “our journey into space will go on.” But what did that mean? O’Keefe, using the leverage he had owing to his connections with Vice President Cheney, organized a small but high-level interagency group of White House and cabinet officials to recommend an answer to that question. The chair of the group was Steve Hadley, deputy director of the National Security Council.28 It was delib­erately a “trans-NASA” body, an attribute that would potentially help it make a recommendation with a more “national policy” base.

The group met periodically behind closed doors in the summer and well into the fall. It considered a range of possibilities. O’Keefe wanted a big decision, but also one that was affordable. Over time, the group decided that a return to the Moon made sense technically and financially. Bush, informed of the committee’s

preliminary thinking, indicated that the Moon was not exciting enough. He wanted to add Mars, much as his father had, in his aborted Moon-Mars initia­tive. The culmination of the planning effort came on December 19. O’Keefe, Cheney, Hadley, presidential science advisor John Marburger, top political advi­sor Karl Rove, and others gathered in the Oval Office with Bush. After looking at decision papers and budget numbers, Bush noted that the decision stressed return to the Moon. “This is more than just about the Moon, isn’t it?” he asked. With some prompting from Cheney, the group responded with “yes.” “Well,” said the president, “let’s do it!” He told Hadley to work out the time and place for the official announcement.29

In June, MSL went through a Critical Design Review (CDR), the most signifi­cant decision point since the 2006 PDR. It revealed that some of the problems that had surfaced at the PDR, especially those of the actuators, had not been solved. NASA would have to go back to more conventional actuators, and that would add money and time. Figueroa, who chaired the CDR, warned Stern he would need to put more money into MSL and should not make any unnecessary changes in design. But Stern was determined to speed MSR. By September,

Stern faced the reality that if he wanted to add a sample-collecting capability to MSL, he would have to subtract certain other capabilities. The problem was that costs kept going up. He had taken office promising to end what he called management by checkbook.

The issue came to a head over an amount that was relatively modest—$75 million in a project now costing $1.7 billion. The issue was that this was the most recent of a sequence of cost increases. More importantly, Stern saw a need to hold the line, or admit defeat in his get-tough management approach. Thus, he ordered the MSL project manager to omit two instruments, cap oth­ers, and alter certain design elements. Doing so, in his view, would avoid the overrun, while also providing scope for his sample return addition. Stern called the changes “low-impact mission scope reductions.” In discussing his decision September 19, he stated, “I’ve spent all the reserves for the Mars Exploration Program for next year. The next check I write results in cancelling a mission or mission extension.” He warned that he had even considered terminating MSL.78

The Planetary Society, led by Huntress, decried the reductions in capability in MSL. The Society sent letters to U. S. lawmakers urging them to block imple­mentation of the cutbacks until Congress could “evaluate them in the context of the overall NASA budget.” It charged, “The loss to science on MSL seems out of proportion. The goal of MSL is to conduct science, and to throw out so much of the mission science objectives for less than 4% of the mission cost, and for assurance costs that have not yet been realized, seems penny-wise and pound foolish.”79

The Stern decision caused particular dismay for those contractors directly affected. They sought to find ways to deal with the situation. Stern struck a hard bargain. In November, he announced the outcome of negotiations. The two primary devices to be deleted would be restored, he said. These were the Mars Descent Imager and the Laser-Induced Remote Sensing for Chemistry and Micro-Imaging Instrument.

Stern explained in a letter to the Mars science community that he agreed to restore the descent imager because its maker, the Malin Space Science Systems Company, “has agreed that there will be no additional costs to NASA.” As for the other laser instrument, he said the principal contractors had found ways to significantly reduce its costs to NASA. Those costs were down to $400,000, a figure that caused Stern to declare “victory” in his negotiations. “The outcome,” he said, “is even better than we had imagined possible in September.”80

Decision making for the Mars program under Stern increasingly revolved

about MSL. It was emerging as a flagship not only for the Mars program but for NASA generally. As its costs rose and debates swirled over what kind of equipment it should carry, the question of where it should land on Mars also simmered in the background.

NASA had a steering committee for the MSL site selection. This commit­tee in late October brought together a large assembly of leading Mars scien­tists to narrow the number of places MSL might land. The group met for two days in a Pasadena hotel. The group represented various disciplines, including astrobiology.

There were 51 possible sites discussed. As in the past, safety and scientific potential were critical values to balance. Each site was discussed at length, and NASA said additional sites could be nominated. The meeting became “boister­ous” as strong-willed individuals advocated their choices. Majority votes were taken. When the meeting concluded, the list stood at six. “A lot of people sub­verted their interests [in a particular site] to the science. This degree of com­munity participation is one reason the Mars program has been so successful,” stated David Des Marais, a geochemist at NASA-Ames.81

NASA said that with the help of the steering committee and other scientists, it would decide on a single site in nine months. It was still uncertain what would come after MSL, but preparations for this project moved ahead.

As 2008 began, Congress finally passed an omnibus budget bill to keep the government running. Its most important impact on NASA was that while con­tinuing to keep NASA spending relatively flat, the Democratic majority made modest changes in the science budget reflecting a desire to raise the priority of Earth science.82 For years, this NASA program had been constrained by the Bush administration’s relative disinterest in the climate change issue. The Democrats increased spending on the field. But without major enhancements of NASA funding overall, the stress on Mars spending worsened.

The Mars program suffered another significant blow in early 2008 when NASA had to postpone its next Scout mission, an orbital project to study Mars’s atmosphere, from 2011 to 2013. This decision, due to a conflict of interest dis­covered in the proposal competition, marked the first time in a decade that NASA would miss a Mars launch window.83

Fisk, as chair of the NAS SSB, declared that the way NASA was going gener­ally, and in science particularly, was not “sustainable.” As 2008 was an election year, he, Hubbard, Huntress, and many others outside the agency discussed

ways they could get a message to the next president that NASA was in trouble, as well as suggesting what might be done as remedy.84

In early February, Bush released his FY 2009 budget. Once again, Science magazine reported, the president put NASA “between a rock and a hard place.”85 With virtually everything squeezed within NASA’s $17.3 billion budget, the sci­ence program was held to a 1% increase, or $4.6 billion. Griffin knew that the budget was “painful” to scientists, but he had his gargantuan problems with the human spaceflight program and Bush’s failure to support it. “You’re only going to get so much,” he told the community. “Suck it up and live with it.”86

On July 6, NASA announced it had narrowed the number of sites where MSL might land to two. They were both craters: Gale and Eberswalde. In making this decision, NASA dropped two others in the “final four”: another crater named Holden and a likely flood channel called Mawrth Vallis. While all four provided evidence of ancient water activity, the two finalists were especially intriguing.

Eberswalde was believed to be an ancient river delta. Gale Crater contained a mountain in its center. If Gale became the final choice, MSL would climb part of the way up this mountain, studying different layers of rock as it went. NASA said it would choose the final site by the end of July. Grotzinger, MSL’s lead project scientist, declared at a press conference, “It’s like two different flavors of ice cream—do you like the chocolate or vanilla on Mars? So we go back and forth a lot.”55 Weiler told Grotzinger, “John, I want to you to go as if this is the last Mars mission for 50 years. Find the best place to go.”56 Grotzinger got the top MSL managers and scientists together in a proverbial “smoke-filled room.” They came down unanimously in favor of Gale and recommended this site to Weiler.57 Weiler made the choice official, and it was announced on July 22.

Political pressures from advocates and opponents ultimately affect NASA de­cisions. NASA is the institutional glue that holds Mars exploration together, sometimes well, sometimes not so well. The advocacy coalition keeps Mars on the NASA and national policy agenda. Opponents within the space sector and outside of it seek displacement of Mars with alternate priorities. Both sides work directly on NASA, and sometimes via end runs to the agency’s political masters or the general public. Leaders in NASA respond to events, results, and scien­tific, bureaucratic, and political pressures, as well as their own predilections. They choose among conflicting options and then work to build internal and external constituencies to effectuate their choices. The end result of the clash of interests can be decisions to establish a new program, to reorient an existing program, or to end a program. One equilibrium in the balance of interests gives way to another.

NASA decisions have to be sold to OMB, the Office of Science and Technol­ogy Policy, the president and his political advisors, and Congress. NASA policy at the space subsystem level has to fuse with national policy, largely through the annual budget and appropriations process. Money fuels big science. The process of official decision usually starts within NASA, as the agency sorts out its needs amidst contesting advocacy groups. Within NASA, the decision process requires the associate administrator for science and the Administrator to decide on priorities, the place of Mars among them, and how to build support for those preferences. They are executives with political roles. It is their task to lead. In the words of James Webb, who guided NASA and Apollo in the 1960s, the role of leadership is to integrate “a large number of forces, some countervailing, into a cohesive but essentially unstable whole and keeping it in motion in a desired direction.”8

A number of individuals in NASA have played these institutional leadership roles with respect to the robotic program over the years, from Mariner to MSL. First were Newell and Glennan. Both downplayed Mars in favor of the Moon, but they empowered Pickering, and the result was Mariner. Newell and Glen – nan’s successor, Webb, maintained Mariner. It was part of the contest between the United States and the Soviet Union. Moreover, Mariner got started at a time when NASA’s budget was soaring. There was plenty of support and money for multiple initiatives on several fronts.

In the late 1960s, Newell and Webb looked ahead to post-Apollo NASA. They both wanted to explore the solar system. Webb in particular hoped to use robotic Mars Voyager as a program precursory to human Mars exploration, but did not want to advertise that motivation. He desperately wanted to main­tain the Saturn rocket capability and the von Braun team. Newell went along with Webb and saw uses for the Saturn rocket, but many scientists (including a number at JPL) opposed the huge Saturn-driven Voyager. Congress killed the program before it could get started, because critics also saw it (correctly) as a covert precursor to human spaceflight to Mars, and they did not want to go that direction.

Webb moved Newell to another NASA position and told Naugle, his succes­sor, to reshape the Mars program, or it would die. Naugle worked feverishly. He and the NASA Administrator promoted Viking as a replacement. The Saturn rocket and its human-Mars connotation were removed. NASA sold Viking as post-Mariner, not post-Apollo. The search for life became the prime rationale for the robotic program. Naugle solidified scientific support, while Webb built a White House-congressional political base sufficient to get Viking under way. The Mariner political equilibrium ended with the Voyager debacle, and that of Viking gradually ensued.

Webb left, and Paine came on as Administrator. Naugle, a career official, stayed as associate administrator for science, providing continuity. Paine de­cided that NASA should pursue the most aggressive (and expensive) Viking op­tion Naugle proposed. He was oriented to a human Mars program and saw the precursory potential of Viking. Unfortunately, with Nixon’s cutbacks, there was no hope for a human Mars program. In fact, he later had to tell Naugle that Viking could be salvaged only by delaying its launch by two years.

Fletcher succeeded Paine as NASA Administrator. Like Webb and Paine, he saw Mars exploration as not only a science but a NASA priority. He fully backed Viking. More than Webb or Paine, he emphasized the rationale of Viking’s quest for exobiological life. He involved himself personally in the Viking project, first with Naugle, then with Naugle’s successor, Hinners. In 1976, however, the time came for decisions about what was called Viking 3. President Ford had become a potential target of those wishing to continue Viking, and he awaited a strong push from NASA for a follow-on in his last budget. That push did not come. The scientific consensus was that Viking did not find life. The result was far more ambiguous than a simple “no,” but that ambiguity was lost to most observers.

NASA’s decision had been to “go for broke,” to take an Apollo-like approach to Mars. Apollo’s goal had been clear—to beat the Soviet Union to the Moon. In an analogous way, the goal of Viking was to best the Soviet Union in finding life on Mars. Clarifying a goal, making it as simple as possible, can be a way of gaining support. But it is a high-risk strategy, if the goal is not achieved.

Viking’s failure to find life after so much concentrated effort, hype, and per­sonal sacrifice on the part of those involved tarnished the allure of Mars. It exhausted and diminished the advocacy coalition. Other non-Mars advocates pressed NASA for “their turn” at priority, specifically for Galileo and Hubble. A follow-on Viking project—seen mainly as a mobile Viking—would be a mis­sion costing $1 billion or more. It would have been so expensive as to preclude other worthy endeavors. NASA could afford only so many big science programs. NASA leaders decided not to press “the Case for Mars,” and almost by default Mars exploration moved to the back burner of NASA’s agenda.

And there it stayed for years. It took a long time for a new political consen­sus favorable to Mars to be established. Associate administrators for science and NASA Administrators came and went. They kept Mars exploration alive through “extended missions” studying Viking data, and eventually via Mars Observer, sold as a low-cost mission that would look not for life but for more general geophysical understanding. Life, as a goal, was scientifically unfashion­able. And without that special aura, Mars became, de facto, just another planet. Meanwhile, two successive associate administrators for science, Edelson and then Fisk, developed a new global environmental mission for NASA whose sig­nificance grew as climate change evolved as an issue. Cost-constrained decision makers chose not to push Mars, whose advocacy coalition had shrunk signifi­cantly, while they promoted other projects important in their own right.

The locus of strong advocacy for Mars was outside NASA in the 1980s. Ex­ternal Mars proponents, such as members of the Mars Underground and Carl Sagan, were critical of NASA. Seeking an end run around the agency, Sagan and the Planetary Society used macropolitical rationales, particularly Mars Together with the Soviet Union, to make the Red Planet more salient to the public and politicians. They linked space with international cooperation as a strategy to change NASA priorities. NASA leaders resisted generally when outside advo­cates sought to alter their priorities. This was particularly the case after the Challenger disaster, when Mars advocates tried to change the shuttle launch schedule in favor of Mars Observer.

Everything changed in respect to Mars when Goldin became Administrator in 1992 and he replaced Fisk with Huntress. Although vastly unlike in person­ality, Goldin, the political executive, and Huntress, the career official, struck an exceptionally creative alliance and made a huge difference for Mars. The Goldin-Huntress axis was not only extremely Mars oriented but also unusu­ally skilled. Goldin stands out for the passion he had for Mars and ability to work with political forces—Vice President Gore in particular—to further Mars interests. Huntress was crafty as an operator in bureaucracy and with his mer­curial boss. He was able to deal well with the science community. Together, Goldin and Huntress used the failure of Mars Observer to trigger a renewal of Mars priority and rebuild what was a weak program. They scheduled missions at every 26-month opportunity. Goldin made Mars the flagship of his faster, better, cheaper revolution, thereby enlisting support in the White House and Congress. From the White House perspective, Goldin’s efficiency campaign made him a “good soldier.”9 As he was responsive to the White House, it was responsive to him.

Goldin made deft use of the Mars meteorite to rekindle interest in the media and public for the search for life as a rationale. With Huntress on the inside and Sagan as an outside advisor, Goldin worked to revive exobiology, renamed “astrobiology,” as a scientific discipline. He sought to accelerate MSR. He linked robotic Mars and human spaceflight more firmly in hopes of enhancing the robotic program’s precursory role. When Huntress left and Weiler came on as associate administrator for science, Weiler picked up where Huntress had left off. An experienced and able manager, Weiler also worked in tandem with Goldin.

Mars was emphatically the science and personal priority for Goldin in the 1990s. When the twin Mars failures took place in 1999, Goldin and Weiler retained Mars as a flagship but ended the Mars Surveyor Program. Aided by Hubbard and his team, they made decisions that were more realistic techni­cally and financially. With political support in the White House, OMB played a constructive role in the program redesign, an ally rather than adversary. The “follow-the-water” MEP started a new era for NASA and the Red Planet. When Goldin left NASA, his legacy reflected the flaws of overreach, but it also boasted a Mars program that had been transformed profoundly for the better. Goldin led the advocacy coalition from NASA’s summit.

O’Keefe as NASA Administrator maintained the Mars program he inherited, and Spirit and Opportunity helped the agency (and nation) at a time of great psychic need in the post-Columbia period. When the second Bush made his Vi­sion for Space Exploration decision, O’Keefe sought to augment robotic Mars spending and even more strongly link the robotic program with its precursory role for human spaceflight. The dual purpose—life on, life to—was never more explicit, and significantly more funds for Mars were projected. A “Safe on Mars” funding line was planned. “Priority” for Mars as a budgetary strategy was in, “balance” out for O’Keefe. A backlash from advocates of other space science programs came quickly and intensely against what they saw as too extreme a Mars emphasis.

Griffin came on as Administrator, listened to non-Mars advocates, and “re­balanced” the science program away from Mars. He was most determined to launch NASA’s human return to the Moon—as prelude to Mars—but he lacked a presidential funding commitment required for Moon-Mars. With far too much on NASA’s plate, and the shuttle costing more than projected, he decided to cut science to help fund human spaceflight, and Mars was not excluded from the pain. The “Safe on Mars” funding element went away, along with much else that was not near-term.10 Griffin hoped his 2007 choice as associate administra­tor for science, Stern, would help him design a Mars exploration program that was scientifically sound, politically acceptable, and affordable. He agreed when Stern wished to again accelerate MSR. But the way Stern attempted to get to MSR proved extremely controversial. Whatever might have been said for the scientific MSR goal, the Mars program strategy proposed by Stern did not get the support of the scientific community it had to have to be viable. Then, Stern and Griffin clashed over MSL. When Stern directed a cut to the iconic Spirit and Opportunity rovers, without consulting Griffin, the NASA Administrator overruled him publicly, and Stern was forced to resign.

It was up to Weiler to repair the damage, as he returned to rechart the Mars program. He sought to restore the political equilibrium undergirding Mars ex­ploration which he found had been disrupted. He started by adroitly getting the NASA Administrator on his side. The first big decision he and Griffin made regarding the Red Planet was to delay MSL by two years. Behind the decision was Weiler’s understanding and finesse in working the NASA setting. In achiev­ing the same decision Stern had sought—delay—Weiler carefully gathered sup­port within NASA and JPL. This decision added to already substantial MSL costs, but made eventual success more likely. Griffin made it abundantly clear he regarded Mars exploration as a top priority for the Science Mission Direc­torate—and NASA. He decided that MSL would get the money it needed to succeed, even if there had to be cuts to other worthy programs as a consequence. But Spirit and Opportunity were not to be touched!

Leaders matter. They make difficult decisions that have large consequences. They engineer choices within the space policy sector and relate those choices to the broader national and international policy world. Many others can advocate, advise, lobby, and complain. But officials in the key positions of associate admin­istrator for science and NASA Administrator have formal authority to decide, and making choices is never easy when there is not enough money for all that needs to be done. The essence of science policy lies with decisions about prior­ity. Spirit and Opportunity would never have succeeded had not Goldin and Weiler found the money to make them happen. And Weiler had to do that more than once during the rovers’ development. Also, in government, how decisions are made or sold can be as important as the decisions themselves.

The Bush administration gave way to that of Obama, and Bolden became NASA leader. Weiler, who remained as associate administrator for science until 2011, planned for the next era of Mars exploration—a Mars Together program with Europe and possibly other nations. As before, the robotic program had a prime science goal—to find evidence of present or past life. The means for achieving this purpose remained MSR. This means is also itself an interim goal, a vital enabling one. There was virtual unanimity among JPL, the Mars sci­ence community, NASA decision makers, and Mars enthusiasts generally about MSR. The challenge, as always, was to find the money to realize this objective.

Weiler, the NASA decision maker, became an advocate to OMB and White House staff. He hoped that international cooperation would provide a helpful political rationale for its achievement, symbolizing that in austere times nations could collaborate on grand and worthwhile challenges, while sharing the risks and costs. He aimed at a new political equilibrium or consensus, based on a “Mars Together” rationale. He could not persuade NASA’s budgetary overseers, and he resigned at least in part as an act of protest.

Notwithstanding NASA’s withdrawal from the planned European partner­ship, the desire for joint missions remained. NASA Administrator Bolden and his new associate administrator for science, Grunsfeld, did not give up on col­laboration. Nor would their successors likely do so. There are realities about bold ambitions and an austere funding environment which shape what leaders do. What NASA needs is help in getting resources to match scientific vision. That can come through alliance with domestic groups as well as international partners. It can also come through exciting discovery. Long-term programs need periodic catalysts. Mars had one with the Mars meteorite in the mid-1990s. MSL’s Curiosity could produce a stimulus through exciting findings. Successes reinvigorate a lengthy program; failures bog it down. Discoveries or dramatic events can elevate Mars from sectoral policy to national policy. They can help attract political leaders, as the meteorite did Clinton and Gore. But discover­ies or events become catalysts for funding only when astute Mars advocates and their allies make good use of them, engage the media, win the public, and maneuver skillfully in the political/policy process. The larger the advocacy co­alition, and the better it is led, the more powerful the push for Mars.

Mars exploration is a striking example of big science. Big science is character­ized by large organizations, multidisciplinary teams, great expense, government management, and, often, political controversy. There are various examples of big science, at NASA and other agencies, but this Mars endeavor especially illuminates “programmatic” or “distributed” big science. Much big science is concentrated in a single huge machine. But distributed big science in this case consists of missions (also called projects) that make up an extended, multidecadal program of exploration. Projects may be closely or loosely coupled. Some of the individual missions are “big” by any standard, in the sense of having billion – dollar costs. Others are moderate by big science standards, costing hundreds of millions. There was a time in the 1990s when Mars missions were pushed hard to be “faster, better, cheaper” (FBC), attributes that usually meant smaller. But Mars missions have subsequently grown, with MSL listed at $2.5 billion.

Moreover, when the individual missions are aggregated in a coherent program, the combination is obviously very large in scale.

While specific numbers are hard to delineate or aggregate precisely over a half century or more, it is virtually certain that NASA has spent more money on Mars than any other single planet over its existence as an agency. In recent years, approximately one-half of the planetary budget has gone to Mars, and the planet has had its own director in NASA Headquarters and at JPL. Whereas the Cassini mission to Saturn was an example of concentrated, multibillion-dollar big science, the missions to Mars are spread out, with projects of varying scales. The Mars missions are distributed in time—taking place over decades. They are also distributed in purpose—orbiters, landers, and rovers. This is not only big science but an example of a large technical system in action. When Phoenix landed on Mars in 2008, an orbiting Mars satellite photographed the event. At the same time, Spirit and Opportunity roved the terrain. Similarly, Mars Recon­naissance Orbiter “watched” as MSL descended to Mars in 2012. The national policy to create a “sustained. . . robotic presence” on Mars was realized.

Big science is important to better comprehend because it represents a high priority within an agency and within a national budget. Big science projects can be high-visibility “flagships” for an agency and often for a country. In execu­tion, big science projects link government, university, and industry into large and diverse teams, increasingly with international partners. Big science entails extremely challenging management and political issues. It absorbs much of the agency’s money and prevents smaller efforts from being undertaken. The politi­cal dilemmas—who gets what, when, and how—can be the most difficult of all to resolve in making a long-term big science program succeed.

Webb’s reason for concern—the diminution of political support for space— was glaringly obvious, and that worry was magnified by a disastrous unforeseen event. Shortly after the budget submission in early January 1967, the Apollo fire of January 27 occurred. It killed three astronauts while they were training at Cape Canaveral. Immediately, almost everything at NASA was put on hold, while the agency coped with the disaster and its aftermath. Webb personally dealt with the president and the congressional investigation. He got Apollo through the six-month ordeal following the fire relatively unscathed and made personnel and organizational changes that strengthened the agency and con­tractor system for completing the Apollo project. But he himself was weakened as he drew the media and political focus of the investigation to himself and shielded the organization, thereby expending much of his political capital.9

Also, opponents of NASA in Congress from both the right and left used the Apollo fire to attack NASA and siphon funds from space to other areas of spending (such as the Vietnam War and social programs for the cities). Congress wanted to make substantial cuts, not in Apollo but in other space programs, including Voyager, projected to cost in the billions over time. In the summer and fall of 1967, debate raged in Congress over the NASA budget. Johnson, meanwhile, grew desperate to find money for Vietnam and domestic priorities and to deal with a soaring federal deficit. He was even proposing a tax increase. In August, he declared that the country’s financial situation had changed over the months since he had submitted his budget. He had “to distinguish between

the necessary and the desirable.”10 Apollo was protected, but Webb had to de­cide what other priorities to keep and what to let go. Johnson gave him leeway to choose, and Congress pushed the NASA Administrator to state his priorities unequivocally. Webb strongly resisted.

The NASA Administrator wanted to keep Voyager, a key to NASA’s future after Apollo. But several senior academic scientists testified against it. Even more damaging, Webb was undermined by his own agency, or at least the Manned Spacecraft Center (MSC). In July, the Houston center had sent out a request for proposals for human missions to Mars and Venus. Webb was aghast, furi­ous with the political insensitivity of MSC. In fighting to keep Voyager against congressional budget cutters, Webb had taken great pains to link it rhetorically with scientific discovery, not human spaceflight. His allies in Congress had done the same. Virtually everyone knew that the mood of Congress and the country was against Mars decisions involving human spaceflight at this point.11

But Houston did not get the bureaucratic strategy. Legislative opponents of NASA immediately seized on the Houston announcement as ammunition in the context of Johnson’s statement about deciding “between the necessary and the desirable.” They charged that Voyager was a “foot in the door” for human spaceflight to Mars.12 Now they had what they considered the smoking gun of evidence. Support for Voyager, tenuous at best, evaporated. Saying they had to nip a covert human Mars program in the bud, legislative opponents persuaded Congress to kill Voyager in late October 1967. To make their point unmistak­ably clear, they also terminated a Mariner orbital flight of 1971 which NASA had proposed to help locate a place for Voyager to land. The only planetary mission remaining was a two-Mariner flyby of Mars for 1969. The Mars advocates and planetary science community in general were shocked, devastated, and, to some degree, chastened.