Category Why Mars

The enigma that was Jimmy Carter in relation to Mars policy was seen vividly in 1978. Carter, a Naval Academy graduate, was unusually technically astute for a politician. He had nuclear engineering training and expressed interest in space. In 1978, Sagan won a Pulitzer Prize for his book The Dragons of Eden. Carter invited Sagan in December to give a talk on space at the U. S. Naval Observatory, a talk he and his family, as well as the vice president and his family, would attend. The writer Hugh Sidey wrote that, while being briefed by Sagan about planetary exploration, Carter was fascinated. “Eyes bright with the sense of adventure, [Carter] urged that any new missions to Mars seek out mountains and valleys and old volcanoes instead of staying on the more level or gently rolling surfaces.”31

Sagan biographer William Poundstone also commented on the Sagan-Carter exchange. He wrote that Carter was a space buff whose technical background allowed him an understanding rare among politicians. Carter seemed enchanted with Mars and the possibility of life on Mars. Were scientists certain Viking had not found life on Mars? Carter asked Sagan. Sagan pointed out the ambiguities, and that no life was believed to have been found at the two sites at which Viking landed. Then, Carter asked, why had the two Vikings landed in such boring places? Hadn’t the Viking team heard the old saying, “Nothing ventured, noth­ing gained?” “You know,” Carter told Sagan, “You ought to write a few books to really get people interested in planetary exploration. Then we could do some really exciting missions.” “But Mr. President,” Sagan responded, “You only need to write your name at the bottom of a single sheet of paper and we could have a rover mission to Mars.” The president, according to Poundstone, just smiled.32

Even though he had had to shut down the Exploration (i. e., Moon-Mars) office at NASA and move its associate administrator, Michael Griffin (a later NASA Administrator), to a new role, Goldin wanted to sustain the humans-to-Mars goal. His struggle to save the space station and zeal to reinvent NASA were in fact partly for the purpose of making the agency more capable of leading

America to Mars. With his background in robotic space technology, he saw that he could keep the Mars human spaceflight goal alive through the robotic Mars program.

Goldin had mixed views of Mars Observer. He called it an example of a Battlestar Galactica mission, the kind he eschewed, but it was too far along to change. In fact, it was heading toward Mars, and a lot rode on it. In addition to providing a mass of scientific data to the Mars research community, Observer was a stepping stone toward future robotic trips to the Red Planet. Russian scientists wished to use the maps of Mars that Observer would yield so they would know where to land missions they scheduled for 1994 and 1996. Russian and French researchers were planning to use a relay system on the U. S. Mars Observer to transmit up to 10 times the data that the Russian orbiter to be launched in 1996 could handle. Observer’s results could also feed into MESUR’s design.22 And, longer term, Mars Observer was the beginning of NASA’s return to Mars and eventual human journey. This was the exploration strategy of which Huntress had written in proclaiming a new Mars era.

Of the many scientists and engineers associated with Mars Observer, none waited more expectantly than Mike Malin. His camera was aboard and was central to the mission, thanks to a “command” decision made years before by Associate Administrator Edelson. So committed was Malin that he had left JPL and an academic position to set up a company so he could dedicate himself to building the camera. He thought of it as his eye. And through it, he would soon be looking at Mars.23 Other scientists and engineers at JPL and the universities also had devoted a large chunk of their careers and professional lives to this mission.

At 6 p. m. (PDT), August 21, 1993, Mars Observer was three days away from going into orbit around the Red Planet. Suddenly, JPL lost communication with the probe. As controllers at JPL worked feverishly to reestablish contact, word of the mishap flashed throughout JPL, NASA, and the Mars community. In succeeding days, anxiety mounted, and then gloom. “It’s difficult to work on something for 10 years, and expect to work on something for another 5 years and have it disappear,” said Philip Christensen of Arizona State University, one of Observer’s principal investigators. NASA planetary geologist James Garvin, who worked on the spacecraft’s laser altimeter experiment, said, “Basically, it’s my entire scientific professional career.”24

Garvin’s personal devastation was worsened by an experience soon after when he returned to NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Mary­land, where he worked. He went to the mall near Goddard with his wife. Prior to the loss of communication with Mars Observer, those associated with the mission wore “Mars Observer hats” for good luck that never came. “For some reason,” Garvin recalled, he wore his hat to the mall. “Someone came up to me, a stranger. He accosted me. He said: ‘How dare you wear your hat. It is a sign of failure!’”25

On the day after the report came out, a chastened Goldin went to JPL. Sched­uling an address to JPL employees and a press conference for the next day, he went to dinner that evening with Caltech president David Baltimore, Stone, and leaders of the Mars Mission Team. One of the younger men on that team pleaded, “Dan, don’t let us go back to the old ways.”41 The next day he spoke at an assemblage of JPL employees. He took responsibility and stated, “The warning bells are sounding. The trend is very, very sobering, and one we can’t ignore. It says we pushed too hard.” Afterword, he spoke to the media. Again, he took responsibility. “In my effort to empower people,” he declared, “I pushed too hard. And in doing so, stretched the system too thin. It wasn’t malicious. I believed in the vision, but it may have made some failure inevitable.” He told JPL and others he was not going to let the pendulum swing all the way back to the old days, before FBC, but that he was going to provide adequate resources to succeed.42

Stone addressed JPL subsequently. He said that the real motivator for FBC was to go more often to Mars, but that JPL had taken too many risks in trying to take maximum advantage of every two-year launch opportunity. He also told his personnel that downsizing was over at the lab.43

The congressional reaction to the Young report was critical of NASA but stopped short of calling FBC a failed strategy. Senator John McCain (R-AZ), chair of the Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation, com­mented that the report was an embarrassment to NASA and showed that the agency’s leadership was “missing in action.” He said Congress would have to exercise “more rigorous oversight” of the agency.44 Congressman James Sensen- brenner, chair of the House Science Committee, expressed essentially the same sentiment, as did other lawmakers. The Washington Post issued a common media view, that NASA had to step back and review its actions. However, it advised the agency that it would be “dangerous” to abandon FBC and “swing back toward the old model of sky high budgeting.” It noted that NASA and JPL simply had too many missions under way at once and too few experienced managers to handle all of them. It echoed congressional concerns that senior managers did not exercise proper oversight.45

Goldin, in congressional hearings on the Mars failures, faced “heat but no fire.”46 Again, Goldin took responsibility and admitted pushing too hard. Con­gress, while being critical of Goldin and NASA management, seemed anxious to also show support. The Mars program was popular, and lawmakers, like the president and media, wanted it to continue and succeed, while exercising fiscal constraint. Some Republican legislators blamed the White House for not pro­viding NASA sufficient funding. Meanwhile, Louis Friedman, speaking for the Planetary Society, gave a view shared by many Mars enthusiasts. He cautioned that while NASA had to make program changes, “it is crucial that NASA not overreact and slow down the program too much.”47 Privately, Friedman also used the access he had to Goldin to argue for making the Mars director position a true czar authority, with power over both robotic and human flight. Friedman wanted a Mars focus for the agency, with the Mars program director under Goldin rather than Weiler. However, Goldin was not about to make that move.48

In the wake of the twin Mars failures and Young report, NASA began the arduous work of recovering its credibility and returning to robotic Mars flight. Hubbard was the man chosen to lead the activity, but he was part of a team that was assembled. The members were responsible for what NASA called the “architecture” of the revised program. Goldin wanted the group, which started in April, to complete its work by October, so that its recommendations could be incorporated into NASA’s budget submission for the following year.

As he prepared for his Senate confirmation hearings, Griffin was lobbied by scientists who disagreed intensely with the priorities he inherited from O’Keefe. A total of 17 scientists signed a “manifesto” they delivered to Griffin, and some of them personally spoke to him. “The balance between the two modes of explo­ration, human and robotic, is now threatened,” the manifesto declared. It was not just the balance between human and robotic exploration that worried these scientists. They were concerned also about the balance between Mars and non – Mars robotic science. They called the concept of “exploration” O’Keefe used too narrow. “Should other forms of space exploration be cancelled or curtailed to make this new, but limited, exploration vision possible? We think and hope not,” said the paper.

Among the 17 signers of the petition was Fisk, who was converting the chair­manship of the National Academy of Sciences Space Studies Board into a posi­tion for leadership in opposition to the O’Keefe priorities. Al Diaz, who had the NASA job Fisk once possessed, called the Moon-Mars science orientation a re­sult of “strategic” decision making. Fisk called that kind of thinking bad strategy and warned, “There is a firestorm coming.”2 Griffin tried to put the concerned scientific community at ease at his confirmation hearings on April 12: “We as a nation can clearly afford well-executed, vigorous programs in both robotic and human space exploration as well as aeronautics,” he stated. However, Griffin was also clear about his priorities, which were to return the still-grounded shut­tle to flight, finish the space station, and begin building the technical systems (called “Constellation”) that would take America back to the Moon by 2020. He especially declared his intent to accelerate the transition from the space shuttle to its successor. He regarded the four-year gap he inherited as too long and a challenge he wanted to remedy.3

Griffin was easily confirmed and in office by April 14. In taking command, he was aware of an understanding reached between Bush and the Office of Manage­ment and Budget during the hiatus between February (O’Keefe’s leaving) and April (his arrival) at NASA. This would cut NASA’s five-year projected budget by $2.9 billion as its contribution to deficit reduction during Bush’s second term. Griffin knew that budget games were played constantly in Washington, and he thought he could reverse this move. He believed that Bush was serious about supporting NASA and his vision, and that he could counter OMB. With the original budget projected in 2004, he felt he could deliver a program that could get the Moon-Mars vision off to a sound start while also supporting science and other NASA programs. He wanted “balance” in NASA and said, “There is no inherent conflict between manned and unmanned space programs, save that deliberately promulgated by those seeking to play a difficult and ugly zero-sum game.” But one former NASA Administrator, who was quoted without attribu­tion by Science magazine, predicted, “He’s going to have to choose sides; he can’t make everyone happy.”4

On January 20, 2009, Barack Obama became president, and Congress tilted more dramatically in the Democrats’ favor than was the case under Bush. With economic crisis at home and wars abroad, Obama had many priorities. Space policy did not appear to rank high on his agenda, although he extolled Apollo as an inspirational event. Obama’s style was consensual, and he conferred with various senators, especially Bill Nelson (D-FL), in choosing a NASA Adminis­trator. It took him a while to find someone.

As the Obama transition got under way in the early months of 2009, and as he waited for a new NASA Administrator to take command, Weiler plunged ahead with his own agenda.1 He had two immediate Mars tasks: one was to reconstitute the Mars Science Laboratory for the next two years, and the other was to develop a robust program for the years after MSL which would get to the long-sought goal of Mars Sample Return. As far as he was concerned, he had inherited no real program beyond MSL. He had problems financially, in part because of MSL and its overruns. But he also saw opportunity if he and the European Space Agency’s Southwood could mount an effort to Mars together. The challenge was to get NASA and the new administration to commit to a long-term program. He and NASA needed a multimission successor as the ex­isting Mars Exploration Program ran its course. The bilateral effort seemed a “win-win” for the United States and Europe. But NASA and ESA were trying to sell this big science program at a time when resources on both sides of the Atlantic were hard to obtain. What worked internationally depended—at least for NASA—on what transpired domestically. Domestically, the space policy subsystem would face upheaval due to the impact of presidential and congres­sional political struggle. The larger conflicts in Washington were mainly about human spaceflight and overall budgets. But robotic Mars policy could not be protected from these macro events.

On February 27, Grunsfeld announced at a Mars Exploration Program Analysis Group meeting that he was creating a Mars Program Planning Group. His aim was to have a mission in 2018, one that would be affordable at $700 million. Grunsfeld called 2018 “a sweet spot,” a time when the Earth-Mars alignment was especially propitious. Squyres followed him at the meeting and made it clear that he would support such a mission only if it conformed to the NRC Decadal Survey and moved the program toward MSR. Grunsfeld said that he was ap­pointing Orlando Figueroa, former Mars czar and since retired, to head this planning team. Grunsfeld, touting the link with human spaceflight, hinted at the possibility of augmenting the robotic budget through this larger and better – financed directorate. Squyres expressed skepticism that that would happen.5

Figueroa, in a subsequent response to reporters, said that whatever NASA did would have to be responsive not only to scientists but also to NASA’s budgetary masters. Various outside-NASA scientists expressed concern about the associa­tion with human spaceflight, comments echoing similar worries within NASA.6 Science’s goals were not necessarily those of human spaceflight, they pointed out. Human spaceflight cared about safety and operational matters. However, veteran scientist Michael Carr pointed out that life was the link, “whether it’s potential Martian life, the effects of Martian dust on humans, or humans’ mi­crobial contamination of Mars.”7

In the 1950s, a former German rocket engineer, working on missiles for the U. S. Defense Department, began writing about and advocating human spaceflight to Mars. To be sure, there would be gradual steps to Mars, said Wernher von Braun in a series of articles in Colliers, a high-circulation magazine at the time. He painted a sequence of technical developments over years. Between 1952 and 1954, von Braun proclaimed that there would first be a spaceship, then a space station, and then a trip to the Moon. But Mars was the ultimate destiny for human spaceflight, although such a voyage might not come for many decades. Von Braun, an engineer, whose brilliance was matched by his passion for ex­ploration, believed that advances in rocketry would someday make extending human life to Mars possible. Von Braun’s stepping-stone approach to Mars was called by some “the von Braun paradigm.”4

Von Braun subsequently expanded the articles into four books. In his 1956 book (coauthored by Willy Ley) he assumed that plant life would greet visitors from Earth. However, it was not life on Mars that most interested von Braun; it was developing technology to take human beings to Mars that he craved.5 For scientists and engineers who wanted to know if life existed on Mars or humans could get to Mars, there was a barrier before 1957. Technology to escape Earth’s gravity did not exist—or at least had not been demonstrated—prior to Sputnik. The Soviet Union in 1957 opened the space frontier in a move that shocked the United States and the world. All of a sudden, dreams about space exploration came closer to reality.

All the same, the two motivations to explore Mars proved a double-edged sword for Mars advocates. The von Braun approach was pursued initially by engineers who emphasized developing technology to take humanity into space. The intellectual descendants of Lowell were scientists interested in discovering life through robotic means. The scientists were mainly users of space technol­ogy, not developers. The relation between the robotic program and the human spaceflight advocates was problematic from the outset. The engineers behind human spaceflight wanted to go to the Moon. They wanted to go to Mars too, but the Moon came first, since getting there was their immediate interest, and the von Braun stepping-stone approach was a method to which they subscribed. Many scientists did not find the Moon particularly interesting, especially those anxious to discover extraterrestrial life. They looked to explore Mars via robotic means for quicker answers to the question, are we alone? The interests were different, and so were the priorities of the two advocacy communities.

Thus, there was a long dual legacy of fascination with Mars. But to get started in answering this call required going beyond scientists and engineers, to politi­cians. Exploration required a strong additional stimulus, because government

would have to get involved in a substantial way and spend a great deal of money. Just to take an initial step in the Red Planet’s direction would require political will, organization, and the push of a large program. What would get politicians aboard? Which agency in government would take the lead in managing space policy?

As Mariner 9 brought enthusiasm to NASA’s space science program, Fletcher was about to obtain what Webb and Paine could not: a post-Apollo human program that would end the steady decline in budget and sustain the agency for the long haul—and make a big science effort like Viking possible. It had been a struggle. OMB staff in the summer of 1971 had proposed to reduce NASA’s budget below $3 billion, denying it the Space Shuttle, further eliminating spe­cific Moon flights, and making cuts in a host of other programs. Viking certainly would have been affected adversely.

On August 12, 1971, however, Caspar (Cap) Weinberger, deputy director of OMB, wrote Nixon that the cuts were going too far. He pointed out that “there is real merit to the future of NASA, and to its proposed programs.” To keep cutting NASA would give comfort to those “at home and abroad” who say “our best years are behind us, that we are turning inward. . . and voluntarily starting to give up our super-power status, and our desire to maintain world superiority.” The United States, he argued, should “be able to afford something besides increased welfare, programs to repair our cities, or Appalachian relief and the like.”47

Nixon wrote a note on Weinberger’s memo: “I agree with Cap.” Subsequently, George Shultz, now the budget director, was informed that “the president ap­proved Mr. Weinberger’s plan to find enough reductions in other programs to pay for continuing NASA at generally the 3.3-3.4 billion dollar level, or about 400 to 500 million dollars more than the present planning target.”48

Fletcher did not know about the exchange, nor did OMB staff, and they continued to fight the remainder of the year, with Fletcher forced more and more to couch the shuttle’s rationale in cost-benefit terms, striking deals with the Department of Defense as a shuttle user, and making various technical com­promises to save money. But by the end of the year, it was clear that NASA was being “stabilized” in line with the Weinberger-Nixon-Shultz exchange. On January 5, 1972, Fletcher and Low flew to meet Nixon at his western White House in San Clemente, California. There, Nixon told them that “space flight is here to stay” and publicly announced that NASA was going to develop a reusable space shuttle. This was a multibillion-dollar, long-term commitment.49

Without question, this decision saved human spaceflight, and possibly NASA as an independent agency. The shuttle decision was “the central space choice of the 1970s.” It meant that for the remainder of the decade “the United States would carry out those space missions that could be afforded within a fixed NASA budget after Shuttle development costs had been paid.”50 While essen­tial to NASA, the shuttle decision was a mixed blessing. It secured a measure of agency stability overall, but it constrained all other programs. Also, the shuttle provided services to low-Earth orbit. It was not about exploration of deep space. The exploration missions now became the sole prerogative of the robotic sci­ence program.

The Viking project in particular emerged as the de facto flagship for NASA’s exploration effort in the first half of the 1970s. To be sure, there were other mis­sions to the planets in effect or on the drawing board. But Viking stood out in this period as an exploration priority in scale and purpose. Viking was exciting to scientists and also a magnet for the media and public because of its search for life. Thanks to Mariner 9, there was a new anticipation for the quest. And thanks to the shuttle decision, NASA had a fighting chance to get the resources to make it possible.

The problem was that Carter’s budget, released at the beginning of 1979, had no money for any new planetary missions. Although holding back on Mars—about which there was still division as to what to propose in the near term—NASA had hoped to begin work on a mission to Venus, as well as one to Halley’s Comet. The Halley’s Comet mission was seen as an opportunity to take advantage of Halley’s once-in-a-generation return to Earth’s vicinity. When Carter elimi­nated any new start in planetary science, NASA had to accommodate Venus, Halley’s Comet, and Mars within a budgetary category allowing discretionary spending for exploring possible future work. That category now was taxed to the full and then some. Hinners and Murray had to decide on priorities, and Mars gave way to Venus and Halley’s Comet.33

Abruptly, almost all work was cancelled at JPL on Mars. “We are not cutting back on Mars work because of diminishing interest in Mars or in the follow-up [to the Viking] mission,” said Geoffrey Briggs, who had taken over as acting director of the Office of Space Science and Applications’s Planetary Division. “Although the planning and design of a new Mars mission is being reduced to a fairly low level, we will be maintaining to a much higher level the analysis of Viking Mars data we now have.”34

Steve Squyres, a recent Cornell PhD, who had been inspired by Sagan and other Viking researchers, ran into contrary advice from various senior plan­etary scientists. “Don’t focus on Mars,” he was told. It was a career “risk,” they said.35 The atmosphere at JPL was such that many scientists were discouraged from pursuing Mars work. John Beckman, planetary program manager at JPL, declared, “Our knowledge of Mars now vastly outreaches our knowledge of Venus and other planets, and it’s time to even up our knowledge and balance our approach.” He said he doubted NASA would get back to Mars until the 1990s.36 Daniel McCleese, a young scientist at JPL, recalls that when he talked up Mars, “I ran into a very, very strong pushback from NASA, along the lines of ‘We’ve gone to Mars with Viking. It is a dead planet, no longer very interesting to NASA, and we are headed for the outer planets.’ ”37

At the end of 1979, Carter’s OMB called for no new starts in planetary science for a second year in a row. This was a decision that had implications not only for Mars but extending to other robotic science programs as well. Frosch appealed to Carter, who forced Frosch to choose among various projects that might get a go-ahead. Frosch was not about to sacrifice an astronomy mission, the Gamma Ray Observatory, for a Halley’s Comet project, the priority for Murray and other solar system researchers. The president said he also favored the Gamma Ray Observatory because of his interest in black holes, about which he had been reading of late.38 Planetary exploration was put in a position secondary to astronomy missions aimed at the cosmos. The mission to Halley’s Comet was not going to happen, at least one led by the United States. There was a sharp disconnect between Carter’s avowed personal excitement about space explora­tion and his spending decisions.

Whatever potential NASA had for a Viking follow-on was lost in the transi­tion from Ford to Carter and NASA’s continuing ambivalence about what to do next. The ambivalence arose from the fact that most Mars advocates wanted to

take the next steps beyond Viking—a rover and then MSR. But NASA leaders also knew they could not possibly sell such an ambitious mission in the political environment the agency faced.

As it became obvious in succeeding weeks that Mars Observer was hopelessly lost, Goldin established a panel to determine what had gone wrong. Eventually, the panel held that the immediate culprit behind the demise of Observer was most likely a “massive rupture in its propulsion system.”26 More broadly, NASA was seen to have erred in thinking that the technology it used successfully in Earth orbiting would be easily adapted to Mars. The differences in require­ments were much greater than anticipated.27 Meanwhile, Goldin established another panel to chart where NASA would go next in Mars exploration. He put Charles Elachi, assistant director of JPL, in charge. He also appointed Sagan to this panel.28

Goldin turned to Sagan, as one true believer turned to another, for advice and encouragement. Sagan felt as did Goldin and Huntress—that NASA should go to Mars at every opportunity, meaning every 26 months. He also pressed Goldin to revive the search for life on Mars and elsewhere in the universe. Within NASA, Goldin consulted especially with Huntress. Right after the fail­ure, they huddled over how to deal with the media and then how to persevere in their goals. “Goldin didn’t beat me down,” Huntress remembered. “His ques­tion was: ‘What are we going to do? We need to fix this program. We can’t go back on our commitment to Mars.’ ”29

There was no thought by Goldin to abandoning Mars, as had happened after Viking. Goldin told his agency and the Mars community not to be depressed. The accident could be an opportunity, he said. Goldin stressed to the media and virtually everyone else that NASA would go back to Mars, and do so as soon as possible, but in the “right” way, meaning FBC. Here was the chance to show­case what his approach could mean, and to do so on the most important and visible stage, namely, that of Mars.30 Not long after Observer’s failure, he went to Arizona State University. He addressed a group of scientists and graduate students who were depressed in feeling years of work had been obliterated in the Mars Observer demise. Don’t be glum, an upbeat Goldin told the gathering. He called the loss of Observer the best thing ever to happen to the Mars program. He proclaimed that it marked the dawn of a new era in Mars research.31

For NASA and the Mars community, the instruments on Mars Observer were seen as vital to building on Viking and setting the stage for what came next. As advisors went through various options, Goldin and Huntress settled on replacing the proposed MESUR network of landers with a new Mars Surveyor Program. In this program, instruments that had been grouped together on Mars Observer would be separated and flown on a series of FBC—that is, smaller— spacecraft.32 As it evolved, the planned Mars Surveyor Program “would send two low-cost spacecraft—an orbiter and a lander—to Mars every 26 months over the course of ten years.” Each mission would be capped at a cost of $175 million and be limited to three years in development. It “would address science objectives centered on understanding Mars’ climate, resources, and the search for water and life.” The agency hoped eventually to send a robotic envoy to the surface which would be capable of collecting samples of Martian terrain and returning them to Earth.33

Goldin and Huntress sold this “program line” to OMB. Discovery was a model and precedent. They stressed the importance of continuity in Mars ex­ploration. Also, Huntress commented, “We sold it to OMB on the grounds we could get more science done in a less costly way.”34 Rather than fretting over Mars Observer, NASA leaders used the accident to build momentum for a new Mars program that carried the FBC stamp.

In selling the Mars Surveyor Program, it was in their interest to emphasize the contrast with Mars Observer. A mission can be priced at different amounts, depending on what is included, ranging from a low cost for only development of the spacecraft to a high “lifetime” cost including launch and operations. As Fisk saw it, now sitting on the sidelines at the University of Michigan, Mars Observer was a $500 million mission. Including virtually everything, the cost went up to $980 million. “But it was called a $1 billion failure to help Goldin sell faster, better, cheaper,” emphasized Fisk. It was, he said, “one of those rare situ­ations when an agency uses failure and a cost-overrun to advantage, and makes the overrun seem worse than it was.” The $1 billion cost, repeated continually, stuck.35