Khrushchev and Kennedy: Talking About the Weather

Perhaps we could render no greater service to mankind through our space pro­grams than by the joint establishment of an early operational weather satellite system.

—President Kennedy to Premier Khrushchev, March 7, 1962

It is difficult to overestimate the advantage that people would derive from the organisation of a world-wide weather observation service using artificial earth sat­ellites. Precise and timely weather prediction would be still another important step on the path to man’s subjugation of the forces of nature.

—Premier Khrushchev to President Kennedy, March 20, 19625

The history of formalized Soviet-American cooperation in space might well be traced to letters and public pronouncements between President John F. Kennedy and Soviet premier Nikita Khrushchev in 1961. Over time (and fol­lowing occasional lapses in correspondence), the two superpowers narrowed fields of potential cooperation to those outlined in a June 8, 1962, Agreement on peaceful bilateral cooperation in space. Made one year after the orbiting of the first human in space (Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin) and Kennedy’s subsequent announcement that the United States would place a man on the moon by the close of the decade, this agreement to cooperate “for the benefit of mankind” introduced new philosophies to what some have characterized as the “space race.”

Therein, the two nations agreed to four fields of cooperation: geomagnetic mapping, experimentation with communications satellites, sharing of biomedi­cal data (for the emerging field of human spaceflight), and exchanging weather satellite images through what came to be referred to as the “Cold Line” facsimile network. Early on, representatives of the two nations agreed to limit work to that which may be characterized primarily as data exchange or even coordinated observation—rather than designing or building instruments together, they agreed simply to share limited amounts of information.

Arnold Frutkin, noting that the content of the 1962 agreement (and the 1963 Memo of Understanding) had on occasion been grossly misrepresented, explained: “They provide for coordination rather than integration of effort, in other words for a kind of arm’s length cooperation in which each side carries out independently its portion of an arrangement without entering into the other’s planning, design, production, operations, or analysis. [In unequivocal terms, he assured possible critics,] No classified or sensitive data is to be exchanged.”6 In spite of the relatively low expectations entailed by data exchange and coor­dinated observations, Soviet participation in 1960s projects tended to be disap­pointing: their contributions to meteorology came late and were incomplete; their cooperation in the Echo-II satellite less than generous; their exchange of biomedical and geophysical data curt, if not truncated. Following a nine-month delay, waiting for the Soviets to simply name their Joint Working Group (JWG) candidates, one official remarked publicly that it was time for the Russians to “get off the dime.” Relations did not become particularly warmer once the JWG began meeting. Of the four aforementioned projects, the Soviets refused to take part in the telecommunications satellite system (opting instead to construct their own system with political allies), cooperated half-heartedly on Echo-II, and in the end, engaged in sustained cooperation in only one field: meteorology.

NASA’s administrator Hugh Dryden was particularly critical of Soviet con­tributions to the Echo-II experiments, detailing what appear to have been half­hearted gestures toward cooperation. His remarks before the Senate Committee on Aeronautical and Space Sciences have been quoted frequently, but warrant revisiting:

The Soviet side observed the critical inflation phase of the satellite optically and forwarded the data to us. They did not provide radar data, which would have been most desirable, but they had not committed themselves to doing so. The Soviets provided recordings and other data of their reception of the transmissions via ECHO from Jodrell Bank [United Kingdom]. On the other hand, the commu­nications were carried out in only one direction instead of two, at less interesting frequencies than we would have liked and with some technical limitations at the ground terminals used. I do not want to over-emphasize any technical benefits from this project. It was, however a useful exercise in organizing a joint undertak­ing with the Soviets.7

Dryden’s reflections on Echo-II reflect a general notion that collaboration—no matter how perfunctory—was in fact a feat of diplomacy. Unfortunately, the Echo-II experience was typical of most collaborative ventures with the Soviet Union, dating to the International Geophysical Year (IGY). Arnold Frutkin, before working with NASA in international relations, had served as deputy director of the US National Committee for the IGY and recalled that the Soviets would frequently attempt to initiate data exchanges and then cancel. As Soviets tended to be slower and more secretive, the Americans became increasingly sus­picious. These frustrations surfaced in the press, indicating at least a limited pub­lic awareness of the many ups and downs of Soviet-American relations in space.

In February 1965 (13 months after the initial forced deadline for weather sat­ellite exchanges), the Washington Post ran its piece, “U. S. May Terminate ‘Cold Line.’” The Post detailed Dryden’s report before Congress, in which he gave his colleagues in the Soviet Union a final ultimatum: unless satellite transmissions came across the Cold Line “in a reasonable time,” the United States would terminate the link. NASA’s deputy administrator continued, detailing Soviet promises that satellite data would be forthcoming in 1965, and perhaps most vexing, how his numerous letters to Anatoly Blagonravov (Soviet academician in the Soviet Academy of Sciences) regarding the Cold Line had gone unanswered. Though NASA hesitated to set an exact deadline, the article suggested “some officials feel that American patience could wear thin by June 30 [1965].” NASA was effectively kept on hold for another year, waiting until June 25, 1966, for the launch of the first announced Soviet meteorological satellite, Cosmos 122.

Historians have documented these and similar discourses, interpreting them at times as substantive offers for scientific and engineering cooperation and at other times as more politicized diplomatic posturing with complicated mean­ings.8 NASA officials communicated their doubts and at times vociferous exas­peration with the Soviets. NASA administrator Tom Paine reported before the Senate Committee on Aeronautics and Space Sciences that between 1965 and the autumn of 1970, NASA and the Soviet Academy of Sciences held no meet­ings regarding possible collaborative efforts, in spite of numerous proposals for cooperative activities from the United States.9

Paine had written the Soviets to invite proposals for experiments on US craft, to negotiate use of the laser reflector left on the moon from Apollo 11, to invite participation in the analysis of lunar material, to solicit Soviet attendance at the Conference on the Viking Mars mission, to consider coordination of planetary programs, and to mark his openness to further suggestions. Ten months later, the two parties succeeded in arranging a meeting.

For a decade, representatives of the Kennedy, Johnson, and Nixon administra­tions had expressed the desire for Soviet-American cooperation in space. Explains Walter McDougall, “Whether or not significant cooperation were achieved, the United States must be perceived as desiring it.”10 Thus, in a piquant twist of Cold War logic, Americans continued to offer joint work, but bore limited hope for projects more grand than the World Weather Watch and relatively limited exchanges of data.

NASA representatives pursued relations with other international partners. In their monograph analyzing the history of Soviet-American efforts at collabora­tion, Dodd Harvey and Linda Ciccoritti note that NASA “publicly established” plans for post-Apollo cooperation in space (see chapter 4). Central to this were “space goals ‘internationalizing’ the space enterprise with or without the partici­pation of the USSR.” 11 Frutkin observed that a substantial amount of COSPAR reports testified to America’s cooperative associations. Without questioning the degree to which Soviet researchers shared the philosophies of the Soviet state, he contrasted US and Soviet policy: “Since the Soviet Union has so far given little more than lip service to such programs, virtually no references to cooperation with the Soviet Union are included.”12 Frutkin explained that “[t]he American space image abroad” was characterized by elements of openness, direct ben­efit to participants, generosity of research and results, a healthy drive toward technological and managerial preeminence, “and perhaps most important of all, the evidence of high national purpose.”13 He described the contrast between American openness and Soviet isolationism as “eloquent,” and said that the American example was “clearly pushing the Soviet Union toward some more or less imitative effort.”14

Frutkin, having participated in IGY administration, surely grasped the com­plex political environment his Soviet partners faced: travel restrictions, limits on the circulation of overseas publications, control over data, and the consis­tent prioritization of military over scientific pursuits. Years later, history would reveal the disappointment of even Sergei Korolev, whom Khrushchev personally restricted from participating in any international scientific symposia.15 A similar (and ultimately more tragic) disappointment is documented in the memoirs of Iosif Shklovsky, a prominent Soviet heliophysicist. Shklovsky got his first taste of international science in the IGY and spent the remainder of his career fading in and out of the international scene—the ebbs and flows determined at least in part with his standing with the Soviet state. The 1958 Moscow Assembly of the International Astronomical Union was a great treat to the man who “was obviously thrilled to recognize individuals who he had known only by the prox­ies of their published papers.”16 While his publications circulated the world over through the course of his career, between 1958 and 1984, Shklovsky maintained sporadic contact with colleagues in the United States.

During this time, the solar physicist received many invitations to lecture and participate in scientific meetings abroad. In spite of being recognized worldwide as a leader in his field and his eagerness to travel, Shklovsky’s “outspokenness about politics and human rights” jeopardized his requests to travel. But for rare International Astronomical Union (IAU) meetings and a couple scientific sym­posia, he remained homebound. Herbert Friedman, a colleague in the United States noted, years after the death of his friend: “[I]t was a bitter pill to swal­low for a man who had such a burning desire to meet with his peers abroad.”17 By the time of the 1970 US National Academies of Science’s annual exchange, Friedman was barely permitted to see his colleague at the Institute for Space Research, but never in private.

Whereas other fields of space research enjoyed an unprecedented thaw around 1972 (when bilateral arrangements were made for Soviet-American work in the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project and exchanging biodata from the Skylab and Salyut space stations), astrophysics experienced a setback. US researcher Herbert Friedman reported that in 1973 “many of the best Soviet astronomers” (includ­ing Shklovsky) were not permitted to attend the IAU in Australia. That same year Shklovsky was elected to the US National Academy of Sciences as a foreign associate, but, following a “courageous letter” in defense of Andrei Sakharov, he was banned from attending the 1976 IAU in France. This in spite of the fact that “he had been invited to deliver one of the most prestigious discourses of the occasion.”18