Leadership and Discovery (Jepson Studies in Leadership)

Leadership and Discovery

Jepson Studies in Leadership Series Editors: George R. Goethals, Terry L. Price, and J. Thomas Wren Jepson Studies in Leadership is dedicated to the interdisciplinary pursuit of important questions related to leadership. In its approach, the series ref lects the broad-based commitment to the liberal arts of the University of Richmond’s Jepson School of Leadership Studies. The series thus aims to publish the best work on leadership not only from management and organizational studies but also from fields such as economics, English, history, philosophy, political science, psychology, and religion. In addition to monographs and edited collections on leadership, included in the series are volumes from the Jepson Colloquium, which bring together inf luential scholars from multiple disciplines to think collectively about distinctive leadership themes in politics, science, civil society, and corporate life. The books in the series should be of interest to humanists and social scientists, as well as to organizational theorists and instructors teaching in business, leadership, and professional programs. Books Appearing in This Series: The Values of Presidential Leadership edited by Terry L. Price and J. Thomas Wren Leadership and the Liberal Arts: Achieving the Promise of a Liberal Education edited by J. Thomas Wren, Ronald E. Riggio, and Michael A. Genovese Leadership and Discovery edited by George R.Goethals and J. Thomas Wren Lincoln’s Legacy of Leadership edited by George R. Goethals and Gary L. McDowell

Leadership and Discovery Edited by George R. Goethals and J. Thomas Wren

LEADERSHIP AND DISCOVERY

Copyright © George R. Goethals and J. Thomas Wren, 2009. All rights reserved. First published in 2009 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN® in the United States—a division of St. Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Where this book is distributed in the UK, Europe and the rest of the world, this is by Palgrave Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN: 978–0–230–62070–4 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Leadership and discovery / edited by George R. Goethals and J. Thomas Wren. p. cm.—(Jepson studies in leadership) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978–0–230–62070–4 1. Leadership. I. Goethals, George R. II. Wren, J. Thomas, 1950– III. Jepson School of Leadership Studies. HM1261.L415 2009 303.3⬘4—dc22

2009012858

A catalogue record of the book is available from the British Library. Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India. First edition: November 2009 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

CON T E N T S

Contributors

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Acknowledgments

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Introduction George R. Goethals and J. Thomas Wren

Part I

1

Defining the Leadership of Discovery

One

Discovery in Astronomy: Ex Uno Plures Karen B. Kwitter

Two

The Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery: The Case of Jamestown and John Smith Patrick Griffin

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Part II Leading Discovery Three Leadership in the History of Exploration Felipe Fernández-Armesto Four

Five

Leadership and Discovery: Lessons from the Lewis and Clark Expedition Daniel B. Thorp

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Leading NASA in Space Exploration: James E. Webb, Apollo, and Today W. Henry Lambright

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Part III Six

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Experiencing Leadership and Discovery

Self-Discovery David A. Dunning

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Contents

Seven

Exploration and Discovery in Space Jeffrey A. Hoffman

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Eight

Leadership and Discovery Gerrit L. Verschuur

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Part IV Nine

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Ethical Challenges in the Leadership of Discovery

A Conspicuous Absence of Scientific Leadership: The Illusory Epidemic of Autism Morton A. Gernsbacher

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On Giraffes and Bank Accounts: Rethinking Discovery, Creation, and Literary Imagination 171 Ronald F. Thiemann

Conclusion: Understanding Leadership and Discovery George R. Goethals

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Index

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CON T R I BU TOR S

The Editors George R. (Al) Goethals holds the E. Claiborne Robins Distinguished Professorship in Leadership Studies at the University of Richmond. He was on the faculty of Williams College for 36 years where he served as chair of the Department of Psychology, founding chair of the program in leadership studies, and provost. He has also held academic and administrative appointments at the University of Virginia and Princeton University. In addition to his collegiate appointments, he has served as an editor, or on the editorial board of the Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, and The Leadership Quarterly. With Georgia Sorenson and James MacGregor Burns, he is editor of the Encyclopedia of Leadership (2004) and with Sorenson he is editor of The Quest for a General Theory of Leadership (2006). With Crystal L. Hoyt and Donelson R. Forsyth he is editor of Leadership and Psychology, (2008) Volume 1 of Leadership at the Crossroads. He also has published numerous textbooks, chapters, and refereed articles in scholarly journals. His recent scholarship explores rooting for the underdog, image making in presidential debates, peer interaction and performance, and the presidency of Ulysses S. Grant. He has received four research grants from the National Institute of Mental Health for his work on the studies of attribution theory and responses to social support and the role of similarity in social inf luence processes. After graduating magna cum laude from Harvard he obtained his Ph.D. in psychology from Duke University. J. Thomas Wren, as a historian and legal scholar, brings a unique perspective to his position as professor of leadership studies at the Jepson School of Leadership Studies at the University of Richmond. He served

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for two years as associate dean for academic affairs and led the Jepson School as interim dean from July 2006 to July 2007. At the collegiate and national levels, he has contributed to the development of leadership studies as a significant arena for scholarly pursuit. He has served as editor of the Journal of Leadership Studies. He is the editor of The Leader’s Companion: Insights on Leadership Through the Ages and is a coeditor of the three-volume International Library of Leadership. His most recent book is Inventing Leadership: The Challenge of Democracy. An expert on Virginia history, he has written extensively on such subjects as James Madison and the Virginia courts. His research interests include the roles of leaders and followers, leadership education, and the intellectual history of leadership. After graduating summa cum laude from Denison University, he went on to earn his law degree from the University of Virginia, a master’s degree from George Washington University, and a second master’s degree and doctoral degree from the College of William and Mary. The Contributors David A. Dunning is a professor of psychology at Cornell University. An experimental social psychologist, he is a fellow of both the American Psychological Society and the American Psychological Association. He has published more than 75 scholarly journal articles, book chapters, and commentaries, and has been a visiting scholar at the University of Michigan, Yale University, and the University of Mannheim (Germany). He has also served as an associate editor of the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology and is currently the executive officer of the Society for Personality and Social Psychology. His work focuses primarily on the accuracy with which people view themselves and their peers. His research has been featured in numerous newspapers and magazines including The New York Times, U.S. News & World Report, and on National Public Radio and the CBS Early Show. It has even been mentioned in a Doonesbury cartoon. His most recent book is Self-Insight: Roadblocks and Detours on the Path to Knowing Thyself (2005, Psychology Press). He has also published work on eyewitness identification, depression, motivated distortion in visual perception, stereotyping, and behavioral economics. Felipe Fernández-Armesto is the William P. Reynolds Professor of History in Notre Dame University’s Department of History, and professor of global environmental history at Queen Mary, University of

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London. Previously at Tufts University, he held the Prince of Asturias Chair in Spanish Culture and Civilization in the History Department. Born in London, he earned an M.A. and D. Phil. at the University of Oxford, where he spent much of his career, and has honorary doctorates from La Trobe University and the Universidad de los Andes. His expertise is in global environmental history, comparative colonial history, topics in Spanish and maritime history, and the history of cartography. His books include The Spanish Armada (1990), Millennium: A History of Our Last Thousand Years (1995), Truth: A History and a Guide for the Perplexed (1997), Civilizations (2000), Food: A History (published as Near a Thousand Tables in US/Can) (2001), The Americas (2003), Ideas That Changed the World (2003), Pathfinders: A Global History of Exploration (2006), Amerigo: The Man Who Gave His Name to America (2006), and The World: A History (2006). His work has appeared in twenty-five languages. His awards include the World History Association Best Book Prize 2007. Morton A. Gernsbacher received her Ph.D. from the University of Texas at Austin in 1983. She was a professor at the University of Oregon from 1983 to 1992 before joining the faculty at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where she is a Vilas Research Professor and the Sir Frederic C. Bartlett Professor of Psychology. She is a fellow of the Society for Experimental Psychologists, the American Psychological Association (Divisions 1, 3, and 6), the American Psychological Society, and the American Association for the Advancement of Science. She has received a Research Career Development (“K”) Award and a Senior Research Fellowship from the National Institutes of Health, a Fulbright Research Scholar Award, a James McKeen Cattell Foundation Fellowship, and a Professional Opportunities for Women Award from the National Science Foundation. She has also served as president of the International Society for Text and Discourse, president of the Division of Experimental Psychology, chair of the Board of Scientific Affairs, chair of the Publications Committee of the American Psychological Society, and chair of the Electorate Nominating Committee of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. She has been an advisor to the NLM Family Foundation and the International Council for Developmental and Learning Disorders and is a member of the Governing Board of the Psychonomic Society, the Scientific Review Committee for the Cure Autism Now Foundation, and the Medical Affairs Committee of the National Alliance for Autism Research. She is past president of the American Psychological Society.

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An award-winning teacher, in 1998 she received the Hilldale Award for Distinguished Professional Accomplishment, the highest award bestowed by the University of Wisconsin-Madison faculty. Patrick Griffin is the Madden-Hennebry Professor of History at Notre Dame University. He received his undergraduate degree from the University of Notre Dame, his master’s from Columbia University, and his doctorate from Northwestern University. He has also taught in the Department of History at the University of Virginia. He is the author of The People with No Name: Ireland’s Ulster Scots, America’s Scots Irish, and the Creation of a British Atlantic World (Princeton University Press, 2001) and American Leviathan: Empire, Nation, and Revolutionary Frontier (Hill & Wang, 2007). He has received many awards, grants, and fellowships, including a year as the Senior Fellow at the Centre for the Study of Human Settlement and Historical Change at the National University of Ireland, Galway, in 2004–05. He is currently engaged in a project comparing Ireland’s and Virginia’s seventeenth-century experience in English, Atlantic, and global contexts. Jeffrey A. Hoffman is a professor of aerospace engineering in the Department of Aeronautics and Astronautics at MIT. He received a B.A. and graduated summa cum laude from Amherst College in 1966. He earned his doctorate in astrophysics from Harvard University in 1971 and subsequently received a master’s degree in Materials Science from Rice University in 1988. He spent one year as a postdoctoral fellow at the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, after which he worked on the research staff of the Physics Department at Leicester University in the United Kingdom from 1972 to 1975 and MIT’s Center for Space Research from 1975 to 1978. He was a NASA astronaut from 1978 to 1997. During that time he made five space f lights and became the first astronaut to log 1,000 hours of f light time aboard the space shuttle. He was payload commander of STS-46, the first f light of the U.S.-Italian Tethered Satellite System. He has performed four spacewalks, including the first unplanned, contingency spacewalk in NASA’s history, and the initial repair/rescue mission for the Hubble Space Telescope. Following his career as an astronaut, he spent four years as NASA’s European Representative, based at the U.S. Embassy in Paris, where his principal duties were to keep NASA and NASA’s European partners informed about each other’s activities, try to resolve problems in U.S.–European space projects, search for new areas of U.S.–European space cooperation, and represent NASA in European media. In August 2001, he joined the MIT faculty, where he teaches courses on space operations

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and design and space policy. He is director of the Massachusetts Space Grant Alliance where he is responsible for statewide space-related educational activities designed to increase public understanding of space and to attract students into aerospace careers. His principal areas of research are advanced EVA systems, space radiation protection, management of space science projects, and space systems architecture. Karen B. Kwitter is the Ebenezer Fitch Professor of Astronomy and chair of the Astronomy Department at Williams College. She attended Wellesley College, where she graduated with honors in physics and astronomy, and then went on to UCLA to earn a Ph.D. in astronomy. Her work centers on the late stages of stellar evolution for stars. In collaboration with colleagues in the United States and abroad, she studies the chemical composition of material cast off from dying stars to understand how the Milky Way and other galaxies become progressively enriched in matter that has cycled through the nuclear furnaces inside stars—including the atoms required for life as we know it. W. Henry (Harry) Lambright is a professor of public administration and political science at the Maxwell School of Citizenship and Public Affairs at Syracuse University. He has served as founding director of the Center for Environmental Policy and Administration at the Maxwell School. He is the author or editor of seven books and more than 250 articles, papers, and reports, including the book Powering Apollo: James E. Webb of NASA. A fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS), he served as a consultant to the Columbia Accident Investigation Board. He is currently engaged in a study of NASA leaders since the end of the Cold War under IBM sponsorship. Ronald F. Thiemann is the Benjamin Bussey Professor of Theology at Harvard University. He has been at Harvard since 1986 and served as dean of the Divinity School from 1986 until 1998. He is a faculty associate of the Weatherhead Center for International Affairs in the Faculty of Arts and Sciences, and is a faculty fellow at the John F. Kennedy School’s Hauser Center for Nonprofit Organizations, where he serves on the steering committee of the center’s Joint Program in Religion and Public Life. He is a faculty affiliate at the Kennedy School’s Harvard Center for Public Leadership and has received a fellowship from the center in support of his current research project. An ordained Lutheran minister and a specialist on the role of religion in public life, he is the author of Revelation and Theology: The Gospel as Narrated Promise, Constructing a Public Theology: The Church in a Pluralistic Culture, and Religion in Public Life: A Dilemma

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for Democracy. He is also an editor of Who Will Provide: The Changing Role of Religion in American Social Welfare. He is currently working on a book-length project entitled Prisoners of Conscience: Public Intellectuals in a Time of Crisis, which examines the courageous stance of four public figures—Anna Akhmatova, Albert Camus, Langston Hughes, and George Orwell—during the tumultuous period of 1914–45. Before coming to Harvard, he taught for 10 years at Haverford College, where he also served as acting provost and acting president. Daniel B. Thorp is an associate professor and chair of the Department of History at Virginia Tech. He has also taught at East Carolina University and at Sunderland University in England, and spent six months as a Fulbright Scholar in Wellington, New Zealand. Although trained as a colonial historian, he also teaches the history of the American West and often teaches introductory courses on the history of the United States. Throughout his career, his central research interest has been the process by which European explorers and colonizers interacted with new peoples and new environments. He is the author of a number of articles on a range of topics in eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury American history and the author of two books: The Moravian Community in Colonial North Carolina and Lewis & Clark: An American Journey. He has also written about early European experiences in New Zealand and New France and is currently working on a book-length study of Indian-White relations in seventeenth-century Acadia (what are now Maine and Maritime Canada). He earned his master’s degree and doctoral degree from Johns Hopkins University. Gerrit L. Verschuur is a semiretired radio astronomer and the author of eight books on astronomy as well as the editor/co-author of three other books. An inventor with his name on 15 patents, he is also a local politician and amateur limnologist with three papers to his credit in that field in addition to his 100 research papers in astronomy and nearly 100 popular astronomy articles. He is an adjunct professor of physics at the University of Memphis and lives in the City of Lakeland, 20 miles from Memphis, where he is president of the Garner Lake Association and Chair of the Lakeland Board of Appeals. He is currently seeking reelection to the Board of Commissioners in between spending his time editing a bimonthly newsletter and showing that the radio signals observed by the WMAP spacecraft may have an origin in the Milky Way.

AC K NOW L E DGM E N T S

The creation of a volume of this sort necessarily incurs debts of gratitude that cannot fully be repaid. Nonetheless the editors wish to acknowledge, if not make full restitution for, our many obligations. First and foremost we thank our contributors. This volume grew out of an enlightening intellectual exchange among the invitees to a small conference we convened to contemplate the nexus between leadership and the process of discovery in its many forms. Coming as they did from multiple and diverse academic disciplines—and all bringing with them the requisite spirit of inquiry, open-mindedness, and, yes, sense of humor—the participants interacted in ways that made the value of the conference—and this volume—equal to more than the sum of its parts. The editors further acknowledge the good spirit and patience with which the contributors have endured the editors’ subsequent efforts to convert the conference papers into this final edited volume. This work is the latest in a series of works published by Palgrave Macmillan under a series titled Jepson Studies in Leadership. We are deeply grateful to our editor at Palgrave, Laurie Harting, who has shown so much faith in us and our project. She has been supportive at every stage. Likewise our fellow series editor, Terry L. Price, has been a constant source of advice and encouragement. This series, as well as this volume and the conference that inspired it, have been activities of the Jepson School of Leadership Studies at the University of Richmond. Our dean, Sandra J. Peart, has been unfailing in her vision for the Jepson School as the center for leadership scholarship and unstinting in her support. With respect to this volume, Nancy Nock of the Jepson School did all the laborious planning and administrative tasks related to our “Leadership and Discovery” colloquium. Tammy Tripp, the Jepson School’s coordinator of academic research and publications, performed all the detailed work necessary to bring

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this volume to fruition. This book simply could not have been completed without these individuals. Less visible to the public eye but transcendently important to our work (and lives), our spouses undoubtedly are even happier than we are to see this book in print. We deeply appreciate them, and we promise (really!) to Marion and Suzanne that we will henceforth seek to better balance our allocations of time.

Introduction G eorg e R. Goethal s and J. Th omas Wre n

This volume in the Jepson Studies in Leadership series is based on a colloquium exploring Leadership and Discovery held at the University of Richmond’s Jepson School of Leadership Studies in September, 2007. Scholars from a variety of disciplines presented papers on a range of topics focusing on some facet or another of the leadership of discovery. Our participants included astronomers, historians, psychologists, theologians, and one NASA astronaut—also a professor of aerospace engineering. These scholars made presentations and led discussions on topics such as collaboration and leadership in modern astronomy, dubious claims of a sudden autism epidemic, Lewis and Clark’s “Corps of Discovery,” George Orwell’s social criticism, and many others. Some of these subjects fit conventional notions of discovery—in science, society, or nature—while others did not. Both kinds stimulated a great deal of ref lection and conversation. To our great satisfaction, we found that this diverse set of papers raised and illuminated recurring issues about the very nature of leadership and the meaning of discovery. Those with a historical bent will recognize the term “The Age of Discovery” to be the admittedly Eurocentric time when Europeans such as Christopher Columbus “discovered” the New World. Yet even a little ref lection brings to mind many other “ages of discovery,” be it the intellectual revelations of the Scientific Revolution of the seventeenth century, the physical and cultural discoveries of American westward expansion in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, or the new psychological understanding of self pioneered by psychologists in the twentieth century. Even the emerging social

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consciousness of the plight of the less fortunate in society that has been a highlight of the past two centuries could, in a sense, be seen as the product of the “discovery” of the circumstances and experiences of some “other.” For that matter, it could be argued that the twenty-first century deserves the rubric of The Age of Discovery as much, or perhaps more, than any of its predecessors. In our complex, diverse, and rapidly integrating world, novelty and discovery are the norm. Physical discovery still has its place, chief ly in our efforts to map and understand our interplanetary neighborhood and interstellar space. But intellectual discovery remains more robust than ever, as evidenced by the growing body of scientific revelations. So too does our understanding of self and others constantly expand as a result of what could be termed continuing “discovery” of the new and different. What is it that allows us to link together such vast periods of time and such diverse realms as the physical, the intellectual, the psychological, and the social in this way? A brief excursion to Webster’s may help. Under the definition of what it means to “discover,” we find that it is “to gain knowledge of something previously unseen or unknown,” or “to notice or realize.” When considered in this light, we see that the notion of “discovery” embraces not only the active uncovering of the new, but also the more subtle insights gained from noticing or realizing that which has been before us all along. Thought of in this all-encompassing way, one begins to perceive that these seemingly different realms of the physical, intellectual, psychological, and the social are all of a piece: each is of course an important constituent part of the human condition, but what allows us to discuss them as an integrated whole is our dynamic engagement with each that is a part of our common human project. That is, it is not the existence of these disparate areas of the human condition but the interacting with them that allows us to begin to understand something about ourselves. And that interacting takes place in large part when we encounter the new or unexpected and try to make sense of it. This, too, is a decent definition of “discovery.” The claim here, then, is that studying the process of “discovery” in all its many manifestations holds out the possibility for us to learn important things about how we humans as individuals and societies move toward addressing our needs and aspirations. This, in turn, brings us to a second construct that is central to our understanding of the dynamics of discovery. That construct is leadership. In contemplating the role of leadership in discovery it is important

Introduction

3

to understand that “leadership” does not simply mean the actions of an elite individual or few. Rather, it is far more complex and inclusive: it is a mutual inf luence process among leaders and followers in which each participant harbors his or her complex motives and constructions of reality and operates as part of a collective in a complicated and evershifting environment to achieve desired goals. Within that wonderfully complex phenomenon we find the leadership of discovery. Understood in this way, viewing discovery through the prism of leadership allows us to begin to identify commonalities across time and context, and indeed to zero in on the critical elements of the leadership of discovery. Armed with such an understanding, we as participants in the leadership of discovery can both hone the capabilities needed for success and sharpen our awareness of the pitfalls—moral and otherwise—of the endeavor. This volume hopes to be a step in that direction. Plan of the Book As noted at the outset, the ten chapters in this volume explore many aspects of the leadership of discovery. There are a number of ways to organize them. We have elected not to group them in sections representing familiar academic disciplines—history, science, and so forth. Rather we have devised an organization that underlines the fruitfulness of multidisciplinary intellectual exploration and discovery. A set of general themes emerges from our colloquium, and contributions from different disciplines grapple with each one. We have decided, then, to organize our chapters into four sections. The first, Defining the Leadership of Discovery, comprises two chapters that consider the very nature of both leadership and discovery. Karen Kwitter’s chapter, “Discovery in Astronomy: Ex Uno Plures,” describes collaboration in astronomy across time in ways that are largely congruent with everyday understandings of both science and leadership. In contrast, Patrick Griffin’s chapter, “The Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery: The Case of Jamestown and John Smith,” challenges conventional understandings of leadership and discovery. Our second section, Leading Discovery, consists of three chapters analyzing the challenges and leadership responses of three differing ventures of discovery. Felipe Fernández-Armesto debunks the heroic image of such early explorers as Christopher Columbus and Vasco da Gama, yet at the same time identifies contextual factors and personal

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traits that allowed them to succeed. Daniel Thorp explores the highly honed abilities of Lewis and Clark in planning and organizing a major expedition of discovery, and their subsequent ability to interact productively with subordinates and those from other cultures. W. Henry Lambright looks to a more modern endeavor of discovery, the NASA space program. In particular, he analyzes the achievements and some of the foibles of administrator James F. Webb. His analysis contemplates how Webb’s actions meshed well with his context and challenges, yet Lambright cautions us about the difficulty in replicating Webb’s approach in today’s leadership environment. The third section, Experiencing Leadership and Discovery, considers three quite different chapters that have in common a focus on the thoughts and feelings of people engaged in one kind of discovery or another. David Dunning’s chapter, “Self-Discovery,” considers several psychological tendencies that contribute to errors in knowing ourselves, and how those tendencies can be combated. Jeffrey Hoffman’s chapter on “Exploration and Discovery in Space,” relates the intense emotions that can only be experienced in space travel. And then in “Leadership and Discovery,” Gerrit Verschuur discusses some of the emotional challenges and risks that young scientists face in contesting prevailing orthodoxies. Our concluding section, Ethical Challenges in the Leadership of Discovery, includes Morton Gernsbacher’s chapter “A Conspicuous Absence of Scientific Leadership: The Illusory Epidemic of Autism” and Ronald Thiemann’s “On Giraffes and Bank Accounts: Rethinking Discovery, Creation, and Literary Imagination.” Gernsbacher engages our indignation about the way powerful persons and organizations, including the national media, have hyped false alarms about autism. Thiemann discusses the issues raised by George Orwell’s The Road to Wigan Pier, and that book’s efforts to engage readers’ conscience about a real social challenge. Chapter Summaries Our own groupings are based on only one of several themes in each chapter. Let us preview what follows by more fully introducing each chapter. Karen Kwitter discusses three different types of approaches to astronomical discovery spanning centuries, from Johannes Kepler’s studies of the laws of planetary motion to the present day explorations of distant quasars. Kwitter calls these types of approach to discovery

Introduction

5

synthesis, method, and exhortation. They increasingly involve collaboration and leadership. Kwitter highlights the role of both intellectual brilliance and broad-ranging leadership skills in creating effective scientific leadership in modern astronomy. The work of astronomer Wendy Freedman of the Observatories of the Carnegie Institution in Washington in studying the expansion of the universe offers a dramatic example of the creative and successful leadership of discovery. Historian Patrick Griffin enters a caveat concerning our study of leadership and discovery. He cautions against injecting presentist concerns about leadership and discovery into historical analysis. Such framing only serves to distort the analysis of how and why things actually occurred. John Smith and Jamestown are a perfect example. Smith did not view the Jamestown expedition as one of discovery or colonization. Rather, Smith and Jamestown should be understood within their own worldview, a worldview that saw their experiences in Virginia as but a continuation of previous conceptions of “savagism and civility,” and a cosmology that sought to link “all civilized regions of the world.” This does not mean, argues Griffin, that we cannot glean leadership insights from the Jamestown experience. It only means that leadership analysis should be applied only after the essential historical work has been completed. Felipe Fernández-Armesto discusses the enormous significance of the voyages of Christopher Columbus and Vasco da Gama in the 1490s. They initiated a transformation in the role of Europe in the world that has been as lasting as it has been profound. While our conventional images of both explorers depict them as gifted and intrepid leaders, that view is based mostly on romance. Fernández-Armesto discusses the many shortcomings in their leadership, including lack of relevant experience, equivocation, detachment, and lack of preparation. Both explorers were extremely lucky. They compensated with courage, and in Columbus’s case talents at self-promotion that enabled him to find financing for four voyages to the Caribbean. Fernández-Armesto argues that Columbus’s reputed perseverance is better understood as “pig-headedness.” His chapter underlines the complex combinations of agency and contingency that characterize much of the leadership of discovery. Daniel Thorp’s chapter on Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery provides an interesting contrast to the discussion of Columbus and da Gama. Their leadership is shown to be exemplary in many ways, yet their expedition failed to achieve its main objective, discovering a water route through North America to the Pacific Ocean. Of course, there was no such passageway to be found. Yet the Corps made known

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to President Thomas Jefferson and other national leaders facets of the newly acquired Louisiana purchase that were of immense value. From a leadership perspective, one of the most compelling aspects of Thorp’s analysis is the effective collaboration of Lewis and Clark as co-leaders of the Corps, and of their successful working relationship with President Jefferson on the one hand and local leaders, such as Sacagawea, on the other. They made mistakes along the way, but on the whole their leadership was exemplary. Harry Lambright’s account of James Webb’s leadership of NASA during the Apollo years resonates with some of the characteristics that Thorp sees in Lewis and Clark. In both cases the leaders showed an admirable and effective openness to suggestions from others, but were willing to make difficult decisions on their own, and make them stick, even if some of their followers thought they were making mistakes. Like Lewis and Clark, Webb was engaged with presidential leadership. But Webb had to deal with two presidents. His relationship with President Kennedy was tranquil compared to the tumultuous challenges of working with the mercurial President Lyndon Johnson. Lambright also highlights, as does Fernández-Armesto, the interactions of persons and situations that contribute to the success of the leadership of discovery. He describes Webb’s tenure at NASA as one of those rare instances where “the stars align, and a person, organization, and time come together and historic achievement is possible.” David Dunning discusses the many ego-enhancing errors that characterize our assessments of ourselves. First, we are not very accurate in predicting our performance. Others predict us better than we do ourselves. Second, our errors tend to be in the direction of seeing ourselves as better than we are by objective standards, or than others view us. He discusses the fact that our inaccurate self-assessments constitute a dual curse. Our inf lated views of ourselves lead us to make poor choices. From a leadership perspective, Dunning suggests that other people, notably mentors, can be engaged to provide a little reality check. These reality checks can sometimes make us “sadder but wiser,” but they are vital to discovering better who we really are. Gerrit Verschuur underlines the importance of young scientists knowing themselves accurately. Doing science can be a rough business, and one had better understand the risks involved. Leaders in science, like others, “suffer from human frailties such as ego and pride.” These are the precise frailties discussed by Dunning. Therefore young scientists have to be aware that their discoveries might challenge accepted dogma, whether it be religious or scientific. When there are paradigm

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shifts, someone is the loser. Therefore “research becomes embroiled in politics.” Young people seeking discoveries must be careful what they wish for. Leaders in their areas of research may be open to new ideas, but more often cling to orthodoxies that can make the road to scientific discovery as rough as the road to self-discovery. Verschuur also highlights the importance of openness and risk-taking, some of the same qualities Thorp noted in Lewis and Clark. Jeffrey Hoffman’s chapter focuses on the progress made by the Hubble Space Telescope in astronomical discovery, and some of the leadership that made that instrument as useful as it was. In particular, Robert Williams’s leadership in allocating Hubble time involved enormous risks, but they paid off handsomely. Hoffman also discusses how the politics of presidential leadership affected manned space exploration. President Kennedy strongly identified with the mission of NASA, and challenged scientists to land a man on the moon and return him safely to earth in the decade of the 1960s. President Nixon, Kennedy’s political rival, had no such commitment, and effectively threw away the capacities that had been developed during that decade. One of the unique contributions of Hoffman’s chapter is his descriptions of experiencing space exploration and discovery during, among other f lights, the 1993 Space Shuttle mission to rescue and repair the Hubble telescope. He describes “spectacular and emotional moments” in space, including the joy and “psychological, emotional, and even spiritual dimensions” of weightlessness. While comparisons are difficult, we can imagine leaders of discovery in other domains being equally moved by their experiences. Morton Gernsbacher documents a case of essentially unethical behavior by scientists and opinion leaders who inform the broader public about science. In this instance, politicians and the media have hyped an illusory autism epidemic. Broadening of the criteria of autism in 1994 meant that many more children would be diagnosed as autistic. But many commentators created near panic both by reporting false increases and by using tabloid-like language in characterizing the condition. A prominent Hollywood producer described autism this way: “imagine that instead of taking the whole child, only his mind is stolen and his body—the hollow shell of his being—is left behind.” While there were voices that were much more grounded in the real facts, leadership was lacking to make that story known. Leadership in science, Gernsbacher notes, is most conspicuous by its absence. We are all challenged by her account of this false epidemic. Finally, Ronald Thiemann demonstrates how the leadership of discovery can have intentional ethical outcomes. His depiction of

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George R. Goethals and J. Thomas Wren

George Orwell’s Road to Wigan Pier describes how Orwell “led” fellow Englishmen to “discover” the social ills of the coal industry through the vehicle of “realistic narrative.” In doing so, he consciously linked his creative work to social criticism. The lesson of Orwell, as Thiemann conveys it, demonstrates that the ethical leadership of discovery occurs not only in the activities of leaders and followers in more traditional leadership settings but also can be a conscious evocation that leads others, through the creation of a literary text, to “discover” social ills previously unknown to them. *

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Taken together, we believe that these papers on leadership and discovery open new windows of insight into both phenomena. The concept of “discovery” receives consideration from a wide variety of disciplinary perspectives in a unique amalgamation of scholarly studies that suggest its ubiquity as a part of the human condition. In turn, the construct of “leadership” helps us to see how discovery in its many forms poses similar challenges that require a thoughtful response if the group or organization is successfully to achieve its objectives. We will attempt to pull together and articulate some of these overarching themes in our concluding chapter. We hope that the readers of this volume experience the same high level of intellectual stimulation that the participants in the colloquium enjoyed in creating it.

PA RT I

Defining the Leadership of Discovery

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CH A P T E R

ON E

Discovery in Astronomy: Ex Uno Plures Kare n B. K witte r

The solitary figure fixes his eye to the telescope, scanning the skies. The sleeves of his robes drag across piled-up volumes as he pores over tattered charts and arcane instruments, seeking the discovery that will catapult him to immortality. This is the kind of image evoked over centuries by the word “astronomer.” Except for the candle, the tableau in Gerrit Dou’s Astronomer by Candlelight, painted 350 years ago,1 is probably not too far from the popular image, even today. For most of astronomical history, meticulously compiling catalogues of positions and motions in the sky was the primary research activity. Among the earliest documented astronomical observations are Babylonian cuneiform tablets.2 Incised into one cuneiform tablet, a seventh century BCE copy of an original from about 1,000 years earlier, are more than twenty years worth of observations of the planet Venus. This tablet is just one illustration of the diligence and cleverness of ancient observers: the text shows a clear understanding that Venus appears in the sky as both a morning star and an evening star, and that in a period of eight years, the evening-morning-evening cycle occurs exactly five times. Recorded on similar tablets spanning more than 600 years of regular sky watching are accounts of eclipses, observed and predicted positions of planets, and a description of what we now call Halley’s Comet. This centuries-long effort has been called the “longest research project ever.”3

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Advances in astronomical knowledge came from studying and extending these observation records and from discovering changes, errors, or improvements. Ptolemy, Copernicus, Kepler, and Newton all relied on such stores of accumulated data to test their theories of motion in the heavens. Not until the nineteenth century did the activities of the astronomer deviate substantially from those of earlier practitioners. Over the centuries, discovery in astronomy had been mainly a solitary endeavor. Whether supported by a personal fortune or a benevolent patron, an astronomer generally worked alone. This tendency was compounded by the slow speed of communication. Scientists might write to each other about their work, but the rate of information transfer was excruciatingly low. Add to that the intermittent roiling of Europe’s political landscape over the last half dozen centuries, making travel more than a little dicey, and it is easy to see why astronomy’s pantheon consisted of individual names. The work of a modern astronomer would be largely impenetrable to her predecessors, from Babylonia to the Holy Roman Empire. Advances in physics and chemistry in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries transformed astronomy into astrophysics (its modern synonym), and a generally individual pursuit into a team enterprise. The increasing complexity of modern astrophysical problems and the challenge of obtaining the necessary scientific and financial resources have exerted evolutionary pressure favoring collaboration over individual work. The difference is not just one of technology, but of approach and execution, wrought by the current research environment as well as by the kinds of questions being asked.

Categorizing Astronomical Leadership Leadership in astronomical discovery comes in several frequently overlapping forms. In addition to obviously prized traits like innovation and insight, the group nature and the cost of contemporary research have come to require new, equally valuable talents. Examination of the leadership in successful research programs in astronomy (or other scientific disciplines) consistently reveals one or more of these factors at work. I propose three archetypes of leadership that are embodied in the examples that follow.

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Type A: synthesis—a novel idea or way of looking at an issue. Type B: method—a tool (hardware or software) that allows an unprecedented look at the universe. Type C: exhortation—charismatic and compelling articulation of a scientific goal. Notice that I’ve said nothing about the “scientific method” (hypothesis, experiment, reevaluation) that many of us were taught as the modus operandi of modern science. Of course, the formal scientific method is one of the tools at an astronomer’s disposal, but as we will soon see, important science can be done in many ways, including some that bypass not only its letter, but also its spirit. Type A Type A discovery can occur as described in Malcolm Gladwell’s book, Blink: a sudden insight that places the problem into a completely new perspective.4 Objective facts and subjective processing converge. The discoverer may not even be able to pinpoint the source of the breakthrough, or explain why a certain step was taken. Maddeningly, it sometimes even happens that the solution has been in front of the discoverer, unrecognized until that singular instant. Kepler Johannes Kepler, the seventeenth century mathematician, discovered the laws of planetary motion. His accomplishments are all the more remarkable for the sheer quantity of mathematical calculation required and the lack of modern mathematical methods. Kepler’s achievements, if not quite out of thin air, were nonetheless sui generis: as has been said of Einstein, his discoveries would have been made by someone eventually, but not soon. Kepler used Tycho Brahe’s unparalleled observations to deduce that Mars, and by extension, the other planets, have orbits that are not circles, but ellipses. In what he called his “war with Mars,” Kepler worked for twenty years on the mathematics of its orbit—and this was before the days of electronic calculators, or even slide rules. The surviving remnants of his endeavor comprise almost a thousand pages of laborious hand calculations. (It should be noted, however, that according to the “no knowledge is ever wasted” theorem, Kepler’s voluminous earlier calculations were a tentative step toward integral calculus.5)

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At the end, after years of fruitless attempts and blind alleys, revelation came to Kepler in two parts. The greatest fractional difference between a circle and Mars’s actual orbit is 0.00429; that is, a circle has a radius that is 1.00429 times the distance from the center to the point along Mars’s orbit where the difference is greatest. Kepler knew that the angle between the lines connecting Mars with the Sun and with the center of its orbit reaches its maximum value at the aforementioned greatest fractional difference. At this point the angle is 5° 18’. When Kepler looked up the secant of this maximum angle (the ratio of the Mars-center distance to the Mars-Sun distance), it must have been an electrifying moment: the value is 1.00429. In a “blink” moment, he saw that at any point in Mars’s orbit, the secant of the angle M gives the relative distances to the center and to the Sun. As Kepler himself put it: I stumbled entirely by chance on the secant of the angle 5° 18’, which is the measure of the greatest optical equation [i.e., the greatest difference between the observed orbit and a circular orbit]. When I realized that this secant equals 1.00429, I felt as if I had been awakened from a sleep.6 – Astronomia Nova, Ch. 56 (1609) In fact, the simple equation that results directly from this realization describes an orbit that is an ellipse! But Kepler did not recognize what the equation meant; as Koestler points out, Descartes’ analytic geometry was decades in the future. Ironically, Kepler had, under the weight of so many failed attempts, come to the opinion that the orbit must, in fact, be elliptical in shape. So what did he do? He abandoned the equation whose implications he was blind to, determined to start over yet again, this time assuming an elliptical orbit, which he constructed using a different method. When comprehension dawned that, in fact, he had shown twice that Mars’s orbit is an ellipse, he wrote: Why should I mince my words? The truth of Nature, which I had rejected and chased away, returned by stealth through the backdoor, disguising itself to be accepted. That is to say, I laid [the original equation] aside, and fell back on ellipses, believing that this was quite a different hypothesis, whereas the two . . . are one and the same. I thought and searched, until I went nearly mad, for a reason why the planet preferred an elliptical orbit [to mine] . . . .

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7

Ah, what a foolish bird I have been!

–Astronomia Nova, Ch. 58 (1609) Such disarming honesty in documenting his failures as well as his successes was pure Kepler. The struggle he undertook to derive the laws of planetary motion was unlike any previous attempt to understand orbits.8 Kepler was not a blind geometer, but rather he was a watershed, as described by Koestler: he sought causes and reasons, thinking and asking questions like a physicist, a worthy predecessor to Isaac Newton. Schmidt A modern exemplar of Type A discovery is Maarten Schmidt’s solving of the quasi-stellar object wavelength puzzle, a tale that begins with radio observations. In the early 1960s, radio astronomy was still a young field. It was only in 1932 that Karl Jansky of Bell Labs made the first identification of an extraterrestrial radio source when he fortuitously discovered the radio source at the center of our Milky Way Galaxy. Thirty years later, radio astronomers were busy discovering sources of radio radiation all around the sky, but since radio observations didn’t yield images, it was hard to know exactly what kind of astronomical objects they corresponded to. Also, this was long before the days of high spatial-resolution radio observations, so the positions of sources were not known very precisely. Consequently, to understand these radio sources, optical astronomers routinely obtained images and spectra of objects in the so-called “error box” around the catalogued position to try to identify the optical counterpart. An image would show whether the source was a galaxy or perhaps a nebula or stellar explosion. An object’s spectrum, which displays its light spread out into colors, or wavelengths, reveals a wealth of additional information. The distribution of intensity at different wavelengths has characteristics patterns (spectral “lines”) attributable to specific chemical elements. Moreover, shifts in the observed wavelengths of spectral lines compared with their wavelengths in the laboratory, reveal an object’s velocity through space in our line of sight. In 1962, Schmidt was a young faculty member at Caltech working on identifications of radio sources, particularly those that looked very small in the sky. Most of the sources were identified as distant galaxies, which should, after all, look small if they are far away. But a handful of these identified optical counterparts looked just like stars: there was no

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hint of structure, such as spiral arms as seen in galaxies like our own and our neighbor, the Andromeda Galaxy. They were dubbed “quasi-stellar” objects or “quasars.” The spectra of the quasars showed no readily identifiable pattern from which to recognize chemical elements or to measure a velocity shift. This inability to identify the spectral lines was the cause of much frustration. In fact, Schmidt characterizes a paper he wrote describing one of these mysterious objects, as “almost a complaint.”9 While writing a paper about another quasar called 3C 273 (a catalog designation), Schmidt reexamined its spectrum. He noticed that the relative wavelength separation between successive pairs of spectral lines in 3C 273 decreased from the red end of the spectrum toward the blue end. He decided to compare the wavelengths of those lines with a well-known pattern of wavelengths in hydrogen, which also shows decreasing spacing from red to blue. For each line, Schmidt calculated that the observed wavelength was 1.16 times the laboratory wavelength of the nearest hydrogen line—in other words, the observed lines were the hydrogen lines, shifted up in wavelength by 16 percent. Schmidt describes what happened: I took the [ratio of the] first line, the brightest line I had, to H beta, which was just below it, and I found that the ratio of the two wavelengths was 1.16. Then I took [the ratio of ] my next line to H gamma in the Balmer spectrum, and I found a ratio of 1.16. Now I got suddenly excited. I take the third line pair, my last line and H delta; it’s 1.16. I take Bev’s [colleague Bev Oke] line in the far red, at 7600 [Ångstroms], to H alpha: 1.16. And suddenly I realized that the spectrum was nothing but the Balmer spectrum shifted up in wavelength by sixteen percent. That was what it all came down to.10 Trying the same idea on another quasar yielded a 37 percent shift in the wavelengths of its hydrogen lines; it turned out on further examination that the spectra of all of the quasars could be explained by invoking substantial shifts in the wavelengths of their lines. But what did this mean? In 1924, Edwin Hubble had discovered the expansion of the universe, finding that the greater the wavelength shift in the spectrum of a galaxy, the more distant it was. The mystery of the quasar spectra had just been solved, even landing Schmidt on the cover of TIME magazine, but, as in many such instances, new questions arose. The shifts indicated great distances, but how could quasars be billions of light-years away and still appear as bright as a star in our galaxy?

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Questions like these have occupied astronomers ever since, and the answers we have uncovered about quasars demonstrate that the universe is an evolving system: there are none close by, and therefore we are seeing them as they were billions of years ago. The large wavelength shifts in quasar spectra indicated that they are receding from us at great speed (e.g., the 16 percent shift for 3C 273 implies a recession speed that is roughly the same percentage of the speed of light!), and that they are located at tremendous distances, yet they look as bright as a star in our own galaxy. To look so bright and be so far away means that their energy output must be prodigious. Quasars are distant, ultraluminous galaxies in the early stages of formation and we now believe that these objects are powered by energy released from matter falling into super-massive black holes at their centers. Both of these vignettes indeed demonstrate the power of the “moment,” but they both also illustrate the necessity of a properly and sufficiently prepared mind: as Joseph Henry, the great physicist said, “The seeds of great discoveries are constantly f loating around us, but they only take root in minds well prepared to receive them.” While Kepler’s computational agony was undeniably prolonged by his (understandable) failure to recognize the equation of an ellipse, his total immersion in the problem primed him to realize what it meant when he saw 1.00429 in his trigonometric tables. And for Schmidt, somehow the pattern of wavelength spacing in the quasar’s spectrum resonated with what he knew about hydrogen. Also, whereas Kepler worked alone (using Tycho’s data, to be sure), Schmidt’s discovery surely owes much not only to the radio community’s ongoing work, but to the environment created by his colleagues at Caltech and elsewhere joining him in working on the quasar problem. Type B Some discoveries are waiting for the right tool. Once it appears, the f loodgates open and new fields emerge. That’s what happened with the iodine cell and exoplanets. Mayor and Queloz/Marcy and Butler In 2009 we are used to the idea that there are planets in orbit around other stars—not just that we think they are there, but that we know for sure. Yet only fourteen years ago, the first discovery of planets around stars with glamorous names such as 51 Pegasi, 70 Virginis, and 47 Ursae

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Majoris was front-page news. Such discoveries are now routine, and as of March 2009 the list of planets has burgeoned to 342. It’s not easy to find planets. In our own solar system, the sun is so overwhelmingly the largest and brightest component that, seen from a few light-years away, we would have as much chance of detecting any of our planets in its glare as of noticing a firef ly next to a searchlight beacon. The best way to find a planet is to detect the (tiny) gravitational effect it exerts on its star. A star and its planet do a stately celestial dance around their gravitational center. Like friends arranging themselves on a seesaw, the lighter one sits farther back and moves a lot farther up and down than the heavier one who sits closer to the fulcrum. Stars (the much heavier friends) move a lot less than planets do, and the challenge is to detect this tiny motion, which astronomers do using the Doppler Effect, the same phenomenon that Maarten Schmidt was measuring when he calculated the 16 percent wavelength shift in 3C 273. For sound waves, the Doppler Effect is what causes the perceived change in pitch when a source of sound and a receiver are moving toward or away from each other. For example, an approaching train whistle sounds a higher pitch than normal as it approaches and a lower pitch than normal as it recedes. The greater the change in pitch, the faster the train is moving. In astronomy, we use changes in wavelengths or colors of light instead of changes in pitch to measure motion: wavelengths lengthen when the star moves away and shorten when the star approaches. Unfortunately, it turns out that, unlike quasar speeds, which are substantial fractions of the speed of light, the speeds induced by planets on their stars are comparable to interstate highway cruising speeds, and even worse, the smaller the planet, the lower the speed. Not surprisingly, the wavelength shift caused by such small speeds is minuscule, well below the detection limit for standard astronomical spectroscopic techniques. Now the problem becomes clear: How does one measure such tiny changes in wavelength? The limit to how low a speed can be detected with the Doppler Effect is the accuracy with which we can measure wavelength shifts, which in turn depends on how precisely we can determine the wavelength scale on the spectrum. Normally, the scale is determined by measuring the spectrum of gas discharge comparison lamps that are mounted on the telescope. The dozens of lines in such discharge lamps are sufficient for ordinary work but are completely inadequate for planet-finding. Enter Michel Mayor and Dider Queloz of the Geneva Observatory. The idea they pioneered in 1995 was replacing the discharge lamps with a sealed tube of heated iodine vapor, an iodine cell, through which the

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incoming starlight passes. The iodine vapor absorbs particular wavelengths from the star’s light, producing not dozens, but thousands of absorption lines superimposed on the spectrum of the star, resulting in an exquisitely calibrated wavelength scale. Using this technique, Mayor and Queloz discovered a planet around the nearby star, 51 Pegasi.11 This planet is unlike any in our solar system: half as massive as Jupiter, but orbiting the Sun at one-tenth the distance of Mercury’s orbit. Exoplanets, as they would come to be called, seem to be distant cousins, rather than siblings to our planetary family. Days after Mayor and Queloz’s announcement, the discovery was confirmed by two astronomers at San Francisco State University, Geoff Marcy and Paul Butler. Marcy and Butler were able to construct an iodine cell that decreased the minimum detectable speed to just 3 meters per second, a pace that a jogger could keep up with! This meant they could detect smaller planets: the masses of the more than 200 exoplanets known range from over 7,000 times Earth’s mass down to only about six times Earth’s mass.12 Though we are still far from finding another Earth (which will have to await dedicated space-based telescope missions), the critical first step of incontrovertible exoplanet detection has been taken.

Type C Progress in addressing many modern astronomical questions requires much more in the way of effort and resources than a single person or even a single institution can contribute. (There will be more to say on this point later.) The third prototype of leadership in discovery, certainly not limited to astronomy, is a product of this trend in the modern scientific enterprise and would have been unthinkable throughout most of scientific history, with the possible exception of the head priests in ancient Babylon or Egypt. In what I have called “leadership by exhortation,” the leader plays a key role in defining and organizing the activities of a long-term, complex scientific project, and serves as its public face as well. The functions required of such a leader include shepherding colleagues, lobbying funding sources, and politicking the scientific community whose support is essential, especially for publicly funded projects. Thus, in addition to being an accomplished scientist, the leader must be charismatic, dynamic, and politically astute, attributes not part of the astronomer’s traditional skill set. The seemingly endless meetings, conference calls, e-mails, interim reports, abstracts,

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presentations, plus assorted fires to put out, leave precious little time for actual research. The ever-present challenge for a Type C leader is to remain connected to the science. Wendy Freedman When the Hubble Space Telescope was launched in 1991, its defined purpose was to address three specific questions in astronomy. These socalled “Key Projects” were among the first optical astronomy “megaprojects,” a continuing trend that is shifting the norm away from the individual investigator in favor of the large team. One Key Project for the Hubble Space Telescope was to accurately determine the value of the Hubble Constant, the quantity that describes how fast the universe is expanding, and ultimately, how old it is (the other Key Projects had to do with galaxy surveys and quasar absorption line studies). The answer, to paraphrase Douglas Adams, is seventy-two: the value of the Hubble Constant is 72 kilometers per second per megaparsec. What this means is that for every megaparsec (a little over 3 million lightyears) of separation, two points in the universe are moving apart at a rate of 72 kilometers per second (about 160,000 miles per hour). The basics of the measurements have to do with first identifying and then monitoring a certain kind of luminous star in a sample of distant galaxies. The brightness variations in this kind of star, called a Cepheid variable, reveal how far away the galaxy is that contains it, creating a kind of distance ladder. Coupled with measurements of the galaxies’ Doppler shifts, the behavior of the universe’s expansion can be derived. Wendy Freedman, Director of the Observatories of the Carnegie Institution of Washington, was Principal Investigator on the Hubble Constant Key Project. Her leadership of some two dozen team members and others, who worked for more than ten years on this effort, from inception to successful conclusion, resulted in more than forty important scientific papers. During this time, Freedman managed to keep on doing science, but it wasn’t easy. The mother of small children at the time, her hours, as even she recognized, “sound horrendous”: in addition to her regular workday, when “there’s something big, I work [at home] from 3 A.M. to 7 A.M., [when] the kids get up” But, she added, “If you love it, it’s not hard.”13 Even so, this demonstrates that the kind of leadership required to head modern research teams exacts a cost, not only from the leader but from surrounding coworkers and family.

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All Three Combined If the HST Key Projects were the toe in the water of “big astronomy,” surely the Sloan Digital Sky Survey (SDSS) is a swan dive off the high board. Calling the SDSS ambitious is like calling a T-rex impolite. The journal paper describing the final data release for the SDSS bears the names of 154 authors based at seventy-two different institutions; financial support for the project came from private foundations, universities, U.S. government agencies, and several international research agencies. The SDSS, based at Apache Point Observatory in New Mexico, is an imaging and spectroscopic survey, carried out using a specially designed 2.5-meter telescope outfitted with a one-of-a-kind 120-Megapixel camera and a pair of fiber-optic-fed spectrographs. Contained in the final data release of the original SDSS are images taken in five wavelength bands over an area equal to one-quarter of the entire sky, producing brightness and color measurements of 215 million objects, plus spectra of more than 1 million objects. Measuring the Doppler shifts in the spectra of imaged galaxies and quasars allows their distances to be determined, and among the pearls in the SDSS database is the most distant quasar ever detected, 13 billion light-years from us. In total, the data generated by SDSS occupies 9 Terabytes (=9,000 Gigabytes, or almost 60 times the hard-drive capacity of a typical home computer). Jim Gunn The one person more responsible than any other for the success, and indeed the very existence, of SDSS is Jim Gunn of Princeton University. Gunn, the Project Scientist for SDSS who has led the team from the beginning, conceived the basic idea in 1985, and has been its leading force. Gunn is that rare scientist who has demonstrated all three types of leadership. Type A was evident early in his career, when he did forefront theoretical work in several areas, including gravitational lensing, a phenomenon predicted by general relativity, whereby the distribution of matter can affect the path of light, acting in an analogous way to the lenses in eyeglasses. In the superb success of the SDSS Gunn demonstrated Types B and C. His achievements have also, unusually, spanned all three of the main branches of astronomy research: theory, instrumentation, and observation. In recognition of his extraordinary career, in 2005 Gunn was awarded both the Crafoord Prize by the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences and the Henry Norris Russell Lectureship, the highest honor bestowed by the American Astronomical Society. The

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former citation reads, in part, “for contributions towards understanding the large-scale structure of the Universe.” The latter includes, “For contributions to observational, instrumental, and theoretical astrophysics that have informed our understanding of the universe and a large fraction of its contents.” The Future of Astronomical Leadership Projects like those led by Freedman and Gunn that produce quantum leaps in our astronomical knowledge are not cheap, either in money or in telescope time. State-of-the-art telescopes and instruments, both ground-based and space-borne, are much more expensive to build and to operate than their predecessors were. The reduction in public funding of U.S. astronomy over the last twenty years has forced the national observatories into partnerships with private universities and observatories, which have the largest and best-outfitted telescopes. As a consequence, telescope time, the chief astronomical research commodity, is scarcer for most. A telescope’s light-gathering power, or LGP, determines how faint an object it can detect. The LGP depends on the area of the telescope’s mirror, which is in turn proportional to the square of the mirror’s diameter. In 2002, only 22 percent of all the LGP controlled by U.S.based institutions was open, via competitive application, to all American astronomers.14 The rest was in the hands of individual institutions or consortia of institutions. The environment resembles its nineteenth-, early-twentieth-century state: at that time, the preeminent observatories were private, often endowed by a single wealthy donor, either to a university (e.g., Lick Observatory at the University of California, Yerkes Observatory at the University of Chicago), or as an independent institution (e.g., Lowell Observatory in Arizona). As for the future of leadership in astronomy, while there will always be room for the aha’s of sudden insight and development of groundbreaking technical innovation (neither of which is, after all, predictable), astronomical leadership appears destined to lie mainly in being able to assemble medium-to-large collaborations of astronomers. The publication record bears this out: single-author papers have declined from almost 60 percent in 1970 to about 10 percent in 2005. At the same time the average number of authors per paper has increased from 2.5 in 1980 to almost 5 in 2005.15 The last paper I wrote as sole author is dated 1984, and on average my papers have three authors. In addition,

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between 1995 and 1998, papers based on data from the Hubble Space Telescope had author lists averaging almost ten, roughly three times more than the average for other papers during that interval.16 *

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Finally, I’d like to talk about my own work, which illustrates the situation previously described. I study planetary nebulae, which, perversely, are nothing like planets. These are the gas shells ejected by stars more or less like the sun, during the late stages of their lives. The name itself is a misnomer: William Herschel, discoverer of the planet Uranus, thought that these objects viewed through his telescope resembled the planet. During the course of their evolution, stars undergo nucleosynthesis in and around their cores. Convection dredges the products of those reactions from the stellar depths to layers near the surface much as we would stir a pot of oatmeal from the bottom. As a result, material enriched in helium, nitrogen, and carbon appears at the star’s surface. Stars don’t shine forever, and eventually, after billions of years, their nuclear furnaces run out of fuel. As a prelude to their deaths, their outer layers become unstable and puff off, producing the planetary nebula. The enriched material is included in the ejected gas shell, which expands into space to be literally “recycled” into the next generation of stars. The remaining core of the star is very hot and it emits high-energy radiation that makes the gas in the ejected shell glow, or fluoresce, just like the coatings inside the f luorescent lamps in your house. Different atoms glow in different colors: hydrogen, nitrogen, and sulfur glow red, while oxygen emits green light. To make accurate measurements of the amount of light at each color, we obtain a spectrum, a display of the distribution of light at all colors. The relative strengths of peaks in such a display allow us to calculate the temperature, density, and chemical composition of the nebular gas. When we measure the chemical composition of planetary nebula we can discover the extent of the enrichment and compare it with theoretical predictions of how stellar interiors function. Except for the very lightest atoms, all the naturally occurring elements in the universe, up to uranium, were forged in stars. Confirmation of these stellar nucleosynthesis processes and their products is important because it tells us how our Galaxy and, by extension, the universe have become chemically enriched over time. Most of the 200 million stars in the Galaxy fall within the mass range that eventually produces planetary nebulae, so for a more complete

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understanding of Galactic chemical evolution it is essential to understand how planetary nebulae enrich and recycle their chemical components. For example, two of the most important atoms that are necessary for organic life on Earth, carbon and nitrogen, are made inside stars like the Sun, and are dispersed when those stars form planetary nebulae; the material out of which our solar system formed, and you and I are made, contains contributions from previous generations of stars. The pace and scope of my research have been dictated, at least in part, by my immediate environment. As a faculty member at a small, undergraduate institution, I have no graduate students or postdocs; the students I work with are undergraduates, some starting as early as their freshman year. For the past seventeen years I have been collaborating most closely with a colleague at a university without its own observatory. Our areas of expertise complement each other very well, and it has been a fruitful partnership, resulting in seventeen papers and twentyfive conference presentations to date. He and I have, fortunately, been successful in obtaining the telescope time we needed at the national observatories (Kitt Peak National Observatory in Arizona, and, in the southern hemisphere, Cerro Tololo Interamerican Observatory in Chile). To apply for observing time, one must submit a detailed proposal, which includes both the scientific justification and a technical description of the proposed observations. The competition for the obviously finite number of observing nights is generally keen, with oversubscription rates as high as four to one. Whenever we have had observing time, we have taken students with us, and they have been full participants in the observing. Several of my students went on to write their senior honors theses based on our spectroscopic data. Recently, as part of an ambitious project involving observations of planetary nebulae not only in our Milky Way Galaxy, but also in the Andromeda Galaxy, my colleague and I were invited to join a larger collaboration. The goal is to learn about the formation history of both galaxies by studying the trends in abundances exhibited by the planetary nebulae they contain. Among the other members of the collaboration is a leader (a true Type C) from a university belonging to a consortium that runs an observatory in New Mexico, and a staff member at a European observatory. Through these two colleagues, our collaboration has access to some excellent facilities not available to the general astronomical community (though proposals must still be submitted and the assignment of observing time remains merit-based). My participation in this kind of collaboration ref lects the modern zeitgeist of astronomy. If Kepler were here he would have joined

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forces with a group studying exoplanet orbits, and if the Babylonian sky watchers were around today they would surely be immersed in the mysteries of the SDSS. The modern astronomer may long for the intimate familiarity with sky and telescope experienced by his predecessors as a matter of course. The image of the solitary astronomer in Dou’s painting still exerts a wistful attraction in today’s research environment. But the technology and sociology of modern science are unfortunately conspiring to remove that source of satisfaction from the contemporary astronomer’s professional pleasures. As it happens, the telescope in New Mexico that we use to observe planetary nebulae in Andromeda can be operated remotely via the internet. My students and I sit in my office operating the telescope and spectrograph with a few mouse clicks, watching a desktop widget to monitor sky conditions at the observatory 2000 miles away. Somehow I don’t think this is what Wordsworth had in mind: Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch’d in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.17 –I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (1815) Notes 1. Gerrit Dou. “Astronomer by Candlelight” (image). Available from: J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, California, Online Catalog . 2. Ammizaduga Tablet (image). Available from: The British Museum Online Catalog . 3. Jona Lendering, “Astronomical Diaries,” http://www.livius.org/di-dn/diaries/astronomical_ diaries.html. 4. Malcolm Gladwell, Blink (New York: Little, Brown & Company, 2005). 5. Arthur Koestler, The Sleepwalkers, Universal Library Edition (New York: Grossett & Dunlap, 1963). 6. Ibid., p. 332. 7. Ibid., p. 333. 8. S. Chandrasekhar, “The Pursuit of Science: Its Motivations,” Resonance 2, no. 4 (1997): 82–85. 9. Maarten Schmidt, interview by Shirley K. Cohen, Oral History Project, California Institute of Technology Archives, Pasadena, California, April 11 and May 2 and 15, 1996, http:// resolver.caltech.edu/CaltechOH:OH_Schmidt_M. (Accessed July 8, 2007).

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10. bid. 11. Michel Mayor and Didier Queloz, “A Jupiter-Mass Companion to a Solar-Type Star,” Nature 378, no. 6555 (1995): 355–359. 12. California and Carnegie Planet Search, www.exoplanets.org. 13. Wendy Freedman, quoted in Ann Finkbeiner, “Good Morning Gentlemen and Meg,” Astronomy Magazine, November 2000, 56–61. 14. Patrick W. McCray, Giant Telescopes: Astronomical Ambition and the Promise of Technology (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004). 15. Helmut A. Abt, “The Future of Single-Authored Papers,” Scientometrics 73, no. 3 (2007): 353–358. 16. Helmut A. Abt and Sarah Stevens-Rayburn, “Publication Statistics for Recent Papers from the Hubble Space Telescope,” Bulletin of the American Astronomical Society 33 (2001): 935–937. 17. William Wordsworth, “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” lines 12–17, http://www.bartleby. com/101/530.html.

CH A P T E R

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The Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery: The Case of Jamestown and John Smith Patri c k Grif f in

Americans have a love–hate relationship with anniversaries. Consider just two relatively recent and prominent examples, America’s bicentennial and the 500th anniversary of Columbus’s “discovery” of America. On July 4, 1976, the nation reveled in fireworks and tall ships. School children had spent the year preparing for a celebration that marked more than independence from Britain. We celebrated all that we perceived ourselves to be, manifest in that haunting and elusive phrase from the Declaration: the ideals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Even after—or perhaps because of—Vietnam and Watergate, and the cultural fallout of the 1960s, these somehow still were our birthright, or at least we had to imagine them to be so even as we redefined what these ideals meant in a period of cultural f lux.1 Sixteen years later, such sentiments, however naïve, seemed misplaced. In 1992, protesters staged “die-ins” at Columbus Circle in New York, alerting all to the legacy of death and destruction that followed in the wake of what had been seen as Columbus’s “discovery” but was now recast as invasion. Films appeared showcasing the rape of paradise. Columbus epitomized all that was wrong with Western society, but especially the American variation. His mantle was death, disease, displacement.2 This is all understandable. Anniversaries offer opportunities to take stock, not only of who people such as the

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Founders and Columbus were and what they did, but more importantly, who we are and what we do. We now are dealing with another anniversary, what has been hailed as the birth of England’s American empire, the first permanent English settlement in America, and “America’s 400th birthday.” Predictably, the year has been marked by self-satisfied back-slapping and celebration, as well as condemnation and righteous indignation. Jamestown and its most famous denizen Captain John Smith represent for us something essentially and quintessentially American, whether this be democracy and tolerance, on the one hand, or racism and greed, on the other. Just consider how two groups have commemorated the anniversary of the initial landing at Jamestown. One group of descendants of the earliest settlers, called fittingly the “Jamestowne Society” or the “Order of First Families of Virginia,” regard their forebears as the inventors of all that is right with America. “It was here on this sacred ground,” their governor declares, “that the principles of representative government, private ownership of land and civilian control of the military were firmly rooted in the New World.” Another group counters that colonization marks a very different moment when America’s darker side was unleashed or made manifest on what would be the soil of the United States. Groups have organized counter-demonstrations on the anniversary of the first landing to “crash this illegitimate party and pursue the overdue case of reparations and justice for the victims of slavery, mass murder and genocide.” They conclude that “the ill effects of what happened at Jamestown still fester in this community today.”3 These moments, therefore, reveal something Americans seem never to tire of: searching for and finding what they regard as their distinctive characteristics in the past, especially what they define as those totemic events that demand the marking of anniversaries. In this regard, celebration and condemnation present two sides of the same coin. One, the older exceptionalist narrative, sees America as humanity’s great hope, and the Jamestown story, or any other origin myth for that matter, as part of an almost providential drama. This colonizing venture has an air of inevitability. Even in this admittedly shaky foundation what makes us American is evident. The second, generally of more recent vintage, regards America as the destroyer of worlds and Jamestown as the first place the inexorable march of othering subalterns would be witnessed in what would be the United States. In this instance, colonization or invasion also

Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery 29 appears inexorable, and all that we deplore in our society today was apparent from the get-go 400 years ago. Jamestown, long portrayed and popularly regarded as “America’s birthplace,” proves especially useful for both narratives.4 Scholars, I hasten to add, are not immune. They develop more sophisticated arguments, to be sure, yet they too embark on a search for all things American in Jamestown and in its most notable inhabitant, Captain John Smith. They may portray Jamestown in an ambivalent light, a place where freedom of some and exploitation for others would be manifest, but these traits, they conclude, are typically American. The whole venture also seems a historic inevitability. The spate of scholarly, and not-so-scholarly, books commemorating the 400th anniversary speak to these dynamics. Karen Kupperman’s path-breaking study of Jamestown, which tries to get us beyond the idea of Jamestown as national myth by placing it in Atlantic and even global contexts, still clings to the assumption that all roads lead to it. In her telling, other ventures serve as foils for or diversions from what we know will be the endgame.5 All experience in and around the Atlantic, Kupperman argues in The Jamestown Project, allowed America to come into being. Although, as Kupperman claims, “there can be no reasonable expectation that it would survive to be the foundation of the first transatlantic British empire,” the very wording of the statement belies its intent. As she puts in another study of the meaning of Jamestown in the Atlantic world, “all this prior experience shaped the mental context of colonization.”6 To appreciate Jamestown even from an Atlantic perspective is to unravel the tensions that define America even to this day. To cite just one study, in A Land as God Made It: Jamestown and the Birth of America, James Horn makes the case that the good, the bad, and the ugly aspects of American identity could be discerned at this place from the start. Democratic practices initiated here blossomed more fully later, and the appalling treatment of Indians and Africans also created distinctive patterns for subsequent development. Together, these dynamics “shaped a new world and forged a new people.” 7 As Edmund Morgan has noted, historians of Jamestown tend to “tell the same story, but with the benign intention of celebrating those early years as the beginnings of the United States.” Benignly construed, the blunders that Morgan had argued in his classic study American Slavery, American Freedom were at the heart of the Jamestown experience appear as “lessons learned.” Alas, as he suggests, such story lines “cannot endow the events with a continuity of purpose they did not have.” Nevertheless, Morgan, too,

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sees Jamestown as a harbinger, albeit a troubling one. “Jamestown,” he believes, “may not have been a model for later English colonization, but it certainly embodied the ideas and forces that would drive relations with Indians for the rest of our history.” Jamestown, he concludes, “was only the beginning.”8 I would like to encourage us to think of Jamestown in a different light. In fact, I would like to make my own use of this anniversary to give us pause as we consider the ideas of leadership and discovery. If considered properly—on their own terms—epic moments, those worth commemorating, can remind us that notions of “discovery” and “leadership” are also loaded terms that can speak more to us and our concerns than to past realities. For the Jamestown saga, as well as its famed leader, if placed in their proper contexts—not the context useful to us—can make us mindful of a few important lessons that are all too easily forgotten as we reconsider the past: it is a foreign country and all was not inevitable. Well, what do these simple platitudes have to do with leadership and discovery? A great deal. It goes without saying that looking for the hallmarks of discovery can lead to teleological assumptions, that we view the past as the run-up to what we would regard as significant, and that we do not engage it on its own terms. We can dismiss such charges as silly, but we must recognize that searching for anything can often lead us to distort the past, to create narratives too tethered to our assumptions. In the process, we can get it wrong. The same is true of looking for leadership. Leaders, interestingly enough, can look a fair bit like us, what we admire or deplore in what we conceive ourselves to be. A useable past is useful. Unfortunately, it’s not often right. A bit of caution, in other words, is in order as we assess the meaning of discovery and the merits of leadership. Hunting down such dynamics in the past is fraught with peril, but even more so as we mark anniversaries. And American anniversaries, if they teach us anything, teach us this. Searching for these dynamics, especially when tangled with a set of assumptions central to an American exceptionalist narrative, can in fact amplify distortion. Does this mean that we cannot explore the past for evidence of discovery and leadership? Of course not. It does mean that the “search” for such phenomena cannot represent the entry-points into our studies, our points of departure, or the parameters around which we construe context. We are on far firmer ground when we try to place people and processes and events in their proper contexts and then tease out these themes. This is particularly the case when we deal with events, people, and processes that are part of national myth, those moments that

Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery 31 especially tempt us to search for leadership and discovery—in other words, those types of people and events that we memorialize through anniversaries, those places-in-time that are closely associated with what they would become, not what they in fact were. Sequence, therefore, matters. We must try to get the past right, or at least as right as we can, before we wring meaning from it. In fact, as I will illustrate, we can only come to terms with these dynamics if we do not search for them. *

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For good reason we usually look to New England for examples of leadership. Plymouth Plantation and the Massachusetts Bay Colony, in retrospect, appear as models of stability and religiosity, two values favored by Americans. Think of William Bradford and John Winthrop, two men still hailed as America’s “founders.”9 Jamestown has had its boosters, particularly Virginians who wanted to create an origin story every bit as powerful as New England’s. But they were fighting an up-hill battle.10 Most have argued that Jamestown stood for some sorts of American values, but not those associated with the Puritans or the Pilgrims. But we don’t normally look to Jamestown for values. It’s the story of Jamestown that grips the imagination and is a prototypical American tale. It was, in a word, an ill-planned colonial fiasco that became an American success story. This is an old rags-to-riches story, literally and figuratively. The story as we know it goes something like this. Englishmen had been struggling for some time to secure colonies. Elizabethan adventurers had tried with mixed results in Ireland. Humphrey Gilbert and his half brother Walter Raleigh, each of whom had plantations in Ireland, hoped to secure a colony in the part of America the English were calling “Virginia,” the whole eastern seaboard stretching from Newfoundland to Florida. Gilbert died trying; nonetheless, their attempts to settle America were finally realized in Roanoke. But this venture, of course, resulted in the famous “lost colony.” Raleigh had failed in Roanoke. But in so doing, he ensured that England’s future would be in America. In 1606, a group of London merchants and investors chartered the London or Virginia Company to establish some sort of venture in what was called “Virginia.” The shareholders hoped that the “planters” would find some merchantable commodity as they established a settlement. They would not make the same mistakes that plagued earlier colonizing ventures. They would not underestimate natives, as they had done in Ireland. They also recognized the critical

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importance of maintaining a steady supply of capital and people from England to the colony, which was not done for Roanoke. Thinking again of the Roanoke disaster, the principals of the London Company would also fix on a strategic spot in America.11 Previous failure, in other words, would bear success in Jamestown. This proves to be the prevailing trope of what is presented as a quintessential American drama. To be sure, beginnings were bumpy, to say the least. The initial settlers died at an appalling rate. Moreover, it seemed that the adventurers were ill-prepared for the colonizing venture. The company sent over the wrong people with the wrong skills for planting settlements: perfumers, experts at minerals, vine dressers, silk growers, as well as the younger sons of gentry. These “lazy Englishmen” were not the types to “plant” a colony. For this reason, the colony would teeter on the brink of survival in its first few years. In addition, the colony had a difficult time raising money and enticing planters to venture across the ocean. At three points—1609, 1622, and 1624—the colony was on the brink of dying off. And no wonder. Early settlers were, after all, more intent on searching for the mythic Northwest Passage than in feeding themselves. In fact, they relied on the Indians in their midst, those they warred with from time to time, to feed the colonists. Roanoke had failed. Now Jamestown threatened to go the same way, yet another failed colonizing venture. At least this is the story we’ve been told. Eventually, however, tobacco would help turn the tide. As the story goes, John Rolfe experimented with different strains of tobacco and discovered that a variety from the West Indies grew well in the Chesapeake soil. The company had stumbled on its commodity. Soon “planters” grew tobacco anywhere they could. Migrants arrived from a labor-rich England to work the fields, most of whom would serve as indentured servants. The first few years of struggle, though formative, soon became a distant memory as the colony now began to take on an air of permanence. As Jamestown became a “boom town,” with labor at a premium, the first slaves would arrive in the colony, initially working alongside indentured servants. The colony was still shaky but much more secure than it had been, especially as settlers fastened on the labor force that would one day make Virginia a slave society. Settlers had to survive the seasoning process, but because far more were coming over, numbers finally were on the side of permanence. And after this, the Indians did not stand much of a chance. True, they had risen in 1622, killing off a third of the colonists. But as more settlers continued to stream in and put more land under cultivation, leaders of

Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery 33 the colony retaliated in horrific ways, eventually pushing Indians ever westward beyond the fall-line of the James River. Planters warred with the local Indians for more than ten years after the fabled massacre of 1622. Eventually, they would be vanquished. Again, numbers spurred on by the tobacco boom ensured success. It was inevitable. Before long, a number of contradictory patterns were emerging, but prototypical American ones. From the get-go, settlers were able to establish their own general assembly, which their charter government allowed, and which functioned almost like a parliament. They would rule over themselves and have the rights of “Englishmen” in the New World. They had devised ways for allocating land. And ownership would be based on English conceptions of property. On the one hand, we could see that this was a place of opportunity and where a democratic system would be installed almost from the get-go. Planters would enjoy rights to life, liberty, and property. On the other hand, liberties came at the expense of others. With large numbers arriving and more and more individuals living out the terms of indenture, it was critical for the colony’s success to ensure access to land. With tobacco central to the colonial economy, it was just as critical to obtain a reliable and affordable labor supply. Both of these issues, admittedly, would dog the colony for the rest of the seventeenth century. Eventually, of course, the issues of land and labor were solved by African slavery and Indian removal, the first glimmers of which were discernible in the early Jamestown years.12 But what does this narrative, and its defining tropes of irony and success-wrung-from-failure, tell us about what really happened at Jamestown? Little, I would argue. It is our narrative, not theirs, one that only makes sense if we view it from the vantage point of the mideighteenth century when these dynamics were the stuff of provincial stability, such as the centrality of chattel slavery to society, the removal of Indians, and the seeming inevitability of permanence. In fact, defining patterns are only discernible if we look at this distant past through the eighteenth century, the American Revolution, the Civil War, and the Civil Rights Movement. The story, in short, however meaningful and powerful, more readily addresses questions that interest us, such as distinctive American identity, than it does questions that animated development in Jamestown. What then was Jamestown? That’s difficult to say, but a better way of thinking about the place is to view it as a place-in-time with its own contextual integrity, not as a precursor to later places-in-time, much less a mirror to contemporary American culture. Reconstructing context means, first, understanding the place

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less as a colony or imperial outpost than for what it was: a provisionally planned trading venture and settlement that grew from the ways Englishmen were encountering the wider world. And when we place Jamestown in its proper contexts, and understand it for what it was, what we had regarded as puzzling behavior makes a great deal of sense. Let’s explore three issues in this light: dealings with Indians, slavery, and, for lack of a better word, worldview. Why would these people who had to rely on Indians for their survival kill them or treat them with a cavalier attitude? Some easy answers spring to mind, chief among these blind racism.13 But this is a twenty-first century answer to a seventeenth-century question. Early modern Englishmen did not harbor what we would regard as racist attitudes, that outward and unchangeable characteristics, such as skin color, betokened capacity. If early moderns had a measuring stick for humanity, it was based on cultural categories, especially the idea of civility. Englishmen divided the world not so much into distinctive regions with different races but into regions that harbored peoples at different levels of development. Indians were regarded as peoples living in a rude state, the state of savages— literally woods dwellers. With time, with Christian inf luence, with trade, with the creation of “society,” it was presumed that even these people could in theory become civilized. What does this have to do with killing them? A great deal. It was not unusual for early moderns to kill, rather than civilize. The English famously—or infamously—did it to great effect in Ireland at the very moment they were landing in Virginia. What happened in Virginia, therefore, did not differ in scope or kind from what Europeans were doing in other parts of the world during the early modern period. They saw and treated Africans, Asian Indians, Native Americans, the Irish, and each other in this light.14 The treatment of Africans is also not a straightforward story. Although enslaved, we know that Africans and African Americans had opportunities to gain their freedom. Famously on the eastern shore, whole communities of free blacks created lives for themselves and had good relations with their white neighbors. Some extraordinary individuals knew how to use the system to their advantage. Some even would go on to own slaves of their own. Most of these men and women were Christians, had European names, knew English, and had a great deal of experience with the slave system in South America, the Caribbean, or New Netherlands before arriving in Jamestown. In fact, they knew a great deal more about it than their masters, who at first incorporated slaves into the system of bound labor that they knew best: indentured servitude. No doubt, slaves faced greater hurdles than whites in

Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery 35 achieving freedom; nonetheless, status and especially property determined freedom, not race. Although Englishmen harbored deep prejudices about Africans—particularly their color—this was not a world of white freedom and black un-freedom. That world would come into being in the eighteenth century.15 With these attitudes, they encountered peoples in what they called Virginia. How did they regard the place? We know, or assume, that they saw it as part of a New World, a place apart, and a place to be exploited, where colonies would be established as an English Atlantic empire was emerging. From our vantage point, this makes sense, but not from the perspective to those who purportedly participated in these dynamics. In fact, they did not conceive of the New World as a place apart. They incorporated new lands discovered within older geographic frameworks. They did not necessarily see Virginia as a “colony,” certainly not in the sense that we are accustomed to using the term. And they did not see their endeavors as part of an imperial project. Simpler dynamics were at work. Let’s start with how they saw their worlds. As I mentioned above, Europeans in general, measured others they encountered by the categories of civility and savagery. These ideas justified taking the land of others and rationalized violence. They lay at the heart of the right to dominion, claims to sovereignty, economic utility, notions of law, and even ideas about the environment.16 How Elizabethan Englishmen structured these ideas, or how they devised their frameworks, is a different, though no less crucial, matter, but one we have not attended to. If any sensibility defined the ways they saw and acted upon their world, it would be what we could call cosmographic. In one sense, a cosmographer combined what would later be considered discrete fields of study—astronomy and geography, but also history and even music—to understand the world. Unlocking the totality of relationships between the earth and the firmament, both part of a unified universe, explained matters as—literally—mundane as the earth’s structure, the culture of its inhabitants, and its history.17 Cosmographers did not bound or organize their subjects as we do. Wondrous beasts could and did feature on their maps. Topographical detail, scale, and accurate distances did not. More to the point, it defined a holistic approach to process and place. Cosmographers did not delineate; they claimed to study the heavens, the earth, and all therein, including even the four elements. And one aspect of experience could not necessarily be separated from another. As a way of organizing knowledge, it offered a cultural means of depicting space.

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Tellingly, cosmography as a field of study was resurrected at the time of the “age of discovery” to comprehend the new peoples, places, and things that Europeans were encountering.18 It also f lourished at a time when the rational and the occult, wonder and science, humanist and modern, had not yet become distinctive categories.19 Early modern Englishmen ordered and acted upon the physical world with this seamless approach. For any cosmographer, but more to the point anyone like Smith who had ventured in literally the four corners of the world, geography served culture. Civility and savagery represented more than categories to give shape to a figurative world. They also gave the world literal form. In fact, if Elizabethans were obsessed with anything, it was not with place and its many aspects but with the structure of the whole and the ways this animated constituent parts. This process, less teleological and more contingent than the sequence most scholars who study Jamestown outline, determined appropriate courses of action. Civility, then, represented the content of his worldview, the means by which he brought interpretive order to the parts of the whole. Its presence or absence tied the world together and bound it to God’s celestial plan. A cosmographic sensibility, one that integrated geography and cultural dynamics, therefore, provided the structure on which such ideas hung.20 Jamestown represented one point on this cultural world map that included far-off places that we all too often see as hived off from the American project. Civility provided a lens to make sense of the exotic, the necessary, the troublesome, the tempting, the useful, and the expendable. As the content of a seamless worldview and mental map, it could comprehend the Orient, India, Guiana, Moscow, Guinea, Virginia, and Munster, all destinations for which chartered companies were launched. Of course, Englishmen would regard men and women in each of these places in different ways. And some ventures were established solely for trade, while others were established to exploit the land and its peoples, and still others were put in place for some form of settlement. But how men and women in these places measured up to cultural ideals determined how they would be treated, how that treatment would be rationalized, and how places would be comprehended. As such, America was envisioned as a bridge linking civilized regions of the world. In this way, searching for a northwest passage, which all reputable scholars believed had to exist, made a great deal of sense. Linking England to civilized places like China was as important as finding commodities, perhaps even more so. In the meantime, savage regions like America could be exploited for their inherent

Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery 37 wealth. America served as a means to the larger end of civility. It did not amount to a “New World,” with all the baggage we bring to that term. It could be explored to find the means of accessing civilized regions. It could also be a place that was planted with the civilized. It could serve many functions in a world understood to be cosmographically structured and rationalized by humanist ideas of civility and savagery. In this vein, the early years, both the exploitation of Indians and the fevered search for exploitable commodities, make a great deal of sense. They did not represent “hurdles” to the plantation of a successful colony, or worse yet, to American social development. Attempts only appeared as failures because the broader ideas that Englishmen espoused could not keep up with reality—theirs, not ours. *

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Would Virginia become a colony? Would England rule an Atlantic empire? Would Indians be displaced? Would Virginia become a slave society? Of course. But these are products of the period. In other words, if we assume what we are trying to explain we will come up with f lawed ideas of what this period was about. Discovery, with its connotations of newness, does not get to the heart of the dynamics that are observable in Jamestown. To be sure, what adventurers encountered was new. But novelty did not shatter old ways. Far from it. In many cases, what was new could confirm older ways of seeing the world. Indians were seamlessly worked into older models of understanding human difference, thereby strengthening, not attenuating, the appeal of such models. A cosmographic framework, far from receding into oblivion, enjoyed newfound appeal as well, as Englishmen struggled with new places. This also means that Jamestown, if we place it in these proper contexts, had nothing at all to do with subsequent American development. Did what was going to happen in Jamestown affect subsequent development in Virginia? Perhaps. But this is not the question to ask. Enduring worldviews confronting social realities, I think, is the best way to conceive of Jamestown. It also offers the best means to think about John Smith and leadership. To be sure, Smith, especially this year, has been the subject of a great deal of American soul-searching. Understand him, it is argued, and you’ll understand something about America. And with good reason: he was larger than life. This is the Smith we know. Admittedly, his is an amazing story. Born to a middling family, as a young man Smith decided to make a name for himself by becoming a soldier. He served in the Netherlands, as did many an

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Englishman, to fight Catholic Spain. Tired of killing fellow Christians, as he put it, Smith then enlisted in service in Hungary to fight Muslims. In this part of the world, Smith lived adventures most could only dream of. Captured by the Turks, his escape was made possible by a beautiful princess—not the last time we would hear of this. He challenged three Turks to single combat, killing each of them. Hence, the family crest that he earned was emblazoned with the heads of three Turks. After fighting the Muslims, he traveled through Eastern Europe and North Africa, eventually making his way back to England. When he agreed to sail to Virginia, he was all of twenty-seven years old. By his reckoning, Smith was at the center of everything and anything eventful in Jamestown. He led expeditions to find the Northwest Passage. He led trading delegations to the Indians, figuring out before anyone else how their culture—and just as significantly, their patronage system—worked. He was also the first to exploit it, to trade copper directly with the tribes under Powhatan’s control. Copper, Smith had learned, represented for Powhatan the stuff of his confederation, the good that bound subsidiary tribes to him. Smith also was the only one who seemed to bring any order at all to the settlement. While he and others tried to find an economic rationale for the plantation, he would take over control of the settlement. The company’s initial charter created a ruling council for the colony from which would be chosen a president. The arrangement failed, especially after the member of the council with the most practical experience, Bartholomew Gosnold, died. As the venture lay on the brink, Smith decided that only the leadership of a soldier could rescue it. He then set the men to work. Most famously, he doused salt water on the blistered hands of what he called the “gallants” who were complaining as they were felling trees with axes. “For every oath” they uttered he poured “a can of water” down their sleeves. He then implored the company to “send but thirty Carpenters, husbandmen, gardiners, fisher men, blacksmiths, masons, and diggers up of trees, roots, well provided; than a thousand of such as we have.”21 He dealt with the Indians viciously but he also saw them as honorable adversaries. He argued after Indians had been attacking the settlement that the Englishmen had to employ “Irish tactics,” meaning none should be spared, crops should be laid waste, and the normal rules of civilized behavior in warfare did not apply. Indians, like the Irish, were savage after all. On the other hand, he saw the local Indian leader, Powhatan, as a man of estimable qualities. And he clearly was enamored with Powhatan’s favorite daughter Pocahontas, going so far as to

Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery 39 suggest that she was smitten with him and that she had saved him from her father’s cruel intentions of killing him. Indians were savages. But in the context of a failing venture, they had to be respected. In a word, it would appear that Smith was a racist, but one with a soft spot for those savages that respected him as a leader. In our telling, therefore, Smith virtually kept the whole enterprise af loat during the critical first years. He comes off as deus ex machina for England’s first permanent settlement in America. True, he left just before the famous starving time of 1609/10, when some resorted to cannibalism to survive, but he had provided a critical model. Until the tobacco boom, successful governors would adapt the approach Smith used in the colony. Most critically, his fortunes over time ref lect the ways that we conceive Jamestown. On one level, these are the simple stories we are told, and Smith is the father of American colonial history. He’s the autocrat, the proto-democrat, the self-made man, the racist. Like Jamestown, he has worn any number of hats. In actual fact, Smith was less a visionary than a man of his times, less a model of leadership than the archetype of an English adventurer. Did Smith “save” the “colony”? Perhaps, perhaps not. This, in fact, is the wrong question, as there was not a “colony” per se to save. Smith’s significance lies elsewhere, in more interesting places. Indeed, if anyone epitomized the cosmographic sensibility and the ideology of civility, it was Smith. Let’s look again at dealings with Indians and the sense of place in Jamestown. For Smith, Jamestown was not particularly different than other places. He saw it as a bridge to other civil regions, and he led the early exploratory journeys for a northwest passage. Moreover, he had dealt with heathens before, albeit civilized heathens, the Turks. In his world, to be civilized did not necessarily mean being Christian. And Smith consciously compared Indians to Turks and the Irish, especially how they wore their mantles and adorned their bodies.22 But in order to become civilized, a savage had to become a Christian. This was a basic early modern formula. Smith likened Indians to what was known in his world. On the one hand, the Irish proved to be perfect templates to comprehend Indians. Smith may or may not have served in Ireland. A number from Jamestown, however, had seen service in Ireland. And an even larger proportion of the investors in the Virginia Company also had invested in Irish plantation schemes. On the other hand, Indians were redeemable. He found them “Craftie, timorous, quicke of Apprehension, and very ingenuous. Some are of disposition fearefull, some bold, most cautelous, all Savage.”23 They could become civilized, as his well-known infatuation with Pocahontas suggests, a

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woman who eventually would make the transition from savagery to civility when she was baptized and rechristened the Lady Rebecca. In other words, Smith moved through a world made of the savage and the civil. Smith moved through worlds broader and deeper than the Atlantic. Literally and figuratively, therefore, a seamless world incorporating Virginia, Turkey, and Ireland was his stage. And Jamestown was a spot on it. Smith, therefore, has more to tell us as a window to the past that is far different from our present than as a would-be catalyst for all that we are. Similarly, to understand Jamestown is not to see it as a place “discovered” than as a site of imagination in a broader seamless world, separated not by geography but integrated by culture. In truth, if we look for leadership or discovery here, we are apt to look in the mirror and see what we want to see. Does this mean that we can’t gauge dynamics like discovery or leadership? Of course not. Smith provided critical leadership that helped a struggling, ill-defined venture survive. He did not save a colony, much less Virginia or America. He did not do so by shifting a paradigm or embracing a new worldview. Rather, he worked with what his world had to offer within the parameters of the ascendant worldview. Neither Smith, nor tobacco for that matter, would transform a cosmographic sensibility or the yardsticks of savagery and civility. These would change with time in the then unrealized future. But certainly not in 1607. The temptations to look for who we are when looking at what we would regard as transformative are great. But we must see these events as contingent, even though they are usually regarded as inevitable. We must view people, places, and processes with their own integrity, to engage them on their own terms. Doing otherwise promises to distort the very social reality that we would seek to understand. Looking at Jamestown and Smith from our vantage point 400 years later should give us pause as we look to explore “leadership” and “discovery.” After all, discovery and leadership is much more about us than them. But Smith and Jamestown do have something to tell us of these dynamics. Smith was, if anything, a myth-maker. In his narratives, he made Jamestown part of a grand drama in which he played the starring role. In his own mind, Smith was the ideal man for a place that was not yet a colony and had no rudder, a place without a theme, a disaster. A place that required improvisation and myth-making. He was, therefore and ironically, the ultimate American. Viewing Smith in this light, perhaps, will allow us to get beyond the very American temptation in finding distinctive characteristics in the American past. In other words,

Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery 41 only by seeing him as part and parcel of an exceptionalist impulse, not as an aspect of exceptionalism itself, can we measure what discovery and leadership mean in an American historical context. Notes 1. For a book that deals with the broader meaning of the seventies, including the bicentennial, see Jonathan Mahler, Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bronx is Burning: 1977, Baseball, Politics, and the Battle for the Soul of a City (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005). 2. For the best analysis of 1492 and 1992, see the essays by James Axtell in Beyond 1492: Encounters in Colonial North America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992). On the anti-Columbus demonstrations, see the provocative—and often wrong-headed but entertaining—book by Keith Windschuttle entitled The Killing of History: How Literary Critics and Social Theorists Are Murdering Our Past (New York: Encounter Books, 2000). 3. Charlotte Hays, “American Originals: Descendants of the Jamestown Settlers Meet and Greet,” Wall Street Journal, May 18, 2007. Similarly, see Jill Lepore, “Our Town,” The New Yorker, April 2, 2007, p.40. 4. For these twinned dynamics, see Patrick Griffin, American Leviathan: Empire, Nation, and Revolutionary Frontier (New York: Hill and Wang, 2007). 5. Kupperman, it should be noted, did not blaze this trail. As Nicholas Canny puts it in one of his studies of the subject, “I have pursued the trail set by D.B. Quinn in arguing that subsequent English colonization in Virginia was a logical continuation of the Elizabethan conquest of Ireland,” adding that “this study of colonization ventures is important, therefore, in showing how the English government were slowly groping towards an efficient model of colonization.” Nicholas Canny, The Elizabethan Conquest of Ireland: A Pattern Established, 1565–76 (London: Hassocks, 1976), pp. 1, 90. As he put it, Elizabethan Ireland was a place in time where and when “a pattern [would be] established.” Irish experiences served as both “precedents and parallels.” Nicholas Canny, “The Ideology of English Colonization: From Ireland to America,” William and Mary Quarterly 30, no. 3 (July 1973): 575–598; Nicholas Canny, “The Origins of Empire: An Introduction,” in Oxford History of the British Empire, Volume I: Origins of Empire, ed. Nicholas Canny (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 7. 6. Karen Ordahl Kupperman, The Jamestown Project (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2007), pp. 23, 192. Also see pp. 43, 95, 282. Karen Ordahl Kupperman, “Foreword,” in Envisioning an English Empire: Jamestown and the Making of a North Atlantic World, ed. Robert Appelbaum and John Sweet (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005), p. xii. For a critique of this, see John Sweet, “Introduction: Sea Changes,” in Envisioning an English Empire, p. 5. 7. James Horn, A Land as God Made It: Jamestown and the Birth of America (New York: Basic Books, 2005), p. 290. 8. Edmund S. Morgan and Marie Morgan, “Our Shaky Beginnings,” New York Review of Books, April 26, 2007, pp. 23–25. 9. See, for instance, Francis Bremer, John Winthrop: America’s Forgotten Founding Father (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003). 10. See Thad W. Tate, “The Seventeenth-Century Chesapeake and Its Modern Historians,” in The Chesapeake in the Seventeenth Century: Essays on Anglo-American Society, ed. Thad W. Tate and David L. Ammerman (New York: W. W. Norton and Co., 1979). 11. This—as well as what follows—is the standard tale of Jamestown. The best narrative remains Morgan’s American Slavery, American Freedom: The Ordeal of Colonial Virginia (New York: W. W. Norton and Co., 1975).

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12. For the best accounts of these dynamics, see Anthony S. Parent Jr., Foul Means: The Formation of a Slave Society in Virginia, 1660–1740 (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2003); Peter Thompson, “The Thief, the Householder, and the Commons: Languages of Class in Seventeenth-Century Virginia,” William and Mary Quarterly 63, no. 1 ( January 2006): 253–280. 13. The best up-to-date studies that explore seventeenth-century racism are Joyce E. Chaplin, Subject Matter: Technology, the Body, and Science on the Anglo-American Frontier, 1500–1676 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003); Jill Lepore, The Name of War: King Philip’s War and the Origins of American Identity (New York: Vintage, 1999). 14. See Nicholas Canny, Making Ireland British, 1580–1650 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003); James Axtell, The Invasion Within: The Contest of Cultures in Colonial North America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986). 15. See T.H. Breen and Stephen Innes, Myne Owne Ground: Race and Freedom on Virginia’s Eastern Shore, 1640–1676 (New York and Oxford, Eng: Oxford University Press, 1980); Ira Berlin, Many Thousands Gone: The First Two Centuries of Slavery in North America (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000). 16. See Andrew Fitzmaurice, Humanism and America: An Intellectual History of English Colonization, 1500–1625 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 12–13, 37; Anthony Pagden, Lords of All the World: Ideologies of Empire in Spain, Britain, and France, c. 1500–c. 1800 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998). 17. On history and cosmography, see the suggestive essay by Sanjay Subrahmanyam entitled “On World Historians in the Sixteenth Century,” Representations 91, no.1 (Summer 2005): 26–57. In the essay, he demonstrates that peoples from many parts of the world wrote world histories from what we could call a cosmographic perspective, including Walter Raleigh, who famously wrote his Historie of the World (published in London in 1614) while imprisoned in the Tower. The frontispiece of his Historie, it should be noted, was also marked by cosmographic imagery, in this instance the all-seeing eye of Providence placed above the globe. See C.A. Patrides, ed., Sir Walter Raleigh’s History of the World (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 1971), p. xv. For an excellent recent treatment of the rise, or better resurrection, of cosmographic sensibilities, see Christine Johnson, “Renaissance German Cosmographers and the Naming of America,” Past and Present 191, no. 1 (May 2006): 3–43. 18. William Cunningham, The Cosmographical Glasse (London, 1559), preface, p. 5; Frank Lestringant, Mapping the Renaissance World: The Geographical Imagination in the Age of Discovery (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. x, 3–7, 129. For a definition that encompasses these meanings, see the usage for the sixteenth century in the Oxford English Dictionary. Leslie Cormack argues that descriptive geography, more or less a cosmographical approach to the subject, led its adherents to see the world in global terms. See Leslie B. Cormack, Charting an Empire: Geography at the English Universities, 1580–1620 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1997). Cosmographic sensibilities, it seems, would also f lourish much later, albeit in a different guise. On this see Aaron Sachs, The Humboldt Current: Nineteenth-Century Exploration and the Roots of American Environmentalism (New York: Viking, 2006). 19. On these themes, see Anthony Grafton, “The New Science and the Traditions of Humanism,” in Bring Out Your Dead: The Past as Revelation, ed. Anthony Grafton (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), pp. 98–116; Anthony Grafton, Cardano’s Cosmos: The World and Works of a Renaissance Astrologer (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), pp. 201–202; Mary Baine Campbell, Wonder and Science: Imagining Worlds in Early Modern Europe (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999). Johnson, “Renaissance German Cosmographers and the Naming of America,” p. 15.

Perils of Searching for Leadership and Discovery 43 20. In many ways, we know as much as what has been called an “Elizabethan worldview” as we do about the discourse of civility. Fifty years ago, it offered the chief means with which to understand Shakespeare. See, for instance, E.M.W. Tillyard, The Elizabethan World Picture: A Study of the Ideas of Order in the Age of Shakespeare, Donne, and Milton (New York: Vintage Books, 1957). Anthony Grafton has made the case that such ideas or worldviews were not static. In fact, the best way to consider the notion of the encounter with the New World and the rise of such disciplines as cosmography is to explore how older frameworks of understanding, such as neo-Platonic ideals of the organic and hierarchical nature of society, were not so much challenged by the shock of discovery, as comprehended within older frameworks of understanding. The rise—and fall—of cosmography, then, which relied on both new geographic discovery and older Ptolemaic conceptions of the universe, did not prove exceptional. On this, see Anthony Grafton, New Worlds, Ancient Texts: The Power of Tradition and the Shock of Discovery (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992). 21. Karen Kupperman, ed., Captain John Smith: A Select Edition of His Writings (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1988), pp. 109, 114. 22. Ibid., 141. 23. Ibid., 140.

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P A R T II

Leading Discovery

CH A P T E R

T H R E E

Leadership in the History of Exploration Fe li pe F e rnánde z-A rm e sto

In some ways, exploration seems like the ideal context in which to examine techniques of leadership: self-contained expeditions, cleaving oceans or carving paths through wilderness, contending with the elements or with enemies or both. These are circumstances that test mettle. I should make it clear that the kind of exploration I speak of is route-finding: explorations in the broader sense of the word— scientific exploration, investigation of the environment, inquiry into intellectual problems—are the subjects of other contributions to this volume. Explorers of new routes are, by definition, penetrating the unknown. So the normal incentives for journeying, which involve getting to a predictable destination by a route with calculated advantages, are absent. Most expeditions are not under military discipline. Typically, therefore, leaders have to cajole or coerce their followers. All the demands are magnified, and all the qualities we usually associate with leadership are required in abundance: foresight, planning, strategic clarity, logistical thinking, skill in human management, decisiveness, resolution, perseverance, charisma, courage. They are feats of leadership in the most basic sense of the word, since culture follows the pathfinders, who lay what I call the infrastructure of world history—the routes that bind disparate societies together and enable them to interact. On the face of it, exploration, especially maritime exploration, where the expedition lives as an introspective little society, confined under the leader’s aegis, and isolated for long periods from the rest of the world, looks like the perfect environment

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in which to practice leadership: to get followers to do what the leader wants, irrespective of their own inclinations. On close examination, however, exploration is a disappointing field of inquiry for students of leadership. Most of the great reconnaissances of history are undocumented, and were the work of maverick individuals or very small parties. We do not know, for instance, who led human migrants out of Africa to people the planet, or who explored the routes of the monsoons, or the trade roads that crossed Asia and the Sahara in antiquity, or who pioneered the migrations that settled the Americas, or, subsequently, who established cultural links between Mesoamerica and the Mississippi, say, or the Andes and the Amazon. We do not know who brought farming and metallurgy to Europe, or who carried those techniques from West Africa throughout the continent, or who piloted the first settlers of Australia or the first voyages of the Waqwaq across the Indian Ocean or of the Thule through the Arctic or the Polynesians across the Pacific. Some of the greatest feats of leadership in the history of route-finding are beyond investigation. In any case, the great leaders in the documented history of exploration were often stay-at-home administrators, who managed expeditions without ever taking part in them. The prince known to historians as Henry the Navigator hardly ever ventured aboard a ship, but organized others to make journeys on his behalf. The éminence grise of early Spanish exploration of the Atlantic and the New World was Bishop Juan de Fonseca. Without Colbert leading from behind it is hard to imagine the French contribution to the late-seventeenthcentury exploration of routes into the North American interior. As other contributors to this volume make clear, the real leader of modern space exploration was James Webb. He had two obvious predecessors among stay-at-home leaders in the history of U.S. exploration. Thomas Jefferson was the third and perhaps the most important leader in the Lewis and Clark expedition. Jeremiah Reynolds dragged U.S. public opinion and Congress with it into promoting exploration in the wider world. If I had to single out the individual who made the biggest contribution to the exploration of the planet, I would nominate Sir John Barrow, the fautor and factor who organized Britain’s national effort to know the world in the early- to mid-nineteenth century, and who did it all from his office in the Admiralty. Still, it is worth looking at conspicuous leaders of expeditions universally acknowledged as great, in an attempt to isolate lessons in leadership. I propose to take the examples of Columbus and Vasco

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da Gama—the explorers whose achievements together constituted, according to Adam Smith in an often endorsed opinion, the most fateful and world-transforming episode in history.1 I hope to suggest that the most remarkable lesson to emerge is that the qualities we might normally associate with leadership—the qualities a textbook might enumerate, or a course in leadership studies might seek to exemplify—were almost entirely irrelevant to Columbus’s and Vasco’s endeavors. Of course this does not necessarily mean that leadership is irrelevant to exploration generally. If one were to focus on Captain Cook, for instance, or Roald Amundsen, or Henry Morton Stanley, it might be possible to profile expedition leaders in a way conformable to prevailing theories of leadership. But I think Columbus and Vasco are more representative examples, and that success in exploration has more often depended on luck than leadership. For, as I believe I showed in Pathfinders, my attempt at writing a global history of exploration, this is an activity that attracts eccentrics and outcasts, misfits and desperados, imperfectly socialized escapees from failure or from restricted opportunity at home. Insanity might almost be considered an occupational hazard for explorers. Many of those who started sane were maddened by experience of previously unsuspected environments, unglimpsed terrors, and unsampled hardships. Leadership is a social quality, and explorers, more often than not, have been antisocial types. The properties of leadership I propose to examine are, I hope, generally agreed to be part of an ideal leader’s toolkit: thorough preparation for the task; clear focus on the objectives; deft management of men; skill in communication; mastery of the relevant techniques and technologies; speed and resolution in making decisions; f lexibility, when necessary, in admitting mistakes and changing one’s mind. Columbus and Vasco, like most great explorers, were deficient in all these. Perhaps to some extent they made up for the deficiencies by superabundant courage—or, one might more accurately say, foolhardy recklessness—and, in Columbus’s case, an idiosyncratic form of charisma. But the attainments they lacked were those one can learn. They would surely have failed any upper-level course in a self-respecting school of leadership. It is worth recalling how important their achievements were. Adam Smith did them little more than justice. Until the 1490s, people in what we usually call Western civilization were impoverished and backward by comparison with the hugely richer, more sophisticated societies, economies, and states of south and east Asia, desperately seeking

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new resources with which to even up the terms of trade. In 1492–93, Columbus opened, for the first time, viable, commercially exploitable routes to and fro between Europe and a vast, underexploited world of resources in the western hemisphere. The result, in due course, was a vast accession of wealth, population, and space at the disposal of some European powers. In particular, the New World turned out to contain staggering reserves of precious metals—the only commodity, at the time, with which Westerners could gain access to markets in China and India. In 1497, Vasco took European ships to India for the first time. Previously, European merchants operating in the Indian Ocean had to make laborious, partly overland journeys, and arrived with virtually nothing they could usefully trade. The Cape route, however, revolutionized world commerce, not for the reason commonly alleged— European intrusion into the spice trade was a marginal phenomenon that hardly affected the distribution of the world’s wealth. The real difference was a result of the accessibility of maritime Asia to European shipping. Once they could get their vessels into the world’s richest arena of exchange, Europeans could take part in the trade as freighters and carriers, and take advantage of price differentials in eastern markets. Above all, they could profit from the disparity in gold and silver prices between India, China, and Japan. Thus began the European economy’s long climb to parity with and, ultimately, superiority over, those of the East. This spectacular reversal of the normal pattern of history in favor of the West explains why we lionize the leaders of the expeditions that inaugurated the change. But the way Columbus and Vasco discharged their roles as leaders hardly justifies their heroic reputations. In their respective ways, Columbus and Vasco were both unpromising choices for the expeditions they led. Neither had any relevant experience. Neither had, as far as we know, any previous seaborne command (though Columbus falsely claimed to have done so). Columbus had visited the Atlantic, as far as is known, only as a merchant, and perhaps as a common seaman, on other people’s ships. Neither he nor Vasco knew anything about navigation beyond the simplest rudiments. Columbus’s lucubrations with quadrant and astrolabe were mere mummery, designed to impress his crews with his supposed command of direction-finding technology, like a conjurer’s props. He never recorded a remotely accurate reading with them. He calculated latitude by a landlubber’s method—measuring the hours of daylight and reading the latitude off printed tables (we know this because the errors in his account correspond exactly to printers’ errors in the tables).2 At least he was capable of that much. Vasco was not a seafarer at all, but

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a provincial hobereau. So unsuited was he for his command that it is tempting to speculate that he might have been chosen precisely in the hope that he would fail; for his voyage was a contentious matter at the Portuguese court, divided between a faction that favored an attempt to open commerce and another that preferred to concentrate resources on crusading in the Maghrib.3 Still, in the days before the foundation of the Jepson School, leaders commonly came to their tasks without any special formation. Outsiders can, in principle, be natural innovators, whose brilliance is unalloyed by knowledge and whose approaches to the job are unencumbered by tradition. In the cases of Columbus and Vasco, however, ignorance proved to be no advantage. Both relied on the professional navigators they had on board, but when they did make decisions they were almost always wrong. Columbus attempted his first Atlantic crossing by heading due west. He probably had two reasons for this: first, the fabled Chinese port of “Zaitun”—probably modern Guangzhou—for which he thought or hoped he was bound, supposedly lay on or about the parallel of his starting-point in the Canary Islands.4 Secondly, he may have recalled that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points. In sail-borne navigation, however, time matters more than distance, and the most direct route, as Columbus discovered in spite of his assumptions, was to sail southwest with the northeast trade winds. When he started for home, he began by sailing southeast—more or less the opposite of the direction indicated—before revising his opinion and heading north in search of the westerlies that blew across the northern ocean, as Atlantic navigators well knew by that time, and that would take him home. He has left an undeserved reputation as a great natural navigator, but apart from his own unsupported assertions there is no good reason for this. He was, indeed, a good observer of weather conditions; but his talent as a navigator must be tested against the evidence of his readings of latitude, which were invariably wrong, his estimates of distance, which were generally equivocal, and his choice of course, which was usually wayward. Vasco had no pretensions to expertise in navigation: just as well, since he almost wrecked the expedition by setting the wrong course on part of his outward journey, and choosing the wrong season for his return. Leadership is dynamic. It heads for a target and draws followers into the quest. Leaders have clear objectives and keep them in view, to direct their steps and test their success or failure. Columbus has become almost synonymous with single-minded perseverance. He likened himself to a drop of water that wears away a stone.5 He claimed to

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have pursued an unwavering goal for fourteen years, inspired by divine revelation. “God,” he said, “opened to me with his manifest hand that it was possible to sail to the Indies.”6 Yet like so much of Columbus’s self-projection, the perseverance and single-mindedness were mythical. He was a ditherer who constantly changed his mind. The adamantine Columbus we have inherited from tradition needs to be rebuilt in mercury and opal. At successive stages of his quest for patronage he lobbied for a journey in search of new islands, a voyage to a supposed antipodean continent, and an ocean crossing to Asia. He was, after all, a promoter with an enterprise to sell: he changed his pitch according to what he thought his interlocutors wanted to hear. When investors reacted with indifference to the prospect of more Atlantic islands, he argued for an antipodean objective. When geographers sneered at the concept of the Antipodes, he backed a voyage to Asia.7 In the end, he got a contract for the last of these projects. To earn his rewards, he had to deliver on that contract. So he insisted that he had got to Asia, in defiance of most of the evidence and the weight of expert opinion. It was pig-headedness, perhaps, but not perseverance. The wit who remarked of Columbus that when he set off he did not know where he was going, when he arrived he did not know where he was, and when he got back he did not know where he had been was much closer to the truth than the admiral himself. It is not of course necessary to identify one’s destination correctly in order to be a great leader. The leader can be like Browning’s “high man, aiming at a million,” whose “hundred’s soon hit.” But to pursue a false objective erratically and inconsistently, with frequent changes of mind, is to traduce one of the most basic qualifications for leadership. For Columbus did not care where he was going, as long as he arrived in a social sense. He was an outsider on the make. He occluded his motivation with a smokescreen of falsehoods, claiming to be religiously inspired, and arrogating to himself aristocratic antecedents. The truth is that he was a weaver’s son who longed, as his men observed, “to make himself a lord.”8 He modeled his trajectory on the plots of chivalric romance—the equivalent of station-bookstall pulp fiction in his day. The typical hero of a best selling seaborne tale of derring-do at the time escaped from a world of restricted social opportunity by taking to the sea, battling with monsters, and conquering an island. This was the tradition Cervantes satirized when he made Sancho Panza plead with his master to be “Governor of some island, with, if it please your grace, a little of the heaven above it.” When Columbus likened himself to Alexander, he did not have in mind the historical conqueror, but the

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homonymous hero of the medieval Libro de Alixandre, whose deeds he consciously imitated.9 This brings us to another of Columbus’s failures of textbook leadership. He did not do his homework. A leader should be well prepared for the task ahead. According to popular tradition, Columbus prepared thoroughly by reading geography books and studying maps. Yet there is no evidence that he did any of his reading before setting out. On the contrary, the verifiable dates all occurred after he returned from his first voyage, when he was frantically scouring geographical texts—and, with increasing desperation, scripture and oracular writings—for evidence that he had got to Asia, or at least very close to it.10 Most of Columbus’s preparatory reading was in chivalric romance and perhaps in hagiographical works—in other words, in actively misleading materials. He was interested in geographical questions from a much earlier date and it would be rash to exclude the possibility that he had embarked on some relevant readings before setting off. His annotations, however, reveal obstinately perverse reading habits. He selected fragments of text that supported his claims and ignored the caveats. He distorted figures to favor his own views and crushed readings, like a myopic Procrustes, to suit his own case. The most striking example, perhaps, relates to his claims to have recalculated the size of the globe. The consensus of his day endorsed the almost exactly accurate computations of Eratosthenes. Columbus, however, “corrected” by substituting Ptolemy’s errant figures, arbitrarily reducing the value of the length of a degree on the surface of the earth, and misreading an Arabic formula in Roman miles. Columbus’s use of maps was even more irrational than his use of books. He had a map on board during his first voyage across the Atlantic, and, according to his own report, consulted it repeatedly as if he respected its authority. Since, however, he was embarked on a voyage, as he himself said “where, as far as we know, no man has ever gone before” no map can have been other than speculative. Other navigators of the time set little store by charts or other aids. They relied on primitive celestial navigation: judging course by feel and experience and reckoning their latitude by observing the sun and the Pole Star with the naked eye. Mapping and exploration were mutually nutritive processes, but explorers were slow to recognize the fact. Not until well into the seventeenth century was it normal for cartographic professionals to accompany expeditions.11 The ignorance, meanwhile, to which Columbus’s venture condemned him was, it might be objected, inevitable. The remote Atlantic was an unknown quantity. No amount of study, no depth of preparation could dissolve the obstacles that strew

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Columbus’s way. That, however, was not what Columbus thought. He believed that real guidance lay in the literature before him. So he was obliged to read it well and interpret it rationally. Vasco da Gama was not much better informed about his objectives. There was really no excuse for ignorance of India. European merchants had traveled there frequently in antiquity and throughout the middle ages, by way of the Red Sea or Persian Gulf. Using those routes, a reconaissance party had set out from Portugal some years ahead of Vasco’s mission, principally—it seems—to verify whether the Indian Ocean was accessible from around Africa, or whether, as Ptolemy suggested, it was landlocked. The report Pero de Covilhão sent home, however, never reached Lisbon. Vasco, in partial consequence, knew little about his destination. He mistook Hindus for Christians and so far misjudged the economic sophistication of his hosts that he offered them cheap truck of the kind Portuguese traders used in West Africa: hats and coats, tin ewers, butter, honey, and a little coral. They were deeply offended. Vasco was unaware of the nature of the monsoon—so much so that on his way home, in defiance of local advice, he tried to cross the Indian Ocean from northeast to southwest in August. That was his most destructive decision. It took four months to get to the coast of Africa. The effort cost the lives of nearly half the crew and crippled the survivors with scurvy. Even on the Atlantic portion of his voyage, which his predecessors had thoroughly explored, he made ignorant blunders. His instructions have not survived; the overwhelming likelihood, however, is that he was to sweep the ocean in search of the westerlies of the south Atlantic, which would carry him beyond the notoriously difficult Cape of Good Hope. Instead, he turned east too early and came up against the West African coast, committing himself to a long, frustrating journey around the Cape.12 Leaders must be managers of men. Columbus’s dearth of talent for this task was stunning. His first error was of the most elementary kind. He left the recruitment of the crew to somebody else—his fellowcommander, Martín Alonso Pinzón. In consequence, he sailed with shipmates whose loyalty lay elsewhere, having dealt an advantageous hand to a potential rival. Had Martín Alonso survived the voyage, the results might have embarrassed Columbus. As it was, Columbus complained volubly of the crew’s hostility, mutterings, and inclination to mutiny. He made the situation worse by evincing no appreciation of his men. He attempted—so, at least, he claimed—to deceive them about their route, their objective, and the distance they traversed. When they made landfall, he cheated the seaman who sighted land of the prize

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awarded by the monarchs. His accounts of his voyages are so egotistical that they hardly mention anyone else. Indeed, a woodcut illustrating one of the earliest editions of his first report of his findings shows him alone aboard ship, manipulating the rigging unaided. That was the image of himself he wanted to project and though it is false there is a touch of poetical truth about it: Columbus was self-isolated to an extent no textbook in leadership would ever recommend. When he returned to the Caribbean in 1493, he responded to command by evading his responsibilities—leaving a mutinous colony to go exploring. Mutiny eventually unseated him and he was discharged and disgraced. His judgments of individuals were generally awry. He promoted Alonso de Hojeda, who betrayed him, and Francisco de Roldán, who led the settlers’ rebellion against him. He liked Amerigo Vespucci and believed that the Florentine would intercede for him at the royal court, whereas Vespucci’s only interest in Columbus was in picking his brains. In the New World, Columbus misjudged his native hosts as completely as he misjudged fellow Europeans. This was pardonable in the face of an unprecedented encounter, but Columbus contrived a remarkably consistent record of misunderstanding. He took the word the Taino used for “cannibal” to mean “people of the Great Khan.” He attributed to the inhabitants of the islands he reconnoitered a degree of innocence and docility that arose entirely from an imagination full of Franciscaninduced fantasies about the goodness of natural man. He was genuinely surprised to find they had massacred the garrison he left on Hispaniola when he returned the following year. Vasco da Gama was not much better as a man-manager. The most obvious proof is that most of his men died under his leadership, generally as a result of his mistakes: the grueling grind around the Cape of Good Hope, the enervating struggle across the Indian Ocean against the monsoon. He was a similarly poor judge of people in other cultures. He made his struggle around the Cape of Good Hope worse by suspicion and hostility towards the Khoikhoi inhabitants. As he headed north from Mozambique Island, he alienated locals by f logging the pilots he recruited in a misguided attempt pour encourager les autres. We have mentioned how he underestimated his hosts’ wealth and misunderstood their religion. He posed as an ambassador; they acknowledged him as a peddler. According to a perhaps unreliable tradition, he tried to bully and terrorize them into collaboration. They responded to him with revulsion or disdain. By local report, “the entire land wished him ill.”13 Luckily, the locals had low expectations of Western barbarians. So the poverty, impiety, and pride the Portuguese exhibited proved, in

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the long run, no obstacle to their admission as shippers and traders in the Indian Ocean world. If Vasco was guilty of pride, Columbus was given to panic. On his first voyage he was prey to anxieties about isolation and fears—verging on paranoia—of the perfidy of those around him. He was an outsider in all company: a foreigner excluded from the almost ethnic loyalties that divided his crews: the Basques, who rioted together, the men of Palos, who owed allegiance to the Pinzón clan. His deepest fears, however, were over the nonappearance of land. In the first days of October, he panicked into altering course to the southwest, even though he had almost certainly already drifted some way southwest of his originally intended course, owing to leeway and magnetic variation, which he observed but could not account or compensate for. His reasons for the sudden change of plan are unclear. Perhaps he thought Japan lay in that direction, as a literally nonsensical aside in his narrative hints, or perhaps he was responding to those standbys of sailors lost on the open sea: the drift of clouds and the f light of birds. The tendency to panic recurred on later voyages. At one mad moment he made his men swear that Cuba was not an island but part of continental Asia. At another he tried to reconcile contradictory readings of the elevation of the Pole Star by claiming that he was “sailing uphill.”14 After this litany of shortcomings, it is fair to ask whether Columbus and Vasco had any redeeming features—any leadership virtues that might help us understand their success. In one respect, at least, they displayed exemplary courage. One of the most counter-intuitive facts about the history of maritime exploration is that, outside monsoonal wind-systems, most of the great voyages have been made into the wind. That is how the Phoenicians and Greeks navigated the length of the Mediterranean and burst through the Strait of Gibraltar. The Vikings did the same when they crossed the Atlantic in a zone of prevailing westerlies. The Polynesians crossed the Pacific against the southeast trades. It was the method the Portuguese pioneers used along the African coast. At first sight, this seems odd: if one wants to get somewhere, why not get the advantage of a following wind? A moment’s ref lection, however, reveals the explorers’ thinking. Getting back is important, too. Without a homeward route, a new discovery will be of limited value. To sail into the wind is a relatively unadventurous option, but it guarantees escape for an explorer disposed to turn back. To sail with a following wind, as Columbus and Vasco did, represents sublime indifference to risk. Vasco’s outward journey demanded more than three months on the open sea to cross more than 6,000 miles of

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ocean. This was, by some margin, the longest voyage ever recorded out of sight of land. It probably represented the limits of what was possible with available technology, as no one had ever kept fresh water drinkable at sea for that long before. Columbus’s and Vasco’s voyages were triumphant, but they were triumphs of audacity rather than ability. How was it possible, in the face of so many failures of leadership, so many deficiencies of virtue, so many errors of judgment, so many mistaken decisions, for the expeditions Columbus and Vasco led to have such an impact on the history of the world? It is important to bear in mind that, by strict criteria, both expeditions were failures. Columbus never delivered on his promise to get to Asia. He lost his f lagship. He provoked his men to mutiny and his hosts to violence. His voyage, which was an entirely commercial undertaking, found no exploitable products, except slaves, whom the Spanish monarchs forbade him to sell. His main financial backer suffered ruin in consequence. Vasco’s voyage did manage to show a profit, but at terrible sacrifice in the lives of his men and the loss of two of his ships. His mishandling of relations with native peoples at his destination and along his route made subsequent Portuguese commerce unnecessarily laborious and costly. The success of the voyages is measurable in terms of the judgment of posterity rather than in the balance-sheet of short-term outcomes. Columbus was an outstanding self-publicist. His mythic role as Europe’s discoverer of America has consolidated his renown, making him a founding hero for modern nations in the New World, and a favorite son for people in the various European communities that claim him as their own. The legend of Columbus was, in its essentials, all his own work. He invented the image of the lone visionary, unwaveringly pursuing a God-given mission. He crafted the image of a misunderstood outsider, dispelling doubters and overcoming odds. He cued or kickstarted the image shaped by tradition, which makes him the dreamer of the first American dream. Vasco was not a communicator in the same class. The only materials that survive from his hand are trivial business letters in unrevealing officialese. Even in his grandeur, when he became admiral, count, and viceroy, he remained silent and almost unsung. Biographers have therefore fallen back on legend: a golden legend of trailblazing among lesser breeds, and a black legend of a ruthless, leech-like imperialist. On the whole, however, he has enjoyed good press, thanks to his almost symbolic importance as the first agent of the West’s breakthrough to global economic hegemony. What matters, so often, is not how history is made but how it is written. Good press exempts heroes from the effects of their shortcomings.

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Between them, the cases of Columbus and Vasco suggest that in a maritime context, at least, exploration is an extraordinary activity, where ordinary standards of leadership do not apply. On shipboard, nautical discipline distances the leader from some of the normal responsibilities of leadership. Even if the leader is a nautical professional—and neither Columbus nor Vasco was—fellow-captains and co-commanders take or take part in some of the critical decisions and share some of the burdens of logistical planning and management of men. Once Columbus was in the Caribbean, and once Vasco was in the Indian Ocean, they deferred, as far as choice of routes was concerned, to locally recruited pilots and guides: such are the normal compromises in leadership that explorers have to make. Backers on shore often supply effective leadership for a project of exploration up to the point of departure. In Vasco’s case, King Manuel the Fortunate was the great patron whose support ensured that Vasco’s voyage would be financed, manned, and equipped. In Columbus’s, the royal treasury official, Alonso de Quintanilla, organized the clique at court that secured a royal license for the voyage and put together the necessary investment. So Columbus and Vasco could afford to be defective leaders: they exercised leadership within a narrow sphere. Exploration is not, in practice, always or necessarily the ideal leader’s field, subject to unified command, that appears at first glance. This helps to explain a paradox characteristic of the story of world exploration, which, on the whole, has been a story of individual failure and collective achievement. Explorers’ characteristic vices—amateurism, naivety, prof ligacy, credulousness, distractedness, quarrelsomeness, recklessness, bombast, mendacity, romantic myopia, and sheer incompetence—have caused many disasters, but have never halted the accumulation of success. Notes 1. Adam Smith, The Wealth of Nations, ed. E. Canaan (New York: Random House, 1937) IV, vii, b.61, p. 590. 2. R. Laguarda Trías, El enigma de las latitudes de Colón (Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid, 1974). 3. Sanjay Subrahmanyam, The Career and Legend of Vasco da Gama (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 64–67. 4. Nicolás Wey Gómez, The Tropics of Empire: Why Columbus Sailed South to the Indies (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008). 5. La historia del viage quel almirante D. Cristobal Colón hizo la tercera vez que vino al as indias cuando descubrió la tierra firme, como lo envió a los Reyes desde la isla Española [La historia del viaje que hizo la tercera vez] (1500), n.p.

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6. Cristóbal Colón, Textos y documentos, ed. C. Varela (Madrid: Alianza, 1984), p. 27. 7. Felipe Fernández-Armesto, Columbus (New York and London: Oxford University Press, 1991), pp. 43–65. 8. B. d. L. Casas, Historia de Indias, ed. L. Hanke, 3 vols (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1951), i, p. 189. 9. Felipe Fernández-Armesto, “Colón y los Libros de Caballería,” in Cristóbal Colón, ed. C. Martínez Shaw and C. Pacero Torre (Valldolid: Junta de Castilla y León, Consejería de Cultura, 2006), pp. 115–28. 10. Fernández-Armesto, Columbus, pp. 24–43. 11. Felipe Fernández-Armesto, “Maps and Exploration in the Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries,” in History of Cartography: Cartography in the European Renaissance, vol. 3, ed. D. Woodward (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 1, pp. 738–773. 12. Felipe Fernández-Armesto, Pathfinders: A Global History of Exploration (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2006), pp. 174–182. 13. Subrahmanyam, Career and Legend, p. 279. 14. Colón, Textos y documentos, pp. 212–214.

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CH A P T E R

FOU R

Leadership and Discovery: Lessons from the Lewis and Clark Expedition Danie l B. Thorp

The United States has recently finished celebrating the 200th anniversary of the Lewis and Clark Expedition and during that celebration scholars and citizens alike—me included—commemorated what Stephen Ambrose called “our epic voyage.”1 It was certainly epic; the Lewis and Clark Expedition was one of the great voyages of discovery ever undertaken by Europeans or Euro-Americans. Over twenty-eight months it covered some 7,000 miles. During that time, just one man died—probably due to a ruptured appendix—members of the expedition fired their guns in anger just one time, and the information they brought back filled in huge swathes of what had been an empty map of the North American heartland. More importantly, in the years since Lewis and Clark’s return, the story of their journey has become our epic and has assumed a unique place in our national identity; few Americans know anything of similar expeditions led by Zebulon Pike, Stephen H. Long, or John C. Frémont, but virtually every American is familiar with Lewis and Clark. That familiarity, however, is broad rather than deep. Most Americans cherish a version of Lewis and Clark that is both simple and wrong: that Lewis and Clark were the first white men to cross the American continent; that they did so in order to explore the Louisiana Purchase; and that the key to their success was their Indian guide, Sacagawea.

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In fact, as any Canadian schoolchild knows, the first white man to cross the North American continent was Alexander Mackenzie, a furtrader working for the Montreal-based North West Company. Assigned to a post in central Canada, Mackenzie had begun thinking in the late 1780s about an alternative to the existing pattern of trade. Furs collected in Canada had always gone east, to Hudson’s Bay or Montreal and then on to Europe, while trade goods had followed the same route in reverse. By the late eighteenth century, though, many of the furs eventually went to China, and Mackenzie dreamt of streamlining the process by sending furs west, directly to the Pacific, where ships would collect them for the China trade and discharge supplies for the Indian trade. In search of a route by which to accomplish this, Mackenzie crossed the Canadian West in 1792–93 and reached the Pacific by land more than a decade before Lewis and Clark. Thus it was Alexander Mackenzie, not the Louisiana Purchase, who prompted Thomas Jefferson to organize what became the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Mackenzie published an account of his travels in 1801, which Jefferson acquired and read the following year. In it Mackenzie called for the establishment of a new British base near the mouth of the Columbia River. This, he claimed, promised “the most important advantages to the trade of the united kingdoms.”2 To Thomas Jefferson, however, it promised a major British presence in the North American West and a serious challenge to his own dream of the United States exploiting that region as the Spanish empire withered. Spain had long claimed the Trans-Mississippi West, and during the last quarter of the eighteenth century had established a string of missions and military bases on the Pacific Coast as far north as San Francisco. To Jefferson, this was all “a matter of indifference.”3 He was convinced that Spain’s North American empire was “expiring,” and he was already thinking about how the United States could fill the resulting void. Mackenzie’s plan threatened this dream, and to eliminate that threat the United States would have to beat the British to the Columbia and tie it via the Missouri to the American commercial system that was emerging along the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. This was the goal of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. It was not sent to explore the Louisiana Purchase; indeed, its origins preceded the Louisiana Purchase by nearly a year. Lewis and Clark were actually sent to counter Alexander Mackenzie by determining “whether the Columbia, Oregon, Colorado or any other river may offer the most direct & practicable water communication across the continent for the purposes of commerce.”4

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They would need to do more than find a “practicable” route, though. In order to clear the way for commerce, they would also have to establish good relations between the United States and Native Americans living along their route. The last quarter of the eighteenth century was a period of tremendous upheaval along the Missouri River. The continued spread of horses, germs, and manufactured goods brought by Europeans to North America drastically altered the native world. Some tribes, such as the Mandan and the Arikara, suffered terrible loses from disease or war and seemed to be declining in power or inf luence. Others, most notably perhaps the Sioux, seemed to be rising. By the final decades of the eighteenth century, the Sioux had obtained horses, which f lowed north from Mexico, and had moved from their traditional home in what is now Minnesota out on to the Great Plains. There they reoriented their entire culture around the horse and the buffalo and became the quintessential Plains Indians of American history and myth.5 Any American effort to exploit the economic potential of the Missouri would have to consider the actions and concerns of these Native Americans; so as Lewis and Clark searched for a route to the Pacific, they were also supposed to meet with Indians along the way. Through these meetings they were supposed to gather information about all the tribes of the region and inform them all of “our wish to be neighborly, friendly & useful to them, & of our dispositions to a commercial intercourse with them.” They were, however, to pay special attention to the Sioux. “On that nation we wish most particularly to make a friendly impression,” wrote Jefferson, “because of their immense power, and because we learn they are very desirous of being on the most friendly terms with us.”6 Of course Lewis and Clark failed to accomplish either of these primary tasks. In their search for a “practicable” water route across the continent, what they found was that no such route existed via the Missouri-Yellowstone watershed. This did not prove that no route existed anywhere, but it did show that none existed where the United States could expect to control it. And different tribes of Plains Indians, including the Sioux, continued to challenge American traders on the Missouri for years after the expedition’s return. Each tribe was determined to stop or control American trade in the Middle and Upper Missouri valley because giving its enemies easier access to American goods, including guns, would undermine their power, and Lewis and Clark did nothing to change that.

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To call the Lewis and Clark Expedition a failure, though, would be unfair. The expedition may not have fulfilled President Jefferson’s economic or diplomatic goals, but it certainly fulfilled his hopes as a voyage of discovery. A scientist himself, Jefferson was anxious that Lewis and Clark should bring back as much information as possible about the physical, natural, and human environments through which they passed. Admittedly, these were only acts of discovery from a European perspective as every plant, animal, mountain, or stream that Lewis and Clark “discovered” had been known to Native Americans for centuries. Nevertheless, the expedition did reveal to the rest of the world an impressive array of new plants and animals and a staggering quantity of geographic and hydrographic information. Prior to Lewis and Clark, Europeans were familiar with the Mississippi Valley and with the Pacific coast but knew almost nothing of the region in between. Maps of the day were blank or filled with “conjectural” mountains and rivers.7 Lewis and Clark filled in many of those blank areas and resolved many of those conjectures. Moreover, as an exercise in leadership the Lewis and Clark Expedition was a brilliant success. Its members endured long hours of heavy labor, even longer hours of tedium, occasional short rations, and frequent bad weather, but they never lacked essential supplies and their morale remained high. There were occasional lapses of discipline and two cases of desertion (an engagé who made it and a soldier who failed), but no serious challenges to the leaders’ authority or to the expedition’s welfare. And in the course of two years’ travel, the expedition lost just one man, fired its guns in anger just one time, and was never really lost—even if its members didn’t always know exactly where they were or how they were going to reach their destination. The key to such a successful expedition was not Sacagawea. As a translator and cultural intermediary, Sacagawea certainly played an essential role in Lewis and Clark’s encounters with particular tribes in her native region, what are now Idaho and western Montana. And as a woman carrying an infant, she signaled to Native Americans, generally, that the expedition was not a war-party and, as a result, may have reduced the chances of its being attacked.8 Beyond that, however, Sacagawea was simply another member of the party doing her best to help it survive in an environment that was often just as unfamiliar to her as it was to her white companions. Rather, Lewis and Clark’s success was largely the product of their leadership—of specific actions or habits of mind, and members of the expedition left such an abundance of evidence that two centuries later it is possible still to identify many of those actions

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or habits of mind and to demonstrate many of the particular qualities of leadership demonstrated by Lewis and Clark. The first, not surprisingly, was careful planning, especially by Meriwether Lewis in the months preceding his departure from Washington, D.C. in the early summer of 1803. Lewis and President Jefferson had probably been discussing a cross-continent expedition since the summer of 1802, when Jefferson acquired a copy of Mackenzie’s Voyages.9 Serious planning did not begin, however, until Congress voted to approve the mission in February 1803. By then Lewis had some idea of what he was planning for. Having spent several years traveling between army posts along the Ohio frontier prior to assuming the duties of private secretary to President Jefferson, Lewis had some sense what a trip across the American West might be like. He also knew the journey would not be short. By 1803 the width of the American continent was fairly well established, and Lewis knew it would take at least two years to cross. As for what exactly he would encounter along the way, though, Lewis knew far less. Europeans had explored and described the Pacific coast, and fur traders had penetrated the Missouri Valley as far as the Mandan villages, in what is now North Dakota, but between those points the map was blank. There were rumors, theories, and speculation, but no real knowledge. Nor was there a clear understanding of how fundamentally different the West was from the North American East. Time and time again Lewis and Clark acted in ways that suggest they mistakenly assumed that western geography, hydrology, and weather would be much like their eastern counterparts. In the face of such challenges, Lewis did an extraordinary job of planning for an expedition of unknown duration through an unknown environment. What distinguishes this planning is not just what Lewis planned to take or how much he planned to take, but the form in which he planned to take it. Nothing was more important to the expedition’s success than gun powder and lead. Members would carry some food and some extra clothing when they left Saint Louis, but it would be impossible for them to carry all they would need for a journey expected to last two to three years. They would have to rely on hunting or they would starve, and skins would be the only source they had of new clothing and shoes as they wore out those with which they left. Moreover, they hoped to enjoy peaceful encounters with the people they met along the way but had to prepare for the worst and be able to defend themselves if necessary. Supplies of powder and lead, then, were a matter of life and death, and the way in which Lewis planned to ensure that he had them is a wonderful example of his leadership skills.

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It is unclear exactly how much powder or lead Lewis and Clark took with them. It was certainly more than the 301 pounds of gun or rif le powder and 420 pounds of lead specifically itemized, but how much more remains a mystery. The amount, however, is less instructive than the method he employed for transporting it. Lewis took 420 pounds of lead sheets from military stores to a Philadelphia plumber named George Ludlam, who turned the lead into fifty-two small canisters, each weighing a little over eight pounds. Lewis then filled each canister with enough gun powder to shoot as many rounds as the lead would yield when it was melted down and converted into balls or shot. With the gun powder surrounded by lead there was no danger of sparks setting it off, and once the canisters were sealed they were impervious to the elements. Members of the expedition would not have to worry about rain or waves spoiling their powder. It was even possible to bury some of the canisters in caches along the way and retrieve them on the return journey, ensuring an adequate supply on the second half of the journey without having to carry all of it across the Rocky Mountains.10 I cannot say with certainty that Meriwether Lewis was the first to carry gun powder like this. It was not, however, standard military or naval practice. Generally, gun powder was transported and stored in wooden barrels, which could break and were vulnerable to damage from water or fire. Even warships, which took extraordinary precautions to prevent accidental explosions in their powder magazines, did not employ lead storage containers. Indeed, I can find no other record of anyone using lead receptacles. But even if this was not Lewis’s own innovation, he deserves credit for recognizing and adopting such a novel approach to a critical issue, and it clearly demonstrates the great care he took in planning the expedition. The effort that Lewis put into planning, however, did not blind him to the need to remain f lexible. This was a second important characteristic of his leadership; he never became so fixed on a plan that he was unwilling to abandon it if doing so would advance his mission. Nothing demonstrates this more clearly than the fate of his beloved iron boat. Meriwether Lewis admitted that boats were not his strong suit. He was enough of a waterman, though, to recognize that as he and his men ascended the Missouri, they were bound to encounter rapids or falls they could not navigate. When this happened they would have to abandon anything—including their boats, which were too large to portage around the obstacle. This was no problem with small boats carrying relatively light cargoes. In the case of an expedition carrying tons of equipment, though, it presented a serious dilemma. What sort

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of boat could carry that volume of freight but be portable itself? The answer, which Lewis seems to have designed himself, was a collapsible iron frame built by artisans at the Harpers Ferry Arsenal during the spring of 1803. The frame consisted of wrought iron ribs and strips to link them along the keel and gunwales. Covered with animal skins and sealed with pine sap, it would provide a canoe-like boat over thirty feet long that, Lewis reported, eight men could carry “with the greatest of ease” yet was capable of transporting 8,000 pounds of cargo.11 At Harpers Ferry, Lewis tested the boat’s design, “as well from a wish to incur no expense unnecessarily, as from an unwillingness to risk any calculation on the advantages of this canoe in which hereafter I might possible be deceived.” He also personally supervised the construction of its frame, “which could not be completed without my personal attention.”12 He then transported the frame from Harpers Ferry to Pittsburg, down the Ohio River, and up the Missouri. Finally, two years after its construction, the iron boat’s moment came. The expedition had reached the Falls of the Missouri. The portage route around the falls ran more than eighteen miles across rough, cactusstrewn landscape, and there was no way the men could transport their larger boats across it. The captains planned, instead, to leave the largest of their remaining boats—a pirogue, cached below the falls for use on their return. Above the falls, Lewis and a picked team of men began to construct the iron boat. From June 23 until July 9 they assembled the frame brought from Harpers Ferry, braced it with wooden cross stays made from trees, scraped and sewed buffalo skins with which to cover it, and coated the boat’s exterior with a mixture of charcoal, beeswax, and tallow. Lewis recorded every step of the process in his journal and as the boat neared completion declared “her form is as complete as I could wish it.”13 It was the only boat in their small f lotilla that Lewis referred to as “she,” and the pride he took in it was obvious. But he also sensed a problem. With his experience in the forests of eastern North America, he had assumed that pine, spruce, or some other resinous trees would always be available to seal the boat’s exterior. Along the Missouri, though, he found only alders, willow, and cottonwood—nothing with the sort of sap he needed to seal the boat’s seams. So he used what he had: charcoal, beeswax, and tallow. “I sincerely hope it may answer yet I fear it will not,” he wrote.14 The boat’s launch was auspicious; “she lay like a perfect cork upon the water.” Within hours, though, the seams began to leak. Lewis thought he knew how to fix it, even without pine sap, but autumn was approaching and the expedition could not afford any additional delay. “To make any further

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experiments in our present situation seemed to me madness,” concluded Lewis. “I therefore relinquished all further hope of my favorite boat and ordered her to be sunk in the water, that the skins might become soft in order the better to take her in pieces tomorrow.”15 Meriwether Lewis, the man, must have wanted desperately to see his iron boat succeed. He was clearly proud of its design and had already invested both time and energy in it. But Meriwether Lewis, the captain, understood his responsibility as a leader. “I bid a dieu to my boat.”16 Throughout the expedition, Lewis and Clark also demonstrated effective leadership through the process by which they made important decisions. In preparing to make them, the captains were highly democratic—gathering information from every available source and soliciting opinions as broadly as possible. In actually making decisions, though, democracy went out the window; the captains made them and conveyed them to the rest of the expedition. No decision they made was more important than one taken at the junction of the Missouri and Marias Rivers on the way west, and none shows more clearly the leadership skills of Lewis and Clark. By June 1805 the expedition was in unmapped territory. It had left Fort Mandan two months earlier and was slowly working its way up the Missouri River in what is now central Montana. Late on the afternoon of June 2 it arrived at the point where another great river joined the Missouri. But which river was the Missouri? None of the information they had obtained before leaving Saint Louis and none of that obtained from native informants during the preceding winter at Fort Mandan had mentioned such a river joining the Missouri, but here it was. Before proceeding onward, they had to decide which stream to follow, and a mistake at this point could have had tremendous consequences. If they got it wrong, members of the expedition would not only waste time heading in the wrong direction, but would then have to spend additional time just getting back to the point at which they went astray. In Lewis’s view, the fate of the expedition itself might ride on this decision. “To mistake the stream at this period of the season . . . . would not only lose us the whole of this season but would probably so dishearten the party that it might defeat the expedition altogether.”17 With the stakes that high, the captains used every scrap of information they had—not just that coming from known and trusted sources. First, they measured and studied the streams themselves. Was one wider, deeper, or more powerful than the other? Was the color or clarity of the water in one more similar than that in the other to that portion of the Missouri they had already traveled? Did the water’s color or clarity suggest

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the streams had crossed miles of prairie or had recently issued from the mountains? They also climbed adjacent hills in an effort to determine the direction from which the two streams came and which was more likely to take them into the Rocky Mountains near the headwaters of the Columbia. Next they led parties up each river—planning to travel “until we could perfectly satisfy ourselves of the one, which it would be most expedient for us to take on our main journey to the Pacific.”18 After ascending the rivers for a day and a half, the captains returned to compare notes. In addition to their own impressions, they solicited opinions from their men, especially from Pierre Cruzatte, “who had been an old Missouri navigator.” They consulted Aaron Arrowsmith’s 1802 map of North America, regarded today as “the most comprehensive map of the West available in 1802,” and the reports of Peter Fidler, a fur trader, explorer, and cartographer for the Hudson’s Bay Company who had traveled along the eastern f lank of the Northern Rockies. And they went back over the accounts that Indians had provided them over the winter through long discussions and with maps drawn on the f loors of Mandan lodges.19 Like other Europeans, Lewis and Clark regarded most Native Americans as “savages” and looked skeptically at many aspects of their culture. They were even skeptical, at times, of Indians’ knowledge of the environment (most spectacularly, perhaps, in the captain’s refusal to credit Indian accounts of grizzly bears). In this case, though, they relied heavily on native information.20 Combining this array of evidence—their own observations, those of professional geographers, Indian traders, and Indians themselves, their understanding of hydrology and geology, and basic logic, the captains did their best to reach the correct conclusion. And once they had weighed the evidence and listened to the opinions, they reached a conclusion—one that every other member of the party thought was wrong. Such was the respect the men had for their captains, though, that “they said very cheerfully that they were ready to follow us any where we thought proper to direct but that they still thought the other was the river.” Privately, Lewis and Clark knew they might be wrong and decided that Lewis and a small party should press ahead of the boats as quickly as possible to continue searching for evidence they were on the right track, but they did not share their concerns with the enlisted men. Fortunately, just three days later Lewis arrived at the Falls of the Missouri—proof positive of “this being the river the Indians call the Missouri.”21 As their actions at the Marias suggest, yet another important element of Lewis and Clark’s leadership was their willingness to take risks, if they were convinced that the level of risk was acceptable and that

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doing so promised significant benefits to the expedition. This was also evident on the trip home, when they divided their command in order to better advance its mission of discovery. Heading west, the captains had focused on their principal mission— following the Missouri River to its headwaters in the hope of finding an easy connection to those of the Columbia. Going east, on the other hand, the expedition had already traced the Missouri to its source; so the captains were free to pursue other discoveries. The most important of these secondary missions were exploring the valley of the Yellowstone River and determining the northern limits of the Louisiana Purchase. The Yellowstone was almost completely unknown to Euro-Americans at the time. Lewis and Clark had heard a great deal about it, though, during their winter among the Mandan. “If Indian information can be relied on,” wrote Lewis, “this river waters one of the fairest portions of Louisiana, a country not yet hunted, and abounding in animals of the fur kind.” Similarly, no American knew in 1806 just where the northern boundary of Louisiana was because no one knew how far north tributaries of the Missouri extended. Finding out was important to Lewis, though, because it would help establish the boundary between the United States and British North America west of Lake of the Woods.22 To accomplish both missions would be impossible if the expedition remained together on its way home, and neither could be accomplished if it stuck to the route it already knew. This, however, raised a number of risks. First, the captains would have to divide their command, in spite of the fact that each of the smaller, more vulnerable, elements would be crossing territory inhabited by Indians they feared might be hostile. During the summer months, thousands of Indians from dozens of tribes entered the Missouri-Yellowstone country to hunt buffalo. Any one of these hunting parties might encounter the Americans, and no one could predict the nature or outcome of such an encounter. It might be a peaceful parley, but it could just as easily turn nasty, in which case half of the Lewis and Clark Expedition might not be large enough to defend itself successfully. Moreover, neither half would know what sort of terrain it might encounter once it left the relatively familiar confines of the route it had taken going west. This not only raised the more immediate issue of getting lost, but also made planning their reunion problematic. How could anyone predict accurately when either half of the expedition would reach the Missouri again? Clearly there were risks, then, but Lewis and Clark believed they were manageable. By the summer of 1806 the expedition had already

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crossed Montana once, successfully negotiating mountain snows, summer hailstorms, prickly pear cactus, and a range of river conditions. Moreover, heading west they had not seen a single Indian between their departure from Fort Mandan and their arrival among the Shoshone— four months later. This is not to say that no Indians saw them, but the captains clearly felt that the odds were with them. Nor did they feel completely ignorant of the regions they would be entering. With the help of Sacagawea and other Indian informants they had met along the way, Lewis and Clark had a basic understanding of the region they planned to explore, even if they had no accurate maps of it and no personal experience in it. Thus, soon after reaching Travelers Rest, in what is now western Montana, on June 30, 1806, the captains announced their intention to divide the command, cross more than 500 miles of central and eastern Montana, and reunite at the junction of the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers. Lewis and nine other men headed from Travelers Rest to the Falls of the Missouri via an Indian route and pass they had not traveled before. Reaching the falls, Lewis left most of his men there to prepare for portaging the canoes when they arrived and proceeded with just three men to explore the Marias River and determine how far north it extended—and with it the border of Louisiana and of the United States. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Clark and the rest of the men, led by Sacagawea, followed an Indian route from Travelers Rest to the upper reaches of the Missouri and recovered the canoes left there on their outbound journey. Clark then sent the canoes, crewed by ten men, down the Missouri to meet the men Lewis had left at the falls, while he and the others proceeded by horseback to the Yellowstone. At the Yellowstone, Clark built dugout canoes in which he and most of his party would descend the Yellowstone. Four men, however, were directed to take the horses overland to the Mandan villages and from there to deliver a letter to Hugh Heney, a trader thought to have inf luence with the Sioux. Eventually the expedition was traveling in up to four parties at a time spread across thousands of square miles. And the risk this involved turned out to be very real. As Lewis ascended the Marias, his small detachment encountered a somewhat larger party of Piegan Indians. What began as a peaceful, albeit tense, meeting eventually went bad and led to the only occasion on which members of the expedition killed Native Americans. It also led to Lewis and his men riding hell bent for leather back to the Missouri and their companions traveling by canoe before the surviving Piegan could gather their forces and exact revenge on them. Clark’s party,

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meanwhile, was harassed by horse thieves. In the end, the men he dispatched to take the remaining horses to the Mandan lost them all to Indian raiders and had to return to the Yellowstone, make hide boats for themselves, and descend the river several days behind Clark. As leaders, then, Lewis and Clark were willing to take risks when it seemed appropriate to do so, but they also showed their leadership in knowing when not to. This was especially evident in an early encounter with a large band of Teton Sioux. At the opening of the nineteenth century, the Teton Sioux controlled much of the middle Missouri valley, and they did so by force of arms. The region into which the Sioux had recently begun moving had long been home to the Mandan, Hidatsa, Crow and others, all of whom had resisted the invaders as forcefully as they could. One of the Sioux’s great advantages in this contest was better access to a range of European goods, including firearms that they obtained through British traders based in Canada. From the Sioux perspective, Americans coming up the Missouri, such as Lewis and Clark, represented an alternate source of such goods, a source that was open to tribes the Sioux were trying to expel or subjugate. As a result, the Teton Sioux were just as interested in restricting trade along the Missouri as Lewis and Clark were in opening it.23 These two competing agendas collided in September of 1804, when Lewis and Clark encountered several bands of Teton Sioux in what is now South Dakota. The captains had been searching for signs of the Sioux when they finally encountered three Sioux boys and used them to convey a request to their “Chiefs & warriors . . . that we desired to speak with them.” Relations were difficult from the start, though. As Lewis and Clark prepared to receive their guests, one of the enlisted men reported that Sioux warriors had stolen his horse, and soon thereafter five Sioux appeared on the riverbank. According to Clark, he and Lewis “informed them we were friends, & wished to continue So but were not afraid of any Indians”; the captains also declared “we would not Speek to them until the horse was returned.” Later that day, however, another Sioux, whom Clark identified as a “Chief,” assured the Americans that he knew nothing about the stolen horse. Form satisfied, Clark declared “all well” and the captains announced “we would [c]all the grand Chiefs in Council tomorrow.”24 For the next four days the two sides held a series of meetings in which they tried, alternately, to impress and intimidate one another. Most of this was diplomatic one-upsmanship. When the Americans entertained the Sioux, the captains wore their dress uniforms, erected

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a tent and a f lagpole from which to f ly their colors, ordered their men to “parade,” and treated the Indians to a demonstration of “Such Curiossities as was Strange to them.” When it was the Sioux’s turn, ten “well dressed young men” carried Lewis and Clark to the council tent on “a neet Buffalow Roab” and set them between two “Chefs.” The two sides repeatedly smoked “agreeable to the usial custom,” made speeches (largely incomprehensible for want of a skilled interpreter), feasted, and presented gifts to one another. But two of these encounters slid into confrontations that almost turned violent.25 On two separate occasions, Sioux grabbed the tow rope of one of the expedition’s boats in an effort to prevent its continuing. “They Sayd we might return back with what we had or remain with them,” wrote Sergeant John Ordway, “but we could not go up the Missouri any further.” Responding to the challenge, Clark told the Sioux “that we must and would go on . . . [and] that we were not Squaws, but warriers.” The Sioux were “warriers” too, though, and promised “they would follow us and kill and take the whole of us by degrees.” The result was an armed stand-off. On one side were several hundred Sioux. “Some had Spears,” wrote Ordway. “Some had a kind of cutlashes, and all the rest had Bows and Steel or Iron pointed arrows.” On the other were some fifty soldiers or boatmen, most armed with rif les or muskets, a large swivel gun loaded with “16 Musquet Ball,” and two small ones “loaded well with buckshot.”26 Meriwether Lewis probably did not know it, but this was just the sort of situation in which some people thought he would fail as a leader. After President Jefferson had selected Lewis to command the expedition, he circulated among the members of his cabinet a draft of his instructions to the young captain. In them he cautioned Lewis not to endanger his own life or the lives of his men in the face of “unauthorized opposition” by a superior force. Apparently, Jefferson had written “we value too much the lives of citizens to offer them to certain destruction.” This worried Attorney General Levi Lincoln, who told the President “from my ideas of Capt. Lewis he will be much more likely, in case of difficulty, to push too far, than to recde too soon.” Lincoln, therefore, suggested that Jefferson change “certain destruction” to “probable destruction,” which he did.27 Eighteen months later, in the face of just such a “difficulty,” Lewis and Clark—as well as their Sioux counterparts, showed their mettle as leaders. Neither side could feel confident of victory. The Sioux had numbers on their side (with more nearby) and mounted as they were could move quickly along the shore. For its part, however, the Lewis

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and Clark Expedition did number nearly fifty men at this point, and its members were armed with what was then state of the art military technology. Moreover, with its boats and the width of the Missouri River, members of the expedition could quickly escape beyond the reach of the Sioux and their horses. In the event of a battle, then, it was likely that neither side would prevail, and each stood to lose. This early in their journey, if Lewis and Clark lost even some of their men or supplies, they might not be able to continue. The effect on morale might lead to desertions—especially among the civilian engagés, and any loss of supplies might force a return to Saint Louis. Even if they escaped this encounter, they still had to travel hundreds of miles through Sioux country and could hardly stay on their boats forever. As for the Sioux, Lewis and Clark represented a new, unknown player in the complex diplomacy of the Great Plains, and any attack on them could have unforeseen consequences. Furthermore, as James Ronda has reconstructed it, the tribal politics of these particular Sioux were in f lux at the time, and neither of the men who were vying for dominance could afford to lose face in their internal competition.28 Armed conf lict was in no one’s interest here, and the two sides found ways to avoid it. In the first instance, when the Sioux demanded that Lewis and Clark wait until the tribe’s women and children could see the American boats, the captains asserted their right to travel unimpeded— “we would let them see that they Should not Stop us,” but decided to continue just a short distance so the Sioux women and children could still see the boats. In the second instance—three days later, one of the Sioux leaders, Black Buffalo, convinced Lewis and Clark to provide a small but symbolic gift of tobacco to the warriors holding the tow rope in order to effect a face-saving conclusion to the stand-off. Part of leadership is knowing when not to push, and Lewis and Clark showed their understanding of that fact in helping to defuse a situation that threatened both their mission’s success and their men’s survival.29 They also understood another equally important, if less dramatic, element of leadership: the need to maintain morale among those they led. They showed this in a variety of ways throughout the two and half years of the expedition, but one of the best examples is the case of a Sacagawea and the “monstrous fish.” The winter of 1805–06 was the most trying period of the Lewis and Clark Expedition’s time on the road. In November of 1805 they had reached the mouth of the Columbia River. Though wind, waves, and tide prevented their reaching the Pacific Ocean itself, the goal toward which they had been working for two years, the expedition had

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accomplished its mission, and all that remained was to return home. Before members could return, though, they had to wait for snow in the Rockies to melt, and this meant months of forced idleness at Fort Clatsop, which they built on the south shore of the Columbia River in what is now western Oregon. It was a miserable four months. It rained almost every day, every meal seemed to consist of boiled elk, and there was little anyone could to do to relieve the boredom. In the midst of this tedium came word from the coast that a whale had washed ashore, and William Clark decided to take a party in order to buy some blubber from the Indians who were butchering this windfall. Clark made this decision on the evening of January 5 and, apparently, selected a dozen men to accompany him. As word of Clark’s plan spread through the company, though, Sacagawea and her husband, Toussaint Charbonneau, asked if they could join the party. As Clark explained the next day, “Shabano and his Indian woman was very impatient to be permitted to go with me . . . She observed that She had traveled a long way with us to See the great waters, and now that monstrous fish was also to be Seen, She thought it very hard that She Could not be permitted to See either (She had never yet been to the Ocian).” According to Lewis, “the Indian woman was very importunate to be permitted to go.”30 Obviously, Clark could have refused. This was still a military command, and he was going in search of supplies, not to admire the scenery. But Clark liked Sacagawea (he would later invite her to send her son, Jean Baptiste, to live with him in Saint Louis), and neither he nor Lewis saw any reason to deny her request; “[she] was therefore indulged.” This is but one example of Lewis and Clark’s understanding as leaders of how important it was to maintain morale among the members of their command, especially a member whose service as a translator had been essential on the route west and might prove just as valuable on the road ahead. Unfortunately, by the time Sacagawea and the others reached the site of the whale’s demise all that remained was “the Sceleton.”31 Still, she did get to see the ocean. Eight months later, on September 23, 1806, Lewis and Clark returned to Saint Louis and began preparing to tell President Jefferson that there was no “practicable water communication” between the Missouri and Columbia Rivers. In the years that followed, Americans did establish a trading post on the Columbia River, Fort Astoria. It was, however, almost immediately captured by the British, who maintained effective control over the region well into the 1830s. In fact, British fur traders did exactly what Alexander Mackenzie had urged them to do. For more

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than twenty years, the Hudson Bay Company operated pack trains from Fort Vancouver (the renamed Fort Astoria) that carried trade goods from the Columbia River to the Canadian interior and furs back the other way.32 Nor were Americans particularly successful following Lewis and Clark up the Missouri. A few traders managed the trick, but before the Civil War the Sioux and other tribes remained a serious impediment, and most of the “Mountain Men” who challenged the British went overland to the Rockies via the valley of the Platte River.33 None of this should diminish our admiration for Meriwether Lewis or William Clark. They may not have been the first white men to cross North America nor the first men to see the Falls of the Missouri, the valley of the Yellowstone, or the heart of the Rockies, but they were among the first to describe them in maps and in print. Theirs was an epic voyage of discovery, and they must rank among the great leaders of such voyages. Notes 1. Bernard DeVoto, ed., The Journals of Lewis and Clark with a foreward by Stephen E. Ambrose (Boston and New York: Mariner Books, 1997), p. vii. 2. Alexander Mackenzie, Voyages from Montreal on the River St. Lawrence through the Continent of North America, to the Frozen Pacific Oceans in the Years 1789 and 1793 . . . (London: T. Cadell Jun. and W. Davies Strand, 1801), p. 412. 3. Jefferson’s Message to Congress, January 18, 1803, in Donald Jackson, ed., Letters of the Lewis and Clark Expedition with Related Documents, 1783–1854, 2nd ed. (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1978), I: 10–14; Alan Taylor, “Jefferson’s Pacific: The Science of Distant Empire,” in Across the Continent: Jefferson, Lewis and Clark, and the Making of America, ed. Douglas Seefeldt, Jeffrey L. Hantman, and Peter S. Onuf (Charlottesville, VA: University of Virginia Press, 2005), pp. 16–44 (especially pp. 34–41); Jenry Morsman, “Securing America: Jefferson’s Fluid Plans for the Western Perimeter,” in Seefeldt et al., Across the Continent, pp. 45–83. 4. James P. Ronda, Finding the West: Explorations with Lewis and Clark (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 2001), pp. 9–10; Jefferson’s Instructions to Lewis, June 20, 1803, in Jackson, Letters, I: 61–66. 5. Raymond J. DeMaillie, vol. ed., “Plains,” in Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 13, ed. William G. Sturtevant (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1978); Jeffrey Ostler, The Plains Sioux and U.S. Colonialism from Lewis and Clark to Wounded Knee (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 21–25. 6. Jefferson’s Instructions to Lewis, June 20, 1803, in Jackson, Letters, I: 61–66; Jefferson to Lewis, January 22, 1804, in Jackson, Letters, I: 165–166. 7. Nicholas King, “Map of the Western Part of North America,” 1803, Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress. 8. Clark’s journal entry for October 13, 1805, Gary E. Moulton, ed., The Journals of the Lewis & Clark Expedition (Lincoln, NE: Mariner Books, 1986–2001), V: 268. 9. Morsman, “Securing America,” pp. 53–56; Ronda, Finding the West, pp. 9–10.

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10. Jackson, “Outfitting the Expedition,” in Letters, I: 69–99. Perhaps the best description and explanation of the canisters is in Lewis’s journal entry for August 6, 1805, in Moulton, Journals, V: 52–54. 11. Lewis to Jefferson, April 20, 1803, in Jackson, Letters, I: 37–41; Lewis journal, July 5, 1805, Moulton, Journals, IV: 363. 12. Lewis to Jefferson, April 20, 1803, in Jackson, Letters, I: 37–41. 13. Lewis journal, July 5, 1805, Moulton, Journals, IV: 363. 14. Ibid. 15. Lewis journal, July 9, 1805, Moulton, Journals, IV: 368–370. 16. Ibid. 17. Lewis journal, June 3, 1805, Moulton, Journals, IV: 245–250. 18. Ibid. 19. Journals, June 3–9, 1805, Moulton, Journals, IV: 245–274; Guy Meriwether Benson, William R. Irwin, and Heather Moore Riser, Lewis and Clark: the Maps of Exploration, 1507–1814 (Charlottesville, VA: Howell Press, 2002), p. 78. 20. Compare Lewis’s attitude toward Indian information describing grizzly bears ( journal entries for April 13, 17, and 29, 1805 [Moulton, Journals, IV: 29–32, 47–49, and 84–86]) to that about geography ( journal entry for June 9, 1805 [Moulton, Journals, IV: 269–274]). 21. Lewis journal, June 13, 1805, Moulton, Journals, VI: 269–272; Clark journal, June 14, 1805, Moulton, Journals, VI: 294–296. 22. “Aff luents of the Missouri River” in Moulton, Journals, III: 364; Lewis to an Unknown Correspondent, October 14, 1806, Jackson, Letters, I: 335–343. 23. James P. Ronda, Lewis and Clark among the Indians (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1984), pp. 30–31. 24. Clark journal, September 23–24, 1804, Moulton, Journals, III: 104–110. 25. Clark journal, September 25–28, 1804, Moulton, Journals, III: 111–125. 26. Ordway journal, September 25–28, 1804, Moulton, Journals, IX: 67–72. 27. Lincoln to Jefferson, April 17, 1803, Jackson, Letters, I: 34–36; Jefferson’s Instructions to Lewis, June 20, 1803, Jackson, Letters, I: 61–66. 28. Ronda, Lewis and Clark among the Indians, pp. 27–41. 29. Journals, September 25–28, 1806 (quote from Ordway journal, September 25, 1804, Moulton, Journals, IX: 67–68). 30. Journals, January 5–6, 1806, Moulton, Journals, VI: 166–173. 31. Lewis journal, January 6, 1806, Moulton, Journals, VI: 168–169; Clark journal, January 8, 1806, Moulton, Journals, VI: 180–181. 32. Richard Somerset Mackie, Trading Beyond the Mountains: The British Fur Trade on the Pacific, 1793–1843 (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1997). 33. Richard M. Clokey, William H. Ashley: Enterprise and Politics in the Trans-Mississippi West (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1980).

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CH A P T E R

F I V E

Leading NASA in Space Exploration: James E. Webb, Apollo, and Today W. H e nry L am brigh t

Introduction Do agency leaders make a difference in discovery? Do they inf luence large-scale, long-term science and technology programs? There are those who believe such individuals, the “CEOs” of public organizations, make little difference.1 They point correctly to daunting technical, bureaucratic, financial, and political constraints, as well as the relatively brief tenure of such individuals. Yet once in a while, the stars align, and a person, organization, and time come together and historic achievement is possible.2 Michael Griffin, the present NASA administrator, calls James Webb, who led the space agency from 1961 to 1968, NASA’s “greatest administrator.”3 There are many observers who agree. It is no wonder that Griffin has consciously sought to emulate some of Webb’s management techniques in a very different time in history. He is charged with reshaping NASA to implement its return to the moon by 2020. What can he or any other government leader learn from Webb? Griffin quotes Webb’s own statement about his leadership of Apollo. Leadership, said Webb, is a process “of fusing at many different levels a large number of forces, some countervailing, into a cohesive but essentially unstable whole, and keeping it in a desired direction.”4

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In this chapter, I will seek to relate what Webb did in “fusing . . . forces, some countervailing” in the interest of a “desired direction.” These forces were internal and external to NASA, and “essentially unstable.” But he managed to sustain this “whole” long enough to power America to the moon in 1969. Apollo cost $24 billion in 1960s dollars and involved more than 400,000 people at its height. It was achieved in eight years. Who was Webb? What did he do?5 Is he really relevant to Griffin or any future NASA leader? Background and Style Born in 1906, Webb was a North Carolina native, the son of a local school superintendent. He graduated from the University of North Carolina and later got a law degree from George Washington University. He served on the staff of Congress during the time of Franklin Roosevelt, and with the Marines in World War II. He then worked in the Truman Administration as director of the U.S. budget and later as under Secretary of state. He also had stints in the defense and energy industries where he rose to top positions. He was fifty-four when Kennedy asked him to head the new space agency. Webb had a disarming southern accent and could be charming and polite. But once his motor started, he was forceful and usually dominated conversations. Said one NASA official, “Trying to make conversation with Jim Webb is like trying to drink out of a fire hydrant.” He was known for his “memorable, gesticulating, humorless volubility, with frequent interjections of a tic-like rhetorical question, ‘Do you follow me?’ ” His intensity could be overwhelming. “If you ask [him] a question,” said a top executive of one government agency, “you get fifty facts when two or three would do, but he has the knack of getting large numbers of people moving. I am damned if I can understand how he does it.”6 Approach To understand Webb as leader of NASA in the Apollo era and allow us to get at his relevance as a model for other leaders of large-scale programs, it is helpful to see Apollo as a program going through certain stages. The stages are as follows: (1) agenda-setting; (2) adoption of a program; (3) implementation; (4) evaluation-reorientation; and

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(5) completion. The leader propels the program forward through the use of certain strategies and tactics. Webb used three major strategies. One was coalition-building, the equivalent of what he called “fusing.” What he did not include in his definition, but which he demonstrated in action, was neutralization of opposition and rivals. Coalition-building is a strategy of inclusion, neutralization of exclusion, or keeping in charge. A third strategy is broader, and relates to public relations and image-building. Some scholars call it political “rhetoric,” with rhetoric standing for words, symbols, and deeds. These strategies and tactics are open to any leader. But not all leaders use them effectively.7 Agenda-Setting Sworn in as administrator on February 14, 1961, Webb immediately demonstrated his coalitional strategy of leadership. He announced that the two top officials he inherited from the Eisenhower administration would stay. They were Hugh Dryden as deputy and Robert Seamans as associate administrator. Aside from showing continuity and trust in key NASA officials, Webb was helping himself in forming what he called a “triad” or collective leadership. The three men would make decisions together, he said, blending different competences into major decisions. Dryden was a physicist and, at sixty-three, a longtime federal science administrator. Seamans, forty-three, was a former MIT engineering professor and industrial research manager. Webb, the politically-savvy manager, was obviously boss and “Mr. Outside”; Seamans, “Mr. Inside”; Dryden would be “Mr. Science” and emphasize international cooperative activities. The three men complemented one another well and presented a formidable team that subordinate administrators and contractors could not divide or easily fool. Webb had once been a pilot and an executive in a technology-based company. However, he was obviously not a scientist or engineer. He thereby armored himself with credibility in dealing with and representing a highly technical agency.8 On April 12, the Soviet cosmonaut, Yuri Gagarin, became the first human to orbit the planet. Once again, as after Sputnik, the United States was dramatically second to the Soviet Union. Kennedy asked the vice president, Lyndon Johnson, to provide him with options. Specifically, he asked: “Do we have a chance of beating the Soviets by putting a laboratory in space, or by a trip around the moon, or by

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a rocket to land on the moon and back with a man? Is there any other space program which promises dramatic results in which we could win?” Kennedy wanted answers “at the earliest possible moment.”9 Adoption Johnson talked with many advisors, but the man whose view counted most with him was Webb, since he would have to implement any decision Kennedy made. Webb said that all evidence, including classified intelligence, indicated that “the first project we could assure the president that we could do ahead of the Russians” was a lunar landing. Neither country had the capability to do that, so if that became the finish line, the United States had a fighting chance to get there first. Johnson shot back: “Are you willing to undertake this?” Webb answered that he was not worried about the science and technology. The problem was whether there would “be political support over a long period of time, like ten years.” Johnson promised he would help get that support, especially from Congress. Having elicited a promise, Webb said yes.10 An intense planning process ensued, with Webb at its center, which produced a decision memo also signed by Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara. The program proposed was “Project Apollo.” The memo went to Johnson and thence to Kennedy, both of whom approved it as written. On May 25, Kennedy spoke to the nation via a joint session of Congress, declaring “that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to Earth.”11 Webb made a significant input to the speech. An earlier draft made 1967 the deadline, but Webb said he needed what he called an “administrator’s discount,” a margin of f lexibility for unforeseen difficulties. So 1967 became “before this decade is out.” Webb had also used an “administrator’s discount” in telling Kennedy what Apollo would cost to go to the moon. NASA’s scientists and engineers estimated the cost would be $8 billion to $12 billion. Webb said technical experts were always overoptimistic about cost as well as schedule. He sent Kennedy a figure he judged more realistic: $20 billion.12 Congress readily went along with the president, authorizing the program and giving NASA a huge budget increase, everything it requested. Apollo was adopted as a national project.

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Implementation Using the Honeymoon Period The rhetoric of the president’s decision helped Webb because it set a clear and unambiguous goal for him and NASA, within which he could maneuver as a master strategist and tactician. However, Webb was under no illusions that he had a “commitment.” He felt he had the opportunity to get off to a fast start and bid for support to keep going thereafter. He knew he had a brief honeymoon within which to fashion NASA into a strong agency for the long haul. As he expected, his honeymoon with Congress was brief. It lasted two years, from 1961 to 1963. It was during this period that Webb overcame major tests to his own authority as leader of NASA, and NASA’s lead-agency role in directing Apollo. In 1961 and 1962, Congress gave NASA large increases in budget, as Webb requested. It helped that Webb’s close ally and friend, for whom he had once worked, Senator Robert Kerr (D., Oklahoma), chaired the Senate Space Committee. Webb’s support in the House of Representatives was less certain. There, Representative Albert Thomas (D., Texas) held sway on the House Appropriation Subcommittee, the unit most responsible for NASA’s budget. In building up NASA administratively and technically, through money, staffing, and legislative authority, Webb was equally conscious of the political requirements. In creating a new Manned Spacecraft Center (MSC), he located it in Thomas’s Houston-area district.13 When Webb made decisions—and in the first and second years of Apollo virtually all the major facility and industrial contract decisions were made—he could justify them technically. But like the MSC decision, they invariably had larger benefits. For example, NASA technical officials argued for an interim program between the one-man Mercury and three-man Apollo programs. They needed to learn how to operate in space, particularly in terms of rendezvous techniques. They proposed Gemini, a two-man program that would test equipment and human operating techniques in near-earth orbit. Webb sensed the need also to fill a gap in public relations between Mercury and Apollo. He understood NASA had to show activity throughout the 1960s to maintain public interest. Gemini was technically desirable, and was also a rhetorical strategy for Webb. Using the political capital he had at the outset—the early implementation stage—he got the additional funds necessary for Gemini.14

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Similarly, the single most important technical decision after Apollo itself was the question of “how” to get to the moon. The Marshall Space Flight Center, headed by Wernher von Braun, favored a technique using earth-orbit rendezvous. The new Manned Spacecraft Center, directed by Robert Gilruth, favored lunar-orbit rendezvous. Webb realized these two centers had to cooperate for NASA to get to the moon, with Marshall producing the Saturn moon rocket and MSC responsible for the Apollo spacecraft and astronauts. He deliberately let the two centers fight it out technically, and did not intervene. Eventually, Von Braun agreed to lunar orbit on technical grounds. Once his organization came together on this decision, Webb then defended the decision externally. The president’s science advisor, Jerome Wiesner, wanted the earthorbit rendezvous approach. Webb argued that this was a critical technical decision NASA had to make. Webb said NASA could not abide second-guessing from the White House science advisor. The dispute went to the president and Kennedy came down in Webb’s favor.15 This was not the first or last time Webb needed Kennedy to support him in his early implementation of Apollo. If there was one principal external member of Webb’s coalition, it was the president. A key internal constituent was the head of the Apollo program. The man Webb had chosen to be his Apollo czar, Brainerd Holmes, challenged Webb for leadership of NASA in 1962. Holmes believed Apollo’s schedule was slipping and he had to have another $400 million on top of what Webb had recently gotten from Congress. Webb refused, on the grounds that going back to Congress soon after one financial decision would hurt his credibility with the Hill. Holmes demanded then that Webb take the money from unmanned space science, applications, education, and other “less important” activities. Again, Webb refused, saying he wanted to run a “balanced” program. Holmes waged a secret campaign, using leaks to the media, arguing that Webb was holding up Apollo, and Webb had to go. Webb, with his own contacts in the media, knew what Holmes was doing. A tense meeting followed in the White House, in which Kennedy and Webb argued vociferously over NASA priorities. Kennedy made it clear he cared not about space, but about winning a Cold War race with Russia. Apollo was his priority, and all other activities could wait. Webb said no—the priority was preeminence in space, a priority in which there was synergy between manned space and unmanned programs. Webb virtually put his job on the line behind a “balanced” space program. Kennedy ordered him to put his views in writing. Webb did so, Dryden and Seamans contributing significantly. He explained that Apollo was the priority in a context of overall space preeminence. Once again,

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Kennedy went along with his NASA administrator. Webb stayed, and Holmes left.16 The man Webb soon hired to replace Holmes was George Mueller, a fortuitous choice technically and administratively in terms of internal cohesion. What is clear from these early decisions was how technological, administrative, and political factors all converged in Apollo. In various ways, the question of who was in charge was critical. Thus, when NASA added Gemini to its overall program, as a stepping stone to Apollo, Webb found himself in conf lict with Robert McNamara, secretary of defense. McNamara saw Gemini as a way for DOD to extend its reach into space. The Air Force, in particular, wanted a manned program. DOD-Air Force requirements were different from NASA’s, and could interfere with the steady progression in manned space capability NASA needed. Webb stood up to McNamara and McNamara backed off, thereby protecting NASA from a DOD incursion. In 1963, NASA was on its way to the moon, with Webb having not only consolidated his own power as NASA administrator, but NASA’s bureaucratic authority in space policy. As 1963 ended, however, major change in NASA’s political environment was taking place. Kennedy had been assassinated and Senator Kerr had died. Webb now would have to deal with Lyndon Johnson in the White House and Clinton Anderson as chair of the Senate Space Committee. Webb was wary of Johnson, and Anderson was a long-standing adversary of Webb. The two men had clashed in the Truman years. Also indicative of the altered environment was that while Congress in 1963 voted another raise for NASA for the ensuing fiscal year, it did not grant all that Webb requested. Moreover, with Anderson making a statement, implicitly, it restricted Webb’s authority to reprogram money. The honeymoon with Congress was over.

Adapting Rhetoric Johnson had been an architect of NASA when he was a senator and the principal broker between Webb and Kennedy on the Apollo decision when vice president. He vowed to continue Kennedy’s initiatives when he became president and that pledge featured Apollo. But the Cold War was thawing somewhat and Johnson wanted to shift national priorities domestically toward his Great Society agenda. For Webb, this stance meant tactical change, and he was ready to repackage NASA. With his eye on national preeminence as a goal of NASA, Webb had in 1961 begun, with minimal legislative authority, the Sustaining

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University Program (SUP). This program embodied all the values of the Great Society, Webb told President Johnson in 1964. This was where space connected with society. SUP, he said, entailed interdisciplinary research, space spin-offs to regional economies, geographical spread of research to upcoming universities, and fellowships to thousands of students to increase human resources in math, science, and engineering. SUP even provided new facilities—buildings—to enlarge university capacity to perform research for government. In making SUP facility grants, Webb required university presidents to sign memos of understanding promising to make space science relevant to society. In some respects, SUP was a national version of what North Carolinian Webb saw going on in the research triangle of North Carolina, where three universities were helping to revitalize the economy of that state. Webb’s rhetoric soared when he discussed SUP. Webb believed it was the route to a “Space Age America.” Johnson initially loved SUP, especially its geographical spread approach.17 In 1964, Johnson was reelected president. He continued to emphasize his Great Society, and Webb continued to stress NASA’s relevance to it. However, Johnson was expanding a war in Vietnam that he had inherited. He did not want to raise taxes to pay for the war. The NASA budget began to be caught between the Great Society and Vietnam, and NASA’s steady increase in funds peaked in 1965–1966. Webb kept Apollo on target. These were years when Gemini was implemented in space while Apollo hardware was developed on the ground. It was a period of upheaval in the Soviet space program, and when the United States caught up to and passed the Soviet Union in demonstrated space activity, a situation that ironically made it easier for the White House and Congress to cut NASA’s budget request. The shift of federal priorities away from space was gradual, but as money tightened, Webb had to separate what was essential from what was not. He assessed SUP in 1965 and 1966 and was increasingly dismayed by its results. Moreover, SUP’s fellowship program, once a source of pride, now grated on Johnson as campus protests against the Vietnam War mounted. He spoke to Webb of “little bastards” and told him to get out of the education business.18 Webb agreed to do so, but bargained for a gradual withdrawal. Selling Post-Apollo SUP eventually died. Far more significant, in terms of NASA’s future, was Webb’s inability to get Johnson’s approval for early elements of a

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post-Apollo program. Webb knew he could not get a “big decision” (e.g., a decision to go to Mars) and did not try. Webb sought to sell instead an interim program to keep the line of Saturn rockets and Apollo spacecraft NASA was creating going after the initial moon f lights. Johnson kept postponing decisions on this interim program, which became known as the Apollo Applications Program (AAP). Finally, in late 1966, Johnson agreed, and authorized start-up funds for AAP. Evaluation–Reorientation The Apollo Fire On January 27, 1967, astronauts Virgil Grissom, Edward White, and Roger Chaffee, wearing their space suits, climbed into the newly developed Apollo space capsule atop a 200-foot launch vehicle. They were in training for the first manned Apollo f light, scheduled in February, a two-week test orbiting earth. After several hours of simulations, they had ten minutes to go before ending their workday. At this point, a spark ignited. Flames erupted in the capsule. One of the astronauts yelled, “We’ve got a fire in the cockpit.” Within seconds, before any rescue was possible, the three men were dead.19 Webb knew that the fire opened up NASA to its many detractors, especially those who opposed Apollo and had other priorities for its money. Webb declared to one of his aides: “This is an event we have to control.”20 Getting control of events began with the president. As his associates began establishing a board of inquiry drawn primarily from within NASA, Webb went to the White House. In talking with Johnson, Webb cast his argument in terms Johnson could appreciate. There were calls for an independent investigation, Webb said. While NASA would cooperate in such an inquiry, if that was what Johnson wanted, Webb warned that such investigations could get out of hand and exceed their assigned purpose, and reach directly to Johnson—who was at this time intending to run again for president. “Well, what do you think we should do?” Johnson asked. Webb replied: “I’ll tell you what I think the job is—to find out what caused the fire and the loss of life, fix it, and f ly again so we can complete the Apollo mission. If you want me to do that, I’ll do it. NASA is the best organization [to do the investigation].” Johnson gave him the go-ahead. Webb then spoke with the chairs of the two space committees and other inf luential leaders in Congress, explaining that NASA would

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conduct the investigation with integrity and “no holds barred.” The inquiry would take place behind closed doors, in Florida, to protect its integrity. Seamans would visit the board of inquiry each week for an update on its progress in finding out the causes of the fire and submit a memo on his findings to Webb, who would send it to the White House and Congress and then release it to the media. He asked the chairs to delay a full congressional investigation until NASA had completed its work. The lawmakers agreed. Thus, within 24 hours of the fire, the major decisions and procedures governing the investigation were made. The NASA probe quickly got underway. In addition, Webb had his General Counsel conduct a separate Webb investigation. The difference was that the formal investigation emphasized the technical causes. The Webb search focused on the organizational and human causes. Who was to blame? Webb wanted to know. At the same time, the media conducted its own investigation, chafing at the rules that limited them. Webb wanted to control the information the media received. By February, the Apollo 204 Review Board, as it was known, was well into its work and Seamans provided the first summation of preliminary findings.21 Senator Anderson decided to hold a brief hearing on the preliminary findings. At an open hearing, in late February, Senator Walter Mondale (D., Minnesota), a relatively junior senator who would run for president in 1984, asked Webb about “the Phillips Report.” What was that? Webb did not know, nor did his associates. They indicated there was no such document. But there was, as Webb later that evening discovered. In late 1965, the chief Apollo manager under Mueller, General Sam Phillips, had grown so exasperated with the contractor North American’s performance that he had written Mueller a letter excoriating the firm and demanding its CEO, Leland Atwood, actively take charge of reforms. In particular, he demanded Atwood remove the head of North American’s Apollo operation, Harrison Storms. Unless these and other actions took place, Phillips told Mueller, NASA should take work away from its prime contractor before Apollo was compromised beyond repair. These views, greatly sanitized, names removed, were made known to North American’s top executives by Mueller. In the form of written “briefings and notes,” they constituted “the Phillips Report.” Word of the deep NASA–North American friction never got to Webb. Webb was aghast. Why did he not know about this “report?” The answer he got from Mueller was that North American’s performance

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improved in 1966. Atwood, the CEO, had indeed taken some measures, but refused to remove Storms. NASA had not pressed its case in this regard. A television reporter, Jules Bergman, had somehow gotten hold of the Phillips Report, given it to Mondale and now Mondale (apparently with the go-ahead of Anderson) was using it to squeeze Webb. In Webb’s view, Anderson was pro-NASA, but wanted Webb replaced by someone he could better control. Further hearings awaited the completion of the NASA inquiry, but Webb now knew that the Phillips Report would become a big issue when the full hearings took place. But there was another issue that Webb’s internal investigation turned up that remained largely out of the public eye. Joe Shea, director of spacecraft development at MSC, had been warned by General Electric, a contractor Webb had hired to provide technical oversight in Houston of Apollo spacecraft development, that there was a serious fire hazard in the spacecraft. This was because of the highly f lammable velcro material being used in a pure oxygen environment. Shea had indicated to GE that if a fire broke out, it would be serious, but the odds of such a fire happening were slim. Neither Shea nor GE took the matter to higher-ups at NASA. As Webb found out more about the internal activities of NASA and its vast public–private operation, he discovered other management deficiencies. He became angry with Seamans for not “penetrating” the organizational system and keeping him better informed. He was angry with Mueller for not making the North American issue more visible. Webb’s initial failure to answer Mondale’s question about the Phillips Report put his own credibility with Congress in jeopardy. Even as the Apollo 204 Review Board conducted its work, Webb knew there were real problems at NASA and especially at North American. He believed his management system was basically sound and could be fixed. He believed people in the system did not do all they should have done. In early April, the review board finished its work and presented its findings. The report went to Webb who revealed it immediately to White House, Congress, media, and key interested parties such as North American. The report was extremely harsh in its criticism of NASA and North American, so much so that no one really could charge it was a whitewash. While not condemning specific individuals, it castigated strongly the two organizations for “many deficiencies” and called for many significant safety improvements. Some of these required redesign of the Apollo spacecraft.

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Hearings in the House and Senate commenced immediately upon publication of the Apollo 204 Review Board report. Webb admitted mistakes, but said NASA and its contractor team were basically ablebodied and could recover with dispatch. The questions from Congress were hard-hitting and aimed at finding out more about the Phillips Report and other problems in NASA–industry relations about which Congress felt it had been uninformed. Webb had carefully created an image for NASA as a special agency, the best managed agency in town. NASA’s iconic image of perfection was damaged and Webb himself wounded. He asked for and received from both space committees conducting the inquiry a twoweek hiatus between hearings. He said he wanted to study the report in greater depth and come back to show how NASA was specifically responding. Congress also needed time to study the report and prepare questions. Webb took command of all phases of the response.22 He reassigned Shea to NASA Headquarters and put George Low, deputy director of the Manned Spacecraft Center, in his place. He created a new Office of Organization and Management, headed by Harald Finger, to give himself extra supervision of NASA, beyond the program offices and Seamans. He ordered a host of technical changes in line with the Apollo-204 report. He also took on what NASA regarded as the North American problem. North American Aviation controlled 25 percent of the Apollo work. It was showing no sign of making changes as a consequence of the accident. Storms was saying the Apollo spacecraft was good as it stood. NASA did not agree, and Webb was shocked by Atwood’s passivity in the face of the review board criticism. While Webb publicly supported North American, he privately confronted Atwood in a series of confidential meetings, during which he directly dictated the technical and organizational changes he expected. When Atwood refused Webb’s demands, particularly the removal of Storms, Webb used his ultimate weapon. Either North American would agree to his list of changes or he would bring Boeing aboard in North American’s place. Boeing already had major Apollo rocket work. Was Webb bluffing? Such an extreme action by Webb could disrupt Apollo’s accomplishment within the decade. Atwood decided not to take the risk and agreed to move Storms from the NASA work, and take other safety-related actions. He also ordered that North American’s fee for its work be renegotiated.

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When the congressional hearings continued, Webb had an extensive list of changes aimed at safety improvements that he announced. These were technical and organizational, and they extended both to NASA and its prime contractor on the Apollo spacecraft. Defending Himself It soon became obvious that the hearings were focused on Webb personally and his accountability to Congress. This was due in part to the continuing questions about the Phillips Report—and Webb’s refusal to say much about the report in spite of the fact it had by now been leaked by one of the legislators. Webb said it was critical to have absolute candor between NASA and its contractors, and that private discussions had to stay private. The focus on Webb also had to do with information that became known that NASA’s technical Source Selection Board had recommended another company for the major Apollo spacecraft contract, and the triad—Webb in particular—had decided instead to go with North American. Webb’s detractors, especially Anderson, believed if they dug deeply enough, they would find enough dirt to bury Webb. Webb may have been a wheeler and dealer, but there was no evidence of dishonesty that surfaced. In fact, North American was secretly lobbying with friends in Congress to retaliate against Webb and get him “brought down to size.” Webb knew he was the issue and some NASA associates believed he was deliberately allowing himself to be a focus of the hearings in order to protect his agency. Whatever the case, Webb demanded and got from Anderson and all the other senators on the space committee an executive hearing at which he could answer whatever questions senators had, including questions about his own role in the North American award, the Phillip Report, and anything else. He made a similar offer to the House Space Committee. The executive session with the Senate took place June 12. It proved to be the showdown between Webb and his critics. He followed up the meeting with a letter to the House Space Committee chairman addressing many of the same charges raised behind closed doors in the senate. Rather soon, the pressure building against Webb subsided and the investigation began petering out. By late June, it was essentially over. Webb took the July 4 holiday off —his first day off since the fire. He had been going full tilt, seven days a week, every week, since the January accident. Webb survived, but Seamans did not. Webb had lost confidence in Seamans as “Mr. Inside” and Seamans knew it. It

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was time to go, and he announced his resignation at the beginning of October.23 Dryden had died in 1965. The triad was gone. Rebuilding Credibility What NASA needed to restore its credibility was visible success. The real rhetoric of space depended on successful space f light. The first big event came soon, in November. It was the initial launch of a Saturn V moon rocket. It was a test not only of technology but also of the “all-up” decision of Mueller, backed by Webb. Numerous critics inside NASA believed the decision, which eliminated many interim tests in the interest of speed, had been a mistake. But on November 9, the Saturn V roared off its pad. Called Apollo 4, this f light was a triumph—technically, psychologically, and politically. It marked the first and essential step in NASA’s recovery from the Apollo fire and continued journey toward the moon. It came just nine months after the accident. Completion In 1967, NASA spending went down. In 1968, funds would fall again. Webb decided that Apollo had to be protected at all costs, and he let the post-Apollo effort, AAP, take the burden of the cuts. He largely abandoned his stand on a “balanced” program and preeminence in space across the board. His emphasis was to secure Apollo for the future. With Seamans leaving and his own fate uncertain following Johnson’s decision in early 1968 not to run, he needed a competent second-in-command. He replaced Seamans with Tom Paine, an able and imaginative engineering executive from industry as deputy. He made Homer Newell, a career NASA scientist, associate administrator, thus reestablishing the triad model. He talked about “participation,” but he emphasized “supervision” in the wake of the fire, and he personally retained much of the inside power he had assumed after the accident. Using the budget, he exercised tight control over the agency, especially Apollo. There was no doubt in his mind that the Russians had regrouped and were well along in their own quest for the moon. The Circumlunar Decision The redesign of the Apollo spacecraft was coming along well and various tests of Saturn rockets and other moon-relevant components moved

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forward. Conflict escalated in NASA’s political environment, over the Vietnam War and collapse of the Great Society. The nation seemed to be tearing itself apart. Webb buffered his organization and told it to continue to make technical decisions based on technical criteria. He wanted to keep the program on schedule and give it whatever resources it needed. He fought with the Bureau of the Budget director and other Johnson advisers who pressed LBJ to let Apollo slip to the 1970s and thus save money. By late summer, however, the Lunar Excursion Module (LEM), the craft that would actually land men on the moon, was experiencing delays. The sequence of f lights leading up to the lunar landing allowed no delays. Was this the “show stopper” Webb had feared? George Low, the man he had put in charge of spacecraft redesign after the fire, saw a way around the problem—change the sequence of f lights. Why not move a later-scheduled circumlunar f light ahead of the one to test LEM? It seemed incredibly risky—going around the moon in late 1968, just a relatively short time after three men were killed in a spacecraft on Earth.24 Webb was at first incredulous when the proposal was broached to him. But Paine and others pointed out that if NASA were to land on the moon in 1969, it first had to go around the moon, and doing that in late 1968 was no more risky than it would be in 1969. Besides, the alternative was to stay with the present sequence and schedule and wait for LEM to be ready, and thus possibly miss the deadline. Finally, there was evidence that the Soviet Union might be gearing up for a circumlunar mission. In August, Webb gave Paine guarded approval to plan for a circumlunar f light in December. A Final Push In early September, Webb paid a visit to President Johnson.25 One of the issues on his agenda was the presidential transition and protection of Apollo from disruption after Johnson was gone in 1969. With an upcoming election, either Richard Nixon or Hubert Humphrey would be president. Webb knew that neither man would want to keep him. There was a chance of considerable upheaval and uncertainty in NASA at a time when the Apollo moon landing f light was imminent. Webb felt it necessary to “depoliticize” NASA. If Webb left in the fall, he speculated that Tom Paine could become acting administrator and have a couple of Apollo f lights under his belt, including the circumlunar f light, thereby proving his mettle. Unlike Webb, Paine was nonpolitical. There was a good chance the new president would keep him at least through the Apollo f light.

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Johnson agreed with Webb. To the NASA administrator’s surprise and shock, however, the president said he would go with this “decision” and announce it right away. Johnson called his press secretary and instructed him to get the White House press corps gathered. He said Jim Webb had an announcement to make. A somewhat dazed Webb left the Oval Office and told the assembled news media that he would be leaving NASA on his sixty-second birthday, on October 7. He had at this point not had time even to tell his wife, much less Paine. The news was a bombshell, and handled insensitively by Johnson, but it was typical Lyndon Johnson. Many observers speculated on the reasons Webb was leaving, but Webb told his closest associates at NASA that while he would have liked his exit to have been handled more smoothly, the actual circumstance was to have some control over the inevitable transfer of administrative power for the good of NASA and Apollo. Aviation Week and Space Technology, a trade magazine, summed up the consensus view of Washington insiders in explaining Webb’s departure as a “sacrifice play.”26 On October 7, Webb left. On October 11, Apollo 7 launched. This was the first test-launch of the redesigned Apollo spacecraft. It went into Earth orbit, and was a success. Then came the Apollo 8 f light around the moon, December 21, a decision set in motion by Webb, finalized by Paine. In a year of national despair, the f light around the moon was a shining light. The three Apollo 8 astronauts read from the Book of Genesis as they went around the moon on Christmas Eve. It was a magical moment. Time, set to call “the dissenter” its “man of the year”—thereby acknowledging the inf luence of the war protesters— changed its choice to the Apollo 8 astronauts. In January, Richard Nixon became president. Webb lobbied behind the scenes for him to keep Paine, at least through the lunar f light. All was going well technically. The LEM was now ready. NASA was ready. Nixon was smart enough to know that he should do nothing to disrupt the momentum he had inherited. Apollos 9 and 10 went up and succeeded. Then, in July 1969, Apollo 11 roared into space. On July 20, Neil Armstrong stepped onto the moon. When Apollo 11 splashed down in the South Pacific four days later and the astronauts were safely aboard the rescue ship, Webb knew his mission was accomplished. Conclusion Webb was critical to Apollo at every stage, from the project’s conception to conclusion. He took over a relatively small, vulnerable, and new

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organization in the federal government, one much criticized for failure. He built it into a formidable agency capable of taking America to the moon. He preached preeminence and sought to maximize NASA’s contribution to space science, applications, and education. He wanted to use NASA to catalyze a “Space Age America.” He fell short of some of his broader goals and relinquished them when money tightened, but on Apollo, the main event, he succeeded spectacularly. How did he do what he did? He thought strategically and tactically from the outset, considered the countervailing forces in his environment, and made them cohere. He used rhetorical, coalitional, and neutralization techniques to stay in control, and push NASA and Apollo forward. He got NASA through the Apollo fire crisis. He dealt skillfully with NASA, the president, Congress, and numerous other forces in and outside government. He wanted to demonstrate, through Apollo, what the U.S. system could do in contrast to the Soviet system. He truly believed that if America could go to the moon, it could solve many of its other huge public policy challenges. The stars were in alignment for much of Webb’s tenure, and he used the historical opportunity he had to the utmost. He established technological and bureaucratic momentum that extended long after his departure. To be sure, Webb’s record was not perfect. He could not sell a postApollo goal to the nation and largely let it go. He revealed more interest in controlling events personally after the fire than exercising open accountability to Congress, the media, and the public. The SUP, aimed to make NASA a Great Society as well as Cold War agency, largely failed to achieve Webb’s ambitions. He was probably overly harsh with Seamans and forced his longtime, loyal partner to resign. But, again, on the biggest test—Apollo—Webb was a great success. Apollo opened the frontier of space for humanity and Webb was the power behind Apollo. Webb died in 1992, at age eighty-five, after a long battle with Parkinson’s disease. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery. NASA has honored him by naming the successor to the Hubble Space Telescope the James Webb Space Telescope. Once again, he will be a part of the space frontier.

Implications for Today I return in closing to questions posed at the outset of this chapter. Do agency heads—the CEOs of government organizations—make a difference in discovery? Do they inf luence large-scale, long-term

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science and technology programs? Is Webb’s experience in going to the moon in the twentieth century relevant to Griffin’s task in leading NASA’s return to the moon, with eventual f light to Mars, in the twenty-first century? Is this Webb experience relevant to future NASA administrators? The answers to all questions are “Yes, but!” The circumstances involving Webb, NASA, and Apollo were unique to the 1960s. Most public executives in any generation do not have Webb’s background, personality, and skills. NASA today is not what it was organizationally in the Apollo era. Contemporary times do not put space as a front for a competition with a strong adversary. But achievement is still possible, and leadership still matters. What is perhaps most notably different today from the 1960s is the absence of urgency in space policy. That means that normally no one agency leader can inf luence a program from start to finish, at least in human spacef light. The shuttle and space station programs have stretched over decades. These programs suggest a leadership model that takes a “relay” form. Different leaders come to power at different stages of a program’s life cycle.27 Thus, in the case of the Vision for Space Exploration (VSE) or moon-Mars program, Sean O’Keefe, as NASA administrator, got the program adopted in 2004. Griffin, today, must secure the decision in early implementation by organizing NASA appropriately and making the tough hardware decisions that will enable the decision to become reality. He must do so in the face of internal and external pressures and inadequate resources. Griffin’s successor must sustain implementation, evaluate and reorient the program as necessary, if the 2004 decision is to reach completion by its appointed deadline, 2020. The function of the NASA executive remains as stated long ago by Webb: “fusing at many levels a large number of forces, some countervailing, into a cohesive but essentially unstable whole, and keeping it in a desired direction.” The strategies of rhetoric, coalition-building, and neutralization are available to be used. But instead of one leader using them in connection with one program, it will take a sequence of leaders, each building on what a predecessor has done. This is because the pace of space exploration is slow and specific programs long. NASA in the Apollo era spent 4.4 percent of the federal budget; today, it has 0.6 percent. 28 Without urgency, NASA administrators have limited money and power to push ahead. But push they must, incrementally. What would it take to put a sense of urgency back into space exploration, thereby creating conditions somewhat analogous to those seen

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in the Apollo era? There are three scenarios possible. One entails a renewed competition. The Chinese or Russians might try to go to the moon before the United States. The Chinese have in fact announced the intent to go to the moon. A second is threat. Perhaps someday an asteroid will be seen coming in Earth’s direction, thereby spurring the United States and other spacefaring nations to mount a defense. A third could be opportunity. One can imagine that if life were found on Mars, or some other convincing evidence of life in the universe, that fact alone would provide a magnet of enormous strength to get the United States, probably again in cooperation with other countries, to more vigorously pursue space exploration. Any of these scenarios could force the nation out of its relatively leisurely pace of space activity. With greater political support, it would be possible to rebuild NASA into a robust agency capable of mobilizing science and technology as it once did on an accelerated time-table. With a favorable political wind as a condition, the stage would be set for an individual like Webb who could make the most of the chance to lead on a grand stage. Hopefully, such an individual will be present if and when the need arises. Meanwhile, there is still much to be done, and the more effective the leadership, the better the accomplishment. Notes 1. Herbert Kaufman, Time, Chance, and Organization: Natural Selection in a Perilous Environment, 2nd ed. (Chatham, NJ: Chatham House, 1985). 2. James Doig and Erwin Hargrove, Leadership and Innovation: A Biographical Perspective on Entrepreneurs in Government (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins, 1987). 3. Michael Griffin, “Remarks by Michael Griffin, Admin., NASA, to Goddard Space Symposium,” March 20, 2007. www.spaceref.com (March 21, 2007). 4. James Webb, Space Age Management: The Large-Scale Approach (New York: McGraw Hill, 1969), pp. 135–136. 5. For a biography of Webb that traces his life and career, with emphasis on his NASA years, see W. Henry Lambright, Powering Apollo: James E. Webb of NASA (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins, 1995). For a more popularized version of his Apollo days, see Piers Bizony, The Man Who Ran the Moon: James E. Webb, NASA, and the Secret History of Project Apollo (New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 2006). 6. John Mecklin, “Jim Webb’s Earthy Management of Space,” Fortune, August (1967): 87. 7. There are many theories of policy making, some using stages, others not. See Peter de Leon, “The Stages Approach to the Policy Process: What Has It Done? Where Is It Going?” in Theories of the Policy Process, ed. Paul Sabatier (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1999). I have adapted this approach to policy inf luencing a government program. The strategies mentioned are derived from the comparison of effective public leaders in Doig and Hargrove. 8. I describe the triad system and its importance to Webb in my book. It is noteworthy that Griffin has attempted to deliberately transfer this model to his own executive suite.

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9. Charles Murray and Catherine Bly Fox, Apollo: The Race to the Moon (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1989), p. 80. For in-depth treatment of Kennedy’s decision, see John Logsdon, The Decision to go to the Moon (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1970). 10. Lambright, Powering Apollo, pp. 96–97. 11. John F. Kennedy, “Message to Congress, May 25, 1961,” Public Papers of the Presidents of the US, Jan. 20–Dec. 31, 1961 (Washington, DC: USGPC, 1962), p. 404. 12. Robert Seamans, Voyage to the Moon: A View from NASA Headquarters, unpublished manuscript provided by author. 13. Lambright, Powering Apollo, p. 107. 14. Ibid., p. 110. 15. Ibid., p. 113. 16. Tapes of the 1962 Webb–Kennedy meeting have been made public by the Kennedy Library since I wrote my book. They are remarkable for the sharpness of the clash between the two men, and Webb’s willingness to defend science and other aspects of the space program. Anyone who had any doubt about Kennedy’s desire to race the USSR to the moon to the exclusion of other NASA programs should witness those tapes. Robert Seamans, who was present at the meeting, has a good deal to say about it in his book, Project Apollo: The Tough Decisions (Washington DC: NASA, 2005), pp. 43–47. 17. It was probably Webb’s selling of NASA as a builder of a “Space Age America” that made Walter McDougall wary of Webb in his book as a “Big Operator.” The Heavens and the Earth: A Political History of the Space Age (New York: Basic Books, 1985). 18. Charl Schultze, interview by author, February 22, 1991, Washington. 19. “Space Tragedy,” New York Times, January 29, 1967; John Noble Wilford, We Reach the Moon (New York: Bantam, 1969), pp. 95–97. 20. The Webb role as crisis manager in regard to the fire and the investigation that followed is covered in depth in Lambright, Powering Apollo, Chapter 8. 21. Report of the Apollo 204 Review Board (Washington, DC: NASA, 1967). The Board’s report was 3,000 pages long, and resulted from a ten-week study, an investigation that cost $4 million in 1960s dollars. The probable, precise cause of the fire was a faulty electrical wire, but it was part of many avoidable deficiencies. 22. Webb’s role in managing the response to the Apollo 204 Report is covered in Lambright, Powering Apollo, Chapter 9. 23. For Seamans’s perspective, see Robert Seamans, Aiming at Targets (Beverly, MA: Memoirs Unlimited, 1994), pp. 175–177. 24. The role of George Low in the Apollo 8 decision is well developed in Murray and Cox, Apollo: The Race to the Moon, pp. 316–319. Perhaps one of the most important consequences of the fire was the appointment of Low to a more central point of decision making. 25. For Webb’s departure, see Lambright, Powering Apollo, pp. 200–205. 26. Washington Roundup, “Sacrifice Play,” Aviation Week and Space Technology, September 23 (1968): 15. 27. The author has developed this concept of “relay leadership” in studying the roles of various administrators who have steered the Space Station into being. W. Henry Lambright, “Leadership and Large-Scale Technology: The Case of the International Space Station,” Space Policy V, no. 21 (2005): 195–203. 28. Statement of Michael D. Griffin, Administrator, National Aeronautics and Space Administration, Senate Commerce Committee FY 2007 Budget Hearing, April 25, 2006. http://www.nasa.gov/pdf/147565main_20060425_griffin_testimony.pdf

PA RT I I I

Experiencing Leadership and Discovery

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CH A P T E R

SI X

Self-Discovery David A . Dunning

Stuffed in one of the robotics laboratories at Cornell University is a four-legged machine that wakes up every day with a daunting task. The robot knows that it must move from one side of the table it sits on to the other side, but it does not know how to do it. Even worse, the robot does not even know its own shape. It knows that it is constructed of eight pieces and eight motors, but it does not know how all these components are stuck together. Thus, it must engage on a journey of self-discovery, f lexing and twisting its parts to surmise whether it is shaped like a snake, a tree, or a centipede, among an almost infinite set of possibilities. After that, it must decide how to use its configuration to make the trip to its desired location.1 It is not difficult to watch the videotapes of these robots writhing, staggering, crawling, f lopping, and sliding and be reminded of a baby on a similar journey of self-discovery—figuring out how his or her parts work so that crawling or walking is possible—but I would like to extend the metaphor that this robot represents. In a way, these robots represent all of us and any task we face, including the task of leadership, no matter how far along we are in our development. We must discover what components we have in our own physical, cognitive, or moral arsenal, and then decide how to use these components in an optimal way as we bumble and stumble toward the goals we set for ourselves. Importantly, such tasks require us to discern whether we are missing some components, whether we have used our components in the best

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way, and whether we have done enough work on self-discovery to set that task aside and just get on with it. In this chapter, I focus on how well people complete the task of self-discovery. I ask how accurately we know ourselves and our talents and potential—and, perhaps more essential, our shortcomings. Do we know where we are competent and where we are lacking? Do we have an accurate sense of our moral character—knowing what we are capable of, for better or worse, when our better natures are tested? In providing this review, I keep an eye on one of the most complex and difficult tasks that people confront—that of leadership—and ask what principles or strategies a leader might follow to know where his or her strengths and shortcomings lie. In this chapter, I argue, with data, that the journey toward self-discovery is a surprisingly long, diff icult, and uncertain one. The road to self-knowledge is strewn with numerous obstacles and detours. As such, when we examine how well people know the components of themselves, we f ind that self-misunderstanding is surprisingly prevalent relative to self-understanding, that self-conception is often f illed with misconception. But more than that, in this chapter I want to discuss possible new roads to take to reach the destination of self-discovery. If self-knowledge is diff icult if not impossible to obtain, how should people go about discovering themselves? I argue that there are betters routes that might help people along to self-understanding, but that their direction might, initially, be a surprise. Current Data on the State of Self-Understanding Over the decades, numerous researchers have compared the perceptions people have of themselves to their reality. In the main, these researchers have discovered that there is a real and significant relationship between self-perception and reality, but that this relationship is usually a rather meager one, and often drops to zero in rather important areas.2 For nurses, the correlation between perceived competence in basic life support skills and actual competence fails to display a statistical pulse.3 Among graduating internal medicine residents, the correlation between their confidence in their expertise at providing advanced cardiac life support and the reality of their expertise hovers near zero.4 To be sure, the relationship between perception of the self and the reality can sometimes be substantial. For example, the correlation

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between assessment and reality for athletic skill can be construed as rather strong (.47 in correlational terms). However, for more complex social skills, the correlation can be quite unimpressive. Consider the skills necessary for leadership, such as managerial prowess or competence in interpersonal relationships. In this important area of social life, the relationship between self-belief and reality slouches near zero (.04 for managerial competence, and .17 for interpersonal skills). This pattern of a weak and often disappearing relationship between selfperception and reality is also observed in many real-world settings, such as the workplace and the classroom.5

Self and Peer Assessment Compared Indeed, to add insult to injury, the few studies that have directly compared self-perception to perceptions provided by friends and acquaintances show that the latter tends to have no advantage over the former. To be sure, people appear to predict their everyday behaviors better than do knowledgeable peers, such as friends or parents,6 but often peer predictions prove just as accurate as self ones. Ratings by teachers, therapists, and others tend, for example, to predict academic performance, therapeutic outcomes, and career choices just as well as if not better than self-ratings.7 Even more striking, there is increasing evidence that when an outcome is important and people are emotionally invested in it, peer predictions are superior to self-forecasts. Among surgical residents, peer and supervisor ratings strongly predict level of surgical performance; self-ratings do not.8 Among college students, a roommate better predicts whether a student’s romantic relationship will last relative to the student’s own prediction.9 Among naval officers, peers ratings on leadership better predict who receives a promotion than self-ratings.10 Even people with the barest amount of information about an individual seem to predict that person’s performance just as well as the person. For example, consider people who are asked to judge another individual’s intelligence after only watching a 90-second videotape of that individual reporting the weather. Their ratings of intelligence predict that individual’s performance on intellectual tasks just as well as the individual’s own self-ratings.11 College students asked to judge whether another student’s romantic relationship will survive for six months, after seeing the answers that person provided to a mere five

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questions about the relationship, make predictions that are just as accurate as the person’s own. The same goes for predictions about who will vote in a presidential election.12 Thus, although it appears that people do possess some self-knowledge, the knowledge that they actually possess seems surprisingly meager. Indeed, it appears to be no more valuable than whatever knowledge is acquired by another person even after only scant exposure to the person in question. The Overinflated Self Other research has exposed other problems that people have in understanding themselves. At least in Western societies, people tend to have rather overinf lated views of their competence and character, describing themselves in rosy terms that are logically or mathematically impossible.13 For example, when comparing themselves to their peers, people on average tend to say that they are above average in whatever skill is in question—such as leadership ability, social skills, driving ability, health, happiness, and idealism, among many, many examples. Of course, it is mathematically impossible for the average person to be above average, but it appears that the math is no bound for the congenial impressions people hold of themselves. In fact, on average, people even go so far as to say that they are better than their peers at providing unbiased, realistic self-assessments.14 People also overpredict positive events. Lawyers overpredict whether they will win a case; stock-pickers tend to overestimate how well their picks will beat the market.15 People underestimate how long it will take them to complete projects they have committed themselves to, a phenomenon known as the planning fallacy. For example, college students tend to finish their senior theses three weeks after their “realistic” estimate of when they would complete it, and one week after their “worst case” estimate.16 People also overestimate the likelihood that they will act in socially desirable ways. In a number of experiments, my colleagues and I have asked college students whether they would buy a f lower for charity, cooperate with another person in an economic game, vote, read to the blind, donate a book, volunteer for an onerous experiment so that a ten-year-old girl would not have to, and stop their car for a pedestrian at a crosswalk. In each case, participants dramatically overestimate the chance they will act in a charitable way, although their guesses about what their peers would do on average turned out to be more accurate.17

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For example, a month before the 2000 presidential election, 90 percent of Cornell University students surveyed stated that they would vote, but that only 75 percent of their peers would do likewise. The actual voting rate was 69 percent.18 In short, the self-impressions people have of themselves not only show a lack of correlation but also tend to display a surfeit of unrealistic confidence. People are not as skilled, moral, or knowledgeable as they think they are. In some circumstances, this might actually be a benefit to the person,19 but in many cases, the costs of this overconfidence might be abundantly clear. One would not necessarily want to deal with a pilot, doctor, or military general who was overconfident, in that the potential consequences of dealing with those people would be immediately clear. Why Is Self-Discovery So Difficult? It is important to note that we should not rush to blame people for their self-misconceptions. As data on f lawed self-assessment have accumulated, it has become increasingly clear that the real story is not that people fail to get themselves right, it is that they should not be expected to be able to do so. Accurate self-assessment is an intrinsically difficult task, and people are really often not in a position where they have all the information and resources they need to come to accurate self-images. 20 In a phrase, people live in an information environment that does not provide all the information they need in order to render accurate self-assessments. 21 This problem is particularly acute as people strive to discern their limitations—the areas in life where their knowledge, expertise, or skill is lacking. Consider the following three ways in which the information environment is insufficient, and thus why imperfections in self are so difficult to recognize. The Problem of Errors of Omission The first difficulty centers around the notion of errors of omission. As people tackle some tasks, they are perfectly aware of the solutions they generate to apply to the task—but they are perfectly unaware of solutions they could have come up with but did not. As a consequence, they may think they approach the task with an optimal solution, when, in fact, there are superior options available that the person does not realize.

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This analysis is perhaps best illustrated by the Fosbury Flop. For decades, high jumpers in track meets tended to dive headfirst and somersault over the bar they had to clear. This was a perfectly acceptable way to compete, but for many high jumpers it was not optimal. In the 1968 Mexico City Olympics, the crowd was stunned to see Dick Fosbury run diagonally at the bar and then twist away to sail over the bar with his back to it, winning the gold medal in the process (ultimately to many “Olé’s” from the crowd each time he jumped). This ungainly and startling technique soon took over the sport, and by the 1980 Olympics, thirteen of the top sixteen competitors were f loppers, and it remains the standard technique for competing at the high bar at world-class level. Work in our lab has shown that people have no magical awareness of their errors of omission, the solutions they could have generated to problems but did not. In a series of studies, we asked college students to play a word game, complete a picture search, correct the grammatical mistakes in a piece of text, and identify methodological f laws in research studies. In each case, students possessed no awareness of the scope of the solutions they had missed in the tasks they confronted. For example, students critiquing research studies had no idea about the number of the methodological f laws they missed. However, once informed of their errors of omission, participants gave them significant weight in their self-evaluations, providing evaluations that were much more accurate and less self-aggrandizing.22 In one study, participants bet less money that they would beat another student at a word search task after we had shown them how many words they had missed.

The Dual Curse of Incompetence Other work in our lab suggests why people cannot see their limitations, and thus that people most in need of accurate self-evaluations are often also the ones least able to provide them. In many domains, poor performers have little awareness that they are performing poorly—whether it be college students taking logic quizzes, students completing a course exam, or hunters taking a quiz on firearm safety.23 Debate teams doing badly at a tournament think they are winning nearly 60 percent of their matches, when they are actually winning less than a quarter of them.24 Learning-disabled teenagers grossly overestimate their spelling and writing performance.25 Students suffering from attention deficit disorder seem unable to recognize how poor their academic performance is,

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how problematic their behavior is, and how unpopular they are among other students.26 However, once again, the issue with poor performance, and the incompetence that underlies it, is that accurate self-assessments should not be expected. It is not that poor performers are engaged in active denial. Instead, they do not have the tools necessary to reach accurate self-impressions no matter how hard and honestly they try. Incompetent individuals suffer a dual curse that follows from the fact that they do not have the knowledge and skill necessary to produce correct responses. Those deficits lead them, of course, to make many mistakes in their choices. But those exact same deficits also leave them unable to assess whether they have made mistakes or chosen wisely. In many domains, the skills needed to assess whether a person has chosen poorly or well are the exact same skills necessary to choose the correct response in the first place. For example, to produce grammatically correct sentences, one must know the rules of grammar. But, in addition, to judge whether a person has written a grammatically correct sentence, one must, again, know the rules of grammar. If people do not know those rules, they will likely fall into the incompetent side of the ledger and not be in a position to know that their choices are f lawed. Similarly, they will not know that the choices of others are superior. As a consequence, because they have chosen what they think is the best response, they will dramatically overestimate how well they perform. In work in my lab, we have shown that people fail to recognize their incompetence not because of denial but because they suffer this dual curse. Giving people incentives to judge their performances accurately—such as paying them up to $100 for correctly estimating their performance—does nothing to improve the accuracy of their estimates.27 This suggests that denial is not in play. However, teaching people the skills necessary to make correct choices leads them to perceive their performances more accurately— especially when those performances are weak ones. In one such study, we gave college students a logic quiz, and then gave them a minilesson about how to approach these logic problems. Students who had performed poorly (i.e., among the bottom 25 percent of those in the experiment) rated their logical reasoning ability much more negatively after completing our mini-lesson than they had before—although, paradoxically, in the meantime we had raised their level of reasoning ability. In a sense, we had shown that it takes competence in order to recognize one’s weaknesses.28

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Beyond these bounds, there are other types of data that people do not have available as they make choices in their lives—data that are necessary to come to accurate evaluations of one’s choices and responses. Consider a parent who is deciding how to discipline a child. The parent is likely to choose one course of action, such as a mild spanking—and, thus, will receive feedback about whether the child later behaves or not. However, the data the parent receives is inherently incomplete. To be sure, the parent will gain some information about how his or her child behaves after a mild spanking—but the parent will not receive any information about what would have happened if he or she had taken an alternative course, such as sitting down and talking with the child. Without such information, the parent will not be in a position to know whether he or she has chosen the optimal solution, a mediocre one, or one that is just cruddy.29

Charting a Course to Self-Discovery After the discussion above, the careful reader might despair about reaching accurate views of self. If gaining self-understanding is so intrinsically difficult, and if the extant data suggest that people achieve only imperfect insight into their strengths and weaknesses—what is there left to say about self-discovery? This lament is particularly acute when one focuses on developing leadership. Being an effective leader often means having accurate views of one’s strengths and weaknesses. The leader has to know what tasks he or she is best suited for and differentiate those from tasks for which help from some other person is needed. Data support these assertions. Successful managers in business, for example, tend to hold self-impressions that match those that their peers and subordinates hold of them.30 Accuracy in self-ratings among military officers is also correlated with the likelihood that they will be promoted to greater leadership positions.31 Among lower-level managers, it is not those who have deficits who get “derailed”—a nice term for being fired or falling behind on promotions—but those who have deficits they do not recognize.32 Gaining self-insight on leadership skills is a tricky and difficult business. One study of the workplace, for example, found that self-ratings of skill correlated only .14 with ratings from subordinates, .19 with ratings from peers, and .34 with those from supervisors. 33 And several

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reasons conspire to make it intrinsically difficult to gain an accurate impression of one’s leadership skills. For example, one source of difficulty is that there are no definitive and simple rules to follow to be an effective leader. Often, an effective response to a situation requires nuance and creativity. Thus, leadership falls into that class of human activities that can be considered ill-structured problems. By ill-structured, I mean that there is no straightforward formula that a person can fall back upon to produce a correct answer.34 One cannot merely stock a computer with programming to perform the job. Leadership is not like math, in which one can look up the definitive algorithm for finding the volume of a cylinder or determine the square root of some number. Instead, leadership is like more complicated human tasks in which there are no straightforward, universally accepted procedures about how to proceed. It is more like writing a good book, consoling a good friend, or knowing how and when to bluff in poker. Some people show more skill and achieve better ends than others, and there might be some general guidelines to follow, but there are no set definitive rules to assure the person that he or she has gotten to the right response. As a consequence, it is doubly difficult for people to know if they are doing as good a job as possible as they assume a leadership role. Even more difficult, the sensibilities that lead to effective leadership change with the particular circumstances of the situation. Fiedler and his colleagues’35 contingency model of leadership showed that there was no one “best” approach to leadership. At times, a hard-nosed, taskoriented approach was best if the leader had a good deal of power and the task was well defined, such as it is when responding to a natural disaster. A leader’s subordinates may not like the leader, but things get done. However, a more “human oriented” approach was best if the leader had less power and the task was less well defined, as it is when members of a scientific lab work their way toward scientific discoveries. The issue, thus, for any individual striving to gain leadership skills is to know the types of circumstances they operate under as they lead— and to know if and when those circumstances may change. So what is there to say to guide people toward self-discovery, whether their primary task be one of leadership or otherwise? I believe there is a lot left to say. To be sure, gaining self-insight is difficult, and our knowledge of ourselves is likely to remain imperfect no matter how much effort and time we put into the task, but the research fortunately suggests routes that people can take to move them at least somewhat closer to accurate images of self. Importantly, this research suggests

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perhaps a route that is, at first blush, somewhat counterintuitive. To gain accurate self-insight, what should one do? The answer appears to be to turn to other people. There are many hints in the research literature that the road to selfinsight runs through other people. The difficulties enumerated above all arise if people try to gain accurate self-insight on their own, without assistance from others. The task of self-insight, however, does require that assistance. In a metaphor, gaining self-insight is a little like scratching our backs. As much as we would like to scratch our backs on our own, few of us have the physical means to do so, no matter how much we might be motivated at any given moment to relieve that itch. It is a task that we must ask our acquaintances to help with, and I suggest that self-insight is the same. Gaining self-insight is not an autonomous task that we can assign to the individual without assistance. Instead, it should be construed as a collective project that involves other people, soliciting feedback or just merely observing how they go about conducting their affairs. In fact, there are many ways in which paying attention to other people can help someone gain an accurate impression of self.

Gaining Feedback First, individuals can spend more effort gaining feedback from others— and then paying attention to that feedback rather than dismissing it. In a sense, people are often very much like the robots described at the beginning of this essay, in that they are called upon to discover themselves using only whatever knowledge and savvy they have in their internal CPU. If one looks at the world in general, it would appear that receiving feedback from other people is often a rare occurrence— save for classroom exams and the process of peer review. For example, a 1984 study by the American Management Association revealed that more than 75 percent of organizations provided formal employee evaluations only once a year, if that.36 If feedback was given beyond this, it frequently was given too late—that is, after supervisors had reached a point at which their anger and frustration were boiling over, not an ideal circumstance in which to provide objective feedback in a compassionate and persuasive way.37 Studies show the obvious: feedback from others helps people better achieve the task of self-understanding. Indeed, a hallmark of success seems to be that the individual or organization in question takes pains to acquire it. Successful microbiology labs, relative to their more

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unsuccessful counterparts, tend to hold lab meetings in which new ideas are specifically run through a gauntlet of skepticism and critique.38 Gaining the skills necessary to be an effective leader may also require gaining a Greek chorus of feedback from others. CEOs who avoid making overly risky business decisions tend to be those who have a strong and independent board of directors filled with outsiders overseeing them.39 In a comprehensive study of successful managers, those held in high esteem by supervisors and peers, tend to be those who solicit feedback from others. More important, it was individuals who looked for negative feedback who profited the most. As a consequence, they are left with more accurate impressions of their reputation in the eyes of those they work with.40 In the classroom in particular, having students review the work of their peers has been shown to improve student performance in a wide variety of academic subjects, and for such skills as writing and behaving professionally.41 Perhaps this improvement should not come as a surprise, for peer ratings tend to agree more with the formal marks the teachers give than do self-ratings.42 In addition, peer feedback can prove quite valuable in instructional situations that are more unstructured. For example, in a traditional lecture/examination format for instruction, it is quite easy for the teacher to provide clear and comprehensive feedback about performance, but it is more difficult for the teacher to do so in “looser” formats, such as problem-based learning, in which students tackle cases on their own and strive to generate the best solutions.43 To be sure, peer assessment can be imperfect and risky. It takes time away from other instructional activities. Not every peer is proficient at identifying valuable feedback to give or at giving it in a helpful and clear way. If not handled sensitively, peer feedback exercises can lead to anxiety and discord among students in a class. Thus, handling peer assessment well usually means having more than one peer provide the assessment for any student’s work, and to articulate clear criteria for students to use as they evaluate each other’s work. With these elements in place, the chances for peer review to nudge a student toward a more accurate understanding of academic ability and achievement are increased. Students also have a chance to become more skilled at the task of providing feedback to other people, an important ancillary social skill.44 Acquiring Mentors People, particularly young ones, can also gain insight by taking pains to acquire mentors. Mentors can help in surmounting the key limitation

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that people have in attaining self-insight, which is recognizing one’s own limitations. People can use mentors to identify the errors of omission that they make, as well as explore alternative ways to respond to problems that must be solved. Often, mentors can even go further—to alert people to tasks they may not know they should be working on. A growing body of research has increasingly established that mentors do help—and can help adults as well as younger folk. Mentors have been shown to be beneficial in enhancing professional performance as well as self-understanding.45 Benchmarking Other people provide further routes toward the destination of self-discovery. To gain self-insight, one need not ask other people for feedback but rather just observe what they do. This practice, in general, is referred to as benchmarking, and it involves observing how other people respond to tasks and problems that people have faced themselves,46 comparing one’s own approach to the approach taken by others. In medical education, for example, some schools have begun to videotape students as they complete standardized competency exercises, such as taking a medical history or diagnosing a chest complaint. Students later watch the videotape of their performance, but are also given a chance to see how other students have approached the same exercise. This work has discovered that students gain a more accurate view of their competencies after viewing the videotapes of others, presumably because they have had a chance to see how other people make choices that are superior (and inferior) to the one’s the students made for themselves.47 In a similar vein, when employees are given a chance to observe their coworkers, they provide self-evaluations that better match the ones given by their supervisors.48 Students provide more accurate views of their grammar ability after looking over grammar quizzes that other students have filled out.49 In short, just watching other people and seeing the choices they make allow people to reach better assessments of their own choices. There is, however, one major caveat to this. Although benchmarking may help many if not most people toward more self-understanding, it may fail to help those most in need of it. In at least two studies, researchers have found that the self-insight among the poorest performers fails to increase after a benchmarking exercise. Presumably, not having the skills to differentiate superior from inferior choices, poor performers cannot take advantage of the potential information provided by benchmarking.50

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Using Others as Proxy for Self Others can provide self-insight in other ways. Assume that a student is unsure about how he or she will do in the upcoming job interview season approaching on her campus. Will she excel? What difficulties will she face? The typical way people approach this question is to build a scenario about what a job interview will be like and how they are likely to respond to that scenario.51 Although this is a very typical strategy, it is fraught with many problems. The first is that people often really do not know how a job interview will unfold. They may build a scenario, but that scenario is likely to contain errors and be incomplete, in that it misses crucial situational details that matter.52 In addition, people often place too much weight on their own personal powers to bring favorable outcomes about. They overestimate the power of their personality to inf luence outcomes,53 overestimate how assertively they will act,54 and overweight how much their intentions—usually good ones—will govern their behaviors and inf luence the outcomes they achieve.55 All these problems are particularly evident when people face novel situations that they have never confronted in the past. Thus, it is not a surprise that people make more errors in self-prediction and display more overconfidence exactly when they predict their behavior in situations they have never experienced in the past.56 For example, entrepreneurs are more likely to make overconfident business projections when they pursue a completely new business venture rather than one that repeats a type of venture they had some experience with.57 Given this problem, what is a person to do? Again, one solution is to rely on other people. One can, for example, ask others who have lived through a situation, such as a job interview, to describe what the situation is like. But, beyond that, one can base one’s self-predictions not on scenario-building but instead on data. What kind of job offer will one receive after the job interview season? One could answer that question by looking at the types of job offers that others have received in the past. That is, one can collect data on the outcomes of others to better anticipate the outcomes that the self will achieve. Top leaders tend to know this and rely on it. If one surveys the favorite books of world leaders, such as American presidents or Winston Churchill, one finds that their favorites tend to lean heavily on history and its players. Among the favorite books of John F. Kennedy, for example, were biographies of Lord Melbourne, Marlborough, John Quincy Adams, Abraham Lincoln, John C. Calhoun, Daniel Webster,

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and Henry Clay. By examining the events swirling around past leaders who faced daunting challenges, leaders are more informed as they confront their own. A student of history is best prepared to write his or her own. In the parlance of the literature on prediction, this general strategy of relying on the experience of others means setting aside an “inside” approach to prediction, in which one builds a scenario based on their understanding of the internal dynamics of a situation, to adopt an “outside” approach.59 An outside approach means basing one’s predictions on data. One collects data about the outcomes of other people and using those data, without analysis or interpretation, to predict one’s own outcomes. Much research has shown that people often have accurate intuitions about the outcomes of others,60 or have it within their power to collect such data. However, people often habitually set such information aside even though it is a valuable source of accuracy and insight. Consulting Past Selves But worse, people also tend to set aside an arguably better, and potentially compelling, source of data—what they themselves have done in the past. People may not wish to base self-predictions on the experiences of others, but they often have information about how their “past selves” have responded to similar situations—and counting up how one has done in the past is a helpful indicator about how one will do in the future. The issue, however, is that people do not necessarily lean on that valuable information as they try to anticipate their futures. For example, in work on the planning fallacy, researchers ask respondents to estimate how long it will take them to complete the projects they are working on, such as a class assignment or their tax return. Typically, participants give estimates that are overly optimistic,61 stating that they will complete the task well before the deadline they face even though, when that deadline comes, they end up rushing to beat it at the last minute. The curious nature of the planning fallacy is that people know their past selves. They know that, in their past, they typically found themselves racing to meet deadlines, or having to ask for an extension, yet they continue to express optimism that the current project they are working on will be different. People appear to persist in their optimism because they tend to focus on an inside approach to their estimates, concentrating on their intentions and plans to get the project done, without much citation about how successfully they have fulfilled those plans and intentions in the

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past. However, if researchers ask participants to review their history about beating deadlines explicitly, and then point out that this past history might be relevant to their current prediction, respondents make estimates that are significantly more accurate.62 In a similar vein, Osberg and Shrauger63 have shown that paying attention to past selves goes a long way toward fostering self-predictive accuracy. In a series of experiments, they asked college students to make predictions about their next two months (e.g., will you fall in love) and discovered that those who dwelled on their past behaviors provided more accurate forecasts than did those who constructed “inside” scenarios of future circumstances—or even to what happened typically to other people. Concluding Remarks There are many journeys of discovery that a person can pursue in a lifetime. One can engage in travel, choose a career in scientific inquiry, or even research one’s own or another person’s past. In this chapter, I have focused on one journey that each of us has available to us, the internal journey toward discovering one’s strengths, talents, and limitations. From the available scientific data, I have argued that this journey turns out to be a complicated and difficult one, and no one can be assured that they have reached the destination of perfect self-understanding. If any, the current data suggest that the destination people reach, although it looks like perfect self-insight, often lies someplace rather distant from the location it appears to be. In a sense, I have argued that the journey to self-discovery is much like the difficult journey those robots face as they wake up and try to discern what they are and what they can do. We have, however, one advantage not available to those robots. Unlike that robot, we are not alone. We can consult one another to obtain feedback, or merely observe how others tackle the important tasks that we tackle ourselves. In doing so, we may find that we bumble and stumble less on our road to self-discovery. Even better, when it matters, we make a journey that leaves us closer to that precious destination. But we can do more than this. Once we have learned how to tackle these important tasks, we can pass along our knowledge to the next generation of “robots” starting their own journey toward self-discovery. As this chapter has stressed, self-discovery is a task best not thought of as an individual one. To the extent that we share with others the

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knowledge we gain from our own experience, we may profit not only ourselves but also those who follow us. Notes 1. Josh Bongard, Victor Zykov, and Hod Lipson, “Resilient Machines Through Continuous Self-Modeling,” Science 314 (2006): 1118–1121. 2. For reviews see David Dunning, Self-Insight: Roadblocks and Detours on the Path to Knowing Thyself (New York: Psychology Press, 2005); David Dunning, Chip Heath, and Jerry Suls, “Flawed Self-Assessment: Implications for Health, Education, and the Workplace,” Psychological Science in the Public Interest 5, no. 3 (2004): 69–106; and Paul A. Mabe, III and Stephen G. West, “Validity of Self-Evaluation of Ability: A Review and Meta-Analysis,” Journal of Applied Psychology 67, no. 3 (1982): 280–286. 3. T.M. Marteau, G. Wynne, W. Kaye, and T.R. Evans, “Resuscitation: Experience Without Feedback Increases Confidence but Not Skill,” British Medical Journal 300 (1990): 849–850. 4. See Diane B. Wayne, John Butter, Viva J. Siddal, Monica J. Fudala, Leonard D. Wade, Joe Fienglass, and William C. Mcgaghie, “Graduating Internal Medicine Residents’ SelfAssessment and Performance of Advanced Cardiac Life Support Skills,” Medical Teacher 28, no. 4 (2006): 365–369. 5. For research on this pattern in the workplace, see Michael M. Harris and John Schaubroeck, “A Meta-Analysis of Self-Supervisor, Self-Peer, and Peer-Supervisor Ratings,” Personnel Psychology 41, no. 1 (1988): 43–62. For research on this pattern in the classroom, see Nancy Falchikov and David Boud, “Student Self-Assessment in Higher Education: A MetaAnalysis,” Review of Educational Research 59, no. 4 (1989): 395–430. 6. J. Shrauger, D. Ram, S.A. Greninger, and E. Mariano, “Accuracy of Self-Predictions versus Judgments by Knowledgeable Others,” Journal of Experimental Social Psychology 35, no. 12 (1996): 1229–1243. 7. For a review see J.S. Shrauger and T.M. Osberg, “The Relative Accuracy of SelfPredictions and Judgments by Others in Psychological Assessment,” Psychological Bulletin 90 (1981): 322–351. 8. D.A. Risucci, A.J. Torolani, and R.J. Ward, “Ratings of Surgical Residents by Self, Supervisors and Peers,” Surgical Gynecology and Obstetrics 169, no. 6 (1989): 519–526. 9. T.K. Macdonald and M. Ross, “Assessing the Accuracy of Predictions About Dating Relationships: How and Why Do Lovers’ Predictions Differ from Those Made by Observers?” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 25, no. 11 (1999): 1417–1429. 10. Bernard M. Bass and Francis J. Yammarino, “Congruence of Self and Others’ Leadership Ratings of Naval Officers for Understanding Successful Performance,” Applied Psychology 40, no. 4 (1991): 437–454. 11. P. Borkenau and A. Liebler, “Convergence of Stranger Ratings of Personality and Intelligence with Self-ratings, Partner Ratings, and Measured Intelligence,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 65, no. 3 (1993): 546–553. 12. Nicholas Epley and David Dunning, “The Mixed Blessings of Self-Knowledge in Behavioral Prediction: Enhanced Discrimination but Exacerbated Bias,” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 32, no. 5 (2006): 641–655. 13. For reviews see Dunning, Self-Insight. See also Dunning, Heath, and Suls, “Flawed Self-Assessment.” 14. James Friedrich, “On Seeing Oneself as Less Self-Serving than Others: The Ultimate SelfServing Bias?” Teaching of Psychology 23, no. 2 (1996): 107–109. See also Emily Pronin,

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27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

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Daniel Y. Lin, and Lee Ross, “The Bias Blind Spot: Perceptions of Bias in Self Versus Others,” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 28, no. 3 (2002): 369–381. For a review see Dunning, Self-Insight. Roger Buehler, Dale Griffin, and Michael Ross, “Inside the Planning Fallacy: The Causes and Consequences of Optimistic Time Predictions,” in Heuristics and Biases: The Psychology of Intuitive Judgment, ed. Thomas Gilovich, Dale Griffin, and Daniel Kahnemans (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 251–270. Emily Balcetis and David Dunning, On the Generality of the “Holier than Thou” Phenomenon. Unpublished manuscript, Ohio University; Emily Balcetis and David Dunning, “A Mile in Moccasins: How Situational Experience Reduces Dispositionism in Social Judgment,” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 34, no. 1 (2008): 102–114; Emily Balcetis, David Dunning, and Richard L. Miller, “Do Collectivists ‘Know Themselves’ Better than Individualists?: Cross-cultural Investigations of the ‘Holier than Thou’ Phenomenon,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 95, no. 6 (2008): 1252–1267; and Epley and Dunning, “The Mixed Blessings of Self-Knowledge in Behavioral Prediction.” Epley and Dunning, “The Mixed Blessings of Self-Knowledge in Behavior Prediction.” Shelley Taylor and Jonathan Brown, “Illusion and Well-being: A Social Psychological Perspective on Mental Health,” Psychological Bulletin 103, no. 2 (1988): 193–210. See Dunning, Self-Insight. T.J. Carter and David Dunning, “Faulty Self-Assessment: Why Evaluating One’s Own Competence Is an Intrinsically Difficult Task,” Personality and Social Psychology Compass 1 (2008): 346–360. Deanna D. Caputo and David Dunning, “What You Don’t Know: The Role Played by Errors of Omission in Imperfect Self-Assessments,” Journal of Experimental Social Psychology 41, no. 5 (2005): 488–505. David Dunning, Kerri Johnson, Joyce Ehrlinger, and Justin Kruger, “Why People Fail to Recognize Their Own Incompetence,” Current Directions in Psychological Science 12, no. 3 (2003): 83–86; Joyce Ehrlinger, Kevin Johnson, Matthew Banner, David Dunning, and Justin Kruger, “Why the Unskilled Are Unaware? Further Explorations of (Lack of ) SelfInsight among the Incompetent,” Organizational Behavior and Human Decision Processes 105, no. 1 (2008): 98–121; and Justin M. Kruger and David Dunning, “Unskilled and Unaware of It: How Difficulties in Recognizing One’s Own Incompetence Lead to Inf lated SelfAssessments,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 77, no. 6 (1999): 1121–1134. Ehrlinger, Johnson, Banner, Dunning, and Kruger, “Why the Unskilled Are Unaware?” Robert M. Klassen, “Using Predictions to Learn About the Self-Efficacy of Early Adolescents With and Without Learning Disabilities,” Contemporary Educational Psychology 32, no. 2 (2007): 173–187. B. Hoza, W.E. Pelham, J. Dobbs Jr., J.S. Owens, and D.R. Pillow, “Do Boys with AttentionDeficit/Hyperactivity Disorder Have Positive Illusory Self-Concepts?” Journal of Abnormal Psychology 111, no. 2 (2002): 268–278. Ehrlinger, Johnson, Banner, Dunning, and Kruger, “Why the Unskilled Are Unaware?” Kruger and Dunning, “Unskilled and Unaware of It.” Dunning, Self-Insight. Allen Church, “Managerial Self-Awareness in High-Performing Individuals in Organizations,” Journal of Applied Psychology 82, no. 2 (1997): 281–292. C. McCauley and M. Lombardo, “Benchmarks: An Instrument for Diagnosing Managerial Strengths and Weaknesses,” in Measures of Leadership, ed. Kenneth E. Clark and Miriam B. Clark (West Orange, NJ: Leadership Library of America, 1990), pp. 535–545. Frank Shipper and John Dillard, “A Study of Impending Derailment and Recovery of Middle Managers Across Career Stages,” Human Resource Management 39, no. 4 (2000): 331–345.

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33. James M. Conway and Allen I. Huffcutt, “Psychometric Properties of Multisource Performance Ratings: A Meta-Analysis of Subordinate, Supervisor, Peers, and SelfRatings,” Human Performance 10, no. 4 (1997): 331–360. 34. Allen Newell, “Heuristic Programming: Ill Structured Problems,” in Progress in Operations Research, vol. 2, ed. Julius Aronofsky (New York: Wiley, 1969), pp. 360–414. See also Herbert A. Simon, “The Structure of Ill Structured Problems,” Artificial Intelligence 4, no. 3–4 (1973): 181–201. 35. Fred E. Fiedler, Martin M. Chemers, and Linda Mahar, Improving Leadership Effectiveness: The Leader Match Concept (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1976). 36. Susan Ashford, “Self-Assessment in Organizations: A Literature Review and Integrative Model,” in Research in Organizational Behavior, vol. 11, ed. L.L. Cummings and B.M. Straw (Greenwich, CT: JAI Press, 1989), pp. 133–174. 37. James R. Larson Jr., “Supervisors’ Performance Feedback to Subordinates: The Impact of Subordinate Performance Valence and Outcome Dependence,” Organizational Behavior and Human Decision Processes 37, no. 3 (1986): 391–408. 38. Kevin Dunbar, “How Scientists Really Reason: Scientific Reasoning in Real-World Laboratories,” in The Nature of Insight, ed. R. J. Sternberg and J. Davidson (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1995). 39. Matthew Hayward and Donald C. Hambrick, “Explaining the Premiums Paid for Large Acquisitions: Evidence of CEO Hubris,” Administrative Science Quarterly 42, no. 1 (1997): 103–127. 40. Susan J. Ashford and Anne S. Tsui, “Self-Regulation for Managerial Effectiveness: The Role of Active Feedback-Seeking,” Academy of Management Journal 34, no. 2 (1991): 251–280. 41. Keith Topping, “Peer Assessment between Students in Colleges and Universities,” Review of Educational Research 68, no. 3 (1998): 249–276. 42. Falchikov and Boud, “Student Self-Assessment in Higher Education.” 43. Topping, “Peer Assessment between Students in Colleges and Universities.” 44. John Norcini, “Peer Assessment of Competence,” Medical Education 37, no. 6 (2003): 539–554. 45. Tammy D. Allen, Stacey E. McManus, and Joyce E.A. Russell, “Newcomer Socialization and Stress: Formal Peer Relationships as a Source of Support,” Journal of Vocational Behavior 54, no. 3 (1999): 453–470. See also D.M. Rotondo and P.L. Perrewe, “Coping with a Career Plateau: An Empirical Examination of What Works and What Doesn’t,” Journal of Applied Social Psychology 301, no. 12 (2000): 2622–2646. 46. Craig Campbell, “Understanding Your Industry Inside and Out,” Pulp & Paper 76, no. 12 (2002): 56. 47. D. Martin, G. Regehr, B. Hodges, and N. McNaughton, “Using Videotaped Benchmarks to Improve the Self-Assessment Ability of Family Practice Residents,” Academic Medicine 73, no. 11 (1998): 1201–1206. 48. J.L. Farh, and G.H. Dobbins, “Effects of Comparative Performance Information in the Accuracy of Self-Ratings and Agreement Between Self- and Supervisor Ratings,” Journal of Applied Psychology 74, no. 4 (1989): 606–610. 49. Kruger and Dunning, “Unskilled and Unaware of It.” 50. Ibid. See also Brian Hodges, Glenn Regehr, and Dawn Martin, “Difficulties in Recognizing One’s Own Incompetence: Novice Physicians Who Are Unskilled and Unaware of It,” Academic Medicine 76 (2001): 587–589. 51. For a review see David Dunning, “The Inside View,” in Social Psychology: Handbook of Basic Principles, ed. E.T. Higgins and A. Kruglanski, 2nd ed. (New York: Guilford, 2007), pp. 69–90.

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52. D.W. Griffin, D. Dunning, and L. Ross, “The Role of Construal Processes in Overconfident Predictions About Self and Others,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 59 (1990): 1128–1139. 53. Balcetis and Dunning, “A Mile in Moccasins.” 54. Leaf Van Boven, George Loewenstein, and David Dunning, “The Illusion of Courage in Social-Predictions: Underestimating the Impact of Fear of Embarrassment on Other People,” Organizational Behavior and Human Decision Processes 96, no. 2 (2005): 130–141. See also Janet K. Swim and Lawin L. Hyers, “Excuse Me-What Did You Just Say?!: Women’s Public and Private Responses to Sexist Remarks,” Journal of Experimental Social Psychology 35, no. 1 (1999): 68–88. 55. Derek J. Koehler and Connie S.K. Poon, “Self-Predictions Overweight Strength of Current Intentions,” Journal of Experimental and Social Psychology 42, no. 4 (2006): 517–524. 56. Balcetis and Dunning, “A Mile in Moccasins.” See also Dunning, Heath, and Suls, “Flawed Self-Assessment.” 57. A. Landier and D. Thesmar, Financial Contracting with Optimistic Entrepreneurs: Theory and Evidence. Working paper, University of Chicago, 2003. 58. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, “Favorite Books of President Kennedy,” http://www.jf klibrary.org/Historical+Resources/Archives/Reference+Desk/Favorite+ Books+of+President+Kennedy.htm (Accessed February 3, 2008). 59. Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky, “Intuitive Prediction: Biases and Corrective Procedures,” TIMS Studies in Management Science 12 (1979): 313–327. See also D. Lovallo and D. Kahneman, “Delusions of Success: How Optimism Undermines Executives’ Decision,” Harvard Business Review 81, no. 7 (2003): 56–63. 60. Balcetis and Dunning, “A Mile in Moccasins.” See also Nicholas Epley and David A. Dunning, “Feeling ‘Holier than Thou’: Are Self-Serving Assessments Produced by Errors in Self or Social Prediction?” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 79 (2000): 861–875; Epley and Dunning, “The Mixed Blessings of Self-Knowledge in Behavioral Prediction”; and R.E. Nisbett and Z. Kunda, “Perception of Social Distributions,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 48, no. 2 (1985): 297–311. 61. Buehler, Griffin, and Ross, “Inside the Planning Fallacy.” 62. Roger Buehler, Dale Griffin and Michael Ross, “Exploring the ‘Planning Fallacy’: Why People Underestimate Their Task Completion Times,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 67, no. 3 (1994): 366–381. 63. Timothy M. Osberg and J. Sydney Shrauger, “Self-Prediction: Exploring the Parameters of Accuracy,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 51 (1986): 1044–1057.

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CH A P T E R

SE V E N

Exploration and Discovery in Space Je ffrey A . H of f man

“Exploration” at its most basic level is everything that expands the realm of human experience and of human consciousness. While our classic paradigms of exploration may be the discovery and reconnaissance of new regions of the Earth, it is important to realize that exploration does not have to be physical. I started my professional career as an astronomer, and I have always considered astronomy to be exploration, with telescopes, the vessels that carry our minds out to the stars. Astronomy may be passive compared to actual physical exploration, but while Columbus with his ships gave us a new continent, Galileo with his telescopes gave us whole new worlds; and Galileo never set foot outside Italy! During our lifetime, we have explored the surfaces of all the worlds Galileo discovered and many others besides, without having physically traveled as a species any farther than our own Moon. The ability to put large telescopes above the Earth’s atmosphere has led to a golden age of astronomy, which we are still enjoying. The recent discovery of “dark energy,” which apparently constitutes about three quarters of the content of our universe, has turned cosmology on its head. “Dark energy” seems to currently dominate our universe’s large-scale dynamics, and yet we have no real understanding of what it is. Is there a reasonable chance that this discovery will ultimately lead to a scientific revolution, in much the same way that puzzling discrepancies in classical physics at the end of the nineteenth century led to quantum mechanics and relativity, which we now refer to as “modern physics”?

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Other contributors to this symposium are addressing astronomical discovery, so I will not pursue this topic except to mention my own good fortune in having played a significant role in the December, 1993 Space Shuttle mission to rescue and repair the initially f lawed Hubble Space Telescope. The Hubble Space Telescope has played such a key role in our current exciting era of astronomical discovery that I want to devote a little more time to it before moving on to other topics more specifically relating to human space exploration. I like to think of Hubble as the f lagship of our f leet of powerful space telescopes. Hubble and its space f lotilla partners, the Chandra X-Ray and Spitzer Infra-Red observatories, comprise NASA’s “Great Observatories,” designed to explore and study the universe over a large portion of the electromagnetic spectrum with the best technology that the late twentieth century had to offer. This space trio has powerful partners on the ground, using increasingly sophisticated technology to overcome the scintillation of the Earth’s atmosphere. These techniques would have seemed almost like magic to predigital age astronomers such as Edwin Hubble. In visible parts of the spectrum, ground-based telescopes can now focus large collecting areas on small parts of the sky to produce images and spectra with a clarity approaching that of the Hubble Space Telescope. In the radio spectrum, the Very Large Array produces radio images with far greater resolution! Astronomers can now observe the universe over all parts of the electromagnetic spectrum, and new astronomical explorers are searching for gravitational radiation. What has been unique about Hubble, of course, is the way it has been reincarnated several times to allow continuously improving detector technology to be put at the focus of Hubble’s exquisitely ground and carefully corrected mirror. For me, Hubble’s most outstanding example of exploration and discovery is the series of “deep field” photographs, taken by having Hubble observe for many days tiny parts of the sky that, as far as other telescopes were concerned, seemed to be empty. These images, revealing multitudes of previously unseen faraway galaxies, have been seen so often as to become almost iconic; however, we should not let the familiarity of these images blind us to the act of exploration and discovery that led to their creation. The then director of the Space Telescope Science Institute (STScI), Robert (Bob) Williams, recounted to me how as a child he was constantly on the lookout for larger and larger telescopes; the first thing

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he would do with each new telescope was to take it to the darkest observing site he could find, point it skywards, and “see what it could see.” It was always a thrill to be able to pick out objects that he had been unable to see with his previous telescope. Many years later, when he became director of the STScI, which is responsible for the operation of the Hubble Space Telescope, Bob had the ultimate in the progression of more and more powerful telescopes, and, as always, he had a gnawing desire to “see what it could see.” This was not a trivial undertaking, however, since he had the responsibility for efficient utilization of a telescope whose observing time was vastly oversubscribed by astronomers all over the world, each with scientifically valuable observing proposals. To get observing time on Hubble, an astronomer has to make a credible case to fellow astronomers, who conduct peer reviews of proposals to ensure that the observations will lead to valuable scientific results. In general, this means looking at objects whose existence is known and whose properties are well enough understood to be able to make reasonable predictions of what new discoveries might result. As in much scientific research, observations often produce unpredicted results, which is what makes science so exciting! But an astronomer cannot in general succeed in obtaining observing time on Hubble (or any other large telescope) just by asking for some time to look in some arbitrary direction on the off chance that they might see something interesting. Luckily, observatory directors generally have at their disposal what is referred to as “discretionary time.” This is time that they can allocate outside the normal peer review process. It is designed to allow f lexibility to respond to unforeseen events such as supernova explosions, where quick response is required, or to support innovative ideas that might not survive the normal peer review process. Bob Williams had ten days of Hubble Space Telescope discretionary time at his disposal. Given the enormous demand on Hubble’s observing time and the large cost of the program, this was an incredibly valuable resource. Bob made the bold decision to dedicate this entire time to pointing Hubble at a tiny, uncluttered area of the sky in the constellation of Ursa Major (the Great Bear), devoid of bright stars, nearby galaxies, and other bright celestial objects. Using the second-generation Wide Field/Planetary Camera (WFPC-2), which I had installed into Hubble several years previously, Bob and the Hubble Deep Field team of astronomers arranged to keep the telescope pointed in this one direction continuously for ten days. Bob was clearly taking a great risk to devote such a large portion of Hubble’s observing time to a

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quest whose outcome was unpredictable. If this is not exploration, then I don’t know what is! The results, as they say, are history. The thousands of previously unseen galaxies revealed in the initial Deep Field image increased by orders of magnitude our estimate of the number of galaxies in our universe. More significantly, because of the finite speed of light, the Deep Field showed us galaxies as they existed back in time, during the youth of our universe. Intense study of the Deep Field revealed galactic morphologies significantly different from the “normal” galaxies we see near our own Milky Way. The rich scientific harvest from the original Hubble Deep Field cleared the way to devote more Hubble time to similar activities. First, Hubble was pointed at a similarly uncluttered region in the southern sky to allow WFPC-2 to produce an image of a different part of the universe. Several years later, in 2002, astronauts on Space Shuttle Columbia installed the Advanced Camera for Surveys (ACS) into Hubble. ACS is a third-generation observing instrument, an order of magnitude more sensitive than WFPC-2. Once it was operating, the whole astronomical world wanted to “see what it could see,” so once again a new observing project was undertaken, under the leadership of a new STScI director, Steve Beckwith. An exposure time of more than eleven days, combining ACS data with data collected by another Hubble instrument observing in the infrared part of the spectrum, produced spectacular images of what we believe to be the first generation of galaxies our universe produced. The Hubble Ultra-Deep Field is helping astronomers to unravel the poorly understood process of galaxy formation and to understand the transition from the time when the first stars reheated the universe after the so-called dark ages following the original Big Bang. Astronomical exploration and discovery outwards in space and backwards in time will continue in the next decade with the launch of the James Webb Space Telescope (JWST). With a primary mirror about six times larger than Hubble, the Webb telescope should allow us to see back in time to before the birth of the first generation of galaxies, to the time when the first stars lit up the universe following the “dark ages.” Light from these stars is so red-shifted by the expansion of the universe that JWST is primarily an infrared telescope. In its final configuration, JWST’s primary mirror and sunshield are too large to fit inside the launch shroud of any available rocket. Therefore, they have to be folded up and deployed automatically once the telescope is in space. This presents an enormous engineering challenge and is the source of considerable risk. But one of the principal points I want to make about

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exploration, both physical and scientific, is that without risk there would be no exploration. Repairing the Hubble Space Telescope was risky. So was committing many days of Hubble observation time to the Deep Field project. Exploration, whether physical or observational, involves journeying into the unknown, and the unknown always has risks. Luckily, both with the repair mission and the Deep Field observations, the risks were rewarded. Hubble has produced results that have literally rewritten astronomy textbooks. For me, having been both an astronomer and an astronaut, one of the most satisfying aspects of working on Hubble was uniting the world of space astronomy, which normally prefers automated spacecraft, with the world of human spacef light. I would now like to turn from astronomy to the world of human spacef light and look at exploration and discovery from an astronaut’s point of view. The “heroic era” of human space exploration was born out of Cold War rivalry. Competition among nations has been an integral part of a great deal of human exploration of the Earth, and the beginning of the space age was no exception. Without US–USSR rivalry, the huge resources necessary to develop the capacity for human space f light would likely not have been committed, and astronauts never would have reached the Moon nearly as early as they actually did. The leadership of President Kennedy was a crucial factor in directing the U.S. space program toward the Moon with Project Apollo. However, presidential power has its limits, as was seen by the enormous time taken to build the Space Station after President Reagan first proposed it in 1984, and by the complete failure of the Space Exploration Initiative (SEI) proposed by President George H. W. Bush on the twentieth anniversary of Apollo 11. Early space travelers were exploring new territory and expanding the limits of human experience with each new mission—Yuri Gagarin and John Glenn orbiting the Earth, Alexei Leonov and Ed White conducting the first space walks (EVAs). The entire Project Gemini, in fact, was a steady series of exploration and discovery missions, testing and demonstrating all the capabilities that would be needed for the planned Apollo lunar missions—orbital maneuvering, rendezvous and docking, survival for up to two weeks in space, advanced EVA techniques, and more. At the same time that astronauts were physically “pushing the envelope,” leadership techniques were being developed on the ground capable of assimilating the enormous amount of information and integrating the human resources needed to support space f light—this was the birth of “mission control.” In many ways, the human organization required to make Project Apollo a success was every bit as impressive as the technological progress that characterized the early space program.

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This era of space exploration has been the subject of many books, memoirs, and movies, and I do not propose to deal with it in any more detail here. However, in understanding our current activities related to space exploration, it is important to understand how public policy toward space exploration changed after the first decade of human space f light. In September 1963, President Kennedy mentioned in a speech at the United Nations that perhaps humanity’s initial exploration of the Moon should be conducted as an exercise in international cooperation rather than as a Cold War competition. We will never know what would have happened had he lived, but his assassination two months later made meeting his challenge to “land a man on the Moon and return him safely to Earth before the end of this decade” a way of honoring the Kennedy legacy. President Johnson supported Apollo but understood its enormous cost at a time when the escalating war in Vietnam was putting increasing pressure on the budget for his Great Society programs. Johnson is reported to have said that he knew the American people well enough to predict that once they had developed the remarkable capacity to send people to the Moon, they would then proceed to throw it away. Throw it away they did, under the leadership of President Nixon, who was no friend of a program seen as the legacy of the man who defeated him in his first run for the White House. (Hubert Humphrey, who lost to Nixon in 1968, was also no friend of the space program, so the ultimate fate of Apollo may not have depended on the outcome of the election.) Just as President Kennedy had put Vice President Johnson in charge of determining policy for the early space program, President Nixon charged Vice President Agnew to come up with a plan for a post-Apollo space program. Agnew put forward the vision supported by NASA’s leadership to extend lunar exploration capabilities to an eventual human mission to Mars. In addition, the United States should build a space station in Earth orbit that would be serviced by a new type of reusable spacecraft—a space shuttle. NASA leadership and much of the aerospace community at the time recognized that the expense of Saturn rocket launches threatened the sustainability of space operations. The governing metaphor at that time was aircraft operations— “If you had to build a new airplane every time you wanted to f ly from New York to Los Angeles, transcontinental air travel would never have become economical.” Hence the need for a reusable spacecraft. Nixon, however, made a decision that the Apollo program was over. Space f light would no longer be pursued as a major national priority but would have to fight for its budget along with other noncritical

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national activities. NASA’s budget dropped precipitously. The final three Apollo lunar missions were canceled, and the supply lines for the Saturn rockets were shut down. Remaining Apollo hardware was used for the Skylab Space Station (1973–74) and the Apollo-Soyuz joint mission with the USSR (1975). And then it was over. Plans for a human expedition to Mars were dropped, and NASA was told that of the remaining two parts of its desired plans, a space station and a space shuttle, it could maybe do one but definitely not both. The shuttle was originally conceived of as a vehicle to support a space station, but NASA managers believed that a space station without a shuttle would not be sustainable economically and believed that building a reusable spacecraft would ensure the long-term future of the space program. So the Space Shuttle was selected as NASA’s only major human space f light project. If the space program had been managed as a rational engineering project, NASA would have continued to f ly Saturn and Apollo hardware at a reduced, affordable rate until a replacement was available. A small, reusable spacecraft would have been developed as a test project, part of the X-series. Once we learned what was involved in reusing a spacecraft and rocket engines, we would be in a better position to design an operational vehicle. National policy did not allow this, however, and the success of Apollo gave many space engineers confidence that even without a test vehicle, they could successfully design and build a reusable spacecraft. Apollo was dead; long live the Space Shuttle! Once they chose to push for the Shuttle, NASA leaders still faced an uphill battle in selling their program to the White House. The purpose of the Shuttle had to change from servicing a space station to becoming the sole space launch vehicle for the United States, which meant launching not only NASA satellites but also commercial and military satellites. Satisfying the military’s requirements had an enormous impact on the eventual design of the Shuttle and eventually led to the large, delta-winged vehicle that is f lying today. Shuttle designers had to make many technical compromises in order to meet the requirements of all the different missions the Shuttle would have to f ly in order to become the nation’s sole launch vehicle. In addition, they had to make the vehicle reusable, and, perhaps most difficult of all the requirements laid on them by the Office of Management and Budget, they were supposed to recoup the operational costs of the Shuttle through selling satellite launches to military and commercial users. Despite all of the compromises, the Shuttle has been a technical marvel. We have used it to launch satellites, to repair satellites in orbit, to return satellites to

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the Earth for refurbishment and relaunch, to conduct scientific and engineering experiments, to keep the Russian Mir space station operating for several years beyond what would have been its normal lifetime, and, at last, to build and operate a new space station. The people who designed the Shuttle were by and large the people who designed Apollo, so it is perhaps not surprising that the Shuttle worked so well. However, its complexity made it more fragile than people would have liked, and the requirement to carry large commercial cargos into orbit prohibited the inclusion of an escape system for the crew. This meant that extraordinary measures have had to be taken to f ly the Shuttle safely. The slightest lapse can lead to disasters, which have destroyed two Shuttles with their crews. What the Shuttle did not do was to significantly lower the cost of access to space, although it increased markedly the sophistication of activities that humans could perform in space. The designers of the Shuttle used their Apollo experience to ensure successful operation of the Shuttle, but they had no experience with reusability. I have asked several Shuttle designers how they estimated the amount of time it would take to service the systems they were designing between f lights. Most of them said they really did not have a clue. NASA was given economic guidelines for Shuttle operations by the Office of Management and Budget (OMB), and these were translated into a requirement to f ly dozens of f lights every year, requiring a turn-around time of no more than a few weeks (compared to the many months that it actually has turned out to be required to service a Shuttle). The design engineers took the reusability requirement and said they could meet it without any real experience to verify that this could, in fact, be done. I find this a fascinating example of “group-think.” Many very sharp, experienced engineers, who on their own would never have signed on to requirements that they could not verify based on nonexistent experience, went along because everyone else did. It is an interesting if unanswerable historical question as to what might have happened if NASA had gone back to the OMB and said that what they were being asked to do could not be done. Would the administration have canceled the program and left the United States without any human space f light capability at a time when the USSR had an active program of launching crews to a series of increasingly capable space stations, some of them used for military purposes? We do not know. What we do know is that many people who should have known better, including some of NASA’s leaders, started talking about how Shuttle f lights were going to be as routine and safe as f lying a 747 across the ocean.

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This was the environment when I was selected as one of the thirtyfive members of the first class of “Space Shuttle Astronauts” in 1978. NASA’s Apollo astronaut corps had been depleted to about twentyfive, and given the large number of f lights anticipated once the Shuttle started to f ly (which at the time was anticipated to be in 1979), NASA needed a lot of new astronauts. All of us who were selected had lived through Apollo and, despite the cancellation of the program, believed along with most people at NASA that with the reduced cost of space operations that the Shuttle would bring about, it was only a matter of time before a new president would again take up the cause of space exploration. Most of us thought we had a reasonable chance of going to Mars before the end of our careers. Of course, this could not be done solely with the Shuttle, which as a winged vehicle was specifically designed only to go to low Earth orbit and return. But learning how to f ly this new type of reusable space vehicle was a new challenge, a kind of technological exploration and discovery. As with Apollo, the history of the Space Shuttle has been written many times. I do not propose to add to this history, but I would like to relate some of my own experiences in f lying five f lights on four of the five Shuttles that were eventually built. Joining NASA introduced me for the first time to military test pilots, who constituted almost the entire pre-Shuttle astronaut corps and almost half of our new group. As I learned about the hierarchical nature of NASA’s leadership structure, I thought to myself, “This is what the military must be like.” However, when I heard my military colleagues talking about how, “This is like being back out in civilian life,” I realized that NASA’s organization was somewhere between a rigid military command structure and the relative anarchy of university life which I had just left. Mission control has a clear management structure, which is essential for efficient operations. However, part of the NASA tradition established during preparations for Apollo was that any young engineer can question a superior’s decision as long as he can make a convincing technical case for his challenge. (The discovery during the investigations following the loss of Columbia that many young engineers had come to believe that questioning their superiors could be a “career limiting activity” came as a shock to many NASA old-timers and was a large part of what the accident investigation board referred to as a defect in NASA’s organizational culture, which was seen as partly responsible for the accident.) Development problems, including most notably difficulties in getting the Shuttle’s heat resistant ceramic tiles to stick on, delayed the first

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f light of the Shuttle until 1981. The first f light of the Shuttle was the first and probably last initial test f light of a manned space vehicle with a crew aboard. John Young and Bob Crippen had ejection seats, which offered limited protection in case of failures, but these were deactivated after the first four orbital test f lights and eventually removed. “You don’t need ejection seats in a 747,” was the justification given by NASA leadership. The Shuttle performed extremely well in its test f lights and in its early “operational” missions, and NASA made plans to f ly people in space who were not professional astronauts, not only scientists but also school teachers and journalists. Despite the success of the test f lights, engineers examining the systems they were responsible for after the Shuttle returned to Earth started to realize that they needed more information before they could certify that the Shuttle was ready to f ly again. For example, instead of leaving the three main rocket engines in the Shuttle after each f light and only changing them out every tenth f light, it was decided to remove them for detailed inspection and refurbishment after every f light. Similarly, it was found that inspecting and maintaining the Shuttle’s ceramic tiles was a job requiring many more people and a lot more time than was originally planned for. Conservative, safety-minded engineering stretched the time required between the early Shuttle f lights. However, as experience grew, people hoped that the desired f light rates would be achieved. The Shuttle f lew twice in 1981, three times in 1982, four times in 1983, five times in 1984, and nine times in 1985, the year when I made my first space f light. The trend was in the right direction, although the rate of increase was considered frustratingly slow, and many people started to be concerned that NASA would never achieve the f light rate necessary to achieve the economic goals originally set for the Shuttle. My first space f light, in April, 1985, made me the 162nd human space traveler, of which there are now slightly more than 450. This is a large enough number of people to make going into space perhaps no longer cutting-edge exploration in the sense it once was. Nevertheless, anyone sitting on top of a loaded rocket ready to make his first trip into space can rightly feel that he is embarking on a personal journey of discovery. After all, you can explore a new environment for yourself even if you are not the first person to go there. An important part of the tradition of exploration is to report on your travels and your discoveries, to share them with other people and ideally to make the new territory you explore part of general human culture and human consciousness. In this tradition, then, let me try brief ly to share some my experiences in this new environment. What do you see, feel, and do when you go

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into space? First of all, it’s an incredible ride! I hope someday we will have gentler and safer ways of getting into space, but if you like excitement, the adrenaline rush doesn’t get any better than feeling the solid rocket boosters light and watching the ground fall straight away from you. You break the sound barrier in 45 seconds going straight up, and in another minute the big blue sky of the Earth has turned into the blackness of space, which is the blackest black I have ever seen. The first thing you notice when you look back at the Earth is the new perspective. From a commercial jetliner you can look out the window and see entire cities below you. From an orbiting spacecraft you can see entire countries or even continents. I will never forget f lying over Houston in the middle of the night during my mission to the Hubble Space Telescope, 600 km above the Earth, which is as high as the Shuttle ever goes. I could see the lights of Los Angeles on the Pacific coast out of one window and the lights of Miami on the Atlantic out of another. One of my most memorable views occurred when we installed new magnetometers and had to go all the way to the top of the telescope, 15 meters above the shuttle. Floating between heaven and earth, this was one of the most spectacular and emotional moments in all my space f lights. Attached to the robotic manipulator arm by a slack, stainless steel cable, I could let go for a few moments and become a free-f lying satellite! If my back was turned to the Shuttle, I felt truly alone in space. Pictures can help give some idea of what space looks like, but the more subjective question of “What does it feel like in space?” is much harder to communicate. I remember vividly my initial feeling of euphoria as soon as the engines shut down after my first launch. After all those years of waiting I was actually in orbit, weightless, in space at last! I looked out of the window to see how fast we were going, but with no wind noise and no vibration there is no real feeling of speed. Still, when you f ly over San Francisco Bay and then watch Boston and Cape Cod go by ten minutes later, you know you are going fast! There are some very strong physical sensations during the initial experience of weightlessness. It is a bit like being upside down on Earth. Without gravity pulling your blood toward your feet, the blood rushes to your head. Hanging upside down for several hours or several days can give you quite a headache! Releasing gravity’s constant pressure on your spinal column increases your height by several inches, which may be ego-boosting for someone who on earth is just a little bit short of being a six-footer, but the physical effect on your back can be similar to what it must have been like to be on a medieval torture rack. Then there is

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space sickness, resulting from a total confusion of your body’s vestibular system, which is responsible for maintaining your balance on the Earth and which suffers from the lack of the expected gravity-induced cues for up and down. While we can treat most of the unpleasant symptoms people suffer when they enter space, the initial accommodation to weightlessness definitely involves significant stress. Humans are remarkably adaptable, though, and after a few days in space everyone gets over the initial problems of adapting to this new environment and starts enjoying the experience of actually being in space, f loating weightless, looking at the world beneath them and space all around them. Everyone reacts in their own way, but I have found that being in orbit almost universally evokes a sense of profound awe, in the deepest sense of the word. It is not dissimilar to what many people feel in the high mountains, where you have to work hard in an unforgiving environment and take certain risks to gain the summit. On the high ground, your view is expanded, and your mind is cleared. Space, of course, is much higher than the highest mountaintop, and the environment is even more unforgiving. Realizing that outside your spacecraft or your spacesuit you would not survive more than fifteen seconds, you feel all around you the extreme hostility of most of the universe toward life. Then you look down at the Earth. Seeing the thinness of our atmosphere and realizing that this is all that separates us from the hostility of space may make you feel a new regard for the fragility of life on Earth. The most powerful and unique feeling in spacef light, however, is the physical freedom of weightlessness itself, which is an utter delight. For me, the experience is more than just physical; it has psychological, emotional, and even spiritual dimensions. We don’t possess the shared experience to adequately express this through language, and even pictures can’t convey the inner feeling of weightlessness. Have you ever dreamed of f lying? In orbit you can do it! Weightlessness gives you a wonderful sense of freedom, an ability to do outrageous things barely imaginable back on Earth. I have to be a little careful not to spend so much time waxing eloquent about the pleasures of space f light that people will forget that NASA does not spend public money in order for my colleagues and me to have transcendental experiences observing the Earth from space and enjoying the pleasures of weightlessness. They send us to space to do useful work, and I am happy to say that I accomplished a lot during my five space missions. I was extremely fortunate to have had my astronaut career coincide with the heyday of Shuttle operations. All of my missions were different, challenging, often

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innovative, and, especially in the case of the Hubble Space Telescope initial rescue and repair mission, made significant impacts to the future of scientific exploration. However, as I mentioned earlier, I always looked at the Space Shuttle as a step along the road to future space exploration beyond the Earth. In ref lective moments, I often wondered about the long-term viability of devoting significant amounts of public resources to an activity that was not producing a direct economic return and did not excite the public and the public’s political representatives in the way that true exploration does. President Reagan’s commitment to building a Space Station did not produce anything of real value during the 1980s, just endless paper studies and continuing changes in requirements, which ate up billions of dollars and almost a decade without producing much, much less launching any actual space hardware. The early history of the International Space Station actually makes an excellent case study in large-scale project management. One of the strongest reasons for the ISS’s political support was the money f lowing to the aerospace industry in congressional districts all over the country. In order to maximize this support, the Space Station project was divided into four different segments, each led by a different NASA center and contracted out to different industrial partners. This leadership structure seemed almost perfectly designed to inhibit effective overall management, and that is exactly what happened. The problem was exacerbated by continual interference by congressional staffers in what should have been technical decisions regarding the assembly sequence and final configuration of the station. One of the many reasons officially given for building the Space Station was the need to get more experience with long duration human space f light, experience we would need if we were ever to travel to Mars. Mars remained the dream of most people working at NASA after Apollo, myself included. However, many people who saw the lack of progress in actually building the station despaired at the situation. The agency that had amazed the world by going to the Moon seemed stuck in a quagmire. If we could not build a space station, then how could we ever hope to develop the large amount of new space hardware we would need to go back to the Moon and eventually to explore Mars? Congress would not support any human space exploration while NASA was still building the ISS. Again, the financial inability to continue a current program while starting a new one played a key role in NASA’s human space f light history. Doubts about the long-term future of human space f light deepened when the first President Bush announced on the twentieth anniversary

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of Apollo 11 that he wanted the United States to make a new commitment to space exploration, a “Space Exploration Initiative” (SEI), to return to the Moon and eventually explore Mars. NASA conducted a “90-day study” of the resources that would be required to accomplish this. Unfortunately, the study was not designed to minimize costs but rather included the cost of building a space station, orbital transfer vehicles, and in fact all possible space hardware that could be imagined over the next thirty years to constitute a robust Mars exploration capability. The result was a cost estimate approaching half a trillion dollars and a time scale of decades! This may, in fact, have been a reasonably good estimate of what a huge program like this might have cost. There was little political support for a new space program even before the results of this study were published, however, and the price tag was the kiss of death. For students of politics, this was a good demonstration of the limitations of presidential power. From a personal point of view, it was now clear that trips to the Moon and Mars were not going to be part of my astronaut career. By that time, though, I was waiting for my second space f light and already had an assignment for a third f light, so I was excited by my opportunities to f ly on the Space Shuttle and was not overly upset at the failure of the SEI. While all this was happening, planning for the space station continued, still with no appreciable progress toward building any real hardware. The program’s problems reached a climax when the Clinton administration entered power, and initial indications were that they would cancel the space station program. However, the economic chaos following the collapse of the Soviet Union caused concerns in Washington that many unemployed Russian scientists might sell their skills to “undesirable nations.” In order to keep Russian rocket scientists gainfully employed inside Russia, the administration proposed expanding the original international collaboration for Space Station Freedom (the United States, Europe, Japan, and Canada) to include Russia in what came to be called the International Space Station (ISS). This change of executive policy saved the project and led to the ISS that we are still in the process of building. I was actually never very deeply involved personally in the International Space Station program. When NASA made an agreement with the Russian Space Agency to f ly American astronauts on the Mir space station in preparation for eventual cooperation on the ISS, I was one of the early U.S. astronauts to volunteer. I thought that the opportunity to spend months rather than weeks in orbit would give me a new type of space experience, extending my personal exploration of life in Earth orbit. However, Russian space policy is not driven by the same

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social and political constraints as American policy, which in a roundabout way eventually stymied my desire for a long duration space f light. Due to the limited lifting capacity of early U.S. rockets, Mercury and Gemini capsules were small and extremely cramped, limiting the maximum height of astronauts to 5’10." Apollo was slightly larger, but the limit was still 6’. When the Shuttle was being designed, America had gone through the civil rights and women’s liberation movements, which had a direct impact on astronaut selection. Not only were racial minorities among the thirty-five new astronauts with whom I was selected, but so were the first American women. NASA’s marching orders were to make the Shuttle accessible to as many Americans as possible, from 5th percentile 5-foot tall Asian American women to 95th percentile 6’4" inch northern European-American men. At 6’2" I met the size criteria for Space Shuttle astronauts. However, the Russians were still f lying a slightly updated version of their original spacecraft. It worked, and they found it easier to select cosmonauts who fit rather than build a larger spacecraft. When I found out that I was more than 2 inches over the maximum Russian height limit, I had to give up the idea of f lying on Mir. Moreover, since the Russian Soyuz capsule serves as the “lifeboat” for the International Space Station, only people who can fit in Soyuz can remain onboard the ISS when the Shuttle is not present. So long duration space f light did not constitute a part of my astronaut career. In a sense, I should not spend much time discussing the space station, since I am addressing “Exploration and Discovery in Space,” and what we are doing in low earth orbit these days is not so much exploring as learning how to live there comfortably and take advantage of this unique environment. This is challenging, and it may lead to some interesting scientific discoveries, but it is not exploration. I think that we have to say the same thing about the Space Shuttle. I had a great astronaut career f lying five exciting Space Shuttle missions; however, despite the technical advances that this reusable space craft brought to human space f light and the many uses to which we have put the Space Shuttle, it is also true that continually f lying missions in orbit a few hundred miles above the Earth is not exploration. Nevertheless, f lying the Shuttle and building the ISS is what humans have been doing in space for the past quarter century and what we might have continued for quite some time into the future had the Space Shuttle Columbia not disintegrated during reentry in early 2003. The Columbia Accident Investigation Board confirmed that a hole in the leading edge of Columbia’s wing, caused by debris falling off the external fuel tank during ascent, led to hot plasma entering the Shuttle

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and disintegrating it from the inside, resulting in the loss of the vehicle and the entire crew. The board went further in its analysis of the secondary factors which led to the accident, including what they referred to as “serious problems with NASA’s culture.” These cultural problems were many-fold, involving many safety-related issues. However, the board included one significant issue that would prove decisive in changing the direction of national space policy. The nation’s human space program started with very clear exploration goals, motivated by Cold War competition, but definitely extending human activities into previously uncharted regions, which is the essence of exploration. The board’s report recommended that future government-supported human space f light activities should also be devoted toward exploration, which is a goal that merits the risk of human life and can justify significant public expenditure of funds. The administration took this recommendation seriously, and in January, 2004, the president announced a new space policy for the United States, to create a “sustained, affordable, reliable approach to enable human and robotic exploration of the Moon, Mars, and other destinations.” For me, the most significant word in this policy statement, besides “Moon” and “Mars,” is “sustained.” This is not another race to the Moon, to plant a f lag, take some photos, come home, and stop. The hope is that this should be what many space exploration enthusiasts have been waiting for, the first step in the future expansion of humanity outwards from our home planet, fulfilling the vision of the Russian space pioneer Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, who said, “The Earth is the cradle of mankind, but no man stays in his cradle forever.” It appears, at least for now, that Congress is supporting the new presidential space policy. The United States will honor its commitments to its international partners to finish the construction of the International Space Station, which will require continued f lights of the Space Shuttle through 2010. We will also devote one Shuttle f light to a final repair and refurbishment of the Hubble Space Telescope, which should allow Hubble to operate well into the future, hopefully at least until the launch of the larger and more sensitive Webb Space Telescope sometime in the next decade. After the assembly of the Space Station is complete, the Shuttle will be retired, hopefully to a place of honor in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. NASA has already awarded contracts for a new spacecraft, once again a capsule, as in Apollo, with a full crew escape system. The new spacecraft, named Orion, will not be limited to low Earth orbit but will be capable of f lying to the Moon and Mars. New rockets will also have to be built, Ares I to launch Orion into Earth orbit, and a

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huge Ares V, rivaling Saturn V in size and power, to launch all the rest of the hardware that will take Orion and a crew of four to the Moon. So far, Congress seems to have accepted this new Vision for Space Exploration. To be sustainable, of course, it will have to survive the change of administration that came with the 2008 election and many future administrations besides. That is the nature of “sustainability.” In addition to being able to survive political changes, which we can refer to as “policy robustness,” to be sustainable a public program needs to be affordable, needs to produce continued demonstrations of value for its stakeholders, and—especially important for public space programs— must deal with risk in an acceptable manner. Dealing with risk is one of the most demanding tasks for NASA’s leadership. The only way to be completely safe is not to f ly. (The naval equivalent is the famous statement, “Ships are always safe in a harbor, but that is not what we build ships for.”) Engineering leadership requires making decisions based on incomplete knowledge. I saw this process at work as a new astronaut during the final stages of testing of the Space Shuttle. Every month, engineers came up with new things they wanted to test, new ideas of things that might go wrong. This could have continued forever, but finally Chris Kraft, the creator of mission control and then director of NASA’s Johnson Space Center, decided that the major risks had been addressed and it was time to f ly. I will never forget a meeting of all the new astronauts, called by Chris Kraft, in which he told us to pay close attention to the process of getting a new human space vehicle ready for f light. It only happens once a generation, and we should learn from what we were seeing going on around us. Kraft had the responsibility of determining the point at which the smaller and smaller incremental safety resulting from additional testing would be overshadowed by the increasing risk to the program itself caused by further delays. The decision to f ly, especially given the limited escape options for the crew, required considerable courage on his part. Whether future NASA and national political leadership will be able to sustain our new exploration program, and whether the nation will be able to persevere in the face of inevitable future accidents, remains to be seen. However, there is a new development in human space f light that may bring fundamental changes in humanity’s future in space—private space travel. The success of Burt Rutan’s Spaceship One in winning the 10 million dollar Ansari X-Prize in 2004 convinced Richard Branson, creator of Virgin Airways and the entire Virgin empire, that there is money to be made by offering to the paying public a chance to travel into space. Branson has joined forces with Rutan’s Scaled Composites

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company to produce a commercially viable “Spaceship Two,” which will be able to offer five to ten minute forays into weightlessness to wealthy adventure travelers. Several other companies have joined the race to offer suborbital space f light experiences. In addition, Robert Bigelow, who made his money with budget motels, has already f lown two test models of a private space hotel, and Elon Musk, who created PayPal, is investing part of his own fortune to develop rockets that can bring supplies to the space hotel (as well as to the International Space Station) and which hopefully will eventually be able to carry people into orbit safely and affordably. We are seeing a new generation of leaders who grew up during the excitement of Apollo, became billionaires in the 1990s, and are now working to create a new paradigm for space f light. I strongly hope that they are successful, because I believe that the success of private human space f light will help the sustainability of space exploration. NASA currently spends over one- third of its entire budget maintaining and operating an entire infrastructure to carry people into orbit and care for them in space. If this infrastructure could be supported by the private sector, and NASA could purchase services at the marginal price rather than have to pay the entire price as it does now, it would have more money available to devote to exploration, which is what I believe NASA’s mission should be, rather than running a transportation service. This may seem like science fiction to many observers, but in considering whether large numbers of people might someday venture into space, it is useful to go back a century to the heroic age of Antarctic exploration, when only legendary adventurers such as Amundsen, Scott, Mawson, and Shackleton, traveling on ships, dogsleds, and skis, could penetrate the Antarctic continent. It was dangerous and expensive. Many people died. It would have seemed improbable to these explorers at the dawn of the twentieth century that in a little more than fifty years we would have a permanently inhabited scientific outpost at the South Pole, and it would have seemed outrageous that by the end of the century significant numbers of tourists would visit there. But air travel made it possible, and thousands of paying, private tourists now visit Antarctica every year, some of them going as far as the South Pole. The joy of weightlessness, which I described earlier, is one of the main reasons I believe that humanity has a future in space. I don’t know when it will happen, but once access to space is affordable and safe enough to allow large numbers of people to explore for themselves the new world of Earth orbit, then when the first real space tourists come back with their travelers’ tales, you won’t be able to keep people away!

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I am not going to speculate further about these developments, but wherever space tourism may ultimately lead, one thing about human space travel is sure. Until elderly people decide to throw away their canes, walkers, and wheelchairs and move to extraterrestrial retirement homes to finish their lives with a physical freedom that they thought they had lost forever, everyone who ventures into space will hopefully come back. I began this article with a description of what it is like to travel into space. Let me finish by sharing some of the experience of returning to Earth. When the moment comes to fire the retrorockets and start our plunge into the atmosphere, it does not matter how long we have been in space. No matter how much I looked forward to seeing my family and friends after a f light, at this moment I always felt a slight sense of sadness at the loss of the beautiful views and of the precious freedom of weightlessness. When the engines fire, they only produce a tenth of a G, but after being used to weightlessness, it feels like we are being slammed against the wall. The burn only lasts a few minutes, and then we start our free fall toward the Earth, enjoying a few last minutes of f loating until we hit the atmosphere at Mach 25. The friction that will eventually slow us down to landing speed starts to heat the atmosphere around the shuttle. What starts out as a dull glow, visible only if the reentry is at night, soon turns into a magnificent light show, with the conf luence of superheated, glowing shock waves trailing behind the shuttle like the wake following a motor boat. For a short time we are a meteor, or perhaps better to say “meteorite,” since the idea is to survive the entry and land safely on the Earth. The light show gradually fades away after ten to fifteen minutes. The atmosphere is thick enough at that point that the Shuttle is using its aerodynamic control surfaces instead of its maneuvering jets. We are pulling 1½ G’s, and it is really hard to move. The Shuttle makes slow S-turns to bleed off energy at just the right rate to ensure arriving at the runway with the proper speed. At that point, I experience another strange phenomenon—the reactivation of the gravity sensors in my inner ear. These sensors were inactive during weightlessness, and my brain learned to “tune them out.” Now, both gravity and our deceleration are hitting them hard, and they react by wildly overestimating any slight head motions I make. While turning my head to look from window to window, I feel as though my head is a tennis ball bouncing from wall to wall. (Some people experience severe vertigo during reentry and after landing, and pilots returning from space for the first time are advised to avoid unnecessary head motions.) I tell myself to trust my eyes and not my inner sensations and actually

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find the experience intriguing. (It fades away fairly quickly once we are on the ground.) Before long we are f lying over the runway. We enter a long, descending spiral designed to give the pilots maximum control over our remaining energy. The vehicle shudders as we break the sound barrier once again, this time going from above to below Mach 1. The pilots then take over manual control of the Shuttle, line up with the runway, which we can see out our front window. The Shuttle is a glider with an approach angle about seven times steeper than a normal airplane. Anyone who hasn’t f lown many f lights in Shuttle simulators would feel that we were diving straight at the ground, but the pilots have rehearsed this hundreds of times. Our speed is slightly over 200 knots as we cross the runway threshold. Commanding a Shuttle f light and landing this extraordinary f lying machine is a career pinnacle for pilot astronauts, and it is a wonderful feeling for the rest of us onboard to feel the bump of the main landing gear wheels on the runway, to feel the sudden deceleration as the drag chute opens, then the bounce of the nose gear and the strong braking deceleration as the Shuttle comes to a halt. The ceramic tiles have successfully protected the aluminum frame of the Shuttle from the heat of reentry, but they are still extremely hot, and the heat is now making its way into the cabin, which will experience its maximum temperature here on the ground. Cold water f lowing through special cooling garments keeps us relatively comfortable as the pilots go through the post-landing checklist, securing all the Shuttle’s potentially hazardous systems. We hear the communications from the convoy approaching us, where specially suited technicians will check that the exterior of the Shuttle is safe enough to allow the hatch to be opened. What a wonderful feeling when the first waft of fresh Earth air enters the hot cabin. We are back home on the Earth! I have spoken with countless people about my experiences in space, and one of the most frequent questions that people ask me about space travel is, “Have you somehow been changed by the experience of being in space?” This is a very human question, which goes to the essence of self-discovery in experiencing a new world, which as I mentioned before is the essence of exploration. I already mentioned the physical changes that occur when people journey into space and return to the Earth. Psychological changes, however, are what people seem to be most interested in when they ask this question. Some mental changes can lead to humorous moments for first-time returning space travelers who don’t know what to expect, like during my first meal back on

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Earth when I left my fork f loating in front of me, or so I thought, while I reached for my drink. But what about more fundamental changes? This is a difficult question which is not limited to space f light. Are you changed by experiencing great beauty? Are you changed by a totally unique physical experience? How does your life change after any peak experience? In trying to give a meaningful answer I must turn to art, specifically to a poem by the French surrealist René Daumal from his book “Mount Analogue.” The poem has circulated for years within the American mountaineering community but goes beyond mountaineering and speaks to the heart of all exploration. I have carried a copy on all my space f lights to share with my crewmates shortly before returning to Earth: You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again . . . So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. You climb, you see. You descend, and you see no more, but you have seen. There is an art of conducting yourself in the lower regions by the memory of what you saw higher up. When you can no longer see, you can at least still know.1

Notes Part of this piece is adapted from the Darwin Lecture, delivered at Darwin College, Cambridge, UK in the spring of 2001. 1. René Daumal, Mount Analogue, trans. Roger Shattuck (Baltimore, MD: Penguin Books, 1960 [1952]), pp. 115–116.

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CH A P T E R

EIGH T

Leadership and Discovery Ge rrit L . Ve r sch u ur

When Galileo found the moons of Jupiter back around A.D. 1610, it was stunning proof that an object other than the earth was a center of attraction for those objects. This discovery directly invalidated the Church’s teachings about the earth as the center of the universe, but the high priests refused to believe what Galileo claimed. They were so certain that their teachings were correct that they even refused to look through the telescope to see for themselves. This anecdote illustrates two sides of our theme. The high priests of dogma asserted their leadership by refusing to confirm Galileo’s discovery for themselves while Galileo himself was propelled into a leadership role because he had made a discovery that revolutionized astronomy and our subsequent worldview. This confrontation with accepted dogma or doctrine is a stage all discoveries must pass through. As an illustration, let me outline how ancient questions as to the nature of magnetism came to be answered thousands of years after they were first posed.1 When initially asked, no one had any idea why lodestone attracted other pieces of iron at a distance as if by magic. The ancients could do no more than invent answers to this mystery, and thus were born superstitions as to the power of lodestone. For two thousand years no one could do much better until William Gilbert in 1600 cleared the decks of superstition and carefully recorded what was known about the power of lodestone and what was nonsense. His great discovery was that the earth appeared to act as a giant lodestone. Gilbert’s book, De Magnete, is

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regarded by many historians as the first scientific treatise that blazed a path for the scientific revolution in which Galileo would become an energetic participant. Gilbert did not run afoul of any high priests because the Bible did not pronounce on the powers of lodestone. Instead, the discovery that a force could act over a distance set the scene for Newton’s era because by the time Newton needed to invoke a similar force, gravity, to hold the moon in orbit about the earth, the concept of force acting over a distance was commonplace. Today we understand that magnetism is produced by electrons in motion, but it took several more centuries after Gilbert to realize this beautiful concept. Above all, it required that scientists bring under their control in the laboratory both magnetism and electricity so that repeatable experiments could demonstrate how the two were related. Two great discoveries united the study of magnetism and electricity, the first by Hans Christian Oersted that a current (moving electrons) produced a magnetic field, and the second, by Michael Faraday, that a magnet moving past a wire generated electric current. Together these two discoveries made it clear that the time factor, implied by the discovery that motion was involved, had to enter the equations describing the relationship between electricity and magnetism. That led to one of the great scientific leaders of his time, Maxwell, formulating the laws of electromagnetism in 1861. These laws incorporated the time aspect by including the speed of light in the equations. Fortunately, Maxwell was open-minded enough to respect what Faraday had discovered in his laboratory. That is not always the case with so-called leaders in science because scientists, too, suffer from human frailties such as ego and pride. What springs to mind is the saga of the discovery of interstellar matter in its various forms, initially as dust clouds obscuring starlight, as is outlined by Verschuur.2 An undisputed leader in astrophysics in the early twentieth century was Arthur Eddington who in 1926 in an error-filled Bakerian lecture to the Royal Society pontificated upon whether or not interstellar matter existed. In a classic throwaway line he stated that its existence must be presupposed, thereby ignoring the struggles of dozens before him who had offered the necessary evidence to prove that it existed but were not listened to because they were not imbued with the mantle of leadership. Nevertheless, Eddington stimulated a widespread interest in the topic because the great leader in astrophysics had given the subject his blessing. It is my contention that certain individuals in every narrowly

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defined branch of science tend to have bestowed upon them the mantle of leader. That is either because they made significant contributions to their field, or because they talked the loudest. Thus they become elevated to the role of authority and from then on anyone who wanted to have his/her work recognized had to seek the blessing of the leader. And so the fruits of one’s research become embroiled in political battles between proponents of different points of view, an aspect of the scientific endeavor that I find unpleasant, but which is a sad fact of life. That is when things can become nasty. One’s grants and academic tenure depend on peer recognition, which largely depends on adhering to the status quo, which means thinking like the leader in the field. This raises uncomfortable questions about the perpetuation of the standard paradigms in various branches of science. One can argue that as a result risk-taking has become devalued in favor of security and grant approval. The irony of this is that the very fact that one has chosen to explore the unknown means that one must take risks in confronting that unknown, even if it is in the confines of one’s laboratory or observatory, and even if the risks are often of a purely intellectual nature. In order to move into the unknown at the frontiers of one’s area of research you must be willing to doubt, willing to seek beyond what is accepted as the truth. As Richard Feynman wrote: Admitting that we do not know, and maintaining perpetually that attitude that we do not know the direction necessarily to go, permit a possibility of alternatives, of thinking, of new contributions and new discoveries for the problem of developing a way to do what it is we want ultimately, even if we do not know what we want.3 He was writing about the problem of existence, what is the meaning of it all, and this somewhat convoluted quote struggles to stress in a few words that when we are open to the possibility of moving into unexplored territories of the mind we may move toward the goal of understanding, even if the details of the goal may be ill defined. Feynman also noted that, “There is nothing more exciting than the truth, the pay dirt of the scientist discovered by his painstaking efforts.”4 As regards the doubt one must exercise as one seeks the truth, “The fact that you are not sure means that it is possible that there is another way some day.”5 One must not hesitate to doubt as one probes at the frontiers of knowledge.

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What then happens next, after you have made a discovery that f lies in the face of what the “leaders” accept to be true? Now it becomes complex because your discovery may in fact invalidate a lifetime of work of the leader and his entourage. In some cases, that leader may have been hoping for the plaudits of his colleagues, perhaps even in the form of some prestigious prize, so that any discovery that casts doubt on the current model of the way things are is then treated as a threat to survival by the adherents. It is human nature to not allow the possibility that some “Young Turk” has made a discovery that sends the field of research into a new direction. Should a researcher have the good fortune (or misfortune) of making a breakthrough, it must still be checked against what the leader thinks. You can see this process in action in virtually every article about potential breakthroughs that you might read about in Science News or New Scientist. A quote is always sought from an expert, or leader, who will usually say something to the effect that the new discovery is interesting but that there is as yet no agreement and/or it will require further analysis or observations. This brings me to the manner in which we do make discoveries and the following is based on my experience and having seen the early phases played out in students I have known. When a bright new student is introduced into a research program that has been in existence for decades already, at some time the student will excitedly proclaim an insight as to how to proceed. He will then be told that someone already did that, perhaps ten years ago. A month or so later the student may have another bright idea only to be told that so-and-so did that a few years back and it would be good to check the relevant papers. Then a few months later the student may on her own initiative have another bright idea only to learn that a competitor at a distant university is following a similar train of thought. The student should not be discouraged but take heart from the fact that she is now catching up to the field. The real breakthrough comes when the student’s experiment or theoretical work finds itself on the cutting edge, which means that the results can be published. If one is lucky, the results will be close enough to what is already known that it is given the blessing of a referee (another label for a leader?). This, I contend, is where most researchers function for the bulk of their careers. The problem for those who persist in thinking new thoughts or performing new experiments surfaces when the results appear to be a little too far off what is accepted as the current paradigm. Even worse, your analysis of the

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data might reveal an underlying f law in that paradigm. Nevertheless, progress comes through questioning and upsetting the status quo to replace a worldview, or model, with a new one, based on more refined data. However, finding yourself in this situation can be uncomfortable in the extreme because then you are in unexplored territory and on your own! This brings to mind Thomas Kuhn’s hypothesis concerning paradigm shifts.6 The depressing aspect of such shifts is that they are completed only when the adherents of the old paradigm die off. This paints a bleak picture for those whose life ambition is to make a stunning breakthrough in science. Don’t be surprised if you earn your well-deserved plaudits after you’re dead! The young researcher should be warned that the first consequence of making a truly significant advance may trigger a feeling of loneliness, because your colleagues will no longer know what you are talking about! This presents the next challenge to be overcome. New discoveries tend to move a field of research ahead in tiny steps because a large leap forward may cause one to lose contact with the mainstream. Beware what happens when you leap too far into the unknown. In the limit, you may lose touch with the standard paradigm to the point that what you have to say becomes indistinguishable from the ravings of a lunatic. Unfortunately, the way the fruits of our research are communicated requires moving ahead in small steps tied to those made previously. This can be a source of frustration to those who wish to make a giant leap for mankind that is not supported by small steps that are based on what we already know. What advice do I have for those young scientists who do have a burning desire to make a great breakthrough that might earn them a Nobel Prize? My first reaction is, “Be careful what you wish for. You might get it.” Be careful probing around the edge of knowledge because after your breakthrough you might find yourself with no one to talk to, or at least no one who wants to listen. Then your primary task will be to fine-tune your message so that others will finally get to see it your way. That can become a lifetime task. An example that springs to mind is the notion of continental drift offered by Alfred Wegener in the 1920s. Wegener died before his insight was accepted. But you may be lucky and have an insight whose time has come, such as was Einstein’s lot when he offered his theories of relativity, which, after a polite pause by the scientific establishment, came to be widely accepted. Why do we indulge ourselves in the pursuit of knowledge in the sciences? What drives us to make new discoveries? I think it is the

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thrill of discovery that comes from having an insight, or seeing something new for the first time. This produces a feeling of pure joy.7 This is what Maslow called a “peak experience.” This thrill quickly becomes an addiction, which keeps so many scientists going in the hope that they may taste that thrill again. Feynman stated it in this way: “The work [of science] is not done for the sake of an application. It is done for the excitement of what is found out.” In speaking to his audience he stressed that it is difficult “to convey in a lecture this important aspect, this exciting part, the real reason for science.” He went on to say that “this [science] is a tremendous adventure and a wild and exciting thing.”8 But what drives us to embark on this “wild adventure” in the first place? What is the driving force that motivates the entire industry we call science, an industry in which countless researchers are willing to work long, hard hours for relatively little pay? Clearly curiosity, that basic instinct that lies at the heart of our evolutionary success, is the driving force of our research endeavors. In fact, every species has a degree of curiosity befitting that species. The instinct for curiosity is with us from birth. Without it we would quickly die because when we do not pay any attention to the world around us some nasty predator will eat us. Curiosity is essential for survival. Better pay attention to what may be around the next corner, or behind that bush, because what you don’t know may get you. One of my earliest fears was of lightning and thunder. To bring that fear under control I needed to answer the questions, “What is lightning and what is thunder?” So I asked my parents and they assured me that there was a man operating a searchlight across the other side of the lake. It was wartime and I knew what a searchlight was. The thunder, I was told, was a misbegotten individual dumping a truckload of empty oil drums near the fellow operating the searchlight. A few years later I paddled my leaky canoe across to the big lake and saw no signs of oil drums or searchlights. I remained curious and as I grew older I came to accept the mysteries of weather until I learned something about the science of these phenomena when I went to college. We are curious from birth. If this instinct is not suppressed it will be present when the child reaches the teacher in elementary school. Far too often, however, curiosity is stamped out at that age when a child constantly asks “Why? Why? Why?” This drives some parents crazy, at which point they slap the kid and tell them to shut up or else. That

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quickly teaches the lesson that the expression of curiosity is a dangerous thing. Yet asking “Why?” is an essential step to becoming a scientist. I once asked a class of freshman to tell me what would stop them from asking questions. Some admitted they were punished for questioning authority, some for questioning at all. They told me that they had been forced to accept the authority of their parents even if it didn’t make sense. Of course there is a strong undercurrent of religious authority to deal with as we look at why curiosity is so often stamped out. For example, I think children have an uncanny way of tapping into the uncertainty that is the baggage associated with any authoritarian doctrine. No parent steeped in such a tradition can provide answers to perceptive questions. Consider the classic questions: Why did those people die in that rail or plane accident, or in a tornado? The child might be told that it is best not to question God’s will. As a result of this conditioning, many college students arrive preprogrammed to do the exact opposite of what is required of them as scientists. They are afraid to be curious about the world around them, to express doubt, and to ask questions and seek answers for themselves. Do not underestimate the dangers of asking a question that society or a culture does not wish you to deal with. It can be a scary experience because you may find an answer that you do not wish to hear. Worse still, your may find answers that society does not wish to know about, and here Galileo presents a classic symbolic example. The other, far more insidious example is the discovery of the phenomenon of biological evolution. Today, more than 150 years since Darwin’s insight, large segments of the population in the United States still do not accept that the phenomenon has been demonstrated. So here is a piece of advice—if you don’t want to rock the boat, don’t ask questions. Better still, don’t risk becoming a scientist! However, should you embark on this great adventure into the unknown, I have found that in the pursuit of knowledge, the ritual of formalizing a question in writing triggers a deep response within the unconscious that begins to move you along a path toward finding the answer. After a little practice answers begin to appear as if out of the blue. This is called synchronicity, which is a word to describe meaningful coincidences. Such coincidences will have meaning for you alone.9 This process of formally asking a question relates to why scientific papers are so highly structured. A good report begins with a statement

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of the question to be answered followed by some background and then an outline of how one set about finding the answer, and what that answer turned out to be. Formalizing the question propels the mind into action and often leads to extraordinary coincidences on the path to finding the solutions. The way I interpret what happens when you formally ask yourself a question, in order to seek an answer—and prayer is an example of such a ritual—is that the process of writing the question (or offering the prayer) stimulates the unconscious until, answers begin to appear as if by a miracle. Do not underestimate the power of this process. The challenge for teachers is to encourage students to have this experience for themselves in the context of asking questions about the natural world around them as part of a class. Then the process of trying to communicate what they have found may lead to further insights. Curiosity is natural, but finding an answer to an important question can get you killed! History is replete with stories of heretics questioning authority, because they were curious, people for whom the standard answers to life’s questions just didn’t ring true. While you may be lucky enough to experience the thrill of discovery, this highly addictive pleasure will surely change your life. It may also be frightening if you should discover something you did not want to know about, especially if you should see that it forces you to challenge whoever is the current leader in your field. Worse still, you may have to change your beliefs, as Galileo was forced to do when he saw the moons of Jupiter and the phases of Venus. I have argued that curiosity is essential for survival. The more we know about our world, our environment, the better we will be able to survive. Then the unexpected will not strike us down. But sometimes our discoveries frighten us, as is the case with the global warming fiasco, where the media hype has us all in a frenzy. The climate is changing—it always does—and the planet is warming—which it often does. But we don’t know how to control what this discovery has apparently revealed. So we blame the only scapegoat in sight. Ourselves. To do otherwise is to accept that there may still be much to be learned about changing climate. But the media have no patience and thus politicians and rock stars are seconded for the fight to “save the planet.” I will not go on about this, but this is a classic example of discovering what you really would rather not know about. I think that the entire scientific endeavor could be seen as one gigantic structure designed to extend our senses well beyond the obvious

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physical realm so that we can become more aware of the world around us in the interest of being able to survive better. A critical aspect of discovery in the quest for knowledge is knowing when to stop. A professor once advised us that when you have done an experiment to test a hypothesis, do not stop when you find what you were looking for. Look beyond the frontier for there lurks intrigue. Travel a little farther, because when you have found what you were looking for you may miss the riches to be revealed beyond. We should never shy away from expressing curiosity because we suspect that we cannot solve the problem perfectly, today. Every scientific question has been solved piece-meal, a step at a time, and that journey sometimes lasts centuries. This highlights for me the enormous gap that exists between scientists and believers. The scientist can live with the ambiguity that exists as you deal with the unknown, and can in fact consider several hypotheses simultaneously. Not so the believer, who wants instantaneous answers, who wants certainty, immediately. And all around us there are many who will create new beliefs on demand to help placate the masses. It’s still going on all around us, all the time. The tragedy is that you can believe anything you want and no one can prove you wrong. That is why beliefs have no role in science. The goal of science is to get at the truth associated with the nature of existence, the truth behind the foreground clutter that is experience, but which is often hidden from our gaze. Scientists are engaged in a quest to uncover and understand the laws that govern the nature of the universe. That means that random answers based on lazy thinking—such as that lightning is g produced by a man f lashing a searchlight on the clouds—must be avoided. This is where the scientist has a tremendous responsibility. The answers to our questions should be demonstrable in the form of an experimental result. We cannot conclude with a lame statement to the effect “Well, it just has to be that way,” or “God moves in mysterious ways.” This brings me back to a point I made earlier, that the very first answers to questions about nature that we could not immediately answer were invented. They were fictions in the form of beliefs and superstitions. Any answer was better than nothing. The inventors of those explanations that placated the masses became the leaders, the gurus, the witch doctors, the shamans, and later the priests. That saves us the trouble of having to think for ourselves. Above all this means that the person-in-the-street will not have to dwell in the realm of uncertainty, which is the lot of the research scientist trying to answer her questions. Invented answers protect us from having to deal with the

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ambiguity that comes from not knowing. Nevertheless, scientists work steadily in the search for clues that will allow them to piece together the answers to their questions in the context of reality. They seek to discover truth by examining the world as it is, rather than as some would have us believe it is. And so it was that primitive societies imbued their leaders with the aura of authority to answer any and all questions. That stif led further discovery for most individuals. Discovery can reveal danger. Consider the astronomer’s quest to determine what is out there in interplanetary space. We really didn’t want to learn about asteroids in earth-crossing orbits capable of colliding with the earth and wiping out our species.10 That is frightening. But now that our curiosity has revealed this fact we may be able to enhance the probability of our survival by taking steps to mitigate the consequences. That is the essence of science—asking questions whose answers will ultimately allow us to survive better in the face of the awful unknown we call the Universe. For humans to discover truth, nature had to be approached directly, but the methodology for doing so through experiment did not emerge until 1600, the era of Gilbert, Galileo, and Kepler. Only then did superstitions in many areas of human inquiry begin to be called to account. Inevitably they fell away, even if for several more centuries the weight of public opinion remained unaffected by the scientist’s radical new way of interrogating nature. When we look back on the evolution of the scientific approach to nature’s secrets we recognize that two conditions had to be fulfilled for progress to be made. First, individuals had to be personally interested in the outcome of their quest, and second, their search had to be carried out unhindered by doctrine or authority. The corollary is that whenever a new approach to finding answers threatened the previously held beliefs of large segments of the population, as represented by its religious edifices for example, progress is impeded. Today, in regard to the important questions about the origin of life and the reasons for our existence, large segments of society are still gripped by superstition and beliefs, even though the study of benign subjects such as electricity and magnetism have long since broken free from the yokes of belief and wishful thinking. Today we understand magnetism and electricity, and large segments of our world population benefit from a higher standard of living thanks to what the pioneers discovered. But those discoveries could be made only as the result of a rational approach to Nature’s secrets.

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In seeking answers to questions about the nature of life, we are still in the midst of an upheaval that dwarfs Galileo’s struggle with the Church. One hundred fifty years after Darwin found evidence for the phenomenon of evolution, we are still witness to religious fundamentalist reaction to scientific explanations about the nature of life. Even in our enlightened age we find publishers quaking at the notion that local authorities will reject a biology textbook because it mentions evolution. Most scientists are polite about these issues, and go out of their way to accommodate beliefs held by millions of people, but if we are honest in our pursuit of knowledge, we must recognize that there is a profound gulf between the worldviews founded in belief and those built on experiment. Objectivity in the quest for answers requires that we set aside preconceptions and expectations. Like Faraday, we must recognize that we will only find answers by patiently attending Nature’s school. We asked questions to find answers. We performed experiments that would illuminate ignorance through discovery. Persistent questioning has produced answers. In his quest, Gilbert dispensed with wild beliefs that had been offered to explain the power of lodestone. But he had to deal with the subsequent uncertainty he felt by resorting to concepts such as “vapors” or magnetic “virtue” to account for magnetism. But those were only temporary stopgaps on the way to enlightenment once experimentation began. Will it be any different in other areas of human inquiry in the future? Galileo turned the world of astronomy upside down and Darwin did the same for biology by making discoveries that brought a new, all-encompassing view of our place in space, and of life on earth. Since then we have been swept along by a tsunami of discoveries that further refined our view of ourselves in this enormous universe. To help us grasp what it all means scientists turn to leaders in their field to help interpret the “truths” revealed by their discoveries. Those leaders, in turn, will be overthrown as new data emerge which will force us to modify our theories and paradigms as we come to terms with the new discoveries. This gloriously egalitarian endeavor we call science (or at least it should be egalitarian) is being played out on a world stage littered with the debris of ancient beliefs that threaten to overwhelm us. We operate in an intellectual environment that is grandly lacking in an appreciation of how far scientists have come and which, in the United States, at least under a recent administration in Washington, would bend the results of our discoveries to the whims of the politicians. So as scientists make even more discoveries relevant to our survival, we do so in the context of a huge disparity between the leaders who cater to the

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mental well-being of believers everywhere, leaders who have no clear idea about what is going on in our laboratories and observatories, and those of us in the field of science as we dig through ruins and strata and assemble the jigsaw puzzle of the universe. So have fun. Express doubt, open yourself to the unknown and risk becoming addicted to the thrill of discovery. Enjoy this “tremendous adventure . . . a wild and exciting thing” that begins with the first question: Why? Notes 1. See Gerrit L. Verschuur, Hidden Attraction: The Mystery and History of Magnetism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993). 2. Gerrit L. Verschuur, Interstellar Matters (New York: Springer-Verlag, 1989). 3. Richard Feynman, The Meaning of It All (New York: Basic Books, 1998), p. 33. 4. Ibid., pp. 11–12. 5. Ibid., p. 49. 6. Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1962). 7. See Verschuur, Interstellar Matters. See also Gerrit L. Verschuur, “The Thrill of Discovery,” in The Teaching of Astronomy, ed. J.M. Pasachoff and J.R. Percy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 68–70. 8. Feynman, Meaning of It All, p. 9. 9. Many have written about this phenomenon including Carl Jung, Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1972); Arthur Koestler, The Roots of Coincidence (New York: Vintage, 1972); and David F. Peat, Synchronicity: The Bridge Between Matter and Mind (New York: Bantam Books, 1987). 10. See Gerrit L. Verschuur, Impact! The Threat of Comets and Asteroids (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996).

PA RT I V

Ethical Challenges in the Leadership of Discovery

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CH A P T E R

N I N E

A Conspicuous Absence of Scientific Leadership: The Illusory Epidemic of Autism Morton A . Ge rn sbach e r

If you’re a scientist working for private industry, it helps to invent something useful. But if you’re a scientist trying to get funding from the government, you’re better off telling the world how horrible things are. And once people are scared, they pay attention. They may even demand the government give you more money to solve the problem.1 On the presidential campaign trail in 2007, Hillary Clinton decreed, “We have an epidemic, and it is time that we recognized the seriousness of it.” On congressional letterhead that June, Congressman Dan Burton, former Chair of the Committee on Oversight and Government Reform, proclaimed, “We are literally in the midst of a nationwide epidemic.” On posh Nantucket Island that August, Suzanne Wright, wife of former GE vice chairman and NBC CEO, Bob Wright, declared, “It’s a health crisis . . . an epidemic that has to be stopped.” To what epidemic were these public figures referring? The AIDS epidemic? An epidemic of avian f lu? An epidemic of SARS? No, as Suzanne Wright lamented to a group of school-age children: “I don’t want you growing up, getting married and having a baby with autism.”

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Autism is a human variation characterized by atypical social interaction, atypical communication, and more focused-than-average interests. Autistic traits have most likely existed since humanity’s origin and are woven throughout the biographies of numerous historical figures: Hugh Blair of Borgue, the eighteenth-century Scottish landowner, Henry Cavendish, the eighteenth-century British scientist, Nikola Tesla, the prolific inventor, Glenn Gould, the Canadian pianist, Moe Norman, the Canadian golfer, Michael Ventris, the English architect, Albert Einstein, Thomas Jefferson, and Isaac Newton.2 With the exception of Moe Norman, none of these inf luential individuals could ever have been diagnosed as autistic because the diagnosis of autism did not exist during their lifetime. Not until the 1940s would the constellation of atypical social interaction, atypical communication, and more focused-than-average interests be known, as Leo Kanner deemed it, as autism. And, as Gernsbacher, Dawson, and Goldsmith have reported, standardized criteria for diagnosing autism did not make their way into American psychiatry until forty more years had passed.3 Therefore, as Gernsbacher and her colleagues have noted, any estimate of the prevalence of autistic persons prior to 1980 would be based solely on an individual clinician’s or a specific researcher’s conception.4 Moreover, such early estimates would be prone to methodological and epidemiological variations that continue to complicate current estimates, such as the sample’s size and how it was ascertained. Furthermore, it would be impossible to reverse time and apply any era’s diagnostic criteria without that era’s accompanying societal context.5 For example, the advent of social justice movements, such as that which bore the Americans with Disabilities Act in 1990, diminished the stigma and enhanced the opportunities available to persons with diagnosed disabilities. Autism remains in the most recent edition of the APA’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, but the diagnostic criteria have undergone significant changes, particularly between 1980 and 1994.6 For example, a diagnosis according to the criteria published in 1980 required satisfying six mandatory stipulations, but a diagnosis according to the criteria published in 1994 involved simply meeting half the options on a branching menu. Moreover, one need not be a semanticist to discern the contrast between the mandatory criteria published in 1980 and optional criteria published in 1994. For example, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual criteria published in 1980 required “a pervasive lack of responsiveness to other people”; in

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contrast, the criteria published in 1994 involved only “a lack of spontaneous seeking to share achievements with other people,” or peer relationships “less sophisticated” than developmental level would predict. As another example, the criteria published in 1980 required “gross deficits in language development”; the criteria published in 1994 involved simply experiencing difficulty “sustaining a conversation.” 7 Furthermore, whereas the 1980 diagnostic criteria were organized into only two diagnostic categories (infantile and childhood onset), the 1994 criteria were expanded into five diagnostic categories, of which three connote what we commonly refer to as autism: Autistic Disorder, Asperger’s Disorder, and Pervasive Developmental Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (PDD-NOS). Whereas Autistic Disorder requires meeting half the criteria, Asperger’s Disorder, for which criteria didn’t exist prior to the 1994 Diagnostic and Statistical Manual publication, requires meeting only two-thirds of that half. PDD-NOS, for which criteria didn’t exist prior to the 1987 Diagnostic and Statistical Manual publication, is defined by subthreshold symptoms. Thus, PDDNOS and Asperger’s, which didn’t gain diagnostic status until 1987 and 1994, are less obvious phenotypes. For what percentage of contemporary autism diagnoses do these less obvious phenotypes account? One of the largest epidemiological studies to date, published in the Journal of the American Medical Association, estimated that the less obvious phenotypes, Asperger’s and PDD-NOS, account for nearly 75 percent of current diagnoses.8 Moreover, current diagnostic practices allow, whereas previous diagnostic practices prohibited, codiagnosing autism alongside known medical and genetic conditions, such as Down syndrome or cerebral palsy. Keep in mind the purposeful broadening of the diagnostic criteria during the past two decades, the deliberate expansion of the diagnostic categories (to include less obvious phenotypes, which account for 75 percent of contemporary diagnoses), the contemporary recognition that autistic individuals can present with every level of measured intelligence, and the intentional effort to identify autistic children as young as possible. Now, consider the definitional criteria for an epidemic: an increase beyond a rate that is likely or expectable. It should be clear that the term autism epidemic does not meet these criteria. How did the infelicitous term autism epidemic arise and why have so many scientists allowed the term to remain uncorrected? This chapter provides that narrative, related in order to illustrate a critical lesson in scientific leadership: “Leadership is most conspicuous by its absence.”9 Thus, the vast majority of scientists—the leaders of the scientific

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community—failed to quash the inaccurate coinage of the term autism epidemic. The vast majority of scientific leaders failed to educate the public as to why the rate with which individuals were being diagnosed with autism was increasing (e.g., due to purposefully broadened diagnostic criteria). The vast majority of scientists failed to lead. How California Coined the Autism Epidemic In early 1998, four California fathers of autistic children dreamt of founding a joint research and clinical center to focus on autism. They would call it the MIND Institute and site it at the University of California-Davis Medical School. By June of 1998, the four California fathers had raised over $2.5 million from private donors. Courtesy of one of the four founding fathers, Rick Rollens, a former state senate secretary turned high powered lobbyist, the four fathers and their f ledgling center received an additional boost directly from the California state legislature: A line item of $2 million was added to California’s annual budget—without a sunset clause. In November of 1998, the founding fathers gathered an extensive who’s who of California-based biological and behavioral scientists, most of whom had never researched autism. They dangled before the scientists $1 million of their kitty, to be awarded via fast-tracked competition, and they planned the construction of a new facility, which would carry a $28 million price tag. Clearly, the founding fathers needed more funds. The California Department of Developmental Services, a statewide collection of agencies that provides services for individuals with developmental disabilities, was one of lobbyist founding father Rick Rollens’s clients. Because the diagnostic criteria for autism had been broadened a few years before,10 it was only to be expected that more autistic individuals were qualifying for services. Rollens encouraged the California Department of Developmental Services to document those increases, which they did in a study released with fanfare in April 1999. “State Study Finds Sharp Rise in Autism Rate,” shouted the headline of the LA Times; “Autism Spike Sets off Alarms,” alerted the San Jose Mercury News.11 The increased number of individuals who qualified for services was described as “huge and unexpected,” a description propelled both by the authors of the study (“autism is increasing at an alarming rate”) and by the newly appointed director of the MIND Institute (“it’s a dramatic report, but what’s shocking is that it’s not clear

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what the cause is”). Bernard Rimland, a longtime California autism advocate who had founded the Autism Society of America but whose later interests had turned to questionable treatments, such as megadoses of vitamin B6 and the dubious, if not harmful, peptide hormone Secretin, proclaimed, “We’re in the middle of an autism epidemic.” The next week, Edward Ritvo, Professor Emeritus of UCLA Medical School and venerable autism researcher, attempted to douse the panic. In a newsletter article titled, “No Epidemic of Autism,”12 Ritvo stated that the results of the California Department of Developmental Services study were cause for cheer not fear; the increase ref lected the successful efforts of previous autism researchers to broaden the diagnostic criteria so as to identify less obvious phenotypes. Ritvo outlined three additional, encouraging reasons for the increase: (a) the success of efforts to increase awareness of autism by physicians and the public, (b) the increased availability of public agencies and schools that provide necessary services, and (c) the fortunate closure of state and private “warehouses” [institutions] in which many autistic people had previously been “improperly diagnosed and housed.” Indeed, as Ritvo calmly concluded, “The prevalence figures that are emerging just now from California and Illinois are in line with recent figures from Japan and other countries that have recognized the existence of milder cases of autism for several years. Thus, the increased figures come as no surprise to those following the international epidemiological literature.”13 However, once spawned into the popular vernacular, the term autism epidemic proliferated. The term recurred almost weekly in the California-based Families for Effective Autism Treatment newsletter, which was electronically distributed to 7,000 readers. News items were glossed by the editor: “Rising rate of autism in state” was relabeled “San Jose Mercury News reports on the California autism epidemic,” and an article in The New York Times about AIDS was relabeled, “A look at AIDS—that other immune disease epidemic.”14 In another attempt to stem the tide, similar to Edward Ritvo’s earlier attempt, Canadian researcher Eric Fombonne published in the journal Pediatrics a critique of the California Department of Developmental Services’ report. Noting first that “the report . . . has been, and still is, widely quoted as evidence for an epidemic of autism,” Fombonne concluded that the data “provide no basis for the claim” and “there is no need to raise false alarms on putative epidemics or to practice poor science.”15 When interviewed in the prestigious journal Science, Fombonne responded even more frankly: “The grounds for an increase [are]

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completely nonexistent . . . The rise in demand for services can probably be traced to an increased awareness of the condition, more common referrals due to the availability of better services, and an ever-broadening definition of just what constitutes autism.”16 Fombonne’s reasoning corroborated perfectly that of longtime autism researcher Edward Ritvo. David Amaral, a behavioral neuroscientist who by then had been appointed Research Director of the MIND Institute, objected. “I’m still not convinced that there hasn’t been an [actual] increase,” he demurred. Apart from Canadian researcher Fombonne and emeritus California researcher Ritvo, the rest of the scientific field remained publicly silent. No other scientist attempted to calm the storm, to extinguish the wildfire of a false epidemic. In June 1999, lobbyist and founding father Rick Rollens reported that the California legislature would be contributing another $2 million to the MIND Institute and an additional $1 million would be given to the MIND Institute to study “the epidemic of autism in California.” The Illusory Epidemic Goes National At the federal level, the Advancement in Pediatric Autism Research Act, introduced by Senator Slade Gorton, had been languishing for over a year. Although read twice, it had not yet been scheduled for senatorial debate. During the summer of 1999, buoyed by the California Department of Developmental Services report of increased services attached to the indelible term autism epidemic, Jon Shestack, cofounder of the California-based foundation, Cure Autism Now, rallied the troops. Shestack, a Hollywood producer, and his wife, Portia Iverson, an Emmy-winning set designer, had become well known for their dramatic rhetoric about autism. Iverson likened being a parent of an autistic child to “the Village of the Damned,” and Shestack reiterated in several major media outlets—Newsweek, Sixty Minutes II, even the August Journal of the American Medical Association—that having an autistic child was “one of the worst nightmares a parent can imagine [because] without warning, a child is abducted from his bed in the middle of the night, never to return. Now, imagine that instead of taking the whole child, only his mind is stolen and his body—the hollow shell of his being—is left behind. If one in every 250 children in America were actually being abducted, that would be a national emergency,” Shestack said. “But that is what is happening with autism.”

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Shestack’s refrain of his autistic child as a mindless hollow shell and his repeated allusion to an Elizabeth Short-like abduction epitomized John Stossel’s facetious advice for crow-barring government funding: “You’re better off telling the world how horrible things are. And once people are scared, they pay attention. They may even demand the government give you more money to solve the problem.” 17 To power the passage of the Advancement in Pediatric Autism Research Act, Shestack’s organization directed parents to call their Congress members and “tell them that autism is a truly devastating disorder. While it will not affect the life-span of those with autism, individuals with autism require a lifetime of services, interventions, and struggles, all of which are a tremendous financial and emotional drain on not just families, but our nation as a whole.” In September 1999, Shestack organized a rally on Capitol Hill. Geraldine Dawson, a longtime autism researcher, appeared before the Senate’s Public Health Subcommittee, testifying that while autism was “once thought to be rare,” the prevalence had increased so rapidly that it now affected more children than did cancer. Actress Rene Russo, who made personal visits to key senators’ offices, testified that “we’ve lost a generation of children.” State by state, congressional votes were won, through parents’ repetition that “autism is a truly devastating disorder.” In October 2000, the Advancement of Pediatric Autism Research Act, relabeled the Children’s Health Act, passed Congress. The $75 million NIH pot was distributed among eight groups of researchers, five of whom had shared a $45 million NIH pot three years earlier and would share another $60 million NIH pot two years later. Not one researcher funded by the nearly quarter billion NIH dollars, including three researchers who had been directly responsible for purposely broadening the 1994 Diagnostic and Statistical Manual criteria,18 ever publicly questioned the verity of the illusory autism epidemic. A Tall Tale from California In October 2002, the results of the MIND Institute study, investigating the basis of the increasing number of autistic persons served by the California Department of Developmental Services, were released to state legislators. The study reported that 2,778 autistic individuals had received services in 1987, whereas 10,360 autistic individuals had received services in 1998. This 273 percent increase, the study

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concluded, “could not be explained by loosening of criteria.”19 This conclusion licensed The New York Times to label the autism epidemic “a mysterious upsurge,” CBS news to deem it a “baff ling . . . outbreak,” and the San Francisco Chronicle to call it an “explosion.” This conclusion promulgated throughout the Internet, but as Gernsbacher and her colleagues noted, it was marred by a serious lapse of logic, as described next.20 The study had collected two samples of children: One comprised children born between 1983 and 1985 (the earlier cohort); the other sample comprised children born between 1993 and 1995 (the more recent cohort). Both cohorts were assessed using the same diagnostic instrument (a standardized diagnostic interview conducted with the child’s caregiver). However, the fatal f law of the study was that the diagnostic instrument was based on only the more recent, purposely broadened criteria, which had not been published until 1994, many years after the earlier cohort had been originally diagnosed. When the same percentage of children in the earlier and more recent cohort met the broader 1994 criteria, the researchers concluded that the 273 percent increase in persons served by the California Department of Developmental Services between 1987 and 1998 could not have been due to changes in diagnostic criteria. However, here is where the logic breaks down: A diagnostic instrument based on a broader criterion can easily identify the same percentage of individuals who meet a broader criterion and a more restricted criterion. Consider the analogy forwarded by Gernsbacher and colleagues based on male height.21 Suppose in the mid-1980s the criterion for tall was 74.5" and taller, but in the mid-1990s the criterion was broadened to 72" and taller. A diagnostic instrument based on the broader, more recent criterion of 72" would identify males who met the more restricted 74.5"criterion as well as males who met the broader 72" criterion: If a male is tall according to the 74.5" criterion, he is tall according to the 72" criterion. While a perfectly reliable diagnostic instrument based on a broader criterion would identify 100 percent of the individuals who meet the broader criterion along with 100 percent of the individuals who meet the more restricted criterion, a highly reliable instrument might identify about 90 percent of each group. This was the percentage of the MIND Institute’s early and more recent cohort who met the broader 1994 autism criteria. Thus, broadening a criterion results in a dramatic increase in diagnosed cases. As Gernsbacher and her colleagues calculated,22 census data estimate that 2,778 males in McClennan County, Texas would be called tall by the more restricted

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74.5" criterion, and 10,360 males would be called tall by the broader 72" criterion. If those two criteria for tallness had been applied a decade apart, a 273 percent increase in the number of males called tall would emerge—without any real increase in Texans’ height. In the same way, the 273 percent increase from 2,778 versus 10,360 autistic individuals served by the California Department of Developmental Services in 1987 versus 1998 could well be a function of broadening the diagnostic criteria. Limitations of the IDEA Data In addition to California-based claims of an autism epidemic, based on increasing numbers of autistic individuals in the California Department of Developmental Services system, country-wide claims of an autism epidemic were made, based on increasing numbers of autistic children in the country-wide special education system. As Gernsbacher and her colleagues reported, in October 2003, the Autism Society of America sent its 20,000 members the following electronic message: “Figures from the most recent U.S. Department of Education’s 2002 Report to Congress on IDEA reveal that the number of students with autism in America’s schools jumped an alarming 1,354% in the eight-year period from the school year 1991–92 to 2000–01.”23 However, as Gernsbacher and her colleagues noted, the Autism Society of America failed to note the following important fact: Before 1991–92, autism didn’t exist as an IDEA reporting category. Autism was a new, and optional, reporting category in 1991–92.24 Whenever a new category is introduced, if it is viable, increases in its usage will ensue. For example, as also noted by Gernsbacher and her colleagues, the reporting category, traumatic brain injury, was also a new IDEA reporting category in 1991–92.25 The reporting category of traumatic brain injury soared an astronomical 5,059 percent from 1991–92 to 2000–01. Similarly, the IDEA reporting category, developmental delay, was introduced only in 1997–98, and from 1997 to 1998 it grew 663 percent in only those three years. After the initial year, the number of autistic school children reported through IDEA has increased by approximately 23 percent per annum— and most likely will continue to increase. Why? As with cellular phones and high-speed Internet, new options are not capitalized upon instantaneously; they require incrementally magnified awareness and augmentation or reallocation of resources. Moreover, no state currently

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reports the number of autistic children who would be expected based on large-scaled epidemiological studies,26 namely, 6.0 to 6.6 children per 1,000. Thus, the number of autistic children served by the IDEA will most likely continue to increase until each state reports the number of autistic children identified in the epidemiological studies. As Massachusetts state officials have stated, increases in their reporting of autism will continue for several more years until “districts better understand how to submit their data at the student level,” and “all districts comply completely with the new reporting methods.”27 An Epidemic of Hype Despite growing awareness of the purposeful broadening of diagnostic criteria, increased understanding of the limitations of the country-wide IDEA data, and more logical consideration of the MIND Institute’s time-trend study, alarmist rhetoric continues. Two weeks after the December 2004 catastrophic Sumatra-Andaman earthquake triggered the devastating tsunamis that killed nearly a quarter million people, Rick Rollens, MIND Institute founding father and lobbyist, likened the increasing number of autistic individuals receiving California Department of Developmental Services to a “tsunami rapidly growing.” Tom Insel, Director of the National Institute of Mental Health, which has become the primary NIH institute for funding autism research, described autism in Newsweek as an “astonishingly devastating disease” and in USA Today as a “tremendously disabling brain disease, which really robs a child and a family of the personhood of this child.”28 When a community member questioned the ethics of describing any group of children with such dehumanizing terms, Insel replied that he had modeled his rhetoric after Jon Shestack, who “has been very eloquent” on the subject of autistic children.29 At a large professional conference in 2005, NIMH Director Tom Insel used the country-wide IDEA data to suggest that autistic school children are a rapidly growing “public health challenge.”30 However, a recent editorial in the prestigious journal Nature provided a different and even more sobering perspective.31 As the editorial noted, while the myth of the autism epidemic has successfully helped NIMH increase its funding, the often forgotten “dark side” of such manipulation is the fixed sum of NIH’s budget. For example, as NIH’s funding of autism has dramatically increased, NIH’s funding of other critically important

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areas, such as childhood leukemia and cystic fibrosis, has dramatically diminished. Pulling the Curtain on the Wizard of Oz Albert Szent-Gyorgyi, the Hungarian biochemist and 1937 Nobel Laureate, defined discovery as “seeing what everyone else has seen” but “thinking what no one else has thought.” I submit that leadership in scientific discovery also involves saying what no one else has said. Recall the fabled young boy, who distinguished himself from the obsequious masses, by announcing not the presence, but absence, of the emperor’s new clothes. Scientific leadership requires the same earnest courage. With regard to the illusory autism epidemic, only a handful of scientists have shown such leadership: Canadian researcher Eric Fombonne, British researcher Lorna Wing, and U.S. and Canadian researchers Lisa Croen, James Laidler, Morton Gernsbacher and her colleagues, Paul Shattuck, and Roy Richard Grinker.32 A majority of these researchers are also parents of autistic children, and one is autistic. As Robert Crease aptly articulated, “Leadership is most conspicuous by its absence.”33

Notes 1. John Stossel, “Exaggerating Dire ‘Scientific’ Warnings,” RealClearPolitics, April 12, 2006, http://www.realclearpolitics.com/articles/2006/04/dire_scientific_warnings_often.html. 2. For more on Hugh Blair see Rab A. Houston and Uta Frith, Autism in History: The Case of Hugh Blair of Borgue (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2000). For more on Henry Cavendish see Erica Goode, “Cases: A Disorder Far Beyond Eccentricity,” New York Times, October 9, 2001, p. F5. For more on Nikola Tesla see Clifford A. Pickover, Strange Brains and Genius: The Secret Lives of Eccentric Scientists and Madmen (New York: Harper Perrenial, 1999). For more on Glenn Gould see NPR, “The Variations of Glenn Gould: A Look at the Life and Career of a Brilliant Pianist,” September 21, 2002, http://www.npr.org/programs/ wesat/features/2002/sept/gould/. For more on Moe Norman see Bruce Selcraig, “Golf ’s Purest Striker Rarely Missed a Fairway,” USA Today, September 9, 2004. For more on Michael Ventris see Simon Baron-Cohen, The Essential Difference: The Truth About the Male and Female Brain (New York: Basic Books, 2003). For more on Albert Einstein see Michael Fitzgerald, Autism and Creativity: Is There a Link Between Autism in Men and Exceptional Ability? (New York: Routledge, 2004). For more on Thomas Jefferson see Norm Ledgin, Diagnosing Jefferson: Evidence of a Condition that Guided His Beliefs, Behavior, and Personal Associations (Arlington, TX: Future Horizons, 2000). For more on Isaac Newton see Kathleen Krull and Boris Kulikov, Isaac Newton: Giants of Science (New York: Viking, 2006). 3. Morton A. Gernsbacher, Michelle Dawson, and H. Hill Goldsmith, “Three Reasons Not to Believe in an Autism Epidemic,” Current Directions in Psychological Science 14, no. 2

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4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19.

20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

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(2005): 55–58. A standard criteria for diagnosing autism was published in American Psychiatric Association, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 3rd ed. (Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Association, 1980). Gernsbacher, Dawson, and Goldsmith, “Three Reasons Not to Believe in an Autism Epidemic.” See Roy Richard Grinker, Unstrange Minds: Remapping the World of Autism (Philadelphia, PA: Basic Books, 2007). See American Psychiatric Association, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders— Text Revision, 4th ed. (Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Association, 2000); American Psychiatric Association, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th ed. (Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Association, 1994); and American Psychiatric Association, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 3rd ed. Ibid. Suniti Chakrabarti and Eric Fombonne, “Pervasive Developmental Disorders in Preschool Children,” Journal of the American Medical Association 285, no. 24 (2001): 3093–3099. Robert Crease, “The Many Roads to Leadership,” Physics World, January 8, 2003, p. 16. See American Psychiatric Association, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th ed. Thomas H. Maugh II, “State Study Finds Sharp Rise in Autism Rate,” Los Angeles Times, April 16, 1999, p. 1; Sara Solovitch, “Autism Spike Sets Off Alarms,” San Jose Mercury News, April 19, 1999, p. 7. Edward R. Ritvo, “No Epidemic of Autism,” FEAT Daily, April 30, 1999, http://list.feat. org/wa.exe?A2=ind9904E&L=FEATNEWS&T-O&F=&S=&P=593. Ibid. Families for Early Autism Treatment, “In the News,” http://feat.org/FEAT/tabid/58/ Default.aspx. Eric Fombonne, “Is There an Epidemic of Autism?” Pediatrics 107, no. 2 (2001): 411–413. Erik Stokstad, “Scant Evidence for an Epidemic of Autism,” Science 294, no. 5540 (2001): 35. Stossel, “Exaggerating Dire ‘Scientific’ Warnings.” See F.R. Volkmar, A. Klin, B. Siegel, P. Szatmari, C. Lord, M. Campbell, B.J. Freeman, D.V. Cicchetti, M. Rutter, and W. Kline, “Field Trial for Autistic Disorder in DSM-IV,” American Journal of Psychiatry 151, no. 9 (1994): 1361–1367. California Department of Developmental Services, Changes in the Population with Autism and Pervasive Developmental Disorders in California’s Developmental Services System: 1987–1998. A Report to the Legislature (Sacramento, CA, 1999). Gernsbacher, Dawson, and Goldsmith, “Three Reasons Not to Believe in an Autism Epidemic.” Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. See Gillian Baird, Tony Charman, Simon Baron-Cohen, Antony Cox, John Swettenham, Sally Wheelwright, and Auriol Drew, “A Screening Instrument for Autism at 18 Months of Age: A 6 Year Follow-up Study,” Journal of the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry 39, no. 6 (2000): 694–702; Jacquelyn Bertrand, Audrew Mars, Coleen Boyle, Frank Bove, Marshalyn Yeargin-Allsopp, and Pierre Decouf le, “Prevalence of Autism in a United States Population: The Brick Township, New Jersey, Investigation,” Pediatrics 108, no.5 (2001): 1155–1161; and Chakrabarti and Fombonne, “Pervasive Developmental Disorders in Preschool Children.”

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27. IDEA, Data Notes for IDEA, Part B, http://www.ideadata.org/docs/bdatanotes2002.doc (accessed April 22, 2005.) 28. See Claudia Kalb, “When Does Autism Start?” Newsweek, February 28, 2005, pp. 45–51. See also Sharon Jayson, “More Questions than Answers in Autism,” USA Today, March 28, 2005, http://www.usatoday.com/news/health/2005–03-28-autism-questions_x.htm. 29. See K. Seidel, “Autism and Personhood: An Exchange of Correspondence between Kathleen Seidel and Dr. Thomas Insel, Director, National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH),” http://www.neurodiversity.com/autism_and_personhood.html. 30. T. Insel, “Autism: The Public Health Challenge” (presentation, Emerging Medical Practices in Autism Care & Treatment (EMPACT) Conference, Chicago, IL, September, 2005). 31. See Editorial, “Clinical Precision: Disease Advocates Should Inf luence, But Not Dictate, Research Priorities,” Nature 448, no. 7154 (2007): 623–234. 32. See Fombonne, “Is There an Epidemic of Autism?”; Lorna Wing and David Potter, “The Epidemiology of Autistic Spectrum Disorders: Is the Prevalence Rising?” Mental Retardation and Developmental Disabilities Research Reviews 8, no. 3 (2002): 151–162; Lisa A. Croen, Judith K. Grether, Jenny Hoogstrate, and Steve Selvin, “The Changing Prevalence of Autism in California,” Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders 32, no. 3 (2002): 207–215; James R. Laidler, “US Department of Education Data on ‘Autism’ Are Not Reliable for Tracking Autism Prevalence,” Pediatrics 116, no. 1 (2005): 120–124; Gernsbacher, Dawson, and Goldsmith, “Three Reasons Not to Believe in an Autism Epidemic”; Paul T. Shattuck, “The Contribution of Diagnostic Substitution to the Growing Administrative Prevalence of Autism in US Special Education,” Pediatrics 117, no. 4 (2006): 1028–1037; and Grinker, Unstrange Minds. 33. Crease, “The Many Roads to Leadership,” p. 16.

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CH A P T E R

T E N

On Giraffes and Bank Accounts: Rethinking Discovery, Creation, and Literary Imagination Ronal d F. Th ie mann

We normally say that a bank account is a social construction rather than an object in the natural world, whereas a giraffe is an object in the natural world rather than a social construction. Bank accounts are made, giraffes are found. Now the truth in this view is simply that if there had been no human beings there would still have been giraffes, whereas there would have been no bank accounts. But this causal independence of giraffes from humans does not mean that giraffes are what they are apart from human needs and interests. Richard Rorty1 What exactly do we mean by “discovery?” How does discovery relate to the question of whether there are “things out there” just waiting for us to discover them? And who is the “we” of the previous two questions? Does discovery simply indicate that “we” (my group however defined) have found something “we” previously had not known? What if others, unknown to my group, had already found what we have now “discovered?” Does that discount our finding as a true discovery? Whose perspective counts in such a case? These questions have particular relevance to the question of what the organizers of this conference call “physical” discovery— the discovery of new places like the so-called “new world” found

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by European explorers in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The timing of this conference coincides with the quad-centennial of the establishment of the Jamestown colony in Virginia in 1607. These explorations have, of course, become the subject of heated debates about the nature and meaning of these European travels. We no longer agree on what these journeys should be called. Are they explorations or exploitations, discoveries or disasters, courageous adventures or craven conquests? Are the men who led them heroes or villains, discoverers or despoilers, conquistadors or colonizers? Finally, what is the relation between discovery and creation, between finding and constructing? While Europeans claimed to discover the new world, those lands were already occupied by native peoples who had preceded the Europeans by centuries or even millennia. Postcolonial theorists have demonstrated that European discourse about the “others” they encountered in these lands was shaped by their own sense of cultural and moral superiority. Far from “discovering” these new lands, the Europeans were engaged in an exercise of economic, political, and military conquest that required them to “construct” imaginative accounts of the indigenous peoples’ exotic, dangerous, and comic inferiority. Europeans’ discourse about these new lands was a form of imaginative construction motivated by their economic, political, and religious aims. The “new world,” “the orient,” “the dark continent” were European constructions of already existing lands and peoples. My own intellectual interests in this topic revolve around the complex relation between discovery and creation, between finding and constructing, in literary texts. I am especially interested in the genre of “realistic narratives” because these texts occupy an interesting middle ground between the categories of “fiction” and “history,” between fantasy and fact. What is the relationship between observation and creation in the construction of realistic narratives? What responsibility does an author have to the “facts” she describes and the stories she imaginatively constructs? Are the characters in a realistic narrative more like giraffes or bank accounts—more found or created? And what role does the literary imagination play in discovering, describing, and reframing the events, settings, and characters narrated in these stories? I will address these questions in conversation with a literary author who uses realistic narratives to engage the issue of poverty in early-twentieth-century England, George Orwell.

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George Orwell: Narrative Art as Social Criticism George Orwell is best known for his late dystopian antitotalitarian novels Animal Farm and 1984. Together these books have sold nearly 50 million copies in more than sixty languages, making Orwell the most widely read English writer of the twentieth century. The British Penguin series sells 750,000 copies of 1984 each year and various U.S. paperback editions sell upwards of 1,000 copies a day. This is the George Orwell the general reading public knows best. The reception of Orwell’s work is equally interesting.2 Orwell was a lifelong democratic socialist, but his later writings struck a responsive chord among Cold War and post–Cold War conservatives and neoconservatives, who have claimed him for their own tribe. Orwell would have found these folk strange company indeed, but given his keen eye for the foibles of his fellow socialists and his sharp criticisms of their “smelly little orthodoxies” we should not be surprised that he is considered by many to be a neocon before his time.3 But the fact remains that Orwell was an ardent democratic socialist throughout his life.4 He was an odd socialist to be sure, affiliating himself not with the British Labour Party but with the small Independent Labour Party, a party that advocated a form of humanist socialism. The ILP positioned itself firmly between traditional liberalism on the one hand and communism on the other.5 It understood itself as providing a peculiar form of ethical socialism as a leaven to the purely economic approach characteristic of the traditional labor movements. It was “[l] eft-wing, egalitarian, a strange English mixture of secularized evangelism and non-Communist Marxism.”6 At the recent Orwell centennial conference Ian Williams quipped that the ILP was “more Methodist than Marxist.” 7 The party attracted significant numbers of Christian socialists, especially those in the nonconformist churches and others associated with the Labour Church Movement.8 The ILP was both anticapitalist and strongly democratic. It anticipated and welcomed a left-wing revolution that would bring down Western capitalist economies, but it parted company with the communist doctrine that “bourgeois liberty” should be destroyed in the process. The ILP urged the expansion of liberty to all classes of society, thereby achieving the equality central to the socialist platform. The ILP was ambivalent on the question of war, recognizing war as an implement of capitalist domination that would ultimately bring about capitalism’s demise, yet recognizing the horrors that inevitably accompany armed conf lict. The party thus tended to be

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antimilitarist though not quite pacifist, but often found itself in alliance with pacifist movements in opposing state-sponsored violence. Finally, the ILP saw in both Soviet Communism and Fascism similar forms of totalitarian state monopoly economies. Both regimes stood under the condemnation of the ethical socialism espoused by the ILP. We know that Orwell often attended ILP meetings and even participated in retreats sponsored by the Adelphi (a left-liberal journal) that focused on the “mystic Marxist or Christian Socialist”9 aspects of ILP ideology. The resonances between the ILP platform and Orwell’s more mature socialist ref lections are obvious, and thus it is safe to say that Orwell’s emerging political beliefs were nurtured in the context of the peculiar form of ethical socialism represented by the ILP. Since the ILP no longer exists, its tradition within British politics has disappeared, and thus the peculiar brand of socialist humanism that Orwell represented cannot be captured by the liberal/conservative divide that structures both English and American politics. American democratic socialism associated with the journal Dissent probably provides the best contemporary analogy for Orwell’s preferred brand of socialist politics.10 Orwell’s unique brand of socialist humanism is best represented by his Road to Wigan Pier.11 This fascinating book—part realistic narrative, part autobiography, part social criticism—occupies an interesting middle ground between fact and fiction, historical reportage, and imaginative construction. The book provides us with giraffes and bank accounts in equal proportion. It will thus serve as a useful case study of the relation among discovery, creation, and the literary imagination. Late in 1935 Orwell was invited by Victor Gollancz, chief editor of the Left Book Club, to tour the mining towns of northern England in order to document the dire working and living conditions of the miners and their families. Orwell spent two months (February and March, 1936) living among the miners and observing their backbreaking work in the coal mines of the northern cities of Wigan, Barnsley, and Sheffield. The result was one of the most graphic descriptions of working-class poverty ever written, The Road to Wigan Pier.12 Combining historical narrative, ethical analysis, and ideological critique, this book allowed Orwell to hone his skills as a social critic to razor-sharp precision. In this early work we see the emergence of the distinctive qualities that mark Orwell as a superior writer and an insightful critic: vivid descriptive prose, political and ethical purpose, social critique in narrative form, ideological impatience, and engaged self-critical analysis. Wigan Pier reveals Orwell as a prophetic social critic of the highest order.

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Orwell’s trip to the north, like his earlier tramping expeditions in London and Paris,13 was a journey of exploration and discovery. The Left Book Club gave him the assignment to create “a documentary report on conditions among the unemployed in the north of England” (vii). The first section of the book, writes Victor Gollancz, “gives a firsthand account of the life of the working class population in Wigan and elsewhere. It is a terrible record of evil conditions, foul housing, wretched pay, hopeless unemployment and the villainies of the Means Test: it is also a tribute to courage and patience—patience far too great. We cannot imagine anything more likely to rouse the ‘unconverted’ from their apathy than a reading of this part of the book . . . These chapters really are the kind of thing that makes converts” (xi). Gollancz then proceeds to savage the second autobiographical and critical section of the book, but more on that later. It is clear that Orwell was commissioned to write a documentary that would describe and extol, depict and inspire, evoke and convert—a documentary with the imaginative power to move people to action. And he fulfilled his assignment remarkably well. “The first sound in the mornings was the clumping of the mill-girls’ clogs down the cobbled street” (5). With this simple but evocative sentence, Orwell began to open the world of the northern mining country to his readers. With its deceptive simplicity and alliterative repetition, the sentence simultaneously describes the sounds that awakened the author every morning and reproduces those sounds in the readers’ ears in the hopes that their eyes might also be opened to the abject poverty of this place. Orwell had few peers who could rival the power of his descriptive narrative art. With acute attention to the minute details of the world in which he lived Orwell provided a realistic but ethically charged account of his own experience. His prose simultaneously described that world and evoked a sense of identification with it in his readers. His gaze was relentless, taking in even the gruesome details and laying them before his audience. “The meals at the Brookers’ house were uniformly disgusting. For breakfast you got two rashers of bacon and a pale fried egg, and bread-and-butter which had often been cut overnight and always had thumb-marks on it. However tactfully I tried, I could never induce Mr. Brooker to let me cut my own bread-and-butter; he would hand it to me slice by slice, each slice gripped firmly under that broad black thumb” (15). Orwell’s descriptions were interlaced with narrator’s comments designed to enhance and intensify the feelings evoked by the descriptions themselves. He was acutely attuned to

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matters of the senses and often remarked upon the power of smell. “[T] his is where it [i.e., industrialized civilization] all led—to labyrinthine slums and dark back kitchens with sickly, ageing people creeping round and round them like black beetles. It is a kind of duty to see and smell such places now and again, especially smell them, lest you should forget that they exist” (17). No passage more clearly illustrates the power of Orwell’s morally engaged narrative than one that appears toward the end of the first chapter of Wigan Pier. The train bore me away, through the monstrous scenery of the slag-heaps, chimneys, piled scrap-iron, foul canals, paths of cindery mud criss-crossed by the prints of clogs. This was March, but the weather had been horribly cold and everywhere there were mounds of blackened snow. As we moved slowly through the outskirts of town we passed row after row of little grey slum houses running at right angles to the embankment. At the back of one of the houses a young woman was kneeling on the stones, poking a stick up the leaden waste-pipe which ran from the sink inside and which I suppose was blocked. I had time to see everything about her—her sacking apron, her clumsy clogs, her arms reddened by the cold. She looked up as the train passed, and I was almost near enough to catch her eye. She had a round pale face, the usual exhausted face of the slum girl who is twenty-five and looks forty, thanks to miscarriages and drudgery; and it wore, for the second in which I saw it, the most desolate, hopeless expression I have ever seen . . . She knew well enough what was happening to her—understood as well as I did how dreadful a destiny it was to be kneeling there in the bitter cold, on the slimy stones of a slum backyard, poking a stick up a foul drain-pipe. (18) This is realistic narrative at its best. The meaning of this passage depends upon the careful account Orwell gives of even the smallest details. By attending to the slag heaps, the cindery mud, and the blackened snow Orwell evokes a vivid but desolate scene for the reader. By focusing initially on the houses, the clogged drained pipe, and woman kneeling on the stones he slowly directs our attention from the grim natural surroundings to the equally forlorn human environment. Only once he has done that does he attend to the woman’s round, pale, and exhausted face, one that ref lects in her identity the desolation of the surrounding scene. It is as if we are watching Walker Evans develop a

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black and white photograph. The details of the human visage emerge slowly from the blurred background, but as the silver nitrate works its magic we find ourselves confronted by a human face from which we cannot avert our eyes. The words “how dreadful a destiny” have impact precisely because we see in the face of this no-longer-young girl something of ourselves. Thus the moral impact of the prose emerges only when the full narrative description is complete. This is no jeremiad; rather this is ethically informed social critique with a narrative shape. It is also realistic narrative that serves a moral and political purpose14 and should not be confused with mere historical description. One of Orwell’s great accomplishments was to break down the artificial barriers between the essay, the story, and the novel. It would be no exaggeration, nor criticism, to characterize Orwell’s novels as extended essays in narrative form. The historical, political, and ethical meaning of his writing cannot be extracted from the narrative descriptive itself. There is no extractable moral to these stories. The moral meaning is found only in, with, and under the narrative account. This literary form was, of course, a perfect vehicle for the kind of ethical socialism that Orwell wanted to advance. The first half of Wigan Pier was designed to depict simultaneously the plight of the working-class poor and their courage, good humor, and dignity. “A working class man does not disintegrate under the strain of poverty as a middle-class person does . . . [T]hey realise that losing your job does not mean that you cease to be a human being . . . Families are impoverished but the family-system has not broken up. The people are in fact living a reduced version of their former lives. Instead of raging against their destiny they have made things tolerable by lowering their standards” (87–88). Even when we note the “dreadful destiny” of the poor young woman poking her stick up the drainpipe, we do not see her merely as a victim. Orwell skillfully granted agency to the persons he described in the north of England, even as he indicted those whose lives benefited from the labor of the poor. “[A]ll of us really owe our lives to poor drudges underground, blackened to their eyes, with their throats full of coal dust, driving their shovels forward with arms and belly muscles of steel” (35). Orwell as Historian: Critique and Defense Wigan Pier has been widely praised as descriptive historical prose of the highest order. Reviewers have called it “sympathetic,” “ honest,” “a straightforward account [containing] detached and realistic

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observation.” His descriptions of life in the north of England have been praised as providing “accurate, concise information” and a refusal “either to inf late or aestheticize the ugly facts.”16 Recently, however, historical critics have raised serious questions about the accuracy of part one of Wigan Pier. Robert Pearce, an English historian, has been especially critical of the historical inaccuracies and exaggerations of Orwell’s descriptive accounts. While admiring Orwell’s powerful writing, Pearce notes that “quality of prose is no guarantee of accuracy or honesty.”17 More seriously, Pearce argues “that episodes in Part I of Wigan Pier should be considered as fiction rather than fact” (416). and that Orwell’s honesty as a writer and historian should be called into question. “To employ a phrase Orwell used about Dickens, he was telling ‘small lies to emphasize what he regards as a big truth’ ” (422). Pearce bases his allegations on Orwell’s “Wigan Diary,” an unpublished manuscript available to scholars at the Orwell archive at the University College of London. Even though Orwell’s biographer, Sir Bernard Crick, judges the diary not to be a contemporaneous document but one written (actually typed) as a first draft of the book following his return from the north, Pearce asserts that it is a “primary source . . . written soon after the events it described . . . It is therefore likely to be more factually accurate than the finished book” (415). Pearce’s evidence is thin and idiosyncratic,18 but his views have inf luenced many subsequent discussions of Orwell’s “honesty” as a writer, so they deserve some attention here. In addition, Pearce is an advocate of the discovery versus creation or history versus fiction divide and so his arguments are relevant to the theme of my essay and of our conference. For Pearce the diary serves as the historical touch-point for evaluating the accuracy of Orwell’s descriptions in Wigan Pier. Wherever the two manuscripts part company, the diary is always to be preferred as the more precise. Pearce deals at length with two of the episodes I have treated above: the Brookers’s tripe shop and the woman digging at the drain pipe. Pearce identifies five differences in Orwell’s description of the Bookers in the two manuscripts: a lodger named Joe is placed in two different dwellings; Mrs. Brookers’s ailment is described as a “weak heart” in the diary and as a result of “overeating” in Wigan; Mrs. Brooker is identified in the book as the primary housekeeper while the diary mentions that a fiancée and a daughter-in-law do most of the work in the house; Orwell’s account of his reason for leaving the Brookers’s (an unemptied chamber pot) differs in the two

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manuscripts; and Orwell uses two different names for the tripe shop owners—Brookers in the book and Forrests in the diary. “Orwell was remarkably reluctant to change people’s names, even when he knew he was being libelous. May he not therefore have used a fictional name because, as he well knew, his account contained too many fictitious elements to be considered factual?” (417). Now these differences may appear to most readers (as they do to me) to be trivial and hardly worth the charge that Orwell is duplicitous and misleading when he “fancifully embroiders” some of his facts. But Pearce goes on to tackle the account of the woman at the drain pipe, one of the most moving and important descriptions in The Road to Wigan Pier. Since this scene carries much of the moral punch of the first half of the book, its “accuracy” seems especially important. If this description is more fiction than fact, more creation than discovery, then Orwell’s reliability as historian and political ethicist may well be called into question. Here is the “description” Orwell records in “Diary of Wigan Pier.” Passing up a horrible squalid side-alley, saw a woman, youngish but very pale and with the usual draggled exhausted look, kneeling by the gutter outside a house and poking a stick up the leaden waste-pipe, which was blocked. I thought how dreadful a destiny it was to be kneeling in the gutter in a back-alley in Wigan, in the bitter cold, prodding a stick up a blocked drain. At that moment she looked up and caught my eye, and her expression was as desolate as I have ever seen; it struck me that she was thinking just the same thing as I was.19 Pearce rightly points out the important differences in the accounts given in the diary and the book. Orwell changes the date from February to March; he places himself on a moving train in the book while that reference is absent from the diary; he borrows details from an entirely different account in the diary (taken from his observations of a housing caravan) and transposes them into the drain pipe scene in the book. Pearce also echoes the criticisms made by more sympathetic scholars that in both manuscripts Orwell speculates about matters—the woman’s age, her inner thoughts, the fact of her miscarriages—which no historian can possibly know. Orwell’s “mind reading,” Pearce argues, should not be trusted, and “we should doubt Orwell’s ability to find the mind’s construction in the face and to empathize with people from backgrounds very different from his own” (419).

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How vulnerable is Orwell to these criticisms? Has his literary art overwhelmed his historical veracity in such a way as to cast doubt on the ethical and political case he seeks to make? Has Orwell’s creative imagination swamped his discovery of the facts thereby turning his historical account into little more than fictional fancy? This seems to be Pearce’s judgment since he urges readers no longer to accept Orwell’s descriptions as “literally true” or even to acknowledge his overall depictions in the book as “essentially true” (419). Pearce represents a school of historians who prefer giraffes over bank accounts, who want straightforward “literal” descriptions of the “facts and only the facts,” and who reject imaginative embroidery as fundamentally dishonest within historical accounts. Literature scholar Margery Sabin offers an alternative view of Orwell’s procedure in Wigan Pier: Orwell quite blithely releases the term fact from statistical or theoretical rigor. Still with the miners there is the example of dirt. “Middle-class people,” he generalizes, “are fond of saying that the miners would not wash themselves properly even if they could but this is nonsense, as is shown by the fact that where pit-head baths exist practically all the men use them.” The term fact here is not a matter of statistics, but works more loosely as the corrective that direct observation brings to prejudice and received opinion. The usage is respectable in ordinary speech. “As a matter of fact,” he goes on to note, “it is surprising that miners wash as regularly as they do, seeing how little time they have between work and sleep.” Orwell’s matter of fact is a colloquial synonym of actually, in truth, really, the way it really is if you go to see for yourself and then think it over intelligently.20 I am in basic agreement with Sabin’s analysis here, but her views, like Orwell’s, are not very highly theorized, so I would like to offer a further modest theoretical account of Orwell’s procedure in Wigan Pier, one that defends both his power of observation and his rhetorical construction. A near-unanimous consensus among philosophers of history and literary theorists holds that events in the world have meaning only as they are configured into some sort of framework within which individual occurrences make sense. Historical meaning, in particular, takes place only as these occurrences are given narrative shape within a larger story.21 By themselves occurrences are mute. Events do not impose

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themselves upon the historian or narrator; rather events are configured into meaningful wholes by the very act of narration. Thus facts, pace Pearce, do not speak for themselves. Facts speak only as they are narrated by the historian and that narration always involves an act of imaginative configuration. It also always involves a process of selection from the welter of possible episodes that might be configured into a narrative. Narration is both configuration and selection. “Every narrative, however seemingly ‘full,’ is constructed on the basis of a set of events that might have been included but were left out; this is as true of imaginary narratives as it is of realistic ones.”22 Just as importantly the very act of narration is an imaginative configuration with moral intent. In his brilliant analysis of annals, chronicles, and narratives, Hayden White demonstrates that stories provide meaning because they relate sequential episodes to “an integrated whole” of which those episodes are integral parts. Moreover that integrated whole is itself related to “a notion of a social center by which to locate [those episodes] with respect to one another and to charge them with ethical and moral significance.”23 Narration provides meaning because it relates to the human desire that lives have moral and ethical significance. “And this suggests that narrativity, certainly in factual storytelling and probably in fictional storytelling as well, is intimately related to, if not a function of, the impulse to moralize reality, that is, to identify it with the social system that is the source of any morality that we can imagine.”24 “The discourse of the real,” White argues, is thus moral and not just descriptive discourse. To say that something is “real” or “true” is to make a moral claim or better to assign moral meaning to the events so considered. The coherence that narratives provide for otherwise mute events relates to the human desire for moral meaning. The demand for closure in the historical story is a demand, I suggest, for moral meaning, a demand that sequences of real events be assessed as to their significance as elements of a moral drama. Has any historical narrative ever been written that was not informed not only by moral awareness but specifically by the moral authority of the narrator? . . . Where, in any account of reality, narrativity is present, we can be sure that morality or a moralizing impulse is present too.25 If White is correct, and I believe he is, then the work of any author must be evaluated according to multiple standards, including moral/ethical ones.

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Given these observations how do Orwell’s narratives stack up? It is clear that Orwell constructs the scene of the woman at the drain pipe from two different sources and juxtaposes them for greater emotional and moral impact. As literary artistry the scene is an example of skillful realistic narrative as moral argument. As historical chronicle the scene has the marks of verisimilitude even in its highly constructed character. Would a strict historian have preferred more straightforward description and less creative composition? Undoubtedly so. But does Orwell’s constructed account make him susceptible to charges of dishonesty, unreliability, and deception? Absolutely not. Everything Orwell describes in the scene “actually happened.” His decision to juxtapose observations of the same mining community made on different days into one account serves the goal of verisimilitude even if it fails to meet the strict standards of historical precision. Orwell was sent to the north of England to discover the conditions under which the miners and their families lived and worked and to write an account that would stir his readers to indignation and action. He accomplished that task with great skill and persuasiveness. While we should not hide from the fact that the resulting narrative falls short of the highest standards of historical accuracy, that f law does not, in my estimation, open Orwell to the intellectual and moral charges that Pearce lodges against him. Orwell as Connected Critic Orwell’s literary and ethical procedure in the first half of Wigan Pier is essential to understanding the oft-criticized and controversial second half. By depicting the poor of northern England as genuine persons with families, clogged drainpipes, and dilapidated living quarters he hoped to give them a particularity that generalizations like the “proletariat” could not illumine. Orwell approached socialism “from below,” by a consideration of the actual conditions in which the poor lived, worked, made love, and reared children. For him socialism was primarily a set of moral practices designed to create a world in which children were no longer malnourished and society’s resources were more equitably distributed among all classes. He rebelled against highly theorized versions of socialism because he was convinced that they blinded their advocates to the plight and personhood of the poor—the real poor and not simply the “poor” as constructed by socialist theory. In this sense, then, Orwell advocated a nonideological understanding of socialism. He shared the goal of all socialists—equality across all

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classes of society—but he understood socialism to be “a moral code in action”26 that could not be fully articulated through traditional socialist theory. He believed that he had seen this moral code embedded in the culture of the working-class poor with whom he lived in northern England. Thus he extolled “the irreducible belief in decency that exists in the hearts of ordinary people . . . [E]verywhere, under the surface, the common man sticks obstinately to the belief that he derives from Christian culture.”27 For Orwell “Socialism means justice and common decency,”28 a point he repeats again and again in The Road to Wigan Pier. Socialism, understood as a set of moral practices designed to promote justice and common decency, could, he believed, “bring the Kingdom of Heaven down to the surface of the earth,”29 (i.e., provide ethical orientation and moral motivation in the struggle for justice in a post-Christian culture). “[I]n order to defend Socialism it is necessary to start by attacking it.”30 Many critics, including Orwell’s editor Victor Gollancz, have taken great exception to his sharp criticisms of socialism in the second half of The Road to Wigan Pier. By contrast I want to argue that Orwell’s critique of socialism grows naturally and directly out of his commitment to socialism as moral practice. In engaging in this form of critique Orwell exemplifies a practice I have called “connected criticism.”31 Connected criticism is a form of critique that oscillates between the poles of criticism and connection, solitude and solidarity, alienation and authority. Connected critics are those who are fully engaged in the very enterprise they criticize, yet alienated by the deceits and shortcomings of their own community. Because they care so deeply about the values inherent in their common enterprise, they vividly experience the evils of their society even as they call their community back to its better nature. Connected critics recognize that fallibility clings to the life of every political or social organization, and they seek to identify both the virtuous and the vicious dimensions of the common life in which they participate. Connected critics exemplify both the commitment characteristic of the loyal participant and the critique characteristic of the disillusioned dissenter. This dialectic between commitment and critique is the identifying feature that distinguishes acts of dissent that display genuine moral integrity from those that represent mere expediency or self-interest. Connected critics are socially situated within the community to which their criticisms are directed, yet still find within the common life of the society principles of justice that serve as the basis for hope. Living in a state of “antagonistic connection” the connected critic discerns the principles of justice that provide the basis for both critique and hope.

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I know of no thinker who exemplifies this category with greater integrity than does Orwell. He begins his criticism of socialism by implicating himself in the very community he is about to critique. “I was born into what you might describe as the lower-upper-middle class.”32 With that sentence Orwell identifies himself with the class system that he believes must be dismantled if Britain is to gain genuine equality. In contrast to many British socialists, however, Orwell understands the class system to be as much cultural as economic. “The fact that has got to be faced is that to abolish class-distinctions means abolishing a part of yourself . . . What is involved is not merely the amelioration of working-class conditions, nor an avoidance of the more stupid forms of snobbery, but a complete abandonment of the upper-class and middle-class attitude to life.”33 As long as theoretical and solely economic understandings of socialism predominate, the deeper problems of class division cannot be adequately addressed. If the cultural aspects of the class system remain untouched an economic revolution will fail to bring about genuine justice and equality. Orwell’s concern about the primacy of culture also ref lects itself in his insistence on the importance of the “spiritual” side of politics. Socialists fail to understand the attraction of the British for fascism because they “tacitly assume that the spiritual side of it is of no importance . . . With their eyes glued to economic facts, they have proceeded on the assumption that man has no soul, and explicitly or implicitly they have set up the goal of a materialist Utopia.”34 As long as socialists fail to grasp the importance of the cultural, spiritual, and soulful aspects of human life, they will be at a huge disadvantage in the fight against fascism. As long as socialism itself remains disconnected from the deeper cultural values of post-Christian England it will fail to win the hearts of the very people they say they want to rescue. Thus true self-critical socialists must face a very uncomfortable truth. “The only possible course is to examine the Fascist case, grasp that there is something to be said for it, and then make it clear to the world that whatever good Fascism contains in also implicit in Socialism.”35 In order to do that, however, socialism must move beyond its narrow materialist theory and reassert “the underlying ideal of Socialism: justice and liberty . . . Justice and liberty! Those are the words that have got to ring like a bugle across the world.”36 Operating as a connected critic Orwell sought to develop an internal critique of theoretical materialist socialism that would awaken British socialists to the cultural and spiritual aspects of human life. He feared that without a full encounter with the matters that engaged human

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souls, socialism would lose the battle with fascism. Moreover, he saw that socialism itself was threatened by its own totalitarian materialist obsessions. If it failed to make a place for the spiritual within its own practice, then its humanitarian aspirations could never be achieved, and thus it would provide no real alternative to the totalitarianism of the right. Thus we can glimpse in these early years the critique that would finally take full f lower in Orwell’s later novels. It was in the name and for the sake of decency and justice that Orwell sought, without full success, to bring “the Kingdom of Heaven to the surface of the earth.” Orwell thus employs his literary art in the service of a moral and political proposal of great importance. By experiencing for himself the abysmal conditions in the mining north, Orwell “discovered” a set of facts of which middle-class Britain was blissfully unaware. By imaginatively constructing a realistic narrative of those experiences he provided a literary window into that world upon which Britain depended for its wealth and well-being but from which it had averted its eyes. And by “creating” a narrative of such moral and political power he was able to motivate his readers to action in behalf of those real poor people whose lives he depicted with such accuracy and compassion. For Orwell, and for other literary artists, “discovery” and “creation” necessarily go hand-in-hand. Discovery and creation are both acts of the human imagination with profound moral and political implications. Notes 1. “Relativism: Finding and Making,” Philosophy and Social Hope (New York: Penguin, 1999), xxv–xxvi. “I think it is important that we who are accused of relativism stop using the distinction between finding and making, discovery and invention, objective and subjective” (xviii). 2. For an account of the complexities of the reception of Orwell’s legacy see John Rodden, “On the Ethics of Admiration—and Destruction,” in George Orwell: Into the Twenty-First Century, ed. Thomas Cushman and John Rodden (Boulder, CO: Paradigm Publishers, 2002), pp. 86–95. 3. See Jim Sleeper, “Orwell’s ‘Smelly Little Orthodoxies’—and Ours,” in George Orwell: Into the Twenty-First Century, pp. 160–177. 4. I have written about this in “The Public Intellectual as Connected Critic: George Orwell and Religion,” George Orwell: Into the Twenty-First Century, pp. 96–110. 5. See David James, Tony Jowitt, and Keith Laybourn, The Centennial History of the ILP (Krumlin: The Ryburn Press, 1992). 6. Bernard Crick, George Orwell: A Life (London: Penguin, 1980), pp. 252–253. 7. George Orwell Centenary Conference, Wellesley College, May 1–3, 2002. 8. Leonard Smith, “Religion and the ILP,” in The Centennial History. 9. Crick, George Orwell, p. 273.

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10. It thus comes as no surprise that Michael Walzer and Michael Harrington, two of America’s most well-known democratic socialists, were both admirers of Orwell. Indeed, Harrington’s The Other America bears a striking resemblance to Orwell’s The Road to Wigan Pier. 11. George Orwell, The Road to Wigan Pier (New York: Harcourt, 1958). Page citations that follow in the text refer to page numbers in The Road to Wigan Pier. 12. The title of the book is actually a joke about Wigan that Orwell heard from music hall comedians. The phrase “Wigan Pier” refers to a ramshackle coal loading jetty jutting out into the polluted Leeds-Liverpool canal, a darkly humorous comparison to the bright recreational piers of Brighton and Bournemouth on the south coast of England. See Margery Sabin, “Outside/Inside: Searching for Wigan Pier,” George Orwell: Into the Twenty-First Century, pp. 243–251. 13. Published as Down and Out in London and Paris (New York: Harcourt, 1933). 14. “And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passage, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives, and humbug generally.” George Orwell, “Why I Write,” A Collection of Essays (New York: Harcourt, 1946), p. 316. 15. Richard Reese, George Orwell: Fugitive from the Camp of Victory (London: Secker & Warburg, 1961), pp. 49–50. 16. Dan Jacobson, “Along the Road to Wigan Pier,” in The World of George Orwell, ed. Miriam Gross (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1971), p. 61. 17. Robert Pearce, “Revisiting Orwell’s Wigan Pier,” History 82, no. 267 ( July 1997): 410–428. This quotation is found on p. 414 of the text. Subsequent page citations will be made in the main text of my essay. 18. Pearce argues that a manuscript containing so much “extraneous information” such as pencil drawings of coal cutting and recipes for a fruit loaf and a sponge cake, could hardly be a first draft of a book. “Presumably Orwell, who was interested in traditional English cooking, wanted the recipes for his personal use, and therefore was treating the Diary very much as a personal record not intended for publication—in short as a real diary” (414). Moreover, the fact that Orwell includes notes for future research as part of the “diary” is definitive evidence that this is no first manuscript of a book. “Might Orwell have included such informal notes to add spurious authenticity to an account he intended to publish? Surely not” (414). Finally, Pearce argues that Orwell’s footnotes, something not usually found in diaries (thus counter evidence to his argument), actually support his contention that the manuscript is not a first book draft. “For instance, in the entry for 18 March he estimated that there were about fifty tubs in Barnsley public baths; later he learned that there were in fact only nineteen, and so he inserted this number, in ink, at the foot of the relevant typed page. And he would have been far more likely to learn the true figure in Barnsley than in the rural peace of Wallington!” (415). These arguments appear on the surface to be highly speculative and even spurious. For example, I am currently typing a first draft of this essay that will ultimately appear in published form. But I am genuinely uncertain whether to include this footnote in the main text or to relegate it to this small type. Therefore I am making a note to myself to ask other participants in our conference their opinion on where this material should appear. The fact that I am making this note in no way supports a contention that this is not a first draft of my essay. On the issue of drawings and recipes, Orwell often included such things in the drafts of his writing, especially when he felt they offered insights into the cultures he was describing. Thus I find Pearce’s analysis of the status of the “Wigan Diary” to be quite unconvincing, and I cast my lot with Crick’s contention that it was in fact the first draft of The Road to Wigan Pier. Orwell used a similar process in writing Down and Out in London and Paris, a point that I find utterly more convincing that any of the arguments Pearce offers. 19. George Orwell, “Diary,” February 25, 1936, p. 203.

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20. Margery Sabin, “Outside/Inside: Searching for Wigan Pier,” George Orwell: Into the TwentyFirst Century, p. 247. 21. [E]vents must be not only registered within the chronological framework of their original occurrence but narrated as well, that is to say, revealed as possessing a structure, an order of meaning, that they do not possess as mere sequence.” Hayden White, “Narrative in the Representation of Reality,” The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins Press, 1987), p. 5. The most thorough discussion of the process of narrative creation and interpretation is Paul Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, vol. 1 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1983). 22. White, Narrative in the Representation of Reality, p. 10. 23. Ibid., p. 11. 24. Ibid., p. 14. 25. Ibid., pp. 21, 24. 26. Raymond Williams, Orwell (London: Fontana, 1991), p. 3. 27. George Orwell, “Notes on the Way,” in My Country Right or Left (New York: Harcourt, 1968), pp. 17–18. 28. Orwell, Wigan Pier, p. 176. 29. “The Kingdom of Heaven has somehow got to be brought on to the surface of the earth. We have got to be children of God, even though the God of the prayer book no longer exists.” Orwell, “Notes on the Way.” 30. Orwell, Wigan Pier, p. 172. 31. The term was coined by Michael Walzer in his Interpretation and Social Criticism and employed again in The Company of Critics, a work in which he treats Orwell under the category of “connected critic.” I have developed the term further in my Religion in Public Life: A Dilemma for Democracy and it will also structure the argument in my forthcoming book Prisoners of Conscience: Public Intellectuals at a Time of Crisis. 32. Orwell, Wigan Pier, p. 121. 33. Ibid, p. 162. In no way does Orwell exempt his own kind of socialist from this dilemma. “The middle-class I.L.P.’er and the bearded fruit-juice drinker are all for a classless society so long as they see the proletariat through the wrong end of the telescope; force them into any real contract with a proletarian . . . and they are capable of swinging back to the most ordinary middle-class snobbishness” (163). 34. Ibid., pp. 187, 214. 35. Ibid., p. 214. 36. Ibid., p. 216.

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Conclusion: Understanding Leadership and Discovery Ge org e R . G oethal s

One of the very first traits observed in developing human infants is curiosity, a drive to explore their surroundings, and a closely related need—called effectance motivation—to have an impact or effect on those surroundings. In fact, one of the earliest measures of cognitive capacity is an infant’s preference for novelty. Infants who years later get higher scores on traditional IQ tests more quickly habituate to, that is, get used to, visually displayed geometric shapes and rapidly turn their attention to novel displays. Thus starting at a very early age, curiosity drives exploration in an effort to discover, and also shape, what is new. Although the drive to discover and explore is developed in different individuals to greater or lesser degrees, it is a constant of the human condition. Another constant is social interaction, and consequently, social organization and leadership. Leadership studies, like the liberal arts more generally, are concerned about the human condition, particularly, how we get along and how we work together. Starting to understand these phenomena requires that we explore human motivation, human interaction, human capacities—including physical and psychological talents and tendencies, in particular how we think about what is right—and social organization. Thus, leadership studies are themselves enterprises in discovery. We hope that the contributions to this volume have furthered our understanding of both leadership and discovery. We have seen how human curiosity has combined with human organization to produce exploration and discovery in human groups as well as individuals in

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both far removed and more recent times. When we begin considering human discovery, and how leadership affects it, we are struck with the broad spectrum of human activity that discovery entails. The first association to the words discovery or discoverer might be Christopher Columbus or one of his small ships. And our study of leadership and discovery considers Columbus carefully. But there is a great deal more, including the exploration of outer space by both manned spacecraft and earth-based astronomers, the discovery, exploration, and exploitation of native peoples in North America, first by Europeans and then by other Americans, and the discovery and shaping of human perceptions, meanings, and values. In considering discovery in these different domains we find some of the same questions and challenges in nearly all of them. How do personal qualities of both leaders and followers guide, energize, and interpret discovery? How are explorations of the human condition, earth, and space supported by followers, collaborators, governments, and private interests? How do individuals and groups cooperate, or compete, in discovery? How does discovery inf luence human values and challenge ethical assumptions? How does the exploration of our surroundings reveal and shape our beliefs about ourselves and what is important? What uses are made of what we discover, and who decides those uses? Let us consider how the contributions to this book illuminate some of these questions. Agency in the Leadership of Discovery The importance of the behavior of individuals in both leadership and discovery is clear from many of the chapters in this volume. The chapters by Fernández-Armesto, Griffin, and Thorp underline the important role of well-known leaders such as Christopher Columbus, John Smith, and Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. They were leaders in making the Western hemisphere known to Europeans at the beginning of the sixteenth century, establishing a permanent English colony in North America a hundred years later, and two centuries after that, leading an American “Corps of Discovery” to the Pacific Ocean. Although actions of these leaders were indispensable to what was accomplished, their projects call attention to the complexity of human achievement. In each case, while the principal actors brought strengths and weaknesses to their efforts, they were also both assisted and impeded by the behavior of others, and by events that they could

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neither anticipate nor control. One quality that these individual leaders have in common is an uncommon doggedness and indefatigable energy and commitment. They varied in their self-confidence, but all persisted whatever its shape. They also varied in their wisdom, judgment, and, finally, luck. Individual actors and their behaviors are important terms in the equations of success, but there are many others as well. We will also see the central role played by leaders less well-known. One is James Webb, whose inf luence on U.S. space exploration is underscored in the chapters by Lambright and also Hoffman. Webb worked skillfully with presidents, Congress, close collaborators, and the entire National Aeronautics and Space Agency. Other individuals appear as crucial leaders in the sciences. Kwitter’s chapter emphasizes the central leadership roles of Wendy Freedman of the Carnegie Institution of Washington and Jim Gunn of Princeton University in modern day astronomy. And her accounts of her own work with Williams College students underlines the fact that leadership is important in discovery at many different levels, from a liberal arts college laboratory, to NASA. The role of individual leaders is also seen in their inf luence on our definition of social problems. Gernsbacher’s chapter shows how politicians, involved citizens and celebrities guide our discovery of human problems, in this case autism. Unfortunately, what is “discovered” by some of these individuals is misleading, and undermines more thorough and potentially more beneficial exploration and discovery. Thiemann’s chapter discussing George Orwell’s Road to Wigan Pier shows how individuals can lead through social criticism. This book does not fit any conventional literary category. As Thiemann notes it “occupies an interesting middle ground between fact and fiction.” Its intriguing originality of form gives it unusual power in causing readers to discover the daunting challenges faced by numerous people in a complex industrial society. Many in such a society would rather not have to perceive and confront these problems, but Orwell provides an example of how what Howard Gardner calls an indirect leader can bring focus to them. A final perspective on the role of the individual in discovery emerges from David Dunning’s essay on the challenges and consequences of selfdiscovery. Dunning considers research on the process of self-discovery that shows how difficult it is for people to know themselves accurately. Inaccurate self-knowledge makes it more difficult to interact with others effectively and to lead them fairly and competently. Dunning

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suggests ways that we can assess ourselves with less bias and therefore position ourselves to lead more effectively. Before leaving the issue of agency and the role of the individual leader we should acknowledge the role of contingency or serendipity in the leadership of discovery. Luck comes in two varieties, good and bad. For example, we see both kinds operating in the voyages of Columbus and Vasco, in Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery, and in manned space exploration. But contingency and agency often interact. Kwitter shows how the prepared mind makes possible serendipitous insights, and Thorp shows how Lewis and Clark’s careful preparations enabled them to overcome unanticipated challenges and setbacks. We see, then, that individual leaders play crucial, but highly varied, roles in discovery. They are important parts of what makes discovery happen, but there are other actors as well. We turn now to considering them. Collaboration in the Leadership of Discovery James Meindl has written about the “romance of leadership,” the tendency to overattribute a group’s success or failure to the leader, and in turn to the leader’s personal characteristics.1 The leader is a salient actor, and salient possible causes are often perceived to be the responsible ones. However, the leadership literature, starting with Edwin Hollander, makes clear that there is more to group success than the leader.2 Hollander and others3 rightly point to the importance of followers and the multifaceted transactional relationship between leaders and followers. However, as is clearly seen in several of our chapters, discovery involves complex interactions, and collaboration, among many parties. Thinking only about leaders and followers doesn’t capture these complexities. Individual leaders must interact not only with followers, but also with other competing leaders, people who exercise authority over, or lead, them, as well as many people outside any defined group of followers. Success depends on effective interactions with all of these constituents/parties/stakeholders. In the best cases these other parties become collaborators in the group’s endeavors. In his chapter treating Columbus and Vasco da Gama, Felipe Fernández-Armesto notes that both “discoverers” depended on professional navigators they brought on board. Columbus had a “fellowcommander,” Martin Alonzo Pinzon, who actually recruited the crew. Perhaps collaboration as a central element of the leadership of

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discovery is clearest in Thorp’s discussion of Lewis and Clark. Not only did the two leaders of the Corps of Discovery work almost f lawlessly together, they depended on the help of others in their party, particularly Sacagawea, as well as other Indian informants they met along the way. The large-scale projects of NASA described by Hoffman and Lambright are undoubtedly collaborative. They involve not only cooperation and coordination among specific leaders and followers, but collaboration at an organizational level among various government agencies, and private companies. Jeffrey Hoffman’s experience as an astronaut makes clear the importance of collaboration at the small group level, in his account of repairing the Hubble telescope. Kwitter also underscores the centrality of collaboration in modern science. While there are leaders, such as Wendy Freedman, who are clearly at the pinnacle of discovery endeavors in astronomy, the people who work with her are better described as collaborators than followers. Even in Kwitter’s own work at Williams, the line between follower and collaborator is blurred. Regardless of the rubric, it is clear that effective leaders in discovery must be skilled enough to engage and coordinate the talents of many other individuals and organizations to make discovery work. Surprisingly perhaps, collaboration and even other people’s leadership plays, or can play, a crucial role in self-discovery. David Dunning’s chapter on “the rocky and uncertain road to self-discovery” documents the somewhat depressing array of self-deceptive tendencies that impede self-knowledge and create inf lated self-assessments. He quite usefully discusses the role that other people can play in correcting errors in self-perception. Seeking information about the experiences of peers is useful. Thus others can be a helpful guide in assessing ourselves. Dunning’s discussion of the important role of mentors in attaining selfinsight highlights the role of a certain kind of collaborator’s leadership in self-discovery. One of the most interesting forms of collaboration highlighted in several of these chapters is collaboration with patrons, sponsors, and national leaders. In Portugal Prince Henry operated behind the scenes to organize expeditions such as Vasco’s. In the early history of the United States, President Thomas Jefferson selected Meriwether Lewis to lead the Corps of Discovery, and approved the latter’s collaboration with William Clark. Jefferson did more than support the Corps, he led its creation. Whether he is called leader, patron, or sponsor, his role in fostering and sustaining Lewis and Clark’s expedition was central to its success.

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President John F. Kennedy played a crucial role in this history of NASA and manned space exploration. His role is considered in the chapters by both Hoffman and Harry Lambright. Hoffman particularly underscores the importance of presidential leadership in inspiring and supporting space exploration. First, in the early 1960s President Kennedy challenged the nation “to land a man on the moon and return him safely to earth before the end of this decade.” Hoffman points out that meeting that challenge became “a way of honoring the Kennedy legacy.” Subsequently, Presidents Johnson, Nixon, Reagan, and both Presidents Bush have shaped NASA endeavors. Hoffman makes clear the impact of presidential vision and commitment, and hopes that it will once again make manned space exploration a national priority. Lambright also discusses presidential leadership, in discussing James Webb’s relationships with both Kennedy and his successor, Lyndon Johnson. Another kind of collaboration that we have learned is critical to the success of leading discovery is tangible financial support. As Fernández-Armesto points out, Columbus pleaded and cajoled for continued funding, eventually getting support from Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain for four voyages to the Caribbean. The Christopher Newport/John Smith expedition that established the British settlement at Jamestown depended on private funding, essentially venture capital. Lewis and Clark were dependent on generous federal funding, which was generated thanks to Jefferson’s leadership. The role of financial support in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, most of it from the federal government, is made clear in the chapters by Lambright, Hoffman, Kwitter, and Gernsbacher. Lambright details the huge amounts of money that supported NASA in the “honeymoon” period of Apollo. NASA then consumed 4.4 percent of the federal budget. Hoffman underlines the need for vision backed by generous funding if NASA is realistically to meet the goal announced by President George W. Bush in January 2004, to create a sustained “approach to enable human and robotic exploration of the Moon, Mars, and other destinations.” The role of federal funding is more implicit in the chapters by Kwitter and Gernsbacher. Big money is needed to support the kind of big astronomy of Wendy Freedman and others that Kwitter discusses. Gernsbacher shows how leadership, or as she laments, the lack of leadership, affects congressional funding for public health. On both the state and federal level, hype about an autism epidemic has led to major channeling of funds to autism research. Gernsbacher raises the disturbing matter that none of the researchers receiving the nearly quarter billion dollars in federal funding for autism research “ever publicly

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questioned the verity of the illusory autism epidemic,” even though some certainly understood that the hype was erroneous. Leadership, Discovery, and Meaning Making Human beings have been called “the social animal.” But of course many other animal species are social as well. What is unique about human beings, as far as we know, are their cognitive and linguistic capacities. As cognitive creatures we seek to understand, and we make meaning. The drive of curiosity we mentioned earlier is satisfied in part by framing and interpreting our experience. Our need to explore and understand, and our proclivity for interpreting and construing, combine with our interactive nature to produce what Leon Festinger called “social reality.”4 Groups construct shared definitions of what is true and what is good. These shared definitions exert a strong force on our beliefs and values. Leaders play a crucial role in groups constructing social realities. Howard Gardner’s cognitive approach to leadership argues that story telling or narrative is a key, perhaps the key, to leadership. Most important, Gardner argues, are stories that leaders relate about identity—who we are, where we have come from, what obstacles we face, and where we are going. His theory also highlights the importance of counterstories, other definitions of history, reality, and value that compete with aspiring leaders’ narratives. In short, leaders play a central role in creating social reality, that is, our interpretation and understanding of our world, including the physical world, the social world, and our very own selves. Thus it is not surprising to find that meaning-making plays a leading role in the leadership of discovery. The role of leadership in discovery is illustrated in Gernsbacher’s reminding us of the story of the emperor’s new clothes. Someone needed to say what no one else would say. In this case a young boy, perhaps not as constrained by social reality as his elders. But Gernsbacher continues, saying what no one else will say often depends on discovery as defined by Noble Prize winning biochemist, Albert Szent-Gyorgi—“seeing what everyone else has seen but thinking what no one else has thought.” The idea of thinking what no one else has thought and saying what no one else has said, or thinking and saying it in ways that shape other people’s conceptions of reality is a central theme in Ronald Thiemann’s chapter on George Orwell’s book, Road to Wigan Pier. Thiemann argues that the distinction between discovery and creation is a brittle

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one, and that discovery involves creating narratives about what is new to a particular group. Thiemann reminds us “the new world” was new to European “discoverers” but not to the people who had lived on that piece of the planet for centuries. Similarly, Thorp points out that Lewis and Clark’s “Corps of Discovery” reported findings that were new to them but had long been known to the native peoples of mid-North America. Thus, what one group finds and interprets for the first time has often been known for long periods of time by others, and interpreted in their own ways. Orwell’s book leads discovery not simply by reporting on his journeys but also by interpreting his experiences. His interpretations of what he encounters are intended (as best we can tell) not only to shape his readers’ understanding of the mining towns of Northern England but also to spur people to constructive action. His own narratives of discovery, or his own narrative creations, provided leadership for others. Orwell capitalized on the human tendency to make meaning by shaping what meaning his readers made. Embedded in Szent-Gyorgi’s quote about seeing what everyone else has seen but thinking what no one else has thought is the idea that the meaning of what lies before us can change. In Orwell’s case he wanted his readers to see and think as he did. For many scientists thinking what no one else has thought is central to what—keeping Thiemann in mind—we might guardedly call “discovery.” It entails the kinds of meaning changing insight Karen Kwitter describes in her chapter. She relates the story of Johannes Kepler’s progress in discovering the laws of planetary motion. Kepler wrote that he noted “entirely by chance” that the secant of angle 58° 18’ equals 1.00429. This realization made him feel that he “had been awakened from a sleep.” When sometime later he finally understood that this fact showed that Mars’s orbit was an ellipse he wrote further “The truth of Nature, which I had rejected and chased away, returned by stealth through the backdoor, disguising itself to be accepted.” This kind of insight can seem like chance, like contingency rather than agency, yet as Kwitter points out such “moments” happen only for the “sufficiently prepared mind.” She quotes the physicist Joseph Henry: “The seeds of great discoveries are constantly f loating around us, but they only take root in minds well prepared to receive them.” Thus discovery involves novel interpretations of old realities. In turn, the leadership of discovery involves communicating these novel interpretations to others. Communicating novel interpretations is not always easy. The challenges of getting new stories accepted by others in one’s group is a focus

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of Gerrit Verschuur’s chapter on leadership and discovery in science. Verschuur discusses the conf lict between discovery and accepted dogma. New ways of looking at things in science often run into considerable difficulty when they don’t fit prevailing paradigms, either scientific or religious. Verschuur emphasizes, as do we, the driving force of curiosity. He characterizes it as an evolutionarily-grounded basic instinct. But the curiosity of the young scientist can be rigidly channeled or even crushed by leaders in the field. The new stories of the young discoverer often lose out to the established counterstories of a field’s elders. We now come full circle to the boy and the emperor’s new clothes. Discovery involves thinking what no one else has thought. Leading discovery involves saying what no one else has said. In many domains this will not be easy. In particular it will not be easy when more established leaders, who control funding and other resources, resist these new discoveries. We will return to this issue more fully later. For now, it is a caution for those seeking simply to discover or moreover, to lead discovery. Before leaving this discussion, we should note the profound issues of meaning making that Patrick Griffin’s discussion of Jamestown and John Smith raise. It’s hard to know how Smith and others involved in establishing the English colony at Jamestown conceptualized what they were doing, or what its significance might be. But clearly, 400 years later most Americans have a sense of what happened at Jamestown that seems very different from what a historical study of that place at that time reveals happened. The English settlers and the native peoples they encountered made meaning of the events at the time. Many of us have interpreted their interpretations with very little basis in real knowledge for our constructions. Both our interpretations and our interpretations of the interpretations of the actors at the time have varied over time. When British Queen Elizabeth II visited Jamestown in 2007, the meaning of Jamestown for her and others had changed dramatically from her visit as a young queen fifty years before, in 1957. Furthermore, as Griffin points out, John Smith himself was a myth-maker of the first order, especially about himself. Again noting Thiemann, discovery may fundamentally be creation. The meaning of Jamestown has been created and recreated more than once in the past 400 years. The Moral Challenges of Leadership and Discovery Howard Gardner argues that leaders’ stories are about value as well as meaning. Leaders guide groups toward social realities, which include

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constructions of what is good and valued as well as what is true. Rarely does a group’s social reality view itself and its behavior as anything other than moral. Thus we find that issues of value, morality, and ethics come up powerfully in the leadership of discovery. They arise most directly, perhaps, in the exploration by one group of parts of the planet that are inhabited by another. How does one justify the taking of native lands by the parties led by Columbus and John Smith? Fernández-Armesto and Griffin give us some idea of how those two individuals thought about the peoples they encountered and attempted to dominate. Columbus simply overestimated their “innocence and docility” and was surprised to find they had massacred the garrison he established on the island of Hispaniola. Smith viewed the Indians along the James River through a lens of civilized versus savage. The natives lacked civility but their lands offered connections to other civilized lands, notably China. The potential spread of civility from one land to another was apparently sufficient justification for taking some of it. Interestingly, the civilized versus savage dichotomy did not condemn Indians to an inferior status forever. The young Indian woman Pocahontas was deemed eligible to “make the transition from savagery to civility when she was baptized and rechristened the Lady Rebecca.” Lewis and Clark seemed to take a more equalitarian and nuanced view of the native peoples they encountered. They understood that their interactions with each new group would have to evolve in a particular manner. In none of these cases is it simple to make moral judgments of the leaders of discovery. But we do know that the meaning we make of their leadership of discovery must include complex ethical considerations. The complexity of ethical considerations extends to our understanding their framing of moral questions. In trying to understand their understandings, we are well-advised to be humble regarding our capacity to get very far beyond our own moral convictions and our confidence that those convictions are right. The chapters by Thiemann and Gernsbacher raise a different kind of moral consideration. Thiemann’s discussion of Orwell’s social criticism shows that leaders of discovery create moral narratives that have implications for how our own groups might improve their moral engagement. Orwell had seen what not that many others had seen, and thought what not that many others had thought, and urged his readers as persuasively as he could to share his views. In guiding discoveries of other people, whether they are in distant continents, or just a few miles north, leaders pose moral challenges to their followers. As an example, Gernsbacher challenges us, and perhaps herself, to guide audiences’

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understandings of autism with counterstories that are more accurate and therefore more ethical than the prevailing cultural narratives. Finally, Verschuur lays down an ethical challenge for would-be young scientists. He reminds them that their integrity will be tested when their own ideas and discoveries disturb accepted dogma. Their moral courage as well as their intellectual capacity will be challenged in science, perhaps much more than they imagined. In this vein, Hoffman notes that during the investigation following the loss of the space shuttle Columbia in 2003, many young engineers “had come to believe that questioning their superiors could be a ‘career limiting activity.’ ” Their courage to stand by their convictions in a matter of life and death was sorely tested. Risk, Self-Insight, and the Leadership of Discovery The ethical challenges facing young scientists and engineers are not the only kind they will confront. And these young men and women are not the only kind of discoverers or leaders of discovery that have faced or will face difficult obstacles. When one faces obstacles, success is not always guaranteed. There is a significant element of risk in all such endeavors. It is striking how often the issue of risk arises in this set of chapters. The risk of life, one’s own and that of followers, is a salient element of the expeditions of Columbus and of Vasco, and of Lewis and Clark. Fernández-Armesto describes both Columbus and Vasco as having many, many shortcomings as leaders. Their successes are attributable to generous measures of luck. But in considering any leadership virtues they might have possessed, Fernández-Armesto points to their “exemplary courage,” their audacity, and their “indifference to risk.” No doubt they risked their own lives and the lives of all their parties. But the salience of their courage suggests its fundamental importance in leadership and in discovery. Thorp also emphasizes willingness to take risks as one of the more important leadership qualities of Lewis and Clark. When the Corps of Discoveries reached the conf luence of the Marias and Missouri Rivers on the outward bound portion of the expedition, the two leaders had to decide which river would best lead them to the continental divide. Three days after they chose the more southerly stream, against the advice of nearly all their followers, they reached the great falls, which verified they had taken “the river the Indians call the Missouri.” Lewis

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and Clark were willing “to take risks, if they were convinced that the level of risk was acceptable and . . . promised significant benefits to the expedition.” They took similar risks in dividing their command on the trip home. Jeffrey Hoffman argues in his chapter “that without risk there would be no exploration.” He points to the physical risk in any space travel, including his and other astronauts’ working outside the shuttle in outer space to repair the Hubble telescope. He also discusses the decision of Space Telescope Science Institute’s director Robert Williams to use his expensive and precious Hubble observing time. Williams “made the bold decision to dedicate this entire time to pointing Hubble at a tiny, uncluttered area of the sky in the constellation Ursa Major.” The payoffs were great, but the risk was equally substantial, though not life threatening. Also implicit in Hoffman’s chapter, and Lambright’s, is the risk that President Kennedy took in devoting in a very public way so much funding to manned space f light. Returning to the theme that standing by one’s convictions is risky and requires moral courage is Gernsbacher’s implication that too many relevant scientists have not stood up to the political groundswell hyping a phony autism epidemic. Scientific and political leadership of the highest orders are needed to combat that emotionally-driven conventional wisdom. It will take more than a brave boy to say that the epidemic has no clothes. Conclusion The ten papers in our colloquium on Leadership and Discovery have illuminated an impressive array of leadership issues. We are grateful for the spirited engagement of all our participants. We were very pleasantly surprised that such a diverse set of papers yielded so many consistent themes. Perhaps we should have been less surprised. Issues of agency, followership, collaboration, meaning, and value arise in almost any facet of leadership that we have studied. Nevertheless, we were surprised, and very pleased. We hope our readers have found these chapters as valuable as we did. Notes 1. See James R. Meindl, Sanford B. Enrlich, and Janet M. Dukerich, “The Romance of Leadership,” Administrative Science Quarterly 30, no. 1 (1985): 78–102.

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2. See Edwin P. Hollander, “Conformity, Status, and Idiosyncrasy Credit,” Psychological Review 65, no. 2 (1958): 117–127. See also Edwin P. Hollander and J. W. Jillian, “Contemporary Trends in the Analysis of Leadership Processes,” Psychological Bulletin 71, no. 5 (1969): 387–397. 3. See, for example, David M. Messick, “On the Psychological Exchange Between Leaders and Followers,” in the Psychology of Leadership, ed. David M. Messick and Roderick M. Kramer, pp. 81–96 (Mahwah: Erlbaum, 2005). 4. Leon Festinger, “Informal Social Communication,” Psychological Review 57, no. 5 (1950): 271–282.

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I N DE X

Adams, Douglas, 20 Adams, John Quincy, 113 Agnew, Spiro, 126 Amaral, David, 162 Ambrose, Stephen, 61 Amundsen, Roald, 49, 138 Anderson, Clinton, 85, 88–91 Apollo-Soyuz mission, 127 Apollo space program: adoption of, 82 agenda of, 80–1 analysis of, 94–7 Apollo 4, 92 Apollo 7, 94 Apollo 8, 94, 98n24 Apollo 11, 94, 125, 134 Apollo 204 Review Board, 88–90 completion of, 92–4 costs of, 80, 82, 96 evaluation-reorientation of, 87–92 fire of 1967, 87–93, 95 future implications of, 96–7, 138 honeymoon period of, 83–5, 194 human organization and, 125–9 implementation of, 83–7 spacecraft size, 135 See also Webb, James F. Armstrong, Neil, 94 Arrowsmith, Aaron, 69 Asperger’s Disorder, 159

astronomy: collaboration in, 3, 12, 22, 24 cosmography and, 35 Dou’s Astronomer by Candlelight, 11, 25 as exploration, 121 Galileo and, 143, 153 history of, 11–2 Hubble Space Telescope and, 122–5 leadership in, 5, 12–25, 190–4 modern, 12 as solitary endeavor, 12 See also individual astronomers astrophysics, 11, 22, 144. See also astronomy Atwood, Leland, 88–90 autism: definition and traits of, 158 diagnostic criteria for, 7, 158–9, 163–4 ethics and, 166, 198–9 hype and, 4, 7, 157, 163, 191, 194 illusory epidemic of, 1, 7, 157, 159–67, 200 leadership and, 159–60, 167 MIND Institute and, 160–6 Pediatric Autism Research Act, 162–3 research funding for, 194–5 Barrow, John, 48 benchmarking, 112 Bergman, Jules, 89

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Index

Bigelow, Robert, 138 Black Buffalo, 74 Blair, Hugh, 158 Bradford, William, 31 Branson, Richard, 137–8 Burton, Dan, 157 Bush, George H. W., 125, 133–4, 194 Bush, George W., 194 Butler, Paul, 19 Calhoun, John C., 113 Canny, Nicholas, 41n5 Cavendish, Henry, 158 Cervantes, Miguel de, 52 Chaffee, Roger, 87 Charbonneau, Toussaint, 75 Churchill, Winston, 113 Clark, William, 1, 4–7, 48, 61–76, 190, 192–4, 196, 198–200 Clay, Henry, 114 Clinton, Bill, 134 Clinton, Hillary, 157 Cold War, 84–5, 93, 95, 98n16, 125–6, 136, 173 collaboration and, 3, 5–6, 12, 22, 24, 55, 134, 192–5 Columbia Space Shuttle, 124, 129, 135–6, 199 Columbus, Christopher: discovery and, 1, 27, 121, 190 leadership and, 3, 5, 48–58, 190, 192, 198–9 patronage for, 52, 58, 194 protests and, 27–8, 41n2 connected criticism, 183–4, 187, 187n31 Cook, James, 49 Copernicus, Nicolaus, 12 Cormack, Leslie, 42n18 Corps of Discovery (Lewis and Clark), 1, 5–6, 190–3, 196, 199 cosmography, 35–40, 42n17–8, 43n20 Crease, Robert, 167 Crick, Bernard, 178, 186n18 Crippen, Bob, 130

Croen, Lisa, 167 Cruzatte, Pierre, 69 curiosity, 148–2, 189, 197 Darwin, Charles, 149, 153 Daumal, René, 141 Dawon, Michelle, 158 Dawson, Geraldine, 163 Deep Field images, 124–5 Descartes, René, 14, discovery: age of, 1–2, 36 approaches to, 4–5, 12–22 danger of, 138, 149–52 definition of, 167 curiosity and, 148–2, 189, 197 physical, 2, 171 questioning of authority in, 143–54 use of the term, 2 See also exploration; self-discovery Doppler Effect, 18–21 Dou, Gerrit, 11, 25 Dryden, Hugh, 81, 84, 92 Dunning, David, 4, 6, 191–3 Eddington, Arthur, 144 Einstein, Albert, 13, 147, 158 Eisenhower, Dwight D., 81 Elizabeth II, Queen, 197 Elizabethan worldview, 42n20 exoplanets, 17, 19, 25 exploration, 4, 47–58, 96–7, 121–6, 129–41, 189–94, 200 Faraday, Michael, 144, 153 Fernández-Armesto, Felipe, 3–6, 190, 192, 198–9 Festinger, Leon, 195 Feynman, Richard, 145, 148 Fidler, Peter, 69 Fiedler, Fred E., 109 Fombonne, Eric, 161–2, 167 Freedman, Wendy, 5, 20, 22, 191, 193–4

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Frémont, John C., 61

Humphrey, Hubert, 93, 126

Gagarin, Yuri, 81, 125 Galileo Galilei, 121, 143–4, 149–50, 152–3 Gardner, Howard, 191, 195, 197–8 Gemini space program, 83, 85–6, 125, 135 Gernsbacher, Morton, 4, 7, 158, 164–5, 167, 191, 194–5, 198–200 Gilbert, Humphrey, 31 Gilbert, William, 143–4, 152–3 Gilruth, Robert, 84 Gladwell, Malcolm, 13 Glenn, John, 125 Goldsmith, H. Hill, 158 Gollancz, Victor, 174–5, 183 Gordon, Slade, 162 Gould, Glenn, 158 Grafton, Anthony, 43n20 Great Society programs and agenda, 85–6, 93, 126 Griffin, Michael, 79–80, 96 Griffin, Patrick, 3, 5, 190, 197–8 Grinker, Roy Richard, 167 Grissom, Virgil, 87 Gunn, Jim, 21–2, 191

Indians, American. See Native Americans Insel, Tom, 166 International Space Station (ISS), 133–6, 138 iodine cell, 17–9 Iverson, Portia, 162

Halley’s Comet, 11 Harrington, Michael, 186n10 Henry the Navigator, Prince (Portugal), 48, 193 Henry, Joseph, 17, 196 Herschel, William, 23 Hoffman, Jeffrey, 4, 7, 191, 193–4, 199–200 Hollander, Edwin, 192 Holmes, Brainerd, 84–5 Horn, James, 29 Hubble Constant, 20 Hubble Space Telescope, 7, 20, 23, 95, 122–5, 131, 133, 136, 193, 200 Hubble, Edwin, 16, 122

Jamestown colony, Virginia: cosmographical perspective on, 35–40, 42n17–8, 43n20 funding of expedition to, 194 history of, 31–3, 197 Indians and, 29–30, 32–4, 37–9, 198–9 leadership and, 37–41 meaning of, 197 quad-centennial of the establishment of, 28–9, 172 slavery and, 28–9, 32–5, 37 Smith and, 5, 28–9, 36–41, 190, 194, 197–8 tobacco and, 32–3, 39–40 worldviews and, 34–8 James Webb Space Telescope, 124, 136 Jansky, Karl, 15 Jefferson, Thomas, 6, 48, 62–5, 73, 75, 158, 193–4 Jepson School of Leadership Studies, 1, 51 Johnson, Lyndon, 6, 81–2, 85–7, 92–4, 126, 194 Kanner, Leo, 158 Kennedy, John F.: favorite books of, 113–4 space program and, 6–7, 80–5, 98n16, 125–6, 194 Kepler, Johannes, 4, 12–5, 17, 24–5, 152, 196, 200 Kerr, Robert, 83, 85 Kraft, Chris, 137

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Kuhn, Thomas, 147 Kupperman, Karen, 29, 41n5, Kwitter, Karen, 3–5, 191–4, 196 Laidler, James, 167 Lambright, W. Henry, 4, 6, 191, 193–4, 200 leadership: agency in, 190–2 archetypes of, 12–22 in astronomy, 5, 12–25, 190–4 autism “epidemic” and lack of, 159–60, 167 collaboration and, 3, 5–6, 12, 22, 24, 55, 134, 192–5 Columbus and, 3, 5, 48–58, 190, 192, 198–9 as dynamic, 51 ethics and, 198–9 by exhortation, 19–20 indirect, 191 Jamestown colony and, 37–41 luck in, 192 meaning making and, 195–7 mentors and, 7, 111–2, 193 moral challenges in, 197–8 narrative and, 174–85 overview of, 3–8 properties of, 49 relay, 98n27 risk and insight in, 199–200 romance of, 192 self-discovery and, 101–4, 108–15 Space Shuttle program and, 125, 129–30, 133, 137–41, 199 studies, 49, 189 triad model of, 81, 91–2, 97n8 Webb on, 79–80 Webb’s, 4, 6, 48, 94–7, 191 Leonov, Alexei, 125 Lewis, Meriwether, 1, 4–7, 48, 61–76, 77n20, 190, 192–4, 196, 198–9 Lincoln, Abraham, 113 Lincoln, Levi, 73 Long, Stephen H., 61

Louisiana Purchase, 6, 61–2, 70 Low, George, 90, 93, 98n24 Lunar Excursion Module (LEM), 93–4 Mackenzie, Alexander, 62, 65, 75 Manned Spacecraft Center (MSC), 83–4, 89–90 Marcy, Geoff, 19 Marlborough, Duke of, 113 Maslow, Abraham, 148 Mawson, Douglas, 138 Maxwell, James Clerk, 144 Mayor, Michel, 18–9 McNamara, Robert, 82, 85 Meindl, James, 192 Melbourne, Lord, 113 mentors and mentorship, 7, 111–2, 193 Mercury space program, 83, 135 MIND Institute, 160–6 Mondale, Walter, 88–9 Morgan, Edmund, 29–30 Mueller, George, 85 Musk, Elon, 138 NASA: budget and financing of, 80, 82, 96, 126–8, 138, 194 Bush (George W.) and, 194 collaboration nature of, 193 future of, 137 Griffin and, 79–80, 96 Kennedy and, 7, 194 See also Apollo space program; Hubble Space Telescope; Space Shuttle program; Webb, James F. Native Americans: Jamestown colony and, 29–30, 32–4, 37–9, 198–9 Lewis and Clark and, 63–4, 69, 71–6 Newell, Homer, 92 Newton, Isaac, 12, 15, 144, 158 Nixon, Richard, 7, 93–4, 126, 194 Norman, Moe, 158 nucleosynthesis, 23–4

Index Oersted, Hans Christian, 144 O’Keefe, Sean, 96 Ordway, John, 73 Orwell, George: 1984, 173 Animal Farm, 173 as connected critic, 182–5, 187n31 “Diary of Wigan Pier,” 178–9, 186n18 as historian, 177–82 as indirect leader, 191 politics and socialist humanism of, 1, 173–7, 182–5, 186n10, 186n14, 187n33, 198 Road to Wigan Pier, 4, 8, 174, 176–80, 182–3, 186n12, 195–6 writing process of, 186n18 Osberg, Timothy M., 115 Paine, Tom, 92–4 paradigm shifts, 147 Pearce, Robert, 178–82, 186n18 Pervasive Developmental Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (PDD-NOS), 159 Phillips Report, 88–90 Phillips, Sam, 88 Pike, Zebulon, 61 Pinzón, Martín Alonso, 54, 56, 192 planetary nebulae, 23–5 planets, 4, 11, 13–5, 17–9, 23–5, 196 Pocahontas, 38–40, 198 Powhatan, 38 Ptolemy, 12, 53–4 Queloz, Dider, 18–1 racism, 28, 34, 39 Raleigh, Walter, 31, 42n17 Reagan, Ronald, 125, 133, 194 Reynolds, Jeremiah, 48 Rimland, Bernard, 161 Ritvo, Edward, 161–2 robots and self-discovery, 101–2, 115–6

207

Rolfe, John, 32 Rollens, Rick, 160 Ronda, James, 74 Rorty, Richard, 171 Russo, Rene, 163 Rutan, Burt, 137–8 Sabin, Margery, 180 Sacagawea, 6, 61, 64, 71, 74–5, 193 Schmidt, Maarten, 15–8 scientific method, 13 Scientific Revolution, 1, 121, 144 Scott, Robert Falcon, 138 Seamans, Robert, 81, 84, 88–92, 95, 98n16 self-discovery: benchmarking and, 112 charting a course to, 108–15 current data on, 102–5, 191 difficulty of, 105–8 errors of omission and, 4, 105–6, 193 feedback and, 108, 110–1 incompetence and, 106–7 leadership and, 101–4, 108–15 mentors and, 111–2, 193 others as proxy for self in, 113–4 past selves and, 114–5 planning fallacy and, 104, 114 robot metaphor and, 101–2, 115–6 space travel and, 140 Shackelton, Ernest, 138 Shea, Joe, 89–90 Shestack, Jon, 162–3, 166 Shrauger, J. Sidney, 115 Skylab Space Station, 127 Sloan Digital Sky Survey (SDSS), 21, 25 Smith, Adam, 49 Smith, John, 5, 28–9, 36–40, 190, 194, 197–8 Space Exploration Initiative (SEI), 125, 134 Spaceship One, 137 Space Shuttle program: astronauts for, 129 Columbia, 124, 129, 135–6, 199

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Space Shuttle program—Continued experience of Shuttle f light, 130–3, 139–41 first f light of, 130 history of, 125–9 leadership and, 125, 129–30, 133, 137–41, 199 rescue and repair of Hubble Space Telescope, 7, 122–5, 136 retirement of, 136 space stations and, 133–6 Space Telescope Science Institute (STScI), 122–4, 200 Stanley, Henry Morton, 49 Storms, Harrison, 88–90 Stossel, John, 163 Subrahmanyam, Sanjay, 42n17 Sustaining University Program (SUP), 85–6, 95 Szent-Gyorgyi, Albert, 167, 195–6 telescopes, 11, 18–25, 121, 143, 187n33 Hubble Space Telescope, 7, 20, 23, 95, 122–5, 131, 133, 136, 193, 200 James Webb Space Telescope, 124, 136 light-gathering power (LGP), 22 Tesla, Nikola, 158 Thiemann, Ronald, 4, 7–8, 191, 195–8 Thomas, Albert, 83 Thorp, Daniel, 4–7, 190, 192–3, 196, 199 Truman, Harry, 80, 85 Tsiolkovsky, Konstantin, 136 Tycho Brahe, 13, 17 Vasco da Gama, 3, 5, 48–51, 54–8, 192–3, 199 Ventris, Michael, 158 Verschuur, Gerrit, 4, 6–7, 144, 197

Vespucci, Amerigo, 55 Vietnam War, 27, 86, 93, 126 Von Braun, Wernher, 84 Walzer, Michael, 186n10, 187n31 Webb, James F.: analysis of his leadership, 4, 6, 48, 94–7, 191 Apollo fire hearings and, 88–91 background of, 80 as crisis manager, 98n20 departure from NASA, 94 Griffin on, 79 Holmes and, 84–5 James Webb Space Telescope, 124, 136 Johnson and, 81–2, 85–7, 92–4, 194 Kennedy and, 80–5, 98n16, 194 leadership strategies of, 81–97 personal style of, 80 “Space Age America” and, 86, 95, 98n17 triad leadership of, 81, 91–2, 97n8 See also Apollo space program Webster, Daniel, 113 Wegener, Alfred, 147 White, Edward, 87, 125 White, Hayden, 181 Wiesner, Jerome, 84 Williams, Ian, 173 Williams, Robert (Bob), 7, 122–3, 200 Wing, Lorna, 167 Winthrop, John, 31 Wordsworth, William, 25 worldviews, 4, 34, 36–40, 43n20, 143, 147, 153 Wright, Suzanne, 157 Young, John, 130