I wasn’t quite two when Apollo 11 landed on the moon on July 20, 1969, but I watched it happen (my parents assure me), and apparently, it made quite an impression. Growing up, an iconic image (below) of Buzz Aldrin on the lunar surface, taken by Neil Armstrong, graced my wall, assuming a place of prominence between Joe Namath and Tom Seaver. I discovered astronomy, I was mesmerized by the Hayden Planetarium, and I devoured science fiction – Asimov in particular. I was captivated by the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Washington, the way I’d love The Right Stuff years later. There’s something about the heroic narrative of space exploration – the technology, imagination, optimism, audacity, shared vision and teamwork – that speaks to and inspires me, and so many of us.
UNITED STATES Photograph taken by Neil Armstrong, who can be seen reflected in Aldrin's visor. ... [+]
Lillian Cunningham, a journalist at the Washington Post, recognizes the power of this narrative as well. In Moonrise, a thoroughly captivating podcast series that began in July and concluded last week, Cunningham seeks not to bury this iconic legend but to contextualize it. Moonrise isn’t a takedown; rather, Cunningham introduces what might be called companion narratives, which collectively provide a far richer understanding of the motivations behind the race to the moon. Her deeper interest, I think, is an exploration of the role of narratives in shaping both history and the lessons we take from history.
One prominent theme from Moonrise is the unexpected importance of science fiction – and powerful editor John Campbell — in sparking the imagination of so many visionary scientists involved in the space race, providing an early template for the heroic narrative that would emerge. Not only were these sci-fi stories a common touchpoint for researchers involved in cutting edge technology efforts, from the Manhattan Project to the space program, but the imagined futures they described seemed to have played a remarkably powerful role in expanding the way scientists and engineers contemplated the limits of possible, and how they could play a critical role in pushing these frontiers.
A key challenge for innovators working with emerging technologies is persuading others to embrace a radically different vision of the future. This is also the way some investors focused on “deep technology” characterize their interest – Lux Capital’s Josh Wolfe describes himself as interested in “science fiction-like technology,” explaining to Bloomberg’s Barry Ritholtz that a lot of technology comes from “the people who literally wrote the science fiction books.” It’s also why Andreessen-Horowitz co-founder Marc Andreessen highlights the importance of the “evangelistic sale” – the need to enable customers to envision a radically reimagined the future. Similarly, it’s what finance columnist Daniel Gross is getting at when, in discussing the frenzy associated with bubbles in Pop!, he emphasizes an often underappreciated positive aspect: preparing the “mental infrastructure” needed to make sense of emerging technologies.
Cunningham also highlights the role of narrative as she explores the political motivations of the space program. For example, she reveals that the concept of a “Sputnik moment,” which now refers to an alarming achievement by a competitor that wakes you up to the realization that you’re behind and urgently need to catch up, wasn’t actually the way the 1957 launch of Sputnik, the world’s first satellite, was initially perceived. Eisenhower apparently viewed it as a largely irrelevant publicity stunt that didn’t impact the lead in missile development the U.S. had over the Soviet Union at the time. Moonrise reveals that the notion Sputnik heralded an existential threat was actually a narrative constructed and introduced by Senator Lyndon Johnson, who wanted to run for President, and was convinced by an unsolicited memo from an aide and strategist named George Reedy that this could be a winning issue against President Eisenhower; apparently Johnson had previously never considered space as a particularly interesting topic. Guided by Senator Richard Russell, in influential Democratic power broker, Johnson led Senate hearings on Sputnik and the U.S. space efforts (informed by smart questions drafted by aides – again, he apparently had very little knowledge of this when he started down this road). At these hearings, scientists – keen to increase funding for space-related projects – were more than happy to testify on how U.S. efforts were inadequate and failing. The theme of the investigation, summarized by Johnson, was that “control of space means control of the world” – which turns out to be a line lifted almost directly from the 1950s sci-fi film, Destination Moon, itself based on a book by Robert Heinlein.
It gets better. Kennedy, it turns out, had little organic passion for space – Cunningham shares an extraordinary tape of a conversation between Kennedy and NASA administrator Jim Webb in which the President actually says, “I’m not that interested in space,” adding “the only justification for [the moon mission], in my opinion, to do it is because we hope to beat them [i.e. the Soviet Union].” In other words: Kennedy is seeking a PR win against the Soviet Union, and the moon mission was selected as something that could meet this need, and advance this politically-motivated narrative.
As Cunningham also documents, the Soviet view of space was equally political – as in the U.S., work in the Soviet Union was initially driven by military considerations, and then leaders found themselves increasingly obsessed with the propaganda value of space race success. She shares the remarkable story of Soviet rocket expert Sergei Korolev, who led Russian efforts after nearly being killed in the frozen gulag to which he was banished under Stalin. We also learn about the unsettling journey of Werner von Braun, a former Nazi S.S. officer who would become a driving force behind U.S. rocketry efforts, and increasingly, a public champion of the space program, narrating several Disney movies on the topic.
Interestingly, Cunningham also describes how the nature of science fiction itself changes, from imagining the technology of the future (in some cases with such accuracy that Campbell was investigated by the FBI who feared a leak from the Manhattan Project) in the 30s and 40s – to imaging harm coming out of the sky in the Cold War era of the 50s to starting to think more about the social implications in the 60s – the integrated crew of the Enterprise in Star Trek was remarkably daring for the day. Such diversity stood in deliberately sharp contrast to the strikingly homogenous image projected by the early protagonists of the space program, where astronauts like the Mercury Seven were all so similar in appearance, explains Cunningham, that they often took to lining up alphabetically so they’d be identified properly in newspaper photos.
Cunningham’s overriding message, it seems, is that we’re awash in narratives, in part because we make sense of the world through stories, and thus stories can reach us and persuade us in a way cold data often cannot. We’re inspired by stories, motivated by stories, but also (as Kahneman and others have repeatedly emphasized) incredibly vulnerable to the power of stories. By starting with a seminal achievement like the moon landing – an event so many of us have internalized as a powerful and inspiring story — and demonstrating that this narrative is but one of several ways of organizing and thinking about the associated facts, Cunningham challenges and extends our thinking about space exploration, and about the complexity swirling around all human endeavors, even the most heroic.
Powerful evolving narratives inspire, inform, reflect, and define all our activities, particularly efforts to introduce emerging technologies into established organizations; entrepreneurs must recognize, engage, and at times originate and advance such narratives, or risk being consumed by them.
