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Book: Moon Lander: How We Developed the Apollo Lunar Module by Thomas J. Kelly
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Authors: Thomas J. Kelly
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darkened auditorium, were an ordeal, but thanks to thorough rehearsals we acquitted ourselves well.
On the trip down and back I found that Clint Towl and Bill Schwendler were almost as excited about going to the Moon as I was. In an expansive moment on the return flight, Schwendler promised to fly us down for dinner at Antoine’s, the renowned New Orleans restaurant, if we won the contract. Towl was aghast and assured us that this was so counter to Schwendler’s conservative nature that he would never follow through, even if we did win. Towl knew his friend and colleague well—no more was ever said about Bill Schwendler’s promise.
About two weeks after the orals our administrative planning was abruptly halted by a phone call from Bob Mullaney summoning me and other project leaders to drop everything for a “fire drill,” our expression for a sudden emergency task that must take priority over all others. (Now more smoothly referred to by management consultants as “crisis management.”)
The fire drill was a list of questions from the NASA Source Evaluation Board that had to be answered within one day. It was not just an exercise but an attempt by NASA to gain additional information they needed in evaluating our proposal. They were serious questions, probing our plans and capability for doing the work and our interpretation of certain technical requirements. Ferdman got the deadline extended, and at his urging, Gavin decided to assemble a small group and deliver the answers in person. In less than forty-eight hours we wrote a thirty-page miniproposal and handed it to an astonished Bob Piland, head of the NASA evaluation team in Houston. We had theopportunity to discuss some of our answers with Piland and restate the main themes of our proposal. On the flight back to New York we were giddy at the thought that an incredible adventure appeared almost within our reach, and we fantasized about its possibilities. Mullaney, Ferdman, and I fairly vibrated in our seats with suppressed excitement.
After the orals and the fire drill, it was difficult to get back into the routine work of planning how we would perform the job if we won. Rumors swirled daily, alternately tantalizing us and dashing our hopes. We tried to ignore them, telling one another, “It’s not over until the fat lady sings.” But it was no use; I for one could not concentrate without drifting into fantasy, imagining how wonderful it would be to win this prize sought by all the giants of aerospace, and to design and build a manned spaceship to land on the Moon. What would it look like, and how could we ever design and build it in time? My colleagues and I were suspended in a time warp of anticipation, drifting from rumor to rumor in a fuzzy haze, believing that things would turn out well for us.
The rumors of the prior week focused on election day, Tuesday, 6 November 1962. Some said the LM contract would be awarded before the election to gain favor with voters in the selected state and region; others maintained it would be delayed until after the election to avoid disappointing the losers. Election day arrived with still no word, so half the rumor was proven false.
At eight o’clock the next morning I was back in my Preliminary Design cubicle looking over the material I needed for the day’s planning effort. I had enough information on staffing and space requirements for the first six months after go-ahead to meet with LM program administrator Art Gross and firm up floor plans and building space commitments. Because our staffing buildup assumed a 1 December 1962 go-ahead, we were initially confined to space on the main Engineering floor in Plant 5. When the new Plant 25 Space Engineering Center opened in February 1963 we would have plenty of room for the first two years’ worth of growth, but the transition from our start-up in Plant 5 to permanent quarters in Plant 25 required careful planning to avoid breaking the momentum of program activity and
On the trip down and back I found that Clint Towl and Bill Schwendler were almost as excited about going to the Moon as I was. In an expansive moment on the return flight, Schwendler promised to fly us down for dinner at Antoine’s, the renowned New Orleans restaurant, if we won the contract. Towl was aghast and assured us that this was so counter to Schwendler’s conservative nature that he would never follow through, even if we did win. Towl knew his friend and colleague well—no more was ever said about Bill Schwendler’s promise.
About two weeks after the orals our administrative planning was abruptly halted by a phone call from Bob Mullaney summoning me and other project leaders to drop everything for a “fire drill,” our expression for a sudden emergency task that must take priority over all others. (Now more smoothly referred to by management consultants as “crisis management.”)
The fire drill was a list of questions from the NASA Source Evaluation Board that had to be answered within one day. It was not just an exercise but an attempt by NASA to gain additional information they needed in evaluating our proposal. They were serious questions, probing our plans and capability for doing the work and our interpretation of certain technical requirements. Ferdman got the deadline extended, and at his urging, Gavin decided to assemble a small group and deliver the answers in person. In less than forty-eight hours we wrote a thirty-page miniproposal and handed it to an astonished Bob Piland, head of the NASA evaluation team in Houston. We had theopportunity to discuss some of our answers with Piland and restate the main themes of our proposal. On the flight back to New York we were giddy at the thought that an incredible adventure appeared almost within our reach, and we fantasized about its possibilities. Mullaney, Ferdman, and I fairly vibrated in our seats with suppressed excitement.
After the orals and the fire drill, it was difficult to get back into the routine work of planning how we would perform the job if we won. Rumors swirled daily, alternately tantalizing us and dashing our hopes. We tried to ignore them, telling one another, “It’s not over until the fat lady sings.” But it was no use; I for one could not concentrate without drifting into fantasy, imagining how wonderful it would be to win this prize sought by all the giants of aerospace, and to design and build a manned spaceship to land on the Moon. What would it look like, and how could we ever design and build it in time? My colleagues and I were suspended in a time warp of anticipation, drifting from rumor to rumor in a fuzzy haze, believing that things would turn out well for us.
The rumors of the prior week focused on election day, Tuesday, 6 November 1962. Some said the LM contract would be awarded before the election to gain favor with voters in the selected state and region; others maintained it would be delayed until after the election to avoid disappointing the losers. Election day arrived with still no word, so half the rumor was proven false.
At eight o’clock the next morning I was back in my Preliminary Design cubicle looking over the material I needed for the day’s planning effort. I had enough information on staffing and space requirements for the first six months after go-ahead to meet with LM program administrator Art Gross and firm up floor plans and building space commitments. Because our staffing buildup assumed a 1 December 1962 go-ahead, we were initially confined to space on the main Engineering floor in Plant 5. When the new Plant 25 Space Engineering Center opened in February 1963 we would have plenty of room for the first two years’ worth of growth, but the transition from our start-up in Plant 5 to permanent quarters in Plant 25 required careful planning to avoid breaking the momentum of program activity and
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