GPS – A Hollywood Actress, a Player Piano, and Hip-Hop

Given the enormous popularity of GPS among civilian users, and the critical applications for the military, it is not surprising that a large body of literature has arisen about the origins of this remarkable technology. The curators of the new Time and Navigation exhibition discuss this history, and we have illustrated it with a few select artifacts, such as the engineering model of the Navy’s NTS-2 satellite, one of the key demonstrators of the technology that led to the deployment of the GPS constellation.

GPS is the result of a collaboration among many contributors. Rather than try to sort out the various claims, I would like to take a closer look at one component of the system, namely the method by which signals from the constellation of satellites are encoded and transmitted to receivers on Earth. The technique is known as “spread spectrum,” and it is widely employed not only by GPS but also by WiFi and Bluetooth wireless connections to computers, by cordless telephones, and by most cell phones in the United States. In fact, spread spectrum and its cousins have created a revolution in communications, which may in a few years relegate traditional narrowband radio to our sister museum, the National Museum of American History.

Hedy Lamarr

Hedy Lamarr

Most histories of GPS credit the US Air Force, correctly, with suggesting this coding scheme for GPS. They also credit the genesis of the idea to the Austrian actress Hedy Lamarr, dubbed by Hollywood producer Louis B. Mayer (of MGM Studios) as “the most beautiful woman in the world” after she emigrated to the U.S. in 1937. I will pass on commenting on her contribution to the cinema, but it is worth exploring just what she did regarding secret coding, and how that relates to GPS.

In 1940, Lamarr met the American avant-garde composer George Antheil, who just returned to America from Paris, where he had created a sensation pushing the boundaries of classical music. Among his more outrageous compositions was one in which he placed a number of player-pianos on the stage, each producing “canned” sounds. For us the relevance of this story is that Lamarr later emigrated to the US and became a fiercely patriotic champion of the Allied cause after America’s entry into World War II in 1941. While living in Austria she had been married to an industrialist named Fritz Mandl, and over dinner conversations he had with his colleagues, she became acquainted with some of the advanced weapons the Nazis would later employ to such great effect. Among them were radio-controlled glide bombs—the predecessors to the “smart bombs” so much in the news today.  Inspired by Antheil’s compositions, she came up with the notion of using perforated paper tape (not as wide as a player-piano roll), to rapidly switch the frequency of the transmitter on a ship that launched the torpedo. An identical tape on the torpedo would switch, or “hop,” the frequency of the receiver, to match the transmitter. Think of a car radio, with which you can rapidly select a radio station by pushing a button, and not twist the tuning dial. The technique depended on the precise synchronization of the two tapes, but for a torpedo that only had to work for a short period of time. And of course it depended on the enemy’s not knowing the sequence of frequency hopping—the sequence had to appear random, although it was not.

Lamar applied for and was granted a patent for a “secret communication system” in 1942, but the Navy did not use her invention. Decades later it was rediscovered and became the basis for secure communications. The paper tapes are now replaced by digital computer circuits, which generate sequences of “pseudo-random numbers” (PRN) that hop the frequencies of the transmitter and receiver in synch. Because the technique requires a wider band of frequencies than a normal radio transmission (think again of the car radio), it is called “spread spectrum,” as it spreads the signal across a wider band.

patent

Patent # 2,292,387 for a “Secret Communication System,” Hedy Kiesler Markey. At the time it was filed, in 1941, Lamarr was married to Gene Markey, a Hollywood screenwriter. She felt that having her married name on the patent would give it more credibility.

Now back to GPS.  GPS uses spread spectrum. It requires a larger bandwidth than a narrowband radio would require to transmit its signals. The satellites transmit primarily on two frequencies, 1575.42 MHz and 1227.60 MHz, but if you tune an ordinary radio scanner to those frequencies, you hear nothing but background noise.  The frequency does not hop, however. The signals are multiplied by a pseudo-random sequence, which is transmitted and recovered by the receivers using the same sequence. There are two main pseudo-random codes, a short one used in civilian receivers, and a longer one used by the military. Like the system proposed by Lamarr, this also spreads the signal out; it also trades bandwidth for power, which is why a normal receiver hears nothing—the signal is well below the noise threshold.  The adoption of this technique gives GPS a number of advantages: the receivers do not need a dish or otherwise large antenna to pick up the signals, and the different codes allow for both civilian and military use of the same system. The low power also means that the signals cannot be received indoors or under dense tree cover, a drawback that future generations of GPS satellites may address.

So if this technique did not come from Hedy Lamarr, where did it come from? Of that we know less. But there are hints that it may have come from another system developed during World War II. If true, that story is every bit as mysterious and intriguing as Lamarr’s. Much of the initial research apparently was done by the cryptographic community and remains classified. But there are some tantalizing hints. A few years ago, The U.S. National Security Agency (NSA) published a pamphlet describing a method of scrambling speech, which was used during World War II by Winston Churchill and Franklin D. Roosevelt, among others. The NSA claims this “SIGSALY” system was “The Start of the Digital Revolution.”[1] For an agency known for its reticence, this publication represented a major revelation. The invention introduced pseudo-random noise, which was recorded mechanically on a phonograph disk, and superimposed this on the speech channels.  At the other end an identical disk, synchronized to start at the exact same moment, subtracted the noise. The disks were destroyed after each use.  The system was installed in several locations by 1943, including one in the Pentagon and one at Churchhill’s command post under the Admiralty Building near Number 10 Downing Street.

SIGSALY

A SIGSALY installation, ca. 1943, in an undisclosed location. Note the twin turntables, which allowed rapid switching from one recording to another. The recordings contained random noise generated by mercury-vapor vacuum tubes. The noise was injected into the signal at the transmitting site, while at the receiving site, an identical recording, playing in perfect synchronization, subtracted the noise, revealing the voices of FDR, Churchill, and others

Grandmaster Flash

Grandmaster Flash (Joseph Saddler), hip-hop pioneer and inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. His creative use of twin turntables, with a switch he developed to alternate between the two, has been credited as a seminal moment in the creation of hip-hop music.

The NSA pamphlet shows a system of two phonographs, each of which contained one of the platters. For some of us, seeing this photograph immediately evokes another phenomenon—the use of twin turntables by hip-hop musicians to sample and otherwise electronically alter sounds on the dance floor. Is there a connection?  Possibly—the methods of speech scrambling, developed in the 1930s and 1940s primarily by Bell Telephone Laboratories, have been cited as direct ancestors to current pop music. So the next time you use your car GPS receiver to tell you how to get to a restaurant, think of Hedy Lamarr, or better yet, Grandmaster Flash.



[1] US National Security Agency, For Meade, Maryland: “The Start of the Digital Revolution: SIGSALY, Secure Digital Voice Communications in World War II. Undated pamphlet, 19pp. SIGSALY is not an acronym but a nonsense word.

Paul Ceruzzi is chair of the Space History Department at the National Air and Space Museum.

On Assignment for Time and Navigation

What’s missing when you sit in front of a computer all day? Adventure! Luckily, three
Time and Navigation photography missions took me across the country last year, giving me the chance to escape the office.

My first destination was Beer Bottle Pass in the Mojave Desert. This is where Stanley, the autonomous car, navigated its way to victory during the 2005 Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) Grand Challenge race. I needed a photo of the pass to cover the 27-­foot wall behind Stanley in the Time and Navigation gallery. I was confident about this trip until I discovered how precarious this pass could be. The fact that Stanley was able to navigate these sheer drop-­offs and steep inclines is remarkable.

Ashley Hornish

Ashley Hornish in the Mojave Desert

After studying Google Earth for several weeks, my husband, Cory, and I were ready to go. We drove our rented Jeep Wrangler to our starting point outside Primm, Nevada. This area had received a record rainfall the previous week so we had to negotiate washed-out areas and large stones. It took us 45 minutes to travel the seven miles to the pass.

Such a large mural requires more than just one photo; I needed a series that I could stitch together into a panorama. As we gradually moved into the pass, I looked for the best composition. Unfortunately, the road conditions got worse as we progressed, so we never made it to the most treacherous areas (fine with me!). Nevertheless, the trip was a success, and I was relieved to make a safe return to Primm.

Ashley Hornish

Ashley Hornish in the Time and Navigation exhibition. Behind her are Stanley and the mural she photographed in the Mojave Desert.

Since Cory and I were “in the neighborhood,” we arranged a visit to the Goldstone Deep Space Network complex. Located about 35 miles north of Barstow on the Ft. Irwin Military Base, the NASA Deep Space Network is an international network of antennas that supports interplanetary missions and radio and radar astronomy observations for exploring the universe.

I wanted to photograph an old hydrogen maser at the Mars 70­-meter antenna. Now a backup, this maser was the primary frequency standard for the racks of Goldstone timing equipment we have on display in Time and Navigation.

Now used as a backup, this hydrogen maser frequency standard was the primary frequency reference for the Goldstone timing equipment on display in the Time and Navigation exhibition.

Visiting Goldstone is no simple task. Hidden away in the middle of the desert, Goldstone is a 45-minute drive from the nearest highway. Disconcerting signs warned of tank crossings and live ammunition areas. After a safety briefing (don’t touch the snakes and don’t drink the water), our guides escorted us to the timing vault of the massive 70-­meter antenna. The best part about the old maser is that it has a small hole at the top that allowed us to view the purple plasma glowing inside the equipment. After a few quick photos, we were allowed to take a brief look into the control room for the Curiosity rover.

I found myself in a very different landscape for my third trip: the middle of a cornfield in Rippey, Iowa. I needed photos of farmer Roy Bardole harvesting his crops using equipment guided by GPS. Museum photographer Dane Penland agreed to accompany me on this adventure, and we headed to the drought­-stricken area hoping there would actually be crops to photograph.

Roy Bardole

Dane Penland photographs farmer Roy Bardole in a harvester near Rippey, Iowa.

Dane and I ended up spending an entire day in the field with Roy and his two sons as they methodically worked their way through the stalks. We took turns riding inside the combine, watching as the enormous machine drove itself down the lengthy rows without wavering. Farming is much more involved than you might imagine, and I was impressed by the Bardoles’ business sense.

Overall this trip was a success: the weather held, the Bardoles’ yield was better than expected, and the motel wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. I even got a special sendoff at the Des Moines airport, home to the Des Moines Air National Guard. As my airplane taxied to the runway, we passed several F­-16s that were awaiting takeoff. As we passed, the pilots waved to us. It was a great way to end my adventure.

Ashley Hornish is a graphic designer in the National Air and Space Museum’s Exhibits Department.

Sea-Air Operations Gallery

When Secretary of the Navy William J. Middendorf II commissioned the USS Smithsonian, CVM-76, on June 28, 1976, he announced in authentic navy parlance that “the floors are now decks, walls are bulkheads and stairs are ladders. Welcome Aboard!” Visitors to the gallery may not realize that exhibits artisans built the gallery using the decks, bulkheads, ladders and other parts removed from five famous American aircraft carriers. Senior curator Paul E. Garber visited the USS Essex (CVS-9), USS Intrepid (CV-11), USS Randolph (CV-15), USS Hancock (CV-19), and USS Shangri-La (CVS-38) and personally selected components for the gallery as navy personnel decommissioned the warships in 1975.

Entrance

Entrance to the Sea-Air Operations gallery.

Gallery

All four museum aircraft displayed in the Sea-Air Operations gallery are seen from the second floor of the gallery. Left to right, Boeing F4B-4, Douglas A-4C Skyhawk, Douglas SBD-6 Dauntless, and Grumman F4F- (General Motors FM-1) Wildcat.

Four significant airplanes flown by U. S. Navy pilots are displayed inside the simulated hangar deck that fills much of the Sea-Air Operations Gallery. The father of Museum director and retired Marine Corps General Jack Dailey flew the Boeing F4B-4 biplane suspended from the gallery ceiling. General Dailey told me a few years ago that his dad

“flew [the F4B-4 in the Sea-Air Gallery] in 1934, and maybe other flights after that, which was the year I was born. He was on the Marine Corps flight demonstration team that toured the country with a 16-plane show to publicize Marine Aviation. They didn’t have a set routine they just followed the leader in a 16-plane tail chase which got pretty hairy. On one occasion the leader inadvertently stalled and spun back down through the formation so they all kicked it into a spin and followed him. I think the airplane we have was a spare because almost everyone in the squadron flew it.”

F4B04 Fighter

Museum director Jack Dailey’s father (then Lt. Frank G. Dailey) flew this Boeing F4B-4 fighter during the mid-1930s.

A Douglas SBD-6 Dauntless dive bomber is suspended from the ceiling next to the Boeing fighter. Dauntless pilots opened the large dive flaps perforated with holes at the trailing edge of the wing to slow the aircraft to about 443 kph (275 mph) during steep dives above a target. Pilots and gunners who crewed the SBDs (often called Slow-But-Deadly) did well in every engagement and suffered fewer losses than crews flying any other U. S. Navy carrier aircraft during World War II.

Gallery

In the Douglas SBD-6 Dauntless dive bomber, nicknamed Slow-But-Deadly, a gunner sitting behind the pilot wielded a pair of machine guns.

America entered World War II in December 1941 and by 1942, Grumman F4F Wildcats such as the one seen on the floor of the Sea-Air Operations Gallery equipped all U.S. Navy and Marine Corps fighter squadrons. New pilots making their first take off could often be spotted wobbling their Wildcats as they spun a crank 30 turns to retract the landing gear. U. S. Navy escort aircraft carriers operating in the Atlantic Ocean also carried Wildcats and the tough little fighter served from Pearl Harbor to the end of the war.

A-4C Skyhawk

The Museum’s A-4C Skyhawk displayed in the Sea-Air Operations gallery carries a typical combat mission load of external stores consisting of two 1,135 liter (300 gal.) fuel tanks and six 227 kg (500 lb.) bombs.

In his own words, “simplicate and add lightness” guided Douglas chief designer Ed Heinemann when he designed the Douglas A-4 Skyhawk that dominates the floor of the Sea-Air Operations Gallery. Key elements in the design are a strong and simple delta wing, a single engine and single pilot, which saved weight and complexity. The Skyhawk first flew in 1954 and by 1968, Skyhawks equipped 30 U. S. Navy and U. S. Marine Corps attack squadrons.

Navy pilots assigned to VA-76 aboard the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise, CVA (N)-65, flew the Museum’s Skyhawk during Iron Hand missions to suppress Surface-to-Air Missile radars from October 1965 to June 1966. Navy pilots also flew this Skyhawk from the USS Bon Homme Richard, CVA-31, operating off the Vietnam coast from March-June 1967, and USS Independence during the carrier’s cruise in the Mediterranean in May 1968.

Russ Lee is a curator in the Aeronautics Department of the National Air and Space Museum.

An Out-of-This-World Program

How do you bring together two orbiting astronauts and more than 12,000 students scattered around the U.S. and Canada?  It’s not rocket science, but it’s close.  First you have to find some very dedicated partners with a common purpose, like the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, the U.S. Department of Education, and the National Center for Earth and Space Science Education.  Second you have to ensure an audience; which isn’t very difficult because who wouldn’t jump at the chance to talk to astronauts while in space?  Third, and most challenging, you have to put together the technology capable of linking 24 sites scattered around North America and Hawaii with something moving at 28,163 kph (17,500 mph) 354 km (220 miles) above the Earth’s surface.

This amazing program occurred in the National Air and Space Museum’s Moving Beyond Earth exhibition, a perfect location because it tells the history of human spaceflight during the shuttle period and beyond.  As part of International Education Week, staff conducted a live video downlink between students, Museum visitors, and astronauts onboard the International Space Station (ISS).  We used the Internet, video conferencing equipment, and some high-definition cameras to bring three astronauts (two on the ISS and one on Earth) into the classrooms of 24 participating communities and an audience at the Museum.  In addition, the downlink was broadcast live on NASA TV and webcast on the NASA and National Air and Space Museum websites.

Downlink

Astronaut Leland Melvin answers a school group’s question via a live video link at the National Air and Space Museum.

Students from each of the 24 communities designed a science experiment to be conducted by NASA astronauts in space as part of the National Center for Earth and Space Science Education’s Student Spaceflight Experiments Program. In fact, some of the schools participating in the downlink actually had science experiments onboard the ISS at the time.  These students were talking live to one of the actual astronauts who worked with their experiments.

Students at each location asked questions of outgoing ISS Commander Sunita Williams and incoming ISS Commander Kevin Ford about life and work aboard the orbiting laboratory.  As  moderator I was impressed with the thoughtful questions.  For example, students from Hilo, HI asked Williams, “What are some of the advancements made in engineering and science due to research conducted aboard the space station, and who profits from these?” and students from Guilford County, NC asked Ford, “What are the challenges and advantages of working with astronauts from other countries?”

The reaction from each student group I introduced was incredible enthusiasm!  Each time I called on a new school, the students would erupt in cheers that echoed over the distance.  Williams and Ford broke out into big grins each time and it seemed that they enjoyed the program as much as the students did.  I was amazed by the fact that each school seemed so emotionally and physically invested in the experience.  Every time I heard the schools applause I thought about what an incredible opportunity we were providing these kids and it gave me chills.

Downlink

Audience members at the National Air and Space Museum watch a school group on Earth talk to astronauts onboard the ISS live via a video link.

Following the live Earth-to-station exchange, NASA Associate Administrator for Education and two-time space shuttle astronaut Leland Melvin continued answering questions and encouraged participating students and Museum visitors to study science, technology, engineering and mathematics (STEM).  “You are the scientists, engineers and astronauts of tomorrow,” Melvin said. “America’s future of scientific research and space exploration is in your hands, and there’s no better way to prepare yourselves for those grand adventures than to start pursuing a STEM career now.”

View the entire ISS downlink program.

Michael Hulslander is Manager of Onsite Learning at the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC.

The Abbreviated History of a Scientist (Namely, Myself)

My first word was JET, since we lived near an Air Force base and experienced sonic booms on a regular basis. My fascination with the heavens took off from there.

Growing up, my family went camping and backpacking a lot, and one of my clearest memories of that time is looking up at a dark, dark sky and pointing out satellites to each other, those little moving points of light that are sometimes so faint I could only see them in my peripheral vision. Far above airplanes, they fly through our sky.

For a ‘day on the job’ in high school, I tagged along with a local pilot, as he taught ground classes that were only slightly beyond my math level at the time, and then taught flight lessons in a small four-seater airplane. Talk about a great incentive for learning more math! Looking down on suburbs and ranches as we flew snug up against the front range of the Rocky Mountains, I fell in love with the idea of flying not as a passenger but as a pilot.

I went to countless planetarium shows growing up, and was encouraged in my interest of Hubble images, showing colorful and fantastically-shaped galaxies far away, and the polar caps of Mars up close. In high school, I went to occasional talks by astronomers, and by the time I got to college, I was ready to hear a lot more! And the pilots of the telescopes and spacecraft we use to study the heavens are engineers…so, I began college as an aerospace engineer.

The class I remember best from my first year of college is Intro Astronomy, the first term of which dealt with our own Solar System…how did the massive greenhouse atmosphere of Venus get that way, if it started out similar to Earth (as we think it did)? Well, you can think about it like feedback on Jimi Hendrix’s guitar during a performance: when he gets close to one of the speakers, the blasting music vibrates his guitar strings, which causes louder output from the speakers, which again increases the vibration of his guitar strings. This is the analogy that made positive feedback in a climate system (the runaway greenhouse effect) easy to understand for me.

So instead of being interested in airplanes, I found myself interested in spacecraft. And instead wanting to fly them, I found myself wanting to see all the data they returned. My fascination with the heavens took off again. Instead of becoming an engineer, I became a physicist (and sociologist, but that’s another story!), one who studies planets.

I talked about my interest with one of the new faculty in the Astrophysical and Planetary Sciences department, and was taken on as an undergraduate researcher. It’s wild to think back to that time, at how little of what I know now I knew then, of how new I was to the process of doing research. The first thing to really grab me, to pull me in hook, line, and sinker, was attending the 33rd Lunar and Planetary Science Conference. I was awed by the throng of people at the poster session, where I stood presenting my research, talking loudly over the din. I was impressed by the snappy talks where 50 – 100 people sat listening, taking notes, and whispering commentary to their neighbors. I wanted to be part of that world.

Michelle Selvans

Here I am circa 2002 with my poster, at the 33rd Lunar and Planetary Science Conference.

Now I think of it as ‘this’ world, the world I’m immersed in through my work life. I just returned, along with most of the Museum’s Center for Earth and Planetary Studies staff, from the 44th Lunar and Planetary Science Conference.

It was every bit as engaging as the first one I attended, but for different reasons. Instead of being in awe of the whole spectacle, I feel a sense of belonging. I am now a postdoctoral fellow with an undergraduate mentee who presented work he did with me last summer. I sat down for long talks with researchers I’ve admired for years, to brainstorm ideas for research projects we might work on together. I gave a talk on my research on the origins of tectonic features on Mercury, and a poster on some of the outreach I do in the Museum. I caught up with old friends I went to graduate school with, and new ones I’ve met recently at workshops. I have become a pilot in a sense, the one at the controls of my own work experience.

So here I find myself, a planetary scientist, working with amazing people on fascinating projects. I could have become a pilot or an engineer, but instead I’m a scientist working in a museum that honors all three professions. This is one of those times I count my blessings, and smile!

Michelle Selvans is a planetary scientist in the National Air and Space Museum’s Center for Earth and Planetary Studies.