Should NASA Revert to the Right Stuff?

When I tell people that I write about spaceflight, most people mention Christa McAuliff. McAuliff was one of seven astronauts aboard the ill-fated Challenger mission that exploded shortly after launch in January 1986. But people don’t know her because she was an astronaut; they know her because she was a teacher. She was an average person with a regular job that had a chance to go into space. In the 1980s, she epitomized the fact that spaceflight was becoming normal.

NASA has been engaged in manned spaceflight for a little over half a century, and the qualification requirements of its astronauts have changed drastically in that time. One feature, however, has remained the same: NASA will only send up people whom the agency thinks have what it takes to return safely.

Although this is one of NASA’s founding directives, astronaut safety has taken on a different meaning in recent years. Astronauts now are regular people coming from regular jobs. They aren’t the death defying fighter jocks of yesteryear. When it comes to raising funds and interest in continued manned spaceflight, is it better to put men in space who are used to facing dangers? Would NASA take on riskier missions if it used men who defied death in their pre-astronaut lives?

The first group of astronauts selected in 1959 were pulled from the ranks of military test pilots. Each had to have an academic background in engineering, have graduated from a test pilot school, and have a minimum of 1,500 hours flying jet aircraft. The second astronaut group joined NASA in 1962 and the third joined in 1963. In both cases the selection criteria were the same; the number of flight hours in jets was slightly different, but they were still the same breed of men.

The fourth group to join NASA in 1965 began a shift away from the ranks of exclusively military men. This was the first group of scientist-astronauts. The flight requirement was waived for this group; PhDs weighed heavier than skills in an airplane. Of the six men selected in this group, only Jack Schmitt would fly with Apollo. As a trained geologist, he was the only scientist to walk on the moon.

In 1966, the fifth group of astronauts joined NASA. This group made up the remained of the men who would fly as part of the Apollo program. Filling out the ranks for the lunar program, NASA reverted to the criteria of the first three groups, putting piloting skill as the most important attribute of a candidate.

The shift away from strictly military test pilots began in earnest in 1967 with the sixth group of astronauts. They were men selected to fly as part of the then-upcoming shuttle program. Even in its earliest stages, the shuttle was set to be a very different program than Apollo, placing different demands on its astronauts. The selection criteria reflected this shift and astronauts were divided into two categories: pilots and mission specialists. Pilots would fly the shuttle while mission specialists were the scientists and engineers specific to each mission. For the latter designation, the flight requirements were lifted.

With the eighth group of astronauts joining NASA in 1978, the separation between pilots and mission specialists became concrete. It has been the model of incoming astronaut groups ever since.

Nevertheless, many astronauts still came from military backgrounds; like a fair number of commercial airline pilots, most professional pilots learned to fly in the military. The military connection remains, but the modern astronauts tend to be former military pilots as opposed to the astronauts in the 1960s who were still active.

This ‘former military association’ brings a different assumption of risk to the table, at least from the public perspective. Astronauts know spaceflight is risky. They can’t do this kind of job and ignore the dangers. But they also aren’t the fearless fighter jocks of the Mercury era, regularly risking their life as part of the daily grind. They aren’t coming from one death defying job to another.

For the public, the more or less routine nature of a shuttle launch has given the false impression of safety in spaceflight. With only two fatal incidents in three decades, astronauts do seem to have a fairly safe job. Spaceflight has even taken on a connotation of being routine, so routine in fact that regular people have experienced low Earth orbit.

In the late 1970s, NASA added a third designation of astronaut to the mix: the payload specialist. This is an astronaut who trains for a single mission and is usually some senator, pop star, or Indian prince.

Notable payload specialists included Christa McAuliff. Of the seven astronauts killed on the mission, McAuliff is the only name people know. Her death shocked the nation and the impression she’s left is still visible.

She wasn’t an astronaut. She was a teacher. A regular person doing a seemingly regular job. But why do we have stronger memories of McAuliff than of her fellow crew members? Was she more relatable than the other astronauts? Or did NASA hype her up as a means to increase interest in spaceflight?

Deciding the type of person we should send into space is an interesting question, and it’s one that NASA may be rethinking as it takes a break from manned spaceflight. There’s also the question of keeping people interested in space. Blasting famous people into orbit can certainly help in that regard.

So who is a better pick: the fighter jock who’s used to risking his life for the sake of a ride and a mission, or the everyman who we feel a connection to? It’s a tossup. On the one hand the average person in space would generate more interest, but NASA will face a firing squad if a mission fails and another teacher is killed. Fighter pilots, on the other hand, are at risk every day. Death in the air is death in the air and it is, sadly, part of the job. As morbid as it might sound, NASA could undertake more daring missions, with possibly better payoffs, if they used more risk-loving astronauts, but is it worth it?