The Rock From Mars (20 page)

Compounding the difficulties of that day was the fact that the headquarters civil service staff had been cut in half since Goldin had taken over in 1992.

The item in
Space News
opened a crack to the waiting flood. And for those closest to the story, it triggered a near-panicky transcontinental scramble.

Nan Broadbent, communications director for
Science
magazine, had been out sick on Friday with the stomach flu. Now, on the morning of Tuesday, August 6, 1996, though still in a fragile state, she decided to come in to the office, because she was (a) bored and (b) able to stand and walk. She and her staff went into a routine meeting, oblivious to the brewing media storm.

When the meeting broke up, the participants were startled to find a stack of messages waiting. Reporters from CBS and the BBC were among the early callers. “Is the embargo still in force?” they wanted to know. They were threatening to go public on this Martian meteorite thing.

Science
magazine, established in 1880 by Thomas A. Edison, is one of the world’s leading general science journals, rivaled only by
Nature,
an international publication with roots in Britain.
Science
is published by the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS), the largest society of scientists in all fields. The magazine receives some seven thousand manuscripts every year, of which only about 10 percent make it to publication.

Science
and the other journals provide one of the main platforms that scientists used to announce important advances. Journalists consider these publications important sources of original news, in much the same way that political writers cover a major policy speech by a candidate, or a court reporter relates a judge’s decree.

Because of the meteorite story’s importance,
Science
editors planned to distribute some five hundred copies of the McKay group paper a few days ahead of the publication date. In accordance with usual procedure, participating journalists and scientists—anyone who got the advance paper—would agree to keep any such embargoed information secret from the broader population until the ordained time. In turn, this would give the journalists several days to alert their editors and evaluate the importance of the story against the constant blizzard of competing developments in the world. It would enable the journalists to call around for independent opinions from experts and generally equip themselves to present more coherent and complete accounts than if they had to assemble the story in a mad deadline spurt. And it would give designated scientist-commentators—those independent of the McKay team but expert in the fields the paper dealt with—a chance to inform themselves in preparation for media inquiries, rather than being blindsided on announcement day.

This embargo system is controversial. Some people assail it on grounds that the journals use it to promote themselves, enhancing their own reputation and fortunes through manipulation of both scientists and the media. Some argue that a reporter sacrifices a degree of independence by accepting the arrangement and that the secrecy imposed on scientists impedes the free flow of information to others in their field and to reporters trying to conduct enterprising investigations.

Ordinarily, the orchestrated delay in the release of scientific information does not directly affect the public good. The issue of
timing,
for both scientists and journalists, usually matters more in terms of narrow effects such as who gets to claim credit. In certain cases where human health or lives might be jeopardized and timing matters a great deal (such as the discovery that a widely used drug is harmful), the process can be short-circuited accordingly.

In any case, journalists are free to go after stories independent of the embargo constraints, as Leonard David did, by not signing up or by getting the story well before an embargo went into effect. In fact, the advent of the Internet has made it easier for interested parties to get their hands on all sorts of preliminary reports and data—long before it reaches the embargo stage but also, often, well before it passes through peer review and other reliability-enhancing wickets.

On this Tuesday, the week before the planned announcement, no embargoed information had been sent out. The restrictions were not yet in force. The story at this point presumably was fair game for anybody who could ferret it out.

Even after the news began to surface, however, the embargo system cast a shadow. Dick Zare, for example, felt that the rules prohibited him, as an author of the paper, from revealing its import in advance to colleagues at the National Science Foundation—even though he was head of the foundation’s National Science Board and even though the foundation had funded the Antarctic research program that made possible Robbie Score’s discovery of the rock in 1984. Some at the foundation would express annoyance over this general state of affairs. For critics of the embargo system, it was useful fodder. And the ghost of the embargo (embodying the larger issue of who gets to control the information) would haunt the increasingly strident exchanges between
Science
magazine and NASA as Terrible Tuesday unfolded.

Broadbent and her coworkers saw only two choices in front of them: either release material describing the McKay group’s paper and thereby help the universe of reporters get the story right or stick by the embargo and let a few journalists run with incomplete or inaccurate reports. From the day the McKay paper arrived, the staff had known that this one would be a big deal. They had taken extraordinary measures at every turn in its handling.

Like the scientists in Building 31, the magazine cloaked the topic of the rock in unusual secrecy. Unlike the typical submission, the McKay paper was not mentioned at the weekly meetings where
Science
editors discussed such things. At first, the knowledge was confined to three or four of the most senior people at the magazine. Gradually, additional members of the AAAS or
Science
staff were informed on a strictly “need to know” basis, and always behind closed doors.

One morning a few months earlier, not long after the McKay paper arrived in their hands,
Science
editor Brooks Hansen strolled into the communications suite to inform Nan Broadbent about the claims of possible Martian organisms. Broadbent and her staff had a “need to know” because they had to be involved in discussions with the authors of the paper and with NASA public affairs, among others. They were responsible for preparing the material that would be distributed to reporters.

In early summer (well before Goldin and Huntress made their visit to the White House with the news), she heard a rumor that, on a trip to Russia, Goldin had told Vice President Gore about the McKay findings. Concerned about a leak, she contacted her friend Rick Borchelt, a public affairs officer for the White House science adviser, to find out. Over dinner, she told him the story of the rock—in confidence—and asked about the rumor. Word came back that Goldin had told John Gibbons, the president’s science adviser, in general terms to expect something stunning. Goldin had said nothing to Gore at that point. But now, by early July, at least one person at the White House knew the secret.

Broadbent and her assistant also confided in the ailing Carl Sagan, sending him a copy of the paper. Although he would be counted as one of the paper’s reviewers, Broadbent had another motivation: she asked if he’d be willing to write about the Mars rock in his weekly column for
Parade
magazine, as a way of lending credibility to the story.

As the summer passed, Broadbent went through several exchanges with NASA about when to publish McKay’s paper. NASA wanted the date set for as early as possible, August 9, in order to forestall leaks. But the logistics—the give-and-take with the reviewers and other aspects of preparing the paper for publication—dictated the later date, August 16. From as early as July 17, however, NASA was planning for the possibility of “a press conference on August 5, 6 or 7.”

Because of the sensational nature of this particular paper,
Science
adjusted its own procedures. With encouragement from NASA, the magazine agreed not to send out advance copies of the Mars rock story until just three days ahead of the publication date instead of the usual six—to limit the leak opportunities. Also, the magazine planned to lift the embargo two hours early on August 15, the day of NASA’s planned press conference, so that journalists in Asia and Australia could make their deadlines.

On the subject of leaks, NASA’s Don Savage passed along to the
Science
staff the stated policy of his boss, Laurie Boeder, NASA’s top public affairs official: “If we [NASA] received a call from a bona fide major media [representative] who had the story cold, wanted confirmation of it from NASA, and was going to break the embargo, we would have to give it to them and hold a press conference ASAP.” The magazine staff balked at this, telling Savage that if there were a leak, it would likely come
from
NASA.

When things later went sour between NASA and
Science,
some participants would attribute it to simple frustration that everybody’s hard work and planning—or, as some outsiders would say, their efforts to manipulate the media—were falling into a shambles. Each side was venting and sniping against the other. For some, though, the events of the frenzied forty-eight-hour span would leave abiding resentments.

Early on Terrible Tuesday, Broadbent went to tell her boss, Richard S. Nicholson, the publisher of
Science
and CEO of the AAAS, what was going on. He was in his office but in a meeting with the door closed. Broadbent plastered Post-it notes all over the door, all saying some variation of “Call me.”

Around ten
A
.
M
., he called her. They discussed their options.

A communications officer on Broadbent’s staff handled the calls to NASA—at first. But that staffer eventually came to Broadbent frustrated and upset, saying she had “had it” with NASA. That Laurie Boeder, the staffer said, was unbelievably rude. She wouldn’t let you finish your sentences. She would raise her voice and say things like “Who are you to tell NASA or Dan Goldin what to do?” The staffer refused to have further dealings with NASA or Boeder. Broadbent took over the negotiations and soon found herself having the same reaction.

The magazine was now in a full-blown head-butting conflict with NASA about how to handle the erupting media frenzy. Even though the space agency had for weeks urged the earliest possible release of the information in order to head off a leak, now that the breach had occurred, it was the NASA team that wanted to postpone a full-bore response. Boeder argued adamantly that the magazine should hold on to the bulk of official information about the rock until the next day, Wednesday, by which time NASA could gather the scientists for a press conference and release the news in an orderly fashion. Everybody should stay collected, calm, and cool and not get stampeded.

Broadbent decided to go the other way and release the material to the media in the interests of fairness and to ensure accurate and complete reports. She told Boeder so. But then, to her almost immediate regret, she “blinked.” Boeder talked her into reversing herself and holding off on a press release. Broadbent’s staff was aghast. Broadbent
re-
rethought her position. The NASA approach would work only if no information got out. This would require the newspeople who had been calling to hold off on running the story. And was there any reason to believe they would do that? Only that NASA had assured her they would. Broadbent thought of President Reagan’s Cold War dictum “Trust but verify.” So she called the reporters back and, sure enough, they told her no way; they were not waiting. They were going public this same day with whatever facts they could ferret out. NASA, they indicated, had even given them the go-ahead.

Around the offices of
Science
magazine and AAAS, the dispute was colored by a perception that NASA was deviously trying to take control of the story and maximize the agency’s own press attention. Now
Science
staffers learned that NASA officials were essentially confirming the story—for those few reporters who called and asked—while requesting that the magazine withhold information from the rest.

Broadbent got Boeder on the phone again and said, “We’re not playing.” Broadbent had decided to revert to her original plan to release the material to everybody as soon as possible. Letting just a couple of outlets release the story, she said, would put
Science
in the awkward position of seeming unfair or dishonest toward the universe of other reporters.

Boeder was irate. She accused Broadbent of flip-flopping. “Yeah,” Broadbent answered. “Our job is to release information in a proper manner. . . . Giving it out in spurts is not in the tradition of AAAS.”

The hard-charging Boeder was a Clinton political appointee who for three years had been in the blast danger zone as Goldin’s chief lieutenant for communications with the public. She understood that the story of the rock was extraordinarily high profile, not to mention potentially profound. But it was one of many high-visibility events parading through her calendar, such as a comet colliding with Jupiter and a historic agreement to cooperate with Russia in space.

The NASA hierarchy felt a strong sense of ownership of the Martian meteorite story. The agency’s DNA carried the 1958 instruction from its congressional creators that it should “provide for the widest practicable and appropriate dissemination of information concerning its activities and the results thereof.” And in this case, not only had the agency paid for the main research, but there was the added factor of Goldin’s intense personal interest. At the same time, the NASA people were acutely aware that there was not much of a story without the imprimatur of
Science
magazine to give the claims a degree of credibility NASA alone could not bestow. Accordingly, NASA managers gave the magazine what—in their view, at least—was prominent and fair credit in their press statements about the rock.