Image Credit: DAW Books
Excerpt from "The Son of Heaven"
By Eric Choi
In The Dragon and the Stars, edited by Derwin Mak and Eric Choi, DAW Books, ISBN 978-0-7564-0618-9, 2010, pp.205-227
Tsien Hsue-shen was born in 1911, in the last weeks of Chinese imperial history, and at 23 traveled to the U.S. to study aeronautical engineering at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Preferring theory to the practice that MIT then emphasized, he soon moved to Caltech and began to follow a path that would lead to his becoming one of the most eminent rocket scientists in the U.S.
Aviation Week & Space Technology
2007 Person of the Year
Pasadena, California
September 7, 1950
They came for him in the late afternoon.
The two agents from the Immigration and Naturalization Service strode up the walk to the small one-storey redwood clapboard and brick house at the end of East Buena Loma Court. Arriving at the front door, one of the agents knocked.
Jiang Ying opened the door, her baby daughter Yung-jen in her arms.
“Is this the Tsien residence?”
“Yes.”
The agents flashed identification. One produced a piece of paper.
“We have a warrant for the arrest of Mr. H.S. Tsien.”
Jiang Ying silently stepped aside. The baby began to cry.
The INS agents entered the house and surveyed the small, sparsely furnished living room. In the corner, at the foot of a bookshelf, two-year-old Yucon cowered, his eyes wide.
“Mr. Tsien!”
Tsien Hsue-shen appeared, his expression resigned. His hands were clasped over his stomach, as if nursing a wound.
“Please come with us.”
#
Shanghai, China
August 1935
As the steamship President Jackson pulled away from dock, Tsien watched the crowd at the pier recede into the distance. Tsien Chia-chih, his father, and Chang Langdran, his mother, were still waving. The name they had given him, Hsue-shen, meant “study to be wise”, reflecting all the hopes they had for him.
The Jackson turned for open water, picking up speed. Tsien took a deep breath and thought about the irony of his good fortune: his post-graduate education in America was made possible by a conflict between China and the United States.
Under the terms of the 1901 peace treaty following the Boxer Rebellion, the victorious foreign powers imposed reparations against China. But the American share of the indemnity turned out to be twice the amount of actual U.S. claims. President Theodore Roosevelt decided to return the surplus by establishing the Boxer Rebellion Indemnity Scholarship, allowing the best and brightest Chinese students to study in the United States.
Tsien looked out to sea, to the new ocean before him.
#
California Institute of Technology
March 1937
“...and the older woman says, ‘There’s a terrible curse attached to this diamond.’ So the young woman asks, ‘What curse?’” Paul Epstein paused dramatically. “The older woman lowers her voice and says, ‘Mister Plotnick.’”
Theodore von Kármán shared a laugh with his colleague from the Physics Department. The two professors were in von Kármán’s office, taking a break from grading undergraduate exams.
“And when will you be cursing some unfortunate woman, Theodore?” Epstein asked.
The old aerodynamicist grinned mischievously. “I never found the need to.”
There was a knock at the door.
Von Kármán looked up. “Oh, come in, Hsue-shen.”
Tsien walked into the office, dressed in a suit and tie as he always did on campus. He was a short man, with a smooth round face that looked younger than his twenty-six years. He parted his thin black hair awkwardly on one side.
“Professor Epstein,” Tsien said, standing straight. But when addressing his doctoral supervisor, he bowed slightly. “Von Kármán laoshī.” He handed over a stack of papers. “Here is the numerical analysis of the transfer functions you asked for.”
“Thank you, Hsue-shen. I have something for you as well.” Von Kármán rummaged through the journals and papers scattered across his desk. “You mentioned that you want to learn about rockets.” He pulled out a journal, folded it open to a page, and handed it to his student.
Tsien read the names of the authors. “Frank Malina and William Duncan Rennie.”
“Bill is in Canada, visiting his parents,” said von Kármán. “But Frank is around. You should meet him.”
“Thank you, von Kármán laoshī.” Tsien turned and left the office.
Epstein looked at von Kármán. “What did he call you?”
“It means ‘old teacher’,” von Kármán explained.
Epstein understood. “He respects you greatly.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“Tsien was in my relativistic quantum course,” Epstein continued. “He is brilliant.”
“Yes, he is good,” von Kármán said. “The other Chinese students have a nickname for him: ‘The Son of Heaven’.”
“Tell me,” Epstein said with a twinkle in his eye, “Do you think he has Jewish blood?”
#
Arroyo Seco, California
October 1937
They were called the Suicide Squad.
Lead by Frank Malina, with the sponsorship of von Kármán, they were a mad monk outfit of Caltech graduate students and local enthusiasts that conducted rocket experiments. After an unfortunate incident in the Gates Chemistry Building, the group was exiled from campus and forced to continue their work at Arroyo Seco, a dry river bed canyon a few miles from Caltech.
Malina, Tsien, and Rennie, along with a chemist named John Parsons and a mechanic named Edward Forman, had worked until 3:00 AM to prepare a rocket motor for their latest test. After catching a few hours of sleep, they drove at dawn to Arroyo Seco and mounted the motor onto its test stand. They connected the fuel and oxidizer lines, then piled sandbags around the apparatus before retreating to their viewing site.
Malina handed Tsien the trigger. “Will you do the honors?”
Tsien pressed the button. The rocket motor ignited, bright flame leaping from the nickel-steel nozzle into the early morning air.
The five young men cheered.
Rennie checked his stopwatch. “Forty-four seconds and counting. That’s a record, guys!”
Parsons pointed. “What’s that other flame there?”
“I believe the fuel line has broken,” Tsien said calmly. “It is on fire.”
Malina’s eyes widened. “Uh, guys...Run!”
The Suicide Squad fled across the canyon, moments before the rocket engine exploded behind them.
#
Pasadena, California
December 1938
Tsien was in a foul mood.
Last night, he had gone to see The Adventures of Robin Hood, taking a break from the stress of finishing his Ph.D thesis. A patron at the theater had demanded the usher eject Tsien from his seat. He did not want to sit next to an Asian.
Someone knocked gently on the corner of his desk. Tsien looked up. It was Frank Malina, his tall, lean frame towering over the desk. His angular face, topped by a short crop of curly dark hair, sported a razor-fine moustache.
“Are you all right?” Malina asked.
“Yes.”
Malina looked skeptical, but continued. “Hey, do you know Sid Weinbaum?”
“No.”
“Sid’s one of the research assistants in the Chemistry Department. He’s throwing a party at his place tomorrow tonight. Do you want to go?”
The following evening, Tsien and Malina found themselves strolling up the walk to Sidney Weinbaum’s small gray bungalow on Steuben Street. Inside the house, some twenty or thirty Caltech students were sprawled out on the furniture and chairs of the living room. Tsien and Malina had come neatly dressed in vests, ties, and polished shoes – a dignified contrast to the sloppily attired Bohemian crowd around them.
Normally a loner at social events, Tsien found it surprisingly easy to talk with this group. He found sympathetic ears for his outrage at the recent Japanese atrocities in Nanjing. They discussed other international crises, including the Great Depression and the rise of fascism in Europe. Someone suggested Tsien should read the works of John Strachey.
Later, after refreshments were served, Tsien found himself talking to an attractive young blonde, telling her about his idea for a transcontinental rocketliner that could travel from New York to Los Angeles in an hour. Even trips to the Moon, Tsien told her, might be possible in the near future.
The young woman listened for a while, then smiled politely and excused herself. Perhaps she thought the strange little Chinaman had been drinking too much.
#
Caltech
November 1943
Blackboards went around all three sides of the lecture hall. Tsien had already filled two of them with his small, precise handwriting, and was well into the third, the chalk making gentle squeaks as he wrote.
“Professor Tsien, I don’t understand the third equation on the second board.”
Tsien continued to write without responding.
Moments later, another voice called out. “Sir, are you going to answer his question?”
“That was a statement of fact, not a question.”
Finally, with the third blackboard filled, Tsien completed the last equation with a flourish and put down the chalk.
A timid hand was raised. “Sir, this method you have here, using the calculus of variations – is it foolproof?”
Tsien gave the student a cold stare. “Only fools need foolproof methods.”
“Sir, we’ve had no quizzes, no midterms, no problem sets. Can you at least tell us something about the exam?”
“If you understand everything, you will be fine.” His patience exhausted, Tsien turned and strode briskly out of the lecture hall.
A few days later, Tsien was called into von Kármán’s office.
“Hsue-shen, a number of students have come to me expressing...concerns about your class.” Von Kármán had lost weight and appeared to be in poor health. “You might consider changing your approach.”
“Von Kármán laoshī, we are not teaching kindergarten. This is graduate school!”
“From my experience,” von Kármán continued, “a good lecture is when one-third of them understand what you are talking about, a third has a pretty good idea, and the rest have no clue.”
Tsien shook his head. “I am interested only in lecturing to people who understand everything.”
“I know you prefer to do research,” von Kármán said, “but as a professor you must recognize that teaching is also an important part of your responsibilities.”
Tsien nodded. “I will do better, von Kármán laoshī.”
#
Mojave Desert, California
December 10, 1944
The Private A rocket sat poised at the base of its inclined launch tower, an angular grey metallic truss that stuck out starkly against the beige desert floor. On the horizon, the sharp peaks of the Granite Mountains could be seen.
Tsien focused his binoculars on the Private A. The rocket was small, barely eight feet in length, with four stubby tail fins for stabilization. Its main engine was augmented with four solid propellant boosters, which together would deliver over twenty thousand pounds of thrust in less than one-fifth of a second at the moment of lift-off.
As Tsien lowered his binoculars, he marveled at how far they had come since the crazy days of the Suicide Squad. Their experiments had eventually attracted the attention of the U.S. Army Ordnance Corps, which began funding Caltech to advance the development of long-range rockets. With von Kármán’s endorsement, Tsien obtained a security clearance to work on the military projects. A new institution, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, was established to carry out the research.
“Any news on Theodore?” Frank Malina asked. Von Kármán had recently undergone surgery for intestinal cancer.
Tsien shook his head. “The operation went poorly. He is still not well.”
The eyes of the Caltech engineers and Army personnel were focused on the distant rocket.
“Here we go,” whispered Malina.
There was a flash of flame, a cloud of smoke and sand billowed out, and the Private A raced up the rails of the launch tower. It cleared the structure and streaked into the heavens, a small black cruciform soaring against a crystal blue sky.
The onlookers cheered and patting each other on the back. It was the first successful launch of a large solid-fuelled rocket in the United States.
#
Shanghai, China
July 1947
Jiang Ying sang like an angel.
Her powerful soprano voice soared from the stage to the highest rafters of the Lanxin Theatre. Dressed in an elegant silk qipao, her lustrous black hair gleamed like lacquer under the lights, accentuating her delicate cheekbones and unblemished skin. She was the most beautiful woman Tsien had ever seen.
This was his first visit back to China since he set sail on the Jackson twelve years ago. His mother had passed away in his absence, but his father was still alive, and Tsien had spent several weeks with him in Hangzhou.
He was now in Shanghai, and earlier in the day had delivered a keynote speech at his alma mater Jiaotong University. It was at the dinner following his speech that Tsien was offered the presidency of Jiaotong. The recital at the Lanxin was the final gift from his hosts.
The audience was on its feet before Jiang Ying’s final note had faded.
Tsien bribed his way backstage and somehow managed to find his way to her dressing room. She actually came out to see him, thinking to indulge another autograph seeker. But Tsien had other ideas.
“Will you go out with me?” It was all he could think to say. He was, after all, just an engineer.
Jiang Ying was annoyed. It was by far the worst pick-up line she had ever heard. But she said yes.
Tsien Hsue-shen and Jiang Ying were married less than two months later.
#
Caltech
June 6, 1950
It was raining the day the FBI came to Tsien’s office.
“Can I help you?” Tsien asked.
“I’m agent Hanssen, FBI. This is agent Roberts.” They flashed identification and sat without being invited.
“What do you want?”
“Let me get right to the point,” Hanssen said. “Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”
In shock, Tsien was unable to answer for several moments. Finally, he said, “Absolutely not.”
Roberts produced a picture. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes. That is Sidney Weinbaum.”
“What is your relationship with Mr. Weinbaum?” Hanssen asked.
“He was a research assistant in the Chemistry Department. I used to go to his parties when I was a Ph.D student, but I have not seen him recently. How is he?”
Roberts leaned forward. “Mr. Tsien, are you aware that these so-called ‘parties’ were in fact meetings of Professional Unit 122 of the Pasadena Communist Party?”
“No!” Tsien exclaimed.
Hanssen produced a piece of paper. “This is a copy of a membership list dated February 1, 1938. Your name is on this list, associated with the alias ‘John Decker’.”
Tsien’s face was ashen. “This is impossible!” he stammered. “I am not a Communist! I have never been a Communist! I have no idea how I got onto such a list. I have never heard the name John Decker.”
The FBI men waited for Tsien to calm down. Then, Hanssen said, “Tell me about Weinbaum. Would you say he’s a loyal American?”
Tsien struggled to answer. “I am an engineer, and as an engineer, the only yardstick I have to measure anything is data. Since data cannot be applied to such intangibles as a person’s character or political beliefs, I cannot speculate on the loyalty of Mr. Weinbaum.”
Hanssen and Roberts looked at each other, then closed their notebooks and stood.
“That will be all for now,” Hanssen said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Later that day, Tsien received a hand-delivered letter from the headquarters of the Sixth Army at the Presidio in San Francisco, informing him that the U.S. Government had revoked his security clearance.