At twenty-four Dr. Gerald V. Bull looks almost as young as a Buck Rogers fan or ají embryo space cadet. But for him the fantastic world of guided missiles and sound barriers has already come true


WHEN four scientists from Canada’s Defense Research Board visited Washington in March 1951 Canadian liaison officials held a cocktail party to introduce them to U. S. experts engaged in similar research. An American scientist’s wife, bored with the highly technical discussions, sized up a spectacularly youthful-looking member of the Canadian party and settled down beside him for a less scholarly conversation. After a few minutes the woman’s husband joined them and introduced the Canadian as “Dr. Bull.”

The woman stared at the Canadian. “Dr. Bull!” she exclaimed. “You can’t be a scientist too? You’re only a baby!”

Dr. Gerald Vincent Bull’s boyish face would pass him off in any after-four soda-fountain crowd as just another high-school student, but he has already won a spot in the upper echelon of Canada’s defense scientists.

Jerry Bull — he is twenty - four and doesn’t look that — is DRB’s chief aerodynamicist at its Canadian Armament Research and Development Establishment (CARDE for short, pronounced “cardy”) near Valcartier, north of Quebec City. He ranks among Canada’s leading experts in supersonic aerodynamics — the science newer and more baffling than atomic science which is studying the problem of shock waves and resistance produced when flight speeds approach the velocity of sound.

His joh at CARDE is one of several hush-hush assignments out of which Canada hopes to develop its own version of a guided missile which, together with British and U. S. models, may in a few years crowd conventional piloted warplanes into obsolescence and bring push-button warfare and even space travel only a step away.

The project is a vast and highly organized effort in which scores of scientists at CARDE and at other undisclosed points are working. On the team are electronic experts, rocket-propulsion engineers, explosive experts, aerodynamicists, and physicists.

Jerry Bull’s contribution is the missile’s aerodynaxnic design, the first of many problems to be solved. Bull has to give “the bird,” as the missile is known, a body, wings and control fins which will provide stability and precise manoeuvrability at speeds faster than that of a rifle bullet. Its design will have to overcome the shock waves of explosive force which bar the transition zone between subsonic and supersonic speeds. And, buffeted by these shock waves, it will still have to possess instantaneous response to its steering fins, for, even ai the relatively slow missile speed of a thousand miles an hour, a time lag of one second in steering response could mean tlxat it would be a quarter of a mile off coux*se. Its control surfaces must act with the same instantaneous precision at slow take-off speeds and at top supersonic speed, in high thin air or at hedge-hopping altitude, with a full fuel load or at the end of its flight when it is little more than a hollow shell with only its deadly warhead left. Finally, the problem of surface friction heat which at high speeds can melt metals must be solved by a combination of aerodynamic and metallurgie research.

The guided missile will decide the balance of air power within the next decade or two. Aircraft speeds and performance have continued to improve but pilots have remained flesh and blood, and the time is rapidly approaching when human pilots will no longer be able to react fast enough to control supersonic planes.

“Before planes are improved much more we’ll have to eliminate the pilot,” says Bull. “And when you’ve done that you have a guided missile.”

A guided missile is simply a bomb with stubhy wings that flies itself and can be controlled by radar from the ground or from a nearby mother plane. When perfected, guided missiles will be launched from one plane against another, from auto ground, from ground to air or from ship to shore. If the target tries evasive tactics, the missile will change course and trail its target like a bloodhound. It will drop unerringly on ground targets without warning, moving so fast that it leaves even its own sound behind.

Since the days of the German V-2, the Model T of guided missiles which might have won the war for the Nazis had they had it a year earlier, many experimental missiles have been tested by Britain and the U. S. They have ranged from the size of an artillery shell to that of a large bomber, from five hundred pounds in weight to fifty thousand pounds. Their speed has varied from six hundred to three thousand miles an hour, their range from one mile to five thousand miles. The U. S. is said to have a long-range missile now nearing perfection easily capable of flying from North America to targets in Europe. According to a current U. S. army joke, missile firers are warned to duck when a long-range “bird” takes off to save themselves from being hit in the back of the head in case the missile circles the globe.

One of the difficult problems facing thirty - six - year - old DRB electronics expert, Gordon Watson, the project’s chief engineer, is the finding of supersonic aerodynamicists to work under Bull. Bull, who is still waiting for a chance to cast his first ballot in an election (he was attending a U. S. aerodynamic conference at the time of the last federal election), is to have a number of other aerodynamicists under his supervision. The field urgently needs new recruits.

The importance of what Jerry Bull is doing is attested by the frequency of the red ink Top .Secret stamps which mark many of the documents on his desk and by the heavy padlocks which guard his filing cabinet.

People who meet Trim for the first time sometimes find it hard to disassociate young Dr. Bull from the bizarre, miraculous world of space cadets and breakfast-food death rays in which so many young men not much younger than he are dreaming of the scientific future. Actually Bull was a model-aircraft fanatic as a boy but he was able to take his Buck Rogers or leave it alone. Originally he thought vaguely of becoming a poet, and poetry remains his most absorbing interest next to aerodynamics.

in his modest third-floor boardinghouse room, a stone’s throw from where General Wolfe died, his personal library is a strange mixture of equation-filled textbooks and poetry anthologies. After a busy day of plotting air-flow graphs he frequently relaxes by wandering alone across the Plains of Abraham and reconstructing the 1759 battle which was the great turning point in Canadian history. Then he crawls into bed with a book of poems. His favorite is a volume of Longfellow in which The Day Is Done has been turned up

so often that the book opens automatically at that point:

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day.

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

One feature of the battle for Quebec which fascinates him is the fact that on the eve of the Plains of Abraham battle Wolfe led his army flotilla upstream reciting Gray’s Elegy In A Country Churchyard. “He was a good judge of poetry,” Bull comments. Wolfe is described as a rather odd and cultured personality who was difficult to understand intimately. Bull, a kindred type, would have understood him.

Bull is good-looking, of medium height and weight (five feet eight and one hundred and fifty pounds), with wavy almost-black hair and rather large compelling eyes. He talks vivaciously about his hobbies and expertly about hockey, but when the conversation swings around to himself he hedges skilfully and modestly. “If you have to write anything about the guided missile, get this straight—it’s a big job and what I’m doing is just a tiny part of it.”

Dr. Irvine I. Glass, a University of Toronto classmate, said of him: “He’s the easiest guy to get along with that I know. He gets you embroiled in terrific arguments sometimes, but just when you’re starting to get mad he winds it up somehow so that you go away liking him more than ever.”

He has the scientist’s characteristic impatience with loose generalities. If he can do it inoffensively he sometimes delights in tearing a friend’s opinions apart when he suspects the opinions are based on inadequate background knowledge. He finds other hockey fans favorite quarry. For this purpose he always posed as a minority voice in Toronto supporting the Montreal Canadiens, but when he moved into Canadien territory at Quebec he suddenly switched and became a Toronto Maple Leafs fan.

Like most young bachelors, he will also argue about girls. “Quebec girls for the most part are prettier than those of most cities I’ve seen, and I’ve looked over a lot of them,” he says. “They’re either frowsy or so goodlooking they knock you over. There are no in-betweens.” But Bull has little time for dating. So far as his closest associates know he has no steady girl friend.

Bull was born March 9, 1928, at North Bay, Ont., the second youngest of a family of ten children—three girls and seven boys. His father, George L. T. Bull, KC, had the reputation of being one of the best criminal lawyers in Canada. His mother, Gertrude LaBrosse, was born in North Bay, daughter of one of the north’s original prospectors. When Jerry was three the family moved to Toronto where the father quickly established a busy law practice. But his mother died unexpectedly a few months later and his father decided to retire. The father and nine children (one of Jerry’s sisters was now married) moved to the old family homestead near Trenton, east of Toronto, and an aunt, Miss Laura Bull, who was a retired nurse became Jerry’s second mother.

When Jerry was six his father, who died three years ago, remarried and returned to Toronto to practice law again. Jerry and three brothers were taken in by a married sister who lived at Sharbot Lake, north of Kingston. When he was nine Jerry spent a summer vacation with an aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Philip LaBrosse, on a sixtyeight-acre orchard, two miles east of Kingston. He fell in love with the old orchard —a love he still wistfully proclaims.

The insecurity of his childhood had left him shy and nervous. He wanted to remain with his aunt and uncle, but he was afraid to say so. On the last day, when the return for school could not be postponed any longer, Mr. and Mrs. LaBrosse drove him back to Sharbot Lake. When they arrived they discovered that nine-year-old Jerry had brought an empty suitcase—his clothes were still back in the farmhouse by the orchard.

He had to go back to Kingston. Aunt Edith LaBrosse became his fourth and final mother.

“1 have no recollection of my real mother,” Jerry says, “but no boy ever had finer parents than l had in Aunt Edith and Uncle Phil.” And no parents are prouder of a son than Mr. and Mrs. LaBrosse are of Jerry Bull.

The LaBrosses had arranged to spend that winter in Florida. Uncle Phil took Jerry to Regiopolis College, a Jesuit resident school for boys in Kingston, where, as an undersized lad of nine, he encountered a problem that has dogged him ever since. The headmaster looked him over sternly. “How old?” “Nine.” “Sorry, the laddie’s too young.” But the headmaster agreed to admit Jerry on the understanding he be removed as soon as the LaBrosses returned. Two months later Uncle Phil called in again to pick up Jerry. The headmaster’s attitude had changed: “He’s a fine boy, that. An excellent student. It’s very bad, changing schools in midterm. Jerry should stay here.” So Jerry spent six years at Regiopolis.

That first year with the LaBrosses, a small boy for nine and still believing in Santa Claus, he had his first real Christmas. He had had few toys in his life before. He was introduced to aerodynamics by a couple of balsa-wood model-plane building kits. The delicate adjustments of wing angles and balance required to make a model fly fascinated him. After that he made model planes, flew them and wrecked them as fast as he could induce his aunt and uncle to supply him with kits. Later he abandoned the prefabricated kits and designed his own.

“He was always building planes,” recalls Mrs. LaBrosse. “When I went shopping he insisted in coming along to make sure I bought the breakfast cereal with the plane designs on the box. It didn’t matter whether it was eaten or not.”

Periodically, and admittedly with less success, he tried creating poetry instead of planes. Most of his poems seemed to be about the old orchard. He is thankful today that none of them was preserved.

In 1942 the LaBrosses moved to Toronto. Jerry liked Regiopolis so well that the next year he returned and completed his senior matriculation there. He was only sixteen, but he thought his school days had ended. That summer of 1944, he went to work —back in the old Kingston orchard for its new owner.

But in Toronto his aunt and uncle were discussing other plans. Early in September LaBrosse wrote to Jerry. Would he like to be a doctor? Jerry wrote back immediately. He didn’t want to be a doctor, but the University of Toronto was opening a new fouryear course in aeronautical engineering, and this he was interested in. If his aunt and uncle weuld support him for another two years, he was sure he could finance the last two by working summers.

LaBrosse went to arrange for Jerry’s enrolment. The problem of age reared its head again. “It’s too difficult a

course for a sixteen-year-old to start,” he was told. LaBrosse argued. The professor agreed to have a look at the boy. Jerry came to Toronto, the professor talked with him for a few minutes and accepted him as the youngest member of the course.

Four years later he graduated as a bachelor of applied science in aeronautical engineering, and took a drafting job with A. V. Roe aircraft company near Toronto.

During his four years of study, aircraft development had slowed almost to a stop because of the sonic barrier problem.

Supersonics was a new and unknown field that had been only briefly touched by Jerry in his aeronautical engineering. The riddle of the shock wave was an intriguing challenge to him. But at A. V. Roe there was no opportunity for him to work on supersonics.

At this time, 1948, the Institute of Aerophysics for research and teaching in supersonic aerodynamics was being established under Dr. Gordon N. Patterson at the University of Toronto. The institute was sponsored and largely financed by the government’s Defense Research Board. Little actual teaching could be done, for supersonics was then so unexplored that students had to work on individual research projects and teach themselves. Accepted students were handed research assignments by DRB, were paid an honorarium of two thousand dollars a year and became more or less DRB employees. Their research work and theses then entitled them to MA and Ph.D degrees. DRB started the institute on its way with a grant of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Jerry resigned from A. V. Roe and applied for enrollment in the institute. His youth almost barred him again. Most applicants were much older students, many of them married veterans with overseas service. Bull, twenty but looking younger, appeared almost a child in comparison.

Institute students are selected with great care. Only twelve students can be accommodated at a time and, since Ph.D work requires a minimum of three years, only four can be accepted each year. It costs about sixteen thousand dollars to put a student through to Ph.D level in supersonic aerodynamics,

not counting the several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of equipment he must use in his research.

Bull appeared to the selection committee as too immature to gamble with. Patterson, however, recognized that he had rare qualities.

“As an undergraduate, he was a better-than-average student, but not an outstanding one,” Patterson recalls. “I’ve had more brilliant students academically. But he had shown tremendous energy. As I was to discover later, sometimes not too happily, he had terrific ability to stick with a tough job and get things done, no matter what the obstacles.”

These arguments Patterson put before the committee selecting the class of 1948. Fifteen other aeronauticalengineering graduates of the previous year had applied. Bull, the youngest, was the only one of this group accepted.

Bull began the most exhausting period of his life, and three years later left the Institute of Aerophysics fifteen pounds lighter, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and one of the youngest Ph.Ds the University of Toronto has ever turned out.

He threw himself completely into supersonics research, worked nights, week ends, at times around the clock. “He knows no hours,” Patterson says. “The average chap working with him a month would have to sleep three days afterward to catch up the sleep lost.”

Bull’s first task was to team up with Doug Henshaw, another student, on the designing of the institute’s first small supersonic wind tunnel. Aftep several months Bull and Henshaw were ready late one night to assemble their tunnel. It was to be about seven feet long. They discovered there wasn’t room enough in their tiny quarters at the University of Toronto. Bull decided there was no time to redesign the tunnel to fit the space, for they had to get moving on their research—the space had to be redesigned to fit the tunnel. And the tunnel would fit in one position if a ten-inch hole were knocked out of a partition so that one large valve could protrude into Dr. Patterson’s office. Patterson arrived next morning to discover his desk crowded into another corner and the wind-tunnel valve sticking through the wall where his desk had been

“That was recalls ruefully. “I was only beginning to get acquainted with Jerry Bull.”

Bull and Henshaw soon afterward had to start work on a larger wind tunnel. The air storage chamber, a metal tank about six feet high and three fee: in diameter, was being produced by an outside firm to their specifications. Late one afternoon the tank was delivered and Bull and Henshaw brought it up to their quarters on the elevator. They discovered the firm had not followed specifications exactly and the tank was about one inch too wide to go through the door. Bull wouldn’t consider waiting for another tank. They quietly left the tank outside in the hall, then that night returned and tore the door frame out to get the tank inside. Next day there were official enquiries about why the door frame at Room 36 was split and slightly askew. It had to be replaced.

‘‘I don’t know whether Dr. Patterson ever noticed that our tank was bigger than the door,” Bull says. “If he did he never mentioned it.”

Later Bull and Henshaw found it necessary—with Patterson’s reluctant coment—-to make further adjustments. Neit morning Patterson arrived, found that a partition had been entirely removed and that his office had practically disappeared. He had to climb over the top of the wind tunnel to reach his desk. His lips pressed thin in resignation, he climbed across it and went to work.

After that Bull and Henshaw were frequently sitting on the edge of Patterson’s desk as they worked with the wind tunnel. Periodically, as he tried to concentrate on desk work, Patterson was almost lifted from his chair by the ear-rending screech of a blast of air shooting at two or three times the speed of sound through the wind tunnel four or five feet away.

One morning late in the spring of 1949, when Jerry Bull was rushing work for his MA thesis, Patterson reached his mutilated office, climbed over the wind tunnel, pulled out his chair, sat down and thought he must have landed on a pin cushion. He leaped up and discovered the chair seat covered with splintered glass. Bull and Henshaw had got the wind tunnel working too well the night before, had pushed it up to three times the speed of sound and exploded the big four-foot-long observation windows in the side of the tunnel. Pulverized glass had covered everything and Patterson was finding glass chips among his books and papers for months afterward.

Patterson had been campaigning for new quarters for some time. The glass shower was the last straw. “I think he was getting fed up and I can’t blame him,” Bull says. A few months later the RCAF provided the Institute of

Aerophysics with much larger quarters at Downsview Airport, north of Toronto.

Bull’s first two supersonic wind tunnels were for preliminary study out of which DRB hoped that the institute could develop a much larger tunnel for more advanced research. As soon as the institute acquired its larger quarters work began at once on a huge twohundred-thousand-dollar tunnel to be capable of producing air speeds up to seven times the velocity of sound (5,500 miles an hour). Patterson

studied similar tunnels in the U. S., few of which were as large as the one planned for Downsview. On his return, he and his research associate at the institute, Dr. Irvine I. Glass, got the big project organized. Bull’s assignment was the design and perfection of the test section of the wind tunnel — the critical “nozzle” section where the highest air velocity had to be produced and where the actual testing of models was to take place.

The job took a year and a half. The vacuum tank required was much too large for the interior of the building and was built in the form of a forty-foot sphere against the outside of the building. Pumping the air out of it for the vacuum which, when the starting valve is opened, produces the supersonic air flow, takes over an hour, and the sphere is constructed of carefully fitted three-quarter-inch steel plate to withstand the pressure. The observation windows on the sides of the wind tunnel consist of one-and-a-quarter-inch glass.

Late in the summer of 1950 the wind tunnel was nearing completion and plans were made for a formal opening of the Institute of Aerophysics to be highlighted by a wind-tunnel demonstration on Sept. 26. It was to be a big affair. In addition to Canadian aeronautical and defense experts, officials were also to be present from Britain, the U. S., Australia, New Zealand and South Africa. Air Marshal W. A. Curtis of the RCAF would be present to push the button and give the wind tunnel its first official test.

Patterson, Glass, Bull and the other students were working night and day to have the tunnel completed in time. At the same time Bull was also hard at work on his Ph.D thesis.

“Jerry was working much too hard,” his aunt recalls of this period. “On nights that he didn’t stay at the institute he would come home, have dinner, go in his room to study and close the door at seven o’clock. At eleven or twelve when we were going to bed we would knock on his door and tell him he should get some sleep. Through the crack under the door we’d see his light go out. Then in a little while it would come back on again. He would wait until we were in bed, then he’d get up again and continue studying.”

On Sept. 23, three days before the big opening day, the wind tunnel was completed, everything tightened up and ready. That night they partially pumped out the big vacuum sphere and gave the wind tunnel a short test run. No attempt was made to get a supersonic air velocity, but in this incomplete test everything appeared to be satisfactory.

Next day the floor was being painted and they couldn’t get near the wind tunnel until late on the afternoon of Sept. 25, the final day. This time the vacuum sphere was completely pumped out and the starting button pushed for a full-scale test. The air screeched through. Everyone eyed the observation windows eagerly. But no shock wave appeared. The tunnel, designed to produce an air flow seven times the speed of sound, was falling short of even the speed of sound itself. Patterson &ßd hit students sta rea blankly at each other refusing to believe it. Could their year and a half of work and the expenditure of close to two hundred thousand dollars have been based on miscalculations?

When they examined the packing which kept the wind-tunnel section of the apparatus airtight a ray of hope appeared. There were signs that it might be leaking. But to repack it would require the removal and replacement of some four hundred nuts and bolts. There was no other way out. It had to be done.

About eleven o'clock that night Mit tedious repacking task was completed. Examination of the packing material had proven that it was faulty. Patterson and his men felt certain now that the wind tunnel would live up to its specifications. They were exhausted and it would take an hour or two to pump out the vacuum sphere for another test. The inexhaustible Jerry Bull and a couple of machinists volunteered to stay and give the tunnel another test while the others went home to sleep.

The vacuum sphere was pumped out

and, about one a.m., Jerry pushed the button for another test. The whine of air inside rose to an ear-splitting shriek. A clearly discernible shock wave formed. The wind tunnel was functioning perfectly, pulling the air through it at a speed well in excess of the velocity of sound. Jerry and the machinists gleefully started pounding each other on the back.

But it was all over in a few seconds. There was an explosive crash, a cóuple of echoing thuds, the wind tunnel shook, and the whine of air Pushing through it suddenly became silent.

Bull knew what had happened. Inside were two ten-foot-long blocks of wood which gave the tunnel its interior contour. The desired hardwood hadn’t been available in time and they had had to use softwood. Jerry knew withoutdismantling the tunnel that the intense suction of supersonic-flowing air had pulled the heads of the bolts through the wood and the blocks had ripped loose and shot like artillery shells against the vacuum sphere end of the tunnel.

To repair the damage meant removing and replacing those four-hundred_ odd nuts and bolts all over again. And now Jerry was alone except for two machinists. The dignitaries would be ! arriving for the grand opening in another twelve hours.

They had just begun dismantling the tunnel for the second time that night when a door opened and Dean Kenneth F. Tupper, head of the university engineering department, walked in. Tupper was driving home late alone, saw the lights of the institute still on, and dropped in. He was wearing a business suit, Bull and the machinists were in overalls. The dean threw off his coat, put on a smock and dug in. When someone had to crav.l into the tunnel to loosen bolts from the inside Tupper insisted on doing it himself.

“It was the most tedious job I ever did,” Bull says. “We’d never have been able to finish it if the dean hadn’t worked like a galley slave to help us.”

By 3.30 a.m. the wooden blocks were securely replaced, the tunnel fitted back together and ready for another test. No one felt like waiting for the sphere to be pumped out. The dean treated the boys to breakfast at an all-night restaurant and Bull went home for a couple of hours of sleep.

He was back at ten o’clock that morning. At eleven, with only two hours to spare, the wind tunnel was put through another test. This time there was no mishap. It worked perfectly. Patterson and the students relaxed and waited for the VIPs to arrive.

That afternoon Air Marshal Curtis pushed the button for the tunnel’s first official run. Nothing happened. Down near the front of the audience Jerry Bull started trembling. Patterson, j standing beside Air Marshal Curtis, j reached behind him and gave the button a harder poke. The switch had ‘ merely failed to make contact. This time the wind tunnel started up with a piercing whine.

About this time the RCAF had decided that if we waited for a perfected U. K. or U. S. model Canada would j probably not be able to start producing missiles of its own for years, because the other nations would have to concentrate on their own home production before they could start teaching the production technique to anyone else. By creating our own guided missile from scratch, Canadian defense authorities hoped to have a missile especially designed for Canadian requirements much sooner. At the same time the project, by encouraging young Canadian scientists to stay in Canada, would build up a team of Canadian experts experienced in missile production and handling, ready to swing into action the moment a guided missile is perfected.

The RCAF asked DRB to produce plans for a guided missile which could be turned over to industry for mass production. DRB appointed Gordon Wf.tson to recruit the required scientists and organize the research team. As project engineer Watson is responsible for co-ordinating the scattered research activities; as one of DRB’s highest qualified electronics scientists he is also directing the development of the missile’s intricate radar - controlled steering “brain.” Watson’s first move was to call in Gordon Patterson who, though a Canadian, is so widely recognized as a guided-missile authority that he has been appointed chairman of a U. S. Navy guided-missile consultant parel.

One of the first men Watson needed was a young aerodynamicist experienced in supersonics, hard-working and with flexible ideas that would enable him to co-operate closely with scientists working on other branches of the project. He had to be young simply because there are no aerodyramicists of the old school who have kept abreast of recent supersonics j developments. Patterson recommended | Jerry Bull.

At their first meeting Watson was i sure Bull was too immature for a poátion that would, before long, require him to direct the work of scientists much older than himself. But, after a half-hour interview, Bull had the job of making Canada’s guided missile fly.

He went to CARDE, polishing up his Ph.D thesis on the train during the trip, and returned to the University of Toronto to receive his doctorate in May 1951.

Since then, the story of what Jerry Bull has done is a top secret story hidden in the vaults and padlocked filing cabinets of CARDE. He has not remained at CARDE longer than a month at any one time because the need for consultation with British and U. S. scientists has taken him numerous times to Washington, Langley Field, Va., New York, San Francisco and, for a month last fall, on a tour of research establishments in Britain.

Defense Research Board officials will j say only that the boy who had no permanent home until he was nine “is I doing an outstanding job for Canada.” !

Two years ago Bull was offered j double his starting CARDE salary to join a U. S. government research ¡ project. He was told: “We don’t know j what you are earning now, but whatj ever it is we’ll double it.” But Jerry [ thinks Canada has been very kind to him and he stayed where he was.

Does he have any qualms about being employed on the creation of a weapon which, when fitted with an atomic bomb warhead, will be more fearsome than anything science has yet perfected? He is too deep a thinker not to have considered it.

“What we are learning about supersonic aerodynamics can have many civilian applications,” he states, “It can provide us with safer and faster air travel. It will help us to conquer space, man’s last frontier. Someday guided missiles may carry mail and express instead of a warhead, and a letter mailed in Vancouver could be in Halifax an hour later.”

As for the guided missile itself . . . “War will never occur until a nation planning aggression thinks it can win.

As long as the nations desiring peace can maintain better weapons than the nations desiring war there is a deterrent to aggression. Then they are not weapons of war, but weapons of peace.” ★