Erice Manuel: A Gateway to Scientific Collaboration and Innovation
The Erice Manuel represents a cornerstone in the pursuit of global scientific cooperation and ethical responsibility in scientific research. Named after the historic town of Erice in Sicily, Italy, the manual was born out of a series of international conferences held at the Ettore Majorana Foundation and Centre for Scientific Culture (EMFCSC). Founded by Professor Antonino Zichichi in 1963, the centre was established as a hub for some of the brightest scientific minds across various disciplines. Its purpose was to foster open dialogue and exchange of ideas in a setting removed from political constraints and distractions. Over the years, the Erice gatherings became symbolic of intellectual unity and the shared commitment to scientific progress for the betterment of humanity.
Origins and Evolution
The Erice Manuel was developed in response to the growing concern over the misuse of scientific discoveries, particularly during the Cold War era, when scientific advancements were increasingly being directed towards weapons development and geopolitical competition. Scientists from around the world began to recognize the urgent need for a formalized ethical framework that would guide their work and help ensure that science remained a force for peace and human development. The manual thus emerged as a document of principles, born from the discussions and deliberations of global experts who assembled at Erice. It was not simply a set of rules but a living document reflecting the consensus and moral compass of the scientific community.
Purpose and Principles
At its core, the Erice Manuel hoodie emphasizes the social responsibility of scientists. It urges researchers to consider the implications of their work, not only for technological or academic advancement but also for the impact on society, the environment, and global stability. The manual underscores values such as transparency, integrity, collaboration, and the ethical use of knowledge. By encouraging scientists to transcend national and ideological boundaries, it promotes the idea that science should be a tool for understanding and solving universal human problems, from climate change and public health to energy security and poverty eradication.
Global Impact and Endorsements
The influence of the Erice Manuel has been felt worldwide. It has been endorsed and supported by numerous Nobel Laureates and internationally recognized scientists, many of whom have contributed to its refinement and dissemination. These endorsements have helped elevate the manual to a symbol of scientific integrity. Institutions across the globe have drawn inspiration from it to shape their own codes of conduct and research guidelines. The manual's presence has also been noted in dialogues within the United Nations and other international bodies, particularly in areas concerning disarmament, sustainable development, and ethical technology use.
Scientific Culture and Interdisciplinary Collaboration
One of the distinguishing features of the Erice approach is its emphasis on cross-disciplinary collaboration. The Erice Manuel reflects this ethos by advocating for cooperation between physicists, biologists, chemists, medical researchers, and experts in social sciences and humanities. This interdisciplinary perspective is essential in a world where challenges are increasingly complex and interconnected. For example, addressing a global pandemic requires not only biomedical solutions but also understanding human behavior, communication strategies, and socio-economic impacts. The Erice framework recognizes that no discipline alone holds all the answers and that shared knowledge is key to solving real-world problems.
Education and Future Generations
A significant part of the Erice Manuel is its focus on education. It calls for the development of curricula and learning environments that instill ethical awareness and global responsibility in young scientists. Future generations must be equipped not only with technical skills but also with a deep understanding of the consequences their work can have. Erice has hosted numerous schools and seminars targeting early-career researchers, fostering mentorship, dialogue, and a sense of duty toward the global scientific community. The manual is often used in these settings as a foundational text for introducing ethical thinking into scientific practice.
A Living Document for a Changing World
Although the original concerns that led to the creation of the Erice Manuel were rooted in the tensions of the 20th century, the document remains highly relevant today. As artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and climate engineering pose new ethical and societal challenges, the need for a guiding framework like the Erice Manuel is more urgent than ever. The manual continues to evolve, with ongoing contributions from international experts who bring fresh perspectives to its interpretation and application. It stands as a testament to the belief that science, guided by conscience and collaboration, can be a transformative force for peace, equity, and sustainability.
TIME BUSINESS NEWS
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Washington Post
19 hours ago
- Washington Post
How nuclear war could start
To understand how it could all go wrong, look at how it almost did. If a nuclear war happens, it could very well start by accident. A decision to use the most destructive weapons ever created could grow out of human error or a misunderstanding just as easily as a deliberate decision on the part of an aggrieved nation. A faulty computer system could wrongly report incoming missiles, causing a country to retaliate against its suspected attacker. Suspicious activity around nuclear weapons bases could spin a conventional conflict into a nuclear one. Military officers who routinely handle nuclear weapons could mistakenly load them on the wrong vehicle. Any of these scenarios could cause events to spiral out of control. Such occurrences are not just possible plots for action movies. All of them actually happened and can happen again. Humans are imperfect, so nuclear near-misses and accidents are a fact of life for as long as these weapons exist. The next nuclear age This is the second article in a series by experts from the Federation of American Scientists examining why today's global nuclear landscape is far more complicated and, in many ways, more precarious than during the Cold War. Read part one. Previous Next Today, nine countries have nuclear weapons. Most deploy them in peacetime on some combination of planes, missiles and submarines. Being ready and able to use them is seen as necessary to make them effective; more than 2,000 weapons are on alert and ready for use on short notice. So mishaps and accidents will continue to happen, with unpredictable results. The extreme tensions of the Cold War fortunately never led to nuclear war, but the cocked-pistols deterrence of those decades produced plenty of close calls. Human error was a constant feature then and will remain an endemic risk in the new nuclear age — with more actors, faster and more complex technology, and more points of conflict and tension. To understand how it could all go wrong, it is useful to look at some examples of how it almost did. Blind man's bluff HMS Vanguard sits in dock at a submarine base in 2006 in Helensburgh, Scotland. (Jeff) In February 2009, a French ballistic-missile submarine (SSBN), Le Triomphant, carrying nuclear-armed strategic missiles, was conducting routine patrols in the Atlantic Ocean. At the same time, unknown to the French sub, the British HMS Vanguard SSBN, armed with its own nuclear-tipped missiles, was conducting a routine patrol nearby — too nearby. With 40 million square miles of open ocean, the two submarines collided. Had either or both been sunk, there might have been no simple way to determine the cause. And in a time of crisis or tension — say, with Russia or China — the confusion could easily have escalated to crisis. Advanced technology allows submarines to operate quietly, almost undetectably, in the vast space of the open ocean. This is accomplished through special propulsion systems engineered to be super-quiet and acoustic tile coatings on the hull that can absorb sonar waves, reducing the reflection that could make the submarine detectable. 'They make less noise than a shrimp,' the French defense minister said in explaining the collision. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement Because of this, submarines are the least vulnerable of nuclear weapons, giving the nations that deploy them confidence they will always be ready. But what if one is suddenly lost? Military leaders know their subs would be logical targets for attack submarines as a precursor to a broader nuclear assault. If a nation believed its subs had been attacked, it might feel bound to retaliate. Fortunately, in the 2009 collision, both subs were traveling at very low speed, no crew members were injured, and both the nuclear reactors and weapons remained undamaged in the incident. The French navy first reported its vessel had probably collided with a container ship. Though neither country was eager to discuss the incident, both submarines were visibly damaged. Still, they were able to return safely to their home ports. A member of Scotland's Parliament, Angus Robertson, reflected a general frustration when he said: The Defense Ministry 'needs to explain how it is possible for a submarine carrying weapons of mass destruction to collide with another submarine carrying weapons of mass destruction in the middle of the world's second-largest ocean.' You might think this was a once-in-40-million accident, but it is by no means the only submarine collision between nuclear powers. The Russian B-276 Kostroma. (Russian Navy) The nuclear-powered attack submarine USS Grayling on July 25, 1993. (OS2 John Bouvia/U.S. National Records and Archives Administration) In March 1993, the USS Grayling, an attack sub operating near Russia's Kola Peninsula, struck the Novomoskovsk, a Russian Delta IV-class ballistic-missile submarine. The vessel, which could carry 16 ballistic missiles with an estimated 64 nuclear warheads, suffered a large dent in its outer hull. A similar incident occurred the year before when a U.S. Los Angeles-class submarine collided with a Russian Sierra-class attack submarine about 14 miles out of Russia's naval port in Murmansk. That's because U.S. attack submarines routinely — and to this day — work day and night to find and track Russian strategic submarines, just as Russian submarines do the same to American, British and French vessels. Had this happened during a crisis or early phase of a conventional war, the accidental sinking of a ballistic missile submarine could well trigger an overreaction — and potential nuclear confrontation. (In these two cases, both sides immediately realized what had happened, and a crisis was averted.) Just imagine if such a collision had happened in October 2022, amid rumors that Russia was considering nuclear strikes in Ukraine. Too hot to handle Such risks are not just for nuclear superpowers. As recent events demonstrate, South Asia remains a potential nuclear flash point. U.S. officials initially sought to avoid any involvement in the clash between India and Pakistan in May, but the United States was eventually drawn into mediation when Indian drones struck Pakistan's Nur Khan air base in Rawalpindi, near the capital Islamabad. That base is also close to the headquarters of Pakistan's Strategic Plans Division, a key hub in the country's nuclear command and control system. U.S. officials apparently saw the strike and other events as risking escalation to the nuclear level. Pakistan considers its nuclear weapons to be a last resort against a much larger Indian military, and it takes any threat to them very seriously. The escalating military action and rhetoric by two nuclear-armed rivals risked turning a conventional conflict into a nuclear crisis. The clash also saw large volumes of third-party disinformation, further clouding an already opaque and dangerous situation. And this is not the first such conflict between the two nations. At 6:43 p.m. on March 9, 2022, Pakistan detected an Indian BrahMos cruise missile flying along the Indian side of the India-Pakistan border. After a few minutes of flight, the missile suddenly crossed into Pakistani territory and crashed about three minutes later into a hotel parking lot near the city of Mian Channu. Without warning, a nuclear-armed state had just launched a missile into the territory of another nuclear-armed state. No one had any idea why. Immediately, Pakistan reportedly placed military bases along the border on high alert, yet India kept silent, issuing no public statement and making no effort to communicate with Pakistan's military leaders. Meanwhile, images and videos from the crash site began to pop up on social media. Pakistan held a news conference, releasing details about the event, asserting it was 'for the Indians to explain' what happened and why. Still, questions remained: How did this missile get launched? And was it an accident, or intentional? Story continues below advertisement Advertisement Two days after the crash, India issued a public statement blaming 'a technical malfunction [that] led to the accidental firing of a missile.' The statement was revised two weeks later, this time blaming human error. Then, finally, in March 2024 — two years later — an Indian court revealed what really happened. During the visit of a high-ranking Indian Air Force officer, the launch crew — tasked with demonstrating a missile launch procedure to their boss — failed to disable the missile's combat connectors, leaving the weapon system ready for launch. The error occurred during a period of relative peace between the two countries; no one was injured, and the site of impact was vacant. The Pakistanis quickly determined the missile was unarmed. No aircraft were hit, although several planes passed very close to the missile's flight path. Errant missiles are more common than you might think. In November 2022, a missile killed two people at a grain facility in southern Poland, very near the border with Ukraine. For several hours, it was thought a Russian offensive missile had deliberately targeted a NATO ally, but in reality it was a Ukrainian air defense missile. For hours, Washington and NATO leaders feared the worst. When things get tense, even minor incidents can drive leaders to respond before all of the facts are known. Red alert The launch control center at the Minuteman Missile National Historic Site. (National Parks Service) The end of humanity could arrive in minutes — that is what makes nuclear war so different from other wars. During the Cold War, both sides kept weapons on launch-ready alert, or 'hair trigger,' so as not to be caught by surprise. Fears of a 'bolt out of the blue' attack were real and enduring, and leaders thought the only way to deter such a strike was to be prepared to strike back in minutes. This inevitably led to errors and false alarms. Despite the best efforts of highly trained and capable military operators, mistakes are a fact of life in the nuclear world just as they are in regular life. Between 1960, when the United States first deployed an early-warning system, and December 1976 — over 16 years — the system produced seven false alarms of nuclear attack. That's almost one every two years. Then, in 1979 and 1980, came five incidents in a row. At 8:50 a.m. on Nov. 9, 1979, duty officers at NORAD and elsewhere were suddenly confronted with a realistic electronic display of a Soviet nuclear attack. The display indicated an offensive designed to decapitate the U.S. command system and destroy U.S. nuclear forces. A large number of Soviet missiles appeared to have been launched from land and sea. Command post for North American Aerospace Defense Command operations, circa 1982. (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) This alert quickly passed Stage 1 — a missile display conference — when various anomalies are sorted out. It went to the next stage, a threat assessment conference. Strategic Air Command B-52 bomber crews were instructed to stand by, the Minuteman missile force was placed on low-level alert and the 'doomsday plane' was immediately airborne, providing the president with a secure way to order a nuclear strike even during an incoming attack. Six minutes later, the threat assessment was called off — there were no signs of missiles in flight. It turns out that someone had mistakenly inserted a realistic exercise tape into the live warning system at NORAD headquarters. Then, on March 14, 1980, early-warning systems picked up what appeared to be Soviet missiles headed for Alaska, Canada and the tip of Oregon. Again, the doomsday plane was rolling within minutes. It was another false alarm. On May 28, 1980, early-warning systems suddenly displayed a Soviet missile barrage — one system showed 2,020 missiles launched. It was big, but brief, lasting only six seconds — so nothing was done in response. On June 3 that year, the early-warning system reported two Soviet submarine-based missiles were launched, and the count quickly jumped to 200 missiles. Six minutes later, the systems reported 2,020 ICBMs — the same as that May 28 error. Twelve minutes later, the systems showed 200 submarine-launched ballistic missiles. This all happened at 2:26 a.m. Bomber crews were told to start their engines, and a call was placed to President Jimmy Carter's national security adviser, Zbigniew Brzezinski, who later recalled that his military aide 'told me, flat out, we were under nuclear attack.' The next step would have been to call the president and recommend retaliation. After a harrowing 32 minutes, it was determined there were no missiles in flight. The alert was ended. Brzezinski did not awaken Carter, but the adviser was shaken. 'I had this feeling that we were all going to be dead in 28 minutes,' he later recalled. 'Basically, it was an all-out attack, and my recommendation to him ... would be — so, we fire on the warning.' The United States would retaliate 'with everything,' Brzezinski said. 'And my concern was, you know, how was I going to convince the president? How do I convince the president in the middle of the night when I am calling him that we are under attack, that I have already activated the Strategic Air Command, and I am urging him now to move for Option X? Suppose he says to me, 'Zbig, are you having nightmares? Zbig, are you crazy?' How do you do that with a president — an alert one, with naval experience?' Three days later, on June 6, it happened again. This time 2,000 incoming missiles appeared on the warning display. Again, bomber crews scrambled, and engines were started. The alert ended after 17 minutes when it was determined no missiles were in flight. The May and June 1980 false alarms were caused by the failure of a single computer chip. A computer's peacetime message was supposed to continuously broadcast the digits zero-zero-zero, indicating there were no attacking missiles. The chip began inserting random 2s into the message, so it came out showing that 200 or 2,000 missiles were in flight. That was not the only time computer issues caused unexpected alerts. Thirty years later, 50 Minuteman III nuclear intercontinental ballistic missiles suddenly went offline at Warren Air Force Base in Wyoming. Alarms designed to prevent theft or infiltration of the missiles also lost power. The failure was so serious that the president was briefed within hours. The event turned out not to be a cyberattack from Russia, China or North Korea, but the result of an improperly installed circuit card during maintenance. But at the time, this was unknown and in a time of crisis, the event could have looked like a deliberate act of sabotage. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement In 1983, the Soviet Union shot down a civilian Korean Airlines flight that had strayed over Siberia. A few weeks later, Soviet early-warning radars showed that a single U.S. ICBM had been launched toward the U.S.S.R. At a time of high tension, and given the fear of a U.S. first strike inside the Soviet leadership, such a launch could easily have triggered a massive counterattack. However, the watch officer, Col. Stanislav Petrov, had been trained that any U.S. attack would probably involve massive strikes, and he later stated that he considered a smaller strike — like the one his early-warning systems showed — to be illogical and therefore likely to be an error of some kind. He proved to be right. Would all Soviet watch officers have been willing to make the same call? Another infamous event occurred in 2007, when U.S. airmen mistakenly loaded six live nuclear-armed cruise missiles onto a B-52 bomber instead of the inert training systems that were supposed to be used. The bomber flew across the United States to Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana, where it stood unguarded for a day until an officer discovered the missiles carried nuclear warheads. The Air Force was unaware it had loaded, flown with and lost control of six nuclear warheads. In January 2018, President Donald Trump tweeted that his nuclear launch 'button' was much bigger than that of North Korean Supreme Leader Kim Jong Un. Days later, smartphones across Hawaii lit up with an emergency alert: 'Ballistic missile threat inbound to Hawaii. Seek immediate shelter. This is not a drill.' For almost 40 minutes, residents panicked. But an attack never came, because the message was a false alarm. 'An employee pushed the wrong button,' Hawaii Gov. David Ige (D) explained. Accidents happen all the time. Nuclear weapons are not immune from this dangerous reality. What you can't see will hurt you World leaders at the Group of 20 Summit in Osaka on June 28, 2019, prepare to take a joint photo. (Brendan Smialowski/AFP/Getty Images) During the Cold War, the superpowers took pains to make sure their nuclear and conventional military capabilities were operated separately. Increasingly, that line is being blurred. The United States continues to keep its nuclear and conventional weapons separated, but it combines the command, control and communication systems for managing both and deploys aircraft that can carry either conventional or nuclear payloads. And the latest presidential nuclear guidance requires the military to integrate conventional and nuclear capabilities in its strike plans. In addition, Russia and China continue to develop dual-capable missiles that are designed to deliver both nuclear and conventional payloads that could be swapped without warning. As a result, a nation being attacked might have no way to tell whether an incoming missile is nuclear or conventional. The difference in the response could be enormous. Nowhere is this new danger as clear as in space. In November 2019, Russia launched a Soyuz rocket carrying a new type of satellite into orbit. Although Russia claimed that the spacecraft was intended to assess the 'technical condition of domestic satellites,' it soon became clear that its true purpose was different. After remaining in orbit for less than two weeks, the satellite suddenly split into two. 'Like Russian nesting dolls,' noted Gen. John 'Jay' Raymond, then-commander of the U.S. Space Force. The two Russian satellites then began to tail a KH-11 U.S. spy satellite — one of four National Reconnaissance Office satellites providing coverage of the earth for the U.S. military. In an interview with Time magazine in February 2020, Raymond characterized this behavior as 'unusual and disturbing,' and having the 'potential to create a dangerous situation in space.' Russia had tested this 'nesting doll' technology three years earlier, during an instance in which one of the satellites also fired a projectile into space. Combined, these tests demonstrated the capability for Russia to track, trail and potentially hold U.S. satellites at risk. This was the first time the United States military publicly revealed a direct adversarial threat to its satellites, and it wouldn't be the last. The unspoken but very real danger is that a satellite could be attacked — poking out the military eyes and ears of a country. The United States relies heavily on satellites for nuclear command, control and communication, and they are the critical node allowing nuclear decision-makers to order the launch of their weapons. Yet many of those same satellites also have intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance capabilities. They can detect and warn of incoming conventional enemy missiles. For those reasons, during a nonnuclear conflict, there could be strong incentives to disable an adversary's satellites. It would undermine that adversary's ability to see the entire battlefield and fully communicate with its weapons. And the adversary could conclude that such a hit was a prelude to a nuclear strike — and respond in kind. As civilian and military assets in space are increasingly dual-use, it becomes more difficult for countries to discern intentions. For example, 'rendezvous and proximity operations' — maneuvers that bring spacecraft into close proximity with each other — have both civilian and military applications: They can be used to service and maintain satellites, and they can also be employed to disrupt another country's satellite operations. Ambiguities such as this will characterize the new nuclear age. Blurring of the lines between civilian and military assets is already complicated enough, but when it comes to weapons that can play both nuclear and nonnuclear roles, things can get especially worrisome. In a conflict, the co-mingling of nuclear and conventional forces could lead to a situation in which an attack against a country's conventional forces simultaneously threatens its nuclear arsenal. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement Back on Earth, the mingling of nuclear and conventional weapons comes with real risks. Recently, Russia's use of what it called an experimental missile, the Oreshnik, in Ukraine showed yet another way this ambiguity can be dangerous. The missile carried a bundle of conventional warheads, but it can also carry nuclear weapons. China's DF-26 intermediate-range ballistic missile has a 'hot swappable' warhead with a clamshell covering that can open so that a conventional warhead can be swapped for a nuclear warhead directly on the battlefield. This poses a serious challenge for U.S. military calculations. If Russian or Chinese dual-capable missiles were detected in flight, would the United States know whether the payloads were nuclear or conventional? And would the United States be able to target those dual-capable missiles without China or Russia assuming that a U.S. nuclear attack was incoming? While a dual-use satellite going offline or a dual-capable missile being launched on a normal Tuesday probably wouldn't spark nuclear war, those same things happening in the midst of a nuclear crisis or an ongoing conventional war could rapidly bring the world to the brink. Preventing catastrophe There is no substitute for being able to reliably communicate with your adversary in a crisis to resolve a potential accident from spiraling out of control. Not only do all nuclear-possessing states need reliable ways of communicating with each other in a crisis, but these systems have to operate flawlessly when under attack. Ideally, they would also be available to local commanders. Another critical element to avoiding catastrophic error or misunderstandings is transparency — through arms control agreements that provide a window into the forces and intentions of each country. These agreements enable predictability and reduce the risk of escalation. Legally binding and enforceable agreements are best, but even informal political agreements without verification measures have been useful in reducing risks. And verified arms control agreements can offer what spies and satellites cannot. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement Leaders should not wait for a crisis to engage and manage these issues. During the cold war, the U.S. and Soviet Union faced an almost nonstop series of events that could have led to larger conflict. Often out of sight, mid-level military officers from East and West were in regular contact with each other on a host of nuclear and security issues. Today, connections are shrinking with Russia and are unreliably poor with China. The United States and the Soviet Union had 30 minutes or less to make nuclear decisions. Those timelines will seem luxurious when missiles and underwater nuclear torpedoes can hit their targets almost without warning. Today's nuclear dangers demand that all states with these weapons take the steps necessary to prevent unwanted or accidental escalation — while there is still time.
Boston Globe
a day ago
- Boston Globe
Conrad ‘Gus' Shinn, first pilot to land at the South Pole, dies at 102
Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up Looking back on the flight, Commander Shinn said that getting to the pole was the easy part. Getting back proved far more challenging, requiring the use of more than a dozen small rockets to dislodge the plane from the ice and provide enough thrust for takeoff. Advertisement Friends said that long after he retired, when he was introduced to strangers as 'the first man to land at the South Pole,' he would gently note: 'Well, that's true. But more importantly, I'm the first man to take off from the South Pole.' By flying to the pole and back, Commander Shinn — who died May 15 at 102 ― helped open up a new era of Antarctic research, demonstrating that it was possible for personnel and supplies to be flown to one of the world's most desolate places. By his count, he made about 17 South Pole flights, providing assistance to Navy construction workers who began creating a permanent research base, a precursor to today's Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station, a few weeks after his first trip. Advertisement Scientists continue to conduct experiments at the pole, including on air quality, seismic waves, and elementary particles known as neutrinos. Tractors make the weeks-long trek to bring supplies overland from McMurdo Station. And supply planes continue to fly in and out, although the aircraft — ski-equipped LC-130s, carrying as much as 42,000 pounds of cargo — are more powerful and better equipped than the planes flown by Commander Shinn and his colleagues. 'Everything was critical in that day: attitude and altitude and air speed, weight and balance. We hardly stayed in the air,' he said in a 1999 interview for the Antarctic Deep Freeze Oral History Project. A North Carolina native who joined the Navy during World War II, Commander Shinn started out as a multiengine pilot in the South Pacific, transporting medical supplies and wounded men. He later flew military brass and other VIPs, ferrying flag officers, Cabinet secretaries, and friends of President Harry S. Truman, before volunteering for Operation Highjump, a Navy program that brought him to Antarctica for the first time in 1947. By then, the Navy had been involved in Antarctic exploration for years, supporting scientific research while also — amid a Cold War standoff with the Soviet Union — seeking 'to establish a foothold in a region of the world that could be strategically important,' said Hill Goodspeed, a historian at the National Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola, Fla. Advertisement To prepare for the mission, Commander Shinn took a transport plane equipped with skis and tested it on the ice in Edmonton, Alberta. He went on to fly a ski-clad R4D, the military version of a Douglas DC-3 airliner, off an aircraft carrier, taking it hundreds of miles over the ice to reach Little America, the Navy's makeshift exploration base on the Ross Ice Shelf. Commander Shinn lived on the ice for about a month, sleeping in a tent — designed more for the tropics than the Antarctic — and flying photographic missions that were intended to help map the continent. At the end of his tour, he was picked up by an icebreaker and joined the command ship of Rear Admiral Richard E. Byrd, who had made history in 1929 as the first person to fly over the South Pole. Commander Shinn accompanied the admiral on a triumphant voyage to the Washington Navy Yard, where Byrd shook hands with the secretary of the Navy and presented the National Zoo with a gift of two-dozen penguins. (When a crate burst open during unloading, three of the birds disappeared into the Anacostia River.) By 1956, Commander Shinn had returned to Antarctica as part of Operation Deep Freeze, a Navy mission that was launched in support of the International Geophysical Year, a collaborative effort promoting scientific research at the poles and elsewhere around the world. This time he lived in comparative luxury at McMurdo Sound, in a heated Quonset hut instead of a tent. Still, he noted that the solitude of the Antarctic could take a toll — 'people get angry with one another; there were a few mental cases' — and that even with his experience navigating high winds and whiteout conditions, the risks of polar aviation remained high. Advertisement During an exploratory flight near the Beardmore Glacier, his airplane was caught in a wind shear and 'fell out of the sky,' hurtling toward the ground before Commander Shinn turned to a rocket system known as JATO, for jet-assisted take-off, in which rockets are fired to provide additional thrust. 'The wing rolled and the wingtip touched the ice. I'm sure it added to the deafening blast of the JATO firing,' he said in the oral history. 'We were close enough to the surface to send up a huge balloon of ice crystals. The passengers must have been terrified. But we flew out.' Commander Shinn turned to the JATO system once again during his historic flight to the South Pole, aboard a propeller-driven R4D-5L named Que Sera Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be), after the newly released Doris Day pop song. The plane carried seven passengers and crew members, including Rear Admiral George J. Dufek, who stepped outside and planted an American flag into the ice. (Technically, they had landed about four miles from the geographical South Pole. Observers deemed it close enough.) The group set up a metal radar reflector, intended to help future pilots make their way to the site, and spent about 45 minutes outside before readying for takeoff. Commander Shinn was already prepared for a difficult departure by virtue of the pole's altitude, at more than 9,000 feet. But he was surprised to discover that while the plane's engines were running, the snow under its skis had melted and refrozen. Advertisement They were stuck. 'We just sat on the ice like an old mud hen,' he told the Associated Press in 1999. Overheard was an Air Force cargo plane, assigned to hang close and drop supplies in case of disaster. It wasn't needed: Commander Shinn was able to free the plane by firing JATO bottles, four at a time, enabling the Que Sera Sera to break loose and, at full throttle, take off — just barely. Commander Shinn and his crew flew through 'a cloud of ice,' using their instruments to navigate while unable to see out of the cockpit, before making their way back to base at McMurdo, some 800 miles away. After landing, his colleague John P. Strider downplayed their difficulties at the pole, joking to a reporter that he dealt with only one problem on the flight: 'My coffee wouldn't percolate at 12,000 feet.' As a result of the mission, Commander Shinn was awarded the Legion of Merit. Antarctica's third-highest peak, Mount Shinn, was named in his honor. 'I had been lucky,' he said in the oral history, looking back on his flying days in the Antarctic. 'Lucky — that's what I would call it.' The second of six children, Conrad Selwyn Shinn was born in Leaksville, N.C. — a mill town that is now part of the city of Eden — on Sept. 12, 1922. His father served in the infantry during World War I and worked as a YMCA secretary; his mother managed the home. As a boy, he idolized Charles Lindbergh and Wiley Post, pilot heroes of the golden age of aviation. His high school yearbook, which he edited, seemed almost prophetic in its title: The Pilot. Advertisement Commander Shinn graduated at age 16, first in his class, and studied aeronautical engineering at North Carolina State College, now a university. He enrolled in a civilian pilot training program, left school to join the Navy in 1942, and received his commission the next year. After World War II, he married Gloria Carter, with whom he had three children: David, Connie, and Diane Shinn. They divorced in 1954. Commander Shinn retired from the Navy in 1963 and settled in Pensacola, where he had been stationed. For years, he made regular visits to the National Naval Aviation Museum, where he was able to visit his restored former plane, the Que Sera Sera, and tell visitors about his flying days. Long after he retired, he continued to dress in military-style flight suits, preferring to avoid fussing over questions of personal appearance and style, according to his family. He remained especially concerned with safety issues, a theme dating back to his Navy days: If he couldn't sit in the pilot's seat as a civilian, he refused to fly at all, preferring to maintain control over maintenance and safety procedures. 'He always had the military demeanor,' his son David said, 'with one dramatic exception. While living in Florida, he developed the moniker Cat Man of La Rua,' after the street where he lived. 'He always had a dozen or two-dozen cats in residence. They'd come to his door, having heard about town that there was this man who would take care of them if he needed help.' Commander Shinn lived in the city until shortly before his death, at a nursing facility in Charlotte. His son confirmed the death but did not cite a specific cause. Survivors include his three children; a sister; a grandson; a great-grandson; and several of his cats, which he re-homed late in life. Asked in the oral history what he was proudest of from his time in the Antarctic, Commander Shinn replied: 'I would guess if I were going to have a tombstone I would put on it, 'He tells it like it is.' There's just no substitute for honesty and integrity.'
Boston Globe
2 days ago
- Boston Globe
The 2025 Tech Power Players in the foundational AI sector
The team behind the company, now chasing better known rivals such as OpenAI's ChatGPT, included three MIT students and their adviser, computer scientist Rus has been a fixture on the AI scene since she came to MIT in 2003, fresh off a MacArthur 'genius' grant for her work developing robots. Nine years later, the university named Rus to lead the school's famed Born in Communist Romania during the Cold War, Rus and her family immigrated to the United States in 1982. She studied at the University of Iowa before earning a doctorate at Cornell University in 1992. She taught at Dartmouth College before moving to MIT. Advertisement Inspired by the simple brain structure of a roundworm, Rus and her cofounders, Ramin Hasani, Mathias Lechner, and Alexander Amini, developed an AI technique with fewer software 'neurons' than the large language models of OpenAI and others. That means Liquid AI requires less computing power (and electricity). The company, valued at more than $2 billion, has about 55 employees at its Kendall Square headquarters. More tech power players to watch in the foundational AI sector: Explore more sectors Aaron Pressman can be reached at
