In most of our competitor countries, governments consider carefully
the actions that they want to take, and one of their major criteria is the
effect those actions may have on industry. They keep in mind that industrial
production depends in the long term on the quality of effective technical
education and relevant research.

‘No British government since the Second World War,’ he says, ‘has been
interested in industry or in research. Now perhaps we may just see a sort
of conversion on the road to Damascus, but it is very late for any major
³¦³ó²¹²Ô²µ±ð.’

So what has been responsible for this pernicious neglect? For one, British
governments seem to care less about science and industry than do their major
industrial rivals. ‘Since the Second World War, British governments have
looked on industry as being a sort of optional extra after meeting all the
social and other needs of the nation. In other countries, it is recognised
that a sound industrial base is the absolute key to having economic room
to manoeuvre and thus having the necessary resources to do all the social
things desired. And attending to industrial needs wholly includes the questions
of technical education and of research in both universities and in relevant
±ð²õ³Ù²¹²ú±ô¾±²õ³ó³¾±ð²Ô³Ù²õ.’

Asked if he sees any hope of ideas changing at this late stage, Harvey-Jones
replies that government may be forced to reform its ideas. It is increasingly
obvious that Britain’s industrial base is now too small to support the social
and other aspirations to which its political leaders cling.

‘This’, says Harvey-Jones, ‘has been concealed for a while by the prevalence
of North Sea oil. But the damage done in the early 1980s and in this latest
recession, when we have lost further portions of our already tragically
small industrial base, now reduces us to a level where one cannot be sure
that the base left is adequate to permit us to bounce back.’

If the base is already too small, Harvey-Jones sees only two options
– either Britons collectively reduce their standard of living, or they reduce
their number by mass emigration. ‘But if people go, it will be those most
able to earn a living elsewhere.’

If the base is still just adequate, what must now begin is a steady
process of investment. The difficulty is that an industry can be destroyed
within a year. Harvey-Jones quotes an example: ‘In 1982-3, ICI’s British
customer base was reduced by 30 per cent in one year by carrying an exchange
rate which was totally inappropriate. You can shut companies down in no
time flat but it takes a long, long time to build up a world-competitive
industrial business. Any growth now will depend on our human stock in terms
of capability, and technological knowledge – plus world-class fighting fitness,
and we don’t have too much of that.’

Harvey-Jones thinks that Britain breeds good inventors but poor developers.
‘Unlike other countries, development and production engineers here have
been viewed almost like cheap labour whereas they are industry’s real leaders.
Yet in the field of design we are world class; it is a fact that we train
more designers than the rest of Europe put together because we have the
colleges and facilities and we have our native inborn talent – yet we hardly
use it. Design is well taught in Britain yet we continue to tell ourselves
it does not matter.

‘The biggest canard of the 1980s was believing an industrial base was
unimportant compared with achieving the promise which lay with knowledge
and the knowledge business. We seemed to think we could make our living
partly through the competitiveness of the City of London and partly through
selling knowledge – this was the basis on which I made the 1984 Dimbleby
Lecture and I tried to demonstrate that this belief was self-evidently rubbish.
You only make money by selling things – based on good knowledge of technology.’

The major question today, says Harvey-Jones, is what evidence is there
that we shall make proper use of the people we are training and training
well. ‘Like the rest of us, I want to see our land created fit for heroes
and scientists to live in. Currently there is not much evidence of this
happening, but there are some straws in the wind. The starting pay rate
of graduate engineers has risen faster than that of all other graduates
in the past five years – yet on current evidence, if you want to be the
chief executive of a company, you are still better to have trained as an
accountant than as a scientist or engineer.’

What does he feel about the need to link with industries in other countries?
Harvey-Jones has no doubts: ‘We don’t have any option. Partly through years
of neglect, we do not have the critical mass now to do things on our own.
In fact, nor do the other European countries either. For instance, there
is only room in Europe for one world-competitive aerospace industry and
the present number of car firms in Europe is undoubtedly too high to survive
in world terms; so we shall see an increasing concentration in all these
things.

‘And we must have a future linked into mainland Europe. Does anybody
think that all the investment of Japanese car manufacturers, television
manufacturers, American pharmaceuticals companies and the rest is just being
made to seize the British market? It is Europe they are after via footholds
in Britain, so we have no choice. The fact is, we must go for it and try
to influence Europe. If not, then we have to accept the reverse and accelerate
into poverty.

Harvey-Jones has definite views on what the White Paper should be saying:
‘It must emphasise that our economic and industrial future depends mainly
on applied science and our ability to derive actual commercial benefit from
it. The government has tended to the view that the only area appropriate
to government funding is basic science and that all applied science must
be funded by companies. Unfortunately, we do not have enough substantial
companies in Britain any more which can afford that sort of funding,’ says
Harvey-Jones.

‘Further, what any White Paper must lead to is more diversion of the
science monies which we spend on military and defence research – where I
believe it has been badly spent – into broader research fields with direct
commercial applicability. For a whole variety of reasons, the concept of
trickle-down from defence research into commerce has been stopped. For example,
ICI had a discovery which it believed had commercial viability, but was
prevented from developing it because it had potential applications for defence
– which in the event never materialised. Our defence research has produced
some quite impressive results, but only at enormous cost and beyond what
Britain can afford.

‘Attempts at making our defence establishments more commercially minded
have in the main been ineffective, given the excellence of those establishments.
The irony is that, given today’s technological base, it is almost possible
to invent to order. But it is difficult to introduce into organisations
which are driven by technology the necessary responsiveness to commercial
requirements. The other danger that any White Paper must address is the
pursuance of technological excellence far beyond its point of commercial
application. Too often that trap has been fallen into when attempting to
meet a tendered specification. These, then, are important issues which the
White Paper must address if Britain is to recover its industrial capability
and provide the people necessary to achieve it.’

Mike Rogers is a writer and broadcaster on motor sport and aerospace.

So what could be the advantages? First, weight-saving: with an average
man weighing 78.5 kilograms, the mass of a high-thigh amputation is a little
over 12 kilograms, which is about 15 per cent of body mass, or 30 per cent
for a bilateral amputee.

Such a weight saving may not be significant when a vehicle is launched,
full of fuel, from Earth, but take some future mission where the destination
is landing, say, on an outer planet’s moon. At that end of the trip, any
cheeseparing assumes greater significance because the total mass of the
vehicle would be a great deal smaller.

A second factor is space-saving. Legs, and the space set aside for them,
can take up a lot of room in a restricted environment – the amputee-astronaut’s
bunk can be half the normal length. And a smaller space suit would be required,
with no legs or boots (weight-saving comes into this again).

Thirdly, consider the current investigations by NASA and the ESA into
the already familiar problems of space sickness and disorientation. Amputees
would still suffer from disorientation since this arises when the system
of balance sends the wrong information to the brain in zero gravity. But
space sickness might be easier to cope with.

The reason for space sickness lies in the circulation of blood. The
tissues of our legs are designed to withstand a hydrostatic pressure ‘head’
of 1.5 metres of blood (in the upright position). Furthermore, the vessels
are elastic such that, when the hydrostatic pressure disappears because
the blood has become weightless, the veins still contract strongly from
habit and squeeze blood to the body’s upper parts.

The effect is to increase the upper body’s fluid pressure, including
venous pressure to the heart, producing disabling symptoms of congestion.
But the problem should be less serious for an amputee: since at least 10
per cent of the total volume of blood is normally (on Earth) pooled in the
legs and thighs, an amputee will have less blood available to be squeezed
to the upper body.

Another problem is that under continuing zero gravity, the body notices
that there is too much fluid present and excretes the excess over the next
few days via the urinary system. If a landing is made in an environment
with gravity and the blood redistributes, the body is left short of circulatory
fluid. The steps necessary to deal with space sickness – perhaps during
a critical phase of a mission – will be simpler with an amputee.

Fourthly, on an extended trip, conservation of oxygen becomes vital.
Oxygen consumption, for instance, ranges from about 0.7 litres a minute
for a crew member at rest to over 1.7 litres a minute during periods of
activity. An amputee, with reduced blood circulation, will consume less
oxygen; not significantly less at rest, but certainly less during periods
of extravehicular activity (EVAs, also known as ‘spacewalks’).

Finally, there is the question of food and drink, another load factor
on an extended mission. On Earth, there is normally little variation between
the consumption of ‘full-bodied’ people and amputees, even though amputees
have lower mass. This is because it takes more effort for amputees to achieve
mobility, with or without the assistance of artificial limbs. But in zero
gravity on an extended mission, amputee astronauts would not need the extra
energy to move, and as amputees have up to 30 per cent less body to feed
the difference could become significant.

Would an amputee be at a disadvantage during periods requiring mobility?
I suggest this would not be important during EVAs en route, such as leaving
the capsule for repair work, where legs truly are redundant. On my weightless
flight it was put to me that at least one leg is useful for hooking yourself
onto something while using both arms for a task, but I cannot agree – simple
hook-on attachments would present no problem for a bilateral amputee, inside
or outside the vehicle.

If the amputee is to be one of the excursion crew on some distant moon,
there may be some disadvantage. Even so, mobility is remarkably efficient
with a modern high-technology prosthesis, and a modular limb or limbs may
be stored in sections in the spacecraft during the outgoing flight. The
latest mid-thigh artificial leg, made largely of carbon fibre, weighs less
than 1.8 kilograms complete.

But possibly the ideal role for the amputee astronaut would be as commander
of the orbiting module on a landing mission. The commander, of course, would
not need prostheses. That leaves the return to Earth and the recovery operation.
Here again, a lower-limb amputee’s remarkable agility at using their arms
would suffice, and the rescue crew would have the personal prostheses standing
by for use back on the surface.

So, are we likely to find an amputee as part of future space crew? It
has been put to me that the chances of an amputee winning through all the
selection tests are slim; of thousands of initial applicants hoping to become
astronauts, perhaps five reach the final stage, chosen for intelligence,
appropriate training, academic attainment, stable personality, very good
health and so on. If, it has been said, half a dozen of those original applicants
are amputees, the chances of even one of them surviving to the final selection
are very small.

Generally, I would agree, but not when selection is for a long-distance
mission where resources are stretched to the limit and the spacecraft and
payload must be as light and compact as possible. In those circumstances,
an amputee’s selection chances move significantly up the scale. In the meantime,
I await the letter that tells me I have been selected for consideration
on the first manned flight to Mars.

Mike Rogers is a retired aerospace engineer. He now writes for a living,
but is looking forward to a second career, in orbit.

I had proposed this theory to the space agency. In a mid-thigh amputee,
the blood circulation system is between 15 and 20 per cent shorter than
normal. The lower heart and respiratory loads could prove beneficial in
a space vehicle; for one thing, a ‘legless astronaut’ should consume less
oxygen than a ‘100 per cent’ person. In reply, ESA had invited me to join
a flight team so that it could make some cardiovascular and pulmonary measurements.

At the CEV south of Paris I met up with the rest of the team, ready
to experience microgravity conditions. The team comprised senior scientists
and technologists from universities and research organisations all over
Europe, anxious to carry out experiments ranging from materials sciences
to life sciences and microgravity technology.

My flight day dawned clear and sunny with conditions pronounced good
for a series of parabolic extended push-over flights above the Normandy
coast. Each flight, which lasts about 2.5 hours, includes up to 40 parabolic
‘injections’; today it would be 30. And, despite the mind-blowing experience,
I wasn’t too sorry when we reached the 29th with one more to go.

Each parabolic ‘flip’ lasts a little over one minute, with near-zero
gravity achieved for about 20 seconds. This latter figure is dictated by
the injection speed of the aircraft into the manoeuvre; at present ESA uses
a modified Caravelle 234 airliner. I gather that if the agency had a Concorde,
two minutes would be possible in a weightless condition.

It all goes something like this: flying straight and level at 25 000
feet and an indicated airspeed of 320 knots, one of the test pilots (two
are needed for these complex manoeuvres) announces ‘One minute’ over the
speaker system. I make myself comfortable in the standard passenger seat
at the back – and note where it is for future reference. ‘Thirty’ (degrees
flight angle), and the aircraft’s nose is up with full power on. ‘Forty’
and we are pulling +1.8 g. My head feels nearly twice its normal weight
which is why I am advised to sit with chin on chest. My camera strains on
its strap like a granite boulder.

Then ‘Injection!’, and all the weight disappears. Engine power is cut
right back and suddenly you are no longer sitting on your seat; you are
hovering just above it. A push with one foot and you float upwards towards
the padded ceiling to grasp the grab rail that runs the length of the cabin
wall.

At least, that is what you do after a few parabolic flips. On the first,
you make a complete mess of things because your sensory system does not
understand what is happening to your body. I had been told just to relax
completely when ‘it’ happens, but instead you jerk and react all over the
cabin if not careful. But careful you do have to be because the equally
padded cabin floor is littered with scientists and their test rigs, and
the former are deeply and intensely involved in completing their experiments
in each too-short period of microgravity.

Once you become ‘good’ at flying weightless, almost any personal aerobatics
are possible, given the space. Your camera floats out before you on its
strap; a pen from your pocket stays in front of your nose. In fact, the
first time the feeling instantly reminded me of a childhood dream when suddenly
you can fly over the front gate and away. The thing to bear in mind is that
it is only going to last 20 seconds – and it feels more like 5 seconds.
By then, the aircraft has lobbed itself up to its peak altitude of about
35 000 feet and is coming down the other side of the hill. At the point
equivalent to injection, the pilots put on power again and begin to pull
back on the controls. Suddenly the transition is from zero to plus 1.8 g
again and it pays to be nicely placed above your seat.

The pilots perform the parabolic ‘lobs’ in groups of three, with a minute
or two between individual lobs. After each group, the investigators have
about 10 minutes to carry out any adjustments on their test rigs and samples.
The combined levels of mental energy concentrated in each test period of
20 seconds microgravity aboard the Caravelle had to be felt to be believed.

On my flight, scientists from Sweden were investigating liquid phase
sintering of tungsten composites, the only other Englishman on board (John
Padday of Kodak Research) was looking into the phenomenology of fluid zones,
others from the Max Planck Institute were measuring correlations in spatial
orientation at micro- and normogravity, to name but a few. The team also
included technologists from the European Space Research and Technology Centre
in the Netherlands, some of whom may apply later to become astronauts on
such projects as the Columbus Space Laboratory.

Through it all, my Endolite limb behaved itself perfectly; in fact I
forgot all about it in the crucial periods. On reflection, the whole experience
was, well, deeply impressionable, only matched a month previously by the
necessary pre-flight medical checks at the RAF Aviation Medical Training
Centre at North Luffenham in Leicestershire. In the hypobaric chamber, we
were rapidly decompressed to equivalent 25 000 feet and it suddenly got
very foggy and cold.

My grateful thanks go to the ESA for this near-unique opportunity for
the likes of me to experience something of an astronaut’s lifestyle.

Mike Rogers is 64 and lost his left leg above-knee in the Second World
War. Today he does strange things with a ‘tin leg’ to offer encouragement
to other amputees.