 Voyagers from another planet set foot to a small Pacific island. Who are these weirdly garbed visitors who so gingerly pick their way forward? And what do they expect to find on this barren strip of coral sand? Can there be any plan, any purpose in this jumbled mass of pieces and bits? And yet, why the expectancy, like probers into antiquity entering the sealed tomb of a pharaoh? Why the diligent absorbing searching into ruins? Or are these ruins? A scant two months before, these men arrived from the United States. Then they were even as you and I. And only three months before that, this island was just a spot on a map known only to the captains of battered tramp steamers. But this island, a part of an atoll known in the Micronesian tongue as any wheatock, had a date with destiny. 7,500 miles away the planners met and began to mesh the gears which are to change the face of the island. And so it is that tropical any wheatock comes to know the mechanical prowess of men who have changed many a similar island during the late Pacific war. For this was virgin land and as always, since man first entered a wilderness, a tangled and matted vegetation must be removed for working space, for elbow room. The surfaces then rearranged into new patterns as machines first dig up then level the coral soil. But simple flattening alone is not enough. Cement and tar are added to form a hard level surface. Islands of our atoll now begin to assume the character of gigantic tabletops bowing to the engineer's exacting transit. But there is more to come. Underwater obstacles are blasted. A causeway is built to link two islands. And mushrooming across the face of the atoll, a tent city for living quarters. Quonset huts for supplies. So the islands take the shape, the form of their planners. A native of this sun-baked area of the world would be amazed and bewildered at these strange doings. To an American, most of these things would seem routine. But there are some things not even he could explain. For what purpose these low cubes constructed of reinforced concrete, concrete oddly mixed with nuts and bolts? Why this tower in the middle of the lagoon? For what reason this underground cable? But most of all, why this steel giant dominant on the landscape? It is clear that this is not an ordinary island. This is not just another supply base, not just another landing strip. This tower rising in the sky, to be the holder of fissionable material, this a zero tower gives us the essential clue. This is an atomic island, a test island, a gigantic laboratory island. This then is the reason for the hard-packed sand, ready for test instruments free of dust, clear of obstacles, like a porcelain tabletop in a physics laboratory. In a way, it seems strange indeed that a controlled scientific experiment should take place in a remote corner of the world. Why not the laboratories of the Atomic Energy Commission, or the laboratories of our colleges and universities, or even the New Mexico desert? Furthermore, why can't we cut down the amount of fissionable material and have a small atomic explosion? The scientific answer is simple. There is no such thing as a small atomic explosion. A definite known quantity, a specific critical mass is essential before a chain reaction will occur. All the laboratories and production plants of the Atomic Energy Commission contribute to the development of atomic energy and the manufacture of fissionable materials. The Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory develops the methods of using such materials and weapons. These must be proof tested. One point is positive. An adequate laboratory, a laboratory with space, is essential for our continued progress in peacetime, as well as military applications of atomic energy. Thus it was decided, at last the way was open, hurriedly but carefully, the scientific investigators, the technicians, gather together their instruments, their gauges, their meters, their recorders, and send them to the docks, to the ships. Only one step in the tremendous time-consuming job of planning and preparation. All this, you ask? All this so a handful of weirdly garbed men can search in the rubble of the small Pacific Isle? All this just for a test, an experiment, for unraveling one more mystery of the complex atom? Yes, all of this and more. All of this to satisfy the incredible intricacy of nuclear science, a science which demands everything, from an electronic telemetering gauge, to an empty beer can, a science which also demands the highest caliber scientist and technician. So these men with their imaginative equipment moved to any way-talk, lock, stock, and barrel, some by ship, others by aircraft. But whether by sea or by air, they moved into full partnership with the military establishment. Operation Sandstone from first to last is a joint effort, a meeting, a blending of the total energies of the United States. The difficult problems involved in carrying out a delicate, controlled experiment in an isolated, primitive area calls for united effort for a strong scientific team supported by all branches of the military establishment. And since this test is outside the continental limits of the United States, exceptionally strict security measures are in order. Security is a major part of test operations and is a necessary part of most atomic energy development. And yet, despite security limitations, the peacetime applications of agriculture and medicine are open to the world. Scientific knowledge in itself is not a bad thing. It is tragic that in the case of atomic power, destruction goes hand in hand with construction. The age-old story of good and evil keeping step with man in his fight for a better life. No, the answer to man's greatest problem is not in atomic energy in itself. The answer lies in the hearts and minds of men. The minds of men are creating this laboratory in the middle of an ocean, this tabletop barely ten feet above the level of the sea. And on this, a machine spit of sand, the test instruments are installed, all facing the zero towers, instruments which will give dimension, depth, and character to what exists in the minds of the scientists, instruments designed to capture, record, measure in a hurried millionth of a second an event which occurs with the fleeting magic of a shooting star, some massive rugged, others small, delicate, some commonplace every day, others marvels of engineering skill, capable of capturing happenings beyond our senses, the recording of light and neutron generation, the intensity and amount of gamma radiation, a harp gauge, the age-old symbol of peace and tranquility becomes a measuring instrument of blast and pressure, a piston gauge ready to absorb a cracking, jarring punch, more powerful than the collective kick of all the mules in Missouri. Instruments to give us clues which, among other things, will enable us to live longer, more useful and productive lives. It's staggering to realize how little we really know about atomic energy, the effect, for instance, on simple essentials like wood, paints, metal. We stand fascinated, like a child observing the wondrous effect of a nail flattened under the ponderous wheel of a locomotive. Photographic apparatus, as much a part of instrumentation as some of the more specialized devices, is ready. A lasting image, a permanent record to be carried away from this workshop, back for detailed analytical study in the States. Stationary banks of cameras in the photo towers, normal speed, high speed, color, black and white, cameras protected from strange tropical fungus, a growth capable of eating through the very glass of the lens. Mobile cameras mounted in photo aircraft, cameras capable of shooting 10,000 individual pictures every second, cameras with lenses powerful enough to record the dust on a fleas whisker at five miles. Operation Sandstone is to have the most complete photographic coverage in human history. And this is not strange. For this oversized workshop demands eyes which can see in all directions at the same time. The spread out nature of the project also demands a communication system comparable to a modern, medium sized city. As time draws close, communications become vital as the various work benches of the laboratory are tied together. This is experimentation on a large scale requiring finely coordinated effort. A technician at one location needs to know at a precise and given moment what another is doing 10, 15 or 50 miles away. Air, land and sea, linked together as one. If direct contact is necessary, light planes ferry scientists from point to point. These are the elevators of the Aniwetok Laboratory, the time savers. The time on Aniwetok is only important in terms of weather. This, remember, is an open air laboratory. No blower fans here, no fume hoods to diffuse and dispense the radioactive cloud. Here nature dictates the terms and man has to wait. Keeping a continuous check on upper air movements. The glass the signal is called. Only hours remain and the men leave the island. Not just an island now, but an armed island, a zero island. Quietly they take their leave. Without fuss or fanfare, they leave after five months of backbreaking effort. For a few, the men of science, a last minute inspection, a last look at the instruments on which they pin their hopes, their dreams, their questions of the future. A final look before a zero island becomes a deserted thing. A chamber is checked, a gauge is set, a timing station bolted, closed, sealed, so that even a wandering microbe cannot enter. Then they too leave. The open air laboratory is ready. One might well wonder what Ben Franklin would say if he could see this. He with his paper kite and rusty key. Or Edison in his dusty attic, pondering over a few twisted wires. Yes, what would they have said? As the ships move out to safer waters, there is a vague shadowy feeling among many that they, like medieval alchemists, have conjured up a potion far too powerful for mortal hands. But this is a feeling only at the moment. Underneath all know that this is a controlled scientific experiment that man has begun to master nuclear fission. This is simply a laboratory of the atomic age. Only minutes now, from a neighboring airfield remotely controlled B-17s take off. Another tool for the scientists. Pilotless aircraft ready to go where man dares not go into the heart of the radioactive cloud. And for a climax in ingenuity to capture a fragment of that very same cloud here in the tropic sky and make it available for scientific study. Such is only one of the marvels of organization of Operation Sandstone. Only seconds remain now. From the master control station on another island, switches are thrown. Sequence timers activated. Hundreds of measuring devices all over the atoll placed on a single-time reference. And now, the 10,000 men who have created this laboratory out of nothing watch it being destroyed. They have to look to watch. The chain reaction of atoms building up into powerful exploding energy is still something which grips the imagination, something which cannot be ignored. The Sun of Early Morning highlights the atomic cloud as it drifts away from any retouch. But the strange and mysterious ingredients in this cloud will not be lost. They have been captured and returned now to Earth, carried by the cruelest but obedient drones. These flying guinea pigs are hot, radioactive. Technicians handle the collection equipment with instruments suggesting the sterile remoteness of medical forceps. Just as remote is the electronically controlled tank, which digs out soil samples under the direction of a helicopter, man approaches his test island with caution. So this is how it came to be, that on a certain spring morning in 1948, a handful of men dressed in impregnable clothing carefully poked through the rubble of an atom-blasted island. Man who searched through ruins which hold something more than destruction, for hidden in the debris cunningly protected are records which will enable scientists of the Atomic Energy Commission to piece together the real story behind Operation Sandstone. And now the work really begins, the long laborious task of assembling data, of making sure every scrap and tatter of evidence is sent to the laboratory ships or carried back to the states. Some of the data collected will require months and perhaps years of study of detailed analytical probing with slide rules, calculating machines, microscopes. But other analysis must be done here and now on the spot. Some of the results of nuclear fission have the characteristics of an open bottle of soda water quickly dissipating into nothing. The results of Operation Sandstone, the produced tables, equations, charts, graphs, records, all of this compiled data will further point the way, will speed the development of atomic energy. But such knowledge comes not from paper and pencil alone. It comes out of controlled experimentation, out of deliberately creating a few microseconds of atomic light and sound. So it has been from the beginning. Trinity, Alamogordo, New Mexico, 1945. Operation Crossroads, Bikini, 1946. Abel Day, Baker Day. Operation Sandstone, three detonations. These were fabricated releases of power, of energy locked up within the atom from the beginning of time, detonations rivaling the light and energy of the sun. The sun, to us, the difference between life and death. It burns, stifles, dehydrates. But who would deny its warmth? It's light. It's beneficial radiation. So can it be with the energy man has created. The road is open, a road which may show us the cure for cancer, a road which may enable us to produce heat and power and new metals with atomic furnaces, new fuels, new ways to nourish the soil and correct vitamin and mineral deficiencies in the very food we eat. All this is possible for ours as a two-fold program. In the words of the President of the United States, I believe that our national policy for the vigorous development of atomic energy is sound. It is a balanced policy, which makes us stronger from a military standpoint while at the same time promotes our peacetime goals. Yes, a balanced effort that will continue on and on until man, delving now into a basic secret of the universe, learns to control atomic energy for his own welfare, his own good. This can be our gift to generations yet unborn. In the long perspective of human history, Operation Sandstone may well have been Operation Milestone.