These Are The Voyages, TOS, Season One

by Cushman, Marc

  Again Roddenberry was called in. This time he brought along people from the sales department, the production office, and Harvey Lynn from the RAND Corporation. Again the designs were narrowed down to four or five that included something/anything that he and his entourage liked. Then Jefferies and Guzman started the process all over again.

  One thing had to change: that the spaceship would land on planets. Roddenberry later said, “Land a ship 14 stories tall on a planet surface every week? Not only would it have blown our entire weekly budget but just suggesting it probably would have ruined my reputation in the industry forever. This is one of many instances where a compromise forced us into creative thought and actually improved what we planned to do. The fact that we didn’t have the budget forced us into conceiving the transporter device – ‘Beam them down to the planet’ -- which allowed us to be well into the story by page two.” (145-4)

  On July 24, with “Enterprise” now chosen as the name of the ship, Roddenberry sent a memo to Pato Guzman, telling him:

  More and more I see the need for some sort of interesting electronic computing machine designed into the U.S.S. Enterprise, perhaps on the bridge itself. It will be an information device out of which [Captain] April and his crew can quickly and interestingly extract information on the registry of other space vessels, space flight plans for other ships, information on individuals and planets and civilizations, etc. This should not only speed up our storytelling but could be visually interesting.

  Bill Gates, who, as a software engineer, was a key figure in the creation and advancement of the personal computer operating systems, has cited Star Trek as the course of his inspiration.

  A follow-up note from Roddenberry suggested that the computer should talk. It hardly seems like an innovative idea now with Siri and other speech gadgets in our pockets. But in 1964, this was a concept that could only come from a daydreamer in a wrinkled suit. Another memo from Roddenberry to Guzman, dated August 25, stated:

  It seems to me likely that design of controls, dials, instruments, etc., aboard our spaceship, particularly the complex “three dimensional” ones which our scientist friends insist would be there, necessitates we locate some hopefully near-genius gadgeteer and electrician and jack-of-all-trades here at Desilu who can augment our speculation and sketching with some idea of what he can accomplish with batteries, lights, wires, plastic, etc.

  The near-genius gadgeteer was Joe Lombardi, who had been handling the special effects for My Favorite Martian.

  Another August 25 letter from Roddenberry -- to Kellam de Forest, a second technical advisor, this time courtesy of Desilu -- said:

  We are dangerously near the time we must settle on a shape and configuration for our spaceship of the future... but are running into considerable difficulty in settling on that design.

  Early sketch of U.S.S. Enterprise by Matt Jefferies (Courtesy of Bob Olson)

  Jefferies remembered, “I decided that whatever we came up with had to be instantly recognizable. The habitat part, I felt, ideally, should be a ball, but it got too awkward to play with. It just didn't look like it would get out of first gear, much less the speeds [Gene] was talking about. So it gradually got flattened. I was trying to stay away from a saucer because the UFOs, or flying saucers, were old hat. But it did gradually turn into a saucer.… I felt if [Gene] was going to get some sort of fantastic performance out of the thing, there would have to be very powerful engines of some kind or other, even to the point they might be dangerous to be around. I said, ‘Well, we better get ‘em away from the main hull.’” (91-1)

  Eventually Jefferies came up with a design he was happy with, and said, “We knocked out a small model and went to Solow and Gene and Mr. Katz, and some of the others from the network came in that day. I pulled the model out. We had put a little hook in the top of it with a string, but I was holding it [from] underneath. It was made out of balsa wood, except for the two engine pods, which were stock birch dowels, which are much heavier than the other wood. I held it up and Gene took it by the string and it immediately flopped upside down. He liked that better. I didn't. That was one of our biggest arguments.” (91)

  Jefferies finally won the fight, but later lamented, “When the show hit the air, it was on the cover of TV Guide -- printed upside down!” (91)

  Well, not exactly. The upside-down Enterprise was actually featured on the cover of a TV supplement magazine carried in numerous newspapers right before the premiere of the series. Three years later, TV Guide did get it wrong and did print the Enterprise upside-down, not on its cover but for a Close Up listings (in 1969, for “The Tholian Web”).

  Regarding the identifying imprint of NCC, Jefferies had very specific reasons for his choices. The letter “N,” under international aviation agreements, designated registration within the United States. “CC” (or “CCCC”) identified aircraft from the Soviet Union. Jefferies, believing that a venture of this magnitude would have to be the result of a United Earth, wanted the letters combined. Roddenberry agreed. As for “1701,” Jefferies didn’t want to use any numerals on the spaceship that would be hard to read at a distance and therefore eliminated threes, fours, sixes, eights and nines.

  How the ship looked on the outside was only part of the work to be completed. Concerning the bridge design, Jefferies said, “It was pretty well established with the model that the thing was going to be a full circle. From there, it became a question of how we were going to make it, how it could come apart, [and] where the cameraman could get into it.” (91)

  Desilu, meanwhile, was sweating bullets. Roddenberry, in 1968, mocking his employers, said, “The studio's attitude was ‘Come on, baby, what’s so difficult about designing a spaceship? You take a cigar shape, put some windows on it, now there you’ve got it. Let’s get on to the next thing.’” (145-4)

  Taking offense to the comment, Herb Solow later wrote:

  As Gene completed the first draft pilot script, he unfortunately became overly protective of his new baby. I cautioned Gene that having good reason at times was no excuse to continually cast blame, especially when dealing with people who had a lot to do with the future of the series and his ultimate survival. He didn't listen. He didn't want to. And, as the series’ development progressed, his behavior foreshadowed a continuing rocky future for Gene Roddenberry and Star Trek.… Gene and I met with NBC to get their script comments. He took offense at most of them, at times unnecessarily so. Some ideas were really good. (161-3)

  Solow’s former bosses at NBC were thinking less and less of Gene Roddenberry. It would build over time, but “Strike Three” was already in the making.

  Meanwhile, the ideas were indeed flowing in from all directions. On September 14, 1964, Harvey Lynn wrote to Roddenberry:

  To accommodate smaller shuttles, taxis and tugs, I visualize the Enterprise having something like a bomb bay. When a ship is to be docked, the doors open.

  This idea was incorporated into the design of the ship. Lynn received no credit -- just a $50 weekly check. Another suggestion from Lynn involved the ship’s weaponry. The RAND man pointed out that “Laser,” which stood for Light Amplification Stimulation Emission Radiation, and “Maser,” with the “M” standing for Microwave, were already in use in 1964. He asked Roddenberry:

  Don't you think it likely that they will have a new name? A new name will also serve to silence critics who will contend that a Laser cannon will not whip up dust [as portrayed in the script for “The Cage”] and will not need to be dug-in.

  Eventually a new acronym surfaced – “phaser,” standing for Photon-maser. This word born of fiction can be found today in most dictionaries.

  Roddenberry acknowledged Lynn’s contributions on September 16, writing:

  Dear Harvey: Have your comments on “The Cage” and find them very thoughtful and helpful. Am already making script changes which reflect them.

  On September 24:

  Dear Harvey: Enclosed the revised draft of the Star Trek pilot. Reference your comme
nts on September 14 and you’ll note we’ve taken out the whole ‘docking’ procedure. Will hold your suggestion here for future stories which involve it.... Most of your suggestions are reflected in this new version.... Any point you feel strongly about, please feel free to continue arguing.

  Roddenberry finished his first draft screenplay on October 6 and submitted it to NBC. The network wanted changes, resulting in three more drafts, dated October 10, November 16 and November 20 but, based on the strength of the first draft, gave the “okay” to proceed with filming. The production was scheduled for late November and early December, the start date little more than a month away. At the same time, CBS had ordered a script for Bruce Geller’s proposed series, Mission: Impossible, and all indications were that a pilot film would follow. Suddenly, Desilu had two impossible missions to deal with: one in name and the other in almost all other regards.

  According to Herb Solow, Lucille Ball thought Star Trek was going to be a show about USO performers visiting troops stationed in faraway lands. Some say she had been referring to it as “that South Seas show.” Now, with an order for a pilot, Solow had to set Lucy straight. Star Trek was not about movie stars trekking off to do good deeds with Bob Hope; it was about outer space. Lucy was speechless. The Desilu Board of Directors was not.

  Questions were fired at Solow. Questions were fired at Katz. How much were these “far out” pilots going to cost the studio? No one liked the answers. The pilot films would cost more than the networks were willing to pay. Far more. If the pilots sold, the studio, in producing the series, would continue losing money, week in and week out.

  How Money Is Made In TV 101: In the 1960s, when a network bought into producing a series, what they actually paid was a licensing fee that only covered about two-thirds of the cost of the production. If the show did well, the network would pay additional money -- typically half of the original fee -- to air repeats of selected episodes. Then, for these episodes at least, the studio would break even. Their profits came from overseas sales. Later, if the series stayed in production long enough to generate 100 or more episodes, further profits could be reaped from syndicated reruns. But for series that stayed on the air less than three years, the studio almost always lost money. Too many money-losing duds and a studio could go out of business. This basic business model is still the dominant structure today, although series now need to survive for four years or more, since fewer episodes are produced for each season.

  Desilu studio man Ed Holly said, “We had two properties that were both tremendous; we were highly enthused about them. But, as we got more and more into the pilot-preparation stage, it was becoming more and more obvious that the executive producers of each show -Gene Roddenberry and Bruce Geller -- were inflexible on making compromises that would enable the shows to be produced on an economically sound basis. According to our estimates, we would lose $65,000 per episode on each series [nearly $500,000 in 2013]. We didn’t have the financial strength to afford that type of show. And we recommended to Lucy and the board that we do not do the pilots, much less the series. I told Lucy, ‘If we do these and are unfortunate enough to sell them as series, we’re going to have to sell the company and go bankrupt.’” (84)

  Katz and Solow felt differently. They had done what Lucy asked -- they found TV properties the studio could own. Yes, there were risks. And yes, there would be red ink. Desilu would lose money at first. For years, even. But these two series had the potential of becoming hits. And that meant reruns. And foreign sales. And merchandising.

  The advice from Katz and Solow struck a chord with Lucy. She may have initially misunderstood the Star Trek concept, but TV’s “wacky redhead,” known for playing a character that always had a harebrained scheme up her sleeve, had learned well from Desi Arnaz. He had been called crazy many times by industry insiders, but always proved his critics wrong.

  Ed Holly admitted, “One of the biggest decisions that had to be made was when [Lucy] went against my recommendation and Argyle Nelson’s [Desilu’s general manager in charge of production] that had to do with Star Trek and Mission: Impossible. If it were not for Lucy, there would be no Star Trek today.” (84)

  Roddenberry faced a daunting challenge with the script for “The Cage”: design a universe filled with diverse individuals and alien creatures, all the while providing the reader of the script (or viewer on the show) with enough information to comprehend the technology of the futuristic times -- without ever letting the gadgetry get in the way of the story. It was certainly harder than writing Bonanza.

  When the final draft script was presented to cast and crew, some were confused. They didn’t have the advantage of seeing what Star Trek would look like. They couldn't know the ship’s abilities (or limits). They couldn’t conjure up an image of the bridge, or a transporter device capable of turning a human into sparkling dots, then reassembling that flesh and blood at a different location.

  Gene Coon, who would become an essential creative force in Star Trek, already had an appreciation of the TV miracle the team had pulled off when he was interviewed in 1968, a mere four years after Star Trek’s inception. From that relatively fresh vantage point, he observed: “Gene [Roddenberry] created a totally new universe. He invented a starship, which works, by the way, and is a logical progression from what we know today. He created customs, morals, modes of speaking, a complete technology. We have a very rigid technology on this show. We know how fast we can go. We know what we use for fuel. We know what our weapons will do. And Gene invented all these things. He did a monumental job of creation. He created an entire galaxy and an entire rule book for operating within that galaxy, with very specific laws governing behavior, manners, customs, as well as science and technology. Now that’s a hell of a job. He didn’t create a show. This was a massive, titanic job of creation. One of the most impressive feats of its kind that I’ve ever seen.” (36a)

  Of course Roddenberry had a lot of help. But he must be credited with assembling the team, inspiring the team, pushing and pulling at the team, deciding which ideas to use and which to discard. He then melded it all together to create the screenplay for “The Cage.”

  It was a herculean task, so much so that it flew right over the heads of many involved. Morris Chapnick, assigned by Herb Solow to be Roddenberry’s assistant, said, “I have to say... I don't know diddly from science fiction. I am sure there are many other worlds out in the sky somewhere, but I don't think in those terms.... Some of the stuff Gene does... I don't understand it... I read this thing, and I don't know anything about outer space, but the wagon train to the stars -- that I understand.” (31a)

  It’s easy to underestimate how profound and holistic Roddenberry’s vision of the techscape of the future was. By today’s standards, the available technology of 1964 was downright primitive. Doors did not open automatically when we approached them. The first handheld calculator was still in the future, as were microwave ovens and cell phones. 1964 was a year before most Americans had even heard of a place called Vietnam, five years before man walked on the moon, 25 years before anyone ever surfed the Internet. Your phone had a curly cord, and the new innovation of “touchtone” dialing was merely a year old. Even the television sets that viewers watched would be considered positively prehistoric today. Most TVs were black-and-white models, and the majority of those sets had no remote control. There was no cable or satellite; rabbit ears and roof-top antennas were the norm. The world looked, and was, different.

  Roddenberry needed collaborators. His Star Trek script wrote a new language: warp drive, hailing frequencies, mental illusion, thought control, and green-skinned sex-driven dancing girls from a place called Orion. How was he going to find someone imaginative and daring enough to direct?

  James Goldstone, a well-regarded TV director, was offered the job. Roddenberry knew him from The Lieutenant. Solow, on behalf of Desilu, approved of the choice. So did the network. But Goldstone had a “scheduling conflict.” A man with no reputation could find one at Star Trek.
An established reputation, however, could be ruined with a job like this. The search continued.

  Solow asked around to see who was on the network’s A-list. He asked: “Who’s new? Who’s hot? Who’s talented? Who won’t step on toes?”

  Robert Butler was the name Solow came up with. Like Goldstone, Roddenberry knew the 36-year-old Butler from The Lieutenant, where he had directed two episodes. One of Butler's first directing jobs was for Have Gun - Will Travel, with a script written by Roddenberry. Other recent television credits included multiple assignments on Stoney Burke, The Fugitive, and Desilu’s The Untouchables and Ben Casey. (Not yet on his resume, but in his future: directing for I Spy as well as the pilot and numerous episodes for the Emmy-winning Hill Street Blues. He would also create Remington Steele, for which he also directed and produced.) Roddenberry and Solow were taking no chances. They wanted the best they could get -- or at least, the best they could afford, who was also available on short notice and willing to take on a headache like Star Trek.

  Despite having directed two episodes of The Twilight Zone, Butler was no great fan of science fiction. He later said, “I read the script, and I was doubtful.... I thought, ‘This is just a palette of science fiction.’ Everything in science fiction that I knew of was dragged into this pilot. The beautiful young woman who’s really an old hag, etc. -- all the chestnuts were in the pilot. And I read it and remember talking to my wife about it and saying, ‘This thing is too nuts; it’s just crazy. I don’t know whether to do this’ -- being young and pure. And she said, ‘Aah, why don’t you do it?’ So I did.” (26-3)

  Among other things, Butler wanted to change the title. Decades later, he admitted, "At that time, without the brainwash of the show becoming a massive hit, I remember Star Trek sounded kind of inert and boring to me, whereas ‘Star Track,’ I thought, had a bigger vista to it. But Gene was not in the mood to receive any such input." (26-1)