FOR AS long as Tony Loder can remember, he’d known that his mother, Hedy
Lamarr, was a film star. But at seven years old, he suddenly discovered that she
had an amazing secret locked away in her past. Not the usual Hollywood fare of
sex, booze or drugs—his mother’s secret was far more remarkable. “We were
going through some old boxes in the attic,” he recalls, “when she suddenly
pulled out some old papers and said `Oh yes, I invented radio-guided
torpedoes.'” Loder was too young to see anything weird in this at the time, but
decades later, it seem very different. “She was twenty years ahead of her time,”
he says.
But Lamarr did more than simply invent a way of controlling torpedoes. In
1941, with avant-garde composer George Antheil, she was granted US patent number
2 292 387 for a “Secret Communication System” that used a new technique to
conceal a radio message by sprinkling it across a wide range of frequencies.
With a simple mechanism based on the insides of a player piano, messages
would jump or “hop” from one frequency to another at random, making it almost
impossible to listen in or to jam the signal. Lamarr intended that the system
would steer a torpedo remotely, guiding it towards a moving ship with no danger
of interference from the enemy. Today, the technique they proposed—now
called frequency hopping spread spectrum—lies at the heart of the latest
communications systems, the revolution in mobile phones and could soon offer
cheap wireless access to the Internet.
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Their design overcame one of the biggest weaknesses of radio communications.
Normally, radio signals—the sort used for broadcasting music, for
instance—are transmitted in a narrow frequency band and picked up by
carefully tuning the receiver to the same band. Unfortunately, this method is
useless for sending secret communications: anyone can listen in, and worse, the
signal is easily lost in the fuzz of background noise or can be blocked
completely by a devious enemy.
Lamarr first learnt of the vulnerability of radio signals in the 1930s while
she was married to Fritz Mandl, an Austrian arms dealer. Mandl was selling
bombs, bullets and torpedoes to the rapidly expanding military forces of Germany
and Italy—and was also keen to show off his beautiful young wife. Possibly
to improve his chances of making a sale, she sat in on many of his meetings,
where she heard that Mandl’s torpedoes often missed their target. What navies
really wanted, she learnt, was a way to guide a torpedo as it raced through the
water. Radio control fitted the bill, but if a torpedo relied on a single
frequency, the control system could easily be jammed.
After four years of marriage, Lamarr left her domineering husband, met
director Louis B. Mayer and travelled to Hollywood for a new career in films.
According to Robert Price, an electrical engineer and spread spectrum historian,
Lamarr was staunchly anti-Nazi. “She wanted to bring a weapon across the
Atlantic to use against Hitler,” he says. In the US, she came across the
push-button radio. “She knew if you pushed a button, you changed the radio’s
frequency,” Price says. “That got her started on the idea of frequency
DZ辱Բ.”
Steering a torpedo with a signal that hopped frequencies seemingly at random
would make the signal unjammable. Enemy radio operators scanning across the
airwaves would hear no more than a fragment of the signal in their headphones
before the transmission hopped to another frequency and disappeared into
background noise.
To work, both receiver and transmitter must “hop” in perfect synchronisation.
This is where the innovative composer George Antheil came to Lamarr’s aid. The
couple met at a Hollywood party and when Lamarr told Antheil about her idea, it
turned out that he had already solved the synchronisation problem.
Sixteen years before, he had composed Ballet Mechanique, a musical
piece written for aircraft propellers, wooden rattles, tin gongs and four
synchronised player pianos. Antheil’s mechanical music made quite an impression:
one reviewer described it as if “you were to listen to the notes of circular
saws biting their way through steel, mixed with the crash of a steel die plant”.
Crucially, the pianos used synchronised motors to drive matching paper rolls
punched with holes to indicate when the pianos should play a note.
Antheil and Lamarr realised a transmitter and receiver could be synchronised
in the same way. In their patent, the transmitter and torpedo each contained a
paper roll punched with an identical pattern of random holes, a motor and
mechanical switches. As the torpedo was launched, the motors would drive the
rolls and the holes in the paper would change the frequency settings of both the
transmitter and receiver in much the same way that a push-button radio changes
radio station.
Impossible task
The position of the holes determined the frequency of the signals, and their
length controlled the delay between hops. And enemy eavesdroppers would find it
almost impossible to monitor this broad range of frequencies at the same
time.
The pair gave their invention to the US government but despite its
advantages, frequency hopping spread spectrum wasn’t used during the Second
World War—perhaps the components were too heavy or maybe the US Navy
disliked the thought of paper rolls inside their shiny torpedoes. Instead, the
system was reinvented independently years after the war and miniaturised using
transistors.
Today, frequency hopping technology is used in the US Milstar military
communications system, and in mobile phone systems too. Since it relies on many
frequencies, callers can share the same frequencies without their messages
interfering with each other. Other uses are appearing all the time: in
interactive television transmission, wireless access to the Internet and for
sending data along power lines, for instance.
Lamarr’s and Antheil’s patent was, according to Price, “the generic
invention—the first in the field”. But recognition has been slow to
arrive. They received an Electronics Frontier Foundation 1997 Pioneer award and
Loder recently accepted the Victor Kaplan medal for invention from the Austrian
Academy of Sciences on his mother’s behalf.
Honour has come too late for Antheil—he died in 1959. But from her
house in Florida, Lamarr still follows the development of their idea with
interest. In a world with all too few scientific heroines, many now believe her
contribution should be universally recognised. “She is the Marie Curie of spread
spectrum,” says Price. Loder agrees: “There’s no equivalent,” he says. “Let’s
see what Mel Gibson’s going to give us.”
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Further reading:
see a website created by George Antheil’s son, Chris Beaumont, at:
http://www.ncafe.com/chris/pat2/index.html