The Powerhouse: Inside the Invention of a Battery to Save the World by Steve LeVine Read Free Book Online

crystal structure called olivine. And he had managed to intercalate lithium in and out of it. On inspection, Goodenough saw that the result was sensational. Lithium combined with iron phosphate met all the metrics for which he had hoped.
    Goodenough didn’t learn until much later that Okada—the Japanese researcher—had gone on to disclose Padhi’s discovery to his own employer, which had proceeded to secretly develop the formulation itself. In November 1995, NTT, using Padhi’s methodology, quietly filed for a patent and began to canvass Japanese electronics makers, gauging their interest in a new, lithium-iron-phosphate battery.
    Goodenough caught wind of the subterfuge only the following year. He was incredulous. “Padhi, he was a spy, for goodness sakes,” he nearly shouted at his postdoc. “Wake up and start putting something in your notebook.” He meant that Padhi should commit his work to writing in his lab book; that record would prove crucial should there be an IP battle. And there very well could be.
    “Sorry,” Padhi replied to Goodenough. “He is my friend.”
    A race of priority was joined. The Japanese and the Americans rushed out competing papers and patent applications. On behalf of Goodenough’s lab, the University of Texas filed a $500 million lawsuit against Nippon Telegraph and Telephone.
    The complications worsened. An MIT professor named Yet-Ming Chiang began to fiddle with Goodenough’s idea and filed for his own patents. Asserting that his improvements had created yet another new material, Chiang launched a Massachusetts company called A123. His stated aim was to sell a version of the lithium-iron-phosphate for use in power tools and eventually motor vehicles. This established another legal front for Goodenough as Chiang’s company sought to persuade a European tribunal to strike down the old man’s patents, which it eventually did in 2008.
    The result was a free-for-all, one that reached an apex late in 2008 when Warren Buffett spent $230 million to buy 10 percent of BYD, a Chinese car company that announced a new lithium-iron-phosphate-powered electric car. No one spoke of the source of BYD’s batteries but, coming after Chiang’s actions, the impression in the industry was that the Goodenough lab’s invention might turn up anywhere.
    In 2009, A123 sold shares in an initial public offering. Chiang’s charisma, the MIT name, and the general tenor of the times created an aura of sizzle, and the share price surged by 50 percent on the first day of trading. Chiang’s company raised $587 million, the biggest IPO of the year and a tremendous payday for him and all involved. Except, again, Goodenough.
    In the end, the University of Texas settled with NTT. The payoff to the school was $30 million along with a share of any profit from its Japanese patents, recognition that Goodenough had been infringed. Goodenough received nothing from A123. He regarded the outcome as a travesty. The university-hired lawyer was a mere big talker, a naïf out of his depth against cunning shysters. As for the university, Goodenough said it lacked the courage to fight.

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Creating NMC
    I n the early 1990s, the researchers at Argonne’s Building 205 were griping openly about oppressive management. The Department of Energy wanted invention on demand but also mandated excessive safety training, the combined impact of which was to “discourage spontaneity.” The lab was no longer as secretive—since Argonne was working on so many nonnuclear projects, it had abandoned the practice of declaring everything classified. Much of the work remained confidential, as basic invention was under way, but often did not involve matters of national security. Scientists no longer had to wear color-coded shoes to protect against nuclear contamination. They could take food and coffee into their offices. And their offices were air-conditioned. 1
    Still, you could not enter or move around Argonne without a lab identification