Dr. Jonas Salk, who developed the polio vaccine, chose not to patent it, making it affordable to the general public. The vaccine was estimated to be worth $7 billion had it been patented.
Jonas Salk Refused to Patent the Polio Vaccine
When Edward R. Murrow asked Dr. Jonas Salk who owned the patent to the polio vaccine in 1955, Salk gave one of history's most memorable responses: "Well, the people, I would say. There is no patent. Could you patent the sun?"
That choice meant Salk walked away from an estimated $7 billion in potential earnings, allowing the vaccine to be distributed globally at affordable prices during one of the deadliest disease outbreaks of the 20th century.
A Disease That Terrified America
Before Salk's vaccine, polio terrorized families every summer. The virus caused paralysis and death, primarily in children. At its peak in 1952, the United States reported over 57,000 cases. Parents kept kids indoors, pools closed, and the fear was palpable. President Franklin D. Roosevelt himself had been paralyzed by the disease in 1921.
The American public desperately wanted a solution. In the single year the vaccine was unveiled, 80 million people donated to the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis, which funded Salk's research. The vaccine's development was truly a collective effort—paid for by ordinary citizens through donations, often just dimes at a time.
The People's Vaccine
Salk believed that since the public funded the research, they should own the results. His refusal to patent wasn't just noble rhetoric—it had real consequences. Without patent protections, pharmaceutical companies could manufacture the vaccine immediately, and competition kept prices low.
Within two years of the vaccine's announcement, polio cases in the U.S. dropped by 85-90%. By 1979, the disease was eliminated from the United States entirely. Worldwide, millions of lives were saved.
The Patent That Never Was
The story has an interesting wrinkle: lawyers for the National Foundation did explore patenting the vaccine, but concluded it likely wasn't patentable anyway due to prior art and lack of novelty in the techniques used. So while Salk's altruism was genuine, the legal reality made his poetic response even more fitting—there was nothing to patent in the first place.
Still, that doesn't diminish Salk's achievement or his philosophy. He could have pursued licensing deals, personal branding, or countless other ways to profit. He chose not to. He spent the rest of his career in research, never seeking wealth from his most famous work.
Jonas Salk proved that some discoveries are too important to own. His legacy isn't measured in dollars—it's measured in the millions of children who grew up running, playing, and living full lives, free from the fear of polio.
