The Serendipity of Astrobiology

Chapter 6E

The Serendipity of Astrobiology

Two remarkable developments in biology are worth mentioning in connection with the serendipity of astrobiology. Let us remember that a key objection to the possibility of Martian fossils in meteorite AL84001 was that the worm-like features could not be bacteria because they were one hundred times smaller than real (terrestrial) bacteria. The controversy, however, spurred interest in the possibility that the Earth itself may contain bacteria that small. The interest increased when it was realized that the methods for looking for bacteria would not have detected such terrestrial “nano-bacteria” even if they existed. Lo and behold: biologists soon claimed to have found many such varieties of bacteria, even smaller than the presumed Martian bugs, right here on our own planet! This discovery, however, seems to have been short lived. More recent investigations revealed that some candidates to the title of nanobacteria are non-living mineral structures, e.g. calcium carbonate crystals, that do mimic bacteria in some respects and even reproduce.[1] Although not as exciting perhaps, this finding is nevertheless quite interesting in its own right. Moreover, it has some practical importance, since those nano structures are apparently in the formation of kidney and other stones.

This serendipitous result of astrobiology, as valuable as it has been in giving us a new understanding of life on Earth, may pale in comparison with the creation in the laboratory of life forms that incorporate a 21^st amino acid and others with non-standard DNA codes![2]

It is clear that much needs to be done in this field, and that space science is particularly well poised to nourish its advance. At the same time we should beware of placing unfair demands upon the field, particularly where it concerns the search for the origins of life. We should beware especially of the carefree use of probabilities in trying to settle this important issue. The most notorious is the estimate of the probability that all the constituent atoms of a cell may come together to form the cell. Even for a strand of DNA the probability would be extremely low. And so it would be for any complex arrangement of matter, as long as we assume that it started from scratch. As Fred Hoyle put it, what is the probability that a Boing 747 will arise spontaneously from a tornado-swept junkyard? Of course the probability is nil. But cells are not formed from scratch. Some elements combine together more easily than others, and if they are abundant then we will find many of their compounds. Such is the case with carbon and hydrogen. Once those compounds are formed, more complex compounds can form using them, and so on. The rising complexity of molecules can give rise to very complex molecules indeed -- and then the very long process of organic evolution can begin.

Robert Shapiro, a critic of the field, tries to impose two requirements that deserve special comment. He claims that the thesis that the origin of life was an accident is not scientific. Apparently he feels that a truly scientific approach would explain why life was inevitable, given the Earth’s early environment. And he also objects to laboratory simulations of hypothetical early terrestrial environments in which the experimenters manipulate the environment to determine whether certain complex molecules can be produced from certain others. He wants the experiments left alone, to see whether the molecule so produced is capable of evolving on its own (otherwise we are not really dealing with organic evolution, I presume). His suggestion is that much of the work in the field fails to meet these two requirements and he concludes that the field is in disarray.[3]

The first thesis is rather strange coming from a biologist. If organic evolution is evolution at all, it is subject to the vagaries of natural history. The evolution of mammals, for example, may have well depended on extraordinary accidents (such as the Alvarez asteroid, which made available to our ancestors the niches previously ruled by dinosaurs).

It seems that Shapiro is unhappy because the search for the origin of life does not demand the sense of inevitability that we expect from physics. But that is one of the differences between physics and historical sciences like geology or biology. But even if we wish to use physics as a model, it seems that either chaos theory or Prigogine's dissipative structures would serve us better. A very small change in initial conditions may lead to radically different outcomes. A tiny amount of a catalyst can produce an oscillating reaction (say where the color of the solution keeps changing from red to blue). At the time of the Cambrian Revolution (about 650 million years ago) there was a great explosion in the forms of life that began to populate the planet. An observer could not have predicted then that human beings were sure to come along millions of years hence, unless he had knowledge of all the accidents that would take place in the ensuing years, and of all the ways in which complex environmental relations were going to change. Nevertheless, this particular outcome of evolution (humans) is an accident, and so is any other particular outcome. If life is the outcome of organic evolution, life itself could be said to be an accident too.

A compromise position may be defended. We need claim neither that life (as we know it) is an accident, nor that such life was inevitable. For example, we may hope for an explanation of origins that makes it look as if some accident of this sort (life) was likely to happen (e.g., a self-reproducing molecule that can protect itself from most typical, short range, environmental dangers, even though its genetic code is very different from ours).

As for Shapiro's second requirement, it seems to me that we should want to create in the laboratory a molecule that can reproduce in the sorts of environments that we think may have existed long ago. It would be unreasonable to demand that such a molecule should reproduce in any environment that might develop if we leave the apparatus unattended. We must remember that most species that ever lived are now extinct. As the environment changed, only those organisms to which the change was not unfavorable were able to leave progeny. Thus, by a similar reasoning, a molecule may be of the right sort and still fail to reproduce under the conditions required by Shapiro instead of conditions similar to those that an evolving Earth made available to its complex organic molecules.

In its own ways, astrobiology thus illustrates how space science preserves the dynamic character of science in general. Its vigorous pursuit would inevitably lead to the profound transformation of our views of the living world. And since those views are linked to our understanding of the global environment, the resulting theoretical adjustment would be of great magnitude — and so eventually would be the change in the way we may interact with the universe. The justification of astrobiology is, then, ultimately much like that of the other space sciences, and in line with the general philosophical position of this essay, whether or not we ever find a single extraterrestrial specimen!

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[1] Martel, Jan, and Ding-E Young, John. “Purported nanobacteria in human blood as calcium carbonate nanoparticles.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. April 8, 2008. vol. 105, no. 14, 5549-5554.

[2] See, for example, R. F. Service, “Researchers Create First Autonomous Synthetic Life Form,” Science, Vol. 299, 31 January, 2003, p. 640.

[3] R. Shapiro, Origins: A Skeptic’s Guide to the Creation of Life on Earth, Bantam Books, 1987.

From Serendipity to Justification

Chapter 3E

From Serendipity to Justification

Clearly, then, a dynamic science makes certain things possible that otherwise would be not only beyond our reach but also beyond our imagination. That is one of the main reasons why we cannot afford not to do science: many problems of which we are already aware cannot be solved unless a different point of view comes into play. Therefore to reject or slow down the process by which science grows, by which we refine and replace our communal spectacles, amounts to a decision to deprive ourselves of much that is good and to continue to expose ourselves unnecessarily to who knows what dangers[1].

Supporters of space exploration can now justify their expectation of a bounty from space precisely because exploration presents many challenges to our science and technology. Since space exploration is thus so likely to contribute to the transformation of our views, investing in it has a clear advantage over investing in fields not so ripe with challenge.

Knowing that serendipity is a natural consequence of science, the supporter of exploration may now say with Descartes that a failure to explore is a failure to carry out our obligation to "procure the general good of mankind." The justification the supporter can now offer for exploration in general, and for the heart of space exploration[2] in particular, sounds like a practical case, albeit more subtle and indirect than the one made in Chapter 2. But it is a practical case born out of the nature of space science itself, and thus the guarantees that it offers go well beyond those of historical anecdotes.

This deeper and fundamental practicality forms the basis of the supporter's response to the strongest social objections. The supporter of exploration can now explain to the social critic why the previous benefits of exploration were not a fortunate accident: they were the result of the inevitable expansion of opportunity that is part and parcel of scientific exploration. Once we understand the dynamic nature of science we are in a position to vouch for its future serendipity. As we saw in the previous chapter, to a casual observer the heart of space exploration may not appear to have obvious practical benefits. But this deeper investigation reveals a long-term, fundamental practicality: the practicality that comes when a transformation of our views of the universe expands our range of opportunity.

As the benefits from exploration become routine, the frontier of the unknown is pushed further out into the cosmos and our challenges shift accordingly. In indulging our enthusiasm, we are thus bound to force a change in our panorama of problems and opportunities.

The argument works against the ideological objection as well. Unless we commit species suicide, we will continue to interact with the Earth and transform it in small and large ways. By doing so we act in the manner of all other living beings: a tree grows tall and gives shade to violets and mushrooms that could not have lived without it; a beaver builds a dam, harming rose bushes and fish, but helping water lilies and frogs; and once upon a time, bacteria gave the Earth its oxygen and nitrogen atmosphere.

The question for us is not whether we will interfere, but rather how much and how wisely. Now, to act wisely we need knowledge of ourselves, of the Earth, and of our interactions with the Earth. Otherwise we are likely to impose too big a burden on the planet or on its human inhabitants.

Such knowledge is not complete as of this writing – not even environmental activists can reasonably claim that they know everything about our planet – and it may never be complete. That is, our perspective is limited, and therefore we need a dynamic science that can change our panorama of problems and opportunities. To eschew dynamic science is to deprive humankind of the chance to act wisely. We are already a big presence on the Earth and need to move carefully in the dark of our ignorance. It would thus be irresponsible to forgo the lanterns that may illuminate our way (lanterns such as NASA’s Mission to Earth, to be discussed in the next chapter). Space exploration is thus not a false panacea but an important means to a cleaner and better future.^[3]

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[1] We may also expose ourselves to new risks. I will discuss this matter in the last two chapters.

[2] Cf. the remarks made at the end of Ch. 2 about those aspects of exploration that fire the imagination and motivate the conquest of the cosmos.

[3]. Historians may point out that the argument sketched in the two previous sections of this chapter is largely based on history and so they may wonder about my remarks in Chapter 2 against a historical case for serendipity. The answer is that here I place the history of science in a philosophical context. Several of my premises do require the history of science for their support, but my conclusions are not the results of inductive inferences from history. They depend instead on conceptual inferences about the nature of science and exploration. This is what makes my argument philosophical.

Scientific Exploration and Serendipity 2

Chapter 3D

Scientific Exploration and Serendipity 2

Second Part of the Argument: Scientific exploration leads to scientific change.

Changes in worldviews are inevitable given the nature of science. The reason is that worldviews (e.g., comprehensive scientific theories) are our creations and thus imperfect.[1] Therefore, they are always in need of refinement, modification, or replacement.

The pressure for such changes comes from the exposure both to unusual circumstances (which force us to stretch our views) and to competing ideas (which are often developed to account for a few of those unusual circumstances, and then extended to explain the entire field). And – here is a key point – scientific exploration, by its very nature, places science in new circumstances and presents it with new ideas. Thus scientific exploration leads not merely to the addition of a few, or even many, interesting facts but to the transformation, perhaps the radical transformation, of our views of the world.

Let me rephrase this second part of the argument in schematic form:

6. Science is dynamic. Science is always changing because

(a) It is never complete (being a human creation).

(b) When challenged by new circumstances it must adapt (i.e., change). For example, cancer and AIDS have challenged scientists to alter profoundly our ideas about cell functioning and development. And astronomy has undergone many radical changes motivated, in great part, by new instruments that have allowed us to look at hitherto unimagined aspects of the universe (e.g., Galileo’s telescope and the discovery of the phases of Venus and the moons of Jupiter, as well as the recent upheaval created by the discoveries made with the new generations of telescopes).

(c) When challenged by new ideas, it is, once again, spurred to change. Think of the radical transformation of biology as the result of Darwin’s idea of natural selection.

7. Scientific exploration places science in new circumstances and presents it with new ideas.

This is true almost by definition. When we explore scientifically, we either move science into new areas or else think about it in a new way (i.e., in the light of new ideas). I say “almost” for two reasons. First, even though I am presenting a conceptual argument, I do not wish to engage in a semantic dispute. Perhaps someone might give an example in which a scientist explores without placing science in new circumstances or thinking about science anew. Nevertheless, these two activities cover the range of what scientific exploration characteristically does (in a strong sense of “characteristic”). This is why I aim for the conclusion that serendipity is a natural consequence of scientific exploration, where by “natural consequence” I mean a (strongly) characteristic or practically inevitable consequence. A practically inevitable consequence of having a human genome is to be born with one head, one heart, two eyes, and two legs. But some humans are born with only one leg, say, and some human embryos do not even get to be born.

The second reason is that some very scholarly critics may feel that “exploration” is too romantic a name for what scientists do. Scientists presumably ponder, observe, investigate, and carry out experiments, but they are explorers only in a metaphorical sense. I do not wish to engage in a semantic dispute over this issue either, although it would be peculiar that so many people from so many walks of life should understand perfectly what I mean when I talk about the scientific exploration of space, and that they should themselves talk this way, if “exploration” is indeed the wrong term. In any event, scientists’ attempts to satisfy their curiosity about the universe do lead them into new areas and do motivate them to look at their collective understanding in new ways. This is all my argument needs.

Moreover, these two activities provide the natural conditions for change in science. Given that science is not complete, when it is placed in new circumstances (e.g., in dealing with significantly new phenomena, or being applied well beyond its domain), it is characteristically forced to adapt (change). The challenge of new scientific ideas is an additional factor in bringing about scientific change.^[2]

From Points 6 and 7 we may conclude, therefore, that

8. Scientific exploration leads to change in our scientific views.

As I argued above, the crucial feature of science is not merely the addition of a few, or even many, interesting facts but the transformation, perhaps radical, of our views of the world^[3] (cf. my remarks on Feyerabend, Galileo and the Tower Argument). This essential feature turns serendipity into a natural consequence of a dynamic science. If science is to be dynamic, it must be challenged, and it must change. But the change that matters is the transformation of our views of the universe. For once we think about the universe differently — once we have a different "communal" perception of it – we come to perceive also hitherto unknown dangers, new solutions, and new opportunities. Such is the cradle of serendipity.

Putting the conclusions of Parts 1 and 2 together, we arrive at the conclusion of the whole argument:

9. Since scientific exploration leads to change and scientific change leads to serendipity, exploration leads to serendipity.

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[1] Scientists like to draw a distinction between their use of the word “theory” in science and the ordinary use of the word. In science the word is almost an honorific title given to a comprehensive set of ideas that at least begins to explain a range of phenomena; ordinary parlance betrays an empiricist bias (theory as less important than fact) and the word is almost derogatory, as in “evolution is just a theory,” meaning, “little more than a guess.” This equivocation irritates scientists, for then quantum physics and general relativity would also be “just theories.” To reduce the confusion, I keep pointing out that I am talking about comprehensive theories all along.

[2]. To put the point in a language closer to that of professional philosophers: by the “natural conditions” of change in science I mean that (disjointly) they are practically necessary and sufficient. That is, first, one or the other is normally required for scientific change to occur (overcoming the natural inertia against intellectual and experimental retooling). And second, the challenge of new circumstances characteristically forces science to change (this is a practical, not a logical certainty, for the scientific field may instead fall apart, or society may stop funding research, or a supernova may destroy the world, etc). This is not to say that science is bound to find solutions to its problems. There may be no cure for AIDS, for example, but in looking for it, researchers have profoundly transformed scientific medicine. The challenge of new ideas is often sufficient to bring about change as well (when those ideas offer significant alternative ways of looking at difficult problems, etc.).

[3]. This theory of science is developed in detail in my Radical Knowledge: A Philosophical Inquiry into the Nature and Limits of Science, Hackett, 1981 (Avebury in the U.K.).

A Philosophical Case for the Serendipity of Science

Chapter 3B

A Philosophical Case for the Serendipity of Science

My argument has two parts. The first part establishes a strong connection between scientific change and serendipity. The second part establishes a strong connection between scientific exploration and scientific change.

The first part goes as follows.

1. Scientific views are instruments for interacting with the universe, and they tell us what the universe is like.

This statement may sound plausible, but it is by no means universally accepted. According to a still popular view, scientific knowledge is objective, objective is equated with factual, and as a result facts become the business of science. From this it presumably follows that the function of science is to collect facts about the universe, and that the function of space science is to collect them from space.

This conventional, and relatively static, picture of science makes it difficult to defend space science. If radiation from a certain region of the cosmos has been coming toward us for millions of years, and will be coming for millions more, what is the hurry to put a telescope in orbit to observe it right now?

The answer lies in a different notion of science: a notion that was first brilliantly developed by Galileo in 1632 and finally recovered by Paul Feyerabend and Thomas Kuhn in the 20^th century. It is the notion that scientific views or theories are like spectacles through which we experience the universe.^[1] And as Kuhn taught us, they are also instruments we use to interact with the universe.

To illustrate how far the shift on emphasis away from the collection of facts can take us, consider briefly the manner in which Galileo surmounted one of the main obstacles to Copernicus' idea of the motion of the Earth.

In his analysis of the history of science, Paul Feyerabend explains how the Aristotelians employed the Tower Argument to show that the "facts" refuted the Copernican view. Suppose, with Copernicus, that the Earth moves. If you then drop a stone from the top of a tall tower, by the time the stone hits the ground the tower will have moved with the Earth, and thus the point of impact will be a considerable distance from the base of the tower. For the impact to be as close to the base of the tower as it actually is, the stone should follow a parabolic motion. But it obviously falls straight down (Figure 3.1). Thus the supposition that the Earth moves cannot be correct.

We now know, however, that Copernicus was right: the Earth moves. But why should his view fly in the face of such obvious facts as the vertical, downward motion of the stone? As we see the stone leave the tower, we find it natural to say that the stone moves straight down. But this "natural interpretation" assumes that a normal observer under normal conditions can determine the motion of the stone. "Real" motion is presumably observable motion: a change in location that we can measure (in this case a normal observer functions as the measuring instrument: the motion of the stone is what he sees the stone do). In terms fashionable today, the Aristotelian opponents of Copernicus and Galileo assumed that motion was operational (determinable by measurement) and absolute.

Galileo's ploy, according to Feyerabend, was to offer a different set of "natural interpretations" according to which we do not actually observe the real motion of the stone. There are, Galileo explained, two components to the motion of the stone: a straight motion toward the center of the Earth and a circular motion that it shares with the earth (“circular inertia”). The stone, the tower, and the observer all share this circular inertia. But shared motion cannot be observed (when flying in a jetliner, we do not "see" the passenger in the next seat as cruising at 600 miles per hour, even though we may know that he is). Thus we can perceive neither circular inertia nor the real (compound) motion of the stone. The normal observer sees only that component of the motion of the stone that he does not share: the motion toward the center of the Earth. Therefore, concludes Galileo, the stone does not fall straight down – it only seems to.

In this manner Galileo defused one of the main objections to the Copernican view: the crucial "facts" his opponents adduced make theoretical assumptions. Certainly, Galileo points out, if we already believe that the Earth does not move, we must conclude that the motion of the stone is “straight and perpendicular.”[ii] But if we believe instead that the Earth rotates, we must conclude that the “motion would be the compound of two motions,” as well as parabolic (a “slanting movement,” Figure 3.2). What the “facts” are depends on what scientific theory we accept. Clearly, Galileo says, Aristotle, Ptolemy, and their followers “take as known that which is intended to be proved.”

Galileo’s opponents, once again, had an operational concept of motion: motion is observable change of position over time. Galileo proposed instead a concept of compound motion in which one of the components is theoretical (and in principle unobservable, since the observer shares it).[iii] He thus defused the objection, not by advancing a set of facts free of theoretical assumptions, but a set of facts with different assumptions. The new “real” motions of objects were no longer directly observable, and the relativistic basis for holding this view introduced a new way of doing physics.

Different views of the universe thus lead to different assumptions, and different assumptions lead to different evaluations of what is to count as evidence, as facts. They also lead, as in the case of the Copernican revolution, to a profound transformation of our understanding of what the world is like.

In the 19^th Century, William Prout suggested that all elements are formed from hydrogen. He thus predicted that all atomic weights should be multiples of 1, since that is the atomic weight of hydrogen. But careful measurements of the atomic weights of several pure elements, chlorine for example, did not produce whole numbers. As in the case of the Tower Argument and similar experiments[iv], the seemingly impregnable facts refuted an interesting new view.

A century later, though, a new atomic theory explained that each element differs from others by the number of protons in the atomic nucleus (exactly matched by the number of electrons “around” it). The new theory, however, also proposed particles called “neutrons” in addition to protons and electrons. Neutrons, which have mass but no charge, are also located in the nucleus, but their number can vary. That is, there can be several varieties of the same element (isotopes), with different atomic weights.[v] The extremely careful 19^th Century measurements of the atomic weight of pure chlorine turned out to be measurements of the mix of chlorine isotopes found in nature. The atomic weight of each of the isotopes is indeed a whole number, much in accordance with Prout’s insight. A revolutionary theory, once more, changed in this case not only the “facts” but also our understanding of what an element is.[vi]

According to Kuhn, scientific views (which he called "paradigms") tell us what elements there are in the world and what relations exist between these elements. Suppose, for example, that scientists come to view the basic components of the world as little “billiard” balls in frequent collisions. As soon as we begin to view the world in this manner, a host of new problems requires solutions. If a collision is perfectly elastic, what happens to the particles? (The system’s momentum going in must equal its momentum going out.) What happens in inelastic collisions? (Some energy will be dissipated, probably as heat.) Reasonably precise solutions to such problems are found using the laws and mathematics of a new science (e.g., Newton’s), which are tailored to the kinds of problems that arise because we think the world is made of little billiard balls.

How we view the world thus determines what sorts of problems are meaningful and what kinds of solutions are acceptable. This is, of course, a rough and preliminary way of describing science, but it suggests the sense in which we can speak of science as a pair of spectacles that permits us to see the world. I am speaking metaphorically, to be sure. But that metaphor is by no means farfetched. We should realize that without our scientific views we would simply be blind to many aspects of the universe.

Sight itself is more than a mechanism for forming mental images of the world: it is also a complex means of interaction with the world. Consider two examples. As you walk down a familiar street at night you vaguely make out in front of you some amorphous shapes. Suddenly you hear the nasty growl of an attack dog, and almost instantly one of the amorphous shapes turns into the well defined, and frightening, body of a Doberman. The threat we hear informs and changes what we see.

In a famous experiment, F.P. Kilpatrick invited subjects to look at two rooms through peepholes.[vii] They first looked at a normal (rectilinear) room. The next room was distorted in that the left wall was twice as long as the right, but the subjects noticed nothing unusual about it. They were then asked to touch a mark on the back wall with a long stick. Since they saw the room as normal, they also saw the back wall as parallel to the front one, and so their attempts to touch the mark did not succeed. Experimenting with the stick led them eventually to success, and as soon as they achieved it, they immediately saw the room as distorted.

These two cases illustrate how the visual cortex circuits that let us see the “properties” of objects (what people understand by visual perception) are meant for flexible interaction with our environment. Another, faster circuit allows us to react almost instantly without even making “pictures” of the object. A professional tennis player, for instance, will react to the flight of the ball even before consciously seeing the ball[viii]. And animals that live in completely different environments emphasize completely different senses and the brain structures that support them. Bats use sonar, and some fish electric fields. In general, animals perceive as they do because their senses were of practical advantage to their ancestors as they interacted with the world.

Scientific views also give us more than pictures or representations of the universe. Like magnified senses, they provide means of interacting with the universe, for they ask questions by seeing, probing, and touching nature at many different energies and magnitudes. Thus when we learn to "see" the universe we actually learn to make contact and deal with its diverse facets in many different ways.[ix]

This interactive view of science is controversial amongst philosophers, and it may sound strange to scientists who believe that the facts always decide the worth of scientific ideas, never the other way around. But it receives strong support from the history and the practice of science (especially at crucial scientific junctures, such as Galileo’s defusing of the Tower Argument, where the facts we choose depend on the theories we favor), as I have argued elsewhere.[x] The point of this excursion into a central controversy in the philosophy of science is that scientific exploration in general, and space exploration in particular, creates circumstances that force science into such crucial junctures. Exploration thus, as we will see below, makes inevitable the radical transformation of the ways we “see” and interact with the universe.

I place quotation marks around see to prevent a pointless but surprisingly common misinterpretation of the approach under discussion. Some philosophers take this interactionism to imply that with changes of worldview come changes in the actual visual perception of the world. Sometimes this may happen: expectation does affect perception and different theories may set up different expectations. But it need not happen in the cases when we are trying to decide between two theories. Galileo saw the stone fall straight down, just as the Aristotelians did. And Prout and his critics all saw the same numbers on their instruments. Same perceptions but different facts. Galileo’s argument destroyed not only the empiricist distinction between theory and fact, but also the empiricist connection between perception and fact.

Nevertheless, this is not a book about the limitations of empiricist theories of science. My intent is rather to apply and illustrate the findings of the interactionist approach to the nature of science. I trust that those applications and illustrations will best show the worth of such findings.[xi] In any event, with those findings in mind, our problem of justifying space exploration will take on an entirely new light as we place emphasis on the essential transformations of science and their consequences.

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[1]. The most important references in this regard are: Paul K. Feyerabend, Against Method, NLB (1975); Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, University of Chicago Press (2nd. Edition, 1970); Imre Lakatos, The Methodology of Scientific Research Programmes, Cambridge University Press (1978); Karl R. Popper, The Logic of Scientific Discovery, Hutchinson (1959).

[ii] This and the following quotations from Galileo come from his Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems, Modern Library of Science, edition of 2001.p. 162. The original was published in 1632. On p. 198, Galileo restates the argument. One ought to say, he claims, that

If the earth is fixed, the rock leaves from rest and descends vertically; but if the earth moves, the stone, being likewise moved with equal velocity, leaves not from rest but from a state of motion equal to that of the earth. With this it mixes its supervening downward motion, and compounds out of them a slanting movement.

[iii] From a spaceship today we could see the parabolic motions of falling objects, but this option was neither practically nor rhetorically available to Galileo. And, at any rate, as long as the observer shares the rotation of the Earth, the real motion of the falling rocks would remain in principle unobservable to him.

[iv] Galileo proposed many experiments, some with cannon balls, to arrive at the same conclusion of the Tower Argument: that the Earth could not move. That is, he made the opponents’ position even stronger than his actual opponents had, and then demonstrated that such a position was question begging. “Second Day,” op. cit.

[v] Prout proposed his idea in 1815. By the early 1900s, Hantaro Nagaoka had proposed a “Saturn” model of the atom and Lord Kelvin and J.J. Thompson had defended the “plum-pudding” model. It was not until 1911, though, that Ernest Rutherford’s idea of an atomic nucleus that contained both protons and electrons could perhaps begin to support Prout’s hypothesis. The discovery of the neutron, the full understanding of isotopes, and the full retrospective vindication of Prout would have to wait until James Chadwick’s experimental results in 1932. A very readable account appears in D. Lincoln’s Understanding the Universe: From Quarks to the Cosmos, World Scientific Publishing Co., 2004.

[vi] Lakatos offers a particularly interesting philosophical account of this and similar incidents. Op. cit.

[vii] Kilpatrick used three rooms, but I am describing only part of the experiment. Explorations in Transactional Psychology, New York University Press, 1961.

[viii] S. Blackmore, Consciousness, Oxford University Press, 2004, pp. 38-39.

[ix] For a more detailed account see my Evolution and the Naked Truth, Ashgate, 1998. For a converging view from the psychology of perception see Victor S. Johnston’s Why We Feel: The Science of Human Emotions, Perseus Books, 1999.

[x] In addition to the works mentioned in the notes above, including of course Galileo’s, I would suggest reading two of my papers that summarize many of the main arguments: “A Réhabilitation of Paul Feyerabend,” which can be found in The Worst Enemy of Science? Essays in Memory of Paul Feyerabend, which I edited with John Preston and David Lamb for Oxford University Press, 2000, pp. 58-79, and “Conquering Feyerabend’s Conquest of Abundance,” Philosophy of Science, 69 (September 2002) pp. 519-535.

[xi] This situation mirrors the process by which Galileo’s view, the Copernican theory, came to be accepted. Such a process is best explained within an evolutionary and neurobiological perspective of the nature of science. For an account of that perspective see Evolution and the Naked Truth, op. cit.

Science and Serendipity

CHAPTER 3

THE PHILOSOPHY OF EXPLORATION

Science and Serendipity

Neither history, nor economics, nor the natural sciences seem to provide us with a solid argument for the exploration of space, but I believe that philosophy of science can. One of the main purposes of philosophy of science is to analyze the nature of science, and the issue before us is whether there is something about the nature of science that creates the conditions for serendipity. For if serendipity is a natural consequence of science, then science will be practical in a very profound way, and we will have an answer to the concerns of the social critics. As I will argue, this philosophical answer will also allow us to meet the most crucial ideological objections.

The notion that science is deeply useful or practical captivated some of the early philosophical supporters of scientific investigation, men like Francis Bacon in England (1620) and René Descartes in France (1637).

Descartes, whose development of analytic geometry had much to do with the eventual success of the scientific revolution, postponed the publication of his work on physics when the Church persecuted Galileo for defending views of the universe that disturbed the accepted harmony between man and God. Having to keep his research hidden, Descartes lamented, might be a grave sin against "the law that obliges us to procure the general good of mankind."^[1] For as he saw it, "one might reach conclusions of great usefulness in life and discover a practical philosophy...which would show us the energy and action of fire, air, and stars, the heavens, and all other bodies in our environment, as distinctly as we know the various crafts of our artisans."^[2] Once in possession of that knowledge we may apply it, as we apply those crafts, "to all appropriate uses and thus make ourselves masters and owners of nature."^[3]

Descartes’ suggestive view, like Bacon’s, fails to meet the challenge I have undertaken in this essay: invoking it begs the question against the ideological critics, for it assumes what they most vehemently disagree with – that if we wish to procure the good of mankind we should practice science. Furthermore, it does not show us how scientific exploration and serendipity are related. It is clear, then, that we need a new argument.

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[1]. Rene Descartes, Discourse on Method, in Descartes’s Philosophical Writings, translated and edited by E. Anscombe and P.T. Geach, published by Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1969, p. 46. For some passages from the Discourse quoted below, I will favor the translation by H.S. Haldane and G.R.T. Ross in The Philosophical Works of Descartes, Vol. I, Cambridge University Press, 1972.

[2]. Ibid.

[3]. Ibid.

Serendipity of Exploration

The Dimming of Starlight

Chapter 2k

Serendipity

A supporter may respond that a crucial aspect of his case has not been presented adequately. All those benefits he proudly mentions are the results of having yielded earlier to the call of the heavens. When humans first explored, we did not know for certain that so many good consequences would repay our efforts; very often we had no inkling. The pursuit of scientific exploration pays because of the serendipity of science; that is, because of the unintended benefits that science yields. This realization, the supporter thinks, should make us share his faith in the future of exploration and believe with him in the continuous flow of treasure from our space ships, even when he cannot say what that treasure will be.

The critics, however, may doubt that the prior performance of the space program is enough warrant for that faith. Having gotten water out of a well before does not guarantee an inexhaustible supply. Even space activities near Earth, which are often beneficial because of the vantage point they provide, are beginning to experience problems of saturation. Geosynchronous orbit, for example, is becoming crowded with communication satellites that are beginning to interfere with each other. And space debris – mostly from the breakup of rockets – is becoming a hazard to operations in lower orbits.^[1] Advances in technology will probably solve these problems, but we still can see that linear growth of benefits is not automatic.

Furthermore, he evidence for serendipity becomes more tenuous the farther we go away from Earth. Critics may wonder what link exists between a probe of Jupiter's atmosphere and the lot of those who breathe Earth’s atmosphere. Moreover, although the history of science offers some striking instances of serendipity – for example, the 19th century Scottish physicist James Clerk Maxwell’s research on electromagnetism made possible television and computers, two inventions which Maxwell himself could not have foreseen – anecdotes make for a very one-sided historical analysis, for little is ever said about the overwhelming majority of the research carried out during the 19th century. Did all of that science yield practical benefits, or only the most exceptional science, as Maxwell’s surely was?

Even if critics grant that there is a strong connection between exceptional science and serendipity, supporters still have to show that the research they propose will prove to be exceptional. Or else they have to show that serendipity is a feature of most science. If they cannot show either, their standard case will have the ironic consequence of exposing the heart of space exploration to the narrow-minded whims of cost-benefit analysis. That is hardly the stuff dreams are made of.^[2]

Furthermore, as far as many social critics are concerned, there is another serious objection: if spinoffs are so valuable, does it not make more sense to spend the money directly in the relevant fields?

THE SUPPORTERS' NEXT MOVE

How could the supporters begin to address these objections? They need an argument to show that, because of its nature, scientific exploration makes serendipity somehow inevitable. Does such an argument exist? It does. I will provide it in the following chapter and defend it in the rest of the book.

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[1]. Orbital Debris, NASA CP-2360.

[2]. Until now NASA has had a policy of bringing about technological breakthroughs with each new mission. Because of budgetary constraints that policy apparently will change. Many future missions will depend on a recycling of existing technology. It seems that the scientific exploration of space need not drive space technology substantially anymore. The impact of the esoteric technology used to explore Jupiter and Saturn on the general technology cannot be discounted, but estimating that impact precisely, or even approximately, is not an easy matter, as previous remarks indicate.