Science Fiction Studies

#24 = Volume 8, Part 2 = July 1981


E.E. Nunan and David Homer

Science, Science Fiction, and a Radical Science Education

Edited by CE and RMP

We contend that there is a contradiction between the nature of science and the work of the scientist in contemporary society, on the one hand, and what is taught about them in school, on the other. To make this contradiction apparent, we propose to survey current interpretations of the nature of the scientific enterprise and then trace the evolution of science-teaching. Against this background, we will sketch the possible educational role of "New Wave" SF, in which the contradiction is clearly confronted. Our analysis will finally lead to some reflections on the modalities and goals of a radical science education.              

First, however, we should say something about our methodological and philosophical assumptions. We intend to focus on the contradiction alluded to above by viewing scientific knowledge from an anthropological standpoint. We will be following Young's suggestion1 of looking at science in the context of the three interrelated elements of social system, socialization, and belief system. When those elements are congruent with the existing framework of power and ideology, they serve to reinforce the status quo. In such terms, scientific knowledge can be regarded as a belief system that presently functions to preserve the social order of the system in which that knowledge is produced.                

This conceptual framework offers a new perspective on the debate between those who espouse the traditional "internalist" view of science as a totally self-regulated activity and their "externalist" opponents, who emphasize outside forces as determining the rate, direction, and form of knowledge production. That debate has been something of a standoff between two more or less equally inadequate interpretations. The concepts we are endorsing provide a way out of the cul de sac of the "internalist"/"externalist" dichotomy. They supply the basis, chiefly, for transcending the internalist view by calling attention to the special and restrictive sub-systems generated to handle knowledge and its production, and also to the process of socialization into any such sub-system as a course reserved for the initiate and involving full acceptance of the current belief system of the specialist social group. This drastic redefinition reorients internalist and externalist views alike toward the contextual model of development exemplified in the cultural analyses of Foreman and the sophisticated neo-Marxism of Young in his examination of the historiographic and ideological underpinnings of the 19th-century controversy over Man's place in Nature.2               

"Contextualism" seems to us the most satisfactory approach for understanding the relationships among knowledge, knowledge production, and social forces. Drawing upon a variety of "disciplines"—history, anthropology, psychology, political science, and so forth—the contextualist attempts to locate scientific knowledge with reference to a sociology of knowledge and the scientific enterprise as a whole with reference to the general cultural and social concerns of which it is a manifestation. Only in this way can we begin to get an undistorted picture of science as it is constituted and operates at a given historical moment.

1. Today's science is characterized by its industrialization. The industrialization of science, as Ravetz points out,3 has resulted in a new farm of science. Science is now a corporate rather than an individual activity— organized knowledge" in Sklair's sense of the phrase.4 The image of the lone scientist quietly carrying on his research in a university herbarium represents only a small fraction of the reality of modern scientific practice. Science these days is primarily an institutionalized pursuit; and to the extent that it has become an institutionalized part of the social order, it has become socially important. Sheldon, for one, notes the change in the conduct of science when he remarks, in his introduction to Blissett's Politics in Science, that the exchange between science and society has created a mutual dependency which is nowhere more strikingly evident than in contemporary America. The survival of `Big Science', with its large scale organization, costly installations, big budget, and numerous personnel, depends upon political support. In turn, American society has looked mainly to science to assure military security and insure domestic tranquility.5

The institutionalization of science has led to the elite management of a research system, with the majority of scientists consigned to the role of a special type of worker. In the US, for example, "it has been estimated that some 200-300 key decision makers—primarily scientists—constitute the inner elite out of a total scientific work force of some two million."6               

As it is socially defined in the West, the scientific enterprise sides with the dominant culture. The values inherent in the structure of that enterprise are consistent with those necessary to the hierarchical division of labor characteristic of capitalism. Institutionalized science has made expertise the preserve, the privilege, the monopoly of those who are socially selected to hold troth knowledge and authority—which, according to Gorz,7 is a requisite for maintaining a hierarchical order in production generally and in society at large. Scientists themselves, whether or not they approve of the industrialization of science, encourage the public's ritual genuflection to science whenever their positions and privileged status are threatened. Such is the power of scientism that politicians regularly identify science with the liberal tradition and the values of a democratic state, and hence endorse its underlying values. Educators likewise subscribe to the mystique of science by assigning it a compulsory place in the curriculum.

2. To understand how science is taught in school and why it is taught the way it is, it is necessary to appreciate the essential features of internalist scholarship in the 1950s, from which present-day school-science derives its peculiar interpretation of science. During that decade, historians of science took care to avoid questions of social context, economic motivation, and political priorities as factors helping to shape the natural sciences. As Toulmin says, they drew a sharp line between the content of science and its context.8 The orthodox approach prevalent in the US at the time was based upon three central tenets:

(1) that careful scrutiny and analysis of the arguments which emerge within the scientific "context of justification" will reveal that, properly conducted, natural science does indeed have a canon, method, or organon;
(2) that the central procedures of that method can be captured and expressed in formal algorithms, relating the empirical observations of science to the theoretical propositions in terms of which they are to be explained; and
(3) that the "rationality" of the natural sciences lies in conforming to the set of formally valid procedures implicit in the previous tenet.

To be sure, isolated studies did question this orthodoxy: the Soviet historian Hessen argued that the real roots of Newton's Theory of Universal Gravitation in the Principia were to be found in the social and economic life of 16th-17th-century Europe; Manuel employed psychological analysis to trace Newton's intellectual ambition in part to the effects of infantile desertion; and Merton linked capitalism and the Protestant ethic with the rise of science and technology in 17th-century England.9 In the main, however, the internalist orthodoxy was not seriously challenged.                

The political implications of the internalist position did not go unrecognized. Polanyi, in his 1962 article on "The Republic of Science," acknowledged their connection with the ideology of the "free-market economy." Linking free-market ideology to the ideal conditions for the production of scientific knowledge, he points out "that the community of scientists is organized in a way which resembles certain features of a body politic and works according to economic principles similar to those by which the production of economic goods is regulated." He invokes the assumptions of the free market to describe both the economic principles and the governance of scientific activity. An invisible hand, "scientific authority," allows for the highest possible co-ordination of individual scientific efforts, just as Adam Smith hypostatized an "invisible hand" "to describe the achievement of greatest joint material satisfaction when independent producers and consumers are guided by the prices and goods in a market."10                

Science, in Polanyi's view, is a self-co-ordinated system of independent initiatives generating a unique professional social group which supervises a professional code for the production of scientific knowledge. Such a community of scientists exercises stringent control over:

(1) the selection of papers for publication;
(2) the conferring of scientific honors and research funds;
(3) the publication of textbooks and popularizations of science;
(4) the teaching of science at the university and pre-university level; and
(5) the protection of the individual scientist in the pursuit of her or his own research.11

Such controls were thought to insure the ethical neutrality of science against external interference, which (as in the Lysenko affair) destroys the autonomy of science and the "quest of truth."                

A number of subsequent studies have taken up Polanyi`s idea that the community of scientists is a body politic governed by economic principles similar to those which regulate the production of goods. Many of those studies, however, take issue with Polanyi's political conception of "economic principles" and with his apparent endorsement of a free-market ideal for science. They have also raised some embarrassing questions about the ethical and ideological neutrality of science—a matter to which we shall return presently. Yet science-teaching continues to perpetuate the internalist view in blissful ignorance of this or any other controversy about the nature of science that has followed in the wake of the Kuhn-Popper debate12 and (perhaps needless to say) without regard for any critical perspective on the socioeconomic determinants on the scientific enterprise that Polanyi  (perhaps despite himself) has called attention to.                

Science-teaching remains the bastion for what might be called the internalist myth of science. Were some extraterrestrial being to survey the practices, texts, manuals, and overall content of school-science, it might conclude that science educators embraced Robert Hooke's injunction to scientists "to improve the knowledge of natural things" but not to meddle with "divinity, metaphysics, morals, polities,...or logik."13 Science educators still imagine a rear-view mirror picture of science, a composite of 19th century gifted amateurism and 20th-century professionalism. In contrast to the reality of scientific work as an activity subject to the rules and organizing principles of state or corporate capitalism, school-science offers the fantasy of the independent scientist following his individual whim or interest and free to gather data, theorize about it, and reach objective conclusions.                

The values intrinsic to institutionalized science are never considered. On the contrary, for schoolroom consumption science is presented as a value-free activity leading to value-free knowledge and having a life of its own, not to say a unique objectivity. In accordance with traditional internalist assumptions, the scientific enterprise is regarded as being ethically neutral. Napalm, neutron bombs, and similar boons to mankind are explained away so as not to impair that neutrality: how can the weapon be blamed for the crime?                

The privileged irresponsibility thus conferred on science and the scientist is part of the myth of science. The myth, as Charlesworth outlines it, holds that scientific knowledge is central and paradigmatic, with the value of all other forms of knowledge being judged by reference to scientific knowledge (rationality itself...being defined in terms of science):...that science...succeeded and supplanted both religion and philosophy, and that man's salvation depends upon science and that his whole fate is bound up with the progress of science:...that there is some kind of pre-established harmony between the advance of science and human happiness.

Science textbooks implicitly and explicitly foster this myth. When dealing with the technological application of science, they represent science as being industrially beneficial, without reference to the (military, colonial, and profit-making) purposes of industry or to the nature of the societies which it creates. Science teachers. by their choice of content and methodology, likewise communicate—oftentimes unwittingly—an ideological position. Adopting internalist presumptions, they treat scientific change as illustrative of this history of ideas about a concept and science itself as representing a conceptual game in a drama played out by the "great men" in the history of science. Such spectacular intellectual performances, defining the advance of science (and, by implication the furtherance of human well-beingh command both awe and admiration. Students are given to understand that science is an elite study and that its purely theoretical concerns have a spin-off effect as technology, which brings improvements in living standards and the like. Scientists, it is intimated, should therefore be accorded complete autonomy and financial rewards as an elite group in society. By the way, students come to accept the idea that science education constitutes part of the filtering-out process by which candidates for the elite are selected.

The myth of science is presently under attack from many directions. Why, then, should school-science be one of the last areas to register change?                

The simplest answer is that many science educators are unaware of the contemporary state of science. Being for the most part unfamiliar with industrialized science, they take their internalist conception of the enterprise from the research practices in a university. It can be argued that their antiquated notions have their uses from the point of view of scientific establishment. After all, the kind of science education they purvey acts to screen prospective candidates for a university education in science (a prerequisite for employment as a scientist). By exerting an influence on high school programs, the university academic insures that this functional relationship continues.                

Mere ignorance, however, though it may account for the persistence of the internalist view of the scientific enterprise, does not fully explain why school-science is allowed to go on retailing the myth of science without taking cognizance of its discrepancy with scientific reality. The truth is that science in an industrialized society is a value-charged and ideologically-laden activity. As S. and H. Rose point out, "science done within a particular social order reflects the norms and ideology of that social order."15 Science in the West accordingly embodies the norms and ideology generated by the industrial base of capitalism. Yet school-science conveys the opposite impression: it portrays science as a neutral study, free of the taint of ideological content. Our point is that any such depiction is itself ideological. By mythicizing the reality, school-science sees to it that science education confirms (or at least does not contradict) the values institutionalized in an industrial, democratic, capitalistic society. Indeed, Tobey suggests that science—and science education—has been promoted to support the socio-political values of Western technologized democracies as well as the professional interests of scientists as a group.16 The case made in the US, for example, was that democracy is the political version of the scientific method and that, correlatively, an understanding of the scientific method could strengthen democracy (especially in its industrialized and capitalistic form). Science, by this reasoning, became a method in search of content; and as the method (or process) was thought of as neutral, science itself was regarded as neutral. At the same time, science was depicted as a pre-industrialized phenomenon (i.e., as the activity of the individual armed with "scientific method"), and was hence identified with the liberal tradition and free enterprise. Scientific values were thus viewed as being congruent with the power structure of this form of democracy.            

A further clarification of the reciprocity between science education and capitalism in the West can be arrived at by asking why one can speak of a "scientist as a worker" but never "the worker as a scientist." The answer Gorz offers is that

our society denies the label of `science' and of `scientific' to those skills, crafts and knowledge which are not integrated into the capitalist relations of production, are of no value and use to capitalism, and therefore are not formally taught within the institutional system of education. Our society... calls `scientific' only those notions and skills that are transmitted through a formal process of schooling and carry the sanction of a diploma conferred by an institution.17

In other words, the system of education so defines scientific knowledge as to preserve the existing social patterns established through capitalism.           

As Bowles and Gintis and Green and Sharp have argued,18 post-war educational reform in curriculum, pedagogical methods, and school architecture has done little to change the social role of the school. The educational system continues to inculcate values and attitudes conducive to a consumer society with its exploitative social relationships and the class structure consequent upon them. School-science plays an important part in that socializing process, on the one hand encouraging illusions of the "free scientist" and the privileged status of scientific work that seem to reconcile the contradiction between free choice and class distinctions, and on the other socializing the individual to accept her or his eventual place in the work force. This conditioning process even extends to the language of science textbooks and science-teaching, both of which rely heavily on scientific terminology and ex post facto abstractions which bear no resemblance to language in its colloquial use and require the student to "know" things he or she has not really learned.                

The argument whose essential outline we have attempted to sketch, then, amounts to this: that science education in the West takes the form that it has to meet the needs of the social system. It serves to identify the values of democracy with those of capitalism, and while presenting science as an asocial and apolitical pursuit, it perpetuates the notion of a scientific elite and fosters individualism as opposed to social concern.                

The school-science view of science as something unconnected with prevailing socio-economic arrangements is necessary for capitalism in democratic societies. Conversely, to ask that the means of production that science and technology generate be adapted to the social welfare of all rather than to exploitative purposes would be subversive of capitalism. By the same token, it is difficult to consider science within a political and social context without undermining its alleged "privileged irresponsibility" and exposing its (mutual) dependence on the status quo. Indeed, any such undertaking almost inevitably raises some embarrassing questions about the values of industrialized capitalism. For that reason, it should not be surprising that schools promulgate the myth of science as a pre-industrial activity—that is, as if it bore no relation to present socio-economic realities. Yet teachers ought to feel an obligation to face up to the disparity: they ought to make their students aware that the internalist conception of science is not at all congruent with most present-day scientific practice.

3. SF offers one avenue for approaching the contradiction between the school-science myth and the reality of the scientific enterprise. We will presently suggest some of the ways in which specific "traditional" and "New Wave" SF texts might be employed for that purpose. First, however, we might consider why it is that SF generally lends itself to such uses.
                In recent years, SF has moved towards "final emancipation from... its domination by adolescent technological fetishism." As Parrinder emphasizes,19 the genre has always involved some degree of imaginative transcendence of the existing social and "natural" order. One of the features of New Wave SF is a consciousness of the effort and struggle necessary for achieving that kind of detachment. It has moved SF towards the "soft" (social) sciences and towards speculative extensions of theory rather than the technological "filling in" of a theory. Even SF not properly belonging to the New Wave has come to focus increasing attention on systems of values derived from the implications of scientific theories. The "parallel" or "alternative" worlds of modern SF, with their self-consistent ground rules, offer themselves as analogues of the social, political, and psychic processes of the present human situation. The SF text depicts science and society as subject to an evolutionary process; and knowledge about them takes the form of a series of different possibilities for action rather than what the science textbook insinuates: a fixed and immutable "given." Furthermore, many works of SF seriously confront the contemporary state of science and provide a kind of contextual analysis of scientific knowledge and the operations of scientists in respect to the social, economic, and ideological circumstances of that scientific enterprise. New Wave SF in particular often does more than predict a future or envision another world: at its most significant, it locates science within specific value-systems, demonstrates the limitations of both, and examines alternatives.                

SF of this sort has a special educational relevance. It can be used as a means for bridging the gap between real science and school-science. It can serve to call attention to the value-emphases inherent in different types of science and for placing science in a socio-cultural context. So employed, the SF text can lead to an awareness of the assumptions hidden in school-science.                

For such purposes, the SF text must be looked upon as a fiction generated by extrapolating from scientific theory. The "textbook science" behind that extrapolation is sometimes considerable (as in Hoyle's The Black Cloud), and other times almost nugatory (as in Le Guin's The Dispossessed). But in either case, the extrapolation must be the central concern for determining what the fiction has to tell us about the larger factors affecting scientific theory and the paradigms they exemplify.               

This does not mean that any and all literary considerations are to be left out of account. On the contrary, we would propose that the first thing to be looked at is the matter of human motives in the fiction in relation to the plot and its outcome, the point of view of the narrator (if applicable) and of the author, the author's social context, and so on. These findings, however, should be integral to an analysis of the interconnections among the actors in the fiction and of their perception of their relationship to science; and that analysis, in turn, should contribute to an understanding of the relevance of the science to the fiction and hence to theoretical science at large.                

We do not mean to suggest that teachers should concentrate only on the "textbook science" contained in the SF extrapolation. To do so would amount to little more than presenting the school-science orthodoxy in a slightly unorthodox way. Instead, we are advocating "social analysis" of SF. The objective of the analysis is to reveal what a given SF text has to say about how science affects individuals as social beings and about how scientific knowledge results from human interactions in special social settings.                

To illustrate what we have in mind, we have chosen five examples, appropriate for various age groups and levels of intellectual maturity: Lem's The Invincible and Solaris, Fisk's Trillions, The Black Cloud, and The Dispossessed.

4.1 The Invincible (1967) is about an inter-stellar cruiser which lands on the desert-planet Regis III to investigate a loss of contact with an earlier expedition to the planet by the Condor. They find its crew dead and the ship in a state of total disarray. The Commander of the Invincible, Horparch, and his lieutenant, Rohan, face the problem of resolving the various explanations for the disaster put forward by the scientific experts aboard the cruiser.                

The notion of inorganic evolution represents the scientific extrapolation of The Invincible; the essential assumptions concerning organic evolution are exposed through this extrapolation. The relationships between the "building blocks" of matter and the concept of evolution provides a central scientific focus for the work.                

With organic evolution, change is dependent upon chance mutations of the genetic unit (a single gene or functioning unit of more than one gene) which affects an organism's survival value in a particular natural environment. Lem turns this form of evolution about and proposes inorganic evolution with building blocks of a much freer kind (unrestricted by the organic Watson-Crick "zipper" effect) occurring in a non-natural environment.                

Thus the scientific understanding of The Invincible involves a familiarity with orthodox explanations of organic evolution; and for the science student the work sharpens the concepts "evolutionary unit" and "natural environment." This understanding is furthered by consideration of the internal consistency of the new science provided by the extrapolation. The relaxation of the assumption concerning "natural environment" results in a superiority of a "lower" evolutionary form.                

As the crew of the Invincible proceed with their investigations, they are attacked by black clouds which consist of millions of tiny individual metallic flakes (each one on its own harmless). These clouds destroy the intelligent functioning of both humans and their robots. It is finally concluded that the clouds are the end result of millions of years of inorganic evolution which began with a robot technology introduced to the planet by an unknown civilization.                

Horparch is confronted with an evolutionary product which follows the first principle of a homeostat, to outlast, to survive under changing conditions however difficult and hostile those conditions might be" (6:101).20 Faced with this dilemma various solutions are mooted, one of which is the total annihilation of the clouds, for it is pointed out that they might leave the planet to become a threat to interstellar travel. Ultimately two factors dominate Horparch`s behavior, both involving a need for certainty. First, does the behavior of the clouds represent a collective intelligence, or merely a collective instinct? His persuasion that the latter is the case governs his final decisions about what he must do before he leaves.                

Away from the ship five men have been loss, and although it is hardly possible they can be alive, Horparch must be certain. The other crew members would otherwise be in doubt. He knows that unless the men who undertake such journeys are absolutely sure that a ship will never abandon them on an alien planet, "spaceflight would not be possible" (10:154). This unwritten morality, closely akin to the loyalty of patriotism, is, like the contemplated action based on the hypothesis about inorganic evolution, a means of mystifying the process of colonizing space.                

Finally Rohan is morally blackmailed into a search for the lost men. He has already entertained serious doubts about the actions of Horparch, the other scientists, and man's very motive for the exploration and colonization of space. He worries, in particular, about the use of technology in "destruction at all costs" to make the universe "safe" (see 9:145-47). His vision is of an active, evolving Universe, in which evolution is an essentially neutral process, a view which has much in common with that of the liberal conservationist. What Rohan fails to see, however, is that as the expenditure of capital and technology is necessary for space exploration, exploitation is "inevitable"; for Man assigns value to the "neutral" universe according to how his activities are hindered or facilitated. The universe is no more value-free than Africa was to the 19th-century explorer or the Atlantic to Columbus.                

In the end, Rohan returns to the Invincible with the knowledge that the men are dead, and with his vision further confirmed. Against this, however, we can see that the cruiser can now leave with Horparch`s "unwritten code" satisfied, through Rohan's action. In terms of the overall end of the exploiter lion of space, the expedition is a success. Horparch has the information he came for, and has lost a small amount of face, some men, and a quantity of replaceable hardware. The expedition, in terms of the overall scheme, is a success; Horparch as an individual is not to blame; indeed, blame doesn't enter at all.                

The special circumstances examined in The Invincible can be used for considering "normal" evolution of homogeneous organisms that inhabit the same planet. Science in the fiction emerges as a tool of colonialism, in whose service scientists are exploitable and expendable. Curiously enough, even such a radical extrapolation as represented by the theory of inorganic evolution neither changes the thrust of space exploration nor challenges the overall pattern of scientists' activity. They are portrayed as a tough-minded, competitive group who see their role, under Horparch, as the production of solutions, using standard procedures, whatever the circumstances.

4.2 Solaris (1961) is a novel largely about the kind of scientific culture and related ideology which man creates. It is set on a station suspended above the planet Solaris, the surface of which is an "ocean" consisting of a colloidal substance capable of assuming various semi-permanent shapes, some of which, "mimoids," are more or less copies of objects common on Earth or on the scientific space station. The planet has so long been the subject of study by scientists that a whole branch of science, Solaristics, has developed. Much of the novel concerns the history of Solaristics and its major figures, controversies, and theories. The actual nature of the planet is a matter of debate, and the manned station is the main source of empirical data for Solaristic studies.                

The scientific extrapolation central to Solaris is based on the notion of coding. The Visitors (referred to as "Phi" creatures or "polytheres") are projections materializing from the brains of the occupants of the space station. The origin of the materializations lies in the most durable imprints of memory, those which are especially well-defined, but of which no single imprint can be completely isolated. Any attempt to understand the motivation of the occurrences is blocked by the anthropomorphism of the "owners." In Freudian terms, the Ocean has made concrete the forces of the id; and the "blocking" is analogous to the postulated Freudian mechanisms which operate between the id and the ego.                

Information-processing theory asserts that the brain has an infinite capacity for storing events and thought; however, because of our limited retrieval capabilities, we are able to tap only minute amounts of raw or cross-fertilized "information." Theories about the physiology of memory are still in their infancy. Lem bases the extrapolation in Solaris around the RNA-protein model. This model considers that "memory" can be accounted for by the fact that specific molecules may store information. Evidence for this theory is that there is an abundance of RNA in brain cells, and one variant of the RNA-protein model associates specific experiences with qualitative changes in RNA molecules.                

Just as we are able to "read" genetic information through analysis of DNA structures located on chromosomes, the Ocean has been able to tap the psychic processes through "reading" the physio-chemical processes which alter the structures of cerebrosides. Ultimately, our physiological explanation of learning and memory will probably involve some combination of neurons, glia, RNA, and proteins by which coded information is stored and retrieved. The Ocean is able to interpret such stored traces and materializes the "psychic tumours" of each of the scientists on the station.                

Solaris demonstrates two limitations of the scientific culture, its anthropocentricism and institutionalization. Both are shown to result in a crippling mysticism. On arrival Kelvin remembers "that thrill of wonder which had so often gripped me, and which I had felt as a schoolboy on learning of the existence of Solaris for the first time" (2:25).21 The novel traces his descent into a mysticism of despair, which parallels the disintegration of his confidence in "orthodox" scientific explanation. His problem is compounded by the futile relationship he develops with the "reincarnated" Rheya, in which his emotion overrides his scientific "rationality" and thus demonstrates the latter's flimsiness. It is only her voluntary "suicide" which frees him again to consider the problem of Solaris.

As he reads into the history of Solaristics, Kelvin becomes increasingly convinced of the limitations of institutionalized science to explain phenomena. Lem's choice of Kelvin as narrator allows the reader an acute sense of this bitter disillusionment. Science emerges as ultimately self-defeating: as a field once vital with originality and adventurous theorizing degenerates to mere data-gathering, new theories are produced only by those branded as cranks by the scientific establishment. In Kuhnian terms, Solaristics requires a new paradigm: and ironically it is Gibarian, the most cautious but optimistic proponent of contact with the Ocean, who had come closest to providing it.                

But if Kelvin can see all this for himself, it is Snow who has to point out to him its cause—the compelling geocentricism of science. As he says, "We don t want to conquer the cosmos, we simply want to extend the boundaries of Earth to the frontiers of the cosmos" (6:72). It is Snow, too, who points out that these limitations render Solaristics unequal to the task it has set itself, and who rejects equally the mystic and deistic alternatives which Kelvin wants to substitute for his scientific training. Finally, when the others decide to leave the station, Kelvin elects to stay, "in the faith that the time of cruel miracles was not past"—the miracles of contact with the Ocean and the "return" of Rheya—while knowing that one must "be resigned to being a clock that measures the passage of time, and whose mechanism generates despair and love as soon as its maker sets it going" (14:204).                

Solaris demonstrates the limitations of science as both a methodology and a faith and suggests the origin of these limitations. It is, in a sense, a despairing novel, for it posits inadequate alternatives. It shows scientists faced with phenomena which stretch their knowledge to its limits—and beyond. It depicts Solaristics as an elaborate attempt to construct a reality (or realities) which, however, cannot account for their human experience. The book might also afford the opportunity to examine the distinction between established and "illegitimate" science (or occultism; Lord Kelvin, after all, was an early proponent of experiments in ESP). Kelvin's tragedy, ultimately, is not his loss of faith in his scientific training, but his inability to see in himself a solution to the problem of Solaris. He has too long relied on terrestrial, societal props.

4.3 Tuitions (1971), according to its blurb, is SF "for readers of ten and over." Set in a US town, its main characters are a highly inventive boy, Scott, and a retired astronaut known as Icarus. "Trillions" begin to arrive on Earth quite suddenly one day. Somewhat like the metallic particles in The Invincible, they are tiny indestructible crystalline objects, resembling multifaceted gems. Their shape enables them to mesh together, and they soon prove themselves capable of building huge but apparently meaningless structures. Scott compares their mass-instinct with that of bees and the collective consciousness of the hive.                

What makes Trillions appear sinister is that they build imitatively, though there is no evidence that they intend harm. All over the world they are perceived as a threat by the political-military authorities. In America, General Hartman is in command of their destruction; and it is not long before he begins to contemplate the use of nuclear weapons against their structures.               

Since Trillions is written for young readers, it is not surprising to find a greater emphasis upon descriptive and observational aspects of text-book science. However, it is an extrapolation loosely based around the notion of ecological balance which forms the essential conceptual science of the work. Trillions are ecological organizations which can work to establish conditions for ecological balance by providing "themselves as the punching bag for all our fighting instincts" (p. 95).22 Mankind, by contrast, makes the achievement of that balance throughout the planet an impossibility. National aggressiveness works against the degree of cooperation which would be necessary to serve the cause of ecological stability. Once the sublimated forms of aggressive behavior are directed towards Trillions, however, the possibility of the human species' unified action emerges.                

By representing the Trillions as ecological organizations, the fiction introduces the background "text-book" science. It establishes a working vocabulary of discriminations (e.g., forming vs. mimicking vs. imitating, ecologically purposeful behavior vs. instinctual reactionary intelligence, individual vs. social intelligence) which are pinned to observations drawn from the natural history of such animals as bees, parrots, dead-head moths, chameleons, fishes, and insects. The novel deals with scientific discovery in both its creative and its puzzle-solving phases. Like the celebrated case of Friedrich August von Kekule, Scott arrives at his fundamental insight in the mind's "twilight period" when "the screen of his brain" is active and awaiting the familiar falling-asleep processes of the brain to take over. Just as Kekule's dream of snakes, in which one "had seized hold of its own tail and the form whirled mockingly before my eyes," resulted in providing the clue to the cyclic structure of the benzene molecule,"23 Scott's "meaningless" rhymes prompt the "eureka" response.                

From his discovery that Trillions are responsive to musical pitch, Scott extends control over the "learning process," first by stimulus-response conditioning and later by "aiming his mind" until Trillions could "hear" his mind as well as they could hear the note of the xylophone (p. 53). Scott gradually ascertains their ecological concern by teaching them how to communicate with him, first by taking advantage of their ability to imitate shapes and having them form letters of the alphabet, and eventually by a kind of telepathy. Their home planet, he learns, has been destroyed; but they can save the Earth from nuclear ecological disaster if mankind will hate them, for this will unite nations in the face of a common threat.                

In time that is what happens. The nations of the world, under the command of General Hartman, launch a concerted nuclear assault on the Trillions, but the result is holocaust and not the destruction of the Trillions. The General, whose whole strategy has been couched in politico-military terminology, amplified and slanted by the media, now finds his words turned against him. Set on a course, he cannot deviate; and following the failure of his first plan, he prepares to implement one even more terrifying. The novel sets out to show the limitations of a united global effort which is based solely on the monomaniac application of military-scientific knowledge. Scott, who has acquired considerable powers of telepathic communication with the Trillions, now uses them against Hartman, but finally has to send them away for the safety of the world.                

In that we are in the end returned to the status quo, the book is pessimistic. However, in its course it also raises a number of interesting issues, particularly as it opposes Scott, a child, working outside the structure of the scientific establishment and successfully influencing events, with the ineffectiveness of the highly sophisticated scientific worker, Icarus. Icarus stands as an example of obsolescence as well as disillusionment; his usefulness to science and the military ceases just as he is realizing his futility. Though ideologically muddled, the book does demonstrate the ineffectiveness of liberal conservationism in the face of corporate capitalism and its scientific-technological resources.                

While it is clear that pre-adolescent readers will not feel the full sociopolitical impact of the work, Trillions nevertheless provides an interesting and effective introduction to the notion of ecological balance. It also introduces basic questions about the nature of language and communication and, like Solaris, about psychic phenomena. Most importantly, though, ecological science is placed in its political perspective as an example of scientific knowledge which is pushed aside because its application on a national or global scale is inimical to the interests of capital, which is represented in Trillions in its military aspect.

4.4 When Fred Hoyle says in the Preface to The Black Cloud that "there is very little here that could not conceivably happen," he is referring not only to the text-book science of the fiction, but also to the social milieu with which it deals.24 Set only a little in the future (1965-75; the book was published in 1957) it "establishes" its authenticity mainly through narrational techniques, pretending to be an account found, years after the events portrayed, in the private papers of one of the protagonists. The world in which Hoyle's characters move is a faithful copy of one familiar to him: the English socio-political Establishment—the Oxbridge circle of eminent scientists—and the reciprocally dependent and exploitative relationship which exists between the "two cultures." The science, too, is "realistic," representing the contemporary state of accepted paradigm knowledge in cosmology and computer science. Socially and scientifically it is the world of C.P. Snow's "Strangers and Brothers" novels.                

The main object of The Black Cloud is to explore the notion of social responsibility in science and government. Its chief character, Kingsley, is an eccentric and brilliant astrophysicist, a Cambridge Professor who is regarded by the political establishment, which funds his work, as something of a renegade. Kingsley has no patience with politicians, and entertains the elitist notion that world peace and mankind's safety rest with the international "brotherhood" of science. His colleagues are largely men—Americans, Russians, Australians, Swedes—who share his interests (physics and music).                

The first part of The Black Cloud deals with the discovery of the Cloud and of its implications. On the one hand, the focus here is on the scientific theorizing about the nature and speed of approach to the Solar System of this vast cloud of gas; and on the other, attention is given to the political maneuvering which goes on as the world governments prepare to face the consequences of the Cloud's arrival.                

Hoyle's central scientific extrapolation concerns the physical and "psychological" nature of the Black Cloud. In the Preface, he refers to the Cloud as a "black hole in the sky," and thus invokes what in 1957 (if not still) would have been regarded as the speculative theory of "black holes." (The "textbook" science of "black holes" has since been developed by Penrose's [1965] significant paper on Gravitational Collapse and Space-Time Singularities.2S) Secondly, Hoyle builds into the properties of "black holes" the notion that the Cloud represents a source of intelligence. Since the transmissions themselves cannot be primary causes of ionic fluctuations at the periphery of the Cloud (the energy to produce such ionization is insufficient), the Cloud itself must be a source of power, capable of reacting (and communicating). The next extrapolation is thus concerned with what differentiates the animate from the inanimate. This distinction forms a major topic in lower secondary science and is typically handled by the application of a classification scheme applied in an algorithmic fashion. Hoyle's book might therefore generate discussion about the assumptions implicit in such a scheme.                

The text-book science which permeates The Black Cloud is more obvious than it is in our other examples of SF. Hoyle is so punctilious about having his science accurate that he even provides footnotes which give approximate calculations in regard to specific problems. The predictions (hypotheses) offered as the Cloud approaches range in concern from atmospheric heating and cooling and biological properties of plants and animals to Newton's laws of celestial mechanics.                

The Cloud arrives in the Solar System and stays there, blocking the Sun's light. While the Earth undergoes massive ecological disasters caused by drastic cyclic weather changes, the scientists snug at Nortonstowe continue with their experiments and listen to Beethoven. Yet the Cloud has its psycho-political impact. First the scientists become more and more selfresponsible, to the alarm of the politicians. Secondly, they gain power because they have the only radio equipment in the world capable of universal reception and transmission. Finally, they determine the nature of the Black Cloud as an immensely ancient entity that constitutes a vast intelligence. Their equipment and knowledge enable them to establish contact with it, and a two-way transfer of information begins. They ask it a number of questions about the origins of the universe and the nature of God. These prompt it to reveal that it is leaving precisely because it has "heard" of an event occurring relatively nearby which will throw light on such problems. It is going to investigate, but before it goes equipment is set up to allow it to transmit some of its fundamental knowledge to individuals in its own language.

Kingsley, in proposing his animate explanation of the Cloud, imagines himself to be free of the psychological block of "earth centeredness." However, it is patently obvious that this "earth centeredness" still inhibits his thinking inasmuch as his scientific explanations are still steeped in the laws applicable to Earth. (Kingsley readily assumes that such scientific laws apply to the universe at large.) Thus we find explanations of the genesis, evolution, internal functioning and neurological control of the Cloud in terms of parallel functions of earthly "beasts." Biological evolution is seen as taking place within the Cloud; and its genesis is perceived in terms of propitious circumstances (suggestive of explanations of the origins of Earth`s biological material), its internal ordering in terms of magnetism, and its neurological control in terms of our laws of electromagnetic transmission.                

Ultimately, it is this "earth-centeredness" that destroys Kingsley. The radical nature of the knowledge transmitted to him causes a drastic reorganization of his brain's neurological patterning and thereby causes his death. With Kingsley a dead scapegoat and the Cloud gone, life in all respects returns to normal. Neither politicians nor scientists emerge with much credit, but Hoyle's notion of the scientist as heroic victim remains. This obscures from view the fact that his scientist-saviors demonstrably fail largely because they choose to operate outside either a national or global society to which they are responsible. Politically naïve in all senses of the word, they have regressed into a kind of liberal anarchism, a privileged political position suited to the frontiers of Establishment Science but of little use to social betterment. Whatever they have achieved, it is not an independence of action; they remain "workers," useful and powerful only as long as particular circumstances last.                

As the most orthodox work of SF discussed here, The Black Cloud at first seems of most use educationally in terms of the text-book science it contains. This is clearly set out in footnotes, diagrams, and detailed conversations containing scientific reasoning. These are the means Hoyle employs to create an impression of authenticity. Yet, while the novel contains material on physics, biology, mathematics and so on, its value to radical-science teaching lies more in its serving to reveal the limits of existing paradigms and the limited effectiveness of scientists' actions.                

However, there remains a problem here. Solaris, too, faces these issues more or less as a matter of intent. Kelvin, and Snow as well, present Solaristics—that is, are aware of it—as theory and methodology to be questioned in the light of the events of the novel which their science cannot explain. At least they realize the need for new, "unorthodox" solutions. Hoyle's scientists do not. Some of them, like Marlowe, may have qualms about some of their actions, but none of them questions his own scientific intuition—which is not to say that they do not want to learn from the Cloud. Our final impression is that what the narrator, Dr McNiel, says of his generation also has aptness for the book as a whole: it is "uncertain, not quite knowing where it list going" (p. 249).

4.5 If Solaris investigates the culture of science and the role of individual scientists in it, The Dispossessed (1974) sets out to examine the role of the major scientist within society. By alternating perspectives from Urras to Anarres, Le Guin is able to compare the scientist's role in two different social systems. Her account of the inventiveness of the Annaresti in eking out an existence on their world, through the application of technology in a socialist economy, puts ecology and biology—as well as geography—in a new perspective.                

Hundreds of years before The Dispossessed opens, Anarres was settled by a dissident anarchist group from Urras, who were led by Odo, the creator of their fundamental ideology and writer of the works according to whose principles the new society was (and is) arranged. Annares was sealed off from Urras by "The Terms of the Closure of the Settlement of Anarres" which allowed only radio contact and trade, but no migration. Both societies know of the existence of other worlds beyond their solar system, Hainish and Terran, which have established embassies on Urras. Again, both societies are aware of the states of Hainish and Terran knowledge, particularly in physics.                

The novel traces the career of the brilliant Anarresti physicist Shevek, who becomes the first person from his world to be permitted to visit Urras. From youth, his inventiveness and humanity have led him to both brilliant achievement and periods of (voluntary) exile, for despite the principles set within its scientific community as they do in society at large. Shevek has suffered plagiarism and lack of acceptance on the one hand, and political denigration on the other, since ideologically he holds firmly to Odonic principles, which he sees as being eroded. Le Guin has surprising skill in creating "other worlds" with totally consistent social, physical, and semantic systems. Here she shows one which is accepted by the average member of
society as generally happy and self-regulating, but which is yet open to manipulation and political intrigue.                

Shevek's journey to Urras is not popular, but he sees it as essential to "shake up things, to stir up, to break some habits, to make people ask questions. To behave like anarchists!" (13:317).26 But as well as this sociopolitical role, his journey has a scientific aim. He wants a change of scene and colleagues so that he can go ahead with his physics. In particular, he
seeks a milieu in which his work is recognized—and Urrasti society has awarded his achievement its highest accolades. The novel's scientific extrapolation in describing this work is of fundamental importance.                

The extrapolation in The Dispossessed centers around relativistic field theory (and implies, by the way, that present orthodox or "text-book" physics has become a backwater). Shevek is working on a special branch of temporal physics which is directed towards a general field theory of time. To him a true chronosophy must provide a field theory in which the relationships between the linear and circular aspects or processes of time can be understood. He explains the relationship between the linear (sequential) and circular (simultaneist) ideas by a "foolish little picture": "you are throwing a rock at a tree, and if you are a Simultanist the rock has already hit the tree, and if you are a Sequentist it never can" (7:190).                

Shevek has been given a book translated from Terran containing the results of a symposium on the theories of Relativity, the physics of which seems outdated and cumbersome. Yet he found the work of Ainsetain (Einstein), the originator of the theory, strangely stimulating. He experienced a sympathy with Ainsetain's quest for a unifying field theory, for after all, it was also his aim.                

Ainsetain had explained the force of gravity as a function of the geometry of space-time and had then sought to extend the synthesis to include electromagnetic forces; but he had not succeeded. His quest was not furthered by quantum scientists, as indeterminacy (which old Ainsetain had refused to accept) led them into a different form of physics. Yet Ainsetain's original intuition had been sound—indeed, Cetian physics equipped with theories of infinite velocity and complex cause had generated a unified field theory.                

Le Guin, through Shevek, provides an accurate description of relativistic concepts.For Ainsetain, too, had been after a unifying field theory. Having explained the force of gravity as a function of the geometry of space-time, he sought to extend the synthesis to include electromagnetic forces. He had not succeeded. Even during his lifetime, and for many decades after his death, the physicists of his own world had turned away from his effort and its failure, pursuing the magnificent incoherences of quantum theory with its high technological yields. (9:232)

Just as Einstein noted that "after long probing I believe that I have now found the most natural form for this generalization [unified theory], but I have not yet been able to find out whether this generalized law can stand up against the facts of experience,"27 so Shevek seizes upon the notion that a General Temporal Theory does not rest upon the improvability of the hypothesis of a real co-existence of simultaneity and sequency. He is convinced that scientific theories are different from mathematical systems, which may be internally consistent and yet not represent or correspond to any form of reality. The book thus provides brilliant insights in the area of relativity theory.                

The Urrasti, of course, are interested in Shevek's work for other than theoretical reasons. It will, after all, become the basis for a technology making possible instantaneous communication over interstellar distances. That is, it has use in the commercial, military, and political sense. Shevok finds that Urrasti academic life is intensely political and competitive, and is initially puzzled by the beauty and elegance of his surroundings. Gradually he becomes aware that he is seeing only part of the picture; and through a series of contacts, he discovers the exploited classes of Urrastian society, and in time gets involved in a recognizably socialist uprising against established authority. A different set of cirumstances now conspire against his work, and the novel clearly shows the extent to which scientific experimentation and theorizing are the products not just of the established base of scientific knowledge, but of social and personal constraints as well.                

He eventually completes his work in a short period of intense effort; and even as he produces it, it is stolen by fellow scientists. His part in the uprising is explained away. (His eminence as an intergalactic scientist protects him in a situation which parallels that of the Russian dissident Andrei Sakharov.) Yet he returns home optimistic, secure in the knowledge that the events surrounding his visit to Urras have done much to set Anarres back to Odonian ways. Realizing that his major period of scientific creativity is almost certainly behind him, he looks forward to a life devoted more fully to social and domestic concerns within a setting which he is convinced is a preferable alternative to that on Urras.                

Unlike Hoyle's Kingsley, Shevok is aware that society and science are inseparable, and that social change cannot be affected by people possessed of scientific knowledge and repute who merely want to act "from the outside." By juxtaposing accounts of Shevek's life on Anarres and on Urras, Le Guin clearly exhibits scientific work to be integral to socio-historical evolution, and the technology dependent on science to be subject to the same sociohistorical forces. Methodology emerges as a social process, a product not only of knowledge but also of ideology and social constraints.                

The Dispossessed is probably the aptest instance for demonstrating the nature of a scientist's activities. We have in Shevek a person who is aware of how familial, social, sexual, and scientific constraints impinge upon his work both in science and in society. His "social mobility" allows the novel to explore alternative situations in which a scientist can work. Shevek is no laboratory-cloistered recluse: though he does need periods when he works alone, he also needs time to participate in society at large. By narrating the novel from his point of view, Le Guin keeps the reader aware that what Shevek does as a scientist is affected by a number of different but interrelated factors in his social and individual existence(s).

5. A science education which attempts to face the contradiction that we have drawn attention to would be radical in the sense that its values would oppose the present status quo. SF, in drawing attention to the value systems created within parallel worlds, provides one vehicle for the analysis of science in social contexts; and because of the educational flexibility of the "vehicle," it provides a valuable starting point for clarifying the values of teacher and student alike.                

However, to achieve a radical science education, much more than an analysis of SF's "scientific" content and social commentary is required. A radical science education considers the context of science, and its content includes not only text-book science and extrapolations from current scientific theory but also the particular science of a particular society.               

Science cannot properly be studied as an apolitical or asocial entity. It is shaped by social factors and responds to social change; and its discoveries find expression in social and political terms. Analysis of the symbiotic relationship that obtains between science and society is the raison d'etre of a radical science education.                

The aim of such an education is not principally to educate in science hut to educate about science in a particular society. Behind this undertaking is the belief that, as knowledge production in science is a result of social action. scientific knowledge (like other forms of knowledge) cannot be idealized or extracted from its social context. A radical science education is essentially a study of relationships, first of man to his environment, and secondly of man to a self whose conception science and technology is continually altering.                

We have already suggested how SF might further the educational analysis of the symbiotic connection between science and society. Initially, such an analysis might be appended to a conventional science course, perhaps taught by the science teacher. This might prove to he a first step in the direction of interdisciplinary and integrated approaches involving significant changes in curriculum: in course structure, teaching methods, and stance toward instructional material.                

There are two obstacles in the way of the kind of pedagogical changes we are advocating. The first is instructors' altitudes. The teacher would need to have a commitment to the notion of a radical science education. Her or his values would have to be consistent with those attaching to a social view of science. A teacher who holds strong socio-political convictions supporting the elitist view of science could hardly be expected to embrace the notion of radical science with enthusiasm. And even those teachers who are sympathetic to such ideals may find it difficult to reorient themselves methodologically. After all, the methods and patterns of teaching communicate values as much as the explicit course content does; and to espouse one set of values through the curriculum and another set through the methods and procedures of classroom communication involves a contradiction that students readily perceive—and are confused by.                

Secondly, there is the problem of imitatable models. Examples of content treated in the style of a radical science education are few and far between. Furthermore, it is quite unlikely that a curriculum giving explicit recognition to values opposed to the present political and social status quo would gain wide support. Progress toward curricular reforms conducive to radical science education is therefore likely to he slow.                

Our own convictions on these matters have been inspired by recent efforts to reintegrate the sociology of science into the sociology of knowledge and thus raise questions about the possible "social factors" which interact with the content of scientific knowledge. Those attempts, as Klima notes, were in turn stimulated by Kuhn's The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, whose central hypothesis, that

`normal' science is governed, not by a timeless, ahistorical and generally applicable canon of methodological rules leading to cumulative growth, but rather by specific traditions or `paradigms' which tightly and with relative arbitrariness circumscribe the range of legitimate problems and methods of problem-solving, has opened the search for social factors conditional for the selection and acceptance of such `paradigms.' The result is to re-open (at least for non-Marxist sociologists), the problematic of the `social roots' of scientific thought.28

We have taken the view that part of the answer to the problematic connection between science and society is provided by studies which contend that the form of scientific knowledge production has changed in ways which reflect industrialization, bureaucratization, and the political needs of capitalism. Here we would agree with the suggestion of Johnston and Robbins that "external forces are not only responsible for [this form of] social division of labour but have had a direct influence on the differentiation through cognitive specialization." The type of occupational control in science affects the type of knowledge produced, the structure of science as a whole, and the structure of the individual specialties.29. "Until very recently," B. Dixon writes, "anyone who asked the question `what is science for?' could simply be categorized as foolish, provocative or ignorant."30 Science curricula will be faced with the very same question. Is research and development in science (mostly government funded) directed to providing a better life in terms of health, housing, and transportation? Or are such vast sums directed toward the development of "more sophisticated weapons and counterinsurgency technology (to protect corporate interests abroad) and towards automation, information-handling technology, and technologically-induced obsolescence (to maintain the viability of the economic system at home)"?31               

On a practical level, the content of a radical science education should be structured so as to enable mastery of the technological world. Wherever science and technology affect daily life, students would have the information necessary to understand and cope with them. This means that the chemistry of making cement, the nutrition of bodily health, the physics of the refrigerator, the biology of pregnancy, and so forth should constitute part of a student's education. On a more philosophical level it means that the question of "what is science for?" permeates the study of science. The discussion of the topic of energy (conservation, transformation, application, and sources) cannot be separated from analysis of electrical power demands, pollution, oil and uranium, radio-active waste, and political control of the means of distribution. The study of cell biology and genetics should not avoid talking about genetic manipulation, sickle-cell anemia, ethnic weapons, and health-care delivery systems. The physics of transistors and electronic systems cannot be divorced from the automated battlefield or long-range surveillance systems. A radical science education, we repeat, attempts to educate in and about science in a particular society. An education in science retains much of the "hard" science of present science texts; indeed, this fundamental element of "hard science" is central to the kind of education we are proposing. What needs to be stressed is that an education in science should be carried out conjointly with an education about science in a particular society. The emphases should be on both the "social responsibility" of science and the social roots of scientific thought as the latter interacts with its political, economic, and cultural determinants. Only in that way can the contradiction between science-teaching and the realities of science be disposed of.


1. R.M. Young, "Science is Social Relations," Radical Science Journal 4 (1976) :66- 129.                

2. See, for example, R. Johnston, "Contextual Knowledge: A Model for the Overthrow of the Internal/External Dichotomy in Science," Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology 12 (1976):193-203; R.M. Young, "The Historiographic and Ideological Contexts of the Nineteenth Century Debate on Man's Place in Nature," in M. Teich and R.M. Young, eds., Changing Perspectives in the History of Science (London, 1973), pp. 344-438; and P. Foreman, Weimar Culture, Causality and Quantum Theory 1918-1927," Historical Studies in the Physical Sciences 3 (1971):2-225. See also, B. Barnes, Scientific Knowledge and Sociological Theory (London, 1974).                

3. J.R. Ravetz. Scientific Knowledge and Its Social Problems (Middlesex, 1971).                

4. L. Sklair, Organized Knowledge (Suffolk, 1973).                

5. M. Blissett. Politics in Science (Boston. 1972), p. ix.
                6. Hilary and Steven Rose, "The Incorporation of Science," in The Political Economy of Science ed. H. & S. Rose (London, 1976), p. 31.                

7. A. Gorz. "On the Class Character of Science and Scientists." in The Political Economy of Science (see note 6), p. 62.               

8. S. Toulmin, "From Form to Function: Philosophy and History of Science in the 1950's and Now." Daedalus. 106 (1977):143-62.                

9. B. Hessen. "The Social and Economic Roots of Newton's Principia" in N. Bukharin et al., Science at the Crossroads: Papers From the Second International Congress of the History of Science and Technology 1931 (London, 1931). pp. 151-229: F. Manuel. Portrait of Isaac Newton (Cambridge, 1968): R.K. Merton. "Science, Technology and Society in Seventeenth Century England." OSIRIS, 4 (1938):414-565—summarized in G. Basalla. The Rise of Modern Science: Internal or External Factors? (Lexington, MA: 1968).                

10. M. Polanyi. The Logic of Liberty (Chicago, 1951), p. 66.                

11. M. Polanyi. "The Republic of Science: Its Political and Economic Theory." Minerva. 1 (1962):54-73.                

12. For further discussion see E.E. Nunan. "History and Philosophy of Science and Science Teaching: A Revisit," Australian Science Teachers Journal, 32 (1977):65-71. See also P. Feyerabend, Against Method (London, 1975): D. Phillips. "Paradigms and Incommensurability," Theory and Society 2 (1975):37-61: B. Barnes. op. cit. Note 2): M. Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge (London. 1974): and T. Caunihan, "Epistemology of Science: Feyerabend and Lecourt." Economy and Society 5 (1976):74-110.                

13. Quoted in S.F. Mason. A History of the Sciences (NY, 1962), p. 259.                

14. M. Charlesworth. "The Myth of Science," Nation Review. 26 Jan.-l Feb. 1978, p. 11.                

15. S. Rose and H. Rose, "The Radicalisation of Science." in The Political Economy of Science, p. 2.                

16. R.D. Tobey, The American Ideology of National Services (Pittsburgh, 1971), p. xiii.                

17. A. Gorz. "Of the Class Character of Science and Scientists," in The Political Economy of Science, p. 61.                

18. S. Bowles and H. Gintis. Schooling in Capitalist America (London, 1976): and R. Sharp and A. Green, Education and Social Control (London, 1975).                

19. P. Parrinder, "The Black Wave: Science and Social Consciousness in Modern Science Fiction," Radical Science Journal 5 (1977):37-61.                

20. This and subsequent citations from Lem's book refer to The Invincible. trans. Wendayne Ackerman (London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1973).                

21. This and subsequent citations from Lem's book refer to Solans trans. Joanna Kilmartin and Steve Cox (London: Faber & Faber, 1971).                

22. This and subsequent citations from Fisk's book refer to Trillions (London: Penguin, 1973).

23. See. A. Koestler, The Act of Creation (London, 1964), p. 118.               

24. This and subsequent citations from Hoyle's book refer to The Black Cloud (London: Heinemann, 1957).                

25. See D.A. Sciama, "The Limits of Space and Time: Exploding Black Holes and the Origin of the Universe," Daedalus, 106 (1977):33-40.                

26. This and subsequent citations from Le Guin's book refer to The Dispossessed (London: Panther, 1975).                

27. A. Einstein, Relativity: The Special and General Theory. 15th ed. (London: Methuen, 1952), p. 156.                

28. R. Klima, "Scientific Knowledge and Social Control in Science; the Application of a Cognitive Theory of Behaviour to the Study of Scientific Behaviour," in R. Whitley, ea., Social Processes of Scientific Development (London, 1974).                

29. See R. Johnston and D. Robbins, "The Development of Specialties in Industrialized Science," The Sociological Review, 25 (1977):87-109.                

30. B. Dixon, What is Science For? (Suffolk, UK, 1976), p. 11.               

31. "Science Teaching: Towards an Alternative" (symposium), Science for the People, 4 (Sept. 1972):9.

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