Science impinges on us more than ever before: its findings deepen our understanding of the world and what lies beyond; its applications transform our lives. These transformations are mainly beneficial, but often open up threats and ethical challenges. Indeed they could threaten us all. This century is the first in the Earth’s history (spanning 45 million centuries) when one species, ours, has the power to determine the fate of the entire biosphere. These were my themes in the BBC Reith Lectures, which I was privileged to give in 2010 and on which this short book is based.
Questions about human origins, life in space, our long-range destiny, and the laws of nature fascinate a wide public. I’d enjoy my own research work less if I couldn’t share its outcome with nonspecialists—not only what we’ve learned, but our attempts to tackle the big questions that remain unanswered (and some of which may forever be beyond human grasp). The words of the Anglo-American philosopher A. N. Whitehead are as true today as ever: “Philosophy begins in wonder, and at the end, when philosophic thought has done its best, the wonder remains.”
There is another reason, quite apart from their intrinsic fascination, why the key concepts of science need to percolate widely: without a feel for science (and how to assess risks and uncertainty) we cannot as citizens participate in the increasing range of key political issues—energy, health, environment, and so forth—that have a scientific dimension.
Some might think that intellectual immersion in vast expanses of space and time would render cosmologists serene and uncaring about what happens next year, next week, or tomorrow. But for me the opposite is the case. My concerns deepen with the awareness that, even in a perspective extending billions of years into the future, as well as into the past, this century may be a defining moment: there’s a genuine risk that our actions could jeopardize not only the immediate future but also life’s immense potential. That’s why I see no incongruity in combining, in the chapters that follow, some speculations about scientific frontiers with discussions of practical issues of policy and ethics.
The Reith Lectures were established in honor of John Reith, a formidable and austere Scotsman who was the first head of the BBC. Right from the start, he envisioned the role of broadcasting as being “to inform, educate and entertain.” Even today, with the media world hugely diversified and utterly transformed, the BBC remains perhaps the preeminent public service broadcasting organization, with a worldwide reach.
The philosopher Bertrand Russell gave the first Reith lecture in 1948. Since then a succession of figures from culture, science, and public affairs have presented lectures, including several distinguished Americans—from J. Robert Oppenheimer (1953) and George F. Kennan (1957) to the Harvard philosopher Michael Sandel (2009).
The themes of my own lectures are, I believe, as relevant to US readers as to those in Britain. Science itself is, after all, the one truly global culture, transcending all boundaries of nationality and faith. Moreover, threats like climate change and pandemics don’t just concern a single nation; all major geopolitical groupings—not only the United States but also the European Union and the emerging Asian superpowers—need to act in concert. Indeed, even in some areas of “pure” science, no single country can go it alone: the biggest accelerators and space projects have to be planned on a world scale.
The United States is the number-one nation in the quality and volume of its science. And there is a flood of excellent material presenting and interpreting science to nonspecialists. Indeed I, myself, was inspired as a young scientist by the example of Carl Sagan, who tried to break down boundaries through his talks, articles, and media appearances, especially his TV series Cosmos. He enlightened millions of viewers from around the world and sensitized them to the hopes and fears science raises.
A disclosure: had my original audience been primarily American, I would have said more about the prospects and rationale for space exploration. The scale of the programs of NASA (and of the US military) were ramped up by superpower rivalry during the Cold War. Everyone remembers Neil Armstrong’s “one small step” on the Moon—an inspirational antidote to the regular news of carnage in Vietnam during the same years—but the momentum that triggered this achievement soon dissipated. European activities in space are more modest, despite the overall economic and intellectual parity between Europe and the United States. I don’t think Europe should initiate a manned program of its own: sending people back to the Moon, or beyond, can’t be justified except as a high-risk adventure or spectator sport. Instead, Europe’s emphasis should be on an unmanned program, spearheaded by robotic probes and fabricators.
We Europeans view with admiration the phalanxes of well-informed and politically engaged scientists in the United States—especially in areas of defense and arms control, where most of the leading independent voices have come from America’s academic community. In fact, America’s world-leading scientific expertise provides unrivaled professionalism in addressing the problems of health, energy, population, and environmental change. And there is no lack of policy prescriptions jostling for the attention of US politicians. President Obama appointed a “dream team” of internationally respected scientists to key posts in his administration. But there is one impediment that engenders equal frustration on both sides of the Atlantic—indeed in all democracies: a tendency for long-term strategies, however important, to be trumped by more immediate issues that can be resolved within an electoral cycle.
Both the United States and Britain worry about the quality of their schools—and the unequal access that young people have to excellent teaching, especially in science. We confront a growing challenge from Asia, where pupils’ attainment levels are higher. These issues have been addressed in the United States by the National Academy of Sciences, and in Britain by the Royal Society (of which I was until recently the president).
Despite all we share, though, there are differences in priorities and attitudes between the United States and Britain (and Western Europe). On some issues (gun laws and capital punishment, for instance) the gulf between median opinion on the two sides of the Atlantic is very wide. And it is paradoxical that in the United States, the country that is preeminent in its volume of scientific excellence, antiscientific sentiment seems most widespread and politically influential. Controversies over stem cell and embryo research and the teaching of creationism have been widespread and high-profile in the United States. In Britain, these conflicts have been less acute—a consequence, perhaps, of its being a more secular society, where mainstream religious leaders are supportive of science and fundamentalism is weaker. Despite the intemperate rhetoric of a combative atheistic fringe, the majority of scientists in Britain, whether or not they themselves adhere to any faith, are content to maintain peaceful coexistence with organized religion. And they would acknowledge that decisions on how science should be applied—and choices between what can be done and what should be done—entail ethical judgments that science alone can’t provide. My main aim in the Reith Lectures was to offer a personal perspective on these challenges.
A WORD ABOUT the format of this book. My four lectures were on a common theme, but each had to be self-contained and to offer sufficient variety to sustain the interest of a disparate audience. Moreover, they were recorded in front of a live audience. In converting them into a book I have expanded and updated some of the material—putting in what I would have said if each lecture had been longer, and also taking account of comments made by the live audiences and by listeners who sent letters or e-mails. However I have tried to keep the flavor and style of the lectures; in particular, each chapter can be read independently, even though this means occasional repetition. Overall, the lectures ranged from timely issues in science policy to the frontiers and limits of our knowledge, and the (perhaps infinite) universe itself. No topics could be explored in depth: the treatment of each was inevitably sketchy and telegraphic. The most I can aspire to is that readers of wide-ranging tastes find the outcome closer to a smorgasbord than a dog’s breakfast.
The lectures were recorded in different locations, and I tried to slant the theme of each toward the likely interests of those in the live audience. The opening lecture was in the BBC’s own Lecture Theater at Broadcasting House, and in those surroundings it seemed appropriate to focus on how scientists interact with politicians and the public. And the final lecture, given at the Open University (a world leader in distance learning and a public nonprofit venture), addressed the impact on science and education of globalization and modern communications, and what it’s like to be a scientist. In Cardiff, where the audience was specially diverse, I spoke about something that concerns us all: what the world might be like in 2050. The lecture held at the Royal Society was the only one that attracted a predominantly scientific audience. Here I was somewhat more self-indulgent in discussing future developments in science itself. It might have been more appropriate for these “cosmic” and speculative comments to round off the series, but for scheduling and logistic reasons this lecture was the third rather than the fourth, and I have preserved this ordering in the chapters of the present book.
Reith Lectures have on several occasions been given by scientists or engineers; the most formidable and eloquent among them was the late Peter Medawar, who spoke in 1959 on “The Future of Man.” He speculated on future trends in biology and genetics, his tone being optimistic despite his awareness of the downsides. And his concluding sentence is one that I would echo, fifty years later and with greater urgency:
The bells which toll for mankind are—most of them, anyway—like the bells on Alpine cattle; they are attached to our own necks, and it must be our fault if they do not make a cheerful and harmonious sound.