SCIENCE
Matter of degree
BERNARD DIXON
It's tempting to leave such intimidating con- undrums as the purpose of science to the philosophers, to working scientists (who know about these things), or to the politi- cians (who ought to know). Should we sup- port science because it creates wealth, solves practical or social problems, increases our knowledge of the universe, makes life easier, or helps the military defend us from tyran- ny? Or is science an esoteric pursuit of in- trinsic merit, an affair of intellectual ex- cellence which any civilised community should sustain without question? With rare exceptions—Bernal in the 1930s, Medawar in our own day—such uncomfortable questions are, in fact, not discussed at all in any con- text that has practical relevance. That is the really iniquitous truth behind our sudden anxieties over the embarrassing surfeit of scientists who now face unemployment.
Like the continual failure of our public services to acknowledge the occurrence of cold winters, the facts are simple yet ap- palling. In the years following the last mar, when science first became organised in a big way, Britain and the other industrialised countries were happy to increase their research and development budgets, and train more and more scientists, in the confident belief that science was a good thing, to be encouraged and supported without respite. After all, hadn't scientists made the Bomb, revealing their almighty power by releasing incalculable energy from a handful of mat- ter? It was almost indecent to question the value of such demonstrable might. About ten years ago, however, it first became clear that uncritical expansion could not continue indefinitely. The British government, and others, began to agonise over what should be the right level for the community to support science. The great university expansion pro- gramme came and went; Robbins came and was filed away; industry criticised the universities for not producing scientists with saleable skills, while academe blamed in- dustry for not learning how to use its pro- ducts; and the Jackson, Dainton, Swann and other reports collated and digested the scien- tific manpower needs of the country and ten- dered advice about satisfying them.
Despite all of this honest endeavour, we have made an awful mess of things. At the end of December, 4.5 per cent of last year's science graduates were still seeking employ- ment, compared with 3.1 per cent of 1969 graduates the previous December. True, there is also an unacceptable level of unemployment among Arts graduates, but the job market for scientists is deteriorating at a much greater rate. Though we train more scientists every year, we have less use for .them. And the Appointment Boards suggest that prospects for this year's science graduates are worse than ever before.
It is, of course, convenient—as Mr Dudley Smith, Under-Secretary of State for Employ- ment, showed in an adjournment debate last week—to suggest that this dismal outlook is largely a reflection of the total employment situation in the country. Faced with mild recession, how better for industrial firms to economise and boost short-term profits than by cutting long-term investment in science? There is some truth in this argument, just as the job shortage for scientists in the United States stems partly from the cut-back in the space programme—with its repercussions in Britain. But it simply won't do to end the discussion there. While doing our sums about the national requirement for scientists, we must also insist on intelligent public discussion of what scientists are for anyway. We face not merely a temporary pro- blem—unemployment among British scien- tists doubled between 1959 and 1968—but a long-term one, whose solution requires some radical thinking about the purpose of science.
At present, the conveyor-belt system is still far too prevalent. Because young Tommy is good at stinks, the senior chemistry master,
mindful of greater glory for the school, pro- pels his charge towards 'A' level chemistry
and university entrance. If Tommy is really bright, he will gain a good honours degree in chemistry, . followed by a doctorate for research, and in time a chair of chemistry. A few years later, maybe, the entire episode will be sanctified by a Fellowship of the Royal Society or even a Nobel prize. But if young Tommy is not so clever, he may well be shattered. come graduation day, to find that no one wants him and his pristine skills.
At this point, we usually hear the argu- ment that the young graduate simply mustn't be so narrow minded. A degree in science is not a meal-ticket but a cultural birthright. or at most a badge of training in analytical thinking, and today's graduates have to be more versatile and adaptable, turning their talents wherever they are needed. All marine ecologists can't do marine ecology. That's true; the progress of science depends in- creasingly on interdisciplinary research pursued by mixed teams and by scientists who have moved across the traditional boun- daries. But there is little justification in haranguing the new graduate for having a narrow, vocational view when, all too often, his entire career has been built on the sup- position that an honours degree in chemistry does mean a career in chemistry research, and that anything less implies failure. Least of all does this argument hold much sway with the nuclear physicist who is applying his intellectual training to the job of barnian or petrol pump attendant.
What is needed—and urgently—is that much more realistic advice about prospects and purposes be given to schoolboys and undergraduates beginning science courses. Beyond that. let's begin to work out why we train scientists at all. That's the question behind not only our current difficulties over jobless scientists but many other con- temporary problems too. We should stop evading it.
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