SOME books seek to convert, others preach to the converted. William Burrows
speaks unapologetically to those besotted with space. He writes with the
nostalgia of someone seeing a vital period in his own and the world’s life slip
into the history books.

This New Ocean moves swiftly from the aspirations fuelled by
mythology and science fiction to their first fruition—the launch of
Sputnik, driven by Cold War rivalry. Burrows gives us a comprehensive review of
planetary exploration and human spaceflight. He writes as a journalist who has
witnessed many of the events he describes. Familiar names, places and anecdotes
abound.

He closes with the end of the “First Space Age”, which for him was marked by
the fall of the Berlin Wall, and so reaches the great conundrum for today’s
space enthusiasts. Namely, what will replace Cold War rivalry as a motivator?
What will convince governments to hand over taxpayers’ cash to space agencies?
Industrial development in space? The argument is not persuasive.

Burrows has no compelling answer but then neither has anyone else. Perhaps it
doesn’t matter as long as NASA’s publicity machine keeps enriching our lives
with stories of Martian exploration. People will enjoy the spectacle and buy the
toy rovers to amuse the children. The science and technology, so hard to make
appealing in a sound bite, will be done.

But then, who’s being fooled? Science and technology is not what space is
really about. If it were, Burrows would have included the remarkable
achievements of communication, navigation and weather satellites in his history.
No, like all of us space enthusiasts, Burrows is driven by the deep and not
entirely rational conviction that humanity will one day travel to the planets
and distant stars. This book is a long goodbye to the 40 years that marked the
first step on this path.

THREE books, three perspectives. As Joan Leach observes in her contribution
to The Mad Cow Crisis, there are myriad positions available to those
discussing BSE, none of them neutral.

Of the three books, the one I found most accessible and informative was
Mad Cow USA, a lively account, with a title that belies the breadth of its
subject matter (UCL Press, ÂŁ14.95/$24.95, ISBN 1567511112). The
book presents the history, from the 1950s, of research into transmissible
spongiform encephalopathies (TSEs), of which BSE and Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease
(CJD) are examples.

Without this background it would be difficult to understand issues that will
be important to the current inquiry by the British government. When, for
example, did evidence emerge that some TSEs could cross the species barrier? In
an arresting account we read how Richard Marsh showed that degenerative changes
similar to scrapie-like spongiform encephalopathy occur in mink injected with
BSE.

My favourite chapter though is “Bent protein”, which deals with the prion
theory, the scientific heart of the matter.

It is this theory that won its flamboyant, self-confident proponent, Stanley
Prusiner, a Nobel prize last year. The language is clear and straightforward,
and the authors explain their terms and concepts without resorting to the
irritating approximations of analogy and simile that can leave you
floundering.

This chapter, important as it is, deals with only one aspect of the story of
the developing understanding of TSEs. Sheldon Rampton and John Stauber tell this
larger tale with style, aided by accounts of some richly colourful
characters.

Ultimately, of course, the authors cannot answer their own question: could
the nightmare happen in the US? But their exhaustive exploration of the people,
the ideas and the growing understanding of TSEs is thought-provoking. Whatever
cattle farmers might say, it would be hard to answer with a definitive no.

After the dancing prose of Mad Cow USA, I moved to the more academic
tones of The Mad Cow Crisis(UCL Press, ÂŁ14.95/$24.95, ISBN
1857288122). It asks how “they say eating beef can kill you” became a truism in
the mind of the British public. Each of its 15 chapters is contributed by a
different specialist—one of them is Leach, a social epistemologist from
Imperial College, London.

While the questions in the book are important, they can no more be answered
definitively than the question about whether a mad cow crisis could happen in
the US. We are, after all, in the midst of a still unfolding story.

To the Socialist Equality Party (SEP), which has put together an angry book,
Human BSE: Anatomy of a Health Disaster (IW Books, ÂŁ5.99, ISBN
1873045522), there is one overriding issue. Did the drive for improved profit
margins for Britain’s farmers create the circumstances which led to BSE and new
variant CJD? For the activists of the SEP this is not so much a question as an
article of faith. Though they do have a point, they spoil their argument with
intemperate language, such as the assertion that the British government was
lying on a scale “that would have made Goebbels proud”.

The book is based on an inquiry the SEP held in May 1997. Though limited, it
did give a platform to the relatives of those who have died. Their anger, pain
and legitimate concerns are cast at the feet of Lord Justice Phillips as he
wrestles with the fraught questions raised by Britain’s mad cow crisis.

WHEN Arthur Dent learnt that his house was being demolished for a bypass, he
complained. But our hero of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was
too late, and an unsympathetic council pointed out that the plans had been
available for public comment for a year and he should have objected earlier. The
fact that the plans were in a locked filing cabinet in an obscure room in the
basement of the council building was incidental and irrelevant.

Well, there are more ways than one of burying, locking away and obscuring
public information. Not all of them are intentional, but they are, none the
less, just as effective. What prompted this conclusion was my recent struggle,
on behalf of the French magazine Biofutur in the dense undergrowth of
the European Commission’s directive on the legal protection of databases.

Databases come in many forms: nucleotide and protein sequences, raw radiation
data collected by remote sensing or weather satellites, meteorological data such
as temperature and vapour density deduced from that radiation data, abstracts
from published literature, and a myriad others. They are the lifeblood of
science.

Those that are not publicly funded—the gene sequence databases for
example—represent a commercial opportunity. As one element in a suite of
European legislative initiatives, the database directive, which came into force
in January, aims to provide a regulatory framework for commercial publishers who
want to invest in databases.

The argument is that Europe’s electronic publishers will then be able to
compete globally in the sale of information as a commodity, and that the
databases created by this investment will give an important tool to a wide
variety of industries. Without the directive, the publishers claim, they would
be at the mercy of freeloaders.

The directive has its critics. It is sweeping in its definition of
databases—so much so that, if it were taken to extremes, the copy of
żěè¶ĚĘÓƵ you are reading could be called a database. Opponents argue
that existing contract law and emerging encryption technology are enough to
protect databases. The same critics say the directive is poorly conceived,
ill-defined and too broad. The proponents say that without the directive,
database makers will not invest in high-quality, secure, up-to-date databases,
and industry and science will suffer as a consequence.

Now all this is merely the tip of an iceberg that expands into a subterranean
policy debate with international legal, industrial and scientific repercussions.
But who has heard so much as a whisper about the issue? Few scientists know
about the directive, according to Tony North, a professor at the University of
Leeds and secretary-general of the International Union of Pure and Applied
Biophysics. Yet the directive has been under discussion for two years or more
(anyone wanting a copy should contact the offices of the European Commission in
their capital city and ask for directive 96/9/EC on the legal protection of
databases, 11 March 1996).

Now it seems to me that discussions of European directives might as well take
place behind closed doors in an obscure room in the basement of a building in
Brussels. This is not meant as a condemnation of the European Union, of which I
am in favour, but the reality is that few people understand or have heard of
cooperation and codecision procedures, or know what issues are being debated at
what level and when. And when those discussions concern something as complex as
databases, which seem unrelated to everyday life but, in fact, are the
repositories of human knowledge, that is not good enough.

So let’s take a leaf out of the US’s legislative procedural book and start
with public hearings, not only in Brussels but also in national capitals. Blow
the whole thing wide open. Publish in every major national newspaper (not just
on the Internet, which is still not available to everyone) the forthcoming
schedule of hearings. Draw up lists of the best minds for and against
propositions to testify publicly to the committees. Take out advertisements
(perhaps the papers will donate space) telling citizens exactly which available
publications describe the European Union’s institutions and their relationship
with one another. Let’s accept in Europe that freedom of information is a state
of mind.

The lesson is well taken. But what of journalists’ need to communicate the
workings of government and the content of legislation and regulation to the
public? It seems to me that the language of legal clarity—and it is
dealing with staff at the European Commission that provided the mounting block
for this hobby horse—can be abused to become undemocratic obfuscation. (A
few brave souls in Brussels still fearlessly speak in plain language, of
course.)

Normally, I consider that penetrating the self-important bureaucratese of the
Commission and translating its Orwellian announcements is part of my job. So
when the story demands that I telephone Brussels, I gather the tatters of my not
very conciliatory nature about me, take a deep breath and dial. I know full well
that I will be passed from person to person, and that when, eventually, I emerge
with a hard-won nugget of information I will be feeling very cross and BT will
be much richer.

Take a conversation I had in the summer about directives from the Commission
relating to genetically modified organisms.

Me: I have a press release here about action to be taken by the
Commission against two member countries, which says: “The decision in relation
to Spain and Luxembourg concerns two directives, Commission Directive 94/15/EC
adapting to technical progress Council Directive 90/220/EEC on the deliberate
release into the environment of genetically modified organisms; the Commission
Directive 94/51/EC adapting to technical progress Council Directive 90/219/EEC
on the contained use of genetically modified microorganisms.” Could you tell me
what this means?

Spokesman: It means we are going to take action against Spain and
Luxembourg for not adapting the directive to national law.

Me: I see, what is the content of the directives?

Spokesman: It is about genetically modified organisms.

Me: I see, but what exactly?

Spokesman: It is about their release.

Me: What do the directives say about the release and use of
GMOs?

Spokesman: It is very complicated.

Me: Could you summarise?

Spokesman: You can’t just call up asking questions at short
notice.

Me: But you’re the spokesman. Your name and number are on the press
release.

Spokesman (impatiently): It is horizontal legislation.

Me: What does that mean?

Spokesman: It means it is horizontal.

Me: In the context of the legislation and of these directives, what
does horizontal mean?

Spokesman: The European Union does not have a monopoly on the
meaning of the word horizontal.

I hung up for fear of saying something seriously impolite.

I have spoken to colleagues about their dealings with the Commission, and I
find I am not alone in my frustration. The situation worsens exponentially
whenever one is dealing with a directive applying across a number of
directorates and whenever different directorates are responsible for aspects of
an issue, as with genetically modified organisms.

All that is needed to keep journalists happy are some simple guidelines for
Commission spokespersons. I suggest:

1. If your name appears on a press release as the person to talk to, expect
questions from the press. 2. Write a press release as free from jargon as
possible. 3. Remember that journalists work to deadlines, so if they ask you
what something means, tell them rather than offer to send a 10-page document
some time within the next few days. 4. If the subject of your press release
influences or is influenced by policies, directives or regulations that are the
responsibility of several directorates and units, understand those interactions
and be prepared to explain them. 5. Try to keep the disdain out of your voice
when a journalist asks what you mean by “adapting to technical progress”, or
“horizontal legislation”.

Young should spend a little time in a detox centre before penning such a
line. True, she supports her argument by taking the definition for substance
dependence from the American Psychiatric Association. But I’m not convinced. If
you think you spend too long with Lycos and Yahoo, and Young’s notions tempt you
to fork out for a bit of therapy, my advice is don’t do it. You’ll end up paying
the therapist far more than you do your Internet provider.

Instead, indulge a little. Choose you favourite search engine and type:
“Internet and addiction”. Amid the deadly earnest output of the therapists you
will find some humour. “You are addicted,” claims one waggish site, “when all
your daydreaming is preoccupied with getting a faster connection to the Net . . .
and even your night dreams are in HTML.”

After scrolling through Young’s paper and Yahoo’s humour category, I wasn’t
sure whether to be incensed by the therapists or amused by the humorists. There
was only one thing for it—to sink more deeply into my own addiction. Just
one more click, I thought. But then I couldn’t stop. All that mattered was the
next Web site. Eventually, I found a paper from the University of Western
Ontario. Perhaps this would help me to understand what was going on.

I read: “When people log on to the Internet for prolonged periods of time
they are escaping reality, they are delving deep into a culture that has no
boundaries and has no real existence.” I looked uneasily at the books lining my
room. I remembered how often I’d stayed up till 3 am, feverishly turning pages,
and my haggard expression the next day. These books created a world for me
without boundaries in space or time. Should I seek help?

Perhaps, I thought, the section on psychology and Internet addiction would
help to resolve the issue. Here I learnt that much of addiction may have its
roots in childhood. The author explained the familiar and important argument
that in adulthood, abused children often become abusers themselves as a means of
assuaging their childhood feelings of helplessness. Then the author writes:
“Transference occurs when this person as an adult demonstrates anger toward
his/her computer when it does not behave the way they want it to.”

The next paragraph appears to contradict the argument being developed above,
though I have to admit I’m not quite sure what the argument is. Never mind, what
I learnt in the next paragraph was that, “As an adult, a computer possesses the
qualities wanted in a parent. For example, predictable and nonjudgmental.” Even
taking what I presume to be the intended meaning, namely that as adults we
might, if we have been abused, see computers as reliable and predictable
parental figures, I was not sympatico with the author.

Having read the paper, I decided that the humorists were much better
contributors on the subject of the Internet and addiction than the therapists. I
also came to the conclusion that there is no such thing as Internet
addiction.

I am happy to believe that some people spend hours glued to their computer
screen. I accept some people are painfully shy, eccentric, antisocial even, and
that they find solace on the Internet. But then, what’s wrong with being
eccentric? I doubt it warrants a session lying down on a psychiatrist’s
couch.

But then, perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps I’m in denial. And what should one
conclude if (and thanks to http://www.techheadnet.com/jokes.htmfor this),
“You pick up the phone and manually dial your Internet provider’s access number.
You try to hum to communicate with it. You succeed”?