With the director, Ian Blatchford, and Dr Tereshkova was Sergei Krikalev a veteran of six space flights and eight space walks who, until very recently, held the record for the amount of time in space – 803 days, 9 hours and 39 minutes.
Mr Blatchford had joked with them that he would like to be launched into orbit explaining how, after spending five years on the project, he has great connections and ‘great moral strength – but am a physical coward.”
Tereshkova looked at him and said, in English, “together.”
To the cheers of the press pack, she explained in Russian: “If you and I went together, this would be the best proof of British-Russian cooperation.”
She said that the fact the exhibition was held in London in the Science Museum was “very symbolic of good cooperation between British and Russian scientists – of course we would like it to be broader and deeper.”
She was reunited in the museum with the spacecraft that was her home for almost three days, Vostok 6 (Russian: Orient 6) , which was launched on June 16, 1963.
That same mission made her the first civilian in space and she remains the only woman to have flown a solo space mission.
Dr Tereshkova added that every time she sees the craft, with its scorched heat-shield, she strokes it and says. “My lovely one, my best and most beautiful friend, my best and most beautiful man.”
It emerged that the Soviet scientists and engineers had forgotten a key provision when she was launched: a toothbrush. When asked how she coped, she said: “I was very resourceful, as any woman would be. I had my hands and I had water.”
But she added that, of course, this was nothing compared with a serious engineering error that made her spacecraft ascend ‘up and up’ rather than descend to Earth. “I discovered that mistake, reported it back to ground control and we corrected it.”
She implored the mastermind behind the Soviet space programme Chief Designer, Sergei Korolev, not to punish the engineer responsible. He said I want your word you would never tell anyone about it, especially journalists. I kept the secret for 30 years whereas the engineer himself told the whole world. Cosmonauts can keep their word – both men and women. Particularly women.”
Re-entry of her module was on a steep ‘ballistic trajectory,’ she explained, and it was hard to control. ‘There were huge overloads for the spaceship.”
She ended up over the Altai region of what is now the Russian Federation and “at a height of seven kilometres, I catapulted out of the spacecraft and parachuted down to Earth.”
At one point she thought she might end up in a lake. “I begged god not to land on water. God heard my prayers and allowed me to land on the shores of that lake.”
When asked if she was disappointed that there have been so few woman cosmonauts recently, she replied: “Of course I was disappointed, we were all disappointed.” But she added: “The attitude to women will change: do you hear me!”
The exhibition has several cosmonaut-flown space craft and other objects that capture the birth of the space age – and mark those extraordinary Soviet firsts that saw humans leave Earth for the first time.
Krikalev said that he was lucky to learn so much from pioneering cosmonauts such as Dr Tereshkova.
Apart from his remarkable space endurance records, he is famous for being in orbit in a space station when the Soviet Union turned into the Russian Federation. “Our operations in space were more stable than what was happening down on Earth.”
When it comes to the future of spaceflight, Krikalev said the useful life of the International Space Station will be extended to 2020, perhaps 2024.
He explained that the US and Russia are developing new spacecraft to fly beyond low Earth orbit, and Russia is considering ‘building a lunar station.”
Tereshkova added that ‘The first priority is the moon.”
Mr Blatchford said that Cosmonauts: Birth of the Space Age shows how, decades before manned flight, Konstantin Tsiolkovsky was imagining space flight and accurately predicting much of what followed. He cited Tsiolkovsky’s famous remark: “Earth is the cradle of humanity, but one cannot live in a cradle forever.”
His work inspired a whole generation. The exhibition covers milestone missions such as Luna 9, which carried out the soft landing on the Moon in 1966 (just after Korolev died), Venera 7 – first ever landing on another planet in 1970 (Venus), and the remarkable Russian expertise in long endurance missions, such as Mir.
Mr Blatchford thanked Doug Millard, space curator, who has spent almost a decade on this project, the Russian Ministry of Culture, The State Museum and Exhibition Centre (Rosizo), The Russian Space Agency (Roscomos), United Space and Rocket Corporation, British Council and the exhibition’s Lead Sponsor: BP.
On visiting the exhibition, Professor Brian Cox said: “I think you will leave the Cosmonauts exhibition with a different view of humanity’s place in the cosmos.”
By Roger Highfield, Director of External Affairs
Cosmonauts: Birth of the Space Age is open from 18 September 2015 – 13 March 2016. The exhibition is supported by BP and has additional support from ART RUSSE (Major Funder) and the Blavatnik Family Foundation.
On 20 July 1969, Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong made their historic Apollo 11 moonwalk, becoming the first two humans to set foot on another world.
Yesterday Buzz visited the Science Museum’s Cosmonauts exhibition, which opens to the public on the 18 September and has at its heart the 3.5 ton Lunniy Korabl (“lunar ship”) – or LK-3.
The single cosmonaut moon lander was built by the USSR in the same year that Apollo 11 took Buzz into the history books and was moved to the museum earlier this year for our landmark exhibition.
Would Buzz have liked to have used an LK-3 to land on the moon? He gave me an emphatic ‘no.’
The same engine was used for both descent and ascent from the moon while the American moon lander – a copy of which Buzz inspected in the museum, along with Apollo 10 – used two separate engines. If the Soviet landing engine failed ‘they were splattered.’
One other key design difference was the lack of a tunnel to link the lander to the orbiting Soviet ‘mother ship’, the LOK (lunar orbiting cabin). By comparison, Apollo’s lander was connected by a tunnel to the Lunar Excursion Module after docking (Aldrin himself had helped devise procedures for docking in the Gemini 12 mission).
To use the LK-3, a cosmonaut would have to leave the ship and spacewalk to the lander, letting himself in by the lander’s oval hatch.
The Soviet moon lander was intended to be launched using the behemoth N1 rocket. But all four test-flights of the N1 launcher had ended in failure. While some earlier unmanned LKs were launched into Earth Orbit, none was launched towards the Moon.
Aldrin recounted how he was training for Apollo 11 around a month before the launch, when the news of the failure reached America. ‘Someone open the training Command Module door and asked: “Do you need another month of study, of preparation?”
He knew the N1 failure was a major setback for the rival Soviet programme. ‘We talked about it and said, no, we were ready to go.”
Buzz told me he was aware of Soviet unmanned circumlunar missions, known as Zond, but knew that America was ahead of its rivals in December 1968 with the launch of Apollo 8, the first manned spacecraft to leave Earth orbit, reach the Earth’s Moon, orbit it and return safely to Earth.
He was impressed by some aspects of the rockets developed by the Soviet Union’s Chief Designer, Sergei Korolev, but it was clear from his replies that the spirit of the space race was still alive.
Buzz was ambivalent about US support for Russian space efforts and when it comes to Russian plans for Mars, he said diplomatically that he wanted to find out more (Buzz is visiting the UK to promote his children’s book “Welcome to Mars”).
According to Buzz, the Cosmonauts exhibition shows the story of a ‘competitor that lost’.
But, of course, he was referring to the race to the moon. When it comes to the first humans in space, the Soviet Union led the way. ‘We had a programme laid out and we just let them do what they want,’ said Aldrin.
When he arrived at the Science Museum, Buzz was greeted by the Director, Ian Blatchford; Chair of the Board of Trustees, Dame Mary Archer; Trustee and former Science Minister, David Willetts; and Ed Vaizey, Minister of State for Culture, Communications and Creative Industries.
He was accompanied around Cosmonauts by his son Andy Aldrin, space executive and expert on Soviet space endeavour, and by Deputy Keeper, Doug Millard.
Earlier this year, Alexei Leonov, who was being prepared to be the first Soviet cosmonaut on the moon, described how he had watched Apollo 11’s launch from a facility in Moscow.
But the Soviet lunar dream officially ended in 1974. Their programme had been starved of money compared with Apollo and was dogged by political infighting.
The Soviet Union pursued manned and unmanned programmes, dissipating scarce resources, and lost momentum, not least when Korolev died in 1966.
One could sense Leonov’s frustration with how close they had come when he told an audience in the Science Museum how ‘six spacecraft orbited the moon without a man on board.’
Roger Highfield is Director of External Affairs at the Science Museum Group.
Cosmonauts: Birth of the Space Age is open from 18 September 2015 – 13 March 2016. The exhibition is supported by BP and has additional support from ART RUSSE (Major Funder) and the Blavatnik Family Foundation.
The ideas that fuelled the birth of the space age dawned much longer ago than many realise. In their research for our Cosmonautsexhibition, Science Museum curators traced the origins of the first great leap into space by Yuri Gagarin in 1961 to events that took place well before the turn of the 20th century.
Russian fascination with the cosmos first flickered into life in the 1880s with the appearance in print of the first translations of Western science fiction novels by French writers such as Camille Flammarion, Henri De Graffigny and Jules Verne – notably De la terre à la lune (From the Earth to the Moon), in which a cannon was used for a moon shot. Verne’s novel also inspired three gifted individuals, each working independently in different countries.
The first two, Robert Goddard, an American, and Hermann Oberth, born to German-speaking parents in Transylvania (now Romania), were professors of physics who subsequently developed the first liquid-propelled rocket and the first long-range ballistic missile, the V-2, respectively.
V2 rocket in the Making the Modern World gallery. Credit Science Museum
The third great architect of the space age was Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, a self-educated Russian polymath, now known as the grandfather of Soviet space travel. A crater on the far side of the moon is now named in his honour and, as well as featuring examples of his work and even one of his ear trumpets. Cosmonauts: Birth of the Space Agewill open the day after his birthday, 17th September.
Tsiolkovsky wrote both science fiction and treatises on rocket propulsion. His article “The Investigation of Outer Space by Means of Rocket Devices”, published in 1903, introduced the idea of using liquid propellants as rocket fuel and also discussed weightlessness.
Though this marked the first mathematical explanation of how it would be possible to shake of the shackles of the Earth’s gravity to venture into space, the article made little impact. However, his follow up article in 1911 and Aims of Astronauts in 1914 aroused wider interest by discussing two key problems: rocket motors and interplanetary communication.
Konstantin Tsiolkovsky. Credit: Archive of Russian Academy of Sciences
Unlike Goddard and Oberth, Tsiolkovsky never built an actual rocket. However, the cosmic vision depicted in his drawings, novels and scientific papers became hugely influential. Sergei Korolev, Chief Designer of the Russian space programme (whose portrait looms over the exhibition), later commented that Tsiolkovsky’s theory of multi-stage rockets – “rocket trains” – to all intents and purposes opened the path for humanity to get into space.
At the turn of the 20th century cosmism emerged in Russia, blending ideas from Western and Eastern philosophy along with those of the Russian Orthodox church to ponder the origin, evolution and future of the cosmos and humankind. Perhaps the leading figure of this movement was Nikolai Fedorov, an advocate of radical life extension by means of scientific methods and of resurrection too – the exhibition includes his Outline of the Image of a Universal Task of Resurrection (around 1900) which depicts humanity’s duty to achieve immortality.
During that time at the end of the nineteenth century Tsiolkovsky conceived of a grandiose project: to set out key philosophical questions “from a cosmic point of view”, not least how Earth could cope with immortal humans, publishing his ideas in the following decades. To cope with the burgeoning demands of Earth’s ever-growing population, he believed the future of humanity lay in the heavens. As he put it,
“The Earth is the cradle of humanity, but mankind cannot stay in the cradle.”
Tsiolkovsky argued that colonizing space would lead to the perfection of the human race. He believed that humanity had every reason for “cosmic optimism”, since it was possible for human culture to develop without limits in the vastness of the cosmos. For Tsiokovsky the goal of space exploration was to achieve universal happiness.
Cosmic fascination was by then commonplace. Russians had been enthralled when the American Percival Lovell, who founded the Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, Arizona, speculated that the red planet was home to an advanced but now dead civilization that had constructed canals to transport water, in three books: Mars (1895), Mars and Its Canals (1906) and Mars As the Abode of Life (1908). (Today many scientists believe that Mars might have been able to support life, probably in the past when it had oceans, but that it most likely would have been microbial). In 1915, Yakov Perelman, the son of Russian Jewish intellectuals, wrote what was thought to be the first serious book on space travel, Interplanetary Travel.
The allure of the cosmos was amplified in the wake of the Russian Revolution of 1917 and the subsequent civil war that would see the ascendance of the Red Army, fighting for the Bolshevik brand of socialism. The new Bolshevik leaders of the Soviet Union fully embraced science and technology and there was a hunger for an optimistic vision of the future that transcended the horrors of the First World War.
By 1924, the media“seemed to have found a new craze: space travel”, comments Asif Siddiqi, a professor of history at Fordham University in New York. “The cosmos seemed to be everywhere,” he writes in the book to accompany the exhibition. “Prominent public figures gave talks to an enraptured public, enthusiasts joined together to discuss interplanetary flight, publishers issued books with fantastic illustrations, and a feature film on space exploration had just been released to theatres.”
Enthusiasts formed the first societies dedicated to space travel. Among them was the Society for the Study of Interplanetary Communications, formed in the spring of 1924 at the Zhukovsky Air Force Academy in Moscow and driven by Fridrikh Tsander, who in 1922 resigned from his job at a factory to design a space plane powered by a rocket engine that would make efficient use of melted aluminium from its fuselage as fuel. Tsander also analysed re-entry into the Earth’s atmosphere and landing.
Nikolai Rynin, a specialist in aeronautics who organised a similar society in Leningrad, wrote a nine-volume encyclopaedia, Interplanetary Communications, published between 1928 and 1932, which sought to bring together everything written in any language about space travel, including folk tales, medieval speculations, modern science fiction, and the most recent works of Tsiolkovsky, Goddard and Oberth (with Perelman, Rynin had written to both Goddard and Oberth asking them for the latest information on American and German advances in the field of astronautics).
Based on rumours of Goddard’s plans, the Soviet press began to speculate that the American was planning to launch a rocket to the Moon timed for 4 July 1924, US Independence Day. In early October, the Society held a widely advertised talk by a well-known astronomer on the topic of “The Truth about the Dispatching of Professor Goddard’s Projectile to the Moon”. The crowds outside were so unruly that the horse-borne Moscow militia was summoned to keep them under control.
Three years later, in the spring of 1927, the “World’s First Exhibition of Models of Interplanetary Equipment, Mechanisms, and Historical Materials” was held in Moscow, depicting the history of space travel, from the twilight in the 19th century to the ideas of Tsiolkovsky, Tsander, Goddard, Oberth and others. The show was a great success and can be regarded as the progenitor of all space exhibitions, including Cosmonauts: Birth of the Space Age.
But Tsiolkovsky had struggled after the Revolution, said Siddiqi. He was arrested by the secret police on charges of treason (and spent a brief time in prison) and ended up nearly destitute in the early 1920s. “When news of Goddard and Oberth’s writings reached the Soviet press, Tsiolkovsky, hurt by the negligence of ideas in his native nation, republished his works, claiming – entirely rightly – that he had pre-empted both of the foreigners by decades in predicting the reality of space travel.”
Drawing by Tsiolkovksy for the film ‘Cosmic Voyage’ showing a cosmonaut exiting a rocket via an airlock, 1932. Credit: Archive of Russian Academy of Science
The exhibition shows sketches from Tsiolkovsky’s Album of Cosmic Journeys (1932), prepared for the production of the film The Cosmic Voyage, which demonstrate the effects of weightlessness, how to store food in a rocket, airlocks and other details of spaceflight. They are strikingly prescient of the very first space missions.
By the mid-1930s, however, the space fad had been overshadowed by the growing fascination with the more realistic ambitions of aviation, such as jet propulsion.
Still, the Soviet space obsession of the interwar years paid handsome dividends. Most Russians were thrilled when the first artificial satellite, Sputnik, was launched in 1957 and Yuri Gagarin soared into the heavens in 1961 with a cry of “Let’s go!” Perhaps by then, in the wake of the cosmism fad, the first great leap into space by humans seemed almost inevitable.
Roger Highfield is Director of External Affairs at the Science Museum.
Cosmonauts: Birth of the Space Ageis open from 18 September 2015 – 13 March 2016. The exhibition is supported by BP and has additional support from ART RUSSE (Major Funder) and the Blavatnik Family Foundation.
During the preparations for our landmark exhibition, Cosmonauts: Birth of the Space Age, we reunited Britain’s first astronaut, Helen Sharman, with her spacesuit around a quarter of a century after she first wore it for her pioneering mission to the Mir space station.
Helen’s journey began in 1989 when she, then a food technologist, answered an advertisement that she had heard on her car radio: “Astronaut wanted. No experience necessary.” With Timothy Mace, she was eventually selected from over 13,000 applicants to represent the British Juno Mission and she spent 18 months training in Star City before she was picked for the launch.
Helen had to endure the centrifuge (to experience g-forces) and hydro tank (for spacewalk training) but was fortunate that her physiology was well suited to these challenges. However, when it came to getting dressed for space she admitted: “Perhaps the greatest discomfort I suffered was doing tests in an off the shelf spacesuit, which was suited to fit a man.”
For Juno, Helen was measured in 54 different places to ensure her Sokol (‘Falcon’) suit was a snug fit and could protect her at the riskiest stages of her mission, where there is a likelihood of cabin depressurization, during take-off, docking, undocking and landing.
SOKOL space suit worn by Helen Sharman in 1991, manufactured by ‘Zvezda’. Credit: Science Museum / SSPL
In the Science Museum, we reunited Helen with her spacesuit along with television presenter Dallas Campbell, who is working with filmmaker Chris Riley on a programme about spacesuits. Later I joined them for an event at the Royal Institution, where Cosmonauts curator Doug Millard and conservator Kate Perks also brought along Helen’s radio helmet.
The world’s first spacesuits were developed by the NPP (Research & Development Production Enterprise) Zvezda (‘Star’), which was built in 1952 in the Moscow province of Tomilino and was led for many decades by academician Guy Severin, an expert in developing and creating life-support systems for pilots and cosmonauts. To this very day, every cosmonaut from Yuri Gagarin onwards has passed through this venerable space institution. “The road to the cosmos passes via Zvezda,” explains Severin’s successor, Sergei Pozdnyakov, chief executive and designer.
The world’s first spacesuit, SK-1 – orange, with a white helmet inscribed in red ‘CCCP’ – was worn in the first flight by Gagarin to the sixth by Valentina Tereshkova. Development of the SK-1 by Zvezda began in 1959 but Helen Sharman would wear a later design, the Sokol, which was developed more than a decade later in response to a tragedy.
Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin aboard the Vostok spacecraft. Credit: Ria Novosti
Pressure suits had been used on the early Vostok space missions, but when the Soyuz spacecraft was being developed in the mid-1960s the controversial decision was taken not to use them on the new spacecraft. That changed after the death in 1971 of the crew of Soyuz-11, Georgi Dobrovolsky, Vladislav Volkov and Viktor Patsaev, who all perished while returning from the Salyut-1 space station when their descent module lost pressure.
Human space flights were temporarily halted and Zvezda designed the new Sokol-K spacesuit within a year. The spacesuit design evolved from the pressure suits worn by the first jet pilots to help them to cope with low pressure and lack of oxygen at high altitudes by supplying their air to them in a person-shaped‚ pressurized bag.
Zvezda replaced the rigid helmet of these jet pilot suits with a soft, non-removable helmet, including a hinged glass visor which could be lifted. To become a space suit they also had to redesign its basic shape. Pozdnyakov explained that, while an aircraft pilot adopts the same position as a car driver, a cosmonaut sits more like “an embryo in the womb”.
The resulting Sokol-K first came into use in 1973. Since its introduction, Zvezda has tweaked the design, trying various different gusset-openings, lacings, separation of the two halves at chest or waist level, and water-cooled emergency suits. In an emergency it turns out that it is most important to have a spacesuit that can be put on quickly and, by the close of the 1970s, the organisation had essentially settled on today’s model, the Sokol KV-2. “In space travel it is absolutely essential that all the technology and the systems should be 100% reliable, so that most of our time is spent not so much on developing new things, but on optimizing, perfecting and testing the old,” said Pozdnyakov.
The 22 lb suit consists of an inner layer of rubberised material and outer layer of white nylon. The suit includes the cosmonaut’s feet and its gloves attach by means of blue anodised aluminium wrist couplings. There is a pressure gauge on the left wrist and a mirror on the right to help the cosmonaut see things that would otherwise be outside his or her field of view.
The fundamental design of any spacesuit ultimately depends on its use. For the Buran (‘Snowstorm’) spaceship, cosmonauts would take a more active role, demanding a new kind of spacesuit. The Soviet manned lunar programme required the development of the Krechet (‘Gyrfalcon’) space suit, which had a rigid body with soft sleeves and soft trouser legs. This led to the Orlan (‘Sea-Eagle’) series of semi rigid spacesuits, used for spacewalks.
The Sokol holds a special place in space culture, remarks Pozdnyakov. Hundreds of these suits have been made over the years. The Sokol “has become a symbol of man’s flight into the cosmos,” he explained in the book to accompany the exhibition. “As the developers, we find it very nice to hear Sandra Bullock, the star of the Hollywood film Gravity, saying that the Russian space suit is a work of art.”
By Roger Highfield, Director of External Affairs, Science Museum Group.
Could Charles Darwin help us to fight cancer? The answer is an emphatic yes according to an Anglo-American team which today unveils eerily beautiful videos that model the evolution of a tumour in three dimensions.
In one set of computer simulations, a rogue cell blooms into a kaleidoscope of cell types, then melts away when treated with a cancer drug, only to blossom once again with renewed vigour into deadly and malignant masses of billions of cells.
A rogue cell blooms into a kaleidoscope of cell types. Credit: Martin Nowak, Bartek Waclaw and Bert Vogelstein
Cancer is marked by a breakdown of cooperation between cells in the body, when one of the body’s 200 or so cell types develops mutations – changes in their DNA – that put the cell’s own interests above the greater good of the body.
By shrugging off the controls that keep the rest of our body in check, tumour cells divide willy-nilly, picking up new genetic changes along the way so they can evolve to resist drugs, or grow faster, for example. As a result, even a single tumour can contain utterly different genetic mutations in the cells at one end, compared with cells at the other.
But because cancer cells are distorted versions of normal cells in the body, they are hard to target and destroy without causing damaging side effects. Because cancer is marked by its rapid growth doctors have, for example, used drugs that are toxic to all dividing cells in the body, causing side effects such as hair loss, nausea and so on.
Recent years have seen the development of drugs that target cancer cells with specific mutations. These drugs shrink tumours during the first months of treatment but the cancer cells often become resistant as new mutations help to outwit the drugs, and the disease returns.
Now the collaboration between Harvard, Edinburgh, and Johns Hopkins Universities has come up with a mathematical portrait of the evolution of solid tumours of the kind found in the breast, ovary or colon.
The new work, published today in the journal Nature, is a joint project by a team that includes Bartek Waclaw a physicist and computer wizard at Edinburgh, the distinguished cancer researcher Bert Vogelstein of Johns Hopkins, and Martin Nowak, Director of Harvard’s Program for Evolutionary Dynamics, who has spent decades trying to put biology on a mathematical basis, along with his colleague in Harvard University, Ivana Bozic.
Although biologists traditionally complain that disease processes are too complex to boil down to mathematics, Nowak believes the new model can explain various features of cancer, from why cancer cells share a surprising number of mutations in common, to why tumours spread and become resistant to anti-cancer drugs.
The new mathematical model captures the complex way that DNA mutates in different tumour cells, which makes some cells more suited to the environment than others, and how cancer spreads. Until now, these have been modelled separately. “Most previous efforts counted the number of cells with particular DNA changes but not their spatial arrangement,” says Nowak. “Now we can model both the genetic evolution and the 3D growth of a cancer.”
One of the new insights to emerge is that cancer growth depends greatly on the ability of tumour cells to cells to divide if they have sufficient space. This means the tumour grows slowly unless cells are able to move to find enough room. “Cellular mobility makes cancers grow fast, and it makes cancers similar in the sense that cancer cells share a common set of mutations,” says Nowak. That, he thinks, is why drug resistance rapidly evolves.
In the video, similar colours denote similar mutations and – as the tumour grows – they remain clustered together, as also shown by experiment. Of the billions of cancer cells that exist in a patient, only a tiny percentage – about one in a million – are resistant to drugs used in targeted therapy. When treatment starts, the video shows how non-resistant cells are wiped out – but the few resistant cells quickly repopulate the cancer.
There is another insight to emerge from focusing on cell movements within the tumour: they go on to evolve the ability to spread throughout the body, to metastasize, which is usually what makes cancer deadly. Nowak says: “The ability to form metastases is a consequence of selection for local migration, that is Darwinian processes favour cells with the ability to move around the body.”
These insights, which are a ‘beautiful confirmation of what is seen in experiments,’ do not provide a ‘miraculous cure,’ said Bartek Waclaw, “However, they do suggest possible ways of improving cancer therapy.” The video shows how cancer cells switch to a state when they can deform and move around and, he says, treatments that hinder these small movements of cancerous cells could help to slow progress of the disease.
The attempts through history to understand and combat diseases such as cancer can be found in the Science Museum’s medicine collections, which contain over 140,000 objects. The museum is now developing major new Medicine Galleries to showcase thousands of objects with initial leadership funding from the Wellcome Trust, the Heritage Lottery Fund and the Wolfson Foundation.
The galleries will open in 2019, transforming much of the first floor of the Museum. In preparation, Glimpses of Medical History and The Science and Art of Medicine will close on 20th September. However, you will still be able to see highlights from the collection in a new exhibition, Journeys Through Medicine: Henry Wellcome’s Legacy, opening on Thursday 1st October. Further items can also be seen at the Wellcome Collection and explored online via our Brought to Life: exploring the history of medicine. These collections are of enduring interest because medicine is where science collides with life.
By Roger Highfield, Director of External Affairs and coauthor with Martin Nowak of SuperCooperators, Beyond the Survival of the Fittest: why Cooperation, Not Competition, is the Key of Life
As Cosmonaut Alexei Leonov celebrates his birthday this week (30 May), Roger Highfield, Director of External Affairs, spent a day with the pioneering cosmonaut for the launch of Cosmonauts: Birth of the Space Age.
With the help of chalk and blackboard, Alexei Leonov recently gave a vivid personal account of the first seventy years of practical cosmonautics, from the birthplace of modern rocket science in Nazi Germany to his first ‘step into the abyss’ and the prospect of asteroid apocalypse.
At an event organised by the Starmus Festival, Leonov was introduced to a celebrity-laden audience in the museum’s IMAX theatre by Director, Ian Blatchford. Earlier that same day Blatchford and Leonov had sat in front of a reproduction of Leonov’s painting of his pioneering spacewalk to announce the most ambitious exhibition in the history of the museum, Cosmonauts: Birth of the Space Age, supported by BP, when many Soviet spacecraft will be gathered together for the first time.
As Mr Blatchford thanked the twice-hero of the Soviet Union, whose character is every bit as bold as his space feats, Sputnik 3, Soyuz and a Lunokhod 2 rover were being lifted through the museum into their temporary home on the first floor. Vostok 6 and Voskhod 1 had arrived the day before, the first wave of around 150 iconic objects that hail from the dawn of space exploration.
Leonov began by recounting Nazi Germany’s attempt ‘to destroy London’ in the Second World War, when modern rocketry was launched with the V-2, the first long-range guided ballistic missile. When the Russian Army entered Peenemünde, among them an expert group including Sergei Korolev, who would come to be known as ‘The Chief Designer’ in the Soviet Union), the Germans had left only 10 minutes earlier. ‘The coffee was still warm’, said Leonov.
The German rocketeers who had already fled included Wernher von Braun, who would become the father of the US Apollo moon programme, and had by then surrendered to the Americans in Austria. Von Braun had wanted to defect to the Americans but later told Leonov that he would have worked for the Soviets too, claiming he wanted to use rocketry for exploration, not murder. ‘He was very sincere, very frank,’ said Leonov, ‘though you may chose not to believe his words because these were weapons, after all.’
The USSR captured a number of V-2s, including one from the marshes of Peenemünde, and German staff. This paved the way for the manufacture of a Soviet duplicate, the R-1. By August 1957, a descendant, the R-7, was capable of launching a satellite into orbit.
The space age dawned with the launch of Sputnik 1, which was ‘just a sphere with a transmitter…beep beep, beep beep,’ said Leonov. ‘That was sufficient for people to get very excited, now we are in an era where there is an artificial object floating in space. This was only the beginning.’
The Soviet Union followed Sputnik by launching the first animal, man and woman into orbit in just six years, feats that will be recorded by the Science Museum’s Cosmonauts exhibition with objects ranging from a dog ejector seat from a sub-orbital rocket to a model of Vostok 1 (Russian for ‘East’), which carried Yuri Gagarin into space, and Valentina Tereshkova’s Vostok-6 descent module.
Alexei Leonov drawing his lecture. Credit: Science Museum.
After chalking the outline of a Vostok, Leonov moved on to the Voskhod (Russian for “sunrise”), which he said was part of a lunar programme that began with a directive in 1962 and was officially sanctioned by the Politburo two years later.
Voskhod 1 launched on October 12, 1964. Even though there was not enough room to wear space suits, or time to develop a launch escape system, it successfully took the first three-man crew into orbit years before the US Apollo’s three-man crews.
Voskhod 2 featured more powerful propulsion, TV and had been adapted to allow Leonov to carry out the first ever spacewalk. The spacecraft carried a ‘genius invention’, he said, an airlock that could be inflated through which a cosmonaut could step into open space. ‘That was me,’ said Leonov.
Earlier, Korolev had told him, ‘as a sailor should know how to swim in open ocean, so a cosmonaut should be able to swim in space.’
But Leonov’s ill-fated mission almost did not take place. An earlier automated unmanned test flight - Voskhod 3KD – had been destroyed after ground controllers sent a sequence of commands that accidentally set off a self-destruct mechanism designed to prevent the craft ending up in enemy hands.
At a meeting in a hotel, Korolev told Leonov he hoped to adapt his Voskhod 2 to complete the unmanned mission to test the airlock and spacesuit. ‘We were set dead against it,’ said Leonov. He protested to The Chief Designer: ‘We have personally worked through 3000 emergency scenarios’, which was greeted, understandably, with scepticism. ‘Yeah, of course you did,’ said Korolev. ‘You are sure to come across the three thousand and first. And, of course, Leonov ‘would know what to do.’
Leonov admitted to the audience that Korolev’s cynicism was well placed. To carry out his spacewalk above the Black Sea, on 18 March 1965, he and his crewmate Pavel Belyayev came across the ‘three thousandth and second and third and fifth and sixth…all of them were not described in any instructions before.’
As Leonov ‘stepped into the abyss’, he was struck by the sound of his own breathing, his heartbeat and a sense of the universe ‘being limitless in time and space’. Given that in the darkness the temperatures plunged to minus 140 deg C and in sunlight rose to 150 deg C his suit was ‘a stroke of genius’ for the way it kept him at a comfortable 20 deg C.
But eight minutes into the spacewalk, he felt that his gloves had expanded so much that he could no longer feel them with his fingers any more. His legs started to shake. Leonov’s spacesuit had by now ballooned in space to an alarming degree. ‘I started feverishly thinking of what I was going to do to re-enter the spacecraft’.
First he had to coil his tether. Every 50 cm dangled a 2.5 cm diameter ring, which he was supposed to hook.’ But he had ‘no support’ and was hanging on by one hand. ‘It was very hard.’
He disobeyed the orders of Korolev – there was no time to wait for a committee to be assembled to deliberate on his predicament – and opened a valve to bleed of some of the suit’s pressure, risking the bends by lowering the pressure beyond the safety limit.
On his back Leonov wore ‘metal tanks with ninety minutes’ worth of oxygen’ but it was clear from his talk that he remained concerned he had not left enough time for the nitrogen from the oxygen/nitrogen mix inside Voskhod to be purged from his blood. ‘There was a danger of nitrogen boiling in my blood and I was feeling this needling sensation in my fingers but I had no choice.’ Fortunately, ‘The feeling went away.’
Instead of entering legs first, as he had trained to do, Leonov went in head first, requiring ‘an awful amount of energy’ to turn around in the confines of the 1.2 m diameter airlock (he measured 1.9 m in his spacesuit). His core body temperature soared by 1.8 °C as he contorted himself. ‘That was the most stressful moment.’ Overall, the spacewalk lasted 12 minutes. By that time, Soviet state radio and television had stopped their live broadcasts.
The mission’s problems were far from over. The descent module’s hatch failed to reseal properly, leading to a slow leak. The craft’s automated systems flooded the craft with oxygen, raising the risk of fire of the kind seen in the Apollo 1 tragedy.
When they turned on their automatic descent systems, the spacecraft did not stop rotating. ‘It was difficult and dangerous to stop.’ Their automatic guidance system had malfunctioned. They asked Korolev for permission to conduct a manual descent, which the craft was not designed to do. ‘It was very similar to driving a car looking out the window from the side.’ From an ‘ancient Soviet radio station’ in Antarctica came permission, along with a note of caution: ‘Be careful.’
‘You know what, let us land in the Red Square, it would be so jolly funny,’ remarked Leonov, who was the mission navigator. Belyayev, commander, replied that they would ‘clip all the stars in the Kremlin so I don’t think we should do it’. Eventually, Voskhod 2 ended up far from the primary landing zone on the steppes of Kazakhstan, in polar forests – taiga – around 180 kilometres from Perm in Siberia. ‘To us, the trees of 30-40 m looked like a manicured lawn.’ Leonov transmitted a call sign with a manual telegraph system – ‘everything is in order’ – but it was greeted by silence.
A gust of cold air entered when they opened the hatch. Belyayev jumped out and ended up neck deep in snow. Leonov was sloshing around knee deep in water in his spacesuit. They stripped in the cold and Leonov wrung out his underwear. ‘Can you imagine this picture – a spacecraft, the taiga, and naked chaps standing next to each other?’
The next day, ‘comrades on skis’ arrived and, after another night and a nine kilometre ski trip, they were picked up by helicopter.
The Soviets had originally planned to orbit the moon in 1967 and had two parallel lunar programmes, one manned and one unmanned (This was a mistake, Leonov conceded). On his blackboard, Leonov drew a Soyuz (Russian for ‘Union’) 7K-L1 ‘Zond’ (‘probe’) spacecraft that was designed to circle the Moon and described how he had even studied the sky in Somalia to decide which stars to use for lunar navigation. ‘Everything was ready.’
Leonov was once the Soviet cosmonaut thought most likely to become the first human on the Moon. But the Soviet lunar programme was starved of resources compared with America’s Apollo programme, the Soviet manned moon-flyby missions lost political momentum and Korolev died in 1966 (‘those who took his place decided this was too risky’). One could sense his frustration when he declared: ‘Six spacecraft orbited the moon without a man on board.’
However, Science Museum visitors will be able to inspect the monumental five metre LK-3 lunar lander, the finest example of its kind, which was designed to take a single cosmonaut to the Moon’s surface.
Lunnyi Korabl (Luna Lander), 1969, at the Moscow Aviation Institute, (engineering model) c. The Moscow Aviation Institute/ Photo: State Museum and Exhibition Center ROSIZO
Leonov counted himself lucky to be part of the Apollo Soyuz mission, when ‘the cold war could become a hot war at any moment.’ Conducted in July 1975, it was the first joint US–Soviet space flight, and the last flight of an Apollo spacecraft. The mission was a symbol of superpower détente. ‘Every day we spoke on Good Morning America,’ said Leonov. He groaned with mock horror, ‘awwww’, acting out the apoplexy of small-town America at the thought of a cosmonaut orbiting overhead.
Leonov went on to talk about how singer Sarah Brightman had cancelled her trip to the International Space Station, mention the Soviet Buran shuttle, which was delayed by discussions about pilots and automated control (the latter won but ‘we lost three years, launched only one and then nobody commissioned it’) and discussions to allow China to dock with the ISS.
He also discussed the greatest threat to humanity, that of asteroid impacts (now marked by Asteroid Day), which demanded the best of human ingenuity and technology in response. In 2008 the Association of Space Explorer’s Committee on Near-Earth Objects and its international Panel on Asteroid Threat Mitigation gave recommendations to the United Nations. ‘So far we have not heard back from them. I think they are waiting for the asteroid to hit them’.
Leonov had before him in the Science Museum IMAX an audience that ranged from amateur space enthusiasts to rock legends Brian May and Rick Wakeman, and the world’s best known scientist, Professor Stephen Hawking, who had recently given a highly publicised tour of the Science Museum. Leonov described him as ‘amazingly courageous’.
Sitting in the front row of the IMAX was the UK’s first astronaut, Helen Sharman, whose Sokol space suit will be shown in Cosmonauts. Leonov described how he had a ‘very moving’ reunion in the museum with ‘little Helen.’ ‘The best pupil I have ever had,’ said Leonov.
Sharman had been selected to travel into space on 25 November 1989 ahead of nearly 13,000 other applicants. She blasted off in 1991. Leonov encouraged her to stand, and the audience showed their appreciation with a round of applause. ‘She had a special energy, special intellect. You should be proud of this person.’
At the end of the event, Leonov was presented an honorary fellowship of the Science Museum by Hawking and the Chairman of the Board of Trustees, Dame Mary Archer. In return, Leonov, who had dined with Hawking earlier that day, presented the Cambridge cosmologist with a portrait he had sketched after lunch. ‘Stephen smiled, hooray,’ a delighted Leonov told the audience, who were also addressed by Alistair Scott, President of the British Interplanetary Society, and astronomer Garik Israelian of the Starmus Festival.
At a celebratory dinner in the museum that night, Leonov gave a speech in Russian (he preferred his mother tongue because, as he cheerfully recounted, he once ended a speech given in English by wishing his audience ‘sex for life’ rather than ‘a successful life.’) Leonov also alluded to the prevailing American bias in museum accounts of space history. He praised the Science Museum for containing the ‘wisdom of the world’ that would be an ‘inspiration and lesson for future generations.’ Finally, he wished Ian Blatchford ‘good luck’ with Cosmonauts: Birth of the Space Age.
At a Hay Festival event sponsored by the Royal Society, Director of External Affairs Roger Highfield interviewed Andre Geim, the Nobel prize winner best known for his work on graphene, the subject of an exhibition that will open next year at the Museum of Science & Industry, Manchester.
He created graphene, the first two dimensional object on the planet. He levitated frogs. And his pet hamster too. He created tape that mimics the adhesive properties of Gecko feet. But what makes the Nobel Prize winner Andre Geim one of the most creative figures in physics?
A revealing glimpse of how his mind makes adventurous leaps in supposedly well-trodden areas of research emerged when I interviewed the Regius Professor and Royal Society Research Professor at Manchester University, who is best known for his research on the wonder material graphene, along with his deadpan wit and candour.
Born in Sochi and raised in Soviet-era Russia, Geim does not pinpoint his success to being inspired by a particular teacher or childhood experience but being gifted in mathematics and physics and stimulated by a peripatetic existence, aided by the end of the Cold War and a basic hunger for new experiences.
He is serious about play, enjoying stressful hikes across Borneo, and an eventful trip to the Grand Canyon, where he endured both pneumonia and a rattlesnake bite. Equally, he is playful about the serious business of work. ‘I measure life not in years but in experiences.’
Our Hay event was entitled ‘Random Walk to Graphene,’ in honour of his Nobel lecture on a ‘random walk to Stockholm’, a nod to the mathematical term used to describe a path that consists of a succession of random steps. Because his career trajectory has been a little random, he feels that he has learned something new at every step.
This is a far cry from the traditional blinkered way of doing science, which he encountered first-hand when he conducted the equivalent of a doctorate at the Institute of Solid State Physics at the Russian Academy of Sciences in Chernogolovka.
A slide from his Nobel lecture shows his 1987 thesis citation was entitled: “Investigation of mechanisms of transport relaxation in metals by a helicon resonance method” (He told the Hay audience: ‘I really have forgotten what is was all about.’)
Geim said that many of the six or seven million people worldwide who do professional research are trapped in a style of science that he likens to ‘a railway from your scientific cradle to scientific coffin’, one which is ‘absolutely straight’ and where diversions are not allowed.
In the eighties, ‘I did two or three papers which were cited once or twice by my supervisor, no one else,’ he said. ‘That was the experience of my PhD.’ Bottom line, never torture students with what he calls ‘zombie projects.’
Wind forward to Radboud University Nijmegen High Field Magnet Laboratory in the Netherlands where he had ended up, attracted by the greater opportunities and freedom in the West: the Royal Society had sponsored a visit to the University of Nottingham during which he achieved more in his first six months than in the previous ‘six years of boredom.’
One Friday in Nijmegen, two decades of curiosity about the phenomenon of diamagnetism got the better of him. He poured a bottle of water into one of the lab’s powerful electromagnets, some 50 times stronger than a fridge magnet. It was in the evening, when the electricity was cheaper. Lo and behold droplets of water started floating in the powerful magnetic field. ‘It is a ridiculous experiment,’ he conceded. ‘But nobody had come with the same stupid idea.’
His colleagues suggested he now try beer. Instead, his wife and fellow physicist Irina Grigorieva, who accompanied him and their daughter to Hay, ’came up with a brilliant idea.’ He should try a frog too, just to underline to scientific sceptics as much as the layperson how everything is diamagnetic.
Levitating frog. Credit: Andre Geim
The Geim family pet hamster Tisha was quickly levitated. Not only did he live to squeak the tale for another three years, he even co-authored a paper with Geim in the journal Physical B to, as Geim puts it, ‘acknowledge his personal contribution.’ Geim wanted to ensure his work had real impact rather than swell the ranks of uncited papers.
Letter to Andre Geim
The rest is history and he won the ‘Ig Nobel prize’ for innovations that make people ‘laugh, then think.’ But ‘behind every joke there is something very serious.’ He shared the Ig Nobel Prize with Sir Michael Berry of the University of Bristol, who had worked with Geim on the theory of levitation. Even today, scientists come up to Geim at conferences and say. ‘I have no idea about graphene’ and then talk in delight about his levitating frog.
Geim has since enshrined the idea of the Friday Night Experiment in his way of working. His playfulness and commitment to scientific adventure (‘search, not re-search’) was what attracted Kostya Novoselov to Geim’s laboratory in Holland.
And it was what would take them both on a random walk to the Nobel prize, after a wrong first step by Geim’s first PhD student when he moved to the University of Manchester. Da Jiang had arrived from China with poor English and in 2002 Geim gave him a simple project: take a piece of graphite, the stuff of pencils, albeit a chunk worth around £300, and isolate the thinnest sliver he could.
Geim wanted to study a two-dimensional sheet of carbon atoms that had long been posited by theorists, and was predicted to have fascinating electronic properties, but had never been seen. This Friday Night Experiment was a step in the wrong direction: Da Jiang used a specialised machine to grind the piece of graphene down to a little piece. ‘It was not thin enough’ and Geim asked him to try again. Da Jiang requested another piece of graphite and, given he had reduced the last to dust, ‘You can imagine how excited I was’.
Artistic impression of a graphene sheet. Credit: Jannik Meyer
Then Geim’s Ukrainian postdoc Oleg Shklyarevskii took an interest and had an idea: physicists used Scotch tape to clean graphite, which is commonly studied in laboratories. ‘What those guys did not realise,’ explained Geim, ‘was that throwing away the Scotch tape they were throwing away the Nobel Prize as well.’
After rummaging in the bin, pieces of tape emerged coated with ultrathin graphite: not atomic thickness but transparent, which raised the hopes of Geim that graphene could be made. ‘I knew that if it is transparent it must be very, very thin. From the very first moment I knew that we could get with this technique something that has never been studied before.’
Here Novoselov re-enters the story and lo and behold after a year to 18 months, they isolated a hexagonal lattice of carbon atoms. The flat, parallel sheets of carbon atoms in the graphite of pencil lead could indeed be peeled apart to yield a single atomic layer. (Geim hates calling this the ‘Scotch tape technique,’ which is ‘plebeian.’)
Geim’s random, playful leaps across physics are not as effortless as they sound: it takes careful background research to make sense of what many others have done before, do something different, and to describe a novel leap in familiar terms that peers can understand. This exercise in due diligence is not helped by the vast amounts of chaff in the scientific literature: he points out that of the 100,000 or so research papers each year (excluding those from China), half are never cited.
Their first paper about the isolation of graphene was rejected when it was sent to Nature. Although one referee remarked ‘this paper does not represent a scientific advance,’ Geim is sanguine about the conservatism of science. Eventually it was accepted and published in the journal Science in 2004.
It was astounding that heat energy (‘Brownian motion’) did not shake graphene’s gossamer atomic lattice apart, a hint of its extraordinary properties – miraculous strength, lightness, flexibility – and conductivity too. This material was 100 times stronger than steel and 100 times more conductive than copper, promising a wealth of applications, from supercapacitors and composites to lighting and superfast electronics.
By 2010, the first paper by Novoselov and Geim was cited more than 3,000 times. That same year, they shared the Nobel Prize, though Geim says that, in reality, ‘six or seven people’ were behind the breakthrough.
And how did he feel when the call from the Nobel committee came? ‘People were expecting me to win the prize for two or three years before,’ he said. ‘In a sense I was mentally prepared that there would be a call.’ But he messed up the actual timing and did not realise that it would be that particular Monday when the prize was announced. Still, when a female voice with a Swedish accent materialised on his phone to say she had something very important to tell him,’ he immediately replied: “Are you going to tell me that I won the Nobel prize?”
‘Nothing changed that day. I went to work. I had a few drinks. Otherwise, nothing special. ’There were plenty of calls from journalists but ‘it was not very interesting. Journalism is not my favourite profession. Sorry, Roger…they write quicker than they think.’
Today Geim maintains a small, close-knit team of two postdocs and two or three students. He believes in the power of ‘self-organisation’, quickly losing interest in students who do not pass muster. He wants to do science, not admin: ‘I am in the lab several times a day.’ He has resisted the temptation to build an empire.
Even though his work has spawned a £61 million National Graphene Institute in Manchester, ‘a good facility’ he is ambivalent about the relatively small scale of the effort compared with rival nations, the sluggishness of the UK response to the race to commercialise graphene, and how the money was spent on the building rather than research (architects, along with politicians, journalists and students attract his ire). ‘It is money put into the British building industry rather than science.’
He has met Chancellor George Osborne a couple of times but quickly lost interest. ‘I am not an industrialist or property developer…my strength is probably being a little bit unconventional…I am not interested in political games.’
Graphene is now ‘more or less done’, he said. His latest research is backed mostly by European Union funding, which he says is more focused on blue sky than immediate returns. Geim has now moved on to creating novel designer materials by assembling the emerging family of two dimensional ‘brothers and sisters of graphene’, including hexagonal boron nitride, fluorographene and so on, in a Lego-like fashion. His hope is that these metamaterials will have extraordinary new properties for instance for quantum computers and much more. The world is entering the era of what he calls ‘Graphene 3.0’.
Graphene pencil drawing credit: Chalmers University of Technology.
To mark the birthday of Philosophical Transactions, Roger Highfield surveys the history of citizen science, which dates back much further than many realise.
Even though the term ‘citizen science’ only entered the Oxford English Dictionary last year, the practice is several centuries old, as quickly becomes evident when thumbing through back issues of the oldest journal dedicated to science.
Philosophical Transactions, which celebrates its 350th birthday on 6 March, has plenty of evidence of citizen science that dates back long before the 20th century, before the internet put terabytes of data at our fingertips, long before TV and long before even the term ‘scientist’ was coined in 1833.
Halley’s solar eclipse observations printed in Philosophical Transactions. Credit: Royal Society
When in 1749, crowds gathered in Green Park in London to watch the great firework display of King George II, a 20 year old Fellow of the Royal Society, Benjamin Robins, published an appeal in the Gentleman’s Magazine to ask people to help record this spectacle of the age, which he reported in Phil Trans.
Due in great part to the complex instructions devised by Robins (citizen scientists take note), only one report was sent in, from a Welshman some 140 miles away who couldn’t see individual fireworks, but upon seeing flashes, reckoned that the pyrotechnics were a waste of money.
Creature surveys date back a long time. When Charles Darwin was developing his theories of evolution he browsed popular natural history magazines and sought out information from an army of almost 2000 correspondents (a project to compare this approach with today’s citizen science is now under way by Chris Lintott and Sally Shuttleworth at Oxford, with Gowan Dawson in Leicester.)
The Audubon Society’s Christmas Bird Count, which began in 1900, is but one example of a long-standing tradition which has persisted to the present day. Butterfly counts are another example, with schemes starting in the UK and North America in the mid 1970s.
Various wildlife surveys were also conducted by MegaLab, a project that began with the BBC and Daily Telegraph in 1995, using mass media and phone lines to earn the ‘mega’ prefix. Some projects were citizen science in the strict sense defined by the OED (‘‘scientific work undertaken by members of the general public, often in collaboration with or under the direction of professional scientists and scientific institutions’). Others invited a broader form of citizen engagement, where a mass audience provided test subjects to further understanding of the human body and mind.
The first experiment, which was in the latter category, was conducted with Prof Richard Wiseman of the University of Hertfordshire. We used national television, radio and press (BBC1’s Tomorrow’s World, BBC Radio One and The Daily Telegraph, where I was science editor) to test whether it is easier to detect lies in print, radio or TV.
A million call attempts were made but, due to overload, we only recorded data on 40,000. In the journal Nature, Richard Wiseman reported that the radio listeners detected the lies 73.4% of the time, the newspaper readers 64.2% and the television viewers 51.8%.
The web extends the reach of scientists engaging with citizens, and in many different ways. One was to harness idle computer processing power, as with seti@home, which helps look for extraterrestrial intelligence, or a DIY climate forecasting project that I launched in The Daily Telegraph.
The web could also help reach out to an audience. MegaLab used the web to conduct Turing tests, for example, and there are many more examples of internet based projects, such as Galaxy Zoo, which asks for help in classifying images of distant galaxies, and the fold.it site, which runs a game to fold the structure of selected proteins as well as possible.
The web also allowed an intelligence test to be undertaken worldwide in 2010 by New Scientist, which I edited at the time, with Adrian Owen, now at the University of Western Ontario, and colleagues. Some 110,000 people took part and the findings challenged the idea of IQ and led to a paper in the journal Neuron.
Another substantial citizen science project – #hookedonmusic – was created by computational musicologists at the University of Amsterdam and Utrecht University. The project has been run by Wellcome Trust public engagement fellow Erinma Ochu and the Museum of Science & Industry, Manchester to investigate the science of songs which may have implications for future research into dementia. To date there have been 175,000 players of #HookedonMusic, reviewed here, across 199 countries and research papers are expected based on its findings.
The range of citizen science is expanding. To prove that you don’t have to be an adult to do original science, children from a Primary School in Blackawton, Devon, published the results of an experiment on how bees forage for food in different coloured flowers in the Royal Society journal Biology Letters in 2010.
Working with Royal Society Research Fellow, Beau Lotto, they came up with a question, made simple observations about simple phenomena, and discovered ‘bees use a combination of colour and spatial relationships in deciding which flower to forage from.’ Gratifyingly they also discovered that ‘science is cool and fun.’ Lotto also ran a laboratory at the Science Museum from late 2010 to the spring of 2012 called, appropriately enough, Lotto Lab.
The museum, through its Lates and Live Science program, has offered many other researchers a chance to experiment on the museum’s three million plus visitors each year. Subjects tackled over the past 15 years range from face scans for surgeons in Great Ormond Street Hospital to gait analysis with Oxford Brookes, synaesthesia with Sussex, and risk-taking with UCL.
Various papers have been published as a result of experiments on visitors, for instance on self recognition and also the way groups behave and crowd behaviour, explored in our ZombieLab event. We are currently running a taste experiment (you can take part here) devised by food scientist Charles Spence from Oxford University, with the support of chef Heston Blumenthal.
And, no doubt, a range of new technologies, such as cheap open source computing power from the Raspberry Pi and Arduino, drones and 3D printing, will aid the long, remarkable and productive rise of the citizen scientist.
The Royal Society is marking the anniversary of Philosophical Transactions with the launch of a series of short films, special issues of the journal, an exhibition and other activities.
Roger Highfield is Director of External Affairs, Science Museum, and a member of the Royal Society’s Inspiring Stories committee.
When the House of Commons voted to legalise a revolutionary new form of reproductive medicine on Tuesday, it was a remarkable moment for science.
This technique, known as mitochondrial replacement or three-person in vitro fertilization, aims to prevent women passing on harmful mutations in their mitochondria, the cell’s energy-producing structures.
The debate was hosted by Luciana Berger, Labour and Cooperative MP for Liverpool Wavertree, and Shadow Minister for Public Health. Among the audience of around 150 people were MPs, Lords, fertility experts and members of families affected by mitochondrial disease.
The speakers debating the safety and ethics on Monday night were: Frances Flinter, Professor of Clinical Genetics at King’s College London; John Harris, Professor of Bioethics and Director of the Institute for Science, Ethics and Innovation at the University of Manchester; Dr David King, Founder and Director of Human Genetics Alert and Philippa Taylor, Head of Public Policy at the Christian Medical Fellowship, and Consultant on Family and Bioethics at Christian Action Research and Education.
Important contributions to the discussion came from members of affected families, the pioneer of the research, Prof Doug Turnbull of Newcastle University, journalist and author Matt Ridley and Prof Andy Greenfield, who chaired the HFEA Scientific Review panel.
What was gratifying was that on Tuesday the debate was cited by several MPs – including Luciana Berger, Liz McInnes and Guy Opperman - in their contributions to the House of Commons debate before the historic vote in favour of this form of gene therapy.
Another MP even complained that we had more time for our public debate than the MPs had for their debate in the Commons.
The science and ethics of mitochondrial donation have been the subject of an exhibit in the Science Museum and years of high-profile discussions, including public consultations by the Nuffield Council on Bioethics, the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority and the Department of Health, and representations by scientists and key organisations such as the Wellcome Trust.
Roger Highfield, Director of External Affairs, reflects on Benedict Cumberbatch’s visit to the Science Museum to prepare for his role as Alan Turing in The Imitation Game. Book tickets for a special preview screening at the Science Museum’s IMAX next week.
If you had been at the Science Museum one evening in September last year, you would have encountered Benedict Cumberbatch, adorned in a flat cap, wandering around our critically-acclaimed exhibition about Alan Turing, the brilliant mathematician, logician, cryptanalyst and philosopher.
Benedict Cumberbatch stars as Alan Turing alongside Keira Knightley in The Imitation Game. Image credit: Studio Canal 2014. All rights reserved.
The Science Museum’s Codebreaker exhibition, which was awarded a prestigious prize by the British Society for the History of Science, has since closed, but its influence lives on in Cumberbatch’s portrayal of Alan Turing in the movie The Imitation Game, which he filmed in the weeks that followed his visit to the Museum.
You can see an exclusive preview of The Imitation Game in the Science Museum’s IMAX cinema plus a pre-screening talk from director Morten Tyldum, on Wednesday November 12.
One of Britain’s most extraordinary heroes, Alan Turing is credited with cracking the German Enigma code, significantly shortening the war and saving many thousands of lives.
Convicted for an outdated criminal offence, though posthumously pardoned, Turing fell victim to an unenlightened British Establishment but his work and legacy live on in the worlds of mathematics and computing.
Curator David Rooney took the star of Star Trek Into Darkness, Sherlock and more around the exhibition (see a Twitter tour of the exhibition here), which traced the influences over Turing’s lifetime from the death in 1930 of the love of his life, Christopher Morcom, to the use of his Pilot ACE computer by crystallographer Dorothy Hodgkin to crack the atomic structure of vitamin B12, to Turing’s final research on pattern formation in biology.
You can see the Pilot ACE in our new Information Age gallery, which was opened last month by Her Majesty The Queen, which looks at how communications technology has transformed our lives over the past two centuries. There are also many related objects on our website.
The Pilot ACE computer, 1950. Image credit: Science Museum / SSPL
Among the exhibits in Codebreaker were a cybernetic tortoise that had inspired Turing during a 1951 visit to the Science Museum, and a bottle of the female sex hormone oestrogen: after his conviction Turing had been subject to ‘chemical castration’ to neutralise his libido.
Perhaps the most poignant item on display was a copy of the pathologist’s post-mortem report, detailing the circumstances of his death at his home on 7 June 1954, in Wilmslow, Cheshire.