SCIENCE, TECHNOLOGY, & HUMAN VALUES - SAGE Pub · PDF fileSCIENCE, TECHNOLOGY, & HUMAN VALUES ... Karin Knorr-Cetina University of Bielefeld Barbara Koenig ... If it is the case, however,

SCIENCE, TECHNOLOGY, & HUMAN VALUES

Journal of the Society for Social Studies of Science

PRESIDENT: Sheila JasanoffSECRETARY/TREASURER: Wesley ShrumPAST PRESIDENTS: Michel Callon, Karin Knorr-Cetina, Sal Restivo,

Harry M. Collins, Harriet A. Zuckerman, Arie Rip, David Edge,Nicholas C. Mullins, Arnold Thackray, Bernard Barber, Dorothy Nelkin,Warren O. Hagstrom, Robert K. Merton

For Sage Publications: Sara Michel, Morgan Parker-Kotik, Katinka Baltazar, and Scott F. Locklear

EDITOR:Ellsworth R. FuhrmanVirginia Polytechnic Institute

and State University

MANAGING EDITOR:Ann Callender KnefelVirginia Polytechnic Institute


ASSOCIATE EDITOR ANDBOOK REVIEW EDITOR:Thomas W. StaleyVirginia Polytechnic Institute


FORMER EDITORS:Olga AmsterdamskaWilliam A. BlanpiedVivien B. ShelanskiMarcel Chotkowski LaFolletteSusan E. Cozzens

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS:

Katalin BalazsHungarian Academy of Sciences

Adele ClarkeUniversity of California,

San Francisco

Diana HicksCHI Research

Dale JamiesonCarleton College

Daniel Lee KleinmanGeorgia Institute of Technology

Nelly OudshoornUniversity of Twente

Wesley ShrumLouisiana State University

Jane SummertonLinköping University

Vivien WalshUniversity of Manchester

EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD:

Madeleine AkrichEcole des Mines, Paris

Wiebe BijkerUniversity of Maastricht

Geoffrey BowkerUniversity of Illinois, Urbana-

Champaign

Daryl E. ChubinNational Science Foundation

H. M. CollinsCardiff University

Paul T. DurbinUniversity of Delaware

Aant ElzingaUniversity of Gothenburg

Donna J. HarawayUniversity of California,

Santa Cruz

Sheila JasanoffHarvard University

Karin Knorr-CetinaUniversity of Bielefeld

Barbara KoenigStanford University

Sheldon KrimskyTufts University

Marcel C. LaFolletteGeorge Washington University

Terttu LuukkonenTechnical Research Centre

of Finland

Michael LynchCornell University

Donald MacKenzieUniversity of Edinburgh

Emily MartinPrinceton University

Thomas NicklesUniversity of Nevada, Reno

Andrew PickeringUniversity of Illinois

Theodore PorterUniversity of California,

Los Angeles

Joseph RouseWesleyan University

Susan Leigh StarUniversity of Illinois,

Urbana-Champaign

Albert TeichAmerican Association for the

Advancement of Science

Sherry TurkleMassachusetts Institute of

Technology

Judy WajcmanThe Australian National University

Steve WoolgarUniversity of Oxford

SCIENCE, TECHNOLOGY,& HUMAN VALUES

Volume 26, Number 4, Autumn 2001

Special Issue: Boundary Organizations in EnvironmentalPolicy and Science

Guest Editor: David H. Guston

Articles

Boundary Organizations in EnvironmentalPolicy and Science: An Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David H. Guston 399

Lessons from the Recent History of theHealth Effects Institute . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Terry J. Keating 409

“In Order to Aid in Diffusing Useful andPractical Information”: Agricultural Extensionand Boundary Organizations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David W. Cash 431

Integrating Climate Forecasts and SocietalDecision Making: Challenges to anEmergent Boundary Organization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Shardul Agrawala

Kenneth Broadand David H. Guston 454

Hybrid Management: Boundary Organizations,Science Policy, and EnvironmentalGovernance in the Climate Regime. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Clark Miller 478

Additional Feature Article

The Effect of Supersonic Transports on theGlobal Environment: A Debate Revisited . . . . . . . . . . . . Frances Drake

and Martin Purvis 501

Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 529

Sage Publications Thousand Oaks • London • New Delhi

Science, Technology, & Human ValuesGuston / Introduction

Boundary Organizations in EnvironmentalPolicy and Science: An Introduction

David H. GustonRutgers, The State University of New Jersey

Scholarship in the social studies of science has argued convincingly thatwhat demarcates science from nonscience is not some set of essential or tran-scendent characteristics or methods but rather an array of contingent circum-stances and strategic behavior known as “boundary work” (Gieryn 1995,1999). Although initially formulated to explain how scientists maintain theboundaries of their community against threats to its cognitive authority fromwithin (e.g., fraud and pseudo-science), boundary work has found useful,policy-relevant applications—for example, in studying the strategic demar-cation between political and scientific tasks in the advisory relationshipbetween scientists and regulatory agencies (Jasanoff 1990). This work findsthat the blurring of boundaries between science and politics, rather than theintentional separation often advocated and practiced, can lead to more pro-ductive policy making.

If it is the case, however, that the robustness of scientific concepts such ascausation and representation are important components of liberal-democraticthought and practice (Ezrahi 1990), one can imagine how the flexibility ofboundary work might lead to confusion or even dangerous instabilitiesbetween science and nonscience. These risks could be conceived, perhaps, asthe politicization of science or the reciprocal scientification of politics. Nei-ther risk should here be understood to mean the importation to one enterprisefrom the other elements that are entirely foreign; that is, science is not devoidof values prior to some politicization, nor politics of rationality, prior to anyscientification. Rather, both should be understood to mean the rendering ofnorms and practices in one enterprise in a way that unreflexively mimicsnorms and practices in the other. These concerns have been central to the so-called science wars, and to the extent that they are implicated in public dis-cussions of such policy issues as health and safety regulation, climate change,or genetically modified organisms, they are real problems for policy makersand publics alike.1

Science, Technology, & Human Values, Vol. 26 No. 4, Autumn 2001 399-408© 2001 Sage Publications

399

Recognizing both that there is no unbridgeable chasm between scienceand nonscience and that the flexibility of boundary work may threaten someimportant values and interests, scholars have discussed some possible factorsthat contribute to linking the two domains and stabilizing some boundarywork. These include the identification of boundary objects, standardizedpackages, and now, boundary organizations.

From Boundary Objects to Boundary Organizations

Boundary objects sit between two different social worlds, such as scienceand nonscience, and they can be used by individuals within each for specificpurposes without losing their own identity (Star and Griesemer 1989). Forexample, a patent on research results can be used by a scientist to establishpriority or for commercial gain. It can simultaneously be used by a politicianto measure the productivity of research (Guston 1999). In some cases, entireorganizations can serve as boundary objects, as did many of the public inter-est organizations created by scientists in midcentury to facilitate politicalgoals while protecting scientific ones (Moore 1996). Standardized packagesare more robust than boundary objects, changing practices on both sides ofthe boundary (Fujimura 1991). For example, model agreements for coopera-tive research between government scientists and private firms can encourageboth parties to engage in more frequent and productive cooperation, but fortheir own purposes (Guston 1999).

To the extent that boundary objects and standardized packages providestability, however, they do so only through the consent of actors on both sidesof the boundary, for example, to the extent that researchers voluntarilyengage in patenting or politicians accept patents as a measure of productivity.And even if blurred boundaries can be more productive for policy making,there is little sense of how much blurring is productive and how much mightbe destructive. Moreover, the existence of boundary objects or standardizedpackages may not be all that is necessary for stabilization. More generalchanges in culture or more specific changes in practices may be necessary aswell.

The Logic of Boundary Organizations

Boundary organizations attempt to solve these problems by meeting threecriteria: first, they provide the opportunity and sometimes the incentives forthe creation and use of boundary objects and standardized packages; second,

400 Science, Technology, & Human Values

they involve the participation of actors from both sides of the boundary, aswell as professionals who serve a mediating role; third, they exist at the fron-tier of the two relatively different social worlds of politics and science, butthey have distinct lines of accountability to each (Guston 1999, 2000).

In this third criterion, the concept of boundary organizations borrowsfrom principal-agent theory (also known as ideal contracting), which holdsthat organizational relations may be understood as (a series of) delegations ofauthority from principals to agents within or between organizations. Thesedelegations may be modeled by contracts. Regular problems of adverseselection and moral hazard plague the delegatory relationship and elicit regu-lar solutions of incentives and monitoring (Arrow 1991).2 The conduct ofresearch for both basic and applied purposes can be viewed as such a delega-tion from research sponsor to research performer (Caswill 1998; van derMeulen 1998; Guston 1996; Braun 1993). The principal-agent perspectiveleads to regular questions about the integrity and productivity of research andregular strategies such as monitoring and the application of incentives forresponding to them (Guston 2000).

The success of a boundary organization is determined by principals oneither side of the boundary, both of whom rely on the boundary organizationto provide them with necessary resources. A successful boundary organiza-tion will thus succeed in pleasing two sets of principals and remain stable toexternal forces astride the internal instability at the actual boundary. The suc-cess of the organization in performing these tasks can then be taken as the sta-bility of the boundary, while in practice the boundary continues to be negoti-ated at the lowest level and the greatest nuance within the confines of theorganization.3 This dual agency makes the boundary organization a site ofwhat Sheila Jasanoff (1996, 397), following Bruno Latour, has labeled “co-production,” the simultaneous production of knowledge and social order.Boundary organizations are involved in coproduction in two ways: they facil-itate collaboration between scientists and nonscientists, and they create thecombined scientific and social order through the generation of boundaryobjects and standardized packages.

The concept of the boundary organization differs in subtle but importantways from German political scientist Dietmar Braun’s (1993) description ofintermediary agencies. In his international comparative study of missionagencies that sponsor research in the United States, Great Britain, France,and Germany, Braun appropriately critiques the dyadic structure of principal-agent theory and situates the mission agencies as intermediaries between apolitical system and a scientific system. He concludes that this three-part, ortriadic, structure improves the communications between politics and sciencebut continues to concede significant power to science over the choice of

Guston / Introduction 401

research. Rip (1994) has a similar vision of the dual nature of research coun-cils between the scientific community and the government, embodying val-ues from both sides. Moreover, Rip (1994) generalizes from this observation,arguing that “because they have two patrons, the state and the scientific com-munity, the research councils are relatively independent with respect to eitherof them” (pp. 12-13).

Braun and Rip attribute to the research councils narrower functions, apartfrom actually funding research, than boundary organizations perform. Braunintroduces the triadic structure merely to account for complexity, and theneed of his intermediary agency for the scientific community is limited to thelatter’s providing reputational assistance to the former. In the case of theboundary organization, however, the professionals in the agency and the sci-entists and potential consumers on the outside collaborate to produce mutu-ally instrumental boundary objects and standardized packages. To the extentthat Rip focuses on the consequences of the dual nature of the research coun-cils, he argues that it permits them an independence that they can exploit in anentrepreneurial way. Although the boundary organization may behaveentrepreneurially, it is crucial to recognize as an important characteristic thestability it induces by successfully internalizing the boundary negotiations.Its dependence is as important as its independence.

This boundary organization also differs from the boundary-spanningorganization previously defined in the sociology of organizations. The con-cept of boundary spanning helps explain how organizations insulate them-selves from external political authority (Aldrich 1979; Bozeman 1987), akinto Rip’s idea. Organizations engage in such activities to draw resources,exploit opportunities, or respond to threats from their environment (Scott1992). The boundary organization draws its stability not from isolating itselffrom external political authority but precisely by being accountable andresponsive to opposing, external authorities. Boundary organizations mayuse co-optation, the incorporation of representatives of external groups intotheir decision-making structure, as a bridging strategy (Scott 1992), but theyattempt to balance it precisely between scientific and political principals.4

Illustrative Organizations

The logic of the boundary organization’s stability is akin to the logic, forexample, that Bimber (1996) uses to describe the situation of the congressio-nal Office of Technology Assessment (OTA). Prior to its elimination by thenew Republican Congress in 1995—primarily as a sacrifice to the agenda of


fiscal discipline—OTA had established itself as a respected and politicallyneutral institution for the analysis of policy problems with high technicalcontent. Wondering why OTA did not suffer the same fate of politicizationover time as other organizations for policy analysis (particularly those in theExecutive Branch), Bimber points to the dual accountability of OTA to bothDemocrats and Republicans on OTA’s governing board and in OTA’s con-gressional audience. Enhanced further by its clientele in many congressionalcommittees with overlapping or competing jurisdictions, the decentralizeddemands on OTA elicited a strategy of neutrality that channeled its pursuit ofpolicy analysis. The need to respond to two (or more) principals prescribed abalanced and, with respect to the role of politics and science in the perfor-mance of analysis, stable approach to OTA’s mission.5 As a politically neutralorganization, OTA did not teeter atop a narrow divide between Democratsand Republicans but internalized partisan differences, negotiated them foreach study, and produced in its studies a boundary object or standardizedpackage that either party (or any of several congressional committees) coulduse for its own purposes.

In a similar way, Jasanoff (1990, 209-16) alludes to how the Health EffectsInstitute (HEI) stabilizes the deconstructive tendencies of an adversaryapproach to regulatory science through a “public-private partnership for sci-ence.” In an environment in which government scientists and industry scien-tists are often on opposing sides of interpreting evidence about environmen-tal health and safety, HEI’s experience suggests the benefits of constructingdual agency. Because both government and industry fund HEI, neither partycould productively accuse it of being captive to the other. Supplemented bytwo peer-review committees, HEI has been relatively successful in construct-ing a reputation for objectivity.

Perhaps more critical for managing the real problems between politics andscience than the identification by scholars of organizations—like OTA andHEI—that demonstrate the logic of boundary organizations is the under-standing of that role by practitioners themselves. A recent review for theEuropean Environment Agency (EEA), for example, identifies the descrip-tion of boundary organizations as a “most important observation” for EEAbecause it elaborates a strategy that EEA can adopt in pursuit of its preexist-ing mission. Boundary organizations

perform tasks that are useful to both sides, and involve people from both com-munities in their work, but play a distinctive role that would be difficult orimpossible for organisations in either community to play. This is exactly thegap that the EEA can now fill in disseminating environmental research. (Scott2000, 15)


The articles in this symposium deepen the exploration of such organiza-tions.6 In the first contribution, Terry Keating further elaborates the role ofHEI in the production of high-quality research relevant to air pollution policy.Beyond the unique financial balancing that other analysts have noticed,Keating explores how HEI’s response to recommendations from a study bythe U.S. National Academy of Sciences reestablished and even extended theorganization’s credibility through strategies of engagement and inclusion ofinterested parties rather than insulation from them. By appealing to and bal-ancing between multiple principals, HEI has become an arbiter of the qualityof policy-relevant research.

In the second article, David W. Cash examines agricultural extension inthe United States, a program with more than a century’s experience in dis-seminating useful knowledge. In his case study of the role of extension inmanaging the Ogallala aquifer in the High Plains region of the United States,Cash not only identifies the particular characteristics of the boundary organi-zation but also provides evidence that its presence is causally related to moreeffective information flows. Furthermore, he argues not only that the bound-ary organization augments the creation and transfer of usable knowledge butalso that it facilitates the coordination of science and decision making acrossboundaries of scale or levels of organization, for example, county, state, andfederal jurisdictions.

Both of these organizations operate exclusively in the political system ofthe United States. The final two articles examine international organizations,although one is housed in the United States. Shardul Agrawala, KennethBroad, and David H. Guston study the International Research Institute (IRI)for Climate Prediction, based at Columbia University’s Lamont-DohertyEarth Observatory. IRI performs what it calls an “end-to-end” mission, frommodeling the physics of the climate system and forecasting precipitation andtemperature at seasonal-to-interannual scales, to research and capacity-building efforts on the use of climate information by decision makers in arange of socioeconomic sectors, including agriculture, water resources, fish-eries, health, and disaster management. The authors document this strategy,oriented at principals in both scientific and user communities, and some ofthe boundary objects and standardized packages that help IRI implement it.They also document, however, a number of challenges that IRI faces as anemergent boundary organization operating at the interface between knowl-edge and applications, on one hand, and between the developed and thedeveloping world, on the other.

In the final contribution, Clark Miller offers a supplementary framing toboundary organizations he calls “hybrid management.” Derived from


Miller’s research on the Subsidiary Body for Scientific and TechnologicalAdvice to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change,hybrid management focuses on the functions of organizations engaged incoproduction, including such functions as hybridization and deconstructionthat are apparent in the other boundary organizations. Miller finds thisapproach to thinking about boundary organizations particularly useful in thefast-changing institutional landscape of global governance.

Conclusion

Like Latour’s (1987) Janusian visage of science itself, the boundary orga-nization speaks differently to different audiences. Latour’s science is able toproject authority by appealing to either face in a strategic fashion—for exam-ple, by claiming that science is a messy, creative process and also by claimingthat it is a neat, rational process. Similarly, the boundary organization is ableto project authority by showing its responsive face to either audience. To thescientific principal, it says, “I will do your bidding by demonstrating to thepoliticians that you are contributing to their goals, and I will help facilitatesome research goals besides.” To the consumer, who is also a principal, itsays, “I will do your bidding by assuring that researchers are contributing tothe goals you have for the integrity and productivity of research.” The bound-ary organization thus gives both the producers and the consumers of researchan opportunity to construct the boundary between their enterprises in a wayfavorable to their own perspectives. This solution is almost Madisonian in itsuse of a balancing of interests to reduce the threat that either side will find theboundary organization inimical, because it will actually pursue the interestsof both parties.7

Don K. Price (1954) argued against the old idea of unitary sovereignty andin favor of a new kind of federalism in the sponsorship of academic research.Likewise, boundary organizations suggest that the old idea that politics andscience should be neatly cleaved should be abandoned in favor of the newerattempt to mix the interests of both. It should not be worrisome that the imple-menting of boundary organizations may at times be characterized by a politi-cal intrusion into the workings of science, largely because there is a recipro-cal intrusion of science into politics. The politicization of science isundoubtedly a slippery slope. But so is the scientization of politics. Theboundary organization does not slide down either slope because it is tetheredto both, suspended by the coproduction of mutual interests.


Notes

1. In 1995, for example, the U.S. House of Representatives Committee on Science held hear-ings that framed research into the depletion of stratospheric ozone as a problematic threat to sci-entific integrity encouraged by a left-wing political agenda. A converse example might be themore current debate over genetically modified organisms, in which American politicians readilyscientize their perspectives by substituting their reading of scientific consensus for a more robustdiscussion of costs, benefits, and values. Ehrlich and Ehrlich (1996) document examples of whatthey call “brownlash,” or antiscientific attitudes directed at environmental science and policy.

2. Adverse selection, the difficulty in the principal’s choice of an appropriate agent, is a prob-lem of hidden information. Moral hazard, the difficulty in the principal’s assuring the conduct ofa chosen agent, is a problem of hidden behavior.

3. This function is akin to the “boundary-ordering devices” of Shackley and Wynne (1996,293), which “produce a consistency of effect, even though the precise position of the boundarybetween science and policy is not consistent.”

4. The idea of spanning is also explicit in the bridging institutions described by Powers(1991), although the balancing was only implicit and the role of boundary objects and/or stan-dardized packages was absent.

5. The congressional Republicans’primary substantive criticism of the Office of TechnologyAssessment (OTA) was that this product was not best suited to the congressional client ratherthan that OTA’s analyses tilted one way or the other.

6. The articles included in this symposium were originally presented at the Workshop onBoundary Organizations in Environmental Policy and Science, held 9-10 December 1999 inNew Brunswick, New Jersey, under the sponsorship of the Environmental and OccupationalHealth Sciences Institute—a cooperative endeavor of Rutgers, the State University of New Jer-sey and the University of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey—Robert Wood Johnson Medi-cal School—and the Global Environmental Assessment project—a collaborative, interdisciplin-ary effort based at Harvard University to improve the linkage between science and policy insociety’s efforts to deal with problems of global environmental change. For the workshop report,see Guston et al. (2000).

7. It is realized, of course, that the ultimate success of this technique may depend not just on abalanced institutional design but also on such contingencies as leadership and the characteristicsof cases handled by the organization—as the cases amply show.

References

Aldrich, Howard E. 1979. Organizations and environments. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: PrenticeHall.

Arrow, Kenneth J. 1991. The economics of agency. In Principals and agents: The structure ofbusiness, edited by John W. Pratt and Richard J. Zeckhauser, 37-51. Boston: Harvard Busi-ness School Press.

Bimber, Bruce. 1996. The politics of expertise in Congress: The rise and fall of the Office ofTechnology Assessment. Albany: State University of New York Press.

Bozeman, Barry. 1987. All organizations are public. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass.Braun, Dietmar. 1993. Who governs intermediary organizations? Principal-agent relations in

research policy-making. Journal of Public Policy 13 (2): 135-62.


Caswill, Chris. 1998. Social science policy: Challenges, interactions, principals and agents. Sci-ence and Public Policy 25 (5): 286-96.

Ehrlich, Paul R., and Anne H. Ehrlich. 1996. Brownlash: The new environmental anti-science.The Humanist, November/December, 21-25.

Ezrahi, Yaron. 1990. The descent of Icarus: Science and the transformation of contemporarydemocracy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Fujimura, Joan. 1992. Crafting science: Standardized packages, boundary objects, and “transla-tion.” In Science as culture and practice, edited by Andrew Pickering, 168-211. Chicago:University of Chicago Press.

Gieryn, Thomas F. 1995. Boundaries of science. In Handbook of science and technology studies,edited by Sheila Jasanoff, Gerald E. Markle, James C. Petersen, and Trevor Pinch, 393-443.Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

. 1999. Cultural boundaries of science: Credibility on the line. Chicago: University ofChicago Press.

Guston, David H. 1996. Principal-agent theory and the structure of science policy. Science andPublic Policy 23 (4): 229-40.

. 1999. Stabilizing the boundary between US politics and science: The role of the Officeof Technology Transfer as a boundary organization. Social Studies of Science 29 (1): 87-112.

. 2000. Between politics and science: Assuring the integrity and productivity of research.New York: Cambridge University Press.

Guston, David H., William Clark, Terry Keating, David Cash, Susanne Moser, Clark Miller, andCharles Powers. 2000. Report of the Workshop on Boundary Organizations in Environmen-tal Policy and Science. Rutgers University, 9-10 December 1999. The Environmental andOccupational Health Sciences Institute at Rutgers University and UMDNJ-RWJMS, and theGlobal Environmental Assessment Project. Available at http://environment.harvard.edu:80/gea/pubs/huru1.html.

Jasanoff, Sheila. 1990. The fifth branch: Science advisers as policy makers. Cambridge, MA:Harvard University Press.

. 1996. Beyond epistemology: Relativism and engagement in the politics of science.Social Studies of Science 26:393-418.

Latour, Bruno. 1987. Science in action: How to follow scientists and engineers through society.Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Moore, Kelly. 1996. Organizing integrity: American science and creation of public interest orga-nizations, 1955-1975. American Journal of Sociology 101 (6): 1592-627.

Powers, Charles W. 1991. The role of NGOs in improving the employment of science and tech-nology in environmental management. Working paper. Carnegie Commission on Science,Technology, and Government, New York.

Price, Don K. 1954. Government and science: Their dynamic relation in American democracy.New York: New York University Press.

Rip, Arie. 1994. The republic of science in the 1990s. Higher Education 28:3-23.Scott, Alister. 2000. The dissemination of the results of environmental research: A scoping

report for the European Environment Agency. Environmental Issues Series No. 15. Copen-hagen: European Environment Agency.

Scott, W. Richard. 1992. Organizations: Rational, natural, and open systems. 3rd ed.Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall.

Shackley, Simon, and Brian Wynne. 1996. Representing uncertainty in global climate changescience and policy: Boundary-ordering devices and authority. Science, Technology, &Human Values 21 (3): 275-302.


Star, Susan Leigh, and James R. Griesemer. 1989. Institutional ecology, “translations,” andboundary objects: Amateurs and professionals in Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zool-ogy, 1907-39. Social Studies of Science 19 (3): 387-420.

van der Meulen, Barend. 1998. Science policies as principal-agent games: Institutionalizationand path-dependency in the relation between government and science. Research Policy 27(4): 397-414.


Science, Technology, & Human ValuesKeating / Health Effects Institute

Lessons from the Recent Historyof the Health Effects Institute

Terry J. KeatingU.S. Environmental Protection Agency

Created in 1980, the Health Effects Institute (HEI) funds research relevant to air qualitypolicy debates and performs other tasks at the boundary between the health effectsresearch community and the air quality policy community. In a 1993 review, the HEI washarshly criticized for a lack of relevance and timeliness in its research products and forpoor relationships with its sponsors. Since the review, the HEI has undergone a series ofchanges that have strengthened its position as a central and respected institution in boththe health effects research and air quality policy communities. The apparent success ofthese recent changes suggests a number of lessons that can be learned about the functionof boundary organizations, which bridge the worlds of science and governance. In par-ticular, the HEI’s recent history demonstrates the importance of effective leadership andthe importance of maintaining independence without resorting to isolation.

The Health Effects Institute (HEI) is a leading example of a type of institu-tion known as a boundary organization, the characteristics of which arehypothesized to improve the flow of relevant and usable knowledge betweenthe domain of science and the domain of policy, or governance (Guston1999). Formed in 1980 as a novel experiment intended to produce unbiasedscientific research to inform the public policy debate concerning the healtheffects of automobile emissions, the HEI has come to play a central role inboth the health effects research community and the air quality policy commu-nity (Brenner 1999; Feldman 1999; Vandenberg 1999). While the HEI nowappears to be fulfilling the vision of its founders and demonstrating the valueof a boundary organization, it has not always been perceived as a success. A

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I would like to thank all of the individuals who gave their time to be inter-viewed, two anonymous referees for their comments on earlier drafts, and David Guston for hisguidance and patience in this endeavor. I researched and drafted this article while I was supportedby an Environmental Science and Engineering Fellowship from the American Association forthe Advancement of Science (AAAS) at the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA). Anyopinions, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this article are mine and donot necessarily reflect the views of the EPA or the AAAS.


409

1993 review published by the National Research Council (NRC), which isdiscussed in more detail below, criticized the lack of relevance and timelinessof HEI-funded research and the HEI’s poor relationships with its sponsors(NRC 1993).

A number of scholars have examined the HEI’s formation and structurebefore and immediately after the NRC review (Graham 1991; Grumbly1991; Jasanoff 1990; Kaufman 1993; Powers 1991). However, little has beenwritten about the functioning of the organization since then. The purpose ofthis article is to identify changes that have occurred within the HEI since theNRC review and to explore how these changes have affected its role as aboundary organization between the health effects research and air qualitypolicy communities. In light of the recent changes, I will revisit the lessonsidentified by the NRC that can be learned from the HEI experience about thefunctioning and design of successful boundary organizations. Before dis-cussing the NRC study and the changes that have happened since, however, Iwill briefly review how and why the HEI came into existence, how it hasfunctioned as a sponsor of authoritative air pollution health effects research,and how its function relates to the concept of a boundary organization.

Genesis

The HEI was created in 1980 in an atmosphere of antagonism and distrustbetween the automobile industry and the U.S. Environmental ProtectionAgency (EPA). For most of the previous decade, the regulators and the regu-lated industry had clashed over a number of issues, principally the technicalfeasibility of the national tailpipe emissions standards (Krier and Ursin 1977;Grumbly 1991) and the scientific basis for setting National Ambient AirQuality Standards (NAAQS) for carbon monoxide, of which automobiles arethe largest source (Graham and Holtgrave 1991). In 1971, the EPA had estab-lished NAAQS for carbon monoxide based on studies of its adversepsychomotor effects. In 1978, the EPA concluded that these neurobehavioraleffects were too unreliable to act as the basis for the NAAQS and turned to theresearch findings of Dr. Wibert Aronow concerning the effects of carbonmonoxide on exercising heart patients. Aronow, a scientist at the VeteransAdministration, had been investigated earlier for falsification of data in stud-ies performed for the Veterans Administration and the Food and DrugAdministration. While Aronow’s findings were eventually corroborated in1989, there was little support outside of the EPA for using his work as thebasis for the carbon monoxide NAAQS, and there were grave concerns about


the quality of science underlying the EPA’s policies in general (Graham andHoltgrave 1991).

Adding to the basic antagonism between the government regulators andthe regulated industry, Congress passed a provision in the 1977 Clean Air ActAmendments requiring the EPA administrator to ban any devices on newvehicles after 1978 that contribute to an unreasonable risk to public health,welfare, or safety [Sec 202(a)(4)(A)]. Congress placed the burden of proof onthe automobile manufacturers to demonstrate to the administrator that anunreasonable risk did not exist. While this burden was a significant one on theentire industry, it was particularly burdensome to small manufacturers whodid not have the resources to invest in environmental research.

Faced with this new statutory requirement, Charles Powers, then vicepresident and chief environmental officer of Cummins Engine Company,tried to think of a way for his relatively small company to engage in high-quality environmental research. Powers, a former ethics professor, saw a waynot only to comply with the new statutory requirement in an efficient mannerbut also to improve the quality and credibility of the science underlying envi-ronmental regulations of automobiles in general. He envisioned a joint ven-ture between the EPA and the automobile industry to fund and publish high-quality health effects research. He was able to convince his boss, HenrySchacht, then CEO of Cummins Engine Company, of the value of such a jointventure. Schacht, in turn, was able to convince Thomas Murphy, then CEO ofGeneral Motors Corporation, and other leaders of the automobile industry toparticipate (Graham 1991; Grumbly 1991).

Powers’s enthusiasm for the vision was matched on the public sector sideby Michael Walsh, then deputy assistant administrator for mobile sources ofthe EPA’s Office of Air and Radiation. Walsh was able to sell the idea of thejoint venture to Douglas Costle, then EPA administrator, who in turn lobbiedCongress for its support (Graham 1991; Grumbly 1991). Through the advo-cacy and preparatory work of Powers and Walsh, the vision came into beingin 1980 as the Health Effects Institute.

The HEI’s Mission and Activities

The HEI’s stated mission is “to provide public and private decision makerswith high-quality, impartial, and relevant science on the health effects of pol-lutants from motor vehicles and from other sources in the environment” (HEI1996a). The HEI has traditionally accomplished this mission by fundingoriginal research and critical reviews of the existing literature. Over the past

Keating / Health Effects Institute 411

twenty years, the HEI has published almost one hundred research reportsdocumenting more than two hundred individual original studies on the healtheffects of carbon monoxide; nitrogen oxides; ozone; fine particles, includingdiesel exhaust; air toxics, such as benzene and 1,3 butadiene; alternativefuels, such as methanol; and fuel additives, such as methyl tertiary butylether. Equally important, the HEI has published a series of comprehensiveand authoritative reviews of the existing literature on controversial subjects,beginning with the carcinogenicity of gasoline vapors (HEI 1985, 1988).Other subjects tackled by HEI reviews include the health effects of methanolvapors (HEI 1987), electromagnetic fields (HEI 1993), diesel exhaust (HEI1995a, 1999a), fuel oxygenates (HEI 1996b), and fine particles (HEI 1995b,1997). In 1988, Congress appropriated $2 million to the EPA for the HEI toinvestigate the health effects of asbestos. To complete this research, the HEIestablished a separate organization, known as HEI-Asbestos, which was laterdisbanded (Jasanoff 1990, chap. 10; Powers 1991).

The HEI as a Boundary Organization

A boundary organization, as defined by Guston (1999), has three primarycharacteristics:

• It “exists on the frontier” (Guston 1999, 93) of the two different social worldsof science and governance and has distinct lines of accountability to bothworlds.

• It involves the participation of actors from both science and governance, aswell as professionals who serve a mediating role.

• It involves the creation and use of boundary objects (Star and Greisemer 1989)and standardized packages (Fujimura 1991), which are common productsused by actors on both sides of the border to meet their own purposes.

The HEI sits on the science-governance boundary between the healtheffects research community and the air quality policy community. At the sim-plest level, the HEI provides individual health effects investigators with fund-ing, and it provides policy makers and others in the air quality policy commu-nity with knowledge in the form of research reports and reviews. The HEI’scontribution as a boundary organization lies in the processes in which its pro-fessional staff engage the research and policy communities to enhance thisfundamental research funding relationship for the benefit of both communities.

To policy makers, the most useful research results are those that help toinform specific legislative or regulatory decisions, such as the definition ofthe NAAQS or a tailpipe emissions standard. Research results that contribute


to the general body of knowledge or inform investment decisions concerningfuture research are useful but not as highly valued. Thus, the value of theHEI’s research reports and reviews to the air quality policy community isbased in part on the relevancy of the research findings to the decisions of theday. Relevancy is determined by the specificity to which the researchaddresses the decisions at hand and the timing of the release of the findings.Funding relevant research requires understanding and anticipating the policyquestions that decision makers will face in the future and the scientific ques-tions that underlie them, as well as managing the research process to releasecurrent findings at appropriate times in the policy cycle (Kingdon 1995) toinform decision making.

In addition to being relevant, the research results that are most useful topolicy makers are those that are perceived as credible to the majority of actorsin the political decision-making process. Credibility is influenced by the rep-utation of the investigators, the use of best scientific practices, the consis-tency of the findings with the general body of knowledge, and the consistencyof the findings with the perceived biases of the source of funding. Researchthat tends to support the policy preferences of the funding organization isoften perceived to be biased and unreliable. Research that is funded by impar-tial organizations, those that do not have recognized policy preferences, isusually perceived to be more credible than research that is funded by organi-zations with clear policy agendas, such as regulated corporations.

Ensuring the credibility and relevancy of research findings has importantbenefits to the health effects research community as well. Individual investi-gators compete for limited funds from the public and private sector with otherhealth effects investigators, other communities of scientists, and many possi-ble nonresearch investments. Ensuring the credibility and relevancy of theirresearch improves investigators’competitive positions and the availability offuture funding for their line of research.

The HEI’s organizational structure and the processes that it uses to select,manage, and review research projects and their results, which are describedbelow, are designed to ensure the credibility and relevancy of its researchreports and reviews. These research reports and reviews function as boundaryobjects, supplying the air quality policy community with useful knowledgefor its research investment and supplying the health effects research commu-nity with justification for future funding.

There are three key components of the HEI’s organizational structure thathave been recognized as central to its success as a boundary organization:

1. Balanced funding. The HEI is a public-private partnership, receivingfunding from both the EPA and the auto industry. When it was created, its


budget was set at $6 million per year, with 50 percent coming from the EPAand 50 percent apportioned to automobile manufacturers on the basis of mar-ket share. This balanced funding arrangement has been seen as essential tomaintaining the HEI’s objectivity, by which I mean a lack of bias, and thecredibility of its research findings (Grumbly 1991). Throughout most of itshistory, the HEI’s budget has remained at the same $6 million per year, withneither side willing to change unilaterally the size of its contribution andupset the balance of funding nor to negotiate jointly a change (Kaufman1993; Cote 1999; Pezda 1999).

2. An independent board of directors. For the HEI’s board, a distinguishedgroup of individuals was selected by agreement of the sponsors. ArchibaldCox, a Harvard law professor and former Watergate special prosecutor, wasselected as the chairman. Donald Kennedy, then president of Stanford Uni-versity and a former commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration, andWilliam O. Baker, then president of Bell Laboratories, were selected to com-plete the original three-member board. The personal reputations of thesehighly respected individuals have played an important role in establishingand maintaining the credibility of the HEI (Kaufman 1993; Brenner 1999;Cote 1999; Pezda 1999). The board has maintained its independence fromthe sponsors and acts as the principal guardian of the HEI’s objectivity(Greenbaum and O’Keefe 1999). Primarily monitoring potential conflicts ofinterest, the board oversees the HEI’s staff, appointments to its various expertadvisory panels, and the selection of individual investigators and reviewers(Kaufman 1993; Greenbaum and O’Keefe 1999).

3. A system of dual expert advisory committees. While the board of direc-tors provides the organization with prestige and stature, the HEI’s claim toexpertise stems from its expert advisory committees: the Health EffectsResearch Committee, the Health Effects Review Committee, and ad hoc pan-els selected to oversee special projects. Sponsors and HEI staff nominateexperts from the field of health effects research, and the board appoints themto four-year terms. Each of the committees operates independently with itsown mission and support staff. The roles of these committees in the researchplanning, management, and review processes are described below (based onKaufman 1993; Greenbaum and O’Keefe 1999).

The overall process of research planning, management, and review thatmakes up the main activities of the HEI may be divided into five stages: pro-gram development, project selection, project oversight, project review, andpublication.


In the program development stage, the research committee, working withHEI staff, solicits input from the sponsors and assesses current research toidentify and prioritize specific research needs. This input is the only opportu-nity that sponsors have traditionally had in shaping the research program orindividual studies. After prioritizing the various research needs identified bysponsors and staff, the research committee develops and publishes a requestfor applications for projects that will meet specific research objectives.

In the project selection stage, ad hoc expert panels convened by theresearch committee review and rank the project applications. The researchcommittee then reviews the top-ranked applications for inclusion in the over-all research program. The research committee and HEI staff may work withindividual investigators to refine their proposed scopes of work, combiningindividual proposals into teams of investigators or suggesting changes inresearch design. Based on the recommendations of the research committee,the board reviews and approves contracts for the individual projects.

Once a project is funded, the research enters the project oversight stage.The research committee and HEI staff review progress reports from theinvestigators, visit the investigators’research sites, and oversee quality assur-ance audits of the project work. To promote coordination between individualprojects, HEI staff organizes sessions at the HEI’s annual conference and adhoc workshops to allow investigators to interact with one another and thesponsors. These meetings and the other oversight activities help ensure thatthe funded research projects compose a meaningful research program that isrelevant to the needs of the sponsors.

When the research is completed, it enters the project review stage, andoversight shifts from the research committee to the review committee. Thereview committee and HEI staff establish ad hoc panels of external experts,which always include a biostatistician, to review the investigators’ draftreports. With the review prepared by the external panel, the review committeeand HEI staff perform their own review and request modifications by theinvestigator.

When the investigator prepares a final report and the review committeeapproves it for publication, the review committee and HEI staff prepare a dis-cussion of the scientific quality and regulatory implications of the research,which is published along with the investigator’s final report.

For special projects, such as the reviews of existing literature, this five-stage process is modified slightly. For such projects, the board appoints a spe-cial expert oversight panel that fulfills the role of the research committee.With HEI staff, the expert oversight panel develops a request for applications,reviews investigators’proposals, and selects a team of investigators, which is


approved by the board. The expert panel oversees the work of the investiga-tors. When the project is complete, the draft report is submitted to the reviewcommittee and is reviewed in the same manner as other original researchprojects.

The HEI’s five-stage process, sometimes referred to as the “HEI model,”has four key characteristics that contribute to its success in producing credi-ble research.

1. Competitive proposal process. Investigators are chosen through a com-petitive proposal process, which is similar to the selection process used by theNational Science Foundation (NSF) and the National Institute of Health(NIH). This competitive process enables the HEI, with input from theresearch committee and ad hoc panels of experts, to select the best researchproposals from a pool of interested researchers, evaluating the proposals notonly on their scientific merit but also on their policy relevancy.

2. Contracts versus grants. Unlike the NSF or the NIH, the HEI does notissue grants to investigators; it issues contracts. Compared to grants, con-tracts give the HEI much more control over the scope of investigators’ workand the products they produce. Instead of simply choosing the best proposalsand hoping for a good outcome, the HEI actively manages the research pro-cess, negotiating the initial scope of work, monitoring progress, and occa-sionally discontinuing funding for work that will not achieve useful results.

3. Zealous quality control. In the project oversight stage, the reviews andaudits by HEI staff and independent investigators necessitate a zealousapproach to quality control on the part of HEI-funded investigators. Adher-ence to quality control guidelines and favorable reports from quality assur-ance audits, along with rigorous peer review, are the first line of defenseagainst attacks on the credibility of the research. While rigorous quality con-trol is a burden to investigators, they benefit from the protection it provideswhen their research findings are entered into the politically charged debatesof the air quality policy community (Thurston 1999).

4. Internalized peer review and policy relevance critique. The projectreview stage internalizes peer review and critique before the research is everconsidered for publication in the scholarly literature. The practice of publish-ing the results of the critique along with the final research report “pushes upagainst the edges of acceptability in American science” (Grumbly 1991, 49)but creates an appearance of honesty and objectivity.


Together, the three characteristics of the organizational structure and thefour characteristics of its management processes make the HEI highly suc-cessful in maintaining a reputation for producing credible research (NRC1993; Ball 1999; Brenner 1999; Feldman 1999; Norbeck 1999; Somers 1999;Vandenberg 1999). In his book on the role of science in public policy, Gra-ham (1991, 221) referred to the HEI as “the most innovative approach toaddressing the regulatory science dilemma that has yet been attempted . . . anunderutilized national resource.” Despite the HEI’s success in producingcredible research, however, its ability to bridge successfully the science-governance boundary has been questioned.

1993 NRC Review

In 1993, at the request of Congress, the NRC conducted a review of theHEI and its role in the setting of the NAAQS (NRC 1993). After an extensivestudy of the HEI and the research it had funded, the NRC concluded that theHEI had been successful in generating high-quality research on the healtheffects of air pollutants. However, the NRC strongly criticized the relevanceand timeliness of the HEI-funded research with respect to the development ofair quality policy. Specifically, the NRC pointed to long research time linesand a lack of work on unregulated pollutants. The NRC made a series ofrecommendations.

Diversify the research agenda. The NRC encouraged the HEI to expandits research agenda beyond the health effects of traditional motor vehicleemissions to address alternative fuels and other sources of air pollutants,including indoor air, stationary sources, and consumer products.

Improve responsiveness. The NRC concluded that the HEI was not suc-cessfully addressing the needs of its public or private sponsors and recom-mended that the HEI work to establish better relationships with its sponsorsand with consumers of its research products. The NRC described the HEI asan insular organization that was removed from both its sponsors and the restof the scientific community.

Most important, the NRC described the adversarial relationship that haddeveloped between the HEI and the health effects research staff at the EPA.Instead of being viewed as complementary to the EPA’s own research efforts,EPA staff members perceived HEI as a competitor that drew funding awayfrom their own research efforts and over which they had little control or input


(also described by Jasanoff 1990; Cote 1999; Lorang 1999; Vandenberg1999; Zenick 1999).

Broaden leadership and staff. While not questioning the credentials of theHEI’s leadership, the NRC concluded that the board and staff would benefitfrom individuals with more diverse experience. The greater breadth of expe-rience within the organization would help improve communication withsponsors and help identify new areas of activity and new consumers of theHEI’s products.

Develop a strategic plan. The NRC found that the HEI had no clear state-ment of its goals and objectives and no mechanism for anticipating the futureneeds of its sponsors to guide the development of its research program. TheNRC recommended that the HEI develop a multiyear strategic plan thatwould attempt to anticipate the needs of its sponsors, improving both the rele-vancy and timeliness of its research activities.

Broaden sponsorship. The NRC recommended that with an expanded anddiversified research agenda, the HEI seek a more diverse set of sponsors, par-ticularly from the private sector. Looking beyond the automobile industry,the NRC recommended that the HEI seek funding from the electricity gener-ation sector, the oil and gas industries, and other industrial sources of airpollution.

Relax the balanced funding policy. Along with the call for an expandedagenda and sponsorship, the NRC recommended that the HEI relax its bal-anced funding policy and allow a larger fraction from the private sector.

Recent Changes

Since the 1993 NRC review, the HEI has made a number of changes, manyof which address the recommendations of the NRC.

Expanded board. The HEI has expanded its board of directors to include amore diverse group of individuals. Richard Celeste, former Governor of Ohioand U.S. Ambassador to India, has recently been appointed chairman.Celeste and Donald Kennedy have been joined on the board by DouglasCostle, who was influential in the formation of the HEI when he was EPAadministrator and who is now chairman of the board of the Institute for Sus-tainable Communities; Alice Shih-hou Huang, senior councilor for external


relations at the California Institute of Technology; Susan B. King, a fellow atthe Sanford Institute of Public Policy at Duke University; Richard B. Stewart,a professor at New York University’s School of Law; and Robert M. White,former president of the National Academy of Engineering and a senior fellowat the University Consortium for Atmospheric Research.

Expanded mission. The HEI has officially expanded its mission beyondthe health effects of automobile emissions to address the health effects of allair pollutants (HEI 1996a).

Expanded activities. In addition to its traditional activities of funding orig-inal research and performing reviews of the existing literature, the HEI hasbecome engaged in three new types of activities. The first new activity is thereanalysis and meta-analysis of existing empirical data. This activity beganwith the reanalysis of several controversial epidemiological studies on thehealth effects of fine particles. The original studies were used by the EPA tojustify the promulgation of a new NAAQS for fine particles in 1997 (EPA1997). The studies, however, were criticized by industry groups who ques-tioned, among other things, the quality assurance and data analysis proce-dures of the investigators. Industry groups wanted to gain access to the origi-nal epidemiological data to perform their own analysis of the data andconfirm the findings. However, the investigators refused to make the datapublicly available, citing standards for the protection of human research sub-jects. Instead, the investigators offered to make their data available to the HEIfor quality assurance audits and reanalysis. With funding from the EPA, theHEI initiated a process for auditing and reanalyzing the data from the keystudies. The process included the creation of two advisory panels, one madeup of key scientists and the other made up of stakeholders in the policy debateover the fine particle standards, and the competitive selection of a team ofinvestigators to perform the audits and reanalyses. The work of the investiga-tive team was completed at the end of 1999, and a comprehensive report waspublished in October 2000 (HEI 2000a).

The second new type of activity that the HEI has recently become engagedin is acting as a facilitator in disputes between regulatory agencies and regu-lated industries in issues regarding the health effects of air pollutants. Forexample, the HEI was recently asked by the EPA to mediate a discussionbetween the EPA and state environmental agencies on the procedures used toevaluate the health effects associated with air toxics emissions (Greenbaumand O’Keefe 1999; HEI 2000b).

The third new activity for the HEI is the role of unofficial spokesperson forthe health effects research community in efforts to improve communication


between health effects researchers and researchers in other fields. For exam-ple, the HEI was asked to represent the interests of the health effects researchcommunity in a workshop with atmospheric scientists on developing moni-toring techniques for fine particles in the ambient air (Albritton andGreenbaum 1998). When the federal government’s coordinating Committeeon Environment and Natural Resources wanted to develop an inventory ofresearch related to airborne fine particles, it turned to the HEI to develop andmaintain an Internet-accessible database of current research projects fromthe health effects community as well as the atmospheric science, emissions,and control technology research communities (HEI 2000c).

Each of these three new types of activities—reanalysis and meta-analysisof existing empirical data, facilitation and mediation of science-governancecontroversies, and unofficial spokesperson for the health effects researchcommunity—points to a more central role for the HEI in bridging the science-governance boundary than the relatively distant activity of sponsoring andreviewing research.

Expanded constituency and improved relationships. Since the 1993 NRCreview, the HEI has greatly improved relationships with its traditional spon-sors, interacting with them throughout the research planning and executionphases. While the design and conduct of the research is still the responsibilityof the expert committees, HEI staff, and the individual investigators, sponsorshave more opportunities to provide input into request-for-application develop-ment, project design, and interim reviews (Greenbaum and O’Keefe 1999;Lorang 1999; Vandenberg 1999). Sponsors in both the public and private sec-tors report great satisfaction with the returns on their investments in the HEI(Ball 1999; Brenner 1999; Norbeck 1999; Pezda 1999; Vandenberg 1999;Zenick 1999). Where the EPA once viewed the HEI as an external drain on itsresearch resources, the EPA now considers the HEI’s activities as central toits overall research program, and relationships between EPA scientists andHEI staff and investigators are greatly improved (Brenner 1999; Vandenberg1999; Zenick 1999).

The HEI has also expanded its own view of its constituency. In addition toproviding information to the automobile industry and the EPA, the HEI nowsees itself as providing information to a broader community, including otherindustrial sectors, Congress, state regulatory agencies, environmental advo-cates, and the air pollution research community (Greenbaum and O’Keefe1999). Having long funded research projects in Europe, the HEI has begun toexplore how its work can provide useful information to the air quality plan-ning efforts of the European Union and has held several workshops and meet-ings in Europe to that end (e.g., HEI 1999b).


Expanded sponsor involvement in strategic planning. Following throughon a specific NRC recommendation, the HEI began a strategic planning pro-cess (HEI 1994, 2000d). In developing the most recent strategic plan, HEIstaff members have worked with the research committee, the sponsors, andother stakeholders to identify future trends in technology, policy, and healthso that the HEI can anticipate the health effects research needs of its sponsors.These future trends and needs are incorporated into a strategic plan that willguide the project development stage of the HEI model.

Expanded sponsorship and funding. With the expanded scope of researchand expanded constituency, the HEI has increased its budget, relaxed its strictadherence to balanced funding from the public and private sector, andexpanded its sources of funding beyond the EPA and the automobile industry.Until 1997, the HEI’s annual budget remained relatively constant at approxi-mately $6 million. Since 1997, its budget has grown steadily; in 1999 it wasmore than $9 million (HEI 2000e). The largest fraction of the recent increasein funding has come from the EPA, which doubled its contribution to fundresearch and reanalysis efforts related to the health effects of fine particles.The automobile industry has also increased its funding, and the HEI hasreceived funding from other industrial groups, such as the Gas ResearchInstitute and the American Petroleum Institute, and from state regulatoryagencies, such as the California Air Resources Board, to pursue specificresearch issues. The HEI has yet to receive funding from nonprofitfoundations.

Expanded annual meeting. The HEI’s annual meeting has evolved alongwith its mission, activities, and constituency. What was once a small gather-ing of the HEI organization and HEI-funded researchers, the annual meetinghas grown to become a forum for the broader community of stakeholdersinterested in the health effects of air pollution and the development of airquality policy (Cote 1999; Greenbaum and O’Keefe 1999; Vandenberg 1999;HEI 2000f).

New executive leadership. Most of the changes listed above can be attrib-uted to the work of a new leadership team that took charge of HEI staff in1994, shortly after the NRC review. This new team, led by President DanielGreenbaum, took the NRC recommendations as a blueprint for changing themission of the organization and its relationships to its sponsors, the healtheffects research community, and the broader community of air qualitystakeholders.


Staff Leadership

In past evaluations of the performance of the HEI, most analysts haveoverlooked the importance of the HEI staff and president in determining thesuccess of the organization, placing the credit instead with the independentboard of directors, the dual expert advisory committee structure, and the bal-anced funding policy (Powers 1991; Kaufman 1993). However, the presidenthas played an important role, which has evolved with the organizationthroughout its history.

The HEI was the brainchild of Charles Powers, an entrepreneur whoestablished the organization, became its first president, and then left to start aseries of other organizations. Powers and his successor, Thomas Grumbly,are skilled policy entrepreneurs who focused their efforts on advocating forthe HEI’s approach to research funding and review and establishing the HEI’scredibility and legitimacy as a player in the air quality policy arena. Estab-lishing and maintaining the position of the organization on the boundaries ofthe public and private sectors, as well as the worlds of science and gover-nance, requires considerable leadership and management skills. As Grumbly(1991) explained, a delicate balance is required to maintain relationshipswith both a regulatory agency and the regulated industry and that “this aspectof sponsor relations . . . makes it desirable, and perhaps necessary, that theexecutive director . . . [be] experienced at the darker bureaucratic and politicalarts” (p. 52).

Later presidents were less interested in the role of the HEI as a bridgeacross the science-governance interface and more interested in maintainingthe high quality and credibility of the HEI’s research. Chosen from the ranksof the academic research community, these later leaders adopted a strategy ofisolation, designed to insulate the research process from the potential biasesof the political process (Cote 1999; Lorang 1999; Vandenberg 1999; Zenick1999). This strategy led to the ivory-tower mentality and lack of relevanceand timeliness criticized in the NRC review. Noting this isolation approachprior to the NRC report, Graham (1991) cautioned that “if the HEI model is toexpand or proliferate, its advocates will need to modify their ivory-towerimage and rub shoulders with the rest of the environmental science commu-nity” (p. 221).

Under the new leadership of Greenbaum, the HEI has followed Graham’sadvice, abandoning the isolationist approach and adopting an approach ofinclusiveness by reaching out to its sponsors, the research community, andthe broader community of stakeholders interested in air quality policy andscience. Unlike some of his predecessors who were research scientists,Greenbaum is an environmental planner who served as secretary of the


Department of Environmental Protection for the Commonwealth of Massa-chusetts, a job he held under both a Democratic governor and a Republicangovernor. A skilled politician, Greenbaum has made a point to “make therounds” (Vandenberg 1999), personally traveling around the country to meetwith the HEI’s sponsors and other constituents to listen to their concerns anddemonstrate the HEI’s value to them, taking on the role of spokesperson andambassador for the health effects research community. Building on morethan a decade of high-quality research products, Greenbaum and his staffhave been able to move beyond defending the HEI approach and to focus onmaintaining and expanding relationships with the sponsors and other users ofHEI-generated research. Before 1994, HEI management had testified oncebefore Congress, in defense of the HEI organization and its approach. Since1994, Greenbaum has testified several times before Congress, each time toreport substantive information from HEI research that was relevant to a pol-icy debate (Greenbaum and O’Keefe 1999). Thus, under the current leader-ship, the HEI has come of age as a boundary organization, effectively bridg-ing the boundary between the world of science and the world of governance.

Taken together, the recent changes outlined above have had the effect ofmaintaining the credibility of the HEI’s research products while increasingtheir relevancy to the air quality policy community. While some of the shift inapproach from isolation to inclusiveness can be attributed to a response to theNRC review, much of it is due to the experience and personal style thatGreenbaum brings to the job of president. As a former head of a state regula-tory agency, he is very aware of the role that scientific information can play inthe development of environmental policy.

Available Lessons

The 1993 NRC Review identified lessons that could be learned from thefirst decade of the HEI’s existence concerning the design and functioning ofsimilar science-governance boundary organizations. However, given therecent changes outlined above, the HEI is arguably a different institutiontoday than when it was reviewed by the NRC in 1993. While retaining thestructure and process that has maintained the credibility of its research prod-ucts, the new level of outreach and participation by sponsors and other stake-holders in the HEI’s planning process has improved the relevancy of theresearch it produces. The apparent success of these changes suggests thatthere are lessons that can be learned from this recent experience and that thelessons identified by the NRC review should be revisited. Below, the four les-sons originally identified by the NRC are discussed along with some


revisions (shown in parentheses). In addition, two new lessons are identifiedthat are suggested by the more recent HEI experience.

The need for compelling circumstances (and compelling leadership). TheNRC concluded that forming a public-private partnership between the regu-lators and the regulated, such as that found in the HEI, requires compellingcircumstances to bring the parties together. Without some crisis, the partiesdo not have sufficient incentive to cooperate or commit resources to the jointeffort. This concept seems to be relatively well accepted. Jasanoff (1990) hasargued that the HEI came into being because of an agreement between thestakeholders that existing knowledge was inadequate and more research wasneeded. Kaufman (1993, 35) explained that the HEI came to be only becauseof the “serious gridlock” that developed regarding the regulation of automo-bile emissions.

It appears to be necessary for an issue to reach a crisis before policy lead-ers are willing to focus their time and resources on it (Keating and Farrell1999). However, once a crisis is reached, some process must develop toresolve it. If the issue involves the use of scientific information in the devel-opment of public policy, the formation of a science-governance boundaryorganization is one of the possible solutions but not the only possible coursefor resolution. While the need to form a boundary organization may be drivenby compelling circumstances or crisis, the decision to pursue resolutionthrough the formation of such an organization requires leadership, someoneto offer the vision of a way out of the crisis.

The HEI was created to help resolve the controversy and antagonism thatexisted in the debate over the regulation of automobile pollution in the late1970s. However, it is not clear that the controversy was as much of a drivingforce behind the HEI’s creation as was the vision and advocacy of leaderssuch as Charles Powers, Michael Walsh, and others who saw a better way for-ward. Astute and respected individual leadership is essential to the success ofefforts that attempt to bring multiple stakeholders to the table, to push the lim-its of consensus, and to forge credible knowledge (Keating and Farrell 1999).The importance of individual leadership has been demonstrated by the recenttransformation of the HEI under Daniel Greenbaum. Given the importance ofleadership, it is unlikely that compelling circumstances are sufficient condi-tions for the creation of a successful boundary organization. Furthermore, itis not clear that a crisis is even necessary if there is an effective leader who canarticulate a compelling argument that there is a better way forward.

The suggestion that it is compelling leadership, and not necessarily com-pelling circumstances, that is needed to bring the appropriate attention andcommitment to a boundary organization is appealing. This suggests that it is


not necessary for important issues to reach a crisis point before society isready to address them. If this suggestion is true, and the HEI model is a gener-ally useful one, we would expect to see similar organizations be developed toaddress other sets of issues. However, the HEI model has never been fullyreplicated. The same visionary leaders who created and led the HEI at itsstart, Charles Powers and Thomas Grumbly, have gone on to start up othersimilar organizations with slightly different structures to address otherissues. These organizations include Clean Sites, which was developed totackle the problem of hazardous waste site cleanup, and the Institute for Eval-uating Health Risks, which was created to ensure the high quality of healthrisk assessments used in implementing California’s environmental laws. Thesuccess of these later organizations has been mixed (Powers 1991). It remainsan open question of how much of the success or failure of these later organi-zations was due to the circumstances surrounding the substantive issues thatthey addressed or the leadership involved in the organizations.

Increased efficiency achievable from streamlined bureaucracy (but notworth the cost). The NRC concluded that a streamlined organization could bemore efficient without the resource- and time-intensive management andresearch oversight provided by the HEI staff and committee structure. Bystreamlining the review and oversight processes, less time and fewerresources would be spent on each individual project, allowing more work tobe funded for the same overall cost. This suggestion, however, misses one ofthe important lessons of the HEI experience: the vital importance of researchmanagement and quality assurance in ensuring the quality and relevancy ofHEI-funded work.

A streamlined selection, oversight, and review process may allow moreresearch to be funded. However, the careful selection and active oversight ofthe funded research is essential to ensuring that the funded work is relevant tothe needs of the sponsors. This is why the HEI issues contracts, not grants, toinvestigators. By actively managing the research process instead of passivelyaccepting the proposals of investigators, the HEI is able to establish collabo-ration and coordination between separate investigators, adjust scopes ofwork and focus areas, and avoid continuing to fund projects that prove to beless than relevant. The HEI’s zealous approach to quality assurance and inter-nalized critical review process provides HEI-published research with instantcredibility among a variety of stakeholders. As discussed further below, thecredibility and relevancy of the HEI’s work is critical to its success. This suc-cess would be jeopardized by cutting back the time and resources necessaryfor meaningful oversight and review.


Importance of quality and relevant work. The NRC concluded that boththe quality and the relevancy of the work produced were the ultimate determi-nants of success for the HEI or any such boundary organization. Early in theHEI’s history, however, the quality of the work and the insulation of theresearch from potential biases seemed to take precedence over the relevancyof the work in guiding the decisions of the HEI’s leadership. Douglas Costlereflected the dominant view when he explained to Grumbly that “the HEI willultimately stand or fall of its own weight, i.e., is it viewed favorably within thescientific community?” (Grumbly 1991, 48). The lack of attention to rele-vancy led to poor relationships with its sponsors and may have threatened thefuture of the organization because, at some point, the sponsors may haveinvested their money in another source of more relevant research. The impor-tance of both quality and relevancy has been reinforced since the NRC reviewas the HEI has reached out to its sponsors, sought their input for strategicplanning, and responded to their concerns. With this new outreach effort, theHEI has been able to improve relationships with its sponsors, increaseresearch funding, and maintain both quality and relevancy.

Importance of adaptability. Reflecting its recommendations that the HEIbecome more responsive to the changing needs of its sponsors and evenattempt to anticipate their future needs, the NRC concluded that adaptabilitywas an essential characteristic of a successful boundary organization. Whilethis lesson seems to be almost common sense for any organization workingon a shifting boundary between two ever-changing worlds, most organiza-tions can be slow to recognize the need or opportunities to adapt and evolve ifthere is not a process in place to drive such changes. For the HEI, the NRCreview provided the impetus for change. Since the NRC review, the HEI hasmade several efforts to adapt to the changing worlds that it bridges, expand-ing its board of directors, seeking leadership with new skills, and seeking newsponsors and consumers of its research products. As discussed above, theNRC recommended and the HEI has begun a strategic planning process tohelp the organization anticipate the future research needs of its sponsors. Thisprocess may also help the organization identify future needs and opportuni-ties to adapt and evolve its own structure and processes to meet the changingneeds of its sponsors better.

Balance between short-term needs and long-term vision. A direct exten-sion of the NRC’s conclusions regarding quality, relevancy, and adaptabilityis the need to balance short-term needs and long-term vision. As a researchfunding organization, one of the biggest challenges that the HEI faces ismaintaining a balance between providing policy-relevant research in the


short term while continuing to advance the state of knowledge in areas thathave yet to come to the attention of policy makers. While the HEI must beable to be responsive to sponsors’needs, sponsors are often shortsighted. TheHEI must have the vision to look into the future and identify areas whereresearch will help resolve tomorrow’s problems and the leadership to con-vince sponsors that it is acting in their best interests.

Independence versus isolation. Last but not least, the recent changes at theHEI demonstrate that independence does not necessarily mean isolation. TheHEI was created to be a credible, independent, and unbiased source of healtheffects research. The independent board of directors, the dual advisory com-mittee structure, the zealous quality assurance program, and the internalizedcritical review are all part of an effort to establish and maintain the credibilityof the organization and its research products. In the early years, the credibilityof the organization mostly rested on the stature of its board of directors. In theyears leading up to the NRC review, the HEI’s leadership had decided that thecredibility of the organization rested on the quality of the funded work and itslack of bias toward any of the sponsors. To maintain this credibility, the HEIleadership chose to isolate itself from the sponsors. While this approach pro-tected HEI research from the potential biasing influence of the sponsors, theisolation also prevented the organization from understanding and beingresponsive to the sponsors’needs and ensured that its research would eventu-ally lack relevance and timeliness. As a boundary organization, the HEI wasfailing to engage the air quality policy community, and thus it jeopardized itsvalue to the health effects research community.

More recently, as noted several times above, the HEI leadership has turnedthis trend around, reaching out to sponsors, listening to their needs, anddesigning research programs to be responsive and timely. In following suchan approach, the current HEI leadership has chosen to maintain its independ-ence by following what appears to be an approach of inclusion as opposed toisolation. That is, to avoid charges of bias, the organization invites input fromall perspectives while maintaining its independence to make decisions basedon the best judgment of its staff, advisory boards, and board of directors.Under this approach, the focus of the HEI’s efforts to maintain credibility hasshifted from how best to avoid bias to how best to promote interactionbetween its organization, its funded investigators, and the stakeholder com-munities. This inclusive approach carries several risks, including the poten-tial for claims of bias due to the unequal involvement of sponsors and thepotential for claims of undue influence of sponsors on the course of science.Maintaining both credibility and relevancy by engaging a variety of stake-holders while preserving the independence of decision-making processes


within the organization will not be easy. However, the ability of the HEI’sleadership to meet this challenge is key to the HEI’s continued success andoffers the most important lessons for other boundary organizations.

References

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Terry J. Keating is an environmental scientist with the Office of Air and Radiation of theU.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), where he advises senior management onscientific issues related to air quality management at the national and internationallevel. He joined the EPA after spending two years working within the agency on a fellow-ship from the American Association for the Advancement of Science. He received a Ph.D.in Environmental Sciences and Engineering from the University of North Carolina atChapel Hill.


Science, Technology, & Human ValuesCash / Agricultural Extension

“In Order to Aid in Diffusing Useful andPractical Information”: AgriculturalExtension and Boundary Organizations

David W. CashHarvard University

Agricultural decision making is characterized by two challenges common to multiplearenas: linking science to decision making and linking science and decision makingacross multiple levels. The U.S. agricultural research, education, and extension systemwas designed to address these challenges. By investigating this system, this study deep-ens the understanding of science and decision making, specifically exploring the notionof boundary organizations in two significant ways. First, it provides a preliminary test ofthe hypothesis that boundary organizations mediate between the shifting domains of sci-ence and policy, finding that they are instrumental in creating and maintaining an inte-grated system of assessment and decision making for addressing depletion of the HighPlains Aquifer. Second, it extends the concept of boundary organization beyond thescience-policy dimension to incorporate the dimension of levels of organization—notonly bridging science and policy but linking science and policy across different levels(e.g., the local, state, and national levels).

Agriculture is increasingly an information-dependent sector of the econ-omy. It experiences constant technological shifts, operates in marketsembedded in a global economy, and is extremely sensitive to changes in natu-ral systems (e.g., climatic, hydrological, soil, etc.). Making near- and long-term decisions in response to these factors requires an understanding of awide range of scientific and technical information. This context, combined

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This article is based on research supported in part by grants from HarvardUniversity’s Global Environmental Assessment Project (National Science Foundation award no.SBR-9521910), the Center for International Earth Science Information Network, the U.S.Department of Energy, and the Center for Integrated Study of the Human Dimensions of GlobalIntegrated Assessment Center at Carnegie Mellon University (National Science Foundationaward no. SBR-9521914). I am indebted to the many people throughout the Great Plains whocontributed their time and thoughts in my interviews, especially Jim Goeke. I thank David Gustonand two anonymous reviewers for critical comments on earlier drafts.


431

with 150-year historical patterns and policies in the United States of expan-sion and development, has provided a crucible for the evolution of a govern-ment-supported system of research, education, and extension that hasattempted to produce and diffuse scientific and technical information foragricultural decision making.

Investigation of this system sheds light on emerging notions of how sci-ence and decision making are linked, specifically probing the utility of theconcept of the boundary organization. Boundary organizations are conceivedas institutions that “straddle the shifting divide between politics and science”(Guston 1999a, 1), mediating between science and policy and facilitating theinteraction between actors on either side or who cross the boundary.Emerging from the social studies of science literature, boundary organiza-tions build on the idea that the boundary between science and policy is onethat is socially constructed and that what is science and what is policy isdetermined through boundary work: contestation and negotiation thatdelimit the boundary (and its associated institutions) and define what is oneither side (Gieryn 1995; Jasanoff 1990, 1995; Star and Griesemer 1989).1

By exploring one aspect of agricultural decision making—water manage-ment in the U.S. Great Plains—the research presented here deepens theunderstanding of boundary organizations in two significant ways. First, itprovides a preliminary test of the hypothesis that “the presence of boundaryorganizations facilitates the transfer of relevant and usable knowledgebetween science and policy” (Guston 1999a, 1), finding that boundary orga-nizations have been instrumental in creating and maintaining a system ofassessment and decision making that successfully addresses depletion of theHigh Plains aquifer in some parts of the region. Second, it extends the con-cept of boundary organization beyond the science-policy dimension to incor-porate levels of organization, for example, from the local to the state and thenational level. Boundary organizations are thus characterized as not onlyhelping bridge science and policy but also linking science and policy acrossdifferent levels.

This article is composed of a brief history of agricultural education,research, and extension in the United States; an outline of the case andmethod of the research project; descriptive evidence supporting the frame-work of boundary organizations outlined by Guston (1999b); arguments whythis framework should be expanded to include an analysis of boundariesbetween levels of organization; preliminary findings supporting the hypothe-sis that boundary organizations facilitate the production and use of scientificand technical information; and a summary and conclusion.


A Brief History of Agricultural Education,Research, and Extension in the United States

With the passage of the Morrill Act of 1862, the U.S. Congress (1862) laidthe foundation for a nationwide system of agricultural research, education,and extension.2 The act granted federal public lands to each state; these landswere to be sold and the proceeds used to create colleges of agriculture andmechanical arts—the land-grant colleges (National Research Council 1995).There were several rationales for such a system. First, at a time of rapidexpansion in the American West, the establishment of distributed centers ofagricultural education helped facilitate settlement and self-sufficiency on thefrontier. Second, the creation of colleges that would be accessible to ruralareas and the middle and lower classes had great political and ideologicalappeal. In the mid-1850s, more than 60 percent of the labor force worked inagriculture. Third, proponents of land-grant colleges anticipated assistingrural communication at a time when such communication was slow andcostly (Rasmussen 1989).

Following the early implementation of the Morrill Act, it became apparentthat there was an absence of organized scientific research that could form thebackbone of the curricula at the newly established land-grant colleges(National Research Council 1995). In an effort to fill this gap, Congresspassed legislation in 1887 that established and funded state agriculturalexperiment stations

to conduct original and other researches, investigations, and experiments bear-ing directly on and contributing to the establishment and maintenance of a per-manent and effective agricultural industry of the United States . . . having dueregard to the varying conditions and needs of the respective States. (U.S. Con-gress 1887)

Each state’s experiment station became associated with its land-grantcollege.

The third pillar upon which the production and diffusion of agriculturalinformation rests is extension, embodied in the Smith-Lever Act of 1914.

To aid in diffusing among the people of the United States useful and practicalinformation on subjects relating to agriculture . . . and to encourage the applica-tion of the same, there may be continued or inaugurated in connection with thecollege or colleges in each State . . . agricultural extension work which shall becarried on in cooperation with the United States Department of Agriculture.(U.S. Congress 1914)

Cash / Agricultural Extension 433

This legislation created the Cooperative Extension Service, a collaborativeeffort between the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) and the land-grant colleges. The primary functions of the service were to disseminateinformation and make educational opportunities available to people notenrolled in the colleges. The general structure of the system enlisted the land-grant colleges to coordinate outreach and the dissemination of the researchconducted at experiment stations through workshops, demonstrations, andfield days (Rasmussen 1989).

Since 1914, this system of education, research, and extension has evolvedthrough numerous amendments to the three initial statutes, new federal legis-lation, and initiatives at the state and substate levels to tailor the system tolocal circumstances. In the past eighty-five years, for example, each county inthe United States has created a county extension office with county extensionagents specializing in such areas as crop production, home economics, andrural development. Each county agent is affiliated with the state’s land-grantcollege. The most recent reorganization of the USDA has consolidated thetripartite system under one administration, the Cooperative State Research,Education, and Extension Service (CSREES) (U.S. Congress 1994). Thesystem has become a partnership between federal, state, and local agenciesand educational institutions with shared responsibilities and funding(National Research Council 1996; Rasmussen 1989).

Given its objectives of research and dissemination, CSREES provides anexcellent case with which to explore the underlying conceptual foundation ofboundary organizations and their functions.

The Case and Method

Water Management of the High Plains Aquifer

The empirical focus of this article is on only one of the many issues thatCSREES addresses: water management for irrigated agriculture. Irrigatedagriculture is particularly well suited to the High Plains region in the centralUnited States, a semiarid region with extremely variable precipitation, abun-dant and fertile soil, and a moderately long growing season. Underlying partsof eight states is the High Plains (or Ogallala) Aquifer (see Figure 1).

Acting as a purifying filter, the geology of the aquifer results in especiallygood-quality water (Buchanan and Buddemeir 1993). As early as the late1880s, farmers attempted to secure a predictable source of water by pumpingfor irrigation. Despite some advances in pumping and energy technology inthe 1890s and early 1900s, the great increase in development of the aquifer


did not begin until the 1930s when the Dust Bowl drought and New Deal–eragovernment programs provided incentives for farmers to exploit the ground-water (Green 1992). Further technological advances in drilling, pumping,and delivery, and the advent of inexpensive energy, favorable financing, gov-ernment subsidies, and crop prices all contributed to steady increases ingroundwater irrigation in the region, rising from 2.1 million acres in 1949 to16.5 million acres in 1990.

Currently, approximately 95 percent of water withdrawn from the aquiferis used for agricultural purposes (McGuire and Sharpe 1997). Irrigatedcropland accounts for 37 percent of the harvested cropland in the High Plainsregion, and for specific crops such as corn, 50 percent of the harvestedcropland is attributed to irrigated acres (Kromm and White 1992). The regionproduces significant shares of the U.S. output of corn, wheat, sorghum, cot-ton, and cattle (fed on irrigated feed). Clearly, “irrigated agriculture sustainsthe High Plains and is central to an integrated agribusiness economy”(Kromm and White 1992).


Figure 1. Extent of High Plains Aquifer in the central United States (in dark gray).SOURCE: Map derived from U.S. Geological Survey.

With relatively low natural recharge rates and the dramatic increase in theuse of groundwater throughout the region, the aquifer suffered decliningwater levels in parts of the region as early as the 1940s and 1950s (McGuireand Sharpe 1997). By the 1970s, farmers and officials at all levels of govern-ment were pressing to examine aquifer depletion more closely. At the time,concern for the aquifer rose on the public’s agenda for two reasons: increasedpumping costs, due to both the increasing depth to water and the energy priceshocks of the mid- and late-1970s, and the potential social disruption due tothe abandonment of irrigated farming in the region. In the mid-1970s, Con-gress authorized two assessments, which were conducted in parallel. Thefirst was a national effort, the Regional Aquifer-System Analysis, undertakenby the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS), which examined the hydrogeologyof the nation’s major aquifers. The second assessment process broughttogether federal, state, and local government agencies and private consultantswithin the High Plains region to analyze the potential economic and socialimpacts of aquifer depletion and management options (High Plains Associ-ates 1982; Kromm and White 1992; Weeks et al. 1988). Motivation for thesestudies at the national level centered on national food security issues. Thelocal and state concerns focused on negative local and state economic anddemographic impacts of partial or total depletion of the aquifer.

Another issue that focused state and local attention at this time was thecommon pool resource attributes of the aquifer. While pumping water inNebraska will have no impact on water levels in Texas, at local levels (farms,counties, and immediately across jurisdictional lines), exploitation of theresource at one point decreases water availability at other points. By the mid-1980s, the USGS, states, and multicounty water management districts3

within the region had begun individual and collaborative monitoring, analy-sis, and modeling efforts to assist in the management of the resource, oftenfacilitated by CSREES (McGuire and Sharpe 1997). In addition, more recentresearch, management, and legal concerns are focusing on the relationshipbetween groundwater and surface water, particularly how depletion of theaquifer affects adjacent surface water levels and vice versa. Given thenational, state, and local concerns and the common pool characteristics of theresource, federal, state, and local actors have recognized aquifer depletion asa multilevel problem that requires attention at many scales of organization.

Method: Research Sites

A primary reason to study the High Plains region is the opportunity for arobust comparative analysis of the agriculture extension system. Within thisregion, there is variance in both natural conditions (e.g., precipitation,


temperature, soil type, storm frequency, aquifer-saturated thickness, andrecharge rates) and, more important for this analysis, in educational,research, and extension institutions and their relation with other state andlocal entities. However, there is relatively little variance in the overall socio-economic, industrial, and cultural makeup of the region.

Eight counties in Kansas, Nebraska, and Texas were chosen as field sitesfor data collection (see Figure 2). These three states were chosen because (1)they overlie 75 percent of the aquifer (McGuire and Sharpe 1997); (2) theyaccount for 89 percent of the irrigated acreage overlying the aquifer (Krommand White 1992); (3) the heterogeneity of the aquifer is represented withineach state, so variance of the natural resource itself can be controlled for; (4)agricultural production and irrigation development have taken similar pathsin each, and thus a range of economic factors can be controlled for; and (5) thethree states have evolved different ways of managing the aquifer at the stateand local levels and maintain different relationships with federal agenciessuch as the USDA and USGS, thus providing useful institutional variance inwater resource information and decision making. The particular countieswere chosen for this phase of the research because the level of risk ofdepletion—measured by saturated thickness, depth to water,4 and historicalrates of depletion of the aquifer—faced by each is relatively similar and thuscontrolled for. Thus, for this phase of the research, variables such as the char-acteristics of the aquifer, risk of water depletion, and general economic char-acteristics are held relatively constant, while specific institutional and man-agement variables vary.

Method: Data Collection

Two sources of evidence were used in this investigation. The primarysource derives from structured interviews completed in the states and throughtelephone interviews in Washington, D.C., using a consistent interview pro-tocol (Moser and Cash 1998). In particular, the interviews established whattypes of scientific information decision makers need, which sources theyseek, why certain sources are preferred to others, what the characteristics ofthe decision-making process are, and what the important links in informationflow are. More than eighty interviewees in the three states and at the federallevel were selected by an iterative process through the pertinent literature;U.S.-wide and state-specific searches for nongovernmental, governmental,academic, and nonacademic organizations involved in agricultural and waterresource issues; and recommendations from interviewees themselves. Inter-views were conducted with county and area agricultural research and exten-sion personnel, scientists at land-grant colleges, USDA scientists, Natural


Resource Conservation Service agents, private industry managers, state andlocal planners, representatives of nongovernmental organizations, andelected officials on local resource management boards.


Figure 2. Study sites in Nebraska, Kansas, and Texas.SOURCE: Map derived from U.S. Geological Survey.

The second source of data complements the first and is comprised of a sur-vey distributed to the 220 county agricultural agents in Kansas, Nebraska,and northern Texas. The survey asked questions similar to those in the inter-view but was more structured, focusing on county agents’involvement in col-laborative efforts and multilevel linkages. The response rate was 74 percent.5

Method: Analysis

The qualitative and quantitative data were analyzed to generate both adescriptive analysis of the extension system’s role as a boundary organizationand a causal analysis to test the hypothesis that boundary organizations con-tribute to the effective transfer and use of scientific knowledge. Interviewswere transcribed and coded based on conceptual categories that could illumi-nate the potential functions of boundary organizations and the effectivenessof the extension system. Since interviews were undertaken with actors insideand outside the extension system, it was possible to triangulate claims madeby interviewees to test veracity and accuracy.

Result 1: The Extension Systemas a Boundary Organization

Guston’s (1999b) initial framework presents three characteristics ofboundary organizations: (1) they help negotiate the boundary between sci-ence and decision making, (2) they exist between two distinct social worldswith definite responsibility and accountability to both sides of the boundary,and (3) they provide a space to legitimize the use of boundary objects—itemsthat are “both plastic enough to adapt to local needs and constraints of the sev-eral parties employing them, yet robust enough to maintain common identityacross” boundaries (Star and Griesemer 1989, 393). While there is some vari-ance in the samples analyzed, the agricultural research, education, and exten-sion system in the High Plains region can generally be characterized by theseattributes.

Negotiating between science and decision making. The intent of the legis-lation and the mission statements of state land-grant colleges and stateCSREES partners make it clear that the system should serve as a negotiatorbetween scientific researchers and the users (decision makers) of scientificand technical information. With relatively little variance across samples,interviewees from within the extension system and outside of it report thatthis intention has been realized. County agents, for example, regularly


mediate between farmers and extension specialists at area research stations6

and researchers at the land-grant college in a variety of ways. They facilitatedialogue between farmers and scientists to encourage research agendas thatreflect the interests and needs of farmers. They translate scientific informa-tion produced at land-grant colleges, putting general findings into site-spe-cific practical language and guidance. And they manage demonstration pro-jects and field applications that integrate farmers into researchers’ fieldexperiments.

Accountability to both sides of the boundary. Sitting between the farmer,specialist, and land-grant scientist, the county agent is bound by institutional-ized mechanisms that clarify responsibilities and accountability to principalson both side of the boundary (Guston 1996). The job of the county agent isoverseen by an elected committee from the county, which helps the agent setprogram priorities, design agendas to be communicated to scientists, andestablish contacts with the farmer community. The agent is held accountableto the committee through the ability of the committee to make hiring and fir-ing recommendations to the county agent’s employer—the land-grant col-lege. Thus, the agent is also held accountable to the land-grant college and itsscientists.

Use of boundary objects. The county extension office has evolved into asite where boundary objects can serve as a meeting ground between actors oneither side of the science/decision-maker boundary. Boundary objects play acritical role, allowing “members of different communities to work togetheraround them, and yet maintain their disparate identities” (Guston 1999b, 89).While needing to communicate across boundaries, scientists have an interestin maintaining independence from the users of the information they produce.The balance they seek is to provide useful information but maintain scientificcredibility. Boundary objects help support this balance. In many areas in theHigh Plains, county agents (and area extension specialists) facilitate the pro-duction and use of a variety of different kinds of models (e.g., cropping,hydrogeologic, and/or economic models that could be used to explore differ-ent future scenarios of irrigated agriculture and aquifer depletion). In six ofthe ten counties studied, county agents were intimately involved in some kindof modeling effort. In Kansas, for example, county agents were integral incoordinating farmer input and involvement in the construction and use of alinked hydrogeological and socioeconomic model of aquifer management atKansas State University. In the following comment from an interview, oneKansas county extension agent describes a process mirrored in other areas:


There was a question of a policy [regulatory] change from the Ground WaterManagement District, and the producers [farmers] were questioning whetherthe policy was going to affect them adversely or not. And so it was a producer-driven need for an answer, to give them some credible knowledge to make adecision on whether or not they wanted that [new] policy in place.

And so, as the agents, we contacted the university to find who was doingthis study. . . . We got the department heads out here . . . the head of econom-ics . . . and a couple of others. And we sat down with the members of the waterboard. . . . We sent letters to producers and got a group of producers together,and all of us sat down and hashed out what we would like to see done here. Andthe university went back and set up the model, and started working on themodel, and then we started putting the baseline data together. . . . And it was aback and forth thing for several years getting it done because it was a ratherinvolved model.

As this example demonstrates, models themselves can act as boundaryobjects, dependent on both the participation of farmers to get inputs thatreflect reality and outputs that are useful, as well as on scientists who incor-porate basic research on the systems under study and the technical capacity toguide the endeavor. Moreover, actors on both sides of the boundary benefit.In the case outlined above, farmers and water managers were able to test dif-ferent management scenarios they viewed as credible, and scientists wereable to produce scientific outputs that were policy relevant and robust withrespect to local data. Neither community could have produced a model thatwas relevant and perceived as being scientifically sound without the other’sparticipation. The county agent, in this case, acted as the facilitator across theboundary between these two groups.

Result 2: Expanded Notions of Boundary Organizations—Boundaries between Levels of Organization

While the research and extension system has institutionalized the func-tions of boundary organizations in linking science to decision making, thisstudy has identified another function: linking science and decision makingacross different levels of organization. The original creation of the extensionsystem and its subsequent evolution demonstrated awareness of the multi-level nature of the agriculture sector. The fact that the interests of the federal,state, and county governments and of individual farmers differ has driven thearchitects of CSREES to build institutions that allow for sensitivity to diverseand geographically heterogeneous interests. The federal government mightprovide overall guidelines for a research program (e.g., water conservation),but how that research program is implemented might differ radically by


location, depending on the needs of the end users (e.g., focus on irrigationtechnologies, cropping patterns, or management techniques).

In addition, the system (and how it relates to other entities) is flexibleenough to define the level or levels of organization that are best suited toaddress an issue. For example, which level should address aquifer manage-ment is not a given, and in fact, responsibility has changed over time. Aquiferdepletion was initially seen as a purely local issue, only recently beingviewed as a complex multilevel problem requiring participation by federal,state, and local scientists and decision makers. Exactly how this participationevolves and what responsibilities it entails for which actors is still beingnegotiated, and the extension system is intimately involved in that debate.

Given this evolution, this research has attempted to assess the roleCSREES has played in defining water management as a multilevel problemand in bridging across levels. The empirical evidence points to at least threeadditional, hypothesized functions of boundary organizations: (1) they helpdefine the scale of a problem by negotiating the boundaries between levels,(2) they mediate multidirectional information flows across levels, and (3)they help capitalize on scale-dependent comparative advantages.

Negotiating the boundary between levels. The extension system has beenintegral to negotiating the level at which scientific research about the aquiferis produced. To address the problem of aquifer depletion, county agents, areaspecialists (scientists at area experiment stations representing multiple coun-ties—the extent of which is itself negotiated within CSREES), and scientistsat the land-grant colleges consistently articulated the need for informationproduction to be integrated across levels. They have worked with colleaguesin neighboring states, the USGS, and other federal agencies to define deple-tion as a regional problem with implications from the local to federal levelsand to define who has what responsibilities for which scientific agendas andat what level.

Mediating information flow across levels. A primary function of CSREEShas been to facilitate communication between the local, state, and federalactors, as described above in the discussion of the role of county agents inlinking farmers to state land-grant scientists in setting research agendas andproducing relevant research. It is also seen, however, in the objective of theextension system to link specialists at area experiment stations, researchteams at state land-grant colleges, and federal research facilities. The surveyof county extension agents provides evidence for this linkage. If CSREES’sobjectives are being met, for example, one would expect to see communica-tion between county agents and researchers at multiple levels. Figure 3


displays the frequency of communication between county extension agentsand others at different levels.7 While county agents do not talk to all players atmultiple layers (note the low frequency of communication with the Washing-ton office of USDA or the area water management district), they do commu-nicate most frequently with local farmers, scientists at area research stations,and scientists at the state land-grant colleges.

Network analysis, grounded in interview data, complements the surveyresults. Figure 4A displays a schematic diagram of possible connectionsbetween actors and organizations involved with water management and agri-culture in the High Plains. This diagram was constructed in the initial phaseof the research with nodes and connections being identified by interviewees.As the full set of interviews were completed, coded, and analyzed, the rela-tive importance of different nodes and connections emerged. For example,many interviewees noted the importance of the county extension and arearesearch and extension offices, while few noted links between federal USDA


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Figure 3. Plot of frequency of self-reported communication between countyagents and other scientists and decision makers at different levels.NOTE: County agents communicate frequently from the local to state levels. USDA =U.S. Department of Agriculture; USGS = U.S. Geological Survey; NRCS = U.S. Depart-ment of Agriculture, Natural Resource Conservation Service. Self-report, n = 161.

research efforts and local activities. Through such an analysis, a more refinednetwork of critical nodes and connections can be understood. Figure 4B high-lights the centrality of the extension system and the most important connec-tions between agricultural research and decision making. Both the countyextension office and area research/extension offices act as critical nodes, ulti-mately connecting individual farmers to researchers at land-grant collegesand USDA research facilities.

More important, however, is that county and area personnel actively helpconstruct networks that bridge local-federal entities. As states have passedenabling legislation to allow the creation of local water management districtsin the last several decades, the extension system has proven to be vital in


Figure 4. Schematic network diagrams of possible nodes and connections forwater management in the High Plains (Figure 4A) and revealed crucial nodes andconnections (Figure 4B) showing the existence of multilevel linkages brokeredby county and area extension offices.NOTE: USDA = U.S. Department of Agriculture; USGS = U.S. Geological Survey.

linking the managers and constituencies of local districts to higher-levelresearch entities. In so doing, county and area extension offices have pro-vided another critical function as a boundary organization between differentlevels of organization.

Helping Capitalize On Scale-Dependent Comparative Advantages

Both decision makers and scientists are faced with the challenge of under-standing the large-scale phenomenon of depletion of the High Plains Aquifer,with both causes and effects on numerous scales (e.g., individual farmersoverpumping and/or noticing dry wells, interstate conflicts over water rights,etc.). Capturing how the large-scale phenomenon influences the local scale,and vice versa, has traditionally been difficult (Cash and Moser 2000;Easterling 1997; Harvey 2000; Lins, Wolock, and McCabe 1997; Wilbanksand Kates 1999).

One way to address this challenge is to harness scale-dependent compara-tive advantages. Such comparative advantages can be thought of as uniqueknowledge, technical capacity, or scientific specialization characteristic of aspecific level (Cash and Moser 2000). Three examples in the High Plainshighlight this dynamic: modeling, monitoring, and technology innovation.

Modeling. The computing and modeling resources of a federal agency suchas the USGS complement the site-specific knowledge and data-collectionability of a local water management district, neither of which could individu-ally undertake a regionally complete and locally relevant assessment effort ofthe status of the High Plains Aquifer. As reported in the interviews, in mostplaces throughout the study area, county extension offices have been instru-mental in coordinating and harnessing scale-dependent comparative advan-tages by (1) enlisting hydrogeologists at the state land-grant colleges orregional offices of the USGS to produce models of the aquifer with highenough resolution to be useful to local decision makers, (2) coordinatinglocal well-monitoring efforts that can be used as inputs into large-scale mod-els, and (3) acting as liaisons between these actors and the water managementdistricts. The result of these efforts is the production of scientifically crediblemodels of the aquifer that are relevant to decision makers on the ground. Thisuse of models supports the notion of the boundary object described above. Inthis case, multiple actors with different perspectives and interests can agreeon fundamental aspects of the model and use it as a meeting ground overwhich to share information. The model, however, might still be interpreteddifferently and, as described above, serve differing functions depending onwhose lens is being used.


Monitoring. Scientists at the Amarillo Agricultural Research and Exten-sion Center (an area research station), the USDA’s Agricultural ResearchService (ARS), and county agents and farmers have collaborated to establisha network of ten soil- and weather-monitoring stations throughout the TexasNorth Plains region. This network provides farmers with locally specificpotential evapotranspiration (PET) data—information about the water usageof different crops under different conditions of temperature, precipitation,wind, and soil type. These data, updated on a daily basis, help farmers makedecisions about irrigation management and water allocation. Facilitated byspecialists at the area research station, the PET network combines the com-puting and technical expertise of scientists at Texas A&M University (thestate land-grant college), ARS, and the area research station, tailoring theoutputs and modes of dissemination to the needs of farmers as mediatedthrough the county extension offices. As in the case of model building anduse, the PET network taps in to the unique abilities at different levels, con-structing an information production and dissemination network that couldnot have succeeded without participation across levels facilitated by a bound-ary organization, in this case the area research station. While exemplifiedhere in northern Texas, similar PET networks exist in seven of the eight coun-ties studied.

Technology innovation. Scientists at the Amarillo Agricultural Researchand Extension Center have also been instrumental in the development of newtechnologies for water efficiency. One such innovation, for example, is ahighly efficient spray nozzle for low energy precision application irrigationsystems. With the program based at the Amarillo center, the innovation, test-ing, demonstration, and diffusion of this new technology depended on thecoordinated efforts of area and state land-grant scientists, private irrigationequipment manufacturers and distributors, county extension agents, andlocal farmers willing to be involved in demonstration projects.

Each of these nodes in the network undertook aspects of research, devel-opment, and diffusion that took advantage of its unique strengths, coordi-nated through the area research and extension center. Tapping into the organi-zational expertise and local credibility of county extension agents, areaspecialists coordinated field tests of different technologies on private landwhile helping to communicate farmers’ concerns, ideas, and suggestions toteams of CSREES researchers and R&D scientists in the irrigation equip-ment firms. The center acted as a bridge between state and area researchers,national irrigation equipment manufacturers, and local farmers, providing achannel for two-way communication. This two-way communication, noted


as common in all of the interviews, is exemplified in the following commentby an area irrigation extension specialist:

Well a farmer may ask me a question [about irrigation management] that I can’tanswer, and we don’t have the answer to. So we’ll bring it back [to the research-ers at the research center], and they may do some research on it and get us somemore concrete numbers. At the same time, I may be working with the farmer,getting the same data, and we’ll put it [the farmer’s data and results from theresearch at the research center] in the same bucket and see what we’ve got.

In a multiyear iterative process characterized by these interwoven and com-plementary streams of research and field testing, new nozzle configurationswere developed, tested, and demonstrated on farms. The process producednew technologies that achieved water efficiency savings of greater than 50percent compared to existing technologies and established a base of newusers who were instrumental in diffusing the technologies. As with the PETnetwork, technology innovation happens in a similar fashion at most of thestudy sites.

Result 3: Do Boundary OrganizationsFacilitate the Transfer and Use of Information?

The research presented here offers preliminary support of the notion thatboundary organizations promote the effective transfer and use of scientificinformation in water management in the High Plains. A comparison and eval-uation of county extension offices throughout the region on the existence ofthe functions outlined above and their effectiveness in facilitating the transferand use of information provide further evidence.

Coordinating modeling efforts. As noted above, some county extensionoffices have played critical roles in coordinating modeling efforts that canassist local decision makers in managing the aquifer. But performance of thisrole throughout the High Plains varies widely. Several county agents in Kan-sas and Nebraska have successfully solidified long-term collaborative effortsbetween farmers, area specialists, managers in the local water managementdistricts, scientists at the land-grant college and state geological service, andscientists at USGS. These collaborative efforts have produced models instru-mental in providing information to local management districts, local farmers,and state water agencies. Such information on depletion rates and changes inthe aquifer and in farm income resulting from different management regimes


has been critical for decisions about regulating pumping quantities, experi-menting with water transfers and pooling, and determining critical zones thatrequire more stringent regulation.

By contrast, several county extension offices in Texas have not createdsuch a water management network linking local constituencies to state orfederal scientific agencies. The boundary has not been successfully bridged,and modeling efforts of the kind described above, which take advantage ofdifferent capabilities at different levels, do not exist in these areas. In one areain northern Texas, which, like parts of Kansas and Nebraska, is part of amulticounty water management district, the managers of a local water man-agement district want to impose pumping regulations on their constituents.But they have no scientific assessment in place to help guide them in definingspecific limits. They have enough information to know that there is a deple-tion problem but not enough to address it effectively. It is only recently thatsome county extension offices in Texas are consciously trying to create thekind of network that, in parts of Kansas and Nebraska, has resulted in coordi-nated assessment efforts characterized by capitalizing on the strengths ofdifferent entities at different levels, an indication that such organization isperceived to be effective. Thus, where extension offices act as boundary orga-nizations and perform the function of coordination across levels, the effectiveintegration of scientific expertise and knowledge at different levels helps pro-duce useful and relevant scientific products that guide management deci-sions. Those areas without boundary organizations performing this functionare not as successful in this regard.

Collaborative monitoring of the weather for better water management. Asnoted above, county extension offices in parts of the region have played criti-cal roles in coordinating efforts that can assist farmers in making more effi-cient day-to-day irrigation scheduling choices. Many of the counties in thestudy participate in PET systems where farmers are faxed, or find on theInternet, daily postings of soil moisture, temperature, wind speed, and sug-gested water application data. The county extension office plays a central rolein the dissemination of the information and organizing data collectionbetween county offices and area research centers.

Collaboration across levels and adaptive management. One measure ofeffectiveness in dealing with changing natural resources is a system’s capac-ity to be adaptive (Holling 1978; Lee 1993). The above description of a sys-tem that institutionalizes linkages across levels suggests that such a systemsupports adaptability. The modeling exercises are not one-time ventures butsustained relationships that in essence create a platform from which scientists


and decision makers can assess various issues as they arise. For example,modeling efforts that were originally used to address only groundwater quan-tity are now being adapted to deal with groundwater quality and groundwater/surface-water interactions, two issues that have recently risen to the top of theagenda of local decision makers.

In addition to these inferences about adaptability, the survey used in thisresearch was designed to probe the relationship between collaboration acrosslevels as performed by the boundary organization (the county extensionoffice) and the level of adaptive management. Agents were queried aboutsuch components of adaptive management as management flexibility, abilityto use new information to change existing management decisions, and policyexperimentation. Answers to these questions were aggregated and catego-rized into terciles indicating either low, medium, or high levels of adaptivemanagement.8 Through a series of independent questions, county agents alsoreported levels of collaboration with a variety of organizations at the local,area, state, and federal levels. These answers were aggregated into either lowor high scores of collaboration across levels.9 Figure 5 displays an analysis ofthe conditional probability of high levels of adaptive management contingenton the amount of collaboration across levels. This analysis shows that thosecounties with higher measures of collaboration across levels tend to have agreater degree of adaptive management. Of the counties that showed low


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collaboration across levels, 47 percent reported high levels of adaptive man-agement, while of the counties that showed high collaboration across levels,67 percent reported high levels of adaptive management.

While the surveys were not specific enough to discover whether thecounty extension office facilitated the collaboration (i.e., other agencies suchas the water management district might have taken the lead on facilitatingmultilevel collaboration), these findings are consistent with those from theinterviews, which provided similar, if not more nuanced, evidence.

Summary and Conclusion

As in the case of many other issues in environment and natural resourcepolicy, agricultural decision making is characterized by two fundamentalchallenges: linking science to decision making and linking science and deci-sion making across multiple levels. Using the boundary organization frame-work has proved to be analytically fruitful in teasing apart the characteristicsthat contribute to effective performance of the CSREES. The concept of aboundary organization is particularly helpful in illuminating the relationshipof science and policy in the context of multilevel natural resource problems.In the context of water management in the High Plains, this study supportsexisting concepts of boundary organizations’ linking science to decisionmaking, but it also reveals a novel understanding of institutionalized butadaptive structures that link scientists and decision makers across multiplelevels. Moreover, this study provides preliminary evidence for the causalconnection between boundary organizations and effective production anduse of scientific and technical information.

In this case, the boundary organization provides an institutionalized spacein which long-term relationships can develop and evolve, two-way commu-nication is fostered, tools for management (such as models) are developedand utilized, and the boundary of the issue itself is negotiated. As such, theboundary organization is dynamic and changing, responding to the changinginterests of actors on either side of the boundary.

Although this article focused on a domestic case of science and decisionmaking, notions of boundary organizations might be extremely useful in thecontext of an array of large-scale environmental and natural resource prob-lems. The application of boundary organizations as institutionalized linksconnecting global scientists to local scientists and decision makers might beespecially productive in the development of distributed research, assessment,and decision support systems designed to address global environmentalchange and emerging issues of sustainability.


While this article has begun to ask empirical questions that can begin toaddress how boundary organizations matter (if at all), clearly this area ofresearch is ripe for further exploration.10 In addition to following the line ofresearch in this article of asking whether the existence of boundary organiza-tions contributes to effectiveness, other challenging questions to pursueinclude, What characteristics of boundary organizations are most importantunder what circumstances? What kinds of problems are most amenable tobeing mediated by boundary organizations? Under what conditions areboundary organizations constructed?

Notes

1. For a more complete treatment of boundary work and boundary organizations, see theintroduction to this special issue by David H. Guston.

2. The Smith-Lever Act of 1914 states, “Agricultural extension work shall consist of thedevelopment of practical applications of research knowledge and giving of instruction and prac-tical demonstrations of existing or improved practices or technologies in agriculture . . . to per-sons not attending or resident in [land-grant] colleges” (U.S. Congress 1914).

3. Water management districts are multicounty jurisdictions given varying degrees ofauthority and autonomy depending on the state in which they reside.

4. Saturated thickness is a measure (in feet) of how thick the layer of water is in an aquifer.Depth to water is a measure of how far below the surface of the land the saturated layer begins.

5. A survey was sent to every county agent in the study area, with one follow-up letter tothose agents who did not respond within three weeks.

6. Each state is divided into several areas—multicounty regions—each with its ownresearch or experiment station where extension specialists conduct research appropriate to thatarea.

7. Survey respondents were provided with a list of twenty-five to thirty (depending on thestate) organizations from all levels with which they might possibly communicate. For each orga-nization, respondents were asked to note, “During the last month, how much have you communi-cated with someone in the following organization?” Answers were supplied on a five-point scale(0 = none, 1 = not much, 2 = a little, 3 = some, 4 = a lot). For the construction of Figure 3, scoreswere averaged for each organization (and some organizations were aggregated; e.g., all stateagencies were aggregated together to create one state agency average).

8. The following three statements were included in the survey, and respondents were askedto note whether they agreed or disagreed with the statement, using a three-point rating system(strongly agree = high, agree = medium, do not agree = low): “1) If a water management policy istried in your area, there is a way to effectively provide feedback to decision makers on the qualityof the policy; 2) If a water management policy does not seem to be working, it is relatively easy tolearn from mistakes and change the policy; and 3) Projects you are currently working on aredesigned to help water users adapt to long-term changes in water availability.”

9. Respondents were asked to answer the following question, using a five-point scale (0 =none, 1 = not much, 2 = a little, 3 = some, 4 = a lot): “How much do you collaborate with the fol-lowing organizations? Federal agencies (e.g., U.S. Department of Agriculture or U.S. Geologi-cal Survey); State agencies (e.g., Department of Water Resources); Local agencies (e.g., waterdistrict).” Scores were averaged and placed in two categories: high (> 3) and low (< 3).


10. For a parallel study of the Sea Grant program (a research, education, and extension sys-tem for coastal zone management modeled after the land-grant system), see Moser (1998).

References

Buchanan, R., and R. W. Buddemeir. 1993. Kansas ground water: An introduction to the state’swater quantity, quality, and management issues. Educational Series 10. Lawrence: KansasGeologic Survey.

Cash, D. W., and S. Moser. 2000. Linking global and local scales: Designing dynamic assess-ment and management processes. Global Environmental Change 10 (2): 109-20.

Easterling, W. E. 1997. Why regional studies are needed in the development of full-scale inte-grated assessment modeling of global change processes. Global Environmental Change 7(4): 337-56.

Gieryn, T. F. 1995. Boundaries of science. In Handbook of science and technology studies,edited by S. Jasanoff, G. E. Markle, J. C. Peterson, and T. Pinch. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Green, D. E. 1992. A history of irrigation technology used to exploit the Ogallala Aquifer. InGroundwater exploitation in the High Plains, edited by D. E. Kromm and S. E. White. Law-rence: University Press of Kansas.

Guston, D. H. 1996. Principal-agent theory and the structure of science policy. Science and Pub-lic Policy 24 (4): 229-40.

. 1999a. Boundary organizations: A background paper. Workshop background paper.New Brunswick: Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey.

. 1999b. Stabilizing the boundary between politics and science: The role of the Office ofTechnology Transfer as a boundary organization. Social Studies of Science 29 (1): 87-112.

Harvey, L.D.D. 2000. Upscaling in global change research. Climatic Change 44 (3): 225-63.High Plains Associates. 1982. Six-state High Plains-Ogallala regional resources study. Austin,

TX: High Plains Associates for the U.S. Department of Commerce.Holling, C. S., ed. 1978. Adaptive environmental assessment and management. New York: John

Wiley.Jasanoff, S. 1990. The fifth branch: Science advisors as policymakers. Cambridge, MA: Harvard

University Press.. 1995. Science at the bar: Law, science, and technology in America. Cambridge, MA:

Harvard University Press.Kromm, D. E., and S. E. White, eds. 1992. Groundwater exploitation in the High Plains. Law-

rence, KS: University Press of Kansas.Lee, K. N. 1993. Compass and gyroscope: Integrating science and politics for the environment.

Washington, DC: Island Press.Lins, H. F., D. M. Wolock, and G. J. McCabe. 1997. Scale and modeling issues in water resources

planning. Climatic Change 37 (1): 63-88.McGuire, V. L., and J. B. Sharpe. 1997. Water-level changes in the High Plains Aquifer—

Predevelopment to 1995. WRIR 97-4081. Denver, CO: U.S. Geological Survey.Moser, S. C. 1998. Talk globally, walk locally: The cross-scale influence of global change infor-

mation on coastal zone management in Maine and Hawai’i. Environment and NaturalResources Program discussion paper E-98-17, Cambridge, MA.

Moser, S. C., and D. W. Cash. 1998. Information and decision making systems for the effectivemanagement of cross-scale environmental problems: A research protocol. Paper presentedat Local Response to Global Change: Strategies of Information Transfer and Decision


Making for Cross-Scale Environmental Risks, Belfer Center for Science and InternationalAffairs, John F. Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University, 21 January 1998.

National Research Council. 1995. Colleges of agriculture at the land grant universities: A pro-file. Washington, DC: National Academy Press.

. 1996. Colleges of agriculture at the land grant universities: Public service and publicpolicy. Washington, DC: National Academy Press.

Rasmussen, W. D. 1989. Taking the university to the people: Seventy-five years of cooperativeextension. Ames: Iowa State University Press.

Star, S. L., and J. R. Griesemer. 1989. Institutional ecology, “translations” and boundary objects:Amateurs and professionals in Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, 1907-39. SocialStudies of Science 19 (3): 387-420.

U.S. Congress. 1862. Morrill Act, Agricultural and Mechanical Colleges Act. 37 Cong. Ch. 130,12 Stat. 503.

. 1887. Hatch Act, Agricultural Experiment Station Act. 49 Cong. Ch. 314, 24 Stat. 440.. 1914. Smith-Lever Act, Agricultural Extension Work Act. 63 P.L. 95, 63 Cong. Ch. 79,

38 Stat. 372.. 1994. Department of Agriculture Reorganization Act of 1994. 103 P.L. 354, 108 Stat.

3178.Weeks, J. B., E. D. Gutentag, F. J. Heimes, and R. R. Luckey. 1988. Summary of the High Plains

regional aquifer-system analysis in parts of Colorado, Kansas, Nebraska, New Mexico,Oklahoma, South Dakota, Texas, and Wyoming. USGS professional paper 1400-A. Wash-ington, DC: U.S. Geological Survey.

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David W. Cash, Ph.D., is a research fellow at the John F. Kennedy School of Governmentat Harvard University and a fellow in the school’s Global Environmental AssessmentProject and Sustainability Systems Project. In studying the role of science in environmen-tal policy, he researches the links between scientific assessment of global environmentalrisks and local decision making and environmental risk management. He is also examin-ing the interaction of negotiation with science and decision making. He has collaboratedwith the U.S. Global Change Research Program and Office of Science and TechnologyPolicy, the National Center for Environmental Decision-Making Research, and the U.N.Millennium Ecosystem Assessment.


Science, Technology, & Human ValuesAgrawala et al. / Climate Forecasts

Integrating Climate Forecasts and SocietalDecision Making: Challenges to anEmergent Boundary Organization

Shardul AgrawalaColumbia University

Kenneth BroadUniversity of Miami

David H. GustonRutgers, The State University of New Jersey

The International Research Institute for Climate Prediction (IRI) was created in 1996with an “end-to-end” mission to engage in climate research and modeling on a seasonal-to-interannual time scale and to provide the results of this research in a useful way tofarmers, fishermen, public health officials, and others capable of making the best of thepredicted climate conditions. As a boundary organization, IRI straddles the dividesbetween the production and use of research and between the developed world and thedeveloping world. This article describes the institutional history of IRI, examining howthe end-to-end mission evolved over time, how it is becoming institutionalized in IRI as aboundary organization, and the ongoing challenges it presents to managing the bound-ary between climate variability research and societal applications.

In 1982 and 1983, an El Niño—one of the strongest of the century—altered climate conditions worldwide and caused flooding, famine, and dis-ease that cost thousands of lives and an estimated $13 billion in damages(Broad 1983). Characterized by anomalously warm waters in the tropicalPacific, El Niño, and its cold-water counterpart, La Niña, are part of a natural,irregularly recurring climate cycle called the El Niño Southern Oscillation(ENSO). ENSO “events” alter ocean currents, winds, temperature, and rain-fall patterns, and they are second only to the seasons themselves in their

AUTHORS’NOTE: We gratefully acknowledge comments from Phil Arkin, Reid Basher, MarkCane, Anne Depaigne, Antonio Moura, Ed Sarachik, Steve Zebiak, and two anonymousreviewers.


454

influence on global climate patterns (Glantz, Katz, and Nicholls 1991;Ropelewski and Halpert 1987).1

Early in 1986, Mark Cane and Steve Zebiak, climate modelers at Colum-bia University’s Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory (LDEO), discerned intheir mathematical model the signature of another El Niño event for 1986-87.Because their model had “hindcasted” the 1982-83 and other previous ENSOevents well, they felt confident enough to go public with their prediction for1987. First published in Nature (Cane, Zebiak, and Dolan 1986) and publi-cized via a press conference and an article in the New York Times (Eckholm1986), Cane and Zebiak’s forecast drew heavy criticism from some of theirpeers who felt that the reliability of such predictive models was insufficient tojustify the dissemination of results outside of scientific circles. However, the1987 El Niño did occur. This correct prediction, and the subsequent success-ful prediction of a weaker ENSO event for 1991-92, gave credibility to theprospect of seasonal climate forecasting.

Because such events are often associated with characteristic effects ontemperature and rainfall patterns in many parts of the world,2 there were someinitial modest uses of forecasts of the onset of an ENSO. Some members ofthe agricultural sector in Peru began to use ENSO forecasts when choosingwhether to plant rice or cotton for the upcoming season (Lagos and Buizer1992), although the extent of the use of the forecasts is currently under debate(Lemos et al. 1998).3 Members of the climate forecast community concludedthat climate predictions would be most useful if they were issued on a regularbasis, as regularity would help cultivate a clientele and would also help scien-tists better assess, and potentially improve, their forecasting skills. An influ-ential paper correlating ENSO with maize yields in Zimbabwe furtherconcretized notions that forecasting an El Niño or La Niña could, in fact, belinked to decision making in agriculture and food security (Cane, Eshel, andBuckland 1994).4 Such thinking spurred further initiatives by scientists andgovernment agencies engaged in seasonal forecasting to produce seasonalclimate forecasts and make them available to improve societal responsesworldwide.

This article describes the subsequent efforts to institutionalize such acapacity in what became known as the International Research Institute forClimate Prediction (IRI). It focuses on IRI as an example of a boundary orga-nization (Guston 1999; see also the introduction to this special issue)—anorganization that straddles the shifting divide between politics and science,drawing its incentives from and producing outputs for principals in bothdomains, and internalizing the provisional and ambiguous character of thedistinctions between these domains. It analyzes in detail how the various pro-ponents of such an institute developed a plan for the prediction and

Agrawala et al. / Climate Forecasts 455

application of forecasts for societal benefit—the “end-to-end” mission, as itbecame known. This article assesses how IRI attempts to negotiate the end-to-end mission by responding to principals in both producer and user com-munities. Finally, it identifies and discusses the challenges that IRI, as a still-emerging boundary organization, faces in attempting to implement its end-to-end objectives. The article draws on extensive documentary review, inter-views with IRI staff and key actors in IRI’s development, and the experienceof two of the coauthors at the institute.

Origins of an International Research Institute

Most new organizational initiatives have multiple origins, and the IRI isno exception. Not only is there a set of multiple actors, but there is also a set ofmultiple motives that bear on the forging of links between the producers andusers of climate research. Table 1 provides a summary time line of majoractivities in the development of IRI.

The extraordinary 1982-83 El Niño catalyzed scientific and politicalinterest in developing a forecast capability, highlighting the relevance andaccelerating the planning of the multinational Tropical Ocean and GlobalAtmosphere (TOGA) research program. TOGA, in operation from 1985 to1994, and the monitoring network put in place in the tropical Pacific, greatlyimproved the understanding of short-term climatic fluctuations.5 Recog-nizing that technical advances in prediction had created new opportunities,the international TOGA Scientific Steering Group recommended in 1989“the creation of a Center or centers for the study of climate predictability andthe development of quasi-operational prediction schemes” (quoted inNational Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration [NOAA] 1995b, 198).Over subsequent years, the Intergovernmental TOGA Board (ITB)—jointlyestablished by the World Meteorological Organization and the Intergovern-mental Oceanographic Commission—specified that such an organization“could be linked to a distributed network of regional centers whose role itwould be to interpret and validate model predictions for regional applica-tions” (quoted in Moura 1995, 3). In 1989, the TOGA Program AdvisoryPanel of the U.S. National Research Council supported such an idea and, in1990, recommended the establishment of such a center.

Meanwhile, in the U.S. government, as early as 1987, the Office of GlobalPrograms (OGP) of NOAA began to contemplate addressing global climatechange by building an infrastructure of laboratories that would be a hybridbetween government and academia. The director of OGP, J. Michael Hall,decided to refrain from pushing such a program until his budget reached a



Table 1. Time Line of Relevant International Research Institutefor Climate Prediction (IRI) Events

1985 Ten-year Tropical Ocean and Global Atmosphere (TOGA) Programinitiated.

1986 Mark Cane and Steve Zebiak predict El Niño event for 1987, whichmaterializes.

1989, National Research Council (NRC) advisory panel for TOGA programApril promotes concept of international center for climate prediction.

1989, International TOGA Scientific Steering Group (TOGA/SSG)September recommends creation of climate prediction center(s).

1990, Intergovernmental TOGA Board (ITB) notes TOGA/SSGJanuary recommendation and suggests a model with a central node and

distributed centers.1990, NRC panel recommends actions to pursue establishment of such aSpring center.

• ITB recommends establishment of a multinational center.• U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA),Office of Global Programs (OGP), asks ITB chairman AntonioMoura to chair a task force to prepare a proposal for such acenter.

• United States expresses interest, at the U.N. Conference onEnvironment and Development, in collaborating to create aninternational research institute for climate prediction.

1992, United States declares implementation of “a pilot project . . . andJune invites government officials and scientists from all interested nations

to join in developing” IRI.1992, July Moura’s task group issues its detailed proposal for an international

research institute for climate prediction.1994, NOAA develops the Proposal to Launch a Seasonal-to-InterannualSeptember Climate Prediction Program.

1995, NOAA issues a request for proposals for seasonal-to-interannualMarch climate prediction program research centers.

1995, NOAA sponsors the International Forum on Forecasting El Niño:November Launching an International Research Institute in Washington, DC.

1996, June Award of grant to create IRI to Columbia University and ScrippsInstitution of Oceanography and the University of California,San Diego.

1996, Antonio Moura becomes director of IRI.November

1998, July Groundbreaking on the Monell Building for IRI at Columbia’sLamont-Doherty Earth Observatory (LDEO) campus.

1999, Fall IRI Applications Division staffed and running; consolidation ofLDEO and Scripps groups at LDEO.

2000, All IRI divisions move to the Monell Building.January

NOTE: Time line in part from NOAA (1995b).

sufficient level, but in 1989, he began his advocacy. Hall’s original concernhad been greenhouse warming, but he soon concluded that global warming,“as posed by scientists, might be a cul-de-sac programmatically.” Believingthat “scientists had to cooperate at the interannual timescale in order to makepeople’s lives better,” Hall decided to focus on ENSO rather than globalwarming.6

A motive thus shared by the international and domestic actors was advanc-ing the state of the science through the synergy fostered by a multi-disciplinary approach to applications. Even at this early stage, “the notion of‘end-to-end’ was already in the air,” and some actors realized that “this pro-cess is not linear” and that “research, prediction, and application need to bedone in parallel” for each to be done best.7 The director general of the Brazil-ian Meteorological Service, Antonio Moura, who chaired ITB (and is nowdirector of IRI), had noted the “gap between the knowledge generated and theservice to society.” He feared that the science would be incomplete withoutapplications, and he thus sought to interest colleagues in placing theresearchers involved with prediction and people interested in applications“under the same roof.”8

A second motive shared by the international and U.S. actors was makingthe best of their own bureaucracies. TOGA sought a way to deliver humanbenefits from its research program.9 OGP was operating in a relatively con-servative domestic political context, as the Bush administration tried to avoidcuts in greenhouse emissions by de-emphasizing anthropogenic globalwarming and instead emphasizing the establishment of international mecha-nisms to foster collaborative research to reduce scientific uncertainty. Theidea for an international research institute on seasonal climate variabilitygained currency within this broader political context. Focusing on ENSO wasmore politically feasible because neither the origins of the phenomenon northe human impacts were in dispute. Moreover, creating the technical andsocietal capacity to deal with ENSO impacts meant dealing with climatevariability, which would also facilitate adaptation to the impacts of globalwarming.10

A third motive underlying these two was the notion of equity. Over theprevious decade, large international research programs (such as TOGA) hadnot sufficiently engaged or benefited developing countries struggling to buildtheir own research capabilities. The moral debt of the developed to the devel-oping world had arisen as a bargaining point in negotiations leading up to the1992 United Nations Conference on Environment and Development(UNCED), held in Rio de Janeiro.11 The creation of a “scientific commons”to which the developed world might differentially contribute and from which


the developing world might differentially benefit offered an attractive oppor-tunity (Hall 1999, 48).

These actors and motives converged in 1991 when—at ITB’s behest—Hall asked Moura to head a task group to prepare a proposal to establish aninstitution that would combine scientific advances in seasonal climate fore-casting with societal decision making. The United States furthered its com-mitment at UNCED by announcing its intention to lead a collaboration creat-ing an international research institute for climate prediction.12 In July 1992,Moura’s group issued its detailed proposal for an international research insti-tute for climate prediction (NOAA 1992). NOAA (1994) transformed it into amore formal Proposal to Launch a Seasonal-to-Interannual Climate Predic-tion Program and launched a two-pronged pilot project: a climate-forecast-ing program at the Scripps Institution for Oceanography at the University ofCalifornia, San Diego, and an international applications training program atColumbia’s LDEO (Berri 1997).13 NOAA (1995c) then issued the request forproposals (RFP) to establish an international research institute for climateprediction and awarded the grant to Columbia and Scripps over two othermajor competitors.14

Evolution of IRI’s End-to-End System

Shortly after IRI’s creation, an editorial in Nature identified it as a proto-type for addressing complex scientific issues of societal concern and, morepragmatically, using the potential for social relevance as leverage for attract-ing funds in the (post–Cold War) era in which scientific merit alone was aninsufficient justification for expensive programs in stagnant budgets. “Itsprogress should be worth watching,” the Nature article concluded (Anony-mous 1997, 1).

IRI’s core conceptual innovation—which links research to social con-cerns—is the notion of an end-to-end system running from climate research-ers to consumers of climate information, and back again. This collaborativemode between the producers and consumers of research helps identify IRI asa boundary organization. Indeed, NOAA’s director Hall describes IRI as anorganization at “two boundaries.” One boundary is in the midst of the end-to-end mission, between fundamental research and societal applications. Thesecond is the boundary between the developed and the developing world, asthe research and its technologies are primarily from the developed and theapplications are increasingly targeted to developing countries that are partic-ularly vulnerable to the impacts of seasonal climate variability (Agrawalaand Broad, forthcoming).


At these boundaries, IRI participates in both the new and old versions oftechnology transfer, respectively. In the new version, IRI is actively con-cerned with moving research beyond the laboratory and facilitating societaluse of information, rather than just assuming that the research results willflow into applications.15 In the old version, IRI participates in the transna-tional flow of technical knowledge and skills, usually along a gradient fromNorth to South. Although implicit in the early planning discussions, the end-to-end concept evolved over time. As it has become explicit in managing thetwo boundaries and the two aspects of technology transfer, however, it hasalso raised concomitant challenges.

Origins and Evolution of the End-to-end Concept

Questions regarding the extent to which scientists should reach out topotential users of their seasonal climate predictions, and whether the needs ofusers should shape climate research, began to emerge shortly after the poten-tial for making El Niño forecasts had been demonstrated. A 1991 reportpointed out,

It would be valuable if the scientists working on interannual [climate] variabil-ity had a clearer idea of the concerns of those who could use climate predictionsas input to policy decisions. What would they like to see predicted? What formshould forecasts take to be most useful? (Cane and Sarachik 1991, 33)

The very first proposal for an international research institute for climateprediction, produced a year later, viewed the institute as an energetic corewith ties, on one hand, to a network of research groups engaged in climateforecasting and, on the other, to regionally distributed “application centers”where forecast information would be refined and translated into forms rele-vant for decision making (Moura 1992). Although this proposal identifiedboth ends, the phrase “end-to-end” itself first appeared two years later whenthe United States proposed an international research institute for climate pre-diction within the context of a highly decentralized international network ofinstitutions constituting a seasonal-to-interannual climate prediction pro-gram (SCPP). The SCPP approach, however, was more end-to-middle thanend-to-end, as it went only from “the origins [of climate variability] throughits physical manifestations to its socioeconomic impacts” (NOAA 1994, vii).The actual use of forecast information in mitigating or adapting to adverseimpacts, the information needs of potential users, and how such needs shouldfactor back into climate research priorities were not explicitly included in theSCPP. Nevertheless, the phrase itself took hold.


The RFP that NOAA issued in March 1995 adopted the end-to-end lan-guage of the SCPP. The RFP acknowledged that the goal of the desired “mul-tinational infrastructure” would be “to generate and transfer useful climateinformation and forecasts” and specifically “to prepare and disseminate reg-ularly an experimental forecast to all interested countries.” It specified that“Regional Applications Centers, located around the world, . . . will refine theforecast based on analyses of local and regional conditions and distributeproducts of social and economic benefit to the users” (NOAA 1995c, 13407).Of the six specific areas NOAA suggested “should be addressed in the pro-posal,” three involved the production of forecast models and three involvedtheir dissemination and use. Only one of these, “support for the preparationfor new forecast guidance products based on Application Center needs”(NOAA 1995c, 13408), contained any hint of the reflexive or two-way natureof the applications chore.

The International Forum on Forecasting El Niño, convened in November1995 (after the proposals were due to NOAA) to launch IRI in NOAA’svision, systematically addressed the question of what end-to-end might meanoperationally. This meeting, the first truly international and multidisciplinaryone, resulted in a more sophisticated notion of an end-to-end process than hadbeen envisioned by the small community of primarily U.S. physical scientistswho were IRI’s leading advocates. Working Group 2, one of the three suchgroups convened at this forum, identified the components of an end-to-endsystem as three concentric circles: (1) a core focusing on fundamentalresearch on climate, human, ecosystem, and decision processes; (2) an appli-cations ring focusing on climate forecasts, decision analysis, and communi-cation; and (3) an outer outreach shell connected with decision makers in var-ious sectors, such as farmers, water resource managers, disaster reliefagencies, and insurers. Among the most significant recommendations fromWorking Group 2 was that “IRI requires a multidisciplinary research corethat includes all aspects of generating and applying forecasts, and a range ofdemonstration projects on application of climate forecasts” (NOAA 1995a,183).

The end-to-end research agenda, meanwhile, was spelled out in signifi-cantly greater detail in an article by Sarachik and Shea (1997). The authorsidentified specific research priorities within three component elements:physical climate prediction, consequences of short-term variability, andapplications of predictions. Despite the new terminology, the components ofthis research agenda closely resembled the “integrated assessment” agendaof global climate change research. For example, the U.S. Climate ImpactAssessment Program of the early 1970s and, more recently, the Intergovern-mental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) were both similarly organized


around climate prediction, impacts, and responses (Agrawala 1998a, 1998b).However, unlike IPCC—which only assesses research from end-to-end—IRI’s advocates intended it to help coordinate, conduct, implement, and eval-uate such research. Moreover, the compressed time scale of climate variabil-ity posed a set of challenges very different from those of global warming. Forresearch on seasonal climate variations and their impacts to be usable, it mustreach a large, diverse, and dispersed group of potential users in time to influ-ence their seasonal decisions about planting, land and water use, and so forth.In contrast, global warming research and assessments have sought to influ-ence international negotiators operating under the aegis of the Climate Con-vention, where progress is almost glacial and lacks the temporal urgency of asubsistence farmer’s decision to plant certain crops based on expectations ofrainfall over the next few months. Thus, the novelty of end-to-end researchwas in the different context in which its implementation was sought, as wellas in the concept of performing research (rather than assessment) across thespectrum.

Operationalizing End-to-End: The Experience Thus Far

In its first three years of operation, IRI has recruited research staff for itsfour divisions (modeling, forecasting, monitoring and dissemination, andapplications) and consolidated its bicoastal operations at Columbia Univer-sity’s LDEO. It simultaneously labored to provide timely forecast informa-tion about the 1997-98 El Niño and the subsequent 1998-2000 La Niñaevents, both of which had significant consequences worldwide. Withoutbeing conscious of the broader theoretical implications of its activity, IRI hasduring this period created two products that facilitate the connection betweenclimate forecasts and their social applications.

IRI produces “net assessment” seasonal forecasts for all regions of theworld based on an evaluation of observational data and the often-divergentresults from a variety of climate models. These net assessments are availableon the World Wide Web and are also presented at regional meetings, calledClimate Outlook Fora, that are organized at the start of key seasons in manyregions in Africa, South America, Southeast Asia, and the Caribbean.Selected portions of the forecast are also communicated through the monthlyClimate Information Digest, published by IRI, which summarizes key devel-opments in the climate system and their impacts worldwide. Net assessmentmaps follow a standardized graphical format representing the probabilitiesthat the total rainfall or the average temperature over a three-month seasonwill be above, near, or below normal. They are a novel product in that theycommunicate the best available forecast information, synthesized from


leading climate models, with associated scientific uncertainties. IRI hasassumed a key role in empowering particular regions to produce their ownconsensus forecasts.

During its pilot phase of activity, IRI also developed an interactive soft-ware package called Climlab. Distributed free of charge, Climlab allowsusers to perform statistical manipulations of local and regional climate dataand to explore the relationship between climatic variables and data specific tokey sectors such as health, water resources, agriculture, and fisheries.16 IRIalso has the comprehensive, Web-accessible Climate Data Library, whereusers can manipulate, view, and download a variety of climate-related dataincluding ocean temperatures and station rainfall and temperature data fromseveral thousand stations worldwide. These tools play an important role inIRI’s training and capacity-building efforts, in which it collaborates withresearch groups, governments, and international and regional organizationsto host training programs for regional climate forecasting and applicationsexperts. Typically lasting one to two weeks, the training programs seek toimprove regional capacity to make and apply climate forecasts.

The net assessments, Climlab, and the Climate Data Library are clearlylike boundary objects (Star and Griesemer 1989) or standardized packages(Fujimura 1992). The critical question for both scholarship and IRI, however,is the extent to which they have begun to change behaviors on either or bothends of IRI’s continuum. In part because the applications research group,comprising the social scientists and sector specialists whose work is expectedto link climate research with social decision making, reached critical massonly in late 1999, there has been no systematic evaluation of these activitiesor documented understanding of interactions between producers and con-sumers.17 At the time of writing, IRI is therefore still in the early stages ofimplementing the end-to-end vision of its creators.

The participation of some IRI scientists in a large multidisciplinary effortbegun in 1996 provided an early prototype of this reflexive activity. The pro-ject explored the sensitivity of the fisheries sector in Peru and how it usesforecast information to cope with seasonal variations. In addition to helpingidentify societal constraints in the use of forecast information, this effort alsoprovided the opportunity for an early dialogue in which social scientiststransmitted the information needs of user communities back to the climatemodelers at IRI (Broad and Pfaff 1997).

Even in deciding where to conduct training, IRI must identify regionswhere predictive skill exists and then identify key decision makers and sec-tors to target for education. Only after achieving an understanding of theregion’s basic social structure can IRI design an appropriate training curricu-lum. Through experience from this and other projects—and as the framework


of boundary organizations suggests—it is clear that the connection betweenIRI’s activities in modeling, assessment, and applications cannot beunidirectional.

IRI has recently been attempting the systematic design of projects thatintegrate the end-to-end vision. Work on three such integrated projects is cur-rently under way. One builds on the earlier work in Peruvian coastal fisher-ies. A second is intended to build the capacity to produce and apply climateforecasts in the Greater Horn of Africa. The third focuses on both short-termand longer-term strategies to reduce vulnerability to drought in the state ofCeará in Northeast Brazil. These integrated projects follow a two-prongedapproach: (1) the identification of a particular user group’s informationalneeds about seasonal climate and the establishment of a collaborative dia-logue between the user group and the physical scientists to identify strategiesand forecast products that can better meet these needs, and (2) the identifica-tion of the constraints facing the use of currently available climate forecastinformation and the development of strategies to reduce these constraintsthrough improving communication and dissemination channels, demonstrat-ing the utility of such information, and building additional capacity for thelocal conduct and application of climate research.18

Challenges of the End-to-End Mission

The successful implementation of IRI’s end-to-end mission faces severalchallenges. Some emanate from the complexities of the physical and socio-economic systems that the institution is intended to bridge. Still others haveemerged from the ideological, institutional, and political context in whichIRI was created and now operates. A third cluster of challenges revolvesaround the integration across natural and social science disciplines.

Limitations in Scientific Understanding of the Physical System

A brief review of the steps involved in the seasonal climate forecastingprocess demonstrates the complexity of this endeavor. IRI employs what isknown as a two-tiered approach (Mason et al. 1999). First, mathematicalmodels use observational data on current ocean temperatures and atmo-spheric conditions to forecast surface temperatures in the tropical Pacific.Second, this information is input to other models to predict regional climatepatterns worldwide for the upcoming three-month season. This forecastingscheme employs models that incorporate the physical dynamics of the oceansand the atmosphere, as well as ones based on statistical regressions. The


performance of particular models varies from region to region and season toseason and might also be a function of the climate variable being forecast.Results are also extremely sensitive to even small changes in some of theinput variables such as winds and ocean temperatures.

Because of chaos in the climate system, limitations of the various climatemodels, and uncertainties in the observational data used to drive them, sea-sonal forecasts are necessarily probabilistic. As described earlier, IRI netassessments present forecasts in terms of the probabilities that the total rain-fall (or the average temperature) for three-month periods over fairly largeregions will fall into the three “tercile” classes—that is, the wettest or hottestthird of years, the normal third of years, and the driest or coolest third, relativeto the historical record. A typical seasonal forecast, for example, mightassign a 45 percent chance that the total three-month rainfall in a region span-ning several hundred square miles would be above normal, a 30 percentchance that total rainfall will be near normal, and a 25 percent that it will bebelow normal.

This attempt to create a standardized package in the standardized commu-nication of the net assessment, however, has limitations. Not only do manyusers desire greater specificity in terms of probabilities, but they also oftenoperate on considerably smaller spatial scales: a farm plot, a river watershed,an administrative district, and so on. The temporal distribution is also prob-lematic: even rainfall that might classify as normal when totaled over threemonths could be catastrophic if it were to fall over just a few days. Further-more, many users are sensitive to climate extremes, that is, rainfall signifi-cantly above or below normal. Pulled by this demand among potential users,IRI also started producing forecasts of such rainfall extremes in 1998.19

Finally, while IRI produces forecasts for all regions, for all seasons, and forall years, much of the skill of its predictive tools resides only in certainregions, certain seasons, or years when a strong El Niño or La Niña event isunder way. This specificity exists because current models do not adequatelyaccount for variations other than the ENSO cycle that may have a significantinfluence on climate at a regional level. However, credibility with user groupsdepends on a sustained track record of reasonably good forecasts in theregion and the scale of the user’s interest. There might thus be an upper boundto the degree of success possible in IRI’s end-to-end efforts, imposed by lim-ited understanding of the climate system’s complexity.

Complexities of User Environments

IRI’s mission emphasizes reducing the vulnerability of populations tohardships caused by drought, floods, disease, and economic instability,


which are often influenced by fluctuations in climate. Even with a hypotheti-cally perfect forecast, IRI still faces a still more daunting array of societalconstraints long recognized in the economic development literature (see,e.g., Scott 1998; Sen 1984). The recognition of such constraints is now beingbrought to bear on the utilization of climate information (Patt, forthcoming;Broad and Agrawala 2000; Broad, Pfaff, and Glantz, 2001; Roncoli 2000;National Research Council 1999; Orlove and Tosteson 1999; Finan 1998;Rayner and Malone 1998).

As IRI began to engage in applications research and specific projects, ithas moved away from climatic determinism as it became clear that advanceknowledge of the climate was just one of multiple interacting factors thatmediate a group’s ability to prepare for and respond to extreme events. Manyof the regions where climate is most predictable are poor countries in thetropics, with extreme levels of poverty, corruption, civil strife, and politicalinstability. Consequently, they are often ill equipped to make use of suchinformation effectively. A weak state infrastructure and competing resourceneeds, combined with a lack of fit in scale between the current lead time ofclimate forecasts and institutional (governmental) ability to respond, limitsthe efficacy of forecasts (see Orlove and Tosteson 1999). Even within a par-ticular region, the populations most vulnerable to disease and natural disasterare often those living in marginal lands or precarious urban settings (e.g., inshantytowns in dry riverbeds or on unstable hillsides). In such cases, signifi-cantly reducing vulnerability is an issue of long-term planning and gover-nance, and a forecast with a short lead time will often be insufficient for mostbureaucracies to arm a comprehensive response.

Furthermore, groups within societies have differential access to and abil-ity to understand information, especially as the relevant climate informationprovided by the IRI is probabilistic and available mainly via the Internet.Response necessitates that intermediary organizations get the information tothe decision makers in a timely manner. In the situation of a weak state, themass media most often fill this role. Experience during the 1997-98 ENSOhas also shown that understanding the probabilistic nature of the informationhas a high degree of difficulty in part because of journalists’ trouble withcommunicating scientific uncertainty.20 Furthermore, forecasts may berejected outright if they are at odds with locally generated forecasts based onnatural indicators, lived experience, and traditional practices or if their sourceis not a trusted one.

On a household level, the most vulnerable populations usually lack theresources to act on advance information. For instance, small-scale farmerslack the capital to change inputs, have limited access to drought-resistantseed, or are reliant on others for timing their planting (e.g., they require


external sources of labor for plowing, etc.). Furthermore, most of these small-scale producers are reliant on existing markets and prices set elsewhere, lim-iting their ability to alter their decision-making schemes even with new infor-mation. Finally, the variation between crops, inputs, and terrain of small-scale farmers makes linking climate and crop models extremely challenging,given the resolution of forecasts and the diversity of concerns among small-scale farmers. The precarious day-to-day existence in which many of theworld’s poorest populations—including subsistence farmers and fisher-men—live not only limits their ability to respond to forecasts but also rendersthem extremely vulnerable to poor forecasts.

Dilemmas of Research versus Intervention

The scientific, societal, and institutional constraints on the use of forecastsgive rise to ethical concerns that have caused IRI to reassess its policy on fore-cast dissemination and applications activities. These include concerns overissues of equity, sovereignty, and the unintended consequences of forecasts.

Equity. Even if scientific information is a public good, it is not a free good(Callon 1994), and certain groups may take advantage of others within soci-ety because of their own superior access to and understanding of climateinformation. By disseminating information without first identifying the dif-ferent potential stakeholders and their differential ability to take advantage ofinformation, IRI risks favoring one group over another (Pfaff, Broad, andGlantz 1999; Broad 2000). Most commercial enterprises are better poised touse the currently provided information than are small-scale (household-level) users, although the latter group is more vulnerable to climate variabil-ity. If IRI adopts the economic philosophy that by supporting the large com-mercial enterprises it will ultimately strengthen the state and its ability to carefor the more marginal populations, it may choose to target such firms, accept-ing that smaller firms are relatively unequipped to adapt to probabilistic cli-mate information. However, as many countries move into an extreme free-market economy with minimal state intervention, such a decision could leaveIRI vulnerable to criticism for simply making the rich richer and the poorpoorer.

Another example involves intergenerational equity. The use of climateinformation can help industrial fishermen along parts of the South Americancoast anticipate where concentrations of fish stock will be. Thus, they mayincrease their extractive capacity to the detriment of small-scale fishinggroups who compete for similar species but lack access to this information orthe equipment necessary to pursue the fish. But overexploitation of this


resource, from increased fishing efficiency, can harm future generations, andresolving the equity issue by assisting the small-scale fishing groups mayeven further deplete the resource.21

A more direct ethical dilemma arises as IRI chooses where to engage inactivities. Should IRI provide technical assistance to nations with repressiveregimes just because there is an opportunity to apply forecast information? Asimilar dilemma arises in a regional context. IRI could unintentionally insti-gate conflict between states over common property resources such as wateror fisheries, or influence the outcome by providing advance information toone party, thus enabling it to take actions—such as damming water upstreamin expectation of a drought—that harm another party.

Sovereignty. The transboundary nature of climate forecasts raises the sen-sitive issue that IRI faces in respect to impinging on another state’s sover-eignty. Experience in some countries has shown that national meteorologicalservices or scientific agencies are often underequipped to generate and dis-seminate climate information. In fact, they may choose to withhold informa-tion from the public (e.g., privatization of public services, where data must bepurchased). Even if IRI were in a position to communicate more directly withend users, it might be politically hazardous to circumvent governmentalchannels. For example, in the global climate change debate, early initiativesto influence policy ended up being marginalized as they attempted to bypassnational governments (Agrawala 1999). Maximizing the effectiveness of itsforecasts to end users while constructively engaging national governments isparticularly challenging for IRI because some countries are dubious of“altruistic” U.S. interventions in their internal affairs, and IRI still seems likea U.S. institution.

Another scenario could create conflict with state sovereignty. If applica-tions research indicates the potential positive use of a climate forecast, yet theformal and informal policies of a state are identified that will result in theforecast’s not being used in the manner envisioned, should IRI attempt tointervene and influence policy, hand over the best information possible andleave its use up to the country, or simply decide not to collaborate with thatcountry?

Unintended consequences. Perhaps the most significant challenge IRIfaces is the possibility of taking extensive measures to minimize these prob-lems but still encountering negative results because of changes in financialand political systems, the misrepresentation of forecast information, or otherexogenous factors. As mentioned earlier, limits to the understanding of theclimate system will result in poor forecasts, potentially undermining


confidence in the forecasts and in their provider. While six out of ten goodforecasts may be a skillful record for a forecast system, even one poor fore-cast on which important decisions are based could be disastrous, particularlyfor users such as subsistence farmers.

Perverse effects, where the recipients of forecasts take action that mayprotect their interests but causes more cumulative harm, are also possible.During the 1997-98 El Niño, banks in several countries cut loans across theboard based on the rumors of anticipated climate impacts (Pielke 2000).Credit shortages undermined the ability of individuals and firms to take theirown measures, for example, by planting rice instead of cotton in anticipationof heavy rains, to respond to the forecasts.

Operationalizing climate forecasts in policy making may also shift thepolicy focus toward the short-term management of natural disasters based onadvance warning rather than on long-term solutions to infrastructure devel-opment, land use, water management, public health systems, and other fun-damentals that underlie many natural disasters (Cuny 1994). The occurrenceof disasters in the face of an imperfect forecast leaves IRI vulnerable as ascapegoat. Given its current forecasting skill, IRI must think hard aboutwhether it should encourage reliance on its forecasts regularly or only inextreme ENSO events in which it might have more confidence in the fore-cast.22

Institutional Heritage and Operational Context

IRI’s development and work continue to be influenced in large part byNOAA, its primary patron, and Columbia University, its well-endowed aca-demic home.23 Although IRI has signed agreements that facilitate collabora-tive research and data sharing with numerous countries and research institu-tions, it remains financially reliant on NOAA (and to a lesser extent onColumbia), and its ability to foster a reputation as a truly international institu-tion remains limited. A recent agreement under which Taiwan pledged $7.5million over five years to IRI has alleviated the situation somewhat, but thecontinued perception of IRI as a U.S. institution increases skepticism of itsunderlying goals by those sensitive to U.S. foreign-policy initiatives.

The dependent relationship with NOAA also initially shaped the applica-tions research agenda, as IRI responded to pilot projects that NOAA had pre-viously established. On one hand, the pilot projects provided IRI with preex-isting networks to tap, but on the other hand, they encouraged a reactive modeat IRI and may have committed resources into paths it might not otherwisehave taken. IRI is also subject to the legal constraints that accompany fundsfrom the U.S. government, as well as Columbia’s regulations. This dual


context can be beneficial in the implementation of applications projects thatnecessitate flexibility and timeliness in arranging contracts, transferringmoney overseas, and seeking funds from other U.S. and international agen-cies. But outside sources of funding are subject to the university’s significantoverhead costs. Employees of IRI are university employees and are subject toacademic employment categories, wages, incentives, and evaluation criteriathat may be at odds with IRI’s mission-oriented approach. The university is,however, taking measures to remove these obstacles, but changes are slow.

Operating in a university setting, meanwhile, offers access to a range ofexperts and to students to work on various aspects of the end-to-end problem.Through initiatives such as flexibility in allotting discretionary funds and thecreation of permanent (e.g., tenure-track) positions through the Earth Insti-tute, Columbia is increasingly providing incentives for faculty and studentsto involve themselves in the multidisciplinary work IRI conducts. Throughits position at a university, IRI is under continuous scrutiny for its intellectualintegrity and the social implications of its actions. The stable funding base,along with the pressure to maintain high academic standards, has fostered astrong reflexive component in the IRI development process that is uncom-mon among other institutions.

Ideological Heritage and the Challengesto Multidisciplinary Integration

The idea of an end-to-end system to link advances in climate forecastcapabilities with social applications emanated from a small network of physi-cal scientists engaged in climate modeling and prediction efforts. A combina-tion of confidence in their own ability to make seasonal forecasts, optimismabout improvement in the quality and resolution of such forecasts, an ideal-ized vision of benefiting society, writ large, and a degree of naïveté about thecomplexities of implementing such a social mandate together led to the boldinstitutionalization of an end-to-end vision at IRI. There have been relativelyfew opportunities thus far for alternate paradigms to shape its vision. Theearly conceptions of IRI did not include a social science research agenda, andit was not until the 1995 forum that social scientists—a handful out of morethan one hundred participants—were first involved. As IRI has more fullystaffed its Applications Division, it may better address some of the complexi-ties of forecast utilization.

Although conceived of as applications research, it had been felt early inIRI’s history that forecast applications would be at regional and local levelsworldwide and would therefore need to be decentralized. Consequently, the1992 ITB proposal only envisaged a small applications unit within the core


IRI facility to coordinate and manage activities of a distributed network ofregional applications centers. It was only the 1995 International Forum,which launched IRI, that first recommended that the institute have in-housecapacity to do research related to applications. Thus far, applications effortshave been directed at collaborative research, management, and implementa-tion of targeted country-specific projects. But there is a more fundamentalquestion of whether a metalevel social science research agenda, beyond thefacilitation of two-way interaction between the climate forecasters and endusers, is necessary. IRI is just beginning to formulate a longer-term social sci-ence research agenda that strikes a balance between research and operationaldeadlines and that better integrates physical and social science research.

The suite of challenges to IRI’s successful implementation of its end-to-end mission parallel the challenges to other boundary organizations, such asoffices of technology transfer in the United States (Guston 1999, 2000). Lim-itations in the science of seasonal-to-interannual climate forecasting meanthat the technology may not be in the best position to transfer. Although itmay be flexible enough to permit local adaptations, it seems more likely thatit is still too imprecise to encourage application, particularly at a local level.Some research simply does not have a market, and the choice of when tomove an innovation is a critical one. Yet even if forecasts were technicallyperfect, or the marketing choices were made correctly, the environment intowhich the innovation passes is complex and cannot be controlled. IRI cannotmanage all the social processes relevant for the success of the forecast and itsapplications. And even proficient interventions, defined technically and nar-rowly, may have profoundly inequitable, destabilizing, or otherwise unpalat-able social consequences. To date, IRI attempts to manage these issues on aproject-by-project basis, but a poor choice or poor luck in any particular pro-ject puts the enterprise at risk. Moreover, IRI does not exist as a freestandingorganization, but it is embedded in the norms, rules, and procedures of gov-ernment-university relations in the United States, for better and for worse.

Conclusion

As its end-to-end mission suggests, IRI is an emergent boundary organi-zation. It is situated between the relatively different social worlds of climatemodeling and forecasting on one end, and agricultural, health, and othersocial and political decision making on the other. It is beginning to createproducts, such as net assessment forecasts, Climlab software, and the Cli-mate Data Library, that serve as boundary objects or standardized packages.As it matures, IRI is constructing a space that encourages professionals to


continue to create and improve such products—improving both technicalpractice and societal decisions as a consequence. It is accountable to the mod-eling and forecasting community through its production of new research, itsneed for technical collaborators, and its need for data and other technicalinputs. It is simultaneously accountable to a dispersed set of decision makers,without whose endorsement and, eventually, financial support, IRI willfounder.

The end-to-end mission has taken time to evolve, from a thin and some-what unidirectional vision promoted by physical scientists to a more robustand interactive process critically involving social scientists. The interactiveprocess, however, brings difficulties of its own. Despite both the scientificplaudits and social benefits that could flow from skillful forecasts that alsohave high geographical and temporal specificity, climate modeling and fore-casting are extraordinarily complex, and forecasts are irreducibly probabilis-tic. Despite both the technical innovations that create more usable climateinformation and the research, training, and capacity building that pave theway for applications, integrating new information into social decisions canrun afoul of numerous political and ethical considerations outside IRI’s con-trol. Despite a relatively clear vision of the end-to-end mission and the cre-ation of a relatively autonomous organization to implement it, engaging inthe reflexive practice of applications research and projects might deviatefrom the academic culture of a university setting.

The four years of IRI’s operation are brief compared to the operationalchallenges facing it, yet alone its substantive mission to apply climate infor-mation for social benefit. But IRI has shown considerable adaptability inadjusting its organizational structure and priorities to better reflect the scien-tific and political complexities associated with its end-to-end mission. It hasbegun to diversify the suite of products it offers to users and, even more so,the strategies it uses to target and communicate with them. It has also becomemore focused on the feedback to producers required by a boundary organiza-tion to maintain its equipoise. Other important reforms IRI could attemptinclude refining its vision of its clientele in an effort to minimize the likeli-hood of troubles arising from issues of equity or sovereignty; linking moreactively to local institutions, which can legitimate applications more than IRImay be able to; and working more explicitly on alleviating societal vulnera-bility to climate variations, which may be more systemic and potentially lessdivisive than seasonal forecast application. With such reforms, IRI mayemerge as a fully functional boundary organization and achieve its goal ofintegrating climate research and societal applications.


Notes

1. Although the scientific community dubs occurrences of El Niño Southern Oscillation(ENSO) as “events,” such phenomena typically unfold over a period of several months and occurapproximately every two to ten years.

2. The strength of these relationships varies greatly and is strongest closer to the phenome-non’s origin in the central Pacific. The effects of La Niña—the cold phase of the ENSO cycle—on seasonal rainfall patterns are often, but not necessarily, opposite to those associated with ElNiño.

3. For a review of other uses of ENSO forecasts, see Glantz (1996).4. Subsequent research has focused on linking the ENSO phenomenon with fluctuations in

a number of socially significant variables such as the incidence of certain diseases (such asmalaria and dengue), water resources, and fish stocks.

5. For a thorough overview of recent developments in seasonal forecasting and the interna-tional perspective on their provision and use, see Carson (1998); for a review of the TropicalOcean and Global Atmosphere (TOGA) research program, see Anderson et al. (1998).

6. Telephone interview with J. Michael Hall, Director, Office of Global Programs, NationalOceanic and Atmospheric Administration, 23 November 1999.

7. Hall interview.8. Interview with Antonio Moura, Director, International Research Institute for Climate

Prediction, 5 November 1999, Palisades, New York.9. The International Research Institute for Climate Prediction (IRI) was, in part, conceived

to “help bring the scientific achievements of the [World Climate Research Programme] to a morerapid and complete fruition and lead to a fulfillment of societal needs” (Moura and Sarachik1997, 345).

10. One possible consequence of global warming is increased climate variability, includingstronger ENSO events and other weather extremes.

11. Prior to the United Nations Conference on Environment and Development, the presidentof Uruguay, Luis Alberto LaCalle, acknowledged his interest in greenhouse warming but notedthat his greatest responsibility in climate was “to worry about conditions at next year’s harvest”(quoted in Hall 1999, 45). Such remarks underscore the importance many developing countriesplace on the impacts of seasonal climate variability as opposed to climate change, and theyimplicitly communicate the message about equity.

12. The logic of the hegemonic United States leading the creation of a global “scientific com-mons” is worthy of Olson (1971).

13. The 1994 proposal was somewhat less ambitious than the 1992 proposal, in response inpart to domestic political considerations in the United States and in part in consideration for theroles of national meteorological services, which felt that IRI might impinge on their functions.

14. There was some question about whether to use the normal grant-making process or toengage in some more elaborate establishment of a variety of pilot centers and the construction ofa more elaborate international infrastructure prior to site selection, but TOGA worried about thetime this method would take, and everyone worried about the possible collapse of political sup-port once site selection took place, as had happened with the Superconducting Supercollider.Hall interview.

15. Actively pursuing applications, IRI participates in a new model of research productivitythat supplants the older, passive model. See Guston (2000, especially chaps. 5 and 6) for newvisions of research productivity.


16. The primary focus of Climlab, however, is to explore statistical correlations, which neednot necessarily imply causal linkages.

17. Akin to the use of licensing and marketing experts by previously identified boundaryorganizations in new technology transfer (Guston 1999), IRI requires competencies beyond theresearchers’generating the innovation to be transferred to social scientists, who collaborate withthe producers and the potential users to create opportunities for both applications and the reflex-ive improvement of research based on users’ criteria. IRI has started to de-emphasize its divi-sional boundaries to foster a more interactive dialogue between the producers in prediction andthe facilitators in applications.

18. Many of the activities within these integrated projects will be conducted through partner-ships with donor agencies such as USAID, World Bank, and the U.N. Development Programme;national and state governments; nongovernmental organizations; and international and regionalscientific and technical organizations.

19. Instead of forecasting probabilities for terciles, IRI forecasts the probability of rainfalland temperature above the eighty-fifth and below the fifteenth percentiles.

20. See Friedman, Dunwoody, and Rogers (1999) for a recent survey of the media and scien-tific uncertainty. This literature also points out that scientists have strategic interests in the use ofuncertainty as well. See, for example, Shackley and Wynne (1996) on the specific issue of uncer-tainty and climate change.

21. To some extent, IRI initially had an idealized notion of potential users, such as small-scale fishermen or small farmers, although there is increasing recognition that more commercialor larger-scale organizations will have a greater capacity to apply its forecasts.

22. Note, however, that this proposition contradicts the early rationale that regularity wouldmake for a more usable forecasting system.

23. Through the creation of the Columbia Earth Institute, the university is attempting to inte-grate the physical and social sciences with the explicit goal of creating social outcomes throughfundamental changes in basic research.

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Shardul Agrawala is an associate research scientist at the International Research Insti-tute for Climate Prediction at Columbia University. He has previously worked on scien-tific assessments of global climate change at Princeton University, Harvard University,the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, and the International Institute ofApplied Systems Analysis. His recent publications have appeared in Science, ClimaticChange, Global Environmental Change, and Global Governance.

Kenneth Broad, an anthropologist, is an assistant research professor at the University ofMiami, Rosenstiel School of Marine and Atmospheric Science, Division of MarineAffairs and Policy, and an adjunct associate research scientist at the InternationalResearch Institute for Climate Prediction at Columbia University. His research focuseson the relationship between humans and the environment, and his articles have appearedin Science, Nature, and Knowledge and Society.

David H. Guston is an associate professor of public policy at Rutgers, The State Univer-sity of New Jersey and a faculty associate of the Belfer Center for Science and Interna-tional Affairs at Harvard University’s Kennedy School of Government, as well as ofColumbia University’s Center for Science, Policy, and Outcomes. He is the author ofBetween Politics and Science: Assuring the Integrity and Productivity of Research(2000).


Science, Technology, & Human ValuesMiller / Hybrid Management

Hybrid Management: BoundaryOrganizations, Science Policy,and Environmental Governancein the Climate Regime

Clark MillerUniversity of Wisconsin–Madison

The theory of boundary organizations was developed to address an important group ofinstitutions in American society neglected by scholarship in science studies and politicalscience. The long-term stability of scientific and political institutions in the United Stateshas enabled a new class of institutions to grow and thrive as mediators between the two.As originally developed, this structural feature of these new institutions—that is, theirlocation on the boundary between science and politics—dominated theoretical frame-works for explaining their behavior. Applying the theory of boundary organizations tointernational society requires a refocusing of some of the theory’s central features, how-ever. In this article, I introduce a new framework—hybrid management—to explain theactivities of boundary organizations in the more complex, contingent, and contested set-tings of global politics. I develop the framework of hybrid management using the specificexample of the U.N. Framework Convention on Climate Change’s Subsidiary Body forScientific and Technological Advice.

This article stems from a long-standing interest in the articulation, negoti-ation, and construction of new expert advisory institutions in global gover-nance. As people have sought to adapt the institutional framework of interna-tional politics to address the challenges of globalization, they haveincreasingly accorded science a central role in the making of global policy.1

However, the mobilization of science to serve the global public good is nei-ther simple nor straightforward. Incorporating expertise into the making of

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I gratefully acknowledge thoughtful commentary on this article by twoanonymous reviewers and by David Guston, David Cash, and Sheila Jasanoff. Research for thisarticle was supported, in part, by a grant from the National Science Foundation (no. SBR9601987).


478

public policy raises the same kind of deep-seated, normative questions forinternational society that it has raised over the past century in domestic set-tings (Jasanoff 1996b; cf. Jasanoff 1990, Ezrahi 1990, and Porter 1995 foraccounts of the political dimensions of expert institutions in domestic gover-nance). What counts as legitimate knowledge? Who speaks for nature? Howmuch power and authority should be accorded to science relative to othermodes of knowing and deciding? Such questions may cut across geopoliticaldivides (e.g., Jasanoff 1993). More mundanely, they may get caught up inconflicts between distinct national approaches to the production, dissemina-tion, and use of expert knowledge.2 Regardless, finding institutional arrange-ments that can command credibility, legitimacy, and authority among themany, diverse publics, officials, and experts around the world with a stake inglobal decision making is an exceedingly complex and difficult task (Miller2001).

A good example of the efforts of scientists, diplomats, and other policymakers to construct new institutional arrangements for mobilizing science insupport of global policy making is the creation of the climate regime.3 Partici-pants in the climate regime have turned to science in a wide array of decisionssuch as apportioning blame for greenhouse gas emissions, assessing the needfor regulatory intervention in the global economy, finding policy and techno-logical solutions, and compensating victims of climatic changes alreadyunder way. Indeed, science has become such a significant component of theclimate regime that countries have established a separate forum—the Subsid-iary Body for Scientific and Technological Advice (SBSTA)—for theexplicit purpose of establishing new expert advisory arrangements. Createdin 1992 by the U.N. Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC),the SBSTA has emerged as

the principal forum in which regime participants have articulated and negoti-ated among competing models of institutional design for providing expertadvice about climate change. It has served, in other words, as a space wheregovernments (and to a lesser extent [nongovernmental organizations]) candeliberate the ground rules by which scientific experts and knowledge claimsreceive accreditation within the institutions of the climate regime. Settlementsarrived at in SBSTA have thus created an important part of the normative andinstitutional contexts that will mediate future interpretations of climate changeand choices about human responses to it within the climate regime. (Miller2001)

Understanding institutions like the SBSTA, which are not exactly scien-tific but which help interpret and manage the production of scientific knowledge

Miller / Hybrid Management 479

and its incorporation into policy making, will provide important insights intothe emergence and consolidation of global governance over the next fewdecades. In this article, I analyze the SBSTA using the newly developed the-ory of boundary organizations, so named because they lie on the boundarybetween politics and science (Guston 1999, 2000). Originally developed inthe context of U.S. politics, however, the theory focuses on features of theseorganizations and the broader institutional landscape that are not applicableto international relations. Neither science nor politics are as cleanly distinctfrom one another in international contexts as they are in thehyperdifferentiated atmosphere of U.S. political culture, leaving space for abroader array of institutional types inhabiting the institutional landscapebetween, say, the scientific laboratory and the U.N. General Assembly.Hence, the theory of boundary organizations needs to be expanded to exam-ine what types of new organizations are emerging and how they differ fromand relate to one another. Likewise, the original theory of boundary organiza-tions is too static to cope with the rapid changes associated with contempo-rary processes of globalization. International boundary organizations do notexist between two well-defined, deeply embedded (and hence slowly chang-ing) institutions like politics and science in the United States. Rather, interna-tional science and politics, as well as the institutions linking them, exhibitconsiderable fluctuations, requiring a theoretical approach that addressesissues of process and dynamics, rather than structure, as its central focus.

To reorient the theory of boundary organizations for international con-texts, I develop the concept of hybrid management. Hybrids are social con-structs that contain both scientific and political elements, often sufficientlyintertwined to render separation a practical impossibility. They can includeconceptual or material artifacts (e.g., the climate system or a nuclear powerplant), techniques or practices (e.g., methods for attributing greenhouse gasemissions to particular countries), or organizations (e.g., the SBSTA or theIntergovernmental Panel on Climate Change). By examining in detail themanagement of these hybrids—that is, the processes by which they are con-structed, taken apart, and ordered in relation to one another—I argue that ana-lysts can develop an understanding of how boundary organizations functionin international politics and thus contribute to a deeper appreciation ofemerging patters of global governance. In the first half of this article, Idescribe in greater detail the concept of boundary organizations and theattendant modifications necessary to make it fit international contexts, devel-oping as I go the concept of hybrid management. In the second half, I explorethe processes of hybrid management in the climate regime and their relationto broader questions of global governance.


Rethinking Boundary Organizations

The goal of this special issue of Science, Technology, & Human Values isto illuminate an important aspect of the ways in which science and politics arebrought into a dynamic, mutually constraining relationship in modern societ-ies. Namely, the issue focuses on those organizations that lie, as DavidGuston (2000), the originator of the theory of boundary organizations, puts it,“between politics and science.” As science has emerged over the course of thetwentieth century as a powerful social institution, a considerable variety oforganizations has arisen for the purposes of trying to maintain a productivetension between science and other forms of life in modern society. Surpris-ingly, these organizations have received little attention from scholars either inscience studies—where research has focused on laboratories, disciplines,and what Harry Collins terms “core sets”—or in political science—whereresearch has focused on what are considered mainstream political institu-tions, for example, legislatures, executives, and the courts. Yet, as severalauthors have begun to demonstrate, institutions that are neither laboratoriesnor conventional political organizations are increasingly prevalent featuresof the institutional landscape of modern society and play key roles in manag-ing the interactions between science and politics, economics, and culture(see, e.g., Agrawala, Broad, and Guston 2001 [this issue]; Keating 2001 [thisissue]; Cash 2001 [this issue]; Guston 1999, 2000, 2001 [this issue]; Jasanoff1990).

To argue that these institutions lie on the “boundary . . . between scienceand politics” is, to be sure, to risk conceptual confusion. Historically, scienceand politics have been understood as distinct realms of human activity, oneoriented toward the search for knowledge, truth, and objectivity, the othertoward the accumulation and distribution of power (thus the famous phrase“speaking truth to power”). However, as scholars have pursued detailed,empirical investigations of scientific culture and practice, this distinction hascome to appear less and less meaningful. Viewed up close, science turns outto look a lot like other social institutions, full of norms, beliefs, ideologies,practices, networks, and power and deeply engaged in the production andmanagement of social order. The modern research university, for example,quite clearly ties together a variety of social, political, and economic net-works and institutions, in addition to their cognitive and disciplinary compo-nents (Dennis 1994; Leslie 1993).

Similarly, post-Enlightenment political institutions rely deeply on theproduction of matters of fact to acquire and retain legitimacy. Authors such asYaron Ezrahi, Sheila Jasanoff, and Theodore Porter have highlighted theextent to which modern political institutions not only enroll but also help


construct science in the day-to-day activities of policy making. Informed byscience, concepts of objectivity, practices of knowledge making, objects ofdiscourse, and embodied expertise pervade the hallways, offices, and court-rooms of Congress, executive agencies, and the legal system, helping to makeup the constitutional foundations of contemporary democracy (Ezrahi 1990;Jasanoff 1990, 1996a; Porter 1995).

The recognition that the laboratory and the legislature both mix ideas andbeliefs with values, norms, and institutions should not blind us, however, tothe very real differences in social practice and organization that exist betweenthe two settings. Congress does not select committee chairmen on the basis ofthe number of articles candidates have published in Nature, just as scientistsdo not vote on the speed of light. A culture or moral economy of credibilitymay operate in each context, but we would not expect the cultures of the labo-ratory and the legislature to necessarily exhibit the same characteristics(Shapin 1996). Following Wittgenstein, what most people outside of the fieldof science studies persist in labeling “science” and “politics” clearly consti-tute distinct forms of life. Each contains its own unique ordering and amal-gamation of human norms, practices, discourses, and knowledges. These dis-tinctions are important, for they reflect critical differences in the credibility,legitimacy, and authority accorded to different forms of life for makingchoices and conducting business in different spheres of human activity. Forall their differences, however, both institutions incorporate knowledge mak-ing and social ordering as central, integrated components of their activities.Each participates in the production of knowledge and order.

The practice of treating both science and politics as distinct forms of life(as opposed to viewing them as ideal forms of activity) can help avoid the trapof imagining that activities taking place in those domains labeled as “scien-tific” are somehow free of concerns about values, power, and order, whileactivities taking place in domains labeled as “political” are somehow notinvolved in the production of knowledge (see, especially, Jasanoff 1996a,1996b). Science is surely political—in the sense that its activities shape thedistribution of power in modern societies. We should not, however, fall intothe logical fallacy of thereby assuming that the same models we use forexplaining Congress and the presidency will necessarily work to explain thelaboratory and the discipline.

Where, then, does that leave boundary organizations? I use the phraseboundary organizations to refer to those social arrangements, networks, andinstitutions that increasingly mediate between the institutions of “science”and the institutions of “politics”—understood as labels for distinct forms oflife in modern society. In the 1950s, relationships between science and poli-tics were frequently quite direct. Today, they are rarely so. A range of


institutions, including expert advisory committees, scientific assessments,research management agencies, consensus conferences, and so on, populatethe social landscape of the United States and, to a growing degree, interna-tional governance. Moreover, a significant feature of these new institutionalforms is their reliance, when examined in detail, on amalgamations of socialpractice drawn from the worlds of both science and politics. They mightinclude, for example, a managerial committee appointed by government offi-cials combined with working groups selected from the scientific community.They are, in other words, hybrids—mixing scientific and political ele-ments—a point to which I will return below.

Before proceeding to discuss the implications of their hybrid character, Ineed to expand on the original theory of boundary organizations to make itrelevant to international relations. Conventionally, boundary organizationshave been analyzed in terms of their relations with the domains of science andpolitics (Guston 1999, 2000). In his analyses of boundary organizations inthe United States, Guston has identified their proximity to powerful scientificand political institutions as defining their character and functions. Boundaryorganizations appear to need the approval of science for the credibility oftheir knowledge claims as well as the approval of political institutions for thelegitimacy of their policy orientations. These relationships create a context inthe United States in which boundary organizations constantly appear to servetwo distinct and potentially conflicting sets of goals.

When we begin to examine international contexts, however, it quicklybecomes apparent that the conventional model of boundary organizationscontains a number of weak assumptions. The first weakness of the conven-tional model is that it tends to overuniversalize science and politics. Whileboundary organization theory recognizes that science and politics constitutedistinct forms of life, it tends to elide differences that occur between institu-tions within the separate domains of science of politics. These differencesstand out more distinctly in international settings, however, where the scien-tific and political institutions of myriad countries are brought into immediatecontact with one another. Even in domestic contexts, however, investigatorsmay need to pay greater attention to differences between, say, biology, phys-ics, and agriculture (or, equally, state and federal institutions or legislatures,executive agencies, and courts) in explaining the behavior of particularboundary organizations. The norms, practices, ideas, and discourses of dis-tinct forms of life may differ considerably from one another, even if they areencompassed within the domain of either science or politics. Scientificassessments, for example, frequently operate under very different standardsand procedures of peer review than do, say, scientific journals or grant com-petitions (Edwards and Schneider 2001). More generally, the science studies


literature provides numerous examples wherein scientific disciplines differfrom one another and through history in the norms and practices they exhibitand the ideas and representations of nature they develop (Galison 1997;Kohler 1994; Kay 1993; Mitman 1992).

Likewise, boundary organization theory has not fully escaped conven-tional patterns of thought that circumscribe the institutional landscape inhab-ited by these institutions to a “fine, bright line” (Guston 2000, xv).4 Thisdepiction perpetuates discursive tendencies (at least in the United States) toseek out pure forms of science and politics and thus to overlook the diversearray of hybrid institutional types that relate to one another as well as to scien-tific and political institutions (see Latour 1993 for a longer discussion of theconcept of purification). In many cases, however, the institutional landscapeinhabited by boundary organizations is more expansive, and boundary orga-nizations’ differences and interactions with each other may be just as impor-tant as their interactions with science and politics, per se. In his description ofagricultural extension, for example, David Cash (2001) illustrates the richarray of institutional forms inhabiting the thick boundary-lands betweenagricultural science and farmers in the United States. Another way of empha-sizing this same point would be to highlight recent research on boundarywork, which indicates that while the distinction of what is and what is not sci-ence (or politics) is often asserted to be quite sharp, it turns out, in practice, tobe quite fuzzy (Gieryn 1995, 1999).

As Figure 1 illustrates, the variety of boundary organizations that exists incontemporary society is also easily visible in international relations. The cli-mate regime contains numerous institutions that mix scientific and politicalelements in remarkably different ways.5 The U.N. Intergovernmental Panelon Climate Change (IPCC), the UNFCCC’s SBSTA, the World Meteorologi-cal Organization, the U.N. Environment Programme, the International ResearchInstitute for Climate Prediction, the International Geosphere-BiosphereProgramme, the U.S. Global Change Research Program, and numerous oth-ers are neither scientific nor political according to conventional categoriza-tions. Rather, they combine elements of both, albeit each in a unique manner.Moreover, in addition to these formal institutions, the climate regime con-tains a host of equally important but less formalized networks that link peopleand ideas around the globe. These networks and institutions are essentialcomponents of the climate regime, whose actions and interrelations must beunderstood if we are to make sense of the globalization of environmentalgovernance.

Finally, the third weakness of conventional boundary organization theorywhen viewed with respect to international relations is that it presents anoverly static view of science and politics. Within the U.S. context, the


durability and relatively slow pace of change of the modern research univer-sity, Congress, the Constitution, and other institutions sometimes lends anaura of timelessness to discussions of science policy, overlooking the vastchanges in these institutions and their interrelations that have marked thetwentieth century. Especially now, however, the very real changes takingplace in global governing arrangements make clear the flexibility of catego-ries like “science” and “politics” in international contexts. Definitions andstandards for expertise are deeply contested across cultural and geopoliticaldivides, as are notions of appropriate political institutions for carrying outpublic sector management for the planet as a whole. Perhaps the most widelyrecognized example of this in contemporary environmental politics is thelong-running debate over whether issues of risk associated with genetically


Science

Politics

Conference of Parties

UNEP

WMO

UN GeneralAssembly

The Climate Regime

NCAR

IPCC

SBSTA

UN Framework Convention OnClimate Change

IGBP

US Global ChangeResearch Program

Following Jasanoff and Wynne (1998), each symbol reflects anamalgamation of norms, practices, discourses, and knowledges.

National Academy of Sciences

Congress

Figure 1. The institutional landscape of the climate regime.NOTE:NCAR = National Center for Atmospheric Research;WMO = World Meteorologi-cal Organization;UNEP = U.N.Environment Programme; IPCC = U.N. Intergovernmen-tal Panel on Climate Change; IGBP = International Geosphere-Biosphere Programme;SBSTA = U.N. Framework Convention on Climate Change’s Subsidiary Body for Scien-tific and Technological Advice.

modified crops should be dealt with under the auspices of the World TradeOrganization, the Food and Agriculture Organization, or the U.N. Conven-tion on Biological Diversity—each of which offers a very different model ofhow global science and global politics should be organized, how they shouldrelate to one another, and how global policy making should be prioritized.

Hybrid Management

To rectify the weaknesses of the original theory of boundary organizationsfor application to international settings, I introduce in this section the conceptof hybrid management. Use of the term hybrid to refer to people, artifacts,and institutions that mix elements from scientific and political forms of lifehas a long history in science studies. Most recently, and profligately, it hasbeen adopted by French philosopher Bruno Latour, who explicitly theorizesmodernity as the “proliferation of hybrids,” by which he means the mixing upof facts and values, knowledge and identity, nature and culture, science andpolitics in our conceptual frameworks, material technologies, and social net-works and institutions. His book We Have Never Been Modern (1993) opensby describing a newspaper article that exemplifies the hybrid character of the“ozone hole”:

On page four of my daily newspaper, I learn that the measurements taken abovethe Antarctic are not good this year: the hole in the ozone layer is growing omi-nously larger. Reading on, I turn from upper-atmosphere chemists to ChiefExecutive Officers of Atochem and Monsanto, companies that are modifyingtheir assembly lines in order to replace the innocent chlorofluorocarbons,accused of crimes against the ecosphere. A few paragraphs later, I come acrossheads of state of major industrialized countries who are getting involved withchemistry, refrigerators, aerosols, and inert gases. But at the end of the article, Idiscover that the meteorologists don’t agree with the chemists; they’re talkingabout cyclical fluctuations unrelated to human activity. So now the industrial-ists don’t know what to do. The heads of state are also holding back. Should wewait? Is it already too late? Toward the bottom of the page, Third World coun-tries and ecologists add their grain of salt and talk about international treaties,moratoriums, the rights of future generations and the right to development. (P. 1)

The ozone hole is clearly an object of scientific study. Instrumented air-planes and satellites are flown into the polar atmosphere to detail its chemis-try and physics. Yet, it also contains elements of political symbolism. Callingit a hole, rather than a region of lowered density, is something of a politicalact. Scientists, government officials, and representatives of many industry


and nongovernmental organizations have considerable stakes in how theozone hole gets represented.

For Latour (1993), the basic drive of modernity has been to purify hybridsinto science or politics, facts or values. A more careful reading would sug-gest, however, that many institutions, and particularly the boundary organi-zations of interest in this special issue, exist instead to establish and maintaina productive tension between the multiple, diverse forms of life in contempo-rary societies. This may take the form of managing the relationship betweenlaboratories and legislative bodies to enable them, as the subtitle of Guston’s(2000) Between Politics and Science suggests, to assure “the integrity andproductivity of research.” Or, it may take the more complex form of trying tocreate effective global policies for reducing human threats to the climate sys-tem. In either case, ways need to be found for institutions, networks, and evencultures that put together order and knowledge in very different ways to eachsuccessfully sustain its own internal processes while forming productiverelationships with one another.

To maintain these productive and dynamic relationships, boundary orga-nizations need to be able to manage hybrids—that is, to put scientific andpolitical elements together, take them apart, establish and maintain bound-aries between different forms of life, and coordinate activities taking place inmultiple domains. These four elements—hybridization, deconstruction,boundary work, and cross-domain orchestration—make up what I term“hybrid management.” Previous work on boundary organizations has dis-cussed many of these activities in the course of descriptions of particularinstitutions. By foregrounding hybrid management as theoretically impor-tant, however, I hope to accomplish a number of goals, including placing newemphasis on the social arrangements and practices internal to boundary orga-nizations and the dynamics of their relationship with a diverse array of otherorganizations.

It is important to recognize, however, that hybrid management activitiesare not carried out exclusively in boundary organizations. As we will see,boundary organizations and the other forms of life with which they interactare enmeshed in a web of mutually constraining activities and practices. Con-sider, for example, recent, comparative analyses of regulatory systems in dif-ferent countries. These studies demonstrate that the framing of risk, thenorms and practices of expert advisory committees, and even the kinds of sci-entific evidence that predominate in policy deliberations differ from countryto country in ways that reflect broader patterns of difference in political cul-ture. Moreover, these differences also reflect back into the scientific institu-tions of the countries, shaping their organization and the kinds of knowledge


produced. Together, these observations indicate the extent to which scienceand politics further fit together in larger, mutually constraining forms of lifecharacteristic of particular nation states (Jasanoff 1986, 1991, 1995, 1997a;Brickman et al. 1985). Hybrid management, I suggest, is the glue that linksscientific, political, and other institutions together in modern politicaleconomies.

Hybrid Management in the Climate Regime

To more fully explain what is meant by hybrid management and how theconcept relates to the activities of boundary organizations, this section exam-ines an institution within the climate regime that has received relatively littleattention, despite its importance to the regime: the SBSTA. The SBSTA’slegal mandate is established in Article 9 of the 1992 UNFCCC. Article 9asserts two basic principles concerning the SBSTA. First, its basic mission isto “provide the Conference of the Parties [of the UNFCCC] and, as appropri-ate, its other subsidiary bodies with timely information and advice on scien-tific and technological matters relating to the Convention.” Second, its mem-bers “shall comprise government representatives competent in the relevantfield of expertise.” The first of these principles is spelled out in somewhatgreater detail through a list of tasks the SBSTA shall undertake. The second isleft to stand without further specification (Mintzer and Leonard 1993).

Subsequent to its formal inauguration in 1995, however, the SBSTA hastaken a somewhat different path than these two principles might at first sug-gest. Consequently, although the original treaty language seemed to cast theSBSTA as science to the Conference of Parties’ politics, the SBSTA’s actualorganization entails a melange of elements. The principal body is a legislativeassembly composed of representatives of those countries that have signedand ratified the Framework Convention. In addition, nongovernmental orga-nizations may register for (nonvoting) observer status, and other intergovern-mental organizations may also send observers. Although the language of theSBSTA’s authorizing text says that SBSTA members will be governmentexperts, most countries send the same or similar delegations to the SBSTAthat they send to the Framework Convention’s Conference of Parties (the leg-islative assembly for the regime as a whole). Some of these delegationsinclude scientists and other experts as members, and some are composedsolely of scientists. Many, however, are diplomats. The SBSTA’s legislativeassembly frequently draws on the services of the Framework Convention’ssecretariat (a bureaucratic support organization) to carry out routine taskssuch as organizing meetings. After long debates, the SBSTA has also


compiled a roster of experts for its use in seeking expert advice. National gov-ernments nominate experts to this list. The SBSTA’s legislative assemblymay request that a panel of experts from the roster be set up to address a spe-cific issue or question. At that point, the secretariat will select appropriateexperts from the roster, constitute a panel, and solicit a report. Once the reportis complete, the panel is disbanded. To date, the SBSTA has received fivesuch reports. Finally, delegates to the SBSTA have constituted two informalworking groups to provide assistance to the body on the development of stan-dard methodologies for the regime and on technology transfer. These work-ing groups are composed of representatives from those governments thatwish to participate.6

In carrying out its activities, the SBSTA has been the site of widespreaddebate and disagreement over just how expert advisory arrangements shouldbe constituted under the auspices of the climate regime and just what roleexperts and expert knowledge should play in the formulation of global cli-mate policy. At times, these controversies have reflected competing interpre-tations of scientific evidence and theories. At other times, they have reflecteddeep-seated conflicts between competing models of democracy, within theWestern liberal states, or geopolitics, between North and South. Frequently,the scientific and political aspects of these conflicts have been indistinguish-able. From an analysis of the content of these debates, however, it is possibleto begin to derive an analytical framework to describe the efforts of SBSTAparticipants to manage the hybrids within its domain of authority.

As indicated by the creation of an informal working group on methodolo-gies, one of the SBSTA’s most challenging tasks has been to help create andstabilize standard methods for carrying out a variety of knowledge produc-tion activities within the climate regime. Of these, by far the most importantwork to date has involved the measurement of greenhouse gas emissions.Measures of national emissions of greenhouse gases have become theaccepted means within the climate regime for assigning blame for changes inthe climate and therefore for assigning responsibility for undertaking actionto help stabilize the atmosphere. Such measures thus have enormously highpolitical significance within the regime, as does their perceived objectivity asa scientifically sound accounting of each country’s responsibility. At thesame time, the construction of these measures also raises numerous value-laden questions. For example, who should be responsible for a given emis-sion? Should survival emissions and luxury emissions be differentiated?Which emissions should count as natural and which as anthropogenic?

A key hybrid management function performed in part by the SBSTAinvolves putting together these kinds of hybrid, policy-relevant standards andmeasures. Within the hybrid management model, I term this function


n hybridization. Standardizing accounting procedures and other methods andpractices in international regimes involves establishing what must be mea-sured and also how best to measure it. Each of these choices embeds both nor-mative and technical judgments. Successfully integrating these kind of judg-ments so that they meet the epistemological and normative criteria ofmultiple expert, policy, and public audiences frequently involves a great dealof work in a multiplicity of institutional forums. Boundary organizations likethe SBSTA can provide a site for doing the additional work necessary to inte-grate these multiple threads of activity.

In the case of measuring greenhouse gas emissions, for example, key dip-lomatic acts, such as the 1992 Framework Convention and the 1997 KyotoProtocol, provide some normative guidance for what kind of informationemissions inventories should contain. The Framework Convention directsthe accounting methods to assign responsibility to countries (as opposed toindividuals or firms), to differentiate natural from anthropogenic emissions,and to make several other key normative choices. Likewise, since 1989,groups of scientists from ecology, animal science, atmospheric chemistry,and other disciplines have been working with the Organization for EconomicCooperation and Development (OECD) and the IPCC to provide expert inputinto the definition of standard guidelines for emissions inventories. Theseexpert groups have worked to develop a set of standard, default methods forthe climate regime that meet the requirements laid out in the two treaties, aswell as a host of narrower requirements developed formally and informallywithin the regime (see, e.g., IPCC 1991, 1997; van Amstel 1993).7

Since its creation in 1995, the SBSTA has operated as the primary forumfor integrating these two threads of activity. This work has involved facilitat-ing communication between experts and political officials, formal and infor-mal efforts to clarify both technical requirements and value choices, andnegotiating compromise settlements between regime participants. Scientists,diplomats, and others have worked together in the SBSTA to coordinate theprocess of producing and approving default standards among various institu-tions, identify critical design choices, solicit expert and political input onthese choices, and resolve conflicts. This work resulted in the submission andapproval of an initial set of default standards in 1997 and the creation of anongoing program of work to update and refine these standards in response toscientific and political change within the climate regime. Subsequently,numerous countries have submitted national inventories of greenhouse gasemissions in accordance with these standards, and the standards have servedas the baseline for efforts to develop a monitoring system for the Kyoto Proto-col’s emissions-trading program.


Within the process of integrating new hybrid, policy-relevant standardsand measures from diverse streams of activity, a second key hybrid manage-ment function is that of deconstruction—the opening up of hybrids to revealthe tacit and often value-laden assumptions embedded in their construction.In her detailed studies of public controversies over science and technology,Dorothy Nelkin (1992) describes the frequent deconstruction of scientificfacts, evidence, and theories that takes place in American politics. Thedeconstruction of science that takes place in the American media, in legisla-tive and administrative hearings, and in the courts is often rightly viewed as amajor hurdle to the effective use of science to shape policies. By renderingtacit and value-laden assumptions visible to participants in policy debates,however, critical examinations of scientific claims can help increase thetransparency of the policy process and may help prevent subsequent contro-versies and enhance policy effectiveness (Jasanoff 1997b).8

The ability of participants in the climate regime to deconstruct scientificknowledge claims rests significantly on their ability to mobilize competinginterpretations of scientific evidence and theories. This ability is, not surpris-ingly, quite limited for many countries, given the almost complete absence ofclimatological research (particularly involving climate models—the princi-ple tool of expert advice within the climate regime) outside of a handful ofmajor research institutions in the United States, Europe, and Japan. Thestructure of decision making within the SBSTA significantly strengthens theability of participants to deconstruct science within the climate regime, how-ever, most notably through its consensus voting rules. Although few if anyissues ever come to a formal vote, the tacit ability of any country to halt prog-ress on a given issue helps to guarantee that even small voices of skepticismhave an opportunity to be heard.

For example, during the development of the initial default standards formeasuring greenhouse gas emissions, two competing methods were put for-ward to account for carbon dioxide emissions from deforestation. Initial dis-cussions within the IPCC focused on the accuracy of the two methods inaccounting for carbon emissions. During these discussions, however, severalparticipants indicated that value-laden differences between the two methodsmight be of sufficient magnitude to matter to governments calculating theiremissions. These differences stemmed from how the two methods distributedcarbon emissions between countries, in one case to countries in which defor-estation was occurring and in the other case to countries in which wood prod-ucts (manufactured from the wood taken from the forests) were decaying andreleasing stored carbon into the atmosphere. These differences affected notonly the distribution of accountability but also incentives for undertakingsustainable forestry policies, raising significant (and unexpected) questions


about just what principles the accounting system should be based on. Shouldthe methods be designed to strictly account for only those emissions actuallyreleased from a particular country’s territory? Should they try to account forunderlying activities that ultimately result in emissions? Or should they bedesigned to foster sustainable policy making? Each potential goal corre-sponds best to a different method of accounting.

The SBSTA’s role as a boundary organization has helped facilitate discus-sion of this issue, containing the conflict and moving it toward resolution.Two features of the SBSTA’s organization have been particularly important.First, the flexibility and responsiveness of the SBSTA in creating new expertadvisory institutions and developing extensive relations with a variety ofgovernmental, intergovernmental, and nongovernmental institutions enabledparticipants to rapidly solicit diplomatic and expert views on the questionsraised in the dispute from myriad interested parties. SBSTA participantsasked the secretariat to create a special expert panel to report on the issue and,once completed, to solicit official governmental responses (Brown, Lim, andSchlamadinger 1998). Governments are now in the process of submittingtheir views on how these value choices should be resolved (Methodologicalissues 1999). Second, the SBSTA’s voting rules enable any participatingcountry to veto SBSTA resolutions. Consequently, different viewpoints can-not simply be ignored but must be carefully accommodated. Settlements arethus frequently delayed but, when ultimately resolved, tend to defuse poten-tial fault lines that could subsequently emerge in more damaging controver-sies if not adequately addressed. It is certainly plausible, for example, thathad the original methodology been adopted without discussion, later discov-ery of its implications could have led developing countries to denounce thedefault standards as biased against their interests, creating a deeper and moredifficult to resolve conflict.

As the SBSTA and other boundary organizations seek ways to produc-tively integrate strands of activity from diverse forms of life to create new,hybrid entities, a third key management function involves the creation andmaintenance of appropriate boundaries and jurisdictions between interactingorganizations. This boundary demarcation and maintenance is importantbecause, as authors such as Thomas Gieryn and Sheila Jasanoff have demon-strated, the boundaries between different hybrids often become extremelyfuzzy and even disappear completely in actual practice—creating a need forboundary work to form clean distinctions (Gieryn 1995, 1999; Jasanoff1990). The rhetorical assertion of well-marked boundaries separating sci-ence from politics (and other forms of nonscientific activity) plays importantroles not only in maintaining social discipline within each form of life butalso in establishing the authority of each vis-à-vis each other. Indeed, the


legitimacy of science and politics in modern societies depends in a veryimportant sense on each being seen to act wholly within its appropriate juris-diction even when, in practice, there is very little a priori distinction betweenthe two at the margin.

Developing standard methods for measuring greenhouse gas emissionsused in the climate regime provides a good example of the wide array of expertand political institutions involved in the construction of policy-relevantknowledges, including national governments, universities, laboratories, theSBSTA, the OECD, the International Energy Agency, the IPCC, and numer-ous other organizations. The SBSTA has been deeply involved in dividing upresponsibilities between these various hybrids and, in this way, in helping toconstruct appropriate boundaries around the jurisdiction of each. The goalhas been to allocate responsibility for various aspects in a way that is per-ceived to be legitimate by those participating and by those observing inbroader society. This process is inevitably dynamic in that boundaries areconstantly being delineated, criticized, defended, and adjusted over time asparticipants respond to events.

As part of their boundary work on emissions inventories, SBSTA partici-pants have adopted the explicit designation of certain choices or activities asscientific and others as political, relegating them to appropriate agencies suchas the IPCC or the Conference of Parties. For example, deciding how to dif-ferentiate various categories of emissions into “natural” and “anthropogenic”inevitably involves making judgments of fact and value. Under current prac-tices, methane emissions from cattle are counted as anthropogenic, whilethose from deer are counted as natural, despite the fact that cattle and deerpopulations are ultimately both decided by human policies. Are choices likethis scientific or political? They are hybrid. Yet choices like this are con-stantly being made (sometimes explicitly, often tacitly) by both scientific andpolitical institutions in their routine operations. The choice to treat deer as“natural” for purposes of the climate regime, for example, was made tacitlyby scientists when constructing the default standards. An important role forthe SBSTA has been to identify occasions when this kind of choice involvessufficiently important or contentious value dimensions that it needs to beaddressed by the regime’s political bodies (e.g., in the case discussed earlierof how to account for emissions from deforestation).

Even if successful, however, the differentiation and demarcation of rele-vant domains of authority for science and politics do not obviate the fact thatactivities taking place in one form of life are nonetheless relevant and impor-tant to people participating in other forms of life. Scientists care a great dealabout how science and scientific knowledge are portrayed and used in politi-cal institutions, while politicians, lawyers, and judges care deeply about what


goes on in laboratories and universities (witness the rapid responses by worldleaders to the cloning of Dolly). Thus, although the activities taking place inthe two domains must appear separate, for purposes of legitimacy, they mustalso be coordinated. Cross-domain orchestration constitutes the fourthaspect of hybrid management.

Precisely because the work of scientists and other policy makers involvesconsiderations of both facts and values of interest to all concerned, the activi-ties of each domain are not independent. Within the climate regime, delegatesto the Conference of Parties frequently express concerns over the rules andprocedures by which organizations such as the IPCC operate. Likewise, sci-entists frequently express concerns about how scientific knowledge is inter-preted and used by institutions like the Conference of Parties. The SBSTAhas played a critical role in helping to coordinate across the various domainsof decision-making and knowledge-making authority within the climateregime to resolve such issues. This coordination has taken a variety of forms,including the development of rules for new expert advisory arrangementscreated under its authority, the negotiation of joint programs of work with theIPCC, and the provision of a forum to which the IPCC can offer its advice forformal, collective evaluation and certification by the regime in addition to itsinterpretation and use by individual governments.

One of the principle challenges of cross-domain orchestration, particu-larly in global contexts, is the multiplicity of audiences to which knowledgemust ultimately appear credible—and the multiplicity of expectations andprocedures for assessing truthfulness that may therefore be in play.9 Cer-tainly, this is the case with methods for measuring greenhouse gas emissionsas they have emerged in different national contexts. The United States, forexample, employs a consulting firm to research the relevant scientific litera-ture and to produce, in conjunction with one individual at the EnvironmentalProtection Agency and another at the Department of Energy, a nationalinventory. In Germany, by contrast, the emissions inventory process has beenassigned to the same agency that measures all other forms of air pollution—and the extensive norms and procedures of this activity have been expandedto greenhouse gases. Along other lines, considerable conflict has emergedbetween U.S. and Indian scientists regarding whether the best way to mea-sure methane emissions from rice agriculture is to extensively measure asmall number of sites and extrapolate or to make only a small number of mea-surements at any given site but to measure large numbers of sites.

SBSTA participants have sought to find ways to warrant the credibility ofemissions inventories across multiple audiences and so to enhance the likeli-hood that they will be able to help develop shared understandings and expec-tations of global environmental governance. One approach has been to leave


specific methodological choices up to individual countries that presumablyknow best the requirements for establishing credible statistical informationwithin their own domestic political cultures. Another approach has been toestablish an informal working group in which government delegates cannegotiate, behind closed doors, with each other and with representatives ofexpert groups, a wide variety of issues concerning measurement standards. Athird approach has been to establish the formal authority of the SBSTA tomake rules regarding measurement standards through consensus voting. Inthis manner, the normative weight of collective agreement helps buttress thecredibility of value-laden choices. Still another has been to regularly seek theadvice of IPCC expert working groups regarding the construction of defaultmeasurement standards against which countries are asked to explicitly com-pare their own methods to enhance the transparency of their choices (seeMiller 2001).

Conclusion

The relationship between science and politics has become increasinglysophisticated over the past half-century. Three features of this growingsophistication stand out. First, the relatively simple institutional landscape ofearlier eras, in which scientists inhabited the laboratory and public officialsthe legislature and bureaucracy, has grown increasingly complex as a widevariety of novel institutional forms—what we have termed boundary organi-zations in this special issue—has emerged, each of which mixes elements ofscience and politics. Second, it has become increasingly obvious that neitherscience nor politics has a monopoly on truth or power. Rather, the construc-tion of objective knowledge and authoritative orderings of society requireincreasingly nuanced arrangements that orchestrate activities in the worlds ofboth science and politics. Finally, the discourses, material artifacts, and insti-tutions that increasingly populate all three domains are hybrids, complexmixtures of facts and values.

I have argued in this article that a promising approach for analyzing theincreasingly sophisticated relationship between science and politics is toview it as a process of hybrid management—the work of putting together andtaking apart these hybrids, orchestrating their use across multiple forms oflife, and bounding and demarcating their relevant domains of authority. Byhelping to manage hybrids—like the methods for counting greenhouse gasemissions that I discussed above—boundary organizations contribute, Ibelieve, to the maintenance of a productive tension between science and poli-tics in modern society.


Exploring processes of hybrid management offers three important advan-tages in the analysis of science policy. First, it offers a descriptive languagethat explicitly confronts and emphasizes the value-laden character of policy-relevant scientific knowledge and expertise.10 The work of scholars of sci-ence studies over the past three decades has provided thick descriptions of therich, textured landscape of science in practice. To date, however, these depic-tions have largely remained absent from discussions of science policy, notbecause scientists and public officials do not also recognize the complexity oftheir own practices but because of a lack of appropriate vocabulary for mak-ing sense of those activities.

Second, it offers a new avenue for exploring power relationships in con-temporary society, especially in the rapidly changing and informal worlds ofglobal diplomacy and governance. Power, as we know from the work ofFoucault and others, derives as much from the ability to classify and charac-terize nature as it does from the ability to order human relations. Indeed, thetwo frequently go hand-in-hand. What emerges from this study is that theclassification of national responsibility for greenhouse gas emissions is notsimply the product of some hegemonic agent. Neither scientists nor govern-ment officials monopolized the production of inventory methods. Nor, forthat matter, did any single country, such as the United States. Indeed, on sev-eral occasions, representatives from small countries with little in the way ofeconomic, military, or scientific might made significant contributions tomethodological innovations. Power, then, is something that is located withinthe SBSTA’s activities but in more complex arrangements than theorists ofinternational relations generally recognize.

Finally, it offers important insights into the moral economy of emergingstructures of global governance, particularly as they relate to issues of trustand credibility. As Shapin (1994) has eloquently observed, credibility isdynamically constituted as people and institutions develop new forms ofsocial relationships. As global governing regimes implicate ever more centralfeatures of modern economies—such as the production of energy and foodand the transportation of goods and people—they will need to build increas-ingly strong ties to the publics of many nations. Differences in political cul-ture from country to country seem likely to complicate these relationshipseven further.

What processes of hybrid management, like the construction of methodsfor measuring emissions of greenhouse gases in the SBSTA, offer are sites forinvestigating what works and what does not work as government officials,scientists, and others search for ways of bridging national differences to cre-ate globally credible governing regimes.


Notes

1. Sheila Jasanoff (1996b) has eloquently argued this point:

With the growing saliency of issues such as hunger, disease, environmental decay,and international security, the world community appears increasingly to have pinnedits hopes for the future on the accumulation of technical information. Experts play anever more influential role in defining and controlling fundamental social problems.Not only are their knowledge and know-how deemed essential for managing ourmost pressing problems, but science, because of its claims to value-neutrality, seemsto provide the only forum where nations can set aside their differences in favor of acommon, rationalistic approach to problem solving. To “scientize” an issue is at onceto assert that there are systematic, discoverable methods for coping with it and to sug-gest that these approaches can be worked out independently of national or sectarianinterests. Science represents for many the only universal discourse available in amultiply fragmented world. (P. 173)

2. Comparative studies of regulatory politics illustrate that even Western democracies differdramatically in how they institutionalize expert advice. Cultural specificity in the incorporationof science into policy often reflects, in such cases, constitutional aspects of social order, includ-ing the distribution of power between legislative, executive, judicial, and scientific institutions aswell as norms and practices for assessing such questions as to what constitutes legitimate knowl-edge, who is entitled to speak for nature, and how much deference science commands relative toother ways of knowing (Jasanoff 1986, 1995, 1997a; Brickman, Jasanoff, and Ilgen 1985).

3. The climate regime has emerged in recent years as an important focus of geopoliticalconflict in the arena of environment and development, with competing interpretations of climatescience playing key roles in many of the disputes. In this article, I use the term climate regime torefer to the suite of social, political, scientific, and economic networks and institutions (both for-mal and informal) that have emerged in response to human threats to the earth’s climate system(see Miller and Edwards 2001).

4. Guston (2000) notes that the goal of boundary organization theory is “to examine thatboundary between politics and science and, at least intellectually, expand it into a space that canbe explored and explained.” Nonetheless, much of the book’s treatment of science policy contin-ues to focus on boundaries—almost by definition, relatively narrow lines that differentiateneighboring entities (see, e.g., pp. 30, 58-59, 70, 149). I would suggest that the continued use ofthe language and imagery of boundaries serves to undermine rather than reinforce efforts to con-struct alternative geographies and to more accurately describe the social and institutional land-scape of modern societies.

5. Jasanoff and Wynne (1998) offer a theoretically informed discussion of the role of sci-ence in the climate regime. See also the contributions to Miller and Edwards (2001).

6. For a deeper discussion of this argument, see Miller (2001).7. For further information about the U.N. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, see

Miller (forthcoming), Shackley and Wynne (1995), and Boehmer-Christiansen (1994).8. To be sure, facts and values cannot be separated. What deconstruction offers is the possi-

bility of making value choices explicit in the production of scientific knowledge and its use toinform policy making.

9. For enlightening discussions of credibility, see particularly Shapin (1994, 1996) andJasanoff (1991).

10. I am indebted to an anonymous reviewer for this point.


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Clark Miller is an assistant professor of public affairs and science studies in the LaFollette School of Public Affairs at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. Previously, heheld postdoctoral and faculty positions at Cornell, Harvard, and Iowa State. He is theeditor (with Paul Edwards) of Changing the Atmosphere: Expert Knowledge and Envi-ronmental Governance.


Science, Technology, & Human ValuesDrake and Purvis / Supersonic Transports

The Effect of Supersonic Transports on theGlobal Environment: A Debate Revisited

Frances DrakeMartin Purvis

University of Leeds

Initial moves to develop a new generation of commercial supersonic transports (SSTs) tosucceed Concorde are already under way. Aircraft manufacturers promise a plane thatwill withstand both economic and environmental scrutiny. Yet, the crash of an Air FranceConcorde at Paris in July 2000 has caused further doubts about the viability of SSTs.This study revisits the previous debate surrounding Concorde to explore the potential forcurrent initiatives to overcome the public’s anxiety of further environmental degrada-tion. This article seeks, therefore, to examine the role that environmental issues and cam-paign groups played in the development of the first generation of SSTs, concentrating onthe influence of global environmental arguments on political decision making. Debatesurrounding the global environmental impact of SSTs foreshadows later attention tohuman impact at the planetary scale. It provides the first illustration of the often complexlinks between attempted protection of the global environment and political and publicperceptions of national vested interests.

In the mid-1980s, a decade after Concorde first flew commercially, air-craft manufacturers began pressing for the development of a new generationof supersonic transports (SSTs). It was claimed that such a plane would beneeded to meet increasing consumer demand for long-distance travel, partic-ularly between Japan, China, and the United States (Cross 1986). Advancesin technology were projected to halve the cost of supersonic travel, increas-ing its commercial viability (Cross 1986; Orlebar 1986). Ten years later, con-sortia of international aircraft manufacturers undertook feasibility studies inpursuit of these claims (Butterworthhayes 1994; Hadfield 2000; Owen1989). Initial testing of the new technology that will underpin the next gener-ation of SSTs has seen cooperation between the U.S. National Aeronautics

AUTHORS’ NOTE: We would like to thank the anonymous reviewers for comments that haveenhanced this article.


501

and Space Administration (NASA) and Russian authorities using the existingRussian supersonic plane, the Tupolev TU 144 (Yorkshire Post, 18 March1996).

The prospect of a new generation of SSTs has renewed attention to “thechallenge of designing a faster, greener supersonic plane” (Iannotta 1997,40). Promoters of SSTs, mainly the aircraft manufacturers, stress the poten-tial technological advantages that would derive from such investment, argu-ing also that the finances of research and development would be far morefavorable than was the case in the 1960s and 1970s. Even the question ofenvironmental damage, in particular potential depletion of the stratosphericozone layer, is asserted to be resolvable through technology. It might be ques-tioned, however, whether this confidence is born of an objective assessmentof either the potential for environmental change or the environmental debatethat surrounded the first generation of SSTs. Prompted by discussion of thenew SSTs, Claude Lenseigne, chief engineer of supersonic transport atAérospatiale, the French manufacturer of Concorde, is said to recall thatquestions about its environmental impact “were never raised” (Patel 1993,36). This seems surprising, and it generated comment from both pro- andanti-Concorde lobbies (Cox 1993; Edwards 1993). If past events are to berecruited in current arguments in this way and veteran opponents of SSTs arealso rehearsing their version of history (Wiggs 1998), it seems appropriate tomake a fuller and more balanced assessment of the importance that environ-mental issues and environmental interest groups had in shaping the fate of thefirst generation of SSTs.

While the effect of SSTs on the global environment are well recognizedtoday, the scale of that impact remains uncertain (Benedick 1991; Brenton1994; Good 1987). This has lead British member of Parliament (MP) and sci-entific commentator Tam Dalyell (1997) to comment that “we should deter-mine exactly what effects such planes would have on the planet’s atmospherebefore a new fleet of SSTs are built” (p. 48). This invocation of the precau-tionary principle (O’Riordan and Jordan 1996) seems a lone voice, and it isnoteworthy that Dalyell’s words echo a much earlier editorial in the LondonTimes, on 15 June 1971, that also called for research to be undertaken in theUnited Kingdom into the effects of Concorde on the atmosphere: “Beforecommercial supersonic travel is accepted, Governments and people will needto be satisfied that irreversible damage is not going to be the result.” The inter-vening years have done little to solve the problem or change the view of howscience should inform the debate.

To discuss the totality of the development of SSTs would be impossible ina short article, and the economic dimension has been discussed at length else-where (Edwards and Edwards 1972; Wilson 1973). Here, we focus on the


political decision to develop the first generation of SSTs and on the ensuingglobal environmental debate. In this, we pay particular attention to experi-ence in the United States, Britain, and France, any record of opinion andevents in the Soviet Union, the fourth state centrally involved in the develop-ment of the first-generation SSTs, being far less accessible. We will explorethe recruitment of science to serve specific commercial and political interestsand the ways in which public awareness of the environmental and scientificevidence shaped the wider debate. The article examines, in different nationalcontexts, the importance of relationships between governments and scienceand technology in the execution of large industrial projects with the potentialto impact the global environment.

The Development of the First Generation of SSTs

An Outline History

Consideration of the development of a commercial SST began in the1950s. At this time, only the United States, the Soviet Union, France, andBritain were in a position to compete in such a high-technology area(Feldman 1985). They were also the only states with extensive experience ofmilitary supersonic flight. The British and French aircraft industries had beenindependently developing plans for a commercial SST, but they were alreadymoving gradually toward a similar design, strengthening the rationale forcollaboration (Calvert 1989). However, it was the British and French govern-ments, not the aircraft manufacturers, that on 29 November 1962 agreed tothe joint development of a SST. This act identified Concorde, as it was to becalled, as a political initiative rather than a purely commercial project. In June1963, President Kennedy announced the American decision to build a com-mercial SST. The Soviet Union had also been making plans, and on a visit toMoscow in 1963, Julian Amery, British aviation minister, was shown a modelof the TU 144, the Soviet commercial SST. Its design was remarkably similarto the Anglo-French Concorde, which led to it being nicknamed “Concordski”by the British press (Reed 1973).

In America, three aircraft manufacturers—Boeing, Lockheed, and NorthAmerican Aviation—were in competition to design an SST. On 31 December1966, the U.S. government chose the Boeing plan for further development(Calvert 1989; Wilson 1973). The Soviet plane was designed and built amidmuch secrecy, but at great speed, and was the first SST to take to the air, on 31December 1968. The Anglo-French SST was close behind: Concorde 001(the French prototype) made its maiden flight on 2 March 1969 and Concorde

Drake and Purvis / Supersonic Transports 503

002 (the British prototype) on 9 April 1969. By contrast, the Boeing projectnever progressed beyond a plywood mockup. It was effectively canceled inMay 1971 by the refusal of the American government to provide further pub-lic funds for project development. By December 1971, the British and Frenchwere jointly committed to producing sixteen planes, and they had optionsfrom airlines for a further seventy-four. However, this latter total was muchlower than the hundreds of options projected at the height of initial enthusi-asm for Concorde (Edwards and Edwards 1972). An increasing number ofairlines were expressing doubts about the commercial viability of SSTs,given the large initial capital costs and relatively small market of customersprepared to pay premium prices for supersonic travel. The difficulties experi-enced by Concorde’s promoters were increased by a general downturn in air-line markets and the beginnings of economic recession, which would beexacerbated by the oil crisis of 1973-74. Airlines increasingly favored devel-opments based on the newly launched Boeing 747, offering cheap seat pricesfor large volume markets (Braun, Collingridge, and Hinton 1979). Even thereduced total of seventy-four options began to look overoptimistic by 1973.Worse was to follow for the promoters of supersonic travel. At the Paris airshow of 1973, a TU 144 prototype crashed, killing all crew members and sev-eral people on the ground.

Nevertheless, the Soviet aircraft was the first supersonic airliner to entercommercial service, on 26 December 1975. Concorde followed, with thesimultaneous takeoff of the British and French planes on 21 January 1976.Apart from general problems with range and the ratio of fuel-to-passengercapacity, Concorde found it particularly difficult to establish itself commer-cially on the lucrative routes to the United States. Even though initial prob-lems regarding the granting of American landing rights were overcome rela-tively speedily, Concorde was never allowed to fly supersonically over landand could not, therefore, compete commercially with the cheaper Boeing747. As a result, Concorde was quickly labeled an economic and operatingfailure. By 1978, production had stopped; only two prototypes and fourteencommercial planes had been built. Ultimately, the French and British govern-ments wrote off the development and production costs, estimated in 1980 tobe $3 billion (Owen 1989), allowing Air France and British Airways to oper-ate Concorde at a profit (Cross 1986). As a result, judgments about Concordebegan to be revised from the late 1980s, with its supporters arguing morestrongly that the project should be regarded as a financial, as well as techni-cal, success (Good 1987; Macilwain 1993). For its opponents, however, thepursuit of supersonic travel remains an expensive fantasy (Wiggs 1998, 55).


Building SSTs: The Political Decision

The first generations of SSTs were all essentially state-sponsored pro-jects. It seems appropriate, therefore, to begin by examining the political con-text in which decisions were made about investment in the development ofsupersonic travel. The immediate postwar era was marked by a continuingbelief in the value of science and technology. Developments seen as the war-time saviors of the free world were to be channeled to the provision of humanneeds under peace (Hennessy 1992). Politicians shared in the general beliefthat technological and scientific supremacy was vital to economic well-being, but the political vision that informed investment in SSTs rested moreon a search for individual national advantage than on any collective promo-tion of economic or technological progress. Political and technological rival-ries, and the association between civil and military aviation ventures, led tothe initiation of several different SST projects.

The United States and the USSR, engaged in global struggle for politicaland military influence, invested heavily in science and technology to bothincrease their external economic and strategic reach and improve the internalintegration of already extensive territorial possessions (Feldman 1985). Incontrast, the old imperial powers of France and Britain sought to curb the ero-sion of their global status; science and technology could bring economicrebirth, decrease dependence on the United States, and provide a new focusfor national pride (Feldman 1985; Wilson 1973). In the United States, theNational Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, the forerunner to NASA, wasdedicated to developing U.S. aeronautics. One of the founding principles ofNASA in 1958 was to maintain the Unites States’ leading role in aeronauticsand space science (McIntyre 1992). In the years immediately after the Sec-ond World War, the United States dominated the world aircraft industry,building up to 90 percent of the aircraft in commercial use (Reed 1973). How-ever, the technological leadership that this implied was beginning to appearvulnerable to the threat of Soviet investment in both military aviation andspace technology (Calvert 1989). It was out of rivalry in these latter contextsthat the race to build commercial SSTs developed. Under the Soviet system,aviation development was necessarily a state-sponsored project. But even inthe United States, such was the political commitment to this form of techno-logical advance that the investment of public funds in research and develop-ment seemed essential (Calvert 1989; Rosenbloom 1981).

If Cold War rivalries precluded East-West collaboration in expensivehigh-technology projects, there were also political reasons why transatlantic


cooperation was also out of the question. An Anglo-American alliance musthave seemed the most logical partnership. However, the British aircraftindustry had seen its self-perceived prewar eminence slip away to the Ameri-cans in a series of failures and cancellations (Reed 1973). The world’s firstcommercial jet passenger plane, the De Haviland Comet, had been developedin Britain in the early 1950s. Yet this lead was lost when two crashes due tometal fatigue held up British aviation while the American industry capital-ized on the development (Reed 1973; Wilson 1973). After abandoning itsown missile program in favor of purchasing American ones, Britain was lefthigh and dry when the United States canceled the Skybolt missile in 1962.The SST was a chance for the British industry to break free of its reliance onthe United States (Feldman 1985). France too was keen to be independent ofAmerica. As president from 1958 to 1969, Charles de Gaulle dominatedFrench foreign and domestic policy. Championing of French political, mili-tary, and technological independence was embodied in prestige productssuch as Concorde. De Gaulle admired American enthusiasm and zeal but alsogave voice to the anti-Americanism that was more widely apparent in France.In particular, de Gaulle despised what he saw as the American “financial bot-tom line” mentality (Thompson 1994, 15). It was impossible, however, thatthe French state aircraft industry, even revitalized by a postwar injection oftalented young designers and managers, could alone challenge Americandominance of the global aircraft industry (Ardagh 1977; Larkin 1988). Thisrealization, and the importance placed on science and technology for eco-nomic success, was central to the French desire for a strong and collaborativeEuropean aerospace industry. Concorde was the first project to embody thisnew spirit of cooperation, but it was collaboration born of technical andfinancial necessity. Even though de Gaulle disdained Britain almost as muchas he disdained the United States, Britain was the logical partner, not leastbecause the only available engine suitable for an SST was the British-builtBristol-Siddeley Olympus from Rolls-Royce (Calvert 1989).

Britain had its own reasons for welcoming Anglo-French collaboration inthe early 1960s. Prime Minister Harold Macmillan was attempting to negoti-ate British entry into the European Economic Community (EEC), andConcorde is often cited as an attempt to overcome French opposition to thisultimately unsuccessful bid (Calvert 1989; Edwards and Edwards 1972;Reed 1973). In this context, entry into a treaty to build a supersonic airlinerbound by international law and with no get-out clause is open to a variety ofinterpretations. At one level, it was meant as a signal to France of the wider


British commitment to European cooperation. But the rigor of the treaty wasalso a reflection of a degree of mutual distrust; Britain feared that Francemight renege on the deal once it had obtained parity with British technology.This would cause further difficulties for a British aircraft industry that hadalready suffered as a result of political decisions to cancel previous militaryprojects (Reed 1973). The guaranteed development of a commercial SSTwould protect the industry, even at the cost of erosion of its technical superi-ority over its French counterpart. The French were equally distrustful of Brit-ish intentions and sought, particularly, to prevent any third-party collabora-tion involving the United States (Feldman 1985). This reflected de Gaulle’sbroader mistrust of Britain’s “special relationship” with the United States.Indeed, it was his perception of Britain as “America’s Trojan horse”(Costigliola 1994, 180) that reinforced de Gaulle’s determination to opposeBritish entry into the EEC in January 1963. De Gaulle’s doubts were proba-bly well founded, as Wilson (1973) reports that America put continual pres-sure on the British Conservative government, and on the succeeding Laborgovernment, to withdraw from the Concorde agreement. It was probably onlythe lack of a get-out clause in the Concorde treaty, ironically at the insistenceof British Aviation Minister Julian Amery, that saved the SST project fromBritish cancellation at this early stage (Reed 1973).

British doubts were not immediately assuaged. In 1964, during the earlymonths of Harold Wilson’s first administration, a Labor government strug-gling with a weak economy and a sterling crisis again actively explored theprospect of cancellation. It was held back, however, by the prospect of deGaulle successfully suing Britain for £100 million in the international courts(Benn 1987; Reed 1973). Budget cuts were instead achieved by abandoningthe TSR-2 fighter-bomber. The French concealed any desire on their part tocancel. It has been suggested that as early as 1965 the French Ministry ofFinance advanced an economic argument for abandonment of the project(Feldman 1985). This was a conclusion echoed a year later in an authoritativeprivate report authored by aviation expert Henri Ziegler. Shortly afterward,Ziegler was appointed as director general of Sud Aviation, later incorporatedinto Aérospatiale, and although his doubts about Concorde were not immedi-ately assuaged, he did eventually become one of the project’s strongest sup-porters (Feldman 1985; McIntyre 1992). Ironically, it would appear that thedesire of one country to cancel never coincided with a similar will on the partof the other (Feldman 1985). The treaty had made unilateral withdrawalalmost impossible and locked France and Britain into the development of acommercial SST.


The Development of theGlobal Environmental Debate

The Scientific Evidence

Initially, the technological and military imperatives propelling the devel-opment of SSTs overshadowed other considerations. However, it quicklybecame apparent that the projects would raise environmental concerns, chiefamong these being noise pollution and the effect of the exhaust fumes on theatmosphere. The issue of noise dominated the debate up to 1970. Indeed, it isclear that the entire industry was aware of the problem well before any SSTwas constructed. A symposium held in 1961 on supersonic air transport,attended by all major airlines and supporting industries, specifically dis-cussed the problem of noise. Attempts were made to define acceptable noiselevels and what might be done to diffuse public opposition. It was recognizedeven at this early stage that the sonic boom was “a key problem . . . [that]might well determine . . . the actual economic feasibility and acceptability ofthe commercial supersonic aircraft” (International Air Transport Association1961, 16).

Here, however, we will concentrate on the growing recognition of a globaldimension to environmental impacts of SSTs as an early instance of what hasbecome an increasing preoccupation with global environmental change. Thefirst concerns regarding the atmospheric impacts of SSTs centered onexhaust emissions of water vapor into the stratosphere (the part of the atmo-sphere lying roughly twelve to fifty kilometers above the earth’s surface). In1966, a report by the American National Academy of Science (NAS) con-cluded that any changes in the amount of water vapor in the stratospherecaused by SSTs could lead to climate change. Its authors calculated that afivefold increase in the amount of water vapor would lead to a two-degree-Celsius increase in surface temperatures (NAS 1966) and a small decrease instratospheric temperatures (Manabe and Weatherald 1967). Such tempera-ture change may be compared with more recent concerns about global warm-ing, being toward the lower end of the spectrum of current projections of theeffects of a doubling of the concentration of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere(Houghton et al. 1996). However, by 1970, the focus of scientific concern hadshifted away from climate to speculation about damage to the stratosphericozone layer (Singer 1971).

The significance of the ozone layer is now much more widely appreciatedthan was the case thirty years ago. This relates to its capacity to absorb ultra-violet radiation, the most carcinogenic part of the solar spectrum, thus pro-tecting the surface of the earth from harmful solar radiation. The ozone layer


undergoes a natural cycle of creation and destruction that on a global average,maintains a dynamic equilibrium. Chapman (1930) developed a very basicunderstanding of this cycle in 1930. By the time of the debate surroundingSSTs, it was already known that chemicals formed from water vapor playedan important part in the natural cycle of destruction of ozone (Bates andNicolet 1950). It had also been recognized that nitrogen oxides couldenhance ozone destruction (Bates and Hays 1967; Crutzen 1970). Watervapor, carbon monoxides, and nitrogen oxides are part of the exhaust prod-ucts of all aircraft. However, the subsonic commercial aircraft in use in the1960s and 1970s all flew in the troposphere (the atmosphere below twelvekilometer altitude). Planned fleets of SSTs flying at higher altitudes raised anew prospect of exhaust products being emitted directly into the stratosphere.Moreover, the lack of vertical atmospheric mixing ensures that exhaust prod-ucts released into the stratosphere will remain there, creating the potential forenhanced catalytic destruction of the ozone layer.

In the United States, these environmental concerns contributed to a grow-ing political debate regarding the development of SSTs (Rosenbloom 1981).Richard Nixon, in his presidential election campaign of 1967, promised to“arm the people with the truth” about SSTs (Wilson 1973, 81). Consequently,scientific evidence about the effects of SSTs on the environment wasincluded in a wide-ranging commission on SST development set up by Nixonafter his election. This commission reported to the president in April 1970(Wilson 1973), and its proceedings were published in October 1970 (Calvert1989). A variety of problems were covered, including a study of the potentialthreat to the ozone layer from water vapor emitted by SSTs (Wilson andMatthews 1971). However, it was Johnston’s findings associated with thisreport that received the greatest publicity. He used, as did most studies, theFederal Aviation Administration projection that by 1985 there would be 500supersonic aircraft cruising in the stratosphere for an average of seven hoursper day; of these, 334 would have four engines, and the remainder twoengines. Johnston (1971) estimated that the total amount of nitrogen oxideemitted by the aircraft could significantly enhance the destruction of theozone layer, halving its thickness. Concern was further increased by the pre-diction that a 1 percent decrease in the ozone layer would permit increasedpenetration of ultraviolet radiation to the earth’s surface, sufficient to causean additional ten thousand cases of skin cancer per year in the United States(McDonald 1971).

These anxieties inspired further studies, many of which did not reportuntil after the cancellation of the American SST. Ironically, the vast majoritysuggested that Johnston’s initial findings had overestimated the atmosphericthreat from SSTs. In general terms, the studies fell into two groups.


Atmospheric modelers, predominantly American, while concurring thatSSTs would damage the ozone layer, frequently projected levels of depletionmuch less dramatic than the 50 percent predicted by Johnston (Alyea,Cunnold, and Prinn 1975; Crutzen 1972; Hesstvedt 1974; Hidalgo andCrutzen 1977; McElroy et al. 1974). Other studies, by both European andNorth American scientists, using nuclear weapons testing as a comparison,were apparently even more reassuring, effectively dismissing the notion thatSSTs would pose a threat to the ozone layer (Foley and Ruderman 1973;Goldsmith et al. 1973; Hampson 1974).

In July 1970, the U.S. Congress requested that the Department of Trans-portation report the effects of SSTs. This was done under the Climatic ImpactAssessment Program (CIAP). Britain and France followed this lead withtheir own groups, the Committee on the Meteorological Effects of Strato-spheric Aircraft (COMESA) and the Comité d’Études sur les Conséquencesdes Vols Stratosphèrique (COVOS). These large-scale scientific studies intothe effects of SSTs on the ozone layer, although instigated in the early 1970s,did not report until commercial services had started (CIAP 1974; COMESA1975; COVOS 1976). The number of proposed supersonic aircraft had, bythis time, dropped dramatically to only thirty-five in 1977. All these simulta-neous studies concluded that such a small fleet flying at a height of seventeenkilometers would have a negligible effect on the ozone layer but that theimpact of any future larger fleet, or one flying at higher altitudes, would needmonitoring (Department of Environment 1977). This consensus wouldappear to have settled the issue, but each report was also asked to estimatehow many planes (with the same flight characteristics) would cause a 0.5 per-cent reduction in stratospheric ozone over the northern hemisphere. Theresults (see Table 1) reveal a stark contrast between the American and Euro-pean estimates. The difference between these studies, undertaken at the sametime, is most likely due to the reaction rates chosen. The Americans used


Table 1. Estimated Number of Supersonic Transports Requiredto Reduce Stratospheric Ozone by 0.5 Percent

Climatic Impact Assessment Program (United States) 120National Academy of Science (United States) 79Committee on the Meteorological Effects of StratosphericAircraft (United Kingdom) 435

Comité d’Études sur les Conséquences des Vols Stratosphèrique(France) 326

SOURCE: Department of Environment (1977).NOTE: Planes flying at an altitude of 16.5 kilometers for 4.4 hours a day, burning 19,000kilograms of fuel per hour, emitting 18 grams of NO2 per kilogram of fuel burned.

extreme values estimating the worse case, whereas the British used a meanvalue (no rate was given for the COVOS estimate). It is interesting that theAmericans should chose to use the maximum value; this demonstrates thedifference between the American and European approach. After these large-scale studies, scientific interest appeared to ebb until 1990. At this point, therenewed attention was driven by both the possibility of a new generation ofSSTs and the potential impact of aircraft on global warming.

Public Awareness

Interest and campaigning groups that could broadly be defined as environ-mental have been evident since the mid-nineteenth century in both Europeand North America. However, Cotgrove’s (1982) analysis of the UnitedKingdom suggests that only since the 1960s has a new breed of environmen-talists sought “direct political action” (p. 3). Pepper (1984) notes that envi-ronmental concerns in the United Kingdom and the United States reached apeak between 1967 and 1974, a chronology that is potentially interestingbecause of its coincidence with the research and development of SSTs. How-ever, in France, manifestations of environmental concern appeared some-what later, a product of the aftermath of the student movement of May 1968and a broader disenchantment with the political process during the mid-1970s (Prendiville 1994). The nature of the Soviet system effectively pre-cluded any form of popular protest.

Initially, protest against localized noise pollution mobilized public oppo-sition to SSTs. Concerns about noise received press coverage as early as1963, including attention to both airport noise on takeoff and landing and thesonic boom caused by the aircraft in flight (Calvert 1989). In the UnitedKingdom, a series of anti-Concorde articles appeared in the Observer news-paper during 1966, resulting in the foundation of the Anti-Concorde Project,the first organized opposition to SSTs. British sonic-boom tests, carried outthe following year, generated further protests, including letters to the Times,which enabled the Anti-Concorde Project to gain further support (Reed1973). Similarly, it was the results of sonic-boom tests conducted in theUnited States in 1965 and 1966 that largely inspired American opposition tothe development of SSTs. Strategic organization began in 1967 with thelaunch of the Citizens League against the Sonic Boom (CLASB)(Rosenbloom 1981). In France, too, there was an anti-SST organization, theAssociation Nationale contre les Bangs Supersoniques, based in Paris(Crutzen 1972). However, the profile of this group does not appear to havematched its British and American counterparts. Indeed, Reed (1973) com-ments that sonic-boom tests over southwest France apparently generated


little response. Individually, none of the anti-SST organizations appear tohave had a significant membership; early in its career, in 1967, CLASB num-bered 1,475 members, and in 1973 the Anti-Concorde Project had 2,500 affil-iates (Reed 1973; Rosenbloom 1981). However, the groups did attempt towork together, and with other environmental groups throughout the world, toincrease their impact (Crutzen 1972; Rosenbloom 1981).

Several features of these opposition groups are typical of the environmen-tal movement of the time. The focus on the immediate noise problem marrieswell with the concerns of other emergent environmental groups, which alsoconcentrated on locally specific issues. Even the antinuclear group Cam-paign for Nuclear Disarmament was initially more concerned with particularsites than with a global agenda (Cotgrove 1982). This restricted focus is not,however, surprising. The broader picture of the interconnectedness of sci-ence and the environment had yet to develop in the public consciousness(Sandbach 1980). The anti-SST groups were predominantly made up of the“affluent and educated middle classes” (Pepper 1984, 15), again a character-istic of the 1960s environmental movement. Furthermore, Sandbach (1980)notes the “close tie between environmentalism and the anti-science move-ment of the 1960s” (p. 21). The anti-SST groups are often portrayed by thosein favor of SSTs as being antiscience and antitechnology, having a member-ship largely drawn from literary and artistic circles (Reed 1973). In contrast,however, Prendiville (1994) notes that the environmental movement inFrance has always been heavily influenced by a “scientific activist base”(p. 11).

The most vocal anti-SST groups, those in the United Kingdom and theUnited States, both displayed ecocentric tendencies (O’Riordan 1981); how-ever, they were quite prepared to reinforce their arguments with reference tothe emergent scientific evidence regarding the atmospheric impacts of SSTs.This is apparent in the advertisements and letters emanating from anti-SSTcampaigners, which appeared in such prominent newspapers as the LondonTimes and the New York Times. Significantly, however, the editorial contentof these same papers suggests that there was no active attempt by the media toobtain or report the opinion of the various campaign groups. Indeed, there areparallels here with more general observations of the traditionally restrictedrange of sources tapped by journalists in reporting environmental themes andthe bias toward “expert” information provided through the conventionalchannels of the political and scientific establishment (Anderson 1997;Hansen 1993). The voice of industry was also muted in press reporting ofdebate concerning the environmental, and specifically the atmospheric,effects of SSTs. A search for relevant coverage in the Times and New YorkTimes during the key years of the early 1970s reveals only two instances in


which sustained attention was devoted to the environmental perspective ofsenior scientific and managerial figures working within the aircraft industry.Even then, the message contained ambiguities. The blunt assertion from Dr.W. J. Strang, then director of the Filton Division of the British Aircraft Cor-poration, that “there is no chance of sudden, irreversible atmosphericchanges with SSTs” (Times, 11 February 1971) may be contrasted with theuncertainty, and perhaps embarrassment, associated with the report that aBoeing scientist had initially concurred with assessments that SSTs were asource of damage to the ozone layer, before later changing his mind (NewYork Times, 27 August 1970).1

Both newspapers did, however, report key elements of the academic scien-tific debate surrounding the atmospheric effects of exhaust emissions fromSSTs. In the New York Times, it was the concerns raised by Johnston (1971)and McDonald (1971) that received the greatest attention (e.g., New YorkTimes, 3 March 1971, 19 March 1971, 18 May 1971, 30 May 1971, 5 Novem-ber 1971, 19 November 1972). By contrast, a more reassuring message fromBritish scientists was covered by the London Times, which, for example,quoted John Houghton’s assertion that “talk about life on Earth being burntup is a lot of nonsense” (Times, 27 August 1971). There are indications hereof broader differences in the manner in which scientific information wasreviewed and presented to the general public by these two representatives ofthe British and American press. Attention to the tone and language of presscoverage of the global environmental implications of SSTs suggests that theLondon Times derived a less negative message from its engagement with thescientific discourse than did its New York counterpart. An outline of thesedifferences may be sketched by applying a simple binary distinction betweenthe acknowledgment and denial of the negative in press coverage to both thevocabulary of newspaper headlines—as an immediate means of setting thetone of a report—and the general pitch of the article. Both of these dimen-sions of journalistic coverage (advertisements and letters were excluded)suggest a degree of balance, or perhaps ambivalence, in coverage by the Lon-don Times. Of the 27 articles identified during the first half of the 1970s, 33percent drew upon research that was broadly reassuring about the atmo-spheric effects of SSTs, while 30 percent focused chiefly on the seriousnessof the global potential for environmental damage. By comparison, the bal-ance of coverage in the New York Times was more negative; 38 percent of thetwenty-four articles presented SSTs as an environmental threat, whereas only17 percent offered a more reassuring scientific opinion. The sense created bythe headlines to these stories was very similar. The London Times displayed abalance between those article that contained key words emphasizing the neg-ative potential of atmospheric damage (e.g., “peril,” “hazard,” “threat”) and


those in which the effect was to counter that potential (e.g., “no danger,” “nothreat”). In the New York Times, it was the former that dominated. It is alsonoticeable that a desire to resolve scientific uncertainty emerges rather morestrongly in the American coverage; of the remaining 38 percent of articlesthat cannot be satisfactorily classified as consistently asserting or denyingenvironmental damage, a clear majority indicates the necessity for furtherstudy to identify more precisely the atmospheric impact of SSTs. In the Lon-don Times, this residual category is of almost identical proportions, but onlyone article had the need for further research as its major theme.

It would, of course, be foolish to use such limited evidence as the basis forbold speculation about the different national attitudes of the British andAmerican media and publics. However, it would not be illogical to suggestthat a country that has already invested heavily in the production of a proto-type plane may be less likely to emphasize its potentially negative environ-mental effects than one that is set to cancel its entire project. The tone of cov-erage in the London Times is also a reflection of engagement with elementswithin the British scientific establishment who were critical of what they sawas American alarmism in exaggerating the atmospheric impact of SSTs. Aleading voice in this was Professor R. S. Scorer of Imperial College, whosecontribution to a sixteen-page Times special supplement on Concorde strucka very skeptical tone (Times, 28 November 1972). He returned to this themein a later letter to the newspaper that asserted that there are “many argumentswhich show the theories of Johnston and Crutzen to be fanciful” (Times, 16December 1972). A Times editorial explicitly recognized that “research inthe United States has produced the latest, as indeed it has produced the major-ity of reports of a comparable nature. This is not to deride the findingsbecause of their geographical origins” (Times, 15 June 1971). This was, how-ever, also a somewhat arch acknowledgment of British perceptions of Ameri-can scientific and commercial bias.

The recognition of some of the elements of a transatlantic scientific debatein the London Times is not replicated in the New York Times, which quotedonly American sources. Coverage in the two papers also seems to echoimages generated elsewhere of the differences between British and Americanperspectives on the consequences of environmental change. Hence, the Timesplaced emphasis on the potential for modification of weather and climate,with relatively little reference to direct risks to human health. For the NewYork Times, however, health was a leading issue, with particular attention tothe increased risks of skin cancer that might follow from stratospheric ozonedepletion. As Lovelock (1996) noted with reference to later debate over theimpact of cholorofluorocarbons (CFCs) on the ozone layer, the Americanpublic was “fearful of cancer to an abnormal extent.”


The Public Influence on the Political Decision

In the American political system, information is sometimes deemed to bemuch more freely available to the general public than is the case in France orBritain and certainly more than in the Soviet Union. In theory, this allows theAmerican public greater access to and influence over the processes of gov-ernment. Those protesting against Concorde portrayed this openness ofAmerican government as the fundamental reason why the Americans cameto the right decision and canceled their SST program. They claimed that thesecretive nature of British and French political establishments led to the mis-taken and illogical continuation of the Concorde project (Feldman 1985).However, we will argue that this is a narrow view that fails to take full accountof the broader differences in national cultures and the different ways in whichgovernments and publics interact.

In both the United Kingdom and the United States, it appears that the mostconsistent political opponents of investment in an SST were those of the Left,who saw social and welfare spending as a greater priority. Supporters of SSTdevelopment in the U.S. Congress have been identified as essentially conser-vative with little interest in conservation (Rosenbloom 1981). Those politi-cians who had major aerospace-related contractors (and, therefore, majoremployers) in their home areas were also supportive of the programs (Benn1988; Rosenbloom 1981). However, as Rosenbloom (1981) notes, in theAmerican context, it is difficult to draw simple distinctions between the polit-ical characteristics of supporters and those of opponents of SSTs. In Britain,an interesting example illustrating the difficulties facing politicians was thecase of Tony Benn, a radical Labor MP then sitting as the member for BristolSouth-East. The economic fortunes of Benn’s constituency rested in part onthe employment offered by the British Aircraft Corporation factory at nearbyFilton, the British arm of the Concorde project. As Labor minister of technol-ogy from 1967 to 1970, Benn attempted to limit spending on Concorde aspart of wider government initiatives to reduce public spending and taxation,yet as a constituency MP he was supportive of the project. Indeed, in the early1970s, while a member of the opposition front bench team, Benn champi-oned Concorde’s cause in the fight to secure landing rights in New York(Benn 1987, 1988)

In none of the countries concerned was there a direct vote by the public onthe issue of investment in the development of SSTs, but the level of politicalscrutiny of the process varied in the different states. The development of theSoviet TU 144 was veiled in the greatest state secrecy. However, it was alsothe case in Britain and France that the Concorde project came under militarysupervision and was never subjected to commercial evaluation. Nor did


either country require a parliamentary vote on funding for the project(Feldman 1985). Moreover, the bilateral agreement that underpinnedConcorde’s development granted neither of the two national governments theindividual authority to cancel the project. By comparison, sponsorship of theBoeing SST rested with U.S. authorities alone, and American governmentalcommittees subjected the project to regular scrutiny. It was this process thatgave initial opponents within the U.S. political system the opportunity toslow the pace of development (Rosenbloom 1981). Furthermore, the U.S.Congress was required to vote for the continuation of public funds forresearch and development. This important difference between the Europeanand American development of an SST was in part linked to the different rela-tionships between the national political establishment and the aircraft indus-tries, the subsidy of an individual company (in this case, Boeing) being par-ticularly alien to American politics.

Congressional votes provided an opportunity for an interested public tolobby government; however, such a process requires information. It appearsquestionable, certainly in the early years, whether the United States was anymore open in revealing cost estimates and technical specifications for its SSTthan were Britain and France (Rosenbloom 1981). Therefore, the ability ofthe American, French, and British public to mount any opposition to the pro-ject on financial and technical grounds was very limited at least until the mid-1960s (Edwards and Edwards 1972; Rosenbloom 1981). Hence, what is per-haps surprising in the American case is that the SST project succumbeddespite the ability of aircraft manufacturers themselves to lobby Congresseffectively, a perceived national need for technological supremacy from thegovernment, and a strong commitment from the presidential office. Indeed,congressional support for the American SST program actually grew between1966 and 1969, a reflection perhaps of decision making influenced more bypolitical and strategic considerations than by the economic and technologicalwisdom of developing an SST (Rosenbloom 1981). Despite the activities ofCLASB, environmental concerns about the impact of SSTs had yet to emergeas a significant political issue. However, congressional committees increas-ingly became the focus of questioning of all aspects of the SST program,influenced by wider concerns articulated in the American press and by con-servation bodies (Wilson 1973). From 1970 on, environmental groups wereinstrumental in making the SST a political issue for members of the Senateand Congress. This politicization of large-scale scientific and technical pro-jects in the United States, increasingly prevalent in the 1970s, was to provecrucial (Rosenbloom 1981). In the specific case of the SST, many of its previ-ous congressional supporters, particularly Republicans from the westernstates, changed sides in the vital 1971 vote on funding. This chiefly reflected


their fear that growing public opposition to the SST, attributed to concernsabout its environmental impacts, would cost them their seats at the forthcom-ing election.

The persistence of Britain and France in pursuing the Concorde projecthas elsewhere been attributed particularly to the secretiveness of the two gov-ernments bound together in this joint enterprise. Although both the Frenchand British governments could fairly be accused of secrecy (Feldman 1985),it is clear that the British public did have access to information opposingConcorde’s development from nongovernmental sources. British newspa-pers and journals may not have been as critical of SSTs as their Americancounterparts were, but as early as 1961 the New Scientist published the casemade by Bo Lundberg, director of the Swedish Aeronautical Research Insti-tute, that the sonic boom would preclude supersonic flights over land and thatthe operational economics of SSTs rendered them inviable (Lundberg 1961).By the mid-1960s, the argument had been joined by contributors to the Econ-omist, criticizing the financial aspects of the Concorde project, and debate inthe Observer, where the emphasis was more on environmental dangers(Calvert 1989). The French government certainly perceived the British pressas captious of Concorde; President Pompidou was quoted as observing that“the British Government must not leave us in this affair because of some cam-paigns by newspapers hostile to the Concorde” (Times, 3 October 1970). Aswe have already noted, however, key elements of the British press were mea-sured in their reporting of research regarding the projected global environ-mental impacts of SSTs. In representing the diversity of British scientificopinion, papers such as the Times offered less conclusive support for anti-SST groups than did their American counterparts. Certainly it would appearthat notwithstanding Pompidou’s expressions of concern, and the prevalenceof financial arguments against continued investments in Concorde, the envi-ronmental message had less impact in both Britain and France than it did inthe United States.

European skepticism regarding the environmental case is all the moreunderstandable given the background of the American and Anglo-FrenchSST programs. The human cost of withdrawal from the project was far less inthe United States than in Europe. In 1971, when the Americans canceled theirprogram, around 7,500 workers were laid off. In Britain, it is estimated thatby December 1971 there were some 26,000 skilled workers employed onConcorde, at a time when unemployment was at levels in excess of 1 million,then considered alarmingly high (Reed 1973). As we have suggested above,this was seen as a more potent political issue than environmental concerns,conforming to established conventions regarding the definition of politicaldebate and intervention. The British political system also lends itself rather


less than does the American system to the influence of single-issue cam-paigns and pressure groups. In none of the six British parliamentary generalelections between the initiation of the project in 1963 and its demise in 1979did public opposition to Concorde become an issue that affected the electoralprospects of individual MPs, as it had done for American politicians. Therewere no British or French counterparts to the votes on funding for SSTs thatfocused American political attention on the issue, and indeed, the disciplineof the party political system in Britain does not always lend itself easily to theeffective expression of individual opinions by MPs. Concorde did notbecome a conventional party-political issue more strongly identified with theprogram of one of the two parties of government. Nor could decision makingabout the project become a presidential promise as it did in Nixon’s electioncampaign in the United States. By contrast, in France, the presidential prom-ise was to deliver Concorde.

Although it has been suggested that the French government wished to can-cel Concorde early in its development, there is no documentary evidence ofsuch intent prior to 1970. Even if this idea did crystallize within parts of theFrench political establishment, the overall structure of the national politicalprocess and the conditions of the bilateral treaty with Britain precluded anyreal consideration of the cancellation proposal (Feldman 1985). A broaderdisenchantment with government involvement in expensive prestige projectsdid begin to surface during Pompidou’s presidency and strengthened after theelection of Giscard d’Estang in 1974. But the implications for Concorde werelimited; as one of the new president’s advisers acknowledged, “Concorde isanother such luxury—I’d like to scrap it, but now it’s too late” (Ardagh 1977,120). During this period, it does not appear that French voters saw Concordeas an issue. Indeed, Wilson (1973) claims that the small Radical Party lostvotes as a result of highlighting Concorde’s economic and environmentalproblems. Writing from a French perspective, and with striking similaritiesto the recollections of Claude Lenseigne, which we quoted above at the out-set, Ziegler (1976) claimed that environmental protest against Concorde didnot occur in Europe and happened in the United States only for protectionistreasons. In more general terms, it has been argued that the power of theFrench government, which during the era of de Gaulle extended to censor-ship of a relatively weak media, essentially excluded minority views (Ardagh1977; Larkin 1988; Prendiville 1994). This leaves the public with fewoptions: either direct, and often violent, confrontation or a feeling of power-lessness and that “les autres” should do something (Ardagh 1977). Perhapsthe latter is most strongly evident in the lack of French public outrage at afatal incident in which the sonic booms created by military aircraft caused thecollapse of a barn on a picnic party (Reed 1973). Neither the French press nor


elements within the wider public seem to have seen particular interest oradvantage in protesting against the development of SSTs in France. Environ-mental campaigning was generally later in development in France than inBritain or the United States and arrived too late to affect the progress ofConcorde.

In the United States, the decisions of France and Britain regarding theirrespective SST programs were essentially political. The differences in out-come reflect not just the nature of the national government but also wider cul-tural contexts, including the varying degrees to which environmental issuesbecame politicized. But to an extent, the histories of the several SST projectsare intertwined; there is an international as well as an intranational politics ofdecision making about SST development. We have already highlighted someof the ways in which the initiation of rival planes related to the larger politicsof the early postwar era. It might be argued, however, that the decisions aboutthe continuation of the American and Anglo-French projects, in particular,became linked more specifically. During the early 1970s, it was felt by somein Britain and France that the Americans were playing a devious political andcommercial game in their decision to cancel the Boeing SST. It has been sug-gested that U.S. politicians canceled the American SST believing that thiswould also precipitate the end of Concorde (Calvert 1989). Suspicions havebeen voiced that other American actions were explicitly designed to cripplethe Concorde project. Certainly, the government commission that reported toPresident Nixon in 1970 suggested that noise regulations might be used tohalt Concorde production. Subsequent American objections to the grantingof landing rights also undermined international interest in Concorde,reflected in the dwindling orders from commercial airliners. The final ele-ment of this picture of the Concorde saga as a pioneer case of environmentalneocolonialism (Benedick 1991) was the belief that, having underminedtheir European rival, the American decision to cancel its own SST might bereversed (Reed 1973).

Forward to the Present

Thirty years after her maiden flight, Concorde was still the epitome of lux-ury travel and the only supersonic airliner in service (Science and technology1999; Kerr 2000). Despite the accolades, however, there remains little evi-dence of a successor. In part, this reflects the spiraling development costs fora new SST. In 1986, Cornelius Driver of NASA Langley suggested that suchcosts might total $3-5 billion. By 2000, ANAE, the French national air andspace academy, was predicting costs of $20 billion, plus $7 billion for engine


development (Sparaco 2000). Such expenditure is beyond the reach of a sin-gle company, suggesting that if any project were to be financed from conven-tional commercial sources, international collaboration would be essential(Cross 1986; Orlebar 1986). Study groups formed by aircraft manufacturersto consider the next generation of SSTs in the 1980s did reflect some degreeof international cooperation (Owen 1989; Butterworthhayes 1994). As thegeneral studies ended, however, new divisions between American and Euro-pean opinion began to emerge. Once again, the proposal to build an advancedplane came to be defined as a matter of national prestige and a way of main-taining a high-technology industry (Macilwain 1993; Patel 1993). NASA, forexample, has used the success of Concorde to support its own arguments forincreased funding. The agency has highlighted American weaknesses both interms of aeronautical research facilities and the production of commercialaircraft, with European competitors now challenging the dominance of theAmerican industry (Macilwain 1993; McIntyre 1992; Nordwall 1999).

Such arguments reflect much wider rivalry between the American andEuropean aerospace industries, fueled by differing perceptions of the avail-ability of government subsidies to each industry. Airbus Industrie, a Euro-pean consortium, grew up quietly alongside Concorde (McIntyre 1992). Ini-tially, it was an Anglo-Franco-German project to build a subsonic medium-haul plane (McIntyre 1992). The British withdrew in 1969, arguing thatAirbus had neither political nor technological value and was unlikely to becommercially viable, only to rejoin a decade later (Hayward 1983; McIntyre1992). Since then, Airbus has become a highly successful European project.The Americans have often pointed out that Airbus Industrie is at an unfairadvantage, as it receives substantial state subsidies and fails to provide trans-parent accounts. In return, the Europeans have claimed that the Americanindustry receives both direct and indirect subsidies via defense contracts andhas profited from development funding from NASA (McIntyre 1992; Sochor1991). Concorde itself became part of this transatlantic quarrel. In 1999, theEuropean Union proposed a tightening of regulations on aircraft noise. Thiswas perceived by the United States to discriminate against its aircraft indus-try, as this predominantly affected American aircraft. In retaliation, the U.S.Congress proposed suspending the U.S. noise waiver granted to Concorde,and that would have effectively banned Concorde from landing in New York(Hibbert 1999).

The wider political context has also changed radically since Concordefirst flew. The Soviet Union is no more, and Russia on its own could not funda supersonic commercial plane. Indeed, in a clear illustration of the changingrealities of a post–Cold War world, NASA forged links with Tupolev, the pro-ducers of the first Soviet SST. However, this formed part of a ten-year


feasibility study by NASA into commercial SSTs that closed in 1998 (Sci-ence and technology 1999). While the European states capable of developinga new generation of SSTs are now politically closer as part of a larger, moreintegrated European Union, only the French Aerospatiale Matra still seemsto be seriously considering the development of a European supersonic com-mercial transport. This is despite claims from a leading ANAE representativethat the initiative would be a unique “technology fountain” that would alsobenefit the development of conventional aerospace projects (Sparaco 2000).Even French opinion, however, is divided as the National Civil AviationAuthority has expressed concerns about the viability of a new generation ofSSTs. Perhaps the chief exception to this lack of political and economicalwill to coordinate international investment for the development of supersonictravel is found in Japan. In Japan, the Ministry of International Trade andIndustry leads a consortium of Japanese heavy industries that is developing ahypersonic transport propulsion system designed to power a new generationof commercial aircraft that will fly at five times the speed of sound. British,French, and American companies are already providing technical expertisefor the project, which could form the nucleus of a successful internationalcollaboration (Hadfield 2000).

Moreover, environmental constraints on aviation have grown. Theadvanced SST would have to meet increasingly strict noise standards (Cross1986; Nordwall 1999). At the same time, concerns over CFCs and the ozonehole have led to a greater scientific appreciation of stratospheric ozone deple-tion (Drake 1995; Solomon 1999). In particular, it is now recognized that thepresence of aerosol surfaces aids the destruction of ozone. The surface allowsheterogeneous reactions to take place between compounds that would notnormally react in the gaseous phase. Such heterogeneous chemistry is partic-ularly significant for SSTs. For while the water, soot, and sulfur compoundsfrom aircraft exhausts may slow the destruction of ozone by nitrogen oxides,they provide aerosol surfaces for heterogeneous reactions, increasing strato-spheric ozone depletion (Romano, Gaudioso, and de Lauretis 1999). Recentwork suggests that stratospheric ozone depletion by Concorde is occurringfaster than had previously been predicted (Karcher and Fahey 1997). How-ever, our limited scientific knowledge of dynamic and chemical processes inthe stratosphere still severely constrains our ability to assess any environ-mental impact of advanced SSTs (Jones, Bekki, and Pyle 1993; Romano,Gaudioso, and de Lauretis 1999). It has also become clear that damage to theozone layer is not due to SSTs alone; subsonic planes flying near the tropo-pause also present a threat. The exhaust products from subsonic engines candiffuse upward into the stratosphere, contributing to ozone depletion (Bekki1997; Gettelman 1998; Hendricks et al. 2000). The situation is complicated,


however, because the same exhaust products in the upper troposphere con-tribute to ozone production and global warming. For both SSTs and subsonicaircraft, the effect of the aircraft exhaust products on the atmosphere is highlydependent on the flight altitude (Penner et al. 1999).

Between 1960 and 1990, world civil air traffic grew by nearly 10 percent,and this rapid growth is predicted to continue (Romano, Gaudioso, and deLauretis 1999). The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change report intoaviation and the atmosphere reflects the growing concern about the effect ofall aircraft types on the global environment (Penner at al. 1999). Aircraftmanufacturers face increasingly tight environmental constraints, and itseems unlikely that a new SST could be less environmentally damaging thanexisting subsonic jets (Penner et al. 1999; Wiggs 1998). In addition, such ahigh-profile technology project is likely to attract far more scrutiny fromenvironmental campaigners and the public than any proposed subsonic jetwould. Even an invocation of the precautionary principle (cf. Dalyell 1997)might raise concerns regarding the potential for a hitherto unappreciatedscale of environmental damage. We have previously noted differences ofopinion during the 1970s concerning the potential for stratospheric ozonedepletion; these are all unresolved. While the science remains uncertain, air-craft manufacturers cannot unequivocally claim that technology will pre-clude any prospect of environmental damage, even if a new SST did meetexisting environmental legislation. French aircraft manufacturers, however,continue to use scientific uncertainty to minimize environmental claims andpursue the development of the next generation of SSTs (Nordwall 1999).

The thirtieth anniversary of Concorde’s entry into commercial service wasbound to evoke a wave of sentimental reviews. Much harsher assessments,however, of the future of commercial supersonic travel can also be found. It isdifficult to envisage the development of a “son of Concorde” given the lack ofpolitical interest and the economic and environmental concerns. Even if thesefears are not sufficient to halt the advance of a new SST then the crash ofConcorde Air France Flight 4590 may do so. On 25 July 2000, just after take-off, the aircraft fell onto the French village of Gonesse, killing all 109 passen-gers and crew and 4 people on the ground. The revelation that debris from aburst tire could pierce the fuel tanks in the wings and cause catastrophic fail-ure has led to the grounding of all twelve remaining Concordes. The newsmedia were quick to draw parallels with the Hindenburg disaster some sev-enty years earlier, which effectively ended an age of luxury air travel and thedevelopment of airship technology (Ashworth 2000). With the safety recordof Concorde in question, there has been speculation that many of those able toafford the ticket price will not take the risk even if flights were to resume. The


image of Concorde and that of supersonic air travel may have been irrepara-bly damaged.

Conclusion

It took the Concorde project twenty years to go from first ideas to com-mercial exploitation, during which time both scientific knowledge about theatmosphere and environmental awareness increased rapidly. Depletion of theozone layer by CFCs, which prompted concern from the mid-1970s on, isoften referred to as the first global environmental problem, so completely didit overwhelm the SST issue (Benedick 1991). This claim needs to be tem-pered by the recognition that many of the points of argument about the under-standing and practical negotiation of links between immediate and beneficialcommercial activities and damaging, long-term atmospheric change hadalready been explored in the debate over supersonic transports. Terms such as“stratosphere” and “ozone layer” and knowledge of the potential conse-quences of damaging the ozone layer had already been transferred from sci-entific journals to the news media. These concepts and vocabulary had beenintroduced in a manner that could readily be understood: with reference to theemission of exhaust products by high-altitude aircraft. Therefore, the mediaand their audiences had echoes of this story line when coming to consider theless evident notion that CFCs released from such apparently mundanedomestic products as aerosol cans and refrigerators could destroy the ozonelayer. Environmental groups also played their part in bringing scientific ideasabout the environmental consequences of SSTs to public attention. However,gauging their success in persuading the general public of the validity of theseenvironmental claims is much more difficult, and clearly, the extent of suc-cess varied within different national contexts.

Among the first generation of SSTs, the case for continued developmentwas weakest in the United States. The immediate economic gains could beseen as limited; the American aircraft industry was not dependent on SSTdevelopment, and the workforce involved was small. There is no strong his-tory in the United States for government support of commercial research andjob creation. Moreover, in the specific case of the aerospace sector, Americareaffirmed its technological supremacy through other avenues, not least themanned moon landing of 1969. Yet the majority opinion among Americanpoliticians remained supportive of SST development until the early 1970s.Several factors contributed to the subsequent change of heart. Among theenvironmental arguments, the threat of noise pollution retained its potency,but crucial in the final decision to cease funding the Boeing project may have


been growing evidence of public concern about potential damage to thestratospheric ozone layer. But if it was concern for the environment that moti-vated the public outcry, it was the political reality of the desire to remainelected that motivated American politicians (Rosenbloom 1981).

Both Britain and France had far stronger reasons for continuing to supportthe Concorde project. It was not simply that the two governments were boundtogether by a bilateral treaty; the longer the project continued, the moreclosely did the economic and technological fortunes, and futures, of theiraerospace industries become associated with Concorde, not least because asubstantial workforce came to rely on the project for employment. Further-more, environmental arguments failed to strike the same chord with the Brit-ish and French publics as it did in the United States. Lenseigne’s claim thatenvironmental issues were not a concern is an understandable one within theFrench context. Skepticism of American motives probably also temperedBritish reaction to concerns about the alleged environmental damage thatConcorde might cause. That most of the scientific studies supporting the ideaof stratospheric ozone depletion came from the United States, the nation withthe least to lose, only hindered the environmental case in Britain and France.

The immediate failure to pursue the resolution of scientific differencesregarding the atmospheric impacts of SSTs largely reflects the small numberof planes that actually entered service. Moreover, during the mid-1970s, theattention of atmospheric scientists, and a wider concerned public and politi-cal audience, was diverted away from the apparently waning threat to theozone layer from SSTs to the more pressing issue of the impact of CFCs (cf.Downs 1972). But it was not simply that one concern replaced the other.Debate over SSTs not only introduced the notion of ozone depletion to thescientific and political agenda but also colored opinion regarding the realpotential of the threat. Thus, suspicion of the true motives behind environ-mental concerns about SSTs, and claims that the original science was flawed,has been cited by several authors as one of the reasons for the British andFrench delay in backing CFC control, perceiving it as another Americanattempt to gain commercial advantage (Benedick 1991; Brenton 1994).

If it is fair to conclude that the British and French governments were lessopen than their American counterpart with regard to the development ofSSTs, this cannot be extended to an argument that this secretiveness led to thecontinued development of Concorde. Environmental information was freelyavailable, particularly in the United States and the United Kingdom. Opposi-tion to SSTs based on economic and environmental grounds was evident inboth countries. But a presentation of the same facts by environmentalists andother campaigners within different political and commercial contexts doesnot lead inevitably to a consistent popular or political consensus. Studies of


the public understanding of science reveal a far more complex decision-makingprocess (Wynne 1995). Decisions about processes and technologies affectingthe environment will include a whole range of experiences and prejudices.What one public may label as undesirable may be seen by another in quite adifferent light. The argument that the specifics of its system of governmentenabled the American public to force the “right” decision to cancel the SSTproject is unsustainable (Wilson 1973). It follows that there is no guaranteethat more open government in Britain and France would have led to an earlyend for Concorde. Each decision is based on the unique balance between theperceived economic, technological, and political needs and aspirations ofspecific governments, industries, and national publics at a particular time.Therefore, the decisions of the past are no indicator for the future.

This study provides another example of how governments and theirpublics are still encouraged by industry to put national and political interestsbefore global environmental concerns. It also illustrates how high-profiletechnological projects provide a focus for environmental protests. In con-trast, low-profile projects that potentially may pose as great a threat to theenvironment can grow without public disapproval. The political decision toprovide governmental funding for research and development holds the key tothe realization of the aerospace industry’s desire to create a new generation ofSSTs. Therefore, relationships between political decisions and public envi-ronmental consciousness are likely to continue to be vital determinants of theoutcome of large-scale technological projects.

Note

1. A search for references to Concorde was made in the following newspapers: New YorkTimes, 1 January 1970 to 31 December 1993, and The Times (London), 1 January 1970 to 31December 1993.

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Frances Drake is a senior lecturer in climatology and meteorology in the School of Geog-raphy, University of Leeds, United Kingdom. Her research focuses on global atmospherechange and the public awareness of climate change.

Martin Purvis is a senior lecturer in geography at the University of Leeds, United King-dom. His environmental research focuses on business understanding of and response tokey aspects of global environmental change.


Science, Technology & Human ValuesIndex

INDEX

to

SCIENCE, TECHNOLOGY, & HUMAN VALUES

Volume 26

Number 1 (Winter 2001) pp. 1-112Number 2 (Spring 2001) pp. 113-256Number 3 (Summer 2001) pp. 257-396Number 4 (Autumn 2001) pp. 397-536

Authors:AGRAWALA, SHARDUL, KENNETH BROAD, and DAVID H. GUSTON, “Integrating Cli-

mate Forecasts and Societal Decision Making: Challenges to an Emergent Boundary Orga-nization,” 454.

BENSON, KEITH, see Restivo, S.BOZEMAN, BARRY, see Rogers, J. D.BROAD, KENNETH, see Agrawala, S.BROWN, MARK B., “The Civic Shaping of Technology: California’s Electric Vehicle Pro-

gram,” 56.BROWN, NIK, and MIKE MICHAEL, “Switching between Science and Culture in Transpecies

Transplantation,” 3.CASH, DAVID W., “ ‘In Order to Aid in Diffusing Useful and Practical Information’: Agricul-

tural Extension and Boundary Organizations,” 431.COHEN, LAURIE, JOHN MCAULEY, and JOANNE DUBERLEY, “Continuity in Discontinu-

ity: Changing Discourses of Science in a Market Economy,” 145.COULTER, JEFF, “The Social Construction of What?, by Ian Hacking” [Review Essay], 82.CUTCLIFFE, STEPHEN, “Epistemic Cultures: How the Sciences Make Knowledge, by Karin

Knorr Cetina” [Book Review], 391.DRAKE, FRANCES, and MARTIN PURVIS, “The Effect of Supersonic Transports on the

Global Environment: A Debate Revisited,” 501.DRITSAS, LAWRENCE S., “Circumcision: A History of the World’s Most Controversial Sur-

gery, by David L. Gollaher [Book Review],” 248.DUBERLEY, JOANNE, see Cohen, L.DUNCKER, ELKE, “Symbolic Communication in Multidisciplinary Cooperations,” 349.EDMOND, GARY, “The Law-Set: The Legal-Scientific Production of Medical Propriety,” 191.FULLER, STEVE, “The Road since Structure: Philosophical Essays, 1970-1993, with an Auto-

biographical Interview, by Thomas Kuhn” [Book Review], 251.GUSTON, DAVID H., “Boundary Organizations in Environmental Policy and Science: An

Introduction,” 399.


529

GUSTON, DAVID H., see Agrawala, S.HIRSH, RICHARD F., “The Electric Vehicle and the Burden of History, by David A. Kirsch”

[Book Review], 389.KARNIK, NIRANJAN S., “Locating HIV/AIDS and India: Cautionary Notes on the Globaliza-

tion of Categories,” 322.KEATING, TERRY J., “Lessons from the Recent History of the Health Effects Institute,” 409.LOCKHART, CHARLES, “Controversy in Environmental Policy Decisions: Conflicting Policy

Means or Rival Ends?” 259.MACKENZIE, DONALD, “Physics and Finance: S-Terms and Modern Finance as a Topic for

Science Studies,” 115.MÄHLCK, PAULA, “Mapping Gender Differences in Scientific Careers in Social and Biblio-

metric Space,” 167.MCAULEY, JOHN, see Cohen, L.MICHAEL, MIKE, see Brown, N.MIETTINEN, REIJO, see Saari, E.MILLER, CLARK, “Hybrid Management: Boundary Organizations, Science Policy, and Envi-

ronmental Governance in the Climate Regime,” 478.MURPHY, PRISCILLA, “Affiliation Bias and Expert Disagreement in Framing the Nicotine

Addiction Debate,” 278.PURVIS, Martin, see Drake F.REES, AMANDA, “Anthropomorphism, Anthropocentrism, and Anecdote: Primatologists on

Primatology,” 227.RENTETZI, MARIA, “Deadly Glow: The Radium Dial Worker Tragedy, by Ross Mullner”

[Book Review], 106.RESTIVO, SAL, WESLEY SHRUM, and KEITH BENSON, “STS and the Unabomber”

[Review Essay], 87.ROGERS, JUAN D., and BARRY BOZEMAN, “ ‘Knowledge Value Alliances’: An Alternative

to the R&D Project Focus in Evaluation,” 23.ROSE, MARK H., “Power Loss: The Origins of Deregulation and Restructuring in the Ameri-

can Electric Utility System, by Richard F. Hirsh” [Book Review], 108.RUSE, MICHAEL, “Victorian Sensation: The Extraordinary Publication, Reception, and

Secret Authorship of Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation, by James A. Secord” [BookReview], 387.

SAARI, EVELIINA, and REIJO MIETTINEN, “Dynamics of Change in Research Work: Con-structing a New Research Area in a Research Group,” 300.

SHRUM, WESLEY, see Restivo, S.

Articles:“Affiliation Bias and Expert Disagreement in Framing the Nicotine Addiction Debate,” Murphy,

278.“Anthropomorphism, Anthropocentrism, and Anecdote: Primatologists on Primatology,” Rees,

227.“Boundary Organizations in Environmental Policy and Science: An Introduction,” Guston, 399.“The Civic Shaping of Technology: California’s Electric Vehicle Program,” Brown, 56.“Continuity in Discontinuity: Changing Discourses of Science in a Market Economy,” Cohen

et al., 145.

530 Science, Technology & Human Values

“Controversy in Environmental Policy Decisions: Conflicting Policy Means or Rival Ends?”Lockhart, 259.

“Dynamics of Change in Research Work: Constructing a New Research Area in a ResearchGroup,” Saari and Miettinen, 300.

“The Effect of Supersonic Transports on the Global Environment: A Debate Revisited,” Drakeand Purvis, 501.

“Hybrid Management: Boundary Organizations, Science Policy, and Environmental Gover-nance in the Climate Regime,” Miller, 478.

“‘In Order to Aid in Diffusing Useful and Practical Information’: Agricultural Extension andBoundary Organizations,” Cash, 431.

“Integrating Climate Forecasts and Societal Decision Making: Challenges to an EmergentBoundary Organization,” Agrawala et al., 454.

“ ‘Knowledge Value Alliances’: An Alternative to the R&D Project Focus in Evaluation,” Rog-ers and Bozeman, 23.

“The Law-Set: The Legal-Scientific Production of Medical Propriety,” Edmond, 191.“Lessons from the Recent History of the Health Effects Institute,” Keating, 409.“Locating HIV/AIDS and India: Cautionary Notes on the Globalization of Categories,” Karnik,

322.“Mapping Gender Differences in Scientific Careers in Social and Bibliometric Space,” Mählck,

167.“Physics and Finance: S-Terms and Modern Finance as a Topic for Science Studies,” MacKen-

zie, 115.“Switching between Science and Culture in Transpecies Transplantation,” Brown and Michael, 3.“Symbolic Communication in Multidisciplinary Cooperations,” Duncker, 349.

Book Reviews:Circumcision: A History of the World’s Most Controversial Surgery, by David L. Gollaher,”

Dritsas, 248.“Deadly Glow: The Radium Dial Worker Tragedy, by Ross Mullner,” Rentetzi, 106.“The Electric Vehicle and the Burden of History by David A. Kirsch,” Hirsh, 389.“Epistemic Cultures: How the Sciences Make Knowledge, by Karin Knorr Cetina,” Cutcliffe,

391.“Power Loss: The Origins of Deregulation and Restructuring in the American Electric Utility

System, by Richard F. Hirsh,” Rose, 108.The Road since Structure: Philosophical Essays, 1970-1993, with an Autobiographical Inter-

view, by Thomas Kuhn,” Fuller, 251.“Victorian Sensation: The Extraordinary Publication, Reception, and Secret Authorship of Ves-

tiges of the Natural History of Creation, by James A. Secord,” Ruse, 387.

Review Essays:“The Social Construction of What?, by Ian Hacking,” Coulter, 82.“STS and the Unabomber,” Restivo et al., 87.

Index 531

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