“Er, no,” Anna said. “Popper thought a theory was false when it was scientific?”
“No, of course not, you dork. Popper thought it was only when a theory was open to testing and could, possibly, be disproved, that it could be deemed scientific.
“At the start of the 1960s,” he continued, “a new school of thought in scientific theory was born that wanted subjectivity to be acknowledged and included in our understanding of science. One of the frontrunners was the physicist Thomas Kuhn, who pointed out the value of subjectivity in science. I just want to interpose,” Johannes said tapping his upper lip lightly, “that of course there are many different ways to interpret Kuhn, so it’s not absolutely certain I’m right.” He gave her a teasing look before he continued.
“Kuhn was later supported by a woman I have the greatest respect for, the brilliant science theorist Lorraine J. Daston, who in an attempt to solidify the role of the subjective in science introduced a concept she named the Moral Economy of Science. So we’re talking about a shift in perception, with on the one hand Popper’s demand for an absolute set of rules for science and, on the other, a more relative attitude, as proposed by Kuhn and Daston.” Johannes wrote Kuhn on the board following by a colon.
“Of course, none of them was a genius working in isolation who suddenly saw the light, that goes without saying,” he added, “but to simplify matters I’ll give you the shortened version, okay?”
Anna nodded.
“Kuhn demonstrated that a scientist’s choices are influenced by the personality and biography of that scientist, and that ultimately subjectivity determines what the scientist chooses. Kuhn, you won’t be surprised to hear, attracted huge criticism and was accused of having a completely irrational understanding of science, but he responded by pointing out that making room for disagreement doesn’t equal throwing open the doors to a misleading and totally subjective understanding of science, as long as”—Johannes raised his index finger—“the scientists in question are 100-percent loyal to their own explanations and can argue convincingly in case of any breaches of that loyalty.” Johannes planted a hand on the desk either side of Anna and stood very close to her.
“Have you examined whether Freeman is consistent within his own work? Is he loyal to his own choices, and when he changes his explanations, is his argument satisfactory?”
“I don’t know,” Anna said.
Johannes took a step back.
“Let’s move on,” he said, and spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing Lorraine J. Daston’s concept of the Moral Economy of Science. Anna listened in awe and made notes as Johannes’s talent for abstract thinking unfolded before her.
“I think that’s enough for today.” He smiled. “But first let’s summarize.” He looked gravely at her. “Over to you.”
“What?”
Johannes nodded.
Anna took her notes and jumped down from the desk. Suddenly the situation reminded her of her forthcoming dissertation defense, and her heart started pounding as she wiped the board, picked up a piece of chalk, and carefully accounted for her understanding.
Johannes looked pleased when she had finished and said: “Find out if Clive Freeman adheres to universal and established premises for sober science. If he doesn’t,” he snapped his fingers, “then you’ve got him.”
“And if he does?”
“Then you’re screwed,” Johannes laughed.
Anna was about to sulk, but then she felt it. There was something. Something almost terrifyingly intangible, but vital. Something she could work with.
Over the following weeks she studied Popper, Kuhn, and Daston in detail, and as the days passed, two points emerged: scientists who contradicted themselves couldn’t claim their theories were scientific; and scientists must, at any given time, be able to substantiate effectively any theories they propose or reject.
She revisited the controversy with a fresh pair of eyes. She reviewed Freeman’s arguments for the umpteenth time, and they were just as well oiled, indisputable, and professional as they always had been, but to Anna’s huge astonishment Freeman’s scientific premises didn’t bear scrutiny. Spurred on by renewed enthusiasm, she attacked Freeman’s book The Birds again, and the contradictions sprung from the pages like mushrooms after a rain shower. Triumphantly, she slammed the desk and when Johannes, who had just entered the study at that point, gave her a quizzical look, she got up and kissed him on the cheek. Johannes giggled.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. A scent of something dark and perfumed surrounded him.