Indeed, I suspect that one of the most misused words in all science is “and”. In any paper in which there is more than one author we will find them linked together on the title page, regardless of their relative inputs to the project, as in “Hobbs and Sutcliffe”. This immediately suggests to us that Hobbs, as the first-named (senior) author, did the bulk of the research. But the relative contribution of each author is impossible to determine and since the names are in alphabetical order, it is possible that Sutcliffe did the bulk of the research or that they both put in equal amounts. Hammond, who is thanked in the acknowledgments for his technical support, was presumably considered to have made an insufficient input to have warranted inclusion as an author.

Joint papers are highly problematic. If you conduct a piece of research on your own, with no other technical or philosophical input (possible, but improbable), then you can legitimately publish it as a single author paper. Once you interact on more than a superficial level with anyone else, the question must be asked as to whether their input was essential and sufficient for recognition as an author. Almost any research project involves some interactions. Some of these may be deserving of authorship, but there are no hard and fast rules for such decisions. Examples of fringe collaboration include the amateur naturalist who brings in a species new to science but is not concerned with subsequent taxonomic research on it, the technician who makes a vital series of analyses at a distant laboratory, or the group of undergraduates who provide a preliminary database from student projects that later forms the justification for a full-blown project. I have been involved in all of these situations and, in most instances, have included the amateur/technician/student as a coauthor.

In the correspondence columns of journals, questions are often raised about the criteria that determine whether particular individuals should be included as authors on papers. High on the list is the issue of whether PhD supervisors should co-author papers by their students. Even though a piece of research is largely the work of the student, a joint paper may elicit a reaction like: “Oh dear, he’s publishing with his supervisor, therefore he must be a weak student.” Even if this were true (it rarely is), isn’t joint publication the sign of an ability to collaborate?

While truly joint papers, researched and written equally by two or more authors, do exist, they are probably an exception rather than a rule. An indication of the equality of effort is sometimes given in the acknowledgments. I’ve heard of coauthors admitting to determining the order they are listed in by the toss of a coin (loser’s name went first, or whatever) and, my favourite, on the result of a game of racquetball. But as far as the title page is concerned, the general rule is that the first author is the one who has done the bulk of the work. The reasons for this vary. The junior author may have provided a particular, specialist talent without which the paper couldn’t be written, but which nevertheless formed only a small part of the overall research. For example, in my own field of palaeontology, it is not unknown for someone to say to me: “Steve, I’ve just collected this specimen that I suspect may be a new species. If I supply the specimen and supporting data, can you do the rest?” If the material is exciting enough, the answer can only be yes. The collector (and junior author) will then provide the specimen and details of where it was collected; I will do the rest, including buying the reprints in some instances.

Everybody wants credit for what they have done, but where is the line to be drawn between acknowledgment and coauthorship? I would suggest that we need a new, more public category of acknowledgment, which identifies the contribution of a collaborator on the title page without stealing the thunder from the true authors. Important collaborators could be identified immediately after the authors, using not “and” but “with”. This would remove some of the problems of “honorary authorship” by, for example, the supervisor of a research student. In the case postulated above, if Hammond provided essential radiocarbon dates upon which the project hinged, then it might be legitimate to change the title page to read “Hobbs and Sutcliffe, with Hammond”. In such instances, it would still be useful to briefly outline Hammond’s contribution in the acknowledgments.

The main resistance to such an innovation would come from what have been called “honorary coauthors”, those who get coauthorship for minimal-to-zero work, such as the unproductive supervisor or the laboratory boss who demands his/her name on every paper. Assuming that the new rules are adhered to, these would be relegated from honorary coauthorship of papers to being associated “with” the same. This is surely adequate recognition for the provision of financial support, bench space, and so on. Those who would win from such a change would be the young researchers, whose ideas would be linked more publicly with their names, and the largely unsung technicians whose names are otherwise almost hidden towards the ends papers. In both of these cases, it is those on the lower rungs of the scientific ladder who would benefit. ĐÓ°ÉÔ­´´s who fulfil a more supervisory function would still be recognised, but this would not disguise the true source of the ideas.

Academics have never been the kind of hacks who will review one-hundred-plus
books a year, like George Orwell’s caricature in his essay ‘Confessions
of a Book Reviewer’. One or two reviews a year, at most, is probably the
norm. But even this number is now being regarded as excessive. Reviews of
scientific books are worth writing, but the review sections of many scientific
journals are being left to die.

Writing research papers shouldn’t replace writing book reviews; the
two deserve separate places in the workload. The stalwart British biologist
Thomas Huxley considered that the secret of being a research scientist was
to retain one’s ability to work continuously for 16 hours a day. Few of
us would go to such lengths, but after a day spent teaching, marking essays
and exams, administrating and, in those odd, quiet moments, actually researching,
when is it possible to fit in time for reviewing a book? My solution is
to read at every chance I get: at home in the evening instead of going to
the pub, or while travelling on buses, trains and planes, or when I’m allowed
to sit awhile somewhere undisturbed.

Reviewing books is a service to the scientific community. Nobody can
read every book published in their own field, however narrow, so book reviews
act as a sampler of what is available, providing critical synopses of new
publications. They also indicate what is or isn’t worth buying. Both functions
are important, considering the current cost of most specialist books.

The advantage to the reviewer is that he/she is encouraged to read a
book. Most of my reading is limited to short research papers. Books, I
generally dip into and I only read the chapters of particular interest to
me. Writing a review forces on me a different kind of discipline. It encourages
me to read a book from cover to cover. In many ways, it is an important
part of my education. Apart from the obvious absorption of scientific information,
it is instructive for any author to see how books are structured and produced.
I am also alerted to gaps in my knowledge by references to recent (and not
so recent) papers that I may have missed.

Reviewing books also provides an opportunity to comment on current trends
and ideas. Released from the constraints of the research paper, a book review
allows the writer to remark informally on a broad or narrow subject area.
Indeed, book reviews are a part of the literature of science. I think Stephen
Gould’s collection of his own reviews, An Urchin in the Storm, is one of
his best books. While we cannot all write to the same high standard as Gould,
not writing reviews will hardly help us to write them better. Practice makes
pretty good, even if not perfect.

In recent years, some journals have dropped their book review sections
altogether. (Not, of course, this august organ.) Most researchers can probably
point to examples in their speciality or discipline. Of the various fatalities
among review sections in my own field of palaeontology, none is more sadly
missed than the one in Paleobiology. It used to publish essay reviews as
long as research papers, which served to introduce the general reader to
current areas of scientific debate. Apart from their importance to the researcher,
these reviews were invaluable introductions for undergraduates and postgraduate
students. While some journals still publish such exten-ded pieces (Geological
Magazine is a notable example), they are an endangered species.

Why have the book review sections suffered so? The modern reliance on
refereed pub-lication as a metric for promotion has displaced more peripheral
activities from the agenda of many academic scientists, including such things
as book reviewing, editing journals and serving on the committees of scientific
societies. This attitude is reflected in the journals’ policy of dropping
book review sections to make way for more refereed papers. When I edited
our local geological journal I reintroduced the book review section, but
unfortunately mine was only one vote against many. Although some scientific
societies publish book reviews in their newsletters, these publications
lack permanence and are unlikely to be preserved on library shelves.

Finally, few academics seem to consider the fun to be had in reviewing
books. They miss the chance to play mental tag with the book’s author, to
enter into written discussion and, perhaps, debate, and to give praise where
praise is due. I get the chance to comment on most books only in the classroom,
whereas a review will reach a broader and more eclectic audience. As the
track shoe advert says, just do it.

It is now 10 years since Alvarez and company published their seminal
paper in Science that interpreted unusual concentrations of the platinum-group
element iridium at the Cretaceous/Tertiary (K/T) boundary as being the remnants
of an impacting bolide (comet or meteorite) which caused, or at least contributed
to, the mass extinction at the end of the Cretaceous. Before 1980 mass extinctions
were regarded as being rather peculiar events attested to by the fossil
record; they defied explanation, except in some largely speculative papers.
Certainly, no geologist would have devoted all of their efforts to researching
extinctions. However, things have changed. Since the initial communication
by the Alvarez team, mass extinctions have become the latest boom subdiscipline
in evolutionary palaeontology.

Evolution and Extinction is a volume arising from a joint meeting of
the Linnean and Royal Societies in November 1989. The 16 chapters by 17
authors present various points of view about the phenomena of extinction.
Such multi-authored contributions to the debate often provide stimulating
or even provocative insights based on new data or new analyses of old data.
Some of the contributions to Evolution and Extinction are highly successful.
Even the articles that are out-and-out reviews provide many concentrated
nuggets of information, but the book does have a slightly uneven quality.

The abstract of Charles Holland’s paper perhaps points to an explanation
for this unevenness when he says: ‘It is easier to play with secondary data
than to collect primary data’. Most of the chapters (including Holland’s)
rely heavily on secondary data, yet it is apparent that some authors are
masters at massaging new concepts from old knowledge, while others make
a hamfisted attempt. But the book has an admirable balance: four chapters
give a neontological, rather than palaeontological, viewpoint, discussing
historical, recent and even future extinctions, rather than just those in
prehistory.

The master of manipulating data to gain new insights into evolutionary
systems is Dave Raup. His chapter is based on such an obvious, yet beautiful,
analysis that the reader feels like Thomas Huxley when he said ‘How extremely
stupid not to have thought of that!’ after reading The Origin of Species.
The database he analysed is a rock sequence for 200 metres immediately below
the K/T boundary on which he plots the precise horizons at which specimens
of 21 species of ammonite (shelled cephalopods that became extinct at or
near the end of the Cretaceous) were collected. Last known appearances of
ammonite species in this section suggest gradual extinction. Raup selectively
removes parts of the section to demonstrate how a hiatus in sedimentation
could make this gradual extinction appear sudden and how a sudden extinction
could appear gradual due to the vagaries of preservation. The execution
is exquisite.

Contrast this contribution with the analysis of the demise of the dinosaurs
by Alan Charig. Charig has decided that the dinosaurs died out gradually
at the K/T extinction, not rapidly, but he assembles a poor hodgepodge of
inconclusive supporting evidence. He may be right, but he presents the data
in such a way that it would convince nobody. The discussion of a random
collection of fossil groups, mainly described as giving a poor indication
of precisely where the terminal extinction occurs, provides support.

Microfossils are generally recognised to give the best resolution of
events such as this because there are numerous fossils per unit volume.
But Charig considers only planktonic foraminifers, while he discusses other
groups with an undoubtedly patchy fossil record, such as fish and turtles,
as if they permit conclusions of equal worth. Brachiopods are said to show
no sudden extinctions at the K/T boundary, despite the pattern of simultaneous
disappearances that Surlyk and Johansen (1984, Science, vol 223, p 1174)
have shown to occur in the Danish Chalk. The evidence of plant microfossils
is poohipoohed; but see the paper by Bob Spicer for a more balanced analysis.
An irrelevant tirade against cladistics and a brief analysis of latest Cretaceous,
and possibly earliest Tertiary, dinosaur-bearing sequences do nothing to
alleviate the flaws in the analysis.

Despite these negative comments, many of the papers are excellent, and
I particularly enjoyed the contributions by Knoll, Jablonski, Benton, Williamson
and Diamond. Colin Tudge’s analysis of man’s attempts to make Homo sapiens
extinct is entertaining and makes a surprisingly good concluding chapter,
despite being somewhat out of step with the rest of the book.

Full marks to the editors for producing an informative and sometimes
even entertaining volume. The specialists will lap it up, while the general
reader will have to persevere with the various taxonomic and stratigraphic
names. Many of the papers in this volume will, however, repay such an effort.

Stephen Donovan is senior lecturer in geology at the University of the
West Indies in Jamaica.