Explore the vast range of titles available.

From the beginning of the space age, scientists and engineers have worked on systems to help humans survive for the astounding 28,500 days (78 years) needed to reach another planet. They've imagined and tried to create a little piece of Earth in a bubble travelling through space, inside of which people could live for decades, centuries, or even millennia. Far Beyond the Moon tells the dramatic story of engineering efforts by astronauts and scientists to create artificial habitats for humans in orbiting space stations, as well as on journeys to Mars and beyond. Along the way, David P. D. Munns and Kärin Nickelsen explore the often unglamorous but very real problem posed by long-term life support: How can we recycle biological wastes to create air, water, and even food in meticulously controlled artificial environments? Together, they draw attention to the unsung participants of the space program-the sanitary engineers, nutritionists, plant physiologists, bacteriologists, and algologists who created and tested artificial environments for space based on chemical technologies of life support-as well as the bioregenerative algae systems developed to reuse waste, water, and nutrients, so that we might cope with a space journey of not just a few days, but months, or more likely, years.

From the beginning of the space age, scientists and engineers have worked on systems to help humans survive for the astounding 28,500 days (78 years) needed to reach another planet. They’ve imagined and tried to create a little piece of Earth in a bubble travelling through space, inside of which people could live for decades, centuries, or even millennia. Far Beyond the Moon tells the dramatic story of engineering efforts by astronauts and scientists to create artificial habitats for humans in orbiting space stations, as well as on journeys to Mars and beyond. Along the way, David P. D. Munns and Kärin Nickelsen explore the often unglamorous but very real problem posed by long-term life support: How can we recycle biological wastes to create air, water, and even food in meticulously controlled artificial environments? Together, they draw attention to the unsung participants of the space program—the sanitary engineers, nutritionists, plant physiologists, bacteriologists, and algologists who created and tested artificial environments for space based on chemical technologies of life support—as well as the bioregenerative algae systems developed to reuse waste, water, and nutrients, so that we might cope with a space journey of not just a few days, but months, or more likely, years.

In the first decades of the twentieth century, the process of photosynthesis was still a mystery: Plant scientists were able to measure what entered and left a plant, but little was known about the intermediate biochemical and biophysical processes that took place. This state of affairs started to change between the two world wars, when a number of young scientists in Europe and the United States, all of whom identified with the methods and goals of physicochemical biology, selected photosynthesis as a topic of research. The protagonists had much in common: They had studied physics and chemistry (although not necessarily plant physiology) to a high level; they used physicochemical methods to study the basic processes of life; they believed these processes were the same, or very similar, in all life forms; and they were affiliated with institutions that fostered this kind of study. This set of cognitive, methodological, and material resources enabled these protagonists to transfer their knowledge of the concepts and techniques from microbiology and human biochemistry, for example, to the study of plant metabolism. These transfers of knowledge had a great influence on the way in which the biochemistry and biophysics of photosynthesis would be studied over the following decades. Through the use of four historical cases, this paper analyzes these knowledge transfers, as well as the investigative pathways that made them possible.

In the field of photosynthesis research, Otto Warburg (1883-1970) is predominantly known for the role he played in the controversy that began in the late 1930s regarding the maximum quantum yield of photosynthesis, even though by that time he had already been working on the topic for more than a decade. One of Warburg's first contributions on the subject, which dates from around 1920, is his proposal for a detailed model of photosynthesis, which he never completely abandoned, despite later overwhelming evidence in favor of alternatives. This paper presents a textual and graphical reconstruction of Warburg's model and of his argument for its validity. Neither has received much attention in the history of science, even though the model was certainly one of the most plausible explanations of the period and therefore could not be so easily discredited.

Historians and philosophers of twentieth-century life sciences have demonstrated that the choice of experimental organism can profoundly influence research fields, in ways that sometimes undermined the scientists' original intentions. The present paper aims to enrich and broaden the scope of this literature by analysing the career of unicellular green algae of the genus Chlorella. They were introduced for the study of photosynthesis in 1919 by the German cell physiologist Otto H. Warburg, and they became the favourite research objects in this field up to the 1960s. The paper argues that dealing with Chlorella's high metabolic flexibility was crucial for the emergence of a new conception of photosynthesis, as a plastic, integrated system of pathways. At the same time, it led to new collaborations between physiologists and phycologists, both of whom started to re-orient their studies in ecologically informed directions. Following Chlorella's trail, hence, not only elucidates how experimental organisms forced scientists to change their conceptual approaches and techniques, but also provides insight into the interaction of different lines of research of mid-twentieth century plant sciences.

The history of twentieth-century life sciences is not exactly a new topic. However, in view of the increasingly rapid development of the life sciences themselves over the past decades, some of the well-established narratives are worth revisiting. Taking stock of where we stand on these issues was the aim of a conference in 2015, entitled \"Perspectives for the History of Life Sciences\" (Munich, Oct 30-Nov 1, 2015). The papers in this topical collection are based on work presented and discussed at and around this meeting. Just as the conference, the collection aims at exploring fields in the history of life sciences that appear understudied, sources that have been overlooked, and novel ways of engaging with this material. The papers convened in this collection may not be representative of the field as a whole; but we feel that they do indicate some elements that have received emphasis in recent years, and may become more central in the years to come, such as the history of previously neglected contexts and domains of the life sciences, the question of continuity and change on the level of practices, the history of complexity and diversity in twentieth-century life sciences and the reconsideration of the relationship between history and philosophy of life sciences.

This paper investigates the relationship between the eminent 19th-century naturalists Charles Darwin and Carl Vogt. On two separate occasions, Vogt asked Darwin for permission to translate some of the latter's books into German, and in both cases Darwin refused. It has generally been assumed that Darwin turned down Vogt as a translator because of the latter's reputation as a radical libertine who was extremely outspoken in his defence of scientific materialism and atheism. However, this explanation does not fit the facts, since, on closer investigation, Darwin not only gave serious consideration to engaging Vogt as the German translator of two of his books, albeit ultimately rejecting him, but he also collaborated with Vogt on the French editions of his works. In this paper we argue that this was not because Darwin was unaware of Vogt's personality and blunt writing style; rather, Darwin seems to have decided that the benefits he would gain from their association would clearly outweigh the risk of offending some of his readers: in working with Vogt, who was not only a knowledgeable scientist but also an avowed adherent of Darwinism, Darwin could be assured of the scientific quality of the translation and of an edition that would not distort his central concepts - both of which were by no means matters of course in 19th-century translations of scientific works.

We investigate the context of discovery of two significant achievements of twentieth century biochemistry: the chemiosmotic mechanism of oxidative phosphorylation (proposed in 1961 by Peter Mitchell) and the dark reaction of photosynthesis (elucidated from 1946 to 1954 by Melvin Calvin and Andrew A. Benson). The pursuit of these problems involved discovery strategies such as the transfer, recombination and reversal of previous causal and mechanistic knowledge in biochemistry. We study the operation and scope of these strategies by careful historical analysis, reaching a number of systematic conclusions: (1) even basic strategies can illuminate \"hard cases\" of scientific discovery that go far beyond simple extrapolation or analogy; (2) the causal-mechanistic approach to discovery permits a middle course between the extremes of a completely substrate-neutral and a completely domain-specific view of scientific discovery; (3) the existing literature on mechanism discovery underemphasizes the role of combinatorial approaches in defining and exploring search spaces of possible problem solutions; (4) there is a subtle interplay between a fine-grained mechanistic and a more coarse-grained causal level of analysis, and both are needed to make discovery processes intelligible.

IT WAS 1963, AND AMERICA SEEMED TO BE LOSING THE SPACE RACE. THE LAUNCH of Sputnik, the first artificial satellite, by the Soviet Union in 1957 had deeply shocked the American public. In these years, everyone linked superior status with top-notch technology. As the popular magazine the Saturday Evening Post observed in 1969, both superpowers saw “their destinies as depending on technological achievement.”¹ While Sputnik beeped into orbit, the assumption of American superiority appeared doubtful, perhaps even false. Desperate to claw back the technological lead, Congressman James G. Fulton of Pennsylvania famously asked the head of the new U.S. space