Ради публикации шнобелевской статьи сэра Гейма был организован раздел "In English", и редакция наконец может осуществить репринт статьи Джеймса Вернона Макконнелла (♂1925 1990) в журнале UNESCO Courier (перевод на русский язык был сделан к 25-летию выхода в свет I тома Трудов Чайного Клуба Ниной Седых). Мы нашли подтверждение серьезности научного исследования Джеймса Макконнелла, опубликованного в Worm Runner's Digest в 1965 г. Это - 118-страничное руководство по психологическим экспериментам над планариями.
Эту публикацию мы посвящаем приближающемуся 90-летию со дня рождения Джеймса Макконнелла в надежде на то, что его родственники таки смогут узнать о продолжении дела профессора биопсихологии в области научного юмора.
10 Jun 14
or the confessions of a scientist hoist by his own petard
For sixteen years now, I've published a somewhat humorous semi-scientific journal called Worm Runner's Digest. Herewith begins my confession. For the Digest started as my own personal little joke on the
Scientific Establishment but has turned out to be more of a joke on me.
I've lost grants because of the Digest, had my laboratory experiments questioned not because of their content but because of the Digest, had articles I submitted to other journals turned down because I dared to cite studies published in the Digest. It would seem that a little humour goes a very long way towards excommunication! This scurrilous journal will seem humorous to you only if you happen to know a great deal about flatworms. On the off chance that some of the finer planarian points are lacking from your store-house of knowledge, I will duly explain a bit about the psychology of worms so that you will gain some insight into the psychology of worm runners. It's a strange tail, I assure you.
The planarian, or common flatworm, is a small aquatic animal that seldom grows to more than three centimetres in length and is found in ponds, streams and rivers throughout the world, I got interested in the beast because it's the simplest animal on the phylogenetic tree that has a true brain and a human-type nervous system.
But the planarian is famous for many reasons beyond its brain. For instance, it is the simplest form of life to have true bilateral symmetry which means that you can cut it in half from head to tail and the left half will be a mirror image of the right. And it has about the most mixed-up sex life of any animal going.
Let's face it: the planarian is that psychological anomaly, an anti-Freudian animal. To begin with, it is an hermaphrodite, having a complete set of both male and female sex organs.
The flatworm lacks a mouth; instead, it has a pharynx in the middle of its body that it extrudes when it comes in contact with food. The pharynx latches on to whatever is to be the meal and the worm sucks the juices up through it as through a drinking straw.
As a graduate student at the University of Texas, I had undertaken a project with another student, Robert Thompson, to see if the planarian could be trained.
Presumably, since it is the simplest animal to possess a true brain, it should be the simplest animal capable of showing true learning (or so the psychological theories of the day insisted).
So Thompson and I set up an experiment in which we demonstrated at least to our own satisfaction that the flatworm could be taught the type of lesson that Professor Pavlov called the conditioned response.
Later, when I went to the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor as a struggling young instructor, the head of the Psychology Department called me into his office for a friendly little chat.
"Jim", he told me,
I got the message and right away set up the first "worm lab." at the University of Michigan.
I was given a tiny little basement room and enough funds to purchase a very modest amount of equipment and a few worms. Like all eager young instructors, I was wise enough to talk two very bright young students (Daniel Kimble and Allan Jacobson) into doing all the actual work for me.
But I had a problem; we had demonstrated that worms could learn, so what were we to do next? For a long time 1 puzzled over this problem, then recalled that one day when Thompson and I were working at the University of Texas, we had had a wild idea.
Planarians not only reproduce sexually, but asexually as well (one might say they have by far the best of both worlds). When a worm is first hatched from its egg, it is fully equipped to do everything but reproduce. After a few months of fattening up, it reaches puberty and begins mating. Sexual activity continues for three to four years, after which the animal seems to go into a senile decline, becomes all lumpy and misshapen and then a miracle often occurs. One day as the animal is crawling along the bottom of some pond, the tail develops a will of its own and grabs hold of a rock and refuses to be budged. The head struggles to get things going again, but no matter how hard the head pulls, the tail remains obstinately clinging to the rock.
Not able to convince the tail to get on with it, the head does the next best thing: it pulls so hard that the whole animal comes apart at the middle. The head then wanders off, leaving the tail to manage as best it can.
Now, if you cut a human being in half across the waist, he has a tendency not to survive the operation. But if you do this to a flatworm, you merely trigger off asexual reproduction in the same way that the animal occasionally does itself. For the head will grow a new tail in a matter of five or six days, and the tail, clinging gallantly to its rock, will regenerate an entire new head (complete with brain, eyes and full sensory apparatus) in a matter of a week or two.
Furthermore, each of the regenerated portions of the beast will soon grow up to the same size as the original animal and, being rejuvenated as well as regenerated, will begin sexual mating again. (Now there's a topic that needs further research if ever I saw one!) Thompson and I, knowing this odd habit of the flatworm, thought it might be clever if we trained a worm, then cut it in half, let the head grow a new tail and the tail grow a new head, and then tested both halves to see which half remembered the original training.
Thompson and I never had the time to do that experiment at the University of Texas, but at Michigan I had students, worms and apparatus, so we set out to see what would happen.
To our great surprise, we found that the heads remembered (a month after original training) just as much as did worms that had been trained but not cut in half at all. Apparently, if you are a worm, losing your tail does not affect your memory. To our greater surprise, we found that the tails remembered even better than did the heads. Obviously, for worms, losing your head actually improves your memory!
These odd results suggested to us that, in the planarian at least, memories might not be stored just in the head section. Our next experiment consisted of chopping a trained animal in several pieces and letting all of them regenerate. As we half expected, each regenerate showed memory of what the original animal had been taught.
Slowly it began to dawn on us that the usual theories of memory storage just didn't hold, for these all insisted that memories were stored neurophysiologically in the brain. Since our regenerated worms had to re-grow an entire new brain, it seemed to us that they must be storing their lessons chemically.
In other words, whenever the worm learned something, there had to be some corresponding change in the molecules in their bodies (just as there must be an electrical or mechanical change in a computer each time it stores a bit of data). Our chemical theory of memory was interesting, but how to go about proving it?
People have personalities and, after you've studied them a while, it becomes apparent that planarians do, too. That is, each organism reacts slightly differently from its cousins and brothers.
But chemical molecules are all supposed to be the same. So, when one worm learned his lesson in our training apparatus, we assumed that the chemical changes inside his body were more or less the same as those that would take place in any other worm's body when it learned the same lesson. Now, that's a perfectly tenable hypothesis if you don't "happen to know much about zoology or biochemistry so, blessed with a most enthusiastic ignorance of such arcane topics, we ploughed ahead. Here was our reasoning. Worms are rather special. Not only can you cut them in half, and each piece will regenerate into an intact organism, but you can also play all sorts of sadistic games with them.
If you slice the head in half, from the tip of the snout down to where the worm's Adam's apple would be (if it had one, which it doesn't), and then you keep the two sections of the head separated for 24 hours, each section will regenerate separately. You'll end up with a two-headed worm. Interestingly enough, a chap at Washington University in St.Louis worked with two-headed planarians later on and found, to our delight, that these animals learn significantly faster than do normal beasts. So, as far as the worm is concerned, two heads are indeed better than one!
And if two heads aren't enough for you, split each of them again, and you'll have four heads on the same body. You can get up to twelve heads at once, if you and the worm are interested in such things. More than that, you can take the head from one animal and graft it on to another planarians don't reject tissue grafts the way that most higher organisms do.
Well, if the memory molecules were the same from one worm to another, why couldn't we train one worm, extract the chemicals from it, inject them somehow into another, and thus transfer the "memory" from one beast to another?
For several months we tried to do just that, but we failed, simply because we were rather stupid about it all. Our hypodermic needles were far too large and we tried to inject far too much material. The poor little worms swelled up like balloons; a few popped. Eventually, though, a brainstorm hit us. Hungry planarians are cannibalistic. If we couldn't make the "transfer" using our crude injection techniques, perhaps we could induce the worms to do the. work for us.
So, in our next experiment, we trained a group of "victim" worms and then chopped them in pieces and fed them to an unsuspecting group of hungry cannibals. After the cannibals had had a chance to digest their meal, we promptly gave them the same sort of training we had given the victims.
To our delight, the cannibals that had eaten educated victims did significantly better (right from the very first trial) than did cannibals that had eaten untrained victims. We had achieved the first inter-animal transfer of information.
After we had repeated this experiment successfully several times, we went on to show that the chemical involved in the transfer was RNA (ribonucleic acid), a giant molecule found in almost all living cells.
For we showed that we could achieve this type of "memory transfer" using a crude extract of RNA taken from the bodies of trained planarians and injected into untrained worms (using, I may say, a very, very small needle).
In recent years, a considerable controversy has cropped up concerning a whole series of similar experiments using rats and mice as subjects rather than worms. And, despite the outcries of the orthodox, it does now seem as if chemicals extracted from the brains of trained rats and injected into their untrained brethren does cause much the same sort of "memory transfer" as we had originally discovered in flatworms.
But I stray from the point. We published our original regeneration results in 1959 and at once found ourselves mentioned in several national publications. Of course, none of the journalists took our work at all seriously but, unfortunately for us, there were hundreds of high-school students around the country who did.
Many of the brighter students in the biological sciences saw immediately that the worm could make an intriguing and most inexpensive substitute for the rat. So in 1959 we were inundated with letters from these bright youngsters asking us to tell them all about the care and training of worms. (A few more aggressive souls wrote us demanding that we send them a few hundred trained animals "at once", because they needed them instantly and didn't have time to mess around doing the work themselves.)
I answered the first few letters personally at great length, but when several hundred arrived, it became clear that some more efficient means of communication would have to be arrived at. So my students and I sat down and wrote what was really a manual describing how to repeat the sorts of experiments we had been working on.
It took us all of fourteen pages to pour out our complete knowledge of planarianology. We typed the material up and reproduced it on "ditto" paper (using purple ink guaranteed to fade rapidly so that years later we wouldn't be embarrassed by residual displays of our youthful ignorance).
Now, I had always been noted for the oddness of my sense of humour, and the planarian research greatly enhanced this reputation. Thus none of my students considered it strange that we should try to make a joke out of this little manual, so joke it became.
First of all, it had to have a name. In psychological jargon, a person who trains rats is called a "rat runner", because, presumably, his task is to get the rats to run through a maze or some other piece of apparatus. A man who trains insects is a "bug runner", and someone who works with humans is, quite seriously, called a "people runner". Obviously we were "worm runners", and so the title of our manual simply had to be Worm Runner's Digest.
One of the girls designed a crest that appeared on the cover, with a rampant two-headed worm, a coronet of connected nerve cells at the top, a Latin motto (which Arthur Koestler translates as "When I get through explaining this to you, you will know even less than before I started"), an S and R for "stimulus-response", a ψ for psychology, and a pair of diagonal stripes painted the maize-and-blue colours of the University of Michigan. (It wasn't until years later that we learned that in the language of heraldry, diagonal stripes across your escutcheon mean that you're descended from a bastard; as I like to say, there's been a good deal of serendipity in our research.) To top the manual off, we called it "Volume I, No. 1", the joke being that we had no intention of continuing its publication. Little did we appreciate the strength of the publish-or-perish syndrome. Academic scientists are so desperate that they will publish anywhere (for the Dean really doesn't know the difference), so to our utter amazement, we began getting contributions for the next issue. Hoist with our own could do but put out a next issue, and a next, and a next...
And now, here we are, a journal with 16 years behind us, an international circulation that today is numbered in the thousands. One of our crowning achievements, incidentally, was the receipt of a letter from the Library of the Academy of Sciences of the U.S.S.R. offering an official exchange of journals. We wonder still if they quite knew what they were getting.
Of course, even as our circulation increased, we remained unique. We decided that most scientific journals are deadly dull, and ours would be different. To pep things up a bit, we included poems, joke's, satires, cartoons, spoofs and short stories scattered more or less randomly among the more serious articles. People seemed to like this melange; or at least, some of them did. A few people complained that they didn't have time to waste on the (admittedly) sophomoric humour they wanted the "truth" and nothing else.
Their trouble was that they often found themselves getting halfway through a satire before they realized (dimly) that their leg was being pulled.
We would have ignored such complaints had they not come from some of the most famous and influential members of the scientific community. (Any conclusions you wish to draw about the qualities necessary to gather fame in the scientific community are made on your own time.)
To help these poor souls out, we resorted to a propagation device much like the worm's namely, we split in two. We gathered all of the so-called funny stuff and banished it to the back of the journal, printing it upside down to make sure that no one wouíd confuse the fact with the fancy.
The Digest inched along this way for several years, until we faced another crisis. The authors of our serious articles complained that they weren't getting adequate coverage. When an article is published in most scientific journals, it is picked up by one of the abstracting services for dissemination in abstract form. Despite the fact that the serious side of the Digest contained some pretty meaty stuff, none of the abstracting services would touch anything that came from a journal with such an odd name as ours.
Eventually, as a kind of last-ditch compromise, we petard, there was nothing we a kind of last-ditch compromise, we changed the name of the front half of the Digest, calling it The Journal of Biological Psychology.
Nothing else was changed but the name, but what a difference it made! Within two months we received letters from Psychological Abstracts, Biological Abstracts and Chemical Abstracts asking that we send them this "new" journal for abstracting. Naturally, we obliged.
As I look back at the past 16 years or so, it becomes apparent to me that life would have been a lot easier had the Digest suffered a stillbirth. Much of the controversy surrounding the work on "memory transfer" stems in no small part from the fact that it received its first publication in what some of my colleagues still refer to as "the Playboy of the scientific world".
I can recall attending a meeting at Cambridge (the one in England) in 1964 at which I presented what seemed to me to be rather conclusive evidence that memories could be transferred chemically from one planarian to another. Afterwards, over the inevitable soggy cookies and warm, flavoured water (the British national drink just isn't my cup of tea), I was taken to task by a noted Scientist who informed me flatly that he would refuse to consider seriously anything published in a "scientific cartoonbook". When I asked him which of the British journals he had reference to, he almost dropped his cookie.
I can also remember when a good friend of mine took me aside one day to tell me how much damage I was doing to my reputation by printing the Digest. He was really quite worried about the matter. "My God", he said, "if you keep publishing articles in that thing, people may actually want to cite them some time, and then where will you be? You ought to change the name, throw out all that so-called funny stuff, and make it a respectable journal."
I also treasure a letter I received from a world-famous zoologist who demanded that we remove her name from our subscription list because we were "misleading students" into nthinking that Science could be fun!
Now, in all these cases, the person doing the criticizing was a bona fide, expert scientist as well as Scientist. They were quite sincere in their comments, offered them up for my own betterment. I respect their scientific work, but I do feel rather sorry that so much of what is great and glorious and meaningful about science seems to have slipped through their fingers.
The kind of intropunitive wit that is the hallmark of the Digest can thrive only when its author is fairly secure emotionally and intellectually. People who neither understand nor appreciate humour are probably threatened by those of us who do. We speak a language they don't understand, we react to the world around us in ways that are foreign and disturbing to them. Most of them have based their entire approach to life on the premise that seriousness is next to godliness.
Those of us who see the occasional folly and ignorance of most of our (and their) behaviour often react by cracking a joke. Humour, particularly that directed against ourselves, keeps us humble in the face of our own too-wellperceived incompetence. The totally serious person fears this kind of insightful perception into his own behaviour patterns and fears humour because he cannot afford to be humble.
Now perhaps you see the Digest for what it really is: the house organ of an anti-Scientific movement. It is my firm conviction that.; most of what is wrong with Science these days can be traced to the fact that Scientists are willing to make objective and dispassionate studies of any natural phenomena at all except their own scientific behaviour. We know considerably more about flatworms than we do about people who study flatworms. The Establishment never questions its own motives; the true humorist always does.
founder-editor of the satirical magazine The Worm Runner's Digest and later The Journal of Biological Psychology, is Professor of Psychology at the Mental Health Research Institute, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (U.S.A.). The author of numerous papers and articles on planarian worms and the biochemistry of learning, he has edited the volume The Worm Re-Turns: The Best from the Worm Runner's Digest (1965). A longer version of this article originally appeared in Unesco's quarterly Impact of Science on Society (July-September 1969). It has been very slightly amended to bring it up to date.
На следующий день после публикации этой заметки на полях в редакцию ТЧК приходит письмо от автора с предложением публикации расширенного варианта этого текста.
Мы с радостью откликнулись на это предложение. И даже организовали новый раздел - "К 90-летию со дня рождения Джеймса Вернона Макконнелла", куда перенесли из раздела "In English" статью профессора Макконнелла и добавили текст Ларри Стерна.
It’s March 1960, and James V. McConnell, an assistant professor of psychology at the University of Michigan, is convinced that planarians - common flatworms - hold the key to unraveling the mystery of memory. He has decided to condition them to scrunch when a bright light is flashed. Then, he plans to chop them into pieces, feed them to their cannibalistic brothers and see whether the learned behavior is transferred from the trained victim to the naïve recipient. His eventual goal is to demonstrate that the engram - the physical representation of memory - is encoded in the structure of unique forms of RNA much as inherited traits are encoded in one’s DNA.
The story of “McCannibal and his Mau Mau” hypothesis has become part of the folklore of psychology. Often used in textbooks as a humorous hook to grab students’ attention in chapters devoted to learning and memory, two things are typically included: references to “memory pills” or “professor burgers” and the alleged fact that no one was ever able to truly replicate the findings. Those who did report positive results, the story goes, were poor scientists who either conducted sloppy experiments that lacked proper controls or simply deceived themselves.
But folklore tends to caricature people and events and is lousy history. Although, in the long run, the work did not stand up to the exacting scrutiny of those working in the area of memory research, McConnell’s planarian studies spawned a 15-year episode that tells us much about the workings of science when it is confronted - as it always is - with claims that depart in significant ways from prevailing views. Equivocal results are typical in such episodes and to jump to the conclusion that those who championed a losing cause must be poor scientists is hazardous at best. In fact, by the time the dust had settled roughly 200 independent research teams - many in the upper tiers of science - conducted memory transfer experiments, using dozens of learning paradigms and 23 types of subjects including, in addition to the flatworm and standard lab rat, octopuses, praying mantes, baby chicks, kittens and honey bees. Government agencies granted more than $1 million (in 1960s dollars) to conduct such experiments, and 247 research reports appeared in print. Clearly, something was going on here; there were enough encouraging results to beckon others to try their hand.
The early bird
It started innocently enough. In 1953, McConnell, a graduate student at the University of Texas, collaborated with Robert Thompson to show that planarians could be classically conditioned.
Thompson received his degree and went to Louisiana State University to work with rats, while McConnell, upon his arrival at Michigan, stuck with worms. He knew that by cutting a planarian across the middle into head and tail sections, each part would regenerate its missing half. But, he wondered, if you conditioned a planarian, which half of the bisected beast would retain the conditioned response? Working with two students in the newly formed Planarian Research Group, McConnell found, to his astonishment and delight, that the regenerated tails showed as much retention - and in some cases more - than the regenerated heads.
After nearly a year of McConnell’s wrangling with referees, the paper appeared in the Journal of Comparative and Physiological Psychology. In his next experiments, McConnell and the PRG showed that each regenerated part of trained worms cut in several pieces retained the initial training and, more important, a planarian that, after several regenerations, contained none of the structure of the originally trained animal also retained the memory.
These results led McConnell to think more seriously about the chemical nature of memory. To test this notion, he needed to find a way to transfer the putative molecules from a trained to an untrained animal. But how? They tried to graft the head of a trained worm onto the tail of a naïve worm - but the head kept falling off.
Next, they tried grinding up trained worms and injecting them into naïve recipients, but that didn’t work, either. The hypodermic needles were too big - getting one inside a flatworm was like trying to impale a prune with a javelin - and if, by chance, the needle was positioned well enough to inject the planarian-puree, it either oozed out or caused the worm to explode.
The answer came in March 1960 when fellow worm runner Jay Boyd Best wrote McConnell about the cannibalistic tendencies of a particular planarian species. McConnell and the PRG ran pilot studies in April and obtained positive results. Each of the next four replications - each run blind to guard against experimenter bias - also produced promising results.
Catching the public eye
For many, these results were hard to swallow. That McConnell first reported these results in the Worm Runners Digest, a journal/magazine he edited that published a mixture of straight science and spoof, did not help his case. Of more importance, the planarian work was not easily replicable. The beasts were difficult to train, and various experimenters - most notably a team working under the patronage of Nobel laureate Mac Calvin at Berkeley - reported their failure to do so.
Theoretical concerns made the work even less palatable. The conventional view held that memory consisted of electrical impulses traveling along specific neural pathways. But the spectacular success of Watson and Crick led some to wonder: If genetic information is stored in nucleic acids and proteins, why not acquired information, as well? Although many neurophysiologists thought this analogy nothing more than a bad pun, a number of molecular biologists, thinking the time ripe to apply their tools and analytic approach to the study of memory processes, began to discuss seriously whether RNA played a pivotal role in memory processes. Expectations ran high, and work proceeded along a number of collateral paths. The smart bet, however, was that if RNA or any other biochemical agents played any role, it was merely to fortify and grease the wheels of neural processing.
McConnell wagered on the long shot. Soon after the cannibalism experiments, he successfully injected naïve worms with RNA taken from those trained to negotiate a maze and reported that the training had transferred. He interpreted these findings as providing evidence that specific memories are encoded in the nervous system in the form of unique structural variants of RNA.
The cannibalism studies, both startling and vivid in their imagery, and McConnell, never one to shy away from the media, caught the public eye. At a time when scientists remained sequestered in their labs, McConnell appeared with his cannibalistic worms on television (i.e., “The Way Out Men,” “Mr. Wizard” and “The Steve Allen Show”), while articles profiling his work appeared in Time, Newsweek, Life, Esquire and Fortune. Eminently quotable, McConnell referred to his work as confirming the Mau Mau hypothesis, and the “McCannibal” moniker didn’t bother him one bit. He made grand pronouncements about the future of “memory pills” and “memory injections,” promising more than he and others working in the area could actually deliver.
None of this endeared McConnell to his critics.
Still, McConnell believed that eventually the data would win out, and many eminent psychologists, Donald Hebb, Harry Harlow, Karl Pribram, and Gordon Bower among them, fully supported his efforts, even though they did not share his interpretation of his results. In fact, up until 1965, McConnell was, as he put it, “riding high.” He was invited to share a platform with top-flight molecular biologists and electrophysiologists at conferences at the University of California, Los Angeles, in 1962 and Princeton in 1963. During the period from 1959 through 1964, he received more than $150,000 (in 1960s dollars) from the Atomic Energy Commission and the National Institute of Mental Health designated specifically for the planarian work. He was offered a fellowship to spend a year at the newly created Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences in Palo Alto, Calif., in 1960, and he received a prestigious five-year Research Career Development Award from the National Institutes of Health, 1963 – 68. He received accelerated promotion to full professor at Michigan in 1963.
Everything changed when, in late 1965, four independent labs reported successful memory-transfer experiments using rats (and in one case, cross-species transfer between rats and mice). Two of these reports appeared in the high-impact journals Science and Nature.
No one could argue that rats cannot learn. Within a few months, more than 50 labs, including teams at Berkeley, Harvard, MIT and Yale, conducted transfer experiments. McConnell, after failed attempts using salamanders and mynah birds, also turned to rats.
And then things got really interesting.
Science, we all know, is serious stuff. If it is to retain its cultural and cognitive authority, it must be seen as an objective, dispassionate and value-free enterprise. But science, at its core, is a human enterprise populated by all types of people. And science and scientists can be awfully funny - without jeopardizing the objectivity of what comes to count (however provisionally) as certified knowledge.
Comedians and cartoonists have been poking fun at science - and especially at psychologists - for decades. But one need not look outside the halls of academia to find such humor. Indeed, for my money, nothing beats the humor contained in the Worm Runner's Digest, published between 1959 and 1979. If your library subscribed, you might find it and its twin, the Journal of Biological Psychology, nestled between the serious Journal of Applied Psychology and Journal of Comparative and Physiological Psychology.
The brainchild of James V. McConnell, then an assistant professor of psychology at the University of Michigan, the Worm Runner's Digest burst on the scene as a new 1960s counterculture was beginning to take form. Devoted in part to puncturing the pretentiousness and pomposity of that sacred cow known as "science," it was, as McConnell noted, one of the first scientific journals that knowingly published satire.
What, then, prompted the creation of this peculiar journal?
It began with a paper McConnell presented on the morning of Sept. 8, 1959, at APA's 67th Annual Convention. In this paper, "Apparent Retention of a Conditioned Response Following Total Regeneration in the Planarian," McConnell reported data collected by one of his honors students, Reeva Jacobson, which indicated that separate pieces of trained worms, after being allowed to regenerate their missing parts, retained the initial training of the original uncut worm. Moreover, after several regenerations, worms that contained none of the structure of the originally trained animal also retained some memory of the initial conditioning.
On Sept. 21, Newsweek published a summary of this work, triggering a series of events that no one - certainly not McConnell - ever expected.
Two years earlier, the Soviet Union's successful launch of Sputnik sparked fears that the United States lagged behind the Soviets in science and technology. One result, designed to ignite the youth of America's interest in science, was a renewed emphasis on local science fairs.
Shortly after the Newsweek coverage, McConnell was inundated with letters from high school students from around the country asking where they could obtain worms for their projects and how they should go about caring for and training them. Some students, according to McConnell, demanded that he send a few hundred trained worms at once since their projects were due within days.