Clay Shirky: Here Comes Everybody

Clay Shirky: Here Comes Everybody: The Power of Organizing Without Organizations (2008, Penguin Press)

Clay Shirky teaches at NYU's Interactive Telecommunications Program. He's written a number of essays on how the internet has changed things, several of which are downright profound (e.g., "Help, the Price of Information Has Fallen and It Can't Get Up"). His book continues in that direction. The book is based around a number of stories, which act as case examples, some famous like Wikipedia and Linux, others obscure. The quotes below focus on the generalizations from the stories.

Books starts off with a story of how someone lost an expensive cell phone (a "Sidekick") but was able to recover it after a friend organized a search over the web, eventually putting enough pressure in the NYPD to arrest the person who found the phone and refused to return it -- chapter title is "It Takes a Village to Find a Phone" (pp. 18-20):

There are many small reasons for this, both technological and social, but they all add up to one big change: forming groups has gotten a lot easier. To put it in economic terms, the costs incurred by creating a new group or joining an existing one have fallen in recent years, and not just by a little bit. They have collapsed. ("Cost" here is used in the economist's sense of anything expended -- money, but also time, effort, or attention.) One of the few uncontentious tenets of economics is that people respond to incentives. If you give them more of a reason to do something, they will do more of it, and if you make it easier to do more of something they are already inclined to do, they will also do more of it.

Why do the economics matter, though? In theory, since humans have a gift for mutually beneficial cooperation, we should be able to assemble as needed to take on tasks too big for one person. If this were true, anything that required shared effort -- whether policing, road construction, or garbage collection -- would simply arise out of the motivations of the individual members. In practice, the difficulties of coordination prevent that from happening. [ . . . ]

In a way, every institution lives in a kind of contradiction: it exists to take advantage of group effort, but some of tis resources are drained away by directing that effort. Call this the institutional dilemma -- because an institution expends resources to manage resources, there is a gap between what those institutions are capable of in theory and in practice, and the larger the institution, the greater those costs.

(pp. 30-31):

This ability of the traditional management structure to simplify coordination helps answer one of the most famous questions in all of economics: If markets are such a good idea, why do we have organizations at all? Why can't all exchanges of value happen in the market? This question originally was posed by Ronald Coase in 1937 in his famous paper "The Nature of the Firm," wherein he also offered the first coherent explanation of the value of hierarchical organization. Coase realized that workers could simply contract with one another, selling their labor, and buying the labor of others in turn, in a market, without needing any managerial oversight. However, a completely open market for labor, reasoned Coase, would underperform labor in firms because of the transaction costs, and in particular the costs of discovering the options and making and enforcing agreements among the participating parties. The more people are involved in a given task, the more potential agreements need to be negotiated to do anything, and the greater the transaction costs, as in the movie example above.

A firm is successful when the costs of directing employee effort are lower than the potential gain from directing. It's tempting to assume that central control is better than markets for arranging all sorts of group effort. (Indeed, during the twentieth century much of the world lived under governments that made that assumption.) But there is a strong limiting factor to this directed management, and that is the cost of management itself. [ . . . ]

Activities whose costs are higher than the potential value for both firms and markets simply don't happen. Here is the institutional dilemma again: because the minimum costs of being an organization in the first place are relatively high, certain activities may have some value but not enough to make them worth pursuing in any organized way. New social tools are altering this equation by lowering the costs of coordinating group action. The easiest place to see this change is in activities that are too difficult to be pursued with traditional management but that have become possible with new forms of coordination.

Shirky then introduces an example from Flickr, which lets people share their photographs and associate them by shared tags. He cites a Mermaid Parade, which was comprehensively documented despite no one making any managerial effort to do so. He then looks beyond simple sharing (pp. 49-51):

Cooperation is the next rung on the ladder. Cooperating is harder than simply sharing, because it involves changing your behavior to synchronize with people who are changing their behavior to synchronize with you. Unlike sharing, where the group is mainly an aggregate of participants, cooperating creates group identity -- you know who you are cooperating with. One simple form of cooperation, almost universal with social tools, is conversation; when people are in one another's company, even virtually, they like to talk. Sometimes the conversation is with words, as with e-mail, IM, or text messaging, and sometimes it is with other media: YouTube, the video sharing site, allows users to post new videos in response to videos they've seen on the site. Conversation creates more of a sense of community than sharing does, but it also introduces new problems. It is famously difficult to keep online conversations from devolving into either name-calling or blather, much less to keep them on topic. Some groups are perfectly happy with those effects (indeed, there are communities on the internet that revel in puerile or fatuous conversation), but for any group determined to maintain a set of communal standards some mechanism of enforcement must exist.

Collaborative production is a more involved form of cooperation, as it increases the tension between individual and group goals. The litmus test for collaborative production is simple: no one person can take credit for what gets created, and the project could not come into being without the participation of many. Structurally, the biggest difference between information sharing and collaborative production is that in collaborative production at least some collective decisions have to be made. The back-and-forth talking and editing that makes Wikipedia work results in a single page on a particular subject (albeit one that changes over time). Collaboration is not an absolute good -- many tools work by reducing the amount of required coordination, as Flickr does in aggregating photos. Collaborative production can also be valuable, but it is harder to get right than sharing, because anything that has to be negotiated about, like a Wikipedia article, takes more energy than things that can just be accreted, like a group of Flickr photos.

Collective action, the third rung, is the hardest kind of group effort, as it requires a group of people to commit themselves to undertaking a particular effort together, and to do so in a way that makes the decision of the group binding on the individual members. All group structures create dilemmas, but these dilemmas are hardest when it comes to collective action, because the cohesion of the group becomes critical to its success. Information sharing produces shared awareness among the participants, and collaborative production relies on shared creation, but collective action creates shared responsibility, by tying the user's identity to the identity of the group. In historical terms, a potluck dinner or a barn raising is collaborative production (the members work together to create something), while a union or a government engages in collective action, action that is undertaken in the name of the members meant to change something out in the world, often in opposition to other groups committed to different outcomes.

He follows this up with a discussion of the "Tragedy of the Commons" ("the commonest collective action problem"). Next chapter is "Everyone Is a Media Outlet" (pp. 59-60):

In any profession, particularly one that has existed long enough that no one can remember a time when it didn't exist, members have a tendency to equate provisional solutions to particular problems with deep truths about the world. This is true of newspapers today and of the media generally. The media industries have suffered first and most from the recent collapse in communications costs. It used to be hard to move words, images, and sounds from creator to consumer, and most media businesses involve expensive and complex management of that pipeline problem, whether running a printing press or a record label. In return for helping overcome these problems, media businesses got to exert considerable control over the media and extract considerable revenues from the public. The commercial viability of most media businesses involves providing those solutions, so preservation of the original problems became an economic imperative. Now, though, the problems of production, reproduction, and distribution are much less serious. As a consequence, control over the media is less completely in the hands of the professionals.

As new capabilities go, unlimited perfect copyability is a lulu, and that capability now exists in the hands of everyone who owns a computer. Digital means of distributing words and images have robbed newspapers of the coherence they formerly had, revealing the physical object of the newspaper as a merely provisional solution; now every article is its own section. The permanently important question is how society will be informed of the news of the day. The newspaper used to be a pretty good answer to that question, but like all such answers, it was dependent on what other solutions were available. Television and radio obviously changed the landscape in which the newspaper operated, but even then printed news had a monopoly on the written word -- until the Web came along. The Web didn't introduce a new competitor into the old ecosystem, as USA Today had done. The Web created a new ecosystem.

Next he introduces blogs, starting with the story of Trent Lott's toast to Strom Thurmond's segregationist presidential campaign, which no news media outlet considered newsworthy, but gained wide exposure through blogs. (p. 79):

In a world where publishing is effortless, the decision to publish something isn't terribly momentous. Just as movable type raised the value of being able to read and write even as it destroyed the scribal tradition, globally free publishing is making public speech and action more valuable, even as its absolute abundance diminishes the specialness of professional publishing. For a generation that is growing up without the scarcity that made publishing such a serious-minded pursuit, the written word has no special value in and of itself. Adam Smith, in The Wealth of Nations, pointed out that although water is far more important than diamonds to human life, diamonds are far more expensive, because they are rare. The entire basis on which the scribes earned their keep vanished not when reading and writing vanished but when reading and writing became ubiquitous. If everyone can do something, it is no longer rare enough to pay for, even if it is vital.

(p. 91):

The Web makes interactivity technologically possible, but what technology giveth, social factors taketh away. In the case of the famous, any potential interactivity is squashed, because fame isn't an attitude, and it isn't technological artifact. Fame is simply an imbalance between inbound and outbound attention, more arrows pointing in than out. Two things have to happen for someone to be famous, neither of them related to technology. The first is scale: he or she has to have some minimum amount of attention, an audience in the thousands or more. (This is why the internet version of the Warhol quote -- "In the future everyone will be famous to fifteen people" -- is appealing but wrong.) Second, he or she has to be unable to reciprocate. We know this pattern from television; audiences for the most popular shows are huge, and reciprocal attention is technologically impossible. We believed (often because we wanted to believe) that technical limits caused this imbalance in attention. When weblogs and other forms of interactive media began to spread, they enabled direct, unfiltered conversation among all parties and removed the structural imbalances of fame. This removal of the technological limits has exposed a second set of social ones.

(pp. 120-122):

Wikis avoid the institutional dilemma. Because contributors aren't employees, a wiki can take a staggering amount of input with a minimum of overhead. This is key to its success: it does not need to make sure its contributors are competent, or producing steadily, or even showing up. Mandated specialization of talent and consistency of effort, seemingly the hallmarks of large-scale work, actually have little to do with division of labor itself. A business needs employee A and employee B to put in the same effort if they are doing the same job, because it needs interchangeability and because it needs to reduce friction between energetic and lazy workers. By this measure, most contributors to Wikipedia are lazy. The majority of contributors edit only one article, once, while the majority of the effort comes from a much smaller and more active group. (The two asphalt articles, with a quarter of the work coming from six contributors, are a microcosm of this general phenomenon.) Since no one is being paid, the energetic and occasional contributors happily coexist in the same ecosystem.

The freedom of contributors to jump from article to article and from task to task makes the work on any given article unpredictable, but since there are no shareholders or managers or even customers, predictability of that sort doesn't matter. Furthermore, since anyone can act, the ability of the people in charge to kill initiatives through inaction is destroyed. This is what befell Nupedia: because everyone working on that project understood that only experts were to write articles, no one would even begin an article they knew little about, and as long as the experts did nothing (which, on Nupedia, is mostly what they did), nothing happened. In an expert-driven system, an article on asphalt that read "Asphalt is a material used for road coverings" would never appear, even as a stub. So short! So uninformative! Why, anyone could have written that! Which, of course, is one of the principal advantages of Wikipedia.

In a system where anyone is free to get something started, however badly, a short, uninformative article can be the anchor for the good article that will eventually appear. Its very inadequacy motivates people to improve it; many more people are willing to make a bad article better than are willing to start a good article from scratch. In 1991 Richard Gabriel, a software engineer at Sun Microsystems, wrote an essay that included a section called "Worse Is Better," describing this effect. He contrasted two programming languages, one elegant but complex versus another that was awkward but simple. The belief at the time was that the elegant solution would eventually triumph; Gabriel instead predicted, correctly, that the language that was simpler would spread faster, and as a result, more people would come to care about improving the simple language than improving the complex one. The early successes of a simple model created exactly the incentives (attention, the desire to see your work spread) needed to create serious improvements. These kinds of incentives help ensure that, despite the day-to-day chaos, a predictable pattern emerges over time: readers continue to read, some of them become contributors, Wikipedia continues to grow, and articles continue to improve. The process is more like creating a coral reef, the sum of millions of individual actions, than creating a car. And the key to creating those individual actions is to hand as much freedom as possible to the average user.

(p. 134):

In one well-known experiment, called the Ultimatum Game, two people divide ten dollars between them. The first person is given the money and can then divide it between the two of them in any way he likes; the only freedom the second person has is to take or leave the deal for both of them. Pure economic rationality would suggest that the second person would accept any split of the money, down to a $9.99-to-$.01 division, because taking even a penny would make him better off then before. In practice, though, the recipient would refuse to accept a division that was seen as too unequal (less than a $7-to-$3 split, in practice) even though this meant that neither person received any cash at all. Contrary to classical economic theory, in other words, we have a willingness to punish those who are treating us unfairly, even at personal cost, or, to put it another way, a preference for fairness that is more emotional than rational. This in turn suggests that relying on nonfinancial motivations may actually make systems more tolerant of variable participation.

(pp. 192-193):

When Robert Putnam, a Harvard sociologist, published Bowling Alone in 2000, it was an immediate sensation. His account of the weakening of community in the United States, based on a huge number of indicators from the decline of picnicking to the abandonment of league bowling, offered two provocative observations. First, much of the success of the United States as a nation has had to do with its ability to generate social capital, that mysterious but critical set of characteristics of functioning communities. When your neighbor walks your dog while you are ill, or the guy behind the counter trusts you to pay him next time, social capital is at work. It is the shadow of the future on a societal scale. Individuals in groups with more social capital (which is to say, more habits of cooperation) are better off on a large number of metrics, from health and happiness to earning potential, than those in groups with less social capital. Societies characterized by a high store of social capital overall do better than societies with low social capital on a similarly wide range of measurements, from crime rate to the costs of doing business to economic growth.

This is the shadow of the future at work: direct reciprocity assumes that if you do someone a favor today, that person will do you a favor tomorrow. Indirect reciprocity is even more remarkable -- it assumes that if you do something in your community a favor today, someone in your community will be around to do you a favor tomorrow, even if it isn't the same person. The set of norms and behaviors that instantiates the shadow of the future is social capital, a set of norms that facilitate cooperation within or among groups.

It was Putnam's second observation, however, that generated the real reaction. Across a remarkably broad range of measures, participation in group activities, the vehicle for creating and sustaining social capital, was on the decline in the United States. Putting the two observations together, he concluded that one of the greatest assets in the growth and stability of the United States was ebbing away. One cause of the decline in social capital was a simple increase in the difficulty of people getting together -- an increase in transaction costs, to use Coase's term. When an activity becomes more expensive, either in direct costs or increased hassle, people do less of it, and several effects of the last fifty years -- including smaller households, delayed marriage, two-worker families, the spread of television, and suburbanization -- have increased the transaction costs for coordinating group activities outside work.

(pp. 236-237):

Failure is free, high-quality research, offering direct evidence of what works and what doesn't. Groups that people want to join are sorted from groups that people don't want to join, every day. By dispensing with the right to direct what its users try to create, Meetup sheds the costs and distorting effects of managing each individual effort. Trial and error, in a system like Meetup, has both a lower cost and a higher value than in traditional institutions, where failure often comes with someone's name attached. From a conventional business perspective, Meetup has no quality control, but from another perspective Meetup is all quality control. All that's required to take advantage of this sort of market are passionate users and an appetite for repeated public failure.

(pp. 239-242):

The number of people who are willing to start something is smaller, much smaller, than the number of people who are willing to contribute once someone else starts something. This pattern is the same as in the creation of Wikipedia articles, where a simple seven-word entry on asphalt can, through repeated improvement, become a pair of detailed and informative articles. Similarly, enough people have volunteered to help improve Linux that it has gone from a hobby project to an essential piece of digital infrastructure and also has helped propel the idea of collaboratively created (or "open source") software in the world.

Open source software has been one of the great successes of the digital age. The phrase refers to source code, the set of computer instructions written by programmers that then gets turned into software. Because software exists as source code first, anyone distributing software has to decide whether to distribute the source code as well, in order to allow users to read and modify it. The alternate choice, of course, is to distribute only the software itself, without the source code, thus keeping the ability to read and modify the code with the original creators.

Prior to the 1980s, software was something that generally came free with a computer, and much of it was distributed with the source code. As software sales become a business on its own, however, the economic logic shifted, and companies began distributing only the software. One of the first people to recognize this shift was Richard Stallman. In 1980 Stallman was working in an MIT lab that had access to Xerox's first-ever laser printer, the 9700. The lab wanted to modify the printer to send a message to users when their document had finished printing. Xerox, however, had not sent the source code for the 9700, so no one at MIT could make the improvement. Recognizing a broader trend in the industry, Stallman started advocating for free software ("free as in speech," as he puts it). He founded the Free Software Foundation (FSF) in 1983, with a twofold mission. First, he wanted to produce high-quality free software that was compatible with an operating system called Unix. (This was playfully named GNU, for "GNU's Not Unix.") The second part of the FSF mission was to create a legal framework for ensuring that software stayed free. (This effort led to the GNU Public License, or GPL, which Torvalds was to adopt almost a decade later.)

The year 1983 was a bad time to be arguing for this kind of freedom, as the big computing news was the advent of the personal computer, which was distributed under the "no source code included" model. In the first decade of its existence, FSF seemed to be fighting a losing battle. GPL-licensed software made up an insignificant fraction of the total software in the world, and all of it was used in small and technically adept user communities rather than in the rapidly growing population of home and business users. By the late 1980s it looked like the free software movement was going to be limited to a tiny niche.

That didn't happen, to put it mildly, because the GPL proved useful for holding together much looser groups of collaborators than had ever worked together before, groups like the global tribe now working on Linux. Almost a decade passed between the founding of the FSF and Torvalds's original message. Why did Stallman's vision not spread earlier? And why, after a decade of marginal adoption, did it become a global phenomenon in the 1990s? In that time not much about either software or arguments in favor of freedom had changed. What did change was that programmers had been given a global medium to communicate in. Linux is Exhibit A. When Torvalds announced the effort to build a tiny operating system, he received immediate responses from Austria, Iceland, the United States, Finland, and the U.K., a global collection of potential contributors assembled in twenty-four hours. Within months a simple version of the operating system was up and running, and by then conversations about Linux (as it came to be called) included people in Brazil, Canada, Australia, Germany, and the Netherlands. This had simply been less possible in the 1980s; while there were people online from all those places, they weren't numerous. More is different, and the increased density of people using the internet made the early 1990s a much more fertile time for free software than any previous era.

(p. 246):

The open source movement makes neither kind of mistake, because it doesn't have employees, it doesn't make investments, it doesn't even make decisions. It is not an organization, it is an ecosystem, and one that is remarkably tolerant of failure. Open source doesn't reduce the likelihood of failure, it reduces the cost of failure; it essentially gets failure for free. This reversal, where the cost of deciding what to try is higher than the cost of actually trying them, is true of open systems generally. As with the mass amateurization of media, open source relies on the "publish-then-filter" pattern. In traditional organizations, trying anything is expensive, even if just in staff time to discuss the idea, so someone must make some attempt to filter the successes from the failures in advance. In open systems, the cost of trying something is so low that handicapping the likelihood of success is often an unnecessary distraction. Even in a firm committed to experimentation, considerable work goes into reducing the likelihood of failure. This doesn't mean that open source communities don't discuss -- on the contrary, they have more discussions than in managed production, because no one is in a position to compel work on a particular project. Open systems, by reducing the cost of failure, enable their participants to fail like crazy, building on the successes as they go.

(p. 252):

The open source movement introduced this way of working, but the pattern of aggregating individual contributions into something more valuable has become general. One example of the expansion into other domains is Groklaw, a site for discussing legal issues related to the digital realm. When the Santa Cruz Organization (SCO), a software publisher, threatened a patent lawsuit against IBM, claiming that IBM's offering Linux to its customers violated SCO's patents, SCO clearly expected that IBM wouldn't want to face either the cost of fighting the suit or the chance of losing and would either pay to license the patents or simply buy SCO outright. Instead, IBM took SCO to court and set about the complex process of uncovering and aggregating what was known about SCO's patents and legal arguments. What SCO hadn't counted on was that Groklaw, a site run by a paralegal named Pamela Jones, would become a kind of third party in the fight. When IBM called SCO's bluff and the threatened suit went forward, Groklaw would post and then explain all the various legal documents being filed. This in turn made Groklaw required reading for everyone interested in the case. The knowledgeable audience that Jones assembled began to post comments related to the case, including, most damningly, comments from former SCO engineers that explicitly contradicted the version of events that SCO was alleging in the trial. Groklaw functioned as a kind of distributed and free friend-of-the-court brief, uncovering material that would have been too difficult and too expensive for IBM to get any other way. The normal course for such a lawsuit would have been that SOC and IBM fought the case in court, while the open source community looked on. What Groklaw did was assemble that community in a way that actually changed the landscape of the case.

(pp. 260-263):

Every story in this book relies on a successful fusion of a plausible promise, an effective tool, and an acceptable bargain with the users. The promise is the basic "why" for anyone to join or contribute to a group. The tool helps with the "how" -- how will the difficulties of coordination be overcome, or at least be held to manageable levels? And the bargain sets the rules of the road: if you are interested in the promise and adopt the tools, what can you expect, and what will be expected of you? [ . . . ]

The order of promise, tool, and bargain is also the order in which they matter to the success of any given group. Creating a promise that enough people believe in is the basic requirement. The promise creates the basic desire to participate. Then come the tools. After getting the promise right (or right enough), th next hurdle is figuring out which tools will best help people approach the promise together. Wikis make arriving at shared judgment easier than hosting a discussion, while e-mail has the opposite set of characteristics, so getting the tools right matters to the kind of interactions the group will rely on. Then comes the bargain. Tools don't completely determine behavior; different mailing lists have different cultures, for example, and these cultures are a result of an often implicit bargain among the users. One possible bargain for a mailing list is: "We expect politeness of one another,a nd we rebuke the impolite." Another, very different bargain is: "Anything goes." You can see how these bargains would lead to very different cultures, even among groups using the same tools, yet both patterns exist in abundance. A successful bargain among users must be a good fit for both the promise and the tools used. Taken together, these three characteristics are useful for understanding both successes and failures of groups relying on social tools.

The promise is the essential piece, the thing that convinces a potential user to become an actual user. Everyone already has enough to do, every day, and no matter what you think of those choices ("I would never watch that much TV," "Why are they at work at ten p.m.?"), those choices are theirs to make. Any new claim on someone's time must obviously offer some value, but more important, it must offer some value higher than something else she already does, and she won't free up the time. The promise has to hit a sweet spot among several extremes. The original promise of Voice of the Faithful was neither too mundane ("Let's blow off some steam about abusive priests") nor too disrespectful ("Let's demolish the Church"). Instead, its message balanced loyalty with anger -- "Keep the faith, change the church." Just right, at least for purposes of recruiting. Similarly, the original message inviting people to work on the Linux operating system was neither too provisional ("Let's try to see if we can come up with something together") nor too sweeping ("Let's create a world-changing operating system"). Instead, Linus's proposal was modest but interesting -- a new but small operating system, undertaken principally as a way to learn together. Just right. [ . . . ]

The problem of getting the promise right is unlike traditional marketing, because most marketing involves selling something that will be made for the listeners rather than by them. "Buy Cheesy Poofs" is a different message from "Join us, and we will invent Cheesy Poofs together." This second kind of message is more complicated, because of something called the paradox of groups. The paradox is simple -- there can be no group without members (obviously), but there can also be no members without a group, because what would they be members of? Single-user tools, from word-processing software to Tetris, have a simple message for the potential user: if you use this, you will find it satisfying or effective or both. With social tools, the group is the user, so you need to convince individuals not just that they will find the group satisfying and effective but that others will find it so as well; no matter how appealing the promise, there's no point in being the only user of a social tool. As a result, users of social tools are making two related judgments: Will I like using this tool or participating in this group? Will enough other people feel as I do to make it take off?

(p. 303):

One reason many of the stories in this book seem to be populated with young people is that those of us born before 1980 remember a time before any tools supported group communication well. For us, no matter how deeply we immerse ourselves in new technology, it will always have a certain provisional quality. Those of us with considerable real-world experience are often at an advantage relative to young people, who are comparative novices in the way the world works. The mistakes that novices make come from lack of experience. They overestimate mere fads, seeing revolution everywhere, and they make this kind of mistake a thousand times before they learn better. But in times of revolution, the experienced among us make the opposite mistake. When a real once-in-a-lifetime change comes along, we are at risk of regarding it as a fad. [ . . . ]

I'm old enough to know a lot of things just from life experience. I know that newspapers are where you get your political news and how you look for a job. I know that music comes from stores. I know that if you want to have a conversation with someone, you call them on the phone. I know that complicated things like software and encyclopedias have to be created by professionals. In the last fifteen years I've had to unlearn every one of those things and a million others, because they have stopped being true. I've become like the grown-ups arguing in my local paper about calculators; just as it took them a long time to realize that calculators were never going away, those of us old enough to remember a time before social tools became widely available are constantly playing catch-up. Meanwhile my students, many of whom are fifteen years younger than I am, don't have to unlearn those things, because they never had to learn them in the first place.

The advantage of youth, however, is relative, not absolute. Just as everyone eventually came to treat the calculator as a ubiquitous and invisible tool, we are all coming to take our social tools for granted as well. Our social tools are dramatically improving our ability to share, cooperate, and act together. As everyone from working biologists to angry air passengers adopts those tools, it is leading to an epochal change.

posted 2008-04-23