From The Dinosaur Heresies.
February 21, 2013
Matt and I were discussing “portable peer-review” services like Rubriq, and the conversation quickly wandered to the subject of PeerJ. Then I realised that that seems to be happening with all our conversations lately. Here’s a partial transcript.
Mike: I don’t see portable peer-review catching on. Who’s going to pay for it unless journals give an equal discount from APCs? And what journal is going to do that when they get the peer-review done for free anyway? If I was Elsevier, I wouldn’t say “OK, we’ll accept your external review and give you a $700 discount”, I’d charge the full $3000 and get two more free reviews done.
Plus, you know, I can get all the peer-review I want, free of charge, at PeerJ.
Matt: Yeah, that was pretty much my take. Even as I was sending that I thought about adding, “I wonder if this is one more thing that PeerJ will kill.” Only ‘abort’ is more the verb I want, in that I don’t see this ever getting off the ground anyway.
Mike: I think the world at large has yet to realise what a black hole PeerJ is, in the sense that it’s warping all the space near it. Pretty much every time I have any thought at all about scholarly publishing now, that thought it swiftly followed by “… or, wait, I should just use PeerJ for that.”
Matt: Exactly. It makes me think that we may be discovering the contours of that space-warping effect for some time, in that we’re used to one model, and that, among all the other things PeerJ does, it quacks something like that old model so we tend to think of it as a very cool duck, and not the freakin’ tyrannosaur that is going to eat scholarly publishing.
Also makes me think of that Paul Graham thing about noticing that the door is open, and there being a lag between the freedom to do something and the adoption of that newly facilitated action or behavior.
New thought: assuming PeerJ does not implode, will the established powers try to start PeerJ-alikes, and if so, what will they charge (amount), and what will they charge for (lifetime membership? decadal? annual? per 1000 pages published?).
Mike: Sweet metaphor. It’s true. It’s qualitatively different from other journals in two respects.
First, the APC is literally an order of magnitude less — and at that point, a quantitative difference becomes qualitative. Someone like [NAME REDACTED] would worry about paying $1350 to PLOS ONE, but didn’t even stop and think before saying, yeah, I’ll do that.
Second, the lifetime membership changes the game for all subsequent submissions. Now when you have a manuscript ready to go, your question isn’t going to be “where shall I send this?”, it’s going to be “is there are compelling reason not to send this to PeerJ?”
Legacy publishers won’t start PeerJ-alikes because they can’t. As noted in many SV-POW! posts, Elsevier takes about $5000 for each article they put behind a paywall. Slice away the 40% profit and you get $3000 which not coincidentally is what they charge as an APC. They have old, slow, encumbered systems and processes and top-heavy organisation. At $3000 they are only breaking even. They can’t compete at a PLOS-like $1350 level and they can’t even think about competing at PeerJ levels. If they offered a lifetime membership they’d have to ask $10k or something stupid.
I don’t think it’s that they don’t want to change. They can’t. They’ve ossified into 1990s companies running on 1990s software. It’s hard to steer a ship with a $2bn turnover, and impossible to replace the engines while still cruising.
Matt: I think it is probably a mistake to think that PeerJ will only encroach “upward”, onto the territory of more traditional journals (which is “all of them”). We’ve already talked about it taking business from arXiv (at least ours, although there is the large non-overlap in their respective subject domains–for now, anyway).
But my point is, the question, “Why wouldn’t I send this to PeerJ?” may not only kick in for papers that you might conceivably send elsewhere, but also for manuscripts that you might not conceivably send anywhere.
Matt: Right. And if one is on the fence, shove it on the PeerJ preprint server and see what people have to say.
Mike: I think it’s the first megajournal to have an associated preprint server, and that may yet prove the most important of all its innovations.
Matt: It feels almost … struggling to find the right word, in part because it’s late and I need to go sleep. “Seditious” is not quite it, and neither is “seductive”.
At that point we started talking about something else, so I never did find out what word Matt was groping for. But what’s only gradually become clear to us is how much PeerJ is changing how we think about the academic publishing process. It’s shaking us out of mental ruts that we didn’t even know we were in. Exciting.
January 14, 2013
My friend, colleague, and sometime coauthor Dave Hone sent the above cartoon, knowing about my more-than-passing interest in sauropod neurology. It was drawn by Ed McLachlan in the early 1980s for Punch! magazine in the UK (you can buy prints starting at £18.99 here).
I know that this isn’t the only image in the “oblivious sauropods getting eaten” genre. There’s a satirical drawing in Bakker’s The Dinosaur Heresies showing a sleeping brontosaur getting its tail gnawed on by some pesky mammals. I’ll scan that and post it when I get time. I’m sure there must be others in a similar vein–point me to them in the comments or email me and I’ll post as many as I can get my hands on.
I wouldn’t post stuff like this if I didn’t think it was funny. But if you want the real scoop on whether sauropods could have responded quickly to injuries to their distant extremities, here’s the deal:
First of all, sauropods really did have individual sensory nerve cells that ran from their extremities (tip of tail, soles of feet)–and from the rest of their skin–to their brainstems. In the longest sauropods, these cells were probably something like 150 feet long, and may have been the longest cells in the history of life. We haven’t found any fossils of these nerves and almost certainly never will, but we can be sure that sauropods had them because all vertebrates do, from hagfish on up. That’s just how we’re built. (This is all rehash for regular readers–see this post and the linked paper.)
So how long does it take to send a nerve impulse 150 feet? The fastest nerve conduction velocities are in the neighborhood of 120 meters per second, so a signal from the very tip of the tail in a 150-foot sauropod would take about half a second to reach the brain.
Is it possible that sauropods had accelerated nerve conduction velocities, to bring in those distant signals faster? To the brain, probably not. The only ways to speed up a nerve impulse are to increase the diameter of the axon itself, which some invertebrates do, and to increase the thickness of the myelin sheath around the axon, which is what vertebrates tend to do (some invertebrates have myelin-like tissues that apparently help accelerate their nerve impulses, too). Fatter axons mean fatter nerves, and for at least half the trip to the brain, the axons in question are part of the spinal cord. And we know that sauropod spinal cords were pretty small, relative to their body size, because the neural canals of their vertebrae, through which their spinal cords passed, are themselves small–Hatcher wrote about this more than a century ago. So there’s a tradeoff–sauropods could have had very fast, very fat axons, but not very many of them, and therefore poor “coverage” at their extremities, with nerve endings widely spaced, or better coverage with more axons, but those axons would be skinnier and therefore slower. We don’t know which way they went.
Incidentally, you can experiment with the density of sensory nerve endings in your own body. Close your eyes or blindfold yourself, and have a friend poke you in various places with chopsticks. Seriously–start with the two chopsticks right together, and gradually spread them out until you can feel two distinct points (or, if you want to get really tricky, have your friend mix up the close and widely spread touches so there’s no direction for you to anticipate). The least sensitive part of your body is your back–over your back and shoulders, you’ll probably have a hard time distinguishing points of touch that are less than an inch apart. On your hands and face, you’ll probably be able to distinguish points only a few millimeters apart; in fact, for fingertips you’ll probably need finer instruments than chopsticks–maybe toothpicks or pins, but I take no responsibility for any accidental acupuncture!
Back to sauropods. Could predators have taken advantage of the comparatively long nerve conduction velocities in sauropods? I seriously doubt it, for several reasons:
- Simple reflex arcs are governed by interneurons in the spinal cord. The tail-tip-to-spinal-cord distance was a lot shorter than the tail-tip-to-brain route. Even over the round trip of “sensory impulse in, motor impulse out”, it would have been at worst equal, and that’s assuming the nerve impulse had to go all the way to the base of the tail.* Call it half a second, max.
- It gets worse: the peripheral nerves outside the spinal cord are not limited by the size of the neural canal, so they can be more heavily myelinated, with faster conduction times. For example, each of the sciatic nerves running down the backs of your thighs is much larger in cross-section than your entire spinal cord. If sauropod peripheral nerves were selected for fast conduction, they might have been bigger and faster than anything around today.
- Half a second is not much time for a theropod to formulate a plan, especially if Step 1 of the plan is “grab 150-foot sauropod by the tail”.
- This assumes that said theropod was able to sneak right up to the sauropod without being detected. You go try that with a big wild herbivore and let me know how it works out. (Also, a big animal tolerating your presence, because you are pathetically small and weak, is not the same as it being unaware of your presence.)
- All of this assumes the theropod only went for the bony whip-lash at the tip of the tail–the fastest-moving extremity, and the least-nourishing single bite anywhere on the target. If the theropod went for a meatier bite closer to the base of the tail, it would have to sneak closer to the sauropod’s head (better chance of being spotted), and the nerve conduction delay would be shortened.
- A 150-foot sauropod would probably mass somewhere between 50 and 100 tons, and would be capable of dealing incredible damage to even the largest theropods, which maxed out around 15 tons. There’s a good reason predators go after the young, sick, and weak. Smaller sauropods would be less dangerous, but they’d also have faster tail-to-central-nervous-system-and-back reaction times.
- A theropod big enough to go after a 150-foot sauropod would also be subject to fairly long nerve-conduction delays, which would limit whatever trifling advantage it might have gotten from such delays in the sauropod.
So, although I have no doubt that in their long history together, giant theropods did occasionally tackle full-grown giant sauropods–because real animals do all kinds of weird things if you watch them long enough, and lions will take on elephants when they get desperate–I am extremely skeptical that the theropods enjoyed any advantage based on the “slow” nervous systems of those sauropods.
* Some relevant hard-core anatomy for the curious: sauropods have neural canals in their tail vertebrae, and usually far down their tails, too. But that doesn’t mean much–you have neural canals to the bottom half of your sacrum, but your spinal cord stops around your first or second lumbar vertebra. From there on down, you just have nerve roots. So the shortest reflex arc from your big toe has to go up to your lower back and return. Why is your spinal cord so short? Basically because your central nervous system stops growing when you’re still a child–it will add new connections after that, and a few new cells in your olfactory bulbs and hippocampus, but it won’t get appreciably bigger or longer. After mid-childhood, your body keeps growing but your spinal cord stays the same length, so you end up with this freaky little-kid spinal cord tucked up inside your grown-up vertebral column. Weird, huh?
So did sauropod spinal cords stop at mid-back or go all the way into the tail? We have several conflicting lines of evidence. In extant reptiles, the spinal cord does extend into the tail in at least some taxa (I haven’t done anything like a complete survey, just read a couple of papers). Birds are no help because their tails are extremely short, but their spinal cords do extend into the synsacrum (and expand there, thanks to the glycogen body, which was probably also present in sauropods and responsible for the inaccurate “second brain” meme). But then birds grow up very fast, with even the largest reaching full size in a year or two, so they don’t share our problem of the body outgrowing the nervous system. We know that sauropods grew pretty quickly, but they also took a while to mature–somewhere between one and three decades, probably. Did that protracted growth period give their vertebral columns the time to outgrow their spinal cords? I have no idea, because the division of the spinal cord into roots happens inside the dura mater and doesn’t leave any skeletal traces that I know of. Someone should go figure it out–or at least figure out if it can be figured out!
October 22, 2011
[This post is mostly a rehash of a comment I made on the last one, but I guess more people see posts than comments. Oh, and I will try to post something about sauropod vertebrae Real Soon Now.]
Last time out, Michael Richmond suggested that one way towards an open-access world is pointing out to decision makers that open-access publishing/reading is cheaper, and commented “that approach will only work if the open-access journals are much less expensive. Are they?”
As I’ve noted elsewhere, the difficulty in shifting to author-pays open access is that universities’ libraries and research departments are funded separately, so that when the extra costs to the latter result in savings for the former, it doesn’t look like a good deal (in the short term) for the research departments.
But let’s ignore that for now, and imagine a perfect economy where universities could shift money from the subscriptions that libraries buy to the publication fees that departments pay. If we could reassign all that money, would the universities spend more or less in total?
The answer may surprise you. A recent article on the Poetic Economics blog shows that Elsevier’s 2009 profits of more than $2.075 billion, divided by the world’s total scholarly output of 1.5 million articles per year, comes out to $1383 per article.
Now as it happens, PLoS ONE’s publication fee is $1350 — $33 less.
So think about it. That means the money that Elsevier alone takes out of academia — not its turnover but its profits, which are given to shareholders who have nothing to do with scholarly work — is enough to fund every research article in every field in the world as open access at PLoS ONE’s rate.
(And remember that PLoS is now making a profit at that rate — no longer living off the grants that helped to get it started. At a rate of $1350 per article, it’s not just surviving but flourishing, so we know that that’s a reasonable commercial rate to charge for handling an open-access academic article with no limits on length or on number of high-resolution colour figures.)
Isn’t that … astonishing?
Isn’t it … scandalous?
ONE COMMERCIAL PUBLISHER is taking out of the system enough money for everything to be open to the world. Everything. In the world. Open to the world.
if we all stopped buying Elsevier journals — just Elsevier, no other publisher — and if we threw away the proportion of the savings that Elsevier spends on costs, including salaries; then the profits alone would have been sufficient to fund every single research article in the world to be published in PLoS ONE — freely available to the whole world.
What would this mean? Dentists would be able to keep up with the relevant literature. Small businesses would be able to make plans with full information. The Climate Code Foundation would have a sounder and more up-to-date scientific basis for its work. Patient groups would be able to understand their diseases and give informed consent for treatment. Medical charities, amateur palaeontologists, ornithologists and so many more would have access to the information they need. Researchers in third-world countries could have the information they need to cope with life-threatening issues of health, food and water.
We can have all that for our $2.075 billion per year. Or we can keep giving it to Elsevier’s shareholders. Giving it, remember: not buying something with it. Don’t forget, this is not the money that Elsevier absorbs as its costs: salaries, rent, connectivity, what have you. This is their profit. It’s pure profit. This is the money that is taken out of the system.
So, yes, open access is cheaper. Stupidly cheaper. Absurdly, ridiculously, appallingly cheaper.
Update (later the same day)
In an article posted just an hour ago, Cambridge research-group head Peter Murray-Rust comes right out and says it: closed access means people die. That’s the bottom line. Follow his syllogism:
- Information is a key component of health-care
- Closed access publishers make money by restricting access to information.
- The worse the medicine and healthcare, etc. the more people die.
Are any of those statements false? And if not, is there any way to construe them that doesn’t lead by simply logic to the conclusion that closed access means people die? I don’t see one.
CORRECTION (Monday 24th)
Please see Jeff Hecht’s comment below for an important correction: Elsevier’s annual profits are “only” 60% of the figure originally cited. Which means we’d need to throw in Springer’s profits, too, in order to open-access everything. My bad — thanks for the correction, Jeff.
October 12, 2011
Folks. Just don’t do this. Just don’t.
McMenamin and Schulte McMenamin’s crack-smoking GSA abstract Triassic kraken: the Berlin ichthyosaur death assemblage interpreted as a giant cephalopod midden isn’t going to do anything for them except attract well-deserved ridicule; and it’s not going to do anything for the field of palaeontology except attract undeserved ridicule. It’s a lose-lose.
So just don’t, OK?
Oh, and, Geological Society of America? Don’t do this, either. A reputation is a valuable and fragile thing.
And mainstream media: we understand that you feel you should be able to trust the Geological Society of America, but can please have just a little common-sense?
(Actual analysis, if anyone wants it, can be found here on Brian Switek’s Wired blog.)
April 1, 2010
This is an actual page from the late, lamented Weekly World News, from December 14, 1999. I always thought it was pretty darned funny that they had the alien remains discovered in the “belly” of an animal known only from neck vertebrae. Now, subjecting a tabloid story to technical scrutiny really is like dancing about architecture, but…it just tickles me. As does the entire story. I haven’t been able to get hold of Dr. Posvby to confirm his findings, but it’s been over a decade and he still hasn’t published, so I’m not holding my breath.
March 2, 2010
This is so unspeakably cool. Today in PLoS Biology (yay, free reprints for everybody!), Wilson et al. (2010) describe a new snake, Sanajeh indicus, based on multiple specimens from multiple sauropod nests where they were apparently eating baby sauropods! This is sweet for loads of reasons. There aren’t that many well-documented cases of predation in the fossil record in the first place. Predation on dinosaurs by non-dinosaurs is especially cool–you may remember the announcement of Repenomamus by Hu et al. (2005), a giant (for its time and clade) badger-sized mammal from China that was found with a gut full of baby Psittacosaurus. And as Wilson et al. note, this is only the second secure association of sauropod bones with eggs; the other is the Auca Mahuevo site in Patagonia that produced the first definitive sauropod eggs and embryos. If we learn half as much about sauropod biology from these Indian nests as we have from the Patagonian ones, it’s going to be an exciting decade.
The best bit, though, is the window this gives us into Mesozoic ecosystems. Dinosaurs made lots of offspring, and sauropods seem to have been particularly R-selected. With loads of multiton animals producing zillions of defenseless babies for most of the Mesozoic, it would be weird if other critters, dinosaurian and otherwise, didn’t take advantage of that seasonally abundant food source. It’s great to get some direct evidence.
This is like a swamp full of radioactive awesome. Go roll around in it and let it mutate you.
- Yaoming Hu, Jin Meng, Yuanqing Wang, Chuankui Li. 2005. Large Mesozoic mammals fed on young dinosaurs. Nature 433: 149–152.
- Wilson JA, Mohabey DM, Peters SE, Head JJ. 2010. Predation upon hatchling dinosaurs by a new snake from the Late Cretaceous of India. PLoS Biol 8(3): e1000322. doi:10.1371/journal.pbio.1000322
Addendum (from Mike)
Let’s not miss the opportunity to reproduce this classic, uh, life restoration, executed pre-emptively by William Stout decades before this fossil was even found! It’s from his 1981 book The Dinosaurs: a fantastic new view of a lost era.