Lack of control

Randy's desk was closest to the lab door, so he had the first chance to say, "Hi!" to anyone who peaked in. There were many female visitors attracted by his skillful, equal opportunity flirting. He believed in the seductive possibilities of backgammon, introducing each new challenge with, "Surely there's time for one game. You can be white for purity and innocence. I'll be black."

One unusual day, the visitor was male. "Are you Randy?" he asked.

"I could be under certain circumstances."

The man held out his big, worn hand. "I'm Fred. Gerry McIntyre gave me your name." Randy relaxed, relieved that this was not a slighted boyfriend in search of revenge. "I've recorded an album," Fred said. "I need someone to do an experiment to prove my music is good for plants."

The university was famous for its population of young people who liked to involve themselves in experiments with biology and chemistry. Fred was older, at least fifty, with a grey ponytail, a tie dye T-shirt, dull eyes, an unsmiling mouth, and long delays in his conversation.

"I recorded the album myself," Fred continued. "I played all the instruments. I can think like a plant, man. All that time, I was thinking about plants and sunshine, and the plants growing towards the sunshine, making flowers. The music captures the spirit of plant growth, man. If I can get a scientist to endorse it, it will sell like crazy. Can you help me? I need a quote for the back cover."

"Why don't you leave the album with me and I'll give it a listen?" Randy suggested, hoping for a quick escape.

"No way, sorry. I've only got one copy."

Randy sighed, realizing there was no easy way out. "How do you think we should do this?" he asked. "Have you thought about the experiment?"

"Just grow a plant with the music, man, and you'll see how great it grows."

"What kind of plant?"

"I was thinking beans. Scientists are always doing experiments with beans. I think I could get some."

"Beans would be good. But how many replicates do you want? And you'll need some kind of control."

"Replicates? Just one, man. Anything more would be a waste. I don't want to waste the beans, man."

The conversation degenerated into a circular argument. There was no way that Fred was going to waste resources on a control, and replication was a hard sell. He finally reluctantly agreed that two plants would be acceptable. Randy tried to convince Fred that without controls, that is, plants not exposed to music, it would be impossible to interpret the results. Nor could he understand the need to measure the dry weight of the plant as a measure of growth. "It's enough to just see if the plants grow better," he insisted. "Use a ruler!"

"Better than what?" Randy shouted. "How will you know the music worked?"

"Don't dry the plants," Fred concluded. "I want to make a salad with the beans."

Satisfied that he had made his point, and that we would do the experiment the way he wanted, Fred left the album behind. It was unlistenable, full of random flute sounds, bongos and what appeared to be singing. Fred was tone deaf with a indefinable sense of rhythm. But of course my opinion was irrelevant; I am not a plant.

Eventually, we found an empty growth chamber (a refrigerator-like chamber with controllable light, temperature and humidity), plugged in a record player, and put the album on automatic replay. We planted the two magic beans, grateful that Fred didn't require a second, music-less growth chamber for controls. The plants started to grow. Then they died.

"I can only conclude that your music killed the plants," Randy told Fred. 

"Did you even remember to water them, man?" Fred hollered. He grabbed his album and stomped out, mumbling that he would find another scientist to do the experiment properly, or better yet, endorse the album without wasting any more beans.

Controls are the trickiest part of experiments. If you follow research on human health, disease, or diet, the most common criticism of published studies is inadequate controls. Proper controls allow the interpretation of results to be unequivocal and unassailable. Improper controls leave you wondering whether you have proven anything at all. In science, to use a cooking analogy, if you want to be sure you've improved the cookie recipe, you have to make them the old way too so you can compare the original and the modified version side by side.

Poor Fred. We never heard from him again, and there were no rumours of a fortune from marketing his record to enhance plant growth, whatever kind of plants it was he was really interested in.