The Technology Transfer Dilemma
Preserving morally responsible education
in a utilitarian entrepreneurial academic culture
Brian P. Coppola*
Abstract: ‘Research, teaching, and service’ is growing to include
business. With unbridled enthusiasm, academicians bring discoveries to
market instead of having them sit fallow in the public domain. Dilemmas
have emerged. Academic scientists underwrite their work with public funds
and employ a utilitarian labor force, namely, students seeking an education.
The benefits from a successful business are significantly higher than in
academic ventures, so the temptation increases to abrogate professional
responsibilities and loyalties in favor of personal gain. Safeguards are
needed for the institution and its students while simultaneously permitting
the development of scientifically, socially, and economically important
Keywords: technology transfer, entrepreneurial activity, ethics,
1. Reassessing the Bayh-Dole ‘Technology Transfer’ Act
Four years ago, one of my former students asked, "Do you know how
we tell what kind of mood the boss is going to be in? Well, we check the
stock market page to see how his company is doing that day."
Perhaps this remark will not strike you as unusual until you realize that
a chemistry graduate student made it about his research advisor. Many faculty
members in the basic sciences, like their colleagues in the medical school,
have expanded their traditional responsibilities for research, teaching,
and service to include business. I do not mean scientific consulting, lecturing,
or authoring books; I mean everything from simple licensing to personally
owning or operating a start-up company built on patenting the intellectual
properties or proprietary technologies generated in the academic research
laboratory. The call for applied research (Stokes 1997), academic entrepreneurial
activity, and technology transfer is growing and becoming more widespread
(Gwynne 1997), not only in the United States but also worldwide. Against
a 50-year backdrop of the research university in the United States, I will
use issues raised by 20 years of academic entrepreneurship in the U.S.
as a case study to illustrate the serious conflicts that have resulted
when the concerns of higher education mix with those of business. As I
will specify later, safeguards for our educational institutions as well
as for our students have only begun to be created in response to the problems
that I will address in this paper. As the inevitable growth in entrepreneurial
activity continues, perhaps the lessons being learned in the U.S. can provide
guidance for others.
Historically, this story begins with the development of the ‘research
university’ in the United States. For the first time, the U.S. government
supported significantly the work of academic scientists during World War
II (e.g., The Manhattan Project). Following the war, the presidents
of Harvard University (James Bryant Conant) and M.I.T. (Vannevar Bush)
advocated permanent mechanisms for government support that could turn the
intellectual power of the U.S. college and university faculties towards
conducting basic research (Graham & Diamond 1997). Founded in the late
1940s, the National Institutes of Health (NIH) and National Science Foundation
(NSF) were a direct result of Bush’s persuasive argument. The contract
between the universities and the government was implicit: public funding
begets public knowledge. As the 1970s closed, this contract became cumbersome.
Significant academic discoveries in the biotechnology area, although they
could be patented, went largely undeveloped because the U.S. patents derived
from public funding were held in the public domain, and companies could
simply not afford to spend millions of dollars developing technologies
that were in the public domain. Patent exclusivity is the only way to earn
back the money from one’s investment. With the 1980 Bayh-Dole "technology
transfer" Act (Public Law 96-517, H.R. 6933) the promise of the government-academia
partnership set out by Vannevar Bush 35 years earlier was fulfilled. With
this legislation, it was now possible for individual academic scientists
and/or their institutions to hold exclusive rights to privatize academic
discoveries, thus allowing (as the argument went) the development of significant
and life-saving advances.
Using simple financial measures, the growth of technology transfer in
higher education has been successful. In 1980, royalties paid to Harvard
University barely reached $24,000; in 1994, that number had grown to $5.75
million (Katterman 1995). In 1997, Moscovitch of BankBoston estimated that
the 232 billion dollar revenues produced by the 4,000 companies founded
by MIT graduates and faculty would constitute the equivalent of the 24th
largest economy in the world, and employ 1.1 million people (Gwynne 1997).
Between Fiscal Years 1995-1999, U.S. universities signed 10,477 license
or option agreements with industry, 12% of which were start-up companies
for which faculty members were the chief financial and/or executive officer
(Reinhart 2001). Yet, although these efforts are encouraged by legislated
national policy, namely the Bayh-Dole Act, feedback from students and faculty
lead to cautionary tales about the dark side of this increasingly significant
aspect of academic life.
Let me be clear: entrepreneurship is not merely another category of
work to put alongside consulting or authoring. I collect money from consulting
and authoring, and this is indeed a direct consequence of my work as a
faculty member and my stature and experience in the academic community.
It is tied to my scholarship. For a faculty entrepreneur, a critical ethical
crossroads is reached when decisions made to support a healthy business
venture are not aligned with the decisions needed to maintain a healthy
academic environment (Gibbons 1989, Cech & Leonard 2001). This difference
runs to the core of what a university means. The fallout from encouraging
academic entrepreneurship without a strong set of safeguards is potentially
devastating, not only in research universities but also at institutions
whose teaching missions are being compromised by the pressure to conduct
Technology transfer activities are diverse, and they can encourage practical,
inventive, and important faculty work. Academic researchers are encouraged
to patent and pursue the fruits of their research labors rather than having
them languish undeveloped because industry cannot afford to invest millions
of dollars in the unprotected public domain (Branscomb & Keller 1998).
Another reason that institutions embraced this move, perhaps, was because
of the perception that federal funding had reached its practical limit,
and the difference in future needs would have to be made up by privatization
(Kreeger 1997). Thorny dilemmas for higher education have resulted. Encouraging
faculty members to combine "science and business, nonprofit and profit",
Ellen Goodman (2001) wrote in her March 1 editorial of The Boston Globe,
is also mixing "altruism and chumphood". In her criticism of academic entrepeneurship,
Goodman speculates that Jonas Salk might be considered a chump by today’s
standards for having given away his work on the polio vaccine instead of
cutting himself in for a piece of the action. The stories I am using to
frame this essay are more modest than the discovery of the polio vaccine
because the problems are not isolated grand spikes in an otherwise calm
baseline. The stories represent cultural conflict where the decisions that
make sense for a business enterprise compromise "the basic scientific approach"
needed for discovery (Katterman 1995). They are the troublesome, everyday
bellwether warnings that academic entrepreneurial activity is not automatically
good for everyone involved in them, and more significantly not automatically
good for higher education or its institutions.
Three years ago, a keynote speaker at a national chemical education
conference, after having given a wonderful presentation on his biomedical
chemical research and its applications, noted that his publicly held company
was about to receive results from some important clinical trials. The speaker
then advised us that (paraphrasing) ‘you might consider getting in now
because if the results are what we think they are, our stock will probably
triple’. Despite the stock rising over 500% within a few months (and no,
I did not buy any), this speaker’s behavior, mixing science and insider
business trading that rose at least to the level of conflict of interest,
left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth.
A fundamental tenet of scholarship has always been the practice of treating
discoveries as a shared, community property, especially discoveries supported
by public funding. Faculty members have gladly accepted the privileges
of being professors in exchange for an implicit culture of mutual gift-giving
(Kovac 2001). I deposit what I learn into a shared resource pool that others
are free to draw from, build on, and, in exchange, return for others to
use. Even as Lee Shulman, President of the Carnegie Foundation for the
Advancement of Teaching, and his colleagues seek to broaden the understanding
of scholarship to include teaching and service by invoking this historical
perspective (Shulman 1993), one must pause to realize that full, rapid,
open, and honest disclosure of discoveries is not the universal norm that
it once was. James A. Severson (2000), President of the Cornell Research
Foundation, disagrees. In his July 13, 2000 testimony before the House
Committee on the Judiciary Subcommittee on Courts and Intellectual Property,
he maintains that non-disclosure occurs rarely, and that the fundamental
question is to "find the best means to protect and disseminate this information
for the public good." In many cases, the 90-day delay in submitting publications
that follows filing a U.S. patent application is a reasonable compromise
between full and immediate disclosure and protection of an intellectual
property, although some reports from the academic life sciences cite averages
that are twice as long (Gwynne 1997). Research that produces primary information
that is commercially viable is not the whole story. In other cases, the
hard-sought information, such as an enzyme’s structure, is not the primary,
marketable goal, but the means by which new drug targets can be designed
(relatively easy once you know the enzyme’s structure). It behooves the
structural biochemists to conceal this structural discovery if they are
invested in the drug discovery business.
Two years ago, another former undergraduate student wrote to me
worried about his future. Although he was excited to enter the job market,
he could not talk about his unpublished results because he was bound by
non-disclosure until the patents made their way through the system. Adding
to his dilemma, any delay of publication gave the group a lucrative head
start on subsequent research. I once asked, early on, about how his thesis
work was going. He laughingly retorted that we could discuss it, but then
he would have to kill me.
In her editorial, Goodman (2001) does not suggest that faculty members
need to take a vow of poverty, but cautions that significant and enforceable
safeguards need to be developed to prevent systemic abuse. This is an excellent
strategy. While Bayh-Dole has accomplished its best goals, to move good
ideas into the marketplace, its crucibles, the academic research laboratories,
bear important, fundamental differences compared with their industrial
counterparts. Goodman invokes Salk to remind us that creative work can
and should have greater reward than financial gain, including altruism
and sheer intellectual curiosity. Taking this one step further, one needs
to consider that students are doing the work that generates the intellectual
property in academic laboratories, and that the conditions, stipulations,
and assumptions underlying their work differ dramatically when compared
with scientific employees in the private sector. More significantly, entrepreneurship
has pushed some academic researchers to cross a moral boundary that jeopardizes
the responsible education of undergraduate and graduate students.
Last year, yet another student whose research director recently
founded a biotech company wrote about her discouraging graduate school
experience: "…this unhealthy environment is a direct result of a faculty
member who is ‘stretched too thin’... I’ve heard older students say many,
many times that ‘It didn’t use to be like this.’" According to a press
release for potential investors, this award-winning faculty member is also
nationally ranked as an "R&D Star."
It is time to assess the consequences on higher education of certain trends
that appear to be occurring as a result of the Bayh-Dole Act (Russo 2000).
The debate on this topic typically circles around its impact on faculty
and the institution (Cech & Leonard 2001), and ignores the student.
As an illustrative case, consider the first of two point-counterpoint editorials,
in which Fred Reinhart (2001a), Director of the Wayne State University
Technology Transfer Office, argues that the opportunity to develop the
practical applications of faculty work in biotechnology are motivating
for steering investigators towards important problems. University of Michigan
Biology Professor John Vandermeer (2001), in his counterpoint, worries
that the ubiquitous drive by institutions to create the Silicon Valley
of biotechnology is a fool’s errand. Everyone is trying to do it, unlike
when Stanford was able to take advantage of an intellectual vacuum in high
technology. Most of these efforts, Vandermeer speculates, will squander
precious resources only to end in a dot-com-like demise of the majority
of the players with nothing to show for their efforts.
Interestingly, Reinhart ends his essay with the stronger words of caution
as he zeroes in on the moral dilemma. "Public oversight and responsible
management," he concludes, "is absolutely critical." This is Reinhart’s
dilemma: How do we preserve the benefits from Bayh-Dole, while simultaneously
preventing investigator-entrepreneurs from "sliding into abuses, tainting
the research endeavor and letting the ends justify the means"? Bayh-Dole
was argued on classical Utilitarian principles. Important biomedical discoveries
could not be developed and brought to market, so the benefit to humanity
was at risk. Universities would also benefit directly from a new revenue
stream that flowed straight from established systems of public funding.
Populist democrats in the U.S. did argue from the beginning that curtailing
public disclosure of government funded discoveries was a problem, heralding
some of the concerns for placing basic science at risk, but this was a
minority view in 1980 (Branscomb & Keller 1998, p. 223). More recently,
the National Research Council, which is the advisory body of the National
Science Foundation (Bunk 2000), cautioned that Bayh-Dole, while originally
peripheral to the actions of science, might create "substantial long-term
consequences on the nature of the basic research enterprise". Cech and
Leonard (2001) summarize the abuses, or "hidden dangers" from academic
entrepreneurs as using university-paid time and resources for personal
gains, causing colleagues to pick up the slack for work and responsibilities
not done in favor of business pursuits, selecting student projects based
on feeding the business interests, and diminishing the tradition of open
While the effects of entrepreneurial activity on scientific practice
are important, the consequences for educating students responsibly should
be paramount in these discussions. Academic scientific researchers have
increasingly dominated a powerless and dependent labor force, namely, students
seeking an education and advanced degrees, so the problem of student exploitation,
while not new, has become acute (Golde & Dore 2001). The potential
benefits for faculty members from entrepreneurial activity, what Professor
Carl Djerassi (Stanford University) calls participating in intellectual
polygamy (Morell 1989), changes the equation to favor Utilitarian, or even
Ethical Egoist ideals. The financial gain from a successful business venture
is significantly higher than from a successful academic venture, and the
faculty member and the institution are the direct beneficiaries. Tenure
spares the faculty member from assuming any real risks, so safeguards may
not have been a high priority initially. Students, however, are assuming
and perhaps being subjected to the greatest risk, and we may all pay the
greatest price, from placing them in a system dominated by a faculty distracted
and dissuaded from their primary duties as educators. If academic scientific
practice is compromised, then the system of education embedded in that
practice suffers; students of science are harmed if their education as
scientists is flawed. If students have no option for learning (or earning
their degrees in their area of scientific interest) than by becoming the
means by which an entrepreneur materially benefits, then we must accept
a new academic cultural norm for exploitation.
This year, upon returning from visiting a prospective graduate
school, one of our students was strongly turned off when entrepreneurship
trumped science. "During my graduate school visits I talked to a number
of professors, all excited about their work and used the potential applications
of their work to either science as a whole or to humanity as a cure for
some ailment. However, a select few (and one professor in particular) seemed
more concerned with where the work his lab did ended up. He made a point
to tell us where all of his projects ended up in terms of FDA [Food and
Drug Administration] trials and so on, and spent a good 30 minutes of our
time discussing the local ‘tech’ scene. He then went on and on about how
much venture capital was available in the area, how he had a meeting with
some venture capitalists recently, and how his own company is using research
and results out of his own lab. This really annoyed me because I got the
feeling that most of his research projects were selected based on whether
or not they would be able to be carried over to his own company. Why would
someone trying to find a place to do interesting research care about where
the molecules end up? Graduate students are not allowed to make money from
their thesis research anyway. Not once did he bring up the actual work
his lab does, which is actually pretty interesting."
2. Four cultural conflicts in higher education
In what might begin to be called ‘the good old days’, time for teaching
and service were neglected in order attend to the demands of research.
Institutions are now grappling with issues significantly more complex than
how many days per month a faculty member can spend consulting. After having
built a research enterprise that requires so much time, faculty members
who are under self-inflicted or institutional pressure to start up a business
will inevitably have to short-change their research obligations in order
to satisfy this new master, and teaching and service will suffer even more
(Finn 1998). The greatest irony is that entrepreneurship could seriously
undermine the basic research activity and the concomitant education of
students that allowed it to develop in the first place.
Guidelines are emerging in response to these complex and sensitive issues.
MIT, for example, uses a "Conflict Avoidance Statement" that asks its entrepreneurial
faculty to ensure that funding lines remain clean, that students are not
involved in company projects, that there is no delay or restriction on
publication of research results, and that differentiation can be made between
the research done by the company and the research done on the MIT clock
(MIT 2001). The National Institutes of Health have installed new rules
to safeguard the sharing of tools and materials (Marshall 1999), although
a new Heath and Human Services regulation targeting conflicts that arise
from an academic institution’s financial interest in a company conducting
gene therapy experiments has proved to be controversial (Marshall 2001).
The Howard Hughes Medical Institute (HHMI) has put a 5% limit on the interests
that a faculty member may hold in a company, disallowed consultation with
a company with whom a faculty member actively collaborates, and requires
that the scope of the academic-industrial interaction being carefully delimited
(Cech & Leonard 2001).
Conflicts of interest arise for faculty members in at least four areas
when business interests collide with academic obligations. These are not
new conflicts, but ones that require new standards of behavior for faculty
members who assume an entrepreneurial role.
Public conflict. The privileged life of a faculty member, anchored
for the majority on the multi-million dollar decision to grant tenure,
includes the obligation to retain the public trust and confidence. Financial
resources come to universities through many paths. Certainly those institutions
supported wholly or in part by public funds carry the obligation to return
this investment. I do not think the situation is less clear-cut for private
institutions who, above and beyond public money that might support research
and other activities, still retain their obligation to put out responsible
and contributing members of our society; this, too, is a matter of public
trust (Kennedy 1997). Beginning in the 1940s, the U.S. government asked
universities and colleges to commit their enormous creative resources,
in exchange for public funds, towards basic research. Unfortunately, the
public policy decision to fund research is increasingly seen as an entitlement,
and it is beginning to be exploited in the entrepreneurial culture. This
consequence from Bayh-Dole should be assessed. Can it really be an appropriate
or informed use of taxpayer money, as redistributed by the government through
the NSF, the NIH, or even a state legislature, to be treated as no-risk
venture capital by individual faculty members in the course of their academic
Professional conflict. A faculty member’s greatest obligation
is educating the next generation, and carrying this out in a fair and timely
way is a crucial responsibility. As a moral precept, ‘first, do not harm’
is an important way to think about the faculty-student relationship. At
institutions that offer advanced degrees, this includes the professional
development of graduate students. While a degree of labor exploitation
has always been a part of modern scientific practice, the trade-off in
the form of a responsible education and professional career options has
apparently made this a defensible position. The concern raised by academic
entrepreneurial activity is that a responsible education is not being guaranteed.
Three issues (call them potential ‘harms’) stand out. First, as discussed
in detail earlier, the process of science is being compromised. Second,
responsible mentoring is suffering due to conflicts of interest and simple
limitations placed on time management. A third issue is the time it takes
to get the Ph.D. There are many reasons why this time has increased over
the last decade, but anecdotal evidence suggests that one cause is that
productivity from a more experienced graduate student is so high that there
is no real incentive for the research advisor to let the person graduate.
A new graduate student would not be as productive and a post-doctoral associate
would be more expensive. As it is, a test of scholarly character has always
been the decision not to hold onto a productive student in the face of
competition for resources for research. The entrepreneurial faculty member,
who sits at the confluence of what it means to be a ‘boss’ and what it
means to be a ‘research advisor’, might be more easily tempted into exploiting
the available personnel (students) when business success is on the line.
Institutional conflict. If entrepreneurial faculty members neglect
their teaching, research, and service in order to do the work of business,
then their primary jobs are not being done. This is called dereliction
of duty. It is up to colleagues to pick up some of the slack, contributing
to increased faculty stratification, while some responsibilities just are
not fulfilled at all. In her new book, Leaving the Ivory Tower,
Barbara Lovitts (Lovitts & Nelson 2001) outlines factors contributing
to an alarming attrition from Ph.D. programs, including "increased corporatization
and pervasive labor exploitation", and the potential inability of this
generation of faculty to replace itself. All the while, excellent future
faculty candidates are turned off by what they see around them. While four
of the undergraduates whose stories, related above, began graduate school
fully intending to pursue a career in academics, two of them changed their
minds before the end of their second year. One of them sharply admonished
me, saying, "If I were in your position, I would not be encouraging students
to enter this system."
Personal conflict. While the self-governance of a faculty body
has been substantially turned over to academic administration, individual
faculty members are still primarily responsible to themselves. Most of
what we do is done without oversight. Perhaps the most difficult dilemmas
arise from how to allocate appropriately one’s own time and effort. The
continuum of what constitutes appropriate work in carrying out faculty
work is filled with gray areas, and we are left with more questions than
answers. How is a faculty member to resolve a conflict of interest when
the gains from the ‘business’ aspects of one’s work are orthogonal to the
best interests of ‘research’ or the ‘university job’? Where would you put
your effort if the potential gain of millions of dollars and the responsibility
you have for your corporate employees are weighed against the generally
thankless academic environment where faculty compete over a meager 3-5%
salary program dominated by the stars in the star system?
3. Reaction and Action
These conflicts will ultimately spur reaction and action. Most basic, I
think that public funding will return to subjecting all discoveries to
open disclosure in the public domain. New legislation is needed to find
the right solutions for issues that are not easily handled by U.S. patent
laws, such as the structural biology example described earlier. New standards
of practice in higher education are needed, perhaps building on the MIT,
Howard Hughes Medical Institute, and National Institutes of Health models.
Institutions such as the National Research Council, too, are going to respond
decisively when the fabric of scientific practice is perceived to be endangered.
In his book, A University for the 21st Century, former
University of Michigan President Jim Duderstadt (2000) characterizes the
modern university as a "loosely coupled, adaptive system" housing a "loose
federation (or ‘holding company’) of faculty entrepreneurs" who can end
up "deprived of the opportunity to do what they do best – thinking, dreaming,
talking, teaching, and writing". Duderstadt suggests that the complex corporate
mentality that characterizes the institution has inevitably trickled down
to the work of the faculty. In the end, though, he urges research universities
"to tap the great source of creativity and energy associated with our faculty’s
entrepreneurial activity in a way that preserves our core missions, character,
Duderstadt restates Reinhart’s dilemma. Can these goals (as stated in
the title: preserving morally responsible education in a utilitarian entrepreneurial
academic culture) be met simultaneously? Perhaps, but apparently not easily.
Let me review the three responses that currently characterize the situation
for faculty who have faced this dilemma, none of which satisfy simultaneously
the needs of both higher education and business. First, the simple fact
is that nobody can do everything. The de facto separation of the
research function from the undergraduate teaching function has taken place
at many institutions, where temporary, non-tenure track instructors are
responsible for a large fraction of introductory undergraduate teaching.
In chemistry, the growth of the so-called "chemical education" community
as a separate and distinct group is a testimony to this, including the
emergence of Ph.D. programs in chemical education (Coppola & Jacobs,
forthcoming). Faculty members who collect salaries predicated on their
instructional duties, but who do not actually teach, do not satisfy the
needs or demands of responsible education.
Second, and more defensibly, are those faculty members who, upon making
discoveries with significant commercial potential, simply leave the university
to pursue their new interests. For them, the answer is easy: the conflict
between education and business cannot be reconciled, and they make a choice.
Third, some faculty members enter into negotiations with the private
sector, turning over their discoveries in exchange for research funding
and personnel support instead of personal gain and the loss of time that
running a business entails. These faculty members have, in effect, exchanged
one source of support (public government funding) for another (private
funding). By turning one’s research time into a zero-sum game, exchanging
one source of support for another does not, in principle, take away from
one’s other obligations. Fair limitations, clearly defined work boundaries,
and shared benefits is a solution most like those being developed at Howard
Hughes Medical Institute or the National Institutes of Health. Students
in this setting have a better chance to be safeguarded from exploitation
while allowing faculty members to pursue entrepreneurial activities.
Faculty members who wish to pursue entrepreneurial activities should
certainly be free to do so, but participating significantly in achieving
these goals should be clearly recognized as work done outside of time allocated
to faculty obligations in research, teaching, and service. For short-term
activities, unpaid leaves of absence would work provided one’s obligations
to research students could be managed appropriately. If entrepreneurial
activity reaches a prescribed threshold that would constitute abuse, then
the system must be able to respond in ways that preserve academic freedom
yet protects the public trust. For instance, higher education already has
a job description for faculty whose primary contributions are outside of
full-time academic interests. Such faculty members are called adjunct faculty.
Faculty members who chose to maintain significant business interests should
be required to relinquish the privileges of their academic positions, including
tenure, if they are no longer able to handle the responsibilities in the
non-entrepreneurial part of their job. An oversight committee is also needed
to monitor more closely research students who are mentored by on-leave
or adjunct faculty members to prevent exploitation or neglect. Certainly,
neither the institution nor the individual faculty member will embrace
this option because both of them must assume risk. Yet, for the same reasons
that advisory bodies such as the National Research Council will recommend
governance to safeguard science as the more defensible position, advocates
for the sanctity and preservation of higher education, and its students,
must rise up and be heard loudly and clearly.
Do any of the recommendations in this paper preserve a morally responsible
education in the context of entrepreneurial activity? No, of course not;
but they do preserve its potential, which is my concluding purpose. Just
because the classroom and laboratory are made into safer places for students
does not mean that their education is being handled responsibly, but surely
it is more difficult to impossible without this guarantee of safety! Certainly,
there is a long distance between "safeguarding students from exploitation"
and "preserving a morally responsible education", because even the notion
of a morally responsible education (Kovac & Coppola, forthcoming) is
barely examined and inadequately defined in today’s system of higher education.
Academic entrepreneurial activity provides an opening to address these
issues, though, because it forces us to consider the place of education
in higher education, and the defensibility of choices that bring conflicting
ideals into focus.
I would like to thank those individuals who have given the gift of time
in commenting on earlier versions of this manuscript. They are Suzanne
A. Blum, Thomas R. Cech, Douglas S. Daniels, James J. Duderstadt, Tom Ehrlich,
Roald Hoffmann, Mary Taylor Huber, Jeffrey Kovac, Robert L. Lichter, Fred
Reinhart, and Joachim Schummer.
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Brian P. Coppola:
Department of Chemistry, University of Michigan, 930 North University
Avenue, Ann Arbor, Michigan 48109-1055, U.S.A.; firstname.lastname@example.org
2001 by HYLE and Brian P. Coppola