As a professor at UC Santa Barbara, I research the effects of and solutions to ocean pollution, including oil seeps, spills and offshore DDT. I began my career by investigating the interaction of bacteria and hydrocarbon gases in the ocean, looking at the unusual propensity of microbes to consume gases that bubbled in from beneath the ocean floor. Needed funding came from the greatest basic scientific enterprise in the world, the National Science Foundation.

My research was esoteric, or so my in-laws (and everyone else) thought, until 2010, when the Deepwater Horizon offshore drilling rig exploded and an uncontrolled flow of hydrocarbon liquid and gas jetted into the deep ocean offshore from Louisiana. It was an unmitigated disaster in the Gulf, and suddenly my esoteric work was in demand. Additional support from the National Science Foundation allowed me to go offshore to help figure out what was happening to that petroleum in the deep ocean. I was able to help explain, contextualize and predict what would happen next for anxious residents of the Gulf states — all made possible by the foresight of Vannevar Bush, the original architect of the National Science Foundation.

Now the great scientific enterprise that has enabled my research and so much more is on the brink of its own disaster, thanks to actions and proposals from the Trump administration. Setting aside the targeted cuts to centers of discovery such as Harvard and Columbia, and rumors that California’s public universities are next, the most obvious threats to research are the draconian budget reductions proposed across virtually all areas of science and medicine, coupled with moves to prevent foreign scientists from conducting research-based study in the U.S. The president’s latest budget calls for around a 55% cut to the National Science Foundation overall, with a 75% reduction to research support in my area. A reduction so severe and sudden will reverberate for years and decimate ocean discovery and study, and much more.

But a more subtle and equally dire cut is already underway — to funding for the indirect costs that enable universities and other institutions to host research. It seems hard to rally for indirect costs, which are sometimes called “overhead” or “facilities and administration.” But at their core, these funds facilitate science.

For instance, indirect costs don’t pay my salary, but they do pay for small-ticket items like my lab coat and goggles and bigger-ticket items like use of my laboratory space. They don’t pay for the chromatograph I use in my experiments, but they do pay for the electricity to run it. They don’t pay for the sample tubes that feed into my chromatograph, but they do support the purchasing and receiving staff who helped me procure them. They don’t pay for the chemical reagents I put in those sample tubes, but they do support the safe disposal of the used reagents as well as the health and safety staff that facilitates my safe chemical use.

They don’t pay salary for my research assistants, but they do support the human resources unit through which I hire them. They don’t pay for international travel to present my research abroad, but they do cover a federally mandated compliance process to make sure I am not unduly influenced by a foreign entity.

In other words, indirect costs support the deep bench of supporting characters and services that enable me, the scientist, to focus on discovery. Without those services, my research enterprise crumbles, and new discoveries with it.

My indirect cost rate is negotiated every few years between my institution and the federal government. The negotiation is based on hard data showing the actual and acceptable research-related costs incurred by the institution, along with cost projections, often tied to federal mandates. Through this rigorous and iterative mechanism, the overhead rate at my institution — as a percentage of direct research costs — was recently adjusted to 56.5%. I wish it were less, but that is the actual cost of running a research project.

The present model for calculating indirect costs does have flaws and could be improved. But the reduction to 15% — as required by the Trump administration — will be devastating for scientists and institutions. All the functions I rely on to conduct science and train the future workforce will see staggering cuts. Three-quarters of my local research support infrastructure will crumble. The costs are indirect, but the effects will be immediate and direct.

More concerning is that we will all suffer in the long term because of the discoveries, breakthroughs and life-changing advances that we fail to make.

The scientific greatness of the United States is fragile. Before the inception of the National Science Foundation, my grandfather was required to learn German for his biochemistry PhD at Penn State because Germany was then the world’s scientific leader. Should the president’s efforts to cut direct and indirect costs come to pass, it may be China tomorrow. That’s why today we need to remind our elected officials that the U.S. scientific enterprise pays exceptional dividends and that chaotic and punitive cuts risk irreparable harm to it.

David L. Valentine is a professor of marine microbiology and geochemistry at UC Santa Barbara.

A holy grail in pure mathematics is sphere packing in higher dimensions. Almost nothing has been rigorously proven about it, except in dimensions 1, 2 and 3.

That’s why it was such a breakthrough when, in 2016, a young Ukrainian mathematician named Maryna Viazovska solved the sphere-packing problem in eight dimensions, and later, with collaborators, in 24 dimensions.