by Carl Sagan
Similarly, whales have small, internal, and wholly useless pelvises and leg bones, and snakes have four vestigial internal feet. (In the mambas of Southern Africa a single claw from each rudimentary limb breaks through the scaly skin to plain view.) If you swim or slither and never walk anymore, mutations for the withering away of feet do you no harm. They are not selected against. They might even be selected for (feet can be in the way when you’re pouring down a narrow hole). Or if you’re a bird that finds itself on an island devoid of predators, no penalty is levied for the steady atrophy, generation after generation, of wings (until European sailors arrive and club you all to death).
Mutations are occurring all the time for the loss of all sorts of functions. If there’s no disadvantage attached to these mutations, they can establish themselves in the population. Some will even be helpful—shedding formerly useful machinery, say, that is no longer worth the effort of maintaining. There must also be enormous numbers of mutations for biochemical incompetence and other major dysfunctions which result in beings that never survive their embryonic stages. They die before they’re born. They’re rejected by natural selection before the biologist can examine them. Relentless, draconian winnowing is occurring all around us. Selection is a school of hard knocks.
Evolution is just trial and error—but with the successes encouraged and proliferated, the failures ruthlessly extirpated, and prodigious vistas of time available for the process to work itself out. If you reproduce, mutate, and reproduce your mutations, you must evolve. You have no choice in the matter. You get to keep playing the game of life only if you keep winning; that is, if you keep leaving descendants (or close relatives). One break in the train of generations, and you and your particular, idiosyncratic DNA sequences are condemned without hope of reprieve.
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The English-language edition of this book is printed in letters that trace back to western Asia, and in a language primarily derived from Central Europe. But this is solely a matter of historical accident. The alphabet might not have been invented in the ancient Near East if there had not been a thriving mercantile culture there, if there had been no need for systematic records of commercial transactions. Spanish is spoken in Argentina, Portuguese in Angola, French in Quebec, English in Australia, Chinese in Singapore, a form of Urdu in Fiji, a form of Dutch in South Africa, and Russian in the Kuriles only because of a contingent sequence of historical events, some quite unlikely. Had they run a different course, other languages might be spoken in these places today. The Spanish, French, and Portuguese languages in turn depend on the fact that the Romans had imperial ambitions; English would be very different if Saxons and Normans had not been bent on overseas conquest; and so on. Language depends on history.
That a planet the size of the Earth is a sphere and not a cube, that a star the size of the Sun mainly emits visible light, that water is a solid and a liquid and a gas on any world at the surface temperature and pressure of the Earth—these facts are all readily understood from a few simple principles of physics. They are not contingent truths. They do not depend on a particular sequence of events that could just as well have gone some other way. Physical reality has a permanence and stability, an obsessive regularity to it, while historical reality tends to be fickle and fluid, less predictable, less rigidly determined by those laws of Nature we know. Something like accident or chance seems to play a major role in issuing marching orders to the flow of historical events.
Biology is much more like language and history than it is like physics and chemistry. Why we have five fingers on each hand, why the cross-section of the tail of a human sperm cell looks so much like that of a one-celled Euglena, why our brains are layered like an onion, involve strong components of historical accident. Now you might say that where the subject is simple, as in physics, we can figure out the underlying laws and apply them everywhere in the Universe; but where the subject is difficult, as in language, history, and biology, governing laws of Nature may well exist, but our intelligence may be too feeble to recognize their presence—especially if what is being studied is complex and chaotic, exquisitely sensitive to remote and inaccessible initial conditions. And so we invent formulations about “contingent reality” to disguise our ignorance. There may well be some truth to this point of view, but it is nothing like the whole truth, because history and biology remember in a way that physics does not. Humans share a culture, recall and act on what they’ve been taught. Life reproduces the adaptations of previous generations, and retains functioning DNA sequences that reach billions of years back into the past. We understand enough about biology and history to recognize a powerful stochastic component, the accidents preserved by high-fidelity reproduction.
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DNA polymerase is an enzyme. Its job is to assist a DNA strand in copying itself. It itself is a protein, configured out of amino acids and manufactured on the instructions of the DNA. So here’s DNA controlling its own replication. DNA polymerase is now on sale at your local biochemical supply house. There’s a laboratory technique, polymerase chain reaction, which unzips a DNA molecule by changing its temperature; the polymerase then helps each strand to reproduce. Each of the copies is in turn unzipped and replicates itself.16 At every step in this repetitive process, the number of DNA molecules doubles. In forty steps there are a trillion copies of the original molecule. Of course, any mutation happening along the way is also reproduced. So polymerase chain reactions can be used to simulate evolution in the test tube.* Something similar can be done for other nucleic acids:
In the test tube before you is another kind of nucleic acid—this one single-stranded. It’s called RNA (ribonucleic acid). It’s not a double helix and does not have to be unzipped to make a copy of itself. The strand of nucleotides may loop around to join itself, tail in mouth, a molecular circle. Or it may have hairpin or other shapes. In this experiment it’s sitting mixed with its fellow RNA molecules in water. There are other molecules added to help it along, including nucleotide building blocks for making more RNA. The RNA is coddled, jollied, handled with kid gloves. It’s extremely finicky and will do its magic only under very specific conditions. But magic it does. In the test tube not only does it make identical copies of itself, but it also moonlights as a marriage broker for other molecules. Indeed, it performs even more intimate services, providing a kind of platform or marital bed for oddly shaped molecules to join together, to fit into one another. It’s a jig for molecular engineering. The process is called catalysis.
This RNA molecule is a self-replicating catalyst. To control the chemistry of the cell, DNA has to oversee the construction of factotums—a different class of molecules, proteins, which are the catalytic machine tools we’ve been discussing above. DNA makes proteins because it can’t catalyze on its own. Certain kinds of RNA, though, can themselves serve as catalytic machine tools.17 Making a catalyst or being a catalyst gives you the biggest return for the smallest investment: Catalysts can control the production of millions of other molecules. If you make a catalyst, or if you are a catalyst—the right kind of catalyst—you have a long lever arm on your destiny.
Now in these laboratory experiments, which are being carried out in our time, imagine many generations of RNA molecules more or less identically replicating in the test tube. Mutations inevitably occur, and much more often than in DNA. Most of the mutated RNA sequences will leave no, or fewer, copies, again because random changes in the instructions are rarely helpful. But occasionally a molecule comes into existence that aids its own replication. Such a newly mutated RNA might replicate faster than its fellows or with greater fidelity. If we were uncaring about the fates of individual RNA molecules—and while they may arouse feelings of wonder, they seldom elicit sympathy—and wished only for the advancement of the RNA clan, this is just the kind of experiment we would perform. Most lines would perish. A few would be better adapted and leave many copies. These molecules will slowly evolve. A self-replicating, catalytic RNA molecule may have been the
first living thing in the ancient oceans about 4 billion years ago, its close relative DNA being a later evolutionary refinement.
In an experiment with synthetic organic molecules that are not nucleic acids, two closely related species of molecules are found to make copies of themselves out of molecular building blocks provided by the experimenter. These two kinds of molecules both cooperate and compete: They may aid each other’s replication, but they are also after the same limited pool of building blocks. When ordinary visible light is made to shine on this submicroscopic drama, one of the molecules is observed to mutate: It changes into a somewhat different molecule that breeds true—it makes identical copies of itself, and not its pre-mutation ancestor. This new variety, it turns out, is much more adept at replicating itself than the other two hereditary lines. The mutant line rapidly out-competes the others, whose numbers precipitously fall.18 We have here, in the test tube, replication, mutation, replication of mutations, adaptation, and—we do not think it is too much to say—evolution. These are not the molecules that make us up. They are probably not the molecules involved in the origin of life. There may well be many other molecules which reproduce and mutate better. But what prevents us from calling this molecular system alive?
Nature has been performing similar experiments, and building on its successes, for 4 billion years.
Once even crude replication becomes possible, an engine of enormous powers has been let loose into the world. For example, consider that primitive organic-rich ocean of the Earth. Suppose we were to drop a single organism (or a single self-replicating molecule) into it, considerably smaller than a contemporary bacterium. This tiny being divides in two, as do its offspring. In the absence of any predators and with inexhaustible food supplies, their numbers would increase exponentially. The being and its descendants would take only about one hundred generations to eat up all the organic molecules on Earth. A contemporary bacterium under ideal conditions can reproduce once every fifteen minutes. Suppose that on the early Earth the first organism could reproduce only once a year. Then in only a century or so, all the free organic matter in the whole ocean would have been used up.
Of course, long before that, natural selection would be brought to bear. The genre of selection might be competition with others of your kind—for example, for foodstuffs in an ocean with dwindling stocks of preformed molecular building blocks. Or it might be predation—if you don’t look out, some other being will mug you, strip you down, pull you to pieces, and use your molecular parts for its own ghastly purpose
Major evolutionary advance might take considerably more than one hundred generations. But the devastating power of exponential replication becomes clear: When the numbers are small, organisms may only infrequently come into competition; but after exponential replication, enormous populations are produced, stringent competition occurs, and a ruthless selection comes into play. A high population density generates circumstances and elicits responses different from the more friendly and cheerful lifestyles that pertain when the world is sparsely populated.
The external environment is continuously changing—in part because of the enormous population growth when conditions are favorable, in part because of the evolution of other organisms, and in part because of the ticking geological and astronomical clockwork. So there’s never such a thing as a permanent or final or optimum adaptation of a lifeform to “the” environment. Except in the most protected and static surrounds, there must be an endless chain of adaptations. However it feels on the inside, it might very well be described from the outside as a struggle for existence and a competition between adults to ensure the success of their offspring.
You can see that the process tends to be adventitious, opportunistic—not foresighted, not with any future end in view. The evolving molecules do not plan ahead. They simply produce a steady stream of varieties, and sometimes one of the varieties turns out to be a slightly improved model. No one—not the organism, not the environment, not the planet, not “Nature”—is mulling the matter over.
This evolutionary shortsightedness can lead to difficulties. It might, for example, cast aside an adaptation that is perfectly suited for the next environmental crisis a thousand years from now (about which, of course, no one has a glimmering). But you have to get from here to there. One crisis at a time is life’s motto.
ON IMPERMANENCE
If we lived forever, if the dews of Adashino never vanished, if the crematory smoke on Toribeyama never faded, men would hardly feel the pity of things. The beauty of life is in its impermanence. Man lives the longest of all living things … and even one year lived peacefully seems very long. Yet for such as love the world, a thousand years would fade like the dream of one night.
KENKO YOSHIDA, Essays in Idleness (1330–1332)19
* The silent “gh” in such English words as thought and height, or the silent “k” in knife or knight, were likewise once sounded out, but today are little more than a vestige of the evolution of language Something similar is true for the circumflex and cedilla which are in the course of being phased out in French, and for recent simplifications of Chinese and Japanese The nonfunctional genetic sequences, however, are not just a few letters here and there, but reams of obsolete and/or garbled information—something like a confused account in ancient Assyrian on how to manufacture chariot axles, set in more recently generated nonsense information
* Before the method of radioactive dating was invented, the physicists simply had no way to get the timescales right Darwin’s son George became a leading expert on tides and gravity—in part to refute the claim that the history of the Moon proved the Earth to be too young for much biological evolution Several different radioactive clocks found within samples from the Earth, the Moon, and the asteroids; the abundance of impact craters on nearby worlds; and our understanding of the evolution of the Sun all independently and definitively point to an Earth about 4.5 billion years old.
The technique is also being used to take tiny quantities of DNA from the remains of ancient organisms—bacteria from the gut of a preserved mastodon, for example—and make enough copies so they can be studied It has even been proposed that preserved somewhere in amber may be the remains of a bloodsucking insect that bit a dinosaur, from which we may one day learn about dinosaur biochemistry or even—this point is keenly debated—reconstruct, and in a way resuscitate, dinosaurs extinct for 100 million years In the best of circumstances, this does not seem to be a prospect for the near future
Chapter 6
US AND THEM
Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee … for we be brethren.
Genesis 13:8
There are no compacts between lions and men.
HOMER, The Iliad1
Whether there were many instances of the origin of life on Earth or only one is a deep and perhaps impenetrable mystery. For all we know, there may have been millions of dead ends and false starts, unmourned ancient genealogies snuffed out as new ones arose. But it seems very clear that there’s only one hereditary line leading to all life now on Earth. Every organism is a relative, a distant cousin, of every other. This is manifest when we compare how all the organisms on Earth do business, how they’re built, what they’re made of, what genetic language they speak, and especially how similar their blueprints and molecular job orders are. All life is kin.
In our imagination, let’s cast our eyes back to the earliest organisms. They could not have been so purebred and pampered a line of self-replicating molecules as contemporary DNA or RNA—superbly efficient in the replication and proofreading of their messages, but reproducing only under the meticulously controlled conditions upon which modern organisms insist. The first living things must have been rough-and-ready, slow, careless, inefficient—just barely good enough to make crude copies of themselves. Good enough to get started.
At some point, probably extremely early on, organisms had to be more than a single molecule, no matter how talented that molecule might be. For very
precise instructions to be followed to the letter, for reproduction to occur with high fidelity, other molecules were needed—to scour building blocks from the adjacent waters and bend them to your purpose; or, like DNA polymerase, to be midwife in the replication process; or to proofread a newly minted set of genetic instructions. But it did you no good if such accessory molecules kept drifting out to sea. What you needed was a kind of trap to keep useful molecules captive. If only you could surround yourself with a membrane that, like a one-way valve, lets in the molecules you need and doesn’t let them out … There are molecules that do that—that, for example, are attracted to water on one side of them, but are repelled, absolutely revolted by water on the other. They’re common in Nature. They tend to make little spheres. And they’re the basis of cell membranes today.
The earliest cells, although able simultaneously to multiply and divide, could not possibly have been conscious in anything like the sense that humans are. Still, they had certain behavioral repertoires. They knew how to copy themselves, of course; how to convert molecules from the outside, different from them, into molecules on the inside that were them. They were preoccupied with improvements in the precision of replication and the efficiency of metabolism. Some could even distinguish sunlight from darkness.
Breaking down molecules taken in from the outside, that is, digesting food, can be done safely only in a step-by-step fashion, each step controlled by a given enzyme, and each enzyme controlled by its own ACGT sequence, or gene. The genes then must work together in exquisite harmony; otherwise none of them will propagate into the future. In digesting a molecule of sugar, for example, the meticulously choreographed action of dozens of enzymes is required, each picking up where the last one left off, each enzyme manufactured by a particular gene. The defection of a single gene from the common enterprise can be fatal to all of them. An enzyme chain is only as strong as its weakest link. On this level, genes are single-mindedly dedicated to the general welfare of their tribe.