'Looks like me when I'm getting up in the mornings,' said the Dean, who was reading over his shoulder.
'Where'd the hair go?' Ridcully demanded.
'Well, some people shave,' said the Dean.
'This is a very strange book,' said Ridcully, looking accusingly at the Librarian, who kept quiet because in fact he was a little worried. He rather suspected he might have altered history, or at least a history, and on his flight back to the safety of UU he'd seized the first book that looked as though it might be suitable for people with a very high IQ but a mental age of about ten. It had been in an empty byway, far off his usual planes of exploration, and there had been very small red chairs in it.
'Oh, I get it. This is a fairy story,' said Ridcully. 'Frogs turnin' into princes, that kind of thing. See here ... there's something like our blobs, and then these fishes, and then it's a ... a newt, and then it's a big dragony type of thing and, hah, then it's a mouse, then here's an ape, and then it's a man. This sort of thing happens all the time out in the really rural areas, you know, where some of the witches can be quite vindictive.'
'The Omnians believe something like this, you know,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'Om started off making simple things like snakes, they say, and worked his way up to Man.'
'As if life was like modelling clay?' said Ridcully, who was not a patient man with religion. 'You start out with simple things and then progress to elephants and birds which don't stand up properly when you put them down? We've met the God of Evolution, gentlemen ... remember? Natural evolution merely improves a species. It can't change anything.'
His finger stabbed at the next page in the brightly coloured book.
'Gentlemen, this is merely some sort of book of magic, possibly about the Morphic Bounce Hypothesis.* Look at this.' The picture showed a very large lizard followed by a big red arrow, followed by a bird. 'Lizards don't turn into birds. If they did, why have we still got lizards? Things can't decide for themselves what shape they're going to be. Ain't that so, Bursar?'
The Bursar nodded happily. He was halfway through HEX's write-out of the theoretical physics of the project universe and, so far, had understood every word. He was particular happy with the limitations of light speed. It made absolute sense.
He took a crayon and wrote in the margin: 'Assuming the universe to be a negatively curved non-Paramidean manifold — which is more or less obvious — you could deduce its topology by observing the same galaxies in several different directions.' He thought for a moment, and added: 'Some travel will be involved.'
Of course, he was a natural mathematician, and one thing a natural mathematician wants to do is get away from actual damn sums as quickly as possible and slide into those bright sunny uplands where everything is explained by letters in a foreign alphabet, and no one shouts very much. This was even better than that. The hard-to-digest idea that there were dozens of dimensions rolled up where you couldn't see them was sheer jelly and ice cream to a man who saw lots of things no one else saw.
TWENTY-SIX
THE DESCENT OF DARWIN
THE WIZARDS MET THE GOD OF EVOLUTION in The Last Continent. He made things the way a god ought to:
"'Amazin' piece of work," said Ridcully, emerging from the elephant. "Very good wheels. You paint these bits before assembly, do you?"'
The God of Evolution builds creatures piece by piece, like a butcher in reverse. He likes worms and snakes because they're very easy — you can roll them out like a child with modelling clay. But once the God of Evolution has made a species, can it change? It does on Discworld, because the God runs around making hurried adjustments . . . but how does it work without such divine intervention?
All societies that have domestic animals, be they hunting dogs or edible pigs, know that living creatures can undergo gradual changes in form from one generation to the next. Human intervention, in the form of 'unnatural selection', can breed long thin dogs to go down holes and big fat pigs that provide more bacon per trotter.* The wizards know this, and so did the Victorians. Until the nineteenth century, though, nobody seems to have realized that a very similar process might explain the remarkable diversity of life on Earth, from bacteria to bactrians, from oranges to orangutans.
They didn't appreciate that possibility for two reasons. When you bred dogs, what you got was a different kind of dog — not a banana or a fish. And breeding animals was the purest kind of magic: if a human being wanted a long thin dog, and if they started from short fat ones, and if they knew how the trick worked (if, so to speak, they cast the right 'spells') then they would get a long thin dog. Bananas, long and thin though they might be, were not a good starting point. Organisms couldn't change species, and they only changed form within their own species because people wanted them to.
Around 1850, two people independently began to wonder whether nature might play a similar game, but on a much longer timescale and in a much grander manner — and without any sense of purpose or goal (which had been the flaw in previous musings along similar lines). They considered a self-propelled magic: 'natural' selection as opposed to selection by people. One of them was Alfred Wallace; the other — far better known today — was Charles Darwin. Darwin spent years travelling the world. From 1831 to 1836 he was hired as ship's naturalist aboard HMS Beagle, and his job was to observe plants and animals and note down what he saw. In a letter of 1877 he says that while on the Beagle he believed in 'the permanence of species', but on his return home in 1836 he began to think about the deeper meaning of what he had seen, and realized that 'many facts indicated the common descent of species'. By this he meant that species that are different now probably came from ancestors that once belonged to the same species. Species must be able to change. That wasn't an entirely new idea, but he also came up with an effective mechanism for such changes, and that was new.
Meanwhile Wallace was studying the flora and fauna of Brazil and the East Indies, and comparing what he saw in the two regions, and was coming to similar conclusions — and much the same explanation. By 1858 Darwin was still mulling over his ideas, contemplating a grand publication of everything he wanted to say about the subject, while Wallace was getting ready to publish a short article containing the main idea. Being a true English gentleman, Wallace warned Darwin of his intentions so that Darwin could publish something first, and Darwin rapidly penned a short paper for the Linnaean Society, followed a year later by a book, The Origin of Species — a big book, but still not on the majestic scale that Darwin had originally intended. Wallace's paper appeared in the same journal shortly afterwards, but both papers were officially 'presented' to the Society at the same meeting.
What was the initial reaction to these two Earth-shattering articles? In his annual report for that year, the President of the Society, Thomas Bell, wrote that 'The year has not, indeed, been marked by any of those striking discoveries which at once revolutionize, so to speak, the department of science in which they occur.' However, this perception quickly changed as the sheer enormity of Darwin's and Wallace's theory began to sink in, and they took a lot of stick from Mustrum Ridcully's spiritual brethren for daring to come up with a plausible alternative to Biblical creation. What was this epoch-making alternative? An idea so simple that everybody else had missed it. Thomas Huxley is said to have remarked, on reading Origin: 'How extremely stupid not to have thought of that.'
This is the idea. You don't need a human being to push animals into new forms; they can do it to themselves — more precisely: to each other. This was the mechanism of natural selection. Herbert Spencer, who did the important journalistic job of interpreting Darwin's theory to the masses, coined the phrase, 'survival of the fittest' to describe it. The phrase had the advantage of convincing everybody that they understood what Darwin was saying, and it had the disadvantage of convincing everybody that they understood what Darwin was saying. It was a classic lie-to-children, and it deceives many critics of evolution to this day, causing them to aim at a long-disowned target, besides giving a
spurious 'scientific' background to some extremely stupid and unpleasant political theories.
Starting from an enormous range of observations of many species of plants and animals, Darwin had become convinced that organisms could change of their own accord, so much so that they could even — over very long periods — change so much that they gave rise to new species.
Imagine a lot of creatures of the same species. They are in competition for resources, such as food — competing with each other, and with animals of other species. Now suppose that by random chance, one or more of these animals has offspring that are better at winning the competition. Then those animals are more likely to survive for long enough to produce the next generation, and the next generation is also better at winning. In contrast, if one or more of these animals has offspring that are worse at winning the competition, then those animals are less likely to produce a succeeding generation — and even if they somehow do, that next generation is still worse at winning. Clearly even a tiny advantage will, over many generations, lead to a population composed almost entirely of the new high-powered winners. In fact, the effect of any advantage grows like compound interest, so it doesn't take all that long.
Natural selection sounds like a very straightforward idea, but words like 'competition' and 'win' are loaded. It's easy to get the wrong impression of just how subtle evolution must be. When a baby bird falls out of the nest and gets gobbled up by a passing cat, it is easy to see the battle for survival as being fought between bird and cat. But if that is the competition, then cats are clear winners — so why haven't birds evolved away altogether? Why aren't there just cats?
Because cats and birds long ago came, unwittingly, to a mutual accommodation in which both can survive. If birds could breed unchecked, there would soon be far too many birds for their food supply to support them. A female starling, for instance, lays about 16 eggs in her life. If they all survived, and this continued, the starling population would multiply by eight every generation — 16 babies for every two parents. Such 'exponential' growth is amazingly rapid: by the 70th generation a sphere the size of the solar system would be occupied entirely by starlings (instead of by pigeons, which appears to be its natural destiny).
The only 'growth rate' for the population that works is for each breeding pair of adult starlings to produce, on average, exactly one breeding pair of adult starlings. Replacement, but no more — and no less. Anything more than replacement, and the population explodes; anything less, and it eventually dies out. So of those 16 eggs, an average of 14 must not survive to breed. And that's where the cat comes in, along with all the other things that make it tough to be a bird, especially a young one. In a way, the cats are doing the birds a favour — collectively, though maybe not as individuals. (It depends if you're one of the two that survive to breed or the 14 that don't.)
Rather more obviously, the birds are doing the cats a favour — cat food literally drops out of the skies, manna from heaven. So what stops it getting out of hand is that if a group of greedy cats happens to evolve somewhere, they rapidly eat themselves out of existence again. The more restrained cats next door survive to breed, and quickly take over the vacated territory. So those cats that eat just enough birds to maintain their food supply will win a competition against the greedy cats. Cats and birds aren't competing because they're not playing the same game. The real competitions are between cats and other cats, and between birds and other birds. This may seem a wasteful process, but it isn't. A female starling has no trouble laying her 16 eggs. Life is reproductive — it makes reasonably close, though not exact, copies of itself, in quantity, and 'cheaply'. Evolution can easily 'try out' many different possibilities, and discard those that don't work. And that's an astonishingly effective way to home in on what does work.
As Huxley said, it's such an obvious idea. It caused so much trouble from religionists because it takes the gloss off one of their favourite arguments, the argument from design. Living creatures seem so perfectly put together that surely they must have been designed — and if so, there must have been a Designer. Darwinism made it clear that a process of random, purposeless variation trimmed by self-induced selection can achieve equally impressive results, so there can be the semblance of design without any Designer.
There are plenty of details to Darwinism that still aren't understood, as with all science, but most of the obvious ways of trying to shoot it down have been answered effectively. The classic example — still routinely trotted out by creationists and others even though Darwin himself had a pretty good answer — is the evolution of the eye. The human eye is a complex structure, and all of its components have to fit together to a high degree of accuracy, or it won't work. If we claim that such a complex structure has evolved, we must accept that it evolved gradually. It can't all have come into being at once. But if so, then at every stage along the evolutionary track the still-evolving proto-eye must offer some kind of survival advantage to the creature that possesses it. How can this happen? The question is often asked in the form 'What use is half an eye?', to which you are expected to conclude 'nothing', followed by a rapid conversion to some religion or other. 'Nothing' is a reasonable answer, but to the wrong question. There are lots of ways to get to an eye gradually that do not require it to be assembled piece by piece like a jigsaw puzzle. Evolution does not build creatures piece by piece like the God of Evolution in The Last Continent. Darwin himself pointed out that in creatures alive in his day you could find all kinds of light-sensitive organs, starting with patches of skin, then increasing in complexity, light-gathering power, and ability to detect fine detail, right up to structures as sophisticated as the human eye. There is a continuum of eyelike organs in the living world, and every creature gains an advantage by having its own type of light-sensing device, in comparison to similar creatures that have a slightly less effective device of a similar kind.
In 1994 Daniel Nilsson and Susanne Pelger used a computer to see what would happen to a mathematical model of a light-sensing surface if it was allowed to change in small, random, biologically feasible ways, with only those changes that improved its sensitivity to light being retained. They found that within 400,000 generations — an evolutionary blink of an eye — that flat surface gradually changed into a recognizable eye, complete with a lens. The lens even bent light differently in different places, just like our eye and unlike normal spectacle lenses. At every tiny step along the way, a creature with the improved 'eye' would be better than those with the old version.
At no stage was there ever 'half an eye'. There were just light-sensing things that got better at it.
Since the 1950s, we have been in possession of a new and central piece of the evolutionary jigsaw, one that Darwin would have given his right arm to know about. This is the physical — more precisely, chemical — nature of whatever it is that ensures that characteristics of organisms can change and be passed from one generation to the next.
You know the word: gene.
You know the molecule: DNA.
You even know how it works: DNA carries the genome, which is a chemical 'blueprint' for an organism. It uses the genetic code to turn DNA into proteins.
And, probably, a lot of what you know is lies-to-children.
Just as 'survival of the fittest' captured the imaginations of the Victorians, so 'DNA' has captured the imaginations of today's public. However, imaginations thrive best if they are left free to roam: they grow tired and feeble in captivity. Captive imaginations do breed quite effectively, because they are protected from the terrible predator known as Thought.
DNA has two striking properties, which play a significant role in the complex chemistry of life: it can encode information, and that information can be copied. (Other molecules process the DNA information, for example by making proteins according to recipes encoded in DNA.) From this point of view a living organism is a kind of molecular computer. Of course there's much more to life than that, but DNA is central to any discussion of life on Earth.
DNA is life's most important molecular-level 'space elevator' — a platform from which life can launch itself into higher realms.
The complexity of living creatures arises not because they are made from some special kind of matter — the now-discredited 'vitalist' theory — but because their matter is organized in an exceedingly intricate fashion. DNA does a lot of the routine 'bookkeeping' that keeps living creatures organized. Every cell of (nearly) every living organism contains its 'genome' — a kind of code message written in DNA, which gives that organism a lot of hints about how to behave at the molecular level. (Exceptions are various viruses, on the boundary between life and non-life, which use a slightly different code.)
This is why it was possible to clone Dolly the Sheep — to take an ordinary cell from an adult sheep and make it grow into another sheep. The trick actually requires three adult sheep. First, there's the one from which you take the cell: call her 'Dolly's Mum'. Then you persuade the cell's nucleus to forget that it came from an adult and to think that it's back in the egg, and then you implant it into an egg from a second sheep ('Egg Donor'). Then you put the egg into the uterus of the third sheep ('Surrogate Mum') so that it can grow into a normal lamb.
Dolly is often said to be a perfect copy of Dolly's Mum, but that's not completely true. For a start, certain parts of Dolly's DNA come not from Dolly's Mum, but from Egg Donor. And even if that slight difference had been fixed, Dolly could still differ in many ways from her 'mother', because sheep DNA is not a complete list of instructions for 'how to build a sheep'. DNA is more like a recipe — and it assumes you already know how to set up your kitchen. So the recipe doesn't say 'put the mixture in a greased pan and place in an oven set to 400°F,' for instance: it says 'put the mixture in the oven' and assumes that you know it needs to go in a pan and that the oven should be set to a standard temperature. In particular, sheep DNA leaves out the vital instruction 'put the mixture inside a sheep', but that's the only place (as yet) where you can turn a fertilized sheep egg into a lamb. So even Surrogate Mum played a considerable role in determining what happened when the DNA recipe for Dolly was 'obeyed'.
The Science of Discworld Page 22