Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors

by Carl Sagan

  Consider kin selection once more. Never mind the nagging question about how well birds, say, can distinguish uncles from cousins; especially in small groups, it doesn’t much matter—everyone’s a pretty close relative, and kin selection works in a statistical sense, even if you occasionally put yourself on the line for some unrelated neighbor. It makes sense, in terms of the preservation of multiple copies of closely related genetic instructions, to accept a 40% chance of dying to save the life of a sibling (who has 50% of the same genes you have); or a 20% chance to save an uncle or a niece or a grandchild (who share 25% of your genes); or a 10% chance of dying to save the life of a first cousin (who has 12.5% of exactly the same genes that you do). Well, then, what about giving up the means of affording another child in order to preserve the families of many second cousins? What about donating ten percent of your income so a gaggle of third cousins have enough to eat? Might it pay to abstain from a few luxuries so fourth cousins can be educated? What about writing a letter of recommendation for an undistinguished fifth cousin?

  Kin selection is also a continuum, and in its arcane calculus some sacrifice must be worthwhile to aid the most far-flung and distant members of your family. But since we are all related, some sacrifice must be justified to save anyone on Earth—and not only those of our own species. Even on its own terms, kin selection extends far beyond close relatives.

  Typically, any two members of a small community of primates in the wild have 10 to 15% of their genes in common19 (and about 99.9% of their ACGT sequences in common, it requiring only a single nucleotide difference to make one gene, composed of thousands of nucleotides, different from another). So any random member of the group is pretty likely to be your parent or child or sibling, uncle, aunt, nephew, niece, or first or second cousin. Even if you can’t distinguish one from the other, it makes good evolutionary sense to make real sacrifices for them—and to accept something like a 10% chance of dying in order to save the life of any one of them.

  In the annals of primate ethics, there are some accounts that have the ring of parable. Consider, for example, the macaques. Also known as rhesus monkeys, they live in tightly knit cousins’ clubs.20 Since the macaque you save is statistically likely to share many of your genes (assuming you’re another macaque), you’re justified in taking risks to save it, and a fine discrimination of shades of consanguinity is unnecessary. In a laboratory setting,21 macaques were fed if they were willing to pull a chain and electrically shock an unrelated macaque whose agony was in plain view through a one-way mirror. Otherwise, they starved. After learning the ropes, the monkeys frequently refused to pull the chain; in one experiment only 13% would do so—87% preferred to go hungry. One macaque went without food for nearly two weeks rather than hurt its fellow. Macaques who had themselves been shocked in previous experiments were even less willing to pull the chain. The relative social status or gender of the macaques had little bearing on their reluctance to hurt others.

  If asked to choose between the human experimenters offering the macaques this Faustian bargain and the macaques themselves—suffering from real hunger rather than causing pain to others—our own moral sympathies do not lie with the scientists. But their experiments permit us to glimpse in non-humans a saintly willingness to make sacrifices in order to save others—even those who are not close kin. By conventional human standards, these macaques—who have never gone to Sunday school, never heard of the Ten Commandments, never squirmed through a single junior high school civics lesson—seem exemplary in their moral grounding and their courageous resistance to evil. Among the macaques, at least in this case, heroism is the norm. If the circumstances were reversed, and captive humans were offered the same deal by macaque scientists, would we do as well?22 In human history there are a precious few whose memory we revere because they knowingly sacrificed themselves for others. For each of them, there are multitudes who did nothing.

  ——

  T. H. Huxley remarked that the most important conclusion he had gleaned from his anatomical studies was the interrelatedness of all life on Earth. The discoveries made since his time—that all life on Earth uses nucleic acids and proteins, that the DNA messages are all written in the same language and all transcribed into the same language, that so many genetic sequences in very different beings are held in common—deepen and broaden the power of this insight. No matter where we think we are on that continuum between altruism and selfishness, with every layer of the mystery we strip away, our circle of kinship widens.

  Not from some uncritical sentimentalism, but out of tough-minded scientific scrutiny, we find the deepest affinities between ourselves and the other forms of life on Earth. But compared to the differences between any of us and any other animal, all humans, no matter how ethnically diverse, are essentially identical. Kin selection is a fact of life, and is very strong in animals that live in small groups. Altruism is very close to love. Somewhere in these realities, an ethic may be lurking.

  ON IMPERMANENCE

  Insignificant

  mortals, who are as leaves are, and now flourish and grow warm with life, and feed on what the ground gives, but then fade away and are dead.

  HOMER, The Iliad23

  * Humans are newly evolved. Our availability on a global scale as hosts for parasites is very recent. In the absence of medical countermeasures, we might expect, sometime in the future, the evolution of new kinds of microorganisms that pull our strings more artfully than any rabies virus could ever do.

  * It’s not hard to see how the components of this “fight-or-flight” response are all adaptive—evolved to get you through the crisis. That feeling of cold and emptiness at the pit of your stomach, for example, results from a reallocation of blood from digestion to the muscles.

  * True, of course, only for sexual organisms. Asexual beings, reproducing by splitting in two, cannot enhance the fitness of their descendants through a spirit of self-sacrifice.

  * Humans do this routinely. Large multi-ethnic states are revealingly called “fatherland” or “motherland.” Leaders encourage patriotic fervor—the word “patriotic” comes from the Greek for father. Especially in monarchies, it was easy to pretend that the nation was a family. The distant and powerful king was like many fathers. Everyone understood the metaphor.

  Chapter 7

  WHEN FIRE WAS NEW

  Not I, but the world says it:

  All is one.

  HERACLITUS1

  The oxygen in the air is generated by green plants. They vent it into the atmosphere and we animals greedily breathe it in. So do many microbes and the plants themselves. We, in turn, exhale carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, which the green plants eagerly inhale. In a profound but largely unremarked intimacy, the plants and animals live off each other’s bodily wastes. The atmosphere of the Earth connects these processes, and establishes the great symbiosis between plants and animals. There are many other cycles that bind organism to organism and that are mediated by the air—cycles in nitrogen, for example, or sulfur. The atmosphere brings beings all over the world into contact; it establishes another kind of biological unity to the planet.

  The Earth started out with an atmosphere essentially free of the oxygen molecule. As bacteria and other one-celled organisms arose, 3.5 billion years ago or earlier, some harvested sunlight, breaking water molecules apart in the first stage of photosynthesis. The oxygen, a waste gas, was simply released into the air—like emptying a sewer into the ocean. Resolutely independent, liberated from reliance on nonbiological sources of organic matter, the photosynthetic organisms proliferated. By the time there got to be enormous numbers of them, the air was full of oxygen.

  Now oxygen is a peculiar molecule. We breathe it, depend on it, die without it, and so naturally have a good opinion of it. In respiratory distress, we want more oxygen, purer oxygen. As modern words (“inspire,” literally, breathe in; “aspire,” breathe toward; “conspire,” breathe with; “perspire,” breathe through; “transpire,” breathe across; “re
spire,” breathe again; and “expire,” breathe out) and Latin proverbs (such as Dum Spiro, spero, while I breathe, I hope) remind us, we associate many aspects of our nature with breathing. The word “spirit” —in all its incarnations (“spiritual,” “spirited,” alcoholic “spirits,” “spirits” of ammonia, and so forth)—also derives from the same Latin word for breath. Our fixation with breathing comes ultimately from considerations of energy efficiency: The oxygen we respire makes us about ten times more efficient in extracting energy from food than, say, yeast are; they know only how to ferment—breaking sugar down to some intermediate product such as ethyl alcohol rather than all the way back to carbon dioxide and water.*

  But as a blazing log or a burning coal reminds us, oxygen is dangerous. Given a little encouragement, it can vandalize the intricate, painstakingly evolved structure of organic matter, leaving little more than some ash and a puff of vapor. In an oxygen atmosphere, even if you don’t apply heat, oxidation, as it’s called, slowly corrodes and disintegrates organic matter. Even much sturdier materials such as copper or iron tarnish and rust away in oxygen. Oxygen is a poison for organic molecules and doubtless was poisonous to the beings of the ancient Earth. Its introduction into the atmosphere triggered a major crisis in the history of life, the oxygen holocaust. The idea of organisms that gasp and choke to death after being exposed to a whiff of oxygen seems counterintuitive and bizarre, like the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz melting away to nothing when a little water falls on her. It’s the ultimate version of the adage “One man’s meat is another man’s poison.”†

  Either you adapted to the oxygen, or you hid from it, or you died. Many died. Some reconciled themselves to live underground, or in marine muds, or in other environments where the deadly oxygen could not reach. Today all of the most primitive organisms—that is, the ones least related by genetic sequence to the rest of us—are microscopic and anaerobic; they prefer to live, or are forced to live, where the oxygen isn’t. Most organisms on Earth these days deal well with oxygen. They have elaborate mechanisms to repair the chemical damage done by oxygen, as—gingerly, held at molecular arm’s length it is used to oxidize food, extract energy, and drive the organism at high efficiency.

  Human cells, and many others, deal with oxygen through a special, largely self-contained molecular factory called a mitochondrion, which is in charge of dealing with this poison gas. The energy extracted by oxidizing food is stored in special molecules and safely shipped to workstations throughout the cell. Mitochondria have their own kind of DNA—circles, or daisy chains, of As, Cs, Gs, and Ts, rather than double helices, instructions different at a glance from those that run the cell proper. But they’re enough like the DNA of the chloroplasts to make it clear that mitochondria also were once free-living bacteria-like organisms. The central role of cooperation and symbiosis in the early evolution of life is again evident.

  Luckily for us, biochemical solutions were found to the oxygen crisis. If not, perhaps the only life on Earth today other than photosynthetic plants would be slithering in ooze and sucking at thermal vents in the abyssal depths. We have risen to the challenge and surmounted it—but only at enormous cost in the deaths of our ancestors and collateral relatives. These events show that there is no inherent foresight or wisdom in life that prevents it from making, in the short term at least, catastrophic mistakes. They also demonstrate that, long before civilization, life was producing toxic wastes on a massive scale, and for that miscalculation paying stiff penalties.

  Through some such biochemical oversight, had things gone a little differently, perhaps all life on Earth would have been extinguished. Or perhaps some devastating asteroidal or cometary impact would have killed off all those tentative, fumbling microbes. Then, as we’ve said, organic molecules—both those synthesized on Earth and those falling from the skies—might have led to a new origin of life and an alternative evolutionary future. But the day comes when the gases leaking out of volcanos and fumaroles are no longer hydrogen-rich, no longer easy to make organic molecules from. Part of the reason is the oxygen atmosphere itself, which oxidizes these gases. Also, there gets to be a time when extraterrestrial organic molecules arrive so infrequently that they are an insufficient source of the stuff of life. Both these conditions seem to have been satisfied by around 2 or 3 billion years ago. Thereafter, if every living thing were to be wiped out, no new life could arise. The Earth would remain a desolate wasteland of a world into the remote future—until the Sun dies.

  ——

  Back then, around 2 billion years ago or a little before, the oxygen in the Earth’s atmosphere—steadily increasing, to be sure, over preceding ages of geological time—began quickly to approach its present abundance. (In today’s air, one in every five molecules is O2)

  The first eukaryotic cell evolved a little earlier. Our cells are eukaryotes, which in Greek means, roughly, “good nuclei,” or “true nuclei.” As usual, we chauvinistic humans admire it because we have it. But they’ve been very successful. Bacteria and viruses are not eukaryotes, but flowers, trees, worms, fish, ants, dogs, and people are; all the algae, fungi, and protozoa, all the animals, all the vertebrates, all the mammals, all the primates. One of the key distinctions of the eukaryotic cell is that the governing machinery, the DNA, is encapsulated and set apart in a cell nucleus. As in a medieval castle, two sets of walls protect it from the outside world. Special proteins bond and contort the DNA, enveloping and embracing it, so a double helix that uncoiled would be about a meter long is compressed into a submicroscopic chamber at the heart of the cell. Perhaps the nucleus evolved—in the oxygen-rich vicinities of photosynthetic organisms—in part to protect DNA from oxygen while the mitochondria were busily exploiting it.

  Each long DNA double helix is called a chromosome. Humans have 23 pairs of chromosomes. The total number of As, Cs, Gs, and Ts is about 4 billion pairs of letters in our double-stranded hereditary instructions. The information content is roughly that of a thousand different books with the size and fineness of print of the one you’re reading at this moment. While the variation from species to species is large, similar numbers apply to many other “higher” organisms.

  Those same proteins that surround the DNA (themselves manufactured, of course, on instructions from the DNA) are responsible for switching genes on and off, in part by uncovering and covering the DNA. At appointed times, the exposed ACGT information of the DNA makes copies of certain sequences and dispatches them as messages out of the nucleus into the rest of the cell; in response to the commands in these telegrams, new molecular machine tools, the enzymes, are manufactured. They in turn control all the metabolism of the cell and all its interactions with the outside world. As with the children’s game called “Telephone” in America and “Grandmother’s Whispers” in Britain—in which a message is whispered successively by each player into the ear of the next—the longer the sequence of relays, the more likely it is that the communication will be garbled.

  It’s a little like a kingdom with the distant DNA, isolated and guarded in the nucleus, as the monarch. The chloroplasts and mitochondria play the role of proudly independent dukedoms whose continuing cooperation is essential to the well-being of the realm.* Everybody else, every other molecule or complex of molecules working for the cell, has as its sole obligation punctilious obedience to orders. Great care must be taken that no message is mislaid or misunderstood. Occasionally, decisions are delegated to other molecules by the DNA, but generally every machine in the cellular toolshop is on a short tether.

  However, even to the rank-and-file molecular workers in the cell, the monarch often seems half-witted and his decrees garbled and meaningless. As we’ve mentioned, most DNA of humans and other eukaryotes is genetic nonsense which the START and STOP instructions—like prudent assistants to a mad president—duly ignore. Immense reams of nonsense are in effect thoughtfully preceded by the notice “DRIVEL AHEAD. PLEASE IGNORE,” and followed by the message “END OF DRIVEL.” Sometimes the
DNA goes into a stuttering frenzy in which the same ravings are repeated over and over. In the kangaroo rat of the American Southwest, for example, the sequence AAG is repeated 2.4 billion times, one after the other; TTAGGG, 2.2 billion times; and ACACAGCGGG, 1.2 billion times. Fully half of all the genetic instructions in the kangaroo rat are these three stutters.4 Whether repetition plays another role—maybe some internecine struggle for control by different gene complexes inside the DNA—is unknown. But superposed on precision replication and repair, and the meticulous preservation of DNA sequences from ages past, there is an element in the life of the eukaryotic cell that seems a little like farce.5

  Some 2 billion years ago, several different hereditary lines of bacteria seem to have begun stuttering—making full copies of parts of their hereditary instructions over and over again; this redundant information then gradually specialized, and, excruciatingly slowly, nonsense evolved into sense.6 Similar repetitions arose early in the eukaryotes. Over long periods of time, these redundant, repetitive sequences undergo their own mutations, and sooner or later there will be, by chance, rare short passages among them that begin to make sense, that are useful and adaptive. The process is much easier than the classic imaginary experiment of the monkeys poking at typewriter keys long enough that eventually the complete works of William Shakespeare emerge. Here, even the introduction of a very short new sequence—representing only a punctuation mark, say—may be able to increase the survival chances of the organism in a changing environment. And here, unlike the monkeys at their typewriters, the sieve of natural selection is working. Those sequences that are slightly more adaptive (to continue the metaphor, we might say those sequences that correspond even slightly to Shakespearean prose—“TO BE OR,” immersed in gibberish, would be a start) are preferentially replicated. Out of randomly changing nonsense, the accidental bits of sense are preserved and copied in large numbers. Eventually, a great deal of sense emerges. The secret is remembering what works. Just such a drawing forth of meaning from random sequences of nucleotides must have happened in the very earliest nucleic acids, around the time of the origin of life.