Force of Nature- The Life of Linus Pauling

by Thomas Hager

  It was Pauling's approach to the weaker bonds that proved most fruitful. He realized quickly that the energy involved in breaking first-level bonds fit what he knew about a strange kind of link called the hydrogen bond. In 1935 he was one of the few researchers in America who understood and appreciated hydrogen bonds. The idea was that hydrogen, instead of being held by a single covalent or ionic link could in certain cases be caught jointly between two atoms, forming a bridge between them. Pauling saw how it worked in his scheme of chemical bonding: On one side, the hydrogen atom had to be near a strongly electronegative atom—an oxygen, for instance, or a fluorine—which would pull the hydrogen's sole electron toward it, concentrating the charge in the area in between the two nuclei, creating a small net negative charge on that side. As a result, the other side of the hydrogen would be electron-poor, creating a small positive charge, which could then form an electrostatic bond—a hydrogen bond—with nearby negatively charged atoms or parts of molecules. Pauling had written about the hydrogen-bond concept as early as 1928, tied it to his resonance theory in 1934, and used it in a major way in his 1935 paper on the entropy of ice.

  Now he became convinced by Mirsky's denaturation work that hydrogen bonds were vital components in protein structure. By the fall of 1935, the two of them had roughed out a new theory based on his reasoning. "Our conception of a native protein molecule (showing specific properties) is the following," the authors wrote. "The molecule consists of one polypeptide chain which continues without interruption throughout the molecule (or, in certain cases, of two or more such chains); this chain is folded into a uniquely defined configuration, in which it is held by hydrogen bonds. . . ." All proteins, in other words, were made of strings of amino acids, polypeptide chains, possibly in the form of the Ur-protein keratin, as Astbury thought. Strong peptide links kept the chain in one piece, but weaker hydrogen bonds between sections twisted and folded it into its final, determinative shape. This final shape was vital to the protein's function; the molecule would not perform its function unless its form was maintained. Slight heating broke the hydrogen bonds, allowing the chains to straighten out and tangle like loose yarn. As long as the chain remained in one piece, however, under the right conditions the hydrogen bonds could re-form and the protein could regain its original shape and activity. Stronger treatment would break the chain itself, severing peptide bonds and irreversibly denaturing the protein.

  When it appeared in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS) in July 1936, the paper, "On the Structure of Native, Denatured, and Coagulated Proteins," was quickly recognized as an important advance in the field. At a stroke, Pauling's understanding of the chemical bond had provided a single unifying explanation for many diverse observations about protein denaturation and protein activity. Weaver was pleased: Although general acceptance of Pauling's ideas would prove slow, he had taken a major step toward solving Weaver's "giant protein problem."

  But two days after the paper arrived in the offices of the PNAS on June 1, 1936, Pauling's life underwent a major change for reasons entirely unrelated to proteins.

  CHAPTER 9

  King, Pope, Wizard

  The Young Dictator

  A. A. Noyes's health had long been fragile. During the 1920s he was diagnosed, incorrectly, with cancer, was checked for tuberculosis, tried glandular injections to pep himself up, and underwent a painful throat operation to relieve an abscess caused by choking on a crouton. As early as 1928 he believed that he was "likely to have at most five or six years of active life—perhaps less." He began then to focus his shrinking energies on fewer projects, foremost among them the perfection of Caltech's undergraduate education program. The combination of Noyes's failing health and concentration on curriculum through the early 1930s made it seem to Pauling as if the research needs of the chemistry division were being slighted.

  But it was typical of Noyes to place the institute first. In order to help lure Millikan to Pasadena in the early 1920s, he had agreed with Hale to devote the lion's share of Caltech's resources to physics. As a result, Millikan's empire grew rapidly; by 1927 there were sixty graduate students in physics compared with twenty in chemistry.

  It was the reverse of the situation in older universities like Harvard and Cornell, where chemistry was still the king of the natural sciences, with more faculty, money, and respect than physics. Noyes, however, had come west to do something new. He believed that a small division was better for morale, more likely to crossbreed ideas and less likely to break into fractious subdisciplines, and that a small faculty could better interact with a carefully chosen student body. He was in any case a quintessential team player, temperamentally unsuited for turf battles and satisfied with chemistry's slower growth. Despite its second-place status, the overall budget for the Division of Chemistry and Chemical Engineering nearly tripled during the decade of the 1920s, helped by the Carnegie Institution's support of twenty different research projects. Even when the Depression hit, forcing cuts in research funds and the temporary abandonment of plans for a new chemistry building, Noyes did not appear to worry. Slow and steady was the plan.

  It suited most of the faculty, who wanted nothing more than to teach, oversee a small laboratory, and occasionally produce an interesting paper. Pauling, however, chafed at the bit. He needed things to happen; his own research group was growing as fast as the number of ideas he had; graduate students and postdoctoral fellows were flocking to work with him; he needed more space and more money to keep expanding. At Harvard he had seen how chemistry was treated compared to physics. Why was Noyes not doing a better job lobbying for his division?

  For years Noyes kept his young genius satisfied by negotiating new space, backing Pauling's salary demands, and arranging promotions. He also ran interference with Millikan, who was becoming irritated by the assertive young professor. Pauling's repeated threats to leave unless he was given what he wanted gave Millikan the impression of a fellow a little too pushy, too full of himself. Perhaps he was as good as Noyes said. But in the physics department he would not have been so coddled.

  Noyes, however, would pay almost any price to keep Pauling. He understood chemistry and Pauling's growing importance to the field in ways Millikan could not. Pauling's quantum-physics-based bond work, supplemented and expanded by his x-ray and electron-diffraction studies, his unique ability to correlate structure and theory, to take an idea that explained the structure of ice and apply it to the structure of proteins, represented a major leap toward the all-embracing physical chemistry that Ostwald had preached to Noyes forty years before. And the young man's energy! He dove into his work, lived and breathed chemistry like no one Noyes had seen since G. N. Lewis. There seemed no end to Pauling's ability to generate original ideas.

  And he was Noyes's creation. Noyes had discovered him and guided him and transformed the raw young Oregonian into an international phenomenon. Pauling was living proof of his mentor's skill in picking talent and of the power of the educational theories Noyes had put into operation at Caltech.

  And at Caltech, Noyes decided, he would stay.

  - - -

  In order to ensure Pauling's loyalty, Noyes knew that he would have to offer more than kind words and money. He would need to offer power. So as soon as Pauling achieved the rank of full professor in the mid-1930s, Noyes made it clear to him and to important figures like Weaver that Pauling was being groomed to be the next director of the Caltech Division of Chemistry and Chemical Engineering.

  On the face of it, this looked outrageous in a division gifted with so many scientists senior to Pauling in both age and academic experience—including the renowned and nationally respected Richard Tolman—but experience was less important to Noyes than promise. "Whether he is old or young is, to be sure, not the primary consideration," Noyes wrote. Instead, the director of a chemical school must be above all "a man thoroughly conversant and sympathetic with research . . . responsive to and creative of new ideas." Administrative know-how was secondary
to "the ability to put through new plans of furthering science and research."

  Here Pauling had no competition. Tolman's research was increasingly solitary and idiosyncratic—ruminations on cosmology had now replaced important work related to chemistry—and in any case, he had protested from the time he was hired that he had little interest in administration. William Lacey, Stuart Bates, and Dickinson, all senior to Pauling, were happy to teach and crank out relatively routine research from small laboratories. Only Pauling, with his effusion of new ideas, mastery of new techniques, ability to attract top students and run a large, productive laboratory, as well as his strong relationship with the Rockefeller Foundation, had what Noyes thought it took to lead Caltech’s chemistry division to greatness. As early as 1932, Noyes was telling Weaver that Pauling was his likely successor.

  Then he wavered. As time went on, he saw things in Pauling that made him uncomfortable, personal traits so different from his own that he thought twice about his plan for succession. Although his nickname was King Arthur, Noyes was anything but an autocrat. He believed in cooperative, corporate-style management, with a CEO-type leader acting on the advice of strong faculty committees; the faculty, acting through their committees, actually determined much of the division's business. This was a considered response to what Noyes had found distasteful in the German chemical institutes, where the Geheimrat's research was central and his decisions absolute; the German model, he thought, created followers instead of independent thinkers, "the frequent outcome of the system being one good man at the head overburdened with administrative details and a group of merely good men in subordinate positions," he said.

  As Pauling's research expanded, he began in many ways to take on the attitudes that Noyes disliked. In Pauling's laboratory, Pauling determined the questions asked and the means used to answer them; he assigned others to solve problems for him rather than teaching them to think for themselves. It was good, meaningful research carried out in an exciting intellectual atmosphere, and his students and postdoctoral fellows never complained; they were learning a new approach to chemistry that would later open doors for faculty positions at the nation's best research centers.

  The complaints came from other faculty members. Pauling not only ran his laboratory in the German style; he also was perceived as fighting for himself and his own research first and the needs of the division second. This "aggressive managerial style," as one professor called it, did not sit well with his fellow professors, men who were now colleagues but might soon be working under him. By the mid-1930s a reaction against Pauling was growing among members of his division. Senior faculty members viewed him as something of a prima donna; younger ones were jealous of his quick success. Suffusing it all was a sort of fraternal jealousy: everyone knew that Pauling was the King's favorite son. Pauling, intensely focused on his own work, had neither the time nor the inclination to mollify his colleagues.

  Noyes was concerned about that and worried, too, about Pauling's apparent lack of interest in the larger issues of the institute. The young man's devotion to his career seemed absolute. He came across as something of a loner, out for himself first, the division of chemistry second, and Caltech last. He had no skill or apparent interest in academic politics; he made demands of the administration instead of requests. Millikan did not like him. Noyes saw in his protégé a disturbing element of impatience and an inability to place his own needs into context. All of this seemed only to get worse as Pauling grew more successful.

  On the other hand, Pauling performed his divisional committee work efficiently and was an extraordinary teacher with at least a passing interest in the curriculum of the division, especially the way in which undergraduates were taught chemistry. Perhaps he could be taught to take more of a hand in institutional affairs. In the early 1930s, Noyes drafted a plan to bring younger faculty members "into contact with the problems and ideals of the institution" by making them part of a committee on policies that would consult with Caltech's ruling executive group; Pauling and Tolman were his nominees from chemistry. On another occasion, Pauling remembered Noyes appointing him "executive officer" of the division, a position Noyes may have created as a stepping-stone to eventual directorship. "But I never did anything as executive officer," Pauling said. "He didn't turn over any duties to me."

  Noyes was still hesitating when in early 1935 he received shattering news: He had cancer of the colon. His only chance, his physician explained to him, was immediate surgery. Noyes, terrified by the thought of an operation, said no. He kept his condition a secret from everyone except Hale, Millikan, and a few close friends and began to stay away from the institute, spending more time in his house on San Pasqual Street near Caltech or his seaside place at Corona del Mar. There he could watch the gulls soar and the waves roll in, hear the wind-carried chattering of people on the beach, and remember the sea spray off Cape Cod and his sunny days in Italy. There he could put aside the worries of administration.

  - - -

  Despite his attempts at secrecy, soon it was whispered through the institute that Noyes was fatally ill.

  Pauling's response confirmed everyone's worst fears. For several years he had expected to succeed Noyes, and now it seemed his time had come. Decisions had to be made about the development of organic chemistry, about the long-term relationship with the Rockefeller Foundation, about Depression-caused delays in the construction of the new chemistry building. Noyes seemed to have backed off from any decision making, and Pauling needed to know what was going to happen, especially regarding the time line for his assumption of the directorship. But no one seemed to be approaching him to talk about it. Noyes had gone into semi-seclusion, and Millikan kept his distance. Finally, Pauling decided to act on his own. He used a job offer from Ohio State in July 1935 as a pretense to meet with Millikan to talk over his situation.

  It was a disaster. Millikan was as close to Noyes as he was to any man and very concerned about his friend's illness; the last thing he wanted was to handle yet another apparent salary demand from Pauling. The meeting soured when Pauling started complaining about funding, telling Millikan that more money should be allocated to chemistry and reminding him of the relative positions of chemistry and physics at other universities. Millikan did not dignify that with an answer; as far as he could see, while Noyes was still alive and chairman, divisional funding was none of Pauling's business. Then the real purpose of the meeting became clear to him: Pauling was looking for assurances about assuming the directorship when Noyes died. Millikan was infuriated. Struggling to control his temper, he told Pauling that there were no plans for expanding the chemistry division's share of institute money. Then, when Pauling kept returning to the subject of the directorship, he let himself explode. Millikan told the upstart that he was far too young to even consider the chairmanship and that as far as he was concerned, Pauling should not even bother to think about the possibility of that sort of administrative position for at least another ten or fifteen years. Then he showed him the door.

  Pauling exited in a state of shock. Millikan's remarks contradicted everything he thought had been set in place for his future. And Millikan was mistaken about his youth being determinative. Pauling was now thirty-four years old, three years older than Slater had been when he took over physics at MIT and only a few years younger than Conant was when he was named president of Harvard. Something else was wrong.

  After two weeks of coming to terms with his new situation, Pauling decided to find out what it was. He sent Noyes a carefully worded letter with a familiar refrain: "I feel I am forced to leave the Institute. . . . The only reason that I hesitate for a time is that there is the possibility that I have misunderstood the statements which have been made to me regarding the plans for developing the Division of Chemistry and the role that is planned for me."

  Noyes read the letter in Corona del Mar. He had avoided making any decisions for a few months, but now it appeared he would have to thrash out the question of Pauling's future, a process t
hat he feared might tear apart the chemistry division he had spent the last years of his life building. He had his secretary make a copy of Pauling's note and hand-deliver it to Hale, with a cover note of his own. "Pauling is restless, ambitious and self-seeking," Noyes wrote, "but I really believe that his desire to develop a large research center in fields of chemistry outside his own is his main thought." Then he requested an immediate emergency meeting with Tolman, Hale, and Millikan.

  At the meeting, it quickly became clear that there was no simple solution. Millikan was for Tolman taking over; not only was he the senior man, but he was the right sort; he belonged to the same private clubs and moved in the same social circles as Millikan and many of Caltech's biggest donors. Everyone remembered Pauling as a penniless graduate student from the sticks living in a shabby rented house with his young wife and baby. How could he deal with the multimillionaires that Caltech needed to cultivate? Millikan was especially nervous about how the brash and increasingly left-leaning Pauling would mix with the businessmen on his board of trustees. Noyes, however, still did not believe Tolman's heart was in either chemistry or administration and argued that losing Pauling would mean a major setback for the institute. Tolman himself expressed reservations about trying to replace Noyes alone.