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Hitchcock’s “Paleontological Chart,” 1857 version.
Conveniently for his scientific career, he was “dismissed” from the Conway pastorate (#litres_trial_promo) in autumn 1825 on the grounds of impaired health and imminent death if (according to his own worried judgment) he didn’t stop preaching, circuiting the parish, and running revivals. Amherst College, recently founded, hired him to teach chemistry and natural history, and he stayed there the rest of his life, serving later as professor of natural theology and geology, and for one nine-year stretch also as president. The early years of Hitchcock’s career at Amherst spanned the period when Charles Lyell, in England, published his multivolume Principles of Geology, a radical work that challenged Scripture-based interpretations of the geological record, including Hitchcock’s own.
The conventional school of thought, known as catastrophism, saw Earth’s history as a series of cataclysmic upheavals cast down like thunderbolts by the Creator, such as the bolt that brought forty days and forty nights of rain, documented in Genesis as Noah’s flood. These catastrophes were considered directional and purposeful, in the sense that God used them as occasions for purging the planet of some creatures (dinosaurs, begone) and adding new creations (mammals, arise). Lyell’s alternative view was uniformitarianism, insisting that the processes and events that shaped Earth in the past were physical, such as erosion and deposition, as well as the occasional volcanic eruption—things that continue to occur in the present at roughly the same rate they did in the past. Those forces caused extinctions, among other effects. Second thoughts by God about what fauna and flora should exist, according to Lyell, did not enter into it.
Hitchcock read Lyell’s work promptly as the first three volumes came out, from 1830 to 1833, and found it all discomforting. He was no young-earth creationist himself; he acknowledged that volcanism and erosion were continuing processes. But he worried that Lyell’s view of the planet would “exclude a Deity from its creation (#litres_trial_promo) and government.” In an article on deluges, comparing the biblical with the geological records, Hitchcock wrote cattily: “We know nothing of Mr. Lyell’s religious creed (#litres_trial_promo). But there is something in such an ambiguous mode of treating of scriptural subjects that reminds us of infidel cunning and duplicity.” Lyell was a dutiful Anglican, not an infidel, at least when he authored Principles of Geology, but Hitchcock seems to have sensed, maybe better than Lyell himself, that his work would nudge some readers toward godless, materialistic ideas.
One of those so nudged was Charles Darwin, who read Lyell’s three volumes aboard the Beagle and followed their influence, not just toward uniformitarianism in geology but eventually (because Lyell described Lamarck’s ideas, without endorsing them) toward a theory of evolution. So although Hitchcock was wrong about Lyell’s supposed “cunning and duplicity,” he was right about Principles of Geology taking readers—one crucial reader, anyway—onto a slippery slope.
In 1840, seven years after Lyell’s third volume appeared, Hitchcock published his own Elementary Geology, and with it that Paleontological Chart of Lombardy poplars, included as a hand-colored, foldout figure presenting his two nonevolutionary trees of life. The chart showed changes in Earth’s flora and fauna over geological time, with this or that group of plants or animals waxing or waning in diversity and abundance, but not much branching of one from another. The cause of those changes, Hitchcock explained in his text, was God’s direct agency, adding and subtracting creatures, improving and perfecting the world as a long-term project. The major groups were present all along, according to this slightly tortured schema, but new species manifesting “a higher organization” had been inserted (#litres_trial_promo) along the way, until at last Earth was ready for “more perfect” kinds of creatures, “the most generally perfect of all with man at their head.” The gradual introduction of “higher races,” he wrote, “is perfectly explained by the changing condition (#litres_trial_promo) of the earth which being adapted for more perfect races Divine Wisdom introduced them.” These were special creations by the Deity, appropriate as environments changed. God wasn’t rethinking the planet’s fauna and flora, just adjusting them to newly available niches. If that doesn’t quite make sense, don’t blame Charles Lyell or me.
Hitchcock’s Elementary Geology was a hit. Between 1840 and the late 1850s, it went through thirty editions, to which he made minor revisions of language and data. Throughout all those editions, the trees figure remained—unchanged except for color adjustments. Then something happened. As a consequence of that something, or else by improbable coincidence, the thirty-first edition of Hitchcock’s book, in 1860, contained a notable difference. An omission. No trees.
What happened was that in 1859 Charles Darwin published On the Origin of Species. His book also contained a tree, but one with dangerous new meaning.
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By that point, Darwin had incubated his theory in secret for half a lifetime. After sketching his little tree into the B notebook in 1837, he had continued reading, gathering facts, pondering patterns, trying out phrases, brainstorming fervidly for another sixteen months in a series of such notebooks, labeled “C” and “D” and “E,” like a man pushing puzzle pieces around on a table. Then suddenly, in November 1838, as recorded in the E notebook, he solved the puzzle of how species must evolve. Combining three pieces in his mind, he hit upon an explanatory mechanism for evolution.
The first piece was hereditary continuity. Offspring tend to resemble their parents and grandparents, providing a stable background of similarity throughout time. The second factor, a countertrend to the first, was that variation does occur. Offspring don’t precisely resemble their parents. Brown eyes, blue eyes, taller, shorter, differences of hair color or nose shape among humans; wing markings in a butterfly, beak size in a bird, length of neck in a giraffe. Reproduction is inexact. Likewise, siblings, as well as parents and offspring, differ from one another. Darwin saw that these two pieces, heredity and variation, stand together in some sort of dynamic tension.
The third puzzle piece, which he had begun considering just recently, having been alerted to it by his eclectic reading, was that population growth always tends to outrun the available means of subsistence. Earth is always getting too full of life. One female cat may give birth to five kittens; one rabbit may deliver eight bunnies; one salmon may lay a thousand eggs. If all those offspring were to survive, and reproduce in their turns, there would soon be a very great lot of cats and bunnies and salmon. Whatever the litter size, whatever the lifetime fecundity, whatever the kind of organism, including humans, we all tend to multiply by geometric progression, not just by arithmetic increase—that is, more like 2, 4, 8, 16 than like 2, 3, 4, 5. Meanwhile, living space and food supply don’t increase nearly so quickly, if at all. Habitat doesn’t replicate itself. Places get crowded. Creatures go hungry. They struggle. The result is competition and deprivation and misery, winners and losers, unsuccessful efforts to breed and, for the less fortunate individuals, early death. Many are called, but few are chosen. The book that awakened Darwin to this reality was An Essay on the Principle of Population, by a severely logical clergyman and scholar named Thomas Malthus.
Malthus’s gloomy treatise was first published in 1798. It went through six editions in the next three decades and influenced British policy on welfare. (It argued against the relatively easy charity of the contemporary Poor Laws, which were soon changed.) Darwin read it in early autumn 1838–“for amusement,” (#litres_trial_promo) as he recalled later. Seldom is amusement more productive. He came away with the population piece, combined that with his two other pieces, and scribbled an entry in his D notebook about “the warring of the species as inference from Malthus (#litres_trial_promo).” Yes, this “warring” applied not just to humans, Darwin realized, but also to other creatures. Competition was fierce, and opportunities were finite. “One may say there is a force (#litres_trial_promo) like a hundred thousand wedges,” Darwin wrote, all trying to “force every kind of adapted structure” into the gaps in the economy of nature. “The final cause of all this wedgings,” he added, “must be to sort out proper structure & adapt it to change.” By “final cause,” he essentially meant final result: the struggle yielded well-adapted forms. That was the essence, though still inchoate and crudely stated.
Darwin seemed to leave Malthus behind as he finished the D notebook, but returned to him soon in the next. That one, labeled E, begun in October 1838, was bound in rust-brown leather, with a metal clasp. It’s one of the true relics in the history of biology. In its earlier pages, Darwin ruminated further about “the grand crush of population (#litres_trial_promo)” and alluded repeatedly to what he now called “my theory (#litres_trial_promo).” He was growing more confident and clear. Then, on or soon after November 27, with his usual clipped grammar and eccentric punctuation, he wrote:
Three principles, will account for all
1 Grandchildren, like, grandfathers
2 Tendency to small change … especially with physical change
3 Great fertility in proportion to support of parents
Inheritance, variation, overpopulation. He saw how they fit. Put those three together and turn the crank: you’ll get differential survival, based on something or other. Based on what? Based on which variations turn out to be most advantageous. And those variations will tend to be inherited. The result will be gradual transmutation of heritable forms, and adaptation to circumstances, by a process of selective culling. Eventually he gave the crank a name: natural selection.
Twenty years passed after the E notebook entry. The world heard nothing about natural selection.
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It was a perplexingly long delay, almost two decades, between the writing of those four lines in his secret E notebook and the first public announcement of Darwin’s theory. Longer still, twenty-one years, to publication of the theory in book form—On the Origin of Species appeared in November 1859. The reasons for that delay, which were both scientific and personal, both anxious and tactical, have been minutely examined in other works (including some of mine). We can skip over them here except to note that, when Darwin finally went public with his theory, it was because a younger naturalist had forced his hand by coming forward with the same idea.
Alfred Russel Wallace, after four years of fieldwork in the Amazon and four more in the Malay Archipelago, had hit upon the notion of natural selection (framed in his own language, not that pair of words) and written it up in a short paper. As recounted by Wallace long afterward, the idea came during a layover in his collecting travels through the northern Moluccas. He suffered a bout of fever (maybe malarial), and, amidst it, he had this extraordinary insight. Variation plus overpopulation, minus the unsuccessful variants, would yield heritable adaptation. When the fever broke, and the sweat dried, and the dreamy brainstorm still seemed cogent, Wallace composed his manuscript and then tried to get it considered.
But he was a poor man’s son, working his way through the tropics by selling decorative specimens—bird skins, butterflies, pretty beetles—not a gentleman traveler as Darwin had been on the Beagle. Wallace wasn’t well educated or well connected. He knew almost nobody in the higher circles of British or European science, and almost nobody in those circles knew him—not face-to-face and not as a peer, anyway. He was a collector of dried creatures for pay, a natural-history tradesman. There was class stratification in science as in every other part of Victorian British society. But he had published a few earlier papers in a respectable journal, and one of those papers had drawn favorable attention from Charles Lyell, the great geologist. Oh, and Wallace knew one other famous man, not personally but as a sort of pen pal, who had spoken generously to him in a letter: Charles Darwin.
It was now February 1858. Hardly anyone at that point recognized Darwin for what he was—an evolutionary theorist, in secret—and though Lyell was among that small group who did, as a close friend and confidant, Alfred Wallace certainly wasn’t. Charles Darwin to him was just a conventionally eminent naturalist, author of the Beagle chronicle and other safe books, including several on the taxonomy of barnacles. But a Dutch mail boat would soon stop at the port of Ternate, in the Moluccas, where Wallace had fetched up. He was excited by his own discovery, if it was a discovery, and eager to share this dangerous hypothesis with the scientific world. So he packed up his paper with a cover letter and mailed the packet to Mr. Darwin, hoping that Darwin might find it worthy. If so, maybe Darwin would share it with Mr. Lyell, who might help get it published.
The packet reached Darwin, probably on June 18, 1858, and hit him like a galloping ox. He felt crushed, scooped, ruined—but also honor-bound to grant Wallace’s request, passing the paper on toward publication. It would mean, Darwin knew, letting the younger man take all the credit for this epochal idea he himself had incubated for twenty years but was not yet quite ready to publish. Despite that, he did send the Wallace paper along to Lyell—communicating yelps of his own anguish along with it. Lyell took not just the paper but also the hint. Along with another of Darwin’s close scientific allies, the botanist Joseph Hooker, Lyell talked Darwin back from despair, suggested a posture of sensible fairness rather than self-abnegating honor, and brokered a compromise of shared credit. The result was a clumsily conjoined presentation—a pastiche of Wallace’s paper plus excerpts from Darwin’s unpublished writings—before a British scientific club, the Linnean Society, in the summer of 1858. Lyell and Hooker offered an introductory note, and then simply watched and listened. Proxies read the works aloud, with neither of the authors present. (Darwin was at home, where his youngest son had just died of scarlet fever; Wallace was still out in the far boonies of the Malay Archipelago.) This joint presentation made almost no impression on anyone, not even the few dozen Linnean members in attendance, because the night was hot, the language was obscure, the logic was elliptical, and the big meaning didn’t jump forth.
Seventeen months later, Darwin published On the Origin of Species. That 1859 book, not the 1858 paper or excerpts, launched the Darwinian revolution. It was only an abridged and hasty abstract of the much longer (and more tedious) book on natural selection that Darwin had been writing for years, but The Origin was just enough, in the right form, at the right time. It presented the theory as “one long argument,” (#litres_trial_promo) not just a bare syllogism, and with oodles of data but not many footnotes. It was plainspoken, and readable by any literate person. It became a bestseller and went into multiple editions. It converted a generation of scientists to the idea of evolution (though not to natural selection as the prime mechanism). It was translated and embraced in other countries, especially Germany. That’s why Darwin is still history’s most venerated biologist and Alfred Russel Wallace is a cherished underdog, famous for being eclipsed, to the relatively small subset of people who have heard of him.
The crux of the “one long argument” comes in chapter 4 of The Origin, titled “Natural Selection,” in which Darwin describes the central mechanism of his theory. It’s the same combination of three principles that he had scratched into his notebook two decades earlier, plus the turned crank. “Natural selection,” he wrote in the book, “leads to divergence of character (#litres_trial_promo) and to much extinction of the less improved and intermediate forms of life.” Lineages change over time, he stated. You could see that in the fossil record. Different creatures adapt to different niches, different ways of life, and thereby diversify into distinct forms and behaviors. Transitional stages disappear. Then he wrote: “The affinities of all the beings of the same class have sometimes been represented by a great tree (#litres_trial_promo). I believe this simile largely speaks the truth.”
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Darwin explored the tree simile in one extended paragraph, ending that chapter of The Origin. “The green and budding twigs may represent (#litres_trial_promo) existing species,” he wrote. From there he worked backward: woody twigs and small branches as recently extinct forms; competition between branches for space and for light; big limbs dividing into branches, then those into lesser branches; all ascending and spreading from a single great trunk. “As buds give rise by growth to fresh buds,” Darwin wrote, and those buds grow to be twigs, and those twigs grow to be branches, some vigorous, some feeble, some thriving, some dying, “so by generation I believe it has been with the great Tree of Life, which fills with its dead and broken branches the crust of the earth, and covers the surface with its ever branching and beautiful ramifications.” There’s a nice word: ramifications.
It’s especially good in this context because, while the literal definition is “a structure formed of branches,” from the Latin ramus, of course the looser definition is “implications.” Darwin’s tree certainly had implications.
Furthermore his book, like Edward Hitchcock’s, included a treelike illustration. This was the only illustration, the only graphic image of any sort, in the first edition of The Origin. It appeared between pages 116 and 117, amid his discussion of how lineages diverge over time. A foldout, again like Hitchcock’s, but published in simple black and white. It was a schematic figure, not an artfully drawn tree, not even so lively as the little sketch in his notebook long ago. Darwin called it a diagram. It showed hypothetical lineages, proceeding upward through evolutionary time and diverging—that is, dotted lines, rising vertically and branching laterally. Darwin was no artist, but, even lacking such talent, he could have laid out this diagram with a pencil and a ruler. In its draft version, as sent to the lithographer, he probably had. But it made the arboreal point.
Each increment of vertical distance on the ruled page, Darwin explained, stood for a thousand generations of inheritance. Deep time. Eleven major lineages began the ascent. Eight of those came to dead ends—meaning, they went extinct. Trilobites, ammonites, ichthyosaurs, and plesiosaurs had all suffered such ends, leaving no descendants of any sort. One lineage rose through the eons without splitting, without tilting, like a beanstalk—meaning that it persisted through time, unchanged. That’s much the way horseshoe crabs, sometimes called living fossils, have survived relatively unchanged (at least externally, so far as fossilization can show) over 450 million years. The other two lineages, dominating the diagram, branched often and spread horizontally—as well as climbed vertically. Their branching and horizontal spread represented the exploration of different niches by newly evolved forms. So there it all was: evolution and the origins of diversity.
Darwin’s diagram of divergence, from On the Origin of Species, 1859.
Back in Massachusetts, Edward Hitchcock read Darwin’s book, and it stuck in his craw. This wasn’t his first exposure to the idea of transmutation (he knew of Lamarck’s work and some other wild speculations), but it was the latest statement of that idea, the most concrete and logical, and therefore the most dangerously persuasive. Like some other pious scientists who chose to see God’s hand acting directly in the fossil record—Louis Agassiz at Harvard, François Jules Pictet in Geneva, and Adam Sedgwick, who had been Darwin’s mentor in geology at Cambridge—Hitchcock wasn’t pleased.
Into the 1860 edition of his Elementary Geology, he inserted his rejoinder to Darwin’s book, based mainly on proof by authority. He noted that Pictet saw no evidence for transmutation in the fossil record of fishes. Agassiz said that the resemblances among animals derive from—where?—the mind of the Creator. “It is well to take heed to the opinions (#litres_trial_promo) of such masters in science,” Hitchcock wrote, “when so many, with Darwin at their head, are inclined to adopt the doctrine of gradual transmutation in species.”
That was mild but firm, a dismissive shrug. Hitchcock would ignore Charles Darwin and encourage his readers to do likewise. More telling, more defensive, was his other response: he removed the trees figure from his own book. No more Paleontological Chart. It seems never to have appeared in another edition of Elementary Geology.
Darwin and Darwin’s followers owned the tree image now. It would remain the best graphic representation of life’s history, evolution through time, the origins of diversity and adaptation, until the late twentieth century. And then rather suddenly a small group of scientists would discover: oops, no, it’s wrong.
PART
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Molecular phylogenetics, the study of evolutionary relatedness using molecules as evidence, began with a suggestion by Francis Crick, in 1958, offered passingly in an important paper devoted to something else. That was characteristic of Crick—so brilliant and recklessly imaginative that he sometimes influenced the course of biology even with his elbows.
You know Crick’s name from the most famous triumph of his life: solving the structure of the DNA molecule, with his young American partner James Watson, in 1953, for which he and Watson and one other scientist would eventually, in 1962, receive the Nobel Prize. Crick wasn’t wasting his time, in 1958, mooning about dreams of glory in Stockholm. He was still interested in DNA, but he had moved on from the sheer structural question to other big problems. He had bent his mind intensely, but with his usual sense of merry play, to the challenge of deciphering the genetic code.
The code, as you’ve heard many times but might need reminding, is written in an alphabet of four letters, each letter representing a component—a nucleotide base, in chemistry lingo—of the DNA double helix. The four letters are: A (for adenine), C (cytosine), G (guanine), and T (thymine). DNA’s full moniker is deoxyribonucleic acid, of course, and it’s worth understanding why. The two helical strands of the double helix, twining around a central axis in parallel with each other, are composed of units called nucleotides, linked in a chain, each nucleotide containing a base (that’s the A, C, G, or T), a sugar (that’s the deoxyribose), and a phosphate group (that’s the acidic part). The sugar end of one nucleotide bonds to the phosphate end of the next, forming the two long helical strands. I just called them parallel, but to be more precise, those strands are antiparallel to each other, since the sugar-phosphate binding gives them directionality—a front end and a back end—and the front end of one strand aligns with the back end of the other. The nucleotide bases, linked crossways by hydrogen bonds, hold the strands together. The base A pairs with T, the base C pairs with G, forming a stable structure, like the steps in a spiral staircase. This is the nifty arrangement that Watson and Crick deduced.
It’s not just a stable structure, though. It’s a wondrously efficient one for storing, copying, and applying heritable data. When the two strands are peeled apart, the sequence of bases along one of the strands (the template strand) represents genetic information ready to be duplicated or used. Watson and Crick noted that capacity with exquisite coyness in their 1953 paper. The paper was lapidary, only a page long, as published in the journal Nature, and included a sketch. Near the end, having proposed their double helix structure and the matchup of bases, always A with T and C with G, they wrote: “It has not escaped our notice (#litres_trial_promo) that the specific pairing we have postulated immediately suggests a possible copying mechanism for the genetic material.”
But copying that material, for hereditary continuity, was one thing. Translating it into living organisms was another. Translated how? By what steps does the information in DNA become physically animate?
This mystery leads first to proteins. There are four kinds of molecule essential to living processes—carbohydrates, lipids, nucleic acids, and proteins—often collectively called the molecules of life. Proteins might be the most versatile, serving a wide range of structural, catalyzing, and transporting functions. Their piecemeal production, and the controls on the process of building and using them, are encoded in DNA. Every protein consists of a linear chain of amino acids, folded upon itself into an elaborate secondary structure. Although about five hundred amino acids are known to chemistry, only twenty of those serve as the fundamental components of life, from which virtually all proteins are assembled. But what sequences of the four bases determine which amino acids shall be added to a chain? What combination of letters specifies leucine? What combination produces cysteine? What arrangement of A, C, G, and T delivers its meaning as glutamine? What spells tyrosine? This fundamental matter—how do bases designate aminos?—became known as “the coding problem,” to which Francis Crick addressed himself in the late 1950s. Solving it was a crucial step toward understanding how organisms grow, live, and replicate.
There were questions within questions. Do the bases work in combinations? If so, how many? Two-base clusters, selected variously from the group of four and in specified order (CT, CG, AA, and so on) would allow only sixteen combinations, not enough to code twenty amino acids. Then maybe clusters of three or more? If three (such as CTC, CGA, AAA), do those triplets overlap one another, or do they function separately, like three-letter words divided by commas? If there are commas, are there periods too? Four letters, in every possible combination of three, yield sixty-four variants. Are all sixty-four possible triplets used? If so, that implies some redundancy; different triplets coding for the same amino acid. Does the code include a way of saying “Stop”? If not, where does one gene end and another begin? Crick and others were keen to know.
Crick himself had also started thinking beyond that problem, to the question of how proteins are physically assembled from the coded information, with one amino acid brought into line after another. How does the template strand find or attract its amino acids? How do those units become linked? He wanted to learn not just the language of life—its letters, words, grammar—but also the mechanics of how it gets spoken: its equivalent of lungs, larynx, lips, and tongue.
Crick was back in England by the mid-1950s, after a sojourn in the United States, and based again at the Cavendish Laboratory in Cambridge, where he had worked with Jim Watson. He had a contract with the Medical Research Council (MRC), a government agency with some mandate for fundamental as well as medical research. Solving the DNA structure, though it had brought scientific fame to Crick and Watson and would eventually bring the Nobel Prize, provided no immediate cure for Crick’s dicey financial situation, all the more acute since the birth of his and his wife Odile’s third child. He had to work for pay: a modest salary from the MRC and whatever small change the occasional radio broadcast or popular article might bring. Now he was sharing his office, his pub lunches, his fevered conversations, and his blackboard with another scientist, Sydney Brenner, rather than with Watson. One colleague at the Cavendish, upon early acquaintance with Crick, concluded that “his method of working was to talk loudly (#litres_trial_promo) all the time.” When not talking, or listening to Brenner, he spent his time reading scientific papers, rethinking the results of other researchers, combing through such bodies of knowledge for clues to the mysteries that engaged him. He was not an experimentalist, generating data. He was a theoretician—probably the century’s best and most intuitive in the biological sciences.
Sometime in 1957 Crick gathered his thoughts and his informed guesses on this problem—about how DNA gets translated into proteins—and in September he addressed the annual symposium of the Society for Experimental Biology, convened that year at University College London. His talk “commanded the meeting (#litres_trial_promo),” according to one historian, and “permanently altered the logic of biology.” The published version appeared a year later, in the society’s journal, under the simple title “On Protein Synthesis.” Another historian, Matt Ridley, in his short biography of Crick, called it “probably his most remarkable paper (#litres_trial_promo),” comparable to Isaac Newton’s Principia and Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus. It was a commanding presentation of insights and speculations about how proteins are built from DNA instructions. It noted the important but still-fuzzy hypothesis that RNA (ribonucleic acid), the other nucleic acid, which seemed to exist in DNA’s shadow, is somehow involved. Might RNA play a role in manufacturing proteins, possibly by helping express the order (coded by DNA) in which amino acids are linked one to another? Amid such ruminations, Crick threw off another idea, almost parenthetically: ah, by the way, these long molecules could also provide evidence for evolutionary trees.
As published in the paper: “Biologists should realize that before long (#litres_trial_promo) we shall have a subject which might be called ‘protein taxonomy’—the study of the amino acid sequences of the proteins of an organism and the comparison of them between species.”
He didn’t use the words “molecular phylogenetics,” but that’s what he was getting at: deducing evolutionary histories from the evidence of long molecules. Comparing slightly different versions of essentially the same protein (such as hemoglobin, which transports oxygen through the blood of vertebrates), as found in one creature and another, could allow you to draw inferences about degrees of relatedness between them. Those inferences would be based on assuming that the variant hemoglobins had evolved from a common ancestral molecule and that, over time, in divergent lineages, small differences in the amino sequences would have crept in, by accident if not by selective advantage. The degree of such differences between one hemoglobin and another should correlate with the amount of time elapsed since those lineages diverged. From such data, Crick suggested, you might draw phylogenetic trees. Humans have one variant of hemoglobin, horses have another. How different? How long since we shared an ancestor with horses? It could be argued, Crick added, that protein sequences also represent the most precise observable register of the physical identity of an organism, and that “vast amounts of evolutionary information (#litres_trial_promo) may be hidden away within them.”
Having tossed off this fertile suggestion, Crick returned in the rest of the paper to his real subject: how proteins are manufactured in cells. That was his way. A passing thought, with the heft of a beer truck. Essentially he had said: Look, I’m not pursuing this protein taxonomy business, but somebody should.
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Somebody did, though not immediately. Seven years passed, during which several other scientists began noodling along various routes that would lead to a similar idea. Two of them were Linus Pauling and Emile Zuckerkandl, who gave their own fancy name to the enterprise—they called it “chemical paleogenetics (#litres_trial_promo)”—and they converged on it by very different trajectories.
Zuckerkandl was a young Viennese biologist whose family had escaped Nazi Europe via Paris and Algiers. He got to America, did a master’s degree at the University of Illinois (long before Carl Woese would arrive there), then returned to Paris after the war for a doctorate. He found work at a marine laboratory on the west coast of France and studied the molting cycles of crabs, which involve a molecule analogous to hemoglobin. His interest drifted from crustacean physiology to questions at the molecular level, and he hankered to return to America. In 1957 Zuckerkandl finagled a chance to meet Pauling, who by then was a celebrated chemist with the first of his two Nobel Prizes already won. The prize had given Pauling some latitude to expand his own range of concerns, from lab chemistry at the California Institute of Technology to the wider world, and some leverage in pursuing those concerns. He had two in particular: genetic diseases such as sickle cell anemia and the threats posed by thermonuclear weapons, including radioactive fallout from testing. By the late 1950s, Pauling was raising his voice. He initiated a petition against atmospheric nuclear testing that more than eleven thousand scientists signed. He had become, along with Bertrand Russell, the provocative British philosopher, also a Nobel winner, one of the world’s most august peaceniks.
Pauling’s initial encounter with Zuckerkandl coincided with his increasing interest in genetics, evolution, and mutation—most pointedly, the mutations that might be caused by radiation released in weapons tests. His interest in disease led in the same direction, because sickle cell anemia is a problem that results from mutations in one of the genes for hemoglobin. Pauling found Zuckerkandl impressive enough that he offered the younger man a postdoctoral fellowship in chemistry at Caltech. Then, when Zuckerkandl arrived in Pasadena, intending to continue work on the crab-molting molecule, Pauling discouraged that project and said, “Why don’t you work on hemoglobin? (#litres_trial_promo)”
Pauling suggested further that he take up a newly invented technique—still primitive but promising—that employed electrophoresis (separating molecules by their sizes, using electrical charge) and other methods to “fingerprint” such proteins, distinguishing one variant from another. Comparing protein molecules that way, Pauling figured, might allow researchers to draw some evolutionary conclusions. So Zuckerkandl went to work, learning the technique and applying it to hemoglobin in variant forms. Before long, he could see the close similarity between human hemoglobin and chimpanzee hemoglobin, and that human hemoglobin was less similar to hemoglobin found in orangutans. He could also tell a pig from a shark just by looking at the molecular fingerprints. Of course, there were easier ways to tell a pig from a shark, but never mind. Although it wasn’t such a precise methodology as he might have wished, this sort of molecular comparison was a start.
Over the next half dozen years, Zuckerkandl’s work thrived, and he published a series of papers with Pauling. Some of those were invited contributions to celebratory volumes, Festschriften, in honor of eminent scientists, generally on some occasion such as retirement or a big, round birthday. Such invitations came often because of Pauling’s own eminence, and he recruited Zuckerkandl as coauthor to do much of the thinking and most of the writing. In the meantime, Pauling won his second Nobel, this time the Peace Prize in recognition of his efforts against nuclear weapons proliferation and testing. That one didn’t add to his scientific reputation (in fact, he resigned from his Caltech professorship because university administrators and trustees disapproved of his peace activism), but it certainly helped amplify his public voice. He was a busy man, much in demand. The invitations—to speak, to visit, to contribute scientific papers for ceremonial volumes—continued. Because such papers didn’t normally go through the peer-review filter, they could be a little more bold and speculative than a typical journal article. One of them, written in 1963 to honor a Russian scientist on his seventieth birthday, was titled “Molecules as Documents of Evolutionary History.” Two years later, it was reprinted in English in the Journal of Theoretical Biology, giving it much broader reach and influence. Pauling and Zuckerkandl were wading into the same pond where Francis Crick had dipped his toe.
Their 1963 paper made an important distinction between molecules that carry genetic information—such as DNA or the proteins it encodes—and other molecules, such as vitamins, that cycle through a living creature and out the other end. Information molecules have histories that can be deduced; they have ancestors from which the variant forms, in this creature or that, have descended. Scrutiny of such molecules, wrote Zuckerkandl and Pauling, can tell us three things: how much time has passed since the lineages split, what the ancestral molecules must have looked like, and what were the lines of descent. The first of those three kinds of information became known as the molecular clock, although Zuckerkandl and Pauling hadn’t yet named it. The third kind implied trees.
Zuckerkandl continued reworking and developing these ideas, with Pauling as his coauthor and sponsor. In September 1964, before a distinguished and argumentative symposium audience at Rutgers University, he delivered a long paper that became the definitive version of their shared ideas and that, despite Zuckerkandl having done most of the writing, has been called the “most influential of Pauling’s later career (#litres_trial_promo).” In this paper, the two authors offered their memorable metaphor: if the minor changes in molecular variants are proportional to elapsed time over the eons, they said, what you have is “a molecular evolutionary clock (#litres_trial_promo).”
It was tentative, a hypothesis. The hypothesis was disputed at the Rutgers symposium and would be controversial in coming years, but it captured attention, it focused thought, and it promised a whole new way of measuring life’s history, if it was right. The molecular clock has since been called “one of the simplest and most powerful concepts (#litres_trial_promo) in the field of evolution,” and also “one of the most contentious.” Crick himself later judged it “a very important idea (#litres_trial_promo)” that turned out to be “much truer than people thought at the time.”
Emile Zuckerkandl, meanwhile, moved back to France. Along with Pauling and just a few others, he had helped launch a new scientific enterprise, and when a Journal of Molecular Evolution came into being, in 1971, he was its first editor in chief. His name isn’t familiar to the wider world, as Pauling’s is, but if you say “Zuckerkandl and Pauling” to a molecular biologist today, he or she will think “molecular clock.” Fitting as that may be, it overlooks the other important point: the other metaphor embedded in the long Rutgers paper, where Zuckerkandl wrote that “branching of molecular phylogenetic trees (#litres_trial_promo) should in principle be definable in terms of molecular information alone.” This was a whole new way of sketching those trees, which rose and spread their branches as the clock ticked.
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Carl Woese came to the University of Illinois, in Urbana, in 1964, the same year Zuckerkandl delivered the paper at Rutgers. The enterprise that would become molecular phylogenetics—back then bruited under other names, such as Crick’s protein taxonomy, and Pauling and Zuckerkandl’s chemical paleogenetics—had begun to attract interest. Woese saw its deepest possibilities more clearly than anyone else. Molecular sequence information, he realized, could be used to read the shape of the past.
Woese was thirty-six years old and was hired with immediate tenure, which gave him some latitude to undertake risky, laborious research projects without need to worry about quick publications. His professorship was in the Department of Microbiology, though he had trained as a biophysicist, not a microbiologist, and had spent little time if any peering through microscopes at bacteria and other tiny bugs. He was more interested in molecular biology, then still in its early phase. It was a thrilling new branch of science, its methods just being invented, its cardinal principles just taking shape, and he wanted to be part of that. But the molecular clock wasn’t Woese’s topic, and the prospect of a molecular tree of life hadn’t yet captured his imagination. He was focused instead on the genetic code—and not just what he called the cryptographic aspect (#litres_trial_promo): the matter of which bases in which combinations specified which amino acids for building proteins. He wanted to go deeper in time and meaning; he wanted to understand how the code had evolved.
He was well aware that Francis Crick and others, including the eclectic Russian physicist George Gamow, had been working on the cryptographic aspect as a theoretical problem, treating it like an abstract intellectual game. That problem had been illuminated, but not solved, since Crick’s 1958 paper, by a new recognition of RNA’s role, as a messenger molecule somehow carrying DNA instructions to the site in a cell where proteins are built. But what was the structure of RNA, and how did it play that role? Gamow and the others were puzzled, and to them the puzzle was a thrilling game. They had even formed an elite, semifacetious little club—limited to twenty members, reflecting the twenty amino acids of life—for the private exchange of ideas about how coding and protein synthesis might work. They called it the RNA Tie Club—RNA because that molecule was still the mysterious intermediary; Tie because such neckwear evoked, and mocked, the clubby bond of an old school tie. As tokens of club membership, these scientists had embroidered neckties, all alike. They had individual tiepins, each representing one amino acid. They embraced their respective amino identities, at least jocularly: Serine and Lysine and Arginine, etcetera. Cute. Woese wasn’t a member.
The cryptographic riddle, so intriguing to Gamow and Crick and the others, was this: How could the four bases of DNA—represented by those four cardinal letters, A, C, G, and T—be combined in groups of at least three, with or without commas, to produce the twenty different amino acids? Woese addressed it alone. He knew that a team led by Marshall Nirenberg, a young biochemist at the US National Institutes of Health, had made better progress with an experimental approach than the RNA Tie Club was making with collegial theorizing. But he wanted to go deeper.
“I differed from the whole lot of them (#litres_trial_promo),” Woese wrote decades later, “in perceiving the nature of the code as inseparable from the problem of the nature and origin of the decoding mechanism.” The decoding mechanism? By that, he meant whatever organ or molecule translated the DNA information into real, physical proteins. Its origin? To him, at that time, this was the central biological concern. He wanted to understand not just how that decoding mechanism worked but also how it had come into being roughly four billion years ago. He recognized, more clearly than anyone else, that life could not have progressed beyond its simplest primordial forms without a translation system for applying the information in DNA.
No statement from Woese is more telling of his character, his cantankerous self-image as a scientific outsider, than the beginning of that sentence just quoted: “I differed from the whole lot of them …” He was a loner by disposition. He took a separate path. Not in the club. No RNA tie. He published a few papers in Nature on the coding question, and a comment in Science—all under his sole authorship, suggesting ideas, critiquing what others had done. He offered his own view in full, an evolutionary view, in a 1967 book, The Genetic Code, which was visionary, ambitious, closely reasoned, and mostly wrong. But in science, wrong doesn’t mean useless. Trying to imagine the origins of the genetic code brought Woese around, almost reluctantly, to the tree of life.
He needed some such universal diagram, Woese realized, as a framework for understanding the evolution of that one crucial system at life’s core—the translation system, turning DNA-coded information into proteins. Deep biology required deep history. This conundrum has been nicely expressed by Jan Sapp, a plant geneticist who became a historian of biology and came to know Woese well: “A universal tree would therefore hold the secret (#litres_trial_promo) to its own existence.” History illuminating biology and vice versa. Evolutionary biology is history, after all. But there was a problem. For microbiology—bacteria and other single-celled creatures—a tree didn’t exist. The known trees didn’t encompass such organisms, or portray their diversity, to any satisfactory extent. Animals could be compared with one another on the basis of their physical appearance and behavior, as Linnaeus and Darwin had compared them; plants could be compared; fungi could be compared. They could be arranged in treelike patterns that reflected their relationships as deduced from such external, visible evidence. But that was impossible with microbes because, even under a high-powered microscope, so many of them looked so much alike.
There were a few basic shapes—rods, spheres, filaments, spirals—and those had served (reliably or not) to define major groups of bacteria. But at the finer level, the level of what we would think of as species, bacterial classification into a natural system, showing evolutionary relationships, was difficult. Arguably impossible. Even some of the experts had given up. It couldn’t be done on the basis of appearance and behavior. It couldn’t be done by way of physiological characteristics (which, in microbes, are what pass for behavior). It couldn’t be done at all, unless someone invented a new method.
“A slight diversion in my research program (#litres_trial_promo) would be necessary,” Woese recollected later—a wry comment, because by then the diversion had lasted two decades.
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On June 24, 1969, Woese in Urbana wrote a revealing letter to Francis Crick in Cambridge. He had struck up an acquaintance with Crick about eight years earlier when Woese was an obscure young biologist at the General Electric Research Laboratory in Schenectady, New York, and Crick was already world renowned for the DNA structure discovery. It had begun as a tenuous exchange of courtesies, through the mail—Woese requesting, and receiving, a reprint of one of Crick’s papers on coding—but by 1969, they were friendly enough that he could be more personal and ask a larger favor. “Dear Francis,” he wrote, “I’m about to make (#litres_trial_promo) what for me is an important and nearly irreversible decision,” adding that he would be grateful for Crick’s thoughts and his moral support.
What he hoped to do, Woese confided, was to “unravel the course of events” leading to the origin (#litres_trial_promo) of the simplest cells—the cells that microbiologists called prokaryotes, by which they meant bacteria. Eukaryotes constituted the other big category, the other domain, and all forms of cellular life (that is, not including viruses) were classified as one or the other. Prokaryotes (pro being the Greek for “before,” karyon the Greek for “nut” or “kernel”) are cells without nuclei. Eukaryotes (eu for “true”) are the more complicated creatures, including multicellular animals, and plants, and fungi, plus certain single-celled but complex organisms such as amoebae, whose cells contain nuclei (hence the name, meaning “true kernel”). Prokaryotes (“before kernel”) seem to have existed on Earth before eukaryotes. Although bacteria are still around and still vastly successful, dominating many parts of the planet, they were thought in 1969 to be the closest living approximations of early life-forms. Investigating their origins, Woese told Crick, would require extending the current understanding of evolution “backward in time by a billion years or so (#litres_trial_promo),” to that point when cellular life was just taking shape from … something else, something unknown and precellular.
Oh, just a billion years further back? Woese was always an ambitious thinker. “There is a possibility, though not a certainty (#litres_trial_promo),” Woese told Crick, “that this can be done using the cell’s ‘internal fossil record.’” What he meant by that term was merely the evidence of long molecules, the linear sequences of units in DNA, RNA, and proteins. Comparing such sequences—variations on the same molecule, as seen in different creatures—would allow him to deduce the “ancient ancestor sequences (#litres_trial_promo)” from which those molecules had diverged, in one lineage and another. And from such deductions, such ancestral forms, Woese hoped to glean some understanding of how creatures had evolved in the very deep past. He was talking about molecular phylogenetics, still without using that phrase, and he hoped by this technique to look back at least three billion years.
But which molecules would be the most telling? Which would represent the best internal fossil record? Frederick Sanger, a humble but visionary biochemist in England, had sequenced the amino acids of bovine insulin, and insulins are a fairly old family of molecules in animals and other eukaryotes, but they don’t go back nearly as far as Woese wanted. Other scientists had sequenced a protein called cytochrome c, also crucial in cell biochemistry among many creatures. But those didn’t satisfy Woese. He wanted something more basic, more universal—something that went all the way back, or nearly all the way, to the beginnings of life.
“The obvious choice of molecules here (#litres_trial_promo) lies in the components of the translation apparatus,” he told Crick. “What more ancient lineages are there?” By “translation apparatus,” Woese meant the decoding mechanism, the system that turns DNA information into proteins—the same system that Crick had groped toward understanding in his 1958 paper “On Protein Synthesis.” Investigating the translation apparatus would in turn bring Woese around toward his starting point: his desire to learn how the genetic code itself might have evolved. Now, eleven years after Crick’s protein paper, the system was much better understood.
The components Woese had in mind were pieces of a tiny molecular mechanism common to all forms of cellular life. It’s called the ribosome. Nearly every cell contains ribosomes in abundance, like flakes of pepper in a stew, and they stay busy with the task of translating genetic information into proteins. Hemoglobin, for instance, that crucial oxygen-transporting protein. Architectural instructions for building hemoglobin molecules are encoded in the DNA, but where is hemoglobin actually produced? In the ribosomes. They are the core elements of what Woese called the translation apparatus.
Crick hadn’t used that phrase, “translation apparatus,” in his paper. He hadn’t even used the word ribosomes, but he touched upon them vaguely under their previous name, microsomal particles (#litres_trial_promo). These particles had only recently been discovered (in 1956, by a Romanian cell biologist using an electron microscope) and at first no one knew what they did. Then they became recognized as the sites where proteins are built, but a big question remained: how? Some researchers suspected that ribosomes might actually contain the recipes for proteins, extruding them as an almost autonomous process. That notion collapsed in 1960, almost with a single flash of insight, when Crick’s brilliant colleague Sydney Brenner, during a lively meeting at Cambridge University, hit upon a better idea. Matt Ridley has described the moment in his biography of Crick:
Then suddenly Brenner let out a “yelp.” He began talking fast. Crick began talking back just as fast. Everybody else in the room watched in amazement. Brenner had seen the answer, and Crick had seen him see it. The ribosome did not contain the recipe for the protein; it was a tape reader. It could make any protein so long as it was fed the right tape of “messenger” RNA.
This was back in the days before digital recording, remember, when sound was recorded on magnetic tape. The “tape” in Brenner’s metaphor was a strand of RNA—that particular sort called messenger RNA (one of several forms of RNA that perform various functions) because it carries messages from the cell’s DNA genome to the ribosomes. A ribosome consists of two subunits, one large, one small, fitted together and performing complementary functions. The small subunit reads the RNA message. The large subunit uses that information to join the appropriate amino acids into a chain, constituting the protein. The ribosomes and the messenger RNA, plus a few other pieces, constitute what Woese called the translation apparatus. By 1969, when Woese wrote to Crick, their crucial roles were appreciated.
Every living cell, including bacteria, including the cells of our own bodies, including those of plants and of fungi and of every other cellular organism, contains many ribosomes. They function as assembly mechanisms, taking in genetic information, plus raw material in the form of amino acids, and producing those larger physical products: proteins. In plainer words: ribosomes turn genes into living bodies. Because the proteins they produce become three-dimensional molecules, a better metaphor than Brenner’s tape-reader, for our own day, might be this: the ribosome is a 3-D printer.
Ribosomes are among the smallest of identifiable structures within a cell, but what they lack in size they make up for in abundance and consequence. A single mammalian cell might contain as many as ten million ribosomes; a single cell of the bacterium Escherichia coli, better know as E. coli, might get by with just tens of thousands. Each ribosome might crank out protein at the rate of two hundred amino acids per minute, altogether producing a sizzle of constructive activity within the cell. And this activity, because it’s so basic to life itself, life in all forms, has presumably been going on for almost four billion years. Few people, in 1969, saw the implications of that ancient, universal role of ribosomes more keenly than Carl Woese. What he saw was that these little flecks—or some molecule within them—might contain evidence about how life worked, and how it diversified, at the very beginning.
Another of Woese’s penetrating insights, back at this early moment, was to focus on a particular portion of ribosomes: their structural RNA. Usually we think of RNA in the role I mentioned above—as an information-bearing molecule, single stranded rather than double helical like DNA, carrying the coded genetic instructions to the ribosomes for application. Transient in space (through the cell) and transient in time (used and discarded). But that’s only one kind of RNA, messenger RNA, performing one function. There’s more. RNA can serve as a building block as well as a message. Ribosomes, for instance, are composed of structural RNA molecules and proteins, just as an espresso machine might be made of both steel and plastic. “I feel,” Woese confided to Crick in the letter, “that the RNA components of the machine (#litres_trial_promo) hold more promise than (most of the) protein components.” Those RNA components held more promise for plumbing deep history, he reckoned, because they were so old and, probably, so little changed over time.
Woese saw the secret truth that RNA—not just a molecule, but a family of versatile, complex, underappreciated molecules—is really more interesting and dynamic than its famed counterpart, DNA. And this is where that family enters the story and begins taking its position near the center. Woese had decided he would use ribosomal RNA as the ultimate molecular fossil record.
“What I propose to do is not elegant science (#litres_trial_promo) by my definition,” he confided to Crick. Scientific elegance lay in generating the minimum of data needed to answer a question. His approach would be more of a slog. He would need a large laboratory set up for reading at least portions of the ribosomal RNA. That itself was a stretch at the time. (The sequencing of very long molecules—DNA, RNA, or proteins—is so easily done nowadays, so elegantly automated, that we can scarcely appreciate the challenge Woese faced. Work that would eventually take him and his lab members arduous months, during the early 1970s, can now be done by a smart undergraduate, using expensive machines, in an afternoon.) Back in 1969, Woese couldn’t hope to sequence the entirety of a long molecule, let alone a whole genome. He could expect only glimpses—short excerpts, read from fragments of ribosomal RNA molecules—and even that much could be achieved only laboriously, clumsily, at great cost in time and effort. He planned to sequence what he could from one creature and another and then make comparisons, working backward to an inferred view of life in its earliest forms and dynamics. Ribosomal RNA would be his rabbit hole to the beginning of evolution.
Ribosome structure and function: converting messenger RNA to protein.
Gearing up the laboratory would be step one. Given his low level of administrative skill, he admitted to Crick, that much would be difficult. But besides lab equipment and money and administration, Woese perceived one other necessity. “Here is where I’d be particularly grateful (#litres_trial_promo) for your advice and help,” he told Crick. He hoped to enlist “some energetic young product of Fred Sanger’s lab, whose scientific capacities complement mine.” By that, he meant: for this great sequencing effort, Woese would need a helper who knew how to sequence.
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Fred Sanger’s pioneering work was the standard at that time for efforts at sequencing RNA. Building on ideas from earlier researchers, Sanger had developed techniques for cutting a long molecule into short pieces, then separating those pieces by electrophoresis, pulling them apart within a column of gel. The gel column served as a racetrack for fragments of different sizes. With an electrical force applied, each fragment would be attracted toward one end and would migrate through the gel at its own speed, dependent on its molecular size and its electrical charge. As their differing speeds spread them apart, the fragments would show as a characteristic oval spot in a two-dimensional pattern, as captured on film. Each oval could then be read as a short squib of code, using other means of cutting and pulling. This was an advance on the same general method that Pauling had recommended to Zuckerkandl for distinguishing variant forms of a molecule by “fingerprinting (#litres_trial_promo).”
Fred Sanger had two things, but perhaps not much else, in common with Linus Pauling: chemistry and a pair of Nobel Prizes. Unlike Pauling, he was a quiet, unassuming man, from a Quaker upbringing in the English Midlands, who won both his Nobels in the branch of science he and Pauling shared—he was the only person awarded twice for chemistry. He received the first prize in 1958, at age forty, for work on the molecular structure of a protein—specifically, bovine insulin. To solve that structure, Sanger adapted some relatively primitive methods from other researchers, in an ingenious way, allowing him to determine which sequences of amino acids compose the two long branches of the insulin molecule. This was a Nobel-worthy achievement for what it said not just about blood-sugar regulation in cows but also about proteins in general: that they’re not amorphous things but have, each protein, a determined chemical composition. From proteins, Sanger turned to sequencing RNA, then DNA, and won his second Nobel in 1980 for the culminating phase of his DNA work. Soon after, at age sixty-five, he retired from science and turned his energies to gardening. He had a nice little home in a village near Cambridge.
“My work had sort of come to a climax (#litres_trial_promo),” he said later, and he didn’t care to morph into an administrator. He declined a knighthood, having no desire to be addressed as “Sir Fred” by friends and strangers. “A knighthood makes you different, doesn’t it (#litres_trial_promo),” he said, “and I don’t want to be different.” But that Cincinnatus retirement lay long in the future when Carl Woese, in his 1969 letter to Crick, daydreamed of getting a Sanger protégé to help him.
One of Sanger’s grad students had already come to Urbana, in fact, as a postdoc in the lab of another scientist within Woese’s department. That postdoc was David Bishop, brought over to assist Sol Spiegelman in sequencing viral RNA. Spiegelman had recruited Woese to the University of Illinois, rescuing him from obscurity at General Electric, in 1964. One year after Bishop’s arrival, Spiegelman left Illinois, returning to Columbia University in New York City, where his career had begun, and eventually taking Bishop with him. That might have yanked the Sanger techniques beyond Woese’s grasp. But in the interim months, Woese found a promising doctoral student named Mitchell Sogin and assigned him to learn what he could from Bishop before Bishop left. Molecular biology was in its formative phase, and though results could be announced in journal papers, the gritty details of lab methodology were often passed person to person, like the gift of stone tools or fire.
Mitch Sogin was a bright Chicago kid who had come down to the University of Illinois as an undergraduate on a swimming scholarship, planning to do premed. The swimming ended, the allure of medicine faded, but Sogin stuck around to earn a master’s degree in industrial microbiology within the Department of Food Science, part of the College of Agriculture. He worked on bacteria—specifically, the germination of bacterial spores, a matter of some practical interest to the food industry, given the implications for human health. Carl Woese, inhabiting a different department, almost a different universe, happened to have a lingering interest in spore germination from studies earlier in his career. For that slim reason, someone sent young Sogin to meet him. They clicked.
“And so I would go down and talk to him,” Mitch Sogin told me, almost fifty years later. “I liked him.”
Sogin was seventy at the time of our conversation, with a face that looked youthful but was now framed by thick, white hair. Behind his glasses, with his diffident smile, he resembled a professorial Paul Simon. We sat in his third-floor office in an old redbrick building on Water Street in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, headquarters of the Marine Biological Laboratory, a venerable research institution, where Sogin held the position of senior scientist and director of a center for comparative molecular biology and evolution. He seemed slightly bemused to have ended up there at Woods Hole, studying microbial communities of the oceans, microbial communities of the human gut, and microbial stowaways on space vehicles bound for Mars, as I nudged him to recall his early encounters with Carl Woese, back in 1968.
At that dicey moment in history, Sogin found himself, by age and geography, at the top of the rolls for his local Selective Service board. He hadn’t been drafted yet, but it seemed imminent, and this was before the first lottery made draft boards less arbitrary. “I had to make a sudden decision whether to stay in school or whether to go to Vietnam.” The war was at its ugliest; the Tet offensive in February that year had curdled the thinking of many young American males (including Mitch Sogin and me), and, unfair as it was, you could still get a deferment for graduate school. “Decided to stay in school,” Sogin told me. “It was simple.” He began work toward a doctorate under the mentoring of Woese. His topic was ribosomal RNA.
