Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors

  † Thus, Aristotle’s contention9—echoed millennia later by Sigmund Freud—that “the female is, as it were, a mutilated male” is wrong (Neither is a male a testosterone-altered female, although that’s a little closer to the truth) Women’s bodies do synthesize estradiol, the most potent of the estrogens, from testosterone.

  * In order, it is conventionally thought, to keep their temperature a few degrees lower than if they were situated inside the body. If the testicles were located within the warm abdomen, sperm cells, it is said, would be sparsely produced and men would be largely sterile. The benefits of external testicles outweigh the risks. But sparrows and scrappy songbirds carry their testes within; and yet, even at the elevated temperatures, their sperm cells seem to be spunky enough Our understanding of why males of some species wear their testes outside, and others inside, seems incomplete.

  * Exceptions are, in a way, common Male pigeons and doves routinely feed the young a regurgitated “crop milk,” low in sugar, high in fat—just the opposite of the milk of mammals The cock emperor penguin, after incubating the egg for forty days, generates a rich milk in his esophagus When the chick hatches, this is its only food It doubles its weight on Father’s milk and is doing very well by the time the emperor penguin hen returns engorged with tiny shrimp Both sexes of greater flamingos generate a kind of milk which is mixed with their blood and fed to the chicks in the first month of life; each parent provides about a tenth of a liter of this formula each day12 Many animals—wolves, for example—feed their young with regurgitated food, but this is very different from milk

  * Well, against all sparrow comers. The dominance relationships in the same bit of forest within the communities of, say, owls, bears, raccoons, and humans are generally beneath the notice of sparrows

  * The question is similar to that posed by the artichoke: Are more calories burned in trying to get to its succulent heart than are afforded by eating the thing?

  * Just as chicks seem to retain and refine this concern when they get to be adults, so do humans. The fear of non-human predators is another one of our readily available “buttons” that are easy to press in order to manipulate passionate behavior Horror films are one, but hardly the most egregious, example

  * The sexes differ in other kinds of cries as well For example, when a male comes upon some food he knows the female likes, he often generates a food call. But when the hen finds food, she does not call to the cock; indeed, she does not call at all, unless she has chicks. Hens without families prefer to dine alone.

  Chapter 13

  THE OCEAN OF BECOMING

  Every valley shall be exalted, and every

  mountain and hill shall be made low.

  Isaiah 40:4

  They will manage to cross the ocean of

  becoming.

  The Maitreyavyakarana (India, about 500 B.C.)1

  Let’s for a moment imagine your species is wildly successful. Through the slow evolutionary process it’s become adapted with high precision to its environmental niche. You and all your fellows are now, perhaps even literally, fat and sassy. But, again, especially when you’re so well adapted, any significant genetic change tends not to be in your best interest—just as a random change in some of the microscopic magnetic domains on an audio tape is unlikely to improve the music recorded there. You can’t stop deleterious mutations from happening, just as you can’t prevent a slow degradation of the recorded music, but those mutations are restrained from spreading through the species. Natural selection sifts through the population and quickly disposes of whatever doesn’t work, or doesn’t work as well. It is not considered an extenuating or mitigating circumstance that, by some remote accident, the mutation might be useful in the future. Darwinian selection is for the here and now. Summary judgment is rendered. With careful discrimination, the scythe of selection swings.

  But now, let’s imagine that something changes. A small world hurtling through space finds a blue planet smack in its path, and the resulting explosion sprays enough fine particles into the upper atmosphere to darken and cool the Earth; your lake then freezes over, or the savanna vegetation that sustains you shrivels and dies. Or the tectonic engine in the Earth’s interior creates a new island arc and a flurry of volcanic explosions changes the composition of the air, so now more greenhouse gases are released into the atmosphere, the climate warms, and the tidepools and shallow lakes in which you have been luxuriously wallowing begin to dry up—or a dam of glacial ice is breached, creating an inland sea where your congenial desert habitat used to be.

  Perhaps the change comes from a biological direction: The animals you eat are now better camouflaged, or defend themselves with greater obstinacy; or animals that eat you have become more adept at the hunt; or your resistance to a new strain of microorganism turns out to be poor; or some plant you habitually eat has evolved a toxin that makes you ill. There can be a cascade of changes—a relatively small physical alteration leading to adaptations and extinctions in a few directly affected species, and further biological changes propagating up and down the food chain.

  Now that your world has changed, your once wildly successful species may be reduced to much more marginal circumstances. Now some rare mutation or an improbable combination of existing genes might be much more adaptive. The once-spurned hereditary information may now be given a hero’s welcome, and we are reminded once more of the value of mutation and sex. Or, it may be, no new and more useful genetic information is generated fortuitously in the nick of time, and your species continues its downward drift.

  Omnicompetent organisms do not exist. Breathing oxygen lets you be far more efficient in extracting energy from food; but oxygen is a poison for organic molecules, so arrangements for routine handling of oxygen by organic molecules are going to be expensive. The ptarmigan’s white feathers provide superb camouflage in the Arctic snows; but in consequence it absorbs less sunlight and greater demands are placed on its thermoregulatory system. The peacock’s gorgeous tail makes him nearly irresistible to the opposite sex, but also provides a conspicuous luncheon advertisement for foxes. The sickle-cell trait confers immunity to malaria, but condemns many to debilitating anemia. Every adaptation is a trade-off.

  Imagine designing a vehicle that drives off roads, flies through the air, and swims underwater. Such a machine, if it could be built at all, would perform none of its functions well. When we need to travel on “unimproved” land we build all-terrain vehicles, when beneath the water, submarines, and when through the air, airplanes. It’s for good reason that these three kinds of vehicles, while roughly of similar shape, in fact tend not to look very much alike. Even so-called “flying boats” are not very seaworthy, nor are they very easy to fly.

  Birds that are superb underwater swimmers, such as penguins, or highly capable runners, such as ostriches, tend to lose their ability to fly. The engineering specifications for swimming or running conflict with those for flying. Most species, faced with such alternatives, are forced by selection into one adaptation or the other. Beings that hold all their options open tend to be eased off the world stage. Overgeneralization is an evolutionary mistake.

  But organisms that are too narrowly specialized, that perform exceedingly well but only in a single, restrictive environmental niche, also tend to become extinct; they are in danger of making a Faustian bargain, trading their long-term survival for the blandishments of a brilliant but brief career. What happens to them when the environment changes? Like barrelmakers in a world of steel containers, blacksmiths and buggy-whip tycoons in the time of the motorcar, or manufacturers of slide rules in the age of pocket calculators, highly specialized professionals can become obsolete virtually overnight.

  If you’re receiving a forward pass in American football, you must keep your eye on the ball. At the same time you must keep your eye on the opposition tacklers. Catching the ball is your short-term objective; running with it after you have it is your longer-term objective. If you worry only about how to outrun the defende
rs, you may neglect to catch the ball. If you concentrate only on the reception, you may be flattened the moment you receive the ball, and risk fumbling it anyway. Some compromise between short-term and longer-term objectives is called for. The optimum mix will depend on the score, the down, the time remaining, and the ability of the opposing tacklers. For any given circumstance there is at least one optimum mix. As a professional player you would never imagine that your job as a receiver is solely catching passes or solely running with the ball. You will have acquired a habit of quickly estimating the risks and the potential benefits, and the balance between short-term and long-term goals.

  Every competition requires such judgments; indeed, they constitute a large part of the excitement of sport. Such judgments must also be made daily in everyday life. And they’re a central and somewhat controversial issue in evolution.

  The danger of overspecialization is that when the environment changes, you’re stranded. If you’re superbly adapted to your present habitat, you may be no good in the long term. Alternatively, if you spend all your time preparing for future contingencies—many of them remote—you may be no good in the short term. Nature has posed life a dilemma: to strike the optimum balance between the short-term and the long, to find some middle road between overspecialization and overgeneralization. The problem is compounded, of course, by the fact that neither genes nor organisms have a clue about what future adaptations are possible or useful.

  Genes mutate from time to time, and because the environment is changing, it once in a great while happens that a new gene equips its bearer with improved means of survival. It is now more “fit” for its environmental niche. Its adaptive value, its potential to help the organism that bears it leave many viable offspring, has increased. If a particular mutation secures for its possessor a mere 1% advantage over those who lack it, the mutation will be incorporated into most members of a large, freely interbreeding population in something like a thousand generations2—which is only a few tens of thousands of years even for large, long-lived animals. But what if mutations conferring even so small an advantage occur too rarely; or what if several genes must all, improbably, mutate together, each in the right direction, in order to adapt to the new conditions? Then all members of the population may die.

  Is there an evolutionary strategy by which individuals and the species can escape from this trap, some trick by which the extremes of overspecialization and overgeneralization can both be avoided? For major environmental catastrophes there may be no such strategy. The dinosaurs had proliferated into an impressive range of environmental niches, and yet not one of them survived the mass extinctions of 65 million years ago. For quick, but less apocalyptic environmental change there are several ways. It helps to reproduce sexually, as we’ve described, because recombination of genes greatly increases the overall genetic variety. It helps to occupy a large and heterogenous territory, and not be too specialized. And it helps if the population breaks up into many nearly isolated subgroups—as was first clearly described by the population geneticist Sewall Wright, who died almost a centenarian in 1987. What follows is a simplification of a complex subject, some aspects of which are under renewed debate.3 But even if it were no more than metaphor, its explanatory power—for mammals, and especially for primates—is considerable.

  ——

  The genes—the instruction manuals written down in the ACGT alphabet of DNA—are mutating. Some genes, in charge of important matters such as the business end of an enzyme, change slowly; indeed, they may change hardly at all in tens or even hundreds of millions of years—because such changes almost always make some molecular machine tool work more poorly, or not at all. Organisms with the mutated gene die (or leave fewer offspring) and the mutation tends not to be passed on to future generations. The sieve of selection strains it out. Other changes that do no damage—in an untranscribed nonsense sequence, or in the blueprints for structural elements involved in orienting the machine tool, say, or draping it over a molecular jig—can spread through future generations quickly, because an organism bearing the new mutation will not be eliminated by selection: In the code for structural elements, the particular sequence of As, Cs, Gs, and Ts hardly matters at all; what’s needed are placeholders, any sequence that codes for the shape of a subcellular handle, say, never mind which amino acids the handle is made of. Changes in ACGT sequences that are ignored anyway also won’t do any harm. Occasionally an organism hits the jackpot, and a favorable mutation will, in relatively few generations, sweep through the entire population; but the overall genetic change due to favorable mutations is slow, because they happen so rarely.

  Some genes will be carried by almost all of the population; others will be present in only a tiny fraction of the population. But not even very useful genes will be carried by everyone, either because the gene is new and there hasn’t been time enough for it to spread through the whole population, or because there are always mutations transforming or eliminating a given gene, even a beneficial one. If the absence of a useful gene isn’t positively lethal, in a big enough population some organisms will always be without it. In general, any given gene is distributed through the population: Some individuals have it, and some don’t. If you divide your species up into smaller, mutually isolated subpopulations, the percent of individuals that carry a given gene will vary from group to group.

  There are around ten thousand active genes in a typical “higher” mammal. Any one of them may vary from individual to individual and group to group. A few are extinguished for a time or for all time. A few are spanking new and are being spread quickly through the population. Most are old-timers. How useful any given gene is (in the population of wolves or humans or whatever mammal we have in mind) depends on the environment, and that’s changing too.

  Let’s follow one of those ten thousand genes. Maybe it’s for extra testosterone production. But it could be any gene. The fraction of the population possessing this gene, relative to all possible alternative genes, is called the gene frequency.

  Imagine now a set of isolated populations of the same species. Maybe they’re troops of monkeys that live in adjacent, nearly identical mountain valleys, separated by impassable mountains. Whatever differences there are in the chances of survival or of leaving descendants in the two groups, it won’t be because one is living in a more favorable physical environment.

  Not all values of the gene frequency are equally adaptive. Instead, there’s an optimum frequency in the population. If the gene frequency is too low, maybe the monkeys are insufficiently vigilant in defending themselves against predators. If it’s too high, maybe they kill themselves off in dominance combat. When two isolated populations, in otherwise identical circumstances, have different constellations of active genes, their members will have different Darwinian fitness.

  But the optimum frequency of this gene depends on the optimum frequency of other genes, as well as on the fluid and varying environment in which our monkeys must live. There might be more than one optimum frequency, depending on circumstances. The same is true for all ten thousand genes—their optimum frequencies all mutually dependent, all varying as the environment does. For example, a higher frequency of a gene for extra testosterone might be useful in dealing with predators and other hostile groups, provided genes for peacekeeping within the group were also more abundant. And so on. The optima interlace.

  So a set of gene frequencies that once made your group superbly adapted may now constitute a marked disadvantage; and gene frequencies that once conferred only marginal fitness may now be the key to survival. What a disturbing concept of existence: Just when you’re most in harmony with your environment, that’s when the ice you’re skating on begins to thin. What you should have been emphasizing, had you been able, is early escape from optimum adaptation—a deliberate fall from grace contrived by the well-adjusted, the elective self-humbling of the mighty. The meaning of “overspecialized” becomes clear. But this is a strategy, we well know from everyday human expe
rience, that privileged populations are almost never willing to embrace. In the classic confrontation between short-term and long, the short-term tends to win—especially when there’s no way to foretell the future.

  Yes, they lack foresight. But how could they know? It’s asking a great deal of monkeys to foresee future geological or ecological change. We humans, who with our intelligence ought to be much more capable prophets than monkeys, have difficulty enough foreseeing the future, and still more difficulty acting on our knowledge.4 In military operations, ward-heeler politics, much of corporate strategy, and national response to the challenge of global environmental change, the short-term tends to predominate. So offhand, you might think that precautionary maintenance of a collection of gene frequencies that will be optimum for some future circumstance when no one is even aware of this fact is simply too difficult to arrange. You might think that there’s a flaw in the evolutionary process, that life, under some circumstances, might get stranded.

  What could possibly cause the gene frequency in different populations to drift to suboptimal values? Suppose the mutation rate went up because of some new chemical in the environment (belched up from the Earth’s interior), or an increase in the flux of cosmic rays (perhaps from some exploding star halfway across the Milky Way). Then the gene frequencies in isolated populations diversify. You might even get a population that, by accident, winds up with the optimum frequencies needed to adapt to a future need. But that will be very rare. More likely, big changes will be lethal. So an increase in the mutation rate tends mainly to spread out the variation in gene frequencies, but not too much.