A short history of nearly everything (46 page)

This wasn’t, I should note, because of sloppiness or inattention. Interpreting the forms and relationships of ancient animals on the basis of often distorted and fragmentary evidence is clearly a tricky business. Edward O. Wilson has noted that if you took selected species of modern insects and presented them as Burgess-style fossils nobody would ever guess that they were all from the same phylum, so different are their body plans. Also instrumental in helping revisions were the discoveries of two further early Cambrian sites, one in Greenland and one in China, plus more scattered finds, which between them yielded many additional and often better specimens.

The upshot is that the Burgess fossils were found to be not so different after all.Hallucigenia , it turned out, had been reconstructed upside down. Its stilt-like legs were actually spikes along its back.Peytoia , the weird creature that looked like a pineapple slice, was found to be not a distinct creature but merely part of a larger animal calledAnomalocaris . Many of the Burgess specimens have now been assigned to living phyla—just where Walcott put them in the first place.Hallucigenia and some others are thought to be related toOnychophora, a group of caterpillar-like animals. Others have been reclassified as precursors of the modern annelids. In fact, says Fortey, “there are relatively few Cambrian designs that are wholly novel. More often they turn out to be just interesting elaborations of well-established designs.” As he wrote in his bookLife : “None was as strange as a present day barnacle, nor as grotesque as a queen termite.”

So the Burgess Shale specimens weren’t so spectacular after all. This made them, as Fortey has written, “no less interesting, or odd, just more explicable.” Their weird body plans were just a kind of youthful exuberance—the evolutionary equivalent, as it were, of spiked hair and tongue studs. Eventually the forms settled into a staid and stable middle age.

But that still left the enduring question of where all these animals had come from—how they had suddenly appeared from out of nowhere.

Alas, it turns out the Cambrian explosion may not have been quite so explosive as all that. The Cambrian animals, it is now thought, were probably there all along, but were just too small to see. Once again it was trilobites that provided the clue—in particular that seemingly mystifying appearance of different types of trilobite in widely scattered locations around the globe, all at more or less the same time.

On the face of it, the sudden appearance of lots of fully formed but varied creatures would seem to enhance the miraculousness of the Cambrian outburst, but in fact it did the opposite. It is one thing to have one well-formed creature like a trilobite burst forth in isolation—that really is a wonder—but to have many of them, all distinct but clearly related, turning up simultaneously in the fossil record in places as far apart as China and New York clearly suggests that we are missing a big part of their history. There could be no stronger evidence that they simply had to have a forebear—some grandfather species that started the line in a much earlier past.

And the reason we haven’t found these earlier species, it is now thought, is that they were too tiny to be preserved. Says Fortey: “It isn’t necessary to be big to be a perfectly functioning, complex organism. The sea swarms with tiny arthropods today that have left no fossil record.” He cites the little copepod, which numbers in the trillions in modern seas and clusters in shoals large enough to turn vast areas of the ocean black, and yet our total knowledge of its ancestry is a single specimen found in the body of an ancient fossilized fish.

“The Cambrian explosion, if that’s the word for it, probably was more an increase in size than a sudden appearance of new body types,” Fortey says. “And it could have happened quite swiftly, so in that sense I suppose it was an explosion.” The idea is that just as mammals bided their time for a hundred million years until the dinosaurs cleared off and then seemingly burst forth in profusion all over the planet, so too perhaps the arthropods and other triploblasts waited in semimicroscopic anonymity for the dominant Ediacaran organisms to have their day. Says Fortey: “We know that mammals increased in size quite dramatically after the dinosaurs went—though when I say quite abruptly I of course mean it in a geological sense. We’re still talking millions of years.”

Incidentally, Reginald Sprigg did eventually get a measure of overdue credit. One of the main early genera,Spriggina , was named in his honor, as were several species, and the whole became known as the Ediacaran fauna after the hills through which he had searched. By this time, however, Sprigg’s fossil-hunting days were long over. After leaving geology he founded a successful oil company and eventually retired to an estate in his beloved Flinders Range, where he created a wildlife reserve. He died in 1994 a rich man.

WHEN YOU CONSIDER it from a human perspective, and clearly it would be difficult for us to do otherwise, life is an odd thing. It couldn’t wait to get going, but then, having gotten going, it seemed in very little hurry to move on.

Consider the lichen. Lichens are just about the hardiest visible organisms on Earth, but among the least ambitious. They will grow happily enough in a sunny churchyard, but they particularly thrive in environments where no other organism would go—on blowy mountaintops and arctic wastes, wherever there is little but rock and rain and cold, and almost no competition. In areas of Antarctica where virtually nothing else will grow, you can find vast expanses of lichen—four hundred types of them—adhering devotedly to every wind-whipped rock.

For a long time, people couldn’t understand how they did it. Because lichens grew on bare rock without evident nourishment or the production of seeds, many people—educated people—believed they were stones caught in the process of becoming plants. “Spontaneously, inorganic stone becomes living plant!” rejoiced one observer, a Dr. Homschuch, in 1819.

Closer inspection showed that lichens were more interesting than magical. They are in fact a partnership between fungi and algae. The fungi excrete acids that dissolve the surface of the rock, freeing minerals that the algae convert into food sufficient to sustain both. It is not a very exciting arrangement, but it is a conspicuously successful one. The world has more than twenty thousand species of lichens.

Like most things that thrive in harsh environments, lichens are slow-growing. It may take a lichen more than half a century to attain the dimensions of a shirt button. Those the size of dinner plates, writes David Attenborough, are therefore “likely to be hundreds if not thousands of years old.” It would be hard to imagine a less fulfilling existence. “They simply exist,” Attenborough adds, “testifying to the moving fact that life even at its simplest level occurs, apparently, just for its own sake.”

It is easy to overlook this thought that life just is. As humans we are inclined to feel that life must have a point. We have plans and aspirations and desires. We want to take constant advantage of all the intoxicating existence we’ve been endowed with. But what’s life to a lichen? Yet its impulse to exist, to be, is every bit as strong as ours—arguably even stronger. If I were told that I had to spend decades being a furry growth on a rock in the woods, I believe I would lose the will to go on. Lichens don’t. Like virtually all living things, they will suffer any hardship, endure any insult, for a moment’s additional existence. Life, in short, just wants to be. But—and here’s an interesting point—for the most part it doesn’t want to be much.

This is perhaps a little odd because life has had plenty of time to develop ambitions. If you imagine the 4,500-billion-odd years of Earth’s history compressed into a normal earthly day, then life begins very early, about 4A.M., with the rise of the first simple, single-celled organisms, but then advances no further for the next sixteen hours. Not until almost 8:30 in the evening, with the day five-sixths over, has Earth anything to show the universe but a restless skin of microbes. Then, finally, the first sea plants appear, followed twenty minutes later by the first jellyfish and the enigmatic Ediacaran fauna first seen by Reginald Sprigg in Australia. At 9:04P.M.trilobites swim onto the scene, followed more or less immediately by the shapely creatures of the Burgess Shale. Just before 10P.M.plants begin to pop up on the land. Soon after, with less than two hours left in the day, the first land creatures follow.

Thanks to ten minutes or so of balmy weather, by 10:24 the Earth is covered in the great carboniferous forests whose residues give us all our coal, and the first winged insects are evident. Dinosaurs plod onto the scene just before 11P.M.and hold sway for about three-quarters of an hour. At twenty-one minutes to midnight they vanish and the age of mammals begins. Humans emerge one minute and seventeen seconds before midnight. The whole of our recorded history, on this scale, would be no more than a few seconds, a single human lifetime barely an instant. Throughout this greatly speeded-up day continents slide about and bang together at a clip that seems positively reckless. Mountains rise and melt away, ocean basins come and go, ice sheets advance and withdraw. And throughout the whole, about three times every minute, somewhere on the planet there is a flashbulb pop of light marking the impact of a Manson-sized meteor or one even larger. It’s a wonder that anything at all can survive in such a pummeled and unsettled environment. In fact, not many things do for long.

Perhaps an even more effective way of grasping our extreme recentness as a part of this 4.5-billion-year-old picture is to stretch your arms to their fullest extent and imagine that width as the entire history of the Earth. On this scale, according to John McPhee inBasin and Range , the distance from the fingertips of one hand to the wrist of the other is Precambrian. All of complex life is in one hand, “and in a single stroke with a medium-grained nail file you could eradicate human history.”

Fortunately, that moment hasn’t happened, but the chances are good that it will. I don’t wish to interject a note of gloom just at this point, but the fact is that there is one other extremely pertinent quality about life on Earth: it goes extinct. Quite regularly. For all the trouble they take to assemble and preserve themselves, species crumple and die remarkably routinely. And the more complex they get, the more quickly they appear to go extinct. Which is perhaps one reason why so much of life isn’t terribly ambitious.

So anytime life does something bold it is quite an event, and few occasions were more eventful than when life moved on to the next stage in our narrative and came out of the sea.

Land was a formidable environment: hot, dry, bathed in intense ultraviolet radiation, lacking the buoyancy that makes movement in water comparatively effortless. To live on land, creatures had to undergo wholesale revisions of their anatomies. Hold a fish at each end and it sags in the middle, its backbone too weak to support it. To survive out of water, marine creatures needed to come up with new load-bearing internal architecture—not the sort of adjustment that happens overnight. Above all and most obviously, any land creature would have to develop a way to take its oxygen directly from the air rather than filter it from water. These were not trivial challenges to overcome. On the other hand, there was a powerful incentive to leave the water: it was getting dangerous down there. The slow fusion of the continents into a single landmass, Pangaea, meant there was much, much less coastline than formerly and thus much less coastal habitat. So competition was fierce. There was also an omnivorous and unsettling new type of predator on the scene, one so perfectly designed for attack that it has scarcely changed in all the long eons since its emergence: the shark. Never would there be a more propitious time to find an alternative environment to water.

Plants began the process of land colonization about 450 million years ago, accompanied of necessity by tiny mites and other organisms that they needed to break down and recycle dead organic matter on their behalf. Larger animals took a little longer to emerge, but by about 400 million years ago they were venturing out of the water, too. Popular illustrations have encouraged us to envision the first venturesome land dwellers as a kind of ambitious fish—something like the modern mudskipper, which can hop from puddle to puddle during droughts—or even as a fully formed amphibian. In fact, the first visible mobile residents on dry land were probably much more like modern wood lice, sometimes also known as pillbugs or sow bugs. These are the little bugs (crustaceans, in fact) that are commonly thrown into confusion when you upturn a rock or log.

For those that learned to breathe oxygen from the air, times were good. Oxygen levels in the Devonian and Carboniferous periods, when terrestrial life first bloomed, were as high as 35 percent (as opposed to nearer 20 percent now). This allowed animals to grow remarkably large remarkably quickly.

And how, you may reasonably wonder, can scientists know what oxygen levels were like hundreds of millions of years ago? The answer lies in a slightly obscure but ingenious field known as isotope geochemistry. The long-ago seas of the Carboniferous and Devonian swarmed with tiny plankton that wrapped themselves inside tiny protective shells. Then, as now, the plankton created their shells by drawing oxygen from the atmosphere and combining it with other elements (carbon especially) to form durable compounds such as calcium carbonate. It’s the same chemical trick that goes on in (and is discussed elsewhere in relation to) the long-term carbon cycle—a process that doesn’t make for terribly exciting narrative but is vital for creating a livable planet.

Eventually in this process all the tiny organisms die and drift to the bottom of the sea, where they are slowly compressed into limestone. Among the tiny atomic structures the plankton take to the grave with them are two very stable isotopes—oxygen-16 and oxygen-18. (If you have forgotten what an isotope is, it doesn’t matter, though for the record it’s an atom with an abnormal number of neutrons.) This is where the geochemists come in, for the isotopes accumulate at different rates depending on how much oxygen or carbon dioxide is in the atmosphere at the time of their creation. By comparing these ancient ratios, the geochemists can cunningly read conditions in the ancient world—oxygen levels, air and ocean temperatures, the extent and timing of ice ages, and much else. By combining their isotope findings with other fossil residues—pollen levels and so on—scientists can, with considerable confidence, re-create entire landscapes that no human eye ever saw.