The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer (66 page)

Had Muller and Morgan, student and mentor, pitched their formidable scientific skills together, they might have answered this question and uncovered this essential link between mutations and malignancy. But once close colleagues, they became pitted and embittered rivals. Cantankerous and rigid with old age, Morgan refused to give Muller full recognition for his theory of mutagenesis, which he regarded as a largely derivative observation. Muller, in turn, was sensitive and paranoid; he felt that Morgan had stolen his ideas and taken an undue share of credit. In 1932, having moved his lab to Texas, Muller walked into the nearby woods and swallowed a roll of sleeping pills in an attempted suicide. He survived, but haunted by anxiety and depression, his scientific productivity lapsed in his later years.

Morgan, in turn, remained doggedly pessimistic about the relevance of the fruit fly work in understanding human diseases. In 1933, Morgan received the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for his far-reaching work on fruit fly genetics. (Muller would receive the Nobel Prize independently in 1946.) But Morgan wrote self-deprecatingly about the medical relevance of his work, “The most important contribution to medicine that genetics has made is, in my opinion, intellectual.” At some point far in the future, he imagined a convergence between medicine and genetics. “Possibly,” he speculated, “the doctor may then want to call in his
geneticist friends for consultation
!”

But to oncologists in the 1940s, such a “consultation” seemed far-fetched. The hunt for an internal, genetic cause of cancer had stalled since Boveri. Pathological mitosis was visible in cancerous tissue. But both geneticists and embryologists failed to answer the key question: what caused mitosis to turn so abruptly from such an exquisitely regulated process to chaos?

More deeply, what had failed was a kind of biological imagination. Boveri’s mind had so acrobatically leapt from sea urchins to carcinomas, or Morgan’s from pea plants to fruit flies, in part because biology itself was leaping from organism to organism, finding systematic cellular blueprints that ran deeply through all the living world. But extending that same blue
print to human
diseases
had turned out to be a much more challenging task. At Columbia, Morgan had assembled a fair collection of fruit fly monsters, but none that even remotely resembled a real human affliction. The notion that the cancer doctor might call in a “genetic friend” to help understand the pathophysiology of cancer seemed laughable.

Cancer researchers would return to the language of genes and mutations again in the 1970s. But the journey back to this language—and to the true “unitary” cause of cancer—would take a bewildering detour through the terrain of new biology, and a further fifty years.

Unidentified flying
objects, abominable snowmen, the Loch Ness monster and human cancer viruses.

—
Medical World News
, 1974,
on four “mysteries” widely reported
and publicized but never seen

The biochemist Arthur Kornberg once joked
that the discipline of modern biology in its early days often operated like the man in the proverbial story who is frantically searching for his keys under a streetlamp. When a passerby asks the man whether he lost his keys at that spot, the man says that he actually lost them at home—but he is looking for the keys under the lamp because “the light there is the brightest.”

In the predawn of modern biology, experiments were so difficult to perform on biological organisms, and the results of manipulations so unpredictable, that scientists were severely constrained in their experimental choices. Experiments were conducted on the simplest model organisms—fruit flies, sea urchins, bacteria, slime molds—because the “light” there was the brightest.

In cancer biology, Rous’s sarcoma virus represented the only such lamplit spot. Admittedly, it was a rare virus that produced a rare cancer in a species of chicken.
^*
But it was the most reliable way to produce a real cancer in a living organism. Cancer researchers knew that X-rays, soot, cigarette smoke, and asbestos represented vastly more common risk factors for human cancers. They had heard of the odd Brazilian case of a family that seemed to carry retinoblastoma cancer in its genes. But the capacity to
manipulate
cancer in an experimental environment was unique to the Rous virus, and so it stood center stage, occupying all the limelight.

The appeal of studying Rous virus was further compounded by the for
midable force of Peyton Rous’s personality. Bulldogish, persuasive, and inflexible, Rous had acquired a near paternal attachment to his virus, and he was unwilling to capitulate to any other theory of cause. He acknowledged that epidemiologists had shown that exogenous carcinogens were
correlated
with cancer (Doll and Hill’s study, published in 1950, had clearly shown that smoking was associated with an increase in lung cancer), but this had not offered any mechanistic explanation of cancer causation. Viruses, Rous felt, were the only answer.

By the early 1950s, cancer researchers had thus split into three feuding camps. The virologists, led by Rous, claimed that viruses caused cancer, although no such virus had been found in human studies. Epidemiologists, such as Doll and Hill, argued that exogenous chemicals caused cancer, although they could not offer a mechanistic explanation for their theory or results. The third camp, of Theodor Boveri’s successors, stood at the farthest periphery. They possessed weak, circumstantial evidence that genes internal to the cell might cause cancer, but had neither the powerful human data of the epidemiologists nor the exquisite experimental insights of the chicken virologists. Great science emerges out of great contradiction, and here was a gaping rift slicing its way through the center of cancer biology. Was human cancer caused by an infectious agent? Was it caused by an exogenous chemical? Was it caused by an internal gene? How could the three groups of scientists have examined the same elephant and returned with such radically variant opinions about its essential anatomy?

In 1951, a young virologist named Howard Temin, then a postdoctoral researcher, arrived at the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena, California, to study the genetics of fruit flies. Restless and imaginative, Temin soon grew bored with fruit flies. Switching fields, he chose to study Rous sarcoma virus in Renato Dulbecco’s laboratory. Dulbecco, a suave, exquisitely mannered Calabrian aristocrat, ran his lab at Caltech with a distant and faintly patrician air. Temin was a perfect fit: if Dulbecco wanted distance, Temin wanted independence. Temin found a house in Pasadena with several other young scientists (including John Cairns, the future author of the
Scientific American
article on the War on Cancer) and spent his time cooking up unusual meals in heavy communal pots and
talking volubly about biological riddles late into the night.

In the laboratory, too,
Temin was cooking up an unusual experiment
that was virtually guaranteed to fail. Until the late fifties, Rous sarcoma virus had been shown to cause tumors only in live chickens. Temin, working closely with Harry Rubin, wanted to study how the virus converted normal cells into cancer cells. To do this, they needed a vastly simplified system—a system free of chickens and tumors, and analogous to bacteria in a petri dish. And so Temin imagined creating
cancer
in a petri dish. In 1958, in his seventh year in Dulbecco’s lab, Temin succeeded. He added Rous sarcoma virus to a layer of normal cells in a petri dish. The infection of the cells incited them to grow uncontrollably, forcing them to form tiny distorted heaps containing hundreds of cells that Temin called foci (the plural of
focus
). The foci, Temin reasoned, represented cancer distilled into its essential, elemental form: cells growing uncontrollably, unstoppably—pathological mitosis. It was the sheer, driving power of Temin’s imagination that allowed him to look at a tiny heap of cells and reimagine that heap as the essence of the diffuse systemic disease that kills humans. But Temin believed that the cell, and its interaction with the virus, had all the biological components necessary to drive the malignant process. The ghost was out of the organism.

Temin could now use his cancer-in-a-dish to perform experiments that would have been nearly impossible using whole animals. One of his first experiments with this system, performed in 1959, produced an unexpected result. Normally, viruses infect cells, produce more viruses, and infect more cells, but they do not directly affect the genetic makeup, the DNA, of the cell. Influenza virus, for instance, infects lung cells and produces more influenza virus, but it does not leave a permanent fingerprint in our genes; when the virus goes away, our DNA is left untouched. But Rous’s virus behaved differently. Rous sarcoma virus, having infected the cells, had
physically
attached itself to the cell’s DNA and thereby altered the cell’s genetic makeup, its genome. “
The virus, in some structural as well as functional sense
, becomes part of the genome of the cell,” Temin wrote.
^*

This observation—that a DNA copy of a virus’s genes could structurally attach itself to a cell’s genes—intrigued Temin and Dulbecco. But it raised an even more intriguing conceptual problem. In viruses, genes are
sometimes carried in their intermediary RNA form. Certain viruses have dispensed with the original DNA copy of genes and keep their genome in the RNA form, which is directly translated into viral proteins once the virus infects a cell.

Temin knew from work performed by other researchers that Rous sarcoma virus is one such RNA virus. But if the virus genes
started
as RNA, then how could a copy of its genes convert into DNA? The central dogma of molecular biology forbade such a transition. Biological information, the dogma proposed, only travels down a one-way street from DNA to RNA to proteins. How on earth, Temin wondered, could RNA turn around acrobatically and make a DNA copy of itself, driving the wrong way down the one-way street of biological information?

Temin made a leap of faith; if the data did not fit the dogma, then the dogma—not the data—needed to be changed. He postulated that Rous sarcoma virus carried a special property, a property unprecedented in any other living organism: it could convert RNA back into DNA. In normal cells, the conversion of DNA into RNA is called transcription. The virus (or the infected cell) therefore had to possess the reverse capacity:
reverse
transcription. “
Temin had an inkling
, but his proof was so circumstantial—so frail—that he could barely convince anyone,” the virologist Michael Bishop recalled twenty-five years later. “The hypothesis had earned him little but ridicule and grief.”

At first, Temin could barely even convince himself. He had made a bold proposition, but he needed proof. In 1960, determined to find experimental proof, Temin moved his lab to the McArdle laboratory in Wisconsin. Madison, unlike Caltech, was a frozen, faraway place, isolated both physically and intellectually, but this suited Temin. Standing unknowingly at the edge of a molecular revolution, he wanted silence. On his daily walk along Lakeshore path, often blanketed in dense snow, Temin planned experiments to find evidence for this reverse flow of information.

RNA into DNA. Even the thought made him shiver: a molecule that could write history backward, turn back the relentless forward flow of biological information. To prove that such a process existed, Temin would need to isolate in a test tube the viral enzyme that could reverse transcription and prove that it could make a DNA copy out of RNA. In the early 1960s, pursuing the enzyme, he hired a Japanese postdoctoral stu
dent named Satoshi Mizutani. Mizutani’s task was to purify this reverse transcription enzyme from virus-infected cells.

Mizutani was a catastrophe
. Never a cell biologist at heart, as a colleague recalled, he contaminated the cells, infected the cultures, and grew out balls of fungi in the petri dishes. Frustrated, Temin moved Mizutani to a project involving no cells. If Mizutani couldn’t manipulate cells, he could try to purify the enzyme out of chemical extracts made from virus-infected cells. The move played to Mizutani’s natural skills: he was an incredibly gifted chemist. Overnight, he picked up a weak, flickering enzymatic activity in the cellular extracts of the Rous virus that was capable of converting RNA into DNA. When he added RNA to this cellular extract, he could “see” it creating a DNA copy—reversing transcription. Temin had his proof. Rous sarcoma virus was no ordinary virus. It could write genetic information backward: it was a
retro
virus.
^*