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DAVID EWING DUNCAN
Masterminds
GENIUS, DNA, AND THE QUEST TO REWRITE LIFE

DEDICATION
To my mother and father.
EPIGRAPH
I’ve had to face up to the
fact that most of our society
thinks of scientists as people
who are likely to do something
bad. Either bad to make
money for themselves, or
to cause trouble in the
Frankensteinian sense.
And the fact is, scientists
that I know are trying to do
good for people.
—Douglas Melton
Harvard embryologist
It is not possible to be a
scientist unless you believe
that the knowledge of
the world, and the power
that this gives, is a thing
which is of intrinsic value
to humanity, and that you
are using it to help in the
spread of knowledge, and
are willing to take the
consequences.
—Robert Oppenheimer
November 1945
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prelude: The Geneticist Who Played Hoops with My DNA
The Language of Biotech: A Genetic Primer
1. Prometheus • Douglas Melton
2. Eve • Cynthia Kenyon
3. Paul • Francis Collins
4. Faustus • Craig Venter
5. Zeus • James Watson
6. Puck • Sydney Brenner
7. Moses • Paul Berg
EPILOGUE: What If Frankenstein’s Monster Had Einstein’s Brain?
Keep Reading
P.S. Ideas, Interviews & Features …
About the Author
Q and A with David Ewing Duncan
Top Ten Favourite Authors
Life at a Glance
A Writing Life
About the Book
The Greatest Story in Human History
Read On
If You Loved This, You Might Like …
The Web Detective
Index
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Notes
Praise
Also by the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
PRELUDE: The Geneticist who Played Hoops with my DNA
There’s a high probability that for Homo
sapiens, the process of evolution as we
currently think about it, as natural selection,
is for all intents and purposes over. It is
going to be replaced by our desire and
capability to tinker.
—Stuart Schreiber, Harvard geneticist
I’m playing hoops with Erik the Red on a half-court at the ends of the Earth, and he is toying with me. Also Iceland’s most famous geneticist, he’s dribbling a basketball in a Reykjavik gym on a typically damp, cold day in August near the Arctic Circle. Notorious for being rude, as well as brilliant and filled with an infectious passion, Kari Stefansson, a descendent of Erik—an early Viking explorer and marauder—insisted that I go one on one.
Every day at 2:00 P.M., when he’s not wandering the globe rustling up cash or giving talks, Stefansson drives from his office downtown across this speck of a capital city, home to nearly all of Iceland’s 290,000 people, to a gym that requires a retinal scan to enter (Icelanders love gadgets). Just beyond the gym’s parking lot the city ends and a hardened lava field begins, though this is hardly a landmark in Iceland. Here the black rock everywhere remains raw, hardened in waves and eddies, once lava-hot, covered only by a thin veneer of lime-green moss. Overhead, the sky boils with immense gray-white clouds that turn nearly black above a ridge of distant mountains where active volcanoes still blow off steam. The land looks ripped from a primeval moment in history, when cones spewed ash and fire and Titans roamed the Earth.
It’s a fitting place for Stefansson to be exploring the raw ingredients of life, the nucleotides and other molecules that he first began to study as a medical student at the university here before moving on to the University of Chicago and then to Harvard. There, as a medium-important neurologist, he delved into the mechanics of multiple sclerosis and other maladies of the brain. At first, before new technologies made deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA) easier to work with, he cut open the brains of persons who had died of neurological disorders. Later, he parsed out their DNA, looking for links. But the academic approach was too slow, so in 1996 he returned home to Iceland to start a company.
On the court Stefansson destroys my pathetic game, despite being fifty-six years old to my forty-four, a difference he notes everytime he overpowers me to plant a basket. At six feet, five inches, with close-cropped white hair, a pointed beard, and biceps that bulge out of the tight black designer T-shirts he tends to wear, Stefansson looks as formidable as his wild-eyed Norse forebears in the Icelandic sagas he likes to read, those hairy warriors who sailed in flat-keeled longboats one thousand years ago, snatching women from the British Isles and taking them to this bleak edge of the earth.
I haven’t played basketball in years. When I finally grab the ball he flashes me a glare that Erik might have used before hacking to death an enemy in the tenth century.
Prior to playing, we had been talking about a test that Stefansson’s company, deCode Genetics, had just run on my DNA, a journalist-as-guinea-pig experiment to check my nucleotides for genes associated with disease. Back in the States, I had a lab extract three vials of my blood to ship on dry ice to Reykjavik. deCode’s technicians then plucked out my DNA from the white blood cells and tested it against the company’s database of genetic maladies. Do I have a genetic proclivity for heart disease, Alzheimer’s disease, osteoporosis, anxiety? “We will tell you if you are crazy, or if you might die of a stroke. You will become our first American lab rat,” he had told me a few months earlier, when we met during a biotech conference in New York.
Stefansson had promised to reveal my results when we returned that afternoon to his office, making me one of the first persons ever to reveal publicly so much personal information about a raft of disease markers hidden in everyone’s genes. In a few years, he says, these tests will be routine: a screening like a cholesterol test that will tell us whether we might one day contract a dread disease or die sooner, rather than later. They also might be used to tease out genes that affect behavior, telling us whether we have a predilection for anger, risk taking, happiness, or homicide. Yet I know this sort of predictive genomics is still very much nascent, the information incomplete, the connections between genes and disease or behavior murky, the forecasting power faulty and poorly understood. But I’m willing to listen, and to imagine the possibilities as described by this Armani Viking.
Of more immediate concern to me is how to react if Stefansson tells me that my nucleotides may be harboring an aberration I never suspected, a dread disease ticking inside me like a secret time bomb ready to strike when I’m fifty years old, or seventy. A fatalist, I don’t think much about how I might get sick or die, but I can’t help but feel a small apprehension.
On the court I’ve got the ball and I’m dribbling toward the basket, making a few clunky moves I remember from years back. I whip around Stefansson; he pushes in close and I feel his hot Viking breath on my face. I zig left; he cuts me off. I zag right, and we crash shoulders as I push to turn a corner around him. He’s behind me, pushing, and I start my leap, holding the ball up, eying the basket when he blurts out, “I have your DNA results.”
“Yeah?” I say, suspended for a moment in the air, feeling that electric rush that says this ball is going to connect, it’s going into the damn basket.
“You are genetically defective.”
I hesitate for all of a split second. He jumps high and grabs the ball, twirls, and races down the court, dribbling and flashing me Erik’s demonic smile.
I’m visiting Kari Stefansson as part of an experiment to unlock the secrets of my own DNA. In due course, I will find out my results. But as I watch him play, his dark green eyes alluring and murderous, I’m struck by a simple revelation. Stefansson in many ways is the early-twenty-first-century equivalent of Erik the Red. He is a marauder and warrior, a larger than life figure who slices through frigid waters in a longboat with an outsized passion to conquer, to achieve glory, and perhaps to get rich, but mostly for the sheer joy of it.
Lest we build him up too much, Kari Stefansson is also just a man. I have seen him tired, and downcast. On one of my visits to Iceland, the stock in his company had dipped down to about two dollars a share, prompting him to fret about an unwanted suitor who might attempt a frontal assault to buy the company out from under him. The Viking was watching his backside—though this Norseman is also a physician who wants to alleviate suffering, if he can. Moody and stormy, he looked depleted after a round of calls to investors and advisors, as if he had been fighting the Furies all day and was still standing, but was exhausted by the effort.
It seems evident that Stefansson’s prickly, infectious personality is crucial to his success in being a scientist and entrepreneur: that peculiar blend of DNA and experience that makes this Viking gene master a genius, bully, and force of nature. As he humbles me by swishing yet another basket, I tease out this idea—that the Stefanssons of this rarified world of scientists and entrepreneurs are driving this era of biological discovery as much as the science itself. This is obvious, though maybe, I think, this is a way to delve into the heart of the matter with genetics: to tease out first what is the crux of the science, and the implications of the discoveries for us humans, by trying to understand its creators—the Prometheuses bringing us fire, the Faustuses taking us to either heaven or hell, the Eves about to bite into another apple on the Tree of Knowledge, and the Erik the Reds blustering about and trying to score big with basketballs and nucleotides.
Here is a man who has glimpsed my most intimate secrets, my DNA, those unique combinations of chemical compounds that make me me: my blue eyes, a crooked left second toe, a tendency to be far more curious than is healthy. I also have this flip in my left eyebrow that my grandmother once called “the lick of God.” All the men in my family for at least five generations have had this upward spike in our left eyebrow that points straight up in the air: My great-grandfather, Harry, had it, my grandfather, my dad, me, and my two sons. Genes are not the only factor; the environment I live in also plays an enormous role: the food I swallow, the gasoline fumes I breathe in when I fill up my gas tank, the ultraviolet rays that permeate the ozone and burn the skin on my nose. But it’s my genes that are the basic ingredients that make me both human and unique—and I’ve just handed them over to Erik the Red.
Stefansson’s aim in Iceland is to unravel genetic secrets from the island’s entire population, looking for patterns in genes that might account for diseases such as stroke and osteoporosis. Thanks to meticulous genealogical records kept for one thousand years in Iceland and collected by deCode into a computerized database they call the Islendingabok, the “Book of Icelanders,” Stefansson can tap into what medical and mortality details exist about the 680,000 people who have lived on the island since the first Vikings arrived here in the ninth century. deCode uses powerful computers to pick out how families inherited disease. The company also has assembled another database containing certain medical details about modern-day patients, with consent, that pertains to diseases deCode is studying. Iceland’s parliament, the Althing, has created an oversight process to protect patient privacy, and to allow patients access to their genetic test results, where it is appropriate. About 110,000 Icelanders so far have willingly handed over their DNA for the program, which asks, for instance, patients with asthma to provide their medical records and their DNA to be tested for nucleotides that are anomalous when compared to the nucleotides of the nonasthmatic population. This provides clues to where the disease-influencing genes might be located. The company has roughly mapped the location of several dozen suspect genes, and has found the exact location of a few major diseases, such as stroke and osteoporosis—news that was important enough that these discoveries landed on the front page of the New York Times when each was announced in 2003.
So I am hardly alone in being tested by Stefansson’s labs and computers, though what sets me apart is that I’m the first healthy person with no family predisposition to be tested by deCode and to have my results announced publicly. I’m also not the first person to take tests for specific genetic diseases. More and more, tests are offered that identify genes linked to Alzheimer’s disease, Huntington’s chorea, breast cancer, and other maladies. Except for Huntington’s, which has a 100 percent “penetrance”—the certainty of which people who have a mutation will get the disease—most of these tests offer only the possibility that a person will get the disease. For instance, testing positive for the apo-e4 gene, which is associated with Alzheimer’s, a person has a two-and-a-half times to ten times greater chance of getting the disease than a normal person. So this is not necessarily deterministic information but, rather, offers up probabilities that you or I will get a disease.
These genetic tests fall under the rubric of “personalized medicine”—which offers not only tests for genetic predispositions to disease, but also the possibility of customized treatments. So drugs could be targeted to your specific malady and genetic makeup rather than the one-size-fits-all medications of today. Yet this is only the bare beginning of what scientists are offering up as future possibilities in this nascent age of genetics. You and I and our children may soon be living in a world where damaged hearts and shattered spines are routinely regenerated or spare ones are regrown using stem cells; where a human egg containing a person’s DNA can be engineered by adding and subtracting genes; where genetic fixes or perhaps a pill can be popped to extend life span and keep one young, fit, and lean up to age 150, or 300, or longer. The possibilities are thrilling in some cases and frightening in others, particularly since the collective knowledge of genetics and the impact of mucking with the basic recipes of life remain fantastically complex and largely unknown.
This creative fire in biotechnology is occurring after a half-century of biological discoveries and more recent technological breakthroughs, combined with an unprecedented surge of funding from government and the private sector, and supported by a society that loves the gadgets, the medical miracles, and the standard of living afforded by modern science, even if the pace of change sometimes makes us feel uneasy. The outcome of this explosive moment in genetics is anybody’s guess: a brilliant future or, if something goes terribly wrong, a nightmare. Or both. We will cure cancer; vanquish AIDS, malaria, and tuberculosis; increase life span to three hundred years; eliminate pollution; and feed everyone on the planet. Or we will create a monster, either inadvertently or deliberately. Maybe we’ll do it all. I believe this is the greatest story of our time, perhaps of all time. A species is developing the tools to redesign itself, to self-evolve in a way Charles Darwin never imagined.
Experiments are under way to create new forms of life. The geneticist J. Craig Venter, cosequencer of the human genome, is creating at his nonprofit Institute for Biological Alternatives the first synthetic life-form. Working in Rockville, Maryland, with the Nobel laureate Hamilton O. Smith and funded in part by $12 million in grants from the U.S. Department of Energy, Venter wants to create a simple microbe designed to munch up carbon dioxide pollutants in power plants and to release harmless hydrogen. This sounds wonderful, though this technology could also be used in the wrong hands to create organisms for more nefarious purposes such as bioterrorism. Or one of these critters might be released into the ecosystem for a useful purpose, only to mutate or evolve into something deadly. As a nonscientist enthusiastic about science, I am properly awed by the possibilities. I also wonder, at times, whether I should be afraid. I lean more toward amazement than not, but I am skeptical, too, strongly believing that nonscientists need to do their homework to understand the new science, to be informed enough to be impressed, cautious, or afraid. Most of all we need to stop being mystified, to learn enough to question intelligently and to push our high priests of science to explain what they’re up to.
Lest we forget, periods of explosive scientific achievement and technological breakthroughs have always created the potential for both miracles and horrors. DDT rid the West of malaria-bearing mosquitoes and other pests but poisoned birds and other animals, including humans; electricity lights our cities and powers our factories, but touch a live wire, and zap!; fossil fuels have provided us with fuel to zip about in the air, and on the land and sea, but befoul skies and cause global warming. The list goes on in the pluses and minuses of television that educates and enervates, drugs that cure and cause side effects, cars and airplanes that convey us places but also turn lethal if they crash and burn. The most classic example of all occurred when the physicists of the early twentieth century found their dazzling theories turn into not only the transistor and spaceflight, but also the bomb. The Manhattan Project chief Robert Oppenheimer, for one, spent the rest of his life after Hiroshima and Nagasaki trying to reconcile his conscience for his role as a scientist in creating this awesomely deadly weapon. “It is not possible to be a scientist unless you believe that the knowledge of the world, and the power that this gives, is a thing which is of intrinsic value to humanity, and that you are using it to help in the spread of knowledge,” he said in the autumn of 1945, three months after the bombs erupted over Japan, in what could be considered a classic statement of a modern scientist justifying his work. Yet he added an important caveat: “and are willing to take the consequences.”
The last century contains many other examples of science’s running amok: the sick experiments of Josef Mengele at Auschwitz; the program at Tuskegee, Alabama, in which black sharecroppers who had syphilis were denied treatment for forty years by researchers who were studying the effects of the disease; and the bioengineering of super-virulent smallpox variants by Soviet virologists working for the secret Soviet bioweapons program during the sixties, seventies, and eighties.* Laid alongside the wonders of the last century, the dangers of modern science and technology are accepted by people in an ongoing Faustian bargain that has become a cliché of B movies and science fiction novels. Mary Shelley helped launch the notion of the modern mad scientist in 1810, inventing the character of the young idealist who sets out on a quest to understand the intricacies of nature and life and ends up with Boris Karloff in green makeup with bolts in his neck.
This bargain is tempered by a demand that governments remain vigilant against future Frankensteins and Mengeles, while ensuring safety whenever possible as science moves forward. Watchdog agencies such as the U.S. Food and Drug Administration and ethics committees in universities, hospitals, and businesses have been assembled to oversee experiments and the release of new products and hopefully to head off anything that might prove dangerous. The tension between how safe is safe and the pressure from scientists to test new discoveries is one of the defining aspects of modern science and culture. Most scientists insist on a code of ethical conduct in keeping with current norms of human rights and dignity, keenly aware that despite science’s power and clout, the public has little patience for errors that endanger people or overtly imperil the environment. They have no tolerance at all with scientists who would delve into the territory of a Mengele or a Frankenstein, even inadvertently.
This is reassuring, up to a point. Yet as we plunge into tinkering with the basics of life, can we know for sure what they—and we—are doing, and what its impact will be?
Most scientists tell me not to worry: that we humans have not yet destroyed ourselves or the planet, and that on balance science has been an overwhelming force for the good. Yet others worry that we are entering unchartered territory without really understanding the implications. “We have to decide soon what kind of society we want,” says the Oxford neurogeneticist Susan Greenfield, a baroness and member of the House of Lords, and an author who writes about the brain and the social impact of genetics. “For instance, do we want a world where everyone takes Prozac, uses Botox, and plays with Gameboys? We could be heading into a designer-baby world where we sit passively in front of our screens and live in a virtual world. Do we want that?”
The other day I reread the self-description of Victor Frankenstein in Mary Shelley’s classic, who early in the story describes his intentions. “It was the secrets of heaven and earth I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things, or the inner spirit and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my enquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or, in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.” Shorn of the stigma of being spoken by the lips of Dr. Frankenstein, these words could easily describe many of the subjects of this book.
Yet we hardly know the scientists and others sweeping us into this new world, the Stefanssons, Greenfields, and Venters. Their names are mostly obscure outside molecular biology. In part this is because journalists tend to write articles trying to explain the intricacies of proteomics, genetically modified organisms, ribonucleic acid (RNA), transgenic animals, and therapeutic cloning—and the ins and outs of start-ups, initial public offerings (IPOs), and roiling markets. We mention characters like Kari Stefansson, scratching out quick, throwaway descriptions, treating them as secondary to the science and the spreadsheet. Science writers scribble endless books on the solving of the human genome, stem cells, and cloning, often failing to delve seriously into the phenomenon of an age that is producing, all at once, a remarkable profusion of brilliant, quirky, charismatic, possibly dangerous scientists whose work will profoundly impact life itself.
Who are they? Are they megalomaniacs with supersized egos, or individuals of high ethics and morals who will do what one of them, Stanford’s Paul Berg, did when he was in the middle of an experiment in 1971? Berg was creating a hybrid molecule by combining a common bacterium with a monkey virus. He planned to insert his hybrid into Escherichia coli, a benign bacterium found in the stomach of nearly every human on Earth. But the monkey virus, SV40, had been shown to cause cancer in mice and might cause cancer in humans—or not. No one at that time knew for sure, though they now know the virus is most likely harmless in humans. Back in 1971, another scientist alerted Berg to the possible danger of this hybrid molecule’s escaping his lab and infecting E. coli in the stomachs of his lab workers, and possibly beyond, potentially unleashing a cancer plague. This scenario was remote, but Berg could not eliminate the risk 100 percent. So he shut down the experiment, wanting to be cautious about the implications of what became known as recombinant DNA—now used as a basic component of genetics and biotechnology. Would this method of using one organism to produce the proteins of another lead to freakish disasters?
Berg took this question to a famous conference in 1975 at Asilomar, near Monterey, California, where he and others persuaded their fellow geneticists to cease certain recombinant DNA experiments while safety issues were tested and guidelines for containment of dangerous experiments could be formulated. This process led to thirty years of recombinant DNA experiments without a single accident. Berg’s experiments won him the Nobel Prize, with Walter Gilbert and Fred Sanger, in 1980.
Berg was careful, when another scientist might have forged ahead despite the dangers. For instance, his fellow geneticist James Watson argued forcefully against a self-imposed moratorium on recombinant DNA work at the 1975 Asilimar conference, insisting that the process could remain contained and safe in the lab, and that a moratorium would frighten the public and might lead to a ban by the government. (This nearly happened.) Personality played a critical role in this debate between Berg and Watson.
The science emanates from their minds, and from their personal stories, but also from who they are: their hopes and fears; their humility, their arrogance, and the ambition that drive them forward into discoveries and dictates how they react to the possibility of miracles, and of disasters. “Science seldom proceeds in the straightforward logical manner imagined by outsiders. Instead, its steps forward (and sometimes backward) are often very human events in which personalities and cultural traditions play major roles.” This comes from James Watson, codiscoverer of the double-helix structure of DNA in 1953 and an obnoxious, dazzling personality himself. The science historian Horace Judson, author of The Eighth Day of Creation, remarks that the personality of scientists “has always been an inseparable part of their styles of inquiry, a potent if unacknowledged factor in their results. Indeed, no art or popular entertainment is so carefully built as is science upon the individual talents, preferences, and habits of its leaders.”
“The whole idea that science is conducted by people working alone in rooms and struggling with the forces of nature is absolutely ridiculous,” says Sydney Brenner, a pioneer of molecular biology famous for talking incessantly with colleagues to tease out ideas. “It is a social activity of the highest sort.”
Why is this important? Because, as the Harvard biochemist Stuart Schreiber once told me over coffee, his eyes magnified through thick wire-rim glasses wrapped around a bald head that looks both thuggish and hip: “There’s a high probability that for Homo sapiens, the process of evolution as we currently think about it, as natural selection, is for all intents and purposes over. It is going to be replaced by our desire and capability to tinker.”
There is the fiery-tempered and temperamental Watson, who in his midseventies still keeps pinups of busty young women in his office close to his Nobel medal. An atheist who believes the double helix proves that God does not exist, Watson has strong views about everything from stem cells to his belief that genetic flaws in behavior as well as disease should be fixed.
There is Craig Venter, a stormy renegade with the gravitas, ego, and devilish brilliance of Faustus, though he also has a cornball sense of humor. In the late nineties, he took on the scientific establishment during the Human Genome Project and succeeded in getting the job done faster and, at least according to Venter himself, better. He ranges about like a junkyard dog snarling and laughing as he brilliantly upsets applecarts. Venter restlessly sails the seas in his yacht, Sorcerer II, collecting microbes from the oceans to sequence genetically, while back in his lab in Maryland he leads a team creating synthetic life-forms.
And then there is Francis Collins, the can-do Boy Scout of molecular biology with a steely resolve and intense competitiveness. Chief of the National Institutes of Health genomics programs, he is a born-again Christian and codiscoverer of the gene for cystic fibrosis, who went head to head with Venter during the race to sequence the human genome. Collins headed up the band of stalwart gene hunters who pursued this nearly $3 billion quest with a religious zeal, proselytizing its benefits and fighting to keep the DNA they sequenced free and publicly available.
Others you will meet in these pages are working to create new life or to extend it, to grow new organs using stem cells, to bioengineer genes—and, in the case of the former Soviet bioweapons expert Ken Alibek, to snuff out the life of his former nation’s enemies when he was working for the secret Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) bioweapons program in the seventies and eighties.
When I set out to write this book, I experimented with several methods to describe the role of personality in science. In the end, I chose and expanded on a strategy used with delightful effectiveness by Lytton Strachey in his 1918 Lives of Eminent Victorians. Insisting that too much material existed on the recently finished Victorian age to make sense of it in a single book, he picked out four representative figures to profile, among them Florence Nightingale and General Charles Gordon. He described his method as dipping a bucket into the vast ocean of material on his subject, “which will bring up to the light of day some characteristic specimen, from those far depths, to be examined with a careful curiosity.”
I, too, have chosen a few representative people, though in this book I’ve added to Strachey’s idea an element that he would have understood. He chose characters specifically to point up both the grandeur and the flaws of figures whom his parents’ generation had revered and worshiped as heroes and geniuses. He elevates them to godlike status by treating them as standard-bearers of the Victorian era, only to reveal them as all too human. Yet they remain exalted throughout as forceful stories and symbols of the glories and disasters of their time. I have chosen nine scientists with the same emphasis in mind, but with an added element that defines a major difference between our era and Strachey’s. Today, we don’t need to reduce heroes of a former generation to mere humans. In this age of reductionism, that happens as a matter of course. I have taken these very human, and therefore flawed, individuals and assigned them each a mythic status by assigning them a character from myth, fiction, or history—Prometheus, Eve, Zeus. Not because I consider these scientists gods or demigods, but because I believe that to appreciate these figures whose work is so critical to the future of life accurately, it is useful to see them through the lens of stories, myths, and characters that have endured for centuries as devices to understand and absorb the import of major moments in human history.
I agree with Paul Berg that as we move forward with science we must be cautious. Scientists need to be keenly aware of not only potential dangers, but the ethical and social impact of their discoveries. Yet I also believe that many of the discoveries and possibilities will happen regardless of what society thinks. As in splitting the atom, once the knowledge exists, the science will find a way to happen, possibly in secret in countries where neither ethics nor the public’s fears much matter. This makes it even more crucial that this science be allowed to go forward while being closely watched, with appropriate safeguards.
Back in Kari Stefansson’s office, I’m reminded of why I have a personal stake in understanding this Icelandic gene master. We’re sitting in deCode’s new building, a blond wood, brick, and glass palace rising on the edge of Reykjavik like a gigantic piece of Skandia furniture. This in a city of mostly squat, functional, wood-slate buildings that seem hunched over, as if holding their heads down in a storm. Rain does fall here frequently, though the nearby Gulf Stream usually keeps the temperature above freezing, even in the winter.
Inside deCode, three towers containing labs, computers, and offices are connected by a glass-enclosed atrium four stories high, an airy and expansive space crisscrossed by open bridges between the towers. Hanging down from the ceiling, over the lunchroom, a gigantic model of a double helix turns slowly, picking up the dull, gray light from outside like an elongated disco ball. In one tower a supercomputer that can process a person’s entire genetic code in twenty minutes.
Stefansson’s office suite is across a bridge from the spinning DNA model. His large windows overlook the old Reykjavik airport, and the vast sweep of lava fields and mountains. He’s wearing his trademark tight black T-shirt and is preparing to drink two glasses of a Pepto-Bismol-colored drink he says is a protein supplement. I see Yeats’s Ghosts and the NASDAQ Rule Book, among other volumes, in his bookcase. He’s about to tell me the results of one of the tests run on my DNA.
KS: The DNA from you is, of course, a scary substance.
DD: I have friends who would agree.
KS: I’m sure. One of the things we did was that we looked at the genes that confirm a stroke. We have established that you have a series of genetic markers that give you something like a two to seven times greater risk for developing a stroke than if you don’t. You have this entire haplotype [inherited sequences of DNA that cause specific traits] so you probably have three times the risk. If this turns out to be the case in the American population, you are genetically predisposed to stroke.
DD: Oh, hmm. Stroke? But I’ve had no stroke in my family, other than my grandmother when she was eighty-three years old. Doesn’t my own family history weigh in here?
KS: The only thing you have done is to inherit a predisposition. What does that mean eventually? It means that if you stay in a certain environment, or if you are born in a certain environment, you will develop stroke.
DD: This is because most diseases are a combination of mutated genes and the environment—that is, the environment can trigger diseases, or not?
KS: Yes.
DD: But this isn’t good news for me. One day I’ll be watching a movie or walking down the street, and, suddenly, I’ll go limp with a stroke.
KS: Maybe, but here’s the beauty of the genetic profiling. It’s not going to lead to a genetic determinism like that. You are not going to develop stroke, all right? You now know that you have three times the possibility of the average individual to develop stroke. So you have a strong incentive to take measures to prevent stroke. One of them is to make sure that you don’t have high blood pressure; one of them is that you will not smoke. One of them is you will drink alcohol only moderately, because intake of large amounts of alcohol, binges, increases dramatically the probability that you will develop a stroke.
DD: But this genetic profile for stroke has not been tested for Americans. You’ve just tested Icelanders. Right?
KS: Before you can get too excited as an individual, you have to do a clinical trial in the population where you can use it, like in the American population. But this is a fairly interesting example of how genetic profiling is going to impact the delivery of health care.
DD: How common is this stroke gene for Icelanders?
KS: In Iceland, this is a haplotype that you find in about thirty percent of patients with stroke. You find it in about fifteen percent of controls [those without stroke]. And then you say, “Wow, fifteen percent of controls with no stroke.” But this is an inheritable predisposition. We know this from our genealogical data. Of these fifteen percent, a large percentage will eventually develop stroke. But most of these people carrying this haplotype will not develop stroke.
DD: Those odds still make me want to go and have a drink.
KS: You cannot drink anymore.
DD: Did you find out anything else about my DNA? Or do I want to know?
KS: We tested your ancestry to see if the population data from Iceland is relevant to you. You told us your ancestors came from Scotland. In the Icelandic Sagas, they said that Iceland was settled by Norwegian Vikings who stopped in the British Isles and picked up slaves and women, in Ireland and maybe Scotland. And we decided to test you by looking at your mitochondrial polymorphisms [mitochondrial DNA exists in each cell, separate from the double helix of human DNA; polymorphisms are DNA in an individual that are different from the norm]. Remember, mitochondria is passed from mother to offspring. Then we looked at your Y chromosome—these both are fairly good measures of paternal and maternal lineage. When we looked at this, it turns out that when we compare it to all of Europe, about seventy percent of Icelandic mitochondria are Celtic.
DD: The Celts being Irish and British, among others.
KS: Yeah, and about seventy percent of Icelandic Y chromosomes are Norwegian. So it looks like Iceland was settled by Norwegian boys who grabbed British girls. This is important when it comes to your mitochondrial DNA, because if we look at the mitochondrial sequence number one, that people look at mostly for ancestry, we find out that you have a haplotype that is characteristic for Europeans. However, when we look at region two, there is this very rare haplotype found only in Iceland and the north coast of the British Isles. We found this haplotype in you.
DD: Uh-oh, then this stroke gene is relevant to me.
[Stefansson calls someone on the phone.]
KS: [Into the phone] I’m out of coffee and I’m in a desperate need because I’m talking to a very boring fellow. [To me] My eighteen-year-old daughter would have said, “boring dude.”
That night, I meet Stefansson for drinks at an Italian restaurant that served, among the usual pasta and veal, horse meat, apparently an Icelandic specialty. After drinking enough red wine to give me a stroke for sure, we walk up the main drag of Reykjavik—there is only one, though the bars, clubs, and restaurants are as sophisticated as any in the world. Icelanders travel incessantly and take back music, art, dancing—and genetics—from elsewhere, integrating with their own sensibility.
In one bar heads turn when Stefansson walks in. He’s a rock star here, the second most famous Icelander after the pop singer Björk. He towers over most people and is known by everyone. I step over to the bar to order beers, and two Icelandic women say hello. One of them says she is in love with Stefansson, the other is annoyed with him, because, as many Icelanders did, she bought deCode stock and watched it tumble when biotech stocks took a nose dive in 2001–2003. Stefansson comes over and is sullen—he’s had a long day, but we drink until 3:00 A.M. As he says good night—and it’s still light out—Stefansson tells me that drinking tonight will kill me, that I’ll have a stroke for sure by morning. I walk home through the eerie lightness, with the streets slick with dampness in the air, and the distant volcanoes black and steaming. I wonder whether I should believe him and ponder the bioluminaries I am talking to about bioengineering humans, extending life, and regenerating hearts and brains, wondering, Can they be trusted?
Emerson wrote that every age has its geniuses, its masterminds who propel humanity in a new direction, for good or evil—though he also said you need circumstances to bring them out. I believe that the time is now. The circumstances are here. The masterminds are in place. The Prometheuses are bringing in the fire, the Florentines are carving Davids, Faustus is talking to the devil, and the Los Alamos boys are building the bomb.
*See pages 145–46.
THE LANGUAGE OF BIOTECH: A Genetic Primer
Science has given us the means to create utopia and dystopia, incinerate and mutate ourselves, build elevators into space, and tinker with the Lego blocks of life. Yet most people blanche when they see terms such as deoxyribonucleic acid—better known as DNA. Stare at your left hand and, if you could see them, you would glimpse billions of deoxyribonucleic acid molecules tucked just inside the cells that make up your hand. The eyes you are using to stare at your pinky contain deoxyribonucleic acid. Your eyes were made according to instructions stored in you in those nucleotides, and they continue to see thanks to eyeball maintenance programs stowed in your DNA.
Try saying deoxyribonucleic acid. It’s not too hard, even if it sounds sciency. Die-ox-ee-ribe-o-nuke-lay-eek acid. DNA is a three-dimensional information-storage molecule—a collection of atoms joined together by chemical bonds—drawn by chemists as a two-dimensional figure on a page that looks like this:
DNA is composed of three materials: first, a microscopic hunk of sugar called a deoxyribose that is joined to a second component, a phosphate, that links the deoxyribose sugars. This sugar-phosphate “ladder” is the superstructure of DNA, its outer backbone supporting the third ingredient, the nucleic acids, also known as bases. These bases are much like the zeros and ones in binary computer code, except that instead of two elements to the code, DNA contains four bases: adenine (A), cytosine (C), guanine (G), and thymine (T). And instead of encoding programs on a computer, the sequence of these bases provides instructions to create and maintain a living organism.
Are your eyes already glazing? Well, think of this as learning to drink wine, which most people don’t like at first but keep trying until it becomes quite a nice sensation. Scientific concepts will not be quite so sweet, or dry, for most nonscientists. Nor will they give you a pleasant buzz. But having at least a rudimentary knowledge of the language and concepts of modern biology could save your life, or your children’s. It could prevent you or others from becoming unduly frightened of new discoveries that are safe or it could make you knowledgeable enough to be frightened of science that is not. If you can use a recipe to bake mustard-lemon halibut, or comprehend the difference between a concerto and a symphony, you can get this stuff. Absorb these ideas as you might the basics of how to write a haiku poem or a rock lyric, or read box scores in the sports section.
You don’t need to know how to say the chemical name for DNA to read this book, but it’s a little like reading a Dickens novel without really learning the names of Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, and David Copperfield. Granted, mitochondria, enzyme, and polymorphism lack the ring of Twist and Copperfield. They seem to have been decided on by scientists whose imagination did not include concocting snappy names, a misfortune that has hardly helped the cause of enlivening the scientific debate. Scientists, along with lawyers and engineers, have created over the centuries a complicated language that makes it easy for members of their science-speak caste to talk to one another, but sounds like mumbo jumbo to everyone else.
The story begins with a cell—the basic unit of life, the universe where most of the action takes place in the science part of this story. Nearly all life-forms are comprised of cells, either just one or, in the case of humans, about 100 trillion. Many cells contain a central glob called a nucleus filled with chromosomes, twenty-three pairs in humans, and various numbers in other organisms. In most of the living creatures you see (such as ourselves, mice, goats, fish, plants, starfish), these chromosomes contain two complete sets of the genome, one each from the organism’s parents—except sperm and egg cells, which contain only one complete set, and red blood cells, which have no nucleus. (There a few exceptions to this, but they are not important to understanding the concept.) The chromosomes are made out of DNA, which in a human consists of around 3 billion base pairs from each parent, for a total of 6 billion. The DNA is arranged in pairs like the rungs on a ladder, the rungs twisted elegantly into the famous double helix, discovered by Watson and Crick in 1953. If each base pair were the size of a letter on the page of this book, the strand would run from my office in San Francisco to my hometown of Kansas City, Missouri. Writing it all down in a book would take 500,000 pages.
These pairs are arranged in linear sequences of up to several thousand bases called genes—some thirty thousand of them in a human, and a few hundred of them in the simplest single-celled bacterium. (The exact number of human genes is still debated; there also are millions of base pairs that apparently do nothing, so-called junk DNA, though recent findings suggest that more may be going on amid this “junk” than has been previously realized.) The arrangement of the base pairs into sequences of As, Ts, Cs, and Gs is the basic code of life. Remarkably, DNA figured out eons ago how to replicate itself and to be read by the cell to perform functions. (Little is known about how primordial DNA molecules on the ancient Earth figured out how to copy themselves; efforts to piece together a mechanistic picture of how this happened have been ongoing since the 1950s). This is because each nucleotide is designed by evolution to pair with another specific nucleotide. As like to pair with Ts, and Gs with Cs. When DNA replicates it splits in half, with the assistance of certain proteins, with each strand of the double-helix ladder separating like a zipper unzipping. The exposed bases then have the ability to pair with complementary nucleotides. Processes in the cell then help seek out loose nucleotides floating around and chemically incorporate them into the growing DNA chain—As pair with Ts, Gs with Cs, and so forth, voilà, a new set of complete chromosomes.
DNA’s second mission is to carry the code used to create proteins, which are encoded by genes. Proteins are sequences of amino acids; they look something like a linear pearl necklace bunched up into a ball, with each pearl being a different amino acid (there are twenty different types of amino acids generally used in proteins). Even though humans are thought to have only 30,000 genes, our cells make many times that number of different proteins. Proteins are the key structural components of life and also serve as the machines that accelerate chemical reactions (if a protein accelerates a chemical reaction, it is called an enzyme). Proteins turn genes on and off, proteins recognize and eliminate invading infectious organisms, proteins unzip and help copy DNA. In short, life as we know it is largely handled by these elegantly designed protein nano-machines designed over the millennia by evolution.
Proteins wad up into specific three-dimensional shapes that interact with other three-dimensional shapes, including other proteins, the blobs often attracted to each other by chemical and electrical bonds that cause reactions that regulate everything from memory storage in a brain cell to tears in our eyes when we are sad. Each amino acid is coded by a three-base sequence. For instance, the amino acid alanine—abbreviated A—is coded by GCG, and the amino acid histidine—an H—is coded by CAC. So let’s say the gene sequence of my crooked toe starts with GCG, which makes an A, and then CAC, which makes an H. Then repeat GCGCAC six times. The resulting protein would have an amino acid sequence like this: AHAHAHAHAHAH, and on and on, depending on the sequence of the DNA.
Proteins are not made directly from the master code recorded on your DNA. Rather, they are manufactured with the help of an intermediary molecule called RNA that carries nucleotide instructions to direct the assembly of each protein molecule (a single RNA molecule can be used to direct the synthesis of multiple copies of the same protein molecule). Like DNA, RNA is composed of a linear sequence of bases, As, Cs, and Gs, but it has a U for uracil instead of a T. In a process called transcription, special proteins called RNA polymerases sit on top of a region of DNA containing a gene. These RNA polymerases then synthesize an RNA molecule based on the linear sequence of the gene. This special RNA molecule is called messenger RNA, and its sole purpose is to direct the synthesis of proteins based on its sequence. Messenger RNAs are assisted by ribosomes, a tiny protein assembly factory in the cell that is partly made up of RNA and partly made of protein. Its job is to chemically build proteins using the assembly instructions contained on the messenger RNA. Each three-letter base code in the messenger RNA designates a specific amino acid. Loose amino acids in the cell are recruited to the ribosome and chemically linked together into a growing protein chain. (Amino acids come from food we eat.)
Sometimes when genes are replicated, mistakes are made—a letter (base) is missing, or the order of bases is scrambled or duplicated too many times. These errors are mutations, which happen frequently, it seems—though how often is open to debate as certain researchers say the rate of mutation is constant, while others say it goes up and down based on whether or not an organism needs to mutate or not. Most mutations have a neutral effect, though some simple mutations—swapping an A for a G, for example, in a particular gene—can be fatal or helpful, by offering some sort of evolutionary advantage. The idea of mutation is one of the key tenets of Charles Darwin’s theory of natural selection, though he knew nothing about DNA—that mutations and differences in hereditary material from one generation to another account for adaptations that favor some organisms over others. For instance, at some point early humanoids figured out that by standing upright on the savannas of Africa they could see quarry to hunt or a hungry saber-toothed tiger bearing down on them. Those humanoids had a tiny difference in their DNA that allowed them to stand more upright than other humanoids did not get eaten, and therefore survived—along with the genes for uprightness.
Not all genes are found in chromosomes. A few live inside little structures within cells called mitochondria, which billions of years ago were parasites that entered primitive cells and became a crucial part of the cell’s energy-processing machinery. With a circular band of genes separate from an organism’s chromosomes, mitochondria provide most of the power to cells, helping convert food into energy.
Most base pairs—over 99 percent of them—are identical in every human, with only about one in a thousand bases diverging to make us distinct. These differences in the human recipe account for variations in everything from eye color to disease. They account for the differences between James Watson and a supermodel, an Olympic pentathlete with no hair and a math whiz with dreadlocks.
Most differences in humans involve just one set of base pairs called single-nucleotide polymorphisms—SNPs, pronounced “snips.” For instance, I might have a CG—an inherited mutation—that makes me susceptible to diabetes type II (non-in-sulin-dependent diabetes), and you might have a CC, which is more common and makes it far less likely that you will get this malady. But merely having the SNP for diabetes doesn’t condemn me to have diabetes. The relationship between having most disease SNPs and having a disorder is still not entirely understood, but it’s known that having a mutant SNP for most ills is only one factor in actually contracting the disease—there are other SNPs and genes that come into play that either increase one’s chances or decrease them. Environmental factors also play a role in triggering a rogue SNP. In this case, if I have the CG for diabetes I may need to lay off the Cheetoes and Snickers bars, since obesity is known to trigger the SNP for diabetes type II. Other SNPs—for hair color, height, and my crooked second toe on my left foot, which my father and my two boys both have—make people different from one another from the moment they form in the womb.
With the emphasis in the media on DNA, you may think that genes are everything in an organism. They are not. The double helix may be a beautiful symbol of dignity, fear, and hope, revolving as a giant mobile in the lobby of deCode in Iceland and as a model made by Watson and Crick that still sits in a glass case at Cambridge. But DNA itself is nothing more, or less, than a storage bank of information. On its own, it can do nothing. It’s an utterly passive strip of mathematics that can no more cause a reaction than a skeleton key can by itself open a lock on a door. Most of the business of biotech involves proteins—trying to understand them, their structures, how they work, how they can be turned on and off by drugs. When the environment triggers a genetic response, genes are activated or shut down as a result, but it is a protein or proteins encoded by a gene or genes that actually does the job in reaction to an outside stimulus.
The biotech and pharmaceutical industries are spending billions of dollars to design new drugs based on genomics, the use of genetics and genes to track the mechanics of which genes and SNPs cause disease. Some drug design is extremely crude. For instance, no one really knows why ramping up serotonin in Prozac makes people less depressed. Some medications are better understood—such as Lipitor, which reduces the amount of cholesterol in the blood by inhibiting the activity of an enzyme required for cholesterol synthesis. Many drugs also have side effects because the drug compounds interact with proteins other than the intended target or cause problems even when they adversely impact their intended target. A few people suffer from severe side effects or die, sometimes because their own genetics are different from the norm. Figuring out these differences in an individual’s genome is called personalized medicine. In the future, people will have their genetic profile tested so that drugs and other medical treatments, diet, and exercise can be custom designed for each person—called pharmacogenetics. At least this is the hope.
The same technology may also be used to enhance lifestyle—designer mood drugs, drugs to boost memory. It also may lead to genetic discrimination, a scenario described in the director and writer Andrew Niccol’s Gattaca as “genism.” In this 1997 film, the main character, played by Ethan Hawke, is a “natural”—naturally conceived—in a world where genetically superior individuals get the plum jobs and the perfect mates. We will talk more about this later.
Another potential method to treat inherited diseases would be to alter the genes themselves, the hereditary DNA in each person called the germ line. This would involve going into a fertilized human egg and replacing, say, the SNP for diabetes—the CG with a CC—by deleting the deleterious SNP and inserting a correction. Researchers routinely use germ-line modification to alter the genes of plants and animals. If you want to make a mouse fatter, you insert a gene that causes obesity. Or if you want to stop a cancerous tumor regulated by a certain gene, you can turn off the gene by removing it from the germ line. Human ethics and legitimate fears about what would happen if we permanently altered a person’s germ line, which could be passed on to offspring, have prevented this sort of tinkering from happening in humans, though some scientists believe that human germ-line modifications are inevitable.
This is the story so far. It’s the first chapter, or, more likely, the prologue, of a very long book.
1 PROMETHEUS Douglas Melton
There’s a natural fear of the unknown. On the
other hand, I think it’s uninteresting to live in
a society where one is so afraid of the unknown
that you won’t try new things.
—Douglas Melton
Harvard embryologist
Why did Prometheus do it? Myths about this god who gave fire to mortals against the express wishes of Zeus never explain his motive. But I’m going to make a guess. He had mortal children who were cold and tired of eating berries and gnawing on raw meat. And father Prometheus, who sat around Olympus with other gods warming his hands with glowing embers on cold nights, felt guilty. And that’s how we got fire.
Prometheus paid dearly. Zeus punished him for breaking a command to keep fire in Olympus by chaining him to a rocky crag, where his liver was eaten every morning by an eagle, only to grow back by the next morning, so the screeching bird could tear it out again.
The Harvard embryologist Doug Melton, fifty-one years old, makes no secret of his motive for pushing hard to develop a modern-day equivalent of fire—embryonic stem cells. These are special cells produced in the first days after an egg is fertilized that will develop into a heart, brain, skeleton, or any other part of the body of an organism. Melton wants to use stem cells to save his own children, fourteen-year-old Sam and eighteen-year-old Emma. They suffer from type I diabetes, which he hopes can be treated by understanding how stem cells grow into special cells called islets in the pancreas that normally produce insulin in a healthy person but shut down and stop functioning in a diabetic.
By extension, the cherub-faced Melton, with floppy, short, graying hair and round-rimmed glasses, hopes to save us all if he is successful in learning from stem cells how to cure his children, to spare them the organ failure, blindness, heart disease that eventually afflict many diabetics. If stem cells work as treatments, his work could be used to heal other illnesses, a list of maladies that afflict hundreds of millions of people around the world. That is, if Melton is allowed to continue his work by certain lawmakers in Washington, D.C., who today collectively play the role of Zeus.
1
Sitting in Melton’s office on a cool, bright spring day in Cambridge, I look at the faces of his children in photographs on his desk. Sam is lanky with short hair and a slightly awkward smile; Emma has long, dark hair and serious eyes. Now a college freshman, Emma once wrote in an essay that she wants to become an embryologist like her father. “I am also interested in becoming a member of Congress and petitioning for a cure that way,” she wrote. “I just hope she gets the chance,” says Melton. “In this, I am no different than any parent.”
Inside Sam and Emma and 1 million other in-sulin-dependent diabetics in the United States, the body’s immune system inexplicably attacks islet cells as it would a foreign invader such as a virus, an autoimmune response that destroys these cells’ ability to produce insulin. Insulin is an enzyme that helps transport sugars from the blood into cells for use as fuel. Without it, the sugars gum up in the blood vessels as sugar does in a gas tank, causing a patient with full-blown, in-sulin-dependent diabetes to go into shock and die. Most diabetics today are saved by frequent shots of synthetic insulin, though the balance between blood sugar and injected insulin is often a crude calculation. Almost all diabetics receive either too much or too little insulin at various times, a situation that can cause gradual damage to organs and muscles over the years. For Melton’s children, this imbalance may be an early death sentence, unless researchers can find a treatment or a cure for the islet dilemma. One of the most promising is for their father or another stem cell researcher to discover a stem-cell fix for pancreatic cells.
Melton’s resolve to give the embryological equivalent of fire to his children is evident from the floor plan of his office at Harvard. Unlike most senior science professors here and at other elite institutions, where offices of big shots often resemble the world headquarters of a company, or a nation, with staff, awards, and reprints of papers everywhere, Melton’s nondescript office is connected to a personal lab that is separate from his team’s main labs down the hall. His office has some of the expected awards and reprints, too, but as I sit with him at a small table near his desk, it’s clear where he would rather be. “I don’t want to waste any time,” he says, popping up to show me the small work station where he tries to tease out the mechanisms of how a stem cell makes the transformation into a pancreas.
Melton may be soft-spoken, but he has become a firebrand for his children, and for his science, openly defying the Olympians in Washington who oppose his research. Several times he has traveled to Washington to give testimony to Congress, especially after President Bush announced in August 2001 that federal funds for stem cell research would be restricted to sixty-four frozen embryonic stem cell lines already culled from existing embryos. These “lines” are special groupings of stem cells coaxed to replicate to produce more stem cells, and not to develop into other cells. These lines are critical for research, though acquiring them is controversial because the only source at the moment is to snatch them out of embryos grown in petri dishes, a process that causes the embryos to be destroyed. To some people, this is murder. To others, the embryos are simply a grouping of cells that are incapable of becoming human beings unless they are in a womb. As Melton and other scientists point out, thousands of embryos are discarded every year during in vitro fertilization procedures, though under the Bush rules, scientists using federal funds are banned from using them.
The president banned the development of further lines with federal funds, although the restriction does not affect private or statesponsored funding. Bush’s position sounded like a compromise, but it quickly became evident that the sixty-four lines did not really exist. The actual number of cell lines widely available to researchers has turned out to be far fewer, a stem gap that is hampering research paid for with U.S. money—the lion’s share of all funding for scientific research. Some of the approved lines are either in the hands of private entities, or have been tainted by mouse cells that make them unusable for human research. “There was this idea now that there are these sixty or seventy cell lines which the administration claims exist,” says Melton. “I think the number is closer to five to ten.”
Soon after President Bush announced his policy, Melton and others launched various crusades to get around the restrictions. At Harvard, Melton worked to assemble funding from the privately endowed Howard Hughes Medical Institutes, where he is a chief investigator, the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, and other nonfederal sources. In March 2004 Melton announced that he had developed seventeen new embryonic stem cell lines, available to any researcher who has access to nonfederal funds. He also is director of Harvard’s new stem cell institute, which has raised $100 million for stem cell research from private donors. In California, scientists, universities, and their political supporters sidestepped the Bush rules in November 2004 when voters passed a state referendum approving $3 billion in bonds to fund stem cell research at the state level—including research using embryonic stem cells. This referendum will fund stem cell research in California at $300 million a year for ten years.
Across the sea, the British Parliament has passed regulations allowing government-funded embryonic stem-cell research, with safeguards, which went into effect in 2003. Singapore, China, South Korea, and other nations are also vigorously moving ahead with stem cell research.
Researchers are a long way from using stem cells to cure Sam and Emma, or anyone else. Stem cells may never work as treatments for many diseases, though at the very least, says Melton, they will help scientists understand the basics of how organisms develop and why mistakes occur that cause people to suffer. Yet researchers hope that someday these microscopic blobs might be tweaked to grow into healthy aortas to replace cells damaged by heart disease, or into a pristine spinal cord for someone like the late actor Christopher Reeves, who was paralyzed when his backbone was shattered in a horseback-riding accident. Nancy Reagan has also talked about her hope that stem cells can regenerate cells in the brain damaged by Alzheimer’s disease, which killed her husband, the former president Ronald Reagan.
Researchers also experiment with adult stem cells, created in each of us throughout life by specific organs such as the skin, which uses these stem cells when they grow into specialized replacement cells. However, not all organs and bodily systems have adult stem cells, and even when they do, these cells are not always as useful in repairing and regenerating as embryonic stem cells that have the potential to differentiate into anything. In the summer of 2004, Melton announced the results of an experiment that indicates there are no adult stem cells to regrow islets in those who suffer from type I diabetes.
Before his children grew ill, Doug Melton was an ambitious young researcher conducting leading-edge research in developmental biology using frogs, though he was perfectly content with a high-profile position in academia, writing exceptional scientific papers and getting kudos from his peers. His forays into politics and the media began only after he discovered Sam and Emma had diabetes, when Melton made the switch into pancreatic stem cell research. “I’m an activist now, I guess,” he says, smiling shyly. Most of his testimony and appearances are on behalf of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, which also has helped to fund his new stem cell lines.
Melton has a calm, private energy compared to other more fiery egos who appear on these pages. He has an earnestness about his work, a sense of humility that is not feigned, and less of a restlessness and a need to accomplish fantastic feats for all to see. He is not trying to rankle people with grandstanding ideas or using science as a vehicle to fame and glory. With undergraduate degrees in both philosophy and biology, and a Ph.D. in molecular biology, Melton loves nothing more than a vigorous intellectual argument. This is how he likes to present his ideas, with a passionate, long-winded, fascinating discourse.
Later, Melton will surprise me by presenting in the form of intellectual “puzzles” ideas that most of us would consider out there, such as, What might happen if scientists inject human stem cells into a monkey embryo? What would grow? A human heart, brain, or toe? “Now, this won’t happen in the next few years,” he says, “or even in the next few decades. But that, to me, is a kind of new biology that I find a million times more interesting than these specious arguments over whether life begins at fertilization.”
I mention to him that these experiments might seem bizarre to many people, and he agrees, though he argues that they will become normal one day. “There was a time when surgery was abnormal,” he says, when it was considered a violation of the body as the sacred vessel of the soul. “I’m intrigued by this issue of what is normal and abnormal,” he tells me, indicating that his ideas of normal may be different from most people’s—and that, as many scientists do, he gets juiced up by imagining scenarios just beyond what is now possible. This is a crucial characteristic of scientists, that they need to live in a space at the leading edge of what is possible, operating within the outer boundaries of acceptable ethical norms, but also pushing these norms into potentially new territory. This is what Melton is talking about with his puzzles.
Hopefully, Melton’s work and ideas will not result in his being chained to a mountain with a daily assault on a vital organ by a giant predator bird. Indeed, his comments about human brains in monkeys were posed as Socratic suppositions about what is normal, and what is not. Yet I also think that given the chance, and if ethically it was allowed, he’d perform the experiment—out of curiosity, to save his kids, and perhaps, to usher us into a new age of fire.
2
A researcher in obstetrics and gynecology at the National University of Singapore, Ariff Bongso, first grew human stem cells in 1994. In 1998, the University of Wisconsin’s James Thompson isolated human stem cells for the first time. Yet scientists have known about stem cells in mice since the seventies. The original discovery in mice occurred when researchers were studying certain cancer cells, which they now know have many of the properties of a mouse’s embryonic stem cell that can grow into different types of cells. Melton says this promising line of research stopped, however, in the early eighties before a connection was made between what was going on in mice and humans.
“The field didn’t move forward at the time because of an historical accident,” he says, which was the discovery of recombinant DNA technology. This became all the rage and sidelined other research as scientists sought to learn about cell differentiation not through working with stem cells, but by recombining genes from different species, and also by removing, or “knocking out” genes in mice to see what impact all of this would have on a cell or organism. “It’s only now that people are going back to mouse [embryonic stem] ES cells, let alone human ES cells. And while they’re extremely useful for studying gene function in an animal, they also have their own inherent interest. Could you make body parts, tissues, ex vivo? That’s the field I’m very excited about, but we’re way behind.”
Since Bongso’s discovery in 1994, stem cells have ignited two firestorms. One is a creative fire, a breathtaking moment for Melton and other scientists, for whom a new world has been opened up for exploration that they believe will save countless Sams and Emmas. The other is political and ethical, the scorching debate that pits scientific optimists against skeptics who believe that this fledgling science may open up a Pandora’s box that could have unforeseen and catastrophic consequences.
For those who believe that life begins at conception, an experiment using embryonic stem cells is indeed a homicide. “We should not intentionally create life in order to destroy it, even for good purposes of scientific research,” says William Hurlbut, a Stanford physician and conservative bioethicist who was appointed by George W. Bush to sit on the President’s Bioethics Commission. He is not opposed to doing stem cell research, he says, just to acquiring the stem cells by destroying an embryo. “If we say that a human life in process should have a certain inviolable moral status,” he says, “then we protect ourselves against the dangers of both crossing a fundamental moral boundary and what other people call the slippery slope.” Hurlbut is closely connected to Catholic leaders and opposes abortion but says his convictions about the status of an embryo are based less on his religious convictions than on a fundamental belief that a line needs to be drawn to protect what it means to be a human.
Opposition does not arise from just the right-to-life camp. There are liberal secularists, too, who bring up Brave New World scenarios of baby farms where clones of you or me would be grown exclusively to provide spare parts—and farmed like a turnip or a chicken is now. Another fear is that stem cells will lead to designer babies engineered by using stem cells not merely to replace damaged cells in Melton’s children, but to add new cells designed to be supermemory cells, or super-muscle cells. The technoskeptic Bill McKibben frets that biotech companies and commercial interests are poised to patent stem cell discoveries, which may lead to biotech barons’ pushing stem cells and other bioenhancements on the public out of greed. “And they’ll be hard to police,” writes McKibben in his 2003 book Enough, “not only because they’ll contribute to political campaigns, but also because their work, day in and day out, won’t be dramatic enough to attract notice.” Many others who are not religious zealots or anticorporate warriors feel uneasy about the notion of creating a human embryo solely with the intention of harvesting its cells to benefit a full-grown human, though this unease may dissipate if cures are discovered.
A greater source of discomfort surrounds the use of cloning to create embryonic stem cells. Scientists believe that stem cells made from cloned DNA will work best to reconstruct spinal cords and liver cells in a specific person because the cloned cells are an identical genetic match and won’t be rejected by the body’s immune system. Rejection is currently a major drawback in transplanting hearts, kidneys, and other organs. Cloning also allows researchers to study how diseased cells develop in specific patients. To clone stem cells from, say, Sam Melton, a researcher would take Sam’s own DNA and implant it into a denucleated egg, which would hopefully grow into an embryo that contains Sam-specific stem cells capable of developing into pancreatic cells. These stem cells would be harvested and the embryo destroyed, although the embryo up until then could be placed inside a womb and theoretically taken to term, creating a full-scale clone of Sam.
Melton and other stem cell scientists insist that they have no intention of creating cloned human beings. But mistrust and fear of scientists and their motives lingers in a society that wants treatments and gizmos from science but fears its potential dangers and excesses. “I’ve had to face up to the fact that most of our society thinks of scientists as people who are likely to do something bad,” sighs Melton. “Either bad to make money for themselves, or to cause trouble in the Frankensteinian sense. And the fact is, scientists that I know are trying to do good for people.”
Rogue scientists and quacks have fed into the fear. In early 2003, a company called Clonaid claimed to have created a cloned human on behalf of a New Age sect called the Raelians, founded by a former race car journalist named Claude Vorilhon, a.k.a. Rael, who says that humans were cloned and brought to Earth long ago by aliens. When the baby failed to show up, and Clonaid refused to allow independent verification, their announcement was declared a hoax. More legitimate is the Italian embryologist Severino Antinori, who has claimed to be working to create a human clone in an undisclosed location. In February 2004, the cloning issue heated up when a South Korean research team led by Hwang Woo Suk of Seoul National University cloned thirty embryos of about one hundred cells each—by far the largest number grown to date. They then successfully extracted embryonic stem cells from one of the embryos. Stem cell advocates were ecstatic, while their critics pointed out that the Koreans could have planted their cloned embryos into a womb and attempted to grow a Xeroxed person. Also in 2004, the British government for the first time issued a permit under the Human Fertilization Authority for a team of scientists at the Center for Life in Newcastle to clone embryos to create stem cells.
Geneticists insist that reproductive cloning does not work well for animals, and that clones are prone to illness and a short life span. The clones also don’t look like replicates of the parent. They are genetically identical, but environmental factors in the womb cause the clones to develop different features. For instance, a company in California recently cloned a calico cat that was born with a different calico pattern from its genetic “parent.” “So little Bobby’s clone won’t look like the original Bobby,” the pioneering molecular biologist Sydney Brenner told me. “Besides,” he said in his dry South African – British accent, “I can find much more pleasant ways of reproducing children that do not involve cloning.” Yet someone will one day most likely clone a human being, if no one has already. The scientists say that the technology is difficult, possibly impossible, though they used to say cloning a sheep would be impossible—and then came Dolly in 1997. “That will be a disaster,” says Melton, “first for the child, but also for science, if the child ends up getting sick and dying, or becomes an object of revulsion and ridicule.”
The controversy over embryonic stem cells being a force of good or evil is as old as fire. The Promethean myth is not just about a sympathetic god who gives mortals fire. A cautionary tale about the dangers of delving too much into the mysteries of the gods, it also underscores the dual nature of scientific discovery—that fire is a potent tool for improving life but can also be a force of destruction. Cro-Magnon scientists undoubtedly pointed to fire and realized the possibilities: Charbroiled mammoth steak! Torchlight to paint bison on cave walls! Cro-Magnon skeptics agreed that mammoth kabobs were better barbequed than raw, but what if the flames leapt up in a gust of wind and razed the village, burning people alive? For aeons, the profire and antifire forces have seesawed back and forth as the prevailing viewpoint when new technologies and discoveries appeared. Fire is still rightly feared in certain forms, and we have strict laws about arsonists and others who abuse it. Yet humans long ago decided the basics about what’s useful and dangerous about fire. We have imposed sensible regulations on its use, striking a balance that we can only hope will one day prevail for the work of Doug Melton and his fellow fire-bringers.
3
Doug Melton grew up on the South Side of Chicago in a working-class home. His father managed a grocery store and his mother was a court reporter. He says he spent most of his time playing tennis and basketball and trying to avoid the violence and tensions in his racially charged public high school. “I went to a rather difficult high school,” he says. “It was right after Martin Luther King had been killed. There was that period of race riots. It wasn’t exactly what I would call a college preparatory school. It was a huge school on the South Side of Chicago—I think there were nine hundred students in my class, bigger than some colleges.”
Leaving Chicago for the University of Illinois, Melton discovered the world of the mind as a biology major. “For the first time in my life, I felt myself part of an intellectual world,” he says, and he loved it. Melton excelled at Illinois and won a Marshall Scholarship to study at Cambridge University in England, where he earned a second undergraduate degree in history and philosophy of science at Trinity College. He stayed on at Cambridge to earn his Ph.D. in molecular biology, working at the famed Laboratory of Molecular Biology (LMB) and training under the legendary geneticist John Gurdon. Gurdon’s breakthroughs in the fifties and sixties were key to the experiments performed by Ian Wilmut, the former Gurdon student who went on to clone Dolly the sheep. In the early sixties, Gurdon showed that by inserting a mature, differentiated frog cell into a frog egg stripped of its nucleus you could create an embryo that would grow into a clone of the original frog. Melton was also mentored by Sydney Brenner, then the head of the LMB.
In 1980, Melton left England for Harvard. There he launched his research on developmental biology, working to catalogue growth-factor proteins called morphogens that control the development of organs, including the nervous system. In one experiment, one of Melton’s postdocs, Hemmati Brivanlou, an Iranian raised in France, knocked out the action of the growth factor activin just after a frog egg was fertilized. The result surprised Melton and Brivanlou by shutting down the usual formation of the embryo, causing it to stall out. On closer inspection, Brivanlou realized that the lack of activin had stopped the development of a mesoderm, the layer of tissue that forms in an embryo that eventually develops into muscle, bone, and connective tissue. More astonishing was that nearly all of the cells in the failed embryo had turned into brain cells, simply by shutting down this single protein.
“For some years I studied what happens right after fertilization,” says Melton; “that is important for telling cells what to become, the problem of developmental biology. And among the areas we worked in were studies on a process called localized messenger RNA. So if you think about the egg as sort of a uniform ball, you put a messenger RNA on one end of the egg and when you cut up the ball, then only the cells at that end get that information. It’s a way of making one end of the egg different from the other.” That is, one end of the egg develops differently than the other end.
“Through studies like that, we’ve been able to show how the main so-called germ layers for the embryo are formed—ectoderm, mesoderm, and endoderm. And many people found interesting the hypothesis we put forth, which now seems to have even more experimental support: that the nervous system forms by a kind of default mechanism. It’s the easiest thing for the embryo to form. That was sort of surprising, because neurobiologists wanted to believe that neurons were the highest, most complicated types of cells.”
Melton also made his name with Hal Weintraub of the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center in Seattle as the first to report on antisense techniques. This process uses artificial nucleotides—bases that are created by scientists beyond nature’s A, C, T, and G—to shut down genes that cause disease by attaching synthetic “antisense” sequences to messenger RNA. These delivery vans of the cell can’t make their scheduled delivery to the ribosomes, which then don’t translate the melodious gene into the protein or reaction that causes the disease. During the late eighties and early nineties, the potential offered by antisense generated intense interest in biotech companies, and Melton cofounded Gilead, a biotech start-up launched to investigate whether compounds developed using antisense techniques would work as drugs. Unfortunately, antisense turned out to cause side effects—and Gilead went on to develop other drugs. “Antisense has never been used as a drug,” says Melton, “even though the idea’s an intriguing one.”
In 1991, Melton was happily working on basic developmental biology with his frogs when one November night Sam, then six months old, started vomiting. What at first looked like a virus grew worse. When Sam went limp, Melton and his wife, Gail, rushed their baby to the emergency room at Children’s Hospital in Boston. Sam was near death when doctors realized that he has diabetes, the youngest person ever diagnosed with diabetes at Children’s. Sam recovered, and his condition launched the Meltons on the regimen of keeping an infant diabetic alive—frequent blood tests, a closely monitored diet, and up to five shots of insulin a day.
“I was there when that happened,” said Melton’s former postdoc Hemmati Brivalou to author Stephen Hall in his book Merchants of Immortality, “and we went through a very scary period.” Melton stayed home from his lab for several weeks, until Sam was out of immediate danger. He then returned and gave an emotional talk to his team. He said that he would continue the lab’s work but would concentrate on finding a cure for his son and others like him. “Sam’s situation forced me to think more about how to apply biology; how to make a difference.” Melton invited venture capitalists and entrepreneurs to the lab and founded another company, Ontogeny, to work on molecular treatments for diabetes and other diseases. Ontogeny is now part of Curis. Melton also began to study how stem cells develop into healthy and unhealthy islet cells. Melton’s daughter was diagnosed later with having acquired diabetes when she was fourteen years old.
In 1999, a few months after James Thompson’s isolation of human stem cells, the issue of embryos and cloning broke into public consciousness as the Clinton administration and Congress grappled with how to handle the controversial new discoveries. Eager to help shape the debate, Melton and other leading embryologists went to Washington to testify in favor of moving ahead with stem cell research. In a pivotal Senate hearing held by the Labor Health and Human Services Subcommittee, chaired by Pennsylvania Republican Arlen Spector, he appeared on behalf of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. Speaking, he said, as a parent, Melton described the exhausting regimen of being the father of a seven-year-old diabetic. “I can’t recall a single night since Sam was diagnosed when we slept peacefully, free of the worry that the balance between his food, insulin and exercise was not good enough. I’m unwilling to accept the enormity of this medical and psychological burden and I am personally devoted to bringing it to an end for Sam and all type I diabetics.”
He told the senators that stem cells offered hope for Sam and others and described the promise for producing healthy islet cells that could be transplanted into a patient, or for producing bioengineered islet cells that would not be susceptible to an attack by a patient’s immune system. He talked about the ethical quandaries but said that he and the diabetes foundation “feel that appropriate safeguards can and should be established,” suggesting, as other proponents do, that stem cell research should be federally funded. Soon after, he joined a task force to help form the policies of the Clinton administration, which determined in 2000 that stem cells were not embryos under an act of Congress that forbids research on human embryos. The Clinton White House—and, presumably, a succeeding Gore White House—was poised to allow broad funding of embryonic stem cell research with safeguards when George W. Bush was elected. When the Bush administration at first failed to take any action on furthering stem cell research, Melton joined James Thompson and others in a lawsuit to force action, which was obviated when President Bush announced his stem cell policy in August 2001.
In 1990, the former president George H. W. Bush, the first Bush president, summed up the idea of scientific balance in a meeting of the National Academy of Sciences. “Science, like any field of endeavor, relies on freedom of inquiry; and one of the hallmarks of that freedom is objectivity.” Under his son, President George W. Bush, and the Republican-led Congress, the pendulum in the debate between objectivity and ideology has taken a different swing. In 2003, the House of Representatives passed a bill calling for a complete ban on all forms of human cloning. The bill lumped together embryonic cloning to create stem cells with reproductive cloning, which virtually everyone believes should be banned. Under the proposed legislation, Doug Melton and his colleagues would face up to ten years in prison and fines of at least $1 million for cloning embryonic stem cells. In the 2003–2004 Congress, the Senate’s version of the bill failed to muster enough votes to pass. Proponents of a full ban and criminalization have vowed to introduce the bills again in the current Congress, which includes added numbers of conservative Republicans who are likely to support this legislation.
In the United Nations (UN), the Legal Committee of the General Assembly in 2003 defeated by one vote a measure to recommend to the full assembly a ban on all cloning, deciding to reconsider the issue in two years. Had the ban initiative reached the floor of the full assembly, a United States – led coalition advocating the ban looked likely to win, as the Bush administration claimed to have the support of 100 of 191 members. Such a ban would be nonbinding, but should it pass, it would send a loud message. The UN briefly reconsidered the measure in 2004, spurred on by the Bush administration, but again decided to postpone a vote.
I ask Melton whether he ever thought he would be jumping into the middle of a politics maelstrom like this.
“No, I never really thought much about that. It’s related to the accident of my own family history.”
“What has the experience taught you?”
“I was so naïve about the political process,” he says, “about how important policy decisions are made. I found that shocking. So I started to speak out, particularly against bioethicists, who I think are self-appointed priests of certain political views, saying to them, ‘I don’t know why you think you have the right to say what is ethical and what isn’t, and that my own views should have as much validity as theirs.’ I find that when most people say ethics what they really mean is ‘moral,’” he adds, “and that it has to do with their religious beliefs. No one’s really trying to do unethical things.”
He is dismissive of most of the bioethicists appointed by Bush to the President’s Council of Bioethics, a committee that is supposed to base its decisions on scientific findings but has been criticized by Melton and others for undue partisanship. He finds the chairman of the council, the University of Chicago physician and bioethicist Leon Kass, to be “extremely political.” Kass is a strident opponent of many genetic therapies that might be used to enhance or alter humans. He opposes efforts to extend life span by using genetics, and although he supports some stem cell research for medical treatments, he opposes the destruction of embryos to secure stem cells.
I ask Melton what he thinks the role of government should be for something like stem cells.
“I think the government needs to create the conditions for what I would call an informed debate,” he says. “And it’s not easy for someone sitting in my position to say that without sounding arrogant, but the simple fact is that our Congress doesn’t often think about the things that they’re trying to legislate on. They don’t educate themselves on what is the basic biology. And I can give numerous examples. A wonderful question was asked to people who are writing legislation on AIDS, if they know the difference between a cell and a virus. Most didn’t.”
4
In Melton’s office he shows me his personal bench, telling me it’s a little unusual for a principal investigator in a large lab to do basic experiments. Typically, these are done by graduate students and post-doctoral students. He also points out that he intentionally has no windows here to prevent distractions. He tells me that the lab is using frogs, chickens, and zebrafish, but primarily mice for their experiments. The lab has tracked the phases of development of a pancreas from embryonic stem cells that form the endoderm and then go through a complicated series of steps involving the activation of genes and proteins that cause different organs to develop according to a programmed schedule in their DNA. Melton says that researchers have learned a great deal but still don’t know all of the genes and steps needed to drive stem cells from their undifferentiated state to fully formed islet cells.
“What are you actually doing in your lab?” I ask.
“In here now, mostly what we’re doing is trying to turn embryonic stem cells into pancreatic beta [islet] cells that make insulin,” he says. “And so we do that with two approaches: one is to take the human ES cells and just try to make them do that, and the other is to study how mice and chickens and frogs normally make a beta cell, and then use that to inform our thinking about humans.”
“So you actually have some stem cells right here in this lab?”
“They’re in the incubator down the hall.”
“And you’re using private money?”
“It’s a mix. I’ve had Howard Hughes money but more than half my lab’s funding comes from the federal government. But we’re not allowed to use the federal funds on these human ES cells.”
I ask him why he thinks people fear this sort of research.
“I think that’s a deeply interesting subject. What is the source of that fear and maybe to take a digression on it, I would tell you that my own view is that there is an innate fear to crossing boundaries; people feel secure with boundaries. Why have ideas of chimeras fascinated man for millennia? Minotaurs and mermaids? Why is that so intriguing? If you think about it, the whole idea of classifying animals, which must have been invented in about the eighteenth century, that you could find a thing called ‘species,’ gave one a sort of stamp of approval on the idea that there is a natural order, there are boxes, there are shelves where everything has its so-called natural place. What is natural and what is antinatural changes with time, and is a very difficult subject. I’m thinking of offering an undergraduate course on the concept of nature.”
“But you now have the ability to create real chimeras—a human brain in a dog, or something,” I say. “This is upsetting to some people.”
“People get the heebie-jeebies when you talk to them about putting a human brain into a dog,” says Melton. “In fact, I would suggest that there are two contexts where I think there might be an interesting connection. There is something like a natural double-take when you see a person who’s seriously deformed. People mostly say, when you see a burn victim or a person who’s had an arm amputated, that the reason you’re drawn to look, or to stare, at these poor people is the fear that it could happen to you. I actually think it’s something deeper than that. I think it has something to do with an affront to this idea of the natural order of—that person doesn’t fit into this box. I hate to say this, and it might get me into trouble, but that’s what I suspect.
“Look at the literature about science,” he says. “What was the significance of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein? Why was Frankenstein considered an important book? Certainly not in the same way we think of Harry Potter as some kind of cheap science fiction. It wasn’t just science fiction. It was, in my view, because it addressed what is the essence of being human.
“So this relates to—if I can get this back to where I started—we were talking about ES cells and why the nation is so excited about where they come from. This issue is one that I have of necessity delved into quite a bit. It would take too long to talk about the various religious views of why one should isolate ES cells and not and whether cloning should be allowed.”
“Have you written about that?”
“No, but I have to talk publicly about it often, like with Catholic priests and with the Board of Overseers of Harvard. So I actually have educated myself quite a lot on the various religious views. I don’t really want to get into it, and the reason is I don’t think it’s fundamentally interesting. It largely has to do with the trivial concern of trying to put a tag on when life begins. What I do think is deeply interesting is this issue of chimeras. So bear with me for a minute on a couple of very broad themes that I think human ES cells opened the door to.”
I nod as he shifts from biologist to impassioned philosopher.
“Let’s say that, at a minimum, there are two areas of behavior in which our government spends an enormous amount of money. Both of them indirectly struggle with the question of whether phenotypes for the final product is a consequence more of nature or more or nurture. One of these is public education. So if you think about the whole philosophy of it, the idea which I think is a commendable one is that everyone has equal potential, and given equal opportunity will produce results. The other has to do with criminal behavior. I heard on the news this morning that for the first time now, two million people—one percent of our population—is incarcerated. It’s a number I find fascinating.
“In the book Madness in Civilization, by Foucault, he says that one way to characterize a society is to hold a mirror up to it. And that mirror is, who does the society contend is nuts? It’s a very interesting thesis. You learn more about the reflection of a society not by talking about their kings and queens and the middle class, but whom the society is fearful of. Because that defines them in a way. So if you were to accept this—and I can think of better examples—that the government spends wads of money addressing indirectly this question of nature and nurture through incarcerating people. Now, is this our genotype driving this, or our environment?
“Now bear with me as I tell you two kinds of experiments that will give hard numbers on what I’m saying. I’m not suggesting that this will answer the question. What I’m saying is it’s going to give hard, factual information that will be useful. So the first one is these identical twin studies done with humans that were separated at birth. I find that fascinating, principally because it says there’s more to the genes than you want to imagine.* And now let’s do an experiment where we clone animals so we have twins, genetically identical individuals. And let’s take an animal that has interesting behavior. It’s hard to argue that gorillas and/or chimpanzees don’t have behaviors that are very similar to humans.
“So that’s what I want my experiment to be. To clone gorillas or chimpanzees. It’s expensive, but that’s why I introduced it with the cost we spend on prisons. And now we have behavioral tests, and I don’t actually care what the tests are. In the identical twin studies, they were ‘what’s your favorite color?’ Which is a very interesting question because it’s so meaningless and stupid, and yet the fact that identical twins had an 80 percent correlation coefficient on that, even though they’d been separated at birth, I find fascinating. So let’s take gorillas. What do they like to eat better, bananas or mangos? How do they do that test? How did they do on visual acuity?
“So what you get as a result of that is numbers, hard numbers on the extent to which behavior is modified by a gene. Now, for the more interesting experiment. We take a human ES cell and we inject it into a monkey blastocyst [the first cells in a newly formed embryo]. Now you know that if you take a mouse ES cell that is, say, labeled so all of the developed cells will be blue, and you inject it into a mouse blastocyst, you’ll get a chimera where different parts of the mouse will be derived from the injected ES cell. So it might have a blue liver and some blue muscle cells, and that’s what I mean by a chimera.”
“That’s something you do today?” I ask.
“Yes. But now let’s do it with the human ES cells into a monkey, and we make chimeras. This is different from cloning now. We’re purposely trying to make a chimera—one hundred chimeras from one hundred monkeys. And now we’re going to look through their bodies and we’re going to look to see what parts of the body the human ES cell makes. Now, there’ll be a monkey where the only thing that was made that is human is the big toe. That’s completely uninteresting; no one will argue about that. No one will say that’s an experiment you shouldn’t do. And then we’ll have a monkey with a human heart. Three centuries ago, if we found a monkey whose heart was human, people would have freaked out because the seat of the soul was the heart. Now, no one really thinks that.”
He’s talking very fast now, and I’m trying to keep up, though I think he just said that no one would object to growing a human heart in a monkey. I consider this, and decide that I am okay with this in terms of trying to come up with, say, a heart for transplant into someone’s grandmother who will die because there currently aren’t enough hearts available. But Melton is already plowing ahead with his hypothetical experiment to create chimeras out of stem cells, and I’m wondering how far he will go with an idea that is already treading close in many people’s minds to Frankenstein territory with this talk about human toes and other body parts growing on, and inside, monkeys.
“But the brain is different,” he is saying. “These days, if we’re forced to pick a body part where our soul is, we say it’s connected to our mind, which is connected to our brain. And that comes back to this idea of what is natural, because that’s a relatively recent thing. So now, we have our hundred monkeys; one of them has a blue big toe; another one has a human heart. But now the interesting part of the experiment is that we can make chimeras which have different parts of our human brains, and different parts of a monkey brain.
“And one of the first level questions we might ask is, What part of a monkey has to be human in order to have speech?” He is very animated now. “I find it really intriguing, as in the movie Planet of the Apes, to walk into a lab here at Harvard and have one of the monkeys say to you, ‘Hello.’ That makes you wonder immediately, what does this monkey think? So what you want to first know, is this just mimicry, like a parrot? And it gets back to Wittgenstein, who talked about, what is the relationship between language and thought? So you ask me what am I excited about, that’s it.”
He pauses for air, and I tell him I was with him up to the point where the monkey is linking thought and speech. “I have to admit that this would give me the heebie-jeebies,” I say. “A human brain in a monkey that is conscious, it would be a horrible freak, worse than the Elephant Man.”
“I’m not suggesting that this chimera would have the intelligence of a human.”
“But how do you know it won’t?”
“It’s an interesting question; I find it highly unlikely that this would happen. I don’t think it would. There would be just parts of the brain that were human.”
“It still sounds potentially dangerous,” I say.
“You know, people once thought cutting into the body was a sin,” he says. “Now it’s normal. That’s what I’m saying. Let me put it another way. I introduce you to a young woman, and you like her, and then I say, ‘David, she’s actually a test-tube baby.’ Would you recoil in repulsion, thinking it was unnatural? People thought this would happen. And it relates back to talking about what I said, that decades ago the heart was the seat of the soul and no one thinks that now. My point is that what we consider to be natural is largely a function of time. And that society’s increase in knowledge and practices and beliefs can have a serious effect on what’s natural. So if you look at the argument about why one should not isolate human embryonic stem cells from leftover fertilized eggs, they are conflicted by the tortuous politics in this country of abortion on the one hand, by an enormous confusion on the answer to the question, ‘When does life begin?’
“And superseding all of that is the idea of what’s natural. Natural childbirth, natural conception, natural, natural, natural. Now let me say two things to you about this. One is, what I find people don’t ask themselves about enough is, if everything is supposed to be about controlling man’s intervention, why do people take antibiotics? Because that forces people to think about, what is their idea, what is a natural event and what is man’s dominion over natural events.
“Now let me explain a trick, a kind of philosopher’s game about natural conception. If you look at the legislation that’s been proposed in most countries, they have to rule out the problem of making a genetically identical individual as a reason to ban cloning, because of the existence of twins. If you didn’t do this, you would be obliged to kill one or two twins. So they have to rule out that line of argument, because it doesn’t make any logical sense. So what they’re left with is that it’s medically unsafe, which is absolutely true. I suggest to you that this reason is really a surrogate for a fear of doing something where they don’t know the consequence, by which I mean they are afraid, and I’ll tell you why. Here’s my puzzle. Right now, in natural childbirth, a certain percentage of all natural fertilization events end in something we call ‘diseased’ or ‘abnormal.’ So if you go to MGH [Massachusetts General Hospital] over here, for a certain small percentage of all children, the child has a heart defect problem. So now let’s look ahead: Fast-forward two generations from now, and I will contend that it will be possible, by medical advances, to make cloning by nuclear transfer safer than natural childbirth. That the cloned embryos will now have a defect rate, let’s call it, of less than one percent.”
“When will that be?”
“I’m not saying this will really happen, but let’s say twenty years from now, or two generations from now. I don’t know. But here’s the point. Let’s suppose the failure rate is now below what you and I call the ‘natural birth’ rate. Here’s the puzzle. Would the government then be justified in telling the population you can no longer create children by what you and I call ‘natural’ childbirth, because the probability of defect is higher than it is by cloning?”
“But there are methods being developed where you could repair those defects.”
“That’s right. But there is another point, which comes up in my discussions at the Catholic Church: There is something I think you call ‘natural abortion’—where biology removes fertilized events by not allowing them to implant.”
“You mean spontaneous abortions, or miscarriages.”
“Yes. I have a hard time finding the number because books seem to give different numbers, but people have agreed on a surprisingly high number. If you take one hundred fertilized eggs, let’s say only 20 percent of them are going to implant and make a baby. Of the fertilization events, most of them fail. If that’s true, the Catholic Church has a major problem that they fail to face up to, if life begins at fertilization. There are thirty million Catholics in the United States. If you said that 1 percent of them tried a mating event tonight, that’s three hundred thousand. And if 80 percent of those died, that’s two hundred forty thousand deaths of souls for which they should be holding a funeral tomorrow. And when I pointed this out, they find this to be a puzzle that they don’t know how to answer. One answer is that this is God’s will, and that’s fine, but then that gets you into this really complicated business of, Is it not then God’s will to have a person like me wanting to work on human embryonic stem cells?”
5
Melton presented the chimeras and clones as intellectual “puzzles” and has no plans to implement these notions. He makes it clear that he has no interest in experimenting on humans. Yet he would not be opposed to the chimera experiments if they were considered ethical and were allowed.
I wonder whether monkeys with human brains will one day seem as normal as heart surgery does today, or whether cloning will ever actually be preferred to “natural” childbirth. Melton’s obsession with “normal, normal, normal” is an intriguing one, because normality does keep shifting with new scientific advances and has since at least the day that Prometheus gave us fire—which must have radically shifted what was “normal” those many millennia ago. Also driving the issue of what is normal is Sam and Emma, whose father wants what any parent craves—to save his children from suffering. Yet as Bill Hurlbut of Stanford asks, How far do we want to go down the slippery slope? Or, as George Whitesides has said, Is there a possible scientific path that scientists could go down, but shouldn’t—when they should just say no? When one of the gifts offered by Prometheus is simply too dangerous, or too abnormal, as Melton would say?
In this sense, Doug Melton is simply another figure in an ancient question of whose normality is really normal with new science and technology, and whose is not. Ethics aside, I have to admit to a certain curiosity about what Melton would get in his human-monkey chimera. Perhaps the beginnings of a superrace of primates unimagined even by Michael Crichton, or a few poor horrific wretches that would be true Frankenstein creatures, wandering the Earth seeking revenge against their creators.
Later, on the phone, I ask Melton again whether he sees any dangers in stem cells, and chimeras, and the like. Is there a time when he would ever say no or halt an experiment?
“I don’t know what will come of this,” he says. “On the other hand, I think it’s uninteresting to live in a society where one is so afraid of the unknown that you won’t try new things. I’ll think about the dangers, because I haven’t thought about them enough. I should think about why one shouldn’t do that experiment.”
*In various twin studies, twins separated at birth or early in life manifested differences in how they acquired diseases and traits despite having identical DNA, suggesting that both environment and genes determine outcomes.
2 EVE Cynthia Kenyon
In principle, if you understood the mechanisms
of keeping things repaired, you could keep
things going indefinitely.
—Cynthia Kenyon
Cynthia Kenyon wants to live to be one hundred and fifty years old, if she’s young and engaged in life. “Who wouldn’t?” She asks in a breathless whisper, telling me that humans might be able to live a very long time, if not forever.
Kenyon’s long, angular face is framed by straight blond hair parted in the middle. She talks excitedly, waving long, graceful fingers as her words spill out almost too fast to follow about how her lab at the University of California at San Francisco (UCSF) has increased the life span of tiny worms called Caenorhabditis elegans an average of six times normal by suppressing a single gene. This regulator gene, she tells me, in combination with other genes appears to control an entire symphony of genes that direct aging not only in worms, but in similar genetic pathways in flies, mice, and, possibly, humans.
This is the equivalent of people living for four hundred years, she says, adding that there is more good news coming from her millimeter-long lab animal of choice. Our worms stay young for most of these extended life spans, she says.
“You mean this is a Fountain of Youth gene?”
She nods, delighted that I have made this connection. Yet I don’t know what to make of a woman who has just told me that I or my children might live into the twenty-fourth century. I remember a mid-seventeenth-century poem written by Andrew Marvell about growing old, “To His Coy Mistress”:
But at my back I always hear,
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall be no more found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity.
This is the poet’s attempt to persuade his lover to make up her mind about having sex with him, because life is short, and they both might grow old and die at the rate she is going. But what if life weren’t short? What if what works on Kenyon’s worms really will work in humans?
One outcome would be that a modern-day coy woman would be able to put off her would-be lover for decades, or even centuries—and would require a rewriting of Marvell’s lines to something like this:
Take your time, my coy lass,
Time’s winged chariot won’t pass,
For three or four hundred years, if ever.
1
Cynthia Kenyon talks with the slightly exaggerated facial expressions of someone telling and receiving juicy gossip—expressions of “Oh my gosh!” And “No way!” Her voice is soft and light, and she frequently says “cool” and “neat.” Yet her enthusiasm is infective. “Life’s too short to not be around nice people,” she says, this woman who is delving into the mechanisms of how to make life considerably less short.
As we talk—and she talks very quickly, as if she won’t have time to say everything she wants even if she lives for four hundred years—she offers me peanuts. I take a couple of nuts as Kenyon instantly shifts the topic we are talking about—she does that often—and explains to me that she has totally changed her diet, eliminating most sugars, including those found in processed flour. Hence the peanuts. An experiment with her tiny worms is responsible, she says; that experiment proved that sugar switches on a genetic sequence that increases the amount of insulin produced by the organism, and also shortens its life span. For Kenyon, this was startling because it fit with her lab’s previous discovery that decreasing the amount of insulin in the body extended the worm’s lifespan. “It was a revelation,” Kenyon says. She also drinks red wine and green tea, which her lab and others have shown help repair cells and contribute to an increased life span.
Kenyon’s talk about immortality and a diet based on the molecular biology of a millimeter-long nematode make one wonder whether she had spent too much time at organic Zen retreats in California’s Big Sur. Either that, or this is the sort of con job perpetrated on the gullible conquistador Juan Ponce de Leon five hundred years ago when natives in La Florida assured him there was a fountain with rejuvenating waters; all he had to do was go back on board his ships and sail to a different part of Florida far away from their villages. But Kenyon is serious. Her title alone tells you this: the Herbert Boyer Distinguished Professor of Biochemistry and Biophysics at UCSF. She trained at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) and at the LMB in the United Kingdom at the same time Doug Melton was there. Kenyon trained directly under the legendary Sydney Brenner, the “father” of C. elegans research. In the sixties, Brenner had chosen this tiny creature to use as a model to figure out how genes work in a simple organism. With fewer than one thousand types of cells and a minimal number of genes for an organism with a simple nervous system and other key organs, C. elegans has the added advantage that it is translucent—its heart, neurons, and other innards can be clearly seen through a microscope.
For two decades, Brenner toiled over this little roundworm, which gave him great insight into the workings of other organisms, such as humans. Brenner also trained dozens of young scientists at the LMB, including Kenyon, to help unfold the secrets of its genetic mysteries. In 2002, Brenner won the Nobel Prize for his work with the worms; along with two former students, John Sulston and Robert Horvitz. Nobel watchers see Kenyon as a contender for the big prize if her research holds up in higher mammals. Kenyon’s work also has attracted commercial investors. In 1999, Kenyon cofounded a company with her fellow longevity expert Leonard Gaurente of MIT and Cindy Bayley, a founder of Kari Stefansson’s company, deCode. Appropriately named Elixir, the Boston-based company has raised $36.5 million to see whether they can turn her research and that of others into a true Fountain of Youth in a pill. Some say such a pill is decades away, or impossible, and Kenyon herself admits that none of this may work with humans. But she is hopeful.
I met Cynthia Kenyon in 2003, when she had extended the life span of worms by only twofold. At that time, she had just moved her lab from the main UCSF campus to the university’s new silver-skinned lab complex at Mission Bay, a stretch of land in south San Francisco being revitalized beside the bay where a sprawling navy shipyard and warehouses used to be. In her office is a copy of Alice in Wonderland and James Watson’s classic textbook The Molecular Biology of the Gene, along with other textbooks and journals about worms. Hanging on the wall is a framed one-page article about Kenyon from Glamour, a question and answer column called “Women Right Now.”
“Might there be a way to put off physically aging for an extra few decades?” asked the columnist Judith Newman.
“Maintaining youthful beauty longer—wouldn’t that be great!” answered Kenyon. “All I can tell you for sure is that my worms not only acted younger, they looked younger. So you can draw your own conclusions. One thing that’s likely: How you look as you age is hereditary. Some of my family members, for example, look younger than their real age. And people have mistaken me for thirty, even twenty-five.”
“How old are you really?” asked Newman.
“I’m a hundred and fifty.”
Kenyon frequently appears in the media, combining a rare ability among scientists to communicate effectively with nonscientists with a truly fantastic story. Before she worked on aging, she told the writer Stephen Hall, author of Merchants of Immortality, hardly anyone outside the scientific community paid attention to her work. But as soon as the aging work began, she was inundated. “Night and day, night and day,” she told him. “The public is absolutely fascinated by aging. They don’t want to get old. And you can see—read Shakespeare. Read the sonnets. They’re all about aging.” I mention to her my concern about Marvell, and the difficulties poetry might face if the issue of aging and growing old was extended off into the distant future. She stops for a moment, smiling and thinking, a mannerism that says she hadn’t really thought about that. Then she has an answer: “We’ll write new poems.”
I’m still skeptical until I see the evidence with my own eyes in a video on Kenyon’s computer monitor: A normal, three-day-old worm in the prime of life, a C. elegans, is wriggling in a gelatinous broth of nutritious bacteria. At thirteen days in this worm’s normal life span it is sluggish, its head barely stirring as death approaches. The next images show the mutant worm tweaked by Kenyon to suppress or “knock down” the regulator gene called daf-2. At the ripe age of twenty-five days, the worm is still squirming away. “This video says more than twenty Nature articles,” says Kenyon.
Her original research announcing the doubling of the worm’s life was published in Nature in 1993. Until her discoveries, scientists were unaware of these genes’ role in regulating the highly complex process of aging, which involves hundreds, possibly thousands, of individual factors in cells and organs. Her surprising findings launched Kenyon on a decade-long quest to try to extend life span further, which culminated in an even more startling event in 2004, when Kenyon announced that her team had tweaked their worms to live an average of 125 days—the same as humans living for four centuries. Put another way, if this elongation of life works for us, Sir Isaac Newton, Cardinal Richelieu, and the poet Andrew Marvell—along with his coy mistress—might still be alive.
To prove the youthfulness of her long-lived worms, Kenyon has developed a number of tests, including an analysis of worm tissues and cells that measures youthful traits. The 125-day worms did not show any of the telltale signs of decrepitude and frailty until the very end of their extended life. They remained vigorous, wiggling happily in their gel, as shown in Kenyon’s videos. In human terms, this would mean a person would remain young for decades, growing old very slowly. It also suggests a radical new method for treating maladies of aging such as Alzheimer’s, Huntington’s, and some cancers, which might be put off or eliminated if youth is extended. “Age is the single largest risk factor for an enormous number of diseases,” says Kenyon. “So if you can essentially postpone aging, then you can have beneficial effects on a whole wide range of disease.”
Other researchers have conducted versions of Kenyon’s agebending experiments to increase the life spans of flies and yeast—and, far more significantly for humans, of mice. Conducted by Martin Holzenberger of the French Biomedical Research Agency and independently by Ron Kahn at the Harvard Medical School, the mouse tests genetically coaxed mice to live 33 percent longer than normal. These experiments are still very early, says Kenyon; she expects mouse years to be extended considerably longer as the researchers improve their techniques. The mice research is crucial because these mammals are genetically much closer to humans than are squirmy worms. The work on mice and other creatures also supports Kenyon’s contention that old assumptions about life spans being fixed for each organism might be wrong. She believes that life span may be regulated by relatively simple genetic mechanisms that can be turned up (or down) by evolution almost as a volume knob is on an iPod.
Kenyon’s research suggests that the gene daf-2 controls possibly one hundred or so other genes that impact important mechanisms in the worm for maintaining longevity. “You can think of daf-2 as the orchestra conductor, leading the flutes, and the violins, and the cellos, each doing a little bit. So they play in concert,” she says. “But what’s neat is what they do.
“Some of the genes function as antioxidants—they stop the damage done to worm cells by free radicals.” Free radicals are chemical by-products of cell metabolism, mostly created by the burning of oxygen, that wreak havoc on a cell’s mitochondria, DNA, proteins, and enzymes by stealing electrons. Deprived of electrons, molecules then start snatching them from each other in a vicious chain reaction. Cells counterattack with free-radical-scavenging enzymes called chaper-ones and other damage-repair mechanisms. Over time free radicals and other environmental toxins—such as ultraviolet light, heat, and radiation—can overwhelm the cell’s defenses, allowing the toxins to tear up DNA, rearrange and delete genes, and initiate either runaway cell growth (cancer) or cell death. Free radicals contribute to human illnesses from emphysema and some cancers to Parkinson’s disease and vascular disorders. The daf-2 in worms and similar genes in humans seem to be involved in repressing the synthesis of free-radical-scavenging enzymes.
Other genes in the daf-2 “orchestra” include those that help repair damaged proteins and those that fend off bacteria that can cause infections. “Still others affect metabolism,” Kenyon says. “They affect fat transport and food utilization [by the cells] and things like that.”
Kenyon explains that the daf-2 gene allows cells to respond to worm hormones that are similar to the human hormone insulin, which is best known for regulating how the body processes food, and insulin-like growth factor 1 (IGF-1), another hormone that influences growth. In humans and in mice there are three genes whose functions resemble those of a worm’s daf-2 gene. One of them allows cells to respond to insulin, another allows cells to respond to IGF-1, and the third has an unknown function.
I ask how one gene—or perhaps three genes in a human—can control so much. “Maybe because that way you can make big changes in life span all at once,” she says. “I believe this was a part of early evolution. It turns out that the daf-2 circuitry also allows the animal to withstand environmental stress.” She explains that in worms, daf-2 is naturally suppressed in larvae during times when food is scarce and other stresses are present, and that suppression puts the worm in a dauer state, a kind of suspended animation that greatly slows aging and development until the stress has passed. Kenyon discovered that suppressing this gene after the worm has reached adulthood triggers life extension, but not in the dauer state. “This mechanism probably evolved to cope with these stresses,” she says, “but once it existed it could also drive extensions of life span during evolution. This could happen by mutations that change the regulatory genes, like daf-2. Now the conductor makes the whole orchestra play forte instead of pianissimo. You see? Having everything under one system made this relatively easy to do.
“The first organism, which gave rise to all life, probably had a very short life span,” she says. “But once this machinery was in place, organisms evolved to use the regulators to make big changes in life span, which also gave them advantages. For instance, humans live a thousand times longer than worms. Some creatures, such as the Galapagos giant tortoise and some species of lobsters, live to over a hundred and fifty years old. It’s possible that the tortoise might live considerably longer if not for predators.”
And what about humans?
“It’s possible that we could change a human gene and double our life span. I don’t know if that’s true, but we can’t rule that out. I think that the difference between the life spans of different species may boil down to the activity of master regulator genes, like the daf-2 receptor. We also discovered that downstream from daf-2, the hormone receptor, is another important gene, a master transcription factor called daf-16, which binds to the many downstream genes and turns them on and off. So I bet it will be changes in those genes. And also fine tuning of the downstream genes, the chaperones, antioxidants, and the rest. I doubt that humans have special genes for longevity that the worms don’t have.”
But these organisms are quite different from humans, I say.
“That’s why it’s so exciting that these experiments are working in mice, in mammals. In mice, two different research groups have shown that the homologues [similar genes in two or more species descended from a common ancestor] of daf-2 control mouse life span. Normal mice have two copies of the gene for the IGF-1 receptor, just as humans do, one copy they got from their mother and one from their father. So what one research group did was to knock out one copy. So now they have mice that have half as much receptor as normal, and they found that the mice live longer. The other group took mice and completely removed the receptor for insulin. Not IGF-1, but the insulin receptor, from the fat tissue, which is known to be an active hormone-producing tissue. They removed the insulin receptor from this tissue and extended life.
“If you trick the body into thinking it’s young, and it’s constantly replenishing everything, every cell,” says Kenyon, “it’s like building a ship where you could replace all of the parts and keep it going forever. The catch, the BIG catch, is that there might be things you couldn’t do, you couldn’t replace. Who knows?”
I ask her whether there are any side effects.
“Not for those mice, they were lucky mice. They lived longer, and they didn’t get fat. That’s great. That’s the kind of thing we’re trying to do.”
I tell her this seems too easy. There must be a catch.
“We’re so used to thinking that you can’t get something for nothing. But why would that be true? Humans live a lot longer than dogs, and we don’t suffer any penalty that I can see. We’re superior in almost every way—they can smell better. But really, they can’t drive cars, they can’t do half the things we can. I don’t understand why you can’t live longer and be really fit. Like our long-lived worms.”
I ask Kenyon about the ultimate issue—immortality.
“I think that it might be possible. I’ll tell you why. You can think about the life span of a cell being the integral of two vectors in a sense, the force of destruction and the force of prevention, maintenance and repair. In most animals the force of destruction has still got the edge. But why not bump up the genes just a little bit, the maintenance genes. All you have to do is have the maintenance level a little higher. It doesn’t have to be much higher. It just has to be a little higher, so that it counterbalances the force of destruction. And don’t forget, the germ lineage is immortal. So it’s possible at least in principle.”
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