Bill Bryson - A short history of nearly everything

The specifics of Mayr’s criticisms are too technical to need extensive airing here-they involve issues of meiotic sexuality, Hennigian cladification, and controversial interpretations of the genome of Methanobacterium thermoautrophicum , among rather a lot else-but essentially he argues that Woese’s arrangement unbalances the tree of life. The bacterial realm, Mayr notes, consists of no more than a few thousand species while the archaean has a mere 175 named specimens, with perhaps a few thousand more to be found-“but hardly more than that.” By contrast, the eukaryotic realm-that is, the complicated organisms with nucleated cells, like us-numbers already in the millions. For the sake of “the principle of balance,” Mayr argues for combining the simple bacterial organisms in a single category, Prokaryota, while placing the more complex and “highly evolved” remainder in the empire Eukaryota, which would stand alongside as an equal. Put another way, he argues for keeping things much as they were before. This division between simple cells and complex cells “is where the great break is in the living world.”

The distinction between halophilic archaeans and methanosarcina or between flavobacteria and gram-positive bacteria clearly will never be a matter of moment for most of us, but it is worth remembering that each is as different from its neighbors as animals are from plants. If Woese’s new arrangement teaches us anything it is that life really is various and that most of that variety is small, unicellular, and unfamiliar. It is a natural human impulse to think of evolution as a long chain of improvements, of a never-ending advance toward largeness and complexity-in a word, toward us. We flatter ourselves. Most of the real diversity in evolution has been small-scale. We large things are just flukes-an interesting side branch. Of the twenty-three main divisions of life, only three-plants, animals, and fungi-are large enough to be seen by the human eye, and even they contain species that are microscopic. Indeed, according to Woese, if you totaled up all the biomass of the planet-every living thing, plants included-microbes would account for at least 80 percent of all there is, perhaps more. The world belongs to the very small-and it has for a very long time.

So why, you are bound to ask at some point in your life, do microbes so often want to hurt us? What possible satisfaction could there be to a microbe in having us grow feverish or chilled, or disfigured with sores, or above all expire? A dead host, after all, is hardly going to provide long-term hospitality.

To begin with, it is worth remembering that most microorganisms are neutral or even beneficial to human well-being. The most rampantly infectious organism on Earth, a bacterium called Wolbachia, doesn’t hurt humans at all-or, come to that, any other vertebrates-but if you are a shrimp or worm or fruit fly, it can make you wish you had never been born. Altogether, only about one microbe in a thousand is a pathogen for humans, according to National Geographic -though, knowing what some of them can do, we could be forgiven for thinking that that is quite enough. Even if mostly benign, microbes are still the number-three killer in the Western world, and even many less lethal ones of course make us deeply rue their existence.

Making a host unwell has certain benefits for the microbe. The symptoms of an illness often help to spread the disease. Vomiting, sneezing, and diarrhea are excellent methods of getting out of one host and into position for another. The most effective strategy of all is to enlist the help of a mobile third party. Infectious organisms love mosquitoes because the mosquito’s sting delivers them directly to a bloodstream where they can get straight to work before the victim’s defense mechanisms can figure out what’s hit them. This is why so many grade-A diseases-malaria, yellow fever, dengue fever, encephalitis, and a hundred or so other less celebrated but often rapacious maladies-begin with a mosquito bite. It is a fortunate fluke for us that HIV, the AIDS agent, isn’t among them-at least not yet. Any HIV the mosquito sucks up on its travels is dissolved by the mosquito’s own metabolism. When the day comes that the virus mutates its way around this, we may be in real trouble.

It is a mistake, however, to consider the matter too carefully from the position of logic because microorganisms clearly are not calculating entities. They don’t care what they do to you any more than you care what distress you cause when you slaughter them by the millions with a soapy shower or a swipe of deodorant. The only time your continuing well-being is of consequence to a pathogen is when it kills you too well. If they eliminate you before they can move on, then they may well die out themselves. This in fact sometimes happens. History, Jared Diamond notes, is full of diseases that “once caused terrifying epidemics and then disappeared as mysteriously as they had come.” He cites the robust but mercifully transient English sweating sickness, which raged from 1485 to 1552, killing tens of thousands as it went, before burning itself out. Too much efficiency is not a good thing for any infectious organism.

A great deal of sickness arises not because of what the organism has done to you but what your body is trying to do to the organism. In its quest to rid the body of pathogens, the immune system sometimes destroys cells or damages critical tissues, so often when you are unwell what you are feeling is not the pathogens but your own immune responses. Anyway, getting sick is a sensible response to infection. Sick people retire to their beds and thus are less of a threat to the wider community. Resting also frees more of the body’s resources to attend to the infection.

Because there are so many things out there with the potential to hurt you, your body holds lots of different varieties of defensive white cells-some ten million types in all, each designed to identify and destroy a particular sort of invader. It would be impossibly inefficient to maintain ten million separate standing armies, so each variety of white cell keeps only a few scouts on active duty. When an infectious agent-what’s known as an antigen-invades, relevant scouts identify the attacker and put out a call for reinforcements of the right type. While your body is manufacturing these forces, you are likely to feel wretched. The onset of recovery begins when the troops finally swing into action.

White cells are merciless and will hunt down and kill every last pathogen they can find. To avoid extinction, attackers have evolved two elemental strategies. Either they strike quickly and move on to a new host, as with common infectious illnesses like flu, or they disguise themselves so that the white cells fail to spot them, as with HIV, the virus responsible for AIDS, which can sit harmlessly and unnoticed in the nuclei of cells for years before springing into action.

One of the odder aspects of infection is that microbes that normally do no harm at all sometimes get into the wrong parts of the body and “go kind of crazy,” in the words of Dr. Bryan Marsh, an infectious diseases specialist at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in Lebanon, New Hamphire. “It happens all the time with car accidents when people suffer internal injuries. Microbes that are normally benign in the gut get into other parts of the body-the bloodstream, for instance-and cause terrible havoc.”

The scariest, most out-of-control bacterial disorder of the moment is a disease called necrotizing fasciitis in which bacteria essentially eat the victim from the inside out, devouring internal tissue and leaving behind a pulpy, noxious residue. Patients often come in with comparatively mild complaints-a skin rash and fever typically-but then dramatically deteriorate. When they are opened up it is often found that they are simply being consumed. The only treatment is what is known as “radical excisional surgery”-cutting out every bit of infected area. Seventy percent of victims die; many of the rest are left terribly disfigured. The source of the infection is a mundane family of bacteria called Group A Streptococcus, which normally do no more than cause strep throat. Very occasionally, for reasons unknown, some of these bacteria get through the lining of the throat and into the body proper, where they wreak the most devastating havoc. They are completely resistant to antibiotics. About a thousand cases a year occur in the United States, and no one can say that it won’t get worse.