September/October 2008

Early this summer, astronomers announced that, according to their sweeping scan of our corner of the Milky Way, at least a third of the sun-like stars out there play host to planets of decidely Earthly dimensions. That even a broad brush survey of the local stellar population would reveal such a planetary extravaganza supports the emerging consensus that planets are not only common—they are an inevitable feature of a star-studded universe.

Astronomers now propose that, whenever a new star is born, the act of condensing a thick cloud of gas and dust down into a luminous orb almost always kicks out a swirling pancake at the midriff. The dusty pancake batter is in turn gravitationally rolled and patted into planets, and many of those planets, it now seems, may well resemble the wet blue beauty we know best.

Just a month later, biologists had another sort of origins tale to tell, this time about the genesis of life. They essentially asked the question: Which came first, the egg or the yolk—the cell, or the biochemical and genetic information inside the cell? Nowadays, cells are the fundamental units of life on Earth and every living being is built of them, but was it always so? Or were the first life forms mere freestanding molecular chains, bits and pieces of proto-genes that somehow managed to replicate themselves without getting scrambled, and only later became encased in the buffering inner calm and slick protective outer coat that is the brilliant cellular bioplan?

According to a very persuasive laboratory simulation from a research team at Massachusetts General Hospital, in the beginning was the egg, and this founder egg, this mother of all cells was crude and simple, but its parts clung together and it made itself a haven in a pitiless, volatile world. The quivering membranous jacket of the proto-cell was thin and porous, and so it came to pass that organic sugary chemicals from outside drifted within, and, lo, they tasted good, and the cell did feed and swell. When the cell grew too big, it heaved and pinched and split itself in two. Through 4 billion years of life on Earth, cells have done just that, the old ones dividing to give rise to the new. The Boston simulation showed how readily cell-like structures will bubble up from a sufficiently rich chemical stew, and the spectacular pageantry and diversity of nature shows that, once you get cells started, there is nothing they won’t do.

Two seemingly unrelated findings—one in the lab, one among the stars—yet they converge on a unifying theme. As a result of extraordinary, ordinary processes, as a result of physics and chemistry simply doing their jobs, it turns out to be easy to make planets, and easy to make the basic phonemes of life that might call those planets home. At least two of the major conditions for the rise of life and mind, sensation and love, are readily met.

I find the new evidence of life’s ease deeply satisfying. As an atheist, I appreciate findings that undercut the need to reach for the god option, to see any feature of our existence as so miraculous, improbable, mysterious, or beyond the power of natural history to explain that we have no choice but to assume an element of divine or supernatural intervention.

The new results also make me feel less lonely. When I look up at the night sky, I still have the old Star Trek theme song running through my head, and I want to believe that at least some of the campy series is true—if not the part about the transporters, the replicators and the way every alien has a corrugated forehead and dresses like a Druidic priest, then at least that they really are out there, our star-flecked partners in space-time. If life is easy, then they very well could be, billions and billions of them, and maybe a few of the nice ones have found the perfect intergalactic wormhole and are steadily headed our way. Maybe they’ll bring space doughnuts and coffee. Maybe they won’t slaughter us when they arrive.

Yes, we have a tremendous amount yet to learn about our universe, but the more we learn, the more coherent the cosmos becomes, the less imperiously whimsical. Math works, science works, and with them you don’t have to worry about a petulant Apollo randomly deciding to power up his chariot and cart the Sun away.

Natalie Angier is the author of the National Book Award finalist Woman: An Intimate Geography, The Beauty of Beauty, and Natural Obsessions. A Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, she writes about biology for The New York Times.
  

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