“But you are saying that the mammalian gene-complex came from outer space, not from the DNA that already existed on Earth or Tetra?”
“That seems to be the case,” he confirmed. He looked at me carefully for a minute or two, perhaps wondering how much I would be able to understand. I got the feeling that we were now getting close to his own hobby-horse. “Do you know what is meant by the phrase ‘quiet DNA’?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. I began to suspect that we mightn’t get much further. Pan-galactic parole is a language designed to be easy to use. It isn’t geared up for complicated scientific discourse, and my limited mastery of it might soon come up against its limitations.
“Your gene-mappers, like ours of a few centuries ago, have now succeeded in locating on mammalian chromosomes—including human chromosomes—the genes which produce all the proteins which make up your bodies.”
He paused, and I said: “Okay—I understand that.”
“Those genes,” he said, “account for somewhere between five and ten percent of the DNA in your cells. The rest is ‘quiet DNA.’ ”
“What you mean,” I said, in order to demonstrate my intelligence, “is that nobody knows what it does.”
“Quite so. Our scientists thought for some time that it must be made up of genes to control other genes. You see, there is more to building an organism than a mere chemical factory. An egg-cell, as it develops into a whole organism, must not only produce the proteins it needs, but must organise them into a particular structure. For many years our biotechnologists have tried to discover how it is that an egg is programmed to develop into a particular kind of organism. We had always assumed that the answer lay in the quiet DNA. We have failed to solve the problem. Your own biotechnologists are just beginning to be frustrated by that barrier to progress. We have found many practical applications for our biotechnology, and have been able to accomplish many things in spite of our incomplete understanding, but we must reluctantly acknowledge that one of the basic features of the chemistry of reproduction is still a complete mystery.
“What we have discovered, though, is that the quiet DNA of many—perhaps all—lower mammals includes genes which are expressed only in higher forms.”
I was having a little difficulty in following this, and had to pause for thought, but I suddenly saw what he was getting at. “You mean,” I said, “that virtually all the genes which code for the bodies of humanoids were already in mammals when they first appeared on Earth—or Tetra— and that the subsequent evolution of the mammals has been partly a matter of that quiet DNA waking up.”
He looked a little surprised.
“That’s correct, Star-Captain Rousseau,” he said. “In my view, at least, that is a distinct possibility—although it remains as yet unproven. The evolution of mammalian forms is, we think, partly pre-programmed. The programme has to be adapted by natural selection to fit local circumstances, but in essence, the evolution of intelligent hu- manoid life-forms on all the worlds of the galactic community was inevitable from the moment the mammalian gene-complex appeared there. The subsequent millions of years of evolution can be seen as a kind of unfolding of potential already contained in the DNA-complex.”
I found that a pretty startling thought. 673-Nisreen was still watching me, and I realised that there was something else. Having impressed him with my intelligence, I was now expected to see the next step in the argument. It took me about a minute.
“And the story isn’t over!” I said, getting excited. “Ninety percent of human DNA—and Tetron DNA—is still quiet. We have no idea what other possibilities are still locked up in our cells!”
“Indeed we have not,” he replied. “Nor do we know what trigger might be necessary to bring it out. Our scientists thought, when they first invented biotechnology, that we had become masters of our own evolution. It is possible that the assumption was premature.”
“So the garden isn’t in full flower,” I murmured. “We might be just the first humble shoots, peeping up through the spring soil. We haven’t the faintest idea what it is that we’re scheduled to become ... or why.”
“I must repeat my objection to your assumption that the galactic arm has been deliberately seeded for some particular purpose,” said 673-Nisreen. “Your image of godlike alien gardeners, while picturesque, has no evidence to support it. It remains conceivable that some entirely natural process was responsible for the spreading of this genetic material through local space.”
“Oh sure,” I said. “It was probably a fleet of flying pigs on their annual vacation.” He didn’t get the joke. There isn’t a word in parole for pigs, and even if there had been, it would have been taking coincidence to ridiculous lengths if the Tetrax had used the phrase “pigs might fly” as an expression of absurd improbability.
Humans came out of their own solar system to find superior aliens already there, in the shape of the Tetrax. It was easy for me to jump to the conclusion that there might be even more superior ones waiting in the wings. The Tetrax had strong ideological reasons for not jumping to any such conclusion. We humans had been anthropocentric in readily assuming that life might have evolved on Earth, making us the product of a special Creation—even though the Tetrax knew better, they had their own anthropocentric tendencies.
“If there are answers to these questions,” I said, to cover up for my momentary impoliteness, “I think we might find them inside Asgard. There, I think, are some very good biotechnologists.”
“I think that you might be right,” said 673-Nisreen. “And if the evolutionary future of your species and mine is yet to unfold from our quiet DNA, then it might well be that in the lower levels of Asgard we might find that potential already displayed.”
He didn’t seem to find this an overwhelmingly depressing thought, perhaps because his scientific curiosity was sufficient to outweigh his anxieties as a member of a politically ambitious species. I was willing to bet that some of his compatriots couldn’t contemplate the possibility with similar serenity.
When I left him I had already begun to toy with scenarios in which Asgard could be made to play some crucial role in my hypothetical galactic gardening business.
Maybe Asgard was the gardener’s shed. Maybe it was a seed-bank.
Or maybe it was the combine harvester.
It didn’t take long for me to get round to looking at the question from the dark and nasty underside.
Suppose, I told myself, that the galaxy is a garden, and that deep in the heart of Asgard are its gardeners. But just suppose, for a moment, that we aren’t the crop that’s being raised. Suppose we’re only the weeds! And even if we aren’t, what can we possibly expect to happen when we come a-calling on the creatures we hope we might become?
I asked myself what might happen if a legion of Neanderthal men suddenly turned up on the Earth’s surface, expecting to be invited to the party.
It seemed a slightly ominous question even then, though I couldn’t imagine at the time how soon it would assume a much more peculiar relevance, and what an awful answer might be implied by the example with which I was to be confronted.
9
By the time we reached Asgard I had just about readjusted to one-gee, and my muscles—not without a little help from the medics—were ready to go into the levels and give of their best. The men were all trained in the use of cold-suits, and had been as fully briefed on the geography of Skychain City as I could manage. I wouldn’t in all honesty say that they were raring to go, but the idea of another tour of dangerous duty was hardly new to them. The only ones not combat-hardened were Kramin’s little bunch of thieves.