Symphony in C. Роберт Хейзен

Bactine, Scotch tape, Silly Putty—enhance our lives in countless ways, both seen and unseen. But the proliferation of these synthetic chemicals has led to unintended consequences: troubling holes in the protective ozone layer, deadly allergic reactions, and carcinogens by the score. As the basis of all biomolecules, no other element contributes so centrally to the well-being and sustainability of life on Earth, including our human species. But carbon atoms, when missing or misaligned, can lead to disease and death.

      The near-surface carbon cycle stabilizes Earth’s climate, ensures the health of ecosystems, and provides us with our most abundant supplies of inexpensive energy. Yet, if the distribution of carbon atoms becomes skewed by natural or human activities—erupting volcanoes, burning coal, an errant asteroid, vanishing forests—climates can change and ecosystems can collapse. And carbon’s influence is not confined to the near-surface realm of the living; carbon’s behavior in Earth’s hidden, deep interior epitomizes the dynamic processes that set apart our planet from all other known worlds.

      The story of carbon is, in a sense, the story of everything. Yet mysteries about this ubiquitous, indispensable element abound. We don’t know how much carbon Earth holds, nor do we fully comprehend its varied forms hidden deep within our planet. We don’t understand the movements of carbon atoms as they cycle between Earth’s surface and its deep interior, nor can we say whether those movements have changed significantly through billions of years of Earth history—through “deep time.” Despite the existence of millions of known carbon compounds, scientists have only just begun to explore the richness of carbon chemistry. And the greatest mystery of all—the origin of life—is inextricably linked to the behavior of carbon in complex chemical combinations with other elements.

      From quantities and forms, to movements and origins, what we know about carbon is dwarfed by our ignorance. We must find answers, but how can we hope to bridge such yawning chasms in our understanding? The very structure of the scientific enterprise would seem to conspire against sustained progress. Universities lack departments of carbon science, and large-scale, cross-disciplinary research ventures are rare. Scientific discovery rests on asking questions about the natural world, but it also depends on finding resources in a climate of limited time and money, at a time when disciplinary specialization often trumps integration.

      Who will champion a different kind of research support?

      The scene is the venerable Century Association club in New York City, early 2007, where the fund-raisers with the Carnegie Institution for Science have invited several dozen potential donors to an elegant dinner. The economy is booming, and Barack Obama is still a senator from Illinois. Paintings and sculptures by some of the greatest artists in American history line the spacious, wood-paneled rooms of the club. The major artworks, by such luminaries as John Frederick Kensett, Winslow Homer, and Paul Manship, were proffered in exchange for coveted and pricey club memberships. It was a great deal all around: the Century Association built a superb collection of masterpieces, while the artists gained access to wealthy patrons who could afford the club’s steep initiation fees.

      I was the after-dinner speaker, and my theme was origins-of-life research, an intrinsically entertaining topic that was enhanced by simple props: a glass of carbonated soda water, a rock picked up in a nearby park, a teaspoon, and a straw. Presto!—a user-friendly demonstration of the chemical steps by which life might have emerged from a deep, hot, carbon-rich volcanic environment on the ocean floor. That my ideas were a bit controversial—a source of a lively, sometimes acrimonious debate with skeptical peers—added a bit of spice to my remarks. As a bonus, everyone was given a copy of Genesis, my recent book on the subject. I remember feeling a kinship with the artists whose work hung about me. Like them, I was singing for my supper, trying to catch the eye of some prospective patron, hoping for that next commission that would allow my colleagues and me to create a new scientific canvas.

      Science isn’t cheap. It can cost $100,000 per year to support each graduate student or postdoc. New analytical machines can run upwards of a million dollars, with service contracts and replacement parts adding 10 percent or more per year to the price tag. Travel to conferences, page charges for publications, and basic lab supplies like test tubes, reagents, and Kimwipes are essential. And don’t get me started on “overhead.” Without support from industry, government agencies, and private foundations, scientific research would quickly wither and die. But it’s a tough road writing grant proposals to agencies and foundations, requesting $100,000 per year with less than a 10 percent chance of winning funding.

      So there I was in the Big Apple, hat in hand, promoting science to a room full of nonscientists. One might do a score of such events without a nibble, but you have to try. The evening was fun, but soon forgotten in the crush of research projects and grant deadlines. And then came the phone call that changed everything.

      It was three months later, early spring 2007, as Washington was coming into bloom.

      “Hi Bob. Jesse Ausubel here, from the Sloan Foundation in New York.” Apparently I’d met Jesse at the Century Association talk, but I didn’t remember him. He seemed cordial but businesslike, his voice a pleasant baritone.

      “The Sloan Foundation is considering new programs.” My ears perked. Sloan supports major science research and education efforts: an ambitious Census of Marine Life, the digital sky survey that discovered dark energy, NPR, and PBS.

      “We’re wondering whether you’d be interested in discussing a program on the deep origins of life?” The subject of my New York talk, the very speculative hypothesis that life emerged from a deep volcanic zone on the ocean floor, had evidently hit the mark.

      Ausubel told me that Sloan’s programs typically run for ten years at $7 to $10 million per year, paused, and waited for some kind of reaction. From me, silence. A one with eight zeros paralyzed my brain.

      Eventually, I recovered and we began to discuss details. I suggested that focusing exclusively on deep origins of life was too narrow a view for a big ten-year effort. A host of fundamental mysteries relate to carbon at the planetary scale—not just in biology, but also in physics, chemistry, and geology. I explained that we can’t really understand life’s ancient, mysterious origins until we understand the broader story of carbon in Earth.

      Jesse Ausubel liked the idea of a comprehensive approach: physics, chemistry, geology, and biology; 4.5 billion years of Earth history; crust to core, at scales from nano to global. He offered a one-year, $400,000 exploratory grant—“preapproved,” he said—to gather experts from around the world, hold workshops, define what we know and what we don’t know, and consider a global strategy to transform our understanding of Earth’s carbon.

      This was no mere canvas. It was an insanely ambitious Beethoven symphony with unprecedented forces—a great bellowing chorus, multiple operatic soloists, and an oversized orchestra with myriad voices from tuba to piccolo. Nothing like it had ever been attempted before.

      Fast-forward a year, to May 15, 2008. More than 100 experts gathered from around the world.1 Distinguished senior professors joined early career scientists from a dozen countries and as many scientific disciplines. We were tasked with discovering whether the rationale and will existed to tackle carbon science in a new, integrated approach.

      Day 1 wasn’t all that encouraging, as scientists seldom stray far from their comfort zones. In spite of lofty rhetoric about “abandoning silos” and “crossing boundaries,” the biologists pretty much talked to biologists, while geophysicists and organic chemists also huddled within their specialized subgroups.

      Day 2 was better. Gradually, as a succession of vivid talks provided glimpses of unexplored vistas—the puzzle of carbon in Earth’s core, the enigmatic ancient origins of life, the stately cycling of plate tectonics, hints of a vast subsurface microbial biosphere—we saw our narrow specialties in new, broader contexts. For the first time, we learned about paradoxical, unexplored connections between exploding volcanoes and diamond deposits, plate tectonics and climate change, and chemically reactive minerals and hidden deep life. The fascination of carbon science as a universal integrating theme seduced us.

      By the end of Day 3, the structure for a new global endeavor had been framed. Leaders emerged and enthusiasm was high. Observers