The Globe

BLIND MAN WITH LANTERN

The wizards are now beginning to understand that, while you can eliminate evil by eliminating extelligence, the result can be about as interesting as watching daytime television. Their plan to stop the elves interfering with human evolution has worked, but they don't like the result. It is bland and unintelligent. It has no spark of creativity.

How did human creativity arise? By now you won't be surprised to learn that it came from stories. Let's take a closer look at the current scientific view of human evolution, and fill in that gap between R-O-C-K and the space elevator.

An elf, observing Earth's landmasses 25 million years ago, would have seen vast areas of forest.

From the hills of northern India to Tibet and China, and down into Africa, these forests held a great variety of small apes, ranging from about half the size of chimpanzees to the size of gorillas. The apes were at home on the ground and in the lower branches of the forest, and they were so common that today we have many fossils of them. In addition, the Old World monkeys were starting to diversify in the upper levels of the forest. Earth was a Monkey Planet.

But also a Snake Planet, a Big Cat Planet, a Nematode Planet, an Alga Planet and a Grass Planet.

Not to mention Plankton Planet, Bacterium Planet and Virus Planet. The elf might not have noticed that the African apes had produced several ground-dwelling kinds, not very different from the monkey-derived baboons. And it might also have failed to spot the presence of gibbons in the high branches, alongside the monkeys. These creatures were not particularly remarkable against a background of spectacular large mammals like rhinoceroses, a variety of forest elephants, bears. But we humans are interested in them, because they were our ancestors.

We call them 'woods-apes', dryopithecines. Some, known as Ramapithecus, were of lighter build

-the jargon is 'gracile'. Others, such as Sivapithecus, were big and strong -'robust'. The lineage of Sivapithecus was the one that led to orangutans. These early apes would have been shy, morose creatures like today's wild apes, occasionally playful, but the adults would have been very belligerent and conscious of status within the group.

The forests inhabited by the woods-apes slowly dwindled as the climate cooled and dried, and grasslands -savannah country -took over. There were ice ages, but in the region of the tropics these did not reduce temperatures severely. However, they did change the patterns of rainfall.

The monkeys thrived, producing many ground-living kinds like baboons and vervets, and the ape populations got smaller.

By ten million years ago, there were few apes left. There are almost no fossil apes from that period. It seems plausible that, as now and as previously, those apes that did still exist were forest creatures. Some, like today's chimpanzees, gorillas and orangutans, were probably common in a few locations in the forests, but you'd have needed a lot of luck to find them. The observing elf might, even then, have put all of these apes on its Endangered List of Earth Mammals. Like very nearly all animal groups that had evolved, the forest apes were soon to be history rather than ecology. The common ancestor of humans and chimpanzees was, then, a not very remarkable ape that probably lived much as the different chimpanzees do now: some in flooded forest like today's bonobos, some in rain-forest, and some in fairly open woodland grading into grasslands. The gorilla lineage separated from the other apes around this time.

At first, the elf would probably not have been very interested as -according to one of the two popular theories of human origins - a new kind of ape began to evolve a more upright stance than those of its relatives, lost its hair, and moved out on to the savannah. Many other mammals did the same; there was a new kind of living to be made on the great grass plains. Giant hyenas, massive wild dogs, lions and cheetahs made a good living from the vast herds of herbivores that lived on the productive savannah grasses; the giant pythons were probably originally savannah animals, too.

The story has been told many times, in many versions. And that's just the point: we understand our ancestry through story. We wouldn't be able to work out our ancestry from the fossils that we have discovered unless we'd learned just what clues to look for, especially since few fossil sites have enough evidence left.

The new ancestral plains ape saw the world differently. Judging from the behaviour of today's chimpanzees, especially bonobos, it was a highly intelligent animal. We call their fossils southern apes, australopithecines, and there are hundreds of books that tell stories about them.

They may have sojourned by the sea, doing clever things on beaches. Some certainly lived on lake margins. Today's chimpanzees use stones to smash hard nuts open, and sticks to extract ants from nests; the australopithecines also used stones and sticks as tools, rather more so than their cousins the chimpanzees now do. They may have killed small game, as chimpanzees do. They probably used sexual behaviour to hang much of their pleasure on, like today's bonobos, but most likely they were more gender-conscious and male-dominant. Like previous apes, they diverged into gracile and robust lines. The robust ones, called Anthropithecus boisi, or even a different genus Zinjanthropus ('nutcracker man') and other defamatory names, were vegetarians like today's gorillas, and probably left no descendants in modern times.

This kind of split into gracile and robust forms, by the way, seems to be one of the standard patterns of evolution. Mathematical models suggest that it probably happens when a mixed population of big and small creatures can exploit the environment more effectively than a single population of medium-sized ones, but this idea has to be considered highly speculative until more evidence comes in. The zoological world was recently given a reminder of how common such a split is, and of how little we really know about the creatures of our own planet.

The animal involved could not have been better known, nor more appropriate to Discworld: the elephant.34 As every child learns at an early age, there are two kinds of elephant, two distinct species: the African elephant and the Indian elephant.

Not so. There are three species. Zoologists have been arguing for at least a century about what they thought was at most a subspecies of 'the' African elephant Loxodonta africana. The typical big, burly African elephant lives on the savannah. The elephants that live in the forest are shy, and difficult to spot: there is just one of them in the Paris zoo, for example. Biologists had assumed that because the forest elephants and the savannah elephants can interbreed at the edges of the forest, they could not be separate species. After all, the standard definition of a species, promoted by the evolutionary biologist Ernst Mayr, is 'able to interbreed'. So they either insisted that there was just one species, or that 'African elephant' had a distinguished subspecies, the forest elephant Loxodonta africana cyclotis. On the other hand, zoologists who have had the good fortune to see forest elephants are in no doubt that they look very different from the savannah ones: they are smaller, with straighter, longer tusks, and round ears, not pointed ones.

Nicholas Georgiadis, a biologist at the Mpala Research Centre in Kenya, has said: 'If you see a forest elephant for the first time, you think, "Wow, what is that?'" But because biologists knew, on theoretical grounds, that the animals had to be all the same species, the observational evidence was rejected as inconclusive.

However, in August 2001 a team of four biologists - Georgiadis, Alfred Roca, Jill Pecon-Slattery and Stephen O'Brien -reported in the journal Science their 'Genetic evidence for two species of elephant in Africa'. Their DNA analysis makes it absolutely clear that the African elephant really does come in two distinct forms: the usual robust form, and a separate gracile form. Moreover, the gracile African elephants really are a different species from the robust ones. As different, in fact, as either African species is from the Indian one. So now we have the robust African plains elephant Loxodonta africana and the gracile African forest elephant Loxodonta cyclotis.

What of the belief that there could be only one species because of the potential for interbreeding?

This particular definition of species is taking a hammering at the moment, and deservedly so.

The main reason is a growing realisation that even when animals can interbreed, they may decide not to.

The story of the Third Elephant is not new: only the names have been changed. Before 1929 every zoologist 'knew' there was only one species of chimpanzee; after 1929, when the bonobos of the inaccessible swamps of Zaire were recognised as a second species,35 it became obvious to many zoos that they had possessed two distinct chimpanzee species for years, but not realised it.

Exactly the same story is now being played out with elephants.

As we've mentioned, Discworld recently revived interest in its fifth elephant, a story told, you will be surprised to hear, in The Fifth Elephant. According to legend, there were originally five elephants standing on Great A'Tuin and supporting the Disc, but one slipped, fell off the turtle, and crashed into a remote region of Discworld: They say that the fifth elephant came screaming and trumpeting through the atmosphere in the young world all those years ago and landed hard enough to split continents and raise mountains.

No one actually saw it land, which raised the interesting philosophical question: when millions of tons of angry elephant come spinning through the sky, and there is no one to hear it, does it philosophically speaking - make a noise?

And if there was no one to see it hit, did it actually hit?

There is evidence, in the form of vast deposits of fat and gold (the great elephants that support the world do not have ordinary bones), deep underground in the Schmaltzberg mines. However, there is a more down-to-Disc theory: some catastrophe killed off millions of mammoths, bison and giant shrews, and then covered them over. On Roundworld, there would be a good scientific test to distinguish the two theories: are the deposits of fat shaped like a crash-landed elephant?

But there's no point even in looking, on Discworld, because narrative imperative will ensure that they are, even if they were formed by millions of mammoths, bison and giant shrews. Reality has to follow the legend.

Roundworld has so far reached only its third elephant, although Jack hopes that some careful selective breeding might yet bring back a fourth: the pygmy elephant, which lived in Malta and was about the size of a Shetland pony. It would make a marvellous pet -except that, like many diminutive creatures, it would probably be rather bad-tempered. And the very devil to discourage from getting on the settee.

We are a gracile ape (not that you'd notice in some parts of the world, where many of us more closely resemble a robust hippopotamus). About four million years ago one gracile lineage of apes started to get bigger brains and better tools. Against all the rules of taxonomy we call this lineage, our lineage, Homo: it really should be Pan, because we are the third chimpanzee. We use this name because it is certainly our own lineage, and we prefer to think of ourselves as being enormously different from the apes. In this we could be right: we may indeed share 98 per cent of our genes with chimpanzees, but then, we share 47 per cent with cabbages. Our big difference from the apes is cultural, not genetic. Anyway, within the Homo lineage we again find gracile and robust stocks. Homo habilis was our gracile tool-making ancestor, but Homo ergaster and others went the vegetarian, robust way. If there actually is a yeti or a bigfoot, the best bet is a robust Homo. From Homo habilis's success, a larger-brained Homo spread out over Africa, into Asia (as Peking Man) and Eastern Europe about 700 million years ago.

We have labelled one variety of these fossils Homo erectus. The visiting elf would certainly have noticed this fellow. He had several kinds of tools, and he used fire. He may even have possessed language, of a kind. What we have every reason to suspect that he did, that his ancestors and cousins only occasionally achieved, was to 'understand' his world and change it. Chimpanzees engage in quite a lot of 'if ... then' activities, including lying: 'if I pretend not to have seen that banana, I can come back and get it later when that big male won't steal it from me'.

The young of this early hominid grew up in family groups where things were happening that were unlike anything anywhere else on the planet. Sure, there were lots of other mammal nests, packs and troupes, where the young were playing at being adult or just fooling around; nests were safe, and trial-and-error was rarely lethal, so the young could learn safely. But in the human lineage, father was making stone tools, grunting at his women about the children, about the cave, about putting more wood on the fire. There would be favourite gourds for banging, perhaps for fetching water, spears for hunting, lots of stones for tools.

Meanwhile, in Africa, another new lineage had arisen about 120,000 years ago, and spread; we call it ancient Homo sapiens, and it led to us. Its brain was even bigger, and in caves on the coast of South Africa it -we -had begun to make better tools, and to make primitive paintings on rocks and cave walls. Our population exploded, and we migrated. We reached Australia just over

60,000 years ago, and Europe about 50,000 years ago.

In Europe there had been a moderately robust Homo, the Neanderthal Homo sapiens neanderthalensis, a subspecies. Some anthropologists consider us to be a sister subspecies, Homo sapiens sapiens or, loosely speaking, 'Seriously wise man'. Wow. The Neanderthals' stone tools were well developed for various functions, but these particular hominids seem not to have been progressive. Their culture hardly changed over tens of thousands of years. But they seem to have had some kind of spiritual impulse, for they buried their dead with ceremony -or, at least, with flowers.

Our more gracile ancestors, the Cro-Magnon people, lived at the same time as the last of the Neanderthals, and there are many theories about what happened when the two subspecies interacted. Basically, we survived and the Neanderthals didn't ...

Why? Was it because we bashed them on the head more effectively than they bashed us? Did we outbreed them? Inbreed them? Squeeze them out into the 'edge country'? Crush them with superior extelligence? We'll put our own theory forward later in the book.

We don't subscribe to the 'rational' story of human evolution and development, the story that has named us so pretentiously Homo sapiens sapiens. Briefly, that story focuses on the nerve cells in our brains, and says that our brains got bigger and bigger until finally we evolved Albert Einstein. They did, and we did, and Albert was indeed pretty bright, but nonetheless the thrust of that story is nonsense, because it doesn't discuss why, or even how, our brains got bigger. It's like describing a cathedral by saying 'You start with a low wall of stones and as time passes you add more stones so that it gets higher and higher'. There's a lot more to a cathedral than that, as its builders would attest.

What actually happened is much more interesting, and you can see it going on all around you today. Let's look at it from the elf's viewpoint. We don't programme our children rationally, as we might set up a computer. Instead, we pour into their minds loads of irrational junk about sly foxes, wise owls, heroes and princes, magicians and genies, gods and demons, and bears that get stuck in rabbit-holes; we frighten them half to death with tales of terror, and they come to enjoy the fear. We beat them (not very much in the last few decades, but for thousands of years before that, for sure). We embed the teaching messages in long sagas, in priestly injunctions, and invented histories full of dramatic lessons; in children's stories that teach them by indirection.

Stand near a children's playground, and watch (these days, check with the local police station first, and in any case be sure to wear protective clothing). Peter and Iona Opie did just that, many years ago, and collected children's songs and games, some of them thousands of years old.

Culture passes through the whirlpool that is the child community without needing adults for its transmission: you will all remember Eeny-Meeny-Miny-Mo, or some other counting-out ritual.

There is a children's subculture that propagates itself without adult intervention, censorship, or indeed knowledge.

The Opies later collected, and began to explain to adults, the original nursery stories like Cinderella and Rumpelstiltskin. In late medieval times, Cinderella's slipper had been a fur one, not glass. And that was a euphemism, because (at least in the German version) the girls gave the prince their 'fur slipper' to try on ... The story came to us through the French, and in that language

'verre' can either be 'glass' or 'fur'. The Grimm brothers went for the hygienic alternative, saving parents the danger of embarrassing explanations.

Rumpelstiltskin was an interestingly sexual parable, too, a tale to programme the idea that female masturbation leads to sterility. Remember the tale? The miller's daughter, put in the barn to 'spin straw into gold', virginally sits on a little stick that becomes a little man ... The denouement has the little man, when his name is finally identified, jumping in to 'plug' the lady very intimately, and the assembled soldiers can't pull him out. In the modern bowdlerised version, this survives vestigially as the little man pushing his foot through the floor and not being able to pull it out, a total non sequitur. So none of those concerned, king, miller or queen, can procreate (the stolen first child has been killed by the soldiers), and it all ends in tears. If you doubt this interpretation, enjoy the indirection: 'What is his name? What is his name?' recurs in the story. What is his name? What is a stilt with a rumpled skin? Whoops. The name has an equivalent derivation in many languages, too. (In Discworld, Nanny Ogg claimed to have written a children's story called

'the Little Man Who Grew Too Big', but, then, Mrs Ogg always believed that a double entendre can mean only one thing.)

Why do we like stories? Why are their messages embedded so deeply in the human psyche?

Our brains have evolved to understand the world through patterns. These may be visual patterns, such as the tiger's stripes, or aural ones, like the howl of the coyote. Or smells. Or tastes. Or narratives. Stories are little mental models of the world, sequences of ideas strung like beads on a necklace. Each bead leads inexorably to the next bead; we know that the second little pig is going to get the chop: the world would not be working properly if it didn't.

We deal not just in patterns, but also in meta-patterns. Patterns of patterns. We watch archer-fish shooting down insects with jets of water, we enjoy the elephant using its nose to acquire doughnuts from zoo visitors (less these days, alas); we delight in the flight of house-martins

(there are fewer swallows to enjoy now) and the songs of garden-birds. We admire the weaver birds' nests, the silk moths' cocoons, the cheetahs' speed. All these things are characteristic of the creatures concerned. And what is characteristic of us? Stories. So, by the same token, we enjoy the stories of people. We are the storytelling chimpanzee, and we appreciate the meta-pattern involved in that.

When we became more social, collecting into groups of a hundred or more, probably with agriculture, more stories appeared in our extelligence, to guide us. We had to have rules for behaviour, ways to deal with the infirm and the handicapped, ways to divert violence. In early and present-day tribal societies, everything that is not forbidden is mandatory. Stories point to difficult situations, like the Good Samaritan story in the New Testament; the Prodigal Son, too, is instructive by indirection, like Rumpelstiltskin. To drive that home, here is a tale from the Nigerian Hausa tribe, Blind Man's Lantern.

A young man is coming home late from seeing his girlfriend in the next village; it is very dark under a starry sky and the path back to his own village is not easy to follow. He sees a lantern bobbing towards him, but when it gets closer he sees that it is carried by the Blind Man of his own village.

'Hey, Blind Man,' he says. 'You whose darkness is no darker than your noonday! What do you carry a lantern for?'

'It is not for my need I carry this lantern,' says the Blind Man. 'It is to keep off you fools with eyes!'

We, as a species, don't only specialise in storytelling. Just as with the other specialities above, our species has a few more oddities. Probably the most odd characteristic that our elvish observer would note is our obsessive regard for children. We not only care for our own children, which is entirely to be expected biologically, but for other people's children, too; indeed for other humankind's children (we often find foreign-looking children more attractive than our own); indeed for the children of all land vertebrate species. We coo over lambs, fawns, newly hatched turtles, even tadpoles!

Our sibling species, chimpanzees, are far more realistic. They too prefer baby animals. They prefer them for food, being more tender. (Humans also have a liking for lamb, calf, piglet, duckling ... We can coo over them and eat them.) After the kind of warfare now well documented between chimpanzee groups, the victors will kill and eat the young of the vanquished.

Male lions will kill the young of prides they take over, and eating the corpses is not unusual.

Many mammalian females will eat their young if both are starving, and will frequently 'reprocess'

the first litter in this manner anyway.

No, it's very clear that we are the odd men out. Odd Men indeed. We do have mental circuits to delight in, and protect, our own babies, so that the later Mickey Mouse converged on the outline of a three-year-old toddler, as did E.T. It is no wonder that so many people paid his phone bill.

But we also go daft about cuddly juveniles of far too many other kinds. Biologically, this is very odd.

A by-product of our finding other species' babies so attractive has clearly been the domestication of dogs, cats, goats, horses, elephants, hawks, chickens, cattle ... These symbioses have given immense pleasure to billions of people, and to their animals, and have contributed greatly to our nutrition. Those who feel that we have exploited the animals unfairly should consider the alternatives for the animals, in the wild, where nearly all of them are eaten alive as babies, without even the benefit of a quick death.

Agriculture can perhaps be attributed to our other propensity, storytelling: the seed becoming the plant has served as an image for so many new words and thoughts, metaphors, new understandings of nature. And the wealth generated by agriculture permitted people to afford princes and philosophers, peasants36 and popes. The cultural capital has grown as we have passed our knowledge on to succeeding generations. But it's more comfortable to enjoy that culture if there are a couple of warehouses full of barley for beer, wheat in the fields and cows in the meadows.

We have very recently made the whole business of symbiosis with plants and animals much more technical -those controversial 'genetically modified organisms' -and we have lost a lot by taking our animal helpers out of the system, especially dogs and horses, and replacing them with machinery.

We could not have predicted what the animal and plant symbioses did for us, for our extelligence, and we don't know what losing them will do. Events like that explode on us as the bicycle ride that is extelligence careers down this long technical hill, and can have totally unexpected effects.

Yes, the Ford Model T made motoring affordable to many more people -but a socially much more important change was that it gave privacy in comfort for the first time, so that a large proportion of the next generation was sired on the upholstery of the car's back seat. Similarly, the dog coming in as a symbiont meant that we could hunt more successfully. Then, as a guard dog, it meant that private farms could be protected, and there was help with rounding up the animals and keeping away predators, including human ones. Lapdogs probably affected our sexual courtesies, particularly in eighteenth-century France, and dog and cat shows have stirred our upper-middle classes with, in modern England, the lower aristocracy.

Think for a moment about what we've done to dogs and cats. More than horses and cows, they grow up in our families. We play with them, like we play with our own children, and the play often involves our own children. As with our own children, this interaction begets minds in our pets. Even human children don't do much good on the mind front if they don't play. And Jack found, and showed Ian, that even invertebrates, bright invertebrates like mantis shrimps, can acquire minds if they're involved in play activities. We described in Figments of Reality how this happens. Let's just note here that we have uplifted37 our symbionts into the world of mind. Dogs worry about things, much more than wolves do. So dogs have at least some sense of themselves as a creature that lives in time, with some kind of awareness that it has a future as well as a present. Mind is catching.

Usually we think of the domestication of the dog as a selection process driven by human intentions. The process may have started accidentally, perhaps with a tribe bringing up a wolf pup that the kids had brought into the cave, but at a relatively early stage it became a deliberate training programme. Proto-dogs were selected for obedience to their master and for useful skills such as hunting. As time passed, obedience evolved into devotion, and the modern dog arrived on the scene.

However, there is an attractive alternative theory: the dogs selected us. It was the dogs that trained the humans. In this scenario, humans that were willing to allow wolf pups into the cave, and had the ability to train them, were rewarded by the dogs, for example by a willingness to assist in the hunt. Those humans that performed best at these tasks found it easier to acquire new pups and train new generations. The selection on the human side would have been cultural rather than genetic, because there hasn't been enough time for genetic influences to make a lot of difference directly. However, there may well have been selection on the genetic level for having enough intelligence to appreciate how useful a trained wolf could be, or having the generalised teaching skills, such as persistence, to carry out successful training. At any rate, the tribe as a whole benefited from those few individuals who could train proto-dogs, so that the selective pressure in favour of generalised dog-training genes must have been slight.

This isn't one of those either-or choices: we are not obliged to accept one theory to the exclusion of the other. And this is a point we should make very firmly, for this and many other theories: things happen, all over the place and apparently in some confusion, and afterwards mankind goes and chops it all up into 'stories'. We need to do it like that that, but occasionally we should stand back and realise what it is we are doing.

In the case of the dogs, there is in all likelihood a fair amount of truth in both theories, and what happened was a complicit co-evolution of dogs and people. As dogs became more obedient and easier to train, people became more willing to train them; as people became more willing to consider possessing a dog, the dogs became more adept at playing along and making themselves useful.

The situation is, perhaps, more clear-cut with cats. Here it was very much a case of the cats being in the driving-seat. Rudyard Kipling's Just-So Story of 'The Cat That Walks By Itself' is too naive an acceptance of the impression that cats set out to give - that they do things their own way and merely tolerate those people who play along -but in most cases you can't train a cat. Very few cats are willing to perform tricks, whereas many dogs visibly enjoy performing for human pleasure. To the ancient Egyptians, cats were tiny gods on Earth, personified in the cat-goddess Bastet. Bastet was originally worshipped around Bubastis, in the Nile delta, and she had a lion's head; later, this transmuted (transmogrified?) into a cat's head. Bastet-worship then spread to Memphis, where she became conflated with Sakhmet, a local lion-headed goddess. Bastet was a generalised goddess of things that were especially important to women, such as fertility and safe childbirth. Cats were also worshipped, as godling avatars of Bastet -and they were often mummified because of their religious significance. There was a sort of dog-god, the jackal- headed Anubis, but the difference was that he had a substantial 'hands-on' job: he was the god of embalming, and his role was to assist (or impede) the passage of the dead through the underworld. Anubis judged whether the dead were worthy of the afterlife. The only duties that the cat-godlings had were to allow humans to worship them.

Nothing new there, then.

Even today, cats assiduously give the impression of being independent; they seldom come when called, and are liable to depart at a moment's notice for reasons that are never very clear. All cat- owners know, however, that this impression is superficial: their cats need attention, and know it.

But this need shows up indirectly. For example. Ian's cat 'Ms Garfield' usually comes out to the front of the house to greet the arrival of the family car, but her pleasure at the car's appearance is heavily disguised as a strident harangue: 'Where the bloody hell have you lot been?' After absences on holiday or overseas, family members find that whenever they are in the garden, the cat coincidentally is in the same part of the garden -but either asleep or apparently just passing through. It looks as though house-cats are slowly losing the domestication battle, but putting up a strong fight. Feral cats are another matter, and real working cats like farm cats are often genuinely independent. These days, though, many farm cats are treated much like house-cats. At any rate, there are some good research projects still to be carried out on the co-evolution of ancient humans and their livestock and pets.

In another instance of this co-evolution, the horse made chivalry a possible culture (hence the name, of course: compare the French cheval') and enabled the Mongols to achieve one of the largest, best-controlled empires in human history. Under the Khans it was said that a virgin could walk unmolested from Seville to Hang Chou. Only in the twentieth century was that again achievable, with luck and possibly a harder search for the virgin. The Spanish took horses to America, where humans had killed off several equine species some 13,000 years before,38 and changed the lives of all the North American Indian tribes -and the cowboys, of course. And, a little later, Hollywood.

The horse did wonders for the genetics of humans, too. Just as they say that the invention of the bicycle saved East Anglia from an incest implosion, so the people that had come out of Africa were only a tiny part of early Homo sapiens's genetic diversity. All recent studies of the DNA

genetics of human populations agree that the genetic diversity outside Africa is only a tiny fraction of the diversity that is still found on that continent. Those who left, to go as far as Australia or China, to Western Europe or via the high Arctic to America, are less diverse in total than many small indigenous African peoples. With the arrival of the horse, it became possible for traders to carry goods - and gene alleles - for very long distances, very effectively. So the out-of- Africa humans have inherited a relatively small part of the African gene-pool: they are genetically impoverished, but well stirred.

At the end of the twentieth century there was, for some years, a belief that Homo sapiens was a polyphyletic species. This word means that different groups of Homo sapiens evolved from different groups of Homo erectus in different places. This, it was thought, might account for the racial differences, especially differences in skin pigmentation, that seemed to fit geography pretty well. From DNA studies, we now know this theory can't be true. On the contrary, there was a bottleneck in our population as we came out of Africa -humanity was reduced to rather small numbers -and all of us living today, all of the out-of-Africa 'races', were extracted from that small population. All the Homo erectus died out. The evidence so far looks as if there was only one exodus, of a minimum of some 100,000 people. We were all there in potentia in that tiny population, Japanese and Eskimos and Norsemen and Sioux and Beaker people and Mandarin Chinese; Indians and Jews and Irishmen. In the same way, all the current kinds of dog were 'present' in the original domesticated wolf (assuming it was indeed a wolf) -that is, they were in the wolfs space of the adjacent possible -and we've pulled out Saint Bernards and chihuahuas and labradors and King Charles spaniels and poodles from that local region of organism-space.

There was, about thirty years ago, a brief fashion for the concept of 'mitochondrial Eve', and many media reports seem to have picked up the idea that there was just one woman, a veritable Eve, in that ancestral bottleneck. This is nonsense, but the media reports were written up to encourage the belief. The real story, as always, was a little more complicated, and it goes like this. There are mitochondria in the cells of people, indeed of most animals and plants. These are the billions-of-generations, descendants of symbiotic bacteria, and they still have some of their ancient DNA heredity, called mitochondrial DNA. Mitochondria from the mother go into the embryo's cells, but those from father do not: they die, or go only into the placenta. In any event, mitochondrial inheritance is very nearly all maternal. The mitochondrial DNA accumulates mutations over time, with important genes changing less (presumably because the resulting babies, if any, were defective) and some DNA sequences changing quite quickly. That enables us to judge how far back it is to the common ancestor of any pair of women, from the accumulated differences in several DNA sequences. Surprisingly, nearly all such pairs from very different women converge on to a single consensus sequence, about 70,000 years ago.

A single woman, the ancestor of us all.

Eve?

Well, that was the story that the media latched on to, and you can see why. However, it doesn't hang together. The occurrence of just one mitochondrial DNA sequence doesn't mean that there was just one woman with that sequence, or that she was the ancestress of all the other women whose DNA was sequenced. Evidence based on the current diversity of various genes shows that there were at least 50,000 women in the human population 70,000 years ago, and many of them will have had that particular DNA sequence, or one that cannot be distinguished from it with the evidence remaining today. The lineages of the women who did not have that sequence continued for some time, but eventually died out: their 'branch' of the human family tree doesn't reach all the way to the present day. We can't be certain why those lineages died out, but in mathematical models such effects are commonplace. Perhaps the women carrying sequences like today's sole survivor were more 'fit', or they simply came to outnumber the others by chance. It is even possible that the choice of the contemporary women to test was in some way biased, and that more than one mitochondrial DNA sequence is actually present in today's women.

How do we know that there were at least 100,000 humans 70,000 years ago, and not, as in the stories, just two 6,000 years ago? Many (about 30 per cent) of the genes in the cell nucleus have several versions in today's human population. Like most 'wild' populations (not bred in the laboratory or for dog shows), each individual human has two versions of about 10 per cent of his or her genes, different versions received from father and mother in sperm and egg. Humans have roughly 30,000 genes, of which about 3,000 will be represented by two versions in the average person. For some genes, notably those of the immune system that give each of us a very specific lock-and-key individuality, making us susceptible to some ailments but resistant to others, there are hundreds of versions of each gene (of four important ones, anyway). The (common)

chimpanzee has a set of these immune variants that is very like the human: in one list of 65 variants of one immune gene, only two were not exactly the same. We don't know about the DNA of enough bonobos yet to see if the story is the same for them, but the smart money says that it will be, possibly even more so. The gorilla set seems to be a little different again (but only about thirty gorillas have been tested).

At any rate, all of these immune gene variants had to come out of Africa in that 'bottleneck'

population that produced all the ex-African human populations. It is unreasonable to suppose that each individual inherited different versions of each variable gene from their parents: some will have carried only one version, the same from both parents, and no one can have carried more than two. The humans that came out of Africa have about 500 immune variants, at least, in common with chimpanzees, out of about 750 possibilities. The humans who stayed in Africa have more: they weren't subject to the bottleneck. There are many other genes where several ancient versions (ancient because they're common to us, chimpanzees, perhaps gorillas, maybe other species) have come through; 100,000 people is a reasonable minimum to carry all those. If you want to be critical and get that number down a bit, you could argue that a few variants from African populations may have been mixed in later, for example via slavery to the US, or to Mediterranean peoples and then via Phoenician sailors to the rest of us. Still, the evidence does not point to an Adam and an Eve, unless they came with a lot of servants, slaves or concubines.

The Biblical stories don't mention those.39