If you could drive an automobile straight down, in an hour or two you would find yourself deep inside the upper mantle of the Earth, far beneath the pediments of the continents, approaching an infernal region where the rock becomes a viscous liquid, mobile and red-hot. And if you could drive for an hour straight up, you would find yourself in the near-vacuum of interplanetary space.³ Beneath you—blue, white, breathtakingly vast, and brimming over with life—would stretch the lovely planet on which our species and so many others have grown up. We inhabit a shallow zone of environmental clemency. Compared to the size of the Earth, it is thinner than the coat of shellac on a large schoolroom globe. But earlier, long ago, even this narrow habitable boundary between hell and heaven was unready to receive life.

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The Earth accumulates in the dark. Although the primitive Sun is ablaze, there is so much gas and dust between the Earth and the Sun that at first no light gets through. The Earth is embedded in a black cocoon of interplanetary debris. There’s an occasional flash of lightning by which you glimpse a ravaged, pockmarked, not quite spherical world. As it gathers up more and more matter, in units ranging from dust to worldlets, it becomes rounder, less lumpy.

A collision with a hurtling worldlet produces a shattering explosion, and excavates a great crater. Much of the impactor disintegrates into powder and atoms. There are vast numbers of such collisions. Ice is converted to steam. The planet is blanketed in vapor—which holds in the heat from the impacts. The temperature rises until the Earth’s surface becomes entirely molten, a roiling world-ocean of lava, glowing by its own red heat, and surmounted by a stifling atmosphere of steam. These are the final stages of the great gathering in.

In this epoch, when the Earth is new, the most spectacular catastrophe in the history of our planet occurs: a collision with a sizeable world. It does not quite crack the Earth open, but it does blast a good fraction of it out into nearby space. The resulting ring of orbiting debris shortly falls together to become the Moon.

The day is only a few hours long. Gravitational tides raised in the Earth’s oceans and interior by the Moon, and in the Moon’s solid body by the Earth, gradually slow the Earth’s rotation and lengthen the day. From the moment of its formation, the Moon has been drifting away from the Earth. Even now, it hovers over us, a baleful reminder that had the colliding world been much bigger, the Earth would have scattered in fragments through the inner solar system—a short-lived, unlucky world like so many others. Then humans would never have come to be. We would be just one more item on the immense list of unrealized possibilities.

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Shortly after the Earth had formed, its molten interior was churning, great convection currents circulating, a world in a slow boil. Heavy metal was falling to its center, forming a massive molten core. Motions in the liquid iron began to generate a strong magnetic field.

The time came when the Solar System had pretty well been swept free of gas and dust and rogue worldlets. On Earth, the massive atmosphere—that had kept the heat in—dissipated. Indeed, the collisions themselves helped to drive that atmosphere into space. Convection still carried hot magma up to the surface, but the heat from the molten rock could now be radiated away to space. Slowly the Earth’s surface began to cool. Some of the rock solidified and a thin, at first fragile crust formed, thickened, and hardened. Through blisters and fissures, magma and heat and gases continued to pour out of the interior.

Punctuated by spasmodic flurries of worlds falling out of the sky, the bombardment slowed. Each large impact produced a great dust cloud. There were so many impacts at first that a pall of fine particles enveloped the planet, prevented sunlight from reaching the surface, and in effect turned off the atmospheric greenhouse effect and froze the Earth. There seems to have been a period, after the magma ocean solidified but before the massive bombardment ended, when the once molten Earth became a frozen, battered planet. Who, scanning this desolate world, would have pronounced it fit for life? What wild optimist could have foreseen that peonies and eagles would one day spring from this wasteland?

The original atmosphere had been ejected into space by the relentless rain of worldlets. Now a secondary atmosphere trickled up from the interior and was retained. As the impacts declined, global dust palls became more rare. From the surface of the Earth the Sun would have seemed to be flickering, as in a time-lapse movie. So there was a time when sunlight first broke through the dust pall, when the Sun, Moon, and stars could first be noticed had there been anyone there to see them. There was a first sunrise and a first nightfall.

In sunny intervals, the surface warmed. Outgassed water vapor cooled and condensed; droplets of liquid water formed and trickled down to fill the lowlands and the impact basins. Icebergs continued to fall from the sky, vaporizing on arrival. Torrents of extraterrestrial rain helped form the primeval seas.

Organic molecules are composed of carbon and other atoms. All life on Earth is made from organic molecules. Clearly they had somehow to be synthesized before the origin of life in order for life to arise. Like water, organic molecules came both from down here and from up there. The early atmosphere was energized by ultraviolet light and the wind from the Sun, the flash and crackle of lightning and thunder, auroral electrons, intense early radioactivity, and the shock waves of objects plummeting groundward. When, in the laboratory, such energy sources are introduced into presumptive atmospheres of the primitive Earth, many of the organic building blocks of life are generated, and with astonishing ease.

Life began near the end of the heavy bombardment. This is probably no coincidence The cratered surfaces of the Moon, Mars, and Mercury offer eloquent testimony to how massive and world-altering that battering was. Since the worldlets that have survived to our time—the comets and the asteroids—have sizeable proportions of organic matter, it readily follows that similar worldlets, also rich in organic matter but in much vaster numbers, fell on the Earth 4 billion years ago and may have contributed to the origin of life.

Some of these bodies, and their fragments, burned up entirely as they plunged into the early atmosphere. Others survived unscathed, their cargoes of organic molecules safely delivered to the Earth. Small organic particles drifted down from interplanetary space like a fine sooty snow. We do not know just how much organic matter was delivered to and how much was generated on the early Earth, the ratio of imports to domestic manufactures. But the primitive Earth seems to have been heavily dosed with the stuff of life⁴—including amino acids (the building blocks of proteins), and nucleotide bases and sugars (the building blocks of the nucleic acids).

Imagine a period hundreds of millions of years long in which the Earth is awash in the building blocks of life. Impacts are erratically altering the climate; temperatures are falling below the freezing point of water when the impact ejecta obscure the Sun, and then warming as the dust settles. There are pools and lakes undergoing wild fluctuations in conditions—now warm, bright, and bathed in solar ultraviolet light, now frozen and dark. Out of this varied and changeable landscape and this rich organic brew, life arises.

Presiding over the skies of Earth at the time of the origin of life was a huge Moon, its familiar surface features being etched by mighty collisions and oceans of lava. If tonight’s Moon looks about as large as a nickel at arm’s length, that ancient Moon might have seemed as big as a saucer. It must have been heartbreakingly lovely. But it was billions of years to the nearest lovers.

We know that the origin of life happened quickly, at least on the time scale by which suns evolve. The magma ocean lasted until about 4.4 billion years ago. The time of the permanent or near-permanent dust pall lasted a little longer. Giant impacts occurred intermittently for hundreds of millions of years after that. The largest ones melted the surface, boiled away the oceans, and flushed the air off into space. This earliest epoch of Earth history is, appropriately, called Hadean, hell-like. Perhaps life arose a number of times, only to be snuffed out by a collision with some wild, careening worldlet newly arrived from the depths of space. Such “impact frustration” of the origin of life seems to have continued until about 4 billion years ago. But by 3.6 billion years ago, life had exuberantly come to be.

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The Earth is a vast graveyard, and every now and then we dig up one of our ancestors. The oldest known fossils, you might imagine, are microscopic, discovered only by painstaking scientific analysis. Some are. But some of the most ancient traces left by life on Earth are easily visible to the untrained naked eye—although the beings that made them were microscopic. Often meticulously preserved, they’re called stromatolites; not unusual are examples the size of a basketball or a watermelon. A few are half the length of a football field. Stromatolites are big. Their age is read from the radioactive clocks in the ancient basaltic lava in which they are embedded.

They still grow and flourish today—in warm bays, lagoons, and inlets in Baja California, Western Australia, or the Bahamas. They’re composed of successive layers of sediment generated by mats of bacteria. The individual cells live together. They must know how to get on with the neighbors.

We glimpse the earliest lifeforms on Earth and the first message conveyed is not of Nature red in tooth and claw, but of a Nature of cooperation and harmony. Of course, neither extreme is the whole truth; and, examining modern stromatolites more closely, we find single-celled microbes freely swimming in and around the mats. Some of them are busily devouring their fellows. Perhaps they too were there from the beginning.

Some stromatolite communities are photosynthetic; they know how to convert sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide into food. Even today, we humans are unable to build a machine that can perform this transformation with the efficiency of a photosynthetic microbe, much less a liverwort. Yet 3.6 billion years ago the stromatolitic bacteria could do it.

Exactly what happened between the time of the first seas, rich in organic molecules and future prospects, and the time of the first stromatolites is beyond our present ability to reconstruct. Stromatolite-forming microbes could hardly have been the first living things. Before there were colonial forms, there must, it seems, have been individual, free-living, one-celled organisms. And before that, something even simpler. Perhaps before the first photosynthetic organisms, there were little beings that could eat the organic matter littering the landscape: Eating food seems to be a great deal less demanding than manufacturing it. And those little beings themselves had ancestors … and so on, back to the earliest molecule or molecular system able to make crude copies of itself.

Why did colonial forms develop so early? Maybe it was because of the air. Oxygen, generated today by green plants, must have been in short supply before the Earth was covered by vegetation. But ozone is generated from oxygen. No oxygen, no ozone. If there’s no ozone, the searing ultraviolet light (UV) from the Sun will penetrate to the ground. The intensity of UV at the surface of the Earth in those early days may have reached lethal levels for unprotected microbes, as it has on Mars today. We are concerned—and for good reason—that chlorofluorocarbons and other products of our industrial civilization will reduce the amount of ozone by a few tens of percent. The predicted biological consequences are dire. How much more serious it must have been to have no ozone shield at all.

In a world with deadly UV reaching the surface of the waters, sunblock may have been the key to survival—as it may become again. Modern stromatolite microorganisms secrete a kind of extracellular glue that helps them to stick together and also to adhere to the ocean floor. There would have been an optimum depth, not so shallow as to be fried outright by unfiltered UV, and not so deep that the visible light is too feeble for photosynthesis. There, partly shielded by sea-water, it would have been advantageous for the organisms to put some opaque material between themselves and the UV. Suppose, in reproducing, the daughter cells of one-celled organisms did not separate and go their individual ways, but instead remained attached to one another, generating—after many reproductions—an irregular mass. The outer cells would take the brunt of the ultraviolet damage; the inner ones would be protected. If all the cells were spread out thinly on the surface of the sea, all would die; if they were clustered together, most of the interior cells would be sheltered from the deadly radiation. This may have been a potent early impetus for a communal way of life. Some died that others might live.

There are no earlier fossils known, in part because there’s very little of the Earth’s surface surviving from much before 3.6 billion years ago. Almost all the crust from that epoch has been carried deep into our planet’s interior and destroyed. In a rare 3.8-billion-year-old sediment from Greenland, there is some evidence from the kinds of carbon atoms present that life may have been widespread even then. If so, life happened sometime between about 3.8 and maybe 4.0 billion years ago. It could not have arisen much earlier. So—because of the inhospitability of the Hadean Earth, and the need for adequate time to evolve the stromatolite-building microbes—the origin of life must be confined to a comparatively narrow window in the expanse of geological time. Life seems to have arisen very quickly.

Tentatively, tortuously, the orphan is trying to figure out, to the nearest hundred million years, when the family tree took root. “How” is much harder than “when.” Deadly environmental perils, a kind of huddling together for mutual protection, and the deaths—of course, neither willing nor unwilling—of vast numbers of little beings were characteristic of life almost from the beginning. Some microbes were saving their brethren. Others were eating the neighbors.

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When life was first emerging, the Earth seems to have been mainly an ocean planet, the monotony broken, here and there, by the ramparts of large impact craters. The very beginnings of the continents date back about 4 billion years. Being made of lighter rock, then as now, they sat high on the moving, continent-sized plates. Then as now, the plates apparently were being extruded out of the Earth, carried across its surface as on a great conveyor belt, until plummeting back into the semifluid interior. Meanwhile, new plates were emerging. Vast quantities of mobile rock were slowly exchanged between the surface and the depths. A great heat engine had been established.

By about 3 billion years ago the continents were becoming larger. They were transported halfway around the Earth by the crustal plate machinery, opening one ocean and closing another. Occasionally, continents would crash into each other in exquisite slow motion, the crust would buckle and crinkle, and mountain ranges would be thrust up. Water vapor and other gases spewed out, mainly along mid-ocean ridges and volcanoes at the edges of plates.

Today we can readily detect the growth of continents, their relative motion over the Earth’s surface (sometimes called continental drift), and the subsequent transport of the ocean floor down into the interior, in a style of motion called plate tectonics. The continents tend to stay afloat even when their underlying plates plunge down to destruction. Still, time takes its toll even on continents. Some old continental crust is always being carried to the depths and only bits and pieces of truly ancient continents have survived to our time—in Australia, Canada, Greenland, Swaziland, Zimbabwe.

Greenhouse gases and stratospheric fine particles, both generated by volcanoes, can, respectively, warm or cool the Earth. The changing configuration of the continents determines rainfall and monsoon patterns, and the circulation of warming and cooling ocean currents. When the continents are all aggregated together, the variety of marine environments is limited; when they are scattered over the globe, there are many more kinds of environments, especially those near shore, where a surprising number of the fundamental biological innovations seem to have been made. Thus the history of life, and many of the steps that led to us humans, were governed by great sheets and columns of circulating magma—driven by the heat from long-gone worlds that fell together to make our planet, from the sinking of liquid iron to form the Earth’s core, and from the decay of radioactive atoms originally forged in the death throes of distant stars. Had these events gone a little otherwise, a different amount of heat would have been generated, a different pace or style of plate tectonics elicited, and, from the vast array of possible futures, a different course followed in the evolution of life. Not humans, but some very different species might now be the dominant form of life on Earth.

We know next to nothing about the configuration of the continents over the first 4 billion years. They may many times have been scattered over the oceans and reaggregated into a single mass. For at least 85 percent of Earth history, a map of our planet would have seemed wholly unfamiliar—as if of another world. The earliest well-substantiated reconstruction we can manage dates to as recent a time as 600 million years ago. The Northern Hemisphere then was mostly ocean; in the South, a single massive continent, plus fragments of future continents, drifted across the face of the Earth at about an inch a year—much slower than a snail’s pace. Trees grow vertically faster than continents move horizontally, but if you have millions of years to play with, this is quite sufficient for continents to collide and wholly alter what’s on the maps.

For hundreds of millions of years, what are now the southern continents—Antarctica, Australia, Africa, and South America—plus India, were joined in a common assemblage that geologists call Gondwana.* What was later to be North America, Europe, and Asia were adrift, sailing in pieces through the world ocean. Eventually, all this floating continental debris gathered itself together into one massive supercontinent. Whether we describe it as a landlocked planet with an immense saltwater lake, or an ocean planet with an immense island is only a matter of definition. It might have seemed a friendly world: At least, you could walk anywhere; there were no distant lands across the sea. Geologists call this supercontinent Pangaea—“all Earth.” It included, but of course was considerably larger than, Gondwana.

Pangaea was formed about 270 million years ago, during the Permian Period, a trying time for Earth. Worldwide, conditions had been warming. In some places the humidity was very high and great swamps formed, later to be supplanted by vast deserts. About 255 million years ago Pangaea began to shatter—because, it is thought, of the sudden rise of a superplume of molten lava through the Earth’s mantle from its deep seething core. Texas, Florida, and England were then at the equator North and South China, in separate pieces, Indochina and Malaya together, and fragments of what would later be Siberia were all large islands. Ice ages flickered on and off every 2.5 million years, and the level of the seas correspondingly fell and rose.

Towards the end of the Permian Period, the map of the Earth seems to have been violently reworked. Whole oblasts of Siberia were inundated with lava. Pangaea rotated and drifted north, moving mainland Siberia towards its present position, near the North Pole. “Megamonsoons,” torrential seasonal rains on a much larger scale than humans have ever witnessed, drenched and flooded the land. South China slowly crumpled into Asia. Many volcanoes blew their tops together, belching sulfuric acid into the stratosphere and perhaps playing an important role in cooling the Earth.⁵ The biological consequences were profound—a worldwide orgy of dying, on land and at sea, the likes of which has never been seen before or since.

The breakup of Pangaea continued. By 100 million years ago South America and Africa, which even today fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, were just barely separated by a narrow strait of ocean—receding from one another at about an inch a year. North and South America were then separate continents, with no Isthmus of Panama connecting them. India was a large island headed north away from Madagascar. Greenland and England were connected to Europe. Indonesia, Malaysia, and Japan were part of the mainland of Asia. You might have strolled from Alaska to Siberia. There were great inland seas where none exists today. This time, at a glance from orbit you would have recognized it as the Earth—but with the configuration of land and water strangely altered, as if by a careless, slapdash cartographer. This was the world of the dinosaurs.

Later, the continents drifted further apart, pulled by their underlying plates. Africa and South America continued to recede from one another, opening up the Atlantic. Australia split off from Antarctica. India collided with Asia, raising the Himalayas high. This is the world of the primates.

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Each of us is a tiny being, permitted to ride on the outermost skin of one of the smaller planets for a few dozen trips around the local star. The great internal engine of plate tectonics is indifferent to life, as are the small changes in the Earth’s orbit and tilt, the variation in the brightness of the Sun, and the impact with the Earth of small worlds on rogue orbits. These processes have no notion of what has been going on over billions of years on our planet’s surface. They do not care.

The longest-lived organisms on Earth endure for about a millionth of the age of our planet. A bacterium lives for one hundred-trillionth of that time. So of course the individual organisms see nothing of the overall pattern—continents, climate, evolution. They barely set foot on the world stage and are promptly snuffed out—yesterday a drop of semen, as the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius wrote, tomorrow a handful of ashes. If the Earth were as old as a person, a typical organism would be born, live, and die in a sliver of a second. We are fleeting, transitional creatures, snowflakes fallen on the hearth fire. That we understand even a little of our origins is one of the great triumphs of human insight and courage.

Who we are and why we are here can be glimpsed only by piecing together something of the full picture—which must encompass aeons of time, millions of species, and a multitude of worlds. In this perspective it is not surprising that we are often a mystery to ourselves, that, despite our manifest pretensions, we are so far from being masters even in our own small house.