Famous First Words is a recurring LabKitty feature in which we take a gander at the opening of an historic scientific article. I take the liberty of rewriting the opening for dramatic purposes. Do with this information what you will.
Someday we may curse the name of Dolly, say, in a future world where hordes of genetically-enhanced sheep roam the streets in search of human flesh. (Although you gotta admit: if the world has to end, we could do worse.) In the meantime, let's just bask in the prospect of advances in medical treatments made possible by the first successful mammal cloning.
What was with all the "frankensheep" hoopla anyway? Once revealed, the details of the experiment were rather anticlimactic. Ian Wilmut, Angelika Schnieke, Jim McWhir, Alexander Kind, and Keith Campbell extracted the nucleus from an adult mammary cell, transferred it into an enucleated oocyte, then implanted the whole schmeer into the uterus of an idling ewe (a "uterewe," as it were). The fertility clinics down in Lino Lakes do stranger things before breakfast. In fact, LabKitty was hoping the experiment was more like that scene in The Thing where MacReady sticks a hot wire into some protogoo and Dolly lept, fully formed, from the petri dish.
No such luck. Dolly and some of her offspring apparently had a propensity for congenital defects, but not a one developed a freakish taste for blood or a burning desire to kill Jedis.
Here's how the team began their announcement:
Rain fell hard on Captain Ian Wilmut and the men of Baker Company huddled inside the Capitol building. The famous landmark that had weathered almost 200 years of the nation's troubles was now an open air forum. An errant artillery shell had shattered the dome, the Venetian tragedy at Athens replayed as comedy. Chunks of granite were scattered around the rotunda like an overturned bucket of Legos on Christmas morning. It wasn't good for democracy, but it was good for cover. Right now, cover would suffice for his men. What was left of them.
Wilmut took a drag off a Lucky Strike and pressed it into the forward sight of his SAW for safe keeping.
"Any word from HQ, Schnieke?" he asked a man working a mangled radio.
"No, Sir," Schnieke replied.
Schnieke had been trying to reach the Pentagon ever since Baker had been cut off in this tourist trap. Stretching from Congress to K-street was a no-man's land crossed with razor wire. A mud graveyard of men and dreams, the dreams as broken as the tanks the men dreamed would rescue them. The cherry trees were stripped bare and hung with entrails, the once shining museums that ringed the mall were now nothing but burnt bombed bunkers. The Washington monument had been broken at midpoint like a pencil that had been broken at midpoint. Lincoln had been blasted from his chair; his memorial emancipated. The reflecting pond bobbed with corpses. Human gazpacho, cold and impartial as death. Starter broth for the apocalypse.
Wilmut looked at his watch. "It'll be light in a few hours."
"They left us here!" came a panicked voice in the darkness."
"Shut it, Campbell," Schnieke cut him off. "We're marines and we still got a job to do."
"They left us here and were gonna die!"
"Didn't you hear me the first time? I said--"
"Shhh. Do you hear that?" Private Kind held up a finger.
Wilmut cocked his head. "I don't hear nothin'."
"There it is again."
A curious vibrato drifted in on the darkness. It sounded like an opera singer playing on a half-wound Gramophone wobbling on the back of a toddler. The noise lilted over the makeshift parapets and echoed around the men.
"McWhir, your NODs still working?" Wilmut barked, using his inside dog voice.
"Yes, Sir," corporal McWhir replied.
"Get over the top and have a look."
McWhir slung his M-16 and weaved through the rubble toward the perimeter. The strange noise was growing more frequent. And louder.
"Talk to me McWhir," the Captain commanded impatiently after too many minutes of McWhir not talking to him.
"I think you better get up here, Sir," McWhir called back in a hushed tone.
Wilmut scrambled through the rubble and found McWhir crouched in cover. McWhir handed his NODs to the captain.
Over there," McWhir said and pointed to the west.
Wilmut slowly raised the night vision goggles to his face. At first: nothing. Then: nothing. Then: still nothing, but more dramatically. Finally, he saw it. The source of the strange vibrato. Two, four, eight, sixteen. Wilmut tallied in powers of two until he lost count. Pairs of burning red eyes lined the horizon, headed straight for them. Baker Company was on a highway to hell, and these were the headlights.
"They're.. they're sheep, Sir," McWhir said.
"No corporal, they're not sheep." Wilmut replied in a weary voice.
They're battle sheep.
Someday we may curse the name of Dolly, say, in a future world where hordes of genetically-enhanced sheep roam the streets in search of human flesh. (Although you gotta admit: if the world has to end, we could do worse.) In the meantime, let's just bask in the prospect of advances in medical treatments made possible by the first successful mammal cloning.
What was with all the "frankensheep" hoopla anyway? Once revealed, the details of the experiment were rather anticlimactic. Ian Wilmut, Angelika Schnieke, Jim McWhir, Alexander Kind, and Keith Campbell extracted the nucleus from an adult mammary cell, transferred it into an enucleated oocyte, then implanted the whole schmeer into the uterus of an idling ewe (a "uterewe," as it were). The fertility clinics down in Lino Lakes do stranger things before breakfast. In fact, LabKitty was hoping the experiment was more like that scene in The Thing where MacReady sticks a hot wire into some protogoo and Dolly lept, fully formed, from the petri dish.
No such luck. Dolly and some of her offspring apparently had a propensity for congenital defects, but not a one developed a freakish taste for blood or a burning desire to kill Jedis.
Here's how the team began their announcement:
Fertilization of mammalian eggs is followed by successive cell divisions and progressive differentiation, first into the early embryo and subsequently into all of the cell types that make up the adult animal.Pleasant enough, I suppose. However, as has become customary here on FFW, LabKitty now supplies an alternate opening that may offer a more engaging entry point for the casual reader. Enjoy after the jump.
Viable offspring derived from fetal and adult mammalian cells. Ian Wilmut, Angelika Schnieke, James McWhir, Alexander Kind, and Keith Campbell. Nature 385:810 (1997)
Rain fell hard on Captain Ian Wilmut and the men of Baker Company huddled inside the Capitol building. The famous landmark that had weathered almost 200 years of the nation's troubles was now an open air forum. An errant artillery shell had shattered the dome, the Venetian tragedy at Athens replayed as comedy. Chunks of granite were scattered around the rotunda like an overturned bucket of Legos on Christmas morning. It wasn't good for democracy, but it was good for cover. Right now, cover would suffice for his men. What was left of them.
Wilmut took a drag off a Lucky Strike and pressed it into the forward sight of his SAW for safe keeping.
"Any word from HQ, Schnieke?" he asked a man working a mangled radio.
"No, Sir," Schnieke replied.
Schnieke had been trying to reach the Pentagon ever since Baker had been cut off in this tourist trap. Stretching from Congress to K-street was a no-man's land crossed with razor wire. A mud graveyard of men and dreams, the dreams as broken as the tanks the men dreamed would rescue them. The cherry trees were stripped bare and hung with entrails, the once shining museums that ringed the mall were now nothing but burnt bombed bunkers. The Washington monument had been broken at midpoint like a pencil that had been broken at midpoint. Lincoln had been blasted from his chair; his memorial emancipated. The reflecting pond bobbed with corpses. Human gazpacho, cold and impartial as death. Starter broth for the apocalypse.
Wilmut looked at his watch. "It'll be light in a few hours."
"They left us here!" came a panicked voice in the darkness."
"Shut it, Campbell," Schnieke cut him off. "We're marines and we still got a job to do."
"They left us here and were gonna die!"
"Didn't you hear me the first time? I said--"
"Shhh. Do you hear that?" Private Kind held up a finger.
Wilmut cocked his head. "I don't hear nothin'."
"There it is again."
A curious vibrato drifted in on the darkness. It sounded like an opera singer playing on a half-wound Gramophone wobbling on the back of a toddler. The noise lilted over the makeshift parapets and echoed around the men.
"McWhir, your NODs still working?" Wilmut barked, using his inside dog voice.
"Yes, Sir," corporal McWhir replied.
"Get over the top and have a look."
McWhir slung his M-16 and weaved through the rubble toward the perimeter. The strange noise was growing more frequent. And louder.
"Talk to me McWhir," the Captain commanded impatiently after too many minutes of McWhir not talking to him.
"I think you better get up here, Sir," McWhir called back in a hushed tone.
Wilmut scrambled through the rubble and found McWhir crouched in cover. McWhir handed his NODs to the captain.
Over there," McWhir said and pointed to the west.
Wilmut slowly raised the night vision goggles to his face. At first: nothing. Then: nothing. Then: still nothing, but more dramatically. Finally, he saw it. The source of the strange vibrato. Two, four, eight, sixteen. Wilmut tallied in powers of two until he lost count. Pairs of burning red eyes lined the horizon, headed straight for them. Baker Company was on a highway to hell, and these were the headlights.
"They're.. they're sheep, Sir," McWhir said.
"No corporal, they're not sheep." Wilmut replied in a weary voice.
They're battle sheep.
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