Chapter One: After a Lost Balloon

In a basement laboratory in London a man contemplated a carcass. It was roughly the size and shape of a rolling pin, with a knife-edged tail, with fins like whiskers. Its eyes were the dark heads of pins, and its lips were full and sinful. The man stood tall and a little stooped, and although in 1839 he was only thirty-five, he had the kind of brown-eyed glare on which old failed prophets usually have a monopoly. He had seen the skin, guts, and bones of hundreds of animals that no Englishman had seen before, but few had irritated him more than this one.

His name was Richard Owen -- not yet Sir Richard, but on his way there. He had grown up in Lancaster, and in boyhood his prospects had not seemed so good. His father, a ruined merchant, had died in the West Indies when Richard was five. A lazy, impudent boy, he joined the navy at fourteen, working as a surgeon's apprentice, but after the end of the War of 1812 peacetime offered little hope of a career, and so he returned to Scotland. He had loved heraldry, and it may have been while drawing unicorns and griffins that he first became interested in animal form. Again employed as a surgeon's apprentice, he began collecting skulls, beginning with dogs, cats, deer, and mice. But he wanted more bones. For a time he worked for a surgeon who performed autopsies on the dead prisoners at Hadrian's Tower. On a cold day in January the two of them paid a call to the prison, and after the autopsy the surgeon left Owen to clean up. This time Owen did not pack all the instruments. He left a few blades alongside the opened corpse, and handing the guard some coins, he told him that he needed to come back later. There was some extra business to attend to before the coffin was screwed shut.

He returned in the frozen moonlight up the icy hill to the tower, bringing with him a strong brown paper bag. He nodded to the guard, who nodded back, and he climbed up the stairs to the autopsy room and shut the door as he went in. Before long he opened the door again, his paper bag full. He passed the guard again and told him that the inmate was ready. As he left the tower and began to walk back down the hill, his mind was filled with thoughts of facial angles and osseous tissues. The more he thought about the work he would enjoy at the surgery that night, the faster he walked. Suddenly his feet kicked out from under him. The bag swung away as he fell on the ice, its contents rolling free. He ran after it, down toward a cottage at the bottom of the hill, but he was too late. A woman inside heard a thump at the base of her front door. She opened it and before her was a disheveled, owl-eyed boy trying to stuff a freshly severed head into a bag. He ran with it all the way to the surgery, her screams flying after him.

Owen went to the University of Edinburgh at age twenty, but he soon outstripped their classes -- within a year he was traveling to London with letters of introduction from his private tutors and got a position as a surgeon at a hospital. To be a doctor in London in the 1820s was as much a political act as a profession. The medical establishment -- including the city's hospitals and medical journals -- was controlled by physicians who generally had Tory sympathies. Allied with the physicians were the surgeons who performed dissections and held a lower position on the social ladder. Opposed to them were the general practitioners who were educated at small private colleges and were of a more radical egalitarian bent. Set on reforming medicine, they lambasted the elitism of physicians and surgeons wherever they could, in renegade medical journals or newspapers or Parliament. They fought fiercely for access to the library and museum of the Royal College of Surgeons. A famous British surgeon named John Hunter had amassed thousands of books and a collection of thirteen thousand pickled animals, disembodied hearts, limbs, bladders, spines, and other materials that laid out the patterns of anatomy, but after his death in 1793, the collection languished for years. The government bought it and entrusted it to the Royal College of Surgeons on the understanding that they would publish catalogs, keep a lecture series, and open the museum and library to the public. But for over twenty years the college had let in only its own, and the GPs crowed loudly until Parliament took notice. The college agreed to let licensed doctors in and to draw up an official catalog.

Owen was hired to assist on the job, and when his superior died, the work became his alone. It was a labor that would keep him occupied for decades. At the same time he struggled to advance his own career as an anatomist, lecturing to medical students and winning the right to dissect the animals that died at the London zoo. It wasn't out of the ordinary to walk into Owen's house and find a freshly dead rhino parked in the hallway.

In 1830 a sixty-one-year-old French baron, ailing yet imperious, came to the Hunterian Museum. Because Owen was the only one there who spoke French, it fell to him to tour the man around. His name was Georges Cuvier -- a professor at the National Museum of Natural History in Paris, and to Owen the sun in the sky. Like Owen, Cuvier had started as a shabby-genteel outsider, a German Protestant who wandered the hills around Montbéliard as a boy, picking plants that he would take home. There he would classify them according to the scheme of the eighteenth-century naturalist Carl Linnaeus, who had constructed the hierarchy of species, genus, family, order, class, phylum, and kingdom. Cuvier was supposed to become a bureaucrat in the Prussian government after he graduated, but he emerged out of the Stuttgart Academy among a huge bolus of aspiring bureaucrats. A job came his way only when a friend returned home to Montbéliard after finishing a stint as a tutor to a family in Normandy. He arranged for Cuvier to take his place.

In Normandy Cuvier was treated more like a family servant than a tutor. He tried to console himself by thinking about the tour of Europe he was going to take his student on, and by studying whatever life he could find -- the plants in the town garden, a private store of exotic fish, another of oriental birds. But before his tour could begin, the French Revolution overran Paris and spread out into the countryside. His family fled to a village on the coast where Cuvier, now twenty-one, fell into almost complete solitude. He would walk the beach alone, collecting the animals that washed ashore, picking through the guts of skates that the fishermen would sell him. He wrote learned letters to the leading zoologists in Paris, and his reputation as a homegrown naturalist increased. After the revolution cooled, Cuvier visited Paris, where he stunned the scientists at the new National Museum with the knowledge he had taught himself. They were desperate for skilled help and hired him instantly. He was only twenty-three when he joined, but then again the man who invited him, a professor of zoology named Etienne Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, was only twenty-one. "Come to Paris," Geoffroy wrote to him. "Come play among us the role of another legislator of natural history." It was a parliament founded by boys.

By the age of thirty Cuvier had invented modern paleontology. People had collected fossils for centuries, yet even in the 1500s Europeans thought of them not as real skeletons but as some of the many forms a rock could take: some became emeralds, other became imitations of snail shells. Gradually naturalists recognized too many similarities between these stones and the bones of living animals, mineralogists realized how bone could be transmuted to rock, and the traditional view of fossils began to buckle. By the 1700s naturalists had found bones of everything from elephants to giant spiraled shellfish in the earth. Noah's flood, many of them decided, must have cast them to the tops of mountains.

Cuvier studied fossils as seriously as living animals. Bringing a steady flow of bones to Paris from the limestone quarries outside the city, he prised them free of the rock and found among them elephants that were different from the species alive today. He could only conclude that they belonged to a species that was gone from the world. No one had seriously thought that an entire species could become extinct, but within a few years Cuvier had found rhino-sized sloths and tapirs that had also vanished. He realized that a single flood couldn't have washed away all the creatures he was finding: their fossils disappeared at different points in geological time, demonstrating that life had shuddered over and over again with violent revolutions. Each time a new kind of life had somehow come into existence.

Whenever Cuvier looked at an animal, extinct or alive, he was overwhelmed by how all the parts fit together in a whole -- a single, unified organism. A bird was dedicated to flight in every aspect, from the fan of its tail feathers to its enormous lungs to its thin hollow bones. Substitute a bone from a barracuda into a bird skeleton, and the whole creature would be ruined. It was this dedication to function that could account for how different animals were similar to one another and could be fit into Linnaeus's classification. Since function dictated form, animals that functioned similarly looked alike. He divided animals into four major groups, based on how their nervous system -- to Cuvier the essence of an animal -- was laid out. Vertebrates had a brain and a spinal cord, the mollusks had a brain but no cord, others had barely a nervous system to speak of, and still others had systems that radiated out from a central nerve cluster. With such different architecture, each group could share no connection with the others, and the only reason that animals fell into a given category was that they happened to function in similar ways.

It's no wonder then that Cuvier scorned the ideas of another scientist at the museum named Jean-Baptiste Lamarck, who argued that species actually changed over time -- that they evolved. When Lamarck looked at fossil mollusks he found that he could arrange some of them into a smoothly graded sequence through successive layers of rock. He claimed that in coping with a changing environment, a generation of creatures would undergo changes that they would pass on to their own offspring. Cuvier would have none of this transmutation. When Napoleon came home from Egypt with plundered mummies of cats and ibises thousands of years old, Cuvier compared them to living specimens and could find no significant difference. To him, life had a deeper order than Lamarckian evolution could allow.

By the time Cuvier came to London and met young Owen, he had become a hero to France. "Is not Cuvier the greatest poet of our century?" asked Balzac. "Lord Byron reproduces mortal throes in verse, but our immortal naturalist has reconstructed worlds from a whitened bone. Cuvier is a poet by mere numbers. He stirs the void with no artificially magic utterance; he scoops out a fragment of gypsum, discovers a print-mark and cries out 'Behold!' -- and lo, the trees are animalized, death becomes life, the world unfolds."

He was admired by the English as well, particularly by the sort of English who ran the College of Surgeons. The agitating general practitioners in London liked the idea of transmutating species and thought that humanity should strive upward, while the upper crust of scientific society preferred the idea that God had created fixed species on earth out of nothing. Their intricate designs were proof of his existence as much as a watch is proof of a watchmaker. And just as every animal had its place, higher or lower, in nature, people had their own place in society. Cuvier was therefore most welcome at the Hunterian Museum, and Owen must have managed to make a good impression on him during their short tour, because Cuvier invited him to Paris the next year.

In Paris Owen spent mornings in Cuvier's collections searching for inspiration for how to organize the mess waiting for him back at the Hunterian Museum. The rest of his time he spent as a dandy, taking in the opera and violoncello lessons, with Saturday nights reserved for Cuvier's soirées -- the only time when the stony man would abandon politics and anatomy. Owen also went to meetings of the Academy of Sciences, where people were still buzzing about a debate that Cuvier, after coming back from London, had entered into with his old mentor Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire.

Geoffroy and Cuvier had drifted far apart over the years. Cuvier liked to stick to facts, to avoid the sickened dreams of theory that weren't solidly embedded in the details of real zoology. Geoffroy meanwhile was enchanted by the work of German biologists and philosophers of the day, Romantics who hoped to find a hidden unity to all creation. He had never been much impressed by the classes and orders and kingdoms that scientists like Linnaeus and Cuvier depended on to categorize life. To Geoffroy they seemed arbitrary, since no division was absolute. Things that might make one cluster of animals unique could often be shown to be just the transformed structures of other beasts. A rhino's horn, he showed, was nothing more than a packed clump of hair. And if each species was perfectly created to fit its function, why had God left so many careless mistakes? Why does an ostrich have a wishbone, whose only function in birds is to help them fly?

Geoffroy conceived instead of a wild German hallucination: that you could transform any animal, be it a dog, an ant, or a squid, into any other. The transformation might be painful -- to see the underlying similarity between a duck and a squid, you'd have to bend the duck's back into a horseshoe. Eventually Geoffroy decided that these transformations were not hypothetical -- they were a sign that evolution had changed old species into new ones. Perhaps, he suggested, the change in an environment changed the way embryos developed. Freaks might be the start of new species. Geoffroy knew that his theory went against everything that Cuvier held dear, and for ten years he tried to lure Cuvier into debate. Finally, after he gave a lecture showing how he could bend the back of a vertebrate and end up with an invertebrate, Cuvier accepted the challenge. Cuvier had become frustrated by how his own students were being seduced away by the German song of unity, how political revolutionaries were coming into vogue again, and decided that this was the time to stand against it.

In a series of lectures, Cuvier used forty years of anatomy to mock Geoffroy's somersaults of bone and muscle. Cuvier was sure afterward that he had won the debates, but the real results weren't so clear. Owen was a case in point: listening to biologists argue the opposing views at the academy, he decided that Cuvier was right, but he still jotted down questions to ask himself. "Unity of Plan or Final Purpose, as a governing condition of organic development? Series of species, uninterrupted or broken by intervals? Primary life, by miracle or secondary law?" And within a decade he would try, in his own way, to reconcile the arguments of these two old Frenchmen.

As Britain's colonial tendrils reached around the world, many of the animals they encountered came to the Hunterian Museum, and ultimately ended up under Owen's knife. In the years after he returned home from Paris, he dissected acouchis, Tibetan bears, kangaroos, tapirs, crocodiles, beavers, mandrills, toucans, cheetahs, hornbills, kinkajous, Indian antelopes, turkey buzzards, water clams, flamingos, armadillos -- both nine-banded and weasel-headed -- and parasites from a tiger's stomach. In his work he took special care to stomp out the dreams of Lamarckian transmutation. In the 1820s biologists had thought that the bizarre duck-billed platypus was in the same family of mammals as sloths and anteaters, but in later years stories had streamed from Australia that the animals laid eggs. What could be better proof of a transmuted species? Here was a living transition between egg-laying reptiles and live-bearing mammals. Geoffroy went on record delighting in the way the platypus bridged these two kinds of animals.

In 1832, fresh from Paris, Owen confronted Geoffroy over the eggs. The evidence was vague; Owen couldn't find shell-secreting membranes for building the egg in the womb, nor did the pelvis seem wide enough to let an egg pass through. It was the ability of a mother to nurse her babies that Owen declared was the hallmark of all mammals, and he cut open hairless nestling babies to find coagulated milk in their stomachs and even found that glands in the mother's belly secreted it. Geoffroy admitted defeat. In fact, the platypus isbotha milk-producing mammal and an egg-layer. Its eggs would not be discovered for years to come, but Owen could have easily noticed a special egg-cutting tooth in the mouths of platypus babies, just like that in the mouths of reptiles. If he did, he completely ignored it.

In the 1830s English explorers brought back apes to London's Zoological Gardens for the first time. Most of the apes quickly died in their cages, and it was up to Owen to see what they looked like on the inside. Chimpanzees, with their childlike faces, had made a particularly big sensation in London and Paris; Lamarck had even suggested that chimpanzees could have produced the human race. If they should be forced to the ground they would lose their grasping big toes as they became used to walking. Once there they could stand erect, and after generations their calves would develop. With hands free, they would no longer need their jaws for weapons. Their snouts could shorten and their faces flatten, into our own image.

Owen couldn't stand the thought that humans were nothing but upright apes, and even more important, he didn't think much of the science behind it. Geoffroy and other biologists had measured the angles of the faces of orangutans and chimps and had said that they formed a beautiful sequence of flattening that ended with our own flattened visages. But because apes in zoos always died before they matured, the biologists had been limited to studying baby chimpanzees. In 1835 Owen was the first to dissect an adult chimp, and he showed that any resemblance to humans didn't last long: as a chimp grew, its humanlike face bulged out with large, sharp teeth and brow ridges, until its facial angle swung far from our own.

While Owen was busy preserving mankind by the slope of its brow, a naturalist named Johann Natterer was thrashing through the Amazon. Among the hundreds of animals he trapped, one that he found swimming in a river gave him particular pause. He was so confused by it, in fact, that he brought his specimens to Leopold Fitzinger, the curator of reptiles at the Imperial Museum in Vienna. They looked like fish, with gills and a fin, but when Fitzinger probed down their throats, he found what looked, absurdly, like the traces of a lung. Was this a fish or a reptile (a term that in Fitzinger's day included amphibians like frogs and newts)? No one had ever been forced to make such a distinction before -- after all, what distinction could be clearer? The only animals that had dared approach this division before were eel-shaped salamanders called sirens, which often lived underwater, breathing water with a feathery set of gill-like structures. Yet even they had legs and toes. Fitzinger settled on the title ofreptilebut only lightly, given how badly gutted his specimens had been -- "victims," in his words, "of Natterer's too passionately executed chase." Natterer himself had thought it was a fish, but he bowed to Fitzinger's expertise. He named the creatureLepidosiren paradoxa: lepidofor the scales on its back,sirenfor the amphibians, andparadoxafor his confusion.

In June 1837 another specimen came to the Royal College of Surgeons, but instead of the Amazon, this creature lived in the Gambia River in West Africa. During the dry season there, the creature dug itself a burrow a foot and a half deep in the mud, where it stayed for months. Owen's specimen came locked in a vault of clay. Inside was the same rolling-pin body, the lips, the whiskerlike legs that Natterer had found. But Owen hadn't yet heard about the reptile from the Amazon, and so he promptly gave his own creature a name:Protopterus anguilliform.

Owen set the creature aside. If it had been a few years earlier, he would have given it his relentless attention, but fame and work were swallowing up his days. The Royal College of Surgeons tore down the old Hunterian Museum and built a bigger one in its place, with collections finer than Cuvier's. Owen won awards and gave lectures that London's high society now came to hear. And on top of all this came tons of new fossils, brought to Owen by a quiet, pug-faced naturalist names Charles Darwin. Darwin had gone to the University of Edinburgh a year after Owen, but the two of them met for the first time only in 1836, at the house of a mutual friend. There Darwin told Owen about the five-year trip around the world he had just completed and the treasures, such as hideous green lizards that leaped into the Pacific to eat seaweed, that he had brought home. He had also discovered giant mammal fossils from South America he couldn't make much sense of, and at the dinner he asked Owen to identify them. It would take years for Owen to finish with these bones, which he concluded were rhino-sized rodents and anteaters that outweighed horses.

Often during that time Darwin would visit Owen at the college to talk about the fossils. Among the microscopes and jars of preserved animals, Owen would explain his idea that each species had its own organizing energy, one that couldn't be overstepped by some individual intent on founding a new one. Darwin kept quiet, his head steaming with new ideas he was afraid of sharing with anyone. Perhaps as they spoke Owen resented this lucky, quiet man. Here was Darwin, who had been born with enough family wealth to do as he pleased, who now made three times more money than Owen had achieved with all his struggling, who could stay out of the politics that Owen depended on for his livelihood. Owen was a museum man, but Darwin could afford to go on long voyages, to spend his days back in England doing little more than raising pigeons or chatting with dog breeders or strolling to the zoo to watch an orangutan as it threw tantrums.

Owen meanwhile was so submerged in work that he discovered that for once someone had beaten him. The African creature he wanted to callProtopterushad already been found in the Amazon and already namedLepidosiren.Zoologists treasure the opportunity to name a species, as if it were handed down to them by Adam himself, and Owen was no exception. If anything, he felt more of a right than his peers. Owen was the English Cuvier, and he knew it -- he had become an arrogant, secretive, manipulative man -- and in his writing aboutLepidosirenyou can sense his resentment that such an important animal should be left to anyone else to name. "Since the time ofOrnithorhynchus,"he wrote (referring to the platypus), "there had not been submitted to naturalists a species which proved more strongly the necessity of a knowledge of its whole organization, both external and internal, in order to arrive at a correct view of its real nature and affinities than did theLepidosiren."

Owen decided to judge for himself what this animal was. In his basement laboratory he looked at its mouth, which held the strangest teeth he had ever seen -- two giant, ribbed crushing plates cemented to its palate. These alone would have made it an exceptional creature: fossils of an identical shape had been drifting through the scientific literature for over twenty years. They were gorgeous black polished things, which their first describer thought were broken off the end of a turtle's shell. Eventually they were recognized as being teeth belonging to a fish that lived during the Triassic period, which geologists would identify as being over 220 million years ago. And here the same teeth were in this living animal's head.

"If indeed, the species had been known only by its skeleton," Owen wrote, "no one could have hesitated in referring it to the class of Fishes." But unlike the fossils, this species had dried flesh attached to it, and that made matters confusing. Owen slit open the dried, olive corpse, picking through the green bones. He laid out the gills from their bony struts so that they hung like mimosa leaves. Within its ribs, where some fish gave a gas-filled sac known as a swim bladder for controlling their buoyancy,Lepidosirenhad long honeycombed bags that tangled into the heart. He could only call them lungs -- "for I know not how otherwise to designate, according to their physiological or morphological relations, those organs, which, in the technical language of ichthyologists would be termed the swim or air bladder." These lungs could only be for breathing air, and once again a transformationist might say that here was a transitional animal bridging the gap from fish to reptile.

Because Owen did not believe in such transitions, he took particular care to figure out on which side of the border dividing fish and tetrapods the lungfish belonged. The brain resembled those of reptiles, and its wispy fins fit into its shoulders and hips like simplified legs. Lungs were surely the most tetrapodlike trait ofLepidosiren,the organs that let them survive on land, as opposed to gills which let fish breathe water. But Owen didn't want to reach such a conclusion, and he kept looking at the animal until he inspected the nose. In his specimen there was no passage connecting it to the mouth, which meant thatLepidosirencould only smell with it, as did all fishes. There was no way that it could be used for breathing, as in tetrapods on land. Owen had found the sign he needed.

"In the organ of smell, we have at last a character which is absolute in reference to the distinction of Fishes from Reptiles," he declared. "In every Fish it is a shut sac communicating only with the external surface; in every Reptile it is a canal with both an internal and an external opening. According to this test,Lepidosirenis a Fish...not by its gills, not by its air bladders, not by its spiral intestine, not by its unossified skeleton, nor its extremities nor its skin nor its eyes nor its ears, but simply by its nose."

Owen had wanted to save humanity from the company of beasts. Now we were more than fishes, thanks only to our noble nostrils.

For twenty years after his encounter withLepidosiren,Owen became even grander. He invented the worddinosaur,and he held a dinner at the Crystal Palace at which a table of luminaries sat inside the gut of a model ofIguanodon.He was knighted and moved from the Hunterian Museum to the newly built British Museum, where he superintended the natural history collections. William Gladstone and Charles Dickens were among his friends. Queen Victoria gave him a house and he tutored her children.

And in that time Owen found a way to fuse the ideas of Cuvier and Geoffroy. Cuvier had insisted that function determined form, that there was no correspondence between the major groups of animals. But Owen decided that Geoffroy, who could see ways of turning any animal into any other, might have touched the core of life, even if his details were wrong. There was simply too much anatomy that Owen had held in his hands to be accounted for by getting this or that job done. You could talk about how the heads of mammals like ourselves are made of many bones that don't fuse until after birth, and how God had so providently arranged this so that our heads could slip out of narrow wombs. But why then could Owen find corresponding bones in a chicken or a lizard, which only had to break its way out of an egg to be born? There had to be a deeper relationship, which Owen called homology -- "the same organ in different animals under every variety of form and function" was his definition. Homology was what united the bones in the heads of birds and humans, but homology always had to be distinguished from analogy when different organs served the same purpose. Gliding lizards have long spars attached to each of their ribs, on which they hang a fleshy sail for parachuting from tree to tree. Gliding squirrels do the same thing with flaps of skin that stretch from arms to legs. Both animals can sail, but the anatomical parts that let them do it aren't homologies.

When Owen looked at life this way, he could see homologies throughout the anatomies of all vertebrate animals. Ultimately, he decided, their bodies could all be considered elaborated spines. The basic vertebra was a spool surrounded by an arch above and below, and ribs protruding from the side. Every part of the vertebrate skeleton was a homology of some part of this bone, from chins to braincases to breastbones. Reducing all of these homologous bones to their simplest form, Owen drew what he imagined was the general plan for vertebrates, a lampreylike thing which he christened the Archetype.

The Archetype was the blueprint that God referred to as He guided the history of life. As Cuvier had suggested, life passed through revolutions, and as it did, different modifications on the Archetype emerged -- first fishes, then reptiles, and then mammals. The only continuity they shared was in how they elaborated more and more on the Archetype. The lungfish, the animal that had puzzled Owen so much before, was actually the closest approach that fish made to the reptile form. Although Owen thought that new species appeared through time, he didn't accept Lamarck's idea of life as continual upward progression. To him the dinosaurs were clear proof of that: although they were reptiles, they were advanced creatures in their own right, and yet they had been followed by far less inspiring lizards, snakes, and other minor reptiles.

Some might think that if God had not made animals perfectly adapted to their own ways of life then there could be no purpose to their anatomy. Perhaps they had formed by organic chance. "But from this Epicurean slough of despond every healthy mind naturally recoils," Owen wrote. The Archetype did have a function of its own, he decided, but something more noble than letting an animal trot. God must have had our own form in mind when He laid down the earliest vertebrate forms, and thus "its truer comprehension leads rational and responsible beings to a better conception of their own origin and Creator."

Beneath Owen's pieties, he was secretly trying to figure out how species were in fact created organically. Churchmen might think that all the species alive today came from Noah's ark, but Owen couldn't help wondering how a flightless bird could get to a remote island in the Pacific. He would always consider Lamarck's strivings and Geoffroy's freaks to be laughable, but evolution might work by other ways. Populations of aphids would change completely from one generation to the next, all completely lacking wings, all turned asexual. Whatever rules of biology produced these changes might on rare occasion create new species at a stroke. Of course God was behind whatever mechanism created species, but science could discover it. Owen was always coy about these ideas of evolution. He had clawed for three decades to reach his social and scientific perch, and if he began to offer this sort of heresy

Excerpted from At the Water's Edge: Fish with Fingers, Whales with Legs and How Life Came Ashore but Then Went Back to Sea by Carl Zimmer
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