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Its name is actually shared by a number of different plants with blossoms of various colors, but the most celebrated in art and literature is the sacred white lotus of the Hindus: Nelumbo nucifera. Its huge, almond-shaped petals form a shallow bowl around a seedpod that is vaguely reminiscent of the nozzle of a sprinkling can. This magnificent blossom, rising on a tall stalk from a flat base of large, round leaves, is endowed with an exotic aura. In Buddhist tradition, lotus blossoms mark each of the seven steps in ten directions taken, paradoxically, by the newborn Buddha. But without a doubt the color of the lotus--or, more properly, its utter absence of color--a blinding whiteness that speaks of unblemished purity, underlies its magical allure. The lotus was an important icon in ancient Egypt, the inspiration for the Phoenician capitals that preceded the Ionic order of design, the sacred flower of Hindu religions and the object of the principal mantra of Tibetan Buddhism: om mani padme hum, which means "Hail, jewel in the lotus." Given the mechanical efficiency of prayer wheels that symbolically repeat those words without pause, the lotus may be the most frequently invoked plant in the world. In various parts of the world it has been a symbol of fertility, birth, beauty, sunlight, transcendence, sexuality and the resurrection of the dead. A twelfth-century Sanskrit poem extols Brahma, "the lotus of whose navel forms thus our universe." But above all, the lotus represents purity. What an enchanting paradox, then, that the lotus grows in muddy waters, emerging from them unblemished and untouched by pollution. An ancient Indian text refers explicitly to that wonderful quality: The white lotus, born in the water and grown in the water, rises beyond the water and remains unsoiled by the water. Thus, monks, the [Buddha], born in the world, grown up in the world, after having conquered the world, remains unsoiled by the world. Those remarkable physical characteristics have captivated mystics and inspired artists for millennia. Is it any wonder, then, that the lotus has also excited the curiosity of modern scientists? How does it work? Why does mud cling to most plants, but not to the leaf of the lotus? How does it compel drops of water to roll off without wetting its surface? What is the scientific secret of the sacred flower? But I mustn't anticipate. Science rarely advances in giant leaps, suddenly illuminating big questions with brilliant answers. Only occasionally--and then mostly by chance--does a truly penetrating insight into the workings of the universe reward the dedicated scientist. More often, the questions of science are incremental, not fundamental, and its answers grains of sand carried to the communal edifice by industrious ants. So it was with the lotus. Diligence, not a resounding Eureka!, revealed its secret. TEN YEARS AGO THE BOTANIST Wilhelm Barthlott of the University of Bonn in Germany helped write an overview of his chosen research discipline. In time-honored academic fashion, his contribution begins with a forbidding sentence: "This chapter summarizes the results of a 20-year scanning electron microscope (SEM) survey of the micro-morphology of the epidermal surface of some 10 000 plants"--meaning that it dealt with close-ups of plant skins. Such thoroughness brought to bear on so minute a topic was a monument to scientific patience and selflessness. Nothing motivated Barthlott except pure scientific curiosity, and his love of plants. Without the accompanying illustrations, his opening sentence would have deterred all but the most dedicated vegetal dermatologists. But what illustrations! At magnifications ranging from ninety to 6,000 diameters, they portrayed an unsuspected wonderland of sculpture gardens. Most plant skins in the survey are overgrown with a forest of miniscule, wartlike protuberances, arranged in endlessly repeating patterns. Some of the protuberances look like wooden matches, with round heads on long stalks; others look like furry cones. Some of the structures are mere holes or indentations in an otherwise smooth surface, some resemble crooked hollow tubes swaying like drunken chimneys, and others are jagged shards attached at crazy angles. There are surfaces covered with what looks like tangled spaghetti or wild hair, vistas of perforated horizontal tubes like networks of garden hose, and armies of fantastic shapes that remind me of the Michelin tire man. Those marvelous sculptures are made up partly of living cells and partly of inert, waxy materials. The variety of microscopic growths on the surfaces of plants turns out to be as rich and bewildering as the variety of plants themselves. At that early stage of what promised to be a rich new field of scientific research, Barthlott did not yet have much to say about the significance of the exotic structures he was uncovering. He merely speculated about some of their possible functions: to change the wettability of the surface, or in other words, the degree to which water adheres to it; to control potentially debilitating water loss by changing the air flow; to regulate the exchange of gases (oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide) between the plant and the atmosphere; or to stabilize the temperature by altering the radiation, conduction and convection of heat. Conforming to Louis Pasteur's observation that fortune favors the prepared mind, Barthlott was unwittingly preparing himself for his encounter with the sacred lotus. WITHIN A COUPLE OF YEARS AFTER his monumental summing up, Barthlott and his student Christoph Neinhuis--who later became his colleague at the university--began to notice a peculiar trend. The first step in preparing a plant surface for microscopic examination is a thorough cleaning. Although no plant in nature can escape exposure to dust and grime, some leaves, it seemed, were much easier to prepare than others. They somehow managed to keep themselves better groomed. Unexpectedly, some of the cleanest surfaces turned out to be rougher and more irregular than those of their dirtier cousins. The correlation between cleanliness and surface roughness appeared to be exactly backward. In common parlance, rough means dirty, whereas smooth means clean. The label of my wife's New Improved Body Wash proclaims: "Revitalize your skin with delightfully fresh peach renewal cleanser. Washes away roughness and replenishes moisture for soft, smooth skin." What is said to be washed away is roughness, not dirt, and the skin afterward is called smooth, not clean. That way of speaking makes good sense. After all, polished kitchen counters have replaced unfinished wooden planks for hygienic reasons. Smooth marble floors are easier to wash than pitted concrete patios. Shoes are cleanest when they are polished. Surgeons prepare skin they plan to cut by giving it a shave. So when Barthlott and Neinhuis noticed that rougher plant surfaces were cleaner, and smoother ones dirtier, they decided to investigate. Unsurprisingly, given Barthlott's experience with microscopy, their primary tool was the SEM. The instrument is not to be confused with the much more recently invented scanning tunneling microscope (STM), which can distinguish individual atoms, and would have been too powerful for their purpose. As a physicist, I am proud to note that the electron microscope was among the first practical applications to result from the invention of the quantum theory, in 1925. (Other quantum mechanical devices, such as the transistor and the laser, came much later.) Yet biologists have always been among the principal users of the electron microscope. Without such a discerning tool, the present state of knowledge about bacteria, viruses and cells could not have been attained. According to quantum theory, electrons, and indeed all material particles, act like waves under certain circumstances. So-called matter waves, as it happens, have much shorter wavelengths than their optical counterparts, and so they can illuminate much finer details than ordinary light can. (For similar reasons, grains of salt poured over the fingers of a hand that is spread open on a table leave a finer, more faithful outline on the surface below than does a bucketful of coarse pebbles.) The electron microscope exploits the particle and wave nature of electrons simultaneously: it shapes and steers the beam with electrical and magnetic forces, as if the electrons were little bullets. And it focuses an image, just as if the electron beam were made up of waves. The great strides in biology accomplished through electron microscopy made it only natural for the Bonn botanists to bring the SEM to bear on the paradox of the spotless leaves. By undertaking a protracted series of microscopic observations of the interactions of leaf surfaces, dirt and water, they eventually uncovered an ingenious though strikingly simple underlying mechanism. IMAGINE A LEAF IS A WOODEN BOARD through which a forest of nails has been driven from below, so that the points stick out through the top surface. Now think of a fleck of dust magnified many times, so that it resembles a ragged piece of paper landing gently on the bed of nails. The strength of the adhesion between the paper--the dust fleck--and the board depends on the surface area of their mutual contact. Without the nails, the paper would make much better contact--a real dust fleck would stick to the flat board. But because of the pointy nails, the contact area is miniscule and the fleck is barely attached. It hovers on pointe, as it were. Now imagine that the board is slightly tilted, and that a drop of water, magnified to the size of a great round medicine ball, rolls over the nails toward the dust fleck. (The drop of water, like the dust fleck, is only barely attracted by the nails.) Faced with the choice of balancing on the nails or clinging instead to the big, smooth surface that is rolling over it, the dust fleck quickly pops over onto the ball, sticks to it and gets carried away. Thus drops of water collect dirt from plant surfaces and roll off, leaving the rough surfaces both clean and dry. In hundreds of experiments and detailed images, Barthlott and Neinhuis have captured and documented the phenomenon [see photomicrograph on next page]: the simple and elegant way leaves have evolved to clean themselves with rain, fog and dew. And nowhere, the investigators found, was the effect more impressive than in the lotus. The surface of the lotus leaf is covered with a dense layer of pointy little moguls [see photomicrograph above]. The botanists had stumbled upon the secret of the lotus. To celebrate their discovery, Barthlott coined the term lotus effect. To demonstrate the phenomenon dramatically, Barthlott likes to squeeze a droplet of water-soluble liquid glue onto a lotus leaf. He smears the droplet a little with his finger, then steps back to watch. The glue quickly pulls itself back together, reforming the droplet, and the droplet rolls off the leaf at a stately pace. Not even glue can stick to an area as small as the tip of a microscopic mogul. Just as impressive is Barthlott's demonstration of the cleaning power of water: when a lotus leaf is covered with a dusting of fine powdered clay, and a drop of water is added, the water rolls downhill, gathering dust as it moves. In its wake is a long, clean path, like the shiny trail of a snail. SO THERE YOU HAVE IT, THE SECRET of the sacred lotus: its purity derives from its nubbly surface. Is that all? Does the solution to this little mystery of nature somehow diminish the spiritual value of the sacred lotus? For me, the opposite is true. When I see a lotus blossom now, or, what is more likely, the leaf of a cauliflower or tulip, I marvel at the ingenuity of nature in bringing forth, after a hundred million years of evolution, such pristine beauty through such an exquisite design. My awareness enhances my appreciation, much the way Richard P. Feynman explained the matter (albeit in a different context) in a footnote to volume I, chapter 3, of his Lectures on Physics: Poets say science takes away from the beauty of the stars--mere globs of gas atoms. Nothing is "mere." I too can see the stars on a desert night, and feel them. But do I see less or more? The vastness of the heavens stretches my imagination--stuck on this carousel my little eye can catch one-million-year-old light. A vast pattern--of which I am a part--perhaps my stuff was belched from some forgotten star, as one is belching there.... It does not do harm to the mystery to know a little about it. For far more marvelous is the truth than any artists of the past imagined! Why do the poets of the present not speak of it? What men are poets who can speak of Jupiter if he were like a man, but if he is an immense spinning sphere of methane and ammonia must be silent? I think Feynman, who was passionately interested in nanotechnology and its applications, would have enjoyed learning how the lotus works. Like all academic scientists, Wilhelm Barthlott is probably asked frequently why he pursues his peculiar line of research, and of what use it could possibly be. Until recently, he most likely mumbled the same phrases all of us use on such occasions: that pure, unapplied science is a cultural activity worth doing on its own merits, and that eventually, in some unpredictable circumstance, most scientific discoveries turn out to be useful to someone. In the case of the lotus, though, Barthlott didn't have to wait very long before he was able to answer the question of usefulness in more concrete terms. AFTER THE DISCOVERY OF THE LOTUS effect, he quickly realized that self-cleaning surfaces could be manufactured according to nature's design. And he devised a couple of simple tricks to demonstrate how it could be done. One trick is to hold a clean microscope slide over a flame, which deposits on the slide a layer of soot. Some of those microscopic grains stick, creating a rough surface. When a drop of water rolls down the slide, it carries with it any loose particles that happen to remain unattached. Barthlott's second, more sophisticated manufacturing trick is to glue Teflon powder to a glass surface, thereby making a texture with the same properties as the lotus leaf. Such rudimentary experiments demonstrate that nature's clever design can be copied with the greatest of ease. The potential applications of the lotus effect in useful devices would be limited only by the imagination. Industry, ever greedy for novel techniques, quickly responded. Even as Barthlott and Neinhuis were appearing in the German media because of the awards they were receiving for scientific ingenuity and technological innovation, manufacturers were scrambling to turn their insights into cash. By December 1998 four firms were exploiting the lotus effect, and that number is growing rapidly. An exterior house paint distributed under the name Lotusan was introduced in March 1999. Prototypes have been made of platters and bowls that are rough to the touch and repel both moisture and dirt. Can houses and trains be made to shed ice and snow as well, or to be impervious to graffiti? The commercial possibilities are endless. Even the magazine The Economist, commenting in February 1999 on the state of the German economy, mentioned the lotus effect as an example of a future success story. The most lucrative application of the lotus effect in the near future appears to be in manufacturing a self-cleaning paint for automobiles. Whether car buyers will agree to trade the shiny look that is currently fashionable for the convenience and economy of such an invention is another question. (Personally, I don't understand the need for washing a car in the first place, but fortunately for the automobile industry and for botanically inspired entrepreneurs, I'm in the minority.) To me, though, the lotus effect means more than the invention of a self-cleaning car: it clarifies the very nature of high technology. Twenty-five years ago the physician and writer Lewis Thomas won the National Book Award for his collection of luminous essays titled The Lives of a Cell: Notes of a Biology Watcher. In one of those essays, blandly called "The Technology of Medicine," Thomas distinguishes among three categories that he labels "nontechnology," "halfway technology" and "high technology." He illustrates the categories by classifying different treatments for polio, but his scheme is just as useful for analyzing the ways of washing a car. TREATING POLIO NONTECHNOLOGICALLY is mainly a matter of bedside attention by physicians and nurses--supportive care that does nothing but ease the victim's agony. It also turns out to be extremely expensive. Nontechnological ways of washing a car involve a hose and a rag--probably still the favorite technique in America--and, though not expensive in dollars, the method is increasingly prohibitive in terms of time spent and water wasted. One step up the technological ladder is halfway technology. In polio treatment, Thomas pointed to the methods of physical therapy, but perhaps a more instructive example is the infamous iron lung--a huge, ugly, whole-body tank that does the breathing for the polio victim's paralyzed diaphragm. The machine was too costly for mass production, and a torture for those who had to lie in it, immobilized for weeks on end. Applied to automobile cleaning, the halfway technology is the automatic car wash, with its great floppy brushes, its powerful streams of water and hot air, and its mechanical chains for pulling cars through. In terms of waste, cost, noise and inefficiency, car-wash machines are halfway technologies at their worst. Halfway technology tries to cure existing conditions; high technology aims to prevent those conditions from ever existing. It is prophylactic rather than therapeutic. The polio vaccine is a shining example of high technology in medicine. Thomas remarks that such an invention "comes as a result of a genuine understanding of disease mechanisms, and when it becomes available, it is relatively inexpensive, and relatively easy to deliver." The polio vaccine was the result of fundamental research of the highest ingenuity, carried out with the help of the most sophisticated instruments. Similarly, today's hoses, rags and automatic car washes will someday be replaced by self-cleaning paints, which will apply the lessons learned from the lotus and the scanning electron microscope to do away with the need to wash cars at all. The point is that the aim of high technology should be to simplify, not complicate. The true high-tech device is not the gadget with the most complex mechanism, the most incomprehensible bells and whistles, and the most arcane operating manual. On the contrary, mature technology works on the simplest imaginable principles, which are, often as not, copied from nature, but which could only be unraveled by scientific research. The self-cleaning car won't have little mechanical wipers all over its body; it will have come about, indirectly to be sure, through the application of quantum mechanics. THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN SIMPLE systems and complex research instruments is mirrored in the introductory physics laboratories of high schools and universities. For example, to measure the acceleration due to gravity, usually designated g, students use a device called the Atwood machine. It is made of nothing more than two weights tied to each end of a thread that has been draped over a pulley, so that the weights are hanging from either side. When the weights are almost, but not quite, equal, the heavier one descends with a slow, measurable acceleration from which g can be computed. Nineteenth-century versions of the apparatus were more than six feet tall and magnificently ornate, with jeweled bearings to reduce friction, automated release mechanisms to minimize the effect of human intervention, a built-in pendulum clock to measure the time of fall, an integrated meter stick for computing distances, and cunning devices for changing the falling weights both before and during the fall. Nowadays, nineteenth-century Atwood machines are affordable only to museums and rich collectors. They represented the pinnacle of halfway technology. Today's students use cheap plastic pulleys, a string found in some drawer and weights that have seen better days. But they examine that simple system with automated, computerized velocity-measuring devices called transducers, which are too sophisticated for the students to comprehend completely. Nor is such understanding necessary. The purpose of all the high technology is to enable the students to detect, analyze and explain not only g, but also air resistance, bearing friction, mechanical defects, stray oscillations and all the real-world complications that earlier generations had despaired of measuring--and had therefore aimed to eliminate. Our students understand the real world better than their predecessors did, thanks to the high-tech measuring devices they have at their disposal. THE FULL APPARATUS of medical research had to be deployed to develop a simple polio vaccine; transducers and computers are needed for a thorough appreciation of the simple act off ailing; and the quantum mechanical SEM was instrumental in the discovery of the simple secret of self-cleaning plants. The real power of high technology emerges when it is aimed not at producing devices, but at understanding fundamental processes. If, with ingenuity and persistence, the understanding of those processes can in turn be harnessed to yield useful results and products, basic research returns unexpected dividends. But if basic research is short-circuited in an attempt to get at its practical payoffs more quickly, quickly halfway technologies will flourish. As Lewis Thomas pointed out, that ends up just wasting money and effort. In my view, Thomas's important insight is the hidden lesson of the lotus plant. To me, that is the real lotus effect. HANS CHRISTIAN VON BAEYER is chancellor professor of physics at the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia. His latest book, WARMTH DISPERSES AND TIME PASSES: THE HISTORY OF HEAT (originally published as MAXWELL'S DEMON), appeared in paperback in 1999. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- COPYRIGHT 2000 New York Academy of Sciences in association with The Gale Group and LookSmart. 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