The Biology of Belief - Bruce H. Lipton [5]
Later, in graduate school, I advanced to an electron microscope. The advantage of an electron microscope over a conventional light microscope is that it is a thousand times more powerful. The difference between the two microscopes is analogous to the difference between the 25¢ observation telescopes used by tourists to observe scenic vistas and the orbiting Hubble telescope that transmits images of deep space. Entering the electron microscopy suite of a laboratory is a rite of passage for aspiring biologists. You enter through a black revolving door, similar to the ones separating photographic darkrooms from illuminated work areas.
I remember the first time I stepped into the revolving door and began to turn it. I was in darkness between two worlds, my life as a student and my future life as a research scientist. When the door completed its rotation, I was deposited into a large, dark chamber, dimly lit by several red photographic safelights. As my eyes adapted to the available light, I gradually became awed by what stood before me. The red lights were reflecting eerily off the mirrored surface of a massive, foot-thick chromium steel column of electromagnetic lenses that rose to the ceiling in the center of the room. Spreading out on either side at the base of the column was a large control console. The console resembled the instrument panels of a Boeing 747, filled with switches, illuminated gauges, and multicolored indicator lamps. Large tentacle-like arrays of thick power cords, water hoses, and vacuum lines radiated from the base of the microscope like tap roots at the base of an old oak tree. The sound of clanking vacuum pumps and the whir of refrigerated water recirculators filled the air. For all I knew, I had just emerged on to the command deck of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Apparently, it was Captain Kirk’s day off, for sitting at the console was one of my professors, who was engaged in the elaborate procedure of introducing a tissue specimen into a high-vacuum chamber in the middle of the steel column.
While the minutes passed, I experienced a feeling reminiscent of that day in second grade when I first saw a cell. Finally, a green fluorescent image appeared on the phosphor screen. The presence of darkly stained cells could barely be discerned in the plastic sections, which were enlarged to about thirty times their original size. Then the magnification was increased, one step at a time. First 100X, then 1000X, and then 10,000X. When we finally hit warp drive, the cells were magnified to over 100,000 times their original size. It was indeed Star Trek, but rather than entering outer space, we were going deep into inner space where “no man has gone before.” One moment I was observing a miniature cell, and seconds later I was flying deep into its molecular architecture.
My awe at being at the edge of this scientific frontier was palpable. So was my excitement when I was made honorary co-pilot. I put my hands on the controls so that I could “fly” over this alien cellular landscape. My professor was my tour guide, pointing out notable land-marks: “Here’s a mitochondrion, there’s the Golgi body, over there is a nuclear pore, this is a collagen molecule, that’s a ribosome.”
Most of the rush I experienced came from my vision of myself as a pioneer, traversing territory that had never been seen by human eyes. While the light microscope gave me an awareness of cells as sentient creatures, it was the electron microscope that brought me face to face with the molecules that were the very foundation of life itself. I knew that buried within the cytoarchitecture of the cell were clues that would provide insight into the mysteries of life.
For a brief moment, the microscope’s portholes became a crystal ball; in the eerie green glow of its fluorescent screen I saw my future. I knew I was going to be a cellular biologist whose research would focus on scrutinizing every nuance of the cell