SAT-3

By the time the man with the camera had cut across

our neighbor’s yard, the twins were out of the trees

swingin low and Granny was onto the steps, the screen

door bammin soft and scratchy against her palms.

“We thought we’d get a shot or two of the house

and everything and then . . .”

“Good mornin,” Granny cut him off. And smiled

that smile.

“Good mornin,” he said, head all down the way

Bingo does when you yell at him about the bones on

the kitchen floor. “Nice place you got here, aunty.

We thought we’d take a . . .”

“Did you?” said Granny with her eyebrows. Cathy

pulled up her socks and giggled.

“Nice things here,” said the man buzzin his camera

over the yard. The pecan barrels, the sled, me and

Cathy, the flowers, the painted stones along the

driveway, the trees, the twins, the toolshed.

“I don’t know about the thing, the it, and the stuff,”

said Granny still talkin with her eyebrows. “Just

people here is what I tend to consider.”

Camera man stopped buzzin. Cathy giggled into

her collar.

“Mornin, ladies,” a new man said. He had come up

behind us when we weren’t lookin. “And gents,”

discoverin the twins givin him a nasty look. “We’re

filmin for the county,” he said with a smile. “Mind if

we shoot a bit around here?”

“I do indeed,” said Granny with no smile.

Smilin man was smiling up a storm. So was Cathy.

But he didn’t seem to have another word to say, so he

and the camera man backed on out the yard, but you

could hear the camera buzzin still.

“Suppose you just shut that machine off,” said

Granny real low through her teeth and took a step

down off the porch and then another.

“Now, aunty,” Camera said pointin the thing

straight at her.

“Your mama and I are not related.”

By the time the man with the camera had cut across

our neighbor’s yard, the twins were out of the trees

swingin low and Granny was onto the steps, the screen

door bammin soft and scratchy against her palms.

“We thought we’d get a shot or two of the house

and everything and then . . .”

“Good mornin,” Granny cut him off. And smiled

that smile.

“Good mornin,” he said, head all down the way

Bingo does when you yell at him about the bones on

the kitchen floor. “Nice place you got here, aunty.

We thought we’d take a . . .”

“Did you?” said Granny with her eyebrows. Cathy

pulled up her socks and giggled.

“Nice things here,” said the man buzzin his camera

over the yard. The pecan barrels, the sled, me and

Cathy, the flowers, the painted stones along the

driveway, the trees, the twins, the toolshed.

“I don’t know about the thing, the it, and the stuff,”

said Granny still talkin with her eyebrows. “Just

people here is what I tend to consider.”

Camera man stopped buzzin. Cathy giggled into

her collar.

“Mornin, ladies,” a new man said. He had come up

behind us when we weren’t lookin. “And gents,”

discoverin the twins givin him a nasty look. “We’re

filmin for the county,” he said with a smile. “Mind if

we shoot a bit around here?”

“I do indeed,” said Granny with no smile.

Smilin man was smiling up a storm. So was Cathy.

But he didn’t seem to have another word to say, so he

and the camera man backed on out the yard, but you

could hear the camera buzzin still.

“Suppose you just shut that machine off,” said

Granny real low through her teeth and took a step

down off the porch and then another.

“Now, aunty,” Camera said pointin the thing

straight at her.

“Your mama and I are not related.”

By the time the man with the camera had cut across

our neighbor’s yard, the twins were out of the trees

swingin low and Granny was onto the steps, the screen

door bammin soft and scratchy against her palms.

“We thought we’d get a shot or two of the house

and everything and then . . .”

“Good mornin,” Granny cut him off. And smiled

that smile.

“Good mornin,” he said, head all down the way

Bingo does when you yell at him about the bones on

the kitchen floor. “Nice place you got here, aunty.

We thought we’d take a . . .”

“Did you?” said Granny with her eyebrows. Cathy

pulled up her socks and giggled.

“Nice things here,” said the man buzzin his camera

over the yard. The pecan barrels, the sled, me and

Cathy, the flowers, the painted stones along the

driveway, the trees, the twins, the toolshed.

“I don’t know about the thing, the it, and the stuff,”

said Granny still talkin with her eyebrows. “Just

people here is what I tend to consider.”

Camera man stopped buzzin. Cathy giggled into

her collar.

“Mornin, ladies,” a new man said. He had come up

behind us when we weren’t lookin. “And gents,”

discoverin the twins givin him a nasty look. “We’re

filmin for the county,” he said with a smile. “Mind if

we shoot a bit around here?”

“I do indeed,” said Granny with no smile.

Smilin man was smiling up a storm. So was Cathy.

But he didn’t seem to have another word to say, so he

and the camera man backed on out the yard, but you

could hear the camera buzzin still.

“Suppose you just shut that machine off,” said

Granny real low through her teeth and took a step

down off the porch and then another.

“Now, aunty,” Camera said pointin the thing

straight at her.

“Your mama and I are not related.”

By the time the man with the camera had cut across

our neighbor’s yard, the twins were out of the trees

swingin low and Granny was onto the steps, the screen

door bammin soft and scratchy against her palms.

“We thought we’d get a shot or two of the house

and everything and then . . .”

“Good mornin,” Granny cut him off. And smiled

that smile.

“Good mornin,” he said, head all down the way

Bingo does when you yell at him about the bones on

the kitchen floor. “Nice place you got here, aunty.

We thought we’d take a . . .”

“Did you?” said Granny with her eyebrows. Cathy

pulled up her socks and giggled.

“Nice things here,” said the man buzzin his camera

over the yard. The pecan barrels, the sled, me and

Cathy, the flowers, the painted stones along the

driveway, the trees, the twins, the toolshed.

“I don’t know about the thing, the it, and the stuff,”

said Granny still talkin with her eyebrows. “Just

people here is what I tend to consider.”

Camera man stopped buzzin. Cathy giggled into

her collar.

“Mornin, ladies,” a new man said. He had come up

behind us when we weren’t lookin. “And gents,”

discoverin the twins givin him a nasty look. “We’re

filmin for the county,” he said with a smile. “Mind if

we shoot a bit around here?”

“I do indeed,” said Granny with no smile.

Smilin man was smiling up a storm. So was Cathy.

But he didn’t seem to have another word to say, so he

and the camera man backed on out the yard, but you

could hear the camera buzzin still.

“Suppose you just shut that machine off,” said

Granny real low through her teeth and took a step

down off the porch and then another.

“Now, aunty,” Camera said pointin the thing

straight at her.

“Your mama and I are not related.”

One summer evening (led by her)1 I found
A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon’s utmost boundary; for above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace;2 lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon’s bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark, —
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o’er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

One summer evening (led by her)1 I found
A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon’s utmost boundary; for above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace;2 lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon’s bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark, —
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o’er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

One summer evening (led by her)1 I found
A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon’s utmost boundary; for above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace;2 lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon’s bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark, —
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o’er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

One summer evening (led by her)1 I found
A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon’s utmost boundary; for above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace;2 lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon’s bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark, —
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o’er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

One summer evening (led by her)1 I found
A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon’s utmost boundary; for above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace;2 lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon’s bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark, —
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o’er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fenc’d by these rebel pow’rs that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fenc’d by these rebel pow’rs that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fenc’d by these rebel pow’rs that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fenc’d by these rebel pow’rs that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

These sentiments are most characteristic of

I. “I believe it is the duty of the Negro—as the greater part
of the race is already doing —to deport himself modestly
in regard to political claims, depending upon the slow
but sure influences that proceed from the possession
of property, intelligence, and high character for the full
recognition of his political rights.”
II. “The truth is that ‘integration’ is an image, it’s a foxy
Northern liberal’s smoke-screen that confuses the true
wants of the American black man.”
III. “The talented tenth of the Negro race must be made leaders
of thought and missionaries of culture among their people.
. . . The Negro race, like all other races, is going to be saved
by its exceptional men.”

“The point I wish plainly to bring before you on this occasion
is the individuality of each human soul; our Protestant idea, the
right of individual conscience and judgment; our republican
idea, individual citizenship. . . . If we consider [a woman] as a
citizen, as a member of a great nation, she must have the same
rights as all other members, according to the fundamental
principles of our government.”

“Where it is an absolute question of the welfare of our country,
we must admit of no considerations of justice or injustice, or
mercy or cruelty, or praise or ignominy, but putting all else aside
must adopt whatever course will save its existence and preserve
its liberty.”

(i) Number of collisions of oxygen molecules at per unit area of the wall of the cylinder increases.
(ii) Oxygen (O2) gets converted into ozone (O3).
(iii) Kinetic energy of the molecules of oxygen gas increases.

a. Reactions involving oxidation
b.Nuclear reactions.
c. Endothermic reactions

I. V, W, X and Y are less electropositive than X.
II. V, W, X and Y are more electronegative than Z.
III Atomic size of Y is greater than that of W.
IV Atomic size of W is smaller than that of X.

Reason (R): In most areas the lands regularly used by pastoralists for grazing were taken over by the
colonial state and given to select individuals for cultivation.

Reason (R): The expansion of the railways during the period greatly facilitated the transport of grain.

Column-I Column-II
A. 1910 I. Establishment of Tonkin Free School.
B. 1930 II. Formation of French IndooChina.
C. 1907 III. Completion of the transChina rail network.
D. 1887 IV. Formation of the Vietnamese Communist Party.

a. Indulekha
b. Rajasekhara Caritramu
c. Yamuna Paryatan
d. Pariksha-Guru

Column-I Column-II
A. Suit I. 1915
B. Lungi-Kurta II. 1890
C. Peasant Dress III. 1921
D. Short Dhoti IV. 1913

Choose the correct response from the given options.

Choose the correct response from the given options.

Choose the correct response from the given options.

Choose the correct response from the given options.

Choose the correct response from the given options.

Choose the correct response from the given options.

Choose the correct response from the given options.

Reason (R) : The presence of the IE Nino leads to an increase in sea - surfac temperatures and
weakening of the trade winds in the regions.

Reason (R) : A one move from the sea level to higher altitude, the atmosphere become less dense and
temperature decreases.

Li t-I (local name of shifting cultivation) List-II (States/Region)
A. Dahiya I. Jharkhand
B. Kumari II. Madhya Pradesh
C. Bringa III. Odisha
D. Kuruwa IV. Western Ghats

Reason (R): Nuclear power stations require a great quantity of water for cooling purposes.

Reason (R) : Sedimentary rocks on the western and eastern flanks of the peninsula, in Gujarat and
Assam have most ot the famous minerals.

(Tributaries) and select the correct answer using the codes given below
List-I (Rivers) List-II (Tributaric )
A. Ganga I. Lohit
B. Ganga II. Koyana
C. Krishna III. Wainganga
D. Brahamputra IV. Son

I. Zaskar Range
II. Shiwalik Range
III. Karakoram Range
IV. Ladakh Range

List-l (Rivers) List-II (Origin )
A. Godavari I. Cardamom hills
B. Krishna II. Amarkantak Hills
C. Narmada III. Nasik Hills
D. Vaigai IV. Mahabaleshwar

Reason (R): . The urban areas offer greater employment opportunities and better living condistion.

A. Khasi hills
B. Garo hills
C. Naga hills
D. Jaintia Range

Reason (R): As one goes from low altitude to high altitude temperature decreases because atmosphere
becomes less dense.

Column - I Column–II
A. Tropical I. 17°C to 24°C
B. Sub-tropical II. Above 24°C
C. Temperate III. 7°C to 17°C
D. Alpine IV. Below 7°C

a. All federations have a similar scheme of distribution of powers.
b. The origins of different federations are dissimilar.
c. Federalism promotes unity at the cost of diversity.
d. Federalism promotes unity in diversity.

a. India is among the bottom group of nations in the world when it comes to the representation of
women in legislatures.
b. Women in the Arab countries are most active in public life.
c. India has lesser representation of women in legislatures as compared to Sub-Saharan Africa.
d. The share of women in legislative assemblies in India is lower than that of their representation in
Parliament.

List - I List-II
I. E.M.S. Namboodiripad a. Bahujan Samaj Party
II. Sheikh Abdullah b. Telugu Desam
III. N.T. Rama Rao c. Communist Party of India (Marxist)
IV. Kanshi Ram d. Jammu & Kashmir National conference

This passage is from Lydia Minatoya, The Strangeness of

Beauty. ©1999 by Lydia Minatoya. The setting is Japan in

1920. Chie and her daughter Naomi are members of the

House of Fuji, a noble family.

Akira came directly, breaking all tradition. Was

that it? Had he followed form—had he asked his

mother to speak to his father to approach a

go-between—would Chie have been more receptive?

He came on a winter’s eve. He pounded on the

door while a cold rain beat on the shuttered veranda,

so at first Chie thought him only the wind. The maid

knew better. Chie heard her soft scuttling footsteps,

the creak of the door. Then the maid brought a

calling card to the drawing room, for Chie.

Chie was reluctant to go to her guest; perhaps she

was feeling too cozy. She and Naomi were reading at

a low table set atop a charcoal brazier. A thick quilt

spread over the sides of the table so their legs were

tucked inside with the heat.

“Who is it at this hour, in this weather?” Chie

questioned as she picked the name card off the

maid’s lacquer tray.

“Shinoda, Akira. Kobe Dental College,” she read.

Naomi recognized the name. Chie heard a soft

intake of air.

“I think you should go,” said Naomi.

Akira was waiting in the entry. He was in his early

twenties, slim and serious, wearing the black

military-style uniform of a student. As he

bowed—his hands hanging straight down, a

black cap in one, a yellow oil-paper umbrella in the

other—Chie glanced beyond him. In the glistening

surface of the courtyard’s rain-drenched paving

stones, she saw his reflection like a dark double.

“Madame,” said Akira, “forgive my disruption,

but I come with a matter of urgency.”

His voice was soft, refined. He straightened and

stole a deferential peek at her face.

In the dim light his eyes shone with sincerity.

Chie felt herself starting to like him.

“Come inside, get out of this nasty night. Surely

your business can wait for a moment or two.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. Normally I would

approach you more properly but I’ve received word

of a position. I’ve an opportunity to go to America, as

dentist for Seattle’s Japanese community.”

“Congratulations,” Chie said with amusement.

“That is an opportunity, I’m sure. But how am I

involved?”

Even noting Naomi’s breathless reaction to the

name card, Chie had no idea. Akira’s message,

delivered like a formal speech, filled her with

maternal amusement. You know how children speak

so earnestly, so hurriedly, so endearingly about

things that have no importance in an adult’s mind?

That’s how she viewed him, as a child.

It was how she viewed Naomi. Even though

Naomi was eighteen and training endlessly in the arts

needed to make a good marriage, Chie had made no

effort to find her a husband.

Akira blushed.

“Depending on your response, I may stay in

Japan. I’ve come to ask for Naomi’s hand.”

Suddenly Chie felt the dampness of the night.

“Does Naomi know anything of your . . .

ambitions?”

“We have an understanding. Please don’t judge

my candidacy by the unseemliness of this proposal. I

ask directly because the use of a go-between takes

much time. Either method comes down to the same

thing: a matter of parental approval. If you give your

consent, I become Naomi’s yoshi.* We’ll live in the

House of Fuji. Without your consent, I must go to

America, to secure a new home for my bride.”

Eager to make his point, he’d been looking her full

in the face. Abruptly, his voice turned gentle. “I see

I’ve startled you. My humble apologies. I’ll take no

more of your evening. My address is on my card. If

you don’t wish to contact me, I’ll reapproach you in

two weeks’ time. Until then, good night.”

He bowed and left. Taking her ease, with effortless

grace, like a cat making off with a fish.

“Mother?” Chie heard Naomi’s low voice and

turned from the door. “He has asked you?”

The sight of Naomi’s clear eyes, her dark brows

gave Chie strength. Maybe his hopes were

preposterous.

“Where did you meet such a fellow? Imagine! He

thinks he can marry the Fuji heir and take her to

America all in the snap of his fingers!”

Chie waited for Naomi’s ripe laughter.

Naomi was silent. She stood a full half minute

looking straight into Chie’s eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“I met him at my literary meeting.”

Naomi turned to go back into the house, then

stopped.

“Mother.”

“Yes?”

“I mean to have him.”

* a man who marries a woman of higher status and takes her family’s name

This passage is from Lydia Minatoya, The Strangeness of

Beauty. ©1999 by Lydia Minatoya. The setting is Japan in

1920. Chie and her daughter Naomi are members of the

House of Fuji, a noble family.

Akira came directly, breaking all tradition. Was

that it? Had he followed form—had he asked his

mother to speak to his father to approach a

go-between—would Chie have been more receptive?

He came on a winter’s eve. He pounded on the

door while a cold rain beat on the shuttered veranda,

so at first Chie thought him only the wind. The maid

knew better. Chie heard her soft scuttling footsteps,

the creak of the door. Then the maid brought a

calling card to the drawing room, for Chie.

Chie was reluctant to go to her guest; perhaps she

was feeling too cozy. She and Naomi were reading at

a low table set atop a charcoal brazier. A thick quilt

spread over the sides of the table so their legs were

tucked inside with the heat.

“Who is it at this hour, in this weather?” Chie

questioned as she picked the name card off the

maid’s lacquer tray.

“Shinoda, Akira. Kobe Dental College,” she read.

Naomi recognized the name. Chie heard a soft

intake of air.

“I think you should go,” said Naomi.

Akira was waiting in the entry. He was in his early

twenties, slim and serious, wearing the black

military-style uniform of a student. As he

bowed—his hands hanging straight down, a

black cap in one, a yellow oil-paper umbrella in the

other—Chie glanced beyond him. In the glistening

surface of the courtyard’s rain-drenched paving

stones, she saw his reflection like a dark double.

“Madame,” said Akira, “forgive my disruption,

but I come with a matter of urgency.”

His voice was soft, refined. He straightened and

stole a deferential peek at her face.

In the dim light his eyes shone with sincerity.

Chie felt herself starting to like him.

“Come inside, get out of this nasty night. Surely

your business can wait for a moment or two.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. Normally I would

approach you more properly but I’ve received word

of a position. I’ve an opportunity to go to America, as

dentist for Seattle’s Japanese community.”

“Congratulations,” Chie said with amusement.

“That is an opportunity, I’m sure. But how am I

involved?”

Even noting Naomi’s breathless reaction to the

name card, Chie had no idea. Akira’s message,

delivered like a formal speech, filled her with

maternal amusement. You know how children speak

so earnestly, so hurriedly, so endearingly about

things that have no importance in an adult’s mind?

That’s how she viewed him, as a child.

It was how she viewed Naomi. Even though

Naomi was eighteen and training endlessly in the arts

needed to make a good marriage, Chie had made no

effort to find her a husband.

Akira blushed.

“Depending on your response, I may stay in

Japan. I’ve come to ask for Naomi’s hand.”

Suddenly Chie felt the dampness of the night.

“Does Naomi know anything of your . . .

ambitions?”

“We have an understanding. Please don’t judge

my candidacy by the unseemliness of this proposal. I

ask directly because the use of a go-between takes

much time. Either method comes down to the same

thing: a matter of parental approval. If you give your

consent, I become Naomi’s yoshi.* We’ll live in the

House of Fuji. Without your consent, I must go to

America, to secure a new home for my bride.”

Eager to make his point, he’d been looking her full

in the face. Abruptly, his voice turned gentle. “I see

I’ve startled you. My humble apologies. I’ll take no

more of your evening. My address is on my card. If

you don’t wish to contact me, I’ll reapproach you in

two weeks’ time. Until then, good night.”

He bowed and left. Taking her ease, with effortless

grace, like a cat making off with a fish.

“Mother?” Chie heard Naomi’s low voice and

turned from the door. “He has asked you?”

The sight of Naomi’s clear eyes, her dark brows

gave Chie strength. Maybe his hopes were

preposterous.

“Where did you meet such a fellow? Imagine! He

thinks he can marry the Fuji heir and take her to

America all in the snap of his fingers!”

Chie waited for Naomi’s ripe laughter.

Naomi was silent. She stood a full half minute

looking straight into Chie’s eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“I met him at my literary meeting.”

Naomi turned to go back into the house, then

stopped.

“Mother.”

“Yes?”

“I mean to have him.”

* a man who marries a woman of higher status and takes her family’s name

This passage is from Lydia Minatoya, The Strangeness of

Beauty. ©1999 by Lydia Minatoya. The setting is Japan in

1920. Chie and her daughter Naomi are members of the

House of Fuji, a noble family.

Akira came directly, breaking all tradition. Was

that it? Had he followed form—had he asked his

mother to speak to his father to approach a

go-between—would Chie have been more receptive?

He came on a winter’s eve. He pounded on the

door while a cold rain beat on the shuttered veranda,

so at first Chie thought him only the wind. The maid

knew better. Chie heard her soft scuttling footsteps,

the creak of the door. Then the maid brought a

calling card to the drawing room, for Chie.

Chie was reluctant to go to her guest; perhaps she

was feeling too cozy. She and Naomi were reading at

a low table set atop a charcoal brazier. A thick quilt

spread over the sides of the table so their legs were

tucked inside with the heat.

“Who is it at this hour, in this weather?” Chie

questioned as she picked the name card off the

maid’s lacquer tray.

“Shinoda, Akira. Kobe Dental College,” she read.

Naomi recognized the name. Chie heard a soft

intake of air.

“I think you should go,” said Naomi.

Akira was waiting in the entry. He was in his early

twenties, slim and serious, wearing the black

military-style uniform of a student. As he

bowed—his hands hanging straight down, a

black cap in one, a yellow oil-paper umbrella in the

other—Chie glanced beyond him. In the glistening

surface of the courtyard’s rain-drenched paving

stones, she saw his reflection like a dark double.

“Madame,” said Akira, “forgive my disruption,

but I come with a matter of urgency.”

His voice was soft, refined. He straightened and

stole a deferential peek at her face.

In the dim light his eyes shone with sincerity.

Chie felt herself starting to like him.

“Come inside, get out of this nasty night. Surely

your business can wait for a moment or two.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. Normally I would

approach you more properly but I’ve received word

of a position. I’ve an opportunity to go to America, as

dentist for Seattle’s Japanese community.”

“Congratulations,” Chie said with amusement.

“That is an opportunity, I’m sure. But how am I

involved?”

Even noting Naomi’s breathless reaction to the

name card, Chie had no idea. Akira’s message,

delivered like a formal speech, filled her with

maternal amusement. You know how children speak

so earnestly, so hurriedly, so endearingly about

things that have no importance in an adult’s mind?

That’s how she viewed him, as a child.

It was how she viewed Naomi. Even though

Naomi was eighteen and training endlessly in the arts

needed to make a good marriage, Chie had made no

effort to find her a husband.

Akira blushed.

“Depending on your response, I may stay in

Japan. I’ve come to ask for Naomi’s hand.”

Suddenly Chie felt the dampness of the night.

“Does Naomi know anything of your . . .

ambitions?”

“We have an understanding. Please don’t judge

my candidacy by the unseemliness of this proposal. I

ask directly because the use of a go-between takes

much time. Either method comes down to the same

thing: a matter of parental approval. If you give your

consent, I become Naomi’s yoshi.* We’ll live in the

House of Fuji. Without your consent, I must go to

America, to secure a new home for my bride.”

Eager to make his point, he’d been looking her full

in the face. Abruptly, his voice turned gentle. “I see

I’ve startled you. My humble apologies. I’ll take no

more of your evening. My address is on my card. If

you don’t wish to contact me, I’ll reapproach you in

two weeks’ time. Until then, good night.”

He bowed and left. Taking her ease, with effortless

grace, like a cat making off with a fish.

“Mother?” Chie heard Naomi’s low voice and

turned from the door. “He has asked you?”

The sight of Naomi’s clear eyes, her dark brows

gave Chie strength. Maybe his hopes were

preposterous.

“Where did you meet such a fellow? Imagine! He

thinks he can marry the Fuji heir and take her to

America all in the snap of his fingers!”

Chie waited for Naomi’s ripe laughter.

Naomi was silent. She stood a full half minute

looking straight into Chie’s eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“I met him at my literary meeting.”

Naomi turned to go back into the house, then

stopped.

“Mother.”

“Yes?”

“I mean to have him.”

* a man who marries a woman of higher status and takes her family’s name

This passage is from Lydia Minatoya, The Strangeness of

Beauty. ©1999 by Lydia Minatoya. The setting is Japan in

1920. Chie and her daughter Naomi are members of the

House of Fuji, a noble family.

Akira came directly, breaking all tradition. Was

that it? Had he followed form—had he asked his

mother to speak to his father to approach a

go-between—would Chie have been more receptive?

He came on a winter’s eve. He pounded on the

door while a cold rain beat on the shuttered veranda,

so at first Chie thought him only the wind. The maid

knew better. Chie heard her soft scuttling footsteps,

the creak of the door. Then the maid brought a

calling card to the drawing room, for Chie.

Chie was reluctant to go to her guest; perhaps she

was feeling too cozy. She and Naomi were reading at

a low table set atop a charcoal brazier. A thick quilt

spread over the sides of the table so their legs were

tucked inside with the heat.

“Who is it at this hour, in this weather?” Chie

questioned as she picked the name card off the

maid’s lacquer tray.

“Shinoda, Akira. Kobe Dental College,” she read.

Naomi recognized the name. Chie heard a soft

intake of air.

“I think you should go,” said Naomi.

Akira was waiting in the entry. He was in his early

twenties, slim and serious, wearing the black

military-style uniform of a student. As he

bowed—his hands hanging straight down, a

black cap in one, a yellow oil-paper umbrella in the

other—Chie glanced beyond him. In the glistening

surface of the courtyard’s rain-drenched paving

stones, she saw his reflection like a dark double.

“Madame,” said Akira, “forgive my disruption,

but I come with a matter of urgency.”

His voice was soft, refined. He straightened and

stole a deferential peek at her face.

In the dim light his eyes shone with sincerity.

Chie felt herself starting to like him.

“Come inside, get out of this nasty night. Surely

your business can wait for a moment or two.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. Normally I would

approach you more properly but I’ve received word

of a position. I’ve an opportunity to go to America, as

dentist for Seattle’s Japanese community.”

“Congratulations,” Chie said with amusement.

“That is an opportunity, I’m sure. But how am I

involved?”

Even noting Naomi’s breathless reaction to the

name card, Chie had no idea. Akira’s message,

delivered like a formal speech, filled her with

maternal amusement. You know how children speak

so earnestly, so hurriedly, so endearingly about

things that have no importance in an adult’s mind?

That’s how she viewed him, as a child.

It was how she viewed Naomi. Even though

Naomi was eighteen and training endlessly in the arts

needed to make a good marriage, Chie had made no

effort to find her a husband.

Akira blushed.

“Depending on your response, I may stay in

Japan. I’ve come to ask for Naomi’s hand.”

Suddenly Chie felt the dampness of the night.

“Does Naomi know anything of your . . .

ambitions?”

“We have an understanding. Please don’t judge

my candidacy by the unseemliness of this proposal. I

ask directly because the use of a go-between takes

much time. Either method comes down to the same

thing: a matter of parental approval. If you give your

consent, I become Naomi’s yoshi.* We’ll live in the

House of Fuji. Without your consent, I must go to

America, to secure a new home for my bride.”

Eager to make his point, he’d been looking her full

in the face. Abruptly, his voice turned gentle. “I see

I’ve startled you. My humble apologies. I’ll take no

more of your evening. My address is on my card. If

you don’t wish to contact me, I’ll reapproach you in

two weeks’ time. Until then, good night.”

He bowed and left. Taking her ease, with effortless

grace, like a cat making off with a fish.

“Mother?” Chie heard Naomi’s low voice and

turned from the door. “He has asked you?”

The sight of Naomi’s clear eyes, her dark brows

gave Chie strength. Maybe his hopes were

preposterous.

“Where did you meet such a fellow? Imagine! He

thinks he can marry the Fuji heir and take her to

America all in the snap of his fingers!”

Chie waited for Naomi’s ripe laughter.

Naomi was silent. She stood a full half minute

looking straight into Chie’s eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“I met him at my literary meeting.”

Naomi turned to go back into the house, then

stopped.

“Mother.”

“Yes?”

“I mean to have him.”

* a man who marries a woman of higher status and takes her family’s name

This passage is from Lydia Minatoya, The Strangeness of

Beauty. ©1999 by Lydia Minatoya. The setting is Japan in

1920. Chie and her daughter Naomi are members of the

House of Fuji, a noble family.

Akira came directly, breaking all tradition. Was

that it? Had he followed form—had he asked his

mother to speak to his father to approach a

go-between—would Chie have been more receptive?

He came on a winter’s eve. He pounded on the

door while a cold rain beat on the shuttered veranda,

so at first Chie thought him only the wind. The maid

knew better. Chie heard her soft scuttling footsteps,

the creak of the door. Then the maid brought a

calling card to the drawing room, for Chie.

Chie was reluctant to go to her guest; perhaps she

was feeling too cozy. She and Naomi were reading at

a low table set atop a charcoal brazier. A thick quilt

spread over the sides of the table so their legs were

tucked inside with the heat.

“Who is it at this hour, in this weather?” Chie

questioned as she picked the name card off the

maid’s lacquer tray.

“Shinoda, Akira. Kobe Dental College,” she read.

Naomi recognized the name. Chie heard a soft

intake of air.

“I think you should go,” said Naomi.

Akira was waiting in the entry. He was in his early

twenties, slim and serious, wearing the black

military-style uniform of a student. As he

bowed—his hands hanging straight down, a

black cap in one, a yellow oil-paper umbrella in the

other—Chie glanced beyond him. In the glistening

surface of the courtyard’s rain-drenched paving

stones, she saw his reflection like a dark double.

“Madame,” said Akira, “forgive my disruption,

but I come with a matter of urgency.”

His voice was soft, refined. He straightened and

stole a deferential peek at her face.

In the dim light his eyes shone with sincerity.

Chie felt herself starting to like him.

“Come inside, get out of this nasty night. Surely

your business can wait for a moment or two.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. Normally I would

approach you more properly but I’ve received word

of a position. I’ve an opportunity to go to America, as

dentist for Seattle’s Japanese community.”

“Congratulations,” Chie said with amusement.

“That is an opportunity, I’m sure. But how am I

involved?”

Even noting Naomi’s breathless reaction to the

name card, Chie had no idea. Akira’s message,

delivered like a formal speech, filled her with

maternal amusement. You know how children speak

so earnestly, so hurriedly, so endearingly about

things that have no importance in an adult’s mind?

That’s how she viewed him, as a child.

It was how she viewed Naomi. Even though

Naomi was eighteen and training endlessly in the arts

needed to make a good marriage, Chie had made no

effort to find her a husband.

Akira blushed.

“Depending on your response, I may stay in

Japan. I’ve come to ask for Naomi’s hand.”

Suddenly Chie felt the dampness of the night.

“Does Naomi know anything of your . . .

ambitions?”

“We have an understanding. Please don’t judge

my candidacy by the unseemliness of this proposal. I

ask directly because the use of a go-between takes

much time. Either method comes down to the same

thing: a matter of parental approval. If you give your

consent, I become Naomi’s yoshi.* We’ll live in the

House of Fuji. Without your consent, I must go to

America, to secure a new home for my bride.”

Eager to make his point, he’d been looking her full

in the face. Abruptly, his voice turned gentle. “I see

I’ve startled you. My humble apologies. I’ll take no

more of your evening. My address is on my card. If

you don’t wish to contact me, I’ll reapproach you in

two weeks’ time. Until then, good night.”

He bowed and left. Taking her ease, with effortless

grace, like a cat making off with a fish.

“Mother?” Chie heard Naomi’s low voice and

turned from the door. “He has asked you?”

The sight of Naomi’s clear eyes, her dark brows

gave Chie strength. Maybe his hopes were

preposterous.

“Where did you meet such a fellow? Imagine! He

thinks he can marry the Fuji heir and take her to

America all in the snap of his fingers!”

Chie waited for Naomi’s ripe laughter.

Naomi was silent. She stood a full half minute

looking straight into Chie’s eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“I met him at my literary meeting.”

Naomi turned to go back into the house, then

stopped.

“Mother.”

“Yes?”

“I mean to have him.”

* a man who marries a woman of higher status and takes her family’s name

This passage is from Lydia Minatoya, The Strangeness of

Beauty. ©1999 by Lydia Minatoya. The setting is Japan in

1920. Chie and her daughter Naomi are members of the

House of Fuji, a noble family.

Akira came directly, breaking all tradition. Was

that it? Had he followed form—had he asked his

mother to speak to his father to approach a

go-between—would Chie have been more receptive?

He came on a winter’s eve. He pounded on the

door while a cold rain beat on the shuttered veranda,

so at first Chie thought him only the wind. The maid

knew better. Chie heard her soft scuttling footsteps,

the creak of the door. Then the maid brought a

calling card to the drawing room, for Chie.

Chie was reluctant to go to her guest; perhaps she

was feeling too cozy. She and Naomi were reading at

a low table set atop a charcoal brazier. A thick quilt

spread over the sides of the table so their legs were

tucked inside with the heat.

“Who is it at this hour, in this weather?” Chie

questioned as she picked the name card off the

maid’s lacquer tray.

“Shinoda, Akira. Kobe Dental College,” she read.

Naomi recognized the name. Chie heard a soft

intake of air.

“I think you should go,” said Naomi.

Akira was waiting in the entry. He was in his early

twenties, slim and serious, wearing the black

military-style uniform of a student. As he

bowed—his hands hanging straight down, a

black cap in one, a yellow oil-paper umbrella in the

other—Chie glanced beyond him. In the glistening

surface of the courtyard’s rain-drenched paving

stones, she saw his reflection like a dark double.

“Madame,” said Akira, “forgive my disruption,

but I come with a matter of urgency.”

His voice was soft, refined. He straightened and

stole a deferential peek at her face.

In the dim light his eyes shone with sincerity.

Chie felt herself starting to like him.

“Come inside, get out of this nasty night. Surely

your business can wait for a moment or two.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. Normally I would

approach you more properly but I’ve received word

of a position. I’ve an opportunity to go to America, as

dentist for Seattle’s Japanese community.”

“Congratulations,” Chie said with amusement.

“That is an opportunity, I’m sure. But how am I

involved?”

Even noting Naomi’s breathless reaction to the

name card, Chie had no idea. Akira’s message,

delivered like a formal speech, filled her with

maternal amusement. You know how children speak

so earnestly, so hurriedly, so endearingly about

things that have no importance in an adult’s mind?

That’s how she viewed him, as a child.

It was how she viewed Naomi. Even though

Naomi was eighteen and training endlessly in the arts

needed to make a good marriage, Chie had made no

effort to find her a husband.

Akira blushed.

“Depending on your response, I may stay in

Japan. I’ve come to ask for Naomi’s hand.”

Suddenly Chie felt the dampness of the night.

“Does Naomi know anything of your . . .

ambitions?”

“We have an understanding. Please don’t judge

my candidacy by the unseemliness of this proposal. I

ask directly because the use of a go-between takes

much time. Either method comes down to the same

thing: a matter of parental approval. If you give your

consent, I become Naomi’s yoshi.* We’ll live in the

House of Fuji. Without your consent, I must go to

America, to secure a new home for my bride.”

Eager to make his point, he’d been looking her full

in the face. Abruptly, his voice turned gentle. “I see

I’ve startled you. My humble apologies. I’ll take no

more of your evening. My address is on my card. If

you don’t wish to contact me, I’ll reapproach you in

two weeks’ time. Until then, good night.”

He bowed and left. Taking her ease, with effortless

grace, like a cat making off with a fish.

“Mother?” Chie heard Naomi’s low voice and

turned from the door. “He has asked you?”

The sight of Naomi’s clear eyes, her dark brows

gave Chie strength. Maybe his hopes were

preposterous.

“Where did you meet such a fellow? Imagine! He

thinks he can marry the Fuji heir and take her to

America all in the snap of his fingers!”

Chie waited for Naomi’s ripe laughter.

Naomi was silent. She stood a full half minute

looking straight into Chie’s eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“I met him at my literary meeting.”

Naomi turned to go back into the house, then

stopped.

“Mother.”

“Yes?”

“I mean to have him.”

* a man who marries a woman of higher status and takes her family’s name

This passage is from Lydia Minatoya, The Strangeness of

Beauty. ©1999 by Lydia Minatoya. The setting is Japan in

1920. Chie and her daughter Naomi are members of the

House of Fuji, a noble family.

Akira came directly, breaking all tradition. Was

that it? Had he followed form—had he asked his

mother to speak to his father to approach a

go-between—would Chie have been more receptive?

He came on a winter’s eve. He pounded on the

door while a cold rain beat on the shuttered veranda,

so at first Chie thought him only the wind. The maid

knew better. Chie heard her soft scuttling footsteps,

the creak of the door. Then the maid brought a

calling card to the drawing room, for Chie.

Chie was reluctant to go to her guest; perhaps she

was feeling too cozy. She and Naomi were reading at

a low table set atop a charcoal brazier. A thick quilt

spread over the sides of the table so their legs were

tucked inside with the heat.

“Who is it at this hour, in this weather?” Chie

questioned as she picked the name card off the

maid’s lacquer tray.

“Shinoda, Akira. Kobe Dental College,” she read.

Naomi recognized the name. Chie heard a soft

intake of air.

“I think you should go,” said Naomi.

Akira was waiting in the entry. He was in his early

twenties, slim and serious, wearing the black

military-style uniform of a student. As he

bowed—his hands hanging straight down, a

black cap in one, a yellow oil-paper umbrella in the

other—Chie glanced beyond him. In the glistening

surface of the courtyard’s rain-drenched paving

stones, she saw his reflection like a dark double.

“Madame,” said Akira, “forgive my disruption,

but I come with a matter of urgency.”

His voice was soft, refined. He straightened and

stole a deferential peek at her face.

In the dim light his eyes shone with sincerity.

Chie felt herself starting to like him.

“Come inside, get out of this nasty night. Surely

your business can wait for a moment or two.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. Normally I would

approach you more properly but I’ve received word

of a position. I’ve an opportunity to go to America, as

dentist for Seattle’s Japanese community.”

“Congratulations,” Chie said with amusement.

“That is an opportunity, I’m sure. But how am I

involved?”

Even noting Naomi’s breathless reaction to the

name card, Chie had no idea. Akira’s message,

delivered like a formal speech, filled her with

maternal amusement. You know how children speak

so earnestly, so hurriedly, so endearingly about

things that have no importance in an adult’s mind?

That’s how she viewed him, as a child.

It was how she viewed Naomi. Even though

Naomi was eighteen and training endlessly in the arts

needed to make a good marriage, Chie had made no

effort to find her a husband.

Akira blushed.

“Depending on your response, I may stay in

Japan. I’ve come to ask for Naomi’s hand.”

Suddenly Chie felt the dampness of the night.

“Does Naomi know anything of your . . .

ambitions?”

“We have an understanding. Please don’t judge

my candidacy by the unseemliness of this proposal. I

ask directly because the use of a go-between takes

much time. Either method comes down to the same

thing: a matter of parental approval. If you give your

consent, I become Naomi’s yoshi.* We’ll live in the

House of Fuji. Without your consent, I must go to

America, to secure a new home for my bride.”

Eager to make his point, he’d been looking her full

in the face. Abruptly, his voice turned gentle. “I see

I’ve startled you. My humble apologies. I’ll take no

more of your evening. My address is on my card. If

you don’t wish to contact me, I’ll reapproach you in

two weeks’ time. Until then, good night.”

He bowed and left. Taking her ease, with effortless

grace, like a cat making off with a fish.

“Mother?” Chie heard Naomi’s low voice and

turned from the door. “He has asked you?”

The sight of Naomi’s clear eyes, her dark brows

gave Chie strength. Maybe his hopes were

preposterous.

“Where did you meet such a fellow? Imagine! He

thinks he can marry the Fuji heir and take her to

America all in the snap of his fingers!”

Chie waited for Naomi’s ripe laughter.

Naomi was silent. She stood a full half minute

looking straight into Chie’s eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“I met him at my literary meeting.”

Naomi turned to go back into the house, then

stopped.

“Mother.”

“Yes?”

“I mean to have him.”

* a man who marries a woman of higher status and takes her family’s name

This passage is from Lydia Minatoya, The Strangeness of

Beauty. ©1999 by Lydia Minatoya. The setting is Japan in

1920. Chie and her daughter Naomi are members of the

House of Fuji, a noble family.

Akira came directly, breaking all tradition. Was

that it? Had he followed form—had he asked his

mother to speak to his father to approach a

go-between—would Chie have been more receptive?

He came on a winter’s eve. He pounded on the

door while a cold rain beat on the shuttered veranda,

so at first Chie thought him only the wind. The maid

knew better. Chie heard her soft scuttling footsteps,

the creak of the door. Then the maid brought a

calling card to the drawing room, for Chie.

Chie was reluctant to go to her guest; perhaps she

was feeling too cozy. She and Naomi were reading at

a low table set atop a charcoal brazier. A thick quilt

spread over the sides of the table so their legs were

tucked inside with the heat.

“Who is it at this hour, in this weather?” Chie

questioned as she picked the name card off the

maid’s lacquer tray.

“Shinoda, Akira. Kobe Dental College,” she read.

Naomi recognized the name. Chie heard a soft

intake of air.

“I think you should go,” said Naomi.

Akira was waiting in the entry. He was in his early

twenties, slim and serious, wearing the black

military-style uniform of a student. As he

bowed—his hands hanging straight down, a

black cap in one, a yellow oil-paper umbrella in the

other—Chie glanced beyond him. In the glistening

surface of the courtyard’s rain-drenched paving

stones, she saw his reflection like a dark double.

“Madame,” said Akira, “forgive my disruption,

but I come with a matter of urgency.”

His voice was soft, refined. He straightened and

stole a deferential peek at her face.

In the dim light his eyes shone with sincerity.

Chie felt herself starting to like him.

“Come inside, get out of this nasty night. Surely

your business can wait for a moment or two.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. Normally I would

approach you more properly but I’ve received word

of a position. I’ve an opportunity to go to America, as

dentist for Seattle’s Japanese community.”

“Congratulations,” Chie said with amusement.

“That is an opportunity, I’m sure. But how am I

involved?”

Even noting Naomi’s breathless reaction to the

name card, Chie had no idea. Akira’s message,

delivered like a formal speech, filled her with

maternal amusement. You know how children speak

so earnestly, so hurriedly, so endearingly about

things that have no importance in an adult’s mind?

That’s how she viewed him, as a child.

It was how she viewed Naomi. Even though

Naomi was eighteen and training endlessly in the arts

needed to make a good marriage, Chie had made no

effort to find her a husband.

Akira blushed.

“Depending on your response, I may stay in

Japan. I’ve come to ask for Naomi’s hand.”

Suddenly Chie felt the dampness of the night.

“Does Naomi know anything of your . . .

ambitions?”

“We have an understanding. Please don’t judge

my candidacy by the unseemliness of this proposal. I

ask directly because the use of a go-between takes

much time. Either method comes down to the same

thing: a matter of parental approval. If you give your

consent, I become Naomi’s yoshi.* We’ll live in the

House of Fuji. Without your consent, I must go to

America, to secure a new home for my bride.”

Eager to make his point, he’d been looking her full

in the face. Abruptly, his voice turned gentle. “I see

I’ve startled you. My humble apologies. I’ll take no

more of your evening. My address is on my card. If

you don’t wish to contact me, I’ll reapproach you in

two weeks’ time. Until then, good night.”

He bowed and left. Taking her ease, with effortless

grace, like a cat making off with a fish.

“Mother?” Chie heard Naomi’s low voice and

turned from the door. “He has asked you?”

The sight of Naomi’s clear eyes, her dark brows

gave Chie strength. Maybe his hopes were

preposterous.

“Where did you meet such a fellow? Imagine! He

thinks he can marry the Fuji heir and take her to

America all in the snap of his fingers!”

Chie waited for Naomi’s ripe laughter.

Naomi was silent. She stood a full half minute

looking straight into Chie’s eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“I met him at my literary meeting.”

Naomi turned to go back into the house, then

stopped.

“Mother.”

“Yes?”

“I mean to have him.”

* a man who marries a woman of higher status and takes her family’s name

This passage is from Lydia Minatoya, The Strangeness of

Beauty. ©1999 by Lydia Minatoya. The setting is Japan in

1920. Chie and her daughter Naomi are members of the

House of Fuji, a noble family.

Akira came directly, breaking all tradition. Was

that it? Had he followed form—had he asked his

mother to speak to his father to approach a

go-between—would Chie have been more receptive?

He came on a winter’s eve. He pounded on the

door while a cold rain beat on the shuttered veranda,

so at first Chie thought him only the wind. The maid

knew better. Chie heard her soft scuttling footsteps,

the creak of the door. Then the maid brought a

calling card to the drawing room, for Chie.

Chie was reluctant to go to her guest; perhaps she

was feeling too cozy. She and Naomi were reading at

a low table set atop a charcoal brazier. A thick quilt

spread over the sides of the table so their legs were

tucked inside with the heat.

“Who is it at this hour, in this weather?” Chie

questioned as she picked the name card off the

maid’s lacquer tray.

“Shinoda, Akira. Kobe Dental College,” she read.

Naomi recognized the name. Chie heard a soft

intake of air.

“I think you should go,” said Naomi.

Akira was waiting in the entry. He was in his early

twenties, slim and serious, wearing the black

military-style uniform of a student. As he

bowed—his hands hanging straight down, a

black cap in one, a yellow oil-paper umbrella in the

other—Chie glanced beyond him. In the glistening

surface of the courtyard’s rain-drenched paving

stones, she saw his reflection like a dark double.

“Madame,” said Akira, “forgive my disruption,

but I come with a matter of urgency.”

His voice was soft, refined. He straightened and

stole a deferential peek at her face.

In the dim light his eyes shone with sincerity.

Chie felt herself starting to like him.

“Come inside, get out of this nasty night. Surely

your business can wait for a moment or two.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. Normally I would

approach you more properly but I’ve received word

of a position. I’ve an opportunity to go to America, as

dentist for Seattle’s Japanese community.”

“Congratulations,” Chie said with amusement.

“That is an opportunity, I’m sure. But how am I

involved?”

Even noting Naomi’s breathless reaction to the

name card, Chie had no idea. Akira’s message,

delivered like a formal speech, filled her with

maternal amusement. You know how children speak

so earnestly, so hurriedly, so endearingly about

things that have no importance in an adult’s mind?

That’s how she viewed him, as a child.

It was how she viewed Naomi. Even though

Naomi was eighteen and training endlessly in the arts

needed to make a good marriage, Chie had made no

effort to find her a husband.

Akira blushed.

“Depending on your response, I may stay in

Japan. I’ve come to ask for Naomi’s hand.”

Suddenly Chie felt the dampness of the night.

“Does Naomi know anything of your . . .

ambitions?”

“We have an understanding. Please don’t judge

my candidacy by the unseemliness of this proposal. I

ask directly because the use of a go-between takes

much time. Either method comes down to the same

thing: a matter of parental approval. If you give your

consent, I become Naomi’s yoshi.* We’ll live in the

House of Fuji. Without your consent, I must go to

America, to secure a new home for my bride.”

Eager to make his point, he’d been looking her full

in the face. Abruptly, his voice turned gentle. “I see

I’ve startled you. My humble apologies. I’ll take no

more of your evening. My address is on my card. If

you don’t wish to contact me, I’ll reapproach you in

two weeks’ time. Until then, good night.”

He bowed and left. Taking her ease, with effortless

grace, like a cat making off with a fish.

“Mother?” Chie heard Naomi’s low voice and

turned from the door. “He has asked you?”

The sight of Naomi’s clear eyes, her dark brows

gave Chie strength. Maybe his hopes were

preposterous.

“Where did you meet such a fellow? Imagine! He

thinks he can marry the Fuji heir and take her to

America all in the snap of his fingers!”

Chie waited for Naomi’s ripe laughter.

Naomi was silent. She stood a full half minute

looking straight into Chie’s eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“I met him at my literary meeting.”

Naomi turned to go back into the house, then

stopped.

“Mother.”

“Yes?”

“I mean to have him.”

* a man who marries a woman of higher status and takes her family’s name

This passage is from Lydia Minatoya, The Strangeness of

Beauty. ©1999 by Lydia Minatoya. The setting is Japan in

1920. Chie and her daughter Naomi are members of the

House of Fuji, a noble family.

Akira came directly, breaking all tradition. Was

that it? Had he followed form—had he asked his

mother to speak to his father to approach a

go-between—would Chie have been more receptive?

He came on a winter’s eve. He pounded on the

door while a cold rain beat on the shuttered veranda,

so at first Chie thought him only the wind. The maid

knew better. Chie heard her soft scuttling footsteps,

the creak of the door. Then the maid brought a

calling card to the drawing room, for Chie.

Chie was reluctant to go to her guest; perhaps she

was feeling too cozy. She and Naomi were reading at

a low table set atop a charcoal brazier. A thick quilt

spread over the sides of the table so their legs were

tucked inside with the heat.

“Who is it at this hour, in this weather?” Chie

questioned as she picked the name card off the

maid’s lacquer tray.

“Shinoda, Akira. Kobe Dental College,” she read.

Naomi recognized the name. Chie heard a soft

intake of air.

“I think you should go,” said Naomi.

Akira was waiting in the entry. He was in his early

twenties, slim and serious, wearing the black

military-style uniform of a student. As he

bowed—his hands hanging straight down, a

black cap in one, a yellow oil-paper umbrella in the

other—Chie glanced beyond him. In the glistening

surface of the courtyard’s rain-drenched paving

stones, she saw his reflection like a dark double.

“Madame,” said Akira, “forgive my disruption,

but I come with a matter of urgency.”

His voice was soft, refined. He straightened and

stole a deferential peek at her face.

In the dim light his eyes shone with sincerity.

Chie felt herself starting to like him.

“Come inside, get out of this nasty night. Surely

your business can wait for a moment or two.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. Normally I would

approach you more properly but I’ve received word

of a position. I’ve an opportunity to go to America, as

dentist for Seattle’s Japanese community.”

“Congratulations,” Chie said with amusement.

“That is an opportunity, I’m sure. But how am I

involved?”

Even noting Naomi’s breathless reaction to the

name card, Chie had no idea. Akira’s message,

delivered like a formal speech, filled her with

maternal amusement. You know how children speak

so earnestly, so hurriedly, so endearingly about

things that have no importance in an adult’s mind?

That’s how she viewed him, as a child.

It was how she viewed Naomi. Even though

Naomi was eighteen and training endlessly in the arts

needed to make a good marriage, Chie had made no

effort to find her a husband.

Akira blushed.

“Depending on your response, I may stay in

Japan. I’ve come to ask for Naomi’s hand.”

Suddenly Chie felt the dampness of the night.

“Does Naomi know anything of your . . .

ambitions?”

“We have an understanding. Please don’t judge

my candidacy by the unseemliness of this proposal. I

ask directly because the use of a go-between takes

much time. Either method comes down to the same

thing: a matter of parental approval. If you give your

consent, I become Naomi’s yoshi.* We’ll live in the

House of Fuji. Without your consent, I must go to

America, to secure a new home for my bride.”

Eager to make his point, he’d been looking her full

in the face. Abruptly, his voice turned gentle. “I see

I’ve startled you. My humble apologies. I’ll take no

more of your evening. My address is on my card. If

you don’t wish to contact me, I’ll reapproach you in

two weeks’ time. Until then, good night.”

He bowed and left. Taking her ease, with effortless

grace, like a cat making off with a fish.

“Mother?” Chie heard Naomi’s low voice and

turned from the door. “He has asked you?”

The sight of Naomi’s clear eyes, her dark brows

gave Chie strength. Maybe his hopes were

preposterous.

“Where did you meet such a fellow? Imagine! He

thinks he can marry the Fuji heir and take her to

America all in the snap of his fingers!”

Chie waited for Naomi’s ripe laughter.

Naomi was silent. She stood a full half minute

looking straight into Chie’s eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“I met him at my literary meeting.”

Naomi turned to go back into the house, then

stopped.

“Mother.”

“Yes?”

“I mean to have him.”

* a man who marries a woman of higher status and takes her family’s name

Close at hand is a bridge over the River Thames,

an admirable vantage ground for us to make a

survey. The river flows beneath; barges pass, laden

with timber, bursting with corn; there on one side are

the domes and spires of the city; on the other,

Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It is a

place to stand on by the hour, dreaming. But not

now. Now we are pressed for time. Now we are here

to consider facts; now we must fix our eyes upon the

procession—the procession of the sons of educated

men.

There they go, our brothers who have been

educated at public schools and universities,

mounting those steps, passing in and out of those

doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, teaching,

administering justice, practising medicine,

transacting business, making money. It is a solemn

sight always—a procession, like a caravanserai

crossing a desert. . . . But now, for the past twenty

years or so, it is no longer a sight merely, a

photograph, or fresco scrawled upon the walls of

time, at which we can look with merely an esthetic

appreciation. For there, trapesing along at the tail

end of the procession, we go ourselves. And that

makes a difference. We who have looked so long at

the pageant in books, or from a curtained window

watched educated men leaving the house at about

nine-thirty to go to an office, returning to the house

at about six-thirty from an office, need look passively

no longer. We too can leave the house, can mount

those steps, pass in and out of those doors, . . . make

money, administer justice. . . . We who nowagitate

these humble pens may in another century or two

speak from a pulpit. Nobody will dare contradict us

then; we shall be the mouthpieces of the divine

spirit—a solemn thought, is it not? Who can say

whether, as time goes on, we may not dress in

military uniform, with gold lace on our breasts,

swords at our sides, and something like the old

family coal-scuttle on our heads, save that that

venerable object was never decorated with plumes of

white horsehair. You laugh—indeed the shadow of

the private house still makes those dresses look a

little queer. We have worn private clothes so

long. . . . But we have not come here to laugh, or to

talk of fashions—men’s and women’s. We are here,

on the bridge, to ask ourselves certain questions.

And they are very important questions; and we have

very little time in which to answer them. The

questions that we have to ask and to answer about

that procession during this moment of transition are

so important that they may well change the lives of

all men and women for ever. For we have to ask

ourselves, here and now, do we wish to join that

procession, or don’t we? On what terms shall we join

that procession? Above all, where is it leading us, the

procession of educated men? The moment is short; it

may last five years; ten years, or perhaps only a

matter of a few months longer. . . . But, you will

object, you have no time to think; you have your

battles to fight, your rent to pay, your bazaars to

organize. That excuse shall not serve you, Madam.

As you know from your own experience, and there

are facts that prove it, the daughters of educated men

have always done their thinking from hand to

mouth; not under green lamps at study tables in the

cloisters of secluded colleges. They have thought

while they stirred the pot, while they rocked the

cradle. It was thus that they won us the right to our

brand-new sixpence. It falls to us now to go on

thinking; how are we to spend that sixpence? Think

we must. Let us think in offices; in omnibuses; while

we are standing in the crowd watching Coronations

and Lord Mayor’s Shows; let us think . . . in the

gallery of the House of Commons; in the Law Courts;

let us think at baptisms and marriages and funerals.

Let us never cease from thinking—what is this

“civilization” in which we find ourselves? What are

these ceremonies and why should we take part in

them? What are these professions and why

should we make money out of them? Where in

short is it leading us, the procession of the sons of

educated men?

Close at hand is a bridge over the River Thames,

an admirable vantage ground for us to make a

survey. The river flows beneath; barges pass, laden

with timber, bursting with corn; there on one side are

the domes and spires of the city; on the other,

Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It is a

place to stand on by the hour, dreaming. But not

now. Now we are pressed for time. Now we are here

to consider facts; now we must fix our eyes upon the

procession—the procession of the sons of educated

men.

There they go, our brothers who have been

educated at public schools and universities,

mounting those steps, passing in and out of those

doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, teaching,

administering justice, practising medicine,

transacting business, making money. It is a solemn

sight always—a procession, like a caravanserai

crossing a desert. . . . But now, for the past twenty

years or so, it is no longer a sight merely, a

photograph, or fresco scrawled upon the walls of

time, at which we can look with merely an esthetic

appreciation. For there, trapesing along at the tail

end of the procession, we go ourselves. And that

makes a difference. We who have looked so long at

the pageant in books, or from a curtained window

watched educated men leaving the house at about

nine-thirty to go to an office, returning to the house

at about six-thirty from an office, need look passively

no longer. We too can leave the house, can mount

those steps, pass in and out of those doors, . . . make

money, administer justice. . . . We who nowagitate

these humble pens may in another century or two

speak from a pulpit. Nobody will dare contradict us

then; we shall be the mouthpieces of the divine

spirit—a solemn thought, is it not? Who can say

whether, as time goes on, we may not dress in

military uniform, with gold lace on our breasts,

swords at our sides, and something like the old

family coal-scuttle on our heads, save that that

venerable object was never decorated with plumes of

white horsehair. You laugh—indeed the shadow of

the private house still makes those dresses look a

little queer. We have worn private clothes so

long. . . . But we have not come here to laugh, or to

talk of fashions—men’s and women’s. We are here,

on the bridge, to ask ourselves certain questions.

And they are very important questions; and we have

very little time in which to answer them. The

questions that we have to ask and to answer about

that procession during this moment of transition are

so important that they may well change the lives of

all men and women for ever. For we have to ask

ourselves, here and now, do we wish to join that

procession, or don’t we? On what terms shall we join

that procession? Above all, where is it leading us, the

procession of educated men? The moment is short; it

may last five years; ten years, or perhaps only a

matter of a few months longer. . . . But, you will

object, you have no time to think; you have your

battles to fight, your rent to pay, your bazaars to

organize. That excuse shall not serve you, Madam.

As you know from your own experience, and there

are facts that prove it, the daughters of educated men

have always done their thinking from hand to

mouth; not under green lamps at study tables in the

cloisters of secluded colleges. They have thought

while they stirred the pot, while they rocked the

cradle. It was thus that they won us the right to our

brand-new sixpence. It falls to us now to go on

thinking; how are we to spend that sixpence? Think

we must. Let us think in offices; in omnibuses; while

we are standing in the crowd watching Coronations

and Lord Mayor’s Shows; let us think . . . in the

gallery of the House of Commons; in the Law Courts;

let us think at baptisms and marriages and funerals.

Let us never cease from thinking—what is this

“civilization” in which we find ourselves? What are

these ceremonies and why should we take part in

them? What are these professions and why

should we make money out of them? Where in

short is it leading us, the procession of the sons of

educated men?

Close at hand is a bridge over the River Thames,

an admirable vantage ground for us to make a

survey. The river flows beneath; barges pass, laden

with timber, bursting with corn; there on one side are

the domes and spires of the city; on the other,

Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It is a

place to stand on by the hour, dreaming. But not

now. Now we are pressed for time. Now we are here

to consider facts; now we must fix our eyes upon the

procession—the procession of the sons of educated

men.

There they go, our brothers who have been

educated at public schools and universities,

mounting those steps, passing in and out of those

doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, teaching,

administering justice, practising medicine,

transacting business, making money. It is a solemn

sight always—a procession, like a caravanserai

crossing a desert. . . . But now, for the past twenty

years or so, it is no longer a sight merely, a

photograph, or fresco scrawled upon the walls of

time, at which we can look with merely an esthetic

appreciation. For there, trapesing along at the tail

end of the procession, we go ourselves. And that

makes a difference. We who have looked so long at

the pageant in books, or from a curtained window

watched educated men leaving the house at about

nine-thirty to go to an office, returning to the house

at about six-thirty from an office, need look passively

no longer. We too can leave the house, can mount

those steps, pass in and out of those doors, . . . make

money, administer justice. . . . We who nowagitate

these humble pens may in another century or two

speak from a pulpit. Nobody will dare contradict us

then; we shall be the mouthpieces of the divine

spirit—a solemn thought, is it not? Who can say

whether, as time goes on, we may not dress in

military uniform, with gold lace on our breasts,

swords at our sides, and something like the old

family coal-scuttle on our heads, save that that

venerable object was never decorated with plumes of

white horsehair. You laugh—indeed the shadow of

the private house still makes those dresses look a

little queer. We have worn private clothes so

long. . . . But we have not come here to laugh, or to

talk of fashions—men’s and women’s. We are here,

on the bridge, to ask ourselves certain questions.

And they are very important questions; and we have

very little time in which to answer them. The

questions that we have to ask and to answer about

that procession during this moment of transition are

so important that they may well change the lives of

all men and women for ever. For we have to ask

ourselves, here and now, do we wish to join that

procession, or don’t we? On what terms shall we join

that procession? Above all, where is it leading us, the

procession of educated men? The moment is short; it

may last five years; ten years, or perhaps only a

matter of a few months longer. . . . But, you will

object, you have no time to think; you have your

battles to fight, your rent to pay, your bazaars to

organize. That excuse shall not serve you, Madam.

As you know from your own experience, and there

are facts that prove it, the daughters of educated men

have always done their thinking from hand to

mouth; not under green lamps at study tables in the

cloisters of secluded colleges. They have thought

while they stirred the pot, while they rocked the

cradle. It was thus that they won us the right to our

brand-new sixpence. It falls to us now to go on

thinking; how are we to spend that sixpence? Think

we must. Let us think in offices; in omnibuses; while

we are standing in the crowd watching Coronations

and Lord Mayor’s Shows; let us think . . . in the

gallery of the House of Commons; in the Law Courts;

let us think at baptisms and marriages and funerals.

Let us never cease from thinking—what is this

“civilization” in which we find ourselves? What are

these ceremonies and why should we take part in

them? What are these professions and why

should we make money out of them? Where in

short is it leading us, the procession of the sons of

educated men?

Close at hand is a bridge over the River Thames,

an admirable vantage ground for us to make a

survey. The river flows beneath; barges pass, laden

with timber, bursting with corn; there on one side are

the domes and spires of the city; on the other,

Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It is a

place to stand on by the hour, dreaming. But not

now. Now we are pressed for time. Now we are here

to consider facts; now we must fix our eyes upon the

procession—the procession of the sons of educated

men.

There they go, our brothers who have been

educated at public schools and universities,

mounting those steps, passing in and out of those

doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, teaching,

administering justice, practising medicine,

transacting business, making money. It is a solemn

sight always—a procession, like a caravanserai

crossing a desert. . . . But now, for the past twenty

years or so, it is no longer a sight merely, a

photograph, or fresco scrawled upon the walls of

time, at which we can look with merely an esthetic

appreciation. For there, trapesing along at the tail

end of the procession, we go ourselves. And that

makes a difference. We who have looked so long at

the pageant in books, or from a curtained window

watched educated men leaving the house at about

nine-thirty to go to an office, returning to the house

at about six-thirty from an office, need look passively

no longer. We too can leave the house, can mount

those steps, pass in and out of those doors, . . . make

money, administer justice. . . . We who nowagitate

these humble pens may in another century or two

speak from a pulpit. Nobody will dare contradict us

then; we shall be the mouthpieces of the divine

spirit—a solemn thought, is it not? Who can say

whether, as time goes on, we may not dress in

military uniform, with gold lace on our breasts,

swords at our sides, and something like the old

family coal-scuttle on our heads, save that that

venerable object was never decorated with plumes of

white horsehair. You laugh—indeed the shadow of

the private house still makes those dresses look a

little queer. We have worn private clothes so

long. . . . But we have not come here to laugh, or to

talk of fashions—men’s and women’s. We are here,

on the bridge, to ask ourselves certain questions.

And they are very important questions; and we have

very little time in which to answer them. The

questions that we have to ask and to answer about

that procession during this moment of transition are

so important that they may well change the lives of

all men and women for ever. For we have to ask

ourselves, here and now, do we wish to join that

procession, or don’t we? On what terms shall we join

that procession? Above all, where is it leading us, the

procession of educated men? The moment is short; it

may last five years; ten years, or perhaps only a

matter of a few months longer. . . . But, you will

object, you have no time to think; you have your

battles to fight, your rent to pay, your bazaars to

organize. That excuse shall not serve you, Madam.

As you know from your own experience, and there

are facts that prove it, the daughters of educated men

have always done their thinking from hand to

mouth; not under green lamps at study tables in the

cloisters of secluded colleges. They have thought

while they stirred the pot, while they rocked the

cradle. It was thus that they won us the right to our

brand-new sixpence. It falls to us now to go on

thinking; how are we to spend that sixpence? Think

we must. Let us think in offices; in omnibuses; while

we are standing in the crowd watching Coronations

and Lord Mayor’s Shows; let us think . . . in the

gallery of the House of Commons; in the Law Courts;

let us think at baptisms and marriages and funerals.

Let us never cease from thinking—what is this

“civilization” in which we find ourselves? What are

these ceremonies and why should we take part in

them? What are these professions and why

should we make money out of them? Where in

short is it leading us, the procession of the sons of

educated men?

Close at hand is a bridge over the River Thames,

an admirable vantage ground for us to make a

survey. The river flows beneath; barges pass, laden

with timber, bursting with corn; there on one side are

the domes and spires of the city; on the other,

Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It is a

place to stand on by the hour, dreaming. But not

now. Now we are pressed for time. Now we are here

to consider facts; now we must fix our eyes upon the

procession—the procession of the sons of educated

men.

There they go, our brothers who have been

educated at public schools and universities,

mounting those steps, passing in and out of those

doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, teaching,

administering justice, practising medicine,

transacting business, making money. It is a solemn

sight always—a procession, like a caravanserai

crossing a desert. . . . But now, for the past twenty

years or so, it is no longer a sight merely, a

photograph, or fresco scrawled upon the walls of

time, at which we can look with merely an esthetic

appreciation. For there, trapesing along at the tail

end of the procession, we go ourselves. And that

makes a difference. We who have looked so long at

the pageant in books, or from a curtained window

watched educated men leaving the house at about

nine-thirty to go to an office, returning to the house

at about six-thirty from an office, need look passively

no longer. We too can leave the house, can mount

those steps, pass in and out of those doors, . . . make

money, administer justice. . . . We who nowagitate

these humble pens may in another century or two

speak from a pulpit. Nobody will dare contradict us

then; we shall be the mouthpieces of the divine

spirit—a solemn thought, is it not? Who can say

whether, as time goes on, we may not dress in

military uniform, with gold lace on our breasts,

swords at our sides, and something like the old

family coal-scuttle on our heads, save that that

venerable object was never decorated with plumes of

white horsehair. You laugh—indeed the shadow of

the private house still makes those dresses look a

little queer. We have worn private clothes so

long. . . . But we have not come here to laugh, or to

talk of fashions—men’s and women’s. We are here,

on the bridge, to ask ourselves certain questions.

And they are very important questions; and we have

very little time in which to answer them. The

questions that we have to ask and to answer about

that procession during this moment of transition are

so important that they may well change the lives of

all men and women for ever. For we have to ask

ourselves, here and now, do we wish to join that

procession, or don’t we? On what terms shall we join

that procession? Above all, where is it leading us, the

procession of educated men? The moment is short; it

may last five years; ten years, or perhaps only a

matter of a few months longer. . . . But, you will

object, you have no time to think; you have your

battles to fight, your rent to pay, your bazaars to

organize. That excuse shall not serve you, Madam.

As you know from your own experience, and there

are facts that prove it, the daughters of educated men

have always done their thinking from hand to

mouth; not under green lamps at study tables in the

cloisters of secluded colleges. They have thought

while they stirred the pot, while they rocked the

cradle. It was thus that they won us the right to our

brand-new sixpence. It falls to us now to go on

thinking; how are we to spend that sixpence? Think

we must. Let us think in offices; in omnibuses; while

we are standing in the crowd watching Coronations

and Lord Mayor’s Shows; let us think . . . in the

gallery of the House of Commons; in the Law Courts;

let us think at baptisms and marriages and funerals.

Let us never cease from thinking—what is this

“civilization” in which we find ourselves? What are

these ceremonies and why should we take part in

them? What are these professions and why

should we make money out of them? Where in

short is it leading us, the procession of the sons of

educated men?

Close at hand is a bridge over the River Thames,

an admirable vantage ground for us to make a

survey. The river flows beneath; barges pass, laden

with timber, bursting with corn; there on one side are

the domes and spires of the city; on the other,

Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It is a

place to stand on by the hour, dreaming. But not

now. Now we are pressed for time. Now we are here

to consider facts; now we must fix our eyes upon the

procession—the procession of the sons of educated

men.

There they go, our brothers who have been

educated at public schools and universities,

mounting those steps, passing in and out of those

doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, teaching,

administering justice, practising medicine,

transacting business, making money. It is a solemn

sight always—a procession, like a caravanserai

crossing a desert. . . . But now, for the past twenty

years or so, it is no longer a sight merely, a

photograph, or fresco scrawled upon the walls of

time, at which we can look with merely an esthetic

appreciation. For there, trapesing along at the tail

end of the procession, we go ourselves. And that

makes a difference. We who have looked so long at

the pageant in books, or from a curtained window

watched educated men leaving the house at about

nine-thirty to go to an office, returning to the house

at about six-thirty from an office, need look passively

no longer. We too can leave the house, can mount

those steps, pass in and out of those doors, . . . make

money, administer justice. . . . We who nowagitate

these humble pens may in another century or two

speak from a pulpit. Nobody will dare contradict us

then; we shall be the mouthpieces of the divine

spirit—a solemn thought, is it not? Who can say

whether, as time goes on, we may not dress in

military uniform, with gold lace on our breasts,

swords at our sides, and something like the old

family coal-scuttle on our heads, save that that

venerable object was never decorated with plumes of

white horsehair. You laugh—indeed the shadow of

the private house still makes those dresses look a

little queer. We have worn private clothes so

long. . . . But we have not come here to laugh, or to

talk of fashions—men’s and women’s. We are here,

on the bridge, to ask ourselves certain questions.

And they are very important questions; and we have

very little time in which to answer them. The

questions that we have to ask and to answer about

that procession during this moment of transition are

so important that they may well change the lives of

all men and women for ever. For we have to ask

ourselves, here and now, do we wish to join that

procession, or don’t we? On what terms shall we join

that procession? Above all, where is it leading us, the

procession of educated men? The moment is short; it

may last five years; ten years, or perhaps only a

matter of a few months longer. . . . But, you will

object, you have no time to think; you have your

battles to fight, your rent to pay, your bazaars to

organize. That excuse shall not serve you, Madam.

As you know from your own experience, and there

are facts that prove it, the daughters of educated men

have always done their thinking from hand to

mouth; not under green lamps at study tables in the

cloisters of secluded colleges. They have thought

while they stirred the pot, while they rocked the

cradle. It was thus that they won us the right to our

brand-new sixpence. It falls to us now to go on

thinking; how are we to spend that sixpence? Think

we must. Let us think in offices; in omnibuses; while

we are standing in the crowd watching Coronations

and Lord Mayor’s Shows; let us think . . . in the

gallery of the House of Commons; in the Law Courts;

let us think at baptisms and marriages and funerals.

Let us never cease from thinking—what is this

“civilization” in which we find ourselves? What are

these ceremonies and why should we take part in

them? What are these professions and why

should we make money out of them? Where in

short is it leading us, the procession of the sons of

educated men?

Close at hand is a bridge over the River Thames,

an admirable vantage ground for us to make a

survey. The river flows beneath; barges pass, laden

with timber, bursting with corn; there on one side are

the domes and spires of the city; on the other,

Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It is a

place to stand on by the hour, dreaming. But not

now. Now we are pressed for time. Now we are here

to consider facts; now we must fix our eyes upon the

procession—the procession of the sons of educated

men.

There they go, our brothers who have been

educated at public schools and universities,

mounting those steps, passing in and out of those

doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, teaching,

administering justice, practising medicine,

transacting business, making money. It is a solemn

sight always—a procession, like a caravanserai

crossing a desert. . . . But now, for the past twenty

years or so, it is no longer a sight merely, a

photograph, or fresco scrawled upon the walls of

time, at which we can look with merely an esthetic

appreciation. For there, trapesing along at the tail

end of the procession, we go ourselves. And that

makes a difference. We who have looked so long at

the pageant in books, or from a curtained window

watched educated men leaving the house at about

nine-thirty to go to an office, returning to the house

at about six-thirty from an office, need look passively

no longer. We too can leave the house, can mount

those steps, pass in and out of those doors, . . . make

money, administer justice. . . . We who nowagitate

these humble pens may in another century or two

speak from a pulpit. Nobody will dare contradict us

then; we shall be the mouthpieces of the divine

spirit—a solemn thought, is it not? Who can say

whether, as time goes on, we may not dress in

military uniform, with gold lace on our breasts,

swords at our sides, and something like the old

family coal-scuttle on our heads, save that that

venerable object was never decorated with plumes of

white horsehair. You laugh—indeed the shadow of

the private house still makes those dresses look a

little queer. We have worn private clothes so

long. . . . But we have not come here to laugh, or to

talk of fashions—men’s and women’s. We are here,

on the bridge, to ask ourselves certain questions.

And they are very important questions; and we have

very little time in which to answer them. The

questions that we have to ask and to answer about

that procession during this moment of transition are

so important that they may well change the lives of

all men and women for ever. For we have to ask

ourselves, here and now, do we wish to join that

procession, or don’t we? On what terms shall we join

that procession? Above all, where is it leading us, the

procession of educated men? The moment is short; it

may last five years; ten years, or perhaps only a

matter of a few months longer. . . . But, you will

object, you have no time to think; you have your

battles to fight, your rent to pay, your bazaars to

organize. That excuse shall not serve you, Madam.

As you know from your own experience, and there

are facts that prove it, the daughters of educated men

have always done their thinking from hand to

mouth; not under green lamps at study tables in the

cloisters of secluded colleges. They have thought

while they stirred the pot, while they rocked the

cradle. It was thus that they won us the right to our

brand-new sixpence. It falls to us now to go on

thinking; how are we to spend that sixpence? Think

we must. Let us think in offices; in omnibuses; while

we are standing in the crowd watching Coronations

and Lord Mayor’s Shows; let us think . . . in the

gallery of the House of Commons; in the Law Courts;

let us think at baptisms and marriages and funerals.

Let us never cease from thinking—what is this

“civilization” in which we find ourselves? What are

these ceremonies and why should we take part in

them? What are these professions and why

should we make money out of them? Where in

short is it leading us, the procession of the sons of

educated men?

Close at hand is a bridge over the River Thames,

an admirable vantage ground for us to make a

survey. The river flows beneath; barges pass, laden

with timber, bursting with corn; there on one side are

the domes and spires of the city; on the other,

Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It is a

place to stand on by the hour, dreaming. But not

now. Now we are pressed for time. Now we are here

to consider facts; now we must fix our eyes upon the

procession—the procession of the sons of educated

men.

There they go, our brothers who have been

educated at public schools and universities,

mounting those steps, passing in and out of those

doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, teaching,

administering justice, practising medicine,

transacting business, making money. It is a solemn

sight always—a procession, like a caravanserai

crossing a desert. . . . But now, for the past twenty

years or so, it is no longer a sight merely, a

photograph, or fresco scrawled upon the walls of

time, at which we can look with merely an esthetic

appreciation. For there, trapesing along at the tail

end of the procession, we go ourselves. And that

makes a difference. We who have looked so long at

the pageant in books, or from a curtained window

watched educated men leaving the house at about

nine-thirty to go to an office, returning to the house

at about six-thirty from an office, need look passively

no longer. We too can leave the house, can mount

those steps, pass in and out of those doors, . . . make

money, administer justice. . . . We who nowagitate

these humble pens may in another century or two

speak from a pulpit. Nobody will dare contradict us

then; we shall be the mouthpieces of the divine

spirit—a solemn thought, is it not? Who can say

whether, as time goes on, we may not dress in

military uniform, with gold lace on our breasts,

swords at our sides, and something like the old

family coal-scuttle on our heads, save that that

venerable object was never decorated with plumes of

white horsehair. You laugh—indeed the shadow of

the private house still makes those dresses look a

little queer. We have worn private clothes so

long. . . . But we have not come here to laugh, or to

talk of fashions—men’s and women’s. We are here,

on the bridge, to ask ourselves certain questions.

And they are very important questions; and we have

very little time in which to answer them. The

questions that we have to ask and to answer about

that procession during this moment of transition are

so important that they may well change the lives of

all men and women for ever. For we have to ask

ourselves, here and now, do we wish to join that

procession, or don’t we? On what terms shall we join

that procession? Above all, where is it leading us, the

procession of educated men? The moment is short; it

may last five years; ten years, or perhaps only a

matter of a few months longer. . . . But, you will

object, you have no time to think; you have your

battles to fight, your rent to pay, your bazaars to

organize. That excuse shall not serve you, Madam.

As you know from your own experience, and there

are facts that prove it, the daughters of educated men

have always done their thinking from hand to

mouth; not under green lamps at study tables in the

cloisters of secluded colleges. They have thought

while they stirred the pot, while they rocked the

cradle. It was thus that they won us the right to our

brand-new sixpence. It falls to us now to go on

thinking; how are we to spend that sixpence? Think

we must. Let us think in offices; in omnibuses; while

we are standing in the crowd watching Coronations

and Lord Mayor’s Shows; let us think . . . in the

gallery of the House of Commons; in the Law Courts;

let us think at baptisms and marriages and funerals.

Let us never cease from thinking—what is this

“civilization” in which we find ourselves? What are

these ceremonies and why should we take part in

them? What are these professions and why

should we make money out of them? Where in

short is it leading us, the procession of the sons of

educated men?

Close at hand is a bridge over the River Thames,

an admirable vantage ground for us to make a

survey. The river flows beneath; barges pass, laden

with timber, bursting with corn; there on one side are

the domes and spires of the city; on the other,

Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It is a

place to stand on by the hour, dreaming. But not

now. Now we are pressed for time. Now we are here

to consider facts; now we must fix our eyes upon the

procession—the procession of the sons of educated

men.

There they go, our brothers who have been

educated at public schools and universities,

mounting those steps, passing in and out of those

doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, teaching,

administering justice, practising medicine,

transacting business, making money. It is a solemn

sight always—a procession, like a caravanserai

crossing a desert. . . . But now, for the past twenty

years or so, it is no longer a sight merely, a

photograph, or fresco scrawled upon the walls of

time, at which we can look with merely an esthetic

appreciation. For there, trapesing along at the tail

end of the procession, we go ourselves. And that

makes a difference. We who have looked so long at

the pageant in books, or from a curtained window

watched educated men leaving the house at about

nine-thirty to go to an office, returning to the house

at about six-thirty from an office, need look passively

no longer. We too can leave the house, can mount

those steps, pass in and out of those doors, . . . make

money, administer justice. . . . We who nowagitate

these humble pens may in another century or two

speak from a pulpit. Nobody will dare contradict us

then; we shall be the mouthpieces of the divine

spirit—a solemn thought, is it not? Who can say

whether, as time goes on, we may not dress in

military uniform, with gold lace on our breasts,

swords at our sides, and something like the old

family coal-scuttle on our heads, save that that

venerable object was never decorated with plumes of

white horsehair. You laugh—indeed the shadow of

the private house still makes those dresses look a

little queer. We have worn private clothes so

long. . . . But we have not come here to laugh, or to

talk of fashions—men’s and women’s. We are here,

on the bridge, to ask ourselves certain questions.

And they are very important questions; and we have

very little time in which to answer them. The

questions that we have to ask and to answer about

that procession during this moment of transition are

so important that they may well change the lives of

all men and women for ever. For we have to ask

ourselves, here and now, do we wish to join that

procession, or don’t we? On what terms shall we join

that procession? Above all, where is it leading us, the

procession of educated men? The moment is short; it

may last five years; ten years, or perhaps only a

matter of a few months longer. . . . But, you will

object, you have no time to think; you have your

battles to fight, your rent to pay, your bazaars to

organize. That excuse shall not serve you, Madam.

As you know from your own experience, and there

are facts that prove it, the daughters of educated men

have always done their thinking from hand to

mouth; not under green lamps at study tables in the

cloisters of secluded colleges. They have thought

while they stirred the pot, while they rocked the

cradle. It was thus that they won us the right to our

brand-new sixpence. It falls to us now to go on

thinking; how are we to spend that sixpence? Think

we must. Let us think in offices; in omnibuses; while

we are standing in the crowd watching Coronations

and Lord Mayor’s Shows; let us think . . . in the

gallery of the House of Commons; in the Law Courts;

let us think at baptisms and marriages and funerals.

Let us never cease from thinking—what is this

“civilization” in which we find ourselves? What are

these ceremonies and why should we take part in

them? What are these professions and why

should we make money out of them? Where in

short is it leading us, the procession of the sons of

educated men?

Close at hand is a bridge over the River Thames,

an admirable vantage ground for us to make a

survey. The river flows beneath; barges pass, laden

with timber, bursting with corn; there on one side are

the domes and spires of the city; on the other,

Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It is a

place to stand on by the hour, dreaming. But not

now. Now we are pressed for time. Now we are here

to consider facts; now we must fix our eyes upon the

procession—the procession of the sons of educated

men.

There they go, our brothers who have been

educated at public schools and universities,

mounting those steps, passing in and out of those

doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, teaching,

administering justice, practising medicine,

transacting business, making money. It is a solemn

sight always—a procession, like a caravanserai

crossing a desert. . . . But now, for the past twenty

years or so, it is no longer a sight merely, a

photograph, or fresco scrawled upon the walls of

time, at which we can look with merely an esthetic

appreciation. For there, trapesing along at the tail

end of the procession, we go ourselves. And that

makes a difference. We who have looked so long at

the pageant in books, or from a curtained window

watched educated men leaving the house at about

nine-thirty to go to an office, returning to the house

at about six-thirty from an office, need look passively

no longer. We too can leave the house, can mount

those steps, pass in and out of those doors, . . . make

money, administer justice. . . . We who nowagitate

these humble pens may in another century or two

speak from a pulpit. Nobody will dare contradict us

then; we shall be the mouthpieces of the divine

spirit—a solemn thought, is it not? Who can say

whether, as time goes on, we may not dress in

military uniform, with gold lace on our breasts,

swords at our sides, and something like the old

family coal-scuttle on our heads, save that that

venerable object was never decorated with plumes of

white horsehair. You laugh—indeed the shadow of

the private house still makes those dresses look a

little queer. We have worn private clothes so

long. . . . But we have not come here to laugh, or to

talk of fashions—men’s and women’s. We are here,

on the bridge, to ask ourselves certain questions.

And they are very important questions; and we have

very little time in which to answer them. The

questions that we have to ask and to answer about

that procession during this moment of transition are

so important that they may well change the lives of

all men and women for ever. For we have to ask

ourselves, here and now, do we wish to join that

procession, or don’t we? On what terms shall we join

that procession? Above all, where is it leading us, the

procession of educated men? The moment is short; it

may last five years; ten years, or perhaps only a

matter of a few months longer. . . . But, you will

object, you have no time to think; you have your

battles to fight, your rent to pay, your bazaars to

organize. That excuse shall not serve you, Madam.

As you know from your own experience, and there

are facts that prove it, the daughters of educated men

have always done their thinking from hand to

mouth; not under green lamps at study tables in the

cloisters of secluded colleges. They have thought

while they stirred the pot, while they rocked the

cradle. It was thus that they won us the right to our

brand-new sixpence. It falls to us now to go on

thinking; how are we to spend that sixpence? Think

we must. Let us think in offices; in omnibuses; while

we are standing in the crowd watching Coronations

and Lord Mayor’s Shows; let us think . . . in the

gallery of the House of Commons; in the Law Courts;

let us think at baptisms and marriages and funerals.

Let us never cease from thinking—what is this

“civilization” in which we find ourselves? What are

these ceremonies and why should we take part in

them? What are these professions and why

should we make money out of them? Where in

short is it leading us, the procession of the sons of

educated men?

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.

Passage 1

Follow the money and you will end up in space.

That’s the message from a first-of-its-kind forum on

mining beyond Earth.

Convened in Sydney by the Australian Centre for

Space Engineering Research, the event brought

together mining companies, robotics experts, lunar

scientists, and government agencies that are all

working to make space mining a reality.

The forum comes hot on the heels of the

2012 unveiling of two private asteroid-mining firms.

Planetary Resources of Washington says it will

launch its first prospecting telescopes in two years,

while Deep Space Industries of Virginia hopes to be

harvesting metals from asteroids by 2020. Another

commercial venture that sprung up in 2012,

Golden Spike of Colorado, will be offering trips to

the moon, including to potential lunar miners.

Within a few decades, these firms may be

meeting earthly demands for precious metals, such as

platinum and gold, and the rare earth elements vital

for personal electronics, such as yttrium and

lanthanum. But like the gold rush pioneers who

transformed the western United States, the first space

miners won’t just enrich themselves. They also hope

to build an off-planet economy free of any bonds

with Earth, in which the materials extracted and

processed from the moon and asteroids are delivered

for space-based projects.

In this scenario, water mined from other

worlds could become the most desired commodity.

“In the desert, what’s worth more: a kilogram of gold

or a kilogram of water?” asks Kris Zacny of

HoneyBee Robotics in New York. “Gold is useless.

Water will let you live.”

Water ice from the moon’s poles could be sent to

astronauts on the International Space Station for

drinking or as a radiation shield. Splitting water into

oxygen and hydrogen makes spacecraft fuel, so

ice-rich asteroids could become interplanetary

refuelling stations.

Companies are eyeing the iron, silicon, and

aluminium in lunar soil and asteroids, which could

be used in 3D printers to make spare parts or

machinery. Others want to turn space dirt into

concrete for landing pads, shelters, and roads.

Passage 2

The motivation for deep-space travel is shifting

from discovery to economics. The past year has seen

a flurry of proposals aimed at bringing celestial riches

down to Earth. No doubt this will make a few

billionaires even wealthier, but we all stand to gain:

the mineral bounty and spin-off technologies could

enrich us all.

But before the miners start firing up their rockets,

we should pause for thought. At first glance, space

mining seems to sidestep most environmental

concerns: there is (probably!) no life on asteroids,

and thus no habitats to trash. But its consequences

—both here on Earth and in space—merit careful

consideration.

Part of this is about principles. Some will argue

that space’s “magnificent desolation” is not ours to

despoil, just as they argue that our own planet’s poles

should remain pristine. Others will suggest that

glutting ourselves on space’s riches is not an

acceptable alternative to developing more sustainable

ways of earthly life.

History suggests that those will be hard lines to

hold, and it may be difficult to persuade the public

that such barren environments are worth preserving.

After all, they exist in vast abundance, and even

fewer people will experience them than have walked

through Antarctica’s icy landscapes.

There’s also the emerging off-world economy to

consider. The resources that are valuable in orbit and

beyond may be very different to those we prize on

Earth. Questions of their stewardship have barely

been broached—and the relevant legal and regulatory

framework is fragmentary, to put it mildly.

Space miners, like their earthly counterparts, are

often reluctant to engage with such questions.

One speaker at last week’s space-mining forum in

Sydney, Australia, concluded with a plea that

regulation should be avoided. But miners have much

to gain from a broad agreement on the for-profit

exploitation of space. Without consensus, claims will

be disputed, investments risky, and the gains made

insecure. It is in all of our long-term interests to seek

one out.