Showing posts with label Science. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Science. Show all posts
Thursday, August 13, 2026
'Biological Datacenters' Could Make Animal Testing Obsolete
There’s a big flaw in the way that drug companies develop and test medicines today: What works in a mouse often doesn’t work in a human.
For decades, the industry has relied on animal testing. But in a laboratory south of San Francisco, a startup called Vivodyne is scaling up a different approach. Inside wardrobe-size mini labs, robots grow human tissue and run thousands of AI-designed experiments that could better predict how well a new drug will work—and whether it will be safe.
The company’s system, which now includes a dozen robotic labs called “hives,” can run controlled trials on more than 3 million human tissues each year. That’s twice the capacity of all the clinical trials in the U.S. combined.
The process starts with cells from humans, often taken from a blood draw. In its labs, the cells grow on “biological chips” and self-assemble into living structures with blood vessels and immune cells that reproduce some of the functions of the original organ, whether that’s a liver or a kidney. (The tissues don’t look like full-size organs, but like large biopsies, with hundreds of thousands of cells.)
The automated system can deliver drugs to the tissues, dose with cell therapies, knock out genes, and run complex tests and analysis. AI can design experiments and then use the results to continually design new experiments and improve.
“We can dose with tens and tens of thousands of therapeutic compounds to understand what they would do in that particular tissue type within a person, and we can repeat this across many types of tissue,” Georgescu says. “We can look at diseased tissue and see if it becomes healthy. We can look at healthy tissue and see if there are side effects from these drugs.” At a more fundamental level, it’s possible to begin to understand the human body in a way that wasn’t possible before, because experiments in humans have inherently been limited.
Other startups also use human tissues for testing, but Vivodyne’s platform can be up to 1,000 times larger, making it possible to capture more of the complexity of human biology. In addition, the company can run a massive number of experiments in parallel and feed the data back into AI to repeatedly design new experiments. [...]
A clinical trial might test one drug in thousands of people. Vivodyne can test thousands of different drugs across human tissues at once. And while people in a drug trial only have occasional visits to a clinic to track results, the system can continually test how human tissue responds.
Monday, August 10, 2026
What Would It Mean to See a New Color?
During his first year as a professor of computer science at the University of California, Berkeley, Ren Ng was hurriedly putting together a survey course on computer graphics. In the syllabus he had inherited, a full week had been devoted to the subject of color. Ng thought that was a bit much. “I’m, like, Come on. It’s R.G.B.,” he said, referring to the red, green, and blue subpixels that constitute anything you see on a screen—your cluttered desktop, a Sahara-desert screen saver, the stream of the Netherlands-Japan World Cup game. Ng started gathering slides that would cover the wavelengths of light, the biology of the human eye—the basics—“Blah, blah, blah,” he said. A colleague shared a slide that he thought might be useful. It included a minutely detailed photograph of a patch of retina, seen through a microscope, which was attributed to Austin Roorda, a professor of vision science and optometry just across campus. Roorda’s lab had helped develop technology that could map the layout of individual cone cells—those primarily responsible for perceiving color—and that, furthermore, could target a single cone cell with light. Eyes are constantly moving; cone cells are extremely small; how color is translated from the millions of cone cells to the mind remains pretty mysterious; this was awesome work. Roorda’s lab was using the new technology to explore eye disease and the mechanics of how we see. Ng had his own notion, though: he wondered if it could be used to see a color that had never been seen before.
To understand what Ng had in mind requires knowing a bit of the blah, blah, blah of color vision. We humans experience three primary colors not because the world is fundamentally composed of three colors but because our retinas typically have three kinds of color-perceiving cone cells. L cone cells respond to the relatively longer wavelengths of visible light, M cone cells to the medium wavelengths, and S cone cells to the shorter ones. In effect, this means that L cells respond most strongly to red light, M to green, and S to blue. But when you look at your hand—or a blade of grass, or a clear blue sky, or a fire truck—it is always some mixture of L, M, and S cone cells that are being stimulated.
Ng’s idea was to use the Roorda lab’s technology to stimulate an array of cone cells in a manner that would never occur naturally. Ng said, “I e-mailed him, basically, What would happen if you stimulated only the M cells? Would that be like the greenest green, or what?” Roorda did not reply. This was 2016. Ng taught his computer-graphics course, pursued other research, and mostly forgot about his query. A year later, when he taught the course a second time, his curiosity returned, so he reached out to Roorda again. No response. When Ng was teaching the course for a third time, in 2018, he realized that he really was very curious about this question. He composed a lengthy note to Roorda, organized like a research proposal, titled “The Grass Is Greenest in Oz Vision.” In it, Ng imagined a future where people wore “Oz Vision eyeglass displays,” which would be based on the retinal cone-cell mapping and laser stimulation that Roorda’s lab was already doing. The Oz glasses would activate any pattern of retinal cone cells one chose. Ng’s hypothesis was that, if retinal cells were stimulated in ways that don’t occur naturally, “the set of perceivable colors” would be “significantly larger than the natural gamut of the human eye.” He imagined people discussing “the indescribable green of the grass in Oz,” then concluded that, although the Oz display “is science fiction,” his note was “a real proposal for joint research.” Roorda finally replied, proposing coffee. “I get a lot of e-mails suggesting what I should research,” Roorda told me, of the time it took him to respond.
In the children’s novel “The Midnight Fox,” by Betsy Byars, the main character daydreams about digging in his back yard and coming across a “brand-new color.” A friend of mine remembers being captivated by this scene, and trying to picture the color. “I felt like I could conceive of it, but I couldn’t see it,” she said. The eighteenth-century Scottish philosopher David Hume considered at length whether a person who had seen every shade of blue except for one would be able to picture that one un-experienced shade; he concluded that the answer was yes. In my youth, I spent an afternoon wondering if I would have been able to imagine the fluorescent yellow of highlighter markers if I’d never seen it.
When I first read about Ng and Roorda’s work, I tried to visualize what it would mean for there to be a new color. Where would it go in a color wheel? If you think of color as a property of a specific wavelength of light—which is how I thought of it—then you run into the impossibility of there being a “new” visible wavelength. As humans, we can see wavelengths from roughly 380 nanometres (which looks violet to us) to about 750 nm. (which looks red). Wavelengths shorter than 380 nm., which we’d call ultraviolet, are invisible to us (but not to bees or hummingbirds), as are wavelengths longer than 750 nm., which we refer to as infrared (and which snakes and salmon can perceive). The “greenest green” that Ng had in mind was neither ultraviolet nor infrared. It was not a new wavelength at all. If I wanted to picture this green, or at least try to, I would first have to understand that even the old familiar colors are much more complex than a particular wavelength of light.
by Rivka Galchen, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Zach Lieberman
Ng’s idea was to use the Roorda lab’s technology to stimulate an array of cone cells in a manner that would never occur naturally. Ng said, “I e-mailed him, basically, What would happen if you stimulated only the M cells? Would that be like the greenest green, or what?” Roorda did not reply. This was 2016. Ng taught his computer-graphics course, pursued other research, and mostly forgot about his query. A year later, when he taught the course a second time, his curiosity returned, so he reached out to Roorda again. No response. When Ng was teaching the course for a third time, in 2018, he realized that he really was very curious about this question. He composed a lengthy note to Roorda, organized like a research proposal, titled “The Grass Is Greenest in Oz Vision.” In it, Ng imagined a future where people wore “Oz Vision eyeglass displays,” which would be based on the retinal cone-cell mapping and laser stimulation that Roorda’s lab was already doing. The Oz glasses would activate any pattern of retinal cone cells one chose. Ng’s hypothesis was that, if retinal cells were stimulated in ways that don’t occur naturally, “the set of perceivable colors” would be “significantly larger than the natural gamut of the human eye.” He imagined people discussing “the indescribable green of the grass in Oz,” then concluded that, although the Oz display “is science fiction,” his note was “a real proposal for joint research.” Roorda finally replied, proposing coffee. “I get a lot of e-mails suggesting what I should research,” Roorda told me, of the time it took him to respond.
In the children’s novel “The Midnight Fox,” by Betsy Byars, the main character daydreams about digging in his back yard and coming across a “brand-new color.” A friend of mine remembers being captivated by this scene, and trying to picture the color. “I felt like I could conceive of it, but I couldn’t see it,” she said. The eighteenth-century Scottish philosopher David Hume considered at length whether a person who had seen every shade of blue except for one would be able to picture that one un-experienced shade; he concluded that the answer was yes. In my youth, I spent an afternoon wondering if I would have been able to imagine the fluorescent yellow of highlighter markers if I’d never seen it.
When I first read about Ng and Roorda’s work, I tried to visualize what it would mean for there to be a new color. Where would it go in a color wheel? If you think of color as a property of a specific wavelength of light—which is how I thought of it—then you run into the impossibility of there being a “new” visible wavelength. As humans, we can see wavelengths from roughly 380 nanometres (which looks violet to us) to about 750 nm. (which looks red). Wavelengths shorter than 380 nm., which we’d call ultraviolet, are invisible to us (but not to bees or hummingbirds), as are wavelengths longer than 750 nm., which we refer to as infrared (and which snakes and salmon can perceive). The “greenest green” that Ng had in mind was neither ultraviolet nor infrared. It was not a new wavelength at all. If I wanted to picture this green, or at least try to, I would first have to understand that even the old familiar colors are much more complex than a particular wavelength of light.
by Rivka Galchen, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Zach Lieberman
Monday, August 3, 2026
Shingles Vaccine and Dementia
Image: X
See here: Dementia Risk After Recombinant Herpes Zoster Vaccination in Older Adults With a Recent Skilled-Nursing Facility Stay: A Target Trial Emulation (Annals of Internal Medicine).
Sunday, August 2, 2026
Feds Implement Temporary Water Sharing Agreement in Western States
Arizona, California and Nevada will be required to curb their use of the water from the Colorado River by about 20 percent over the next two years — and could ultimately face even larger cuts — according to three officials familiar with negotiations over a long-awaited federal plan to rescue the depleted river.
The plan, part of which the Bureau of Reclamation is expected to describe in an Environmental Impact Statement on Friday, comes at a time of escalating crisis for the Colorado, a crucial water source for seven states, 30 Native tribes and a swath of northwestern Mexico. But experts say it will not be sufficient to resolve a political standoff among the river’s many users or prevent the beleaguered waterway from teetering toward collapse.
The cuts proposed for the next two years resemble what the three states offered in a proposal this spring, and represent the first phase of a broader 10-year framework for operating the river’s dams and reservoirs, according to the officials, who spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss ongoing negotiations.
That framework is expected to call for operating plans to be developed every two years and outline a wide range of possible measures those plans could include — including reducing the amount of water released to the Lower Basin by as much as 40 percent.
The framework is not expected to consider mandatory cuts to water use from the four states in the upper part of the basin: Colorado, New Mexico, Utah and Wyoming. Arizona, California and Nevada make up the Lower Basin. [...]
The current operating rules, which expire at the end of September, have not prevented chronic overuse of the river amid a decades-long drought worsened by climate change.
After a historically meager winter snowfall and a scorching spring, the amount of water flowing into the river this year is less than a quarter of average annual demand, and levels in its major reservoirs have dropped to record lows. Scientists warn that one or two more dry years could crash the entire system, disrupting hydropower production, drinking water supplies and irrigation for some 5 million acres of farmland. [...]
The likely operating plan for 2027 and 2028, based on a May proposal from the Lower Basin states, is projected to save about 3.2 million acre feet of water — enough to fill roughly 1.5 million Olympic swimming pools. The plan will require significant “belt tightening,” particularly in Arizona, according to Sarah Porter, director of the Kyl Center for Water Policy at Arizona State University, but states have indicated they can tolerate the reductions.
Yet those measures are only half of what studies suggest is needed to bring water demand in line with the dwindling supply, Porter cautioned, increasing the likelihood of even steeper cuts down the road. [...]
The 330-mile system of canals and aqueducts, which supplies water to the most populated parts of Arizona, is poised to see the biggest cut in its history under the bureau’s operating plan for the next two years. If the agency chooses to implement some of the deeper reductions considered in the 10-year framework, CAP’s entire water allocation could be wiped out. [...]
Experts say the rising tensions on the river result from a chaotic combination of bad weather, poor planning, intransigent state officials and federal missteps under the Trump and Biden administrations.
At the heart of the conflict is an impasse between the Upper and Lower Basin states over who should shoulder the burden of necessary cuts.
In the Upper Basin, home to the snowcapped mountains and winding tributaries that feed the river, there are few reservoirs to provide long-term water storage, leaving users reliant on natural flows. That means the Upper Basin takes an automatic cut during dry years, officials argue. They say responsibility for restoring water to Lakes Powell and Mead should fall on the Lower Basin states that use them.
Yet about three-quarters of the people who depend on the Colorado live in the Lower Basin. The region is also home to major cities and sprawling farms that provide most of the nation’s winter vegetable supply. Officials from these states say they have already curbed their water consumption by millions of acre feet in recent years. Overuse of the river is universal, they argue, and so too is responsibility for saving it.
The situation is complicated by the arcane legal framework governing the river, which prioritizes users chronologically. Without agreements among the states, major cuts would fall entirely on junior users, including huge cities such as Phoenix and Tucson, before more senior rights-holders such as the farmers in California’s Imperial Valley see any reductions.
Last summer, it looked like states might agree on a new method of apportioning the river based on actual flow, rather than historical averages and legal agreements. But those negotiations broke down over familiar disagreements about who should be subjected to mandatory cuts. [...]
Brad Udall, a climate scientist at Colorado State University’s Colorado Water Center, describes the tensions over the river as a “big collision of 19th-century water law, 20th-century infrastructure and 21st-century climate change and population growth.”
The Colorado has almost never contained enough water to satisfy everyone who has legal rights to it, Udall said, and human-caused warming has made the situation even worse. Since 2000, high temperatures and shifting rainfall patterns linked to climate change have diminished the amount of water flowing through the river by about 20 percent, compared to the 20th-century average.
The deficits have forced repeated negotiations over how to manage shortages. Past deals have helped curb consumption somewhat, but they were never stringent enough to reverse the inexorable decline of reservoirs that are intended to provide a buffer during bad years.
Lake Mead, the site of the Hoover Dam, is mere inches from its lowest level on record. A few hundred miles upstream, Lake Powell is approaching the point at which water can no longer flow through the turbines of the Glen Canyon Dam. That raises the risk of a phenomenon called cavitation, in which air bubbles form then implode in fast-moving water, releasing energy that can damage the dam itself.
“The reservoirs are depleted so low they’re really at the end of their capability,” Castle said. “We’re in such a precarious situation.”
[ed. The U.S. Bureau of Reclamation on Friday unveiled the framework that will guide operations on the Colorado River through 2036. See also: Lake Powell's Dying Days (CCG):]
The Upper Basin states — Colorado, Utah, New Mexico and Wyoming — will get $100 million in conservation funding. But unlike their downstream neighbors, they won’t face mandatory water cuts. However much water they end up saving, that will be good enough. [...]
If Powell’s water levels sink much lower, water won’t be able to pass through the dam’s hydropower turbines, which generate cheap electricity for communities across the West. That wouldn’t be a “dead pool” situation; water could still flow downstream to the Grand Canyon and Lake Mead through bypass tubes lower in the dam. But the bypass tubes are surprisingly frail and could break with sustained use.
Translation: We are frighteningly close to “de facto dead pool.” That’s why the Trump administration is ordering everyone to use less water.
Well, not everyone. California, Arizona and Nevada are willing to cut back dramatically, and federal officials seem happy to make them do it. The Upper Basin states — the ones upstream of Lake Powell — say they shouldn’t have to commit to mandatory reductions, in part because they already consume a lot less.
In a New York Times opinion piece earlier this year, I argued that the Upper Basin states need to do more. Podmore agreed.
“It’s a tricky situation, because the Lower Basin has always used more water, and that’s a convenient argument for the Upper Basin,” he said. “But also, there’s more people in the Lower Basin. And the most productive agricultural land that’s irrigated with Colorado River water is located in the Lower Basin.”
“Even with the cuts that the Lower Basin has offered, we still have a long way to go to balance the water budget,” he added. “Everyone needs to pitch in.”
[ed. But not everyone is agreeing to pitch in: California’s Biggest AI Data Center Is Suing for Colorado River Water (Yahoo News):]
The Farm-to-Cloud Gambit
IVCM's legal strategy treats 160 acres of fallowed farmland as a water entitlement for a nearly million-square-foot AI campus.
The developer's playbook relies on a tactic called "buy and dry" — purchasing irrigated farmland, retiring it from production, then claiming its water allocation for industrial use.
The plan, part of which the Bureau of Reclamation is expected to describe in an Environmental Impact Statement on Friday, comes at a time of escalating crisis for the Colorado, a crucial water source for seven states, 30 Native tribes and a swath of northwestern Mexico. But experts say it will not be sufficient to resolve a political standoff among the river’s many users or prevent the beleaguered waterway from teetering toward collapse.
That framework is expected to call for operating plans to be developed every two years and outline a wide range of possible measures those plans could include — including reducing the amount of water released to the Lower Basin by as much as 40 percent.
The framework is not expected to consider mandatory cuts to water use from the four states in the upper part of the basin: Colorado, New Mexico, Utah and Wyoming. Arizona, California and Nevada make up the Lower Basin. [...]
The current operating rules, which expire at the end of September, have not prevented chronic overuse of the river amid a decades-long drought worsened by climate change.
After a historically meager winter snowfall and a scorching spring, the amount of water flowing into the river this year is less than a quarter of average annual demand, and levels in its major reservoirs have dropped to record lows. Scientists warn that one or two more dry years could crash the entire system, disrupting hydropower production, drinking water supplies and irrigation for some 5 million acres of farmland. [...]
The likely operating plan for 2027 and 2028, based on a May proposal from the Lower Basin states, is projected to save about 3.2 million acre feet of water — enough to fill roughly 1.5 million Olympic swimming pools. The plan will require significant “belt tightening,” particularly in Arizona, according to Sarah Porter, director of the Kyl Center for Water Policy at Arizona State University, but states have indicated they can tolerate the reductions.
Yet those measures are only half of what studies suggest is needed to bring water demand in line with the dwindling supply, Porter cautioned, increasing the likelihood of even steeper cuts down the road. [...]
The 330-mile system of canals and aqueducts, which supplies water to the most populated parts of Arizona, is poised to see the biggest cut in its history under the bureau’s operating plan for the next two years. If the agency chooses to implement some of the deeper reductions considered in the 10-year framework, CAP’s entire water allocation could be wiped out. [...]
Fraught negotiations
Experts say the rising tensions on the river result from a chaotic combination of bad weather, poor planning, intransigent state officials and federal missteps under the Trump and Biden administrations.
At the heart of the conflict is an impasse between the Upper and Lower Basin states over who should shoulder the burden of necessary cuts.
In the Upper Basin, home to the snowcapped mountains and winding tributaries that feed the river, there are few reservoirs to provide long-term water storage, leaving users reliant on natural flows. That means the Upper Basin takes an automatic cut during dry years, officials argue. They say responsibility for restoring water to Lakes Powell and Mead should fall on the Lower Basin states that use them.
Yet about three-quarters of the people who depend on the Colorado live in the Lower Basin. The region is also home to major cities and sprawling farms that provide most of the nation’s winter vegetable supply. Officials from these states say they have already curbed their water consumption by millions of acre feet in recent years. Overuse of the river is universal, they argue, and so too is responsibility for saving it.
The situation is complicated by the arcane legal framework governing the river, which prioritizes users chronologically. Without agreements among the states, major cuts would fall entirely on junior users, including huge cities such as Phoenix and Tucson, before more senior rights-holders such as the farmers in California’s Imperial Valley see any reductions.
Last summer, it looked like states might agree on a new method of apportioning the river based on actual flow, rather than historical averages and legal agreements. But those negotiations broke down over familiar disagreements about who should be subjected to mandatory cuts. [...]
A vanishing river
Brad Udall, a climate scientist at Colorado State University’s Colorado Water Center, describes the tensions over the river as a “big collision of 19th-century water law, 20th-century infrastructure and 21st-century climate change and population growth.”
The Colorado has almost never contained enough water to satisfy everyone who has legal rights to it, Udall said, and human-caused warming has made the situation even worse. Since 2000, high temperatures and shifting rainfall patterns linked to climate change have diminished the amount of water flowing through the river by about 20 percent, compared to the 20th-century average.
The deficits have forced repeated negotiations over how to manage shortages. Past deals have helped curb consumption somewhat, but they were never stringent enough to reverse the inexorable decline of reservoirs that are intended to provide a buffer during bad years.
Lake Mead, the site of the Hoover Dam, is mere inches from its lowest level on record. A few hundred miles upstream, Lake Powell is approaching the point at which water can no longer flow through the turbines of the Glen Canyon Dam. That raises the risk of a phenomenon called cavitation, in which air bubbles form then implode in fast-moving water, releasing energy that can damage the dam itself.
“The reservoirs are depleted so low they’re really at the end of their capability,” Castle said. “We’re in such a precarious situation.”
by Sarah Caplan, Washington Post | Read more:
Image: Caroline Brehman/Reuters[ed. The U.S. Bureau of Reclamation on Friday unveiled the framework that will guide operations on the Colorado River through 2036. See also: Lake Powell's Dying Days (CCG):]
***
The L.A. Times’ Ian James reported that Trump’s Interior Department would accept a proposal submitted by California, Arizona and Nevada — the Lower Basin states — to slash their water use by 12%, 31% and 28%, respectively, through 2028. They’ll receive $350 million from Biden’s Inflation Reduction Act to support water conservation.The Upper Basin states — Colorado, Utah, New Mexico and Wyoming — will get $100 million in conservation funding. But unlike their downstream neighbors, they won’t face mandatory water cuts. However much water they end up saving, that will be good enough. [...]
If Powell’s water levels sink much lower, water won’t be able to pass through the dam’s hydropower turbines, which generate cheap electricity for communities across the West. That wouldn’t be a “dead pool” situation; water could still flow downstream to the Grand Canyon and Lake Mead through bypass tubes lower in the dam. But the bypass tubes are surprisingly frail and could break with sustained use.
Translation: We are frighteningly close to “de facto dead pool.” That’s why the Trump administration is ordering everyone to use less water.
Well, not everyone. California, Arizona and Nevada are willing to cut back dramatically, and federal officials seem happy to make them do it. The Upper Basin states — the ones upstream of Lake Powell — say they shouldn’t have to commit to mandatory reductions, in part because they already consume a lot less.
In a New York Times opinion piece earlier this year, I argued that the Upper Basin states need to do more. Podmore agreed.
“It’s a tricky situation, because the Lower Basin has always used more water, and that’s a convenient argument for the Upper Basin,” he said. “But also, there’s more people in the Lower Basin. And the most productive agricultural land that’s irrigated with Colorado River water is located in the Lower Basin.”
“Even with the cuts that the Lower Basin has offered, we still have a long way to go to balance the water budget,” he added. “Everyone needs to pitch in.”
***
The developer behind California's biggest planned AI data center publicly swore it would never touch Colorado River water. It would run on recycled wastewater — clean, virtuous, zero environmental impact. That pledge held right up until the cities of Imperial and El Centro said no thanks. Now Imperial Valley Computer Manufacturing (IVCM) has sued the Imperial Irrigation District (IID) for access to the very river it promised to leave alone. The facility would sit in a desert valley where 180,000 people share exactly one freshwater source.The Farm-to-Cloud Gambit
IVCM's legal strategy treats 160 acres of fallowed farmland as a water entitlement for a nearly million-square-foot AI campus.
The developer's playbook relies on a tactic called "buy and dry" — purchasing irrigated farmland, retiring it from production, then claiming its water allocation for industrial use.
China Now Uses 80% Artificial Sand
The world is running out of sand.
About 50 billion tons of sand and gravel are extracted annually, most of which is used for construction activities. This is a problem for two reasons. First of all, it’s not sustainable. Secondly, if we continue to extract sand at this rate, it will end up causing irreversible damage to the environment.
For instance, loss of sand from oceans, rivers, and beaches can lead to excessive flooding and degradation of marine ecosystems. It threatens coastal communities, and infrastructure. Plus, sand mining near aquifers can lower water tables, affecting water availability for humans, land animals, and agriculture.
And no, you can’t just use sand from the desert. Desert sands are typically rounded and smooth, which makes them less effective for construction purposes. For concrete, the rougher texture of river or beach sand is essential as it helps bind the materials together. Desert sand, with its finer and more uniform grains, lacks the necessary angularity to bond effectively with cement.
The study authors developed a monitoring system that allowed them to examine the sand use pattern in China from 1995 to 2020. Their analysis revealed many surprising facts. For example, the Chinese have been producing artificial sand since the early 2000s, but it became popular in 2010.
2010 was also the year when the supply of natural sand in China reached its highest level. However, the next year’s supply of manufactured sand overtook that of natural sand, becoming the primary sand type used for construction activities.
In the following years, production of artificial sand continued to increase by 13 percent annually. In 2020, the use of natural sand reduced to the extent that it accounted for only 21 percent of the total sand supply, witnessing an 80 percent decline compared to 2010.
About 50 billion tons of sand and gravel are extracted annually, most of which is used for construction activities. This is a problem for two reasons. First of all, it’s not sustainable. Secondly, if we continue to extract sand at this rate, it will end up causing irreversible damage to the environment.
And no, you can’t just use sand from the desert. Desert sands are typically rounded and smooth, which makes them less effective for construction purposes. For concrete, the rougher texture of river or beach sand is essential as it helps bind the materials together. Desert sand, with its finer and more uniform grains, lacks the necessary angularity to bond effectively with cement.
“The issue of sand comes as a surprise to many, but it shouldn’t. We cannot extract 50 billion tonnes per year of any material without leading to massive impacts on the planet and thus on people’s lives.” Pascal Peduzzi, a researcher at the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP), told BBC.A 2024 study suggests China may have found a solution to the sand mining problem. The Chinese have been using artificial sand made by crushing rocks and leftover materials from mining for many of their construction projects. This simple technique has allowed them to drastically reduce their dependence on natural sand without slowing down their massive construction projects. [...]
The study authors developed a monitoring system that allowed them to examine the sand use pattern in China from 1995 to 2020. Their analysis revealed many surprising facts. For example, the Chinese have been producing artificial sand since the early 2000s, but it became popular in 2010.
2010 was also the year when the supply of natural sand in China reached its highest level. However, the next year’s supply of manufactured sand overtook that of natural sand, becoming the primary sand type used for construction activities.
In the following years, production of artificial sand continued to increase by 13 percent annually. In 2020, the use of natural sand reduced to the extent that it accounted for only 21 percent of the total sand supply, witnessing an 80 percent decline compared to 2010.
“China’s overall sand supply surged by approximately 400% over the study period, yet the proportion of natural sand dropped from ≈80% to ≈21% due to the increasing use of manufactured sand,” the study authors note.by Rupendra Brahambhatt, ZME Science | Read more:
“The percentage of manufactured sand in the Chinese market could now be close to 90 percent. The shift from natural sand to manufactured sand is a miracle for a country that has completed such massive infrastructure construction,” Song Shaomin, a professor at Beijing University of Civil Engineering and Architecture, told SCMP.
Image: Nathan Cowley/Pexels
Saturday, August 1, 2026
Astronauts Returning From Six-Month Missions Describe a Persistent 'Observer' Sensation
Astronauts coming home from long stays on the International Space Station have, for years, described a strange perceptual aftertaste: a sense of watching their own lives from a half-step outside the frame. They sit at dinner with family and feel like a guest. They drive on a familiar street and feel like they’re piloting it. The room is loud and they are in it, but a part of them is hovering near the ceiling, taking notes.
The descriptions are remarkably consistent across agencies. Crew members talk about feeling slightly delayed in conversations. They report a doubled awareness — being present while also watching themselves be present. Some say it feels like the first week of a new job that never quite ends. Others compare it to jet lag of the self.
NASA’s own post-flight reflections from station crews describe the sensation in plainer language: home feels staged. Smells are too sharp. Gravity feels theatrical. The brain, which spent half a year recalibrating for a world without down, treats the familiar as something to be studied rather than inhabited.
Returning astronauts describe walking into their own homes and feeling like they are visiting them. Some talk about being unable to put a glass down without watching their hands do it. The pattern shows up in oral histories, in memoirs, in flight surgeon notes. It is one of the quieter costs of long-duration spaceflight.
It is not a clinical diagnosis. It does not appear in a DSM. But flight surgeons and crew psychologists who debrief astronauts after six-month rotations describe it often enough that it has become a recognizable readjustment pattern — an observer sensation that lingers for weeks, sometimes months, after splashdown.
What returning crews actually describe
What returning crews actually describe
NASA’s own post-flight reflections from station crews describe the sensation in plainer language: home feels staged. Smells are too sharp. Gravity feels theatrical. The brain, which spent half a year recalibrating for a world without down, treats the familiar as something to be studied rather than inhabited.
Returning astronauts describe walking into their own homes and feeling like they are visiting them. Some talk about being unable to put a glass down without watching their hands do it. The pattern shows up in oral histories, in memoirs, in flight surgeon notes. It is one of the quieter costs of long-duration spaceflight.
by Space Daily, Editorial Team | Read more:
Image: T Leish on Pexels
The First Word The World’s Phones Say Is Aloha
If you grew up here, you know the drill. Rinse the rice, level it with your hand, dip a finger in, and add water until it reaches the first knuckle. Press the button, walk away, and 20 minutes later the rice is perfect. It came out perfect back when I was 7 too, with tiny fingers.
That bugged me. One day I held my finger up next to my mom’s, saw how different they were, and asked her why the trick still worked no matter whose finger you used. She shrugged. Years later I remembered that conversation and did the thing I often end up doing. My curiosity made me figure out why.
Think about the last time you tapped a credit card at a register. That little terminal, the one sitting on every counter from here to the continent to the far side of the world, traces back to Honolulu. In the late 1970s a Honolulu businessman named Edward Berger saw a problem. Tourists kept showing up with checks and cards that a shopkeeper had no way to trust. So Berger teamed up with a UH engineering graduate named Jimmy Thompson to build a device that could verify a customer over the phone. They named it after exactly what it did, a verification telephone. Verifone.
Verifone was later sold to another Honolulu businessman, Bill Melton, who redesigned the terminals to be cheap enough to go anywhere. Within a few years those little boxes from Honolulu ran most of the American market, then most of the world’s. The original prototype sat in Berger’s widow’s living room for years. Today it sits in the Inspiration Hawaiʻi Museum in downtown Honolulu. I took this picture of it last year. That quiet beep when your card goes through started right here.
Even the food truck down the block has roots here. The plate lunch gets called the original fusion cuisine, and it was born in the plantation camps of the 1880s, when workers from Japan, China, Portugal, Korea, the Philippines, Puerto Rico and beyond got thrown together in the fields. The bosses kept them in separate camps and tried to keep them apart. But at lunch they cracked open their kau kau tins and shared. Rice from one, kim chee from another, adobo from the next. Nobody planned it. Hunger and closeness and a little generosity mixed cuisines that had never met, and out of that came the mixed plate, the fusion lunch wagons and eventually the whole idea that food from everywhere can sit on one plate and belong.
We are the most isolated inhabited islands on the planet, a handful of dots in the middle of the biggest ocean there is. By every rule of size and distance, nothing that starts here should matter much out there. And yet the world learned how to share a crowded signal from us. It learned how to trust a stranger’s card from us. It learned how to put the whole world on one plate from us.
But if you dig a little deeper, these three are really the same thing. Take your turn so everyone gets heard. Trust the person across the counter enough to do business. Share your food with your neighbors. That is not engineering. That is aloha, worked out the hard way by people who had to learn how to live close together on islands.
None of those three things got built by people just being clever. They got built by people being close, and generous, and willing to take turns. That is aloha, and it is not soft at all. The next thing worth building needs the same root. The world could really use more innovators who can spread more aloha.
by Olin Lagon, Honolulu Civil Beat | Read more:
Images: Olan Lagon
The answer blew my mind. The humble rice cooker is one of the best pieces of real world physics I have ever run into, and it runs on two principles. Boiling water cannot get hotter than 212 degrees no matter how much heat you dump into it. And a magnet loses its pull once it gets hot enough.
So when you press cook, you are sticking a magnet to a piece of metal, and that magnet is what completes the circuit to the heating element. The water starts to boil. As long as there is water in the pot, the temperature stays pinned at boiling, well below the point where the magnet quits. But the moment the last of the water boils off, there is nothing left to hold the temperature down. It shoots up, hits that point, and pop, the magnet lets go and breaks the circuit. The cooker never cared about water levels. It only cared about the moment the water was gone. Absolutely brilliant. [...]
For as long as I can remember I have held a wet finger to the wind like that, asking it about everything. And more often than I ever expected, some answers have traced back to these islands.
Take the Wi-Fi you are using right now. Every phone, laptop, and smart device in the house is sharing the same sliver of invisible air, and somehow they do not all shout over each other. The rule that lets them share was worked out at the University of Hawaiʻi.
In June 1971, a team led by Norman Abramson switched on ALOHAnet, the first wireless packet data network in history. Radio had been carrying data since the 1890s. Morse code is data. What nobody had solved was the crowd. Every system before ALOHAnet handed the channel to one sender at a time and kept order with a schedule, a slot or a roll call. Abramson’s team had cheap UHF radios, terminals scattered across the islands, one computer on a hill in Mānoa and no budget for any of that. So they had to answer a question nobody had answered: How do you let a crowd of machines share one channel with no traffic cop?
Their answer was to stop looking for one. Let each machine talk the second it has something to say. If two of them speak at the same instant and garble each other, neither gets an acknowledgment back, so both go quiet, wait a random beat and try again. Talk, collide, yield, retry. That is the whole idea, and the whole idea only works because every machine agrees to take turns. A single device that refused to back off could starve every other device on the channel.
In 1970 Robert Metcalfe read Abramson’s paper, could not put it down, and spent a month on Oʻahu learning it in person. He went home and built Ethernet on top of it. Ethernet wired the offices of the world. Wi-Fi carried the same rule back into the air. And when your phone wakes and reaches for a tower, the first thing it sends is a short burst on a channel the engineering standards still call slotted ALOHA. Not a metaphor. Aloha as a greeting is written into the specification.
So when you press cook, you are sticking a magnet to a piece of metal, and that magnet is what completes the circuit to the heating element. The water starts to boil. As long as there is water in the pot, the temperature stays pinned at boiling, well below the point where the magnet quits. But the moment the last of the water boils off, there is nothing left to hold the temperature down. It shoots up, hits that point, and pop, the magnet lets go and breaks the circuit. The cooker never cared about water levels. It only cared about the moment the water was gone. Absolutely brilliant. [...]
For as long as I can remember I have held a wet finger to the wind like that, asking it about everything. And more often than I ever expected, some answers have traced back to these islands.
Take the Wi-Fi you are using right now. Every phone, laptop, and smart device in the house is sharing the same sliver of invisible air, and somehow they do not all shout over each other. The rule that lets them share was worked out at the University of Hawaiʻi.
In June 1971, a team led by Norman Abramson switched on ALOHAnet, the first wireless packet data network in history. Radio had been carrying data since the 1890s. Morse code is data. What nobody had solved was the crowd. Every system before ALOHAnet handed the channel to one sender at a time and kept order with a schedule, a slot or a roll call. Abramson’s team had cheap UHF radios, terminals scattered across the islands, one computer on a hill in Mānoa and no budget for any of that. So they had to answer a question nobody had answered: How do you let a crowd of machines share one channel with no traffic cop?
Their answer was to stop looking for one. Let each machine talk the second it has something to say. If two of them speak at the same instant and garble each other, neither gets an acknowledgment back, so both go quiet, wait a random beat and try again. Talk, collide, yield, retry. That is the whole idea, and the whole idea only works because every machine agrees to take turns. A single device that refused to back off could starve every other device on the channel.
In 1970 Robert Metcalfe read Abramson’s paper, could not put it down, and spent a month on Oʻahu learning it in person. He went home and built Ethernet on top of it. Ethernet wired the offices of the world. Wi-Fi carried the same rule back into the air. And when your phone wakes and reaches for a tower, the first thing it sends is a short burst on a channel the engineering standards still call slotted ALOHA. Not a metaphor. Aloha as a greeting is written into the specification.
Verifone was later sold to another Honolulu businessman, Bill Melton, who redesigned the terminals to be cheap enough to go anywhere. Within a few years those little boxes from Honolulu ran most of the American market, then most of the world’s. The original prototype sat in Berger’s widow’s living room for years. Today it sits in the Inspiration Hawaiʻi Museum in downtown Honolulu. I took this picture of it last year. That quiet beep when your card goes through started right here.
We are the most isolated inhabited islands on the planet, a handful of dots in the middle of the biggest ocean there is. By every rule of size and distance, nothing that starts here should matter much out there. And yet the world learned how to share a crowded signal from us. It learned how to trust a stranger’s card from us. It learned how to put the whole world on one plate from us.
But if you dig a little deeper, these three are really the same thing. Take your turn so everyone gets heard. Trust the person across the counter enough to do business. Share your food with your neighbors. That is not engineering. That is aloha, worked out the hard way by people who had to learn how to live close together on islands.
None of those three things got built by people just being clever. They got built by people being close, and generous, and willing to take turns. That is aloha, and it is not soft at all. The next thing worth building needs the same root. The world could really use more innovators who can spread more aloha.
by Olin Lagon, Honolulu Civil Beat | Read more:
Images: Olan Lagon
Thursday, July 30, 2026
Tuesday, July 28, 2026
There Are No Known Commodity Resources in Space That Could Be Sold on Earth
This blog is part of a series tackling common misconceptions in space journalism.
One common trope of space journalism these days concerns the mining of asteroids or the Moon, sometimes combined with environmental handwringing over the aesthetic destruction we may bring to these soulless dino-killing space rocks. Moon mining, we are told, is a gold rush about to happen. In the process, a few people will get super wealthy selling shovels or shiny metal of some kind, and hopefully a few big cities will get built in space. Indeed, space mining is sometimes seen as the “killer app” necessary to fund and motivate large scale human occupation of space.
Advocates of the industrialization of space usually envision a bootstrapping process, wherein one core product provides the profit margin necessary to build out infrastructure and, eventually, move most of Earth’s industry into space.
The question: Where is the space gold mine? While industrial processes add value at every step, space is often seen initially as a source of raw materials. Specifically, asteroids, the Moon, or Mars are seen as sites for future mines. These mines could produce anything from water to gold, Helium-3 to platinum. In this post, I will cover factors general to all material products before diving into specific examples.
My contention is that there are no known commodity resources in space that could be sold profitably on Earth.
The key to a successful business is to obtain feedstocks for cheap and to sell products at a tidy profit. The problem with space mining is that the feedstocks are generally much more expensive than on Earth, and there is an extremely limited market for products, except on Earth. More broadly, for every industrially valuable ore, there is already a competitive and adequate, if not spectacular, supply chain here on Earth.
If and when cities are built on the Moon or Mars, then local sourcing of raw materials makes sense in that context. But until then, the money, the financial resources, are here on Earth. So to make a killing in space, some sort of commodity needs to be obtained, transported to Earth, and sold, all for less money than conventional supply chains.
The challenge is that raw commodity margins on Earth are already super slim. The problem is that there are very few natural monopolies in mineral supply, so mining companies have to compete for market share, lowering prices.
More broadly, it is instructive to consider the value chain as raw materials are gradually processed into high value commercial goods, such as cell phones. Primary production obtains the ores needed to produce chemically pure elemental feedstocks, which are usually packaged in some standard, fungible way. Secondary production processes those feedstocks into individual components, such as the machining of an aluminium cell phone chassis from a raw billet. Finally, the various components are assembled, packaged, and sold. In something like a cell phone, value accrues at every step along this process, representing the revenue stream for each specialized supplier. As the designer and marketer, Apple pockets something like 30% of the sticker price of each phone sold, while the aluminium smelter takes home much less than 1%. A billet of aluminum is much closer in value to raw bauxite than a finished phone.
Similarly for minerals from space. The value per kg is of crucial importance for products where shipping costs are important, and the value per kg of nearly every commodity good is next to nothing.
But just how important are shipping costs? On Earth, bulk cargo costs are something like $0.10/kg to move raw materials or shipping containers almost anywhere with infrastructure. Launch costs are more like $2000/kg to LEO, and $10,000/kg from LEO back to Earth. Currently there is no commercially available service to ship stuff to and from the Moon, but without a diverse marketplace of launch providers, there’s no reason to expect that the de facto monopoly or duopoly of SpaceX and Blue Origin would sell it for less than $100,000/kg, literally a million times more expensive than shipping anywhere on Earth. Before we hate SpaceX for price gouging, it’s not certain that shipping for less than this amount is even possible, but one could relax this assumption by several orders of magnitude and still arrive at the same answer.
For nearly all commodities, shipping costs are a smallish fraction of the overall costs of purchase. More generally, of all the energy and labor embodied in a finished product, most of it is spent in refining, processing, design, and assembly, rather than transport. There are a handful of exceptions where shipping costs dominate the sticker price, usually in industries where transport is itself the product, and the cargo is extremely time sensitive. Shipping perishable food, flowers, and people are a good example.
Given that the Moon is not likely to (initially) be a source of perishable commodities nor enormous numbers of time-poor humans, it is safe to assume that whatever is produced there has to be so valuable on a per kilogram basis that buyers on Earth can absorb the shipping cost. The question then becomes, what commodities cost in the ballpark of $100,000/kg?
As an aside, one obvious way to sidestep the mass transportation requirement is to choose a product with no mass, such as electromagnetic radiation. And indeed, the most vibrant commercial space product is communications, which are beamed using microwaves. Raw microwaves can be used to transmit electrical power, but in a former post I demonstrated that space based solar power can’t compete with the rapid evolution of ground based solar power. Not even a little bit!
There are actually plenty of things which cost $100,000/kg or more in the high tech industries, such as advanced computer chips. The reason computer chips are so expensive (relative to mass) is that they’re extremely hard to make even at the Intel factory, which is stuffed with super smart people. In terms of the value chain, computer chips are at the complete opposite end to raw bulk commodities. Both items are sub ideal for obtaining in space, though for different reasons. Raw commodities have too little intrinsic value to justify the transport costs from space, or even usually from another continent. And high technology products are too expensive to make in any but ideal circumstances here on Earth.
There is a middle ground. The German economy, in particular, is powerfully driven by thousands of small specialty companies that make relatively small numbers of custom machines and tools. Individually, the machines are much more valuable than raw materials, and much less difficult to make than computer chips. But their true value derives from the network effect of having thousands of companies feeding off each other and, fundamentally, building the infrastructure of industrial automation for the rest of the world. There are a number of companies, such as Made In Space, which are actively pursuing bespoke in-space manufacture of specialty items, and there is every indication that their schemes are economically viable. But while they represent a golden ticket for one small engineering company, they lack a path to generalized space industry and the trillion dollar revenue that implies, at least without enormous advances in robotics.
So we’re left with a question about what commodities cost $100,000/kg, or $100/g, and could be found in space. In a previous post, we dispatched the idea of selling lunar water, which in any case is basically free on Earth. Comsats are routinely launched to space at vast expense, but fall in the category of advanced technology which is prohibitively difficult to manufacture in space. Launch may be expensive but it’s cheaper than launching the whole factory!
Let’s consider a representative list of the most expensive materials in the world. In descending order, they are:
One common trope of space journalism these days concerns the mining of asteroids or the Moon, sometimes combined with environmental handwringing over the aesthetic destruction we may bring to these soulless dino-killing space rocks. Moon mining, we are told, is a gold rush about to happen. In the process, a few people will get super wealthy selling shovels or shiny metal of some kind, and hopefully a few big cities will get built in space. Indeed, space mining is sometimes seen as the “killer app” necessary to fund and motivate large scale human occupation of space.
Advocates of the industrialization of space usually envision a bootstrapping process, wherein one core product provides the profit margin necessary to build out infrastructure and, eventually, move most of Earth’s industry into space.
The question: Where is the space gold mine? While industrial processes add value at every step, space is often seen initially as a source of raw materials. Specifically, asteroids, the Moon, or Mars are seen as sites for future mines. These mines could produce anything from water to gold, Helium-3 to platinum. In this post, I will cover factors general to all material products before diving into specific examples.
My contention is that there are no known commodity resources in space that could be sold profitably on Earth.
The key to a successful business is to obtain feedstocks for cheap and to sell products at a tidy profit. The problem with space mining is that the feedstocks are generally much more expensive than on Earth, and there is an extremely limited market for products, except on Earth. More broadly, for every industrially valuable ore, there is already a competitive and adequate, if not spectacular, supply chain here on Earth.
If and when cities are built on the Moon or Mars, then local sourcing of raw materials makes sense in that context. But until then, the money, the financial resources, are here on Earth. So to make a killing in space, some sort of commodity needs to be obtained, transported to Earth, and sold, all for less money than conventional supply chains.
The challenge is that raw commodity margins on Earth are already super slim. The problem is that there are very few natural monopolies in mineral supply, so mining companies have to compete for market share, lowering prices.
More broadly, it is instructive to consider the value chain as raw materials are gradually processed into high value commercial goods, such as cell phones. Primary production obtains the ores needed to produce chemically pure elemental feedstocks, which are usually packaged in some standard, fungible way. Secondary production processes those feedstocks into individual components, such as the machining of an aluminium cell phone chassis from a raw billet. Finally, the various components are assembled, packaged, and sold. In something like a cell phone, value accrues at every step along this process, representing the revenue stream for each specialized supplier. As the designer and marketer, Apple pockets something like 30% of the sticker price of each phone sold, while the aluminium smelter takes home much less than 1%. A billet of aluminum is much closer in value to raw bauxite than a finished phone.
Similarly for minerals from space. The value per kg is of crucial importance for products where shipping costs are important, and the value per kg of nearly every commodity good is next to nothing.
But just how important are shipping costs? On Earth, bulk cargo costs are something like $0.10/kg to move raw materials or shipping containers almost anywhere with infrastructure. Launch costs are more like $2000/kg to LEO, and $10,000/kg from LEO back to Earth. Currently there is no commercially available service to ship stuff to and from the Moon, but without a diverse marketplace of launch providers, there’s no reason to expect that the de facto monopoly or duopoly of SpaceX and Blue Origin would sell it for less than $100,000/kg, literally a million times more expensive than shipping anywhere on Earth. Before we hate SpaceX for price gouging, it’s not certain that shipping for less than this amount is even possible, but one could relax this assumption by several orders of magnitude and still arrive at the same answer.
For nearly all commodities, shipping costs are a smallish fraction of the overall costs of purchase. More generally, of all the energy and labor embodied in a finished product, most of it is spent in refining, processing, design, and assembly, rather than transport. There are a handful of exceptions where shipping costs dominate the sticker price, usually in industries where transport is itself the product, and the cargo is extremely time sensitive. Shipping perishable food, flowers, and people are a good example.
Given that the Moon is not likely to (initially) be a source of perishable commodities nor enormous numbers of time-poor humans, it is safe to assume that whatever is produced there has to be so valuable on a per kilogram basis that buyers on Earth can absorb the shipping cost. The question then becomes, what commodities cost in the ballpark of $100,000/kg?
As an aside, one obvious way to sidestep the mass transportation requirement is to choose a product with no mass, such as electromagnetic radiation. And indeed, the most vibrant commercial space product is communications, which are beamed using microwaves. Raw microwaves can be used to transmit electrical power, but in a former post I demonstrated that space based solar power can’t compete with the rapid evolution of ground based solar power. Not even a little bit!
There are actually plenty of things which cost $100,000/kg or more in the high tech industries, such as advanced computer chips. The reason computer chips are so expensive (relative to mass) is that they’re extremely hard to make even at the Intel factory, which is stuffed with super smart people. In terms of the value chain, computer chips are at the complete opposite end to raw bulk commodities. Both items are sub ideal for obtaining in space, though for different reasons. Raw commodities have too little intrinsic value to justify the transport costs from space, or even usually from another continent. And high technology products are too expensive to make in any but ideal circumstances here on Earth.
There is a middle ground. The German economy, in particular, is powerfully driven by thousands of small specialty companies that make relatively small numbers of custom machines and tools. Individually, the machines are much more valuable than raw materials, and much less difficult to make than computer chips. But their true value derives from the network effect of having thousands of companies feeding off each other and, fundamentally, building the infrastructure of industrial automation for the rest of the world. There are a number of companies, such as Made In Space, which are actively pursuing bespoke in-space manufacture of specialty items, and there is every indication that their schemes are economically viable. But while they represent a golden ticket for one small engineering company, they lack a path to generalized space industry and the trillion dollar revenue that implies, at least without enormous advances in robotics.
So we’re left with a question about what commodities cost $100,000/kg, or $100/g, and could be found in space. In a previous post, we dispatched the idea of selling lunar water, which in any case is basically free on Earth. Comsats are routinely launched to space at vast expense, but fall in the category of advanced technology which is prohibitively difficult to manufacture in space. Launch may be expensive but it’s cheaper than launching the whole factory!
Let’s consider a representative list of the most expensive materials in the world. In descending order, they are:
Antimatter, currently $62.5t/g.
Californium, $25m/g.
Diamond, $55k/g.
Tritium, $30k/g.
Taaffite, $20k/g.
Helium 3, $15k/g.
Painite, $6k/g.
Plutonium, $4k/g.
LSD, $3k/g.
Cocaine, $236/g.
Heroin, $130/g.
Rhino horn, $110/g.
Crystal meth, $100/g.
Platinum, $60/g.
Rhodium, $58/g.
Gold, $56/g.
Saffron, $11/g.
The previous ballpark estimate for transport costs was $100,000/kg, or $100/g. Since I want to be inclusive, I’ll include everything down to saffron in the list above, whose cost is roughly equal to the current LEO-surface transport cost.
Despite their high value density, none of these make good candidates for commercial extraction from the Moon or asteroids, for a few different reasons.
Californium, $25m/g.
Diamond, $55k/g.
Tritium, $30k/g.
Taaffite, $20k/g.
Helium 3, $15k/g.
Painite, $6k/g.
Plutonium, $4k/g.
LSD, $3k/g.
Cocaine, $236/g.
Heroin, $130/g.
Rhino horn, $110/g.
Crystal meth, $100/g.
Platinum, $60/g.
Rhodium, $58/g.
Gold, $56/g.
Saffron, $11/g.
The previous ballpark estimate for transport costs was $100,000/kg, or $100/g. Since I want to be inclusive, I’ll include everything down to saffron in the list above, whose cost is roughly equal to the current LEO-surface transport cost.
Despite their high value density, none of these make good candidates for commercial extraction from the Moon or asteroids, for a few different reasons.
by Casey Handmer, Blog | Read more:
Image: uncredited
[ed. Californium? See also Einsteinium.]
Drone WMDs Don’t Need Any New Technology
Drones are cheap, disposable, and the future of war. Over the past four years, we have seen platforms, missiles, and heavy infantry become increasingly obsolete in the face of $500 drones carrying a pack of explosives—a cost advantage that has let Iranians and Ukrainians alike neuter the conventional capabilities of their great power rivals. Eighty percent of casualties in the bloodiest war since 1945 are from drone strikes, Russia has managed to lose one-third of its fleet to a country without a navy, and the US is spending millions of dollars to intercept five-figure Shaheds flying over the Strait of Hormuz.
All this is the result of a technology that is still immature. The violence inflicted by today’s drones is the handiwork of the scant few that manage to evade countermeasures (a mix of radio jamming, high-power microwave weapons, missiles, automatic cannons, interceptor drones, and nets) before making contact. These defenses exploit the inherent limitations of drones—human guidance, GPS feedback, flight exposure, radio links, range—to take them down en masse. And yet, even though 75% of drones manufactured today never reach their targets, they have nonetheless been strategically decisive in Ukraine and elsewhere.
These limitations will not hold for long. Just like bacteria being overexposed to antibiotics, overexposure to counterdrone tech has created an arms race for ever-more-autonomous drone technologies. In the process of facilitating this arms race, states are likely to incrementally create and deploy an entirely new class of WMD—one that could provide rogue states with the nonnuclear means to threaten superpowers, or hand terrorists the means to selectively assassinate their political targets or civilians en masse.
Unfortunately, drone weapons intended for mass destruction have few barriers remaining to mass deployment. Even well before they reach the level of autonomy needed to surgically take out hardened targets on the battlefield, drones will be capable of employing their existing ability to navigate interiors, find and track human targets, and deploy simple antipersonnel devices to indiscriminately threaten civilians. Below, we discuss the looming arrival of miniature autonomous weapons, the limits of counterdrone technology, and the applications of drones as weapons of mass destruction.
Breaking the Last Barriers to Autonomous Weapons
The ideal drone weapon is a slaughterbot: a small, fully autonomous weapon system that can independently select and hunt its targets. For the most part, the necessary technology for such weapons already exists: airframes the size of a fist and the capability to track human targets are already on the front lines in the form of reconnaissance drones and semiautonomous weapons like the Russian V2U. Even now, these micro drones are agile and autonomous enough to hunt down and kill small moving targets like mosquitos—to say nothing of the advances in drone technology expected in the coming years.
From here, the only barrier to weaponization is integration: improving navigation enough to make drone technology useful for mass homicide in an urban setting, as well as packing the necessary guidance, sensor, and payload technology onto a small and energy-efficient chassis. Regrettably, this seems like less of an engineering problem than one of mission design: so long as the attacker is willing to accept indiscriminate targeting and use simple payloads aimed at civilians, the underlying technology is already—or very nearly—ready for practical use.
by Felix Choussat, AI Frontiers | Read more:
Image: uncredited
These limitations will not hold for long. Just like bacteria being overexposed to antibiotics, overexposure to counterdrone tech has created an arms race for ever-more-autonomous drone technologies. In the process of facilitating this arms race, states are likely to incrementally create and deploy an entirely new class of WMD—one that could provide rogue states with the nonnuclear means to threaten superpowers, or hand terrorists the means to selectively assassinate their political targets or civilians en masse.
Unfortunately, drone weapons intended for mass destruction have few barriers remaining to mass deployment. Even well before they reach the level of autonomy needed to surgically take out hardened targets on the battlefield, drones will be capable of employing their existing ability to navigate interiors, find and track human targets, and deploy simple antipersonnel devices to indiscriminately threaten civilians. Below, we discuss the looming arrival of miniature autonomous weapons, the limits of counterdrone technology, and the applications of drones as weapons of mass destruction.
Breaking the Last Barriers to Autonomous Weapons
The ideal drone weapon is a slaughterbot: a small, fully autonomous weapon system that can independently select and hunt its targets. For the most part, the necessary technology for such weapons already exists: airframes the size of a fist and the capability to track human targets are already on the front lines in the form of reconnaissance drones and semiautonomous weapons like the Russian V2U. Even now, these micro drones are agile and autonomous enough to hunt down and kill small moving targets like mosquitos—to say nothing of the advances in drone technology expected in the coming years.
From here, the only barrier to weaponization is integration: improving navigation enough to make drone technology useful for mass homicide in an urban setting, as well as packing the necessary guidance, sensor, and payload technology onto a small and energy-efficient chassis. Regrettably, this seems like less of an engineering problem than one of mission design: so long as the attacker is willing to accept indiscriminate targeting and use simple payloads aimed at civilians, the underlying technology is already—or very nearly—ready for practical use.
by Felix Choussat, AI Frontiers | Read more:
Image: uncredited
Monday, July 20, 2026
The New Coming Age
Google CEO Demis Hassabis offered us a first rate second rate essay, A Framework for Frontier AI and the Dawning of a New Age. I’ll go over that essay and various responses to it in Part 1.
Part 2 of this post then covers Alex Turner’s resignation, and his story about how he tried and failed to prevent Google from signing up to allow the Department of War to use its models for essentially whatever the government wants, including autonomous weapons.
Demis Hassabis sold DeepMind to Google on condition that something like this would not happen. Yet here it is, happening. A cautionary tale. [...]
His ask is a Frontier AI Standards Body within the US Government, similar to FINRA, that would govern ‘frontier labs,’ defined as any company that produces a frontier model based on various technical benchmarks. Evaluations would be updated regularly, and vulnerabilities would be addressed, both before and after release.
He is excellent about stating that this is big, really big, no bigger than that, it be big.
There is definitely a ‘don’t say the thing’ aspect of this, where he won’t name what the downside risks actually are. When Demis says ‘experts disagree’ he is rather avoidant about the way in which they disagree here.
The Proposal
“Z is is all a big plot to control ze workers, no?” a French reporter said.
At that point, though, I was still learning to see Google through Google’s eyes. I learned to deflect these kinds of questions and pitied the askers, a little bit, for their cynicism.
Part 2 of this post then covers Alex Turner’s resignation, and his story about how he tried and failed to prevent Google from signing up to allow the Department of War to use its models for essentially whatever the government wants, including autonomous weapons.
Demis Hassabis sold DeepMind to Google on condition that something like this would not happen. Yet here it is, happening. A cautionary tale. [...]
***
The Core Statement and RequestHe saying we are standing in the foothills of the singularity.
He is excellent about stating that this is big, really big, no bigger than that, it be big.
Demis Hassabis: I’ve spent my whole life working on AGI because I’ve always had a deep conviction that, if built and deployed responsibly, it would prove to be one of the most beneficial and transformative technologies ever invented. AGI cannot be compared to standard technological breakthroughs, not even ones as consequential as the internet or mobile - it is much more akin to the discovery of electricity or fire. If you stop to think about it, we’ve essentially found a way to make sand think. It’s miraculous.Things Left Unsaid
The magnitude of this technology’s impact will be unprecedented, perhaps 10x of the Industrial Revolution at 10x the speed. It will help us solve some of the biggest problems society faces from accelerating drug discovery to developing new clean energy sources to creating novel advanced materials. We could even reach a point where resources are no longer the limiting factor for human progress, leading to an amazing new era of abundance.
There is definitely a ‘don’t say the thing’ aspect of this, where he won’t name what the downside risks actually are. When Demis says ‘experts disagree’ he is rather avoidant about the way in which they disagree here.
Nate Soares (MIRI): I’m glad Demis acknowledges that this is a “pivotal moment in human history” during an “extremely intense” race. I’m disappointed that his proposed solution is a “standards body” to evaluate whether models are dangerous, with no plan for what to do once they are.Clearly this is strategic, but if you don’t already know, or are looking to not realize, it is very easy to come away thinking that Demis does mean the effect on jobs, even though when he says ‘safely’ he very much does not (primarily) mean that.
I’m glad he acknowledges that “experts disagree.” I’m annoyed that he glosses past how the disagreement is about whether there’s a ~5% or ≥50% chance of total catastrophe. We’ve gotta do better.
Aaron Scher: Glad to see AI CEOs speaking publicly about their views on AGI. I think Demis is wrong about his policy prescription: it’s far too little too late. When he says the experts disagree, he means that some think 5% this tech kills literally everybody, some at 40%, some at 90%.
The Proposal
Demis Hassabis: … On the horizon, we will need robust safeguards to maintain control of increasingly agentic, recursively self-improving systems - and tackle unknown issues that will only become clearer over time.He makes clear part of this is about giving us options, including for a slowdown.
… I’ve always believed in the power of human ingenuity and creativity to solve any problem. I’m confident that mitigating the technical risks related to AI is a challenge we can collectively address, but only if we give ourselves the time and space to get this next crucial step right. Currently, as a field and as a wider society, we aren’t doing that.
The strength of this approach is it would be technically focused, while at the same time supporting innovation and incentivising responsible behaviour. It is designed to keep up with the field’s acceleration and adapt to the biggest risks as they are identified, and could be ratcheted up if the seriousness of the situation demands, including coordinating a slowdown in development among the Frontier Labs if deemed necessary.Demis keeps it short, not offering many details. To the extent that he has laid out a proposal, it seems to be a good one. It is definitely an improvement on the margin.
Jack Clark (Anthropic): At this point, everyone at the frontier of AI agrees that third-parties should test out AI systems and use these to develop standards to feed into policy - excellent to see @demishassabis laying out a framework to do this!Thus I file this post and its ask, as high praise, under ‘the least you could do.’
Samuel Hammond: It is striking to see leadership at Google, Anthropic, OpenAI and Microsoft all fairly independently sounding warning alarms about an imminent technological acceleration.
A Good Start But Insufficient
I agree with Peter Wildeford that while better than nothing FINRA is not a great model here, with heightened risk of regulatory capture, and not a substitute for full government action. You need an SEC to your FINRA. That doesn’t mean don’t make the FINRA. It does mean you still need the SEC.
Would such a (at least partly) voluntary regime, only for models intended for release, and without a related binding intentional agreement, be sufficient to solve the problem? No, again it’s just way better than doing nothing, as Peter Wildeford and many others noted.
You do not need to believe, as Aaron Scher and Connor Leahy do below, that only a full halt would be sufficient here, to know we have a long way to go. Demis’s statements here, if you know what they actually mean, imply a level of danger and urgency that is not reflected in the proposal.
I agree with Peter Wildeford that while better than nothing FINRA is not a great model here, with heightened risk of regulatory capture, and not a substitute for full government action. You need an SEC to your FINRA. That doesn’t mean don’t make the FINRA. It does mean you still need the SEC.
Would such a (at least partly) voluntary regime, only for models intended for release, and without a related binding intentional agreement, be sufficient to solve the problem? No, again it’s just way better than doing nothing, as Peter Wildeford and many others noted.
You do not need to believe, as Aaron Scher and Connor Leahy do below, that only a full halt would be sufficient here, to know we have a long way to go. Demis’s statements here, if you know what they actually mean, imply a level of danger and urgency that is not reflected in the proposal.
Eli Tyre: > Initially, Frontier Labs would voluntarily share models with the Standards Body for review up to 30 days before release.
Is this proposal only intended to address risks from models that companies plan to release? If a company develops a frontier model and never releases it, only deploying it internally to develop even more powerful AI capabilities, are they thereby exempt from this oversight scheme?
Connor Leahy: While @demishassabis is right that we need urgent action to address risks as we approach AGI (and superintelligence, I’d add), the correct response to the threats is not a ‘self-regulatory organization’.
We need to prohibit superintelligence, not give industry regulatory power.
Aaron Scher: … The extinction threat, the “only a few short years”, the “10x the Industrial Revolution”—these aren’t indicators that point to “let’s evaluate models to understand their capabilities and have voluntary safety standards”. We need to back off, we need to halt the creation of ASI.
Point 2: I agree with the attached quote that we need more time. But I think Demis’s optimism is a vibe, not a trustworthy basis for predictions. Rob Miles says it best in this video, if an asteroid we’re headed earth’s way 200 years ago, we’d just die 🤷
Point 3: As others have pointed out, it’s not clear that this proposal would reduce risks from internal deployment (it seems to focus on public deployment and pre-deployment testing), but internal deployment is where much of the risk is.
Point 4: I don’t think the proposed body could actually enact, verify, and enforce a slowdown; there’s ambiguity about what’s voluntary. Again, I think we need a long-term international treaty and to actually back off, not just to slow down a little.
by Zvi Mowshowitz, DWV | Read more:
Image: uncredited
[ed. See also: The Voice of Google (New Yorker):]
Google’s founders, Larry Page and Sergey Brin, were bona-fide public figures by then, and self-made billionaires multiple times over, but in Charlie’s they were idols. They would often ascend the stage together, practically matching in sweat-wicking athletic clothes and Crocs. Larry had a dopey perma-smile, and seemed delighted by everything, especially Sergey. Sergey was the straight man, with a faint lilt, a product of his childhood in Russia, and an acrobatic build that made him look like he might launch into a handspring at any moment. Their charisma was unconventional, contextual; you had to be there. The audience of employees lapped up every word, giggled at every dad joke. During a Q. & A. portion of the proceedings, even adversarial questions were absorbed into the Google spirit—it all melted into laughs, love. Merriam-Webster had added “google” to the dictionary the year before. Fortune had crowned it the “Best Company to Work For” in America. Profits were, as the execs loved to boast, “up and to the right,” fuelled by an online-advertising machine that minted cash beyond Wall Street’s wildest dreams. But the company’s financial success felt almost incidental. What mattered, we told ourselves, was the mission—a conviction that technology could improve the world and that we were helping to build the future. The air in Charlie’s buzzed with collective belief.
That first meeting was the only one I’d ever attend as a pure spectator. By week two, I was working the event—cordoning off the Noogler section, handing out extra caps—and I soon began helping to draft bits of Larry and Sergey’s script. A portion of my time was spent supporting the P.R. team, and I started to pick up my first press requests, providing office tours to journalists eager to see the “Google experience” firsthand. I studied a “master workplace talking points” document, which was maintained with input from PeopleOps, which was Google-speak for human resources. This was the era of “bringing your whole self to work,” of shiny, smiling H.R. people doing press hits about the importance of valuing employees’ authentic personhood (always with a telling corollary: “Because that’s how people do their best work!”). I was required to attend a training on “conscious business” with a guy named Fred Kofman, an executive coach whom Sheryl Sandberg credited with shaping her “lean-in” ethos. The course was, theoretically, about living one’s courageous values, but its most salient lesson was that employees should take “unconditional accountability”—which, in practice, sounded a lot like never questioning the higher-ups. The message reiterated over and over was that there were two kinds of people in the world: victims and players. You wanted to be a player at all times.
Despite the lore, Google’s offices didn’t make a big first impression. The bulk of the campus had been quickly converted after its previous occupant went down in the fallout from the dot-com bust. The result was a complex of squat, one- or two-level buildings with metal and glass siding, surrounded by a moat of parking spaces, with Google signs plunked into the dirt out front. But there were plenty of amenities to point out—the massage rooms and nap pods, the dinosaur fossil, the wacky sensory-break touches like ball pits, swings, and yoga balls (even if no one actually seemed to use them). Foreign journalists seemed more skeptical than their American counterparts of perks such as lunch-break haircuts or on-site laundry rooms, which I’d heard described as letting Google be your “housewife.”
***
I started working at Google in the summer of 2007, straight out of college, as a “new-grad associate” in the communications department. My first week, I sat with more than a hundred other “Nooglers” (new Googlers) at the company’s weekly staff meeting, T.G.I.F., wearing matching company-issued propeller caps as a kind of ritual hazing. The venue was Charlie’s Cafe, a multilevel auditorium in the heart of the “Googleplex,” the company’s sprawling campus in Mountain View, California. The event felt less like a corporate meeting than like a weekly revival—part standup set, part science fair, part sermon, all of it fuelled by keg beer.Google’s founders, Larry Page and Sergey Brin, were bona-fide public figures by then, and self-made billionaires multiple times over, but in Charlie’s they were idols. They would often ascend the stage together, practically matching in sweat-wicking athletic clothes and Crocs. Larry had a dopey perma-smile, and seemed delighted by everything, especially Sergey. Sergey was the straight man, with a faint lilt, a product of his childhood in Russia, and an acrobatic build that made him look like he might launch into a handspring at any moment. Their charisma was unconventional, contextual; you had to be there. The audience of employees lapped up every word, giggled at every dad joke. During a Q. & A. portion of the proceedings, even adversarial questions were absorbed into the Google spirit—it all melted into laughs, love. Merriam-Webster had added “google” to the dictionary the year before. Fortune had crowned it the “Best Company to Work For” in America. Profits were, as the execs loved to boast, “up and to the right,” fuelled by an online-advertising machine that minted cash beyond Wall Street’s wildest dreams. But the company’s financial success felt almost incidental. What mattered, we told ourselves, was the mission—a conviction that technology could improve the world and that we were helping to build the future. The air in Charlie’s buzzed with collective belief.
That first meeting was the only one I’d ever attend as a pure spectator. By week two, I was working the event—cordoning off the Noogler section, handing out extra caps—and I soon began helping to draft bits of Larry and Sergey’s script. A portion of my time was spent supporting the P.R. team, and I started to pick up my first press requests, providing office tours to journalists eager to see the “Google experience” firsthand. I studied a “master workplace talking points” document, which was maintained with input from PeopleOps, which was Google-speak for human resources. This was the era of “bringing your whole self to work,” of shiny, smiling H.R. people doing press hits about the importance of valuing employees’ authentic personhood (always with a telling corollary: “Because that’s how people do their best work!”). I was required to attend a training on “conscious business” with a guy named Fred Kofman, an executive coach whom Sheryl Sandberg credited with shaping her “lean-in” ethos. The course was, theoretically, about living one’s courageous values, but its most salient lesson was that employees should take “unconditional accountability”—which, in practice, sounded a lot like never questioning the higher-ups. The message reiterated over and over was that there were two kinds of people in the world: victims and players. You wanted to be a player at all times.
Despite the lore, Google’s offices didn’t make a big first impression. The bulk of the campus had been quickly converted after its previous occupant went down in the fallout from the dot-com bust. The result was a complex of squat, one- or two-level buildings with metal and glass siding, surrounded by a moat of parking spaces, with Google signs plunked into the dirt out front. But there were plenty of amenities to point out—the massage rooms and nap pods, the dinosaur fossil, the wacky sensory-break touches like ball pits, swings, and yoga balls (even if no one actually seemed to use them). Foreign journalists seemed more skeptical than their American counterparts of perks such as lunch-break haircuts or on-site laundry rooms, which I’d heard described as letting Google be your “housewife.”
“Z is is all a big plot to control ze workers, no?” a French reporter said.
At that point, though, I was still learning to see Google through Google’s eyes. I learned to deflect these kinds of questions and pitied the askers, a little bit, for their cynicism.
Tuesday, July 14, 2026
The Looting of Science Fiction
Tech titans claim the genre inspired them. But all they’ve done is graft their politics onto stories of a better future.
In January 2026, Elon Musk stood before the US Secretary of Defense and senior Pentagon leaders at the SpaceX Starbase in Texas. ‘We want to make Star Trek real, OK?’ he declared. ‘We want to make Starfleet Academy real. So that it’s not always science fiction, but one day the science fiction turns to science fact, and we have spaceships going through space. Big spaceships!’ He painted a vivid picture: exploring alien civilisations, humanity spreading across the stars. ‘That’s the goal!’ he concluded. ‘And that is what I think the public thinks of when they think of Space Force!’
It was a remarkable pitch selling the Pentagon a science-fiction vision. Of course, the fit is partial, incomplete. Star Trek depicts a post-scarcity, post-capitalist society where money has been abolished and humanity works toward collective betterment. Gene Roddenberry’s Federation was built on principles of equality and exploration for the sake of knowledge, not profit or military dominance. Musk took the aesthetic – big spaceships, alien encounters, epic adventures – and left its political foundation. You don’t have to be a Trekkie to know that, in Star Trek, capitalism, nationalism and militarism have been left behind. Musk wants the Enterprise, but reimagined for the military-industrial complex.
In 2021, when Mark Zuckerberg announced Facebook’s rebrand to ‘Meta’, he took the name from Neal Stephenson’s novel Snow Crash (1992), which imagines the ‘Metaverse’: a virtual reality where people’s avatars navigate digital space.
But Snow Crash is one of the sharpest satirical novels of the past half-century. Stephenson wrote it as a warning: his Metaverse is a consolation prize for a society that has collapsed. The federal government has disintegrated; corporate franchises govern daily life; even pizza delivery has been privatised into a Mafia-run operation. The novel’s protagonist is a pizza deliveryman and part-time hacker whose sword-fighting avatar in the virtual world is the only place where dignity is available to him. Stephenson intended the contrast between digital glamour and material poverty to be horrifying. He saw it as a cautionary vision of where platform capitalism leads.
Zuckerberg’s presentation did not engage with any of this. The platform economy – where corporations are protected from democratic accountability while providing essential services – echoes Stephenson’s model precisely, and Zuckerberg read it as inspiration.
Steve Wozniak, Apple’s co-founder, gave expression to this ethos in 2017 when he said: ‘We are the people who make fantasies real.’ It sounds inspiring, but it is important to know which parts of those fantasies they’re choosing, and which parts they’re leaving out. When Musk unveiled Tesla’s Cybertruck in 2019, he had already told investors what to expect: something ‘really futuristic, like cyberpunk Blade Runner’. Musk was selling survival gear for a collapsing world, a version of Blade Runner’s Los Angeles. The aesthetics got materialised. The warnings did not. [...]
Science fiction in the 1950s imagined flying cars, abundant energy and more – but it did so before Three Mile Island, before Chernobyl, before we learned, often through disaster, what happens when you prioritise speed over safety. Those regulatory frameworks Andreessen wants to demolish emerged from hard-won lessons. The optimistic aesthetic gets borrowed; the learning gets discarded.
Perhaps nowhere is this more legible than in the naming of Palantir Technologies. J R R Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings (1937-49) is one of the great works of 20th-century literature precisely because it is an extended meditation on the corrupting nature of power. Written in the shadow of industrialised warfare and imperial extraction, it insists on the value of the small, the local and the unglamorous against the totalising ambition of industrial force. Its central moral is not that evil can be defeated by the right hero wielding the right weapon – it is that power itself corrupts, that the Ring cannot be used for good by anyone, and that the only salvation lies in relinquishing the will to dominate entirely. Tolkien’s fictional race of hobbits prevail not because they are powerful but because they are outside the logic of power. Tolkien built an entire mythology to make that argument.
In Tolkien’s novels, the palantíri are seeing-stones or crystal balls that allow their users to see across great distances. They sound like neutral tools, like surveillance technology. But they are devices of corruption: Saruman’s palantír connects him to Sauron and leads to his downfall; Denethor’s drives him to madness and suicide. The palantíri don’t just enable seeing – they enable manipulation and control by those who master them.
The US company Palantir Technologies provides analytics and surveillance tools to governments, militaries and ICE, US immigration and customs enforcement. Its name does political work: it transforms invasive tracking into mystical insight, casting algorithmic surveillance as wise foresight rather than systematic intrusion. In their book The Technological Republic (2025), Palantir’s CEO Alexander Karp and his legal counsel Nicholas Zamiska frame Palantir’s government work in martial terms: ‘We will find a way to build coalitions and bands of warriors. To deny the human need for such affiliation has been a mistake.’ They position surveillance tools as fulfilling a fundamental human need for warrior brotherhood. The Tolkien reference provides the aesthetic authority; the distance from Tolkien’s actual moral vision provides the freedom to act without it. Naming a surveillance company after devices that corrupt and betray their users isn’t homage – it is the appropriation of aesthetic while rejecting the moral core.
William Gibson’s novel Neuromancer (1984) introduced ‘cyberspace’, a term Gibson coined. Its protagonist, Case, is a hacker whose nervous system was damaged by former employers as punishment. Burned out and banned from cyberspace, he drifts through neon-soaked Chiba City as a ‘console cowboy’ with nowhere left to go. The novel’s cyberspace is owned and controlled by vast corporations; individual hackers are not heroes but tools, hired and discarded by interests they can barely see. Gibson’s vision was explicitly dystopian: a world in which the democratising potential of digital networks had been foreclosed before it could begin, captured by capital and turned into an instrument of its own expansion.
In September 1988, the software developer John Walker wrote an Autodesk internal white paper, ‘Through the Looking Glass: Beyond “User Interfaces”’, in which he outlined what he called a ‘cyberpunk initiative’: a proposal to build, within 12 months, a doorway into cyberspace. The project’s motto was blunt: ‘Reality isn’t enough any more.’
By 2025, the San Francisco headquarters of OpenAI pump high-energy electronic dance music across their reception area, where easy chairs, scatter cushions and Swiss cheese plants create what the CEO Sam Altman calls a ‘comfortable country house’ rather than a ‘corporate sci-fi castle’. The chrome and grime of cyberpunk – the neon-soaked warning that the corporate capture of digital space would be brutal and dehumanising – has been replaced by Scandinavian furniture and artisanal coffee. Gibson’s ‘consensual hallucination’ has been rebranded as cozy domesticity. The dystopia has not been avoided; it has been made comfortable enough to sign up for.
Gibson himself registered the irony. In an interview with Wired magazine in 2012, he acknowledged that the cyberspace of Neuromancer – all corporate interests and information thieves – bore little resemblance to the early internet he failed to anticipate: the 1990s-2000s moment when a teenager in a bedroom could genuinely outcompete corporations, when the network felt briefly open and democratic. Gibson missed that phase entirely. But he was accidentally right about where things ended up. The corporate platforms – Google, Meta, Amazon – that now dominate digital life are far closer to his original vision than to the participatory web that briefly flourished between them. Gibson imagined cyberspace as a space of corporate dominance from the start; Silicon Valley built the open internet first, then converged on his dystopia anyway. The difference is that, in Neuromancer, that convergence was the disaster to be resisted. They turned his warning into a product roadmap.
by Ali Rıza Taşkale, Aeon | Read more:
Image: Amazon
In 2021, when Mark Zuckerberg announced Facebook’s rebrand to ‘Meta’, he took the name from Neal Stephenson’s novel Snow Crash (1992), which imagines the ‘Metaverse’: a virtual reality where people’s avatars navigate digital space.
But Snow Crash is one of the sharpest satirical novels of the past half-century. Stephenson wrote it as a warning: his Metaverse is a consolation prize for a society that has collapsed. The federal government has disintegrated; corporate franchises govern daily life; even pizza delivery has been privatised into a Mafia-run operation. The novel’s protagonist is a pizza deliveryman and part-time hacker whose sword-fighting avatar in the virtual world is the only place where dignity is available to him. Stephenson intended the contrast between digital glamour and material poverty to be horrifying. He saw it as a cautionary vision of where platform capitalism leads.
Zuckerberg’s presentation did not engage with any of this. The platform economy – where corporations are protected from democratic accountability while providing essential services – echoes Stephenson’s model precisely, and Zuckerberg read it as inspiration.
Steve Wozniak, Apple’s co-founder, gave expression to this ethos in 2017 when he said: ‘We are the people who make fantasies real.’ It sounds inspiring, but it is important to know which parts of those fantasies they’re choosing, and which parts they’re leaving out. When Musk unveiled Tesla’s Cybertruck in 2019, he had already told investors what to expect: something ‘really futuristic, like cyberpunk Blade Runner’. Musk was selling survival gear for a collapsing world, a version of Blade Runner’s Los Angeles. The aesthetics got materialised. The warnings did not. [...]
Science fiction in the 1950s imagined flying cars, abundant energy and more – but it did so before Three Mile Island, before Chernobyl, before we learned, often through disaster, what happens when you prioritise speed over safety. Those regulatory frameworks Andreessen wants to demolish emerged from hard-won lessons. The optimistic aesthetic gets borrowed; the learning gets discarded.
Perhaps nowhere is this more legible than in the naming of Palantir Technologies. J R R Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings (1937-49) is one of the great works of 20th-century literature precisely because it is an extended meditation on the corrupting nature of power. Written in the shadow of industrialised warfare and imperial extraction, it insists on the value of the small, the local and the unglamorous against the totalising ambition of industrial force. Its central moral is not that evil can be defeated by the right hero wielding the right weapon – it is that power itself corrupts, that the Ring cannot be used for good by anyone, and that the only salvation lies in relinquishing the will to dominate entirely. Tolkien’s fictional race of hobbits prevail not because they are powerful but because they are outside the logic of power. Tolkien built an entire mythology to make that argument.
In Tolkien’s novels, the palantíri are seeing-stones or crystal balls that allow their users to see across great distances. They sound like neutral tools, like surveillance technology. But they are devices of corruption: Saruman’s palantír connects him to Sauron and leads to his downfall; Denethor’s drives him to madness and suicide. The palantíri don’t just enable seeing – they enable manipulation and control by those who master them.
The US company Palantir Technologies provides analytics and surveillance tools to governments, militaries and ICE, US immigration and customs enforcement. Its name does political work: it transforms invasive tracking into mystical insight, casting algorithmic surveillance as wise foresight rather than systematic intrusion. In their book The Technological Republic (2025), Palantir’s CEO Alexander Karp and his legal counsel Nicholas Zamiska frame Palantir’s government work in martial terms: ‘We will find a way to build coalitions and bands of warriors. To deny the human need for such affiliation has been a mistake.’ They position surveillance tools as fulfilling a fundamental human need for warrior brotherhood. The Tolkien reference provides the aesthetic authority; the distance from Tolkien’s actual moral vision provides the freedom to act without it. Naming a surveillance company after devices that corrupt and betray their users isn’t homage – it is the appropriation of aesthetic while rejecting the moral core.
William Gibson’s novel Neuromancer (1984) introduced ‘cyberspace’, a term Gibson coined. Its protagonist, Case, is a hacker whose nervous system was damaged by former employers as punishment. Burned out and banned from cyberspace, he drifts through neon-soaked Chiba City as a ‘console cowboy’ with nowhere left to go. The novel’s cyberspace is owned and controlled by vast corporations; individual hackers are not heroes but tools, hired and discarded by interests they can barely see. Gibson’s vision was explicitly dystopian: a world in which the democratising potential of digital networks had been foreclosed before it could begin, captured by capital and turned into an instrument of its own expansion.
In September 1988, the software developer John Walker wrote an Autodesk internal white paper, ‘Through the Looking Glass: Beyond “User Interfaces”’, in which he outlined what he called a ‘cyberpunk initiative’: a proposal to build, within 12 months, a doorway into cyberspace. The project’s motto was blunt: ‘Reality isn’t enough any more.’
By 2025, the San Francisco headquarters of OpenAI pump high-energy electronic dance music across their reception area, where easy chairs, scatter cushions and Swiss cheese plants create what the CEO Sam Altman calls a ‘comfortable country house’ rather than a ‘corporate sci-fi castle’. The chrome and grime of cyberpunk – the neon-soaked warning that the corporate capture of digital space would be brutal and dehumanising – has been replaced by Scandinavian furniture and artisanal coffee. Gibson’s ‘consensual hallucination’ has been rebranded as cozy domesticity. The dystopia has not been avoided; it has been made comfortable enough to sign up for.
Gibson himself registered the irony. In an interview with Wired magazine in 2012, he acknowledged that the cyberspace of Neuromancer – all corporate interests and information thieves – bore little resemblance to the early internet he failed to anticipate: the 1990s-2000s moment when a teenager in a bedroom could genuinely outcompete corporations, when the network felt briefly open and democratic. Gibson missed that phase entirely. But he was accidentally right about where things ended up. The corporate platforms – Google, Meta, Amazon – that now dominate digital life are far closer to his original vision than to the participatory web that briefly flourished between them. Gibson imagined cyberspace as a space of corporate dominance from the start; Silicon Valley built the open internet first, then converged on his dystopia anyway. The difference is that, in Neuromancer, that convergence was the disaster to be resisted. They turned his warning into a product roadmap.
by Ali Rıza Taşkale, Aeon | Read more:
Image: Amazon
Paradise Revisited
The Galápagos Islands owe their place on rich travelers’ bucket lists to the vision of them as an unfallen Eden, touted as “the laboratory of evolution” that inspired Charles Darwin to write On the Origin of Species. When he visited, humans’ presence here was limited to whalers, buccaneers, and political prisoners. Today, more than 300,000 people visit the archipelago each year. Every tourist desperate to see an untouched paradise is part of a constant influx that risks despoiling the very thing they came to see.
On his arrival, in 1835, Darwin marveled at the lack of fear shown by all the animals, thanks to their limited exposure to humans. “Met an immense Turpin: took little notice of me,” he wrote in his field notebook about encountering a tortoise on September 21. Perhaps the poor turpin should have been more wary: By October 12, Darwin was recording that he had been “eating Tortoise meat / By the way delicious in Soup.” Soon he was trying to ride them. “I frequently got on their backs,” he wrote in the published version of his diaries, “and then giving a few raps on the hinder part of their shells, they would rise up and walk away;—but I found it very difficult to keep my balance.”
On these parched islands, the tortoises were prized for their ability to slurp moisture from prickly pear cacti, and to drink enough at the rare springs to sustain them for months on end. Thirst-racked sailors would catch and kill them purely for the contents of their bladders. “In one I saw killed, the fluid was quite limpid, and had only a very slightly bitter taste,” wrote Darwin, having sportingly chugged some tortoise urine for science.
Today, none of this is allowed. El Chato Ranch, which I visited in the pouring rain, permits selfies with its resident tortoises but absolutely no touching, eating, or disemboweling. Most of the Galápagos have been designated by Ecuador as a national park, with a $200 entrance fee—up from $100 just two years ago—and a strict injunction to stay six feet away from the animals. The archipelago is also home to the flightless cormorant, whose former wings are now stumpy nubs; a species of batfish that looks like it is wearing bright-red lipstick; and the marine iguana, which ejects excess salt from its body by sneezing. (Catch a big group at the right moment and they can go off like the cannons in the 1812 Overture.) These animals all exist in the Galápagos and nowhere else.
The usual story of Darwin’s visit is that he cataloged the small differences that had emerged in animals across the islands—discrepancies in the beaks of the finches being a prime example—as each species responded to the unique conditions. In a flash of insight, he understood the mechanism of evolution: survival of the fittest. The truth is more complicated, and more interesting. His ship, the H.M.S. Beagle, spent only five weeks here, and Darwin landed on just four of the 13 major islands. At first, he did not recognize the importance of the variation among the islands, and did not label many of his bird specimens with their precise origins. The greatest study of what we now call “Darwin’s finches” was done by a British couple, Peter and Rosemary Grant, who visited the same uninhabited island, Daphne Major, every year from 1973 to 2013.
Darwin also didn’t notice the numerous subspecies of giant tortoise until the vice governor called attention to their variety and declared “that he could with certainty tell from which island any one was brought,” the naturalist wrote in his field notebook. Tortoises on Hood and Charles Islands, for instance, had evolved shells that were curved upward at the front like a saddle, allowing their necks to reach higher vegetation. Oh, and Darwin didn’t even coin the phrase survival of the fittest. That came from one of the early reviewers of Origin, Herbert Spencer. Darwin liked it so much that he incorporated it into later editions.
The mythology of blinding-inspiration-in-paradise is so appealing that it has outcompeted the truth. The actual story—the one that drove me here—is that Darwin was above all an empiricist. He took nothing on trust. He wanted to see things for himself, measure them, catalog them, and perhaps even eat them, and he was willing to endure any combination of boredom, nausea, and danger to do so. He was an omnivore, as interested in geology as biology when he toured South America, and his most famous theory drew on economics as well. He had an ego, definitely, but he was also open-minded and curious; he wanted to understand nature, not just plunder it like so many colonial explorers. (In later life, he supported animal charities and called for vivisection to be regulated.) He was willing to push back against editors, too, such as the one who suggested that he should reframe Origin to focus only on pigeons, because “everybody is interested in pigeons.”
All of that should make him any writer’s hero.
The British first named the individual islands in the 1600s—Charles Island after King Charles II, James Island (where Darwin spent most of his time) after the King’s brother, and so on—although most guidebooks now use the official Spanish names. Today Ecuador treats the Galápagos as precious jewels for both noble and commercial reasons. To enter, you need to complete a biosecurity declaration, promising not to introduce any plants or animals that could rampage through this delicate ecosystem. There are no international flights into the archipelago. For me, the two-hour flight to the territory’s main airport, on Baltra Island, came at the end of a tiring slog from London to Miami, and then on to Quito, the high-altitude Ecuadoran capital, where the thin air gave me a headache the instant I stepped off the plane.
I consoled myself on the long journey by reading accounts of Darwin’s five years on the Beagle, which were marked by seasickness so intense that he traveled overland by horse whenever he could, catching up with the ship farther along its journey. “I hate every wave of the ocean, with a fervor, which you, who have only seen the green waters of the shore, can never understand,” he wrote to his cousin William. His captain, Robert FitzRoy, recorded that Darwin was “a martyr to confinement and sea-sickness when under way.”
One of the great mysteries of Darwin’s life is how he made such a success of his five years at sea, which came between a directionless youth and an adulthood blighted by anxiety and illness. When he left England, at age 22, he was a dilettante who had washed out of medical school and was wavering about becoming a parson. His main interaction with birds and mammals was shooting them. He returned from his sea voyage a more serious and ambitious man, but one plagued for the rest of his life by vomiting, palpitations, “extreme spasmodic daily & nightly flatulence,” and vague, shifting symptoms of mental distress. He installed a lavatory behind a screen in his study at Down House, in Kent, so that he could void himself from either end as necessary and quickly return to work.
During his half decade on the Beagle, though, Darwin worked steadily, sending crates of specimens home on passing ships, and he endured the loneliness and ennui of the voyage with remarkable fortitude. Time at sea was notoriously hard on sailors’ mental health; the Beagle’s previous captain, Pringle Stokes, had killed himself during the bleak southern winter. (The weather was so dreary, he wrote in June 1828, that “the soul of man dies in him.” A month later, he put a gun to his head in his cabin.) FitzRoy took over as captain soon after, and decided that on his second Beagle voyage, he would take a gentleman companion to jolly him along. He and Darwin ate meals together and talked about current affairs, tiptoeing around their different political backgrounds (FitzRoy was a Tory; Darwin was from a Whig family) and intensity of religious belief (FitzRoy was a creationist; Darwin, even then, was a doubter). He gave Darwin the affectionate nickname Philos, for “natural philosopher.”
In addition to seasickness, Darwin had to brave an equatorial climate far removed from the English Midlands, where he (and I) grew up. The midday sun is directly overhead, and on the youngest islands, which have little soil and therefore little vegetation, there is no shade to hide in. “Nothing could be less inviting than the first appearance,” he wrote on landing at Chatham Island (now San Cristóbal, the seat of government). “The dry and parched surface, being heated by the noonday sun, gave to the air a close and sultry feeling, like that from a stove: we fancied even that the bushes smelt unpleasantly.” And this was in September, the cooler of the two seasons! I had come during the first half of the year, the hotter rainy season, when the seas are warm, the air temperature is about 80 degrees Fahrenheit, and the humidity wilts you like spinach.
On the first full day, crossing a scorching beach on the way back from seeing the marine iguanas at Tortuga Bay, I began to suffer from some sort of humidity-induced delirium, despite unfurling a legionnaire’s hat over my neck and shoulders. I distinctly remember thinking at one point that I had to “lock in,” the kind of extreme-sports jargon that my fully operational mind would disdain. After I had arrived safely at the hotel and rehydrated aggressively, I was amazed once again that Britons managed to explore and conquer so much of the globe, despite our manifest maladaptation to anything other than mild drizzle. That we did so before the advent of wicking fabrics, bug spray, and SPF 50 is even more implausible; I felt as ill-prepared for the climate as Captain Scott did when he relied on ponies rather than sled dogs in Antarctica, or the equally doomed Burke and Wills expedition, which took 20 tons of equipment, including a Chinese gong, into the Australian outback.
Unfortunately, what drove some of those early explorers was an unfounded (and occasionally fatal) sense of racial superiority: Europeans knew best. On FitzRoy’s previous Beagle voyage, in 1830, a whisper of this attitude crept into the ship’s scientific mission to map the South American coastline. At the southernmost tip of the continent, Tierra del Fuego, FitzRoy effectively kidnapped four Indigenous people as revenge for the theft of one of his boats. He gave them allegedly English names—York Minster, Jemmy Button, Fuegia Basket, and Boat Memory—and took them back to England. (The birth names of the first three were Elleparu, Orundellico, and Yokcushlu; Boat Memory’s name has been lost.) The idea was that they would be “civilized” and returned, accompanied by a missionary, to convert their benighted fellow Fuegians to Christianity.
In fact, the missionary bailed after experiencing a few days of harsh Fuegian life, and the Fuegians quickly reverted to their ancestral ways. “Captain Fitz Roy could never ascertain that the Fuegians have any distinct belief in a future life,” Darwin observed in his diaries. To the average Victorian gentleman, this was proof enough that they were “savages.” I wonder, though, if the assertion gnawed at Darwin, given that his research was already drawing him away from religious faith. “Science has nothing to do with Christ; except in so far as the habit of scientific research makes a man cautious in admitting evidence,” he would write to a friend toward the end of his life, adding: “As for a future life, every man must judge for himself between conflicting vague probabilities.” [...]
Today, Darwin is known as the great heretic, the man whose work shocked the Victorian establishment and undermined the Church. But the exact heresy he committed is not well understood. He was not the first person to suggest that species evolve—in fact, his own grandfather Erasmus had suggested that all warm-blooded animals might have arisen from “one living filament” in his 1794 book, Zoonomia. Darwin was also not the first person to notice that the boundaries between species were more fluid than the Swedish taxonomist Carl Linnaeus had acknowledged. (The Comte de Buffon, a French biologist, had done so at the time.) And he was far from the first Victorian intellectual to question the spurious biblical chronology suggesting that the Earth was created on Sunday, October 23, 4004 B.C.E. He didn’t even come up with the idea of selection pressures, per se—he got that from an economist, Thomas Malthus, who suggested that human populations tended to outgrow their available food sources and suffer famines as a result.
No, what offended some of Darwin’s early readers was that his vision of the universe counted humans as just another animal, rather than God’s special creation. Accepting evolution meant having “an ape for a grandfather,” as one observer put it. From the start, Darwin understood the political and religious implications of this, and he knew that advancing the notion publicly would make him a controversial figure. His own wife, Emma, was a devout Christian; some of his friends and colleagues were too.
After returning from the Galápagos, he spent more than two decades noodling in his “transmutation notebooks” without having the courage to expose his ideas, and his evidence, to universal scrutiny. In 1844, he wrote to his friend Joseph Hooker: “At last gleams of light have come, & I am almost convinced (quite contrary to opinion I started with) that species are not (it is like confessing a murder) immutable.” It is like confessing a murder. Another decade-plus passed before he was driven into print by the unwelcome discovery that another scientist, Alfred Russel Wallace, had independently arrived at the same conclusion.
The publication of Origin, in 1859, gave everyone in Victorian polite society the opportunity to have an argument that had been brewing for many years. Soon after its release, Darwin’s critics and defenders clashed in a public debate that pitted the fierce Darwinian Thomas Henry Huxley against the bishop of Oxford and the former Captain FitzRoy, who preferred to believe that the fossils they had seen together in Patagonia had been deposited there by the biblical flood. (Darwin was too anxious and flatulent to attend himself.)
On these parched islands, the tortoises were prized for their ability to slurp moisture from prickly pear cacti, and to drink enough at the rare springs to sustain them for months on end. Thirst-racked sailors would catch and kill them purely for the contents of their bladders. “In one I saw killed, the fluid was quite limpid, and had only a very slightly bitter taste,” wrote Darwin, having sportingly chugged some tortoise urine for science.
Today, none of this is allowed. El Chato Ranch, which I visited in the pouring rain, permits selfies with its resident tortoises but absolutely no touching, eating, or disemboweling. Most of the Galápagos have been designated by Ecuador as a national park, with a $200 entrance fee—up from $100 just two years ago—and a strict injunction to stay six feet away from the animals. The archipelago is also home to the flightless cormorant, whose former wings are now stumpy nubs; a species of batfish that looks like it is wearing bright-red lipstick; and the marine iguana, which ejects excess salt from its body by sneezing. (Catch a big group at the right moment and they can go off like the cannons in the 1812 Overture.) These animals all exist in the Galápagos and nowhere else.
The usual story of Darwin’s visit is that he cataloged the small differences that had emerged in animals across the islands—discrepancies in the beaks of the finches being a prime example—as each species responded to the unique conditions. In a flash of insight, he understood the mechanism of evolution: survival of the fittest. The truth is more complicated, and more interesting. His ship, the H.M.S. Beagle, spent only five weeks here, and Darwin landed on just four of the 13 major islands. At first, he did not recognize the importance of the variation among the islands, and did not label many of his bird specimens with their precise origins. The greatest study of what we now call “Darwin’s finches” was done by a British couple, Peter and Rosemary Grant, who visited the same uninhabited island, Daphne Major, every year from 1973 to 2013.
Darwin also didn’t notice the numerous subspecies of giant tortoise until the vice governor called attention to their variety and declared “that he could with certainty tell from which island any one was brought,” the naturalist wrote in his field notebook. Tortoises on Hood and Charles Islands, for instance, had evolved shells that were curved upward at the front like a saddle, allowing their necks to reach higher vegetation. Oh, and Darwin didn’t even coin the phrase survival of the fittest. That came from one of the early reviewers of Origin, Herbert Spencer. Darwin liked it so much that he incorporated it into later editions.
The mythology of blinding-inspiration-in-paradise is so appealing that it has outcompeted the truth. The actual story—the one that drove me here—is that Darwin was above all an empiricist. He took nothing on trust. He wanted to see things for himself, measure them, catalog them, and perhaps even eat them, and he was willing to endure any combination of boredom, nausea, and danger to do so. He was an omnivore, as interested in geology as biology when he toured South America, and his most famous theory drew on economics as well. He had an ego, definitely, but he was also open-minded and curious; he wanted to understand nature, not just plunder it like so many colonial explorers. (In later life, he supported animal charities and called for vivisection to be regulated.) He was willing to push back against editors, too, such as the one who suggested that he should reframe Origin to focus only on pigeons, because “everybody is interested in pigeons.”
All of that should make him any writer’s hero.
The British first named the individual islands in the 1600s—Charles Island after King Charles II, James Island (where Darwin spent most of his time) after the King’s brother, and so on—although most guidebooks now use the official Spanish names. Today Ecuador treats the Galápagos as precious jewels for both noble and commercial reasons. To enter, you need to complete a biosecurity declaration, promising not to introduce any plants or animals that could rampage through this delicate ecosystem. There are no international flights into the archipelago. For me, the two-hour flight to the territory’s main airport, on Baltra Island, came at the end of a tiring slog from London to Miami, and then on to Quito, the high-altitude Ecuadoran capital, where the thin air gave me a headache the instant I stepped off the plane.
I consoled myself on the long journey by reading accounts of Darwin’s five years on the Beagle, which were marked by seasickness so intense that he traveled overland by horse whenever he could, catching up with the ship farther along its journey. “I hate every wave of the ocean, with a fervor, which you, who have only seen the green waters of the shore, can never understand,” he wrote to his cousin William. His captain, Robert FitzRoy, recorded that Darwin was “a martyr to confinement and sea-sickness when under way.”
One of the great mysteries of Darwin’s life is how he made such a success of his five years at sea, which came between a directionless youth and an adulthood blighted by anxiety and illness. When he left England, at age 22, he was a dilettante who had washed out of medical school and was wavering about becoming a parson. His main interaction with birds and mammals was shooting them. He returned from his sea voyage a more serious and ambitious man, but one plagued for the rest of his life by vomiting, palpitations, “extreme spasmodic daily & nightly flatulence,” and vague, shifting symptoms of mental distress. He installed a lavatory behind a screen in his study at Down House, in Kent, so that he could void himself from either end as necessary and quickly return to work.
During his half decade on the Beagle, though, Darwin worked steadily, sending crates of specimens home on passing ships, and he endured the loneliness and ennui of the voyage with remarkable fortitude. Time at sea was notoriously hard on sailors’ mental health; the Beagle’s previous captain, Pringle Stokes, had killed himself during the bleak southern winter. (The weather was so dreary, he wrote in June 1828, that “the soul of man dies in him.” A month later, he put a gun to his head in his cabin.) FitzRoy took over as captain soon after, and decided that on his second Beagle voyage, he would take a gentleman companion to jolly him along. He and Darwin ate meals together and talked about current affairs, tiptoeing around their different political backgrounds (FitzRoy was a Tory; Darwin was from a Whig family) and intensity of religious belief (FitzRoy was a creationist; Darwin, even then, was a doubter). He gave Darwin the affectionate nickname Philos, for “natural philosopher.”
In addition to seasickness, Darwin had to brave an equatorial climate far removed from the English Midlands, where he (and I) grew up. The midday sun is directly overhead, and on the youngest islands, which have little soil and therefore little vegetation, there is no shade to hide in. “Nothing could be less inviting than the first appearance,” he wrote on landing at Chatham Island (now San Cristóbal, the seat of government). “The dry and parched surface, being heated by the noonday sun, gave to the air a close and sultry feeling, like that from a stove: we fancied even that the bushes smelt unpleasantly.” And this was in September, the cooler of the two seasons! I had come during the first half of the year, the hotter rainy season, when the seas are warm, the air temperature is about 80 degrees Fahrenheit, and the humidity wilts you like spinach.
On the first full day, crossing a scorching beach on the way back from seeing the marine iguanas at Tortuga Bay, I began to suffer from some sort of humidity-induced delirium, despite unfurling a legionnaire’s hat over my neck and shoulders. I distinctly remember thinking at one point that I had to “lock in,” the kind of extreme-sports jargon that my fully operational mind would disdain. After I had arrived safely at the hotel and rehydrated aggressively, I was amazed once again that Britons managed to explore and conquer so much of the globe, despite our manifest maladaptation to anything other than mild drizzle. That we did so before the advent of wicking fabrics, bug spray, and SPF 50 is even more implausible; I felt as ill-prepared for the climate as Captain Scott did when he relied on ponies rather than sled dogs in Antarctica, or the equally doomed Burke and Wills expedition, which took 20 tons of equipment, including a Chinese gong, into the Australian outback.
Unfortunately, what drove some of those early explorers was an unfounded (and occasionally fatal) sense of racial superiority: Europeans knew best. On FitzRoy’s previous Beagle voyage, in 1830, a whisper of this attitude crept into the ship’s scientific mission to map the South American coastline. At the southernmost tip of the continent, Tierra del Fuego, FitzRoy effectively kidnapped four Indigenous people as revenge for the theft of one of his boats. He gave them allegedly English names—York Minster, Jemmy Button, Fuegia Basket, and Boat Memory—and took them back to England. (The birth names of the first three were Elleparu, Orundellico, and Yokcushlu; Boat Memory’s name has been lost.) The idea was that they would be “civilized” and returned, accompanied by a missionary, to convert their benighted fellow Fuegians to Christianity.
In fact, the missionary bailed after experiencing a few days of harsh Fuegian life, and the Fuegians quickly reverted to their ancestral ways. “Captain Fitz Roy could never ascertain that the Fuegians have any distinct belief in a future life,” Darwin observed in his diaries. To the average Victorian gentleman, this was proof enough that they were “savages.” I wonder, though, if the assertion gnawed at Darwin, given that his research was already drawing him away from religious faith. “Science has nothing to do with Christ; except in so far as the habit of scientific research makes a man cautious in admitting evidence,” he would write to a friend toward the end of his life, adding: “As for a future life, every man must judge for himself between conflicting vague probabilities.” [...]
Today, Darwin is known as the great heretic, the man whose work shocked the Victorian establishment and undermined the Church. But the exact heresy he committed is not well understood. He was not the first person to suggest that species evolve—in fact, his own grandfather Erasmus had suggested that all warm-blooded animals might have arisen from “one living filament” in his 1794 book, Zoonomia. Darwin was also not the first person to notice that the boundaries between species were more fluid than the Swedish taxonomist Carl Linnaeus had acknowledged. (The Comte de Buffon, a French biologist, had done so at the time.) And he was far from the first Victorian intellectual to question the spurious biblical chronology suggesting that the Earth was created on Sunday, October 23, 4004 B.C.E. He didn’t even come up with the idea of selection pressures, per se—he got that from an economist, Thomas Malthus, who suggested that human populations tended to outgrow their available food sources and suffer famines as a result.
No, what offended some of Darwin’s early readers was that his vision of the universe counted humans as just another animal, rather than God’s special creation. Accepting evolution meant having “an ape for a grandfather,” as one observer put it. From the start, Darwin understood the political and religious implications of this, and he knew that advancing the notion publicly would make him a controversial figure. His own wife, Emma, was a devout Christian; some of his friends and colleagues were too.
After returning from the Galápagos, he spent more than two decades noodling in his “transmutation notebooks” without having the courage to expose his ideas, and his evidence, to universal scrutiny. In 1844, he wrote to his friend Joseph Hooker: “At last gleams of light have come, & I am almost convinced (quite contrary to opinion I started with) that species are not (it is like confessing a murder) immutable.” It is like confessing a murder. Another decade-plus passed before he was driven into print by the unwelcome discovery that another scientist, Alfred Russel Wallace, had independently arrived at the same conclusion.
The publication of Origin, in 1859, gave everyone in Victorian polite society the opportunity to have an argument that had been brewing for many years. Soon after its release, Darwin’s critics and defenders clashed in a public debate that pitted the fierce Darwinian Thomas Henry Huxley against the bishop of Oxford and the former Captain FitzRoy, who preferred to believe that the fossils they had seen together in Patagonia had been deposited there by the biblical flood. (Darwin was too anxious and flatulent to attend himself.)
by Helen Lewis, The Atlantic | Read more:
Image: Will Matsuda for The Atlantic
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