All the children of Pluto sit cross-legged on elaborately woven carpets of horsehair and liquid argon. They are stringing beads: hydrogen, oxygen, hydrogen, repeat. Once upon a time, water was made here, on Earth, until the hands of our children became too large and clumsy to handle the molecules; then Mars, then Saturn, and so on. Now only the children of Pluto have fingers small enough, delicate enough to thread the precious molecules. Our agents report they are reasonably well fed, reasonably satisfied, reasonably happy. They work through the short Pluto day and into the short Pluto night, which don’t differ much, the long, cold Pluto year.