Cometbook Studio•Capítulo 1: Ricardo
I never set foot on Earth, yet I’m a pioneer of
the technology that makes interplanetary
travel possible. My name is Ricardo Oliveira,
one of the first human beings born on Mars.
Much as I would have liked to be the very first
Martian, the honor—much to my chagrin—
went to my cousin Daniel. I arrived two months
later, on June 23, 2044 (7 Hydra, mir 231).
In our early years, the Sun was a completely foreign idea. The colony lived
in underground tunnels where we were shielded from solar radiation and
a brutally hostile climate. That was our universe: a subsoil lattice of
galleries carved into Martian ground by machines, each more powerful
than the last. Everything was manufactured; to us children, every
marvelous thing and gadget we revered came from Earth.
My childhood swung between school, games, and the knowledge our
parents imparted about that wondrous world called Earth. Those family
gatherings were the most anticipated moments. We children waited,
breathless, for stories accompanied by holograms and soundscapes of
Earth’s beautiful places—teeming flora and fauna, people with different
skin tones and colorful cultures—interwoven with the tumultuous
history of the decline that had befallen our beloved Mother Earth.
Only now, after so many years, can I appreciate the psychological skill and
seriousness with which my parents, our teachers, and the other adults
carried out the Martian Educational Plan. It revealed Earth’s paradise
gradually, so we wouldn’t fall into despair or frustration about the hostile
environment we lived in. They were expert in Martian Cognitive
Andragogy (MCA), a method in Emotional Education for Human
Development designed by Izabel Ferreira—who would later become my
mother-in-law and who, along with my parents, belonged to the “Great
Brazilian Colony.”
As the wonders of Earth were unveiled, our excitement was immediately
redirected into expectation. Martian parents knew how to fill our hearts
with bright illusions, because before leaving Earth they themselves had
trained in Emotional Education and specialized in the MCA methodology.
Everyone did it well, but I still believe my parents were the best at
convincing us, effortlessly, that we were special. In their words, we were
the chosen ones—those born on Mars to fulfill the glorious mission of
making the Red Planet the most beautiful place in the Solar System. I lived
in that dream constantly, imagining awards at school for inventions I had
made, classmates applauding and chanting my name. Because when a
parent tells a child he’s special, he believes it.
October 3, 2054 (61 years before the Ultimatum)
Sol 11, Grus, mir 236, Martian calendar
I remember 2054 vividly. A date etched in all our memories: the day the
true Martian transformation began.
That day, an innovative acrylic plant was inaugurated, an event I
experienced with my inseparable partner in adventure, Fátima, two
months younger than me, with whom I shared not only school but also
my favorite pastime: exploring the tunnels and discovering every
treasure that came from Earth.
As children, we couldn’t grasp what that factory would mean for our lives;
yet the electricity in the air —the adults’ anxious faces as they waited for
the machines to start— kept us on edge.
The plant’s feedstock came straight from the Martian atmosphere:
roughly 95% carbon dioxide (CO₂), 3% nitrogen, and 1.6% argon, with
trace amounts of oxygen, water, and methane. Using the Sabatier
reaction, hydrogen combined with carbon dioxide at high temperatures
(300–400 °C) to produce methane and water. Methane served as a
versatile fuel for both rockets and internal combustion engines and had
been used since the colony’s earliest days.
The real revolution was extracting ethylene from CO₂. In large pools,
electrolysis separated ethylene at the cathode and released oxygen gas at
the anode. Then, harmonizing these feedstocks via the BASF process, we
obtained methyl methacrylate (MMA), which was polymerized to
produce acrylic.
I will never forget the commotion when the first acrylic sheets slid from
the extruders. The scientists—usually so stern—couldn’t contain their
joy. Fátima and I stared, wide-eyed and grinning, and then got swept up
in the celebration, jumping and pumping our arms to the chant: “Acry-
late! Acry-late! Acry-late!”
Acrylic sheets produced on Mars were an indescribable achievement:
they rivaled optical glass in clarity yet absorbed harmful ultraviolet (UV)
radiation.
Which meant transparent geodesic domes had become a real possibility.
We didn’t understand it then, but something enormous was about to
happen…
December 17, 2054 (61 years before the Ultimatum)
Sol 01, Phoenix, mir 237
The best day in any Martian child’s year is the inaugural dawn of the new
mir—impatiently awaited because that is when we celebrate Christmas.
That mir I was ten Earth-years old and, like everyone else, I looked
forward to the community celebration. That year, it would be held in an
unusual place: around an airlock at the end of a tunnel in the south
complex, right by our school.
In a sudden move, several adults began opening the airlock, letting a soft
glow seep through the door. A chorus of murmurs swelled; fear seized
everyone in an instant. From the corner of my eye I saw some of my
friends bolt in terror. I stood petrified, mute with dread. The same with
Fátima. What was happening was inconceivable: airlocks must always,
always, always be sealed.
Mars has an extremely thin atmosphere, with a surface pressure around
0.6 kPa—vastly less than Earth’s 101.3 kPa at sea level. Average
temperatures hover around –53 °C, falling in the polar regions to –153 °C,
well below the freezing point of dry ice (CO₂) at –78.51 °C.
Those stark figures are among the first things a Martian child learns;
opening an airlock quite literally means death within two minutes.
Dizzy, I shut my eyes. I felt Fátima squeeze my hand; I squeezed back.
Decompression was imminent—we were going to die. And then, an
unexpected turn: Izabel, Fátima’s mother and our teacher, gave us a
gentle tap on the shoulder. When we opened our eyes, we saw her
gesturing for us to follow.
We were dumbfounded. Our teacher stepped through the airlock
threshold, inviting us to do the same. Frozen with fright, we hesitated;
but seeing other parents heading there, we started moving—helped
along by the crowd pressing forward. We were seconds from being
swallowed by the unknown, unable to stop it. It was indescribable; the
only sound I could hear was my heart pounding like mad.
And then, in that rush, the most beautiful, unimaginable vision revealed
itself: the first dome built on Mars, beneath which our parents had
assembled a fantastic playground with colorful swings, little paths and
benches, and a lovingly chosen collection of edible plants. Like Earth—
only more beautiful, I thought.
It was incredible. Sunlight flowed through the acrylic, unveiling the
surrounding desert and the pink Martian sky which, for us, had existed
only in the gradually revealed images the adults allowed and, of course,
in my imagination.
“What a Christmas present!” I shouted, leaping.
Caught between the urge to run and to cry, I wavered. Fátima—braver
than me as always—seized the moment and became the first to try the
swings. What a moment. We had the time of our lives, even though Mars’s
weaker gravity makes the feeling of weightlessness at the top of the arc—
the butterflies—much milder.
But we had no point of comparison; to us, that swing set was the most
incredible device on Mars. Without a doubt, the happiest Christmas of my
life.
September 19, 2058 (57 years before the Ultimatum)
Sol 24, Tucana, mir 238
By mir 238 I was the equivalent of fourteen Earth-years old. Another
landmark: my father, who already considered me a little man, invited me
on my first commercial mission—to Saint Maroun, a city on the rim of the
mighty Hellas caldera. Two months across the Martian desert.
Since childhood I knew that, after Brazil, other countries had funded no-
return expeditions to Mars. The United States, Russia, and Japan
restricted themselves to small scientific outposts with no intention of
permanent colonies. Reasons differed from country to country, but from
the start one thing was crystal clear: if we were to survive, collaboration
was the only rule.
As my father liked to say: “Earth is generous and forgives almost all
mistakes; that’s why people struggle with responsibility. In space, a
mistake can cost you your life—cooperation is indispensable.”
Saint Maroun, our destination, was founded by Syrian Christians, mainly
from Damascus and Aleppo, seeking refuge from persecution by the
Muslim majority. They hired the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan to
build three colonial ships, each with capacity for 500 settlers.
Saint Maroun specialized in two areas: power generation and textiles.
They built large industrial complexes for solar panels and the planet’s
first nuclear reactors, and even experimented with wind power to
harness Martian breezes. They also cultivated cotton, hemp, jute, and
sisal, weaving colorful fabrics and carpets.
Back home in Nova Recife, we specialized in producing organic and
inorganic chemicals from atmospheric elements and industrial crops—
oil palm, sugarcane, Senegal acacia, and even rubber trees.
On this trip we carried industrial palm oil—feedstock for all manner of
soaps, cosmetics, and heavy-machinery lubricants—as well as acrylic
sheets and other chemicals to barter for solar panels and textiles.
As we advanced through the majestic Martian landscape, the city took
shape ahead of us. Contrary to my preconceptions, Saint Maroun was not
a sprawl of surface greenhouses with underground dwellings. I found
myself before an astonishing sight. My surprise must have been written
on my face, because my father smiled, pleased.
In the distance, a colossal cube crowned by a majestic dome rose at the
center, surrounded by smaller earth-toned domes scattered in
harmonious balance. The buildings recalled those I’d seen in Earth
photographs, and the spectacle seized my senses.
At the heart stood the Cathedral of Saint Maroun, inspired by Our Lady of
the Assumption in Aleppo. Its imposing dome reached for the Martian
sky, complemented by broad stained-glass windows that bathed the
interior in kaleidoscopic light. The design extended to Damascus-style
houses arranged around central courtyards with fountains and flowers.
These damascened homes placed the reception and guest rooms on the
ground floor, while living rooms and bedrooms occupied the second.
Anchored firmly to the ground, the structures had thick walls of regolith
and Martian cement. Interiors were lit by narrow acrylic windows casting
a gentle glow across meticulously designed spaces. Acrylic roofs covered
inner courtyards, creating a charming interplay of light and shadow.
A network of tunnels connected the structures, giving the city a pleasing
sense of unity. But the most captivating moment came when my father
and I stepped into Raqqa’s Epicurean Oasis and were greeted by the
aroma of spices.
The air was saturated with cumin, coriander, and hints of exotic herbs—
an olfactory harmony that awakened my curiosity. The chef, Pathros, a
jovial Damascene with a plush mustache and generous belly, passionate
about avant-garde cuisine, insisted we try his signature dish: kibbeh
made with cricket flour, locally called Crickey.
Behind the kitchen’s clear screen, Pathros deftly combined cricket flour
with bulgur, onion, and a chorus of aromatics. The paste took the shape
of small oval patties that sizzled to a tempting golden brown, exuding an
earthy fragrance. Plated neatly on a bed of fresh herbs, they were served
with a side of pomegranate-tahini sauce. The aromas beckoned.
Hesitant but curious, I took the first bite. The crisp outer layer gave way
to a soft, tender crumb—an extraordinary contrast of textures. The
Crickey’s gentle nutmeg-like notes fused with the herbs and
pomegranate; its sweetness and creaminess flooded my palate—and my
senses—with a flavor I will never forget.
January 7, 2068 (48 years before the Ultimatum)
Sol 18, Pegasus, mir 243
I was in the penultimate triad of my PhD, the equivalent of twenty-three
Earth-years. Early that morning I was first to arrive at the Physics
Department lab at the Martian South Pole University (MSPU) in New
Shenzhen. I had a series of experiments scheduled on the hadron collider.
My friend Fátima—always near—studied astrophysics in the same
university; I heard her arrive later, since her lab was at the end of my
corridor.
I began by confining particles and making them collide using electric and
magnetic fields. A normal day—just a bit of “play.” While tuning one of
the fields, the lab seismograph twitched. I noticed. On Mars, as on Earth,
a seismograph captures quake magnitude and epicenter—but this was a
faint blip. Nothing to fear.
I carried on, and after a while it twitched again—this time with a strange
coincidence. I repeated the sequence: at a particular field setting and
frequency, the seismograph seemed to “respond.” It was as if a remote
effect echoed my manipulations—highly improbable. I spent the rest of
the day trying to decipher it.
“Fátima!” I burst into her lab. “Not in your wildest dreams could you guess
what happened today. I was doing field-tuning runs in the collider and
the seismograph started oscillating.”
Without lifting her gaze:
“And…?”
“Want a hint?”
“Go on.”
“Wilhelm Conrad Röntgen.”
She froze mid-page—eyes still fixed on the hologram—then focused.
“Röntgen?”
“Yes,” I said, grinning.
Her eyes widened. Röntgen (1845–1923) was the eminent Earth
physicist who, among many contributions, discovered X-rays, earning the
1901 Nobel Prize in Physics.
So if I invoked Röntgen, it had to be about X-rays—and, more precisely,
about how they were discovered: a finding that arose while he was trying
to prove something else.
Working with cathode-ray tubes, Röntgen noticed by chance that a test
sheet coated with a light-sensitive fluorescent chemical—barium
platinocyanide—was glowing. Tube and paper belonged to different
experiments. He noted the coincidence and investigated further, even
shrouding the tubes in cloth, only to see the glow persist. He conjectured
that when cathode rays struck the anode, they produced an invisible,
unknown radiation (X) that could act at a distance on the chemical.
Röntgen had revealed a previously unknown phenomenon—X-rays—
now recognized as part of the electromagnetic spectrum, where the
photon is the carrier. If the photon is the elementary particle in X-rays,
then in my lab… what particle was producing the invisible force making
the seismograph oscillate?
“Go on,” she said.
“Let’s say—hypothetically—that today I spent hours confirming that
when muons 1 and gluons 2 interact with a resonant electromagnetic
system under specific conditions, it becomes possible to generate a
gravitational field…”
“Are you sure it wasn’t random interference?”
“That’s what I thought at first. But the oscillations got consistent as I
refined the fields. Six hours of checks—no lunch,” I said, buzzing with
confidence.
Ideas flooded her mind.
“What do you mean, a gravitational field?” she asked, swiveling to face
me.
She wasn’t a particle-physics specialist, but everyone knows gravity both
attracts objects and keeps them in place. If a body moves—say, due to a
quake—its gravitational field, by necessity, shifts a little. In other words,
beyond its intended readings, the seismograph might inadvertently be
registering a gravitational perturbation. If so, then the graviton in my
experiment would be to gravity what the photon is to
electromagnetism—the hypothetical quantum carrier of gravitational
interaction.
“Are you serious? No one’s ever seen a graviton; no one knows how
gravity works at the quantum level, let alone how to manipulate it.
Ricardo, if you’re wrong, you’ll be the laughingstock of the galaxy for the
rest of your Martian life…”
“I’m very sure, Fátima.”
“Back to Röntgen. You’re telling me the hadron collider is equivalent to
the cathode-ray tubes, and the seismograph is analogous to the
fluorescent chemicals; and while Röntgen got fluorescence, you got
oscillation.”
“Exactly.”
1 Muons are similar to electrons but have a mass more than 207 times
greater. A muon is a fundamental particle, meaning it isn’t made of smaller
pieces of matter.
2 Gluons are the messenger particles of the strong nuclear force, which
binds subatomic particles called quarks inside the protons and neutrons of
stable matter. Quarks interact by emitting and absorbing gluons, just as
electrically charged particles interact by emitting and absorbing photons.
Fátima leapt from her chair. We both started riffing, talking over each
other, until we heard the same sentence in unison: “This will
revolutionize particle physics!”
Silence. Face to face, breathing hard, elated. We began to jump; my hands,
somehow, were on her shoulders. Her eyes had never shone brighter. The
intellectual connection with her was intoxicating…
“Don’t you think your high-energy physics and my astrophysics could be
the perfect combination to uncover the mysteries of those mischievous
gravitons?”
The mischief in her eyes filled the room. Maybe she meant it; maybe not.
I never knew whether I should kiss her in moments like this. Judging by
her (usual) reaction, a kiss wasn’t in her immediate plans.
“We need to dig deeper,” she declared. “No more time to waste.” The
emotion shook off; scientist mode engaged.
Good grief—no one less sentimental than Fátima. She knew she was
beautiful and desirable and, at a distance now, I can see how she loved to
flirt—but never maliciously.
“From now on, teamwork, friend. Let’s collaborate.”
And truly, the matter demanded it. For Martians, it wasn’t trivial. Mars’s
lower gravity accelerates human growth, producing individuals with an
average height over two meters. Our bones and muscles are thinner,
adapted to Martian gravity, which prevents those raised on Mars from
traveling to Earth.
That was my obsession—my reason for being. I studied particle physics
to acquire the knowledge to manipulate gravity. How? I had no idea. But
from the moment quantum physics crossed my path in secondary school,
I knew it was the way. I was focused. I had identified the mission my
father spoke of when I was little:
“Remember, Ricardo: with the discoveries you’ll make when you’re
grown, you’ll help Martians visit Mother Earth.”
He’d hold my face in his hands and, looking into my eyes, say: “First we’ll
discover what makes you happiest; when we do, we’ll know the work
through which you’ll fulfill your mission. Do you understand, son?” I
always said yes—how could I not, under the magnetism and spell he cast
whenever he made me feel useful and valuable?
To manipulate gravity would be incredible. Cells register the most
obvious changes when exposed to different gravitational environments.
They convert external mechanical signals (gravity) into intracellular
biochemical ones, affecting shape, size, and function—ultimately
manifesting as changes in tissues, organs, systems, or even whole
organisms.
On Earth, bones bear more weight and become denser. On the Moon or
Mars, they bear less, tend to be longer and less dense, and biomechanics
adapt—bones and muscles recalibrate movement. That’s why Earthlings
walk so clumsily on the Moon or Mars. It’s also why Lunarians grow much
taller and thinner, and why Lunarians and Martians cannot set foot on
Earth: their organs and tissues could not withstand Earth’s gravity.
Gravity affects plants and animals too. On Mars, lettuce heads can reach
a meter, sweet-corn plants up to six meters, with 60 cm ears and kernels
over 2 cm. Bullfrogs, a favorite protein source in the colonies, can grow
over half a meter, with mass exceeding two kilograms on Earth.
Subsequent experiments were complex but exhilarating. Like Röntgen, I
had to design equipment, run proof-of-concepts, build models, and
experiment to the limit. Fátima and my advisor, Professor Zhang Wei,
stood by me. We had to show gravity could be manipulated—and at last
we obtained stable results.
The paper from our findings was published in the Journal of High Energy
Physics, quickly becoming a citation classic.
April 26, 2068 (48 years before the Ultimatum)
Sol 13, Dorado, mir 244
Fátima and I graduated with honors. I felt elated, not for the awards and
scientific recognition—which came quickly and in number—but because
I felt I was fulfilling my mission: opening new possibilities for a fuller,
healthier life on Mars. I was doing good.
In those days, my father’s words, spoken whenever I faltered, took on
extraordinary force: “If you can dream it, you can make it, son. Don’t
stop—onward, Ricardo…”
Everyone bet Fátima and I would end up married—and it wasn’t crazy.
We couldn’t remember life without each other. She had been a perfect
companion and a steadying presence through the storms—my PhD
among them. We were inseparable, and I won’t deny the thrill of
developing my mind alongside hers sometimes unsettled me—Fátima
was a very attractive Martian. But the truth is that, since childhood, I had
always been in love with Lourdes—silently.
I liked her from the start. I’ll never forget the first day I saw her as an
adolescent; a bolt of lightning ran through us both. Love at first—or
second—sight; who can say? I’d known her forever. But that was the day
I saw her as a woman, and she saw me the same way. From then on our
destinies were sealed—only we were both distracted by convention. She
saw me so happy with Fátima; I thought Lourdes was far too much
woman for me. My mother, always watchful, would never have let me
make a mistake.
“Son, the one thing you cannot get wrong in life is love. Look at your father
and me—always sweethearts, because we complete each other.”
And the day came. Not the day of love—but the day of clarity.
Over the years I had settled into the comfort of my excellent relationship
with Fátima, blinding myself to anything beyond. In that respect, Earth
men and Martian men are very much alike: when a woman complements
a man intellectually, she becomes a powerful magnet.
But harmony in a couple requires more than intellectual compatibility.
Fátima made that clear one night, surrounded by the hum of particle
accelerators, in the middle of one of our scientific debates, when I
blurted—after one of her brilliant conclusions:
“You’re the best!”
“How long?” she replied.
“How long what?”
“How long are you going to stay confused?”
A chill ran down my spine. Though she hadn’t named it, I knew I had
seconds before being found out.
“Since I can remember, every time you mention Lourdes, your face goes
goofy and your voice turns to jelly; no one can understand a word.
Honestly, Ricardo, even trying you couldn’t look more ridiculous…”
I froze. The last time I’d been this petrified was the day the airlock
opened. I shut my mouth. There was no stopping what was coming.
That night I had a long, honest, liberating talk with my dearest friend. It
let me cast off moorings and feel fully. I hugged her as never before—
intense, fraternal, grateful, unique.
“Thank you, Fátima.”
“Thank me? Open your eyes, because if you hurt my little sister, I’ll kill
you.”
We burst into laughter and hugged again. When we pulled apart,
something unexpected happened—and this time there was no doubt. We
kissed.
A small kiss, an innocent kiss, a mischievous kiss—lips barely touching—
the childhood kiss we never gave each other. With it, our adult
relationship finally and forever took its rightful place.
December 22, 2069 (46 years before the Ultimatum)
Sol 17, Tucana, mir 244
The happiest day of my life was the day I married Lourdes. Tall and
slender, chestnut hair, honey-colored eyes—the most beautiful woman
on Mars, and probably on Earth.
Lourdes was gentle and determined; her mission was in education. A
woman of great achievements, but discreet—unlike Fátima, who stirred
everything in the wake of her exuberant hair.
In the Cathedral of Nova Recife, the air filled with anticipation and the
sweet scent of flowers arranged for the occasion. Stained glass washed
the space in a kaleidoscope of color, casting a warm, ethereal glow over
the assembly.
I stood at the altar in a black tuxedo, hair slicked back, a nervous smile on
my lips—more anxious than I’d ever been.
When the cathedral doors opened, a hush fell. The soft strains of
Wagner’s Bridal Chorus rose as Lourdes advanced with grace down the
aisle. Her eyes shone with the moment; her hair fell in soft waves over
bare shoulders, framing her face like a halo.
Martian gravity seemed to amplify the emotion in her heart; each step
resonated with the promise of an incredible life. The intricate details of
her dress moved as she walked, reflecting the windows’ vibrant hues and
creating a mesmerizing interplay of light and shadow.
Her father, brimming with pride, placed her hand in mine. She stood
before me and made a subtle gesture for the bridesmaids to arrange her
train. In place, she lifted her face—and the magic happened: our eyes met,
and in that instant Mars and the rest of the universe vanished, leaving us
encircled by the celestial beauty of love.
That night, in the quiet sanctuary of their small apartment overlooking
the cliffs of Nova Recife, they had discovered each other with shy,
trembling hands. Neither of them had much experience—just instinct,
curiosity, and the deep pull of love. Lourdes had smiled when he fumbled
with the buttons of her dress, guiding his fingers with her own. There was
laughter and tenderness, breathless discovery and blushing delight, their
bodies learning the rhythm of trust as they moved together beneath the
Martian starlight.
Years later, their passion had not faded—it had deepened. Desire
matured into something richer, quieter, yet no less consuming. Now,
when Ricardo undressed her, it was with the reverence of a man opening
a familiar book whose every line still thrilled him. Lourdes, in turn, knew
how to tilt her hips just so, how to press her mouth to his shoulder when
her breath caught. Their lovemaking had become a language—fluent,
poetic, and utterly their own.
July 20, 2071 (44 years before the Ultimatum)
Sol 20, Cygnus, mir 245
A little less than a mir after the wedding, our firstborn Bob arrived, the
true protagonist of the story that concerns us. Seeing Bob, so small and
fragile in his cradle, inspired a profound change. By the unwritten code
of honor among physicists, I committed the worst sin a PhD could commit
I became an engineer. If we could create environments where children
spent at least part of their time under Earth-normal gravity, perhaps my
son could travel to Earth.
For months I thought I’d become a pariah among my peers—but the
feeling faded. I was sure of what I was doing. My mother had said it all my
life: “Educate yourself, Ricardo, but only to fulfill one obligation: be
happy.”
I had the knowledge. I needed to apply it. Without hesitation, I founded
CGMed — Martian Medical Gravity Center, Inc., and with a team of
engineers we designed the Variable Gravity Generator (VGG).
The VGGs became indispensable for creating gravity-enriched
environments in compact spaces—starships or special rooms inside
buildings. Energy consumption was high, but the price was worth it:
thanks to the VGGs, we could literally generate Earth gravity, anywhere
in space.
December 10, 2075 (40 years before the Ultimatum)
Sol 20, Lepus, mir 248
The second most glorious day of my life. Against my own expectations, I
shared honors with Röntgen himself, for on December 10, 2075 (20
Lepus, mir 248), in a ceremony held on the Moon, Fátima, Prof. Wei, and
I were awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics. The leaders of the Royal
Swedish Academy of Sciences traveled to the Moon to present it
personally. Her Majesty Queen Estelle could not attend, but Prince Carl
did—an unparalleled event for Mars.
From the dome of the European City of Lunaria, flanked by the two most
important women in my life—my best friend Fátima and my wife
Lourdes—we contemplated the planet we would never set foot on. For
all its familiarity, Earth seemed distant and intimately braided with the
lunar landscape. Its sphere was unmistakable, the interplay of light and
shadow tracing its curvature.
The polar caps shone intensely, a brilliant counterpoint to the darker
tones of oceans and land.
Bob, barely four, stared in fascination at the beautiful planet floating in
space, while his brother Miguel, just two, was wide-eyed at everything
around him.
“Do you like it?” I asked Bob.
Mesmerized, he watched the oceans glint in shades of blue as they
reflected sunlight, the continents revealing intricate patterns—land,
deserts, forests, mountain chains. Clouds swirled and danced, casting
shifting shadows over the surface.
“I love it. That’s Grandpa’s story-planet, right?”
“Yes, Bob. Grandpa’s story-planet—the planet I will never be able to step
on.”
Sighing, I made Bob a promise: “I will make sure you always have access
to a VGG, so that one day you can set foot on that planet—and tell me
what it’s like.”
Edición 1 • Versión 1 (PUBLISHED)