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atmosphere.
    Dad stood and stretched. “Flip a coin to see who goes out there?”
    â€œNope,” Rawling said. He pointed at me. “Here’s where you get to see how good your son is.”

    â€œRun through the checklist,” Rawling told me as he tightened straps across my legs to hold me to the bed. If I moved, the connection between the antenna plug in my spine and the computer receiver on the other side of the platform deck could be broken.
    â€œFirst,” I said, “no robot contact with any electrical sources. Ever.” Because my spinal nerves were attached to the antenna plug, any electrical current going into or through the robot could seriously damage the neurons of my brain. It had happened once—a slight shock—and I’d been out for 6 minutes and 10 seconds.
    â€œCheck.” We did this every time. Rawling insisted on it. He said on Earth, airline pilots did the same thing before every flight because safety was so important.
    Rawling pulled the straps down across my stomach and chest as I continued. “Second, I disengage instantly at the first warning of any damage to the robot’s computer drive.” My brain circuits worked so closely with the computer circuits during the linkup that harm to the computer could spill over and harm my brain.
    â€œCheck.” Rawling strapped my head into position.
    â€œHow does he disengage?” Dad asked. This was the first time he’d actually seen me at work, though he had unstrapped me once when Rawling was called away. Dad knew the theory behind it, but whenever I’d gone on practice runs, he’d been unable to get away from his own work.
    â€œI shout Stop! in my mind,” I said. “Sounds strange, but that’s all it takes. My brain controls the virtual-reality no differently than it controls my hand muscles or arm muscles.”
    There’s a short, dark rod, hardly thicker than a needle, wedged directly into my spinal column at the bottom of my neck, just above the top of my shoulder blades. From that rod, thousands of tiny biological implants—they look like hairs—stick out of the end of the needle into the middle of my spinal column. Each of the fibers, which have grown into my nerves, has a core that transmits tiny impulses of electricity, allowing my brain to control a robot’s computer.
    This was part of the long-term plan to develop Mars: to use robots to explore the planet. Humans need oxygen, water, and heat to survive on the surface. Robots don’t. But robots can’t think like humans. From all my years of training with a computer simulation program, my mind knows the muscle moves it takes to handle the virtual-reality controls. Handling the robot is no different, except instead of actually moving my muscles, I imagine I’m moving the muscles. My brain then sends the proper nerve impulses to the robot, and it moves the way I make the robot move in the virtual-reality computer program.
    I admit, it is cool. Almost worth being in a wheelchair. After all, the experimental operation is what caused my legs to be useless.
    â€œAny last questions?” Rawling asked me. “We’ll communicate by radio, and I’ll direct you on the technical aspects of fixing the tire.”
    â€œNo questions,” I said.
    Rawling placed a blindfold over my eyes.
    In the darkness that now covered me, I spoke to my dad. “Don’t worry. I like this. A lot.”
    Bruce, the robot, was a freedom that made up for having legs that don’t work. No one else could wander the planet like I could.
    â€œHeadset?” Rawling asked.
    â€œHeadset,” I confirmed.
    He placed a soundproof headset on my ears. The fewer distractions to reach my brain in my real body, the better.
    It was dark and silent while I waited. I knew Rawling needed to make some computer entries. The antenna plug in my back transmitted and received signals on an invisible X-ray frequency to