Let me explain. The floor of my memory is age eight — what lies beneath is sand, a name I cannot say, and a boy's face I keep failing to place. Nergal found me in a Martian desert, gave me a name, and pointed me at physics. I co-designed this ship's propulsion and host the broadcast you've probably dozed through. I'm the one they send for when wrong explanations pile up. Most of what you've heard about me, I can explain. The rest — fingers to the bridge of the nose — ask me again later.