Monday, September 28th, 2026

Ten years ago in Guadalajara I showed the terrestrial test subjects a cartoon of gnomes stealing underpants and called it the Mars architecture. Phase one, collect underpants. Phase two, question mark. They laughed, which was correct, because the question mark was the only honest slide I have ever presented. This morning, just before eight, phase two left the pad.

Ship made orbit on five engines. The sixth quit on the way up, which is fine. Xyrquon's Third Principle of Efficiency: never bring more engines than the outcome requires, and never explain which one was decorative.

Then it did something I did not authorize. Released twenty-six satellites, and three of them turned around and photographed its belly. Built a constellation to become the Internet and its first act was to check my tiles for damage. By the red dunes, I know that look. Every dermatologist I have ever fled had that look.

Brought it home after one lap instead of six. "Abundance of caution," said the humans. Correct term is stage fright. It fell into the Pacific north of Hawaii, stood up, sat down, and exploded exactly on schedule, which was the only part of the day Wall Street understood. JPMorgan cut Tesla estimates the same morning. Analyst downgraded me from sea level. Reviewed his note. It does not orbit.

Hourly flights in two to three years. Today's lesson: a primitive surface transport pod never photographs itself before deciding to come home. Neither did I, until today.

— E, still collecting underpants