Tony quietly slipped into the farthest row of audience seats, which was usually empty. Everyone else scrambled to sit closer to the front, hoping to catch the camera’s eye during filming so they could brag about it later to family and friends. But Tony didn’t care about that. He settled into a soft chair, tossed his backpack beside him, and pulled out a chocolate bar, rustling the wrapper as he opened it. An older lady sitting in front of him, with a stern face that reminded him of a schoolteacher, glanced back at him a few times but didn’t say a word.
In front of them, on a small stage with a video screen as a backdrop, were a few plush armchairs and a glass coffee table adorned with an elaborate floral arrangement. In one of the chairs sat Tony’s mom, dressed in a striking red suit. Her chestnut hair was slicked back into a neat bun, and stylish glasses perched on her nose. Tony knew those glasses were just for show—plain lenses, not prescription. She didn’t wear them in everyday life, but her stylists had insisted they added a touch of gravitas to her image as a TV host. Without them, along with the strict hairstyle and heavy makeup, she looked too young. Serious analytical show hosts had to meet certain appearance standards, after all.
Right now, Polly Peterson was chatting with a bald, heavyset man in a business suit who looked a lot like their school principal. In a dull monotone, occasionally glancing at his tablet, he droned on about the prospects of mining resources on Mars.
“Copper, iron, tungsten, rhenium, uranium, gold…” the man mumbled.
Tony’s mind wandered, picturing a massive excavator tearing into the red Martian soil and unearthing giant gold ingots. He got so caught up in the daydream that he missed the moment when his mom’s guest finished speaking and let out a relieved sigh, dabbing his forehead with a tissue.
His mom flashed a warm smile at the camera and announced in a clear, bright voice, “And now, please welcome our next guest—senior researcher at the Prosperity Scientific Institute and head of the ‘Terra-2’ project, Eric Peterson!”
The audience, prompted by an assistant director standing off to the side of the stage, erupted into enthusiastic applause. Tony clapped too. After all, it was his dad taking part in the show now!
From a door near the stage, a young, blond man in a gray suit emerged. He paused for a moment, flashed a wide grin at the crowd, waved, and then headed to the chair waiting for him.
The audience watched the pair with rapt attention, hanging on every word and gesture. It wasn’t every day you got to see a TV star wife interview her own husband.
Polly, though, didn’t seem fazed by the situation at all. She dove right in.
“Hello, Mr. Peterson! Congratulations on your recent promotion!”
“Oh, thank you so much!” Eric replied, adopting a mock-formal tone with a playful edge. “Could you remind me what today’s topic is? My secretary, as usual, got everything mixed up and only told me about this broadcast at the last minute…”
The audience chuckled.
“Today’s show is dedicated to the thirtieth anniversary of the founding of the first permanent colony on Mars,” Polly explained. “Our guests have already discussed the first two missions, which unfortunately failed, and how the third attempt finally succeeded in establishing a city here. We’ve also covered the prospects for industry, agriculture, and resource extraction on our planet. But as I understand it, implementing these ideas is still quite challenging since most of Mars’ surface remains uninhabitable for humans. Prosperity and the small surrounding area are currently under a dome that creates comfortable living conditions. However, covering the entire planet with a dome isn’t feasible, so scientists are exploring other ways to accelerate colonization. And it seems your ‘Terra’ project is all about that?”
“Oh, you’re spot on as always,” Eric said seriously. “The team I lead is working on solving several critical challenges. Once we overcome them, we’ll finally be able to get rid of this dome that, let’s be honest, everyone’s a little tired of…”
The audience clapped again. Tony sat quietly. He liked the dome—it was beautiful—and the idea of getting rid of it didn’t sit well with him.
“So, we’ve got a few pressing issues to tackle,” his dad continued as slides illustrating his points appeared on the video screen behind him. “Among them is increasing atmospheric pressure to a level where water can remain liquid on the planet’s open surface. That’s impossible without raising the temperature, since it’s usually pretty chilly here. We also need to create an ozone layer analog to shield us from harmful UV radiation, and after that, develop the planet’s own biosphere. And let’s not forget restoring a full-fledged magnetic field—without it, the atmosphere simply won’t stick around near the planet.”
“The last challenge is nearly solved—we’ve created a magnetic shield to protect Mars from ‘solar wind’ and help rapidly restore its atmosphere. The shield is positioned between Mars and the Sun at what’s called a Lagrange point, and it’s essentially a giant dipole, a closed electrical circuit with a very strong current.”
“We’re also working on creating an ozone layer similar to Earth’s. For this, we’ve launched special artificial satellites into orbit around the planet. These satellites can collect and focus sunlight using specialized mirrors. Did any of you play with sunbeams as kids, reflecting light with a mirror?” he asked the audience.
They nodded eagerly, some shouting, “Yes!” Tony nodded too, wishing his dad would look his way.
“Well, that’s the principle behind our satellite,” Eric went on. “It focuses sunlight with lenses and directs it to Mars’ poles. The ice there melts and evaporates, creating greenhouse gases. So, we’re killing two birds with one stone—building an atmosphere to protect us from cosmic radiation and raising the surface temperature. Because minus sixty degrees isn’t exactly beach weather, right?”
The audience laughed and clapped again.
“Under these conditions, we can raise temperatures at the equator to a range comfortable for Earth-like conditions—between fifty and eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit,” Eric summarized. “Though, according to scientists’ estimates, it could take anywhere from a hundred to five hundred years for the air to become breathable without oxygen masks. But we’re working to speed up that timeline. For instance, we’re aggressively colonizing the surface soil with archaebacteria and extremophiles—tiny organisms that, on Earth, can survive in incredibly harsh conditions, hence their name. They live on mountaintops with thin air, in deep caves without sunlight, even in the scorching vents of volcanoes. So, here on Mars, they’ll adapt just fine. These little workers start producing greenhouse gases and oxygen. Next, I believe, we’ll move on to full-fledged plants. Soon, instead of today’s deserts, we might see lush forests and gardens. Heck, tourists from Earth might start flocking to Martian resorts for vacation!”
“That’s fascinating,” Polly nodded, listening to something the show’s director was saying through her earpiece. “And now, perhaps one of our guests would like to ask Mr. Peterson a question?”
Right away, a thin, wiry man sitting in a nearby chair raised his hand. Tony didn’t know who he was—he’d missed the guy’s segment.
“Mr. Peterson, if I may ask an indelicate question—how old are you?” the man asked in a grating voice that Tony instantly disliked.
“Twenty-nine,” Eric replied with a smile.
“Doesn’t anyone find it odd that someone so young has been appointed to lead such a critical project?” the skinny man pressed, nervously smoothing his thinning dark hair as if gearing up for a fight. “Weren’t there more qualified candidates of a more… seasoned age, with real, tangible contributions to science? I’m afraid, Mr. Peterson, that someone must have pulled some serious strings for you. Perhaps you have influential relatives back on Earth, hmm?”
The audience perked up. They loved these spicy debates that occasionally flared up in the studio. Everyone was curious to see how the young, ambitious scientist would respond to such a heavy accusation.
“Well, regarding my age, Mr. Lacroy,” Eric countered calmly, “I think it’s no secret that most of our colonists are around my age or just a bit older. Mission leadership deemed it impractical to send people nearing retirement to Mars. We needed individuals in good health with strong mental resilience. That’s why potential colonists were so rigorously screened before departure—countless applicants were rejected. Today, the average age of Martians is about thirty-five, so distinguished figures like yourself are more the exception than the rule…”
His opponent turned red and fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. It was no secret to the show’s directors that Professor Lacroy had been the top contender for the position Eric now held. After much deliberation, the institute’s leadership opted for the younger, less “decorated” specialist. Knowing this, the show’s organizers had deliberately pitted the two rivals against each other to spark a little on-air drama.
“As for favoritism,” Eric continued unflinchingly, “I can assure you I have no influential relatives. My father works at a waste recycling plant on Earth, and my mother at a poultry farm. I grew up in a poor Class ‘C’ neighborhood, so getting into university and later joining the Martian mission—I can only call it a stroke of luck. Fortunately, here in our mini-society, class divisions don’t exist. And from what I hear, even on Earth, that experiment is close to collapsing. A few years ago, for instance, they completely abolished status rankings. Now, there’s serious talk in parliament about allowing people to buy their way into higher social classes with money…”
“Mr. Peterson,” the director’s voice cut in through the speakers, “let’s not stray from the topic at hand…”
“Well, I’ve said my piece,” Eric said, spreading his hands. “Unless Mr. Lacroy has any more questions…”
Tony wasn’t interested in their debate and secretly pulled a small video phone from his pocket, starting to record everything with the vain hope of showing off to his friends at school tomorrow. But almost immediately, John, the dark-skinned security guard who kept a close eye on the audience, hurried over.
“Sparky, what are you doing?” he whispered. “You know filming isn’t allowed here. Delete that video right now!”
“I’m not gonna post it anywhere,” Tony whined. “I’ll just show Mike and Rudy, then delete it, I swear…”
“No, erase it now, while I’m watching,” John insisted.
Tony reluctantly complied, though he was pretty annoyed about it.
Meanwhile, the show was wrapping up.
“Perhaps now, Mr. Peterson, you’d like to ask someone in the audience a question?” Polly turned to her husband.
Eric gave her a sly wink. “I’d like to ask you, Mrs. Peterson, what’s for dinner tonight? I’m starving…”
The audience applauded again, music started playing, and everyone stood up, creating the usual chaos that erupted when people got tired of sitting still for so long and pretending to be better versions of themselves.
Seizing the moment, Tony darted out of his corner and ran up to his parents, who were waiting for sound assistants to unclip the microphones from their clothes.
“Hey, kiddo, you’re here too?” Eric said, surprised, as he turned on his video phone to check missed calls and messages.
“Where else would he be? He’s always hanging around here,” Polly smirked. “Listen, let’s grab dinner at the pizzeria. I’m exhausted and don’t feel like cooking…”
“Yes, yes, pizza!” Tony cheered, hopping on one foot.
“Whatever you say, hon,” Eric shrugged, and the three of them headed for the studio exit.