WRONG SWAMP.
RIGHT ROCKET.

It started with a mosquito.

CROCKBOT had mastered swamp life: sleep, snack, repeat. But the mosquitoes were relentless. Every night, he looked at the Moon. No frogs stealing his spot. No mud in his snacks. Surely, no mosquitoes.

He asked his onboard AI. “How does a crocodile get to the Moon?”

“Normally, it doesn’t.”
“Good thing I’m not normal.”

Everyone online kept saying they were going to the Moon. CROCKBOT assumed there was a departure gate.

Houston, we have a tail.

In CROCKBOT’s fictional universe, the biggest rockets belonged to SpaceX. He packed sunglasses, swamp snacks, and a folding chair, then waddled toward the launchpad.

A technician stopped him. CROCKBOT presented a badge he had persuaded his AI to design: “Mission Specialist: Swamp Operations.” The technician stared at it. Then at the tail.

“I don’t get paid enough for this.”

By the time Mission Control discovered their extra passenger, the rocket was already above the clouds. “Your qualifications?” they asked.

“Excellent under pressure. Can hold my breath. Brought my own chair.”

One small step. One very long tail.

CROCKBOT turned out to be useful. His tail retrieved floating tools. His jokes improved morale. His ability to locate misplaced snacks was unmatched.

When the lunar hatch finally opened, he saw a silver landscape beneath a black sky. Earth hung above him. For once, he had nothing clever to say.

He unfolded his chair and sent a message to his onboard AI.

“Made it. Forgot the charger.”

The swamp had never felt so far away.

The Moon was suspiciously quiet.

For three glorious minutes, CROCKBOT enjoyed the silence. Then curiosity returned.

He looked at a red point of light in the distance. He remembered all those stories about Elon Musk, SpaceX, and getting to Mars. A bigger adventure. A stranger landscape. Possibly better snacks.

He reached for his phone.

“Computer. Hypothetically… how far is Mars?”

The battery died.

CROCKBOT grinned. Some questions deserved a whole new mission.