They called it a rocket.
It’s like calling the Pietà a “funny rock.” A tiny intergalactic vessel, traveling so close to lightspeed that its contents aged only months–seeking out intelligent life, landing without harming a baby–that’s no rocket. That’s a miracle.
Enfield knows it was the journey, not the destination. That much time at relativity’s edge will change anybody, in ways that have nothing to do with a yellow sun.
Enfield is no genius, no Jor-El. But he’s got the pieces. He’s got to believe. He’s got a chance to make his baby boy a man of tomorrow.