When my youngest son, Martin, chased gap-toothed girls through a dusty schoolyard, he carried a tiny Star Trek shuttlecraft in the front pocket of his jeans. “Vroooooooooom! Ba-ba-ba-ba-bing! Bing!” The shuttlecraft — torpedos armed and ready — made the noise of a boy’s pursed lips. It flew graceful arcs, one hand over head, around body, swooped …