Rio de Janeiro, 1966. A hill called Morro do Vintém. Two men in suits and raincoats, lying side by side on on a hill. No wounds. No struggle. Just… still. And over their eyes? Hand-cut lead masks. Not helmets. Not radiation gear. Just slabs of metal shielding their eyes. In their pockets: receipts for raincoats, a bar tab for one bottle of mineral water, a little cash. Nearby: two towels. A notebook with a single line in it: “18:30—ingest capsules. After effect—protect metals. Await signal—mask.” Who wrote it? And what “signal” were they waiting for—God? A UFO?

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