We are at war with Carthage again, you say? I am old, so the war does not concern me, except that I hope it will remain distant and food will be on our tables. You tell me soon you will set sail to Tartessos to burn it. Your leaving does concern me. I hope you will return, alive and sound of limb. Your father was my friend and I see much of your father in you.
On the outer edge of the universe, beyond the fly zone from the centre, all alone and in private, Rover had established his experiment. He sat in a large cocoon shaped chair, suspended in a translucent bubble, many kilometres above the island, overlooking its rampant growth. It was where he went to meditate. Every now and again words would whisper from his lips in broken sentences as he argued with himself and reasoned his next move. It had been many years since he had completed his civilisation. It had been more than satisfactory. Not only was it aesthetically exceptional, but it was also self-sustaining. He adored the architecture, which was wholly unique and utterly surprising. It adhered to organic principles of design, yet was obviously man made and purposeful. He looked upon his works and they were good.
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