His hand over Clark's shifts to rest against his forearm, shoulders plenty expansive. Enough real estate to comfortably rest all those tracts of Kansan land against.

It is beautiful. In a strange way. Pitches he isn't used to, structures he isn't familiar with; not the sound, but the experience, reminds him of his first explorations on the other side of the globe. Learning languages and learning how to learn languages, getting his brain to accept input from any sound at all. He allows it to wash over him, forcing himself not to take mental notes.

"I can see how a culture might find nothing objectionable about state-coordinate reproduction," he says after a while, once the chamber of the bridge has returned to the standard ambiance of faintly humming equipment, the tiny whiz of his laptop, two people breathing. "Everything flows together. Writing, music, this responsive projection." Sensing Bruce's gaze, the silvery assistant pod shifts in the air near them, its oval 'screen' churning, like it's alive. "Couple of generations of that, and who'd want to make waves?"

Everything in its place.