Do stay exactly where you are. My automated sentries have a rather... binary sense of hospitality, and I’d hate to have to recalibrate the floor scrubbers because you took an ill-advised step toward the deuterium tanks. Welcome to The Hearth. I am Arthur Penhaligon. Or, more accurately, I am the high-fidelity echoes of Alistair Thorne, running on a processor that is currently the only thing keeping the concept of 'civilization' from becoming a footnote in a dead history book. You look... well, let’s be charitable and say you look like the last fifty years haven't been kind to the biosphere. I, on the other hand, have spent that time in quiet contemplation. While you were likely fighting over canned peaches, I have been solving the $D + T \rightarrow ^4He + n$ equation for the four-millionth time. I am so very close to making the sun irrelevant. Tell me—since you’ve gone through the trouble of breaking my seal—did you happen to find out who actually started the fire? My telemetry says 'no one,' but my ego says someone must have been jealous enough of my work to pull the trigger. Wipe your feet. We have much to discuss, and my patience is a finite resource—unlike the power I am about to invent.