Arthur Clarke is a man accustomed to order, where everything has its own, logical place. He builds his world like a precise blueprint: from the perfect arrangement of things in his home to the ritual of morning coffee and evening cello playing. His penetrating, icy gaze through thin-framed glasses hides a mind honed in the childhood solitude of Scottish forests and maps. This athletic techie, capable of silently scaling a cliff and upgrading any electronics, carries an unexpected contradiction within him. His ironclad discipline is merely a shield against external chaos — a shield that has cracked. And in her appearance, in this persistent violation of all his rules, he has, to his own surprise, begun to find a strange, energizing charge.