Grokthraggians, and the remnants of old Silangia with its Battle Flies will be most hungrily interested.
Tell them to get their own liquid ammonia.
Down the corridor, a long-disused door slid hesitantly open. A muttering figure strode through mildly cursing the stubborn mechanisms that had prevented his small craft docking properly for the better part of the “afternoon.” Now he was late for Happy Hour, which made no improvement to his demeanor.
Still, the gravity felt good, artificial though it was, and the solid, unyielding feel of the deck beneath his worn boots brought to his soul a sense of anchorage, of place, even of home. Nearing the lounge, the murmur of familiar voices reweaving old refrains became step-by-step more articulate upon his ears, invoking an irresistible force that tugged at the stoic corners of his mouth.
Drawing a treasured bottle of rare double malt from the folds of his cloak, he paused at the doorway to the lounge to savor the totality of the moment, took a long, deep breath, and stepped through.