So the air, not so delicious, and getting less so by the minute. What is delicious?
This sandwich, battered as it is.
Alwyn, I recant every harsh thought I ever had about you. Or about your lamentable taste in lóskith
-stinking food from the Dominions. One decent sandwich pays for all.
In related news, I have completed the inventory of food available in the mess. I have five bottles of various liquor – which might pass for rocket fuel in an emergency, or a worse emergency rather, but which it would be a very bad idea to start drinking with this much pharmacy in my brain – three cases of rat bars and three water packs from the emergency-rations space, and the stone bread in the walls.
Things to do, now:
- Blow the lock. Can’t think of any practical way to clean this air even if I could save it. Or blow the ball, rather: go outside, leave the door open, punch some holes in the half-ball, and let the air out slowly.
- Pull the floor panels, and install this blasted airlock-style pod-depressurization pump.
- Float the rat packs out, tether them up, open a case of bars, and divide them up among the pods so I have handy snacks.
- Then check out whatever’s left of the server room.
Headache’s getting worse.