Tsiolkovsky Station
Civilian Deck
"Main Street"
An almost eerie calm had settled over the Civilian Deck of Tsiolkovsky Station. The activities of the evening had for the most part yet to commence. But they surely would. The only thing of particular note to be seen was a pudgy, middle-aged man strolled casually across the Promenade, his feet echoing hollowly across the corridor. He passed 'Town Square'- a glorified rest area with a fountain, some benches, and a few old-fashioned analog clocks telling the local time at various locations. New York City on Earth, Eos Central on Mars, and a few others. The man noted the local time as he passed, just a few minutes shy of seven. He began walking a little faster.
The man was Dan O'Brien, in case you were wondering. And he was the proprietor of the Asimov Lounge, the greatest (and only) proper saloon on station. Admittedly, the Asteroid Hotel had a bar as well, but it was rather too fanciful- not to mention expensive- for the typical visitor. The Asimov's clientele cut a clean slice across several social classes, but the better part of it was made up of roughneck miners and mercenaries.
But that was neither here nor there. The Asimov Lounge was about due to open, and it couldn't very well do that without its bartender. Not to mention its proprietor and sole employee- all of whom were O'Brien himself.
He came finally to a large door, a sign over which read 'The Asimov Lounge,' and in smaller letter beneath, 'Est. 2391.' The barman passed his ID card in front of the scanner attached to the door, unlocking it. Stepping in and flipping on the lights, he beheld his favorite sight in the Galaxy.
The Asimov was a fairly large place, with a large, old style wooden bar making a loop toward the center of taproom. The walls, which were designed to mimic ancient Earth brickwork, were decorated with all manner of curios and artifacts. Here a 'real' deckplate from the UTS Sartre, there some historical mining tools, et cetera. Beyond the bar itself were clusters of tables and chairs, capable of seating a sizable crowd. A few doors to one side led to a storage room, a unisex lavatory, and to a couple of private rooms respectively.
And in the farther corner from the door, near the viewports (which offered a stunning starscape, by the way) were the pride of the establishment: A jukebox and an honest-to-God real pool table with actual balls. Most such things operated by means of a complex holographic projector, but not this one.
O'Brien took a few seconds, as was his custom, to proudly survey his domain before beginning to prepare for what would surely be an exciting evening.
Oh yes, it would be a fine evening indeed.
Civilian Deck
"Main Street"
An almost eerie calm had settled over the Civilian Deck of Tsiolkovsky Station. The activities of the evening had for the most part yet to commence. But they surely would. The only thing of particular note to be seen was a pudgy, middle-aged man strolled casually across the Promenade, his feet echoing hollowly across the corridor. He passed 'Town Square'- a glorified rest area with a fountain, some benches, and a few old-fashioned analog clocks telling the local time at various locations. New York City on Earth, Eos Central on Mars, and a few others. The man noted the local time as he passed, just a few minutes shy of seven. He began walking a little faster.
The man was Dan O'Brien, in case you were wondering. And he was the proprietor of the Asimov Lounge, the greatest (and only) proper saloon on station. Admittedly, the Asteroid Hotel had a bar as well, but it was rather too fanciful- not to mention expensive- for the typical visitor. The Asimov's clientele cut a clean slice across several social classes, but the better part of it was made up of roughneck miners and mercenaries.
But that was neither here nor there. The Asimov Lounge was about due to open, and it couldn't very well do that without its bartender. Not to mention its proprietor and sole employee- all of whom were O'Brien himself.
He came finally to a large door, a sign over which read 'The Asimov Lounge,' and in smaller letter beneath, 'Est. 2391.' The barman passed his ID card in front of the scanner attached to the door, unlocking it. Stepping in and flipping on the lights, he beheld his favorite sight in the Galaxy.
The Asimov was a fairly large place, with a large, old style wooden bar making a loop toward the center of taproom. The walls, which were designed to mimic ancient Earth brickwork, were decorated with all manner of curios and artifacts. Here a 'real' deckplate from the UTS Sartre, there some historical mining tools, et cetera. Beyond the bar itself were clusters of tables and chairs, capable of seating a sizable crowd. A few doors to one side led to a storage room, a unisex lavatory, and to a couple of private rooms respectively.
And in the farther corner from the door, near the viewports (which offered a stunning starscape, by the way) were the pride of the establishment: A jukebox and an honest-to-God real pool table with actual balls. Most such things operated by means of a complex holographic projector, but not this one.
O'Brien took a few seconds, as was his custom, to proudly survey his domain before beginning to prepare for what would surely be an exciting evening.
Oh yes, it would be a fine evening indeed.