TerranTechnocrat

You step past the threshold of differential pressure and humidity into the greenery of the gardens. It all throngs out as vines and shoots, condensing into choking underbrush, cut by paths of artificial paneling left barely navigable by the low maintenance of gardeners. Tiny animals startle you, flitting to and fro over the air, through the leaves, and beneath the sub-ceiling canopy. Moisture droplets form and condense, falling on your skin, adding however intangibly to the continual pattering around as you contemplate each cautious step. The low purr of organic noise and streamers of shifting natural light that periodically streams down through tinted windows assail your senses, while the dampness feels like it threatens to fuse your suit-cloth to your epidermis. You decide that you don't like the humidity. Stamped to the far wall of the first green chamber, visible in clear machined type kept free of moss or overhangs, you see one of the gardeners' typical sayings: "To tend to and