"[color=6ecff6]Zane Heron?[/color]"

 The lively beat of music came to an abrupt halt, the chatter of conversation fell silent and, while there was still the occasional sound of a glass shattering, it was met not with laughter but polite, awkward coughing. Those who could not politely cough tried their best to simulate such a sound, or used one of the many small devices on the market that played recordings of various useful sounds for social situations. Somebody, far off in the background, began trying to propose a new toast, but was quickly shushed by another guest who was rather more aware of the mood.

 "[color=6ecff6]Well, that sly old dog, he's getting back into the party game, I mean, [i]sure[/i], permission to land granted. There's a clear spot on Pad 87, I'll light that one up, hold up,[/color]"

 The Quest for Flavour was briefly put on hold. A brief snippet of the instrumental arrangement of the current national anthem of Ofromia, [i]Ofromia, Oh, Ofromia[/i] quietly played. It was an uptempo sort of thing, played by some electronic instrument or other, that was designed to worm it's way into the ear of a listener, wrap itself around their brain and refuse to let go. A new anthem was selected every year, such that the anthem reflected modern tastes, and the Ofromia National Anthem Council made a tidy profit selling "[i]Best Of Ofromian Anthems[/i]" compilation albums.

 One of the landing pads just outside of the city-dome lit up, the number [i]87[/i] having been neatly painted in the centre of it. There was a small buzz of activity going on around it, which could be seen even from this great height, though rather than people bringing things [i]to[/i] the landing area, they seemed to be taking things [i]away[/i] from it.

 The hold music stopped just before the bass was to drop in [i]Ofromia, Oh, Ofromia[/i].

 "[color=6ecff6]Okay, I've pinged Mister Heron's tower, let them know you're here, he'll have one of his cats meet you at eighty seve- [i]sexy cleaner bots?[/i][/color]"

 The people in the Traffic Control tower had tried, ever so hard, to resuscitate the party after it choked on the name of Zane Heron. Life had almost been breathed back into it, the wine was beginning to flow once more, and it looked like something could be salvaged. Then the radio operator said [i]sexy cleaner robots[/i], and the party died again.

 Only to be reborn a scant few seconds later, rising like a brilliant phoenix to the sounds of uproarious laughter. The in-house band, because nearly every business in Ofromia hired the services of one, began to play a jaunty, bawdy improvised tune that would, in the future, be known as the "[i]Sexy Cleaning Robot Neo-Rumba[/i]". Once the roar of laughter had died down to something a little more manageable, the radio operator took a deep breath, gave himself a serious look via his reflection in a nearby glass, and tried to carry on like nothing had happened.

 "[color=6ecff6]Anything else we can help you with today, Quest for Flavour?[/color]"