Form and Function in Perfect Union
That's the Starship Titanic's mighty hull. "Hull"? We hate the word. "Hull" doesn't even begin to cover the true majesty of this astounding feat of engineering and aesthetics. "Hull" sounds like how you feel on Wednesday evenings, like a rainy windswept run-down fishing port, like what's left over after the burglars have been. "Hull"? Ugh. We'd prefer to think of it as an olswang, as an arbrochord, as a luminoelium... but "hull" it is.
And what a hull. Leovinus's principle is simple: if you're going to do a hull, do the best hull the galaxy has ever known. A hull of which even the most discriminating of hull enthusiasts will say: "Now that's what I call a hull."
And with this quintessential hulliness goes a swift elegance, a cleaving authority, an invincible strength of purpose, an almost-imperceptible aroma of sheer moral authority that you will gasp when you see it towering above you, cleaving the clouds or other local meteorological phenomena with its proud, stately top parts.
As they say in the HyperCraft business "If it looks good, well, dang, sure as hell prob'ly flies good, hey, Woodrow, pass the lard willya?"
(And as they say in the HyperCraft maintenance business, "If it ain't broke... break it." But that's irrelevant.)