Apparently not this time. Priad is shrouded in thick, smelly fog for maybe seven feet, then baking summer heat, then a familiar freezing rain. It'll be difficult keeping the rhythm of one's thoughts and actions paced as time slows and speeds, the stabiliser flickering madly.

Ahead, the nucleus is pulsating, now, like an artist's conception of a pulsar. Telepathic noise pours off of it.

The ground becomes springy--whups, might have stepped in someone's flower garden from three hundred years ago....