George hates rain. He doesn't like planet New London very much for that reason, and because of that sour, chemical stench those rashly constructed factories are making since the shift of industry from planet Leeds. Combined, those two would become even worse, due to certain properties the rain would get. George also doesn't have many pleasant feelings towards factory workers. Well, none, to be correct. "Poor, uneducated, simple thugs who don't deserve much more than having their bones deformed of excessive physical labour". It is pretty much all they mean to him, if we disregard that they were one of the causes of the smog. For that, he hates factories themselves more. He doesn't hate what they are producing, nor he likes it, but he really despises if it gets destroyed. It means that the whole process would have repeated.
George was in charge of visiting and, somehow, encouraging a spaceship factory on New London. It was raining. At least the tea wasn't much worse than what they made on the Thunderer. It was a bit cold, but he didn't really pay attention to that. Many other things were troubling him. There was another thing he hated, and that's being forced to reply piddling messages.
His look frowns and gets a shred of unwillingness.
He lifts his eyebrows, but retains the unwillingness.
George sighs. Thunder can be heard striking, obviously not far, by the noise it made. It illuminates the background for a short moment.
He coughs twice, hollowly, quietly.
He gets the look of a man who has spent hours watching at his friend filling two large boards calculating him how much effort he needs to digest a chunk of tuna with vegetables. Not the fancy, expensive one.