The nomad's paradise. An eternal landscape supporting the cosmos. Formed by the countless rogue planets and generation ships that slammed into the surface. It is speculated the universe stopped expanding at this plane or the geography was piled on top of an alien barrier older than the universe itself.

Those who survived the crashes repaired their ships, and made way to their home worlds. Others scrapped their vessels and built outposts, cities, and homesteads. A few on the fringes broke into a burgeoning recreational vehicle market.

The Floor of the Universe seems to defy the traditional trappings of living on a planet. The wind blows at the same speed as though you were lounging in the desert. The horizon stretches for unknown kilometers obscured only by the haze of that life giving combination of oxygen and nitrogen. 

It's the distant horizon which entices some away from the safety and order of the cities. The temptation to pack everything into a beat up home on wheels and document the intact wrecks of starships and other worlds is too good to pass up.