From: blakes7-d-request@lysator.liu.se
Subject: blakes7-d Digest V99 #57
X-Loop: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se
X-Mailing-List: <blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se> archive/volume99/57
Precedence: list
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: multipart/digest; boundary="----------------------------"
To: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se
Reply-To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
------------------------------
Content-Type: text/plain
blakes7-d Digest Volume 99 : Issue 57
Today's Topics:
Fwd: Re: [B7L] Blake
Fwd: Re[B7L] economy
[B7L] Flat Robin, Part...8???
[B7L] Flat Robin, Part 9
[B7L] Flat Addenda
Re: [B7L] Flat Robin Misc. (was: economy?)
[B7L] Re: economy?
[B7L] starting grid
Re: [B7L] clones and Auron
[B7L] Flat Robin #10, by Arkaroo
[B7L] Zen is not a IT !!!
Re: [B7L] Zen is not a IT !!!
[B7L] Flat Robin #11, by Penny
[B7L] Economy?
[B7L] Redemption: Bring and Buy sale
Re: [B7L] clones and Auron
Re: Fwd: Re: [B7L] Blake
Re: [B7L] Blake
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 09 Feb 1999 15:44:15 PST
From: "Sally Manton" <smanton@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Fwd: Re: [B7L] Blake
Message-ID: <19990209234424.22876.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
Judith said -
>>but today it struck me that the original child-molesting charge
>>against him could be a good enough reason on its own. ...
Yes and no. After all, the trial in itself was not a galaxy-wide event,
so most people - rebels or otherwise - would not know anything of Blake
until they started hearing the rumours of his Liberator-driven
activities. The Federation had ordered a TOTAL black-out on all
information regarding Blake, preferring to pretend he didn't exist.
(This didn't work, but how long did it take for the bureaucracy to
figure this out?). So the first thing rebels, malcontents, oppressed -
everyone - heard is the rumours, as Bercol says -
The stories get out. They spread by word of mouth, by whispers, by
rumour; each time the story is told it is elaborated upon. Any damage to
the Federation is attributed to Blake. The smallest incident is
exaggerated out of all proportion until it becomes a major event. Blake
is becoming a legend. His name is a rallying call for malcontents of all
persuasions.
So by the time people hear the details of Blake's trial - if they ever
did - they are ALREADY thinking of him as a dissident, a hero of the
resistance and a danger to the powers-that-be, and would be ready to
dismiss the trial as rigged. (The current trial of the oppoision leader
in Malaysia is a case in point).
The Federation's own tactics (not very bright, IMO - why on earth did
Servalan agree to the total black-out?) preclude them using the mud they
have, in time for it to be effective, since this would mean admitting
the man exists at all.
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 09 Feb 1999 16:00:32 PST
From: "Sally Manton" <smanton@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Fwd: Re[B7L] economy
Message-ID: <19990210000032.26674.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
Julie said -
>Perhaps he (and Tynus) had been embezzling for some time
>which was why
>Bartolomew was on to him.
Especially if some of the frauds had *inadvertently* stung people with
political clout, who might see it as deliberately aimed at them (I say
inadvertently because Avon never found out he was thought of as
political, therefore couldn't have known that said people were stung. If
he had, he'd have avoided the risk).
Does this make any sense?
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 09 Feb 1999 16:02:10 PST
From: "Penny Dreadful" <pdreadful@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Cc: egomoo@geocities.com
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin, Part...8???
Message-ID: <19990210000211.13270.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
Now, *this* installment *is* by me. Arkaroo says the differences in our
styles should be obvious. I'm not sure how to take that...
-------
Meanwhile, back in outer space...
"My goodness!" Servalan exclaimed. "Look at the size of that
energy-flare! Someone's main propulsion units must have blown."
"It's this all-Soylent diet, Supreme Commander," Travis replied
sullenly, and smacked their mutoid pilot in the back of the head for
good measure.
Servalan in turn kicked Travis in the shin. "That's not what I meant,
you microencephalic monkey," she snapped. "Look over there, down on that
great turtle that's pulling its great big head into its great big shell.
It could only have been the Liberator! Change course immediately!" she
commanded the pilot.
"Look up the word 'monkey' in the databanks!" Travis ordered the other
mutoid.
Servalan rolled her eyes as their pursuit ship dove toward the
discworld. "Remind me again why I let you live *this* time..." she
sighed.
"I promised to start wearing my uniform and calling you Supreme
Commander again, Supreme Commander," Travis responded, "and you said,
and I quote, 'throw in a free lap dance, big boy, and you've got
yourself a deal'..."
Servalan kicked him in the shins again. "That's disgusting!" she
exclaimed. "And not how *I* remember it at *all*. Unless of course
you're prepared to see this round-robin forcibly dismantled and packed
off to The Other List..." She waggled her eyebrows meaningfully at
Travis, who clenched and snapped to attention.
"Of course, Supreme Commander," he said, "I remember now -- um -- you
wanted me to concoct another elaborate but unfortunately inflexible
scheme to nab Blake and his souped-up interstellar hot rod and his lusty
band of buxom outlaws--"
Servalan cleared her throat menacingly.
"Bloodthirsty band of polyester-clad insurrectionists, I meant, of
course, Supreme Commander -- and then I was to drop you off at Star One
to take care of some business while I popped off and picked up your
dry-cleaning, Supreme Commander."
Servalan smiled. "Very good, Travis." She returned her attention to the
viewscreen. They were now very close to the surface of the discworld.
"The energy flare came from precisely...*there*." She leaned over the
mutoid's shoulder for a closer look, and grimaced at the sight of the
Ankh-Morpork Bog, into which the Liberator was very slowly sinking.
"But," she continued, patting her snow-white dress as though to reassure
it, "I doubt *they'll* be there. Most likely they'll have headed to the
nearest town for assistance. And that would be..." Her eyes drifted
right -- 'hubward' as they say[1] -- and widened in something very close
to alarm (for Servalan). "There."
Travis leaned forward too, and the four of them gazed in wonder at the
splendour that was Ankh-Morpork.
[1] Although Servalan isn't likely to know that at this point in the
narrative, is she?
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 09 Feb 1999 18:33:49 PST
From: "Penny Dreadful" <pdreadful@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Cc: egomoo@geocities.com, arkaroo@hotmail.com
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin, Part 9
Message-ID: <19990210023354.27056.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
>Travis leaned forward too, and the four of them gazed in wonder at
>the splendour that was Ankh-Morpork.
The pursuit ship did several reconnaisance swoops over Ankh-Morpork.
Even the mutoids showed obvious repulsion upon passing close over the
mighty muddy Ankh.
"There," Servalan said at length, indicating a tall tower situated
square in the centre of (or so visuals indicated -- sensors located it
squarely *beneath*) a relatively hallowed-looking institution (though it
seemed the architect had likely been one of the inmates). "That looks
acceptably clean."
The mutoid pilot gulped and guided their craft down onto a precipitous
parapet. "Right!" said Travis, and strode purposefully toward the
pilot's-side hatch. At this the entire vehicle tilted abruptly in that
direction. Servalan shrieked something at the two mutoids involving
numerous adjectives good taste prevents me from transcribing here and
scurried with them uphill toward the opposite hatch, bringing the
vehicle level once more just as Travis opened the hatch and peered down
several hundred feet to the well-manicured, albeit gargoyle-furrowed,
lawn of Unseen University.
"All clear over here," he shouted, and slammed the hatch again.
***
Inasmuch as the sun was not quite yet *quite* over the yardarm, there
were very few witnesses to the pursuit ship's arrival on the campus of
Unseen University. Certainly the sound of retro rockets blasting
stonework to slag and atomizing every windowpane in a one-mile radius
was not enough to make most wizards at this ungodsly hour do anything
more but mutter something about beans and pull yet another pillow over
their heads.
Only the Bursar, out for his afternoon constitutional (which tended to
coincide with that time of day when Ridcully had grown bored with
paperwork and began flexing and polishing his crossbow), beheld the
landing with his own eyes. Fumbling for his dried frog pills in numerous
pockets, he watched as the ungainly craft on top of the tower swayed
very slowly over the edge and then very quickly back again. Then as, a
short time later, a figure in brilliant white emerged onto the turret,
followed by two black figures, and then by a third black figure, which
the figure in white immediately kicked in the shin.
"I say," said the Bursar. "The ladies down at the Club will *never*
believe *this* one."
The four figures disappeared down the staircase even as the sounds of
distant acrimony fell upon his ears. There was silence for the space of
about ten minutes (during which time the Bursar gazed at the clouds and
considered that they reminded him very much of clouds) and then the
sounds recommenced, much louder. Two black-clad females wearing what to
the wizardly eye was very attractive headgear appeared through the door
at the base of the tower, followed by a male with a similarly minimalist
fashion sense -- an eyepatch, *tres* pirate! -- and finally a woman
whose haberdashorial savoir faire necessitated the ingestion of another
dried frog pill.
The aforementioned vision of loveliness was in the midst of swatting her
companion about the ears even as they stepped over the threshold and
moved toward the happily hyperventilating Bursar.
"Lost the keys!" she was shouting. "Five *seconds* on this planet and
he's lost the keys!"
"Technically, Supreme Commander, it's not a pla--ouch! I was sure I put
them in my pocket, Supreme Commander!"
By now they were standing in front of the Bursar, but seemed utterly
oblivious to his presence. The woman (Ms. Commander, he gathered her
name was) gave her gentleman companion (Mr. Imbecile) an appraising
glance.
"You're telling me that uniform has *pockets*?"
Mr. Imbecile grimaced. "They must have fallen on the floor. WHY DIDN'T
YOU NOTICE?" he screamed at the nearest of his two sickly-looking
servants.
"You didn't order me to, Space Commander," the mutoid said calmly.
"Now, Travis," Servalan said, suddenly regaining her composure
apparently at the very nanosecond she became aware there was someone
watching them. "Let's not dwell on the past, but rather focus on
improving our future. To wit, first and foremost, the capture and
summary execution of Blake and his rebel rabble; and second, the
acquiring of a coathanger with which to break into our pursuit ship."
Travis (Travis Imbecile) crossed his arms and muttered something, but
Ms. Commander's attention was already turned from him to the Bursar. She
smiled broadly and extended her hand.
"I am Supreme Commander Servalan. Take me to your leader."
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 09 Feb 1999 18:51:31 PST
From: "Penny Dreadful" <pdreadful@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Flat Addenda
Message-ID: <19990210025132.19986.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
Did Pt. 9 (I think) get through? Well, assuming it did, I should note
again that was me, not Arkaroo, he doesn't want anybody to think he's
that
(a) heavily influenced by Benny Hill
(b) twee
whereas I see both those as plusses.
--Penny "Stop Me Before I Write Again!" Dreadful
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 09 Feb 1999 20:42:44 -0700
From: Helen Krummenacker <avona@jps.net>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin Misc. (was: economy?)
Message-ID: <36C10033.577D@jps.net>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
> Well actually what I meant was that I had come up with the name
> 'The Pullet and Whippet'. Hat. Hat. I wasn't deriding you but rather
> complimenting my own puerile self. You know I think there really ought
> to be a third (fourth?) B7 mailing list -- the Sniggering Sophomoric
> Double-Entendre List, which would in its prurience level fall square
> between the sterling wholesomeness prevailing Here and the anatomical
> correctness favoured over at the Wretched Hive Of Scum And Villainy -- I
> suppose I'd be the only one subscribed, though, so I might just as well
> e-mail myself directly...
>
> --Penny "Five Credits, Father, Same As In The Dome" Dreadful
You don't know me very well, I guess. I'm all for a good snigger.
--Avona
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 10 Feb 99 04:39:00 GMT
From: s.thompson8@genie.com
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Re: economy?
Message-Id: <199902100446.EAA05116@rock103.genie.net>
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
There was a story in one of the =Avon: On Line= zines (though not, as I
recall, by editor Pat Elrod herself) that gave a wonderfully clever account
for the discrepancies in the amount Avon was said to have been after. In
the story, there was an official revaluation of currency by the Federation,
and Avon used this very event to conceal his fraud scheme. So both amounts
are correct: 5 million old credits = 500 million new credits.
In the story, the person who caught Avon was his own former teacher, which
made for some nice angst. But personally, I've always suspected that Vila's
crack about Avon being the second best, after the person who caught him, was
just a joke.
Sarah T.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 10 Feb 1999 18:02:14 GMT
From: Roger the Shrubber <powerplay@cheerful.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] starting grid
Message-Id: <199902101802.SAA06923@axis>
Content-Type: text/plain
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Blake- Volvo or some kind of mini-bus
Gan -Leyland p76
Cally -Skoda. WOuld have enviromental stickers on the back.
Dayna - Porsche
Jenna - Holden Commodore
Vila - would change his car frequently because he could steal everything
Servalan - Countach & a fleet of limousines
Travis - 4 WD troop carrier
Avon - Aston Martin with gadgets supplied by Q , subsequently improved upon
by Avon. A mini-Orac next to the CD player.
___________________________________
from Darren r ..... Comments are welcome !
powerplay@cheerful.com
____________________________________
Culture is a synthesis of reason and religion, attempting to hide
the sharp distinction between the two poles.
______________________________________
Traditions had a beginning that was not traditional.
________________________________________
________________________________________
http://www.geocities.com/HotSprings/Spa/2634
Anxiety & Panic
_________________________________________
http://www.geocities.com/HotSprings/Spa/2634/powerplay.html
Blake's 7 FAQ & free screen savers
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 9 Feb 1999 21:08:33 +0100 (BST)
From: Judith Proctor <Judith@blakes-7.demon.co.uk>
To: Lysator List <Blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] clones and Auron
Message-ID: <Marcel-1.46-0209200833-354Rr9i@blakes-7.demon.co.uk>
Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; CHARSET=US-ASCII
On Tue 09 Feb, Neil Faulkner wrote:
> >In fact, at the moment, I'm envisioning Auron as a bit like Nazi Germany,
> >with a strong eugenics programme and lots of other things implied by that.
> >It even explains Auron's isolationist stance - other races are inerior and
> >we don't want to be contaminated by them. Perhaps one of the reasons why
> >Cally left was because she couldn't swallow that attitude.
>
>
> Judith, I don't in the slightest object to you or anyone else nicking my
> ideas, but I do reserve the right to feel a bit miffed if you try to claim
> them as your own. Especially when the story they appeared in has been in
> print for a couple of years or so, and you were the one who commented
> extensively on the first draft.
<grin> But I've arrived there by a totally different route from the one you
took. Trust me. I'll bet you a pint that you never had the reason I have for
making Auron a repressive state.
>
> Now I'm _really_ looking forward to Redemption...
If I challenge you to a duel at dawn on Sunday moning, I should be pretty safe
<evil grin>.
Judith
--
http://www.hermit.org/Blakes7
Redemption 99 - The Blakes 7/Babylon 5 convention
26-28 February 1999, Ashford International Hotel, Kent
http://www.smof.com/redemption/
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 09 Feb 1999 23:19:49 PST
From: "Penny Dreadful" <pdreadful@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Cc: arkaroo@hotmail.com, egomoo@geocities.com
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin #10, by Arkaroo
Message-ID: <19990210071958.11788.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
My God, what hath Avona wrought?
***
Meanwhile, high above Discworld, a ship of singular ugliness hovered
menacingly. Wart-like protuberances protuded from its cucumber-like
hull; drops of unpleasant-looking cooling fluid dripped from numerous
orifices. Inside, the ship was no more attractive. The air was damp and
fetid, reeking of used medical supplies and old cooked broccoli. Pulsing
wads of greenish muck slithered about from one chamber to the next,
conducting their affairs in a generally viscous way. Each wad had
perched atop its bulk an elaborately decorated hat. Mostly, these sticky
aliens congregated on the bridge, which was, naturally enough, also
quite ugly. In fact, the only attractive area in the ship was the
Executive Lavatory, and that was only because no-one among the crew,
including the Captain, had ever figured out how to use the doorknob.
The Captain was obvious only because his hat was the largest and most
garish, consisting of a bafflingly complex arrangement of jewels, gold
badges, platinum braid, and little clockwork birds that marched around
the brim in an unceasing goosestep. A green blob, wearing a small
pork-pie hat covered with decals, slithered up to the Captain and
cleared its throat (or, more accurately, flexed the muscular tissue
around its oral tube). 'We have finished constructing the Unpatented
-Prototype-and-Generally-Unknown-Outside-of-This-Spaceship-Total-Destruction-Weapon,
Captain,' said the Assistant Bo'sun. 'We also informed headquarters that
we were going on a routine Terran probing-and-mutilation patrol. Since,
of course, we snuck past the otherwise impeccably defended Federation
border in that daring and remarkable feat of heroism (which I shall not
mention again), they'll not suspect to find us here.'
'Haha! Our plan proceeds apace, then!,' the Captain cackled.'Soon, the
warm-bloods will be crushed under our slimy heels!'
Another pile of goo spoke up. 'Um, Captain...'
'What is it, Bo'sun?'
'I'm the First Mate, sir. My hat has the propeller on top, see?
Anyways... we don't really have what you'd call heels, do we? I mean,
we're more of the amorphous goo variety. Overall, we lack limbs.'
The Bo'sun (wearing a bowler-hat with the little gold braid strung
around the brim) nodded in agreement (a sight in and of itself). 'There
*is* a general limblessness about us.'
'Very well, then, no heels, ' said the Captain. 'Ahem... Soon, the
warm-bloods will be crushed beneath our mucousal might! Well?'
'I'd say suffocated, rather than crushed, sir.'
'The end result being that they... will be killed... by us,' growled the
Captain through clenched sphincter. 'Right?'
'Naturally, sir,' said the First Mate, snapping a quick, if rather
messy, salute.
The Captain turned to the helm view-screens and looked upon the verdant
Disc.. 'Soon... soon. You'll get yours, Cully.'
Just beyond the visible wavelength the Death of Andromedans shook its
head sadly (or at least made a sizable pseudopod quiver). Clutching its
scythe awkwardly, it oozed towards the Engine room.
Within the massive engine housing were several hatches, each opening
onto a smaller room containing another hatch. Inside the innermost
chamber, behind a large metal door marked, 'Danger! Extremely Hazardous
Conditions! Don't Open This Door If You Value Not Being Thrown Out The
Airlock! Got It?' was a small, warm room, its floor covered with candy
wrappers and outdated magazines. In the center, a metal wheel rotated
steadily, gently squeaking with each revolution as a limber Andromedan
drove it forward with increasingly frantic leaps and bounds. The wheel
itself was connected to a small black box marked `Intertial Drive'.
The Death of Andromedans stopped. 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING?'
The aged Andromedan inside the wheel didn't even flinch. 'I'm...
helping... us... destroy... the... warm-bloods...'
'MAYBE YOU SHOULD TAKE A BREAK.'
'That... wouldn't... be... a... good... idea... The... mission... is...
of... utmost... importance,' panted the Andromedan.
'I REALLY DON'T THINK THAT'S MUCH CONCERN OF YOURS, NOW.'
'What... do... you... mean?'
The Death of Andromedans nodded (or rather, flopped) towards the
underside of the wheel. Looking down, the Andromedan could see a
motionless shape draped between the steel bars, limp and already
beginning to liquify.
'Oh.... I... see. But... what about the ship? It's going to crash if I
don't keep running the...'
The Death of Andromedans shrugged. 'I'M SURE YOUR SUPERIOR OFFICERS ARE
CLEVER ENOUGH TO THINK OF SOMETHING.'
'Do you really think so?'
'NO.'
'Oh, well. I guess that's life.'
'HA. HA.'
`Heard that one before?'
'NEVER. WELL, WE'D BETTER GET GOING.'
***
Meanwhile, back on the bridge...
'We're all going to diiiiiie!' shrieked the Captain, pounding what he
presumed to be the First Mate's head against the floor. All around him,
crew-members ran back and forth in gibbering terror, their hats flying
through the air higgledy-piggledy.
The Andromedan ship, deprived of power, slipped into the thickening
atmosphere of the Disc.
***
Back onboard the Liberator, not much was happening.
Zen bleeped mournfully. 'Extremely-short-range sensors indicate an
exterior environment of preserved plant life, densely packed.'
'You mean we're buried inside a peat bog, you cretin.'
'You could say that.'
'I just did.' A long silence grew as the two massive intellects stared
at each other.
'I say, Zen,' said Orac tentatively. 'Have you ever played Proximan
Strip Poker?'
'I am versed in the rules of that game.'
'Hmmmm.'
***
Below, in the bog, the crater where the Liberator had first landed still
steamed. Two rather charred shapes sat on the lip of the recess, looking
down mournfully into its depths.
`Nigel?' asked the first figure.
`Wot, Henderson?' replied the second figure.
`Do you think the Professor is... dead?'
Nigel thought, scratching the area where his hair had once been. `I
fink... if he dies, does that mean we won't get marked on this?'
Henderson looked appalled. `Good lord, I hadn't considered that. If my
GPA falls any lower, Mummy said I have to work in Daddy's Stoat
Fishery.' A single tear began to roll down his cheek.
The gloom around the crater thickened as the sun began to set. Nearby,
foliage began to rattle. The two students clutched each other in fright,
thankful that the explosion had removed most liquids from their bodies.
'Mister Culpepper-Radish! Is that you, sir?' asked Henderson
tremulously.
'Buggerit,' said the voice in the brambles.
'It certainly sounds like him. Remember when 'Fudgey' Sheetspotter got
his foot caught in the school's urinal, and Professor Radish tried to
use the crowbar to smash the urinal... but he smashed the Haruspexes
Intestine Depository open instead?' asked Nigel.
'Yes,' said Henderson. 'When he could talk again he really said some
choice things.'
`Is that you, Professor Radish?'cried Nigel towards the foliage. Beneath
Nigel, the earth quivered gently.
`I say, Nigel,' said Henderson, `What in the world is in that lump
you're sitting on.'
`Um. Judging by the smothered obscenities I'm hearing, I'd say it
was...'
The lump exploded outwards as the smouldering form of Lord
Radish-Culpepper emerged from the acidic peat. As he stood up, his
students could see that all the hair (and most of the clothing) had been
singed off of his body, and small streamers of dark smoke still rose
from within his briefs. In his right hand he clutched the bent remains
of a once expensive telescope. Turning to the cowering duo, his mouth
opened with a painful tearing sound. `What... happened?' he gasped,
clods of peat falling from his nostrils.
Nigel scuffed the debris beneath his feet. `Wull... Somefink fell from
the sky and smashed into the bog near us. Smashed really, really hard.'
Lord Radish-Culpepper rubbed his forehead gingerly. `I'm beginning to
remember... What did it look like as it was falling?' asked Lord
Radish-Culpepper.
Henderson pointed upwards. `Very much like that, sir.'
Lord Radish-Culpper peered at the area Henderson was indicating. `You
mean, a fiery ball that seemed to grow larger by the second as it
approached us?'
`Um. That sounds about right.'
`Bugger.'
`See, I told you that wasn't Lord Radish,' whispered Nigel. `He puts a
greater emphasis on the "bug" than on the "ger". Completely different
sound.'
***
'I've always loved you, Captain.'
'Shut up, Bo'sun.'
'I'm the First Mate, sir. The Bo'sun's the one clinging to the
windshield and having intestinal... difficulties.'
'I said, shut up. And tell the Bo'sun not to do that on my hat anymore.
It's dry-clean only.'
'Yes, sir. I still...'
'Shut up.'
Pieces of the hull began to flake off in the turbulent descent. Only
through the sheer ugliness of the vehicle, and the air's understandable
wish not to come into contact with such an atrocious lookings thing, was
the ship able to withstand such a rapid plummet. With a sullen `ploop'
the Andromedan ship walloped into the Bog beside the Liberator's crater,
cracking in half on impact and spewing forth green crew-members at
incredible speeds.
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 10 Feb 1999 09:02:54 +0100 (MET)
From: "Jeroen J. Kwast" <jeroenkw@pampus.gns.getronics.nl>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se (mailing list)
Subject: [B7L] Zen is not a IT !!!
Message-Id: <199902100802.JAA10005@pampus.gns.getronics.nl>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Hello everyone,
I am reading the round robin story (which is great btw) and what do I see ...
Zen is refered to as ... IT ???
Zen is not a machine he's ... well Zen a HE!!! He has a great personality :)
So please use he instead of it.
Bye now,
Jeroen
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 10 Feb 1999 00:53:00 PST
From: "Penny Dreadful" <pdreadful@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Zen is not a IT !!!
Message-ID: <19990210085300.5548.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
Jeroen apparently firmly believes that:
>Zen is not a machine he's ... well Zen a HE!!! He has a great
personality :)
So submit an episode, Jeroen, sweetie, baby, with Zen hotly reminding
the narrator of that forgotten fact or some such. Hey, if *I'm* doing
it, it *obviously* ain't rocket surgery.
--Penny "Don Cherry 2000" Dreadful
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 10 Feb 1999 01:35:32 PST
From: "Penny Dreadful" <pdreadful@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Cc: arkaroo@hotmail.com, egomoo@geocities.com
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin #11, by Penny
Message-ID: <19990210093534.1128.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
"Take me to your leader." The Bursar might never have been to the
Drive-In, in the 1950's, on the planet Earth, but nevertheless some
primeval instinct warned him that the *last* thing one ought ever to do
with *anyone* no matter how...charming...who utters the words 'Take me
to your leader' is to take her to your leader. Particularly if said
Siren is closely accompanied by a large monocular leather-clad
individual currently swatting distractedly at the imaginary bats
circling his head (the Bursar could see the bats as well, of course, but
*he* at least understood they were *imaginary*).
So, after some thought, the Bursar decided to take them to Ridcully.
Striding purposefully down the hallowed halls of Unseen University,
which was just beginning to awaken and discover it had a powerful
hangover it couldn't even remember ordering, the Bursar almost collided
with the Senior Wrangler, staggering blearily from his bedchamber.
"I say old chap," the Senior Wrangler said to the Bursar because he was
unfortunate enough to be there, "I just had the oddest dream. A strange
entity was lowering itself upon our Tower, which needless to say caused
it to grow uncomfortably warm and vibrate profusely, and then just as
the -- hulp!"
"Ah, The Hulp," replied the Bursar affably. "I spent several seasons
there. My health, you know."
But the Senior Wrangler wasn't listening. He was staring at Servalan and
turning a rather alarming shade of maroon. And she, in her turn, seemed
uncustomarily enthralled by the Senior Wrangler. Perhaps it was his
dressing gown -- a relatively (on the U.U. Tackiness Scale) sedate
number in red velvet, gold lame, white ostrich feathers, silver sequins,
black satin lining, sparklers all around the collar and the lips and
eyelids of five unique endangered species for trim. "My God, Travis,"
she whispered huskily, "we've finally landed on a planet where the
natives have some *taste*." She extended her hand daintily for the
Senior Wrangler to shake, kiss, do with what he would -- it was too much
for the man, and he opted instead to sink slowly to the floor and feign
death until the party decided to move on.
"Fascinating culture," Servalan remarked, glancing bakc at the Senior
Wrangler's gently smouldering collar. "Almost a shame to assimilate
it..."
"My jumpsuit had pockets," Travis sulked, close behind her, and
succeeded in smashing one of his bats into the damp stone wall.
"I know exactly what you mean, old man," said the Bursar
sympathetically. "Dried frog pill?" He proffered the box.
"Don't mind if I do," Travis replied, and swallowed several of the
noxious things.
***
Ponder Stibbons had been up all night. No news flash there. He had
passed out cold where he sat bolt upright on his straight-backed chair
in the High Energy Magic Building just as the first cold light of dawn
crept over the high stone wall beyond, followed shortly (and much more
noisily) thereafter by the last dead drunk of the night before. So that
when *he* awoke early the following afternoon to the ungodsly racket of
the pursuit ship's descent, he *knew* it wasn't a hangover.
In any case *that* wasn't what wakened him, really. No, at *that* he
muttered something about beans and pulled the grimoire he'd fallen
asleep reading more tightly about his ears.
What woke Ponder up was the sound of Hex rattling to life spontaneously
some while later.
Hex's quill laboriously spelled out: +++ Danger, Will Robinson! +++
Ponder stood, fully alert now, and deeply concerned. *How* will it
'robinson'? he wondered. And when?
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 10 Feb 1999 22:09:44 +1100
From: Tim Richards & Narrelle Harris <parallax@wire.net.au>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Economy?
Message-Id: <3.0.6.32.19990210220944.007dbc40@wire.net.au>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
The 10-credit-touch/inflation (and it's relation to Avon's Millions) is a
reasonable hypothesis, especially if, like Poland (for example) inflation
had reached such a high rate that they had to knock a number of zeroes off
the currency in an effort to convince the populace that things weren't as
bad as everyone thought.
I used to earn 8 million zloty (after tax) a month in Poland, which went
down to 800 zloty just before I left. (The migration of four noughts is
the difference between being a poorly paid teacher and a millionaire...)
So... if the 10 credit touch insult refers to pre-adjustment figures (10
zloty in the old days was about... oh... a cent. Or less), and the five
million credits Avon was after was New Credits, it all makes some kind of
sense.
Either that or my flu fever is doing more damage than I thought to my
fiscal cognisance.
Narrelle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tim Richards & Narrelle Harris
parallax@wire.net.au http://www.wire.net.au/~parallax
"The past, present and future are only illusions,
however persistent" - Albert Einstein
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 10 Feb 1999 11:57:33 +0000 (GMT)
From: Robert Baskerville <Robert@Baskerville.Net>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Redemption: Bring and Buy sale
Message-Id: <12998.9902101157@mcchpd.mcc.ac.uk>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
A reminder to all those going to Redemption that there will
be a Bring and Buy Sale on Saturday at 3.00pm.
Everybody is welcome to come and trade those dust gathering
SF artifacts (second hand zines, books, games, videos, toys
etc) lurking in your home RIGHT NOW for cash or, er, other
peoples dust gathering artifacts.
Can't bear to part with anything ? Just see it as a good
opportunity to pick up a bargain !
Retentive AND poor ? Come along anyway and give Tom (or me!) a hug.
Robert Baskerville
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 10 Feb 1999 15:04:32 -0000
From: "Neil Faulkner" <N.Faulkner@tesco.net>
To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] clones and Auron
Message-ID: <001801be5506$c8918fa0$1f14ac3e@default>
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Judith wrote:
>If I challenge you to a duel at dawn on Sunday moning, I should be pretty
safe
><evil grin>.
Not if I mug you on Saturday night.
Neil
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 10 Feb 1999 07:53:16 +0000
From: Julia Jones <julia.lysator@jajones.demon.co.uk>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: Fwd: Re: [B7L] Blake
Message-ID: <4KEKUFAsrTw2Ew3s@jajones.demon.co.uk>
In message <19990209234424.22876.qmail@hotmail.com>, Sally Manton
<smanton@hotmail.com> writes
>The Federation's own tactics (not very bright, IMO - why on earth did
>Servalan agree to the total black-out?)
Maybe she didn't. It seems to be a politically inspired thing, and
Servalan is military. By the time she has the political clout to do
something about it, it would involve too much loss of face on the
Federation's part to back down from the policy.
--
Julia Jones
"Don't philosophise with me, you electronic moron!"
The Turing test - as interpreted by Kerr Avon.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 10 Feb 1999 15:49:20 PST
From: "Sally Manton" <smanton@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Blake
Message-ID: <19990210234921.2814.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
In response to my :
>>The Federation's own tactics (not very bright, IMO - why on earth did
>>Servalan agree to the total black-out?)
Julia wrote:
>Maybe she didn't. It seems to be a politically inspired thing, and
>Servalan is military. By the time she has the political clout to do
>something about it, it would involve too much loss of face on the
>Federation's part to back down from the policy.
Point taken. It certainly would add an enjoyably gritted-teeth element
to her politeness over the President's complaints about what SHE was
doing about Blake.
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
--------------------------------
End of blakes7-d Digest V99 Issue #57
*************************************