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blakes7-d Digest Volume 99 : Issue 66
Today's Topics:
[B7L] Chris Boucher/Star Cops
[B7L] Avon's background - speculation
[B7L] Jan Chappell on TV
Re: [B7L] Avon's background-- speculation
Re: [B7L] Too much caffeine
Re: [B7L] Zen is not a IT !!!
[B7L] Non-vegetarian Pratchett deities
[B7L] trip trap
Re: [B7L] Too much caffeine
[B7L] Roche limit (was Too much caffeine)
[B7L] Re: Drugging (was Avon's background)
[B7L] Flat Robin #23 - By Arkaroo
Re: [B7L] Non-vegetarian Pratchett deities
[B7L] Flat Robin chapter... 25?
[B7L] Flat robin, chptr 26
Re: [B7L] Flat robin, chptr 26
Re: [B7L] Too much caffeine
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 08:57:36 +0100 (BST)
From: Judith Proctor <Judith@blakes-7.demon.co.uk>
To: Space City <Space-city@world.std.com>
cc: Lysator List <Blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Chris Boucher/Star Cops
Message-ID: <Marcel-1.46-0217075736-bc8Rr9i@blakes-7.demon.co.uk>
Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; CHARSET=US-ASCII
Yes, there will be copies available at Redemption.
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: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 13:28:03 -0500
From: Harriet Monkhouse <101637.2064@compuserve.com>
To: "INTERNET:blakes7@lysator.liu.se" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Avon's background - speculation
Message-ID: <199902171328_MC2-6ADA-950F@compuserve.com>
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Mistral wrote, re the Number One/Number Two stuff:
>As much as I love sorting out 'logical' explanations for apparent
contradictions
>in the canon, this is an issue that appears to me not to need reconciling.
It
>seems obvious to me (IMHO) that Vila was setting up a joke at the expense
of
>Avon's ego; therefore, Vila's statement is unlikely, at best, for a source
of 'fact'.
Of course. The logical explanation IS that it's Vila's little joke. I
haven't seen the episode very recently, but I seem to recall Nova's face
makes it clear he's thinking "Oh, I should have seen that punchline
coming."
Harriet
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 13:29:58 -0500
From: Harriet Monkhouse <101637.2064@compuserve.com>
To: "INTERNET:blakes7@lysator.liu.se" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Jan Chappell on TV
Message-ID: <199902171330_MC2-6ADA-9537@compuserve.com>
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Paul Robinson wrote:
>JAN CHAPPELL:
>Jan is appearing as WPC Holden in the play The Colour of Justice.
...
>The play is a dramatic reconstruction of the major events of the Stephen
>Lawrence enquiry and has attracted much media interest and had excellent
>reviews. The play is also being televised for broadcast early in 99.
Sunday evening (Feb 21), I understand - BBC2?
Harriet
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 18:57:12 +0000
From: Julia Jones <julia.lysator@jajones.demon.co.uk>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Avon's background-- speculation
Message-ID: <93OIlAAIExy2Ewkr@jajones.demon.co.uk>
In message <19990217135743.5062.qmail@hotmail.com>, Stephen Date
<stephendate@hotmail.com> writes
>In mitigation, I think it is likely that not everyone in the Way Back is
>drugged. I assume that the great and the bad - ie Glynd and the others
>aren't.
Certainly the Justice Department staff aren't drugged.
> I also got the feeling that Ravella and the other chap whose
>name escapes me weren't drugged. If only because I don't think Foster
>was likely to get them involved with the plan to bring Blake back on
>board if they were prone to intermittent Federation mind control.
He may not have had any choice.
The assorted extras wandering around the corridors in a daze are
certainly drugged - up to the eyeballs, by the look of them :-)
--
Julia Jones
"Don't philosophise with me, you electronic moron!"
The Turing test - as interpreted by Kerr Avon.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 19:14:37 -0000
From: "Neil Faulkner" <N.Faulkner@tesco.net>
To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Too much caffeine
Message-ID: <006c01be5ab4$bd391340$2d1eac3e@default>
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Ian wrote, re the Roche limit:
>The distance from the planet at which its gravity ceases to be dominant is
>its Roche limit. If an object is orbiting the planet, but is outwith its
>Roche limit, then it is not freely falling but is maintaining its orbit by
>additional force from its engines or whatever. The key point being that it
>must be some kind of spacecraft.
Well, I won't set out to contradict you, but my understanding of the term
comes from the following -
'The Roche limit is a distance equal to 2.44 times the radius of the planet
from its centre. If a moon should approach closer than this distance, it is
shattered into fragments by the planet's gravitational field. Saturn's
rings were probably formed in this way. The limit does not apply to
artificial satellites, which are held together by their structural
cohesion.'
Whilst I freely admit that I got this from a BBC Mastermind quiz book, the
questions were set (and answers supplied) by Patrick Moore, who I believe
does know a little bit about astronomy. Not that I'm entirely happy with
the above definition, since I would have thought planetary mass would be at
least as important as radius (planetary densities do vary a bit after all).
Neil
>The business about objects being torn apart merits a small digression.
>Consider a binary star system. As above, each star has its own Roche
>limit. In the course of stellar evolution, one of the stars may begin to
>expand. If it expands so much that its surface crosses the Roche limit of
>its companion, some of its material will be dragged onto the companion
>star. This is an interacting binary system.
>
>Iain
>
>
>
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 20:32:04 -0000
From: "Neil Faulkner" <N.Faulkner@tesco.net>
To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Zen is not a IT !!!
Message-ID: <006d01be5ab4$be1ae7c0$2d1eac3e@default>
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>Well, as I percieve The System as being a lost Earth colony from an earlier
>period of expansion, I'll happily buy that theory as their use of Latin
supports
>my Earth origin theory.
I see the System as a lost Earth colony too. So we appear to agree on
something. But since we can't have that, and I saw the series long before
you did, I insist you change your mind. Immediately. Or the earwig gets
it.
>As someone else mentioned, we tend to ascribe gender to sapient beings
whether
>human or not. If Zen has independent thought, then he is 'he' to me.
After
>all, he certainly isn't feminine!
I tend to think of children as 'it'. When I have to think of them at all,
that is. But there does seem to be some inexplicable urge to ascribe a
gender to things - I have a friend who sometimes comes birding with me, and
she always refers to individual birds as 'he'. I, on the other hand, always
call them 'it', even when I can sex them. I'm also reminded of a time when
I was on the beach at Calais with a couple of fellow birders - we came
across a lizard basking on the sand, and when I reached out to it, it
obligingly scuttled up onto my arm. Then followed this exchange:
Fellow Birder A: Is it male or female?
Fellow Birder B: Why, do you wanna screw it?
Says it all, really.
Neil
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 13:45:58 PST
From: "Joanne MacQueen" <j_macqueen@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Non-vegetarian Pratchett deities
Message-ID: <19990217214559.5807.qmail@hotmail.com>
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>Unholy indeed <shudder>. I'm a non smoker myself and I think that
>stuff smells really bad <holds nose>. Are you sure you wouldn't rather
>go for Offler? We keep the tobacco locked away in a very deep pit >into
which are thrown the irredeemably damned.
>Jacqueline
Define irredeemably damned <grin> The choice between the smell of burnt
tobacco and a god with bite doesn't seem to have the "lesser of two
evils" option.
>Acolyte in charge of torture and singing in the holy vegetarian
>crusade
Hopefully, they are not one and the same thing! <grin>
Regards
Joanne
(probably about to join the irredeemably damned for that last comment!)
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 14:29:42 PST
From: "Penny Dreadful" <pdreadful@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] trip trap
Message-ID: <19990217222942.18800.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
>I tend to think of children as 'it'. When I have to think of them
>at all, that is.
I tend to think of men as 'it', when I have to think of *them* at all.
Smiley smiley smiley. Guess that explains *my* take on the Zen-gender
issue. Smiley smiley smiley smiley smiley.
Come on, come on, post some Flat Robin, folks -- clearly I need an
outlet for my sarcasm. Acolytes? Where are you, my Acolytes?
______________________________________________________
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------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 16:19:27 PST
From: "Joanne MacQueen" <j_macqueen@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Too much caffeine
Message-ID: <19990218001927.15727.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
>I think maybe Chris Boucher had read a New Scientist article on
>stellar evolution or something, but had some blind spots when it came
>to astronomical terminology.
>Iain
<enlightened> So it might've been the script editor responsible for
Cygnus XL in "Games", and not the scriptwriter? That, and a rotten font
in '70s era issues that made 1 look like a small l.
No, I shouldn't have been reading back issues, I should've been
shelving, or telling other libraries via ABN that we'd sent their ILL
requests, or something...
Regards
Joanne
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Thu, 18 Feb 1999 10:39:12 +1000
From: Taina Nieminen <tenzil@bigpond.com>
To: "'B7'" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Roche limit (was Too much caffeine)
Message-ID: <01BE5B2D.F5F08870@TENZIL>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
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Ian wrote, re the Roche limit:
>The distance from the planet at which its gravity ceases to be dominant is
>its Roche limit. If an object is orbiting the planet, but is outwith its
>Roche limit, then it is not freely falling but is maintaining its orbit by
>additional force from its engines or whatever. The key point being that it
>must be some kind of spacecraft.
Neil wrote
<<'The Roche limit is a distance equal to 2.44 times the radius of the planet
from its centre. If a moon should approach closer than this distance, it is
shattered into fragments by the planet's gravitational field. Saturn's
rings were probably formed in this way. The limit does not apply to
artificial satellites, which are held together by their structural
cohesion.'>>
>From my brother's astronomy text book:
There is a minimum distance a satellite can be from its planet. At smaller distances
a large satellite could not withstand the differential, or tidal, forces exerrted on it
by the planet and would be torn apart. E. Roche investigated the problem in 1850
and found that if the constituent parts of a satellite are held together only by their
mutual gravitation ... as if the satellite has the same density as its planet, the
critical distance is 2.44 times the planet's radius. At a greater distance, the satellite
suffers only tidal distortion, but holds together. At a smaller distance it is torn apart
by the tidal forces, for they are greater than the gravitational forces holding the
satellite together. If the satellite has a higher density, or a high rigidity, so that
cohesive forces add to gravitational ones in binding it together, it could survive
at a somewhat smaller distance from the planet. The critical distance at which a large
satellite can survive destruction is called Roche's limit.
One hopes that Scorpio was held together by more than its own gravitational
forces.
Taina
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 21:32:58 -0500
From: Harriet Monkhouse <101637.2064@compuserve.com>
To: "INTERNET:blakes7@lysator.liu.se" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Re: Drugging (was Avon's background)
Message-ID: <199902172133_MC2-6AE7-67F7@compuserve.com>
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Stephen Date:
>I also got the feeling that Ravella and the other
>chap whose name escapes me weren't drugged.
They knew the food was drugged - which in itself might reduce the effects,
as they'd be fighting it - and I suspect they were minimising their
consumption of it. They had contacts with Outsiders, who might have been
able to smuggle some of whatever food they grew themselves in to
sympathisers.
Harriet
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 21:42:11 -0500 (EST)
From: arkaroo@conk.com (Arkaroo Fleabane)
To: Blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin #23 - By Arkaroo
Message-Id: <199902180242.VAA13731@netroamer.com>
Well, I'm finally subscribed to this list. Now Penny can't tell filthy and
highly dubious stories about me behind my back.
Anyways... Here's Chapter 23 (I think)-- Penny thinks it would have been
appropriate for Valentine's Day. I agree.
***
The Bartender at the 'Pullet and Whippet' was not a complex man. Unlike the
many who tended bar at the 'Mended Drum' (they tended to rotate, from gainful
employment to the grave), he had never been required to learn the levels of
complex sociodynamic interplay between troll and dwarf, werewolf and vampire,
wizard and... everybody else. No, his clientele consisted of shepherds almost
exclusively; and shepherds, while being rather tedious on the subject of
sheep, didn't like to cause trouble. The occasional shepherd-poseur or random
derelict who dropped in would sense this tranquility and rarely ever caused
trouble, and the two or three that had looked troublesome had been dissuaded
of aggression when the bartender described the various antagonistic uses of a
ramshorn and some lanolin.
Thus, he was no more concerned about three charred creatures lurching into the
tavern than he was by the astonishing amounts of green goo and peat he'd been
forced to shovel off the roof this morning.
'Good evening, gentleman,' the Bartender said. 'What is yuir pleasure
tonight?'
'Making sure my internal organs still work, mostly,' replied the most badly
charred figure. Lord Radish-Culpepper (for that's who it was) sat down on the
nearest bar-stool and began to search through the remains of his overcoat for
his spectacles. 'I'll have a pint of whatever's currently on tap.'
'On tap? Will whatever's currently being scooped from the trough behind the
bar do?' asked the Bartender.
'Yes, that'd be fine as well. No spirits, though. I've still got a few embers
concealed about my person.'
'Cor, Henderson. You ever been in a tavern before?' asked Nigel (the figure
with the acne still visible through the soot), peering through the smokey
gloom at the lanolin-scented denizens.
'No, Nigel,' replied Henderson (the figure whose anorak remained astonishingly
unmarked). 'It seems very... sheep oriented.' The walls were decorated with
painting after painting of award winning sheep and their owners. The tables
and stools were lined with sheepskin, and the mugs were made of hollowed
ramshorns. If the trio had gone into the private room upstairs, they would
have been astounded by the wide variety of sheep-oriented costumery and velvet
crooks.
'Oo is that?' whispered Nigel, pointing towards a woman seated at the bar. She
was a rather trite but nonetheless engaging combination of sultriness and
extreme intoxication that, luckily, had very little to worry about in a
shepherd's tavern. Her dark hair swirled about her head in obviously
time-consuming curls, and her bodice left less than nothing to the
imagination. At the moment she was making little wooden structures from the
unbelievable number of little paper umbrellas stacked on the bar in front of
her.
'Who, her?' asked the Bartender, nodding towards the woman. 'That's Mulberry
Nipples, three time winner of the Lower Britchfield Wet-Petticoat contest. She
can live an entire life in about 12 hours, so I'd recommend not getting
involved with her unless you have a high tolerance for grammatical errors and
an even higher tolerance for misplaced melodrama.'
Mulberry turned to the trio suddenly, her bodice heaving and a mysterious wind
tousling her hair. 'O, woe is me!' she cried clasping her hands to her bosom.
Henderson looked slightly dizzy. 'I am a poor, mistreated Child of the Country
who has been tossed hither-and-yon around this world, facing travails and
feats of distinguishment unlike which none of you has ever contemplated having
heard.'
The trio looked impressed. 'I didn't quite get that first part, actually,'
said Lord Radish-Culpepper, picking a lump of peat from his ale. 'But it
sounded very good. Please, continue, don't let us stop you.'
'You'd have an easier time stopping an avalanche now, lad,' said the
Bartender, shaking his head.
She slid along the stools towards the trio, snagging a pint glass as she
traveled. 'After I was cast from my home by my overbearing father (whom all
the men I've known oddly resembled) I was forced to take a variety of exciting
yet nonetheless demeaning jobs in order to pay my way throughout the world.'
'Pay your way through the world's bars, more likely,' interjected the
Bartender.
'First, I was a governess to the disturbed yet essentially decent Master
Figgler of Maul,' she said, clapping her hand to her brow. 'I tended to his
delightful three children...'
'Four children,' noted the Bartender.
'...four children, such delightful little scamps. Oh, to be back underneath
the shade of the Weeping Eel Trees of his estate once more, the children
laughing gaily in the Voluptuary...'
'You were relieved from that post after you forgot to feed his Mad Wife,
weren't you?' asked the Bartender. Mulberry stared at him balefully.
'After I *willingly* ended that job, I was a nurse in Howandaland during their
brutal civil war, tending to the wounded whilst engaging in playful yet
essentially pointless flirtation with the surgeons....'
'Aye, you tended them lads into their graves with your ministrations. Tied the
bandages a bit too tight, didn't you?'
'And then I was the Virginal Schoolmarm at Lord Tinderblight's School for
Wayward Delinquents in Lower Britchfield for five glorious and innocent summer
months of unrequited passion and the occasional spanking over the knee of the
Headmaster...'
'I 'eard you gave the entire senior class both the satisfaction of becoming
men and an interesting rash all in one graduation party,' said the Bartender.
'... but my current position is the most degrading I have ever experienced: I
am in the employ of the cruel yet ruggedly charming Bastard "The Bastard"
Fitzrogers, the owner of the largest Pollock-canning Factory in the
Ankh-Morpork Peninsula and an author in his own right,' she said, stopping to
order a Scumble Spritzer.
Her hair lashed about her as she turned to Nigel.
'Oi, stop that lashing -- you're gettin' hair in the pretzels ,' complained
the Bartender.
'I am but overcome with fear,' gasped Mulberry. 'I know that the stern yet
cruel master from which I hath run away...'
'From which I hath? Good gods,' muttered Lord Radish-Culpepper.
'...will find me here...'
'Because yuir *always* here,' muttered the Bartender.
'...and drag me back to my most anguishable and humiliating duties,' finished
Mulberry, downing another pint after her extended soliloquy.
'Um. Excuse me,' asked Henderson tentatively. 'What sort of duties would those
be?'
"I have had many labours in my short yet fulsome life -- yet this is the most
fearful yet, I fear -- I am in charge of polishing and tending to his
world-renowned collection of whips and assorted leather-oriented
paraphenalia,' she replied. Squinting curiously at Nigel, she hopped her stool
closer to his and grabbed his lapels. 'Take me outside,' she whispered into
his ear, the effect somewhat spoiled as she toppled off her stool. 'Let us
consummate our love within the confines of yon Outhouse.'
Nigel turned a peculiar shade of purple. Gasping for breath, he replied, 'Ah,
yeah, that sounds like a larf...' She grabbed his hand and dragged him
outside.
Radish's seared tear-ducts moistened slightly, with what would have been the
equivalent of a heart-rending sob if not for the intense charring. 'Young
love,' he blubbered, eyebrow-hair drifting into his ale. 'It makes me come
over all funny.'
With a crash both gratuitous and plot-furthering, the door of the tavern flew
open. A figure stood there, silhouetted against the bright midday sun. An
unexpected bolt of lightning lit the sky behind him most dramatically. He
stepped into the bar fearlessly, his long black hair blowing around his
shoulders. His loose cotton shirt was opened down to the navel and sopping
wet, revealing his large collection of muscles.
'I say,' said Henderson, pointing at the man who stood in the doorway. 'That
bloke's wearing a blouse. And earrings. Good lord, look at his chest -- I
think he's shaved it!'
'Tha's Bastard "The Bastard" Fitzrogers, that is,' said the bartender, idly
wiping a mug. 'E runs a few farms 'round these parts. Also wrote this, 'e
did,' he said, pulling a leaflet out from under the bar and handing it to
Henderson.
Hendersron looked at the leaflet. It was three pages of close-set type and
garish illustrations, the title of which was 'BAFTARD "THE BAFTARD"
FITZBAFTARD'S 6-WEEK THUGGERY COURFE (Being a Sophifticated and Moft Effectyve
Means by Wich to Become a Thugge)'.
Bastard "The Bastard" strode towards the bartender, his knee-length leather
boots squeaking wetly. 'Where is the sultry wench who hath run away from me?'
he yelled. Lord Radish-Culpepper winced.
'Oot back wit' another man, Baaaastard,' drawled the Bartender, oblivious to
Henderson's frantic signaling.
'By the gods, I'll show him what it means to bugger around with Bastard "The
Bastard" Fitzrogers,' he cried, slapping his riding crop against his thigh.
With a brief pause to adjust his sodden breeches, he walked towards the rear
entrance.
Henderson sniggered. 'He said bugger around.' He looked outside curiously.
'Hey, it's not raining outside. How come Mister Bastard was dripping wet?'
The Bartender shrugged. 'He has someone follow him around wit' a barrel of
water to moisten 'im on occasion. Thinks it makes him look more dramatic.'
'What about the lightning?'
'A simple compound of dried salamander tail and phosphorous. Works like a
charm.'
'Well, it *was* very dramatic.'
'Aye.'
***
Mulberry's bosom heaved as she leaned against the manly form of Nigel "Low
GPA" Fishmilker. 'Ere, now,' said Nigel. 'Once you finish frowing up you'll
feel much better. Mind my boots... oh, well, no matter.'
She turned to him, wiping her mouth on a soiled handkerchief. 'I am but sick
with anguish, knowing that even as we speak "The Bastard" is approaching to
tear our love asunder, perhaps even to crush your skull like unto a grape...'
'Anguish? Looks like seven pints of 'Capt. Wormsmuggler's Old Inflammable'
and the majority of a meat-pie to me, Miss Nipples,' said Nigel, peering down
around his feet.
As Mulberry inhaled deeply preparatory to delivering yet another run-on
sentence, Nigel looked bashfully away from her astonishing bodice towards a
vending machine bolted to the wall. There were three slots: one advertised
'Thee Official Baftard "The Baftard" Fitzbaftard Lead-Filled Cofh', the one
below it held a variety of colourful 'Inflatable Sheepe Novelties (Notte To
Be Ufed As A Flotatione Device)', and the final held tubes of 'Doctor
Carbine's Spearminte Breath Freshener/Worming Pills'. Nigel, having never been
within a tavern lavatory before, was most intrigued by the thought of the
marvelous things for sale in washrooms around the world that he had never
imagined existed.
The door flew open with a mighty crash, hurling Nigel against the wall. 'Where
is she? Where is my darling Mulberry?' cried Bastard, flailing about wildly
with his riding crop.
'You're trodding on her right now,' said Nigel, pointing at Fitzroger's feet.
'Oh, sweet, luverly, virginal Mulberry,' emoted Bastard, cradling her in his
arms. 'What has this brute done to you? Has he plied you with liquor and shown
you his scarring? Because I'm sure *my* scars are much more impressive.' He
pulled his trousers down, to Nigel's dismay. 'Look, see? I got *this* one when
my ultra-tight breeches caught on fire. And this one is from... well, I'll
tell you later, sugar-dumpling. First,' he said, advancing on Nigel with his
pants still pulled down. 'I have to do some rather harsh things to this little
stoat-humper.' Nigel skittered backwards towards the wall, squeaking
piteously.
All in all, things would have been most unpleasant for Nigel had Krantor and
Toise not decided to set their Space-Craft onto the rather weak roof of the
'Pullet and Whippet', which promptly collapsed under the weight.
***
'Shall I activate the ship's cloaking mechanism?' asked Toise, checking the
charge on his gaudy sidearm.
Krantor looked away from the porthole towards his wardrobe. 'Just until I
change into more suitable attire for antiquing. Then we'll *dazzle* these
rural creatures with the elegant arabesque lines of my magnificent craft.'
The ship shimmered briefly, like the roiling scum atop old coffee, and then
disappeared against the debris in which it sat.
***
'The Pullet and Whippet' was quite flattened by the landing; even if the great
weight of the craft hadn't been enough to snap the termite-ridden wooden beams
supporting the roof, the rather sadistic way in which Toise fired the
retrorockets ensured that no part of the tavern remained standing.
Luckily for the patrons, most of the materials from which the 'Pullet and
Whippet' was constructed were the lowest quality straw, twigs and eggshells
available. Therefore, the debris was loose enough that most of the clientele
had been able to scramble from the wreckage, aside from the two unfortunates
who'd had the misfortune to be in the 'private' upstairs room when the
spaceships retrorockets fired (perhaps in some distant millenium
archaeologists will dig up their remains and ponder the deep, religious
significance of two sacrificed humans clad in the skins of sheep, wielding
peculiar objects and stuck together in an unseemly position; or,
archaeologists tending to pull their minds from the gutter only if there's a
chance someone might get kicked in the groin, perhaps not). The battered and
splintery mass of shepherds and assorted hangers-on gathered around the
crushed tavern in a confused panic, unable to see the cloaked garish
spacecraft which had smooshed their watering-hole.
'Well, my fellow country-folk,' said Bastard "The Bastard" Fitzrogers, turning
around to address the surviving clientele of the 'Pullet and Whippet'.
'Obviously this is the work of those wizards in the City. What say we form
some manner of violent mob and go amok?' A vote was taken, and after some
deliberation, it was decided that the surviving alcohol should be imbibed and
then mob mentality should take effect. After an hour or so of stern, dedicated
drinking the crowd began to move. The disheveled and quite splintery group
walked slowly along the rutted path that led into Ankh-Morpork gates, violence
in their hearts and shepherd's crooks in their hands.
'You know, they're not going to get very violent with those little hooked
staffs,' noted Lord Radish-Culpepper. He had been trapped beneath the
beer-trough for most of the ordeal, and was as a result covered in jellied
beer and straw.
'Och, they do this every time the bar collapses,' said the Bartender. 'They
start to riot and march, then the sheep always catch up halfway to the city
and the momentum is lost.'
The angered mass of shepherds trudged forwards, reeling back and forth across
the muddy road. Worried sheep were quickly approaching from behind, and the
large amounts of scumble that had been imbibed were affecting the mob's
ability to perform close-formation crook maneuvers. Lord Radish-Culpepper
assumed the end of the rampage was in sight.
Just then, a singularly large (and necessary for continuity) mob of degenerate
scum hove into view over the nearest hill. Thieves, murderers, and used-cart
salesmen mixed together with a single-minded avariciousness, while a one-eyed
monk mingling in their midst appeared to be giving benediction with various
fairly lethal looking implements he pulled from his pockets.
'My word,' said Bastard "The Bastard" Fitzrogers, shoving Mulberry aside into
Nigel's arms. 'Look at *that* short-haired beauty!' he cried, pointing his
quivering fingers at the white-clad, high-collared Space Tyrant Servalan who
was leading the ruly mob. Tightening his splintery breeches he strode towards
the object of his desires.
'Hah hah! You appear a sultry and willing wench, desperately in need of some
semi-masochistic codependency! Howsabout we go back to my Pollock-Canning
Factory and *can* some Pollock of our own, if you know what I mean,' he asked,
sidling up alongside her.
'Excuse me?' said Servalan, quietly reaching for her dagger.
'Look at the size of my bullion!' he said, reaching into his skin-tight
breeches and pulling out his bank-statement. Servalan stared at him coldly.
'No, thank you. I've bullion enough of my own,' she said imperiously.
Mulberry glared at Bastard "The Bastard" Fitzrogers. 'O, that it has come to
this -- he swains to make me jealous and enfevered of heart by falsifying his
intentions towards yon short-haired tart,' she said, stroking Henderson's
lapels.
'That rhymed, that did!' exclaimed Nigel.
Fitzrogers eyed Servalan carefully. 'Hm. P'raps you're that new kind of girl,
more into the entire comfort and long-term compatibility scene rather than
scars and extraneous whippings of the manservants. If so, well, I don't mind
babies and I make a *damn* fine Toad-in-the-Hole, if you know what I mean,' he
said, waggling his eyebrows lasciviously.
HE'S DIPPING HIS BULLION INTO DANGEROUS WATERS, said a black-robed figure
walking alongside Lord Radish-Culpepper.
'Hmm? Oh, yes, rather. Looks like she's got a few dangerous weapons tucked
into that outfit, haw haw,' he replied, looking at the thin stranger beside
him. ' I say, are you in one of my evening classes? You look very familiar.'
YOU SHOULD BE DEAD BY NOW, YOU KNOW. VERY FEW PEOPLE SURVIVE BEING CRUSHED BY
SPACE-CRAFT MOVING AT HIGH SPEEDS MORE THAN ONCE, LET ALONE THREE TIMES. Death
held up a convoluted hourglass covered with soot. THIS RESEMBLES SOME SORT OF
ARCHAIC TOBACCO-SMOKING DEVICE MORE THAN A PROPER HOURGLASS.
'I'm a Professor, you see,' he said, looking at Nigel and Henderson. 'Death
would only bring me liberation from my students, and I don't think the
Universe is done kicking me in the painful bits yet.'
RATHER SELF-CENTERED VIEW OF THE COSMOS, ISN'T IT?
'Yes, it is. Should *I* have any other?'
Meanwhile, Bastard "The Bastard" Fitzrogers was still attempting to charm
Servalan. 'I would say by the depth of your cleavage that you must be a
governess. No? Perhaps a virginal schoolmarm?' he inquired, walking alongside
her as she moved purposefully towards the Bog.
'I am a Supreme Commander, thank you.'
'A sultry one, I'd wager,' he said. 'What say we ditch the mob, and I'll show
you my scar tissue!'
'I'll tell you what I tell Travis when he asks me that: if I want to see scar
tissue I'll volunteer to be the shower-girl at the next Federation Space
Academy Foosball [1] Championship.
Mulberry Nipples ground her teeth together violently. 'If I wasn't in the
throes of a most unbecoming swoon I would have no choice but to take this
crook and shove it up his... Nigel, love, go thrash the misbegotten brute
within an inch of his life, wilt thou?' she asked sweetly, heaving her bosoms
at him.
'Ah, but, he's quite a bit larger than me,' said Nigel, sweating anxiously.
'But you have *love* on your side.'
'I'd rather have a very heavy mallet and a pint of chloroform, thanks.'
At that moment, several rather opportune events happened. Servalan and her mob
(which had assimilated Bastard "The Bastard" and his mob) came around a sharp
turn that allowed them to see clearly the shattered remains of the bar just as
Toise deactivated the cloaking mechanism. The ship popped into existence with
a muffled 'clank'. The crowd gaped.
***
[1] Foosball AKA Subbuteo. Ringette would also be funny here.
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------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 20:29:08 -0700
From: Helen Krummenacker <avona@jps.net>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Non-vegetarian Pratchett deities
Message-ID: <36CB8904.1AF9@jps.net>
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>
> >Acolyte in charge of torture and singing in the holy vegetarian
> >crusade
>
> Hopefully, they are not one and the same thing! <grin>
>
> Regards
> Joanne
> (probably about to join the irredeemably damned for that last comment!)
I expect they are the same thing. After all, we vegetarians tend to be a
kindly lot, deep down.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 20:56:15 -0700
From: Helen Krummenacker <avona@jps.net>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin chapter... 25?
Message-ID: <36CB8F60.32D7@jps.net>
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chauveline@lycosmail.com wrote:
>
> The scumble scoured its way through Travis's bloodstream.
>
> The thing about scumble is, it's made by Nanny Ogg in her homemade still in the Ramtops, where stray magic tends to make miracles and portents a bit boring through familiarity. You need good liquor on the Ramtops. And when some theif on vacation from Ankh-Morpork steals your brew to take home, you put the nastiest curse you can on it.
>
> You use a sobering curse.
>
> The last effects of the dried frog's pills faded away, and Travis gave a little snort through his nose, as if he'd juheard a very funny joke involving the dismemberment of everyone's favorite rebel leader. "Supreme Commander," he said, "I've just remembered something very important."
>
> "What is it?" She didn't even bother to turn and look at him.
>
> "I just remembered that I brought you out here to kill you."
"Oh." She didn't turn to look at him. She could tell he meant it. The
question was, what to do? The remote control to power off his built-in
armament had been lost. *Note to self, _never_ trade a here-to-fore
unneeded gadget for chocolate just because one is on a primitive worls
and it's that time of month. What was a Goth going to do with the remote
anyway?* The mutoids were gone, and her crowd of goons weren't
interested in intervening.
A figure shimmered into shape in front of her. Skeletal, robed, hooded,
his introduction was unnecessary. "I AM DEATH."
"I'm not ready," she told him.
"VERY FEW EVER ARE."
"I'm not going. I demand a chance."
Death tried to sigh, but lacked the requisite breath for it. "YOU CAN
CHALLENGE ME TO A GAME. NOT CHESS. I HATE CHESS. CARE FOR FRISBEE? OR
CHUTES AND LADDERS?"
"Mmm-mnn. I'll Roshambeau you for my life."
"I'M NOT FAMILIAR WITH THAT GAME."
She leaned forward and whispered the rules to him. + (Time was standing
still, so this was not noticed by Travis or the crowd from the Mended
Drum, who were scratching various body parts and wondering if they could
stillg et the money she'd mentioned after she was dead.) Death's knees
reflexively drew closer together, and the blue lights behind his sockets
appeared to bulge. It's true that, as a skeleton, he didn't _have_ any
soft parts at his crotch. But then, he didn't have muscles or tendons,
but he was capable of getting shoulder pain.
"HOW ABOUT WE DON'T PLAY, AND PRETEND YOU WON?"
"I think so." Servalan nodded.
Time began again. Travis's finger suffered a power failure, which left
him shaking his hand as if trying to shake off one of the Theives' Guild
souvenir mousetraps, given free with every pickpocketing. Death vanished
chuckling to himself as the next chamber appeared in her hourglass. He
always did like cats. Servalan was simply a sleek cat, accidently born
into human form. She had another eight lives left. He'd just wanted to
see what she would do.
Servalan looked over the crowd. "This is where you earn your first
payment. He's alone and unarmed."++
------------------------------------------------------------------------
+ footnote 1. Roshambeau is a game enjoyed by the denizens of South
Park. The challenger kicks the challengee idn the groin, then vice
versa. The first one to fall down loses. The challenger generally always
wins.
++ footnoe 2 Travis did end up surviving the beating he received, but
not because he had the soul of a caat. It was because one of the first
six blows knocked him through a weak point in the road and into the
sewer. A shower of dirt and cobblestones fell on him, but they were mere
bug bites compared to say, the 16 inch dagger that had been headed his
way before the road caved in.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 21:41:54 -0700
From: Helen Krummenacker <avona@jps.net>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Flat robin, chptr 26
Message-ID: <36CB9A13.3BE9@jps.net>
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Servalan was dangerous, but there was another woman in Ankh-Morpork who
was used to such dangers. "Gytha!" Granny Weatherwax snapped, "what is
one of _them_ doing here?"
"Them?" Nanny Ogg repeated absently, as she waved her hand back and
forth in front of Blake's unwavering gaze. Blake giggled, and recited
part of "A Wizard's Staff" to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb".
"One of the... gentry."
"You can say elves now, Esme. It ain't circle time."
"I s'pose not. But if that ain't an elf down there, I don't know what it
is."
"I reckon she's left over from the last time they got through. One of
'em can't be too dangerous."
"One elf with a load of heavily armed humans following 'er around like
she's the last thing in goddesses, that's dangerous."
Nanny Ogg got up to look over out the window with Granny Weatherwax. The
reaction of the bed to having Nanny's not-inconsiderable bulk lifted off
of it bounced Blake off the mattress and onto the floor. "Avon stop
playing bongos; you know the sound makes Zen want to dance," he murmured
as his curls made a patch of the inn's floor cleaner than it had been
since the great floods of the Century of the Mollusk.
Gytha Ogg studied the woman and the mob below. "I don't know for sure
that she's an elf. They's usually taller. She's about my size."
Esme snorted. "You weren't her size when you were 16, Gytha. Height
maybe, size, no. Besides," she went on before Nanny could do more than
begin to bridle at the comment on her figure, "she's got them folk
glamoured, that's a fact. And look at those clothes. They ain't exactly
like what elves where in their own dimension, but they are what an elf
would wear sure enough-- style. All they care about is style and fun.
See how she got that young bandit feller who wasn't doing nothing but
trying to shoo away gnats with his glove beaten by her crowd. That's elf
behavior."
"I reckon I can look after the feller, if you want to go follow that elf
or whatever she is." Gytha smiled so broadly, as she turned, that her
single tooth caught Blake's very drunk eye.
"Aaa! Fire-shooting barley-sugar crystals!" he deleriumed.
Gytha hummed as she led the way out of the inn. Let Esme fixate on
dangerous elves; Nanny was about to have two handsome young men in her
bedroom. And one was too drunk, and one would too injured, for either
man to go away. The day was looking brighter and brighter.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 21:06:22 PST
From: "Penny Dreadful" <pdreadful@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat robin, chptr 26
Message-ID: <19990218050622.5387.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
>Nanny was about to have two handsome young men in her
>bedroom. And one was too drunk, and one would too injured, for either
>man to go away. The day was looking brighter and brighter.
See? Perversion seepage, I'm telling you. We must have a smut-shunt
installed.
--Penny "Strip Twister" Dreadful
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Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 19:57:16 -0800
From: Pat Patera <pussnboots@geocities.com>
To: B7 Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Too much caffeine
Message-ID: <36CB8F9C.AA71FCD@geocities.com>
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wow. this too much caffeine thread is great - just like too much
caffeine! 8-/
Kathryn Andersen wrote:
re:
> > ... Why then does Soolin join them? She claims she sells
> > her skill- what does she ever receives? A miserable death, making
> > Servalan rich and the Scorpio a great ship. Doesn't she know that
> > people who hang out with this mob DIE HORRIBLY and NEVER GET
> > RICH?!?!?!!??!!?!??!??
(snort - chortle)
And wasn't Dorian's Dreadful Demise ample proof of that?
> Maybe she had nowhere else to go. After all, why was she hanging out
> with Dorian on that dreadfully isolated planet, when he was away half
> the time, and all she had to do all day was program the automatic
> hairdresser? Maybe she was so notorious that she figured she was
> better off with a bunch of other notorious folk to look out for each
> other, than off on her own with no-one to watch her back? She was,
> after all, a serial killer and assassin...
I almost once wrote a story about the various vice devices Dorian had
installed on Xenon base over the years. Well, actually I was only going
to focus in detail on one: a room where your immediate imaginings
manifested as interactive holograms. Avon discovers the room and ...
well! I'll say no more, as the tale was never put to paper.
But I postulate that Soolin found plenty to amuse herself with when
Dorian was away. And I expect she would stay with whoever were the new
masters of Dorian's empire - in order to stay with Dorian's empire.
Soolin is not overly sociable, but I don't see her wanting to live a
hermit life, either. Here were a group of private people who would not
pry and crowd in on her personally. And, evidently, she needed a pilot
for the Scorpio. Or she'd be eating hypdroponic carrots in the old
abandoned Seska dome.
Yes, the question of her being paid is an oft raised one. I once read a
sharp poem about how she was "paid with the coin of adventure" etc.
Perhaps this explains her rage upon learning that Avon had been
outsmarted in "Gold" and lost their big pay off. Perhaps she had quite a
chit of back wages promised her.
I never got the feeling that Soolin was notorious. I think she was much
too low key and discreet for that. I can see her gunning down a target
and then melting into the crowd. She is hardly a standard villian of the
old West - taking time to stand over the body holding a smoking gun to
gloat.
(Now Travis would do that).
Pat P
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End of blakes7-d Digest V99 Issue #66
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