From: blakes7-d-request@lysator.liu.se Subject: blakes7-d Digest V99 #57 X-Loop: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se X-Mailing-List: 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" 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" 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" 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" 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" 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 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 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 To: Lysator List Subject: Re: [B7L] clones and Auron Message-ID: 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. 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 . 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" 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" 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" 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" 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 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 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" To: "lysator" 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 >. Not if I mug you on Saturday night. Neil ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 10 Feb 1999 07:53:16 +0000 From: Julia Jones 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 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" 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 *************************************