You’d better make me a mechanic. Then I can treat little tin gods like you.
Emotions are alien to me. I’m a scientist.
I’m a product of my nucleic acids.
To think, after all this time, all our lunches together… you still don’t trust me. There’s hope for you yet, doctor.
Jim, I just lost my planet; I can tell you, I am emotionally compromised. What you must do is get me to show it.
If there’s nothing wrong with me, maybe there’s something wrong with the universe.
To be blunt, you’re not that important.
Say goodbye, Data.
Goodbye, Data.
Keep nodding as though I’m still giving orders.
Oh, so that is a Vulcan. I would like to discuss sub-dimensional physics with him.
Under penalty of court-martial, I order you to explain to me how you were able to beam aboard this ship while moving at warp.
Spock: “I picked this up from Dr. McCoy’s log. We have a crewmember who’s showing signs of stress and fatigue. Reaction time down nine to twelve percent, associational reading norm minus three.”
Kirk: “That’s much too low a rating.”
Spock: “He’s becoming irritable and quarrelsome, yet he refuses to take rest and rehabilitation. Now, he has that right, but we’ve found…”
Kirk: “A crewman’s right ends where the safety of the ship begins. That man will go ashore on my orders. What’s his name?”
Spock: “James Kirk. Enjoy yourself, Captain.”
I always loved how Spock set that trap.
You’re not one of those guys from the military, are you? Trying to teach whales to retrieve torpedoes, or some dipshit stuff like that?
Please, my friends. Choose to live.
I doubt any god who inflicts pain for his own pleasure.
Mr. Jones says a tribble is the only love that money can buy.
…Worf, where did you get that scar?
Don’t you think you’d better rephrase that, laddie?
Hair. For DNA.
Just curious: who would have been Eve?