In all those years, I only heard from you once. A stargram when my husband died.
Three weeks later, instead of a novella, you come back with six stories: six sequels to a story I refused to publish in the first place!
He must be the only engineer in Starfleet who doesn’t go to Engineering!
You mean he never knew he hadn’t left the holodeck?
Three barrels?
I’ve only been there once, but they’ve got this great club; I don’t remember the name of it; they serve these blue concoctions…
Do you even know what a compressor looks like?
It’s a children’s toy on Earth; you wind it up, and a figure jumps out and goes Boo!
Aren’t you dead?
“I don’t see what’s so pretty about it.”
“I think they mean the trees and stuff.”
“Why has everything become a something, or a whatever?”
I’m trying to thank you, you pointy-eared hobgoblin!
Man, you sound just like my ex-wife. All right, time to get back to business!
Talk it over with your counsel.
The chain of command is often a noose.
All the others before me have failed: Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, Hitler, Lee Kuan, Krotus — all of them are dust! But I will triumph! I will make the ultimate conquest!
Do you guys like Italian?
Ah, the giants.
“They like you very much, but they are not the hell your whales.”
“I suppose they told you that, huh?”
“The hell they did.”
I thought you were a test pilot.