“You’re cuter than I thought. I can see why she likes you.”
“Who?”
“Not too bright, though.”
She creates a light show, so intense and beautiful, that the guards’ minds can’t cope with it. In other words, they’re dazzled.
Some fancy light show that may be the key to our existence or something like that.
“You burned down the Globe theater? You barbarian!”
“Romeo and Juliet” at free fall in a gas atmosphere? Shakespeare for stabilizers? Helva concurred with Ansra; the whole idea was ridiculous!
You’ve not experienced Shakespeare until you have read him in the original Klingon.
“That’s not true!”
“No?”
“No!”
On a ship in the center of a fleet of ships, a phase of denial was passing.
You could take over the ship, you said, if I did my bit.
It’s a trap!
You’ve heard of animals chewing off a leg to escape a trap? There’s an animal kind of trick. A human would remain in the trap, endure the pain, feigning death that he might kill the trapper and remove a threat to his kind.
Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe.
The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off.
I’d just as soon kiss a Wookiee!
It was three years ago, on a dark evening. Easy to slip past the patrols, and I’d gone into the proletarian areas. There was no one else on the street, and no telescreens. She said, “Two dollars,” so I went with her. She had a young face, painted very thick. It was really was the paint that appealed to me: white like a mask, and bright red lips. There were no preliminaries. Standing there with the smell of dead insects and cheap perfume, I went and did it just the same.
Trust me, the man knows how to kiss.
Trust me, baby, you’re gonna wish you had three hands.
I want to show you something, Steve. This is your arm.
“The eye’s gone again, too, isn’t it? That, and the nerve repairs’ve been shot to hell again . . . And the arm. Anything else?”
Speak. I know you have a civil tongue in your head because I sewed it back myself.
Don’t you understand this is Greek to me, except that I speak Greek. This is Aramaic to me. Not the western dialect, I do speak it.