And none of them need fear being eaten by memories of Rhea.
The Prime Directive is not just a set of rules; it is a philosophy… and a very correct one. History has proven again and again that whenever mankind interferes with a less developed civilization, no matter how well intentioned that interference may be, the results are invariably disastrous.
This is my timey-wimey detector. It goes ding when there’s stuff. Also, it can boil an egg at 30 paces, whether you want it to or not, actually, so I’ve learned to stay away from hens. It’s not pretty when they blow.
You have found a frozen Vornicarn egg.
“Our digestive systems can isolate most of the inorganics we need from the local plant life, and most of it won’t kill us out of hand if we eat it, but that’s about it. We don’t even have the right enzymes to break down the local equivalent of cellulose, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly want a big lump of undigestible plant fiber moving through my gizzards. At any rate, we’re certainly not going to be able to stretch our e-rats by browsing on the local flora or fauna.”
I can’t eat anything grown on Saturn’s moons.
Sometimes there just isn’t any cure for a situation.
All right, we waste him. No offense.
I’m through playing nice.
"It means my tactical officer has your flagship identified,”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes,” Pang said simply. “I am.”
Let’s play nice and do this all friendly. Or I could not be friendly. You remember how that goes.
I can carry nearly eighty gigs of data in my head.
Ladies and gentlemen, I can envision a day when the brains of brilliant men can be kept alive in the bodies of dumb people.
“He’s Battle Fleet, so you probably don’t know him. Trust me, you’re not missing much. He’s smarter than Crandall was. In fact, I’m willing to bet his IQ is at least equal to his shoe size. Aside from that, his only recommendation for command is that he has a pulse.”
Well, Captain, er… the Klingons called you a… a tin-plated overbearing, swaggering dictator with delusions of godhood.
Ah. You mean old Ironhull Adama.
Hey that one’s a pain in the ass, man! He thinks he’s special or something.
I’m the key figure in an ongoing government charade, the plot to conceal the truth about the existence of extraterrestrials. It’s a global conspiracy, actually, with key players in the highest levels of power, that reaches down into the lives of every man, woman, and child on this planet, so, of course, no one believes me. I’m an annoyance to my superiors, a joke to my peers. They call me Spooky. Spooky Mulder, whose sister was abducted by aliens when he was just a kid and who now chases after little green men with a badge and a gun, shouting to the heavens or to anyone who will listen that the fix is in, that the sky is falling and when it hits it’s gonna be the shit-storm of all time.
I think you’ll find the Prime Minister is an alien in disguise, and— That’s never gonna work, is it?
I want the people to know that they still have 2 out of 3 branches of the government working for them, and that ain’t bad.