Lucky his heart is where his liver should be or he’d be dead now.
All these muscles and they still don’t know how to knock. Sorry about the raucous entrance. Spike in Artron energy reading at this address. In the light of the last twenty-four hours we had to check it out and, ah, the dogs do love a run out. Hello. Kate Stewart, head of scientific research at UNIT. And with dress sense like that—{checks for two hearts}—you must be the Doctor. I hoped it’d be you.
Maybe my mom could make me a costume!
That’s right, Mr. Peabody!
(Quiet, you!)
I love dogs, I’ve always loved dogs.
A boy loves his dog.
K9: The accuracy of this unit has deteriorated below zero utility.
Adric: You mean you’re worse than useless.
K9: Affirmative.
Maybe you should put her in charge.
I don’t want one position, I want all positions!
So this is the best the Supreme Being can do?
Never tell me the odds.
Of landing this plane successfully, best wishes Harrison Ford.
Difficult to be precise, Captain. I should say, approximately 7,824.7 to 1.
But Dono doesn’t have a chance.
Miles gritted his teeth. He does now.
Mr. Bolie Jackson, a hundred and eighty-three pounds, who left a second chance lying in a heap on a rosin-spattered canvas at St. Nick’s Arena. Mr. Bolie Jackson, who shares the most common ailment of all men, the strange and perverse disinclination to believe in a miracle, the kind of miracle to come from the mind of a little boy, perhaps only to be found in the Twilight Zone.
Congratulations, Doctor. You may yet cure the common cold.
Please sign this to receive medication.
Lastday, Capricorn 29’s. Year of the City: 2274. Carousel begins.
He walked with equipoise, possibly in either city. Schrodinger’s pedestrian.
You wish. Bring a sponge.
I am and will always be the optimist. The hoper of far-flung hopes and the dreamer of improbable dreams.