From: blakes7-d-request@lysator.liu.se Subject: blakes7-d Digest V99 #191 X-Loop: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se X-Mailing-List: archive/volume99/191 Precedence: list MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/digest; boundary="----------------------------" To: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se Reply-To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se ------------------------------ Content-Type: text/plain blakes7-d Digest Volume 99 : Issue 191 Today's Topics: [B7L]Flat Robin [B7L] Where is Pat Roberts? [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 4 of 6 [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 3 of 6 Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 13:24:29 +0100 From: "Julie Horner" To: "Lysator" Subject: [B7L]Flat Robin Message-ID: <011701beb7f3$2f073510$170201c0@pc23.Fishnet> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Alison Page said: >I have only read one book ever by Pratchett, and that was the one he wrote >when he was 17, about a carpet. But I think I get the hang of what's going >on. However for the same reason I simply don't know how derivative or >original the style or content is. But I'm enjoying it. I might even read >some of the original books. >And I personally like cross-overs quite a lot. I know some people can't get >on with them at all. Any thoughts on cross-overs people? Cross-overs only work for me when I know both sides of the story. Therefore anything crossing B7 with, say, Xena or B5, would leave me cold as I have never watched these. Whereas I have read quite a bit of Pratchett and found the Flat Robins very amusing. The fact that someone who has not read any of the Discworld novels can still read and enjoy Flat Robin is I think a tribute to its contributors. Julie Horner ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 15:10:58 BST From: Tor Avon To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] Where is Pat Roberts? Message-ID: <19990616141058.5512.qmail@hotmail.com> Content-Type: multipart/related; boundary="----=_NextPart_000_47535812_2465e9f8$3480d0a" This is a multi-part message in MIME format. ------=_NextPart_000_47535812_2465e9f8$3480d0a Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary="----=_NextPart_001_687d5a3_2465e9f8$3480d0a" ------=_NextPart_001_687d5a3_2465e9f8$3480d0a Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed Not really list specific, but person specific. PLEASE can Pat Roberts, or anyone who knows Pat Roberts please e-mail pylene50@hotmail.com or csm80316@port.ac.uk The current address is un-usable! I only want to know if you got the CD OK! 'Pigs in Space!' The lone wolf belongs to the wilderness! You must not grow up to be a lone wolf! #2 to #6 'Once Upon a Time' ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com ------=_NextPart_001_687d5a3_2465e9f8$3480d0a Content-type: text/html
                            
Not really list specific, but person specific.

PLEASE can Pat Roberts, or anyone who knows Pat Roberts please e-mail pylene50@hotmail.com   or   csm80316@port.ac.uk

The current address is un-usable!

I only want to know if you got the CD OK!

'Pigs in Space!'


The lone wolf belongs to the wilderness! You must not grow up to be a lone wolf!
#2 to #6 'Once Upon a Time'

Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
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"Cuz I'm the Deep Space Drifter, the meanest ex-war-vet, committing a-tro-ci-ties with a pirated corvette; I visited a planet, to make Blake snuffed, pulled out a pair of mutoids had my ad-van-ces rebuffed," rapped a nasal voice from across the hall. It was followed by a thunderous round of hooting and applause. Solipsos leaped to his feet and swung the door open. "Shut up!" he shrieked. "Shut up shut up shut up shut up!" He stomped back to the table, stepping over Syggar, and leaned on the table, breathing heavily. "Who's the little wheelbarrow?" asked Merisu curiously, poking a half-eaten muffin deep in the heart of the Ankh. "And what's it doing on top of the... the Muffin theater? Under this beer cap?" Solipsos looked at the muffin in question. "Oh, yes. That's--" *** Radish-Culpepper, purveyor of knowledge astronomical and whipping-boy for the cosmos, whistled a merry tune. As he shifted his grip on the stout yet lichenous eaves-troughing that supported his weight from the edge of the Jeremy Vellum-Pilkington Memorial Theatre's smoking room, he decided that what he was feeling was optimism. Optimism! An emotion that hadn't even come within the same time-zone of his brain since he started down the long and painful road towards his professorial career. The best part about dangling by one's fingertips above a misty and staggeringly long drop, Radish-Culpepper thought to himself, was that while there was, true enough, a very good chance that he would soon plummet to the dizzyingly distant street below and be dashed to pieces on the cobblestones, there was also almost *no* chance of being crushed by an Unidentified Flattening Object. Which was a refreshing change of pace. THIS *IS* A REFRESHING CHANGE, said a voice from above. Radish-Culpepper looked up slowly and came face-to-foot with a full complement of boney toes, clutching the lip of the theatre like a badly undernourished budgerigar. I HAVEN'T BEEN UP HERE IN, OH, WEEKS. PEOPLE WHO COME UP HERE MOSTLY DROP DEAD FROM CHEAPLY MADE NOVELTY CIGARS, said the owner of the feet. THREE OR FOUR PUFFS AND *BANG!* THE MANAGEMENT HAS TO HOSE THE PATRONS OFF THE VELVET ROPES. The black-robed figure pulled out a blackened, charred object, that resembled nothing so much as a pretzel made by a glass-blower with pleurisy, and then dangled it in front of Radish-Culpepper's face. YOU KNOW, I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU. THIS OUGHT TO BE MOST EDUCATIONAL. He shook the hourglass, which rattled as if filled with lead shot, and grinned. Although, with a face like his, he didn't have much choice with that expression, Radish-Culpepper thought. "Glad to be of assistance in the pursuit of knowledge," said Radish-Culpepper. "Don't suppose you'd like to tell me how far it is to the street below? Bit foggy for me to see." I THINK THAT WOULD BE CONSIDERED INTERFERENCE. IT'S BEST THAT WE PLAY THIS STRAIGHT, said Death. FOR NOW, JUST HANG IN THERE. Death stood up from his crouch and cracked his knuckles theatrically. He tapped a finger against the silvery disc that covered the roof of the theatre. I'D KEEP AN EYE ON THIS IF I WERE YOU. LOOKS LIKE A PLOT DEVICE. HA. HA. "That's some bloody nerve," Radish-Culpepper said. "Lounging about on the edge of buildings waiting for the opportunity to scrape my eternal soul off the cobblestones." "Who are you talking to, Professor?" asked Henderson curiously. Radish-Culpepper turned to Henderson with the expression he reserved for the truly moronic. "Isn't it obvious? Look at him -- black robe, large scythe, prominent cheekbones? Who is it, the Archbishop of Diddlington? It's obviously--" He looked upwards for confirmation, but the figure had vanished into the aether. "Nobody." Henderson looked confused. "Ah. That's philosophy, right? Are we going to be tested on that?" Radish-Culpepper looked upwards, into the open, rectangular mouth of the silver disc's exhaust port. As he stared at it and wondered about the aerodynamic efficacy of such a vehicle, the surface of the saucer seemed to wobble, changing from a sheer, unblemished surface of brilliantly gleaming titanium to an mottled arrangement of egg-cartons painted silver. He blinked his eyes and looked away from the disturbing disparity. For some reason, the sight of that gaping, soot lined aperture and the faint wisps of steam drifting from it gave him a sense of foreboding. "Give me your astrolabe, Henderson," demanded Radish-Culpepper. "I can use it to determine the distance to the ground." "How, sir?" asked Henderson. "Are you going to take a reading from the Hub star, correlate that with the angle of parallax from here to there, and use Schwantzmeyer's equations to determine both the angle of declination above our position and the current barometric pressure differential?" "Something like that," said Radish-Culpepper. Taking the Astrolabe from Henderson's outstretched hand, he examined the fine interlaced intricacies of the instrument carefully and thoroughly. Finally, with the consummate skill of the professional scientist, he carefully and precisely let go and let the delicate metal instrument fall to the street below. "One one-thousand... two one-thousand..." *** "Marvelous statuary hanging from the edge of the theatre. Very lifelike," noted the Dean, peering up at the roof of the Theatre. "We should get something like that to replace those wretched bas-reliefs I always see plummeting from the top of the Dormitories." "I believe those are undergraduates," corrected the Senior Wrangler. "Dear old Modo is always complaining about the mess they make in his dahlia beds during Examination week." Without warning, a blurred object streaked down from the heavens and encountered the Bursar's head with a resoundingly coconut-like noise. "Gah!" cried the Bursar/Purser, clutching his head. "My uppermost extremity has been injured. Quick, bring me some fuming fixative and a roll of sterilized linen before my sensory organs fall out!" He fell over sideways into the gutter. Ponder Stibbons warily prodded the bent metal object with his toe. "It's an astrolabe." "You'd be surprised by the things that fall from the sky," said Fitzrogers. "I once had a sheep fall on me." "Where did it fall from?" asked the Dean, staring up into the gloom. "Oh, just from the second story of my mansion," said Fitzrogers. "I always keep a few around for atmosphere." "No, I meant the astrolabe," said the Dean. "I don't see any Astronomical shops up-- sheep for atmosphere?" "Must have fallen from the clouds. You know, a rain of astrolabes is considered good luck in some countries," noted Ridcully. "Means the crops are going to be very... very... What's the word I'm looking for?" "Flat?" asked Ponder Stibbons. "No, bountiful. Blessed by the stars or something like that. Though I can't imagine some balls of flaming gas giving much of a fig about Farmer Roundbottom's spiny stenchfruit crop, really." He stared up at the edge of the theatre and scratched his beard contemplatively. "You know, one of those would look mighty nice on my desk, right next to my stuffed civet," said Ridcully. "An announcement: whoever catches me an astrolabe gets immediate tenure." The wizards gathered into a tight group beneath the street-light and stared up into the sky hopefully. "You know, back on Andromeda, we never get hit on the head by astrolabes," said the Bursar from his station in the gutter. "No heads, you see. Much more efficient design." "That's nice, Bursar," said Ridcully absently. "That's odd," said Ponder Stibbons. He looked at the bottom of his black leather valise. "Something's chewed a hole in the bottom of my bag." *** Eddwode's space-vehicle was filled with the sounds of science. A ceaseless looped tape of stringed instruments played quietly, while erratic whirring noises emerged from a glass globe, surrounded by button encrusted control panels, that was situated in the dead center of the saucer. In a startling juxtaposition to the gleaming whiteness of the rest of the ship was the panel beside the big flashing globe, which exhibited classic signs of rodent infestation. Rodent or rodents unknown had chewed a hole clean through the metal cover and into the components below. Inside the panel, amidst all the flashing coloured lights and buzzing piezo-electric buzzers, a nest had been made from torn insulation, shredded newspaper, and tufts of angora. The Tarriel slept soundly within this nest. *** Except for the lack of stringed instruments, the flight deck of the Liberator sounded remarkably similar to Eddwode's vehicle. Microsystems snapped and clicked as the mighty computer that drove the Liberator gathered data. "Sensors report we are still sinking," said Zen. "As they've reported the *last* three-hundred and fifteen times you chose to notify me of that fact," snapped Orac. "Wouldn't it be best if you inform me when or if we *stop* sinking?" "Very well," droned Zen. "Sensor report on standby." "While we are on the topic of reports, I feel it proper to inform you that I have made contact with a tarriel cell on the surface of this world," said Orac. "It appears to be in control of another spacecraft. I will attempt remote operation of the vehicle immediately." "Shall I notify the crew?" inquired Zen. "No, I shall. My facility for communication with humans far outstrips your feeble programming. Patch me through to Avon immediately." *** Avon's bracelet crackled loudly and suddenly. "I have valuable information to report," Orac said through a layer of sputtering static. Avon slapped his hand over the aquitar annoyance and put an innocent expression on his face. Blake stared around the room suspiciously. Avon looked at the ceiling and whistled tunelessly. Blake peered at him briefly, then went back to whispering rather disturbing propositions into Travis' ear. "Ix-nay on the eport-ray," Avon hissed into the bracelet. "Ake-blay as-hay one-gay ad-may. Aintain-may adio-ray ilence-say." "I am not familiar with your dialect," replied Orac loudly. "Please desist from this foolishness and fetch me Blake." "Orac, you addle-pated abacus, maintain radio silen--" Avon was cut off as Blake appeared before him, silently and instantaneously, and poked the business end of his gun between Avon's eyes. Blake snatched the communications bracelet from Avon's wrist and smirked humourlessly. "Hul-lo, Orac, good to talk to you," Blake said gleefully. "By the by, old chap, where precisely *is* the Liberator?" "The Liberator is currently fourty-five millispacials beneath the surface of this planetoid," Orac replied. Blake frowned angrily. "I am engaging the circuitry of an indigenous flying vehicle to extract the vessel from our post-surface position. If my calculations are correct, and I have little reason to believe they would *not* be, we shall emerge one-hundred and thirty-six millispacials northwest from your current position." Blake sprinted to the window and leaned out to gauge his location. After several seconds his gaze finally settled on a glinting silver object several dozen blocks away. "I'll meet you there, Orac," he said into his bracelet. "And, for security purposes, don't accept any further commands from anyone but me." "That is most irregular," replied Orac. "That is *also* an order. Blake out." Blake threw the collected bracelets onto the bed. He then gathered the bed-sheet around the teetering mound of electronics, tied it in a bundle, and heaved it through the opened window. Brushing off his hands, he turned to the captives. "All right. Everybody into the closet. Now. Except you, sugar bumps," he said, as he grabbed Travis by the ankles and hauled him to the doorway. "Don't be silly," said Jenna, pointing into the open closet. "We couldn't all fit in there." "Well, that *is* a pity," replied Blake. "The thing is, anybody who *doesn't* fit in there will be shot." He pointed at his gun with his free hand. "By me. Bang bang." "Anybody for a game of Sardines?" asked Petty Hatfull cheerily. Venomous glares turned on her from every direction. "Just trying to lighten up the mood, chaps and chapettes," she said. One by one the denizens of the room marched over the closet and squeezed in, until only Avon was left. "C'mon, Avon, be a sport," Blake wheedled. "You're worth quite a bit more to me alive than dead. But I won't hesitate to zap you if don't go in the closet." "I'm not afraid to die," Avon said stiffly, ignoring Cally's frantic gestures. "Shoot me if you must. I won't go back in the-- I won't go in there." "Avon, you noble nincompoop, get in here," snapped Cally angrily from her position between Arthur Carew and Servalan. Avon looked at Blake sheepishly, then squeezed next to Servalan. Blake closed the door. "I'll be back in a bit, chaps," he said with a smile. "Don't go anywhere." Taking the skeleton key from the night-table, he made sure the closet door was securely locked. Blake walked over to the Luggage and tapped quietly on the lid. "Hello in there?" "I can't hear you, lalala, dum-de-dum," said the voice from within. "As you wish," Blake said, looking unconcerned. Grabbing the Luggage by its handle, he dragged it towards the closet door. Breathing deeply, Blake tilted the luggage up on its end and leaned it, lid downwards, against the closet door. Ignoring Rincewind's plaintive wails, he then dragged the bed behind the Luggage as a brace. He stood back and admired his handiwork. "Let's go, baby," he said, slinging Travis under one arm. "We're steppin' out." The door snicked shut behind him. *** Another song reared across the hauling, causing Solipsos to drop the little paper umbrella he'd been gluing sequins to. He stared at the room across the hallway in horror and hatred. "The ship had been ditched due to an alien glitch, That had happened without explanation; As the big spaceships go she was bigger than most, With a Captain and crew most appealin'; They'd been sent to a place for a perilous fate, 'Fore they knew it, the ship they were stealin', But some particles came and the next thing you know, Came the wreck of the old Liberator," sang the voices with heartfelt if overly-amplified zeal. Solipsos and Merisu marched to the door in unison. "If you dirty, misbegotten sons of unpleasant water-fowl don't *shut up*," howled Solipsos. "I am going to go over there and *wreak me some vengeance*! Bah!" Merisu shook his fist. "That goes double for me. Bah!" The two gods walked back into the Gaming room. Merisu looked at the model with a bored expression, then did a double-take. "Um. Why are there two milk-bottles now?" "Where?" asked Solipsos, peering about the vast expanse of kitty litter and empty condiment containers that was Ankh-Morpork. "I don't see them." "Around the hostel." "The hostel?" "Alright, then, the little matchbox with the silver glitter glued to it. Marching up the back stairs." "Oh, Mrs. Parrot's Hostel. Hmm." Solipsos stared at the board. "I didn't put that other bottle there. You didn't do that?" "Nix, daddy-o," replied Merisu. "Hm. Listen, we'd better go down there and see what's happening with these milk--" He was interrupted by a pounding on the door. "Who is it?" asked Solipsos sweetly as snatched the mallet from the table and concealed it behind his back. With a hideous crash the door exploded inwards, sending the two gods flying backwards into the model, crushing much of the residential district. Through the cloud of atomized door a huge shape was visible, with a ominously silent crowd of equally enormous shapes standing behind it. The creature walked in. "Cer-cer-cerbunontos!" stuttered Solipsos. "T-t-the great and t-t-terrible God of Evisceration!" stuttered Merisu. "So. You don't like our songs, then?" asked the hulking stone God rhetorically. He cracked his sizable granite knuckles, sending a shower of gravel onto the floor. Solipsos and Merisu looked towards each other, then at Syggar's inert form. "He's the one who doesn't like them," they said in unison, pointing at Syggar, who snored on obliviously. "And he said your mother was an oyster," added Merisu helpfully. "Crack crack, slurp slurp. He said *terrible* things about your mother. Ooh baby. Like you wouldn't believe. Look! A pregnant mare!" In a flurry of white robes, pomaded hair and drops of mystery liquid, the two gods darted between Cerbunotos' legs and scrambled down the hallway. Syggar opened his eyes blearily. "Hey, guys," he said sleepily, waving at the circle of musically/violently minded gods encircling him. "Somebody close the door. I was just getting to the good part in this dream. Heh heh -- oysters. That's funny." *** Vila plodded up the stairway of Mrs. Parrot's hostel once more, the creaking wooden steps seeming more numerous and splintery than ever before. The heavily-armed pig and the religiously garbed Blake impersonator followed close behind. The lights that lined the hallway were extinguished; all the doors were closed and silent. It's too damn quiet, whispered his id. I'm getting the Fear. "Shut up, brain," hissed Vila, slapping his head. "This isn't real. It's a dream. You should know." This isn't right, muttered his psyche. I don't remember starting all this. Are you sure? "Walking pigs and Blake with a monocle?" said Vila quietly. "I've had this one before; any moment now my mother's going to walk in and start throwing zucchinis at my head." "Silence, prisoner," bellowed the pig. Vila clenched his teeth and continued walking, until he reached the door at the end of the hallway. "This is the place," he said. "Guess you won't need me--" "Open the door, little man," grunted the pig. "You're not getting off this easily." "Really, Bo'sun," said Blake disapprovingly. "The lad did lead us to the Weapon. The least we could give him is a little kindness. Remember, you catch more carrion insects with glucose than with an acetic acid solution." "Pshaw," said the pig. "He's untrustworthy. Never eats bacon, indeed. A likely story!" Vila opened the door. ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 09:02:22 -0600 From: Arkaroo To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 3 of 6 Message-ID: <3767BC7E.1894@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit *** After what seemed like an unseasonably long day, the sun had finally slipped far enough beneath the disk to plunge Ankh-Morpork into full darkness. The light did not disappear as it did on Cori Celesti, in an explosion of extraneous and unnecessary exposition. Instead, it crept away quickly and silently, as if fleeing the scene of a shameful crime, and plunged the city into instantaneous gloom. Through the palpably thickening fog and unceasing warm drizzle stumbled a group of exceedingly damp wizards, who moved with all the silent grace of a drunken/crazed terrier on a hardwood floor. Long before they became visible they were audible, emitting an unceasing hum of complaints and accusations through the pea-soup mist. The intermittent flash of a lit match dimly illuminated their location like sulphurous fireflies, before the light was extinguished with a curse and the sound of sucked fingers. "I see a light!" cried a voice from their midst. Without any cessation in their level of complaints the wizards went towards the beckoning beacon like constantly bitching, overweight moths to a flame, and found themselves standing outside the Jeremy Vellum-Pilkington Memorial Theatre. A remarkably functioning streetlight create a well defined globe of yellow luminance alongside the theatre's entrance. Within its brightly-lit boundaries they assembled into a soggy, wheezing mass. A trickle of water, emerging from eaves-troughing high above their heads, slubbered onto the cobbles by their feet. "I told you this wasn't the University cafeteria. It's just a bloody theatre, and to the best of my knowledge you can't eat actors," groused the Lecturer in Recent Runes as he squeezed the water from his hat. "You'd choke on the tights. To say nothing of the codpiece." "Three orders of battered codpiece and chips, please," the Bursar said loudly. "Extra tartar sauce." "Let's think rationally, men," said the Chair in Indefinite Studies. Someone snickered. "We must be close to the river. I can practically taste it. Does anybody have a mint?" "Well, Stibbons, any idea where we are?" asked Ridcully sourly. "No, sir. I lost track of our coordinates after we had to climb the flagpole to drag the Bursar down from that clothesline." He looked shamed. "It pains me to say it, sir, but we seem to be topologically misplaced." "Which means 'we're lost' in the vernacular of those who aren't utterly didactic to the point of unintelligibility. So -- we don't know where we're going, we don't know where we've been, and, more importantly, we don't know any restaurants in the vicinity. We are up the Ankh without a manually-operated propulsive device. Bugger." "I could perform acts of atrocity on a curry right now," muttered the Dean, rubbing his stomach discontentedly. He pulled a damp dog-end from his pockets and tried fruitlessly to wring the water out. Sucking his teeth angrily, he threw the sodden cigarette into the gutter and watched the current pull it away into the comforting bosom of the Ankh. The nicotine-enriched sea-craft bobbed away from him towards the darkness at the end of the block. Squinting, he stared into the darkness, catching a glimpse of a slightly darker object. The object moved. Muffling a squeak of terror, he ran back to the crowd of wizards, his face drained of blood. "Someone's coming," hissed the Dean, pointing down the block with a single quivering digit. "Someone very large -- and I think he's carrying a knife!" The wizards stared at the area indicated by his finger; through the mist, the darkened figure could be clearly seen ambling (or, to the paranoid, creeping) towards their current location. The wizards drew closer together. "We are wizards, you know," muttered Ridcully, detaching the Lecturer's terrified hands from around his knees. "Someone fry the fellow." "What if it's just an innocent bystander?" asked the Chair of Indefinite Studies, his teeth chattering noisily. "We're standing by a theatre's entrance," noted Ridcully, pointing to the building behind them. "It's probably an actor. And, as we all know, there *are* no innocent actors." *** Upon hearing those words, Solipsos clenched his jaw and hurled himself at the model of Ankh-Morpork, a rubber mallet clenched in his fist. His target, a little ceramic poodle with 'Narrator' written on it in black crayon, was saved from certain destruction only by Merisu's divine (naturally) placement of Syggar's head between the business end of the mallet and the frangible doggy. Syggar slumped to the floor while Merisu tried to wrest the mallet from Solipsos' grip. *** "I didn't know that," muttered Ponder Stibbons. "Irregardless, somebody get a spell ready," Ridcully said. "Preferably one with lots of smoke trails and gratuitous area damage." An uncomfortable silence descended on the other wizards. The Senior Wrangler cleared his throat nervously. "Um, I've got Sheldon's Infinite Dry-cleaner. That can be really nasty if it goes off in your pockets. I had one go off in mine during last years 'Bountiful Bean Banquet'. I don't think anyone noticed. Stings like you wouldn't believe -- I had to rub 'Doctor Trumpet's Groin Linimente' down there for weeks." "More than I needed to know, Senior Wrangler. Didn't anyone think to memorize a nice *offensive* spell?" asked Ridcully angrily. The assembled wizards avoided his gaze studiously, shuffling their feet and clearing their throats. "Stibbons," said Ridcully, swiveling around to point his finger accusingly at Ponder. "You're always jabbering about your technological advances. Hasn't your mechanical whatzamahoozle--" "Hex, sir. It has a name," Stibbons interrupted accusingly. "Hasn't *Hex* invented some sort of 'Ball of Fiery Doom' yet? What *are* we paying you for, Stibbons?" "You're not paying me, sir. Remember that memorandum I sent you about my missing pay-cheques?" "I always have the Bursar process my mail, Stibbons. Cuts down on the chaff." "But he's stark raving--" Stibbons started, then looked at the Bursar, who was singing gentle lullabies to his slippers. "Stark raving differently sane, sir. He probably lines his drawers with your mail." "I don't think it's wise to inquire as to *what* the Bursar lines his drawers with, Stibbons. That's between him and the Laundress. All I know is that since I hired him my productivity rate has skyrocketed. Haven't had to attend a meeting since April," Ridcully said. He peered up the street at the shadowy figure meandering towards them. "All that aside, I'm just curious as to what your mass of cogs and vermin has been doing in the way of weapons of destruction? I mean, what do you people *do* all day?" "Our studies are concerned with fundamental developments in the field of Quantum Magic and investigation into the precepts behind the fabric of the universe," said Ponder Stibbons. "Some sort of burlap, most likely. What I'm hearing you say is that the field of inquiries you and your... colleagues, for lack of a better term, choose to spend your time at has no possible use for anyone but a select group of squinty-eyed twonks, no offense intended." "None taken, sir. True, our work doesn't have the capability for immediate implementation into regular usage, but it *does* represent a paradigm shift of a staggering degree," Stibbons insisted earnestly. "When I can blow up a fruit cart with a paradigm shift I'll consider it useful. Meanwhile, we need something with a bit more destructive capabilities than sheer boredom capacity." He looked slightly worried. "I'm beginning to wish I hadn't fired my last volley of 'Henderson's Collapsible Hedgehogs' at those suspicious-looking teenagers." The Lecturer in Recent Runes put his hand up. "My copy of Forban's 'Fabulous Fireball' got wet last August when the pipes burst after the Bursar flushed himself, and now it's a bit unreliable. But I do have it on me." He opened the pouch on his belt and pulled out a small marble covered with tobacco crumbs. "Better than nothing, I suppose," said Ridcully uncertainly. "Go on, then. Zap the chap." The Lecturer turned towards the silhouetted menace and raised his arms theatrically. The other wizards stepped backwards several paces. He glared over his shoulders vengefully before Ridcully began jabbing at him with the pointed end of his staff. "Right, right, no need to poke," muttered the Lecturer. He muttered beneath his breath and waved his fingers in mystic patterns. Then, he removed a pinch of atomized metal from his pouch and sprinkled the shimmering silver powder into the air. With a look of triumph, he threw the marble into the center of the silver cloud and flinched back in anticipation of the recoil. Nothing happened. The marble hit the cobbled street with a clatter and rolled beneath the edge of his robe harmlessly. The assembled wizards looked at the Lecturer disapprovingly. Then a faint 'pop!' emerged from an area between the Lecturer's feet. Thick black smoke began to billow out from under his robe. "Gar! Bugger!" he screamed, slapping at his smoldering clothing. From between his scrambling feet rolled a fist-sized blackened mass of charcoal, sputtering with a fitful blue flame. It popped and bounced with a spastic internal propulsion, off the rutted cobbles towards Ridcully, who gripped his staff in the time-honoured 'Wizardly Wickets' stance. With a massive grunt of exertion he swung the length of hardened oak into the sputtering globe and smashed a perfect line-drive down the street and into the exposed pectorals of Bastard "The Bastard" Fitzrogers. It slapped the leathery skin of his chest with a hollow thump before falling to the ground and fizzling uselessly in the gutter. The assembled wizards fell back behind the Ridcully, who still had his staff raised. Nobody spoke. *** "You in the closet!" bellowed Blake. "Come out with your hands or any other pertinent appendages high in the air." Naught but silence met his command. His nostrils flared angrily. Breathing shallowly, he fired a single shot into through the top of the closet door, boring a perfectly smooth hole through the wooden paneling. "Don't shoot!" cried a voice from the closet. "We're not armed." The door swung slowly open, revealing two anorak-clad figures, male and female, crouched in a pile of soiled Colonel Persnickety undergarments and empty cider bottles. An amalgamative expression of guilt and terror dominated their features. The woman was holding a rectangular cardboard box furtively behind her back. Tufts of boxer-shorts peeped from her pockets like cotton-blend gophers. The man was holding a pillow-case marked 'wigges' and trying to keep his balance of the uneven layer of bottles and haberdashery. "Put that down," bellowed Blake, pointing his weapon at the box concealed behind the woman's back. She blanched in terror and removed the box from behind her back. She thrust it at him and grinned sheepishly past a complement of corrective tooth accessories. "It's not a weapon!" explained the yellow-anoraked Persnickitite. She held the box towards the light. "It's just an official limited-edition unopened, signed, and commemorative 'Colonel Perfnickety Actione Figgyure With Special Scenery-Chewing Actione'. The only danger is in its all-too-realistic smile." She sighed longingly at the tiny figure in her hands. "Those are worth quite a tidy sum, you know," interjected the blue-anoraked man. His eyes were concealed behind a thick, unkempt mop of greasy brown hair. Painful looking spots peppered his face from forehead to collar . "The collectibles market has really soared since his death. I know a gnoll in West Lampreyshire who'd give us three pounds for that. Three pee each for his old knickers." The woman clutched the tiny figure closer to her body and glared at him. "Who the devil are you?" hissed Blake, the tendons on his neck bulging out like strychnine-poisoned hoop-snakes trapped in a sleeping-bag. The spotty, blue-anoraked burglar spoke up. "I'm Arthur Carew [7]." He straightened up, a look of pride emerging from the previous veneer of terror. "I'm one of the authors of 'Spods, Spods', the most popular 'fanne-fictione' tale in the Ankh-Morpork Persnickitite scene. Perhaps you've heard of me." Blake glowered, a thin trickle of spittle dangling from his lip. "Or perhaps not." The yellow-coated Persnickitite cleared her throat. "I'm, um, Petty Hatfull. I wrote 'Whye I Hate Thee : The Staffe Sergeant N.T. Cruncher Storie (An Erotobiography Inne Three Partes)'." "I drew the pictures," added Arthur helpfully. "We had to buy the thirty-five colour box of crayons for all the tattooing." *** Fitzrogers rubbed his chest. "That stung a bit," he said, tucking the loaf of bread he'd been wielding into his belt. "Knife, hah!" the Lecturer in Recent Runes said to the Dean spitefully. "You'd think I would have learned my lesson after you spent two hours chatting up a fire-hydrant last New Years." "Perfectly nice fire-hydrant," said the Dean. "Very talkative." "This fellow seems familiar," whispered the Senior Wrangler. "Who is he?" "That's the chap we ditched by the Cucumber vendors," said Ridcully. "I've been wondering where you wizards had gotten to," boomed Fitzrogers. He walked up to the Bursar and slapped him on the back heartily. The Bursar reeled across the street from the force of the blow. "I didn't think you'd get this far," Fitzrogers said disapprovingly. "I could hear you chubby devils wheezing blocks away. Sounded like a flotilla of leaky bagpipes." "I have asthma," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes defensively. "I have weak ankles," said the Dean. "I have a little sparrow and his name is Bertrand McAllister the Third," said the Bursar. "The problem with you wizards is you never take the time to exercise, to hone the glorious machine that is your body. Look at yourselves," he cried, jabbing the Lecturer in Recent Runes in his prominent gut. "What do you do all day -- eat lard by the tablespoon and sleep until noon?" "Tablespoons of lard, now really," muttered the Senior Wrangler affrontedly. "Yes, one teaspoon is the *maximum*," retorted Ridcully. "And only at tea-time. Anyways, Mister Fitzstaggers--" "Fitzrogers," Ponder Stibbons whispered in Ridcully's ear. "Bastard 'The Bastard' Fitzrogers." "Rather redundant name, that," said Ridcully. "Anyways, Mister Fitzrogers, it's hardly your business as to how we comport ourselves during the day. Our work requires quiet contemplation and studiousness. We *are* engaged in determining the fundamental parsnips behind the fabric of the universe, you know." Ponder Stibbons looked at Ridcully balefully. "Some sort of burlap, I'd wager," said Bastard Fitzrogers. "But at what cost does your discovery come? Weak lungs, weak ankles... weak brains." He angled his head towards the Bursar. Fitzrogers paced around the group of wizards and continued his speech. "Whereas *my* lifestyle leaves ample time for physical development *and* quiet contemplation," Fitzrogers said, raising his voice for the edification of the wizards. "First, I spend seven hours a day flogging the serfs -- terrific exercise for the quadriceps, quintraceps, and omniceps." He flexed his chest, making the muscles ripple like a rucksack full of gerbils. "After that I pleasure my woman or women for another seven hours -- good for the lateral groinal and trilateral horizontal pelvic groups," he continued. The wizards averted their eyes. "Then, I sit under a smouldering salamander for three hours to give my body its robust glow. Only after that do I allow myself the wasteful pleasure of eating, and even then it's naught but a gobbet of raw beef and, perhaps, a turnip. And throughout this all, my mind is free to ponder the ineffable what-have-you of the universe." "So, then, you know more than mortal men?" asked Ridcully. "That's right," said Fitzrogers. "So you know precisely where we're located?" asked Ridcully suspiciously. "Of course," said Fitzrogers. "We're here." "Ah," said Ridcully. "Philosophy." --- [7] "Where's my mallet!" shrieked Merisu, high above the Disc. Solipsos grabbed the pint-sized god by the ears and lifted him away from the model. "Bloody cheek!" he howled as he tried fruitlessly to crush Mrs. Parrot's Hostel. ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 09:23:05 -0600 From: Arkaroo To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Message-ID: <3767C159.5B99@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Alison Page wrote: > reading them, and I surely don't know where you (all) find the time to > write them, > My techniques for writing a chapter: 1) no life 2) lots of coffee 3) lack of of sleep. The time to write the story comes from the first, the energy comes from the second, and the humour (whatever exists) comes from the third. Works like a charm! > > And I personally like cross-overs quite a lot. I know some people can't get > on with them at all. Any thoughts on cross-overs people? > How about a Red Dwarf/B7 crossover? Me and Penny have this idea for the unlikely resurrection of... Perhaps I've said too much. Bwa-ha! > PS my spell checker insists Terry Parachute You know, Perry Parachute would be a fantastic name for a cartoon character. Anyways, thanks for the feedback. Great to know that you don't just run backwards screaming at the thought of another 17,000 word installment of farcical flatulence gags and blunt head trauma. Arkaroo ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 16:59:42 +0100 From: "Una McCormack" To: Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Message-ID: <002701beb811$cb4e1740$0c01a8c0@hedge> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Arkaroo wrote: > My techniques for writing a chapter: 1) no life 2) lots of coffee 3) > lack of of sleep. The time to write the story comes from the first, the > energy comes from the second, and the humour (whatever exists) comes > from the third. Works like a charm! Hmm. All that mixture gives me is hallucinations. > Anyways, thanks for the feedback. Great to know that you don't just run > backwards screaming at the thought of another 17,000 word installment of > farcical flatulence gags and blunt head trauma. Au contraire, Blackadder. Una ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 17:03:25 +0100 From: "Una McCormack" To: "lysator" Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Message-ID: <002801beb811$cba22ab0$0c01a8c0@hedge> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Alison said: > And I personally like cross-overs quite a lot. I know some people can't get > on with them at all. Any thoughts on cross-overs people? I think they work pretty well, on the whole. They make you think more about whether the characters feel right or not. One of my favourite B7 stories is a c/o with 'Sapphire and Steel' by Russ Massey. Potential weird crossovers? How about a Narnia one... Bleurgh. Can you imagine..? Una ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 16:27:29 GMT From: dixonm@access.mountain.net (Meredith Dixon) To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Message-ID: <376dcf8c.1419632390@access.mountain.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit On Wed, 16 Jun 1999 17:03:25 +0100, you wrote: >Potential weird crossovers? How about a Narnia one... Bleurgh. Can you >imagine..? I don't know; *The Silver Chair* is almost bleak enough to fit B7. I can envision them as "guests" of the Gentle Giants (with the teleport broken again, naturally), and I can definitely see them facing down the Witch in the Green Kirtle. -- Meredith Dixon Check out *Raven Days*, for victims and survivors of bullying. And for those who want to help. http://web.mountain.net/~dixonm/raven.html -------------------------------- End of blakes7-d Digest V99 Issue #191 **************************************