From: blakes7-d-request@lysator.liu.se Subject: blakes7-d Digest V99 #114 X-Loop: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se X-Mailing-List: <blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se> archive/volume99/114 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 114 Today's Topics: [B7L] Free Traders [B7L] Re: what's so funny [B7L] fans and the media [B7L] Paul Darrow [B7L] Worst Openings [B7L] Flat Robin #38 - Part One [B7L] Flat Robin #38 - Part Two [B7L] B7ers on stage Re: [B7L] Openings [B7L] Re: Learning to bounce [B7L] Re: Avon & intimacy ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 15:11:05 +0000 (GMT) From: Una McCormack <umm10@hermes.cam.ac.uk> To: Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se> Subject: [B7L] Free Traders Message-ID: <Pine.PCW.3.96.990324144434.3183K-100000@umm-pc.jims.cam.ac.uk> Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII Neil said: >I was surprised when I first found fanfic writers setting up a background >for Jenna which hinged on an independent Free Trader society, with >dynastic houses and stuff... > >To me, Jenna saying she wasn't a smuggler but a free trader was more on >the level of 'I'm not a garbage collector, I'm a refuse disposal >operative' - a redefinition to defuse the negative connotations of the >popular term and, in Jenna's case, give her occupation a quasi-legitimate >status. Mistral replied: >I'd like to second Neil, here -- it seemed almost as if Jenna was going so >far as to say that the smugglers were, in their own way, freedom fighters >-- striking a blow for economic freedom against what might have been a >system that was as economically as ideologically repressive. Don't die of shock, Neil, but I'm thirding this. I had never imagined a Free Trader society as well, but it seems almost normative in fanfic. I'd always pictured Jenna as an Alpha who'd done a runner and got into a somewhat dodgy way of life. Actually, the backstory I always work with is Jenna's mother doing this, hooking up with some Amagon, and Jenna is a bit of both. Then her mother brings her back to Earth when Jenna is quite young. Jenna ends up doing a runner just like her mother did before. Completely made-up on my part, but it works to provide the poor woman with some motivation!! Una ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 09:08:14 -0500 From: Harriet Monkhouse <101637.2064@compuserve.com> To: "INTERNET:blakes7@lysator.liu.se" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se> Subject: [B7L] Re: what's so funny Message-ID: <199903240909_MC2-6F26-7E94@compuserve.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Disposition: inline Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Sally replied to me re Servalan and Jarriere: >>Well, of course, he can't risk blowing his cover >>by demonstrating that he has seen through her >>feeble plan through the start... > >Oh I *see* (which is more than he ever does)...so he's really both >brilliantly Machiavellian and a wonderful actor to boot (I mean, he does >kerflummoxed so well). Clearly Blake should have recruited him. No, no, he had already recruited Blake. Didn't you wonder what happened to that dove he was holding in the opening scene? It was actually a highly-trained messenger pigeon, which he was using to send his instructions to Blake. A natural precaution to avoid being intercepted using a comms link (well, he couldn't assume that Krantor was too stupid to spot one of those if he saw it in close focus in his mirror-screen). Harriet ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 14:26:46 -0000 From: "Alison Page" <alison@alisonpage.demon.co.uk> To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se> Subject: [B7L] fans and the media Message-ID: <005f01be7602$8bf73a00$ca8edec2@pre-installedco> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit My boyfriend was interviewed on Radio 5 on Saturday. He's a big fan of a fairly minor football team (Chesterfield) and he runs the fan web site. I was pleased that the radio people were sensible and friendly. They could so easily have treated supporting a small team like being keen on an SF show - which tends to be rather ridiculed by the media as people were saying before. The whole event made me think about what Judith and others have been saying about comparing football fandom and 'our' fandom. I think it is a good way of explaining the interest to outsiders. The silly costumes, the daft songs (err. sorry, I mean the well crafted musical arrangements :-) the passionate feelings about something completely unimportant. Una commented to me today that love of B7 doesn't have the same potential for complete misery that supporting a football team has. Though I think it has the potential for a level of 'we won the cup' ecstasy (if they made a B7 film with the right cast and script it would be.. fantastic.. like England winning the world cup). Football fans are less self-conscious, and less concerned about seeming silly. Or so it seems to me. Perhaps because although an individual team might be a minority interest, soccer fans as a whole make up a huge group (in Europe anyway). Alison ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 15:16:45 -0000 From: "Deborah Day" <d.day@ukgateway.net> To: <blakes7@lysator.liu.se> Subject: [B7L] Paul Darrow Message-ID: <00c601be7609$54c173a0$e98ebc3e@oemcomputer> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; boundary="----------------------------"; charset="iso-8859-1" Thanks a lot Judith. And after I bought all those zines from you as well. All right, maybe I asked the wrong question, so I will try again. What is Paul Darrow's real name? ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 25 Mar 1999 01:36:42 +1000 From: Taina Nieminen <tenzil@bigpond.com> To: "'B7'" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se> Subject: [B7L] Worst Openings Message-ID: <01BE765F.F48EEA10@TENZIL> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit "Vila ... oh, Vila ..." cooed Avon as he paced in search of the thief. Vila huddled in his hiding place, muttering to himself. Why did *he* have to weigh 73 kilos? Why not one of the others? "Vila, I know you're here. Come out. Please come out." Vila hoped desperately that Avon would not find him this time. Avon had been becoming increasingly mentally unstable since the shuttle "incident", but since his discovery of those ancient ruins, the man had lost all sense of reason. "I need your help, Vila." Avon continued to call for him. "I know you're here Vila!" It was another one of those practical jokes that life played on him, Vila decided. He was the only crew member whose weight together with Orac was the same as Avon's. And it wasn't even as if the others had any sympathy for him. He had seen it in their eyes, the relief when Orac had informed Avon that Vila, and only Vila, was the correct weight. He was the only one who had to hold Orac in his lap whenever Avon wanted to play on the seesaw with the computer. ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 08:36:30 -0700 From: Arkaroo <woollard@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca> To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin #38 - Part One Message-ID: <36F9067E.738C@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit [By Arkaroo - In attempting to avoid the three essays and two tests approaching at University, I've dedicated myself to writing the longest chapter yet, at 6050 words. Nothing like fear of doing actual work to spur one to frivolousness. I've broken this chapter into two parts so it wouldn't screw up any e-mail programs, but it was written as one part and should be considered as such for maximum appreciation and development of tension, or something like that.] *** The door to Death's wine-cellar was the largest, most imperviously constructed example of doorness that Vila had ever seen. The body of the door was composed of stout beams of oak bound together with strips of inch thick steel, while the lock was an intensely convoluted amalgam of precious metals swirling about each other in geometrical patterns not quite possible with the standard number of dimensions. The only key for it that Vila could imagine would be about three feet long, weigh a little less than half the sun's mass, and would tend to complain vocally if you dared put it on your key-chain next to the thirty-eight bent copper ones that no longer opened anything. Death hauled on the door-handle fiercely and turned towards Vila. SEE? IT'S IMPENETRABLE. Vila studied the hinges closely, then tapped gently on the frame. Clearing his throat, he turned towards Death. "Well, the thing is, see, is that you've been *pulling* on the door-handle," Vila said, and he reached out towards the heavy door and gave it a light push. The well-oiled hinges swung open with a sound like a thousand drunks inhaling as with one liver. Within, rack after rack of wine bottles stretched towards infinity [1]. "This is what we in the business call a *push* door." Death looked puzzled. A... PUSH... DOOR. STRANGE THAT ALBERT NEVER NOTICED THAT. "Drink enough wine and you won't notice that you've put your pants on the neighbour's rooster instead of yourself. Trust me, I know these things." Death sighed. WELL, THANK YOU ANYWAYS. I'LL GIVE YOU A NICE KITTEN FOR YOUR TROUBLES. FOLLOW ME. Spinning on his heel, he walked away from the wine-cellar door. Vila looked back soulfully, then followed Death. UH-OH SPAGHETTI-O, said Death, stopping by an open door. Vila craned his head and stared past Death into the darkened chamber. Within, he could hear the penetrating sussuration of trillions of grains of sand tumbling over one another. Row upon row of hourglasses, as numerous as the wine bottles (but not as interesting to Vila), filled the dimly lit chamber. Near the door, an entire shelf of hourglasses had fallen over, and the delicate glass containers had shattered violently, spreading their precious contents all over the floor. Death surveyed the slowly accumulating mounds of sand drifting along the tiles as the individual grains rolled about contrary to physical laws in their futile attempts to crawl back in their shattered containers. "Cor," said Vila. "Looks like my Aunt Genevieve's house after she started an ocelot farm in her lavatory. Before she found out they were lactose intolerant, of course. Otherwise you'd need much darker wallpaper and much larger galoshes to get the same effect." I'M GOING TO NEED MORE HOURGLASSES, Death said anxiously. "What you need is a dust-pan," said Vila. Death knelt down and looked at the leg of the table. SOMETHING CHEWED THROUGH THIS, he said with puzzlement in his voice. A RAT? "My aunt rubbed the ocelots noses in their business whenever they did something bad. You could rub your rat on those table legs, I suppose," Vila said helpfully. DID THAT HELP? Death asked. "What, rubbing their noses in the mess?" YES. "I don't know, she didn't really have time to see if it worked. Uncle Beauregard got drunk one night and thought the ocelot cage was the lavvy. After the police cleaned up the mess they made her close down the farm. Sad, really. I blame the government." Death stood up. REGARDLESS, I NEED SOME MANNER OF EMPTY GLASS RECEPTACLES TO TEMPORARILY REPLACE THE HOURGLASSES. He reached down into the bluish sand drifting through the door, picked up a fragment of glass, and studied the label glued to it. OTHERWISE THESE DENIZENS OF EASTERN MAUL ARE GOING TO BE DEAD QUITE A BIT SOONER THAN WAS EXPECTED. Vila stared at the racks of aged wine stretching off beyond the line-of-sight, then smiled softly. "I have a cunning plan, milord." *** Deep in the belly of the High Energy Magic Building, Cally, Avon, Ponder and Rincewind were gathered around Hex, with varying degrees of boredom and horror on their faces. "Hex seems to have stopped," said Cally, rubbing her eyes sleepily. "Did it say anything important?" "Well, it has certainly given us food for thought," said Avon. "I had no idea Roche limits were so... sensually shaped. Disturbing." "Excuse me, Miss, did you leave the cage door open?' asked Ponder, tapping Cally on the shoulder. "The tarriel seems to have escaped." Cally looked around. "Are you sure it's not just hiding under those cedar shavings?' "That isn't cedar. Those are shavings from the copper pipe it uses to sharpen its teeth. And it's not in there, otherwise I'm quite sure that Hex, or whatever was speaking through Hex, wouldn't have stopped that interminable lecture." Ponder and Cally peered into the darkened corners of the laboratory, as Avon looked off into space with a thoughtful gleam in his eye. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he gave a small yelp. "Something's crawled up my pant legs! It's the rodent!" Avon swatted at his thighs violently and began to run in panicked circles. "I find that highly dubious, Avon," said Cally. "I'd say an anorexic Planaria would have quite a chore climbing up those trousers." She stood back and watched curiously as Avon fumbled with his zipper and found it rusted shut. Lumbering bow-leggedly to Ponder's workbench, he grabbed a set of vice-grips and wrenched the resistant metal teeth open, releasing a furious streak of fur and teeth out into the darkened shadows behind Hex. Rincewind watched this pandemonium from his position on the floor with interest. The pliers and the angry weasel-beast reminded him fondly of his Public School days. RINCEWIND. I'VE COME FOR YOU, said a familiarly leaden voice in his ear. "Gnnx," said Rincewind, and, exhibiting a degree of dexterity and consciousness that had been heretofore unseen, he sprang to his feet and disappeared through the door in a swirl of ratty red robes and adrenaline. Sweat pouring off his brow and his pants bunched around his ankles, Avon hopped cursing towards the doorway in pursuit, but was stopped abruptly when his trousers caught on a nail-head and he went tipping forward onto the stone floor and into an unconscious heap [2]. Cally shook her head and sighed. "Here I am, stuck in a University laboratory with a vicious rodent and an unconscious revolutionary stripped to his underwear. You'd think it'd only happen a maximum of *twice*, really." Ponder saw movement in his peripheral vision, and looked over at Hex. The little red semaphore flag above the writing quill was waggling back and forth furiously. Grabbing his lunch from the table, Ponder unwrapped his sandwich and shoved the somewhat greasy brown paper under the quill, whose blunted tip immediately began to scrawl drunkenly. +++ Help, Trapped In Fortune Cookie Factory ~ End Toast Process +++ "What?" asked Ponder. +++ Someone's At The Door ~ Kernel Error ~ Abort, Retry, Pick a Card (Y/N) +++ Ponder looked at the Central Pellet Unit mounted above the mouse cages and noticed that the dried corn had become blocked in the dispenser tube. He sprinted to the Pellet Unit, jiggled a lever on the side of the chute, and then leaped back towards the keyboard. +++ Space-creatures have landed in the Bog with weapon of mass destruction capable of extinguishing all life on Disc ~ Data to Follow +++ The quill blurred madly, twitching and writhing like a living thing as strings of chemical and mathematical formulae spooled out onto the paper. Ponder stared at the spattered scrawls, his lips moving as he contemplated the import of this revelation. With an abortive squawk, he grabbed a nearby black valise and loped towards the door, past Avon's prone and pantless form. +++ IEEE ASSKEI [3] Error ~ Pageboy Fault in Local Ant Network +++ "Where is that wizard off to in such a hurry?' asked Cally. She turned towards Avon as he rolled over and sheepishly zipped up his trousers. "Oh. He must have seen your tattoo." "I told you, that's just a birthmark." "Birthmarks rarely have 'Mother' written above them." "Well, we've managed to lose two wizards in the same number of minutes. If we keep this up we'll be forced to dig the damnable thing up ourselves. Now, give me a hand with this zipper." "I told you last week, Avon..." "I need help pulling it up. What *do* you think of me?" "I think of you as a family-member. Now get that image out of your head, or at least get rid of the whipped-cream, and hand me those pliers." *** Onboard the Liberator, deep beneath the mucky peat of the Bog, Zen had noticed a peculiar anomaly in their surroundings. 'Extremely-short-range sensors indicated some manner of mysterious metallic debris has adhered to the dorsal hull," Zen intoned. "Redirecting image on-screen." Far above the Liberator, the god Eddwode cupped his hand to his ear and leaned towards the steaming mass of peat that concealed the Liberator. "What did that thinking-machine say?" he asked. "I'd go back down there, but there's too much happening up *here*!" He turned towards the mob surrounding him and pointed to the wizards. "You chaps in the colourful frocks -- do some Magic! Show the audience what's happening down there!" The wizards looked at each other thoughtfully. "If we route Plaidstone's Mimetic Mirror [4] down to that buried ship," said the Dean. "We should be able to see what's going on." He mumbled under his breath, made a few sigils in the air, and looked immediately pained. A gleaming oval appeared in the air before the assembled mob; through it, the flight-deck of the Liberator could be seen. An image flickered on the main screen of the Liberator of a small, grey cylinder, about a foot long. At one end was a large red button, and around this protuberance the words 'THE ANDROMEDAN SURGEON-GENERAL WARNS THAT PRESSING THIS BUTTON MAY RESULT IN PLANETARY DISSOLUTION AND/OR CANCER IN RATS. USE ONLY AS DIRECTED.' had been stencilled with white paint. "What is that?" asked Ridcully, squinting at the image. 'Looks like the salt-shaker the Bursar ate last Thursday." "Oh, that's just our Ultimate Weapon," muttered the Bursar/Purser, his hands engaged in furious combat with one another. The world around him turned immediately still as the very words become tangibly capitalized in the silence -- the Ankh-Morpork area having the avid capaciousness for violence that it did, it was quite possible that the laws of physics themselves stopped and came over for a better look upon hearing those words. "Did you say... Ultimate Weapon?' asked Eddwode greedily, his nostrils flaring with anticipation. 'As in big-U *Ultimate*?' The organist behind him cracked his knuckles and let loose with a two-fisted 'BWWWAAAAHHH' of ambient commentary on his wheezing harmonium. 'Purser! Shut your host's mouth or I'll have you demoted to Treadmill Runner! What sort of Alien conqueror are you?' shrieked the large Rat, leaping up and down furiously. 'I never wanted to be a conquering alien. I never even wanted to be an Andromedan!' cried the Burser/Purser. 'What are you saying, Purser?" asked the Rat. 'I've always thought of the Bursar as being very un-alien,' said Lecturer in Recent Runes. The Bursar/Purser clasped his hands over his breast and looked tearily into the sunset. Mulberry nudged Nigel. 'Good form, there. Not everyone can look tearily on command. I should know.' "I always wanted a more satisfying career," said the Purser/Bursar. "One with artistic integrity and the need for limbs. I wanted to... I wanted to *dance*!' With a brief, tempestuous flurry of robes, the Bursar/Purser attempted a an abortive pas-de-deux, but only ended up falling over. Ridcully and the large Rat had similar looks of stunned disbelief as they watched him flail about in the muck. "That was unexpected," said the Rat. *** Outside the sooty walls of mighty Ankh-Morpork, a small hansom cab rattled and bounced along the muddy ruts leading out of the city. Chests marked with skulls-and-crossbones and odd boxes covered with gauges had been lashed to any lashable surface of the hansom with hooked rubber cords. Two rather aged horses hauled the cab along with little enthusiasm, despite the muttered utterances of the man holding the reins. The driver wore a long overcoat of a dense grey tweed material. His hair was cut short, and was forced into a greasy, oddly hedgehodge-like style through the generous application of 'Swankee Stuart's Stoat-Extracte Styling Gelle'. A perpetual smirk played beneath his rather potato-like nose, and his eyes squinted suspiciously at the setting sun. Altogether, he looked the perfect image of what the criminal element of Ankh-Morpork would call 'Plainclothes Filth', and, indeed, he had at one point been in Law Enforcement, and never hesitated in taking great pains to tell people (usually at an otherwise fun party, after backing them up against the wall) about his three glorious weeks in the Watch. He invariably excluded the part of the story where he ticketed Lord Vetinari's carriage for parking three-eighths of an inch further away from the curb than the bylaw (which was usually enforced only in situations where the defendant had used the words 'tosser', 'filth', or 'I'm a taxpayer - that makes me your boss' when talking to the prosecuting officer) declared legal, and his summary dismissal for 'Gross Stupidness' by Captain Vimes. Now, Fistulous Withers (for that was his name) was the founder, president, and Chief Investigator of Normal Events for the Ankh-Morpork 'Fistulating Bureau of Inquiry'. The Bureau did not concern itself not with the Paranormal, which was the standard of existence in a continuum in which the gods not only chose not to hide themselves away from believers and non-believers alike, but tended to walk around in public with lightning-bolts crackling about their heads while wearing t-shirts that said 'Ask Me About My Godhead'. Instead, his crack team of investigators [5] went in search of those events that seemed to have the signs of natural explanations/causes. Although children laughed at him on the street and his mother constantly referred to him as 'too bloody thick to see the obvious', he was content in his job, and looked forward to the day when all the events of the Universe could be explained with a few unified formulae [6] and gods stuck to watching sparrows plummet. From one of the many large pockets in his overcoat he removed a small, black metal box. A plate affixed to the front of the box read 'Skull'Ee MM Demonic Dictation Device (pat. pend.)'. Fistulous pressed a lever on the side of the box and began to speak into it. "Case notes part the first, colon, my belief is that this recent spate of pillars-of-salt and burning-bushes in the Tri-Swamp area are, comma, in fact, comma, underline, not, end underline, the work of so-called quotation-mark gods quotation-mark, comma, but are instead merely the result of natural phenoneno... phenommmononenann... causes, comma, possibly swamp-gas or badgers covered with phosphorous, full-stop." He stopped to swat at a small pixie that had lighted on the reins. "Just this morning the Branch received notice, comma, after, underline, accidentally, end underline, bludgeoning the courier to the Watch and rifling through his bulging mail-sack [7], comma, that a prominent member of the Soothsaying community, comma, namely one Lord Radish-Culpepper, comma, had gone missing in the Ankh-Morpork Bog area, full-stop. After consulting the Department of Hagiography, comma, and being then directed to the more appropriate Department of Haruspices, comma, I decided that this case must be handled personally [8], full-stop." "Excuse me?" asked a small voice from within the box. "How many 'haitches' in Hagiography?' "*You're* the damned dictation demon, you tell me! Now, read the last sentence back." The sound of rustling parchment emerged from within the box. "Right, where did I put that scroll... *ahem*, 'After consulting the Department of Hahiohography, comma, and...' I missed the next part, but I don't think it mattered. Anyways, '...I decided that this...' Um, I ran out of 'e's at this point. '...that this cas muft b handld prsonally, full-stop.' I take that to read, 'muft be handled personally'. What does 'muft' mean?" "You pronounce 'muft' as 'must'." "But it says 'muft', sir. Very clear 'f' in there. Pronounced 'fuh', I believe." Fistulous reached behind him and pulled out a short length of pipe, which he raised above the small box. He was preparing to crush the small box when he saw a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. Turning around in his seat, he looked backwards and saw a robed figure running along behind him. He pulled the reins and stopped to let the running figure catch up to him. A wizard clutching a black valise and sprinting away from the city was not a sight one saw everyday, Fistulous noted, as wizards were notorious for their appreciation of a sedentary existence to the point of violence. Even though Ponder was considered a freakish example of fitness amongst his fellow wizards, he was still, after all, a *wizard*, and he was panting quite furiously by the time he reached the hansom cab. He clutched onto the sideboard and struggled for breath. "Where... are you... headed?" Ponder gasped. 'Towards the Ankh-Morpork Bog," replied Fistulous. "It's been the site of many interesting phenomen... events recently, including but not limited to the mass removal of peat onto the surrounding landscape." "You've got to get me there!" cried Ponder. "Space-creatures with powerful weapons have landed there, and the fate of the entire Disc is at stake!" "Mmm-hmm. 'Space-creatures'?. Big heads, small mouths, large probes? I *don't* think so. Most likely some hydrocephalic albino dwarves who were toilet trained at too tender an age. Nothing paranormal about *that*. Oh well, hop on board, I'm headed that way anyways. The Truth is out in that general area. Or possibly a little more to the south. We'll see." *** Mulberry strode towards the milling pack [9] of wizards, her green eyes flashing in the sun. Nigel struggled alongside her, occasionally becoming ensnarled in her voluminous petticoats. 'O! Most kind and subservious gentleman, I implore you to heed the beck of my calling!' she cried, grasping the Dean by the sleeve. 'My erstwhile male companion slash protector slash sugardaddy has, through the untender ministrations of yon stoney harlot...' 'A parrot!' cried the Lecturer. 'Quick, make it ask me for a cracker!' '...been ensnarled within a conundrumous web of deceit and decollatagenous government issue haberdashery, a situation werewithin wither I know not what shall procede to occur in conclusion to this most anxious yet oddly titilating becomance of events.' 'She doesn't breath much, does she?' asked the Dean. 'Good thing for the Senior Wrangler. That much moving bosom could kill him.' 'Gub,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, averting his eyes as Mulberry inhaled. "You should talk to the fellow with the megaphone, my dear," said Ridcully, oozing fatherly concern. "He seems to be at the centre of things. Here, take my arm, pet, and try not to step on the space-creatures that seem to be underfoot. Lovely petticoats, by the way. Why is there a monkey clinging to them?" "Wot?" asked Nigel as he came to his feet. 'I'm her beau, you... you... dress-wearing dunderpate! I'm no bloody stupid, feces-fondling, banana-munching *monkey*." "Oook?" said a questioning voice from behind the Dean, who looked backwards and blanched. The Librarian walked, or more accurately, ambled, towards Nigel while brandishing a green banana in a more than menacing manner. "My word, things do seem to be converging on this point rather abruptly," said Solipsos from his vantage point high above the Disc. "That's almost every character accounted for." "He's got a green banana," tittered Syggar. ------------------------------- [1] Death, being the practical soul that he was, hadn't collected the bottles from the corporeal world, choosing instead to pick and choose from the various trouser-legs (or, in this case, the Centipede's lederhosen) of reality to gather his vast and staggeringly diverse array of drink. Which, incidentally, is why its selection of "Morpork Caverns Mushroom Muscariatel '69" was so prized, as the owners of the company were, understandably, quite curious as to how their product would taste 930 years in the future. The regrettable truth is that it tasted remarkably like fermented fruit-juice, a fact that has seemingly escaped sommeliers for aeons. [2] "Tut-tut,' said Solipsos. "They've already had one character doing that. How derivative." [3] 'Accepted Symbological System of Keying Elements In', a system developed by the Intercontinental Ecclesiastical and Ecumenical Empiricists to make communication between the various peoples of the Disc that much more difficult. [4] Whose abuse by less-than-celibately-minded wizards was tempered by the unpleasant stinging in the lower extremities caused when casting the spell, and the two-way nature of the Mirror. More than one laundress at the University had woken up to the image of a sheepish looking wizard with a terrible rash hovering above their beds in the first few weeks after Plaidstone created the spell, but the practice died out when the wizard's freshly laundered underwear started being starched. [5] The Branch had only one other employee, a small calico cat that had wandered in through the mail slot three months earlier and was in charge of keeping brownies out of the larder, as they had no right to exist in a sensible universe.. [6] A truly Grand Unified Theory that didn't require physicists to mumble in the middle bit. [7] "*Bulging mail-sack*!" giggled Syggar. [8] "Hee-hee, *handled* pers..." "Oh, *shut up*!" [9] Nobody has yet constructed a proper term for a group of wizards. 'Pack', 'Swarm', and 'Bitching Mob That Takes Up Five Tables, Renders The Toilets Unusable, Then Leaves A Half-Copper Piece Tip After A Thirty-Five Course Meal' of Wizards have all been bandied about, but the general consensus was that one should never, ever be caught in the situation where one would have to refer to a group of wizards, period. ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 08:38:22 -0700 From: Arkaroo <woollard@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca> To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin #38 - Part Two Message-ID: <36F906EE.5A56@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit [Part Two of Two, By Arkaroo] *** "Thish... thish vintage was short of chunky," slurred Vila, waving an ornate bottle at Death. LET ME SEE THE LABEL. HMM. I'D RECOMMEND EATING A LOT OF BRAN FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS. YOU JUST DRANK A DJINN. THEY GET RATHER TESTY ABOUT THINGS LIKE THIS, SO TRY NOT TO LINGER IN THE LAVATORY AFTER YOU... POP THE CORK OUT, SO TO SPEAK. *** The hansom cab carrying Ponder Stibbons and Fistulous Withers pulled up beside the throng of wizards. Ponder vaulted from his seat and ran towards Ridcully, waving his black valise in the air. 'Stibbons, old boy, good to see you," greeted Ridcully. "I had a question to ask you about ravens." "Sir! There's a devastating weapon in that bog!" cried Ponder. "Old news, Ponder, old news. The space-creature controlling the Bursar told us all about that already." The Lecturer in Recent Runes snickered. "You're lagging behind, Ponder. You should stop spending so much time with your blasted adding machine." "You don't understand! Hex gave me the schematics for this weapon," said Ponder, pulling a stained sheet of paper out of his valise. "This has everything -- what it can do, what it's made of, everything! It's monstrous!" 'What's this so-called Ultimate Weapon made of, then?" asked Ridcully. "No doubt it's just a few household chemicals in the proper proportions," said the Dean sarcastically. 'What sort of household?' asked the Lecturer in Recent Runes curiously. 'The kind of household that has three pints of superfluid neutron liquid and eight teaspoons of degenerate electron gas sitting beside the molasses," replied Ponder. "Hmm. Well, it can't be all that powerful. I've thrown firecrackers larger than that at the Bursar and they hardly even singed him." "Sir, that weapon could wipe the entire Disc clean of life," Ponder whispered into Ridcully's ear. Eddwode lifted his megaphone to his lips. "TO ALL THOSE WHO MAY HAVE MISSED THAT," his amplified voice crackled, "THIS WEAPON COULD WIPE THE ENTIRE DISC CLEAN OF LIFE." The organist, perhaps not completely aware of the goings on around him, chimed in with a rheumatic version of "Thee Merrie-Go-Rounde Broke Downe". *** The realization of the power of the Ultimate Weapon slowly drifted over the assembled crowd, in varying degrees of avariciousness and murderosity. 'If people got those, they'd render assassins obsolete!' cried a representative of the Assassins Guild who had been listening to the events from a blind high up in the trees. 'They'd be able to kill millions without the need for our assistance. Monstrous!' 'It would certainly go well with the drapes in the sun-room,' said Krantor, idly buffing the leather of his boots. 'I'd wager you could hunt some *really big* creatures with that weapon,' pondered Ridcully, his trigger finger twitching furiously. 'I bet that would look *fantastic* when it blew up,' said Eddwode breathily, his eyes dancing with delight. 'Grrf nof nrr tnn gnn og fnn berntgrbbl,' said Servalan through petrified teeth. Somewhere, Rincewind shivered. "Oh, Bugger. Somebody's going to try and destroy the world again." In the High Energy Magic Building Cally twitched. 'How peculiar... a goose with a apocalyptic weapon must have walked over my grave.' Deep in Ponder's black valise, the jet-black eyes of the Tarriel gleamed. *** Meanwhile, Rincewind continued his speedy flight along the crowded streets of Ankh-Morpork, twisting around crutch-swinging beggars and pushing aside street-corner evangelical Omnians as he sought to evade Death. He had managed to cover thirty-four city blocks in less than fifteen minutes, a feat that would have made him proud had he not been so preoccupied with survival. Rincewind had always been from the school of thought which insisted that any conflict could be solved by running away. Opponents of this philosophy always declared, in self-righteous tones, that you couldn't run away from yourself, to which Rincewind had replied, "You can if you run bloody well *fast* enough". Rincewind hoofed it up the slippery streets of Rendering Row, narrowly avoiding slipping on a flow of fat that had solidified across the intersection. RINCEWIND, said a dolorous voice inside his head. I JUST NEED A HAND. "You can take both of them! Just leave the important parts!" he cried, ducking under a low-flying gargoyle. I NEED A FUNNEL. COULD YOU PICK ONE UP BEFORE I COME TO TAKE YOU AWAY? The voice in his head paused for a moment. OH, AND YOUR BROTHER WOULD LIKE SOMETHING TO EAT. SOMETHING THAT ONCE HAD A HEAD, HE SAYS, AND PREFERABLY FRIED IN SOMETHING OILY. 'He's not my brother!' shrieked Rincewind, hurtling around a corner and bowling a trio of nuns into the gutter. One of them threw a brick at his fleeing back and cursed loudly. IT'S A GOOD THING HE HAD A CHURCH-KEY WITH HIM. HE SAYS HE MADE IT OUT OF HIS FRIEND'S LIMITER, WHATEVER THAT MAY BE. THERE'S A LITTLE CORKSCREW PART ON THE END THAT CAME IN VERY HANDY. Rincewind's lips moved silently as he jumped over a Fried-Weasel vendor's cart. "I swear to the Gods, even the ones I have managed to offend in my life, which is pretty much all of them, that if any of them are feeling particularly generous, I wouldn't be averse to a little Divine Intervention..." From out of the air in front of him appeared a sheet of parchment. He was able to read the words writ in fiery silver across the paper -- 'Too Late, Cobber, Sucks To Be Thee; Yours Truly, The Gods" -- before the paper disintegrated into a fine metallic mist. Rincewind turned a corner and began to jog erratically along the inconsistently cobbled Scalbie Street, his lungs burning painfully. From somewhere deep beneath the thickened layers of cynical scar tissue that formed his cerebellum a brief glimmer of hope [10] began to sputter, a glimmer that said possibly, just *possibly*, he might have managed to outrun Death after all. A bony foot emerged from a shadowy alley and sent Rincewind sprawling. Spitting out what he hoped was soil, he rolled over and looked up into the bleached face of Eternity. The pearly teeth in his mouth shone more menacingly than ever in the dimming light. WHOOPS. I DIDN'T SEE YOU THERE. HA. HA. Death threw a small leather satchel on the cobblestones in front of Rincewind. HERE'S SOME MONEY. GET A NICE BLUE FUNNEL. I'LL BE WAITING. Death slipped back into the shadows. Rincewind struggled to his feet and brushed off the larger lumps that adhered to his robe. He looked around at the towering stone buildings around him and concluded that he was on the edge of the north-western industrial area, where the warehouses and insane asylums tended to congregate. From out of the gloom lurched a figure wielding a club-like object. Rincewind cringed backwards as the figure thrust the object toward him menacingly. "Intelligent-Swine-Onna-Stick, fried in the finest oily substance, only six copper bits," said the figure, who sidled up to Rincewind closely enough that he could see, or rather smell, the familiar features of Dibbler. "Three copper bits more gets you a part that wasn't formerly used for digestion." 'Did they have heads, previously?' asked Rincewind, looking in the little leather satchel Death had given him. It was full of little sparkly green gems that looked suspiciously like emeralds. "Yup. But I'm saving those for the after-school 'Candied-Pigs-Head' market. Right now I'm just selling the... inner bits. Onna-stick." "I'll take one with extra oil, I guess. Is there a store where I might find a funnel around here?" he asked, pulling out a small gem and handing it to Dibbler. Dibbler pointed over Rincewind's shoulder as his eyes focused beadily on the emerald he was given. "I should think they'd sell 'em. Would you care for a decorative hat with that? Delights the kiddies, you know. Only seven more copper bits." Rincewind turned around and looked up at the gleaming metal sign mounted on the side of an enormous brick building. It read, "Ye Olde Home Despot", and it had a little symbol of a wheelbarrow being eviscerated with a variety of tools, including a menacing-looking funnel. PICK UP SOME PAPER TOWELS AS WELL, said the voice in his head. THE 'Captain TaupeBeard Chateau-Brigand '56' DIDN'T AGREE WITH YOUR BROTHER. HE MADE QUITE A MESS ON KING CHASINGSTOTE'S SAND OF LIFE. THAT SHOULD MAKE FOR SOME INTERESTING DESCENDANTS, ASSUMING HE LIVES LONG ENOUGH. *** Back at the Bog marvelous things were happening, the most marvelous of which was seeing wizards performing actual physical labour, a sight that hadn't been seen on the Disc since the Year of the Blossoming Bandicoot, when it was rumoured that Dean Brockwood had buried his infamous stash of Salt-Water Taffy [11] somewhere in the flower beds. Now, though, the assembled robed wizards were once more swinging, plunging, and otherwise attempting-to-use shovels and pick-axes. As productive excavators they were execrable, but for a pure force of exertion they were spectacular. "Zounds, Ridcully, how far down *is* this bugger?" asked the Lecturer in Recent Runes as he mopped the copious rivulets of sweat from his brow. He swung his pick-ax with strenuous but ill-aimed blows, doing little more than sending up plumes of powdered peat. "Far enough. You, Ponder, get a little more elbow into that shovel," said Ridcully, leaning against his spade. "We've got to get that Weapon before any of the less qualified parties do. They'd only misuse the power. Free slaves and whatnot. I've always wanted to bag one of those elephants that hold up the Disc..." A muffled clunk echoed up from the 'Mended Drum' contingent. "We've struck... ship!" cried their leader, a one-eyed brigand with a stuffed parrot mounted on his shoulder. Within seconds every other member of the mob had rushed to the discovery, shoving one another aside feverishly. "I can almost see the Weapon!" cried the Brigand, pushing aside the loose dirt on his hands and knees. Suddenly, the ground around the revealed hull began to shift and quiver. Cracks appeared in the peat walls of the surrounding excavation as the ship began to lurch downwards. "Bugger! It's caving in!" cried the one-eyed brigand, who leaped from the ship without hesitation. As the other members of the mob began to recognize the accuracy of his statement, they too scrambled up the slope of the excavation away from the steadily sinking ship. *** "What is going on?" cried Orac as the Liberator began to shudder and shift. "We're falling down, Orac," said Zen emotionlessly. "I thought that much was apparent." "How can we be falling down if we've already *fallen* down, you silicon-circuited half-wit!" exclaimed Orac. "There is nowhere further to fall!" *** From their vantage point scrambling up the conical, ant-lionish walls of the pit surrounding the Liberator, the members of the mob were too concerned with getting out of the crumbling excavation to look backwards, but from his platform overlooking the scene the god Eddwode had a perfect view of the events. The Liberator shuddered and squeaked as it settled lower and lower into the peat. Finally, with a tremendous squeal of metal on rock, it plunged downwards until only the dorsal propulsion unit remained visible. Then, an extraordinary thing happened. From out of the darkness around the visible part of the Liberator emerged creatures; odd creatures, short and squat and covered with a fine dense hair. Their hands were shovel-like and tipped with thick, sturdy claws, and they had reddish tentacles wriggling forth from the snoutish ends of their faces. "Mole People! Actual Mole-People" crowed Eddwode, clapping his hands in delight. "Could this day get *any* better?" The mass of creatures laboured briefly, on what Eddwode could not see. Then, they scampered back into the darkness. After a few agonizing seconds, the Liberator dropped completely out of view, making a loud splash as it did. He applauded gleefully as the mob lurched for freedom. From behind his seat, he heard the ruffling of petticoats and the sound of laboured footsteps. "That banana was *very* ripe," moaned a voice. Turning around, Eddwode could see a beautiful woman striding towards him theatrically, with a small, badly charred little man following her. "O! Most kindly and generous benatured god Eddwode! Cleave to my words as I implore you with my invocations for goodliness on your part!" she cried, flinging herself at his feet. Eddwode's eyes lit up as he stared down at her heaving bosom. "Say... is that bodice made out of... *angora*?" *** "Which way is that current heading?" asked the Dean, fanning himself with his badly crushed hat. Ponder Stibbons looked down at the swirling water in the pit where the Liberator had lain not an hour ago and gnawed his lip thoughtfully. "I'd say, judging by the vortices of the fluid, the height of the waves, then calculating in the coriolis effect, and since the wind is blowing from the west..." Ridcully picked up a pine-cone and threw it in the water, then watched carefully as the current pulled it out of sight towards the city. "That's what we call Imperial evidence, my boy," he said. "It's flowing back towards the Ankh. Funny, I never thought of the Ankh as having much actual *water* in it, but one learns something new every day, or so they say." "I don't think that's quite true," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "In can think of several days after last New Years that I spent face down on my carpet. I really don't think I learned anything." "You learned that three days of sleeping on a patterned carpet leaves a really fantastic impression on your forehead," noted the Dean. Ponder Stibbons looked at the horizon. "I guess we'd better go find that weapon, for the good of the Disc. We can only pray that that weapon doesn't fall into the hands of a disturbed individual with little sense of self-preservation and a grudge large enough to rotate crops on." "Those sound like ironically prophetic words," said Solipsos. "How derivative." --------- [10] Normally this glimmer would have been promptly smothered by the grossly enlarged Sensibility center of Rincewind's brain, but the exhaustion of running fifty-odd city-blocks had rendered it sluggish. [11] A horribly sticky concoction of salt, sugar, pine-gum, and charcoal that only a wizard could love. ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 10:10:54 EST From: Mac4781@aol.com To: space-city@world.std.com, blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] B7ers on stage Message-ID: <33d47ed4.36f9007e@aol.com> Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit I was exploring the web site for THE STAGE (UK's performing arts weekly newspaper) and discovered some reviews of B7ers in plays. There was a flattering-to-Steven review of "Things We Do for Love" and a flattering-to- Gareth review of "The Crucible." The site also listed a review of "Hosts of Rebecca," but that wasn't included in the on-line archives (however, you can order the back issue in which the review appeared--19 February 1999). I haven't had time to search for any other reviews to see what else might be available. For those who want to check on other plays (such as Paul in "Guards! Guards!), the url is: http://www.thestage.co.uk/ To do a search you'll need the name of the play, and dates would also be helpful. The archives only go back to 1/10/97, so older material wouldn't be available. Carol Mc ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 11:35:52 EST From: VulcanXYZ@aol.com To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: Re: [B7L] Openings Message-ID: <f1868fb5.36f91468@aol.com> Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit rilliara wrote a wonderful opening (or short story in its own right) that ended with: << The next time Barkley wants to play Avon's 7, he can do it without me." >> I loved this one. I even printed it up so I can save it forever. Thanks so much! <bounce> Gail ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 12:53:06 -0500 From: Harriet Monkhouse <101637.2064@compuserve.com> To: "INTERNET:blakes7@lysator.liu.se" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se> Subject: [B7L] Re: Learning to bounce Message-ID: <199903241253_MC2-6F3C-4913@compuserve.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Disposition: inline Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Iain wrote: >I'd like an Eeyore toy that, when pressed, does nothing. That would be nice... but shouldn't its tail fall off? Harriet ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 12:54:00 -0500 From: Harriet Monkhouse <101637.2064@compuserve.com> To: "INTERNET:blakes7@lysator.liu.se" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se> Subject: [B7L] Re: Avon & intimacy Message-ID: <199903241254_MC2-6F3C-4951@compuserve.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Disposition: inline Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Calle replied to Mistral: >> Bouncing through the halls of lysator > >Be careful, the floor in the hallway is less than stable... And you must remember to take your shoes off first. Harriet -------------------------------- End of blakes7-d Digest V99 Issue #114 **************************************