Jim, you've got to get Spock to Vulcan. –Bones, I will. I will as soon as this mission-- –No! No, right away. If you don't get him to Vulcan within a week, eight days at the outside, he'll die. He'll die, Jim!
Hmm. There are ancient Earth legends about wizards and their familiars. –Familiars? –Demons in animal forms sent by Satan to serve the wizard. –Superstition. –I do not create the legend, Captain. I merely report it.
Three witches, what appears to be a castle, and a black cat. –If we weren't missing two officers, and a third one dead, I'd say someone was playing an elaborate trick-or-treat on us. –Trick-or-treat, Captain? –Yes, Mr. Spock. You'd be a natural. I'll explain it to you one day.
Space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence. –Well, I hate to break this to you, but Starfleet operates in space. –Yeah, well, I got nowhere else to go. The ex-wife took the whole damn planet in the divorce. All I got left is my bones.
My God, man, you could at least act like it was a hard decision! –I intend to assist in the effort to re-establish communication with Starfleet. However, if crew morale is better served by my roaming the halls weeping, I will gladly defer to your medical expertise.
Well either choke me or cut my throat. Make up your mind.