Oh, how splendidly picturesque this day unfolds in the heart of jolly Ol' London. The resplendent sun casts its luminous rays upon the bustling streets, while a symphony of avian melodies fills the air. Yet amidst this idyllic scene, an unmistakable fragrance lingers - a peculiar blend of exhaust fumes and smog that permeates the atmosphere. Ah, a truly exquisite day in the London-hood! Where else might one revel in the unparalleled delight of skillfully maneuvering through interminable traffic snarls and deftly evading audacious cyclists at every twist and turn?
As one hurtles down the asphalt expanse in their diminutive Lotus Seven, bearing the distinctive mark of KAR 120C upon its license plate, an undeniable sensation of audaciousness envelops the soul. For what need is there for opulence and utilitarianism when one can possess a vehicle that evokes the essence of a revered go-kart? In this exhilarating contraption, replete with its cacophonous engine and suspension that teeters on the precipice of doubt, each encounter with a pothole transforms into an enthralling escapade!
Amidst the ceaseless commotion of London's urban tapestry, you navigate with unwavering resolve, deftly maneuvering your KAR through the labyrinthine streets as if threading a needle through a delicate fabric. The throngs of pedestrians scatter in awe and trepidation, their countenances reflecting a blend of admiration and fear, for they bear witness to your audacious mastery behind the wheel.
Oh, how fortuitous are those who chance upon this electrifying spectacle - an enthralling symphony of velocity and meticulousness that you effortlessly orchestrate with your KAR. With each calculated turn and daring acceleration, you compose an opus that resonates with the pulse of the city itself. The harmonious fusion of speed and precision dances before their eyes, leaving an indelible imprint upon their souls.
As you glide through the bustling thoroughfares, time seems to warp around you. The blur of neon lights streaks across your periphery while the cacophony of car horns and distant sirens blend into a symphony that only you can conduct, as you navigate the urban labyrinth with effortless grace.
And lo, behold the underground parking garage, a veritable sanctuary that beckons to the souls of automobile aficionados. Within its hallowed confines, one is greeted by an intoxicating bouquet of exhaust fumes, a scent that lingers in the air like a delicate perfume. The symphony of screeching tires reverberates through the very marrow of this subterranean realm, bouncing off the cold and unyielding concrete walls.
As you descend into this abyssal domain, prepare yourself for a journey through a labyrinthine maze that would leave even Theseus himself bewildered. The intricate network of passageways twists and turns with an enigmatic grace, defying logic and challenging all who dare to venture forth. Each corridor presents a new conundrum, an intricate puzzle waiting to be solved.
Navigating this subterranean realm requires not only skill but also a keen sense of intuition. Like a masterful conductor leading an orchestra, one must anticipate the movements of fellow motorists as they navigate the labyrinthine tunnels, ensuring a harmonious flow of traffic amidst the bewildering complexity.
Once ensconced within, one shall be greeted by an enchanting spectacle of flickering fluorescent lights, whose antiquated installation harkens back to a bygone era. The feeble luminosity they emit imparts an air of enigma to one's sojourn, evoking the sensation of penetrating a clandestine sanctuary rather than merely securing one's automobile. Oh, how fortuitous we are to bear witness to such prodigious architectural wonders!
As one embarks on the arduous quest for an unoccupied parking space, a peculiar and exhilarating game of hide-and-seek ensues. It is as if these elusive spaces have acquired a consciousness of their own, relishing in the art of delusion and deriving immense satisfaction from their ability to remain just out of reach. With each turn of the wheel, anticipation builds, akin to a suspenseful chase through labyrinthine corridors. The asphalt expanse transforms into an intricate maze, where one's vehicular prowess is put to the test against these cunning adversaries. The spaces, like mischievous phantoms, taunt and tease from afar, disappearing into thin air at the precise moment they seem within grasp. Oh, how they revel in this clandestine game! These parking spaces possess an uncanny knack for concealing themselves in plain sight, camouflaging amidst rows of vehicles, or masquerading as innocuous shadows. Their mastery lies not only in their physical absence but also in the frustration and exasperation they evoke, leaving drivers circling endlessly in search of their elusive presence.
"Good day, Mr. Robinson," the secretary's voice echoed through the room, carrying an air of urgency. "You have a formidable stack of messages that need your attention, sir."
Stack of messages, eh? Yeah, as if the world couldn't possibly function without your esteemed presence.
"Get D. Ops down here straight away," you retort, rolling your eyes at the thought of yet another urgent matter. You have nothing better to do than deal with whatever crisis he's cooked up this time.
"At once, Mr. Robinson," the secretary replied dryly, her tone dripping with thinly veiled amusement at his exasperation.
As if on cue, the Director of Operations appeared at the door, his face a picture of seriousness that seemed almost comical given the circumstances. "Director of Operations to see you, Mr. Robinson," he announced in a deadpan manner.
"Send him in," Mr. Robinson responded with an exaggerated sigh, fully aware that this encounter would likely be filled with more bureaucratic nonsense and unnecessary complications As the Director of Operations entered the room, Mr. Robinson braced himself for another tiresome discussion that would only further delay progress.
"I say, Craig, where's the fire?"
"In my eyes, Smith. You've got me tailed and I want to know why." you snarl at the D. Ops with a high level of venom in your voice.
"Tailed you?" Smith asks. "Why the hell would I want to waste my chaps on the likes of you?"
"My point exactly. I've been cleared back to the cradle. I thought this might have something to do with----uh---my relationship with John and his family."
"How are things between you and your brother, the Anglonaut?"
"Fine, fine. He sends his farewells. Now, why am I a marked man?"
But D. Ops Smith claims not to know. He goes on to say he has not assigned anyone to watch you.
But you and he both know that to be bullshit!
You walk up to a nearby window, force open the venetian blinds and ask Smith "Who's that, then? Mary Poppins? I believe that's Special Op Pole---and I'm one of the dogs he walks."
Smith says, "I must reprimand him for being spotted. Yes, it's Pole all right. But I loaned him to the Gods last week.
The Gods, he said? Jesus Christ! But what could those old fossils possibly want with you, Craig?
And so, the conversation between you and D. Ops Smith becomes one between friends. You ask what he thinks. Smith tells you he thinks you're messing with something they don't want disturbed. You've been kicking up some dust, pawing through dirty linen. He believes you're close to unearthing a secret....a big secret.
What rubbish! If that's the case, why don't they just sack you, Craig?
Smith promises to ask around. You caution him to be careful. There is so much to do and so little time to do it.
Your visit with Smith now over, you walk down a stark, uncheerful hall. It is the hall of the great robotic machine that processes data cards and drop each one into a file cabinet. The rows of these seem endless to you. Ah, technological bureaucracy at mindless, computerized work!
You swing open the double doors leading into the opulent office of the almighty Colonel K. In you walk, apologizing to him for being late. The tea he offers you (Chinese? Indian? Scotch-Irish?) is a bit cold, but you thank him for it anyway.
"Your brother was in The Mail today. Quite a splash. This is quite a challenge he is undertaking," says Colonel K.
"Yes, sir," you reply. "But then, being the patriarch of the first Earth family to colonize Alpha Centauri is not.....unlike him."
"Quite," is Colonel K's reply. He reminds you, however, that you did not litter his office with memos just to discuss familial prowess.
No, you are not that foolish.
But you are worried about what seems to be a narrowing in scope of your department's mandate. In your view, excavations. Why must it always be the junior office that risks extinction if current politics prevail?
"Whatever do you mean?" Colonel K asks.
You mean the following:
1. Requests for extra staff: denied.
2. Requests for extra funding: deferred.
3. Petition for inter-departmental assistance: denied.
Your department has operated at certain staff and budget levels for decades now, your enthusiasm is commendable. But some have seen your requests as little more than empire-building.
You would like to hit him, no doubt, based on what he's accusing you of. But, he is the boss, and so you must content yourself with spreading your hands out on his desk and leaning forward slightly. "My requests are legitimate, sir," you protest. "On Monday, the man you call Number 2 will be released from Dartmoor Prison after 30 years. In his original manuscript, he made certain allegations."
You have told him that, despite all concessions, this man, this Number 2, plans to avenge himself on those responsible for his incarceration. All you want is a special agent---or team of agents---to run interference.
"Do you think Number 2 is a threat?" asks Colonel K. "He was, after all, quite handsomely compensated."
That is true. Number 2 was handsomely compensated. Your concern, however, is so great to the point where you are prepared to back it....
....with your resignation!
You hand him a letter of resignation. On the back of the pale-white envelope, you have written BY HAND.
Colonel K picks up......
...a pipe....
...a match....
Scratch!!!
The match sets fire to.....
.....your letter of resignation....
The envelope burns......
BY HAND
Y HAND
HAND
AND
ND
D
Poof!
"Don't be a fool, Craig," says Colonel K. "You are not the quitting type. No, you are a clever and resourceful man. You'll find some elegant solution to this dilemma."
"Where?" you ask.
"I cannot officially condone any departmental action to you. Good day, Craig.
There are the double doors behind you.
Turn around.
Open them.
Off you go.
Tallyho!
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Welcome to the Robinson family's London flat. Ah, what a picture-perfect display of downsizing and minimalism. The process of donating their possessions to charity for the upcoming space adventure is going swimmingly, and the flat is now a spacious, clutter-free sanctuary. The family, their backs straight, chins held high, (that's the British way!) proudly surveys the emptiness that lies before them, knowing that they've successfully shed the material burdens of their old lives. (Tally Ho!) The occasional thud of an item being packed is drowned out by the triumphant air that fills the flat, as though the family were celebrating the shedding of their earthly possessions, rather than mourning their loss. In the end, the flat is transformed into a testament to their newfound freedom, and the family exudes an air of smug satisfaction, knowing that they've conquered the challenge of decluttering with flying colors. Of course, this is all a bit tongue-in-cheek, as the reality is likely much more emotional and challenging than the sarcastic tone suggests. But hey, at least they're ready for space!
All except one, that is.
Penny Robinson, dressed in her khaki jumpsuit from the Jupiter Project, is a picture of dishevelment. Her once-shiny hair is now a mess, and her eyes are puffy and red from crying. She's not handling the upheaval in her life very well, and her unhappiness is palpable. The Jupiter Project's rigorous training regimen has turned her world upside down, and she's struggling to adapt to the constant changes. The centrifuge, zero gravity, and other challenges of space travel have left her feeling disoriented and overwhelmed. She's missed the familiar comforts of her old life, and the constant training has left her feeling as if she's lost a piece of herself in the process. In a somewhat sarcastic tone, she wonders if all this preparation was really necessary, or if they could have just skipped straight to the part where they blast off into space, saving her the emotional turmoil and the countless hours of training. But alas, here she is, still in the thick of it, with no end in sight. At least she'll have some great stories to tell her grandchildren someday, right?
With tears streaming down her face, Penny Robinson finally speaks, her voice trembling as she chokes out the words. "Mom... I don't want to leave Earth. I miss my friends, my school, and my life as it was. Why did we have to join this space adventure?"
Maureen Robinson, ever the stoic and level-headed parent, offers a reassuring smile, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I know, sweetheart. Believe me, I understand. But we're doing this for the greater good, for the future of humanity. Sometimes, we have to make sacrifices for the queen and country, even if it's difficult."
Penny wipes her eyes, trying to regain her composure, but the sadness lingers, a heavy cloud over her usually cheerful disposition. The family's journey into the unknown has come at a great cost, and the weight of their decision hangs heavily on their hearts. But they press on, united in their determination to face the challenges ahead, even if it means leaving their old lives behind.
Penny's voice wavered as she spoke, her eyes pleading. "No, really, I want to stay behind. Can't you just let me? I know it's a lot to ask, but I can't do this. I can't leave my life on Earth behind. I... I don't belong here with you, not like this."
The family, however, remained steadfast in their decision, knowing full well that their mission was crucial for the future of humanity. Maureen, with a mix of concern and determination, replied, "We can't do that, Penny. We're in this together, and we'll face these challenges as a family. We'll find a way to make it work, I promise."
Despite her mother's reassurances, Penny couldn't shake the feeling that she was being torn away from everything she knew and loved. The weight of her decision to stay behind was almost too much to bear, but she knew that she had to be strong for her family, even if it meant leaving her dreams behind. Sometimes, sacrifices had to be made, and Penny was determined to make the best of a difficult situation.
Will Robinson, Penny's younger brother, enters the room, his face a picture of determination. He's dressed in a khaki jumpsuit of his own, his small frame already showing the effects of the rigorous training he's endured. His unkempt hair and tousled clothes give him a slightly scruffy appearance, but his eyes are filled with a steely resolve that belies his young age. He's always been the protective sibling, and in this moment, he's determined to help Penny through her crisis.
"Hey, Pen," he says. "You know, I was just thinking. Maybe we can turn this whole situation into a game. Like, we can set challenges for each other, and whoever completes them first gets a reward. It could be a way to make the mission more fun and help us all cope better."
His words, although well-intentioned, don't seem to have the desired effect on Penny. She looks at him with a mix of gratitude and sadness, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Thanks, Will," she says, her voice barely audible above the silence that has descended upon the room. 75Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ81hkLK4ikC
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So picture this: you're strolling through the bustling streets of East London, dodging hipsters and avoiding eye contact with the street performers. And then, like a beacon of golden arches in a sea of artisan coffee shops, you spot it - a McDonald's. Not just any McDonald's. This one is special. It's like the black sheep of the fast food family. The floors are sticky, the tables are wobbly, and the smell of grease hangs heavy in the air. You can practically feel your arteries clogging just by walking in. The staff are a motley crew of teenagers who look like they'd rather be anywhere else but here. They half-heartedly take your order and then disappear into the back, probably to gossip about who hooked up with whom at last night's house party.
The man you're meeting for grub at McDonald's is the epitome of an all-American jock. He's got that classic athletic build, with muscles bulging out of his tight t-shirt and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. You can practically smell the sweat and testosterone oozing off him as he chomps down on his greasy hamburger.
As you sit down across from him, you can't help but roll your eyes at his predictable choice of fast food. But hey, who are you to judge? You've got your own heart attack on a bun sitting in front of you.
The conversation flows easily between bites of processed meat and soggy fries, filled with banter and friendly jabs. It's clear that this guy is more comfortable on the field than in a fancy restaurant, but hey, at least he knows how to appreciate a good old-fashioned artery-clogging meal.
"How do you Yanks stand to eat here regularly?" you ask him.
"Beats pub grub all to hell," he tells you. "Your food is like your TV: bland. Good Indian food here, I'll give ya that. A damn sight better than in Delhi."
"You've been to India?!"
"Hell, yes! I've passed out in every major city in the free world. My expertise is needed everywhere."
"Understandably."
As you stroll along, the American starts pointing out all the historical landmarks with an air of superiority. "Oh look, there's the Tower of London, where they used to chop off people's heads for fun," he remarks with a smirk.
You can't help but roll your eyes at his exaggerated enthusiasm for British history. "Yes, because nothing says 'fun' like a good old beheading," you quip back, matching his sarcasm with your own.
"How'd your meeting with the ol' Colonel go?" the American asks you
"Rather poorly," you tell him. "I didn't get my funding---or my agent. His exact words were: 'I cannot officially condone any departmental action to aid you."
"So?" the American smirks again. "It's fourth down and ya gotta punt."
"We play cricket here, Lee."
"Cricket? Bo-ring!"
And now, your conversation gets interesting as you debate football vs. cricket. Yes, cricket is boring to outsiders. Only initiates perceive the underlying structure and appreciate the beauty of the struggle. An individual's performance can affect the game far more than football. Ironically, it's more democratic.
But, the American, or Lee, as you call him, being very American, rebukes you, stating that cricket doesn't change your options.
Ah, you say, but it does. Colonel K didn't sack you, Craig He just didn't let you resign. Why, the old bastard praised you. You're on your own and he privately approves while publicly disagreeing.
The Americans have a name for something like that---what is it now?----Yes! It's called plausible deniability.
Now it can be told! Your meeting, Craig was for appearance's sake. You're on your own---with tacit approval.
"So what do you want me to do?" Lee asks.
"Do you have a helmet and shoulder pads?"
"Hahahahahaha!"75Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzjvVCWxrlX
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Alpha Control, 50 km east of Gradiz, Spain. 1997
Chattering....
Machines Whirring....
This is the beginning.
This is the day.
You are watching the unfolding of one of history's great adventures---man's colonization of space beyond the stars.
This is Alpha Control.
Zero minus 1 hour and 15 minutes and holding.
Delay caused by difficulty with liquid oxygen loading valve.
Zero minus 1 hour and 15 minutes and holding.
TV satellite control, take over.
Today, the first of what may be as many as 10 million families per year is setting out on its epic voyage into man's newest frontier for colonization---deep space.
Reaching out into other worlds from our desperately overcrowded planet a series of deep-thrust telescopic probes have conclusively established a planet orbiting the star Alpha Centauri as the only one within range of our technology able to furnish ideal conditions for human existence.
Even now, the family chosen for this incredible journey into space prepares to take their last pre-liftoff physical tests.
The Robinson family was selected from more than two million volunteers for its unique balance of scientific achievement, emotional stability, and pioneer resourcefulness.
They will spend the five and a half years of their voyage frozen into a state of suspended animation, which will terminate automatically as the spacecraft enters the atmosphere of the new planet.
This is Alpha Control.
We are at zero minus one hour and 15 minutes and still holding.
We have also encountered an electrical power failure in our computer at the Lunar Tracking Station.
Zero minus one hour and 15 minutes and still holding.
Speaking Italian.....
All reporters speaking foreign languages....
Here now is Jupiter 2, the culmination of nearly 40 years of intensive research and the most sophisticated piece of hardware yet devised by the mind of man.
Bold in concept, and brilliant in execution this most delicate yet most colossal of instruments makes possible man's thrust into deep space and will soon set out on its quest for a new world.
This superb spaceship stands two stories high.
The upper level contains a fantastic, sophisticated guidance control system.
An electronic elevator connects both floors of the intergalactic vehicle.
The upper and lower levels are operationally self-contained.
Here, on the lower deck, pulsating with unbelievable force are the great atomic motors that will power the ship to new worlds.
Spectacular but functional living quarters, staterooms, and galley included, complete this level.
This historic flight, preceded by nearly a decade of intensive research and preparation has been shrouded by the most rigorous security precautions.
Other nations, in even more desperate need of breathing room on our critically crowded planet, are racing the United Kingdom in this project---countries that would go to any lengths of sabotage.
This is Alpha Control.
Zero minus one hour and 15 minutes and still holding.
ns 172.69.59.184da2
and then Add to home screen.