Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

ARCHER: Not for long they're not.
What? Sterling...
In 200 years, Earth's population will exceed her capacity to produce food.
Uh, no. Please pay attention.
Lana, aren’t you gonna bring your cake to Cyril? Yeah. I’m gonna sing first, and then bring the cake to him.
Ugh. Otherwise, just follow me.
LANA: I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me.
And mankind can finally slip the surly bonds of Earth...
MALORY: Tony, please. He'll behave.
Jesus, you're like a dog in a station wagon.
And knowing that my colleague's life was in danger, I--
But I want to know how you got aboard.
COMPUTER: Gravity engaged.
Thanks. And I'm sorry, but you gotta let me out, Pam.
Ugh! For God's sakes, woman. Dramamine!
He could've been saying "underfinanced."
Which, obviously, pretty vague.
I hope to God that was alcohol.
Excuse me.
Horizon has artificial gravity.
Well, good luck fighting a bunch of-- whatever-- space-pirates without me.
Drop your weapons we are the security.
No, you jerk. You shoot me in the heart with a space-blaster?
But-- Lana. What has gotten into you?
It makes me sleepy. I think we're okay, sir.
ARCHER : Yeah, and here you go.
If there even was one.
Six enemas is a luxury we can ill afford. Got it.
Hey! Whoa, Charles Benedict Davenport.
...to fly into orbit and help me retake control of Horizon.
Damn it, that was closer than any of us have gotten to actually landing.
CYRIL & GILLETTE: What? Did you say "Mars"?
I'm kidding. There is no Phase Three.