Blake Carrington: [re crisis in Persian Gulf] And what does the State Department expect me to do? Invade the damn country to get my oil out?
[slams down phone]
Andrew Laird: [on another phone] Well, I suppose it's a lot easier to be patient when it's not your ox that's being gored. All right, tell me when you hear something.
[ends call]
Blake Carrington: What does he recommend?
Andrew Laird: Wait and see. Everything depends on which one of those fanatics manages to kill off all the others and come out on top.
[wistfully:]
Andrew Laird: Well, maybe he'll be a gentleman... and turn those tankers loose.
Blake Carrington: Maybe he'll just nationalise the whole shooting match and trade it to the Russians for MiG 21s.
[sighs]
Blake Carrington: Andrew, what kind of advances can we get while our crude is tied up?
Andrew Laird: Twenty cents on the dollar. Maybe.
Blake Carrington: Where would that leave us?
Andrew Laird: Bankruptcy. And that's the upside.
Blake Carrington: Six operational offices from Tangiers to Cape Town, payoffs to every swindling five percenter in sight, and we get caught like this? What dimwitted office boy thought we ought to go there in the first place?
Andrew Laird: As I recall, Blake, it was you.
Fallon Carrington: [obscured by the back of a wing chair] Well, I still think it was a good idea.
Blake Carrington: Fallon, how did you get in here?
Fallon Carrington: Oh, I told the guard at the door I was CIA. Undercover.