to a starship trooper. Oh. . Space suit is lying on control room floor. Pulse rate increasing as the heat factor soars. Take me, make me feel the force. Ignore thecomputers, we're locked on
wonder how or why We are the priests of the temples of Syrinx. Our great computers fill the hallowed halls. We are the priests of the temples of Syrinx. All the gifts of life are held within our walls
work together, common sons. Never need to wonder how or why. . We are the priests. Of the temples of syrinx. Our great computers. Fill the hollowed halls. We are the priests. Of the temples of
controlled tone colour. State of the art. The marriage of music to computers is quite natural. (Oh my god, it's so). State of the art. It's time to hear the results.
