Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

I have never felt so helpless.
Navigation report.
I am Supervisor 194, code name Gary Seven.
Lock the elevator at the top, lieutenant. Time to get out of here.
Mr. Seven. Mr. Seven, help! Help!
Captain, can you read me?
Yes, I think we could say that.
Altitude: 300 miles,
Computer, I caution you. I have little love for Beta 5 snobbery.
You're through monkeying around with my country's rocket!
Second stage detaching.
using our ship's deflector shields to remain unobserved.
One hundred forty. One hundred thirty.
Retaliatory strike ordered on warhead impact.
They can't dock you if they don't know you're late.
- Live long and prosper, Mr. Seven. - The same to you, Miss Lincoln.
Fifty-five seconds to impact.
Attention. Stand by for launch-area clearance.
Simply begin search immediately.
Stand by. I'm gonna beam him up.
Analysis correct. Earth situation similar.
- Just like yard dogs, that kind of thing. - Yeah?
Begin malfunction of third stage.
- Altitude: 450 miles. - Spock.
Spock!
Purpose: To maintain balance of power.
Must have intercepted the Enterprise trying to beam me onboard.
With 348?
All systems clear. All systems clear.
There are only seconds. I'll need time to set it.
Not even Spock's Vulcan neck-pinch could stop him.
- Earth. - That's impossible.
Stand by on destruct. Stand by to transmit destruct signal.
I'm going as fast as I can.
If I could spot him, I could lock on and beam him up.
Count by ten.
Attention. Twenty minutes to launch.
Using the light-speed breakaway factor,
or even be certain if we should.
Rocket veering from planned course.