When I was growing up, John Robinson was my favorite fictional father. Like my Dad, he was a scientist. Unlike my Dad, he never shouted (except with enthusiasm, or, y’know, when he had to be heard over the wind from a cosmic storm.) He was religious, so he understood there was a difference between good and evil beyond what some book of rules said, but, unlike a fire-and-brimstone preacher, if you really screwed up, he patiently told you what you did wrong, and then moved pleasantly on to the next topic. This had to be the most compassionate man alive. After all, he let Zachary Smith live for at least three seasons!

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