("RED DWARF" THEME)
(WIND WHISTLES)
(KRYTEN) Gravity 1.5.
Wind 40 knots and variable.
Coordinates locked and set. Launch scouter.
Wait a minute. I'm in charge of security
and surveillance aboard this vessel.
I, Mr Kryten, am the one
who says "Launch scouter".
I'm sorry, sir,
I didn't mean to steal your thunder.
Launch scouter.
I'll be in the stern, correlating the...
in the stern.
Would you be so good
as to launch the scouter, sir?
Ave-aye, sir!
Scouter launched, sir!
Sir, it appears we've encountered
a scientific research centre.
- And someone's in there, man. A survivor.
- A Dr Hildegarde Lanstrom.
Clearly, I am superfluous
to this entire operation,
ably commanded as it is by a droid
who was created purely to clean lavatories,
so I really don't know why you are
telling me all this, Captain Bog-Bot.
She's a hologram.
I'm afraid we're going to have to commandeer your
remote projection unit in order to rescue her, sir.
Oh, I see. First of all, I'm deemed unsuitable
to issue the command "launch scouter",
and now I'm being bundled into an escape pod
and relieved of my duties by Commander U-Bend.
Rimmer, why are you taking this so personal.
It's the only way to get her back to the ship.
- Why do we need another hologram on board?
- She's a doctor, sir.
- She would be a valuable asset to the team.
- And as usual, it's left to me
to point out the fatal flaw in your logic.
- Flaw?
- This vessel, gentlemen and khazi droids...
the crimson short one up there, can only
sustain one hologram, or had you forgotten?
- You hadn't forgotten?
- Look, we'll work something out.
Some kind of "timeshare" thing.
What do you mean? What do you
think I am, a holiday villa in the Algarve?
Sir, might I remind you, as Space Corps
Directive 169 quite clearly states...
Holly, prepare an escape pod.
Anything to save me from another
(MIMICS KRYTEN) "Space Corps Directive".
Sir, the Space Corps Directives are there to protect us.
They're not a set of vindictive pronouncements
directed against any one person.
Has anyone ever seen this legendary
Space Corps Directive manual?
- Well, no.
- He's making it up isn't he?
- The bloody book doesn't exist.
- Sir, I assure you...
Why does he only ever use them against
me, why are they never against Lister?
Why do we never hear him
quoting Space Corps Directives
that clearly state, "No crew member should floss
his teeth with the E-string of his guitar
"after spraying the entire contents of his Sugar Puff
sandwich all over his superior's bunk"
- We never hear that one, do we?
- Holly, kindly furnish Mr Rimmer
with a hologrammatic copy
of the Space Corps Directive manual.
- Come on. Where is it?
- That's it?!
You should be able to study it at your
leisure on your trip back to Red Dwarf, sir.
- You've changed, you know that?
- Changed?
They may not see it, but I do.
I know what's going on.
You've become a really nasty piece of work.
- Sir, I was merely...
- You're merely a mechanoid, that's all you're 'merely'.
Don't ever forget it.
What a smee...
What a smee... heeeeeeee...
(CALLS OUT) Dr Lanstrom?
(KRYTEN) Are you there, Doctor?
Oh, brutal.
There's no need for alarm, sir. If there were
dangerous viral strains in the atmosphere,
the psi-scan would have
picked them up by now.
It's never done that before.
(MUTTERS) Blasted, stupid...
Cheap damn stupid Martian power packs.
(BUZZES)
So what's the news?
Well, If i can just beg your indulgences for just a few seconds more, sir.
The old 345 takes a little time to warm up.
Still, it out-performs the 346
in eight out of nine bench tests.
A small wonder, then, that it secured "Psi-Scan of the
Year, Best Budget Model" three years running.
Now here are the results...
And we're going to...
live.
We're a real Mickey Mouse operation, aren't we?
Mickey Mouse? We ain't even Betty Boop!
Oh. Extraordinary.
Incredible.
(LISTER) Hey, look at this.
A nest of stasis pods.
I must have triggered something.
Doctor? Doctor Lanstrom?
(GERMAN ACCENT) And who might you be?
Hi. We were just passing.
We picked up the beacon.
Schopenhauer was right, wouldn't you say?
Life without pain has no meaning.
Gentlemen, I wish to give your lives meaning.
(EERIE WAILING)
- Cat...
Why can't we ever
meet anyone nice?
Why is it we can never meet
anyone who can shoot straight?
I'm telling you, Kryten is
taking over, slowly but surely.
Remember how he used to be in the
early days? A gibbering wreck
completely unassertive, no self-confidence, plagued
by guilt, convinced he was fourth-rate?
- I really liked him then.
- Escape pod checked and standing by.
- Well, check it again.
- I've done three complete checks.
- It's ready to launch.
- Right, I'm going.
What really gets my goat, is the
way he thinks he can order me about.
Well, he who lives by the
rule book, dies by the rule book.
(LISTER ON RADIO) Can you hear us? It's me.
Listen man, Lanstrom's got some holo-virus.
- She's totally barking!
- Listy?
We need back-up, man. We
need it bad. We need it now.
Everything OK?
- What? Can't you hear me?
- I'm sorry, Lister, you're very faint.
(KRYTEN) Dr Lanstrom has contracted
some kind of mutated holo-plague
and is in a fearful psychopathic fury.
Marvellous!
I'm sure she'll be a valuable asset
to the team.
Sir, I'm going to change the frequency.
Can you hear me now?
Hello. My name is Dr Hildegarde Lanstrom
and I am quite, quite mad.
Are you really? How absolutely splendid.
I have a riddle for you.
What's dead and dead and dead all over?
Give in, Dr Fruit-Loop. Do tell me.
(MOCKING TONE) Yoooooooooooou...
Well, we know what to get you for Christmas:
a double-lobotomy and 10 rolls of rubber wallpaper.
Holly, I really must be making tracks.
Keep me updated as to any further developments, will you?
Where is she?
I fear she's toying with us, sir.
- What kind of disease gives her hex vision?
- Clearly some kind of psi-virus, sir.
It appears to stimulate the dormant psychic areas of the brain,
which, until now, humankind
has been unable to harness.
Unfortunately, it requires so much energy,
it drains the victim's life-force.
That's why she
was in the stasis pod?
Precisely. Lanstrom was preserving
what little lifespan remains her.
Well, if she's running out of time, maybe we can just give her the run-around.
Theoretically, a sound notion, sir.
Unfortunately...
Unfortunately, she has already found you.
Twinkle, twinkle, little eye,
now it's time for you to die.
(WAILS IN AGONY)
Poor woman. Destroyed by her own genius.
- Genius?
- Oh, yes. From what little I've seen of her research,
before the holo-virus, she
had a quite remarkable mind.
If I'm right, the fruits of
her work should live on.
- Anything?
- Quite extraordinary.
Lanstrom postulated that there were
two kinds of virus - positive and negative.
- The negative we already know about.
- Yeah, like flu, rabies, that kind of stuff.
But she also believed that there were positive viral
strains which actually made humans feel better.
Such as?
Well, at a very basic level,
she predicted a kind of reverse flu,
a strain of virus which promotes an unaccountable
feeling of well-being and happiness.
That's happened to me. My life's
been turned to complete and utter crud,
and I've woken up in the morning,
feeling good for no apparent reason.
The chances are, sir, that on those occasions you had
unwittingly contracted Lanstrom's virus.
According to her notes, 20th-century DJs
suffered from it all the time.
So what's in the tubes?
Lanstrom claims to have isolated
several strains of positive virus.
Inspiration, charisma, sexual magnetism...
Sexual magnetism's a virus?
Well, get me to hospital, I'm a terminal case!
This one is the most intriguing of all.
According to her notes,
this is the viral strain Felicitus populi,
commonly known as "luck."
- Luck is a virus?
- A positive virus,
which most humans contract at some point
in their lives for very short periods.
And here it is,
Lady Luck in liquid form. Want to try some?
- Is it safe?
- Absolutely harmless.
Even so, this is a minute dose
will only last for about three minutes.
Now, I want you to pick out all the aces
from this pack of cards.
- Shuffle 'em?
- Mm-hmm.
13 to 1.
221 to 1.
5,525 to 1.
270,725 to 1.
Sir, I wan't you to throw this dart over here
into that bullseye behind you
using your left hand, without looking.
- Using my left hand?
- Hm-mmm.
- Into the bulls-eye?
- Hm-mmm.
- Without looking?
- Hm-mmm
- No chance.
- Trust me, sir.
- You ready?
- Hm-mmm!
(DULL THUD)
Ah. I think that indicates
the luck virus has worn off.
When you're quite finished, chaps. we've got
a bit of a problem with the cargo bay doors.
- What sort of problem?
- They won't open.
- Rimmer's put in an override.
- Welcome home, gentlemen.
If you'd like to proceed to the aft, you'll
find the landing lights on in Bay 47.
Bay 47? That's quarantine!
- Spot on.
- But, sir, I've screened us all. We're clean.
Well, much as I trust a viral screening
conducted by an automated toilet attendant,
I really must draw your attention
to Space Corps Directive 595.
- For cryin' out loud!
- I have no intention of contracting
the hologrammatic equivalent
of foaming dog fever.
So, gentlemen, if you'd all like to proceed to quarantine room 152,
where you will be spending
the next three months.
(DOOR HUMS)
12 weeks. I have a deep, dark
sense of foreboding about this.
Oh, come on. we'll get through it.
- This is single quarters. One chair, one bed, one shower.
- We'll manage.
Sir, it's a scientific fact that the
human male needs to spend time by himself.
- It is?
- Hmm.
The most popular pastimes have always
been ones that males can enjoy alone -
angling, golf
and, of course, the all-time number one.
It's not just humans. Look what happens when two male tigers are locked up together,
one of them winds up on the other guy's toothpick.
Lions, tigers, scorpions, rats...
even vultures when they're in captivity.
What are you saying to me?
Vultures need personal space?
They need time alone to put their feet up
and read "What Carcass?" magazine?
Sir, I think you're downplaying
the gravity of the situation.
Look, what difference does it make? We hang
out together most of the time anyway.
Yeah, but we all knew we could stroll
out the door at any time. Not now, though.
Welcome to quarantine, lads.
I hope the next 84 days pass as swiftly
and pleasantly as the 100 Years' War.
Sir, I must protest. You've only supplied
us with single-berth accommodation.
Space Corps Directive 597 clearly states
one berth per registered crew member.
And as Listy is the only registered
crew member, one berth is all you get.
- Don't rise to him.
- What about entertainment?
You are obliged to provide us
with minimum leisure facilities.
Games, literature,
hobby activities, motion pictures.
And in accordance with Space Corps Directive 312,
you'll find in the storage cupboard over there.
a chess set with 31 missing pieces,
a knitting magazine
with a pull-out special on crocheted hats,
a puzzle magazine
with all the crosswords completed
and a video of the excellent cinematic treat "Wallpapering,
Painting and Stippling - a DIY Guide".
Don't rise to him.
And fulfilling all Space
Corps dietary requirements,
dinner tonight, gentlemen,
will consist of sprout soup,
followed by sprout salad,
and for dessert - I think you'll like it,
rather unusual - sprout crumble.
Rimmer, you know damn well
sprouts make me chuck.
Well, this is awful. I've got you down
for sprouts almost every meal.
I tell a lie. It IS every meal.
- How long are you going to keep this up for, Rimmer?
- Keep what up?
I'm merely executing Space Corps Directive 595.
Anyway, must dasheroonie. I've got to organise
your daily provision of musical entertainment.
I think you're going to like it. It's a perpetually
looped tape of "Reggie Dixon's Tango Treats".
OK. Time to rise to him.
Let me at him! I'll kill him!
Listen guys, he wants us to get on each other's
nerves. Go through twelve weeks of hell.
Well, we're not going to give him the satisfaction.
OK, 'cause the entire time we're here, we're not gonna have
one single argument, not a raised voice, not a cross word,
not one angry exchange. OK? OK?
Boys from the Dwarf.
I think that's straight now. Two hours it's
taken me to panel-beat my head back into shape.
Two damn hours.
Guys, just take it easy.
If he tells me to 'take
it easy' one more time,
I swear, I'll turn his ears into a pair of
maracas and tap-dance a fandango on his throat.
I'm just saying there's 79 more days to go.
And if you want to be alive when there's only 78
more days to go, I suggest you do not blow your nose.
Do you mind if I ask why?
Well, let's forego the noise
and revolting burbling sound
and go straight to the really gross part,
when you always -
and I mean always - having blown your nose,
have to open up the handkerchief
and take a look at the contents.
I mean, why?
What do you expect to see in there?
A Turner seascape, perhaps?
The face of the Madonna?
An undiscovered Shakespearean sonnet?
Rimmer was right about you. You have changed.
- You're getting tetchy.
- Oh no, now don't call me tetchy.
You know what happens
when you call me tetchy.
Well, I'm calling you it now! That's exactly what I'm calling you.
Tetchy. Tetchy. Tetchy!
Just as well I can't hear you. It's just as
well as I can't hear you calling me tetchy.
You know what happens
when you call me tetchy.
Oh, no! Oh no, didn't I tell you?
Didn't I warn you what would happen?
- No.
- Yes.
- No!
- I'm putting it on.
- Don't put it on.
- I'm putting it on.
- He's putting it on.
- Here I go.
- There he goes.
- Kryten, if you put that on, I'm not going to help you out. I'm not helping you again.
- Not this time.
- You think I need you're help?
You think I can't extract my own head
from the waste disposal unit?
It won't be the waste disposal, Frankenstein.
This time, I'm gonna unscrew your neck-bolts and microwave your head.
Frankenstein was the creator,
not the monster.
It's a common misconception,
held by all truly stupid people.
Don't correct me. You know
how much I hate being corrected.
- It really gets my feckles up.
- It's "hackles", you moron. It really gets your hackles up.
- There's no such word as "feckles".
- Feckles, heckles, hackles, schmeckles.
Whatever the hell they are, they're up right
now, and pointing at you, buddy!
- Yeah?
- Yeah!
Guys! Guys! Look at us, what's
happened to us? Five days on a sprout diet
with a wallpapering video and a crochet
magazine and we've all turned into crazies.
Just don't call me tetchy, and don't blow your nose.
- And don't play that video, and don't correct me.
- OK.
- OK.
- OK. We're going to get through this.
(BOTH) Don't say we're going to get through this!
That stupid chirpy optimism.
That inane winsome grin.
This is insane! We've been here five days.
- There's no sign of any virus. We're clean.
- That's it! Five days. We've got him.
Space Corps Directive 699,
We can demand a rescreening.
He'll refuse.
He can't. he's playing it by
the book. We've nailed him...
(RIMMER, IMPASSIVELY) Gentlemen... your
conversation makes interesting listening.
- Rimmer, is that you?
- Oh, yes.
- How long have you been listening?
- Two, maybe three hours.
- Well, no one's got any disease, man.
- We're clean.
You have to re-screen us, sir, as per Directive 699.
No one's got any virus
and no one's smeggin' nuts.
Well, that's good.
- Is something amiss?
- Amiss? God no, what could possibly be amiss?
You don't think there's anything amiss?
I'm sitting here wearing a red and white
checked gingham dress...
and army boots...
and you think that's un-amiss?
No, of course not. It's just we'd thought you'd gone nuts.
We were trying to humour you.
I was just doing a little test.
A little test to see if you had gone crazy.
(HOWLS INSANELY)
If there is one thing
I can't stand... it's crazy people.
Well, we've passed the test,
Rimmer. You can... let us out.
- I can't let you out.
- Why not?
Because the King of the Potato People won't let me.
I begged him.
I got down on my knees and wept.
He wants to keep you here...
...keep you here for ten years.
Could we see him?
- See who?
- The King.
- Do you have a magic carpet?
- Yeah, a little three-seater.
So, let me get this straight.
You want to fly on a magic carpet
to see the King of the Potato People...
...and plead with him for your freedom,
and you're telling me you're completely sane?
I think that warrants two hours... of W.O.O.
- What's W.O.O.?
- You had to ask.
With... out... oxygen.
No oxygen for two hours.
That'll teach you to be bread baskets.
- What do we do?
- I think our only hope's the Potato King.
- How the hell did he get the holo-virus?
- It can be transmitted over radio waves.
He must have spoken
to Lanstrom at some point.
I predict we have at least seven minutes
before the air in here becomes unbreathable.
- We gotta get out of here somehow.
- It's impossible.
That's the whole point of quarantine.
Nothing gets out. Nothing gets in.
Not even a microbe.
Kryten, any chance of you
cracking the code on the door lock?
The chances of punching in the correct
combination are literally billions to one.
- Unless...
- Of course!
The luck virus!
You really think that that
stuff can get us out of here?
If I give Mr Lister a suitably large dose, he will
temporarily become the luckiest human being who ever lived.
- OK then, what do I do?
- Well, you just press in whatever numbers you think are best.
OK.
Last digit, sir.
So what now?
We head for the hologram
projection suite, before Mr Rimmer...
Before Mr Rimmer what?
They've been naughty boys,
haven't they, Mr Flibble?
(CROAKS) Yes.
What happens to naughty boys
who've been naughty, Mr Flibble?
Uncle Arnie fries them alive
with his hex vision.
That's right, Mr Flibble.
This way!
The holo-virus is in its secondary stage.
- Mr Rimmer can't have long to live.
- What is he capable of?
Well, we've seen hex vision.
Almost certainly like Lanstrom,
he'll be capable of telepathy, and possibly even telekinesis.
Telekiny-what-a noose??
The ability to move objects
purely by the power of the mind.
Kryten, man, are you OK?
I have a medium-sized
fireaxe buried in my spinal column
That kind of thing can really put a crimp on your day.
(WHIRRS AND GRINDS)
(SPLUTTERS)
Two and one-half badgers, please!
- (CRACK)
- No, I'll eat them here. (SQUAWKS)
Ah, that's better. Now I can...
win self-determination
for the South Moldavian people!
(BURBLES INCOHERENTLY)
Ah, I think I'm OK now.
Mr Flibble's very cross.
You shouldn't have ran away from him.
What are we going to do
with them, Mr Flibble?
We can't possibly do that.
Who'd clear up the mess?
- We need to use your luck, sir.
- How?
What we really need is some kind of remote link
to the hologram disk projection system.
- Like this one?
- What a stroke of luck.
Now all we need is a detachable
power transfer adapter
capable of holding spikes
of up to five million volts.
What's this?
Extraordinary.
Now all we need is a B47/7RF resistor.
Look out!
Mr Flibble says...
Game over, boys.
(SHRILL VIBRATING HUM)
I think he's
going to be OK, sir.
He's gonna be OK? The
luck virus must have worn off.
(LISTER) Rimmer? You OK?
- What happened to me? Where am I?
- (CAT) Quarantine.
- But don't worry...
- We're here to entertain you!
(SQUAWKS)
# It's cold outside,
there's no kind of atmosphere
# I'm all alone, more or less
# Let me fly far away from here
# Fun, fun, fun
# In the sun, sun, sun
# I want to lie, shipwrecked and comatose
# Drinking fresh mango juice
# Goldfish shoals, nibbling at my toes
# Fun, fun, fun
# In the sun, sun, sun
# Fun, fun, fun
# In the sun, sun, sun #
