("RED DWARF" THEME)
Scramble! Scramble! All hands
on deck! Emergency drill! Scramble!
Er, perhaps you didn't catch
that - I said SCRAMBLE!
Yeah, that would be great
with bacon and beans, man.
Look, Starbug's a blazing inferno, the
engine rooms are waist deep in rocket fuel,
and we're being attacked off the
starboard bow by a unidentified craft.
- Really?
- No, of course not really. It's a drill.
We're pretending Starbug's
on fire and under attack.
And I'm pretending
to scramble, man. Goodnight.
Look, you've got 30 seconds to get out of bed
or I'm declaring you officially dead.
Good, then we can rest in peace.
Well, gentlemen, congratulations. Scrambling
in a Red Alert situation, a new record time -
1 hour, 17 minutes, 39 seconds.
Hey, not bad. And I bet we could get it down to 1:16 if we cut out that fourth round of toast.
You think I'm a petty-minded
bureaucratic nincompoop,
who delights in enforcing
pernickety regulations
because he gets some sort
of perverse pleasure out of it,
and in many ways
you're absolutely damn right,
but that doesn't alter the fact that the
only way we're going to track down Red Dwarf
and get through this in one piece is
with a sense of discipline, a sense of purpose,
and wherever possible,
a sensible haircut.
- I'm going back to bed.
- Would it harm you to have hair like mine?
I have got hair like yours...
just not on my head.
Well, I'm no stranger to the land of scoff.
Perhaps you would like to explain to me,
why it is that every major battle in history
has been won by the side
with the shortest haircuts.
- Oh, surely not, sir.
- Think about it. Why did the US Cavalry beat the Indian Nation?
Short back and sides versus girly hippy locks.
The Cavaliers and the Roundheads -
one-nil to the pudding basins.
Vietnam, crew-cuts both sides -
no-score draw.
Oh, for a really world-class psychiatrist.
Check your screens. I'm getting something
up my left nostril and it's coming in fast.
Scans are all negative, sir. At the risk
of challenging your olfactory excellence,
perhaps a re-smelling is in order.
I'm telling you bud, my
nostril hairs are shimmying
faster than a grass skirt on a
fat Hawaiian hula-hoop champion.
- There's something out there.
- Scan's still dry.
That's it.
I'm invoking Space Corp Directive 68250.
68250? But, sir, surely that's impossible
without at least one live chicken and a rabbi.
- Forget it. Forget I was ever born.
- Sir, I'm very happy to perform the ceremony,
but I'm absolutely bewildered as to how sacrificing
poultry might clear up the screen problem.
Wait a minute. Getting something.
Major power surge off the port bow.
He's right.
Some kind of vessel. It appears to be uncloaking.
He's too damn close!
That power surge'll toss us around
like we're a bead of sweat in an
aerobics teacher's buttock cleavage.
- Hang on. Here it comes.
- (RUMBLING)
- Damage report?
- Superficial.
Navicomp's down, slight rupture in fuel pipe 9
and somehow the pilot's headset's got jammed
on the Country and Western Channel.
Second wave coming!
(WHOOSHING)
What's he thinking of,
warping that close to another vessel? Damn space hog!
My god, that's a Space Corp
external enforcement vehicle.
- What?
- The space filth.
A computer-controlled enforcement probe.
It's scanning us now.
- Incoming.
- (COMPUTER) Property Corps Space removing and
equipment Corps Space damaging,
ships Corps Space of series a looting
with charged formerly are you.
The materialization must
have scrambled its voice unit.
It's making about as much sense
as a Japanese VCR instruction manual.
- Plead you do how?
- It's in reverse. "How do you plead?"
- How do we plead to what?
- It's charging us with looting Space Corps derelicts.
But we don't loot Space Corps derelicts.
We just hack our way in and swipe what we need.
Lister, if this goes to trial,
I demand separate lawyers.
What's the penalty for this? 'Cause if it means outfits
with arrows on, I'm committing suicide.
Er, no, sir. It means wearing outfits with wings
and haloes on, sir. The penalty is execution.
- Why so harsh?
- It's frontier law, sir.
We're the deep space equivalent of horse rustlers.
Severe sentencing is the only way
to maintain order. Don't expect it to show us any mercy.
- What do we do?
- Let's face it, sir, we're as guilty
as the man behind the grassy knoll.
- Yeah, but if we admit it, it'll blow us out of the stars.
- Recommendations?
Suggest I take the rap for everyone, sir. You can say that I held
you hostage and forced you at gunpoint to do my evil bidding.
- For God's sake, Kryten, we can't let you do that!
- Really?
Dream on, metal trash. Get your hands
in the air and step into that searchlight.
- Minute one have you.
- No choices then. We leg it. Plot a course for scarper city.
Sir, a Class A Enforcement Orb can easily outrun us.
Kryten, the Eastbourne Zimmer frame
relay team can easily outrun us.
It's not about speed.
It's about wit, brains and cunning.
- Hmm, I was praying it wouldn't come to that, sir.
- Take a look at your screens.
We're seven klicks away from the Gelf Zone.
It wouldn't follow us in there in a gazillion years.
No, because Gelfs are untrustworthy scavengers
with no regard for life, law or property.
- Right, so we'll be safe.
- Lister, you've heard the stories.
They skin human beings alive
and turn them into beanbags.
Unless you want a triple-buttocked Gelf
sitting on your face for the rest of eternity,
probing your crevices for lost forks and biros,
I suggest you rethink.
It's the lesser of two evils, sir. In the absence
of a sane plan, I suggest we go with Mr Lister's.
Seconds 20 in firing commence will I,
reply a of absence in.
- Roughly translated, hit the reheat.
- You don't have to tell me twice...
Cat, hit the reheat!
Sorry, bud. Looks like you DO have to tell me twice.
Firing commence will I or halt!
- In which case, Bony-butts our move let's!
- Close comms.
- Comms closed.
- Gelf zone six clicks and closing.
- Weapon lock registered. Pulse missile launched.
- Impact in ten seconds.
- That's it. We're platform shoes, man.
- Firing chaff. Firing flares.
- Brace for impact.
- Missed us!
- Warning shot across the bow.
- Won't be so fortunate next time.
- Four clicks to Gelf Zone.
- Another lock, this time it won't be a warning shot.
- Incoming pulse fire.
- Decoys launched.
- It's not going to be enough! Six seconds to impact!
- We've gotta try and shake 'em off!
We've lost it.
Sorry, I was looking at the wrong panel.
Damage report?
It's bad, bud. Looks like Starbug's been hit.
- Details, halibut breath!
- Well, according to the damage report machine,
there are several small fires in the cockpit,
lots of smoke and the navicomp's fizzing.
Oh, damn!
Now the damage report machine's exploded.
- Another lock on!
- This one's to finish us off.
- How far to the Gelf Zone?
- Click and a half.
We've lost three fuel tanks,
there's barely enough left to get us stable!
Wait! I'm picking
something up.
Got it. Putting it on visual.
Look at the size of that thing. It must be a mile across.
A Gelf icon, carved out of a solid rock.
It's some kind of warning beacon.
- Hey, incoming message.
- (GRUFF VOICE) Kar nasa pinit.
- Wah twah morah!
- Running it through the translator.
This is Gelf space. Death to the strangers.
- Pulse missile launch. Impact in 12 seconds and counting.
- Cat, head for the eye socket.
- The eye socket?
- There's no way through it's a dead end!
- Just do it!
- Eight seconds.
- We're heading for solid rock.
- Three seconds... two... one.
- 80% of the manoeuvring thrusters are out.
- The infra-red reports 55 separate fires.
Sprinkler systems are down on
all three decks of the engine room.
There's no way to put it out. As
soon as it hits the fuel tanks, we'll blow.
Wait a minute! Gelf moon bearing 356 by 121.
It's got an ocean. Can you get us there?
Does mouse shit roll? I'll get you there, bud.
Look at it.
All our possessions, all our valuables.
Between fire, flood and impact damage,
we've lost damn near everything.
Well, at least Mr Lister's guitar
survived intact.
Not even Mr Lister's guitar survived intact.
It's waist-high down there, but I
managed to get the pumps working again.
- Three hours and we'll be dry.
- Thrusters, boosters, reheat -
auto-repair can take care of everything, apart from
the oxy-generation unit which is totally kaputzki.
So you're saying we can take off but we can't breathe?
And we can't repair it?
It's a black and charred mess,
worse than one of Lister's drunken fry-ups.
Well, we're snookered...
unless we get out there and trade with the Gelfs.
- Trade? You can't be serious.
- Sir, it does appear to be our only option.
(CRICKETS CHIRP)
Give me the arrow. It could tell us a whole heck of a lot about what we're dealing with here.
- Anything?
- Yep. This came from a bow, all right.
Sorry. I was expecting
a get lot more than that.
As we anticipated, they are the Kinitawowi.
Good. I have studied the dialect.
- They are one of the friendlier "kinteteach" or tribes.
- Nice welcome!
No, sir. It is a great 'hano' or
honour to be greeted in this manner.
They would have killed us the instant we
landed if they had taken exception to us.
- That's a very good sign.
- What? It's a good sign they haven't killed us?
Absolutely, sir.
With the Kinitawowi,
not skinning you alive the moment they set
eyes on you is one of their warmest greetings.
We are indeed "han hasset" or blessed.
And, Kryten, you are indeed a "hachum babow",
or smart alec metal git.
I will tell them we are traders in search of an engine
part and that we have many rare treasures to trade.
Kinitawowi,
nich niche histan kanoa nakoo bacoo.
Nuyer neeal dol dager.
Look. Look what we got.
We got Swiss watches. Nice watch.
Levi jeans!
Hey! A hat. Look at this.
Hey-hey-hey! Nice hat!
Cigar?
Hey! Cool dude!
Might I suggest caution, sir. Some Gelfs have
their sphincteral orifices in their faces.
Let's hope you haven't offended him.
Oh, no, he seems quite pleased.
We need an oxy-generation unit, savvy?
Ogigon bachoo machwahah.
Ah. Aleesa. Alees tada.
Cat, get the case, man.
(GRUNTS) Machu, aloo atu ba ba.
- It seems to be going well.
- (CAT) What is that thing?
It's an emohawk, sir. A polymorph
that's spayed at birth and half domesticated.
It's trained
to change shape at its owner's behest.
Like all polymorphs it's an emotional leech.
It has the ability to steal emotions from living creatures.
Emotions are a highly valued
trading commodity.
- (LISTER) The oxy-generation unit.
- Looks like they're ready to fix a price.
I thought we'd fixed a price with all the
bangles and baubles we've given them.
Oh no, sir. That was just for the honour
of entering their "watunga" or hut.
- The bartering proper begins now.
- Rah! Rec raht wig dic anatu pata.
Oh, dear.
- What? what, you want my hat?
- Ah nu dewka ana weg bah.
- My jacket? You want my jacket?
- No, sir. He doesn't want your jacket.
- Not my longjohns does, he?
- Not your longjohns either, sir.
- Well, what then?
- Ahg nu dewka ana weg bah.
Me? He wants me?
Yes, sir. He says, in exchange for the oxy-generation
unit, he wants you to be his daughter's mate.
(LISTER) That's his daughter?!
One of three.
Apparently, sir, she's the looker.
Tell him not if she was the last warty yeti
lookalike in the world and I was the only boy.
Come on, Lister. You've dated worse.
Only due to very poor disco lighting.
Ana beg ewitah ogigon nich kawal bah.
He says no wedding, no OG unit.
Panta anag ew. Panta wa ah.
He's giving us five 'hanaka' to decide.
- How Long's a 'hanaka'?
- Curiously enough, it's exactly the same as one Earth minute.
Five hanaka. That only gives us 28 hours!
OK, look. Let's get out our sheet music
and play the Real Waltz.
There's no way I'm going down to Moss Bros
for anyone who is less attractive than
my own armpit after 20 games of table tennis.
What about us? You're not
gonna hang all of us out to dry
just because, for some reason,
she doesn't hit your G-spot.
What about sacrifice? Putting your friends'
interests before your own selfish drives?
Rimmer, it would never work out. She's
obviously an Aries. And me and Aries? Forget it.
Sir, they are proud people
and they will not change their mind
unless you are prepared to stay here
and marry Hackhackhackachhachhachach.
That's her name?!
I could never settle down with anyone whose
name sounds like a footballer clearing his nose.
The plan is obvious, we do the trade,
you go through with the wedding,
when everybody's asleep,
we come back and rescue you.
- What do you say?
- Not a chance in hell!
Ana dok kaz, ana dok wah, hah.
I do.
Ana zun keh, zun keh atta.
- What's he saying?
- You may kiss the bride, sir.
What, without a bag?
Hey, don't be strangers, guys. See you soon.
Drop in any time... ANY TIME!
Hanibech yech, ogigon yech.
Well, darling... What a day.
I'm pooped. Straight to sleep for me.
(GROWLS) Nee bonnen nic partin.
Maybe in the morning. Goodnight.
You've been looking forward to this, haven't you?
You're not gonna take no for an answer, are you?
Nack hey.
OK, just give me a couple of minutes. I want to slip
into something a little bit more comfortable - it's called Starbug.
Change of plan! Leg it!!
- Wait! Something's coming.
- It's the emohawk!
- What happened? Where'd it go?
- It must have transmuted into something else.
Suggest we proceed with extreme caution.
It's somewhere close. I can smell it.
- It's the stick!
- (THEY ALL SCREAM)
No, it's not. Oh my God, I'm so jumpy.
I thought it was the stick.
- It is the stick!
- (THEY ALL SCREAM)
- (RIMMER) Where is it, now?
- It's gone off into the undergrowth.
Cat, you know what they're like.
Stay on the case, don't pick anything up.
Unbelievable, getting suckered like that.
- 100 per cent concentration at all times.
- Yeah, yeah, yeah.
(BEEPS)
That's it we're airtight. Damn thing can't get in now.
And all it took was a little bit of concentration.
How long before we can go?
We don't really want a visit from Listy's
in-laws demanding their wedding present back.
It'll take an hour or so to set the oxy-generation unit set up.
But I suggest we take off now, sir, and use
emergency supplies until the OG unit's online.
- What if it doesn't work?
- Then the Cat and Mr Lister will choke to death.
A plan with no drawbacks.
Time we fitted that OG unit.
- Kryters.
- I'm on my way, sir.
That smell is still driving me crazy.
I gotta wash my hands. Transferring to auto.
(SNIFFS)
(EMOHAWK GROWLS, CAT SCREAMS)
It's stolen my cool! It's taken all my style!
I need a mirror.
What's up with me? I got no grace, no élan, no poise!
What's it turned me into?!
Duane Dibbley?
Duane Dibbley?! (SCREAMS)
What is it? I heard noises.
Look what it's done to me! It's turned
me into Duane Dibbley, the Duke of Dork.
Oh, my God. Where is it?
I lost it. It came in here somewhere.
- Can you smell it?
- The only scent I'm getting is extra strong spot cream
and the dandruff shampoo that doesn't work.
It could be anywhere.
It could be anything. Trust nothing.
It may have outsmarted you,
but it's going to have to get up pretty darn early
in the AM to outsmart Arnie J.
Is that a new gun? I don't recall seeing it before.
The gun! The emohawk's the gun!
Phew! God, that was close.
I hope you're right, 'cause if you're
not, we just flushed away our only gun.
Just leave the thinking to me,
keyboard teeth.
Lister, Kryten, the Cat was right.
We had brought the emohawk on board.
But, lucky for you guys,
old iron-butt was around to sort it out.
That's weird. There's something wrong
with this microphone. It's not transmitting.
(HORRIBLE ROAR)
Are you OK, sir?
(RIMMER) It's removing my bitterness,
taking my negativity,
slurping out all my snidiness!
It's gone now, sir. It's OK to come out.
Cat, old man. Looks like we both
bought a bite from the little blighter.
Let's track it down
before it harms Kryters and Dave.
I'm afraid this means death for both of us,
but it's a small price to pay to save our chummies, eh?
What a guy! Listen...
Before we leave, I just gotta change these clothes.
If I don't get into some sideways-ironed flares and
transparent plastic sandals, I swear I'll go crazy!
Do what you have to, old chum.
I'll go tell them we're having a party.
- (THUD)
- What was that?
It's the hydraulic lock, sir. We're sealed in!
It won't override!
I've sealed you in the engine room, Dave. Afraid me
and the Cat have taken a bit of a nip from the emohawk.
- You what, it's on board?!
- It's taken my bitterness and Cat's cool.
He's in a hell of a shape. He's looking so geeky, I don't think he could even get into a science fiction convention.
- And the emohawk is still on the loose?
- We've got it pinned down in the obs room.
Well, let us in. You need
all the help you can get.
No one I'd rather have
with me in a fracas, Dave
but you're the last human being alive, old love,
and frankly you're just too damn valuable to risk.
Only one way to guarantee victory for the home eleven - I'm gonna open the airlock, suck the little perisher out into deep space.
- Sir, but that would also kill you and the Cat!
- He won't suffer, Kryters.
I'll snap his neck when he's not looking.
Won't feel a thing. Believe me, he'd want it this way.
But sir, if we capture the creature,
we could extract the DNA strands
and re-inject you both,
restore your former personalities.
Too risky, Krytie. Any case, I don't think
I could face becoming... him again.
Everyone has his limits. Fellas, smoke me a kipper,
I'll be back for breakfast.
- What a guy!
- Sir, we've got to save them from themselves.
Their minds are totally distorted.
The Cat's a complete yutz,
and Mr Rimmer's, well... nice.
Charge up the bazookoids.
we'll blast our way in.
Ready, old chum?
Just let me check. Thermos, sandwiches,
corn plasters, telephone money,
dandruff brush, animal footprint chart
and one triple-thick condom.
You never know!
OK, Duane, let's step into the airlock
and get Part 2 of the plan underway.
- Oh, what plan is this?
- Just step in there, Duane.
So, what precisely is the plan, then.
I think you'll find it a little more
comfortable if you stand in front of me.
- Why are we in this airlock?
- Just relax, old chum. I'm sending you on ahead.
- I'm the scout party?
- (EXPLOSION)
Dave, you crazy fool. We're
all set to save your bacon.
There's no need for you to sling your
love spuds on the barbecue.
Sir, we can tackle the emohawk together.
Yeah, one squirt of liquid dilinium will freeze it
exactly where it stands in whatever shape it's in.
OK, fellas... let's go.
Looks like it's lasered its way back to the engine
rooms. Probably looking for you two gents.
Let's go.
According to the psi-scan,
it's somewhere in this location.
It's the barrel!
Sorry. False alarm.
That chain. It's moving!
Sorry! Sorry!
Sir, try and remain calm. You're experiencing a classic
knee-jerk paranoid reaction to a terror situation.
It's essential at this time that we...
IT'S THE WALL!
Shame overload. I-I-I-I... Sorry.
This is impossible. How can we find something
that can disguise itself as anything?
- How can we lure it out?
- Worry ye not, Davey. It'll strike soon enough.
Oh. I dropped my thermos.
Er, excuse me? Sirs? Gentlemen?
I think we have a suspect.
(ROARS)
I got it! I got it!
Oh, it turned into a grenade, but I got it!
- Toss it away, old chum.
- I can't throw. I throw like a geek!
Just chuck it.
- It's gonna blow!
- Leave this to me, Davey boy!
- Smoke me a kipper, I'll be...
- Freeze it, Davey boy!
Sir, how did you know it wouldn't
damage your hard light drive?
Didn't, Kryters.
Just trying to protect you chaps.
Well, sir, better get you back to normal.
Would it be possible for me to stay like this for another 24 hours
before I have to return as that er, (SPITS) ghastly maggot?
It's the least we can do to thank you, sir. And you Cat,
would you like to stay as Duane
Suck my thermos!
I hate being the prince of dorkness.
You never know the next clutzy thing going to...
What a Dibbley!
# 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 #
