Red Dwarf

What...

Ooh, ooh, ooh.

Ah! Ah!

Who the hell are you?

Oh, welcome back online, sir.

How are you feeling?

Not good. I don't know who I am.

Where is this place?

Oh, you have a touch of amnesia.

That's not uncommon after a prolonged period in deep sleep.

Oh, you have been out for over 200 years.

Two hundred years?

Well, I tried to wake you up in the spring,

but you absolutely insisted on another three months.

I've just been preparing your breakfast tray.

These cornflakes have got grated raw onions sprinkled on them.

Well, that's how you like them, sir.

Ugh!

The orange juice is revolting!

Oh, that's not orange juice, sir.

That's your early morning pick-me-up, chilled vindaloo sauce.

I drink cold curry sauce for breakfast?

Well, it depends on your mood.

If you wake up in the afternoon,

you generally prefer to start the day with a can of last night's flat lager.

That's why you sleep with a tea strainer next to your bed

so you can sieve out the cigar dimps.

I drink, and I smoke, and I have cold curry sauce for breakfast?

I sound like some barely human grossed-out slimeball.

Oh, it's all flooding back, is it, sir?

No. None of it is.

Perhaps this will help. Your personal artefacts.

Kristine Kochanski.

You dated her once for three weeks

before she discarded you for a catering officer.

She's beautiful.

It's your ambition, sir, somehow, someday, to win her back

and then lie on top of her, and move up and down rapidly in that curious way

that humans find so agreeable.

Personally, I prefer partnership whist.

What? I play guitar?

Do I have a head shaped like an amusing ice cube?

Go ahead, chuck out a few power chords. See if anything comes back.

Yeah! The axeman is back!

Don't patronise me. I can't play guitar.

Anyone with half an ear can tell that.

Sir, as soon as your personality is fully restored,

you will firmly believe you can play the guitar like the ghost of Hendrix.

Is there something good you can tell me about meself?

Something laudable?

Laudable...

Mmm, you sometimes help me out with my laundry duties

by turning your underpants inside out

and extending the wear time by three weeks.

I'm an animal.

I'm a tasteless, uncouth, mindless, tone-deaf,

randy, blokeish, semi-literate space bum.

Oh! Welcome back, Mr Lister, sir!

- What's that? - That's Mr Rimmer, sir.

This is his light bee.

He's a hologram.

Rimmer?

He's my best mate, isn't he?

Sir, you are sick.

Maybe a touch of the synaptic enhancer will do the trick.

Initiating boot-up sequence.

Downloading physical form.

Access personality banks.

Load arrogance.

Load charisma.

Load neuroses.

Download memory.

Oh, that Rimmer.

Nice cornflakes. Nice and oniony.

Can you pass that Tabasco sauce?

It just needs a bit more pep in it.

Congratulations, sir. You're well on the way to full recall.

Next thing you know, you'll be convinced you can play the guitar.

I can play the guitar!

I'm a diva, man! I can make that lump of wood sing

like a Yukon bear trapper on his annual visit to the brothel.

That's as may be, bud, but the deal stays the same.

I know. I know. If I want to strum me guitar,

I've got to put on a suit and do it in outer space.

- Peasants. - I suggest we start debriefing.

- Mr Rimmer? - Thank you, Kryten.

Now, gentlemen, as we are all aware, we have lost Red Dwarf.

This is not the time for small-minded, petty recrimination.

The time for that is when we get back to Earth and Lister is court-martialled.

I didn't lose it.

Come on, Lister, you're the one who parked it.

You're the one who can't remember which planetoid you left it around.

They're all the same, those little blue-green planetoids.

Blue-green and planetoidy.

Sirs, there is no advantage in finger-pointing.

We didn't lose Red Dwarf.

Red Dwarf was stolen from us by persons or life forms unknown.

Who'd steal a gigantic red trash can

with no brakes and three million years on the clock?

Rogue droids, genetically engineered life forms,

figments of Mr Lister's imagination made solid by some weird space ray.

Who knows?

The important thing is that after 200 years

of following their vapour trail, we have them.

What do you mean?

They've been forced to make a massive detour

to circumnavigate this asteroid belt.

However, Starbug is small enough to negotiate

its way straight through the middle.

For the first time for two centuries,

we have the opportunity to head them off at the pass, as it were,

and recover Holly.

Kryten, you're forgetting about Space Corps Directive 1742.

1742?

"No member of the Corps should ever report for duty in a ginger toupee."

Well, thank you for reminding me of that regulation, sir,

but I can't see how it's pertinent to our present situation.

- 1743, then. - Oh, I see.

"No registered vessel should attempt

"to transverse an asteroid belt without deflectors."

Yes! God, he's pedantic.

Rimmer, check out the supply situation.

Your hologram's on battery back-up. Oxygen for three months.

Water, if we drink recyc, seven weeks.

And worst of all, we're down to our last 2,000 poppadoms.

We're in trouble, man, big time.

You know how unstable those belts are.

Rogue asteroids, meteor storms...

One direct hit on that Plexiglas viewscreen,

and our innards will be turned inside out

quicker than a pair of Lister's old underpants.

We're out of options, man. We're going in.

I recommend the Cat pilots.

With his superior reflexes and nasal intuition,

that will give us our best chance.

Oh, for pity's sake! One breach in that hull, and we're people pâté.

There's an old Cat proverb.

It's better to live one hour as a tiger than a whole lifetime as a worm.

There's an old human proverb. Whoever heard of a wormskin rug?

Yes, nice stickwork, man.

- Something's coming. - Nothing on the navi-comp.

I can smell it. Something big.

I'm getting nothing either.

These nostrils never lie.

He's right. Co-ordinates 5341 by 6163.

Take a peek, gentlemen.

There's a meteor bigger than King Kong's first dump of the day.

And it's steaming straight towards us.

- It's far too vast to go around. - Reverse thrust!

There's no time. Face it, we're deader than corduroy.

Kryten, you know what to do.

I'm on my way, sir.

Would you tell me what he's doing?

He's customised the waste disposal unit,

filled the ejectors with rocket fuel

and turned it into a kind of high-impact garbage cannon.

You're gonna try and shoot that out of the sky

with tins and banana peel?

There's a little surprise in the middle.

A Thermos of nitroglycerine.

Waste disposal unit armed and ready, sir.

Kryten, will this work?

Lie mode.

Of course it'll work, sir. No worries.

Hook, line, sinker, rod and copy of Angling Times, sir.

- Here it comes! - Ready, Kryten? Fire!

Yes!

Relocating Red Dwarf's vapour trail.

At present speed and course,

estimated time to interception, 12 hours, seven minutes.

Check out your screens!

I'm getting something new, and it does not smell good.

There. Got it. Looks like some kind of ship.

Wait, there's another one... And another.

I'm getting them, too. Ten... No, 12.

All derelict.

It's like this is a giant spaceship graveyard.

Does anyone else get the feeling we've been led here

like lambs to the kebab shop?

We're not moving another inch

till we find out what brought those ships down.

I recommend we stop engines and launch scouter.

Engines stopped. Scouter launched.

We 're in.

What's that?

Human remains.

Wait. Angle up five degrees.

Across 10 degrees.

There. Some kind of writing on the floor.

"P-S-l-R-E-N-S."

Psirens.

The poor devil must've scrawled it in his death throes,

using a combination of his own blood and even his own intestines.

Who would do that?

Someone who badly needed a pen.

What I don't understand is why he went to the trouble

of using his kidney as a full stop.

I don't think he meant to do that.

It probably just plopped out.

Whoever he was, clearly, he was desperate