Original subtitles

("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".

Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to steal your thunder.

Launch scouter.

Launch scouter.

I'll be in the stern, correlating the...

in the stern.

Would you be so good as to launch the scouter, sir?

Aye-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 why are you telling me this, Captain Bog-Bot?

She's a hologram.

We have to commandeer your projection unit in order to rescue her, sir.

Oh, I see. First, I'm deemed unsuitable to issue the command "launch scouter",

and now I'm being relieved of my duties by Commander U-Bend.

Rimmer, it's not personal. It's the only way to get her to the ship.

- Why do we need another hologram? - She's a doctor, sir.

- She would be a valuable asset. - As usual, it's left to me

to point out the 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 am I, a holiday villa in the Algarve?

Sir, might I remind you, as Space Corps Directive 169 clearly states...

Holly, prepare an escape pod. Anything but another "Space Corps directive".

Sir, the directives are there to protect us.

They're not vindictive pronouncements directed against any one person.

Has anyone ever seen this legendary Space Corps directive manual?

- Well, no. - He's making it up.

- The bloody book doesn't exist. - Sir, I assure you...

Why does he only use them against me, never Lister?

We never hear Space Corps directives

that state, "No crew member should floss his teeth with the E-string of his guitar

"after spraying the contents of his Sugar Puff sandwich all over his superior's bunk."

- We never hear that one. - Holly, furnish Mr Rimmer

with a hologrammatic copy of the Space Corps directive manual.

Come on. Where is it?

- That's it?! - You can 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 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.

Don't ever forget it.

What a smee...

What a smee...

What a smee...heeeeeeee...

(CALLS OUT) Dr Lanstrom?

(KRYTEN) Are you there, Doctor?

Oh, brutal.

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, just a few seconds more, sir.

The old 345 takes a little time to warm up.

Still, it out-performs the 346 eight times out of nine.

Small wonder that it secured "Psi-Scan of the Year, Best Budget Model" three years running.

Now here are the results...

And we're going to...

Iive.

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 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)

- Why can't we ever meet anyone nice? - Or anyone who can shoot straight?

I'm telling you, Kryten is taking over.

Remember how he was in the early days? A gibbering wreck, 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 checks.

- It's ready to launch. - Right, I'm going.

What really gets me is how 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? Listen, Lanstrom's got some holo-virus.

She's totally barking!

- Listy? - We need back-up, man. 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 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 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.

You-oo!

Well, we know what to get you for Christmas: a lobotomy and 10 rolls of rubber wallpaper.

Holly, I really must make tracks. Keep me updated, 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 dormant 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 stasis? - Precisely.

Lanstrom was preserving what little lifespan remains her.

Well, if she's running out of time, let's 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? - Yes. From what I've seen of her research,

before the holo-virus, she had a 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 know about. - Flu, rabies, that stuff.

But she also believed in positive viral strains which make humans feel better.

- Such as? - Well, she predicted a kind of reverse flu,

a virus which promotes an unaccountable feeling of happiness.

That's happened to me. My life's been crud,

and I've woken up feeling good for no reason.

The chances are, sir, that 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? - Several isolated strains of positive virus.

Inspiration, charisma, sexual magnetism...

Sexual magnetism is a virus? Get me to hospital, I'm a terminal case!

This is the most intriguing. 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 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 minute dose will only last for about three minutes.

Now 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, throw this dart over here into that bull's-eye behind you

using your left hand, without looking.

Using my left hand? Into the bulls-eye? Without looking?

- No chance. - Trust me, sir.

- You ready? - (DULL THUD)

Ah. I think that indicates the luck virus has worn off.

When you're quite finished, we've got a problem with the doors.

- What problem? - They won't open.

- Rimmer's put in an override. - Welcome home, gentlemen.

If you'd proceed to the aft to bay 47.

That's quarantine!

- Spot on. - But, sir, I've screened us. 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, you may proceed to quarantine room 152,

where you will be spending the next three months.

(DOOR HUMS)

12 weeks. I have a 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 time by himself.

- It is? - Hmm.

The most popular pastimes have always been enjoyed alone -

angling, golf and, of course, the all-time number one.

It's not just humans. When male tigers are locked up together,

one winds up on the other'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, we hang out together most of the time together anyway.

Yeah, but we could go 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 single-berth accommodation.

Space Corps Directive 597 clearly states "one berth per registered crew member".

As Listy is the only registered crew member, that's all you get.

- Don't rise to him. - What about entertainment?

You are obliged to provide us with leisure facilities.

Games, literature, hobby activities, motion pictures.

And in accordance with Space Corps Directive 312, you'll find in the cupboard

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 "Wallpapering, Painting and Stippling - a DIY Guide".

- Don't rise to him. - And fulfilling all dietary requirements,

dinner tonight, gentlemen, will consist of sprout soup,

followed by sprout salad,

and for desert - 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? - What?

I'm merely executing Space Corps Directive 595.

Anyway, must dasherooni. I've got to organise your daily musical entertainment.

I think you'll like it. It's a looped tape of "Reggie Dixon's Tango Treats".

OK. Time to rise to him. Let me at him!

Listen, he wants us to annoy each other, go through 12 weeks of hell.

Well, we won't give him the satisfaction.

The entire time, we're not gonna have one single argument, 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 to panel-beat my head back into shape.

Two damn hours.

Guys, just take it easy.

If he says that once more, I'll turn his ears into maracas and do 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 78 days to go, do not blow your nose.

Do you mind if I ask why?

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, don't call me tetchy.

You know what happens.

Well, that's exactly what I'm calling you.

Tetchy. Tetchy. Tetchy.

It's just as well I can't hear you calling me tetchy.

You know what happens when you call me tetchy.

Oh, no! Didn't I tell you? Didn't I warn you what would happen?

- No. - Yes. I'm putting it on.

- Don't put it on. - Here I go.

- There he goes. - Kryten, I'm not helping you again.

- Not this time. - You think I need help?

I can extract my own head from the waste disposal unit.

It won't be the waste disposal, Frankenstein.

I'm gonna 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. I hate being corrected.

- It really gets my feckles up. - It's "hackles", you moron.

- There's no such word as "feckles". - Feckles, hackles, schmeckles.

Whatever they are, they're up now, buddy.

- Yeah? - Guys! Guys!

Look at 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 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! We've got him.

Space Corps Directive 699. We can demand a rescreening.

- He'll refuse. - He's playing 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.

- No one's got any disease. - We're clean.

You have to re-screen us as per Directive 699.

No one's got any virus and no one's smeggin' nuts.

Well, that's good.

- Is something amiss? - Amiss? 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, we just thought you'd gone nuts. We were humouring 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. You can let us out.

- I can't let you out. - Why not?

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'll fly on a magic carpet to the King of the Potato People...

..and plead with him for your freedom, and you're telling me you are completely sane?

I think that warrants two hours...of WOO.

- What's WOO? - 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 did he get the holo-virus? - It can be transmitted over radio waves.

He must have spoken to Lanstrom at some point.

We have seven minutes before the air in here becomes unbreathable.

- We gotta get out of here. - It's impossible.

That's the whole point of quarantine. Nothing gets out. Nothing gets in.

Not even a microbe.

Kryten, any chance of cracking the code?

The chances of punching in the correct combination are literally billions to one.

- Unless... - Of course!

The luck virus!

- You think that stuff'll work? - If I give Mr Lister a large dose,

he will temporarily become the luckiest human being who ever lived.

- OK. What do I do? - Just press in whatever you think is 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 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. Like Lanstrom,

he'll be capable of telepathy, even telekinesis.

Telekiny-what-inesis?

The ability to move objects purely by the power of the mind.

- Kryten, are you OK? - I have a medium-sized axe in my spine.

That can 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 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 need is a remote link to the hologram disk projection system.

- Like this one? - What a stroke of luck.

Now we need a detachable power transfer adapter

capable of holding spikes of 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. - OK? The luck virus must have worn off.

(LISTER) Rimmer? You OK?

- What happened? 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 #