Original subtitles

Scramble! Scramble! All hands on deck! Emergency drill! Scramble!

Er, perhaps you didn't catch that - SCRAMBLE!

Yeah, great. With bacon and beans, man.

Look, Starbug's an inferno, the engine room's waist deep in fuel,

and we're being attacked off the starboard bow.

- Really? - Of course not really. It's a drill.

We're pretending Starbug's under attack.

And I'm pretending to scramble, man. Goodnight.

You've got 30 seconds or I declare you officially dead.

Good, then we can rest in peace.

Well, congratulations. Scrambling in a Red Alert situation, a new record time -

1 hour, 17 minutes, 39 seconds.

Not bad. We could get one sixteen without the fourth round of toast.

You think I'm a petty-minded bureaucratic nincompoop,

who delights in enforcing regulations because he gets a perverse pleasure from it,

and in many ways you're absolutely damn right,

but, nevertheless, the only way we'll track down Red Dwarf

is with a sense of discipline and purpose and, wherever possible, a sensible haircut.

- I'm going back to bed. - Would it hurt 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.

Every major battle in history has been won by the side with the shortest haircuts.

- Oh, surely not, sir. - Why did the US Cavalry beat the Indians?

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 worid-class psychiatrist.

Check your screens. I'm getting something up my left nostril.

Scans are all negative. At the risk of challenging your olfactory excellence,

perhaps a re-smelling is in order.

I'm telling you, my nostril hair's shimmying

like 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'll perform the ceremony,

but I'm bewildered as to how sacrificing poultry will help the problem.

Wait a minute. Major power surge off the port bow.

He's right. Some kind of vessel. It's uncloaking.

He's too close! That power surge'll toss us around

like sweat in an aerobics teacher's buttock cleavage.

Hang on. Here it comes.

- Damage report? - Superficial.

Navicomp's down, slight rupture in fuel pipe 9

and the headset's got jammed on the Country and Western Channel.

Second wave coming!

What's he thinking of, warping that close? Damn space hog!

That's a Space Corp external enforcement vehicle.

- What? - The space filth.

A computer-controlled enforcement probe. It's scanning us now.

- Incoming. - Property Corp Space removing and

equipment Corp Space damaging,

ships Corp Space of series a looting with charged formerly are you.

The materialization has scrambled its voice unit.

It's making 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 derelicts.

We don't loot derelicts. We just hack in and swipe what we need.

If this goes to trial, I demand separate lawyers.

What's the penalty? If it means outfits with arrows on, I'm committing suicide.

Er, no, sir. It means outfits with wings and halos on. The penalty is execution.

- Why so harsh? - It's frontier law, sir.

We're the equivalent of horse rustlers.

Severe sentencing is the only way to maintain order. Don't expect mercy.

- What do we do? - We're as guilty

as the man behind the grassy knoll.

- Admit it, and it'll blow us out of space. - Recommendations?

Suggest I take the rap and say I forced you at gunpoint to do my bidding.

- 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 choice. Plot a course for scarper city.

Sir, it can easily outrun us.

Kryten, the Eastbourne Zimmer frame relay team can easily outrun us.

It's not about speed. It's about wit and cunning.

- I hoped it wouldn't come to that. - Look at your screens.

We're near the Gelf Zone. It wouldn't follow us in there.

No, because Gelfs are scavengers with no regard for life, law or property.

- So we'll be safe. - You've heard the stories.

They skin humans alive and turn them into beanbags.

Unless you want a triple-buttocked Gelf sitting on your face,

probing your crevices for lost biros, I suggest you rethink.

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. Guess you DO have to tell me twice.

Firing commence will I or halt!

- Bony butts our move let's! - Close comms.

- Comms closed. - Gelf zone six clicks.

- Weapon lock. 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. - Won't be next time.

- Four clicks to Gelf Zone. - Another lock.

- Incoming pulse fire. - Decoys launched.

- Six seconds to impact! - We've gotta 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! - According to the damage report machine,

there are several small fires, lots of smoke and the navicomp's fizzing.

Oh, damn! Now the damage report machine's exploded.

- Another lock! - This'll finish us off.

- How far to the Gelf Zone? - Click and a half.

- We've lost three fuel tanks! - Wait! I'm picking something up.

Got it. Putting it on visual.

Look at that thing. It must be a mile across.

A Gelf icon. It's some kind of warning beacon.

- Incoming message. - 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. - Head for the eye socket.

- The eye socket? - It's a dead end!

- Just do it! - Eight seconds.

- We're heading for solid rock. - Three seconds... two... one.

- Manoeuvring thrusters are out. - Infra-red reports 53 separate fires.

- Sprinkler systems are down. - There's no way to put it out. We'll blow.

Wait! Gelf moon bearing 356 by 121. It's got an ocean. Can you get 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 got the pumps working.

- Three hours and we'll be dry. - Thrusters, boosters, reheat -

auto-repair can fix everything, apart from the oxy-generation unit which is kaputzki.

So we can take off but not breathe?

- We can't repair it? - It's more charred than Lister's fry-ups.

Well, we're snookered... unless we trade with the Gelfs.

- Trade? You can't be serious. - It's our only option.

Give me the arrow. It could tell us a whole lot about what we're dealing with here.

- Anything? - Yep. This came from a bow, all right.

Sorry. I was expecting 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! - It's a great honour to be greeted this way.

They would kill us if they took exception to us.

- That's a very good sign. - It's a good sign they haven't killed us?

Absolutely. With the Kinitawowi, not skinning you alive 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'll say we are in search of an engine part and that we have 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!

I suggest caution, sir. Some Gelfs have their sphincteral orifices in their faces.

Let's hope you haven't offended him.

No, he seems quite pleased.

We need an oxy-generation unit, savvy?

Ogigon bachoo machwahah.

Ah. Aleesa. Alees tada.

Cat, get the case, man.

Machu, aloo atu ba ba.

- It seems to be going well. - What is that thing?

It's an emohawk. 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 steals emotions from living creatures.

Emotions are a highly valued trading commodity.

- The oxy-generation unit. - They're ready to fix a price.

We'd fixed a price with all the baubles.

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.

- You want my jacket? - No, sir. He doesn't want your jacket.

- Not my longjohns? - Not those either, sir.

- Well, what then? - Ahg nu dewka ana weg bah.

Me? He wants me?

Yes, sir. In exchange for the oxy-generation unit, he wants you to be his daughter's mate.

That's his daughter?!

One of three. Apparently, sir, she's the looker.

Tell him not if she was the last yeti lookalike in the worid.

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, one Earth minute.

Five hanaka. That only gives us 28 hours!

OK, let's get out our sheet music and play the Real Waltz.

I'm not visiting to Moss Bros

for anyone who is less attractive than my own armpit after 20 games of table tennis.

What about us? You can't hang us out to dry just because she doesn't hit your G-spot.

What about sacrifice? Putting your friends' interests before your own?

Rimmer, it would never work out. She's obviously an Aries. Me and Aries? Forget it.

Sir, they are proud people and won't change their minds

unless you are prepared to stay here and marry Hackhackhackachhachhachach.

That's her name?!

I could never marry anyone whose name sounds like a footballer clearing his nose.

The plan is we do the trade, you do the wedding,

when everybody's asleep, we 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?

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.

Nee bonnen nic partin.

Maybe in the morning. Goodnight.

You've been looking forward to this. You won't take no for an answer, will you?

Nack hey.

OK, just give me a minute. I want to slip into something more comfortable - Starbug.

Change of plan! Leg it!

- Wait! Something's coming. - It's the emohawk!

- What happened? Where'd it go? - It transmuted into something else.

Suggest we proceed with extreme caution.

It's somewhere close. I can smell it.

It's the stick!

No, it's not. Oh, God, I'm so jumpy. I thought it was the stick.

It is the stick!

- Where is it? - In the undergrowth.

Cat, you know what they're like. Stay on the case.

Unbelievable, getting suckered like that.

- 100 per cent concentration at all times. - Yeah, yeah, yeah.

We're airtight. Damn thing can't get in now.

Just took a little bit of concentration.

How long before we can go? We don't really want a visit from Listy's in-laws.

It'll take an hour to set the oxy-generation unit up.

I suggest we take off and use emergency supplies until it's on-line.

- What if it doesn't work? - The Cat and Mr Lister 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.

It's stolen my cool! It's taken all my style!

I need a mirror.

I got no grace, no �lan, no poise!

What's it turned me into?!

Duane Dibbley?

Duane Dibbley?!

What is it? I heard noises.

Look what it's done! It's turned me into 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 spot cream

and dandruff shampoo that doesn't work.

It could be anywhere. It could be anything. Trust nothing.

It may have outsmarted you,

but it'll have to get up pretty darn early in the AM to outsmart Arnie J.

Is that a new gun? I've never seen it before.

The gun! The emohawk's the gun!

Phew! God, that was close.

I hope you're right, otherwise we just flushed away our only gun.

Just leave the thinking to me, keyboard teeth.

Lister, Kryten, Cat was right. We had the emohawk on board.

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.

Are you OK, sir?

It's removing my bitterness, taking my negativity,

slurping out all my snidiness!

It's gone now, sir. It's OK to come out.

Well, 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 us, but it's a small price to pay to save our chums.

What a guy! Listen...

Before we leave, I gotta change these clothes.

If I don't get into some sideways-ironed flares and plastic sandals, I'll go crazy.

Do what you have to, old chum. I'll tell them we're having a party.

What was that?

The hydraulic lock, sir. We're sealed in!

It won't override!

I've sealed you in, Dave. Me and the Cat took a nip from the emohawk.

- It's on board?! - It's taken my bitterness and Cat's cool.

He's looking so geeky he probably couldn't even get into a science fiction convention.

- It's still on the loose? - It's in the obs room.

- Well, let us help. - No one I'd rather have with me in a fracas,

but you're the last human being alive, old love, and too damn valuable to risk.

Only one way to guarantee victory - open the airlock, suck the perisher out into space.

- That would also kill you and the Cat! - He won't suffer, Kryters.

I'll snap his neck when he's not looking.

He'd want it this way.

But if we capture the creature, we could extract the DNA

and re-inject you both, restore your personalities.

Too risky, Krytey. Anyway, I don't think I could face becoming... him again.

Everyone has his limits. Smoke me a kipper, I'll be back for breakfast.

- What a guy! - 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 the plan underway.

- Oh, what plan is this? - Just step in there, Duane.

So, what precisely is the plan?

You'll find it more comfortable if you stand in front of me.

- Why are we in this airlock? - Just relax, old chum. I'm sending you ahead.

I'm the scout party?

Dave, you crazy fool. We're saving your bacon.

Don't 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.

OK, fellas... let's go.

It's lasered its way back to the engine rooms. Probably looking for you two.

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, stay calm. You're experiencing a classic paranoid reaction to a terror situation.

It's essential at this time that we... IT'S THE WALL!

Shame overload. 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 not, Davey. It'll strike soon enough.

Oh. I dropped my thermos.

Er, excuse me? Sirs? Gentlemen? I think we have a suspect.

I got it! I got it!

Oh, it turned into a grenade, but I got it!

- Toss it away, old chum. - 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 about your hard light drive?

Didn't, Kryters. Just trying to protect you chaps.

Well, sir, better get you back to normal.

Can I stay like this for another 24 hours before I become that ghastly maggot?

It's the least we can do. Would you like to stay as Duane?

Suck my thermos! I hate being the prince of dorkness.

You never know the next clutzy thing...

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 #