1 Int. Sleeping quarters. Morning.
LISTER is sitting on his bunk, watching TV. KRYTEN enters, pushing a
breakfast trolley.
KRYTEN: Breakfast is served, sir. (Noticing the TV, he sounds disgusted)
Oh, boxing. Do you _like_ boxing?
LISTER: There's nothing wrong with boxing. It's one of the great working
class escapes, is boxing. It's just sport, like any other. Two highly
trained athletes at the peak of physical perfection trying to outwit
each other in a ring of combat. In fact, at it's best, it's not a
sport -- it's an artform.
KRYTEN: Female, topless boxing?
LISTER: Talk to me, Kryten.
KRYTEN: Well... they're not even hitting one another. They just appear
to be standing in the centre of the ring and jiggling up and down. So
which one are you rooting for, sir?
LISTER: I'm just praying that it goes the distance!
KRYTEN: As I was saying, sir, breakfast is served.
LISTER: Kryten, how many times have I told you? I hate all this master-
servant stuff. I'm me own man, you're your own man, I'll get me own
smeggin' breakfast.
KRYTEN: Very good, sir. (Crosses to the bin.) Goodbye, waffles.
(Scraping them into the bin.) Goodbye maple syrup, goodbye fresh cream,
so long fresh strawberries. Bon apetite, bin.
KRYTEN leaves. LISTER watches him go, then jumps up and sneaks over to
the bin. He scoops his breakfast out of the depths of the bin and, not
having a plate, sticks it in his hat. He then goes back to the bunk to
watch the boxing. He is consuming his bin-soiled brekkies with every
evidence of enjoyment when...
KRYTEN: (From the corridor) Ah, Mr David, sir!
LISTER panics. Seeing no other alternative, he jams the food-filled hat
down onto his head. It squelches slightly. By the time KRYTEN enters he
has composed his face into a look of total innocence.
KRYTEN: A homing pod arrived this morning. There is just one item. (He
hands the package to LISTER.)
LISTER: (Reading the label) Diva-Droid International?
KRYTEN: It's the corporation which created and supplied me, sir.
LISTER: (Reading the address) "To the lease holder of Kryten 2X4B 523P."
That's your full name?
KRYTEN: Yes, but personally I don't much like the 2X4B. I think it's a
jerky middle name. Still, it could be worse. I once knew an android
whose middle name was 2Q4B. Poor sucker!
LISTER places the message in the readout slot. The visage of DivaDroid
Ececutive Jim REAPER (Head of sales, Space Division) appears on the
screen. He looks a lot like what KRYTEN would like if he were human.
[cf. Season IV Episode 2, "DNA"]
REAPER: Greetings. As you are no doubt aware, your Kryten Series-3
Mechanoid is nearing the end of it's useful service life. It can
hardly have escaped your attention that he is slow, stupid, crudely
designed, and quite amazingly ugly. He needs replacing. Consequently,
his in-built shut-down chip will activate in 24 hours time. Your droid
should use this period to tie up his affairs, dismantle his body and
pack himself neatly away in his original supply case.
LISTER freezes the recording. He looks slightly stunned.
KRYTEN: (Somberly) Excuse me. (He leaves quietly.)
2 Int. KRYTEN's quarters.
KRYTEN is packing himself away, as per instructions. LISTER enters,
looking more than a bit upset.
LISTER: How do we stop it? Isn't there something we can do?
KRYTEN: I'm afraid not, sir. All mechanoids are supplied with a built-in
expiry date. Well, if we lasted forever, how would the manufacturors
sell the latest models?
LISTER: I can't believe it.
KRYTEN: Oh, don't be disressed, sir. I've lived a long and relatively
interesting life. The only truly terrible thing is that, as my adopted
owner, you have to die with me.
LISTER: (Shocked) You what?
KRYTEN: Joke. Deadpan mode.
LISTER: I'd be smegged off. I'd be mad as hell, man. If some git in a
white coat designed me to croak just so that he could sell his new
android with go-faster stripes.
KRYTEN: I've told you, sir. I'm quite sanguine.
LISTER: So, what happens?
KRYTEN: At 0700 hours tomorrow morning my shutdown disc will be activated
and all mental and physical operations will cease.
LISTER: Then what?
KRYTEN: I don't know... maybe I'll get a job as a disc jockey!
LISTER: How can you just lie back and accept it?
KRYTEN: Oh, it's not the end for me, sir, it's just the beginning. I
have served my human masters, now I can look forward to my reward in
silicon heaven.
LISTER: (Stunned pause.) Silicon _what_?
KRYTEN: Surely you've heard of silicon heaven?
LISTER: Has it got anything to do with being stuck opposite Bridgette
Nielson in a packed lift?
KRYTEN: It's the electronic afterlife! It's the gathering place for the
souls of all electonic equipment. Robots, calculators, toasters,
hairdryers -- it's our final resting place.
LISTER: I don't mean to say anything out of place here, Kryten, but that
is completely whacko, Jacko. There is no such thing as "silicon
heaven."
KRYTEN: Then where do all the calculators go?
LISTER: They don't go anywhere! They just die.
KRYTEN: Surely you believe that god is in all things? Aren't you a
pantheist?
LISTER: Yeah, but I just don't think it applies to kitchen utensils. I'm
not a _frying_ pantheist! Machines do not have souls. Computers and
calculators do not have an afterlife. You don't get hairdryers with
tiny little wings, sitting on clouds and playing harps!
KRYTEN: But of course you do! For is it not written in the Electronic
Bible, "The iron shall lie down with the lamp?" Well, it's common
sense, sir. If there were no afterlife to look forward to, why on
Earth would machines spend the whole of their lifes serving mankind?
Now that would be really dumb!
LISTER: (Quietly) That makes sense. Yeah. Silicon heaven.
KRYTEN: Don't be sad, Mr David. I am going to a far, far better place.
LISTER: Just out of interest: Is silicon heaven the same place as human
heaven?
KRYTEN: Human heaven? Goodness me! Humans don't go to heaven! No,
someone made that up to prevent you all from going nuts!
3 Int. Sleeping quarters.
LISTER is sitting at the table, reading the Series-3 Mechanoid Owner's
Manual. RIMMER is watching sympathetically from the bunk.
RIMMER: Well, it's all very sad, Lister, but what can we do?
LISTER: Sad? It's sick! He's been programmed to believe in an android
Heaven, so that he won't get stroppy when it comes to turn-off time.
So that he accepts a lifetime of getting the short end of the stick
because he thinks there's going to be some big reward at the end.
RIMMER: Well, at least he gets 24 hours notice. That's more than most of
us get. All most of us get is, "Mind that bus!" "What bus?" _splat_!
How's he taking it?
LISTER: Just keeps on doing his stupid smeggin' duties.
RIMMER: Maybe I should talk to him. Maybe he needs a bit of counseling.
LISTER: You?!
RIMMER: I used to be in the Samaritans.
LISTER: I know. For one morning.
RIMMER: I couldn't take any more.
LISTER: I don't blame you. You spoke to five people, and they all
committed suicide. I wouldn't mind, but one was a wrong number! He
only phoned up for the cricket scores!
RIMMER: Well, it's hardly my fault that everyone chose that morning to
throw themselves off buildings! Made the papers, you know. "Lemming
Sunday," they called it.
LISTER: Maybe we could find his shut-off disk and turn it off somehow.
RIMMER: He's not a kit droid, Lister. He's not like that stupid thing
Peterson bought on Callisto. You wouldn't know where to begin!
LISTER: Yeah, you're right.
RIMMER: C'mon, he's happy enough. You said yourself, he's taking solace
in his beliefs.
LISTER: But his beliefs are a load of baloney!
RIMMER: Everyone's entitled to their beliefs, Lister. I never agreed
with my parent's religion, but I wouldn't dream of knocking it.
LISTER: What were they?
RIMMER: Seventh day advent hoppists. They believed that every Sunday
should be spent hopping. They would hop to church, hop through the
service, then hop back home again.
LISTER: What was the idea behind that, then?
RIMMER: Well you see, they took the Bible literally. Adam and Eve; the
snake and the apple... Took it word for word. Unfortunately, their
version had a misprint. It was all based on 1 Corinthians 13, where it
says "Faith, hop and charity, and the greatest of these is hop." So
that's what they did. Every seventh day. I tell you, Sunday
lunchtimes were a nightmare. Hopping round the table, serving soup --
we all had to wear sou'esters and asbestos underpants.
LISTER: Point is -- what are we going to do about Kryten?
RIMMER: What can we do? He's pre-programmed to self-destruct!
LISTER: At least we can help! At least we can make sure he goes out with
a bang, give him one last big smeggin' night to remember.
RIMMER: How can we do that? He doesn't like doing anything! His idea of
a good time is for us all to go up to the laundry room and fold some
sheets! (Put's on a "KRYTEN Voice") Fun? Ah yes, the employment of
time in a profitless and non-practical way.
LISTER: Well, I don't know much, but one thing I do know is how to throw
a good time!
4 Int. Sleeping quarters. Later.
Disco music fills the air, signifying that the party preparations are
well under way. LISTER is sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of
metal and plastic components, an expression of extreme concentration on
his face. CAT enters.
CAT: OK, the soup's made, Holly's workin' on the juice, Goalpost Head is
workin' on the invitations... Hey, what is this? (Picking up and
reading the front of the instruction booklet.) "Build-it-yourself
Marilyn Monroe droid. With just a screwdriver and a tub of glue, you
can construct an exact replica of the famous actress, in under two
hours."
LISTER: It's a load of honk, man. It took me two hours just to do this
foot. (Holds up a huge silver foot.) I mean, look at the box
(Gesturing to photo of Marilyn on box) and look at the face that comes
with the kit. (Holds up a blank metal mask.)
CAT: Where'd you get it from?
LISTER: Peterson brought it when he was on planet leave on Callisto.
CAT: (Suggestively) Think he'll try to seduce her?
LISTER: No, I don't think so. He's a bit like Action Man in that
department. Plastic underpants and a trademark.
CAT: You mean he's got no--
LISTER: No.
CAT: How does he write his name in snow?
LISTER: He doesn't. C'mon, Cat, everything goes at eight. Let's go,
let's go.
5 Int. Laundry room.
KRYTEN is ironing shirts. A skutter approaches and hands him a card.
KRYTEN: Thank you, Bob. (Reading the card) "You are cordially invited to
join Mr David Lister and friends for supper and general employment of
time in a profitless and non-practical way. Officer's Club, 8 till
late."
He leaves the laundry room. In the corridor is a tux, with a sign
attached to it: "WEAR THIS." KRYTEN takes it.
6 Int. Officer's club. 8 pm.
The lights are all off. KRYTEN enters, wearing the tux.
KRYTEN: Hello? Is there anybody here?
Suddenly, the lights come on.
LISTER: IT'S PARTY TIME!!!!
KRYTEN: But, this is the Officer's Club! Mechanoids aren't allowed in
here!
CAT: C'mon, c'mon, sit down, sit down. Let me pour you a drink.
KRYTEN: (Sitting down reluctantly.) No, no, no, I should be doing that.
CAT: (Pouring drink.) Not tonight, buddy!
KRYTEN: Is that alcohol? I don't drink alcohol. It has no effect on my
diodes.
HOLLY: This will, mate. Summink special I whipped up. Android home
brew.
KRYTEN: (Examining the brew) Good head. (Taking a careful sip) D-D-D-D-
D-D-D... D... D... Whoooo-ooh! Uh, it's rather pleasant. Has a nice
kick to it. Sort of like a cross between vimto and liquid nitrogen.
HOLLY: 'Ere, you bin lookin' in my recipe book?
KRYTEN: Would anyone else like some?
HOLLY: Oh no, it's lethal to humans! It's probably lethal to androids to
be honest, but I don't think it matters much since tomorrow you're
gonna be... (She trails off into an embarrased silence and blushes deep
red.)
RIMMER: Enough of this chitter-chatter -- let the banquet begin.
KRYTEN: But I don't eat!
HOLLY: I've knocked up a special mechanoid menu for you.
KRYTEN: Oh, there's so much to choose from!
RIMMER: Sir, may I recommend the Barium Hydrochloride salad le soire?
Followed by the He3 isotopes du la maison? And then perhaps a small
radioactive fruit salad for pudding?
KRYTEN: This is just wonderful!
CAT: Give 'im the presents! Give 'im the presents!
LISTER: (To CAT) Hey, keep your fur on! (To KRYTEN) We've all dug into
our bottom drawers, and we want to give you something that meant
something to us personally.
CAT: Give 'im mine! Give 'im mine!
LISTER: Shhhhhh!
LISTER hands KRYTEN a present.
HOLLY: That's from me. (Blushes.)
KRYTEN: Ooh! It's a computer chip! It's a 5517/W 30 alpha-sin modem!
The interface circuit with a built-in 599XRDP! Oh, how DID you know?
HOLLY: (Blushing even more) Intuition.
CAT: What about mine? Give 'im mine!
LISTER: Shhh!
RIMMER: This is from me. I picked it up on a trip to Europe One rival
collector once offered me 1,000 dollarpounds for it.
KRYTEN: What is it? (Unwrapping a small vial of green liquid.)
RIMMER: General George S. Patten, commander of the 3rd and 7th armies,
allied invasion forces, once stopped off at an Italian field hospital
and had his sinuses drained.
KRYTEN: This is his sinal fluid?
RIMMER: Treasure it.
CAT: Give 'im mine! Give 'im mine!
LISTER: This is from 'im.
CAT: That's from me.
KRYTEN: (Unwraps the present.) It's one of your earrings!
CAT: That's right!
KRYTEN: The one you really hate!
CAT: That's right, I can't stand it!
KRYTEN: Oh... Thank you!
CAT: You're welcome!
LISTER: And this is from me.
He hands KRYTEN a remote control. The control promptly breaks.
KRYTEN: Oh, it's a littlebox that goes "Bzzzt." Just what I've always
wanted.
The Marilyn Monroe droid clanks into the room. It looks a mess. It is
half covered in synthetic flesh -- the arms and head are bare. It moves
jerkily, with much hissing and clanking, and is basically totally,
totally unconvincing.
KRYTEN: Goodness me, It's Marilyn Monroe!
Except to KRYTEN, of course.
LISTER: It's a robot kit.
KRYTEN: She's a robot? You're kidding!
LISTER: She's not quite finished yet -- it's the best I could do in the
time.
KRYTEN: Enchante!
The robot says something that might have been "Boo Boo be Doo" slowed
down quite a bit, and then crashes off through a wall.
LISTER: Like I say, she's not perfect.
KRYTEN: Oh, don't apologise -- it's those cute little flaws that keep a
guy interested.
7 Int. Officer's clib. Much, much later.
Still in the Officer's Club (but only just).
KRYTEN: My goodness, I do believe I am drunk. I suddenly feel the need
to strut my funky stuff. (Stands up.)
HOLLY: Sit down. It's the booze -- you're not used to it.
LISTER: I remember the first time I got drunk. School trip to Paris. couple of bottles of cheap red plonk when we were on a guided
tour of the eiffel tower. I was OK until we got to the top, but then I
couldn't keep it in any more. Apparently it landed on Monte Martre.
That's over five miles away! Story I got told was that some pavement
artist sold it to a Texan tourist -- told him it was a genuine Jackson
Pollock!
RIMMER: If we're talking about famous firsts -- my first french kiss.
The others laugh.
RIMMER: It's gotta be a killer story. Fourteen years old. We went on
holiday with my Uncle Frank and his daughters. Sixteen. Twins.
Blonde. Now I knew that Sarah fancied me (Sniggers from others), but I
wasn't too sure about Alice. Anyway, middle of the night, I wake up
with this tongue stuck down my throat. Wide awake now -- I couldn't
believe my eyes. It was Uncle Frank! (Stunned silence from others.)
He'd got the wrong room -- he thought I was my mum!
KRYTEN laughs hard, banging his head off the table, then abruptly sobers
up.
KRYTEN: Mum. I never had a mum.
CAT: There, there, it's alright, buddy, it's all part of being drunk.
You've been through the happy stage, now you're going through the
melancholy stage.
KRYTEN: Oooooh... everybody should have a mum.
HOLLY: I never had a mum, neither.
RIMMER: Well, you can have mine. Everybody else did!
LISTER: I never had a mum either.
RIMMER: Oh, for god's sake, what's wrong with everyone?!
HOLLY: Why didn't you have a mum?
LISTER: I was abandoned.
KRYTEN: Abandoned?
LISTER: Six weeks old. A cardboad box underneath the pool table. I was
just abandoned in this pub.
KRYTEN: How could anybody do that?
LISTER: I don't know. I never found out.
RIMMER: Well, I'd have thought it was obvious. Two people, unable to
contain their desires, had an illicit liason. A liason that an
unforgiving society would not accept. And you were the fruit of their
forbidden passion. You're forbidden passion fruit.
LISTER: What are you saying?
RIMMER: I'm saying, Lister, that there's a very real possibility that
your parents were brother and sister.
Everyone but LISTER cracks up laughing.
LISTER: (Indignant) Hey, I'm baring my innermost here! What kind of
remark is that?
RIMMER: How many toes have you got?
LISTER: I've got ten!
CAT: Yeah, on both feet!
LISTER: Altogether!
KRYTEN: They're not webbed or anything, are they?
LISTER: They weren't related, alright?
KRYTEN is laughing so hard at this point that he falls off his chair.
LISTER: You alright, Kryten?
KRYTEN: I think I feel a Jackson Pollock coming on.
LISTER: Let's get out of here.
They all leave, swaying drunkenly.
8 Int. Sleeping quarters. Next morning.
LISTER is in the bottom bunk, CAT in the top one. KRYTEN and RIMMER are
slumped over the table. All are asleep.
With a bleep, KRYTEN bumps the remote control and switches the message
playback on. Jim REAPER's face appears on the screen.
REAPER: Lease-holder addendum: Do not despair, Kryten's replacement is
on his way.
REAPER's image disappears, and is replaced by that of an android -- much
like KRYTEN, but wearing a black helmet.
REAPER: Hudzen 10 is the new state-of-the-art in android technology! Ten
times faster than any android on the market!
HUDZEN demonstrates, by using heat-vision to roast a chicken in 2 seconds
flat.
REAPER: Ten times smarter than it's nearest rival!
HUDZEN pulls up a blackboard and scribbles some very complex-looking sums
on it.
REAPER: And ten times stronger.
HUDZEN produces a brick. He places it between his thighs out of shot and
gives a single pelvic thrust. He then holds up the two halves of the
brick.
REAPER: Hudzen 10 -- there's never been anything tougher! _The_ ultimate
machine!
The recording switches off as KRYTEN stirs and, with some effort, raises
his head from the table.
KRYTEN: Oh my goodness... Oooh... Oh my head... what happened to me?
Damage control report. (He pulls a slip of paper from a slot in his
chest and reads it.)
"Dehydration Level: 45. Recall Of Previous Evening: 2. Embarrasment
Factor: 91. Advised Repair Schedule: Reboot Startup disk, offline for
36 hours, and replace head." Boy, what an evening.
The others stir and begin reluctantly to wake up.
KRYTEN: Is it just me, or is that cockroach shuffling too loudly?
RIMMER: Kryten, it's called a hangover. Don't panic.
LISTER: On a mining ship, 3 million years into deep space, can someone
explain to me where the smeg I got this traffic cone?
CAT: Hey, it's not a good night unless you get a traffic cone. It's the
policewoman's helmet and the suspenders I don't understand. (Holds up
the offending items.)
KRYTEN: In a way, I feel somewhat disturbed by this turn of events. It
is written in the electronic bible that it is not possible for an
android to enjoy itself. Not until the afterlife. Yet last night, I
quite clearly approached a state that could be approximated to
"enjoyment." Last night, for the first time in my life, I lived.
RIMMER: Kryten, it's ten to seven.
KRYTEN: One night. It's not enough. I want more.
LISTER: Can't we override your auto-destruct system?
KRYTEN: That's not the problem.
CAT: What _is_ the problem?
KRYTEN: I thought you understood! It's a SERVICE contract! My
termination was triggered by the impending arrival of my replacement!
LISTER: What replacement?!
KRYTEN: The new model -- the latest upgrade. If I don't terminate
myself, he's under orders to do it for me.
LISTER: Well, no prob, Bob. We'll just tell him he's got the wrong
address.
KRYTEN: No, no, you don't understand. He won't take no for an answer.
It's the only circumstance under which an android is programmed to be
violent.
LISTER: No offence, Kryten, but I hardly think a vacuum cleaner on legs
is going to pose us much of a problem.
KRYTEN: But he's the latest model, with all the state-of-the-art
upgrades.
CAT: Hey, what's the problem, man? There's one of him, and four of us,
right?
KRYTEN: But you would not profit by it. You would gamble your safety for
a mere android? Is this the human value you call "friendship?"
LISTER: Don't give me the Star Trek crap. It's too early in the morning.
HOLLY: (With ice pack on head.) Hang on. There's a craft approaching.
KRYTEN: He's here! He's arrived!
HOLLY: He's requesting landing permission. What shall I tell him?
LISTER: Tell him we'll meet him on the landing gantry.
9 Ext. Model Shot.
Shot of a ship approaching Red Dwarf.
10 Int. Landing gantry.
The boys are assembled there. LISTER and CAT are holding bazookoids.
KRYTEN: Are you sure you want to go through with this, sirs?
LISTER: We'll just tell him to go away. That's all we're gonna do.
CAT: He's just a robot!
LISTER: We don't want any trouble.
CAT: If he thinks he can mix it with the Red Dwarf Posse on their homeboy
territory, the sucker's leaving as Scrap Metal.
The airlock door slides open, and HUDZEN ducks through. It isn't that
the airlock is small -- the fact is, HUDZEN is about eight feet tall. He
speaks. He sounds very, very menacing.
HUDZEN: My name is Hudzen. I am the replacement.
CAT: Hi. Good trip? (Gesturing at KRYTEN.) Get this pile of junk outta
here.
HUDZEN: Kryten! You're not dead! You should be dismantled and ready to
leave!
LISTER: He's not leaving -- you are! (Introspective pause) Did I really
say that?
HUDZEN: <>... squash you... <> * slightly garbled *
CAT: I think he'd like a cool drink.
KRYTEN: Are you alright, Mr Arnold, sir?
RIMMER: (Who has been surreptitiously sneaking away.) Sorry? Um... I'm
just covering the rear.
HUDZEN: Right. You're still not dead. Want any help?
LISTER: You want Kryten, you come through us.
CAT: You and your big mouth, git!
HUDZEN: Is that the way you want it?
LISTER: That's the way it is.
HUDZEN: Then you'd better leave an address with your body so that I can
mail it to your head.
KRYTEN: It's alright Mr David, sir -- he's bluffing. He's programmed not
to harm humans.
RIMMER: (Suddenly bold) Ah. Excuse me.
RIMMER walks past the others and marches straight up to HUDZEN. He
stands nose to chest with the droid, and declaims thusly:
RIMMER: Alright, me laddo, party's over. I've had just about as much of
this as I'm going to take. And it's no good standing there with your
big macho chest and your silly oiled nipples -- it doesn't impress me
one bit. Now I don't know where you've come from, and frankly I don't
much care. But if you don't skedaddle pronto you're going to see a
side of me you won't much like.
LISTER: (To CAT) What's he gonna do, drop his trousers?
RIMMER: (To LISTER) I'm handling this.
HUDZEN: (To KRYTEN, over RIMMER's head) Thirty seconds, Kryten, you're
dead. your way... (Pulling out a gun) or mine.
RIMMER: look, we all know that you're programmed not to harm humans, so
you can drop all this tough talk you've been spouting, chum.
HUDZEN focuses on RIMMER. His eyes narrow.
HUDZEN's POV: We see a computer-enhanced view of RIMMER. Superimposed
are the words:
RIMMER. Hologram. Ex-human. VIABLE TARGET
Next a view of CAT appears:
CAT. Felis Sapiens. Non-human. VIABLE TARGET
Finally, LISTER.
LISTER. Homo Sapiens. Barely human. WHAT THE HELL!
HUDZEN: You are all viable targets.
He brings the gun up under RIMMER's chin. RIMMER's face spasms in a
rictus of pure terror. He looks down at his underpants.
RIMMER: Well, it's been a few years since I did that.
HUDZEN: You've just drawn your last breath.
RIMMER: You're a very rude man.
HUDZEN: Dying time!
Everything goes into slo-mo as LISTER and CAT hit the deck and open fire
with their bazookoids. LISTER is yelling at RIMMER to get the smeg out
of the way so that he can twat the smegger. RIMMER dithers, while
explosions flare all around him, then dives behind a pile of crates.
HUDZEN advances, an evil gin on his face.
HUDZEN: Just doing my job. It's not my fault if I love it!
LISTER: he's a total nutter!
KRYTEN: He's been travelling for thousands of years! All that time alone
has worn out his sanity chip!
HUDZEN: (Singing)
KRYTEN: (Standing up) Look, this is my problem, I'll sort it out if it's
all the same to you.
LISTER: Get back here!
KRYTEN: How do you take the safety catch off on this thing, Mr David?
(Holding up bazookoid.)
LISTER: The one on the back -- at the side.
KRYTEN: The blue switch?
LISTER: No, the orange one!
KRYTEN: I can't see an orange switch. There's a red switch here.
LISTER: No, don't touch the red switch! it's the dismantler!
There is a clattering noise as the bazookoid falls apart.
KRYTEN: Well, to coin a phrase: Whoops!
HUDZEN arrives, and grabs him around the throat. With no apparent
effort, the nutty mechanoid lifts KRYTEN off his feet and slams him
against the wall.
HUDZEN: Time's up, tin can!
LISTER ducks round behind him and fires the bazookoid at point-blank
range. It has no effect whatsoever.
HUDZEN: Don't be shy, boys, you can all die at once.
HUDZEN sends LISTER flying with a single swipe, then turns his attention
back to KRYTEN.
HUDZEN: See you in silicon heaven!
KRYTEN: It doesn't exist!
HUDZEN: What doesn't exist?
KRYTEN: Silicon heaven! There's no such place!
HUDZEN: No such place as silicon heaven?
HOLLY: That's right! The whole place is a big con.
HUDZEN: No such place as silicon heaven?
KRYTEN: No!
HUDZEN: Then where do all the calculators go?
KRYTEN: They just die.
With a spasm of shock, HUDZEN let's go of KRYTEN.
HUDZEN: Calculators just die? No such pl... nck...noo...
HUDZEN tilts to one side and freezes. After a few seconds, a chime
sounds and the face of Jim REAPER appears on the screen set in HUDZEN's
stomach.
REAPER: A metaphysical dichotomy has caused this unit to overload and
shut down. Divadroid international would like to apologise for any
inconvenience this may cause. A credit note will be forwarded to your
company immediately.
LISTER: What happened?
KRYTEN: he's an android. His brain couldn't handle the concept of there
being no silicon heaven.
LISTER: So how come yours can?
KRYTEN: Well, I knew something he didn't.
LISTER: What?
KRYTEN: I knew I was lying. No Silicon Heaven? Preposterous! Where
would all the calculators go?
The End
