“Terrorform”
In this episode: Kryten (4), Arnold Rimmer (3), Dave Lister (1), The Cat (1), Holly (1)
Okay. I say let's get into the jet-powered rocket pants and junior birdman the hell out of here!
An excellent and inventive suggestion, sir, with just two tiny drawbacks: a) We don't have any jet-powered rocket pants; and b) there's no such thing as jet-powered rocket pants outside the fictional serial "Robbie Rocket Pants."
Well, that's put an annoying crimp on an otherwise damn fine plan.
I don't loathe myself. What is there one could possibly loathe about me?
Would you like the list, sir?
What list?
Well, there was the fact you were despised by your parents for failing to achieve their standards. The fact your three brothers were all such high-flyers in the Space Corps and you ended up servicing chicken soup machines. There's your inability to form long-term relationships with anyone, your cowardliness, your lack of charm, honour or grace and the awful knowledge that throughout your entire life nobody has ever truly liked you because you are so fundamentally unlikeable.
Oh, that.
Please don't interrupt, sir, I'm only half-way through my list.
Kryten Personal Black Box Recording. Time: unknown. Location: unknown. Cause of accident: unknown. Perhaps if someone finds this recording it will shed light as to what happened here. My short-term memory appears to have been erased.This I ascribe to the proximity of the magnetic coils from Starbug's rear engine. (He looks around briefly) Secondly, due to the proximity of the magnetic coils, my short-term memory appears to have been erased.
OK. I'm here, what's the beef?
We've got a visitor.
What?
A pod arrived about 20 minutes ago. Something was in it, but it's broken free.
Any ideas?
Well, I don't want to spread any panic or alarm.
Whaddya mean, you don't wanna spread panic and alarm?
Well, you've always had this thing against tarantulas, haven't you?
(worried) Tarantulas?
I mean that you've never been overly fond of them as a species, have you?
Well, no.
And the prospect of waking up and finding one crawling over your clammy, naked, helpless body has always filled you with a kind of cold dread?
Well, yeah. W - what are you trying to say to me, Holly?
I'm saying it might not be your night.
Sir, a couple of brief points: firstly, you are not a qualified service engineer, and consequently, sawing me in two will invalidate my guarantee; secondly, I wouldn't trust you to open a can of sardines that was already open.
Is this the British Embassy? Does it even look the remotest bit like the British Embassy? I want to know who you are, what I'm doing here, and I want to know now!
In accordance with the appetites of the Dark One, malicious ruler of this domain, we, the Hooded Legions, proffer up this sacrifice to slake the vile depraved thirstings of the Unspeakable One.
Well, that's cleared that one up.
Err, where are you going? Err, what are you doing? My God! Are you going to take a flying leap?
We are going to summon the Master.
The Master?
You have been prepared for him.
This 'Master' character - and I acknowledge that I may not want to know the full answer to this one - but why does he want me oily in particular? Obviously, whatever he has in mind is facilitated by my being slippery and pliant, yes?
He always likes his victims to be oiled. An oiled body is so much better for conducting the electricity.
Not the best news, but it could have been worse.
Silence, you dank tuft of rectal pubic hair!
The Unspeakable One (dryly, after our heroes have discharged multiple bazookoid blasts, causing their surroundings to collapse): Is it my turn now?
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