1 + 5 + 2 = 8
8 = RUPTURE
LISTER:
Bay 47? That's quarantine!
RIMMER:
Spot on.
KRYTEN:
But sir, I've screened us all: we're clean.
RIMMER:
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.
CAT:
For cryin' out loud!
RIMMER:
I have no intention of contracting the hologrammatic equivalent of foaming dog fever.
So gentlemen, if you'd all like to proceed to Quarantine Room 152 where you will be spending the next three months.
12 Model shot.
Starbug lands in bay 47.
13 Int. Quarantine Room 152.
KRYTEN, LISTER and CAT enter, looking positively disgusted.
KRYTEN:
Twelve weeks.
I have a deep, dark sense of foreboding about this.
LISTER:
Aw c'mon, we'll get through it.
KRYTEN:
This is single quarters!
One chair, one bed, one shower.
LISTER:
We'll manage!
KRYTEN:
Sir, it's a scientific fact that the human male needs to spend time by himself!
LISTER:
It is?
KRYTEN:
Yes! The most popular pastimes have always been ones that males can enjoy alone:
angling, golf, and of course the all time number one.
CAT:
It's not just humans!
Look what happens when two male tigers are locked up together!
One of them winds up on the other guy's toothpick!
KRYTEN:
Lions, tigers, scorpions, rats —
even vultures when they're in captivity.
LISTER:
What are you saying to me?
Vultures need personal space?
They need like time alone if they're to put their feet up and read "What Carcass” Magazine?
KRYTEN:
Sir, I think you're downplaying the gravity of the situation.
LISTER:
Look, what difference does it make?
We hang out most of the time together anyway.
CAT:
Yeah, but we all knew we could stroll out the door at anytime.
Not now, though.
RIMMER appears on the other side of the darkened observation window which takes up one whole wall of the quarantine room.
RIMMER:
Welcome to quarantine, lads.
I hope the next 84 days pass as swiftly and as pleasantly as the 100-years war.
KRYTEN:
Sir, I must protest.
You only supplied us with single-berth accommodation!
RIMMER:
Space Corps directive 597 clearly states
"One berth per registered crew member."
And as Listy is the only registered crew member,
One berth is all you get.
CAT:
Don't rise to him.
KRYTEN:
What about entertainment?
You are obliged to provide us with minimum leisure facilities.
Games, literature, hobby activities, motion pictures.
RIMMER:
And in accordance with Space Corps directive 312, you'll find in the storage cupboard over there :
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 cinematic treat,
"Wall-papering, Painting, and Stipling -- a DIY guide."
CAT:
Don't rise to him.
RIMMER:
And fulfilling all Space Corps 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.
LISTER:
Rimmer, you know •damn• well sprouts make me chuck.
RIMMER:
Well, this is awful.
I've got you down for sprouts •almost• every meal.
(Shaking his head no)
I tell a lie.
It _is_ every meal.
LISTER:
How long are you going to keep this up for, Rimmer?
RIMMER:
Keep what up?
I'm merely executing Space Corps Directive 595!
Anyway, must dash-erooni.
I've got to organise your daily provision of musical entertainment.
I think you're going to like it: It's a perpetually-looped tape of "Reggie Dixon's Tango Treats."
CAT:
OK! Time to rise to him.
Let me out of here! I'll kill him!
KRYTEN and LISTER restrain him as RIMMER vanishes.
LISTER:
Listen, guys, he wants us to get on each other's nerves; go through twelve weeks of hell.
Well, we're not gonna give him the satisfaction, OK?
‘Cos the entire time we're here, we're not gonna have one single argument, not a raised voice or a cross word.
Not one angry exchange.
(To KRYTEN)
OK?
(To CAT)
OK?
They each nod in agreement.
LISTER:
Boys from the Dwarf.
They do that "hangin' loose" thingy with their hands.
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