Wash

"....and, 23rdly -- Out There, 

in The Space-Time Vortex,
'Time', and 'Distance' 

have No Meaning...."

 

“We’re going,” he said excitedly, and shivered with energy.

  “Where? How?” said Arthur.

  “I don’t know,” said Ford, “but I just feel that The Time is Right. Things are Going to Happen. We’re on Our Way.”

  He lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “I have detected,” he said, “disturbances in The Wash.”

  He gazed keenly into the distance and looked as if he would quite like The Wind to blow his hair back dramatically at that point, but the wind was busy fooling around with some leaves a little way off.

  Arthur asked him to repeat what he had just said because he hadn’t quite understood his meaning. Ford repeated it.

  “The Wash?” said Arthur.

  “The Space-Time Wash,” said Ford and, as The Wind blew briefly past at that moment, he bared his teeth into it.

  Arthur nodded, and then cleared his throat.

  “Are we talking about,” he asked cautiously, “some sort of Vogon laundromat, or what are we talking about?”

  “Eddies,” said Ford, “in the Space-Time continuum.”

  “Ah,” nodded Arthur, “is he. Is he.” He pushed his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown and looked knowledgeably into the distance.

  “What?” said Ford.

  “Er, who,” said Arthur, “is Eddy, then, exactly, then?” Ford looked angrily at him. “Will you listen?” he snapped.

  “I have been listening,” said Arthur, “but I’m not sure it’s helped.”

  Ford grasped him by the lapels of his dressing gown and spoke to him as slowly and distinctly and patiently as if he were somebody from the telephone company accounts department.

  “There seem …” he said, “to be some pools …” he said, “of instability … he said, “in the fabric …” he said.

  Arthur looked foolishly at the cloth of his dressing gown where Ford was holding it. Ford swept on before Arthur could turn the foolish look into a foolish remark.

  “ … in the fabric of space-time,” he said.

  “Ah, that,” said Arthur.

  “Yes, that,” confirmed Ford.

  They stood there alone on a hill on prehistoric Earth and stared each other resolutely in the face.

  “And it’s done what?” said Arthur.

  “It,” said Ford, “has developed pools of instability.”

  “Has it,” said Arthur, his eyes not wavering for a moment.

  “It has,” said Ford, with a similar degree of ocular immobility.

  “Good,” said Arthur.

  “See?” said Ford.

  “No,” said Arthur.

  There was a quiet pause.

  “The difficulty with this conversation,” said Arthur after a sort of ponderous look had crawled slowly across his face like a mountaineer negotiating a tricky outcrop, “is that it’s very different from most of the ones I’ve had of late. Which, as I explained, have mostly been with trees. They weren’t like this. Except perhaps some of the ones I’ve had with elms that sometimes got a bit bogged down.”

  “Arthur,” said Ford.

  “Hello? Yes?” said Arthur.

  “Just believe everything I tell you, and it will all be very, very simple.”

  “Ah, well, I’m not sure I believe that.”

  They sat down and composed their thoughts.

  Ford got out his Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic. It was making vague humming noises and a tiny light on it was flickering faintly.

  “Flat battery?” said Arthur.

  “No,” said Ford, “there is a moving disturbance in the fabric of space-time, an eddy, a pool of instability, and it’s somewhere in our vicinity.”

  “Where?”

  Ford moved the device in a slow, lightly bobbing semicircle. Suddenly the light flashed.

  “There!” said Ford, shooting out his arm; “there, behind that sofa!”

  Arthur looked. Much to his surprise, there was a velvet paisley-covered Chesterfield sofa in the field in front of them. He boggled intelligently at it. Shrewd questions sprang into his mind.

  “Why,” he said, “is there a sofa in that field?”

  “I told you!” shouted Ford, leaping to his feet. “Eddies in the space-time continuum!”

  “And this is his sofa, is it?” asked Arthur, struggling to his feet and, he hoped, though not very optimistically, to his senses.

  “Arthur!” shouted Ford at him, “that sofa is there because of the space-time instability I’ve been trying to get your terminally softened brain to come to grips with. It’s been washed up out of the continuum, it’s space-time jetsam, it doesn’t matter what it is, we’ve got to catch it, it’s our only way out of here!”

  He scrambled rapidly down the rocky outcrop and made off across the field.

  “Catch it?” muttered Arthur, then frowned in bemusement as he saw that the Chesterfield was lazily bobbing and wafting away across the grass.

  With a whoop of utterly unexpected delight he leaped down the rock and plunged off in hectic pursuit of Ford Prefect and the irrational piece of furniture.

  They careened wildly through the grass, leaping, laughing, shouting instructions to each other to head the thing off this way or that way. The sun shone dreamily on the swaying grass, tiny field animals scattered crazily in their wake.

  Arthur felt happy. He was terribly pleased that the day was for once working out so much according to plan. Only twenty minutes ago he had decided he would go mad, and now here he was already chasing a Chesterfield sofa across the fields of prehistoric Earth.

  The sofa bobbed this way and that and seemed simultaneously to be as solid as the trees as it drifted past some of them and hazy as a billowing dream as it floated like a ghost through others.

  Ford and Arthur pounded chaotically after it, but it dodged and weaved as if following its own complex mathematical topography, which it was. Still they pursued, still it danced and spun, and suddenly turned and dipped as if crossing the lip of a catastrophe graph, and they were practically on top of it. With a heave and a shout they leaped on it, the sun winked out, they fell through a sickening nothingness and emerged unexpectedly in the middle of the pitch at Lord’s Cricket Ground, St. John’s Wood, London, toward the end of the last Test Match of the Australian series in the year 198-, with England only needing twenty-eight runs to win.

  Important Fact from Galactic History, Number One : (reproduced from the Siderial Daily Mentioner’s Book of Popular Galactic History)
  The night sky over the planet Krikkit is the least interesting sight in the entire Universe.

DUNKIRK

DUNKIRK 

“The first eventful date in my army career was the eve of the final evacuation from Dunkirk, when I was sent to the O.P. at Galley Hill to help the cook. I had only been in the Army twenty-four hours when it happened. Each news bulletin from BBC told an increasingly depressing story. 

Things were indeed very grave. For days previously we could hear the distant sound of explosions and heavy gunfire from across the Channel. Sitting in a crude wood O.P. heaped with earth at two in the morning with a Ross Rifle with only five rounds made you feel so bloody useless in relation to what was going on the other side. Five rounds of ammo, and that was between the whole O.P. 

The day of the actual Dunkirk evacuation the Channel was like a piece of polished steel. I’d never seen a sea so calm. One would say it was miraculous. I presume that something like this had happened to create the “Angel of Mons” legend. 

That afternoon Bombardier Andrews and I went down for a swim. It would appear we were the only two people on the south coast having one. With the distant booms, the still sea, and just two figures on the landscape, it all seemed very very strange. We swam in silence. Occasionally, a squadron of Spitfires or Hurricanes headed out towards France. 

I remember so clearly, Bombardier Andrews standing up in the water, putting his hands on his hips, and gazing towards where the B.E.F. was fighting for its life. It was the first time I’d seen genuine concern on a British soldier’s face; “I can’t see how they’re going to get ’em out,” he said. 

We sat in the warm water for a while. We felt so helpless. 

Next day the news of the “small armada” came through on the afternoon news. As the immensity of the defeat became apparent, somehow the evacuation turned it into a strange victory. I don’t think the nation ever reached such a feeling of solidarity as in that week at any other time during the war. 

Three weeks afterwards, a Bombardier Kean, who had survived the evacuation, was posted to us. “What was it like,” I asked him.

“Like son? It was a fuck up, a highly successful fuck up.”

******

In the months to come we enlivened many a lonely military camp. We saw life. In Upper Dicker, we played for a dance-cum-orgy. Couples were disappearing into the tall grass having it off and then coming back to the dance. God knows how many Coitus Interrupti the Hesitation Waltz caused, but we heard screams from behind the trees. 

Music has strange effects on drunks : one lunatic ripped open his battle-dress, pointed to a scar on his chest, and shouted “Dunkirk! You bloody coward.” He had a face made from red plasticine by a child of three, that or his parachute didn’t open. “Do you hear me, you bloody coward. Dunkirk …” he kept saying. I’ve no idea what he meant. I confused him by giving him the ladies’ spot prize. 

A fight broke out with the Canadians. They were all massive. “How do you get such huge men?” I asked one. 

“We go in the forest, shake the trees and they fall out,” he said. 

A worried officer rushed up. 

“Can you play ‘The Maple Leaf Forever’?” 

“No sir, after an hour I get tired.” 

“You’re under arrest,” he said. 

In despair we played The King, shouted ‘Everyone back to their own beds’, and departed.

Do.

Politicians like to panic. 

They need Activity; 

it's their substitute 

for Achievement.

ROMANA: 

The clipboard marks the spot. 

I'll stand guard.

(The Doctor climbs through 

the hole and up a ladder. 

When he's out of sight, Romana 

enters and heads for a staircase. 

The Doctor reaches the top of the ladder.)

RORVIK: 

Is this what you're looking for, Doctor?

(Rorvik drops the clipboard.)

Tom : 

Look here, Rorvik. 

You've got to stop this back-blast. 

You'll kill us all.

RORVIK: 

So you say, Doctor. 

I say it's the only 

way out of here.

(Rorvik stands on the Doctor's fingers.)

Tom : 

You can't blast through those mirrors. 

You must realise by now it just 

throws the energy straight back.

RORVIK: 

They've got to break. 

Everything breaks eventually.

(He kicks the Doctor back down the ladder, 

comes after him and starts 

to strangle him with his own scarf. 

Romana arrives and tries 

hitting Rorvik with the clipboard.)

Tom : 

Never mind the clipboard, 

short the cables.

(The Doctor gives Romana the manacles.)

Tom : 

Drain the main power line. 

Earth it to The Ladder.

ROMANA: 

I know. I've done it.

(Rorvik lets The Doctor go and heads 

for the ladder to undo the damage.)

Tom : 

Biroc? What are 

you doing here?

BIROC: 

Nothing.

Tom : 

It's all right for you.

BIROC: 

And for You, Too : 

Do Nothing.

Tom : 

Do Nothing?

ROMANA: 

Of course, Doctor. 

Don't you see?

Tom: 

Yes, that's right. 

Do Nothing.

....if it's the right 

sort of Nothing.

(They join hands with Biroc and fade away. 

Rorvik has removed the manacles 

from the cable.)

RORVIK: 

Run, Doctor. Scurry off 

back to your blue box. 

You're like all the rest. 

Lizards when there's 

a man's work to be done. 

I'm sick of your kind. 

Faint-hearted, do-nothing, 

lily-livered deadweights. 

This is The End for all of you! 

I'm finally getting 

something done! 

Bwahahahaha!

MacDonald :

No. Watch.

Do.

No, no, no. 

Clean. Clean.

The Governor :

It seems the little fella's

not so bright after all.

MacDonald :

No. But brightness has never

been encouraged amongst slaves.

The Governor :

Oh, don't be so touchy, Mr MacDonald.

All of us were slaves once,

in one sense of the word or another.

Kolp :

If you feel the ape's unsatisfactory,

we can have him reconditioned.

MacDonald :

That isn't necessary.

The Governor :

You're quite right, Mr MacDonald.

But not for any of your 

bleeding-heart reasons.

Reconditioning. That's all

any of you ever think of, isn't it?

Don't you realise, if we were to take

every ape who disobeyed an order

and sent him back for reconditioning, 

Ape Management would become overcrowded.

Kolp :

It's the only thing that has any effect.

MacDonald :

Just makes them worse.

The Governor :

Some of them couldn't be worse.

I've been having a comprehensive list compiled.

Reality Control

Look man, You know the score.

Why do I know the score?

Because You're Me.  

We're shot from 

the same gun-barrel.  

Only difference is, 

one did breast-stroke, 

one did crawl.

Well, The Legend tells of a droid -- 

a rogue simulant, who survives 

till the end of Eternity; to the 

end of Time-Itself.

After millions of years alone, 

He finally reaches the conclusion 

that there is •no• God, 

•no• afterlife, and the only 

Purpose of Existence is to lead 

a worthwhile Life.  

And so the 'droid constructs a 

time machine, and roams Eternity, 

visiting every single soul in History, 

and assessing each one.  

He erases all those who have wasted their lives and replaces them with those who never had 

a CHANCE of Life -- the unfertilised eggs, 

the sperms that never made it.  

THAT is The Inquisitor -- 

He PRUNES away The Wastrels, 

EXPUNGES The Wretched, 

and DELETES The Worthless!

RIMMER: 

We're in Big Trouble.

A city inside a dome on some moon somewhere.

2 Int. A bedroom on Earth.

A middle-aged man is sleeping in a darkened bedroom. 

A tall, black-caped figure with a black and white mask 

similar to a skull appears in the doorway, backlit 

and with smoke curling around his ankles. 

He booms the next line out with, curiously, 

a slight Scottish accent.

INQUISITOR: 

Thomas Allman!

ALLMAN, a stout man with gray hair, 

scrabbles about on the nightstand looking for his glasses.

INQUISITOR: 

Thomas Allman, you have been found 

unworthy of having existed. 

ALLMAN: 

Is that you, mother? 

INQUISITOR: 

Your Life and all Memory of You 

will be wiped from History. 

The Void you occupied in the Space-Time continuum 

will be allocated to a person who was 

never given The Gift of Life. 

May they spend their time more wisely.

The INQUISITOR shoots an orange-red beam of light at ALLMAN from a glove-like device he wears, which forms an aura around ALLMAN.

ALLMAN: 

But, please! Why me? 

There must be others who've 

lived worthless lives! 

INQUISITOR: 

All will be judged.

In ALLMAN's picture of himself on his nightstand, his image is replaced with that of a thinner, taller dark-haired man with a mustache. The dark-haired man then appears in the room in a flash of yellow-green light.

INQUISITOR: 

It is complete. 

All that remains is to delete 

your physical form.

The INQUISITOR shoots another red-orange beam 

at ALLMAN, who sort of dissolves. 

He then turns to speak to the new ALLMAN.

INQUISITOR: 

Sorry to disturb you, sir. 

Reality Control.

The INQUISITOR salutes, 

turns, and vanishes. 

The Batman :

There's a difference between 

Me and You :

We both starred in The Abyss....

But when it looked back into Us --

You blinked.

A door opens and the SECOND KRYTEN 

and SECOND LISTER walk through.  

They are very similar to the first KRYTEN and LISTER, 

but the SECOND KRYTEN's head is more rounded, 

and his voice is a little higher pitched.  

The SECOND LISTER is dressed similarly, 

but he is slightly smaller and has a worse haircut.  

SECOND LISTER: 

Who the smeg are these guys, Rimmer?

LISTER: 

Never mind, "Who the smeg are these guys?" 

Who the smeg are you?

SECOND LISTER: 

I, The Smeg am Lister!

KRYTEN: 

Of course!  He's the alternative You!  

One of the many David Listers 

who never got a chance to exist.

LISTER: 

So we're kind of... 

Sperms-in-law?

KRYTEN: 

Yes, sir.

SECOND KRYTEN: 

Delicately put, sir.

CAT: 

So whatta we do with 'em?

RIMMER: 

I say waste them.

LISTER and SECOND LISTER: (Together) 

Rimmer, for smeg's sake!

SECOND LISTER: 

He's such a dork, man!

LISTER: 

You're tellin' me?!

RIMMER: 

Look, they come here with some cock-and-bull story, 

they're chained together like Sidney Poiter 

and Tony Curtis -- I say 

open the door to oblivion 

and kick 'em through.

SECOND LISTER: 

Rimmer, no one's killin' no one, allright?

LISTER: 

Yeah, right!

RIMMER: 

Look, they're from some freaky alternative dimension, 

they've come here to hijack this ship and do... 

oooh, weird things to us.  

I think we should take the lift, 

put them on the security deck 

and stick them in The Brig.

CAT: 

I hate to say it, but for once 

TransAm-wheel-arch-nostrils 

is right. Come on, get moving!

RIMMER: 

What did you call me?

9 Int. Lift.

Cut to everyone packed together in a very old lift -- 

the kind with fold-up iron grating instead of a door.  

The LISTERs are having a conversation.

LISTER: 

Look man, You know the score.

SECOND LISTER: 

Why do I know the score?

LISTER: 

Because You're Me.  

We're shot from 

the same gun-barrel.  

Only difference is, 

one did breast-stroke, 

one did crawl.

SECOND LISTER: 

What are you tryin' to say?

LISTER: 

I'm saying--

LISTER is cut off when the INQUISITOR appears on the floor above them and begins shooting orange lasers at them through the floor (which is metal

grating.)

LISTER: 

That's him, guys!

General panic ensues as everyone tries to escape.  

LISTER and KRYTEN become separated from the group.  

The SECOND LISTER and SECOND KRYTEN are

blown up when the INQUISITOR's lasers 

touch off an explosion.

KRYTEN: 

C'mon, let's go.

LISTER: 

Let's go back!  

Let's go back!

They return to where they heard The Explosion.  

LISTER crouches over the bodies of the SECOND LISTER and SECOND KRYTEN.  

They have been literally

blown to pieces.

LISTER: 

Oh my god.  

Hang on a minute, 

I can use this.  C'mon, go!

LISTER has picked up something, 

but we couldn't see what.  

They continue running.

LISTER: 

If we got down to the transport decks, 

maybe we could nick one of the Starbugs, 

and get outta town.

They come upon A Door.

KRYTEN : 

Uh-oh, A Door. 

We'd better use an air vent.

LISTER: 

No need.

KRYTEN: 

Sir?

LISTER: 

Look, I'm gonna do something now, Kryten, 

that's totally, totally gross. 

I don't want you to look.  

Turn around.

KRYTEN: 

What?

LISTER: 

Trust me, you don't wanna know!

KRYTEN reluctantly turns around.  

LISTER pulls the object he picked up earlier 

out of his jacket:  it's a hand.  

He presses the severed hand to

the palm-print device, and the door opens.  

He puts the hand back in his

jacket and turns around.  

KRYTEN has a sick look 

of realisation on his face.

KRYTEN: 

Logically, sir, there is only one way 

you could have possibly have 

opened that door.  

I feel quite nauseous. Where is it?

LISTER: 

Where's what?

KRYTEN: 

Oh, sir!! You've got it 

in your jacket!!

LISTER: 

I got us out of the hold, didn't I?

KRYTEN: 

Sir, you are sick!  

You are a sick, sick person!  

How can you possibly even 

conceive of such an idea?

LISTER: 

Cheer up!  Or I'll beat you to death 

with the wet end!!

KRYTEN: 

Sir, if mechanoids could barf, 

I'd be onto my fifth bag by now!

  You're a sick person!  Sick!  Sick!

LISTER: (Overlapping) 

C'mon, Kryten, let's go!  C'mon!

People

[Great hall 2]

As they walk through the castle grounds, 

Romana notices that The Tharil's burns have been healed.

 

The Doctor is served with 

a plate of food.

Tom : 

My Goodness!

You Live Like Kings!

BIROC: 

We are Kings.

[Great Hall]

(The contents of the lunch hamper are being handed out, 

which is far more important than 

what their Captain has to say.) 

RORVIK: 

Now listen, I'm only going to say this once : 

We're stuck here with no warp motors 

and no navigator. 

Now in practical terms 

that means we stay here forever 

unless we do something about it. 

Listen! And that means The Mirror. 

There's A Way through. 

You've all seen it. 

That's why we brought up the MZ. 

Will you listen to me 

when I'm talking! 

(Rorvik gets out his blaster. 

That grabs his crew's attention.)

RORVIK: 

This is very serious. 

We are in A Terminal Situation. 

A DEAD End.

[Great hall 2]

Tom : 

Such variety. 

Where did it all come from? 

BIROC: 

The Universe is 

Our Garden. 

Tom :

Ah. So this is what it was all like. 

BIROC: 

At the height of Our Empire, 

before The Tharils became 

The Slaves of Men. 

Tom :

I notice you don't do 

too badly for staff. 

This Garden of Yours, The Universe —

How do you manage it? 

BIROC: 

We use Our Power.

For those who travel on the Time Winds. 

The vastness of Space is no obstacle. 

Everything is Ours. 

(A Tharil BACKHANDS The Serving Wench pouring wine. 

The Doctor goes to help her up again.) 

Tom : 

Including her? 

BIROC: 

They're only People. 

Tom : 

So You're 'The Masters' the Gundan 

spoke of? The Enslavers. 

BIROC: 

The Weak enslave THEMSELVES, Doctor. 

You and I know THAT. 

Tom :

Yes, yes — 

He pours rich, Red Wine into a TINY, ornate chalice until The Cup runneth over, before BACKHANDING the thing HARD, in once swift movement of his arm into a wall in the distance, where it CLATTERS to The Floor with a CRASH

This is no way to 

run An Empire. 

(A Tharil points a knife at the Doctor. 

Romana sees it all from the gallery.) 

ROMANA: 

Danger! The Doctor's in danger! 

A troupe of Gundan robots enter. 

Romana rushes to The Doctor's side.

ROMANA: 

Doctor! 

(And an axe cleaves the table.)

It IS Possible, and It is HAPPENING.

The CAPTAIN: 

Er, excuse me! Doctor?

Dr. Disco : 

Get back inside.

The CAPTAIN: 

I'm not quite sure, 

but it seemed to me that 

this young lady's life 

was being offered 

in exchange for my own. 

As it happens, I think my number is 

pretty much up anyway.

Bill's Ghost :

What are you talking about? 

Doctor, what's he talking about?

CAPTAIN: 

So, might as well make it 

count for something, eh?

I should be happy to take your place, 

if that would resolve this situation.

Testimony : 

Accepted.

Bill's Ghost :

That is, that is not Happening. 

That's totally Not Happening. 

Agreed?

Dr. Disco : 

Tell me What to Do, then. 

Bill Potts would Tell Me 

What to Do.

Bill's Ghost : 

Do What You Always Do -- 

Serve at The Pleasure of 

The Human Race.

Dr. Disco : 

Here's What's Going to Happen :

First, I'm Going to Escape. 

You, with Me.

Old Grandfather: 

Where are we going?

Testimony : 

Escape is Not Possible.

Dr. Disco : 

It is Possible, 

and It is Happening, 

and 

I'm Taking Bill 

and The Captain with me.

Old Grandfather: 

Why are You 

Advertising Your Intentions? 

Can't you stop boasting 

for a moment?

Dr. Disco : 

Mister Pastry, too. 

I could do with a laugh.

Testimony : 

Escape is Not Possible.

Dr. Disco : 

Oh, I'm Going to Do 

WAY More Than Escape. 

I'm Going to Find Out 

Who You Are and 

What You're Doing, 

and 

If I Don't Like it, 

I Will Come Back 

and 

I Will STOP You. 

I Will Stop ALL of You!

Old Grandfather: 

Who The HELL 

Do You Think You Are..!?

Dr. Disco : 

The Doctor.

Old Grandfather: 

I am The Doctor. 

Who YOU Are, 

I cannot begin to imagine.

Testimony : 

Then let us show you, Doctor. 

See who you will become.

DAVROS: 

Doctor!

DALEK: 

Exterminate!

CYBERMAN: 

You will be assimilated.

(Images of past Doctors fly around in bubbles, 

including The War Doctor.)

Dr. Disco : 

No, no, that's not a good idea.

Perfect-10 [OC]: 

They all Died.

Testimony : 

The Doctor has Walked in Blood 

through all of Time and Space. 

The Doctor has 

MANY Names.

DAVROS [OC]: 

The Destroyer of Worlds.

Testimony : 

The Imp of the Pandorica. 

The Shadow of the Valeyard. 

The Beast of Trenzalore. 

The Butcher of Skull Moon. 

The Last Tree of Garsennon. 

The Destroyer of Skaro. 

He is The Doctor, of War.

(The images disappear.)

Old Grandfather : 

What, what was that?

Dr. Disco : 

To be fair, they cut out 

all The Jokes