Time did not seem to move in space.
Perhaps it was something to do with the somewhat lacking sunrise very morning, and the noticeably absent sunset every evening. Perhaps it was the result of long and mind-numbing days spent devising new and ingenious ways to waste time.
Or it could be due to the fact that three million years into deep space on a mission meant to last a puny four and a half years, every last one of the cheap battery-operated clocks positioned around Red Dwarf had gone kaput.
"You're late." Rimmer glared at Lister in a manner only comparable to the way in which the Cat looked at anybody who dared to wear dungarees.
"Not according to the clock in the Medi-Bay!" Lister protested, folding his arms defensively across his podgy chest. "According to that, I still had sixteen minutes and eighty-five thousand years before we were due to have this conversation."
Rimmer ignored his excuse. "You're late. You have absolutely no consideration for anybody else."
Lister rolled his eyes. "We'll see. Holly, what's the time?"
"Do you have ANY idea what I have to do today?" Rimmer continued, his nasal whine of a voice beginning to grate on Lister's nerves, despite the fact that they had not even been in each other's company for more than three minutes. "I had to set aside my relaxation time for this."
"Rimmer, your 'relaxation time'," Lister made a face and raised the pitch of his voice in the cruelest form of imitation he knew - irritation. "Your relaxation time involves ordering your shoes by thickness of their soles." He frowned. "HOLLY? THE TIME!?"
"Exactly twenty four minutes past three." Holly's booming voice filled the room. "In the afternoon."
"I KNOW it's the afternoon, gimboid!" Rimmer flushed angrily as Lister grinned smarmily at him. He was not late after all. "My watch is wrong. It says twenty-SIX minutes after three! Why is my watch wrong? HOLLY!"
Holly's large face appeared on the video screen in Lister and Rimmers' shared quarters, looking perturbed. "How should I know?"
"You're supposed to know everything!" Rimmer clenched his fists, wondering how he had let himself get into what was about to become one of those inanely obscure conversations, which would have been better left alone.
"Well I don't." Holly replied, shortly, and promptly disappeared.
Lister raised an eyebrow. "What's chewing his cables?"
"Who cares?" Rimmer muttered, fiddling with his watch. "I called you here for a reason."
"Being?"
Rimmer paused dramatically before continuing. "All two hundred and twenty seven thousand clocks onboard have stopped working."
Lister's eyelids drooped. "And.? Its not like we work to time."
"We?" Rimmer's voice became unnaturally high. "You're right there Listy. WE don't. I, on the other hand, do. Therefore, you have to fix them."
"I'm not an electrician!" Lister complained. "I can't even fix a broken chicken soup machine and I was apparently TRAINED to do that!"
"Which is a good thing clocks have nothing to do with either electricity or soup dispensers." Rimmer sang, cracking his knuckles in satisfaction. "I'll see you in a few hours."
"Hours?" Lister almost laughed. "There are clocks on every deck of Red Dwarf, and they're all over the place. This ship is the size of a city. You're telling me it will take HOURS?"
"Hmm, you're right." Rimmer pondered, tapping his cheek with an index finger and smirking wolfishly. "Make that weeks. Toodle-pipsky," he waved. "Don't forget to write!"
Lister grunted something under his breath that strongly resembled Rimmer's favourite reason for putting him on report, and stomped off down the corridor to the Drive Room to see if he could find a manual about fixing timepieces.
Rimmer clapped his hands and rubbed them together contentedly. If he was lucky, Lister would die of boredom somewhere on the deck below. However, seeing as the chance of any situation evolving where the words 'Rimmer' and 'lucky' were concerned was slim-to-none, there was a plan B. Lister would get so fed up after five minutes that he would wind up in the Karaoke Bar on Floor 207, get pissed out of his brains on lager, and sing along to Kylie Mingogue's greatest hits until he passed out and woke up two weeks later with a painful craving for a Chicken Vindaloo.
It had happened before, it would happen again.
Either way, it left Rimmer with plenty of time to arrange his shoes in neat rows according to the thickness of their soles.
Now, where were those skutters.
Perhaps it was something to do with the somewhat lacking sunrise very morning, and the noticeably absent sunset every evening. Perhaps it was the result of long and mind-numbing days spent devising new and ingenious ways to waste time.
Or it could be due to the fact that three million years into deep space on a mission meant to last a puny four and a half years, every last one of the cheap battery-operated clocks positioned around Red Dwarf had gone kaput.
"You're late." Rimmer glared at Lister in a manner only comparable to the way in which the Cat looked at anybody who dared to wear dungarees.
"Not according to the clock in the Medi-Bay!" Lister protested, folding his arms defensively across his podgy chest. "According to that, I still had sixteen minutes and eighty-five thousand years before we were due to have this conversation."
Rimmer ignored his excuse. "You're late. You have absolutely no consideration for anybody else."
Lister rolled his eyes. "We'll see. Holly, what's the time?"
"Do you have ANY idea what I have to do today?" Rimmer continued, his nasal whine of a voice beginning to grate on Lister's nerves, despite the fact that they had not even been in each other's company for more than three minutes. "I had to set aside my relaxation time for this."
"Rimmer, your 'relaxation time'," Lister made a face and raised the pitch of his voice in the cruelest form of imitation he knew - irritation. "Your relaxation time involves ordering your shoes by thickness of their soles." He frowned. "HOLLY? THE TIME!?"
"Exactly twenty four minutes past three." Holly's booming voice filled the room. "In the afternoon."
"I KNOW it's the afternoon, gimboid!" Rimmer flushed angrily as Lister grinned smarmily at him. He was not late after all. "My watch is wrong. It says twenty-SIX minutes after three! Why is my watch wrong? HOLLY!"
Holly's large face appeared on the video screen in Lister and Rimmers' shared quarters, looking perturbed. "How should I know?"
"You're supposed to know everything!" Rimmer clenched his fists, wondering how he had let himself get into what was about to become one of those inanely obscure conversations, which would have been better left alone.
"Well I don't." Holly replied, shortly, and promptly disappeared.
Lister raised an eyebrow. "What's chewing his cables?"
"Who cares?" Rimmer muttered, fiddling with his watch. "I called you here for a reason."
"Being?"
Rimmer paused dramatically before continuing. "All two hundred and twenty seven thousand clocks onboard have stopped working."
Lister's eyelids drooped. "And.? Its not like we work to time."
"We?" Rimmer's voice became unnaturally high. "You're right there Listy. WE don't. I, on the other hand, do. Therefore, you have to fix them."
"I'm not an electrician!" Lister complained. "I can't even fix a broken chicken soup machine and I was apparently TRAINED to do that!"
"Which is a good thing clocks have nothing to do with either electricity or soup dispensers." Rimmer sang, cracking his knuckles in satisfaction. "I'll see you in a few hours."
"Hours?" Lister almost laughed. "There are clocks on every deck of Red Dwarf, and they're all over the place. This ship is the size of a city. You're telling me it will take HOURS?"
"Hmm, you're right." Rimmer pondered, tapping his cheek with an index finger and smirking wolfishly. "Make that weeks. Toodle-pipsky," he waved. "Don't forget to write!"
Lister grunted something under his breath that strongly resembled Rimmer's favourite reason for putting him on report, and stomped off down the corridor to the Drive Room to see if he could find a manual about fixing timepieces.
Rimmer clapped his hands and rubbed them together contentedly. If he was lucky, Lister would die of boredom somewhere on the deck below. However, seeing as the chance of any situation evolving where the words 'Rimmer' and 'lucky' were concerned was slim-to-none, there was a plan B. Lister would get so fed up after five minutes that he would wind up in the Karaoke Bar on Floor 207, get pissed out of his brains on lager, and sing along to Kylie Mingogue's greatest hits until he passed out and woke up two weeks later with a painful craving for a Chicken Vindaloo.
It had happened before, it would happen again.
Either way, it left Rimmer with plenty of time to arrange his shoes in neat rows according to the thickness of their soles.
Now, where were those skutters.
