RED DWARF Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers Part One: Your own death and how to cope with it3 ONE.4 TWO..6 THREE.7 FOUR..12 FIVE.15 SIX..18 SEVEN..21 EIGHT.24 NINE.28 TEN..31 ELEVEN..35 TWELVE.39 THIRTEEN..43 FOURTEEN..46 FIFTEEN..49 SIXTEEN..52 SEVENTEEN..55 EIGHTEEN..57 Page 1 NINETEEN..58 TWENTY..60 PART TWO: Alone in a Godless universe, and out of Shake'n'Vac.61 ONE.62 TWO..66 THREE.68 FOUR..70 FIVE.74 SIX..77 SEVEN..80 EIGHT.82 NINE.84 TEN..88 ELEVEN..92 TWELVE.96 THIRTEEN..98 FOURTEEN..101 FIFTEEN..105 SIXTEEN..109 SEVENTEEN..114 EIGHTEEN..116 NINETEEN..121 TWENTY..124 TWENTY-ONE.126 TWENTY-TWO..127 TWENTY-THREE.129 Page 2 TWENTY-FOUR..133 TWENTY-FIVE.136 TWENTY-SIX..139 TWENTY-SEVEN..141 TWENTY-EIGHT.143 TWENTY-NINE.145 THIRTY..148 THIRTY-ONE.151 THIRTY-TWO..155 THIRTY-THREE.158 THIRTY-FOUR..161 Part Three: Earth!162 One.163 TWO..166 THREE.169 FOUR..171 FIVE.174 SIX..177 SEVEN..181 EIGHT.184 NINE.186 Part One: Your own death Page 3 and how to cope with it 12345 678910 1112131415 1617181920 ONE 'DESCRIBE, USING DIAGRAMS WHERE APPROPRIATE, THE EXACT CIRCUMSTANCES LEADING TO YOUR DEATH.' Saunders had been dead for almost two weeks now and, so far, he hadn't enjoyed a minute of it. What he wasn't enjoying at this particular moment was having to wade through the morass of forms and legal papers he'd been sent to complete by the Department of Death and Deceased's' Rights. It was all very well receiving a five-page booklet entitled: Your Own Death and How To Cope With It. It was all very well attending counselling sessions with the ship's metaphysical psychiatrist, and being told about the nature of Being and Non-Being, and some other gunk about this guy who was in a cave, but didn't know it was a cave until he left. The thing was, Saunders was an engineer, not a philosopher - and the way he saw it, you were either dead or you were alive. And if you were dead, you shouldn't be forced to fill in endless incomprehensible forms, and other related nonsensica. You shouldn't have to return your birth certificate, to have it invalidated. You shouldn't have to send off your completed death certificate, accompanied by a passport-size photograph of your corpse, signed on the back by your coroner. Page 4 When you're dead, you should be dead. The bastards should leave you alone. If Saunders could have picked something up, he would have picked something up and hurled it across the grey metal room. But he couldn't. Saunders was a hologram. He was just a computer generated simulation of his former self., he couldn't actually touch anything, except for his own hologramatic body. He was a phantom made of light. A software ghost. Quite honestly, he'd had enough. Saunders got up, walked silently across the metal-grilled floor of his sleeping quarters and stared out of the viewport window. Far away to his right was the bright multi-coloured ball of Saturn, captured by its rainbow rings like a prize in a gigantic stellar hoop-la game. Twelve miles below him, under the plexiglass dome of the terraformed colony of Mimas, half the ship's crew were on planet leave. No planet leave for Saunders. No R & R for the dead. He caressed his eyelids with the rough balls of his fingers, then glanced back at the pile: the mind-bogglingly complicated Hologramatic Status application form; accident claims; pension funds; bank transfers; house deeds. They all had to be completed so his wife, Carole - no, his widow, Carole - could start a new life without him. When he'd first signed up, they both understood he would be away from Earth for months on end, and, obviously, things could happen; mining in space was dangerous. That was why the money was so good. 'If anything happens to me,' he'd always said, 'I don't want you to sit around, mourning.' Protests. 'I want you to meet someone else, someone terrific, and Page 5 start a new life without me. What a stupid, fat, dumb thing to say! The kind of stupid, fat, dumb thing only a living person would ever dream of saying. Because that's what she was going to do now. Start a new life - without him. Fine, if he was dead dead. If he'd just taken delivery of his shiny new ephemeral body and was wafting around in the ether on the next plane of existence - fine. Even if there was no life after death, and he totally ceased to be - then again, absolutely fine. But this was different. He was dead, but he was still here. His personality had been stored on disc, and the computer had reproduced him down to the tiniest detail; down to his innermost thoughts. This wasn't the deal. He wanted her to start a new life when he was gone, not while he was still here. But of course, that's what she'd do. That's what she had to do. You can't stay married to a dead man. So even though she loved him dearly, she would, eventually, have to start looking for someone else. And ... she would sleep with him. She would go to bed with him. And, hell, she would probably enjoy it. Even though she still loved Saunders. She would, wouldn't she? She would meet Mr Terrific and have a physical relationship. Probably in his bed. His bed. Their marital bed. His bed! Probably using the three condoms he knew for a fact he had left in the bedside cabinet. Page 6 The ones he'd bought for a joke. The flavoured ones. His mind ran amok, picturing a line of lovers standing, strawberry-sheathed, outside his wife's bedroom. No!' screamed Saunders, involuntarily. 'Noooooo!' Hologramatic tears of rage and frustration welled up in Saunders' eyes and rolled hologramatically down his cheeks. He smashed his fist down onto the table. The fist passed soundlessly through the grey metal desk top, and crashed with astonishing force into his testicles. As he lay in a foetal position, squealing on the floor, he wished he were dead. Then he remembered he already was. Saunders didn't know it but, twelve miles below, on the Saturnian moon of Mimas, Flight Co-ordinator George McIntyre was about to solve all his problems. TWO George McIntyre sat in the Salvador Dali Coffee Lounge of the Mimas Hilton, and stared at a painting of melting clocks while he waited for the tall, immaculately dressed mechanoid to return with his double Bloody Mary, no ice. He couldn't stand Bloody Mary without ice, but he didn't want his shaking hand to set the cubes clanking around in the glass, advertising his nervousness when his visitors arrived. Five minutes later they did arrive, and McIntyre wished they hadn't. When he turned and caught sight of them, the heat left his body as quickly as people leave a Broadway first night party when the bad reviews come in. There were three of them. Big men. They each had the kind of build that looks Page 7 stupid in a suit. Shoulders tiered from the neck. Thighs like rolls of carpet. Biceps and triceps screaming to be released from the fetters of the finely-tailored lounge suits. The kind of bodies that only look right and natural in posing pouches. In suits, no matter how expensive - and these were expensive - they looked like kids who'd been forced into their Sunday best, all starched and itching. McIntyre couldn't shake the feeling that they were yearning, aching to get nude and start oiling-up. They didn't say 'hello' and sat down at his table. One of them took up both spaces on the pink sofa, while the other two drew up chairs from a nearby table and squeezed into them. The armrests were forced out into a tired Vee, to the accompaniment of an uneasy creaking sound. McIntyre just sat there, smiling. He felt as if he was sitting in the middle of a huge barrel of sweating muscle. He was convinced that if he shook hands with any of the three, he would immediately die from an overdose of steroid poisoning. He wondered, though not too hard, why one of them was carrying a pair of industrial bolt clippers. The tall, immaculately-dressed mechanoid came up and served McIntyre his Bloody Mary. All three of the men ordered decaff coffee. While they waited for it to arrive, they chatted with McIntyre. Small talk: difficulties parking; the decor; the irritating muzak. When the coffee came, McIntyre pretended not to notice that they couldn't get their fingers through the cup handles. The man on the sofa lifted up a briefcase and fiddled clumsily with the lock. For a moment McIntyre found himself feeling sorry for the man - everything was Page 8 too small for him: the briefcase, the coffee cup, the suit. Then he remembered the bolt clippers, and stopped feeling sorry for the man and started feeling sorry for himself again. The case eventually sprang open and the man took out a fold-out, three-page document and handed it to McIntyre with a pen. McIntyre explained, apologetically, that it was impossible for him to sign the document. The three men were upset. George McIntyre left the Salvador Dali Coffee Lounge of the Mimas Hilton, carrying his nose in a Mimas Hilton Coffee Lounge napkin.