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Rimmer stepped back slightly, turning from side to side as he checked his appearance in the small mirror on the wall of his stark room. His uniform was pristine; from his neat, perfectly clean jacket, fingerprints buffed off of the clasps, to his properly napped trousers, to his spit-polished boots, he was the cardboard cutout of a model Space Corps officer. If he was going to be the only one on this grotty lander with any respect for decorum - and it certainly seemed that he was - he was determined to be absolutely impeccable. He patted his left-parted hair, his curls beaten into submission with gel he had stolen from the Cat, and adjusted his unadjustable H. Perfection. Ready for a medal-bestowing ceremony, Rimsy! His boots clicked satisfyingly on the metal floor - oh, the joys of hard-light! - as he strode up to the midsection.

"Changeover!" he said in a commanding voice as he poked his head into the kitchen. He might be the only person who found his voice commanding, but did the opinion of the space-bum, the bog-bot, and the brainless kitty count for smeg-all? Of course not. "Anything to report?"

Kryten leapt slightly as Rimmer spoke, juggling the carrot he had been halfheartedly jullienning. "Oh? What? Yes. No! No, everything is..." Kryten's voice crept up in pitch, and as he tried to force it back into its normal range, "...just fine!" came out as a wail.

Rimmer sighed. With that degree of upset, it must be something trivial. Kryten displayed a greater degree of consternation for a broken washing machine than he would for an alien monster gnawing at his nipple-nuts. "What is it, Kryten? Did the iron stop working? It's not like Lister ever wears anything after you iron it. He says it ruins it. You're down to twenty ironed jumpsuits that he won't touch, and that one filthy one he wears all of the time and won't let you touch."

"No, sir. The iron is just fine." Kryten took hold of himself and resumed chopping the carrot, slowly and deliberately.

"Then what is it, you batty laundromat on legs? The dryer? The sewing machine?" Patton, Rimmer thought desperately, did not have to deal with such things. He had subordinates to tend to both the laundry and the nutters. Did Alexander the Great spend his time on campaign inspecting domestic appliances and being appraised of the state of the port-a-loos?

"It's nothing." Kryten heaved a great sigh, and split the remainder of the carrot down the center with one heavy thud of the knife. "Everything's..." he swallowed, "/just fine/!"

"Kryten," Rimmer growled, "you are the most unconvincing liar since Nixon. What... is... wrong?"

Kryten dropped the knife. "Oh, it's Mister Lister!" Kryten wrung his hands. "He isn't eating, sir. He's sleeping badly. He's so thin and pale!"

Rimmer sniffed and gestured at the raw vegetable on the cutting board. "It's because you're trying to feed him actual food, Kryten. He doesn't eat that. You need to slop something overcooked and seasoned with enough spices to strip paint off of a footlocker on his plate in order to get him to slurp it down." Rimmer shrugged. "Well, it's good that you forgot that for a while. He could stand to lose a little weight."

Kryten waved his hand at Rimmer. It happened to be the hand that was holding the knife, and Rimmer danced backwards. "How can you say such things?" Kryten asked, looking as aghast as a Lego-headed robot can. "I have tried to feed him curries! All of his favorites! I even whipped up a lager vindaloo last night. He's wasting away! And he'll get too thin, and die, and I'll be all alone again..." Kryten slumped back against the counter, drained.

"Is he?" Rimmer tapped his lip with one slender forefinger. Strange behavior? Preoccupation? Disinterest in food? Everything was starting to click into place. "Kryten." Rimmer stretched his face into a vulture grin. "I believe I have the solution to this quandary." A lesser man than Rimmer might have been offended by the skeptical look Kryten gave him. Fortunately, Rimmer was not one to pay attention to slights from inferiors. Especially when he had a tube of superglue in reserve that would give that inferior quite a surprise when he next plugged into his recharge socket.

"Very good," Kryten said, without even a token degree of sincerity. He turned back to his cutting board as Rimmer spun on his toe and strode out of the kitchen. He was followed by Kryten's voice, saying, just not-softly enough, "Oh dear."


Of course, Rimmer had to run his idea past someone else. Someone who could appreciate the originality of his thinking and his tendency for decisive, manly action. Someone who could offer useful constructive criticism. He ran his idea past her that evening - after the sex, needless to say. After a good, satisfying five minutes of sexual activity, Rimmer rolled onto his back and sighed, cuddling Rachel with one arm.

"Well," he said, "I actually have something important to talk about tonight, my dear." She waited in breathless, silent anticipation. "Kryten says that Lister is not eating or sleeping well," he continued, then paused. "Truth be told, he has been looking too skinny, and a bit tired, but don't tell him I said that." Rimmer shifted, wondering if Lister were still seeing her behind his back. He dusted her for fingerprints every night, but Lister could be devious. He pushed those thoughts out of his mind. "Well, the answer to what's bothering him is obvious. Utterly obvious." Rimmer paused for effect. He had read many books on public speaking in preparation for his promotion to head of Z shift, and they had all mentioned the effectiveness of dramatic pauses. They were not always clear on how long they should last, however, and some pauses had been interrupted before he was quite done with them by snores or imitations of crickets chirping. However, he felt he had a handle on effective durations, at last.

"Aliens!" he said, dramatically. He turned his head, and Rachel's open-mouthed astonishment showed that his timing had been impeccable. He smiled smugly.