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Sir, Yes, Sir.

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Sound of engine grinding.

MARTIN, near sobbing: I'm trying, Carolyn!

CAROLYN, over the phone: Do or do not! There is no try!

MARTIN gives a wordless cry of pain and flings open his door. Sound of running feet.

MARTIN: I'm on foot! I'm running! I can do a mile in... not very many minutes!

CAROLYN: It's five miles!

MARTIN: I'm trying! I'm hanging up! I have to save my breath!

Sound of running feet and increasingly heavy panting breath.

Sound of purring engine.

DOUGLAS: Going my way, pilot?

MARTIN: *gasp*

Sound of car door. Sound of heaving breath.

DOUGLAS: Why, sir. Sir isn't looking so good. Is sir in the best of shape?

MARTIN: *wheeze*

DOUGLAS: Perhaps sir has had a few too many double whipped cream triple espresso mocha coffees.

MARTIN: Piss off.

DOUGLAS: What happened to your van this time?

MARTIN: Stalled. It's the thermostat. It's a cheap fix, but I don't have any money, and I can't make any money because the van keeps stalling, so I don't know where my rent is coming from, so piss off.


Sound of purring engine. Engine stops. Doors open.

Sounds of pilots going through the engine check.

DOUGLAS: Plane seems to go.


DOUGLAS: Seems to go quite cheekily, in fact. Someone must have been giving Gertie her sugar lumps.

MARTIN: Yes, bring it on. The many, many quips. Go ahead.

DOUGLAS: Perhaps sir should invest in a horse.

MARTIN: Here we go.

DOUGLAS: They live on grass, I hear, and can pull quite a lot.

MARTIN: Colic. Laminitis. Rain rot. Spavins.

DOUGLAS: Sir has given this some thought, I see.

MARTIN: Copilot can stop with the bloody sir.

DOUGLAS: Sir is magnanimous and kind.

MARTIN: I'd stab you in the neck if I thought I wouldn't get caught.

DOUGLAS: Fortunately for me, sir is lacking in luck and foresight.

MARTIN: Right in the neck.

DOUGLAS: As a matter of interest... how much would you accept for your captain's stripes?


DOUGLAS: Never thought about that?


DOUGLAS: We have three hours twenty to consider.


Sound of engines.

DOUGLAS: Seventy minutes.

MARTIN: How much do you actually make?


MARTIN: Enough to afford a Lexus, I can see that.

DOUGLAS: Far more than that.


DOUGLAS: Less than him.

MARTIN: I can't believe I'm even entertaining this idea.

DOUGLAS: I can't believe you haven't already said yes.

MARTIN: All I have left is my pride.


MARTIN: What do I have, then?

DOUGLAS: I meant, you really don't have much pride.

MARTIN: Fine. No. No money. You cannot be captain. I'll starve and die in my stripes.


MARTIN: Choke on that.

DOUGLAS: Well, you do have pride, I see. Or at least a shocking case of spite. Much the same in the end.



MARTIN'S stomach growls.

DOUGLAS: Sir is getting a head start, I see.

MARTIN: Piss off.

DOUGLAS: How much does a thermostat actually cost, anyway?


DOUGLAS: It occurs to me that if you die, Carolyn is down a pilot, we're no longer qualified to fly, the company goes under, and I'm out of a job.

MARTIN: From hell's heart I spit at thee.


Sound of paper.

MARTIN: Fifty quid?

DOUGLAS: Does that cover a thermostat?

MARTIN: Actually, yes.

DOUGLAS: Consider it a tribute to sir.

MARTIN: I will.

Sound of paper being stuffed into a pocket.

MARTIN'S stomach growls again.


DOUGLAS, over the intercom: Arthur, biscuits on the double! Our mighty leader requires sustenance!

MARTIN: Why have you gone on this sudden sir jag?

DOUGLAS: It seemed to suit sir.

MARTIN: Piss off. And thanks. But mostly, piss off.