Moving pictures tds-10

by Terry David John Pratchett

  The dog gave him a look of handsome incomprehension.

  'I mean, do you b'long to someone or what?' said Gaspode.

  The dog whined softly.

  Gaspode tried Basic Canine, which is a combination of whines and sniffs.

  'Hallo?' he ventured. 'Anyone in there?'

  The dog's tail thumped uncertainly.

  'The grub here's ruddy awful,' said Gaspode.

  The dog raised its highly-bred muzzle.

  'What dis place?' it said.

  'This is Holy Wood,' said Gaspode conversationally. 'I'm Gaspode. Named after the famous Gaspode, you know. Anythin' you want to know, you just-'

  'All dese two-legs here. Dur . . . What dis place?'

  Gaspode stared.

  At that moment Dibbler's door opened. Victor emerged, coughing, at one end of a cigar.

  'Great, great,' said Dibbler, following him out. 'Knew we could sort it out. Don't waste it, boy, don't waste it. They cost a dollar a box. Oh, I see you brought your little doggie.'

  'Woof,' said Gaspode, irritably.

  The other dog gave a short sharp bark and sat up with obedient alertness radiating from every hair.

  'Ah,' said Dibbler, 'and I see we've got our wonder dog.'

  Gaspode's apology for a tail twitched once or twice.

  Then the truth dawned.

  He glared at the larger dog, opened his mouth to speak, caught himself just in time, and managed to turn it into a 'Bark?'

  'I got the idea the other night, when I saw your dog,' said Dibbler. 'I thought, people like animals. Me, I like dogs. Good image, the dog. Saving lives, Man's best friend, that kind of stuff.'

  Victor looked at Gaspode's furious expression.

  'Gaspode's quite bright,' he said.

  'Oh, I expect you think he is,' said Dibbler. 'But you've just got to look at the two of them. On the one hand there's this bright, alert, handsome animal, and on the other there's this dust ball with a hangover. I mean, no contest, am I right?'

  The wonder dog gave a brisk yap.

  'What dis place? Good boy Laddie!'

  Gaspode rolled his eyes.

  'See what I mean?' said Dibbler. 'Give him the right name, a bit, a training, and a star is born.' He slapped Victor on the back again. 'Nice to see you, nice to see you, drop in again any time, only not too frequently, let's have lunch sometime, now get out, Soll!'

  'Coming, Uncle.'

  Victor was suddenly alone, apart from the dogs and the room full of people. He took the cigar out of his mouth, spat on the glowing end, and carefully hid it behind a potted plant.

  'A star is whelped,' said a small, withering voice from below.

  'What he say? Where dis place?'

  'Don't look at me,' said Victor. 'Nothing to do with me.'

  'Will you just look at it? I mean, are we talking Thicko City here or what?' sneered Gaspode.

  'Good boy Laddie!'

  'Come on,' said Victor. 'I'm supposed to be on set in five minutes.'

  Gaspode trailed after him, muttering under his horrible breath. Victor caught the occasional 'old rug' and 'Man's best friend' and 'bloody wonder bloody dog'. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer.

  'You're just jealous,' he said.

  'What, of an overgrown puppy with a single-figure IQ?' sneered Gaspode.

  'And a glossy coat, cold nose and probably a pedigree as long as your ar as my arm,' said Victor.

  'Pedigree? Pedigree? What's a pedigree? It's just breedin'. I had a father too, you know. And two grandads. And four great grandads. And many of 'em were the same dog, even. So don't you tell me from no pedigree,' said Gaspode.

  He paused to cock a leg against one of the supports of the new 'Home of Century of the Fruitbat Moving Pictures' sign.

  That was something else that had puzzled Thomas Silverfish. He'd come in this morning, and the handpainted sign saying 'Interesting and Instructive Films' had gone and had been replaced by this huge billboard. He was sitting back in the office with his head in his hands, trying to convince himself that it had been his idea.

  'I'm the one Holy Wood called,' Gaspode muttered, in a self-pitying voice. 'I came all the way here, and then they chose that great hairy thing. Probably it'll work for a plate of meat a day, too.'

  'Well, look, maybe you weren't called to Holy Wood to be a wonder dog,' said Victor. 'Maybe it's got something else in mind for you.'

  This is ridiculous, he thought. Why are we talking about it like this? A place hasn't got a mind. It can't call people to it . . . well, unless you count things like homesickness. But you can't be homesick for a place you've never been to before, it stands to reason. The last time people were here must have been thousands of years ago.

  Gaspode sniffed at a wall.

  'Did you tell Dibbler everything I told you?' he said.

  'Yes. He was very upset when I mentioned about going to Untied Alchemists.'

  Gaspode sniggered.

  'An' you told him what I said about a verbal contract not being worth the paper it's printed on?'

  'Yes. He said he didn't understand what I meant. But he gave me a cigar. And he said he'd pay for me and Ginger to go to AnkhMorpork soon. He said he's got a really big picture planned.'

  'What is it?' said Gaspode suspiciously.

  'He didn't say.'

  'Listen, lad,' said Gaspode, 'Dibbler's making a fortune. I counted it. There were five thousand, two hundred and seventy-three dollars and fifty-two pence on Son's desk. And you earned it. Well, you and Ginger did.'

  'Gosh!'

  'Now, there's some new words I want you to learn,' said Gaspode. 'Think you can?'

  'I hope so.'

  ' "Per-cent-age of the gross" ', said Gaspode. 'There. Think you can remember it?'

  ' "Per-cent-age of the gross",' said Victor.

  'Good lad.'

  'What does it mean?'

  'Don't you worry about that,' said Gaspode. 'You just have to say it's what you want, OK. When the time's right.'

  'When will the time be right, then?' said Victor.

  Gaspode grinned nastily. 'Oh, I reckon when Dibbler's just got a mouthful of food'd be favourite.'

  Holy Wood Hill bustled like an ant heap. On the seaward side Fir Wood Studios were making The Third Gnome. Microlithic Pictures, which was run almost entirely by the dwarfs, was hard at work on Golde Diggers of 1457, which was going to be followed by The Golde Rushe. Floating Bladder Pictures was hard at work with Turkey Legs. And Borgle's was packed out.

  'I don't know what it's called, but we're doing one about going to see a wizard. Something about following a yellow sick toad,' a man in one half of a lion suit explained to a companion in the queue.

  'No wizards in Holy Wood, I thought.'

  'Oh, this one's all right. He's not very good at the wizarding.'

  'So what's new?'

  Sound! That was the problem. Alchemists toiled in sheds all over Holy Wood, screaming at parrots, pleading with mynah birds, constructing intricate bottles to trap sound and bounce it around harmlessly until it was time for it to be let out. To the sporadic boom of octo-cellulose exploding was added the occasional sob of exhaustion or scream of agony as an enraged parrot mistook a careless thumb for a nut.

  The parrots weren't the success they'd hoped for. It was true that they could remember what they heard and repeat it after a fashion, but there was no way to turn them off and they were in the habit of ad-libbing other sounds they'd heard or, Dibbler suspected, had been taught by mischievous handlemen. Thus, brief snatches of romantic dialogue would be punctuated with cries of 'Waaaarrrk! Showusyerknickers!' and Dibbler said he had no intention of making that kind of picture, at least at the moment.

  Sound! Whoever got sound first would rule Holy Wood, they said. People were flocking to the clicks now, but people were fickle. Colour was different. Colour was just a matter of breeding demons who could paint fast enough. It was sound that meant something new.

  In the meantime, there were stop-gap measure
s. The dwarfs' studio had shunned the general practice of putting the dialogue on cards between scenes and had invented sub-titles, which worked fine provided the performers remembered not to step too far forward and knock over the letters.

  But if sound was missing, then the screen had to be filled from side to side with a feast for the eyes. The sound of hammering was always Holy Wood's background noise, but it redoubled now . . .

  The cities of the world were being built in Holy Wood.

  Untied Alchemists started it, with a one-tenth-size wood and canvas replica of the Great Pyramid of Tsort. Soon the backlots sprouted whole streets in Ankh-Morpork, palaces from Pseudopolis, castles from the Hublands. In some cases, the streets were painted on the back of the palaces, so that princes and peasants were separated by one thickness of painted sacking.

  Victor spent the rest of the morning working on a one-reeler. Ginger hardly said a word to him, even after the obligatory kiss when he rescued her from whatever it was Morry was supposed to be today. Whatever magic Holy Wood worked on them it wasn't doing it today. He was glad to get away.

  Afterwards he wandered across the backlot to watch them putting Laddie the Wonder Dog through his paces.

  There was no doubt, as the graceful shape streaked like an arrow over obstacles and grabbed a trainer by a well-padded arm, that here was a dog almost designed by Nature for moving pictures. He even barked photogenically.

  'An' do you know what he's sayin'?' said a disgruntled voice beside Victor. It was Gaspode, a picture of bowlegged misery.

  'No. What?' said Victor.

  "'Me Laddie. Me good boy. Good boy Laddie,"' said Gaspode. 'Makes you want to throw up, doesn't it?'

  'Yes, but could you leap a six-foot hurdle?' said Victor.

  'That's intelligent, is it?' said Gaspode. 'I always walk around - what's that they're doing now?'

  'Giving him his lunch, I think.'

  'They call that lunch, do they?'

  Victor watched Gaspode stroll over and peer into the dog's bowl. Laddie gave him a sideways look. Gaspode barked quietly. Laddie whined. Gaspode barked again.

  There was a lengthy exchange of yaps.

  Then Gaspode strolled back, and sat down beside Victor.

  'Watch this,' he said.

  Laddie took the food bowl in his mouth, and turned it upside down.

  'Disgustin' stuff,' said Gaspode. 'All tubes and innards. I wouldn't give it to a dog, and I am one.'

  'You made him tip out his own dinner?' said Victor, horrified.

  'Very obedient lad, I thought,' said Gaspode smugly.

  'What a nasty thing to do!'

  'Oh, no. I give 'im some advice, too.'

  Laddie barked peremptorily at the people clustering around him. Victor heard them muttering.

  'Dog don't eat his dinner,' came Detritus' voice, 'dog go hungry.'

  'Don't be daft. Mr Dibbler says he's worth more than we are!'

  'Perhaps it's not what he's used to. I mean, a posh dog like him an' all. It's a bit yukky, isn't it?'

  'It dog food! That what dogs are supposed to eat!'

  'Yeah, but is it wonder dog food? What're wonder dogs fed on?'

  'Mr Dibbler'll feed you to him if there's any trouble.'

  'All right, all right. Detritus, go around to Borgle's. See what he's got. Not the stuff he gives to the usual customers, mind.'

  'That IS the stuff he give to usual customers.'

  'That's what I mean.'

  Five minutes later Detritus trailed back carrying about nine pounds of raw steak. It was dumped in the dog bowl. The trainers looked at Laddie.

  Laddie cocked an eye towards Gaspode, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

  The big dog put one foot on one end of the steak, took the other end in his mouth, and tore off a lump. Then he padded over the compound and dropped it respectfully in front of Gaspode, who gave it a long, calculating stare.

  'Well, I dunno,' he said at last. 'Does that look like ten per cent to you, Victor?'

  'You negotiated his dinner?'

  Gaspode's voice was muffled by meat. 'I reckon ten per cent is ver' fair. Very fair, in the circumstances.'

  'You know, you really are a son of a bitch,' said Victor.

  'Proud of it,' said Gaspode, indistinctly. He bolted the last of the steak. 'What shall we do now?'

  'I'm supposed to get an early night. We're starting for Ankh very early tomorrow,' said Victor doubtfully.

  'Still not made any progress with the book?'

  'No.'

  'Let me have a look, then.'

  'Can you read?'

  'Dunno. Never tried.'

  Victor looked around them. No-one was paying him any attention. They never did. Once the handles stopped turning, no-one bothered about performers; it was like being temporarily invisible.

  He sat down on a pile of lumber, opened the book randomly at an early page, and held it out in front of Gaspode's critical stare.

  Eventually the dog said, 'It's got all marks on it.'

  Victor sighed. 'That's writing,' he said.

  Gaspode squinted. 'What, all them little pictures?'

  'Early writing was like that. People drew little pictures to represent ideas.'

  'So . . . if there's a lot of one picture, it means it's an important idea?'

  'What? Well, yes. I suppose so.'

  'Like the dead man.'

  Victor was lost.

  'The dead man on the beach?'

  'No. The dead man on the pages. See? Everywhere, there's the dead man.'

  Victor gave him an odd look, and then turned the book around and peered at it.

  'Where? I don't see any dead men.'

  Gaspode snorted.

  'Look, all over the page,' he said. 'He looks just like those tombs you get in old temples and stuff. You know? Where they do this statchoo of the stiff lyin' on top of the tomb, with his arms crossed an' holdin' his sword. Dead noble.'

  'Good grief! You're right! It does look sort of . . . dead . . . '

  'Prob'ly all the writing's goin' on about what a great guy he was when he was alive,' said Gaspode knowledgeably. 'You know, "Slayer of thousands" stuff. Prob'ly he left a lot of money for priests to say prayers and light candles and sacrifice goats and stuff. There used to be a lot of that sort of thing. You know, you'd get dese guys whorin' and drinkin' and carryin' on regardless their whole life, and then when the old Grim Reaper starts sharpenin' his scythe they suddenly becomes all pious and pays a lot of priests to give their soul a quick wash-and-brush-up and gen'rally keep on tellin' the gods what a decent chap they was.'

  'Gaspode?' said Victor levelly.

  'What?'

  'You were a performing dog. How come you know all this stuff?'

  'I ain't just a pretty face.'

  'You aren't even a pretty face, Gaspode.'

  The little dog shrugged. 'I've always had eyes and ears,' he said. 'You'd be amazed, the stuff you see and hear when you're a dog. I dint know what any of it meant at the time, of course. Now I do.'

  Victor stared at the pages again. There certainly was a figure which, if you half-closed your eyes, looked very much like a statue of a knight with his hands resting on his sword.

  'It might not mean a man,' he said. 'Pictographic writing doesn't work like that. It's all down to context, you see.' He racked his brains to think of some of the books he'd seen. 'For example, in the Agatean language the signs for "woman" and "slave" written down together actually mean "wife".'

  He looked closely at the page. The dead man or the sleeping man, or the standing man resting his hands on his sword, the figure was so stylized it was hard to be sure seemed to appear beside another common picture. He ran his finger along the line of pictograms.

  'See,' he said, 'it could be the man figure is only part of a word. See? It's always to the right of this other picture, which looks a bit like a bit like a doorway, or something. So it might really mean-'he hesitated.' "Doorway/man",' he hazarded.

  He turned th
e book slightly.

  'Could be some old king,' said Gaspode. 'Could mean something like The Man with the Sword is Imprisoned, or something. Or maybe it means Watch Out, There's a Man with a Sword behind the Door. Could mean anything, really.'

  Victor squinted at the book again. 'It's funny,' he said. 'It doesn't look dead. Just . . . not alive. Waiting to be alive? A waiting man with a sword?'

  Victor peered at the little man-figure. It had hardly any features, but still managed to look vaguely familiar.

  'You know,' he said, 'it looks just like my Uncle Osric . . .'

  Clickaclickaclicka. Click.

  The film spun to a standstill. There was a thunder of applause, a stamping of feet and a barrage of empty banged grain bags.

  In the very front row of the Odium the Librarian stared up at the now-empty screen. It was the fourth time that afternoon he'd watched Shadow of the Dessert, because there's something about a 300lb orangutan that doesn't encourage people to order it out of the pit between houses. A drift of peanut shells and screwed up paper bags lay around his feet.

  The Librarian loved the clicks. They spoke to something in his soul. He'd even started writing a story which he thought would make a very good moving picture. [18] Everyone he showed it to said it was jolly good, often even before they'd read it.

  But something about this click was worrying him. He'd sat through it four times, and he was still worried.

  He eased himself out of the three seats he was occupying and knuckled his way up the aisle and into the little room where Bezam was rewinding the film.

  Bezam looked up as the door opened.

  'Get out-' he began, and then grinned desperately and said, 'Hallo, sir. Pretty good click, eh? We'll be showing it again any minute now and what the hell are you doing? You can't do that!'

  The Librarian ripped the huge roll of film off the projector and pulled it through his leathery fingers, holding it up to the light. Bezam tried to snatch it back and got a palm in his chest that sat him firmly on the floor, where great coils of film piled up on top of him.

  He watched in horror as the great ape grunted, grasped a piece of the film in both hands and, with two bites, edited it. Then the Librarian picked him up, dusted him off, patted him on the head, thrust the great pile of unwound click into his helpless arms, and ambled swiftly out of the room with a few frames of film dangling from one paw.