Moving Pictures

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.’