Moving Pictures

‘I might not know how to behave, but at least I don’t go mooning around over some girl who’s letting dretful Creatures of the Night into the world,’ said Gaspode.

‘I should hope not,’ said Victor, and then, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Aha! Now he listens! Your girlfriend—’

‘She’s not my girlfriend!’

‘Would-be girlfriend,’ said Gaspode, ‘is goin’ out every night and tryin’ to open that door in the hill. She tried it again last night, after you’d gone. I saw her. I stopped her,’ he added, defiantly. ‘Not that I expect any credit, of course. There’s something dretful in there, an’ she’s lettin’ it out. No wonder she’s always late and tired in the mornings, what with spendin’ the whole night diggin’.’

‘How do you know they’re dreadful?’ said Victor weakly.

‘Put it like this,’ said Gaspode. ‘If something’s shoved in a cave under a hill behind great big doors, it’s not ’cos people want it to come out every night to wash the dishes, is it? ‘Corse,’ he added charitably, ‘I’m not sayin’ she knows she’s doing it. Prob’ly they’ve got a grip of her weak an’ feeble cat-lovin’ female mind and are twisting it to their evil will.’

‘You do talk a lot of crap sometimes,’ said Victor, but he didn’t sound very convincing even to himself.

‘Ask her, then,’ said the dog, smugly.

‘I will!’

‘Right!’

Exactly how, though? thought Victor, as they trudged out into the sunshine. Excuse me, miss, my dog says that you … no. I say, Ginger, I understand that you’re going out and … no. Hey, Ginj, how come my dog saw … no.

Perhaps he should just start up a conversation and wait until it got around naturally to monstrosities from Beyond the Void.

But it would have to wait, because of the row that was going on.

It was over the third major part in Blown Away. Victor was of course the dashing but dangerous hero, Ginger was the only possible choice for the female lead, but the second male role — the dull but dutiful one — was causing trouble.

Victor had never seen anyone stamp their foot in anger before. He’d always thought it was something they did only in books. But Ginger was doing it.

‘Because I’d look an idiot, that’s why!’ she was saying.

Soll, who was by now feeling like a lightning rod on a stormy day, waved his hand frantically.

‘But he’s ideal for the role!’ he said. ‘It calls for a solid character—’

‘Solid? Of course he’s solid! He’s made of stone!’ shouted Ginger. ‘He might have a suit of chain mail and a false moustache but he’s still a troll!’

Rock, looming monolithically over the pair of them, cleared his throat noisily.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I hope we’re not going to get elementalist about this?’

Now it was Ginger’s turn to wave her hands. ‘I like trolls,’ she said. ‘As trolls, that is. But you can’t seriously mean me to do a romantic scene with a, a, a cliff face.’

‘Now look here,’ said Rock, his voice winding up like a pitcher’s arm. ‘What you’re saying is, is OK for trolls to be shown bashing people with clubs, is not OK to show trolls have finer feelings like squashy humans?’

‘She’s not saying that at all,’ said Soll desperately. ‘She’s not—’

‘If you cut me, do I not bleed?’ said Rock.^{40}

‘No, you don’t,’ said Soll, ‘but—’

‘Ah, yes, but I would. If I had blood, I’d bleed all over the place.’

‘And another thing,’ said a dwarf, prodding Soll in the knee. ‘It says in the script that she owns a mine full of happy, laughing, singing dwarfs, right?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Soll, putting the troll problem on one side. ‘What about it?’

‘It’s a bit stereotypical, isn’t it?’ said the dwarf. ‘I mean, it’s a bit dwarfs = miners. I don’t see why we have to be type-cast like this all the time.’

‘But most dwarfs are miners,’ said Soll desperately.

‘Well, OK, but they’re not happy about it,’ said another dwarf. ‘And they don’t sing the whole time.’

‘That’s right,’ said a third dwarf. ‘’Cos of safety, see? You can bring the whole roof down on you, singing.’

‘And there’s no mines anywhere near Ankh-Morpork,’ said possibly the first dwarf, although they all looked identical to Soll. ‘Everyone knows that. It’s on loam. We’d be a laughing stock, if our people saw us mining for jewels anywhere near Ankh-Morpork.’

‘I wouldn’t say I’ve got a cliff face,’ rumbled Rock, who sometimes took a little time to digest things. ‘Craggy, maybe. But not cliffy.’

‘The fact is,’ said one of the dwarfs, ‘we don’t see why humans get all the good roles and we get all the titchy bit parts.’

Soll gave the jolly little laugh of someone in a corner who hopes that a joke will lighten the atmosphere a bit.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that’s because you—’

‘Yes?’ said the dwarfs in unison.

‘Um,’ said Soll, and struck out quickly for a change of subject. ‘You see, the whole point, as I understand it, is that Ginger will do absolutely anything to keep the mansion and the mine and—’

‘I hopes we can get on,’ said Gaffer, ‘only I’ve got to muck the imps out in an hour.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Rock. ‘I’m absolutely anything, am I?’