Moving Pictures

Dibbler raised his hands. ‘I said I’d raise the money somehow,’ he said, ‘and Sham Harga’s even helping us with the food for the barbecue scene.’

‘You said you weren’t going to interfere with the script!’

‘That’s not interfering,’ said Dibbler stolidly. ‘I don’t see how that could be considered interfering. I just polished it up here and there. I think it’s rather an improvement. Besides, Harga’s All-You-Can-Gobble-For-A-Dollar is amazing value these days.’

‘But the click is set hundreds of years ago!’ shouted Soll.

‘We-ell,’ said Dibbler. ‘I suppose someone could say, “I wonder if the food at Harga’s House of Ribs will still be as good in hundreds of years’ time—”’

‘That isn’t moving pictures. That is crass commerce!’

‘I hope so,’ said Dibbler. ‘We’re in real trouble if it isn’t.’

‘Now look—’ Soll began, threateningly.

Ginger turned to Victor.

‘Can we go somewhere and talk?’ she said, quietly. ‘Without your dog,’ she added, in her normal voice. ‘Definitely without your dog.’

‘You want to talk to me?’ said Victor.

‘There hasn’t been much of a chance, has there?’

‘Right. Certainly. Gaspode, stay. There’s a good dog.’ Victor derived a quiet satisfaction from the brief look of pure disgust that flashed across Gaspode’s face.

Behind them the eternal Holy Wood argument had wound up to cruising speed with Soll and C.M.O.T. standing nose to nose and arguing in a circle of amused and interested staff.

‘I don’t have to take this, you know! I can resign!’

‘No, you can’t! You’re my nephew! You can’t resign from being a nephew—!’

Ginger and Victor sat down on the steps of a canvas and wood mansion. They had absolute privacy. No-one was going to bother to watch them with a rip-snorter of a row going on a few yards away.

‘Er,’ said Ginger. Her fingers twisted among themselves. Victor couldn’t help noticing that the nails were worn down.

‘Er,’ she said again. Her face was a picture of anguish, and pale under the make-up. She isn’t beautiful, Victor felt himself think, but you could have real trouble believing it.

‘I, er, don’t know how to say this,’ she said, ‘but, er, has anyone noticed me walking in my sleep?’

‘To the hill?’ said Victor.

Her head whipped around like a snake.

‘You know? How do you know? Have you been spying on me?’ she snapped. It was the old Ginger again, all fire and venom and the aggressiveness of paranoia.

‘Laddie found you … asleep yesterday afternoon,’ said Victor, leaning back.

‘During the day?’

‘Yes.’

She put her hands to her mouth. ‘It’s worse than I thought,’ she whispered. ‘It’s getting worse! You know when you met me up the hill? Just before Dibbler found us, and thought we were … spooning …’ she blushed. ‘Well, I didn’t even know how I’d got there!’

‘And you went back last night,’ said Victor.

‘The dog told you, did he?’ she said, dully.

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘It’s every night now,’ moaned Ginger. ‘I know, because even if I go back to bed there’s sand all over the floor and my nails are all broken! I go there every night and I don’t know why!’

‘You’re trying to open the door,’ said Victor. ‘There’s this big ancient door now, where part of the hill has slid away, and—’

‘Yes, I’ve seen it, but why?’

‘Well, I’ve got a couple of ideas,’ said Victor cautiously.

‘Tell me!’

‘Um. Well, have you heard of something called a genius loci?’

‘No.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘It’s clever, is it?’

‘It’s the sort of soul of a place. It can be quite strong. It can be made strong, by worship or love or hate, if it goes on long enough. And I’m wondering if the spirit of a place can call to people. And animals, too. I mean, Holy Wood is a different sort of place, isn’t it? People act differently here. Everywhere else, the most important things are gods or money or cattle. Here, the most important thing is to be important.’

He had her full attention. ‘Yes?’ she said encouragingly, and, ‘It doesn’t sound too bad so far.’

‘I’m getting to the bad bit.’

‘Oh.’

Victor swallowed. His brain was bubbling like a bouillon. Half-remembered facts surfaced tantalizingly and sank again. Dry old tutors in high old rooms had been telling him dull old things which were suddenly as urgent as a knife, and he dredged desperately for them.

‘I’m not—’ he croaked. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m not sure it’s right, though,’ he managed. ‘It’s come from somewhere else. It can happen. You’ve heard of ideas whose time has come?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, they’re the tame ones. There’s other ones. Ideas so full of vigour they don’t even wait for their time. Wild ideas. Escaped ideas. And the trouble is, when you get something like that, you get a hole—’