Moving Pictures

He looked at her polite, blank expression. Analogies bubbled to the surface like soggy croutons. Imagine all the worlds that have ever been are in one sense pressed together like a sandwich … a pack of cards … a book … a folded sheet … if conditions are right, things can go through rather than along… but if you open a gate between worlds, there are terrible dangers, as for instance …

As for instance …

As for instance …

As for instance what?

It rose up in his memory like the suddenly-discovered bit of suspicious tentacle just when you thought it was safe to eat the paella.

‘It could be that something else is trying to come through the same way,’ he ventured. ‘In the, uh, in the nowhere between the somewhere there are creatures which on the whole I’d rather not describe to you.’

‘You already have,’ said Ginger, in a tense voice.

‘And, uh, they’re generally quite keen to get into the real worlds and perhaps they’re somehow making contact with you when you’re asleep and …’ He gave up. He couldn’t bear her expression any more.

‘I could be entirely wrong,’ he said quickly.

‘You’ve got to stop me opening the door,’ she whispered. ‘I could be one of Them.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Victor loftily. ‘They’ve generally got too many arms, I think.’

‘I tried putting tacks on the floor to wake myself up,’ said Ginger.

‘Sounds awful. Did it work?’

‘No. They were all back in their bag in the morning. I must have picked them up again.’

Victor pursed his lips. ‘That could be a good sign,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘If you were being summoned by, uh, unpleasant things, I think they wouldn’t bother what you walked over.’

‘Urgh.’

‘You haven’t got any idea why it’s all happening, have you?’ Victor said.

‘No! But I always get the same dream.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Hey, how come you know all this stuff?’

‘I — a wizard told me, once,’ said Victor.

‘You’re not a wizard yourself?’

‘Absolutely not. No wizards in Holy Wood. And this dream?’

‘Oh, it’s too strange to mean anything. Anyway, I used to dream it even when I was small. It starts off with this mountain, only it’s not a normal mountain, because—’

Detritus the troll loomed over them.

‘Young Mr Dibbler says it’s time to start shooting again,’ he rumbled.

‘Will you come to my room tonight?’ hissed Ginger. ‘Please? You can wake me up if I start sleepwalking again.’

‘Well, er, yes, but your landlady might not like it—’ Victor began.

‘Oh, Mrs Cosmopilite is very broadminded,’ said Ginger.

‘She is?’

‘She’ll just think we’re having sex,’ said Ginger.

‘Ah,’ said Victor hollowly. ‘That’s all right, then.’

‘Young Mr Dibbler don’t like being kept waiting,’ said Detritus.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Ginger. She stood up and brushed the dust off her dress. Detritus blinked. People didn’t usually tell him to shut up. A few worried fault-lines appeared on his brow. He turned and tried another loom, this time aimed at Victor.

‘Young Mr Dibbler don’t like—’

‘Oh, go away,’ snapped Victor, and wandered off after her.

Detritus stood alone and screwed up his eyes in the effort of thought.

Of course, people did occasionally say things like ‘Go away’ and ‘Shut up’ to him, but always with the tremor of terrified bravado in their voice, and so naturally he always riposted ‘Hur hur’ and hit them. But no-one had ever spoken to him as if his existence was the last thing in the world they could possibly be persuaded to worry about. His massive shoulders sagged. Perhaps all this hanging around Ruby was bad for him.

Soll was standing over the artist who lettered the cards. He looked up as Victor and Ginger approached.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘places, everyone. We’ll go straight on to the ballroom scene.’ He looked pleased with himself.

‘Are the words all sorted out?’ said Victor.

‘No problem,’ said Soll proudly. He glanced at the sun. ‘We’ve lost a lot of time,’ he added, ‘so let’s not waste any more.’

‘Fancy you being able to get C.M.O.T. to give in like that,’ said Victor.

‘He had no argument at all. He’s gone back to his office to sulk, I expect,’ said Soll loftily. ‘OK, everyone, let’s all get—’

The lettering artist tugged at his sleeve.

‘I was just wondering, Mr Soll, what you wanted me to put in the big scene now Victor doesn’t mention ribs—’

‘Don’t worry me now, man!’

‘But if you could just give me an idea—’

Soll firmly unhooked the man’s hand from his sleeve. ‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘I don’t give a damn,’ and he strode off towards the set.

The artist was left alone. He picked up his paint-brush. His lips moved silently, shaping themselves around the words.

Then he said, ‘Hmm. Nice one.’

Banana N’Vectif, cunningest hunter in the great yellow plains of Klatch, held his breath as he tweezered the last piece into place. Rain drummed on the roof of his hut.

There. That was it.

He’d never done anything like this before, but he knew he was doing it right.