Moving Pictures

Funny, really. For weeks he’d spent the days sweeping her up in his arms, defending her bravely from whatever it was Morry was dressed up as today, kissing her, and generally riding off into the sunset to live happily, and possibly even ecstatically, ever after. There was probably no-one who’d ever watched one of the clicks who would possibly believe that he’d spend the night sitting in her room on a chair made out of splinters. Even he found it hard to believe, and here he was. You didn’t get this sort of thing in clicks. Clicks were all Passione in a Worlde Gone Madde. If this was a click, he certainly wouldn’t be sitting around in the dark on a hard chair. He’d be … well, he wouldn’t be sitting around in the dark on a hard chair, that was for sure.

The Bursar locked his study door behind him. You had to do that. The Archchancellor thought that knocking on doors was something that happened to other people.

At least the horrible man seemed to have lost interest in the resograph, or whatever Riktor had called it. The Bursar had had a dreadful day, trying to conduct University business while knowing that the document was hidden in his room.

He pulled it out from under the carpet, turned up the lamp, and began to read.

He’d be the first to admit that he wasn’t any good at mechanical things. He gave up quickly on the bits about pivots, octiron pendulums, and air being compressed in bellows.

He homed in again on the paragraph that said: ‘If, then, disturbances in the fabric of reality cause ripples to spread out from the epicentre, then the pendulum will tilt, compress the air in the relevant bellows, and cause the ornamental elephant closest to the epicentre to release a small lead ball into a cup. And thus the direction of the disturbance—’

… whumm … whumm …

He could hear it even up here. They’d just heaped more sandags around it. No-one dared move it now. The Bursar tried to concentrate on his reading.

‘—can be estimated by the number and force—’

…whumm … whummWHUMMWHUMM.

The Bursar found himself holding his breath.

— of the expelled pellets, which I estimate in serious disturbances—’

Plib.

‘—may well exceed two pellets—’

Plib.

‘—expelled several inches—’

Plib.

‘—during the—’

Plib.

‘—course—’

Plib.

‘—of—’

Plib.

‘—one—’

Plib.

‘—month.’

Plib.

Gaspode woke up and quickly hauled himself into what he hoped looked like an alert position.

Someone was shouting, but politely, as if they wanted to be helped but only if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.

He trotted up the steps. The door was ajar. He pushed it open with his head.

Victor was lying on his back, tied to a chair. Gaspode sat down and watched him intently, in case he was about to do something interesting.

‘All right, are we?’ he said, after a while.

‘Don’t just sit there, idiot! Untie these knots,’ said Victor.

‘Idiot I may be, but tied up I ain’t,’ said Gaspode evenly. ‘Got the jump on you, did she?’

‘I must have nodded off for a moment,’ said Victor.

‘Long enough for her to get up, rip up a sheet, and tie you to the chair,’ said Gaspode.

‘Yes, all right, all right. Can’t you gnaw through it, or something?’

‘With these teeth? I could fetch someone, though,’ said Gaspode, and grinned.

‘Er, I’m not sure that’s a very good—’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be right back,’ said Gaspode, and padded out.

‘It might be a bit difficult to explain—’ Victor called after him, but the dog was down the stairs and ambling along through the maze of backlots and alleys to the rear of the Century of the Fruitbat.

He shuffled up to the high fence. There was the gentle clink of a chain.

‘Laddie?’ he whispered hoarsely.

There was a delighted bark.

‘Good boy Laddie!’

‘Yeah,’ said Gaspode. ‘Yeah.’ He sighed. Had he ever been like that? If he had, thank goodness he hadn’t known about it.

‘Me good boy!’

‘Sure, sure. Laddie be quiet,’ muttered Gaspode, and squeezed his arthritic body under the fence. Laddie licked his face as he emerged.

‘I’m too old for this sort of stuff,’ he muttered, and peered at the kennel.

‘A choke chain,’ he said. ‘A bloody choke chain. Stop pulling on it, you daft idiot. Back up. Back up. Right.’

Gaspode shoved a paw into the loop and eased it over Laddie’s head.

‘There,’ he said. ‘If we all knew how to do that, we’d be runnin’ the world. Now stop kiddin’ around. We need you.’

Laddie sprang to tongue-lolling attention. If dogs could salute, he would have done.

Gaspode wriggled under the fence again, and waited. He could hear Laddie’s footsteps the other side, but the big dog seemed to be padding away from the fence.

‘No!’ hissed Gaspode. ‘Follow me!’

There was a scurry of paws, a swishing noise, and Laddie cleared the high fence and did a four-point landing in front of him.

Gaspode unpeeled his tongue from the back of his throat.

‘Good boy,’ he muttered. ‘Good boy.’

Victor sat up, rubbing his head.

‘I caught myself aright crack when the chair fell backwards,’ he said.

Laddie sat looking expectantly, with the remains of the sheet in his mouth.