Moving Pictures

‘Now listen—’ the Dean began, but his voice became an incoherent squeak as the troll picked him up by the collar of his robe and propelled him out into the road.

‘You get in queue like everyone else,’ he said. There was a chorus of jeers from the queue.

The Dean growled and raised his right hand, fingers spread—

The Chair grabbed his arm.

‘Oh, yes,’ he hissed. ‘That’d do a lot of good, wouldn’t it? Come on.’

‘Where to?’

‘To the back of the queue!’

‘But we’re wizards! Wizards never stand in line for anything!’

‘We’re honest merchants, remember?’ said the Chair. He glanced at the nearest click-goers, who were giving them odd looks. ‘We’re honest merchants,’ he repeated loudly. He nudged the Dean. ‘Go on,’ he hissed.

‘Go on what?’

‘Go on and say something merchanty.’

‘What sort of thing is that?’ said the Dean, mystified.

‘Say something! Everyone’s looking at us!’

‘Oh.’ The Dean’s face creased in panic, and then salvation dawned. ‘Lovely apples,’ he said. ‘Get them while they’re hot. They’re luvverly … Will this do?’

‘I suppose so. Now let’s go to the end—’

There was a commotion at the other end of the street. People surged forward. The queue broke ranks and charged. The honest merchants were suddenly surrounded by a desperately-pushing crowd.

‘I say, there is a queue, you know,’ said the Honest Merchant in Recent Runes diffidently, as he was shoved aside.

The Dean grabbed the shoulder of a boy who was ferociously elbowing him aside.

‘What is going on, young man?’ he demanded.

‘They’re a-coming!’ shouted the boy.

‘Who are?’

‘The stars!’

The wizards, as one man, looked upwards.

‘No, they’re not,’ said the Dean, but the boy had shaken himself free and disappeared in the press of people.

‘Strange primitive superstition,’ said the Dean, and the wizards, with the exception of Poons, who was complaining and flailing around with his stick, craned forward to see.

The Bursar met the Archchancellor in a corridor.

‘There’s no-one in the Uncommon Room!’ screamed the Bursar.

‘The Library’s empty!’ bellowed the Archchancellor.

‘I’ve heard about that sort of thing,’ the Bursar whimpered. ‘Spontaneous something-or-other. They’ve all gone spontaneous!’

‘Calm down, man. Just because—’

‘I can’t even find any of the servants! You know what happens when reality gives way! Even now giant tentacles are probably—’

There was a distant whumm … whumm noise, and the sound of pellets bouncing off the wall.

‘Always the same direction,’ the Bursar muttered.

‘What direction is that, then?’

‘The direction They’ll be coming from! I think I’m going mad!’

‘Now, now,’ said the Archchancellor, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You don’t want to go around talking like that. That’s crazy talk.’

Ginger stared, panic-stricken, out of the carriage window.

‘Who are all these people?’ she said.

‘They’re fans,’ said Dibbler.

‘But I’m not hot!’

‘Uncle means that they’re people who like seeing you in the clicks,’ said Soll. ‘Er. Like you a lot.’

‘There’s women out there too,’ said Victor. He gave a cautious wave. In the crowd, a woman swooned.

‘You’re famous,’ he said. ‘You said you always wanted to be famous.’

Ginger looked out at the crowd again. ‘I never thought it would be like this, though. They’re all shouting our names!’

‘We’ve put a lot of effort into telling people about Blown Away,’ said Soll.

‘Yes,’ said Dibbler. ‘We said it was the greatest click in the entire history of Holy Wood.’

‘But we’ve been making clicks for only a couple of months,’ Ginger pointed out.

‘So what? That’s still a history,’ said Dibbler.

Victor saw the look in Ginger’s face. Exactly how long was Holy Wood’s real history? Perhaps there was some ancient stone calendar, down there on the sea bed, among the lobsters. Perhaps there was no way it could be measured. How did you measure the age of an idea?

‘A lot of civic dignitaries are going to be there, too,’ said Dibbler. ‘The Patrician and the nobles and the Guild heads and some of the high priests. Not the wizards, of course, the stuck-up old idiots. But it’ll be a night to remember right enough.’

‘Will we have to be introduced to them all?’ said Victor.

‘No. They’ll be introduced to you,’ said Dibbler. ‘It’ll be the biggest thrill of their lives.’

Victor stared out at the crowds again.

‘Is it my imagination,’ he said, ‘or is it getting foggy?’

Poons hit the Chair across the back of the legs with his stick.

‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘Why’s everyone cheering?’

‘The Patrician’s just got out of his carriage,’ said the Chair.

‘Don’t see what’s so wonderful about that,’ said Poons. ‘I’ve got out of carriages hundreds of times. There’s no trick to it at all.’

‘It’s a bit odd,’ the Chairman admitted. ‘And they cheered the head of the Assassins’ Guild and the High Priest of Blind Io, too. And now someone’s rolled out a red carpet.’

‘What, in the street? In Ankh-Morpork?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wouldn’t like to have their cleaning bill,’ said Poons.