Moving Pictures полностью

The senior wizards crowded around the elephant vase. It had been put back in the corridor on Ridcully’s strict orders.

‘I remember Riktor,’ said the Dean. ‘Skinny man. Bit of a one-track mind. But clever.’

‘Heh, heh. I remember his mouse counter,’ said Windle Poons, from his ancient wheelchair. ‘Used to count mice.’

‘The pot itself is quite—’ the Bursar began, and then said, ‘What d’you mean, count mice? They were fed into it on a little belt or something?’

‘Oh, no. You just wound it up, y’see, and it sat there whirring away, counting all the mice in the building, mm, and these little wheels with numbers on them came up.’

‘Why?’

‘Mm? I s’pose he just wanted to count mice.’

The Bursar shrugged. ‘This pot’, he said, peering closely, ‘is actually quite an old Ming vase.’

He waited expectantly.

‘Why’s it called Ming?’ said the Archchancellor, on cue.

The Bursar tapped the pot. It went ming.

‘And they spit lead balls at people, do they?’ said Ridcully.

‘No, Master. He just used it to put the … the machinery in. Whatever it is. Whatever it’s doing.’

… whumm …

‘Hold on. It wobbled,’ said the Dean.

… whumm … whumm …

The wizards stared at one another in sudden panic …

‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’ said Windle Poons. ‘Why won’t anyone, mm, tell me what’s happening?’

… whumm … whumm …

‘Run!’ suggested the Dean.

‘Which way?’ quavered the Bursar.

… whummWHUMM …

‘I’m an old man and I demand someone tell me what’s—’

Silence.

‘Duck!’ shouted the Archchancellor.

Plib.

A splinter of stone was knocked off the pillar behind him.

He raised his head.

‘Bigods, that was a damn lucky es—’

Plib.

The second pellet knocked the tip off his hat.

The wizards lay trembling on the flagstones for several minutes. After a while the Dean’s muffled voice, ‘Was that all, do you think?’

The Archchancellor raised his head. His face, always red, was now incandescent.

‘Bursaar!’

‘Master?’

‘That’s what I call shootin’!’

Victor turned over.

‘Wzstf,’ he said.

‘It’s six aye-emm, rise and shine, Mr Dibbler says,’ said Detritus, grasping the bedclothes in one hand and dragging them on to the floor.

‘Six o’clock? That’s night-time!’ groaned Victor.

‘It’s going to be a long day, Mr Dibbler says,’ said the troll. ‘Mr Dibbler says you got to be on set by half past six. This is goin’ to happen.’

Victor pulled on his trousers.

‘I suppose I get to eat breakfast?’ he said sarcastically.

‘Mr Dibbler is havin’ food laid on, Mr Dibbler says,’ said Detritus.

There was a wheezing noise from under the bed. Gaspode emerged, in a cloud of old-rugness, and had an early morning scratch.

‘Wha—’ he began, and then saw the troll. ‘Bark, bark,’ he corrected himself.

‘Oh. A little dog. I like little dogs,’ said Detritus.

‘Woof.’

‘Raw,’ the troll added. But he couldn’t get the right amount of statutory nastiness into his voice. Visions of Ruby in her feather boa and three acres of red velvet kept undulating across his mind.

Gaspode scratched his ear vigorously.

‘Woof,’ he said quietly. ‘In tones of low menace,’ he added, after Detritus had gone.

The slope of the hill was already alive with people when Victor arrived. A couple of tents had been erected. Someone was holding a camel. Several cages of demons gibbered in the shade of a thorn tree.

In the middle of all this were Dibbler and Silverfish, arguing. Dibbler had his arm around Silverfish’s shoulder.

‘A dead giveaway, is that,’ said a voice from the level of Victor’s knees. ‘It means some poor bugger is about to be taken to the cleaners.’

‘It’ll be a step up for you, Tom!’ Dibbler was saying. ‘I mean, how many people in Holy Wood can call themselves Vice-President in Charge of Executive Affairs?’

‘Yes, but it’s my company!’ Silverfish wailed.

‘Right! Right!’ said Dibbler. ‘That’s what a name like Vice-President of Executive Affairs means.’

‘It does?’

‘Have I ever lied to you?’

Silverfish’s brow furrowed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘yesterday you said—’

‘I mean metaphorically,’ said Dibbler quickly.

‘Oh. Well. Metaphorically? I suppose not—’

‘There you are, then. Now, where’s that artist?’ Dibbler spun around, giving the impression that Silverfish had just been switched off.

A man scurried up with a folder under his arm.

‘Yessir, Mr Dibbler?’

Throat pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket.

‘I want the posters ready by tonight, understand?’ he warned. ‘Here. This is the name of the click.’

‘Shadowe of the Dessert,’ the artist read. His brow furrowed. He had been educated beyond the needs of Holy Wood. ‘It’s about food?’ he said.

But Dibbler wasn’t listening. He was advancing on Victor.

‘Victor!’ he said. ‘Baby!’

‘It’s got him,’ said Gaspode quietly. ‘Got him worse than anyone, I reckon.’

‘What has? How can you tell?’ Victor hissed.

‘Partly a’cos of subtle signs what you don’t seem to be ablter recognize,’ said Gaspode, ‘and partly a’cos he’s actin’ like a complete twerp, really.’

‘Great to see you!’ Dibbler enthused, his eyes glowing manically.