Moving Pictures

wasn’t it?” she burst out. “We had something really amazing, didn’t we?”
    “Yes.”
    “People really thought it was good, didn’t they?”
    “Oh, yes,” said Victor somberly.
    “I mean, didn’t we bring something really great into the world?”
    “No kidding.”
    “I didn’t mean that . Being a screen goddess isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know,” said Ginger.
    “Right.”
    Ginger sighed. “No more Holy Wood magic,” she said.
    “I think there may be some left,” said Victor.
    “Where?”
    “Just drifting around. Finding ways to use itself up, I expect.”
    Ginger stared at her glass. “What are you going to do now?” she said.
    “Don’t know. How about you?”
    “Go back to the farm, maybe.”
    “Why?”
    “Holy Wood was my chance, you see? There aren’t many jobs for women in Ankh-Morpork. At least,” she added,
    “none that I’d care to do. I’ve had three offers of marriage. From quite important men.”
    “Have you? Why?”
    She frowned. “Hey, I’m not that unattractive—”
    “I didn’t mean it like that,” said Victor hurriedly.
    “Oh, I suppose if you’re a powerful merchant it’s nice to have a famous wife. It’s like owning jewelry.” She looked down. “Mrs. Cosmopilite says can she have one of the ones I don’t want. I said she could have all three.”
    “I’ve always been that way about choices myself,” said Victor, cheering up.
    “Have you? If that’s all the choice there is, I’m not choosing. What can you be, after you’ve been yourself, as big as possible?”
    “Nothing,” said Victor.
    “No one knows what it feels like.”
    “Except us.”
    “Yes.”
    “Yes.”
    Ginger grinned. It was the first time Victor had ever seen her face shorn of petulance, anger, worry or Holy Wood make-up.
    “Cheer up,” she said. “Tomorrow is another day.”

    Click…
    Sergeant Colon, Ankh-Morpork city watch, was awakened from his peaceful doze in the guardhouse over the main gate by a distant rumbling.
    A cloud of dust stretched from horizon to horizon. He watched it thoughtfully for some time. It grew bigger and, eventually, disgorged a dark-skinned young man riding an elephant.
    It trotted up the road to the gates and lumbered to a halt at the city wall. The dust cloud, Colon couldn’t help noticing, was still on the horizon and still getting bigger.
    The boy cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: “Can you tell me the way to Holy Wood?”
    “There ain’t no Holy Wood anymore, from what I hear,” said Colon.
    The boy appeared to consider this. He looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. Then he said: “Do you know where I can find Mr. C.M.O.T. Dibbler?”
    Sgt. Colon repeated the initials under his breath.
    “You mean Throat?” he said. “Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler?”
    “Is he in?”
    Sgt. Colon glanced at the city behind him. “I’ll just go and see,” he said. “Who shall I say wants him?”
    “We’ve got a delivery for him. COD.”
    “Cod?” hazarded Colon, glancing at the lowering cloud.
    “You’re herding fish?”
    “Not fish.”
    Huge gray foreheads were becoming visible in the dust. There was also the very distinctive smell you get when a thousand elephants have been foraging for days in cabbage fields.
    “Just hang on,” he said. “I’ll go and fetch him.”
    Colon pulled his head back into the guardroom and nudged the sleeping form of Corporal Nobbs, currently the other half of the keen-eyed fighting force that was ceaselessly guarding the city.
    “Wassat?”
    “You seen ole Throat this morning, Nobby?”
    “Yeah, he was in Easy Street. Bought a Jumbo Sausage Surprise off him.”
    “He’s back selling sausages?”
    “Got to. Lost all his money. What’s up?”
    “Just take a look outside, will you?” said Colon, in a level voice.
    Nobby took a look.
    “Looks like—would you say it was a thousand elephants, Sarge?”
    “Yeah. About a thousand, I’d say.”
    “Thought it looked about a thousand.”
    “Man down there says Throat ordered ’em,” said Sergeant Colon.
    “Get away? He’s going into this Jumbo Sausage thing in a big way, then?”
    Their eyes met. Nobby’s grin was evil.
    “Oh, go on,” he said. “Let me go and tell him. Please?”

    Click…
    Thomas Silverfish, alchemist and failed click producer, stirred the contents of a crucible and sighed wistfully.
    A lot of gold had been left behind in Holy Wood, for anyone who had the nerve to go and dig for it. For those