Moving Pictures

Silverfish demanded.
    “Oh, I don’t know. Razzmatazz. Oomph. The old zonkaroonie.”
    “Funny noises? We haven’t got sound.”
    “ Everyone makes clicks about people running around and fighting and falling over,” said Dibbler. “There should be something more. I’ve been looking at the things you make here, and they all look the same to me.”
    “Well, all sausages look the same to me,” snapped Silverfish.
    “ They’re meant to! That’s what people expect!”
    “And I’m giving them what they expect, too,” said Silverfish. “People like to see more of what they expect. Fights and chases, that sort of thing—”
    “’Scuse me, Mister Silverfish,” said the handleman, above the angry chattering of the demons.
    “Yes?” snapped Dibbler.
    “’Scuse me, Mister Dibbler, but I got to feed ’em ina quarter of a hour.”
    Dibbler groaned.
    In retrospect, Victor was always a little unclear about those next few minutes. That’s the way it goes. The moments that change your life are the ones that happen suddenly, like the one where you die.
    There had been another stylized battle, he knew that much, with Morry and what would have been a fearsome whip if the troll hadn’t kept tangling it around his own legs. And, when the dreadful Balgrog had been beaten and had slid out of shot mugging terribly and trying to hold its wings on with one hand, he’d turned and cut the ropes holding the girl to the stake and should have dragged her sharply to the right when—
    —the whispering started.
    There were no words but there was something that was the heart of words, that went straight through his ears and down his spinal column without bothering to make a stopover in his brain.
    He stared into the girl’s eyes and wondered if she was hearing it too.
    A long way off, there were words. There was Silverfish saying, “Come on, get on with it, what are you looking at her like that for?” and the handleman saying, “They gets really fractious if they misses a meal,” and Dibbler saying, in a voice hissing like a thrown knife, “Don’t stop turning the handle.”
    The edges of his vision went cloudy, and there were shapes in the cloud that changed and faded before he had a chance to examine them. Helpless as a fly in an amber flow, as much in control of his destiny as a soap bubble in a hurricane, he leaned down and kissed her.
    There were more words beyond the ringing in his ears.
    “Why’s he doing that? Did I tell him to do that? No one told him to do that!”
    “—and then I have to muck ’em out afterward, and let me tell you, it’s no—”
    “Turn that handle! Turn that handle!” screamed Dibbler.
    “Now why’s he looking like that ?”
    “Cor!”
    “If you stop turning that handle you’ll never work in this town again!”
    “Listen, mister, I happen to belong to the Handlemen’s Guild—”
    “Don’t stop! Don’t stop !”
    Victor surfaced. The whispering faded, to be replaced by the distant boom of the breakers. The real world was back, hot and sharp, the sun pinned to the sky like a medal awarded for being a great day.
    The girl took a deep breath.
    “I’m, gosh, I’m terribly sorry,” babbled Victor, backing away. “I really don’t know what happened—”
    Dibbler jumped up and down.
    “That’s it, that’s it !” he yelled. “How soon can you have it ready?”
    “Well, like I said, I got to feed the imps and muck ’em out—”
    “Right, right—it’ll give me time to get some posters drawn,” said Dibbler.
    “I’ve already had some done,” said Silverfish coldly.
    “I bet you have, I bet you have,” said Dibbler, excitedly. “I bet you have. I bet they say things like ‘You mighte like to see a Quite Interestinge Moving Picture’!”
    “What’s wrong with it?” Silverfish demanded. “It’s a bloody sight better than hot sausage!”
    “I told you, when you sell sausages you don’t just hang around waiting for people to want sausage, you go out there and make them hungry. And you put mustard on ’em. And that’s what your lad there has done.”
    He clapped one hand on Silverfish’s shoulder, and waved the other expansively.
    “Can’t you see it?” he said. He hesitated. Strange ideas were pouring into his head faster than he could think them. He felt dizzy with excitement and possibilities.
    “Sword of Passione,” he said. “That’s what we’ll call it. Not name it after some daft old bugger who’s probably not even alive anymore.