Moving Pictures

angrily.
    “Look—” he began.
    “No, it’s all right,” said the prospective diner. “The slugs have formed a defensive ring.”
    There was a commotion by the door. Detritus the troll waded through the diners, with Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler strutting along behind him.
    The troll shouldered the queue aside and glared at Fruntkin.
    “Mr. Dibbler want a word,” he said, and reached across the counter, lifted the dwarf up by his food-encrusted shirt, and dangled him in front of Throat.
    “Anyone seen Victor Tugelbend?” said Throat. “Or that girl Ginger?”
    Fruntkin opened his mouth to swear, and thought better of it.
    “The boy was in here half an hour ago,” he squeaked.
    “Ginger works here mornings. Don’t know where she goes.”
    “Where’d Victor go?” said Throat. He pulled a bag out of his pocket. It jingled. Fruntkin’s eyes swiveled toward it as though they were ball bearings and it was a powerful magnet.
    “Dunno, Mr. Throat,” he said. “He just went out again when she wasn’t here.”
    “Right,” said Throat. “Well, if you see him again, tell him I’m looking for him and I’m going to make him a star, right?”
    “Star. Right,” said the dwarf.
    Throat reached into his moneybag and produced a ten-dollar piece.
    “And I want to order dinner for later on,” he added.
    “Dinner. Right,” quavered Fruntkin.
    “Steak and prawns, I think,” said Throat. “With a choice of sunkissed vegetables in season, and then strawberries and cream.”
    Fruntkin stared at him.
    “Er—,” he began.
    Detritus poked the dwarf so that he swung backward and forward.
    “An’ I,” he said, “will ’ave…er…a well-weathered basalt with a aggregate of fresh-hewn sandstone conglomerates. Right?”
    “Er. Yes,” said Fruntkin.
    “Put him down, Detritus. He doesn’t want to be hanging around,” said Throat. “And gently .” He looked around at the fascinated faces.
    “Remember,” he said, “I’m looking for Victor Tugelbend and I’m going to make him a star. If anyone sees him, you must tell him. Oh, and I’ll have the steak rare, Fruntkin.”
    He strode back to the door.
    After he had gone the chattering flowed back like a tide.
    “Make him a star? What’d he want a star for?”
    “I didn’t know you could make stars…I thought they were like, you know, stuck to the sky…”
    “I think he meant make him a star. You know, him himself. Turn him into a star.”
    “ How can you make anyone into a star ?”
    “I dunno. I suppose you compress them right up small and they burst into this mass of flaming hydrogen?”
    “Good grief”
    “Yeah! Is that troll mean , or what?”

    Victor looked at the dog carefully.
    It couldn’t have spoken to him. It must have been his imagination. But he’d said that last time, hadn’t he?
    “I wonder what your name is?” said Victor, patting it on the head.
    “Gaspode,” said Gaspode.
    Victor’s hand froze in mid-tousle.
    “Tuppence,” said the dog, wearily. “World’s only bloody harmonica-playing dog. Tuppence.”
    It is the sun, Victor thought. I haven’t been wearing a hat. In a minute I’ll wake up and there’ll be cool sheets.
    “Well, you didn’t play very well. I couldn’t recognize the tune,” he said, stretching his mouth into a terrible grin.
    “You’re not supposed to recognize the bloody tune,” said Gaspode, sitting down heavily and industriously scratching one ear with his hind leg. “I’m a dog . You’re supposed to be bloody amazed I can bloody well get a squeak out of the bloody thing.”
    How shall I put it? Victor thought. Do I just say: excuse me, you appear to be tal…No, probably not .
    “Er,” he said. Hey, you’re quite chatty for…no .
    “Fleas,” said Gaspode, changing ears and legs. “Giving me gyp.”
    “Oh dear.”
    “And all these trolls. Can’t stand ’em. They smell all wrong. Bloody walking stones. You try and bite ’em, next minute you’re spittin’ teef. It’s not natural.”
    Talking of natural, I can’t help noticing that —
    “Bloody desert, this place,” said Gaspode.
    You’re a talking dog .
    “I expect you’re wondering,” said Gaspode, turning his penetrating stare on Victor once again, “how come I’m talking.”
    “Hadn’t given it a thought,” said Victor.
    “Me neither,” said Gaspode. “Until a couple of weeks ago. All my life, never said a bloody word. Worked for a bloke back in the big city. Tricks and that. Balancing a ball on my