Moving Pictures

.” He sniffed again. “Fresh laundry, no starch. Old shoes. Lot of studio make-up. She’s been in Borgle’s and had—” his nose twitched “—stoo. Not a big plate.”
    “I suppose you can tell how tall she is, can you?” said Victor.
    “She smells about five foot two, two and a half,” hazarded Gaspode.
    “Oh, come on !”
    “Walk a mile on these paws and call me a liar.”
    Victor kicked sand over his little fire and strolled down the slope.
    The light stopped moving as he approached it. For a moment he got a glimpse of a female figure clasping a shawl around her with one hand holding the torch high above her head. Then the light vanished so quickly it left blue and purple after-images dancing across his vision. Behind them, a small figure made a blacker shadow against the dusk.
    It said, “What are you doing in my…what am I…why are you in…where…,” and then, as if it had finally got to grips with the situation, changed gear and in a much more familiar voice demanded, “What are you doing here?”
    “Ginger?” said Victor.
    “Yes?”
    Victor paused. What were you supposed to say in circumstances like this?
    “Er…” he said. “It’s nice up here in the evenings, don’t you think?”
    She glared at Gaspode.
    “That’s that horrible dog who’s been hanging around the studio, isn’t it?” she said. “I can’t stand small dogs.”
    “Bark, bark,” said Gaspode. Ginger stared at him. Victor could almost read her thoughts: he said Bark, bark. And he’s a dog, and that’s the kind of noise dogs make , isn’t it?
    “I’m a cat person, myself,” she said, vaguely.
    A low-level voice said: “Yeah? Yeah? Wash in your own spit, do you?”
    “ What was that?”
    Victor backed away, waving his hands frantically. “Don’t look at me!” he said. “I didn’t say it!”
    “Oh? I suppose it was the dog, was it?” she demanded.
    “Who, me?” said Gaspode.
    Ginger froze. Her eyes swiveled around and down, to where Gaspode was idly scratching an ear.
    “Woof?” he said.
    “That dog spoke—” Ginger began, pointing a shaking finger at him.
    “I know,” said Victor. “That means he likes you.” He looked past her. Another light was coming up the hill.
    “Did you bring someone with you?” he said.
    “Me?” Ginger turned around.
    Now the light was accompanied by the cracking of dry twigs, and Dibbler stepped out of the dusk with Detritus trailing behind like a particularly scary shadow.
    “Ah- ha !” he said. “The lovebirds surprised, eh?”
    Victor gaped at him. “The what?” he said.
    “The what ?” said Ginger.
    “Been looking all over for you two,” said Dibbler. “Someone said he’d seen you come up here. Very romantic. Could do something with that. Look good on the posters. Right.” He draped his arms around them. “Come on,” he said.
    “What for?” said Victor.
    “We’re shooting first thing in the morning,” said Dibbler.
    “But Mr. Silverfish said I wasn’t going to work in this town again—” Victor began.
    Dibbler opened his mouth, and hesitated just for a moment. “Ah. Yes. But I’m going to give you another chance,” he said, speaking quite slowly for once. “Yeah. A chance. Like, you’re young people. Headstrong. Young once myself. Dibbler, I thought, even if it means cutting your own throat, give ’em a chance. Lower wages, of course. A dollar a day, how about that?”
    Victor saw the look of sudden hope on Ginger’s face.
    He opened his mouth.
    “Fifteen dollars,” said a voice. It wasn’t his.
    He shut his mouth.
    “What?” said Dibbler.
    Victor opened his mouth.
    “Fifteen dollars. Renegot’ble after a week. Fifteen dollars or nuffin’.”
    Victor shut his mouth, his eyes rolling.
    Dibbler waved a finger under his nose, and then hesitated.
    “I like it!” he said eventually. “Tough bargainer! OK. Three dollars.”
    “Fifteen.”
    “Five’s my last offer, kid. There’s thousands of people down there who’d jump at it, right?”
    “Name two, Mr. Dibbler.”
    Dibbler glanced at Detritus, who was lost in a reverie concerning Ruby, and then stared at Ginger.
    “OK,” he said. “Ten. Because I like you. But it’s cutting my own throat.”
    “Done.”
    Throat held out a hand. Victor stared at his own as if he was seeing it for the first time, and then shook.
    “And now let’s get back down,” said Dibbler. “Lot to organize.”
    He strode off through the trees. Victor and Ginger followed meekly