Moving Pictures

nights.”
    “Oh.”
    “Didn’t you want to be anything?” said Ginger, putting a whole sentence-worth of disdain in a mere three letters.
    “Not really,” said Victor. “Everything looks interesting until you do it. Then you find it’s just another job. I bet even people like Cohen the Barbarian get up in the morning thinking, ‘Oh, no , not another day of crushing the jeweled thrones of the world beneath my sandalled feet.’”
    “Is that what he does?” said Ginger, interested despite herself.
    “According to the stories, yes.”
    “Why?”
    “Search me. It’s just a job, I guess.”
    Ginger picked up a handful of sand. There were tiny white shells in it, which stayed behind as it trickled away between her fingers.
    “I remember when the circus came to our village,” she said. “I was ten. There was this girl with spangled tights. She walked a tightrope. She could even do somersaults on it. Everybody cheered and clapped. They wouldn’t let me climb a tree, but they cheered her . That’s when I decided.”
    “Ah,” said Victor, trying to keep up with the psychology of this. “You decided you wanted to be someone?”
    “Don’t be silly. That’s when I decided I was going to be a lot more than just someone.”
    She threw the shells toward the sunset and laughed. “I’m going to be the most famous person in the world, everyone will fall in love with me, and I shall live forever.”
    “It’s always best to know your own mind,” said Victor diplomatically.
    “You know what the greatest tragedy is in the whole world?” said Ginger, not paying him the least attention. “It’s all the people who never find out what it is they really want to do or what it is they’re really good at. It’s all the sons who become blacksmiths because their fathers were blacksmiths. It’s all the people who could be really fantastic flute players who grow old and die without ever seeing a musical instrument, so they become bad plowmen instead. It’s all the people with talents who never even find out. Maybe they are never even born in a time when it’s even possible to find out.”
    She took a deep breath. “It’s all the people who never get to know what it is they can really be. It’s all the wasted chances . Well, Holy Wood is my chance, do you understand? This is my time for getting!”
    Victor nodded. “Yes,” he said. Magic for ordinary people, Silverfish had called it. A man turned a handle, and your life got changed.
    “And not just for me,” Ginger went on. “It’s a chance for all of us . The people who aren’t wizards and kings and heroes. Holy Wood’s like a big bubbling stew but this time different ingredients float to the top. Suddenly there’s all these new things for people to do. Do you know the theaters don’t allow women to act? But Holy Wood does. And in Holy Wood there’s jobs for trolls that don’t just involve hitting people. And what did the handlemen do before they had handles to turn?”
    She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Ankh-Morpork’s distant glow.
    “Now they’re trying to find ways of adding sound to moving pictures,” she said, “and out there are people who’ll turn out to be amazingly good at making, making…making soundies . They don’t even know it yet—but they’re out there. I can feel them. They’re out there.”
    Her eyes were glowing gold. It might just be the sunset, Victor thought, but…
    “Because of Holy Wood, hundreds of people are finding out what it is they really want to be,” said Ginger. “And thousands and thousands are getting a chance to forget themselves for an hour or so. This whole damn world is being given a shake!”
    “That’s it,” said Victor. “That’s what worries me. It’s as though we’re being slotted in. You think we’re using Holy Wood, but Holy Wood is using us. All of us.”
    “How? Why?”
    “I don’t know, but—”
    “Look at wizards,” Ginger went on, vibrating with indignation. “What good has their magic ever done anyone?”
    “I think it sort of holds the world together—” Victor began.
    “They’re pretty good at magic flames and things, but can they make a loaf of bread?” Ginger wasn’t in the mood for listening to anyone.
    “Not for very long,” said Victor helplessly.
    “What does that mean?”
    “Something real like a loaf of bread contains a lot of…well…I suppose you’d call it energy,” said Victor. “It takes a massive amount of power to create