Moving Pictures

wonder bloody dog.” Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer.
    “You’re just jealous,” he said.
    “What, of an overgrown puppy with a single-figure IQ?” sneered Gaspode.
    “ And a glossy coat, cold nose and probably a pedigree as long as your ar—as my arm,” said Victor.
    “Pedigree? Pedigree? What’s a pedigree? It’s just breedin’. I had a father too, you know. And two grandads. And four great grandads. And many of ’em were the same dog, even. So don’t you tell me from no pedigree,” said Gaspode.
    He paused to cock a leg against one of the supports of the new “Home of Century of the Fruitbat Moving Pictures’ sign.
    That was something else that had puzzled Thomas Silverfish. He’d come in this morning, and the hand-painted sign saying “Interesting and Instructive Films” had gone and had been replaced by this huge billboard. He was sitting back in the office with his head in his hands, trying to convince himself that it had been his idea.
    “ I’m the one Holy Wood called,” Gaspode muttered, in a self-pitying voice. “I came all the way here, and then they chose that great hairy thing. Probably it’ll work for a plate of meat a day, too.”
    “Well, look, maybe you weren’t called to Holy Wood to be a wonder dog,” said Victor. “Maybe it’s got something else in mind for you.”
    This is ridiculous, he thought. Why are we talking about it like this? A place hasn’t got a mind. It can’t call people to it…well, unless you count things like homesickness. But you can’t be homesick for a place you’ve never been to before, it stands to reason. The last time people were here must have been thousands of years ago.
    Gaspode sniffed at a wall.
    “Did you tell Dibbler everything I told you?” he said.
    “Yes. He was very upset when I mentioned about going to Untied Alchemists.”
    Gaspode sniggered.
    “An’ you told him what I said about a verbal contract not being worth the paper it’s printed on?”
    “Yes. He said he didn’t understand what I meant. But he gave me a cigar. And he said he’d pay for me and Ginger to go to Ankh-Morpork soon. He said he’s got a really big picture planned.”
    “What is it?” said Gaspode suspiciously.
    “He didn’t say.”
    “Listen, lad,” said Gaspode, “Dibbler’s making a fortune. I counted it. There were five thousand, two hundred and seventy-three dollars and fifty-two pence on Soll’s desk. And you earned it. Well, you and Ginger did.”
    “Gosh!”
    “Now, there’s some new words I want you to learn,” said Gaspode. “Think you can?”
    “I hope so.”
    “‘Per-cent-age of the gross,’” said Gaspode. “There. Think you can remember it?”
    “‘Per-cent-age of the gross,’” said Victor.
    “Good lad.”
    “What does it mean?”
    “Don’t you worry about that,” said Gaspode. “You just have to say it’s what you want, OK. When the time’s right.”
    “When will the time be right, then?” said Victor.
    Gaspode grinned nastily. “Oh, I reckon when Dibbler’s just got a mouthful of food’d be favorite.”

    Holy Wood Hill bustled like an ant heap. On the seaward side Fir Wood Studios were making The Third Gnome . Microlithic Pictures, which was run almost entirely by the dwarfs, was hard at work on Golde Diggers of 1457 , which was going to be followed by The Golde Rushe . Floating Bladder Pictures was hard at work with Turkey Legs . And Borgle’s was packed out.
    “I don’t know what it’s called, but we’re doing one about going to see a wizard. Something about following a yellow sick toad,” a man in one half of a lion suit explained to a companion in the queue.
    “No wizards in Holy Wood, I thought.”
    “Oh, this one’s all right. He’s not very good at the wizarding.”
    “So what’s new?”
    Sound! That was the problem. Alchemists toiled in sheds all over Holy Wood, screaming at parrots, pleading with mynah birds, constructing intricate bottles to trap sound and bounce it around harmlessly until it was time for it to be let out. To the sporadic boom of octo-cellulose exploding was added the occasional sob of exhaustion or scream of agony as an enraged parrot mistook a careless thumb for a nut.
    The parrots weren’t the success they’d hoped for. It was true that they could remember what they heard and repeat it after a fashion, but there was no way to turn them off and they were in the habit of ad-libbing other sounds they’d heard or, Dibbler suspected, had been