Moving Pictures

slid away, and—”
    “Yes, I’ve seen it, but why? ”
    “Well, I’ve got a couple of ideas,” said Victor cautiously.
    “Tell me!”
    “Um. Well, have you heard of something called a genius loci? ”
    “No.” Her brow wrinkled. “It’s clever, is it?”
    “It’s the sort of soul of a place. It can be quite strong. It can be made strong, by worship or love or hate, if it goes on long enough. And I’m wondering if the spirit of a place can call to people. And animals, too. I mean, Holy Wood is a different sort of place, isn’t it? People act differently here. Everywhere else, the most important things are gods or money or cattle. Here, the most important thing is to be important.”
    He had her full attention. “Yes?” she said encouragingly, and, “It doesn’t sound too bad so far.”
    “I’m getting to the bad bit.”
    “Oh.”
    Victor swallowed. His brain was bubbling like a bouillon. Half-remembered facts surfaced tantalizingly and sank again. Dry old tutors in high old rooms had been telling him dull old things which were suddenly as urgent as a knife, and he dredged desperately for them.
    “I’m not—” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure it’s right, though,” he managed. “It’s come from somewhere else . It can happen. You’ve heard of ideas whose time has come?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, they’re the tame ones. There’s other ones. Ideas so full of vigor they don’t even wait for their time. Wild ideas. Escaped ideas. And the trouble is, when you get something like that, you get a hole—”
    He looked at her polite, blank expression. Analogies bubbled to the surface like soggy croutons. Imagine all the worlds that have ever been are in one sense pressed together like a sandwich…a pack of cards…a book…a folded sheet…if conditions are right, things can go through rather than along …but if you open a gate between worlds, there are terrible dangers, as for instance…
    As for instance…
    As for instance…
    As for instance what?
    It rose up in his memory like the suddenly-discovered bit of suspicious tentacle just when you thought it was safe to eat the paella.
    “It could be that something else is trying to come through the same way,” he ventured. “In the, uh, in the nowhere between the somewhere there are creatures which on the whole I’d rather not describe to you.”
    “You already have,” said Ginger, in a tense voice.
    “And, uh, they’re generally quite keen to get into the real worlds and perhaps they’re somehow making contact with you when you’re asleep and…” He gave up. He couldn’t bear her expression anymore.
    “I could be entirely wrong,” he said quickly.
    “You’ve got to stop me opening the door,” she whispered.
    “I could be one of Them.”
    “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Victor loftily. “They’ve generally got too many arms, I think.”
    “I tried putting tacks on the floor to wake myself up,” said Ginger.
    “Sounds awful. Did it work?”
    “No. They were all back in their bag in the morning. I must have picked them up again.”
    Victor pursed his lips. “That could be a good sign,” he said.
    “Why?”
    “If you were being summoned by, uh, unpleasant things, I think they wouldn’t bother what you walked over.”
    “Urgh.”
    “You haven’t got any idea why it’s all happening, have you?” Victor said.
    “No! But I always get the same dream.” Her eyes narrowed. “Hey, how come you know all this stuff?”
    “I—a wizard told me, once,” said Victor.
    “You’re not a wizard yourself?”
    “Absolutely not. No wizards in Holy Wood. And this dream?”
    “Oh, it’s too strange to mean anything. Anyway, I used to dream it even when I was small. It starts off with this mountain, only it’s not a normal mountain, because—”
    Detritus the troll loomed over them.
    “Young Mr. Dibbler says it’s time to start shooting again,” he rumbled.
    “Will you come to my room tonight?” hissed Ginger.
    “Please? You can wake me up if I start sleepwalking again.”
    “Well, er, yes, but your landlady might not like it—” Victor began.
    “Oh, Mrs. Cosmopilite is very broadminded,” said Ginger.
    “She is?”
    “She’ll just think we’re having sex,” said Ginger.
    “Ah,” said Victor hollowly. “That’s all right, then.”
    “Young Mr. Dibbler don’t like being kept waiting,” said Detritus.
    “Oh, shut up,” said Ginger. She stood up and brushed the dust off her