Moving Pictures

from every conceivable angle. One by one they held up their thumbs.
    Gaffer rapped on the picture box in front of him.
    “Ready, lads?” he said.
    There was a chorus of squeaks.
    “Good lads,” he said. “Get this one right and thee can have an extra lizard for thy tea.”
    He grasped the handle with one hand and picked up a megaphone with the other.
    “Ready when you are, Mr. Dibbler!” he yelled. C.M.O.T. nodded and was about to raise his hand when Soll’s arm shot out and grabbed it. The nephew was staring intently at the ranged ranks of horsemen.
    “Just one moment,” he said levelly, and then cupped his hands and raised his voice to a shout. “Hey, you there! Fifteenth knight along! Yes, you! Would you mind unfurling your banner, please? Thank you. Could you please report to Mrs. Cosmopilite for a new one. Thank you.”
    Soll turned to his uncle, his eyebrows raised.
    “It’s…it’s a heraldic device,” said Dibbler quickly.
    “Crossed spare ribs on a bed of lettuce?” said Soll.
    “Very keen on their food, those old knights—”
    “And I liked the motto,” said Soll. “‘Every (k) night is Gormay Night At Harga’s House of Ribs.’ If we had sound, I wonder what his battle cry would have been?”
    “You’re my own flesh and blood,” said Dibbler, shaking his head. “How can you do this to me?”
    “Because I’m your own flesh and blood,” said Soll.
    Dibbler brightened. Of course, when you looked at it like that, it didn’t seem so bad.

    This is Holy Wood. To pass the time quickly, you just film the clock hands moving fast…
    In Unseen University, the resograph is already recording seven plibs a minute.

    And, toward the end of the afternoon, they burned Ankh-Morpork.
    The real city had been burned down many times in its long history—out of revenge, or carelessness, or spite, or even just for the insurance. Most of the big stone buildings that actually made it a city , as opposed simply to a load of hovels all in one place, survived them intact and many people 22 considered that a good fire every hundred years or so was essential to the health of the city since it helped to keep down the rats, roaches, fleas and, of course, people not rich enough to live in stone houses.
    The famous Fire during the Civil War had been noteworthy simply because it was started by both sides at the same time in order to stop the city falling into enemy hands.
    It had not otherwise, according to the history books, been very impressive. The Ankh had been particularly high that summer, and most of the city had been too damp to burn.
    This time it was a lot better.
    Flames poured into the sky. Because this was Holy Wood, everything burned, because the only difference between the stone buildings and the wooden buildings was what was painted on the canvas. The two-dimensional Unseen University burned. The Patrician’s backless palace burned. Even the scale-model Tower of Art gushed flames like a roman candle.
    Dibbler watched it with concern.
    After a while Soll, behind him, said, “Waiting for something, Uncle?”
    “Hmm? Oh, no. I hope Gaffer’s concentrating on the tower, that’s all,” said Dibbler. “Very important symbolic landmark.”
    “It certainly is,” said Soll. “Very important. So important, in fact, that I sent some lads up it at lunchtime just to make sure it was all OK.”
    “You did?” said Dibbler, guiltily.
    “Yes. And do you know what they found? They found someone had nailed some fireworks to the outside. Lots and lots of fireworks, on fuses. It’s a good thing they found them because if the things had gone off it would have ruined the shot and we’d never be able to do it again. And, do you know, they said it looked as though the fireworks would spell out words?” Soll added.
    “What words?”
    “Never crossed my mind to ask them,” said Soll. “Never crossed my mind.”
    He stuck his hands in his pockets and began to whistle under his breath. After a while he glanced sidelong at his uncle.
    “‘Hottest ribs in town,’” he muttered. “Really!”
    Dibbler looked sulky. “It would have got a laugh, anyway,” he said.
    “Look, Uncle, this can’t go on,” said Soll. “No more of this commercial messing about, right?”
    “Oh, all right.”
    “Sure?”
    Dibbler nodded. “I’ve said all right, haven’t I?”
    “I want a bit more than that, Uncle.”
    “I solemnly promise not to do anymore meddling in the click,” said Dibbler gravely. “I’m