Moving Pictures

time.”
    “Now listen ,” Ginger began.
    “And now we get out of here fast,” said Rock. “This whole ceiling looking very defective to me. Could go at any time.”
    Victor glanced up. Several of the blocks were dipping ominously.
    “You’re right,” he said. He grabbed the arm of the protesting Ginger and hustled her along the passage. The trolls gathered up the fallen compatriot who did not know how to behave in polite company and plodded after them.
    “That was disgusting , giving them the impression that—” Ginger hissed.
    “Shut up!” snapped Victor. “What did you want me to say, hmm? I mean, what sort of explanation do you think would fit? What would you like people to know?”
    She hesitated.
    “Well, all right,” she conceded. “But you could have thought of something else. You could have said we were exploring, or looking for, for fossils—” her voice trailed off.
    “Yes, in the middle of the night with you in a silk neggleliggle,” said Victor. “What is a neggleliggle, anyway?”
    “He meant negligee,” said Ginger.
    “Come on, let’s get back to town. Afterward I might just have time to have a couple of hours’ sleep.”
    “What do you mean, afterward?”
    “We’re going to have to buy these lads a big drink—”
    There was a low rumble from the hill. A cloud of dust billowed out of the doorway and covered the trolls. The rest of the roof had gone.
    “And that’s it,” said Victor. “It’s over. Can you make the sleepwalking part of you understand that? It’s no good trying to get in anymore, there isn’t any way. It’s buried. It’s over. Thank goodness.”

    There’s a bar like it in every town. It’s dimly-lit and the drinkers, although they talk, don’t address their words to one another and they don’t listen, either. They just talk the hurt inside. It’s a bar for the derelict and the unlucky and all of those people who have been temporarily flagged off the racetrack of life and into the pits.
    It always does a brisk trade.
    On this dawn the mourners sat ranged along the counter, each in his cloud of gloom, each certain that he was the most unfortunate individual in the whole world.
    “I created it,” said Silverfish, morosely. “I thought it would be educational. It could broaden people’s horizons. I didn’t intend for it to be a, a, a show . With a thousand elephants!” he added nastily.
    “Yeah,” said Detritus. “She don’t know what she wants. I do what she want, then she say, that not right, you a troll with no finer feelin’, you do not understand what a girl wants. She say, Girl want sticky things to eat in box with bow around, I make box with bow around, she open box, she scream, she say flayed horse not what she mean. She don’t know what she wants.”
    “Yeah,” said a voice from under Silverfish’s stool. “It’d serve ’em all right if I went off an’ joined the wolves.”
    “I mean, take this Blown Away thing,” said Silverfish. “It’s not even real. It’s not like things really were. It’s just lies. Anyone can tell lies.”
    “Yeah,” said Detritus. “Like, she say, Girl want music under window, I play music under window, everyone in street wake up and shouting out of house, You bad troll, what you hitting rocks this time of night? And she never even wake up.”
    “Yeah,” said Silverfish.
    “Yeah,” said Detritus.
    “Yeah,” said the voice under the stool.
    The man who ran the bar was naturally cheerful. It wasn’t hard to be cheerful, really, when your customers acted like lightning rods for any misery that happened to be floating around. He’d found that it wasn’t a good idea to say things like, “Never mind, look on the bright side,” because there never was one, or “Cheer up, it may never happen,” because often it already had. All that was expected of him was to keep the drink coming.
    He was a little puzzled this morning, though. There seemed to be an extra person in the bar, quite apart from whoever it was speaking up from the floor. He kept getting the feeling that he was serving an extra drink, and even getting paid for it, and even talking to the mysterious purchaser. But he couldn’t see him. In fact he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing, or who he was talking to.
    He wandered down to the far end of the bar.
    A glass slid toward him.
    S AME AGAIN , said a voice out of the shadows.
    “Er,” said the barman. “Yeah. Sure. What was it?”
    A NYTHING .
    The barman filled it