'As a double act?' said Gaspode. They nodded.
'Not a chance,' he said. 'Who's going to pay good money to see cats and mice chasing one another? They're only interested even in dogs if they jus' pander to humans the whole time, so they certainly ain't going to watch a cat chase a mouse. Take it from me. I know about movin' pictures.'
'Then it's about time your humans got it sorted out so we can go home,' snapped the mouse. 'The boy isn't doing anything.'
'He's useless,' said the mouse.
'He's in love,' said Gaspode. 'It's very tricky.'
'Yeah, I know how it ish,' said the cat sympathetically. 'People throwing old boots and things at you.'
'Old boots?' said the mouse.
'That'sh what's always happened to me when I've been in love,' said cat wistfully.
'It's different for humans,' said Gaspode uncertainly. 'You don't get so many boots and buckets of water thrown at you. It's more, er, flowers and arguing and stuff.'
The animals looked glumly at one another.
'I've watched 'em,' said Squeak. 'She thinks he's a idiot.'
'That's all part of it,' added Gaspode. 'They call it romance.'
Cat shrugged. 'Give me a boot every time. You know where you stand, with a boot.'
The glittering spirit of Holy Wood streamed out into the world, no longer a trickle but a flood. It bubbled in the veins of people, even of animals. When the handlemen turned their handles, it was there. When the carpenters hammered their nails, they hammered for Holy Wood. Holy Wood was in Borgle's stew, in the sand, in the air. It was growing.
And it was going to flower . . .
Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, or C.M.O.T. as he liked to be called, sat up in bed and stared at the darkness.
In his head a city was on fire.
He fumbled hurriedly beside his bed for the matches, managed to light the candle, and eventually located a pen.
There was no paper. He specifically told everyone there ought to be some paper by his bed, in case he woke up with an idea. That's when you got the best ideas, when you were asleep.
At least there was a pen and ink . . .
Images sleeted past his eyes. Catch them now, or let them go forever . . .
He snatched up the pen and started to scribble on the bedsheets.
A Man and A Woman Aflame With Passione in A Citie Riven by Sivil War!
The pen scritched and spluttered its way across the coarse linen.
Yes! Yes! This was it!
He'd show 'em, with their silly plaster pyramids and penny-and-dime palaces. This was the one they'd have to look up to! When the history of Holy Wood was written this was the one they'd point to and say: That was the Moving Picture to End all Moving Pictures!
Trolls! Battles! Romance! People with thin moustaches! Soldiers of fortune! And one woman's fight to keep the Dibbler hesitated something-or-other she loves, we'll think about this later, in a world gone mad!
The pen jerked and tore and raced onwards.
Вы читаете Moving pictures
