Moving pictures

Her head whipped around like a snake.

'You know? How do you know? Have you been spying on me?' she snapped. It was the old Ginger again, all fire and venom and the aggressiveness of paranoia.

'Laddie found you . . . asleep yesterday afternoon,' said

Victor, leaning back.

'During the day?'

'Yes.'

She put her hands to her mouth. 'It's worse than I thought,' she whispered. 'It's getting worse! You know when you met me up the hill? Just before Dibbler found us, and thought we were . . . spooning . . .

' she blushed.

'Well, I didn't even know how I'd got there!'

'And you went back last night,' said Victor.

'The dog told you, did he?' she said, dully.

'Yes. Sorry.'

'It's every night now,' moaned Ginger. 'I know, because even if I go back to bed there's sand all over the floor and my nails are all broken! I go there every night and I don't know why!'

'You're trying to open the door,' said Victor. 'There's this big ancient door now, where part of the hill has 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. Half­remembered 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 vigour 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 . . .