Moving pictures

'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 dress. Detritus blinked. People didn't usually tell him to shut up. A few worried fault-lines appeared on his brow. He turned and tried another loom, this time aimed at Victor.

'Young Mr Dibbler don't like?'

'Oh, go away,' snapped Victor, and wandered off after her.

Detritus stood alone and screwed up his eyes in the effort of thought. Of course, people did occasionally say things like 'Go away' and 'Shut up' to him, but always with the tremor of terrified bravado in their voice, and so naturally he always riposted 'Hur hur' and hit them. But no-one had ever spoken to him as if his existence was the last thing in the world they could possibly be persuaded to worry about. His massive shoulders sagged. Perhaps all this hanging around Ruby was bad for him.

Soll was standing over the artist who lettered the cards. He looked up as Victor and Ginger approached.

'Right,' he said, 'places, everyone. We'll go straight on to the ballroom scene.' He looked pleased with himself.

'Are the words all sorted out?' said Victor.

'No problem,' said Soll proudly. He glanced at the sun. 'We've lost a lot of time,' he added, 'so let's not waste any more.'

'Fancy you being able to get C.M.O.T. to give in like that,' said Victor.

'He had no argument at all. He's gone back to his office to sulk, I expect,' said Soll loftily. 'OK, everyone, let's all get?'

The lettering artist tugged at his sleeve.

'I was just wondering, Mr Soll, what you wanted me to put in the big scene now Victor doesn't mention ribs?'

'Don't worry me now, man!'

'But if you could just give me an idea?'

Soll firmly unhooked the man's hand from his sleeve. 'Frankly,' he said, 'I don't give a damn,' and he strode off towards the set.

The artist was left alone. He picked up his paintbrush. His lips moved silently, shaping themselves around the words.

Then he said, 'Hmm. Nice one.'

Banana N'Vectif, cunningest hunter in the great yellow plains of Klatch, held his breath as he tweezered the last piece into place. Rain drummed on the roof of his hut.

There. That was it.

He'd never done anything like this before, but he knew he was doing it right.

He'd trapped everything from zebras to thargas in his time, and what had he got to show for it? But yesterday, when he'd taken a load of skins into N'kouf, he'd heard a trader say that if any man ever built a better mousetrap, then the world would beat a path to his door.

He'd lain awake all night thinking about this. Then, in the first light of dawn, he scratched a