Moving pictures

in a driftwood hut, clutched in the hand of a dead man.

On the cover were the words The Boke of the Film.

On the first page, in the neat round hand of someone to whom writing doesn't come easily, were the further words: This is the Chroncal of the Keeprs of the ParaMountain coppied out by me Deccan Beacuase Of the old onne it being fallin Apart.

He turned the stiff pages carefully. They seemed to be crammed with almost identical entries. They were all undated, but that wasn't very important, since one day had been pretty much like the other.

Gott up. Went to lavatry. Made up fire, announused the Matinee Performanse. Broke fast. Colected woode. Made up fire. Foraged on the hille. Chanted the Evening Performansee. Supper. Sed the Late-Nite Performanse chant. Wnet to lavatry. Bed.

Gott up. Went to lavatry. Made up fire, sed the Matinee Performanse. Broke fast. Crullet the fisheman from Jowser Cove have left 2 fyne see bass. Clected woode. Heralded the Evewning Performanse, made up fire. Howskeepeing. Supper. Chanted the Late Night performanse. Bed. Gott up at Midnigte, went to lavaotry, checked fire, but it was not Needful of Woode.

He saw the waitress out of the tail of his eye.

'I'd like a boiled egg,' he said.

'It's stew. Fish stew.'

He looked up into Ginger's blazing eyes.

'I didn't know you were a waitress,' he said.

She made a show of dusting the salt bowl. 'Nor did I until yesterday,' she said. 'Lucky for me Borgle's regular morning girl got a chance in the new moving picture that Untied Alchemists are making, isn't it?' She shrugged. 'If I'm really lucky, who knows? I might get to do the afternoon shift too.'

'Look, I didn't mean-'

'It's stew. Take it or leave it. Three customers this morning have done both.'

'I'll take it. Look, you won't believe it, but I found this book in the hands of-'

'I'm not allowed to dally with customers. This isn't the best job in town, but you're not losing it for me,' snapped Ginger. 'Fish stew, right?'

'Oh. Right. Sorry.'

He flicked backwards through the pages. Before Deccan there was Tento, who also chanted three times a day and also sometimes received gifts of fish and also went to the lavatory, although either he wasn't so assiduous about it as Deccan or hadn't thought it always worth writing down. Before that, someone called Meggelin had been the chanter. A whole string of people had lived on the beach, and then if you went back further there was a group of them, and further still the entries had a more official feel. It was hard to tell. They seemed to be written in code, line after line of little complex pictures . . .

A bowl of primal soup was plonked down in front of him.

'Look,' he said. 'What time do you get off-'

'Never,' said Ginger.

'I just wondered if you might know where-'

'No.'

Victor stared at the murky surface of the broth. Borgle worked on the principle that if you find it in water, it's a fish. There was something purple in there and it had at least ten legs.

He ate it anyway. It was costing him thirty pence.

Then, with Ginger resolutely busying herself at the counter with her back to him lighthouse- fashion, so that however he tried to attract her attention her back was still facing him without her apparently moving, he went to look for another job.