Moving pictures

'Dashing where?'

'Just dashing generally, I guess. Gaspode, what did you mean when you said it's got Dibbler?'

The dog gnawed at a paw.

'Look at his eyes,' he said. 'They're even worse than yours.'

'Mine? What's wrong with mine?'

Detritus the troll stuck his head through the tent flaps. 'Mr Dibbler says he wants you now,' he said.

'Eyes?' said Victor. 'Something about my eyes?'

'Woof.'

'Mr Dibbler says-' Detritus began.

'All right, all right! I'm coming!'

Victor stepped out of his tent at the same time as Ginger stepped out of hers. He shut his eyes.

'Gosh, I'm sorry,' he babbled. 'I'll go back and wait for you to get dressed . . .

'

'I am dressed.'

'Mr Dibbler says-' said Detritus, behind them.

'Come on,' said Ginger, grabbing his arm. 'We mustn't keep everyone waiting.'

'But you're . . . your . . . ' Victor looked down, which wasn't a help.

'You've got a navel in your diamond,' he hazarded.

'I've come to terms with that,' said Ginger, flexing her shoulders in an effort to make everything settle. 'It's these two saucepan lids that are giving me problems. Makes you realize what those poor girls in the harems must suffer.'

'And you don't mind people seeing you like that?' said Victor, amazed.

'Why should I? This is moving pictures. It's not as if it's real. Anyway, you'd be amazed at what girls have to do for a lot less than ten dollars a day.'

'Nine,' said Gaspode, who was still trailing at Victor's heels.

'Right, gather round, people,' shouted Dibbler through a

megaphone. 'Sons of the Desert over there, please. The slave

girls where are the slave girls? Right. Handlemen?-'

'I've never seen so many people in a click,' Ginger whispered. 'It must be costing more than a hundred dollars!'

Victor eyed the Sons of the Desert. It looked as though Dibbler had dropped in at Borgle's and hired the twenty people nearest the door, irrespective of their appropriateness, and had given them each Dibbler's idea of a desert bandit headdress. There were trollish Sons of the Desert Rock recognized him, and gave him a little wave dwarf Sons of the Desert and, shuffling into the end of the line, a small, hairy and furiously- scratching Son in a headdress that reached down to his paws.

' . . . grab her, become entranced by her beauty, and then throw her over your pommel.' Dibbler's voice intruded into his consciousness.

Victor desperately re-ran the half-heard instructions past his mind.

'My what?' he said.

'It's part of your saddle,' Ginger hissed.