like that, only worse. It's kind of like the only place you ought to be now is here.' He looked at them again, and then industriously scratched an ear.
'What the hell,' he said. 'The trouble is, I can explain it in Dog but you only listen in Human.'
'It sounds a bit mystical to me,' said Ginger.
'You said something about my eyes,' said Victor.
'Yeah, well. Have you looked at your own eyes?' Gaspode nodded at Ginger. 'You too, miss.'
'Don't be daft,' said Victor. 'How can we look at our own eyes?'
Gaspode shrugged. 'You could look at each other's,' he suggested.
They automatically turned to face each other.
There was a long drawn-out moment. Gaspode employed it to urinate noisily against a tent peg.
Eventually Victor said, 'Wow.'
Ginger said, 'Mine, too?'
'Yes. Doesn't it hurt?'
'You should know.'
'There you are, then,' said Gaspode. 'And you look at Dibbler next time you see him. Really look, I mean.'
Victor rubbed his eyes, which were beginning to water. 'It's as though Holy Wood has called us here, is doing something to us and has, has-'
'-branded us,' said Ginger bitterly. 'That's what it's done.'
'It, er, it does look quite attractive, actually,' said Victor gallantly. 'Gives them a sort of sparkle.'
A shadow fell across the sand.
'Ah, there you are,' said Dibbler. He put his arms around their shoulders as they stood up, and gave them a sort of hug. 'You young people, always going off alone together,' he said archly. 'Great business. Great business. Very romantic. But we've got a click to make, and I've got lots of people standing around waiting for you, so let's do it.'
'See what I mean?' muttered Gaspode, very quietly.
When you knew what you were looking for, you couldn't miss it.
In the centre of both of Dibbler's eyes was a tiny golden star.
In the heartlands of the great dark continent of Klatch the air was heavy and pregnant with the promise of the coming monsoon.
Bullfrogs croaked in the rushes [14] by the slow brown river. Crocodiles dozed on the mudflats.
Nature was holding its breath.
A cooing broke out in the pigeon loft of Azhural N'choate, stock dealer. He stopped dozing on the veranda, and went over to see what had caused the excitement.
In the vast pens behind the shack a few threadbare bewilderbeests, marked down for a quick sale, yawning and cudding in the heat, looked up in alarm as N'choate leapt the veranda steps in one bound and tore towards them.
He rounded the zebra pens and homed in on his assistant M'Bu, who was peacefully mucking out the ostriches.
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