Moving pictures

'Coming, Uncle.'

Victor was suddenly alone, apart from the dogs and the room full of people. He took the cigar out of his mouth, spat on the glowing end, and carefully hid it behind a potted plant.

'A star is whelped,' said a small, withering voice from below.

'What he say? Where dis place?'

'Don't look at me,' said Victor. 'Nothing to do with me.'

'Will you just look at it? I mean, are we talking Thicko City here or what?' sneered Gaspode.

'Good boy Laddie!'

'Come on,' said Victor. 'I'm supposed to be on set in five minutes.'

Gaspode trailed after him, muttering under his horrible breath. Victor caught the occasional 'old rug' and 'Man's best friend' and 'bloody wonder bloody dog'. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer.

'You're just jealous,' he said.

'What, of an overgrown puppy with a single-figure IQ?' sneered Gaspode.

'And a glossy coat, cold nose and probably a pedigree as long as your ar as my arm,' said Victor.

'Pedigree? Pedigree? What's a pedigree? It's just breedin'. I had a father too, you know. And two grandads. And four great grandads. And many of 'em were the same dog, even. So don't you tell me from no pedigree,' said Gaspode.

He paused to cock a leg against one of the supports of the new 'Home of Century of the Fruitbat Moving Pictures' sign.

That was something else that had puzzled Thomas Silverfish. He'd come in this morning, and the handpainted sign saying 'Interesting and Instructive Films' had gone and had been replaced by this huge billboard. He was sitting back in the office with his head in his hands, trying to convince himself that it had been his idea.

'I'm the one Holy Wood called,' Gaspode muttered, in a self-pitying voice. 'I came all the way here, and then they chose that great hairy thing. Probably it'll work for a plate of meat a day, too.'

'Well, look, maybe you weren't called to Holy Wood to be a wonder dog,' said Victor. 'Maybe it's got something else in mind for you.'

This is ridiculous, he thought. Why are we talking about it like this? A place hasn't got a mind. It can't call people to it . . . well, unless you count things like homesickness. But you can't be homesick for a place you've never been to before, it stands to reason. The last time people were here must have been thousands of years ago.

Gaspode sniffed at a wall.

'Did you tell Dibbler everything I told you?' he said.

'Yes. He was very upset when I mentioned about going to Untied Alchemists.'

Gaspode sniggered.

'An' you told him what I said about a verbal contract not being worth the paper it's printed on?'

'Yes. He said he didn't understand what I meant. But he gave me a cigar. And he said he'd pay for me and Ginger to go to AnkhMorpork soon. He said he's got a really big picture planned.'

'What is it?' said Gaspode suspiciously.

'He didn't say.'

'Listen, lad,' said Gaspode, 'Dibbler's making a fortune. I counted it. There were five thousand, two hundred and seventy-three dollars and fifty-two pence on Son's desk. And you earned it. Well, you