Moving Pictures

People who didn't apply themselves to the facts in hand might have thought that Victor Tugelbend would be fat and unhealthy. In fact, he was undoubtedly the most athletically-inclined student in the University. Having to haul around extra poundage was far too much effort, so he saw to it that he never put it on and he kept himself in trim because doing things with decent muscles was far less effort than trying to achieve things with bags of flab.

So he brought one hand round in a backhanded swipe. It didn't just connect, it lifted the mugger off his feet. Then he looked for the prospective victim, who was still cowering against the wall.

‘I hope you're not hurt,' he said. ‘Don't move!' ‘I wasn't going to,' said Victor.

The figure advanced from the shadows. It had a package under one arm, and its hands were held in front of its face in an odd gesture, each forefinger and thumb extended at right angles and then fitted together, so that the man's little weaselly eyes appeared to be looking out through a frame. He's probably warding off the Evil Eye, Victor thought. He looks like a wizard, with all those symbols on his dress.

‘Amazing!' said the man, squinting through his fingers. ‘Just turn your head slightly, will you? Great! Pity about the nose, but I expect we can do something about that.'

He stepped forward and tried to put his arm round Victor's shoulders.

‘It's lucky for you', he said, ‘that you met me.'

‘It is?' said Victor, who had been thinking it was the other way around.

‘You're just the type I'm looking for,' said the man.

‘Sorry,' said Victor. ‘I thought you were being robbed.'

‘He was after this,' said the man, patting the package under his arm. It rang like a gong. ‘Wouldn't have done him any good, though.'

‘Not worth anything?' said Victor.

‘Priceless.'

‘That's all right, then,' said Victor.

The man gave up trying to reach across both of Victor's shoulders, which were quite broad, and settled for just one of them.

‘But a lot of people would be disappointed,' he said. ‘Now, look. You stand well. Good profile. Listen, lad, how would you like to be in moving pictures?'

‘Er,' said Victor. ‘No. I don't think so.'

The man gaped at him.

‘You did hear what I said, didn't you?' he said. ‘Moving pictures?'

‘Yes.'

‘Everyone wants to be in moving pictures!'

‘No, thanks,' said Victor, politely. ‘I'm sure it's a worthwhile job, but moving pictures doesn't sound very interesting to me.'

‘I'm talking about moving pictures!'

‘Yes,' said Victor mildly. ‘I heard you.'

The man shook his head.

‘Well,'- he said, ‘you've made my day. First time in weeks I've met someone who isn't desperate to get into moving pictures. I thought everyone wanted to get into moving pictures. I thought as soon as I saw you: he'll be expecting a job in moving pictures for this night's work.'

‘Thanks all the same,' said Victor. ‘But I don't think I'd take to it.'

‘Well, I owe you something.' The little man fumbled in a pocket and produced a card.

Victor took it. It read: Thomas Silverfish Interesting and Instructive Kinematography One and Two Reelers Nearly non-explosive Stock 1, Holy Wood

‘That's if ever you change your mind,' he said. ‘Everyone in Holy Wood knows me.'

Victor stared at the card. ‘Thank you,' he said vaguely. ‘Er. Are you a wizard?' Silverfish glared at him.

‘Whatever made you think that?' he snapped.

‘You're wearing a dress with magic symbols-'

‘Magic symbols? Look closely, boy! These are certainly not the credulous symbols of a ridiculous and outmoded belief system! These are the badges of an enlightened craft whose clear, new dawn is just . . . er, dawning! Magic symbols!' he finished, in tones of withering scorn. ‘And it's a robe, not a dress,' he added.

Victor peered at the collection of stars and crescent moons and things. The badges of an enlightened craft whose new dawn was just dawning looked just like the credulous symbols of a ridiculous and outmoded belief system to him, but this was probably not the time to say so.

‘Sorry,' he said again. ‘Couldn't see them clearly.'

‘I'm an alchemist,' said Silverfish, only slightly mollified.

‘Oh, lead into gold, that sort of thing,' said Victor.

‘Not lead, lad. Light. It doesn't work with lead. Light into gold . . . ‘

‘Really?' said Victor politely, as Silverfish started to set up a tripod in the middle of the plaza.

A small crowd was collecting. A small crowd collected very easily in Ankh-Morpork. As a city, it had some of the most accomplished spectators in the universe. They'd watch anything, especially if there was any possibility of anyone getting hurt in an amusing way.

‘Why don't you stay for the show?' said Silverfish, and hurried off.

An alchemist. Well, everyone knew that alchemists were a little bit mad, thought Victor. It was perfectly normal. Who'd want to spend their time moving pictures? Most of them looked all right where they were.

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Victor sat in the dark alley, his-back pressed against the wall, and tried to think. He remembered staying out in the sun too long, once, when he was a boy. The feeling he'd got afterwards was something like this. There was a soft flopping noise in the packed sand by his feet. Someone had dropped a hat in front of him. He stared at it. Then someone started playing the harmonica. They weren't very good at it. Most of the notes were wrong, and those that were right were cracked. There was a tune in there somewhere, in the same way that there's a bit of beef in a hamburger grinder. Victor sighed and fumbled in his pocket for a couple of pennies. He tossed them into the hat.

‘Yeah, yeah,' he said. ‘Very good. Now go away.'

He was aware of a strange smell. It was hard to place, but could perhaps have been a very old and slightly damp nursery rug. He looked up.

‘Woof bloody woof,' said Gaspode the Wonder Dog.

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It was noon. Holy Wood Hill glistened under the sun, like a champagne-flavoured wine gum that had been half-sucked. The handlemen turned their handles, the extras charged enthusiastically backwards and forwards, Dibbler raged at everyone, and cinematographic history was made with a shot of three dwarfs, four men, two trolls and a dog all riding one camel and screaming in terror for it to stop. Victor was introduced to the camel. It blinked its long eyelashes at him and appeared to chew soap. It was kneeling down and it looked like a camel that had had a long morning and wasn't about to take any shit from anyone. So far it had kicked three people.

‘What's it called?' he said cautiously.

‘We call it Evil-Minded Son of a *****,' said the newly-appointed Vice-President in Charge of Camels.

‘That doesn't sound like a name.'

‘ ‘S a good name for this camel,' said the handler fervently.

‘There's nothin' wrong with bein' a son of a *****,' said a voice behind him. ‘I'm a son of a *****. My father was a son of a *****, you greasy nightshirt-wearin' bastard.'

The handler grinned nervously at Victor and turned around. There was no-one behind him. He looked down.

‘Woof,' said Gaspode, and wagged what was almost a tail.

‘Did you just hear someone say something?' said the handler carefully.

‘No,' said Victor. He leaned close to one of the camel's ears and whispered, in case it was a special Holy Wood camel: ‘Look, I'm a friend, OK?'

Evil-Minded Son of a ***** flicked a carpet-thick ear.

‘How do you ride it?' he said.

‘When you want to go forward you swear at it and hit it with a stick, and when you want to stop you swear at it and really hit it with a stick.'

‘What happens if you want it to turn?'

‘Ah, well, you're on to the Advanced Manual there. Best thing to do is get off and do it round by hand.'

‘When you're ready!' Dibbler bellowed through his megaphone. ‘Now, you ride up to the tent, leap off the camel, fight the huge eunuchs, burst into the tent, drag the girl out, get back on the camel and away. Got it? Think you ran do that?'

‘What huge eunuchs?' said Victor, as the camel unfolded itself upwards. One of the huge eunuchs shyly raised a hand.

‘It's me. Morry,' it said.

‘Oh. Hi, Morry.'

‘Hi, Vic.'

‘And me, Rock,' said a second huge eunuch.

‘Hi, Rock.'

‘Hi, Vic.'

‘Places, everyone,' said Dibbler. ‘We'll - what is it, Rock?'

‘Er, I was just wondering, Mr Dibbler . . . what is my motivation for this scene?'

‘Motivation?'

‘Yes. Er. I got to know, see,' said Rock.

‘How about: I'll fire you if you don't do it properly?'

Rock grinned. ‘Right you are, Mr Dibbler,' he said.

‘OK,' said Dibbler. ‘Everyone ready . . . turn ‘em!'

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