Moving Pictures (Discworld 10)

Mrs Whitlow twitched.

'What'd it go and do that for?' Ridcully added.

'I really couldn't say, Master. I thought perhaps you'd know. I believe Riktor was a lecturer here when you were a student. Mrs Whitlow is very concerned', he added, in tones that made it clear that when Mrs Whitlow was concerned about something it would be an unwise Archchancellor who ignored her, 'about staff being magically interfered with.'

The Archchancellor tapped the pot with his knuckles. 'What, old “Numbers” Riktor? Same fella?'

'Apparently, Archchancellor.'

'Total madman. Thought you could measure everythin'. Not just lengths and weights and that kind of stuff, but everythin'. “If it exists,” he said, “you ought to be able to measure it.”' Ridcully's eyes misted with memory. 'Made all kinds of weird widgets. Reckoned you could measure truth and beauty and dreams and stuff. So this is one of old Riktor's toys, is it? Wonder what it measured?'

'Ay think', said Mrs Whitlow, 'that it should be put haway somewhere out of 'arm's way, if it's hall the hsame to you.'

'Yes, yes, yes, of course,' said the Bursar hurriedly. Staff were hard to keep at Unseen University.

'Get rid of it,' said the Archchancellor.

The Bursar was horrified. 'Oh, no, sir,' he said. 'We never throw things out. Besides, it is probably quite valuable.'

'Hmm,' said Ridcully. 'Valuable?'

'Possibly an important historical artifact, Master.'

'Shove it in my study, then. I said the place needs bright'nin' up. It'll be one of them conversation pieces, right? Got to go now. Got to see a man about trainin' a gryphon. Good day, ladies-'

'Er, Archchancellor, I wonder if you could just sign-' the Bursar began, but to a closing door.

No-one asked Ksandra which of the pottery elephants had spat the ball, and the direction wouldn't have meant anything to them anyway.

That afternoon a couple of porters moved the universe's only working resograph[5] into the Archchancellor's study.

No-one had found a way to add sound to moving pictures, but there was a sound that was particularly associated with Holy Wood. It was the sound of nails being hammered.

Holy Wood had gone critical. New houses, new streets, new neighbourhoods, appeared overnight. And, in those areas where the hastily-educated alchemical apprentices were not yet fully alongside the trickier stages of making octo-cellulose, disappeared even faster. Not that it made a lot of difference. Barely would the smoke have cleared before someone was hammering again.

And Holy Wood grew by fission. All you needed was a steadyhanded, non-smoking lad who could read alchemical signs, a handleman, a sackful of demons and lots of sunshine. Oh, and some people. But there were plenty of those. If you couldn't breed demons or mix chemicals or turn a handle rhythmically, you could always hold horses or wait on tables and look interesting while you hoped. Or, if all else failed, hammer nails. Building after rickety building skirted the ancient hill, their thin planks already curling and bleaching in the pitiless sun, but there was already a pressing need for more.

Because Holy Wood was calling. More people arrived every day. They didn't come to be ostlers, or tavern wenches, or short-order carpenters. They came to make movies.

And they didn't know why.

As Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler knew in his heart, wherever two or more people are gathered together, someone will be trying to sell them a suspicious sausage in a bun.

Now that Dibbler was in fact engaged elsewhere, others had arisen to fulfil that function.

One such was Nodar Borgle the Klatchian, whose huge echoing shed wasn't so much a restaurant as a feeding factory. Great steaming tureens occupied one end. The rest of it was tables, and around the tables were -

Victor was astonished.

- there were trolls, humans and dwarfs. And a few gnomes. And perhaps even a few elves, the most elusive of Discworld races. And lots of other things, which Victor had to hope were trolls dressed up, because if they weren't, everyone was going to be in a lot of trouble. And they were all eating, and the amazing thing was that they were not eating one another.

'You take a plate and you queue up and then you pay for it,' said Ginger. 'It's called self-serf.'

'You pay for it before you eat it? What happens if it's dreadful?'

Ginger nodded grimly. 'That's why.'

Victor shrugged, and leaned down to the dwarf behind the lunch counter. 'I'd like-'