'Who's Staring Delores De Syn?' he said, suspiciously.
'That's starring,' said Throat. 'That's why we've put stars against their names, see.' He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a piercing whisper. 'They do' say', he said, 'that she's the daughter of a Klatchian pirate and his wild, headstrong captive, and he's the son of . . . the son of . . . a rogue wizard and a reckless gypsy flamenco dancer.' '
'Cor!' said Bezam, impressed despite himself. Dibbler permitted himself a mental slap on the back. He'd been quite taken with it himself.
'I reckon you should start showing it in about an hour,' he said.
'At this time in the morning?' said Bezam. The click he had obtained for the day was An Exciting Study of Pottery Making, which had been worrying him. This seemed a much better proposition.
'Yes,' said Dibbler. 'Because a lot of people are going to want to watch it.'
'I dunno about that,' said Bezam. 'Houses have been falling off lately.'
'They'll want to watch this one,' said Throat. 'Trust me. Have I ever lied to you?'
Bezam scratched his head. 'Well, one night last month you sold me a sausage in a bun and you said-'
'I was speaking rhetorically,' snapped Throat.
'Yeah,' said Detritus.
Bezam sagged. 'Oh. Well. I dunno about rhetorically,' he said.
'Right,' said Throat, grinning like a predatory pumpkin. 'Just you open up, and you can sit back and rake in the money.'
'Oh. Good,' said Bezam weakly.
Throat put a friendly arm around the man's shoulders. 'And now,' he said, 'let's talk about percentages.'
'What're percentages?'
'Have a cigar,' said Throat.
Victor walked slowly up Holy Wood's nameless main street. There was packed sand under his fingernails.
He wasn't sure that he had done the right thing.
Probably the man had just been some old beachcomber who'd just gone to sleep one day and hadn't woken up, although the stained red and gold coat was unusual beachcombing wear. It was hard to tell how long he'd been dead. The dryness and salt air had been a preservative; they'd preserved him just the way he must have looked when he was alive, which was like someone who was dead.
By the look of his hut, he'd beachcombed some odd stuff.
It had occurred to Victor that someone ought to be told, but there was probably no-one in Holy Wood who would be interested. Probably only one person in the world had been interested in whether the old man lived or died, and he'd been the first to know.
Victor buried the body in the sand, landward of the driftwood hut.
He saw Borgle's ahead of him. He'd risk breakfast there, he decided. Besides, he needed somewhere to sit down and read the book.
It wasn't the sort of thing you expected to find on a beach,
in a driftwood hut, clutched in the hand of a dead man.
On the cover were the words The Boke of the Film.
On the first page, in the neat round hand of someone to whom writing doesn't come easily, were the further words: This is the Chroncal of the Keeprs of the ParaMountain coppied out by me Deccan Beacuase Of the old onne it being fallin Apart.
He turned the stiff pages carefully. They seemed to be crammed with almost identical entries. They were all undated, but that wasn't very important, since one day had been pretty much like the other.
Gott up. Went to lavatry. Made up fire, announused the Matinee Performanse. Broke fast. Colected woode. Made up fire. Foraged on the hille. Chanted the Evening Performansee. Supper. Sed the Late-Nite Performanse chant. Wnet to lavatry. Bed.